answers are for wusses.
“So that’s it? Just a bunch of guys that don’t like living here?” Rex Logan was having trouble reconciling the dead man’s fear with the source described by the bartender. “Why don’t they just leave?”
“It’s not that they don’t like living here,” the old man clarified, “it’s that they don’t like it being called New Mexico.”
“They think it should be called something else?”
“Anything else. I’m not saying it’s not a stupid thing to get so riled up about, but I can kind of see their point. I mean, you tell somebody you’re from Kip’s Rock or Tengen Prime, it means something; tell ‘em you’re from New Mexico and they ask which one.”
“No kidding, you know I don’t even know which one I’m on?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Crap. I really am in the middle of nowhere,” Rex exclaimed. “No wonder it seems so empty.”
“Yeah, whole planet’s only a couple million people. I remember when it wasn’t even half that. That was before I opened this place, and-”
“Let’s get back on track,” Logan interrupted. “The key’s got something to do with this group, and for some reason I can’t comprehend, that guy was terrified of them,” Rex said, indicating the heap at the base of the bar’s entrance shaft.
“Well, probably not all of them. Some seem to be a lot more intense than others.”
“Radicals?”
“Something like that. A couple of the guys I’ve seen Bruce with scare the hell out of me.”
“And Bruce is?”
The bartender nodded in the direction of the dead body.
“Right. Which would make the guys that are out there looking for me…?”
“Some of his more radical friends, yeah. Look, I don’t really know any more than that. Can you let me go now?”
“What about the key?”
The bartender glanced nervously down at the revolver where it lay across Rex Logan’s lap, held loosely in his right hand. “I really wish I had something more I could tell you; all I know is these guys showed up early this morning, and they were right pissed about something you did last night. At the time I figured it was related to you winning so many hands of Shanghai rummy, but now I’m thinking maybe that wasn’t it.”
“Sounds like I had a busy night last night. You figure they’re likely to…?” Rex trailed off.
“Likely to what?”
“Shh… I think I heard something.” Listening intently, Rex heard a few muffled voices, followed by the sound of boots on the metal rungs of the Hole’s entry shaft. Thumbing the hammer back, he readied the revolver, turning some of his attention towards the body still lying at the base of the shaft. The bootsounds stopped, and he heard the tone of the voices shift. Without taking his eyes off the empty space from which those boots were bound to emerge, he spoke to the bartender in low tones. “Look, I’m not sure exactly how this is going to go down, but if these are the associates of our rather dead mutual acquaintance over there, I’m laying heavy odds on some serious violence.” A grin began to spread across Rex’s face. “I said I wasn’t looking to kill you tonight, barkeep, and I don’t see any reason why I should let them do it either; you have a back way out of this place?”
The old bartender was trembling. “No, there’s just the one entrance.”
“And the drinks? Where do you keep the drinks?” The boots were sounding off in the opposite direction now, working back up the rungs. For a brief moment Rex wished he’d chosen a less obvious place for his earlier interrogation of Bruce.
“There’s a cooler built into the floor at the other end of the bar.”
“It’ll have to do; let’s go.” As he stood, a couple of small cylinders dropped out of the space Rex Logan had been watching. He grabbed the bartender with his free hand and threw him over the bar as the canisters bounced off the floor. Dropping the revolver, Rex grabbed one of the heavy wooden tables and began to haul himself over the bar in turn, holding the table between himself and the entryway as the cylinders bounced a second time. The grenades exploded with dreadful force before Rex had cleared the bar. The heavy planks that made up the table splintered and gave way even as they succeeded in shielding Rex from the shrapnel that tore thoughout the room, the blast throwing him back into the wall behind the bar. The bottles lining the wall shattered as he slammed into them, and he fell to the ground dripping with alcohol. He landed on all fours, and shook his head in an effort to drive the liquor from his eyes. He could feel dozens of tiny cuts burning under the influence of the alcohol as he looked up to see the bartender looking back at him.
“Your gun!” The bartender cried out frantically.
“Don’t worry about it. I only had a couple shots left in that thing anyway.” Rex’s eyes scanned the underside of the bar. “Now which of these cupboards were you going for when I first got here?”
It took a moment for the old man to realise what he was being asked. “Right. Third from the left, under the register.”
“Thanks,” Rex said, sliding the metal door aside, “Now get yourself into that cooler and don’t come out until I come for you.” Reaching into the cupboard, he wrapped his fingers around a thick wooden stock and drew out the weapon within. He smiled. A 40mm grenade launcher… nice.
“Be careful. These guys aren’t drunk any more; they’re not the same guys you brawled with last night.”
“Well, I’m not drunk anymore either, and I don’t even remember last night.” With a flick of his wrist, Rex cracked open the grenade launcher and smiled. Reaching into the cupboard, he found a large cardboard box and dragged it out. “Are these…?”
“Flak rounds.” It was the bartender’s turn to smile, as he clambered into the cooler among clanking bottles. “I had a friend of mine put those together. Sorta like a shotgun shell-”
“But it kicks like a mule, right?” Rex interrupted as he examined the shell that already rested within the launcher.
“Something like that.” There was a series of muffled thumps as their assailants dropped down the shaft into what was left of the bar. The bartender shuddered, “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”
“Okay?” A smile was spreading across Rex Logan’s face as he snapped the weapon closed. “I’m gonna be fucking fantastic.”
