"That sound just now came from that way." Andrew pointed in the general direction of the explosion. "Not sure why you'd think it'd have something to do with me, seeing as how I've been in there for a while."
"Because they could've followed you, you Eastie fishhead." Max yawned. "Hey, Barber. Ten euros to scout the hills for an hour or two."
Andrew raised his eyebrows quizzically. "'They' being who exactly?"
"What's goin' on?" Daniel asked, struggling with the elastic waist of his tracksuit bottoms.
Max answered both at once: "Sounded like the fuckin' military," he said. "A high-grade explosive, that."
"And again, I came from that way." As Andrew pointed in the direction the boom. "I'm sure they followed me. Yep. I'm definitely at fault here!"
"If you can see us from the hilltops with that thing around your neck," Max said, jabbing a fat finger at the camera strap, "then bet your skinny ass the military can see you from over there. They've got, I don't know, satellites and shit." He looked up at Crow's nest, and waved his finger around at the clouds, and the heavens from which they dangled.
"Just a mutant. Nothing to worry about." Andrew sighed, wondering if he should offer to go with Barber to see what had happened. After all, Max definitely seemed angry and worried and was offering payment. If he could learn a few things and get paid at the same time rather than pay Owl...
On the other hand, taking one look at Barber (or rather, one sniff of him), the confidence receded quickly, deeply into Andrew's heart. A drunk, maybe with a shaky trigger finger; stumbling around, twisting his ankles and breaking his knees on rocks and roots and badger-holes. Not much of a guide, this Scotsman, and Andy knew it was a Scot because the little hundred-mil of Buckfast bulged from his pocket, even without the accent to help. Only men of that hairy race were low enough to drink such rot, its fumes clinging to his nose hairs ever since he got his degree in Edinburgh. One inhale of the stuff and Andrew was doomed to remember it forever. He could almost smell his own vomit when he smelled Buckfast, even when no sourness leapt up his throat, and no dryness assailed the sides of his tongue.
"So, you up to it?"
"Sure, Max," said Barber, who, shamelessly scratching at his own anus through the polyester of his pants-seat, began in the same direction as at which the surly bartender had just pointed.
"What the hell are you doing?" Max bellowed. The Scot turned around at these words, gaping himself dumb. "You're naked, aren't you? Go back and grab your gun."
"It's fine."
"It's stupidity. That's what it is."
Andrew looked at the Scot like he'd just seanced with his fat mother back on the island. Walking toward an explosion was bad enough; and while unarmed! But he saw his opportunity and he jumped for it. "Maybe I'll find something with this which you can't." He tapped the lens of his camera, wishing he had brought his binocs with him. He scrunched his face just a bit, angry at himself for something so valuable. The binoculars had a better zoom than any camera would have. He'd have to find a pair.
"I'm not throwing another ten in, if that's what you think. You two decide how to split it, if you're tagging along, newbie," Max warned.
"Fine with me, if it'll calm you down." Andrew knew he needed to make a few friends where he had none. Pissing off the one person his friend (his outside friend) told him could help him was not on his list of things to do. Nevertheless, Andrew had a smug grin plastered across his face; he'd goaded Owl out of a good lookout spot and a place to camp entirely for free! Now all he had to do was get out of dodge before Owl paid his bar tab and he wouldn't have to pay a penny. Might even make a quick euro helping Barber.
The same fingers which burrowed at Barber's bum lingered dangerously near his mouth and nostrils. He was scratching something else. "We ready?" he asked. "Can I borrow that Sig, then?"
Andrew questioned it for a minute. He didn't want to give a stranger his gun, not really. After all, Owl did just warn him that everyone had their own agenda and to trust no-one. But what could a drunk man do with a gun? With as great a chance of hurting himself as others? "Let's go. Uh, wash your hands, though." If Max trusted this man...well, there had to be something to him, even if Andrew couldn't see it. And God knows he couldn't.
"Sure. Sure." Barber walked for the muddy brook, and the stench followed him.
"The sink is the other way."
"No soap here, sonny. You're in the Zone." He knelt and rubbed the grainy silt between his knuckles.
"No soap?"
"Well, I guess there's soap. But it's in high demand. Runs out fast. I sure ain't never see n'any." Swish, swish. The dirt particles fell off, by and large, into the opaque water.
"All right then. Let's go." It was at this moment that Andrew knew that the Zone was definitely a different place. It had cities, sure, but they were not the same as those of humanity and dignity and chins held high. These were the cities you see in the cinema. The run-down shitholes that criminals hide in when they're on the run. So the news wasn't lying; not egregiously.
It was only when they had begun to climb the slopes that Andrew saw Barber wore socks and flipflops. Truly he'd lost his appreciation for life somewhere long ago, on the side of the road, slipping out through a hole in his pockets; or he'd picked up a shiny-new deathwish in a similar place. Barber racked the pistol's slide, and when a bullet fell out, muttered, "Shite." He bent to pick it up. Andrew saw more peeking from Barber's waistline than he cared to, so he looked away, sneering. Even in the Zone, someone could at least show some damn class.
"Reckon this won't take long," said the Scot. "Pimps ta get proper feart up here, specially when ya pished, and the Buckie sends ya colors flyin'. I fuckin' love Buckie, man. But anyway, most noises mount to nothin'." He had released the magazine, and returned the bullet to it, through his fingers, only slightly muddy, were clumsy about it.
"What part of Scotland?"
"Glazguh. Tired of working the frier in a chippie shop, so I came here. What do they fancy you?"
"Andrew. I lived in Edinburgh for a while. Don't think I ever made it that far west."
"Agh, well; yer a Lowlands boy all tha same! Count your blessings, laddie. Glazguh's a right shithole."
"And they call you Barber?"
Barber smiled, revealing the gap in his teeth, yellowed like antique newspapers. "I give the closest shave in town!"
