Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1)

by Mike Sheridan

  “Come on, Marlee. I can show this photo to half a dozen people in this town who’ll know who he is.”

  “You really want to do that?” The girl was smart enough to have figured out Brogan wanted to keep this on the down low. She knew how to play it too. “Maybe I ought to go find him. Let him know a man named Frank Brogan is looking for him,” she mused. “Seems only fair.”

  Brogan felt his temper rising, furious now at both himself and Marlee.

  “I’m only kidding,” Marlee said, laughing at him before he could react. “Look, sweetie, how about you leave this with me. I’ll let you know the moment he hits town.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Brogan said testily.

  “Trust me, you’re only going to run into trouble trying to find him,” Marlee said, looking at him earnestly. “Why don’t you sit back and relax, and I’ll take you right to him.”

  Brogan considered Marlee’s proposal. If he turned her down, she could easily go and warn the perps about him. He knew that her threat had been no joke. His name wouldn’t mean anything to the men, but he’d lose the element of surprise. It was better to keep her on his side. It was the price to pay for finally getting some news on the men.

  “Okay,” he said. “So long as he doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Sure. You’re looking to surprise your long lost buddy, right?”

  “Right. Don’t worry, I’ll make it well worth your while, so you’re not even tempted to spoil things for me.”

  Marlee arched an eyebrow. “Like…?”

  “Like…thirty dollars.”

  The eyebrow un-arched right away, replaced by the down curl of her lip. “Don’t be so cheap, Frank. Sixty dollars sounds about right.”

  “Sixty dollars? The guy doesn’t mean that much to me. Forty dollars, not a cent more.”

  “Fifty and we have a deal. For that price, you can surprise the hell out of him.”

  Brogan stared at her a moment, then sighed. “Marlee, you strike a hard bargain. Deal. But cash on delivery. Not a penny beforehand.”

  “Of course.” Marlee headed for the door. Brogan followed her and let her out. In the doorway, she turned around and looked back at him. “Don’t worry, Frank. I’ll deliver. Just remember our deal. Sit back and take it easy. As soon as he’s back, I’ll let you know, alright?”

  Brogan nodded. “I’ll keep my side of the deal, you keep yours.”

  The pretty little hooker ran a hand up the side of his bare waist. “And maybe we can do tonight all over again,” she smiled at him, her mask firmly in place again. “It was fun.”

  “Sure. Let’s do that.”

  After he had locked the door, Brogan went back over to the bed and got under the covers. The curtains were still undrawn and he stared out of the window into the inky darkness that stretched out in front of him. His lethargy had completely disappeared, and he could feel surges of energy running through his body like electricity.

  Everything he had planned these past weeks was coming to a close. Soon he would face the killers of his family, and he contemplated the methods he would use to kill the three men, none of them quick or pleasant. Something in his chest, a choking sensation, got tighter, and he had to clench and unclench his fists by his sides several times to control it.

  Gray streaks of dawn were visible in the skies outside his window before Brogan finally drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

  Chapter 29

  For the next few days, Brogan stuck close to the hotel, waiting to hear news back from Marlee. Thanks to his mishandling of the situation, the girl knew more than she should. Still, his decision to come to an agreement with her and keep her on his side had been the right one. Better she collected from him rather than the other party involved. While he didn’t fully trust her, so long as he kept his side of the bargain, odds were she would keep hers. It was in her interest, after all.

  His drunken roll with the pretty hooker had an interesting side effect too. Surprisingly, the encounter helped unlock a certain confused emotion he’d felt ever since coming to the Outzone.

  Brogan had known at some point he would be with a woman, albeit not so quickly, nor one like Marlee. Sarah was dead, and a woman’s company was an urge that would eventually have to be satisfied. Yet since being with Marlee, he felt more a sense of relief than guilt for his actions. Finally, his reasons for coming to the Outzone had become ever clearer and within reach. Life was funny like that.

