The Bar

I'm not sure what I initially intended this to be and I'm not sure how to classify what it eventually turned out as, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. It's just a bit of loose writing on the side that I think ended up as something readable, but you tell me.

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It was one of those bars where everyone sitting up by the counter are regulars, the ones who cast sideways glances at any newcomer who tries to take a seat nearby until he feels so out of place that one of the booths looks comfortable and soon proves to be, at least as far as cushioning goes—the window seats were cold in the winter due to a draft let in by a bad seal. The owner and bartender, Stu, had never heard a word about drafts, though, since nobody who complained ever sat by the windows, although they knew. The hardwood bartop was kept mostly clean, although there were the ever-present rings of condensation from the iced mugs and maybe a bit of food here and there, but really, the place was clean. It felt clean in the way that well-loved places do, and nobody paid mind to the thin layer of dust on the jukebox nobody ever used, or the salt packets scattered over the far table, the one where the draft was the worst.

It was winter, and that made it okay to be out drinking on a Thursday night. The blizzard outside wouldn't let anybody get to work the next day anyway, big city though it was. And so the men drank. The big screen TV above the bar was playing a hockey game, but nobody was paying attention anymore. Not since the newcomer had come inside.

In fact, the whole place was dead quiet.

He wasn't dressed unordinarily; in navy jeans and black coat, both of which fit him well, and a matching fedora, justifiable with the falling snow. His face bore a few days' scruff, although it looked as purposeful as his heavy, snow-blown, shoulder-length hair. Really, to a newcomer, the patrons wouldn't have seemed abnormally silent at all had the newcomer's lit cigar been politely acknowledged with directions to the nearest ashtray. But the glowing ember beneath the hat, pulled a bit low, remained a silent guest.

His voice had a laziness to it, authoritave, yes, but content to be so on its own time. “I'll have a beer,” he drawled as he took the bar stool nearest the door, oblivious to the silent looks wafting in his direction.

Stu looked a little flustered. “Uh, what kind?” he managed.

The newcomer's head tilted back up just a nudge. “Beer.” He didn't seem to feel the need to be more specific, not aggravated but certainly not feeling particularly generous either.

Stu glanced at the other men, all of whom raised eyebrows or pulled their lips taut silently, signalling that they were as stumped as he. If the man wanted a beer, a beer it would be. Nobody seemed very eager to start a new conversation with that dark, massively assertive, if a bit unspecifically so, apparition down the bar. The tap fwashed a pint glass full of ale, Stu wiped it down and placed it on the bar before the newcomer gingerly, waited for a brief moment, then pushed it forward into a waiting hand.

Then, the glass lifted, tilted back and drained its contents into the man's mouth. He set it down quietly, let out a barely audible sigh of contentment, withdrew a ten dollar bill from his pocket, set it on the hardwood, careful to keep it away from any condensation from the glass, stood up and left the building.

Silence rang loudly for a brief moment before one of the men spoke. “The hell was that about?” he muttered and threw the rest of his beer back as well. “Another, Stu?” Stu complied and conversation started up again.

“What a nutcase, eh, Sam?” a wiry man with glasses leaned forward, elbows on the counter and searched for Sam at the end of the row. “Sam?”

And Sam, the biggest of the bunch, toppled forward, forehead bouncing off the hardwood with an echoing smack, slipped sideways and crashed to the floor, unmoving. The entire bar erupted in leaping men, each doing their utmost to free themselves of their bar stools as quickly as possible to get to his side.

Oddly, Stu was the first at the big man's side. “He's dead.” He spoke matter-of-factly, his voice shook with a slight quaver, but also rang clear through the room like something that shouldn't have just happened. He raised a hand clutching a knife cloathed in blood up to the hilt where it dripped onto the unmoving man's arm.

With a bellowing roar, two of the group rose to their feet, both with matching looks of rage. They were not the biggest of the bunch, but they were the most formiddable, and seemed to be accepted as such. The others stayed back as their silently chosen defenders ran out the doors.

