Lower Peninsula
Detroit
Rog's bar and grill and fallen into a soft slumber with the onset of the noon-time lull. Everyone who could having already eaten, the little restaurant river-side had dozed off into a sleepy stillness its proprietor took for a moment to clean up the mid-day mess. Packing up the rough paper napkins they ate on, sweeping away the crumbs, and brushing the dirt out the door.
The spring air was warm this day, and he left the door cracked open with a chair leg to let in a breeze, while it not being open enough to keep his bell from being rung. In the corner Kid Rock sung an adolescent lament to the year 1989 in the battered CD player he had managed to salvage. It wasn't much that remained when the world fell, but with everything else lacking it was amazing all the same. He joked about it to himself, wondering if he should simply charge folk to listen to it while they ate. But music had been free before The War, so while kill that spirit before it could?
Besides, that time would come when the player failed and died, or the generator that powered it out back. Whichever came first. Or he, even.
Leaning over his broom, pushing the latest collection of dirt, rock and crumbs up into a neat pile in the center of the room he didn't look up to see the Aventurier officer walking up to the door. It wasn't until the bell clang softly he looked up and turned.
“Paul!” he shouted, smiling, “How you doing? Late for lunch.”
“I'm fine Rog, just here to pay off my dues.”
“Ya leavin'?” the proprietor asked, leaning his broom up alongside the table as he walked around the counter, “I wasn't going to send hitmen after you, if that's what you're afraid of. I don't think they could even get inside the Renn Cen anyways.”
Paul laughed, smiling softly, “No, I'm not afraid of any dirtbags you send after me to collect. But I got word from the boss. He wants to send me to New York.”
“Shit, I'm sorry bud.” Rog joked, with a dry laugh, “New Yorkers are pricks, and I'm sure bombs hadn't changed their entitlement.”
“What a wealth of knowledge, you got any more?” Paul said, bantering his way to the counter.
“'fraid not, that's all I remember.” Rog continued, he shuffled around in a receipt box he kept under his counter.
Each receipt of his were hand-written, dated, and titled with the name of the customer. Organized by date, it wasn't difficult to find Paul's last order, “In any case, your mean comes out to fifty dollars.”
Paul nodded, and search his pockets for the money, “I guess the commander wants to find a route into the Atlantic.” the Aventurier said, “I don't know how long I'll be.”
“I don't know how to get to the ocean through New York, but power to you if there's someway. You picking your crew? I could perhaps do away with leaving this shitpot.”
Paul smiled, and laughed, “Afraid not, powers to appoint my own crew are beyond me.” he said dryly, throwing down onto the counter a handful of Michigan tens, “That should be it though.”
Rog scooped up the bills and began flipping through the pale jean blue notes. Satisfied he pocketed the paper bills and struck out the order on Paul's receipt with a stick of charcoal. “There, you're clean.” he declared with mock triumph.
“Thanks, now I can sail out to die with a clean conscious.”
“Now, don't be talking like that.” Rog scolded, “I need you back. You're the only ass hole worth talking to in these parts. And the only one who appreciates The White Stripes.
“So you come back when you find that ocean, and buy some more sandwiches.”
“Plan on it...” Paul said, trailing off. He hung his eyes on the old pictures adorning the walls. Contemplatively he asked his friend, “You're before the war, what do you know about New York?”
“I know there's a city named New York as much as there is a state known as New York. The city's in the state. And the city was a big place, full of big buildings, and big jackasses.
“You can't stump the Trump.”
“Know anything more than that?”
“Afraid not.” Rog sighed, “Nothing that'd help you. I haven't ever been there, and I could tell you about how someone crashed some airplanes into buildings there but that was before my time. And ancient terrorist attacks aside, those aren't going to help you any even if you got there.”
“Shame.” Paul remarked.
“Sorry about that.” the restaurateur shrugged, “Now if we were talking Windsor I could tell you more. I've been across the river more than a few times in my youth. Mostly to catch some concerts and what not. Tell you about that tunnel before it collapsed, and the bridge before you folk shut it down totally and turned it into ramparts from which you watch the river.
“Take me over there, give me an hour or two, and I could maybe just relearn the streets. In a strange sort of way, it was almost a second home.”
“How's that, you had family there or something?”
“Aunt and uncle, actually. But that's all the past and they're dust.”
“Well, hopefully they have peace.”
“Same wish I hope for them too some night. More so my parents, and my old friends. A lot of people I miss, not so much from the bombs but everything from after. I did loose my grandma to the nukes, and a old girlfriend. Both shook me up for years as I nearly starved after.
“But shit, this isn't time to cry. So you paid your dues so get the fuck out and come back when you have new war stories.”