  While he waited for word, Brogan got into a new routine to help while away the hours each day. Every morning after breakfast he would play backgammon with Ralph, the desk clerk on the day shift; a stick thin, cadaverous-looking man with hollow cheeks and a pale, unnaturally long face. Ralph wore the same dark pinstripe suit to work each day, and with his thinning black hair whose sides he greased back in long ducktails, he could easily be mistaken for the town’s undertaker.

  The clerk had a dry, laconic sense of humor that Brogan appreciated. That first morning when he had come downstairs to see him at reception, Brogan had sauntered over and asked him the best place to get breakfast in town.

  “Why that’d be Marty’s, right across the street,” Ralph replied, barely looking up from the book he was reading. “That’s if you like good old-fashioned eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and as much coffee as you can drink.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m as old-fashioned as they come.”

  “Watch out for the coffee, though. It’s thick as tar. Make you bug-eyed before you finish your second cup.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” Brogan glanced down at the book in the clerk’s hand, an old paperback with the cover half-torn. He could just make out its faded title, Road Dogs, by a guy call Leonard somebody or other.

  “What you reading there?”

  Ralph placed the book on the counter and looked up at Brogan. “It’s a pre-century crime novel by a guy called Elmore Leonard.”

  “Any good?”

  “It’s got guns, dames, and trouble. Fits right in with all the shit you see around here. So, yeah, it’s pretty good.”

  Brogan chuckled. “I’m reading a spy book set in the 1930s. It’s got all the same shit too. Guess some things never change, huh?”

  “They sure as heck don’t. Hard to find books in this town. Folk around here aren’t exactly the most educated. I usually get people to pick me up stuff if they’re ever up in Winter’s Edge. They got some good book stores there…used, ya know? Maybe we can do a swap when we’re both finished.”

  “Good idea,” Brogan said, kicking himself for mentioning his book. He quickly changed the subject. “You always work the day shift?”

  “Yep. Twenty years of schoolin’ will get you that,” Ralph said with a wry smile. “Say fellah, you know how to play backgammon? It’s okay if you don’t, I’ll teach ya, so long as we play for money.”

  And that was the mornings taken care of.

  Despite what he’d told Marlee about not being a gambler, the sessions with Ralph whetted Brogan’s appetite. This was Two Jacks, after all. It would look strange if a man didn’t partake in a game from time to time, and he took to passing the afternoons in the Quiver’s gaming room, one you entered through a set of double doors from the lounge, where he played no limit Texas Hold'em and seven card stud.

  The day players were serious. They drank coffee or sipped slowly from the same whiskey soda for hours, choosing to pit their wits against other equally serious gamblers, a very different breed than the six-two night crowd, more interested in playing craps or roulette and showing off in front of the ladies.

  Though as Doc, one of the players he’d gotten to know, told him, there were many pros who fished at the late night poker sessions, quietly lightening the wallets of the unwary at the tables. Most brought their own muscle with them, ready to step in if an argument got too heated (which, he was assured, they regularly did) and made sure they got back to their hotel rooms safely.

  Doc was a tall, wiry man in his late thirties who sported a penc
il-thin black mustache, and always wore a black dinner jacket and bowtie at the table. He took Brogan under his wing and taught him how the pros played, how to always pay close attention to your position against the dealer button, especially when the pots got big, and how to take control of a hand when you had the right cards. Also, the little stuff that quickly added up—how to steal blinds or bet against the flop.

  “It’s about learning the odds, developing a style of play that suits you, and keeping the right mental attitude,” Doc explained. “There’s a lot of truth in the old sayings, so remember, scared money never wins, and only losers try to get even. If you master all that, you’ll beat ninety percent of the players you come up against.”

  “How about the other ten?” Brogan had asked. “What’s it take to beat them?”

  “Well, that’d be people like me,” Doc replied, a smile forming under his mustache. “If I told you that, I’d have to quit playing.”

  In the evenings after dinner, Brogan sat up at the counter in the bar, striking up a conversation with the guy at the next stool if it was a friendly face. Marlee showed up each night, doing her hustle. He would give her a smile or a nod and she’d come over. After raising an eye at her inquiringly, she would tell him: “Not yet,” or “Patience stud, he’ll be here soon.”

