ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) (2 page)

As if caught in some kind of tractor beam, Duncan Winters’s pick-up
seemingly steered itself from Woodstock Boulevard and into Mickey Finn’s nearly
deserted parking lot. Shaking his head at his lack of the power known as
will
,
he angled the big Dodge dually between the yellow lines, mostly, and rattled
the transmission into Park.

Hovering behind the plate glass a yard from the rig’s oversize
bumper and casting reflections on the flat of its hood were a half-dozen
colorful neon signs advertising liquor and some of the microbeers Portland had
become famous for. And as the V8 thrummed away and tepidly conditioned air
blasted from the vents, he continued to stare at the beckoning signage. If he was
a doctor, a cold beer would be just what he’d prescribe a fella such as him on a
hot day in late July. But he wasn’t a doctor. That manicured class didn’t drive
twenty-year-old American iron with balding tires and a wheezy A/C condenser.
Nope, they drove bloated chrome- and leather-laden luxury SUVs—Denalis, Escalades,
and Range Rovers—and not one of those makes would dare be seen venturing up
from Eastmoreland or Reed College and ending up in the lot of a workingman’s
bar like Mickey Finn’s.

Duncan’s school was of the hard knocks variety … a pair of
tours in Vietnam at the tail end of the war courtesy of the United States Army—no
doubt hugely unpopular with the tenured professors teaching at the liberal arts
college a stone’s throw west of his favorite watering hole.

At the moment, however, none of that mattered because he was
just one out-of-work fella among many and tired of listening to the hollow
promises spewing out of the sides of the necks of the powers that be in D.C.
The drivel regurgitated by those thousand-dollar-suit-wearing stuffed-shirt morons
on both sides of the aisle had been going on a dozen years now, at least, and—short
of something drastic happening in the swamp that was D.C.—showed no promise of
ever improving.

As he grasped the key to kill the engine his old flip phone
vibrated in his shirt pocket. He plucked the borderline antique item out
between two fingers and stared at the little LCD window on the mollusk-like
phone’s exterior.

Recognizing the number at once, he opened the phone a
quarter-inch then quickly snapped it shut. “Nobody’s home, Chuck,” he said
aloud behind a low chuckle. “I’m about to punch the clock and get you your rent
money.”

He switched the ringer on and returned the phone to his
pocket. Then, averting his eyes from the stylized palm trees of one particular sign
trying to convince him that by consuming the touted brand of south-of-the-border
cerveza he’d magically be transported from his present near-destitute existence
to a tropical isle somewhere, he killed the engine and hummed along as Bocephus
belted out the last few verses of the country song coming out of the radio.

As the twangy guitar chords finally faded, Duncan stopped humming
and tried his hand at singing his favorite verse acapella. “I got a shotgun, a rifle,
and a 4-wheel drive, and a country boy can survive ... country folk can
survive.” And for the first time in a long time he smiled. For this particular Hank
Williams Jr. ditty held a special place in his heart and brought to mind his
little brother Logan. A self-sufficient young man who, though he lived in the
big
city
year round, still thought of himself as a sort of modern day
country
boy.

Wondering what baby bro was up to at this very moment, Duncan
reached for the truck keys, but held back when the deejay came on and started
talking in a voice strangely devoid of the usual circus barker intonation. Speaking
softly, the deejay mentioned some kind of civil unrest happening in the Nation’s
capital.
When isn’t there?
thought Duncan as a few long seconds of
silence ensued.
Dead air
, kryptonite to a radio station. Nothing drove
away listeners quicker than the vacuum created by no music, no commercials, and
no familiar voice.

Expecting a stock early warning tone or maybe even the
show’s producer to come on and issue an apology—maybe even to divulge that
Ragin’ Cajun Ricky had had too much to eat of the latter type of food last
night and was
indisposed
of momentarily—Duncan was about to remove the
keys for the second time in as many minutes when he heard the unmistakable
sound of a deep breath being drawn in and Ricky went on about other
disturbances happening around the country, which was strange considering the
station was known more for sponsoring the St. Paul Rodeo and wet T-shirt
contests at local bars than detailing current events, especially ones
concerning happenings in New York City or within the Beltway several thousand
miles away. According to Ricky—who sounded more like Stuart Smalley at the
moment reading the news than the three-hundred-pound local celebrity he was—the
bridges in the Big Apple were being closed down, and in D.C. police were
stretched to their limits with hundreds of armed soldiers en route by helicopter
from nearby bases.
So much for Posse Comitatus
, Duncan mused. And just
as he palmed his lucky purple rabbit’s foot and turned the key to lock the
ignition, he noticed a discernable measure of disgust in the voice coming
through the speakers. So he grasped the steering wheel two-handed and listened as
Ricky gave a play-by-play of what the cable news station was broadcasting on
the muted television in his glass-enclosed sound booth.

