ocalypse (Book 10): Drawl (Duncan's Story) Read online

  As he grasped the key to kill the engine his old flip phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He plucked the borderline antique item out between two fingers and stared at the little LCD window on the mollusk-like phone’s exterior.

  Recognizing the number at once, he opened the phone a quarter-inch then quickly snapped it shut. “Nobody’s home, Chuck,” he said aloud behind a low chuckle. “I’m about to punch the clock and get you your rent money.”

  He switched the ringer on and returned the phone to his pocket. Then, averting his eyes from the stylized palm trees of one particular sign trying to convince him that by consuming the touted brand of south-of-the-border cerveza he’d magically be transported from his present near-destitute existence to a tropical isle somewhere, he killed the engine and hummed along as Bocephus belted out the last few verses of the country song coming out of the radio.

  As the twangy guitar chords finally faded, Duncan stopped humming and tried his hand at singing his favorite verse acapella. “I got a shotgun, a rifle, and a 4-wheel drive, and a country boy can survive ... country folk can survive.” And for the first time in a long time he smiled. For this particular Hank Williams Jr. ditty held a special place in his heart and brought to mind his little brother Logan. A self-sufficient young man who, though he lived in the big city year round, still thought of himself as a sort of modern day country boy.

  Wondering what baby bro was up to at this very moment, Duncan reached for the truck keys, but held back when the deejay came on and started talking in a voice strangely devoid of the usual circus barker intonation. Speaking softly, the deejay mentioned some kind of civil unrest happening in the Nation’s capital. When isn’t there? thought Duncan as a few long seconds of silence ensued. Dead air, kryptonite to a radio station. Nothing drove away listeners quicker than the vacuum created by no music, no commercials, and no familiar voice.

  Expecting a stock early warning tone or maybe even the show’s producer to come on and issue an apology—maybe even to divulge that Ragin’ Cajun Ricky had had too much to eat of the latter type of food last night and was indisposed of momentarily—Duncan was about to remove the keys for the second time in as many minutes when he heard the unmistakable sound of a deep breath being drawn in and Ricky went on about other disturbances happening around the country, which was strange considering the station was known more for sponsoring the St. Paul Rodeo and wet T-shirt contests at local bars than detailing current events, especially ones concerning happenings in New York City or within the Beltway several thousand miles away. According to Ricky—who sounded more like Stuart Smalley at the moment reading the news than the three-hundred-pound local celebrity he was—the bridges in the Big Apple were being closed down, and in D.C. police were stretched to their limits with hundreds of armed soldiers en route by helicopter from nearby bases. So much for Posse Comitatus, Duncan mused. And just as he palmed his lucky purple rabbit’s foot and turned the key to lock the ignition, he noticed a discernable measure of disgust in the voice coming through the speakers. So he grasped the steering wheel two-handed and listened as Ricky gave a play-by-play of what the cable news station was broadcasting on the muted television in his glass-enclosed sound booth.

  Speculating that the culprit responsible for fueling the gruesome attack he was seeing in real time was a recently discovered designer drug the kids were calling bath salts, Ragin’ Cajun Ricky described in vivid detail the fight taking place on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, in which he referred to the assailant, who was now biting the fingers and tearing chunks of meat from another man’s hands and arms, as “an out of control monster.”

  Four score and twenty digits ago, Duncan thought, yanking the keys from the ignition and silencing the War-of-the-Worlds-like broadcast. Smiling on account of his morbid funny, and pondering the question why 105.5 the Bull would let the Cajun pull that kind of stunt, he exited the cab and pocketed the keys.

  The blue and red neon sign above the entry said Open. Confirming this, an electronic chime sounded when Duncan entered the air-conditioned Irish-themed sports bar. Hanging down from the exposed rafters running directly overhead were numerous satin banners heralding some of the many Boston Celtics’ and New England Patriots’ championship seasons. Affixed to the vertical wooden beams supporting the rafters were faded homages to the Fighting Irish’s glorious past and present. Eight-by-ten photos, curled at the corners and featuring rows of pad-wearing Notre Dame football players were stapled to the beam. Starting at eye-level and affixed one atop the other all the way up to the dusty cobweb-strung rafters, all eleven National Championship winning teams were represented.

