The bar

I take another swig of the dark ale in my stout. The bar scene hasn’t changed much since last I was here, but I feel a strange scent of metal, oil and grease filling my sensitive nostrils – which I can’t quite place, but for some reason gets me thinking of industrial machinery.

“’Nother refill, mate?” asks Ghoran, the barkeep.

“Yeah, why not,” I answer and down the last of my beer. “I’m in no rush, the mining facility ain’t going nowhere tomorrow either. Is my tab reopened?”

“No way, dawg, it took ages before you paid up last time. Three bucks.” Ghoran answers while filling me up.

“Hmph,” I grunt while paying the man. “Not my fault the foreman wouldn’t pay up… No chance of a whiskey chaser for old times, I suppose?”

Ghoran sighs and looks around. “Fine, a small one, but don’t you let anyone know, you hear? It’s just ‘cause I like you, dawg.”

“Hey, fine by me. That’s why I like you too.”

I taste the cheap scotch Ghoran served me along the beer and let it burn in my mouth a bit while I look around. Most of the tables are frequented, but the barstools are empty apart from my seat. There’s a couple sitting by the window, eating, and a new girl is up on the scene, twirling her almost naked body around the strip pole in the center of the room. All in all, it’s quite a shabby place, but nothing out of the ordinary tonight, which is why I like it here; it’s quiet and calm.

A cold whisk of air rush through the bar as the door opens. I smell the damp air and her the city noises before the door slams shut again. Behind the stripper, I catch a glimpse of the newcomer. He’s clearly another victim of the hazardous radiation that plagues our world. His wolf-like appearance with fur and pointy ears isn’t far off my own appearance; I never quite looked into the matter, but it’s clear that I’m some kind of mutated dog. The newcomer’s dead giveaway however, is his bat-like wings, which marks him as an extraordinary specimen.

A cold shiver runs down my neck as I remember the time before my escape from the science facility and how it still afflicts my thoughts. I thought specimen before fellow mutant. As it isn’t hard enough for us out here without turning against each other. I empty my whiskey glass and turn back to enjoy the stripper’s grand finale before her shift ends.

On the other side of the stripper I see the door opens again and a punker girl with a brightly colored mohawk hairstyle, tattoos and ear extensions comes in; seemingly following the winged wolf towards the bar. Clearly not in company though, as she sits down with a few stools between them – but clearly interested in what the winged wolf and Ghoran is talking about. I’ve never cared much for eavesdropping, but it’s proved to be a valuable source of information – so while glancing at the punker girl I overhear the barkeep saying something about someone with a big rifle and something about someone who’s been running extraordinary fast. Apparently, some big fight occurred in the bar across the street the other night, which caused the bar to shut down. Completely trashed, I hear.

I take a swig of the beer and eye the punker girl up and down. She’s obviously eavesdropping and trying to look casual about it. I care not for the conversation, nor her habit, so I turn to her, lift my glass and ask if she’s next in line for the strip-pole. The cold stare I get in return actually put my hair on end. Not only does she have two distinctly different eye colors – one green and one sharp violet – but her face makes it clear she’s not one to be messed with. Not just another punker, but more likely a member of one of the street gangs. Probably a brawler, judging from her strong arms. She turns back to the bat-wolf, but he’s no longer in conversation. Ghoran is on his way back to me.

Without asking he refills my stout and glances around. “Have you heard about the bar ‘cross the street?”

“Not more than that there was some kind of fight, no.” I say, somewhat taken aback from the free refill. “I saw the police tape ‘cross the door though.”

“I think that winged guy might’ve been involved in it somehow,” Ghoran whispers. “He’s clearly got something valuable in that duffel bag. Clutching it hard.”

“I didn’t even notice it,” I shrug. “It’s his business, not mine. As long as he keeps his nose out of my stout, I don’t really care about it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just worried something’ll go down here as well,” Ghoran syas. “And if it does, it’ll most likely be your business, dawg.”

“If he spills my beer, definitely. Otherwise we won’t know until it happens,” I say and take another swig to prove my point.

The door opens yet again – unusually busy for this bar in the middle of the week; I don’t like it. I see four men in trench coats step in. The way two of them takes positions on each side of the door while the other two spread out towards the kitchen and toilets gives me the creeps. This is definitely bad news. I glance to the wolf-bat, who looks tense, then over to the Ghoran.