Speculating that the culprit responsible for fueling the
gruesome attack he was seeing in real time was a recently discovered designer
drug the kids were calling
bath salts
, Ragin’ Cajun Ricky described in
vivid detail the fight taking place on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in
which he referred to the assailant, who was now biting the fingers and tearing chunks
of meat from another man’s hands and arms, as “an out of control monster.”

Four score and twenty digits ago,
Duncan thought, yanking
the keys from the ignition and silencing the
War-of-the-Worlds
-like
broadcast. Smiling on account of his morbid funny, and pondering the question
why 105.5 the Bull would let the Cajun pull that kind of stunt, he exited the
cab and pocketed the keys.

The blue and red neon sign above the entry said
Open
.
Confirming this, an electronic chime sounded when Duncan entered the air-conditioned
Irish-themed sports bar. Hanging down from the exposed rafters running directly
overhead were numerous satin banners heralding some of the many Boston Celtics’
and New England Patriots’ championship seasons. Affixed to the vertical wooden
beams supporting the rafters were faded homages to the Fighting Irish’s
glorious past and present. Eight-by-ten photos, curled at the corners and
featuring rows of pad-wearing Notre Dame football players were stapled to the
beam. Starting at eye-level and affixed one atop the other all the way up to
the dusty cobweb-strung rafters, all eleven National Championship winning teams
were represented.

To Duncan’s fore, roughly twenty tables made up a casual dining
area. Half of the tables, booths made of polished oak, were pushed up against
the windows bordering both the boulevard out front and the side street to the
east. The other tables were oversized wooden spools, at one time, presumably,
wound with high-tension wire of some sort. They were set on end and topped off
with rounds of glass cut to fit. Two rows of the spools occupied the floor of
the open concept room. To his right, twenty feet beyond the dining area, was a
long white-ash bar fronted by a dozen stools. Above the mirrored back bar, home
to fifty or sixty liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes, was a trio of flat
screen televisions, each displaying a different sporting event: baseball, golf,
and what looked like professional bull riding.

Nestled beside the largest of the screens currently showing
the Chicago Cubs going up against the Atlanta Braves was a smaller Oregon
Lottery monitor that instantly drew Duncan’s gaze. Oblivious of everything else
around him, he watched intently as small pixelated balls took flight from the
monitor’s lower right corner. Like phosphorous rounds, the white orbs traced slow
lazy arcs before landing on numbered squares plotted out in a grid pattern on
the brilliant blue backdrop.

1 and 80.

“Shit,” he muttered.
His
numbers seemed to
always
come up when he didn’t have money on them. And lately, the opposite had been
true when he
did
.

Finished negotiating the warren of tables, Duncan paused for
a tick and subconsciously worried the knot of rent money in his pocket. After
the barely perceptible hesitation, he approached the bar while walking his eyes
over the darker-tinted liquors in the bottles lined up on the multi-tiered
shelves like so many soldiers at parade rest.

Back facing the bar, eyes leaving the game only long enough
to meet Duncan’s gaze in the mirror, the bartender said, “The usual?”

Duncan grunted an affirmative and dragged a stool out, its
legs creating a jangling racket on the concrete floor and drawing angry looks
from a couple of twenty-somethings four stools to his right.

Ignoring the stinkeye, Duncan withdrew a folded wad of twenties
from his pocket, peeled off two, and proceeded to fill out a Keno slip. “Donate
this to our parks and schools, Chad,” he said sarcastically in his Texas drawl
and slid the curled-up bills and filled-out game slip across the bar top.

“Wishing you luck,” said the bartender, a stocky man in his
early thirties sporting a high-and-tight cut to his blonde hair. He was a fairly
recent hire—hence the day shift. The man was not a Reed student, that much
Duncan knew. Not enough hair or self-righteous attitude to be accepted into
those hallowed halls. And from what Duncan had been able to drag out of the kid
in the three weeks he’d been pouring drinks here, he knew the Detroit native
lived twenty blocks east on the periphery of Felony Flats—the bad part of
Southeast Portland in which the one-bedroom home Duncan was in danger of
gambling his way out of was located.

As the bartender pulled the bottle down and poured the drink,
he talked about his plans to move to a warmer clime and learn motorcycle
repair.

Duncan took the glass in hand. Staring at the amber liquid,
he said, “Hell, Chad, it’s supposed to get hotter than the Devil’s bunghole
today. You planning on moving to Death Valley or Arizona to escape this cold
snap?”

Chad ran the Keno slip, turned and slapped it on the bar top.
“Just dreaming out loud.”

Though nearly opposites in the looks department, every time
Duncan was exposed to the hard-working kid’s cheery can-do-attitude, he
couldn’t help but think of his younger brother.

“Do it now or you’ll blink and find yourself in my shoes …
an old, out-of-work drunk.”

“You’re not so bad,” Chad replied.