“Get 'em, Roger! Beat his face in, Jared!” were the last things they heard before the doors shut behind them and the world dissolved into a blinding flurry of snow. Circles of light glowed in the labyrinth of white flakes, street lamps obscured entirely but for the light they gave, which was amplified by the storm.

Their quarry was nowhere in sight, but that didn't stop the Morris brothers. Without hesitation, they both stalked to the side of the bar, where an alleyway cut its way between buildings. There was much less snow here, but less light as well; all they could see of the murderer was the glowing ember still in his mouth, a spot of orange against an otherwise nondescript shadow.

“You son of a bitch!” spat Jared as they slunk closer.

The shadow didn't flinch even when they got close enough to make out a deeply shadowed face beneath the hat. Either the man was incredibly competent or incredible stupid, both of which were unnerving when hidden in shadow the way he was. A bit of darkness reached up and removed the ember from beneath the hat.

“My mother was a good woman, thank you very much,” he drawled.

Roger and Jared exchanged confused looks. Then Jared spoke. “You killed Sam.”

The ember went up, flared, then retreated down to the shadow's hip. “The hell would I kill Sam?” he asked conversationally, not demanding but certainly not allowing room for further accusation either.

Then Roger spoke. “I don't know, but he's dead and you're the only one who could've done it. You've killed before. I can see it in your eyes.” And he could, he realized a moment before the words left his mouth. They glinted in the dark; cold, hard, merciless. Damned unnerving.

Then the alleged killer stepped forward into the light. A flurry of snow flung itself from a nearby roof and showered his hat and shoulders. He didn't seem to notice, though. “Let me give you boys a bit of advice.” His tone had changed to something matching the icy shards dusting his figure. “Don't you ever go around accusing men of killing unless you're damn sure you're right, especially,” he paused to suck on the cigar for a moment, “when you're sure they're capable of doing it.” He gestured around him. “We are in a dark alley, boys. Neither of you two have so much as thought about killing a man before, yet you march out here and accuse me of worse. Well,” and he took comfort in the cigar one more time, “you two have made a very, very poor choice. I'll let it pass, though. You've probably had a beer too many to think clearly and we'll let that stand in your defense, shitty excuse though it might be. Follow me inside. We'll figure out who did the killing 'fore the night's over.”


Left without much choice, they followed him, as much to escape the frigid air as to find the answer to their problem. At least they could have him in a room with all the other men. Nobody was foolish enough to fight so many single-handedly.

They entered the bar again to see their friends still gathered in a semi-circle around Sam, but now they were all standing, warily watching the returned stranger. Nobody seemed sure of what to do.

The stranger chuckled, his voice dry and loud now that the screens above the bar had been turned off. It was an insult to the dead man onthe floor, and deliberately so, because the laughter carried only disgust. Then he turned to the brothers behind him.

“Come 'ere,” he invited them to an open space at his side. They acquiesced warily. Then, with a pull on his cigar, he placed an arm around the shoulders of Roger, who was closest, and looked him square in the eyes as he exhaled a plume of stinging smoke. He addressed the room without turning his head. “You've got almost ten men in here, one of 'em dies and what do you do? You send two after me. Now I've got to admit, I'm a little hurt, boys. What did you think they would do, outnumber me to death?” He shook his head. “Shame. It's a bloody, crying shame.”

And then he moved so fast nobody could have stopped him, stepping in front of Roger without removing the arm which was now hooked around the staggering man's neck, and grabbing Jared with a giant hand clamped aorund his throat. Then he heaved the brothers together, stepping back in time to watch their heads collide with a resounding crack and they crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

He turned to the rest of the men as he stilled his quivering limbs with effort. “Now!” he barked. “Does anybody else care to accuse me of murder or is the killer obvious enough?

He was answered with simpleton eyes, uncomprehending. Then the bartender spoke.

“Did you kill them, too?” His voice shook with fear.

“No, you stupid sonofabitch!” cried the stranger in frustration. “Do I have to spell it out for you, you daft bunch of fools?” He brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched, bowing his head to regain control. Then he raised his head as he inhaled sharply through his nose. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to lose my cool. It's all just so simple.” He was shaking a little.