  When she spotted him the first night after their agreement, she strolled over and propped herself up on the stool beside him.

  “Alone again? You really don’t know how to make friends, do you?”

  “Oh, I talk to people. Depends on who’s sitting beside me. And sometimes it’s fun just to sit here and listen in on people.”

  Marlee wrinkled up her cute little nose. “Sounds creepy to me.”

  Brogan laughed. “A hundred years ago, it’s how the writers of blues and country songs spent their days. Rubbernecking on barroom conversations, looking for inspiration. One whiskey, one bourbon, one beer—don’t tell me that song wasn’t written on the back of a beer mat?”

  “You looking to write a song?”

  “Nope. Not me. I’m just waiting on a friend.”

  Marlee grazed a fingernail along his forearm. “Fancy keeping a little company while you do that?”

  Brogan smiled at her. “Not yet. Maybe in the next day or so.”

  Marlee pouted, then reached a foot out onto the floor and slid off the stool. “Let me know when you’re ready. Next time I’ll sing to you, promise.”

  Once she’d figured out Brogan didn’t plan on taking up with her again any time soon, Marlee never stayed long. Business came first and each night, after a few minutes of small chat, she would head off and start cruising the bar. With her looks, it never took her long to pick up somebody.

  By midnight, Brogan would return to his room, read some more of his book, then hit the light. If it wasn’t for the feeling of unease that constantly niggled his stomach with what he knew was to come, he would have considered it a relaxing time.

  ***

  On the Tuesday morning, Brogan was having breakfast at Marty’s, sitting alone at a booth by the window, when he saw Marlee pass by. She pushed open the door to the diner and walk up to the booth.

  As she slid across into the seat opposite him, Brogan observed her carefully. Though her hair was well-brushed, she wore no makeup, and in the daylight her face looked pale and tired. Drinking until the early hours each morning was part of her job description. So far it hadn’t taken a toll on her pretty face, but in a few years Brogan was sure it would. It was inevitable. Perhaps Marlee would be one of the smart ones and quit long before then. She was certainly making enough to come up with a Plan B.

  He motioned to the waitress hovering nearby and ordered her coffee.

  “Well?” he said, when the waitress had left. “You got something?”

  “Your friend’s here. He arrived yesterday afternoon.”

  “Yesterday? How come—”

  “I only found out this morning,” Marlee cut in. “That’s how come I didn’t tell you last night.”

  “You know where he’s staying?”

  “Yes. I can take you to him tonight. One thing though…”

  Brogan detected a slight grate underneath her customary purr. He eyed her carefully. He had a pretty good idea what was coming. “What’s that?”

  “The price has gone up. I need a hundred dollars, not fifty.”

  “No,” Brogan said firmly. He took a sip from his coffee, eying her over the rim of his mug. “We had a deal, remember?”

  “The past couple of days, I’ve been doing a bit of digging around on you,” Marlee said, ignoring his comment. “Seems like since the day you hit town, you’ve been trotting up and down the Vegas Drag, poking your head into every bar, saloon, and strip club like some gung ho pussy hound, only—”

  The waitress arrived with Marlee’s coffee. The two remained silent until she had left.

  “Only thing is, you weren’t looking for pussy, were you?” Marlee said, continuing from where she had left off. She stared at Brogan. “You want this guy bad. Bad enough to make me think I underpriced myself.”

  “Marlee, a deal’s a deal.”

  Marlee snorted and threw her head in the air, letting him know exactly what she thought of their previous arrangement. Brogan tried not to let his anger show. He took another sip from his coffee.

  “Seeing as we’re friends now, I’ll throw in an extra twenty. How’s that?”

  Marlee shook her head. “I’ll take fifty dollars up front. Fifty when I take you to him.”

  Brogan stared at her, his jaw tightening. They both knew she had him.

  “Okay,” he said after a couple of moments. “I can do that.”