  To Duncan’s fore, roughly twenty tables made up a casual dining area. Half of the tables, booths made of polished oak, were pushed up against the windows bordering both the boulevard out front and the side street to the east. The other tables were oversized wooden spools, at one time, presumably, wound with high-tension wire of some sort. They were set on end and topped off with rounds of glass cut to fit. Two rows of the spools occupied the floor of the open concept room. To his right, twenty feet beyond the dining area, was a long white-ash bar fronted by a dozen stools. Above the mirrored back bar, home to fifty or sixty liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes, was a trio of flat screen televisions, each displaying a different sporting event: baseball, golf, and what looked like professional bull riding.

  Nestled beside the largest of the screens currently showing the Chicago Cubs going up against the Atlanta Braves was a smaller Oregon Lottery monitor that instantly drew Duncan’s gaze. Oblivious of everything else around him, he watched intently as small pixelated balls took flight from the monitor’s lower right corner. Like phosphorous rounds, the white orbs traced slow lazy arcs before landing on numbered squares plotted out in a grid pattern on the brilliant blue backdrop.

  1 and 80.

  “Shit,” he muttered. His numbers seemed to always come up when he didn’t have money on them. And lately, the opposite had been true when he did.

  Finished negotiating the warren of tables, Duncan paused for a tick and subconsciously worried the knot of rent money in his pocket. After the barely perceptible hesitation, he approached the bar while walking his eyes over the darker-tinted liquors in the bottles lined up on the multi-tiered shelves like so many soldiers at parade rest.

  Back facing the bar, eyes leaving the game only long enough to meet Duncan’s gaze in the mirror, the bartender said, “The usual?”

  Duncan grunted an affirmative and dragged a stool out, its legs creating a jangling racket on the concrete floor and drawing angry looks from a couple of twenty-somethings four stools to his right.

  Ignoring the stinkeye, Duncan withdrew a folded wad of twenties from his pocket, peeled off two, and proceeded to fill out a Keno slip. “Donate this to our parks and schools, Chad,” he said sarcastically in his Texas drawl and slid the curled-up bills and filled-out game slip across the bar top.

  “Wishing you luck,” said the bartender, a stocky man in his early thirties sporting a high-and-tight cut to his blonde hair. He was a fairly recent hire—hence the day shift. The man was not a Reed student, that much Duncan knew. Not enough hair or self-righteous attitude to be accepted into those hallowed halls. And from what Duncan had been able to drag out of the kid in the three weeks he’d been pouring drinks here, he knew the Detroit native lived twenty blocks east on the periphery of Felony Flats—the bad part of Southeast Portland in which the one-bedroom home Duncan was in danger of gambling his way out of was located.

  As the bartender pulled the bottle down and poured the drink, he talked about his plans to move to a warmer clime and learn motorcycle repair.

  Duncan took the glass in hand. Staring at the amber liquid, he said, “Hell, Chad, it’s supposed to get hotter than the Devil’s bunghole today. You planning on moving to Death Valley or Arizona to escape this cold snap?”

  Chad ran the Keno slip, turned and slapped it on the bar top. “Just dreaming out loud.”

  Th
ough nearly opposites in the looks department, every time Duncan was exposed to the hard-working kid’s cheery can-do-attitude, he couldn’t help but think of his younger brother.

  “Do it now or you’ll blink and find yourself in my shoes … an old, out-of-work drunk.”

  “You’re not so bad,” Chad replied.

  Duncan made no reply. He hoisted back the three fingers of Jack, grimaced, and set the highball on the coaster. Without pause, he tapped the glass rim with one finger—bar semaphore for give me another. “And I’ll need a bottle of Bud,” he added, scanning the Keno board for his numbers.

