by Nathan Jones
“I was told Newtown is a safe trading post,” he said cautiously.
The sheriff smiled, although it didn't reach his eyes. “You heard right. I'm Fred Vernon, sheriff here. This town is under my protection. As I said you're welcome, and you'll be treated as well as any citizen. But I've got a few rules.”
So far that squared with what he'd heard. Trev nodded for the sheriff to continue, which he did without hesitation.
“Rule one, you check your weapons before going in. We respect a citizen's right to bear arms, but this is our town and we have a right to enforce our own rules here. I personally guarantee your safety in my town, and when you're ready to leave your things will be returned to you.”
That also fit what he'd been told, which was one of the reasons why he'd cached his Mini-14 outside town, along with his firewood hatchet, skinning knife, and bear spray. He'd also cached most of his food and anything else that he absolutely couldn't afford to lose, in case he was robbed.
Even though he'd known he'd have to check his pistol he'd brought it for three reasons: one, in case he actually did have to defend himself; two, because he didn't want to rouse suspicions about an unarmed traveler on dangerous roads; and three, since he planned to come back through here with his family on the return trip and wanted to make sure Newtown really was as good as its word about everything, including checked weapons.
Losing the Glock would be painful if he was wrong, but he felt it was worth the risk.
“I can agree to that,” Trev said as he got off his bike. Then, careful not to make any sudden movements, he lifted his coat so Vernon could see his pistol in its holster. The man nodded, and Trev carefully drew it and offered it grip-first. After accepting the Glock and tucking it into his belt the sheriff got out a scrap of paper, scribbled a description of the gun, and signed his name in cramped cursive.
He offered the paper to Trev, who pocketed it. “I'll remember your weapon if you lose that,” he said. “It's for your own peace of mind, as well as to speed up the remembering. Not as young as I once was. And to go along with the first rule, obviously if you cause trouble we'll boot you out of town, and if you're ornery enough we may be tempted not to return your weapon.”
The sheriff straightened. “Second rule is just as simple. No handouts. No exceptions. You pay for what you need or you work for it, same as everyone in Newtown. Prices here are fair, all things considered. After all, we are a trading post and we want to encourage visitors.”
Trev nodded. “I need some food supplies, and if I can find one a bike trailer.”
“Well you're in luck with the food. We've got grain silos just waiting to be emptied, one of the reasons we're so keen on trade.” Vernon frowned thoughtfully and scratched his chin. “As for the trailer, you can look around. We scavenged from a nearby superstore not long after the attack, and a lot of the non-consumable merchandise is still available.”
That also confirmed what he'd heard. So far it looked as if the Lincolns were as good as their word. Trev held out his hand. “All right. Thank you, Sheriff.”
Vernon gripped his hand firmly, meeting his gaze. “No problem. If you're looking for a decent meal the Newtown Bar and Grill is open round the clock. As for the trading, that's all in the big metal shed down the street there just before you get to the silos.”
With that the sheriff turned and ambled back to his seat. Trev paused for a second to pocket his weapon voucher before continuing on into Newtown, pushing his bike rather than riding it.
Chapter Eight
A Home Cooked Meal
The bar was a long, low, sturdily built structure a few shanties down from Vernon's house. Although it looked hideous it had obviously been built to keep the cold out and provide a comfortable gathering place during the long winter nights. A carefully carved sign gave the name, along with a surprisingly detailed picture of a sizzling steak.
Trev felt a bit of trepidation about leaving his bike leaning against the railing along the walkway out front, but was a bit comforted by the fact that the sheriff was sipping his lemonade less than thirty feet away. Still, he brought his pack with him when he pushed through the well-fitted door into the dim, smoky interior behind.
Part of that smoke came from a fire in the hearth along one wall, and some from two of the four men at the table in the corner smoking cigarettes as they played poker. Trev guessed indoor smoking laws were a thing of the past since the Gulf refineries attack, at least in Newtown.
The card players glanced up as he entered, then looked back to their game as Trev started towards the bartender, a tall, muscular man slumped on a stool behind the bar. Like any bar it boasted shelves behind it stocked with hundreds of bottles of various types of liquor, along with beer and soft drinks. Trev was a bit impressed the place offered that sort of selection when other towns were struggling for the bare necessities.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked.
Before Trev answered he leaned forward over the stained but clean bar top and spoke quietly. “Is my bike going to be safe sitting out front? I don't have a lock for it.”
The larger man grinned. “It's broad daylight, friend. Vernon's not too kind to criminals in his town.”
Trev had become a pretty strong proponent of the “trust but verify” worldview since the Gulf burned, but considering he was already in the town and weaponless there wasn't much choice but to take things at face value until events proved otherwise. Although he'd try not to extend his stay here too long.
The pleasant smell of cooking meat coming from beyond the door to one side of the bar was another reason to hurry up and order. If this place boasted even mediocre cooking it would be a huge improvement from most of the meals he'd had since last fall, and his mouth was already starting to water.
Although he had more important business to take care of first. “How's this place set up for bathrooms?”