“Speak of the devil, smells like that trouble just entered, mate,” I say as I make sure my revolver is loose in my thigh-holster. “Want me to do summat?”

Ghoran looks very pale and I see sweat breaking on his forehead as he looks around his bar. He even smells anxious, something new with him.

“Nah, dawg, just be still and let it blow over.”

Not short after he stops talking all hell breaks loose. The trench coats from the kitchen and toilets return – each with an Uzi submachine gun in hand and start firing wildly towards the bar and strip scene. I see a burst of red from Ghorans shoulder as he gets hit and topple over behind the bar. Cursing, I draw my gun and fire off two rounds as I throw myself off my stool and drag myself across the bar into cover.

The gunfire continues and among the splintering of wood and shattering glass bottles I hear a shotgun going off – probably putting giant holes in the bar. I quickly check myself and by some miracle act, I ain’t hit. I roll over to Ghoran and glance at his wound; hit in the back of the shoulder, ought to survive.

As I look around to get my bearings I see the wolf-bat, who also sought cover behind the bar, throw a grenade towards the trench coat in front of the loo. The coat from the kitchen comes up on the other side of the bar behind the wolf, raising his gun. I quickly pull my trigger and blast another pair of slugs towards him – not sure if I hit at all, but at least he ducks into cover.

The sudden blast wave from the exploding grenade throws me to the ground again. The ringing In my ears is so intense I can barely stand up on al four, and when it finally subsides it still sounds like a warzone; screams of pain and panic along with continued gunfire. The wolf has left the bar and I move as fast as I can towards the other end of the bar counter and my previous target; the kitchen trench coat.

I kick the revolving half door open and see the guy clutching a wound in his gut and reaching for his gun. I kick it away and raise my revolver towards his face.

“You don’t fucking shoot my bartender, scumbag,” I say just before I squeeze of my last two rounds.

Another blast wave sends med reeling against the wall. As I struggle against the dizziness from my ringing ears and blurred vision, I try to take in the battlefield. The bat-wolf is wrestling for control of a shotgun carried by one of the trench coats next to the stripper stage – where the poor dancer likes screaming, clutching her leg. As I duck down in cover and reload my gun I notice the girl from the window couple has joined the battle, while her boyfriend lies wounded by the wall. The punker girl has gone seemingly berserk with her fists, fighting some big guy with an axe.

Most of the bar patrons have fled the scene, but a dozen of guys just stand there observing. It gives me the creeps – who just stands still, looking, in the middle of a major gunfight?

“Ghoran, you okay?” I shout as my gun is loaded again and I search for my friend. I see him darting for the toilets. As I run after him I throw away another pair of slugs towards the last trench coat wielding a gun. Hoping I hit or at least throw him off, I spare a second to grab my backpack by the barstool – I’m no good to Ghoran without the first aid kit or spare bullets.

“Ghoran?” I yell again as I enter the bathroom, but there’s no sign of him. As the door swing shut behind me, it dampens some of the alarm from the battle outside. Not as disturbed by sound, my other senses sharpen again and I sniff the air trying to pick up Ghorans scent. Not what you usually want to do in the restroom of a shabby bar, but among the stench of urine and vomit I trace his scent to the furthest stall. It doesn’t look occupied even though the door is locked, so I promptly kick it in and find it empty. The scent however, is non-disputable; this is where he went.

Another grenade goes off in the bar and throw me off balance for a few seconds. These guys sure mean business, packing some serious hardware. They must’ve blown more credits than I could make in half a year already.

I turn my focus back to the scent of Ghoran. There must be a switch somewhere to some secret hatch or door or something, so I look around, getting more anxious about not reching him in time. I smell blood, and I have no idea how badly injured he is. The thought upsets me more than I thought it would – so much in fact, I barely realize that I’ve found a switch and started darting down a dark corridor that revealed itself behind the toilet. It’s damp and dark, with the only light coming from the hatch behind me. As the hatch slide down again, it’s getting pitch black. My canine senses don’t help much when there’s no light, but the scent of Ghoran and blood compels me to rush on, blindly – I need to save him. I try to wrench back control of my instincts, logic thinking tells me the danger of running blind, but too late. In the dark I lose my footing and fall. I hit my head in the wall and tumble down, hitting it again. My legs are shaky as I get up, and I fall again, not sure if I hit the wall or floor – but certain that I start falling down a slope before all goes dark.