Straightening and squaring his shoulders, he proceeded to march around the bar, push his way past Stu, reach into the cooler and pull out a beer, seemingly at random. He twisted the top off vigorously, letting it fall onto the bar where it bounced, spun and slid off the edge while he brought the bottle to his lips and drank it all. Then he slammed the bottle back down

“I'm going to dumb it down, because I think it's the only way you'll ever realize what happened. I thought,” he took a moment to look them each in the eyes, “at least one of you would be smart enough to figure it out, but I guess not. Where's the knife?”

One of them handed him the bloodied blade. He took it gingerly between two fingers and moved to where Stu kept all of his cooking utensils. Then, he slid one of the knives out of the wooden block where Stu kept them and returned to the bar.

He set them down and stepped back, visibly relaxing for the brief moment before Stu unleashed an unearthly scream and flung a hand toward the stranger. Both knives swept into action as the outstretched hand whirled past, sailing through the air at near-invisible speed and slammed themselves deep into the black-swathed chest that was their target.

The man in the dark coat, face still shadowed beneath his hat, grunted miserably and staggered back and down to one knee. Blood pooled beneath his hunched form as he inhaled deeply and lunged back to his feet. His hands had not moved from his sides, but both knives clanged onto the hardwood floor, sprinkling red droplets onto his boots. His face was visible now, a disgusted glare easily visible in his dark eyes hooded by heavy eyebrows. His lips were drawn tight together, and his unshaven chin acted as a permanent shadow. Even the placement of his feet exuded danger. Stu took a step back.

“Stu killed your man, boys,” the stranger growled. “And now he tried to kill me. Unfortunately for him, I am one of his kind.” And then he added in a voice pitched slightly higher out of contempt. “And I'm far better at it.”

With these words, he thrust both hands toward the floor which the knives left eagerly and hurried into the embrace of each hand. Then, he threw a foot forward and flung both knives with a cycling motion of his arms so that one hand was above his head and the other suspended just above the floor.

For a breath, the bar was silent but for the whistling of the two spinning blades, and then they sunk themselves deep into his frightened eyes, throwing his head back against a row of wine glasses, which shattered, before the fat man thundered to the floor. He lay unmoving as a halo of crimson spread around his skull, eyes replaced by knife hilts. But the stranger did not straighten from his twisted crouch, but watched warily, waiting.

His suspicion soon proved itself wise. The bartender lurched to his feet, drawn by an invisible force so that he stood upright, head still lolling on a limp neck.

“Pathetic,” spat the stranger. I have separated your spirit from body. You are compelled to leave this place, black mage!”

The room filled with a cackle without a source. The men, still gathered around the body of their dead friend, unfroze and cast terrified glances around the room to no avail. None of them spoke, but a whimper of fear escaped the group.

“Demon! Vermin! Scum!” roared the stranger. “I command you, by the authoirty given me, to leave this place at once! If you do not obey, your punishment will be far, far worse, I warn you.” His voice had abandoned the drawl, the ease of use, and had adopted a harsh, tense tone that spoke not of fear or insecurity, but of tremendous exertion of will.

The body lurched toward him, drawn as if by a string around its neck. A look of dismay flashed once through the stranger's eyes before he twisted and threw a fist into the spectre's mouth. The dead man's skull disentigrated in an explosion of crimson and the body dropped to the floor at his feet, but it did not stay down. The grotesque corpse rose to its feet again, knife in hand.

“Die, warrior!” the disembodied voice crackled, distant but present.

The corpse slashed with the knife, was narrowly avoided by its aggressor, and stabbed forward, moving faster than anything alive. The knife nicked the stranger's ribs this time, and he grunted, but did not waver. Instead, he grabbed the thing's wrist, forcing it sideways, and drove a knee into the body's ribs with a loud crunch. Then, he brought his free hand around and plunged it completely through its torso.

This time, the body writhed and dropped to the floor, a deadweight. The stranger straightened and dropped its heart onto the floor.