  “Figures Tex is a Bud man,” chirped the young man four stools down. The brunette girl with him sniggered and met Duncan’s mirthless gaze in a sliver of back bar mirror showing between two bullet-shaped vodka bottles.

  Chapter 3

  “Boom!” Duncan shouted, slamming his fresh bottle of Bud on the bar and starting an eruption of suds spilling forth. Ignoring the kid’s attitude and the girl’s snark—as well as the fact that both of their butts rose a couple of inches off their stools—he glanced away from the Keno screen and slid his ticket across the bar top to Chad. “One and eighty”—he whistled—“and a five multiplier to boot … who’da thunk ol’ Bud-drinkin’ Tex was destined to win two months’ rent just like that?” One eye parked on the youngsters, he let loose a cackle and tipped his Budweiser back.

  Life for Duncan was great for the moment as he calculated the winnings in his head. Five hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad for a few seconds spent dragging a pencil over paper. “Hell, maybe it is my lucky day.”

  Chad fed the ticket into the lottery machine to validate it. He delved into the till, counted out the winnings, and fanned the cash on the bar in front of Duncan, making sure it was on the side nearest the Reedies. Then, smiling broadly on account of his regular’s good fortune, said, “Want another round?”

  “Is a frog’s ass watertight?” Duncan answered at once.

  “Ewww,” said the girl, crinkling her button nose.

  The young man swiveled left to face Duncan, a sour look parked on his face.

  “You two should know,” Duncan exclaimed, still staring up at the blue screen full of static numbers. “I was going to buy your next round until”—beer bottle in hand, he pointed at them with his right elbow—“Mister Insecure there started his gums flappin’. So, here’s my piece of advice for you, Sweetie. It’s free of charge, listen up … or not—”

  “My name’s Brittany,” she shot, her words dripping with indignation. “Not Sweetie.”

  The boyfriend chimed in. “Mind your business, dude. We don’t need you to buy us a drink. You ought to spend your winnings on a new set of wheels.” He laughed nervously then added, “Our Mexican landscaper drives a nicer truck than that beater of yours.”

  Chad looked on from behind the bar, his gaze shifting subtly from Duncan to the kids and then back to his regular.

  “Well then, Brittany,” Duncan replied, still staring at his numbers on the screen, “my momma always said ‘If you ain’t got nothing good to say … you probably ought not say a thing.’”

  “You going to do something, Skip?” the girl protested.

  Fingers curling into fists, Skip rose up off his seat, one foot planting on the floor.

  Ignoring Skip’s posturing, Duncan swiveled his head slowly toward the couple and met the young man’s icy glare, ready for anything, whether it be the kid backing up his talk and putting the other foot on the floor, or the girl spewing some political correctness bullshit having to do with PETA and frogs. No matter which presented itself first, he had an appropriate comeback locked and loaded. Should the former take place, a fistful of beer bottle would be delivered with a lightning-quick backhand right. Should the latter come to pass, the response would not be physical. However, the insults learned in a Saigon bar and repeated only on special occasions such as this would be delivered just as quickly as the backhand and pack a similar wallop to Brittany’s giant-sized ego.

  Thankfully, neither response was needed. Because suddenly Brittany whimpered, drew in a deep breath and, as if Duncan ceased to exist, both antagonists directed their undivided attention to the television the pro-circuit rodeo had been playing on.

  Had being the operative word. Now the sports channel was inexplicably airing a replay of the attack in D.C. the Cajun had reported on. And sure enough, just as Ragin’ Cajun Ricky had dutifully reported over the airwaves a few minutes ago, Honest Abe was watching on stoically as the blood seeping from the murdered man’s wounds painted crimson trails on the pristine white marble steps.

  Covering her mouth and wide-eyed, Brittany let out a startled yelp when simultaneously the feed went live with what looked like Capitol police setting up cordons on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and the words Guard called in to quell unrest in Pioneer Courthouse Square appeared on the slow-moving crawl directly below the surreal scene. As if the news couldn’t get any worse, in the background, clear as day, tan military vehicles were taking up positions in the pedestrian-friendly zones in front of the White House. In the next instant soldiers in full combat gear and brandishing black rifles piled out of opening doors and yawning rear hatches.