Upper Peninsula
Escanaba
With the sun setting over the horizon, the water of the great lake burned with a raw elemental passion. Dawn fell across Escanaba casting long shadows and fingers of purple and orange light thrown down by the setting sun. Swelling and dipping the waves of Lake Michigan. The late season glowed with the fire of the setting sun, creating a carpet overlay of oranges and reds the silhouetted the pines and shrubs.
Unfettered by modern street-lighting the stars glowed in the sky above. Peeking out behind inky black clouds and shimmering like diamonds through a veil of thin mist in the air.
His body sore and the stickiness of sweat worn into the wool fabric of his clothes, Marc trudged up through the melting snow to his house on the lake. The windows glowed with the soft light of lanterns, signaling his daughter was home. She hadn't spent all night at her friend's after all, and he felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders for not having to worry about her walking home in the dead of night.
Ellie greeted him the moment the front door slammed close behind him, “Welcome home!” she called from some distant room in a corner of the house.
“Thank you.” Marc called back, the tone of his voice dry and cracked. He shuffled about the living room, hanging up his woolen work coat on the coat rack by the door in the dim lamp light.
“I'm going to head out again in a bit.” he called out to her. He knew she could handle herself for a little bit more. She was a strong independent sort of girl.
“You always do!” she protested from the back, “Dad, you always do!” she whined.
Marc rose a hand to his brow and messaged his head. He wasn't up for another argument about it. He had hoped today he would get an easy day, with finding the Gray Fur corpse today in the woods. The foreman heard them, but figured a couple of trespassing hunters was not the lumber company's concern, or their own. George even had protested concern.
“What if you come home beat up again!” Ellie continued to protest.
“Ell, that was only one time!” Marc shot back. His back was sore and he felt like he needed something to ease the pain and message it away. A little bit of comfort to cool the burning in his muscles from throwing wood all day.
“You say that all the time, Dad!” Ellie went on, “But one way or another you come back home, and you're in some sort of mess!” she continued shouting from the backroom. It wasn't even a face to face argument.
“All, I'm your father and an adult, I can make my own decisions!”
“But Dad!” Ellie whined, finally coming out of her room and hanging out into the hall, “I made a stew today! From one of Chrissy's Mom's books! It's really good, you got to stay home and try it!”
“I'll have some tomorrow morning.” Marc said, looking up to his daughter.
In the lamp-light she was a shadow against a canvas of flickering yellow-green light. The night gown she wore hung loose from her shoulders and was only half visible in the light, the young curvature of her young body as she hung of an arm in the doorway plainly visible. Catching himself wandering along the shape of her belly and thigh, Marc realized he hated it. It made him feel slimy, and it only made his annoyance worse. “It'll be spoiled by then!” she shouted.
“It'll be fine, I'll light another fire in dha morning and heat it up then!” his voice cracked.
“Dad, please! Come on!”
“I said no, I made up my mind for this evening!”
“Like every evening? Christ Dad, what does the town think of you?” she protested, angrily throwing her arms.
There was a yearning desire to slap the girl. He didn't want this now, and he was a blind-siding argument. He turned away from her, shielding his eyes as he felt a tremble, “Besides dha point!” he shouted back.
“Do you know what someone said to me today?” Ellie asked, dropping her voice, “'When are you going to start, pretty little whore?'”
“Who said that?” Marc asked, he found something new to direct his attention to and he turned back around. She was standing in the middle of the hall, her arms crossed in front of her.
“I know what you're going to do if I told you who. And it's not going to solve anything.”
Marc could be called a drunk all he wanted. He knew that much was true. And honestly: he was fine with that. He felt resigned to it. It was comfort, at least for him. But there was the nagging morsel of a consciousness that knew it was bad all the same, and it had a voice that sorely hoped it would not be something carried down to his daughter.
He wanted to snuff out that lie now. Damn the aching in his body.
“I'll find out.” he mumbled to himself, “I'll find out who, and I'll fuck him over good.”
He looked up. “I'm going to dha bar.” he declared, and turned out to the door. A blood lust in his knuckles and a belly that called for whiskey.
“Dad for fucksakes stop!” Ellie shouted, but he already left.
____________
Against the far side of the bar a band equipped with makeshift wash-tub instruments and hand carved guitars plucked along a folksy tune. The soft see-saw of a violin wailed above the deep bass tones of a washtub cello bass and the meaty pumping of deer-hide drums. Atop a stage of milk-crates they looked out over a chaotic throng of tired men and women who shuffled to the music in a lamp and candle lit in an old side-of-the-way burger dive. In the late evening hours the joint was packed asses to elbows with the concrete dance floor a tacky jungle of people. Hanging back from the chaos the tired prenukers leaned against tall wooden tables clutching glasses of stout, lager, and beer.
For Marc, it was the bar who propped him up.
Shots of whiskey down and he hadn't extinguished the insult that smoldered besides his head. Though the aching pain of a day of work had softened, he hadn't found his target to brawl with. He also had no plan, and that pissed him off more.