Duncan made no reply. He hoisted back the three fingers of
Jack, grimaced, and set the highball on the coaster. Without pause, he tapped
the glass rim with one finger—bar semaphore for give me another. “And I’ll need
a bottle of Bud,” he added, scanning the Keno board for his numbers.

“Figures
Tex
is a Bud man,” chirped the young man
four stools down. The brunette girl with him sniggered and met Duncan’s
mirthless gaze in a sliver of back bar mirror showing between two bullet-shaped
vodka bottles.

“
Boom!
” Duncan shouted, slamming his fresh bottle of
Bud on the bar and starting an eruption of suds spilling forth. Ignoring the
kid’s attitude and the girl’s snark—as well as the fact that both of their
butts rose a couple of inches off their stools—he glanced away from the Keno
screen and slid his ticket across the bar top to Chad. “
One
and
eighty
”—he
whistled—“and a
five
multiplier to boot … who’da thunk ol’ Bud-drinkin’
Tex
was destined to win two months’ rent just like that?” One eye parked on the
youngsters, he let loose a cackle and tipped his Budweiser back.

Life for Duncan was great for the moment as he calculated
the winnings in his head.
Five hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad for a few
seconds spent dragging a pencil over paper.
“Hell, maybe it
is
my
lucky day.”

Chad fed the ticket into the lottery machine to validate it.
He delved into the till, counted out the winnings, and fanned the cash on the
bar in front of Duncan, making sure it was on the side nearest the Reedies.
Then, smiling broadly on account of his regular’s good fortune, said, “Want another
round?”

“Is a frog’s ass watertight?” Duncan answered at once.

“Ewww,” said the girl, crinkling her button nose.

The young man swiveled left to face Duncan, a sour look parked
on his face.

“You two should know,” Duncan exclaimed, still staring up at
the blue screen full of static numbers. “I was going to buy your next round until”—beer
bottle in hand, he pointed at them with his right elbow—“
Mister Insecure
there started his gums flappin’. So, here’s my piece of advice for you, Sweetie.
It’s free of charge, listen up … or not—”

“My name’s
Brittany
,” she shot, her words dripping
with indignation. “
Not
Sweetie.”

The boyfriend chimed in. “Mind your business, dude. We don’t
need
you
to buy us a drink. You ought to spend your winnings on a new
set of wheels.” He laughed nervously then added, “Our Mexican landscaper drives
a nicer truck than that beater of yours.”

Chad looked on from behind the bar, his gaze shifting subtly
from Duncan to the kids and then back to his regular.

“Well then,
Brittany
,” Duncan replied, still staring
at his numbers on the screen, “my momma always said ‘If you ain’t got nothing
good to say … you probably ought not say a thing.’”

“You going to do something, Skip?” the girl protested.

Fingers curling into fists, Skip rose up off his seat, one
foot planting on the floor.

Ignoring
Skip’s
posturing, Duncan swiveled his head
slowly toward the couple and met the young man’s icy glare, ready for anything,
whether it be the kid backing up his talk and putting the other foot on the
floor, or the girl spewing some political correctness bullshit having to do
with PETA and frogs. No matter which presented itself first, he had an
appropriate comeback locked and loaded. Should the former take place, a fistful
of beer bottle would be delivered with a lightning-quick backhand right. Should
the latter come to pass, the response would not be physical. However, the insults
learned in a Saigon bar and repeated only on special occasions such as this
would be delivered just as quickly as the backhand and pack a similar wallop to
Brittany’s giant-sized ego.

Thankfully, neither response was needed. Because suddenly Brittany
whimpered, drew in a deep breath and, as if Duncan ceased to exist, both antagonists
directed their undivided attention to the television the pro-circuit rodeo had
been playing on.

Had
being the operative word. Now the sports channel was
inexplicably airing a replay of the attack in D.C. the Cajun had reported on.
And sure enough, just as Ragin’ Cajun Ricky had dutifully reported over the
airwaves a few minutes ago, Honest Abe
was
watching on stoically as the
blood seeping from the murdered man’s wounds painted crimson trails on the
pristine white marble steps.

Covering her mouth and wide-eyed, Brittany let out a
startled yelp when simultaneously the feed went live with what looked like Capitol
police setting up cordons on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and the words
Guard called
in to quell unrest in Pioneer Courthouse Square
appeared on the slow-moving
crawl directly below the surreal scene. As if the news couldn’t get any worse, in
the background, clear as day, tan military vehicles were taking up positions in
the pedestrian-friendly zones in front of the White House. In the next instant
soldiers in full combat gear and brandishing black rifles piled out of opening
doors and yawning rear hatches.

Duncan looked away from the television just as the young
woman planted her elbows on the bar and cradled her face in her hands and, in a
voice muffled by her splayed fingers, asked her boyfriend, “Still think it’s
safe to go to the rally downtown?”