“I have severed all link with your past body, demon,” he spoke calmly but loudly. “You have nothing here. Leave now.”

The voice spoke again, but was accompanied by a whooshing sound as it faded away. “Next time, warrior...”

The warrior was shaking now, soaked with blood and bleeding badly from several wounds. “Go home,” he said to the men. “Make love to your wives and take comfort in the knowledge that this thing will never bother you again. He placed his elbows on the counter and bowed his head as he continued to speak. “I am...sorry...you had to witness this. I am sorry for your friends...” He wavered slightly. Then, when nobody moved, he barked, “Go!”

When he looked up a moment later, the room was empty, the last of the men just visible through the flurry of snow outside. In the distance, a strobing red and blue glow announced the emergency vehicles. They would take the bodies away.

Summoning the last of his will, the warrior straightened and limped to the back door, the one that led to an alley, where he returned to the place he had prepared before. Taking the now dead cigar from his pocket, he placed it between his lips and lit it with a shiny lighter that disappeared into his pocket when it had expended its usefulness.

Then, as he took another long pull on this vice, his shadowed figure, twisted in upon itself and vanished, leaving behind only a blood stain in the snow as evidence that he had ever existed. The police would find an unexplainable mess but it was better that way.

For now.

Excerpt from A Broken World

I thought I'd hand out a bit of my novel here. It is, without a doubt, prone to some kind of change at some point, especially considering that it's the first draft, but I think it's worth reading anyway. Please don't hesitate to tell me how awful it is. ;)

And I do mean that. Tell me, truly, how awful it is. For as Sinclair Lewis said, "It is impossible to discourage the real writers - they don't give a damn what you say, they're going to write."

And here is the eighteenth chapter, subject to critique, rewriting, rethinking, rescribbling, and other various forms of redoing until it lies limp and devoid of any enthusiasm.

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The true valour of a man is best seen when nothing else will do; when all that's left of a world is fire and rubble; when bones are as numerous as the ashes they hide within; when the only thing one can do is strive forward because giving up is no option. It's at these times when responsibility is not delegated, but rather thrust upon whoever is in its path. The crown set on the head of a reluctant prince who never had a choice in the matter.

Jehoyl did not feel like a prince. He didn't feel like much of anything, really. It felt like this newfound duty had consumed and purged him of anything that might argue against it. Not that he minded. It was almost a nice feeling to not have anything to worry about for once.

Kirah, on the other hand, though it was obvious she longed to support him, was adamant.

"It's somebody else's problem, Jehoyl!" she insisted. "There's absolutely no use in running off and getting yourself killed. Let them do the work."

He fixed her with a gaze both frustrated and determined. "An army cannot punch through an enemy the way a small group—or even one person—can. We know Foul better than most, Kirah. That's the difference between us and soldiers. We fight; they defend. We hunt these things. You can't send a rabbit to find the bear."

She took in his words quietly, obviously fighting within herself. The battle behind those hazel eyes must be more vicious, even, than the one he was going to fight.

Not that he needed her approval. He knew he would go regardless and that she would forgive him for his choice, because they needed each other, but he was growing to love her more fiercely than life itself. What would happen to her if he never made it back? He suspected this was exactly what was going through her mind, so he sat quietly and waited.

Finally she spoke, teary-eyed and weak-voiced, "Okay. But I'm going with you."

He nodded. The words had been expected, dreaded; he would do anything to keep her safe and away from the fight, but he didn't even need to look into her eyes to know the determination he would find there. But then he looked anyway, because they were beautiful, and because he wanted her to know how he felt.

It wouldn't be long before they left, something they both knew and acted upon without much deliberation, and set out to do as quickly as possible. There were things to gather together, plans to draw up, maps to study. For the first time in his life, Jehoyl was not hunting just any Foul, but had a specific target in mind, a reason to avoid the rest. He tried not to think about it much, afraid that this change could be enough to finally upset the delicate balance of life and survival, emotions that threatened to brim over and spill. It would upset everything and he simply could not afford it.