With a shot glass pressed against his forehead he starred down at the raw unfinished wood of the bar with a sour look as the smell of people mingled with the smell of wood fire and vats of frying food smoldered out back. Shadows popped in and out of existence from behind him as passerby's obscured the candle light hanging from the support post.
To his side sat a whore who was deep in flirting with a customer. Her loud raunchy laughter eclipsed all other sounds. 'Ellie, become like her?' Marc thought to himself. And that only made his attitude more desperate, but without a vent to take it out on. His fingers wrung tight across the shot glass. He didn't quite care if he broke it.
Soon, the whore and her customer departed in a cloud of jubilant forced laughs as she was carried off by a fat, drunk Romeo-to-be. As soon as they left, someone else took their place.
“You look well.” a deep south-state voice said.
He looked up, shooting a spiteful drink to the man besides him.
Covered in heavy leather, thick tufts of loose animal fur wrapped up from under the collar of his coat. A scowling fox's head rested on his head like a cap, letting flow coat of a amber that shrouded the back of his head to his shoulders, “I'll buy you a drink.” he invited.
Though angry, he wasn't one to pass one down. “Fine, whatever.” he grumbled.
The hunter rose a heavy gloved hand to the bartender. Throwing a roll of faded blue dollars onto the bar he called out, “A round for me and my new buddy!” he said with a smile.
He was a clean shaved man. Though his face was covered in a few rogue scars he looked to be a handsome sort of man by many accounts. Even in dim lighting his eyes shown a brilliant blue and full locks of muddy blonde hair fall limp from underneath his hat.
As he removed his gloves the fur-coated man looked down with a puzzled look, “So, why do you look like someone took a shit in your cup?” he asked, “Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine.” he added in invitation.
Marc scowled. “Someone's talking shit about me.”
“Really now?”
“I'd fucking fuck him over if I knew who.” he swore. Two tall miscellaneous drinks appeared before the two men.
“Tried asking around?” the man asked, turning to the floor, “Any idea who it might be?”
“No. And who ever's fucking talking is probably a pussy. If he knew I was looking it might turn and walk out. Fucking cunts. Fuck!”
“Mhmm, small town drama. I wish I was so boring.” the stranger commented with a joking, sarcastic smile, “Me: I'm heading up to Iron Mountain.”
“Why there?” Marc asked.
“Town fell silent. Not that you ever hear much from Iron Mountain but I haven't heard a word of stories from there in a little over a year. I got some friends and we're going to check it out.”
“Yea, have fun with that.” Marc snickered.
“We're looking to take on some good hands for the journey. We stopped over for some supplies for the long walk out that way. Willing to tag along, pay is good.” he offered.
“No, I'm fine.” croaked Marc.
“Fair enough.” the stranger added, dismissively twirling the glass of beer in his hands. He took a long steady sip and put it down on the table, “Not like ranger's work is for everyone. Don't get to hang around in one place for too long.”
Marc grumbled idle nothing to himself as he turned to look at the rest of the bar. Surely, the piss-head that pissed on he and his daughter were here. Was he still here? Did he leave already? He took a heavy drag from his cup, downing much of it in a single draw.
“Shit son, I knew you Yoopers could drink, but you're a fucking fish.” laughed the stranger.
Marc mumbled something in agreement before reaching to down the rest. But as he rose it to his mouth the band went silent all the sudden. All the music and the chaos of the bar went quiet soon after. “What's going on?” someone asked.
Marc turned to look, but couldn't hear or see anything. But there was a creeping tension in the room. He looked over at the band, the lead violinist looked blankly forward, an intense look on his face. Had he heard something.
“I think something's happening.” the range said, standing up out of the stool, leaving a beer that barely had three quarters left in the glass. The people parted like the Red Sea as he moved to the door, reaching under his coat for a hatchet at the belt.
All of a sudden from the distance an explosion rang. Echoing and soft from the forest. “Shit!” someone screamed, and panic ensued.
People panicked and dove for the door. The ranger soon disappeared among the crowd as Marc too was swept along in the waves of people pressing to escape. As the door was flung open and the people fled, so to did the sounds of fighting enter. In the distance gun-fire echoed in the cool night as Marc was thrown out the door.
People scrambled in every direction, absolutely lost as in the sky towards town a fierce threatening glow shone in the night sky. Marc could see smoke rising into the sky, and embers.
Like a release of steam he felt the anger melt away and replaced with the chilling gushing sensation of fear. And concern. In a panic, he too broke off into a run into the trees towards town. He had to get home, and get Ellie.
Diving out a tree-line he was blinded by the light of a burning farm house. The heat already intense as he rose his arms to shield his face. He just barely caught the glimpse of a misshapen shadow swing a club through the air, catching him in the head. The world went black and cold, and his last sensation was falling into the cold spring snow.