The bartender grinned. “Indoor plumbing, if that does anything for you. But you'll have to pay.”
Trev blinked. “Pay . . . for the bathroom?”
“It has its costs to clean and maintain same as anything,” the big man answered calmly. “You can always go outside if you want, although Newtown law states you have to leave city limits to relieve yourself.” At Trev's helpless look he grinned wider. “Tell you what. I'll include it in the price of the meal.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a key on a carved wooden rod and handed it over. “Second door beyond the one leading to the kitchen. The locked one.”
“Thanks.” Trev took the key and made his way over to the door, which was bolted with a large padlock.
The bathroom inside was small but well finished, and surprisingly clean too. Plumbing was no longer a thing in most places, but apparently whatever sewer or septic system Newtown was attached to hadn't backed up yet. The toilet had a bucket of water available for flushing, and the sink had a pitcher of water beside it along with a bar of soap for washing hands. Having to lug water for every use explained at least part of the price to use the facility.
Speaking of money . . . Trev was half amused, half bothered to notice that sitting atop the toilet paper dispenser was a stack of dollar bills of all denominations. It wasn't too hard to guess their purpose.
Sure, he'd pretty much accepted the collapse of the economy and the complete devaluation of the dollar the day of the Gulf refineries attack. But at the same time he hadn't expected to see anyone using currency as toilet paper, since even people who logically accepted that the money was now worthless would still have that inherent respect for the significance it had once had. Was this the proprietor's idea of a joke?
Either way it was nice to use a functional bathroom for the first time since leaving the shelter. Once Trev finished up and washed his hands he locked up and headed back over to the bartender.
The man must've seen something in Trev's expression as he handed the key back, because he laughed. “Didn't expect to be wiping with a hundred?”
Trev rub
bed the back of his head. “Not really. What's that all about?”
The bartender shrugged. “You know a hundred years ago people in rural areas tore up magazines and catalogs for toilet paper? Well we try to make use of everything in this town, and we'd rather sell any readable material to people desperate for entertainment. Meanwhile not far away we had a bank full of worthless money. When the Sheriff emptied the vault of any useful trade goods he was going to toss all these bills away, or maybe burn them, but we figured we might as well get some use out of them.”
“Makes sense.” Trev glanced at the door to the kitchen, where the tantalizing smells were coming from.
The bartender picked up on the hint. “Ready for that meal?”
Trev nodded. “What've you got?”
“Depends on what you're willing to pay. We've got soup and fresh bread, or if you're in the mood for something more substantial and can afford it we could fire up the grill.”
“It's been a rough trip, I could use some protein.”
The larger man smiled slightly. “How does a hamburger sound?”
His stomach started sending him urgent messages. “Like I'd be willing to personally slaughter the cow, grind the meat, bake the bun, and mix the condiments to get one.”
The bartender's smile widened. “All that's already been done, as long as you can pay.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the bottles on the shelves behind him. “Want a drink to go with that?”
Trev was still a few weeks away from his twenty-first birthday, although he supposed minimum age limits weren't enforced any more than indoor smoking laws here. Still, even if he was interested in indulging himself, which he'd never really been before now, he wasn't about to let his guard down in a potentially dangerous place. Not to mention he still had a long ways to go today and didn't want to do it drunk.
“I'll take a root beer,” he said. “How much for everything?”
“Depends on what you're paying with. We take a lot of stuff in barter, so lay it out on the table and we'll work something out.”
Trev thought about the most convenient trade commodities he had. Ammunition was a last resort, and he'd left it all behind at the cache anyway, so his best alternatives were either the one-ounce gold and silver coins Lewis had gifted him in case he needed portable currency or some of the candy bars he'd found.
Trev reached into the pouch on his belt. “I've got silver rounds.”
* * * * *
Twenty minutes later his meal arrived, not just a hamburger but slightly mushy fries made from potatoes that were obviously on the verge of inedibility, although the Newtown Bar and Grill's cook had liberally spiced them to try to improve the taste. As for the hamburger itself, the bun was a bit dry and stale, fried in the grease from the meat for better flavor and texture, and the condiments were the lowest quality sort from old fast food packets.
But it was a good half pound of freshly ground hamburger, well seasoned and expertly cooked, and from the first bite Trev remembered why people raised cows instead of deer for their meat. Heaven was only a slight exaggeration.
And the price wasn't nearly as steep as he'd expected, either. From the way the bartender had talked it up he'd expected some outrageous demand for one of his gold coins, but in fact he was actually given some change in junk silver for the single ounce of silver he paid over. In fact, going by spot prices not too long before the Gulf refineries attack the hamburger cost about what it would have then. If he was eating at a fancy restaurant at least.
The price also gave him a useful bit of information, that Newtown put a value to precious metals that most places struggling just to find enough to eat wouldn't dream of offering, if they accepted them in trade at all. That was probably thanks to the plentiful food in the grain silos that the town was living off, not to mention using to build a decent trading hub.
It gave Trev some hope that his cousin's gift would help him buy what he needed here. And, perhaps even more importantly if he could find a way to transport it, Newtown represented lifesaving food at ridiculously low prices that he could bring back to Aspen Hill on the return trip to ease a lot of suffering there.
