Blood & Whiskey
Fiction: A man with steel-grey hair enters a tavern to have a drink of whiskey, but has his quiet disturbed.
The bartender turned away from his dirty dishes and greeted the newcomer, but his cheerful salutation went ignored. Instead, the newcomer -- a man of many decades, lean and sinewy -- took a seat and placed a handful of metal coins on the bar.
“Whiskey. Whole bottle.”
The bartender took the coins and inspected them. The New Federation of Borealia had tried to introduce its own currency a few months ago, but vendors remained suspicious of the coinage. The bartender, however, knew the wandering merchant who visited his establishment once a week would accept the coins for a slight mark-up. As it stood, the newcomer had over paid for the bottle.
Without a word, the bartender placed a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the bar. Noticing that the man seemed irritable, he pushed a small bowl of dried squash chips toward him.
“On the house,” the bartender said. He turned his attention back to his rag and dirty dishes, only to hear the bowl clatter to the floor. “Ah, come on, man. I was trying to be kind. It was free.”
“Do I look like I need charity?” the newcomer asked, lifting his head for the first time. His coal-black eyes peered through a mess of steel-grey hair. The fury behind those eyes made the bartender shudder.
He had run this tavern on the outskirts of town for years, but he had never seen eyes so devoid of goodness. The raiders, mercenaries, and weapon merchants who frequented his tavern sparkled with gentleness compared to this man. The bartender regretted his offer of kindness. He wanted nothing more than to turn back time and undo that sliver of graciousness.
The three customers sitting at a rounded steel table shot to their feet. This tavern had been their home away from home, and this newcomer had blasphemed against their little refuge. The trio had been Crete-Breakers, the men who smashed Pre-Cataclysm concrete and pulled out the metal rebar. They sold the metal of their spoils to the local metalworkers and builders. Their work was tough, but they were tougher.
“Hey, buddy!” one of the men yelled. As the words left his lips, he noticed the fear in the bartender’s eyes. The tears edged the bartender’s eyelids, silently pleading with the Crete-Breaker not to engage. Yet, the bartender knew it was too late.
The newcomer said nothing. He simply took his bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the tin cap from the bottle, and pressed the bottle to his lips.
“He’s talking to you!” the second man at the steel table shouted. He and the third man approached the newcomer without hesitation. The first Crete-Breaker, sensing the danger before them, reached for his semi-automatic pistol.
The third man stepped beside the newcomer’s stool and leaned forward on the bar. He tried to peer into the stranger’s eyes, but his mop of steel-grey hair obscured them.
“Hey, buddy? You there?”
The newcomer took another swig and set the bottle down. His throat rumbled with a guttural reply.
“What did you say?” the third man asked.
“Leave me alone,” the newcomer growled.
“I’ll leave you alone when you show some respect --”
“Leave --”
“Spokes runs a fine establishment --”
“Me --”
“And he doesn’t need you --”
The newcomer grabbed the empty glass from the counter and smashed it into the face of the third man. Shattered glass rained over the bar. The Crete-Breaker collapsed to the ground and clutched at his face as blood poured from his wounds.
“I’m blind! I’m blind!” The third man wailed, rolling on the ground, his hands covering his eyes. “I can’t see!”
The second man lunged at the newcomer. In a single motion, the newcomer seized the right arm of the Crete-Breaker and twisted it behind his back. He forced the man to face in the direction of his friend, who had already drawn his semi-automatic pistol and fired two shots. The newcomer used the Crete-Breaker as a human shield, allowing the .22-calibre bullets to bury themselves into his flesh.
The newcomer tossed the wounded man onto the ground, and, from beneath his steel-grey hair, locked eyes with the first Crete-Breaker. Despite having a weapon, the man froze at absolute horror of the darkness of the newcomer’s eyes.
Unafraid of the gun, the newcomer stepped closer until he was face-to-face with the armed Crete-Breaker. Gently, he placed his hand on the pistol and pushed it down to the man’s side.
“Holster it,” the newcomer said.
The first man obeyed and slipped his semi-automatic pistol into the holster at his hip.
“Good,” the newcomer said.
The first man did not move. His body failed to respond to any of his wishes. His mind commanded his body to flee, but his legs remained inert beneath him.
“I suggest you leave,” the newcomer said.
The first man felt his body release. He had enough agency to nod in agreement and lumber toward the exit. Despite his internal screaming, he could only take small fragile steps to the door of the tavern. He pushed through the door and into the evening air.
The newcomer stepped over the body of the shot man. He crouched down to check if his human shield was still a live. The pulse was faint. The newcomer picked up the limp body of the still living man and dragged it back to the corner. He sat him back down into his initial seat. He pressed a bottle of beer into the man’s hands. In the last act of his life, the semi-conscious body tightened his fingers around the beer bottle while the rest of him slumped into the chair.
The newcomer returned to the bar where the man with glass in his face continued to shout in agony. The newcomer seized the blind man by his lapels and brought him to his feet.
“Shhh,” the newcomer said, pressing his blood-stained index finger to the man’s lips. He guided the blind man into his previous spot and pressed a half-drunk pint of beer into his hands. The pint glass grew slick with the blood of its owner. “Now, you’re going to sit and be quiet.”
The newcomer returned to his spot at the bar and looked at the filth on his hands.
“You have a cloth?” he asked to the bartender. In silence, the bartender handed him one of his rags. The man wiped the blood from his hands and tossed the rag back to the bartender.
The door opened, and a well-dressed man walked into tavern. His eyes darted between those of the bartender and the two bodies in the back corner. The blinded man tried his best to stifle his moans of pain.
Before the well-dress man could speak, the bartender interjected:
“Take a seat, but please try to keep quiet.”