  Duncan looked away from the television just as the young woman planted her elbows on the bar and cradled her face in her hands and, in a voice muffled by her splayed fingers, asked her boyfriend, “Still think it’s safe to go to the rally downtown?”

  Chapter 4

  “Come on, Don,” Charlie exclaimed. “Where in the hell are you?” He looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. His replacement, as per usual, was late. A dozen minutes late. Better be a good reason, he thought, wrapping a rubber band around an inch-thick stack of five-dollar notes, partially obscuring Lincoln’s profile.

  Charlie stowed the bundled fives in the deposit bag and, as he started counting the singles, an insubordinate thought wheedled its way into his sleep-deprived mind. Thought giving way to impulse, he set the night’s take aside and grabbed blindly for the radio on the shelf by his knees. Without a shred of doubt or remorse, he cast a glance at the black plastic dome housing the nearby camera watching him and near everything in a hundred-foot-radius around the booth. Throwing a mental one-fingered salute at the supervisor upstairs currently manning the all-seeing eye, he hauled up the oversized boom box and parked it on the counter to his fore. Amazingly, the eight D-cells stuffed inside still had some juice and the Panasonic came alive with a burst of white noise.

  Between expectant glances toward the street level entry splashing the ramp with a rectangle of stark white sunlight, Charlie extended the rabbit ears and started his search for anything sounding like a sporting event. Baseball, hopefully. The Seattle Mariners, preferably.

  He scrolled past a couple of news stations on the way down the dial, pausing at each one to listen to the announcers there talking about yet another spate of terror attacks taking place elsewhere in the world. Then, just missing out on the beginning of a recap of the incident taking place a few short blocks south, two things happened. First he heard the announcer for the Seattle Mariners state in his familiar baritone that Grammy-Award-winning recording artist Keith Urban was set to sing the National Anthem. And just as the first guitar chords filtered through the speakers, in his side vision he saw his relief cast a long shadow on the ramp and begin to trundle slowly down the decline from the sidewalk.

  The sixty-year-old was bent at the waist to clear the sprinkler heads and tangle of overhead pipes. With his long spindly legs and incredible wingspan, the seven-foot former backup center for the Portland Trailblazers’ backlit silhouette always reminded Charlie of the alien emerging through the illuminated maw of the hulking spiny UFO in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. But this wasn’t Devil’s Tower. Looming overhead was a forty-two-story building clad in mirrored glass and pink granite. And the spidery figure walking down the ramp was no alien. He was a note from the Governor suspending Charlie’s sentence … unt
il tomorrow. And that was alright with Charlie. With a booming brunch business in the City Grill, Sundays were always busy and seemed to be over before they even began.

  “Where the hell have you been, Don?” he called out.

  The lumbering form said nothing.

  Tapping his watch in an exaggerated fashion, Charlie leaned further out the window and repeated his query.

  Still no answer.

  So Charlie reminded his relief of the current time and started in on how much anguish the man’s late arrival had caused him. Truth be told, like the woman in the Mercedes, Charlie was still having trouble steadying his hands. Nothing another quick belt of Old Crow can’t fix, he thought unashamedly, taking the flask from his pocket. In a move perfected over the years, he spun the cap off, twisted away from Don and the black dome, and drained the last few precious drops.

  Oblivious to the self-medicating taking place a few feet to his fore, Don continued on down the ramp in silence, his strides lengthening and a slight limp showing in his naturally slow gait.

  Charlie stowed the flask in his pocket and, with time to spare, began readying the booth for his relief. He reached down between his legs, depressed a lever affixed to the chair, and listened to the pneumatic hiss it produced as it settled all the way down to the stops. He craned around and grabbed the light windbreaker which he wouldn’t be needing once he transited from the cool garage and into the July sun aboveground. Arthritic knees popping like oversized corn kernels, he stood and slid the tiny pocket door into its slotted recess.