In fact, in spite of the distance it might even be worth it to set up a larger trade caravan, with more bikes and trailers and possibly even a horse-drawn wagon if they could get their hands on one. The food Newtown took for granted could mean everything for his friends back home.
But that was a consideration for the return trip, assuming Trev could even find his family in Michigan and the situation was suitable for them to travel the 1,800 miles back to Aspen Hill. This could all be a pipe dream.
Still, it was a pleasant thought as he savored one of the best meals he'd had since the Gulf burned.
He'd taken his lunch to the table in the other corner of the room from the one the poker players occupied, seated with his back to the wall in a position that let him see the room without directly facing or looking at anyone. From that angle he wasn't quite sure if it was his imagination or not that the four men were sneaking hostile glances his way. The fact that they were speaking in low tones to avoid being overheard could've just been caution on their part.
It was enough to worry him, though, so he hurried to clean his plate and tried to casually hook his leg around his backpack to pull it closer.
A moment later he heard the scraping of a few chairs as the card players came to their feet and started towards him. Either his change in posture and furtive actions had drawn their notice or they'd already been about to head his way. Whatever the reason Trev cursed his bad luck and glanced at the bartender for support. Unfortunately the man was slumped in his chair with his eyes closed, obviously not asleep but just as obviously staying out of it.
“Big spender,” the man in front said. His companions were wearing dirty, sweat-stained clothing and had the grimy, exhausted look of people who spent most of their time doing hard labor. But while their ringleader was equally unwashed his clothes were much cleaner, as were his fingernails. “Haven't had a burger here before. Good?”
Trev nodded. “Worth the price.” He shoved the last bite into his mouth, leaving a few mushy fries on the heavy glass plate, and started to stand.
He almost wasn't surprised when the ringleader crowded his chair, preventing him from standing. “What's the hurry, buddy? Let me introduce myself. I'm Lance.”
“Trev,” he replied, doing his best to be polite. Although he had a feeling he wasn't going to be talking his way out of this one.
Lance smiled, or at least showed his teeth. “Me and my friends were looking for another player. How about you bring some of that silver over to our table for a friendly game? You look like you could stand to relax a bit.”
This wasn't looking good. Trev began idly toying with the fries on his plate. “Thanks, but I've got to do some trading and then get back on the road. I've got a long way to go.”
The veneer of friendliness the four had assumed slowly faded away, and the ringleader's smile vanished. “Too good for us?” he said. “You look like you could lose a bit of wealth and still be just fine. Besides, prices are cheap here. I really think you should come play a round or two with us.”
Trev glanced at the bar again. The bartender's eyes were open now and he was watching the confrontation, but his relaxed posture showed that he had no intention of intervening. Trev had had a feeling these guys were spoiling for a fight from the moment they started throwing him dirty looks, and he didn't plan to buy his way out of violence by letting them cheat him at a game he'd barely played.
“Do I need to talk to the Sheriff?” he asked quietly.
One of the grimy men behind Lance swore. “You looking to get a few ribs cracked? If there's one thing I hate worse than a tightwad it's a snitch.”
Trev looked up at the ringleader, meeting his slightly watery brown eyes. “I'm going to leave now,” he said quietly, pushing his chair back as he spoke to give himself some room.
Predictably, almost as soon as
the words were out of his mouth Lance's right fist snapped towards his face. Trev's fingers closed around his heavy plate, spilling fries across the table as he yanked it around to smash into his assailant's knuckles. Lance snatched his hand away, cursing and clutching at his injured fingers, and Trev used the opening to whip the plate towards the man's nose.
Then he rolled out of his chair, kind of like he had during his snowball fight with Lewis last Thanksgiving, and came up in a crouch behind it. The ringleader was staggering away clutching his face and filling the air with blistering oaths, while his three friends tried to slip around him in the narrow confines between the tables to get at Trev.
It was too bad he'd cached his bear spray. Oh well, he'd have to use what he had.
Trev picked up his chair as he rose to his feet and swung it at the nearest attacker, who caught it on his shoulder with a yelp of pain but kept coming, knocking it from Trev's grasp. After that he was pretty much out of tricks, with no time to grab his pack and make a break for the door. That just left him the option of slugging it out against three people at the same time, maybe four if Lance got back into the fight.
Trev didn't have many illusions there. Fistfights, or most other kinds of fight for that matter, tended to go downhill fast when you were outnumbered even two to one. After that things got exponentially more difficult with each new opponent thrown into the mix.
Not that he didn't have a few things going for him. Most of the exercise he and his cousin had worked at over the winter had come in the form of strength training, boxing, and grappling. They'd usually sparred against each other, taking care not to injure each other if possible but very serious about learning to fight effectively.
For the most part they'd been evenly matched. Trev was slightly stronger and had better reflexes, while Lewis was taller with a longer reach, as well as more strategic in his fighting. His cousin's technique was better as well, mostly from being at least somewhat familiar with the moves he taught Trev, but Trev had picked things up fast during the time they'd had.