Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Friday Nights at the Dirty Dog
Word Count: 653
The Hound's Tooth and Tavern was the oldest standing building in Haven, though "standing" was perhaps a generous word, as there were days I was certain only a prayer was keeping the roof from caving in. It had been on the wrong side of town when the city was prosperous, and the raising of the wall hadn't exactly served to improve the environment.
We called it The Dirty Dog, after the name of its house brew, which I guessed was equal parts sewer water and antifreeze. Mason compared it to goat piss on several occasions with such insistence it made us uncomfortable, partly because we all knew he was clinically insane, and partly because we all knew he was raised on a farm. Still, it was the only bar that would let us in with the stink of the dead on our clothes, and goat piss with friends sure beat out drinking alone.
I didn't even realize it was Friday until we walked through the doors and were assaulted with nude dancers, topless beer wenches, and "music" that sounded more like the wailing of a legion of electronic devices being slowly crushed by a tractor. Mason and Dixon had already bolted for the closest table to the stage, though, so it was too late to demand we find something else to do unless I wanted to deal with two grown men demanding that if I was going to take them away from their weekly tit-fest, I better supply something equally good for them to stare at.
So I sat at the warped table, the bass vibrating through my spine, and watched the two of them oogle women while Keenan flipped through documents on his tablet and Avery texted his boyfriend. Moments like that, it was easy to forget that mankind was on a crash course with annihilation. Not for long, mind you, but long enough that I could push aside the lingering sense of hopelessness and focus on what little I had. Four friends I could trust with my life, who happened to be the first squad that didn't hate me, and clean blood in my veins. Sure, I had to drive the Dead Zone every day, had to breathe the clouds of rotten stench that hung over the towns we'd doomed in our rush to isolate the healthy, had to stare down my scope and execute dozens, if not hundreds, as part of my nine to five. But I was still alive. And "still alive" was more than eighty-five percent of the human race could claim.
I pushed myself away from the table as some college-aged peroxide-blonde with hands that had never known real work and breasts that had never met gravity waved her ass in Dixon's face, and rolled my eyes as I walked to the bar. Four friends, yes, two of which were idiots - but friends nonetheless.
"Another round on my tab," I told Jarvis, the owner and barkeep. He thumped his fat hands on the bar and leaned over to me.
"You've been running that tab for two years," he yelled, his voice a deep baritone over the music.
"I'll pay it eventually," I told him, waving a dismissive hand and smiling despite myself as I watched one of the girls try - and fail - to catch Keenan's attention.
"Good intentions ain't payment, Aura," Jarvis pointed out.
"How about sleeping soundly, knowing that you're alive because I don't let the Ollies eat you?" I asked, batting my eyelashes at him. He glowered at me a moment, his lips moving in words I couldn't hear, then produced five greasy mugs from behind the counter and began to fill them with the green-yellow draft.
"Damn terrorist," he yelled, a hint of a smile on his burly face, and piled the mugs onto a serving platter with two bowls of heavily salted pretzels before shoving it toward me.
Word Count: 653
The Hound's Tooth and Tavern was the oldest standing building in Haven, though "standing" was perhaps a generous word, as there were days I was certain only a prayer was keeping the roof from caving in. It had been on the wrong side of town when the city was prosperous, and the raising of the wall hadn't exactly served to improve the environment.
We called it The Dirty Dog, after the name of its house brew, which I guessed was equal parts sewer water and antifreeze. Mason compared it to goat piss on several occasions with such insistence it made us uncomfortable, partly because we all knew he was clinically insane, and partly because we all knew he was raised on a farm. Still, it was the only bar that would let us in with the stink of the dead on our clothes, and goat piss with friends sure beat out drinking alone.
I didn't even realize it was Friday until we walked through the doors and were assaulted with nude dancers, topless beer wenches, and "music" that sounded more like the wailing of a legion of electronic devices being slowly crushed by a tractor. Mason and Dixon had already bolted for the closest table to the stage, though, so it was too late to demand we find something else to do unless I wanted to deal with two grown men demanding that if I was going to take them away from their weekly tit-fest, I better supply something equally good for them to stare at.
So I sat at the warped table, the bass vibrating through my spine, and watched the two of them oogle women while Keenan flipped through documents on his tablet and Avery texted his boyfriend. Moments like that, it was easy to forget that mankind was on a crash course with annihilation. Not for long, mind you, but long enough that I could push aside the lingering sense of hopelessness and focus on what little I had. Four friends I could trust with my life, who happened to be the first squad that didn't hate me, and clean blood in my veins. Sure, I had to drive the Dead Zone every day, had to breathe the clouds of rotten stench that hung over the towns we'd doomed in our rush to isolate the healthy, had to stare down my scope and execute dozens, if not hundreds, as part of my nine to five. But I was still alive. And "still alive" was more than eighty-five percent of the human race could claim.
I pushed myself away from the table as some college-aged peroxide-blonde with hands that had never known real work and breasts that had never met gravity waved her ass in Dixon's face, and rolled my eyes as I walked to the bar. Four friends, yes, two of which were idiots - but friends nonetheless.
"Another round on my tab," I told Jarvis, the owner and barkeep. He thumped his fat hands on the bar and leaned over to me.
"You've been running that tab for two years," he yelled, his voice a deep baritone over the music.
"I'll pay it eventually," I told him, waving a dismissive hand and smiling despite myself as I watched one of the girls try - and fail - to catch Keenan's attention.
"Good intentions ain't payment, Aura," Jarvis pointed out.
"How about sleeping soundly, knowing that you're alive because I don't let the Ollies eat you?" I asked, batting my eyelashes at him. He glowered at me a moment, his lips moving in words I couldn't hear, then produced five greasy mugs from behind the counter and began to fill them with the green-yellow draft.
"Damn terrorist," he yelled, a hint of a smile on his burly face, and piled the mugs onto a serving platter with two bowls of heavily salted pretzels before shoving it toward me.