  “Fifty up front…as in now.”

  Brogan took a look around the diner, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out two twenty-dollar bills and a ten, and placed them in front of him on the table. He stared hard at Marlee. “We do this tonight. No fucking around.”

  Marlee nodded, slightly taken aback by his tone.

  Brogan placed a hand on the money. “So how about you give me a name? Fifty dollars is more than a fair price for that.”

  Marlee hesitated.

  “Come on, Marlee. I just want to know, that’s all. Trust me, I’m not going to risk blowing this, not once I give you half the money.”

  “Ritter,” she said finally. “His name’s Haiden Ritter.”

  “Haiden Ritter…” Brogan repeated slowly. The name surprised him for some reason. It didn’t quite match the expectation he’d built in his mind. “Haiden’s a strange name to call someone,” he mused, speaking almost to himself. “Didn’t they name a wall after him…no, that was Hadrian.”

  Marlee was staring down at the dollar bills in front of him. She wiggled a finger. Brogan slid the notes across the table.

  “So tell me, what did Ritter do to you?” Marlee said, picking up the money and put it inside her coat pocket. “Must have been bad, huh?”

  “Bad enough to pay a hundred dollars to find him.”

  “And how come you don’t even know his name? Does he go by another name in some other town?” Marlee pouted at Brogan when he didn’t reply. “Come on, Frank, tell me. I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “When this is done, you come up and sing to me in my room. I’ll tell you everything. How’s that?”

  Marlee looked disappointed. “I suppose so. Okay, I’ll swing by the hotel at nine. Let’s meet in the lobby.”

  Brogan nodded.

  “I’ll take you to Ritter. When you see him, you give me the rest of my money. If you don’t, I’ll start screaming. That’s a promise.”

  “There’ll be no need for that,” Brogan said firmly. “You’ll get your money.”

  Marlee stood up. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said, looking down at her untouched cup.

  “My pleasure.”

  Brogan stared after Marlee as she headed for the door, marveling at how someone with such a sweet face could be so rotten inside.<
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  Chapter 30

  Brogan continued to watch Marlee from his booth window as she walked briskly away from the diner, disappearing from sight around the corner. Across the street, a flock of birds rose from off a rooftop ledge, scattering in all directions as they flew upward into the gray wintry skies.

  Out of nowhere, an intense pressure descended over him. An anxious, overwhelming sense of dread, like someone had sucked the soul right out of him, stuffed it into a freight elevator, then jabbed the button for the basement.

  The severity of the sensation shocked him, and his mind reeled as he desperately tried to grasp what was happening to him. Functioning purely on auto-pilot, he drained his coffee, trapped a dollar bill under his plate, and staggered out of the diner.

  Once outside, he crossed the street and went back to the hotel, passing Ralph at the desk with a vague wave of his hand, then took the stairs up to his room where he sat by the window for the rest of the morning, his mind frozen, unable to function.

  At the very moment he needed to be at his strongest, some critical mental structure deep within him had collapsed without warning, throwing him into a dark, existential malaise, totally incapacitating him. In all his years as a professional soldier, then as a police officer, he had never felt this way before a mission. However, this mission was beyond personal. It was one that carried an emotional intensity he would never come close to experiencing again. And it was sucking the life right out of him.

  He stayed in his room all day, skipping lunch, his stomach unable to handle food. Once again, a terrible sense of guilt plagued him. He had been a bad father, an even worse husband. Sitting by the window, his mind endlessly wrapping around the memories of Sarah and Jessica, the afternoon turned to evening, then the evening light faded from the skies and darkness enveloped the city. The entire day had rolled by in a mindless blur.

  Around seven p.m. a deep inner resource, having lain dormant all day, finally snapped Brogan out of his torpor. He stood up abruptly from his chair, like an alarm bell had sounded off in his head, and began to pace the room, urging his brain back to life. Twenty minutes later, he went down to reception and ordered a light supper—a vegetable broth, chicken sandwich, and a pot of coffee, which he got sent to his room. The food did him good. So did the coffee.