One again, he couldn't stop gazing at Kirah. How strong must a woman be to bear this much of a burden? This life, though it suited her well, was not fair on anybody, especially her. He bit back a wave of regret. There was work to do.

* * *

Unconsciousness is like being submerged in a deep, dark pool where there is neither up nor down, but the surface needs to be found nevertheless. Andre had been here so many times that he hardly needed anything more than his fury at the claustrophobia to help him claw his way to the exit and emerge into a world of light and pain once again.

He groaned. "At least it was comfortable in there, if a bit stuffy," and struggled to sit up. A startled yelp, also not unexpected, came from one side. He turned his head, which felt waterlogged, in the direction and saw Jenna, kneeling by the fire, twisted toward him, expression of surprise on her face.

"You're awake!" she remarked, a little too dumbly to be held against her. Shock was funny.

"Hungry, too," he muttered and, when he caught sight of the clothes he was still wearing, "And in need of a shower, it looks like. My blood?"

"Most of it, if not all," she replied, having recovered from her shock and returned her attention to the pot over the fire. "Scared me half to death."

"Well," he grinned at her back, "I didn't see you there."

She snorted. "Melodrama does not become you. Have some coffee if you can move."

He stood, though his body threw up a dozen flags of protest, and joined her, squatting to stare into the pot and ignoring his aching knees until they gave up and the pain slowly faded. Accelerated healing was a very convenient thing to have, although it seemed to attract more injury somehow.

"So you're one of us, too?" she finally asked.

"One of who?" He looked at her, puzzled, fighting back a small, nagging thought.

She shrugged in a nondescript way. "Hybrids, Mutts, people who aren't animals, whatever the hell you want to call us. You heal just as quick."

Now his legs gave out, dropping him onto his backside. "Uh," he said. His mind was whirling. Then what did that make him? Neither hunter nor hunted, certainly. Wouldn't they have tested him to make sure he wasn't a Mutt? His quickened recovery, he'd reasoned, came from the augmentation, did it not? But then, that wasn't possible, was it?

She looked at him, interest showing more dominantly than concern. "You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," he said distractedly. He was supposed to hunt others like her? But what of the Mutt in the basement? It hadn't been human, had it? He cursed silently.

It dawned on him then. The people they'd run from in the Compound, they had been other hunters. "Oh God..." he moaned and rubbed his face with both palms.

Now Jenna was concerned. "What's wrong?" she asked, genuinely puzzled. "You need rest, Andre." She moved to help him.

He shook her off a bit more fiercely than he intended. "I'm fine," he snapped. "Just..." and he trailed off because he couldn't tell her. A beautiful woman like this could not possibly be a monster. What was wrong with Tank? And speaking of which, what the hell was wrong with the people in charge?

What a fool he'd been! Believing the words of a man without question, a man who killed Mutts for no reason other than that they presented a potential threat. It was ridiculous, closed-minded thinking. Something else occurrsed to him and it washed chills over his entire body. The hunters in their sick, single-minded attack on mystery would not stop until they found her.

He stood. "We have to go."

"But what about the others?" She looked frightened by this change in him.

The previous night came back to him in sporadic flashes of memory. He cursed.

"They went to get their vehicles and supplies," Jenna offered as she, too, stood.

Another moment of fierce decision-making and Andre was decided. "Forget them. We have to go."

She looked at him, searching his eyes and saw something there. "Okay, but I expect you to explain why on the road."

They hurried to his car as he struggled to come to terms with his newfound respect for this woman. So quiet and seemingly fragile, yet she fought fiercely when need arose. He regretted leaving the others behind; they had seemed like a nice group of people.

The air felt so quiet as he opened the car door, like the solace offered by the hillside was exactly what he needed. A short break, a moment away from all of this—from life—was so incredibly appealing. Valiantly, he banished the thought and got into the car, slamming the door shut and exhaling heavily. They pulled back onto the road without a word, both aware that they could very well be leaving behind the only companionship to be found in this desolate part of the world, a comfort abandoned for the sake of responsibility.