2. Martin’s

Nick had no desire to go to an undead fight club. In fact, he had no desire to be within a hundred miles of anything that considered itself relatively close to the undead. Sure, he killed monsters, but the worst infection they usually carried was rabies. Nothing a few shots couldn’t fix. Dealing with undead meant he was always one small mistake away from shambling after meat. Nick thrived on small mistakes. He rolled down the window and watched the city streets pass as a distraction.

Moisture hung heavy in the city’s August heat. Every breath Nick took was heavy and sweltering. He didn’t remember his last trip to New Orleans, only what happened after. It was a long day spent doubled over a hotel toilet, regretting the decision of drinking rum in a pirate bar. He still looked back on the lack of memory with fond wariness. Being somewhere that wasn’t Midway felt good, even if they were in grave danger.

In the front seat, Lopsang and Shirley bickered incessantly. Initially it was about Lopsang’s desire to drive, but it quickly turned to his many miraculous brushes with Death. Shirley knew the story of Lopsang’s parentage, but still didn’t put much stock in the existence of Gods. “The least you can do is let us run some tests.” It was the fiftieth time Shirley had tried to make the point, and her exasperation grew with each attempt. “Think of what that could do in the right hands.”

Lopsang’s sighed. “I’m telling you, I’m not sure if you’re the right hands. I’m not sure if anyone is the right hands! I don’t even trust the last person that took my blood.”

“You’re being selfish.” Shirley slowed the car to a stop.

“So, is this the bar?” asked James, trying to defuse the situation. He had spent most of the car ride gently tapping his head against the window and fighting off an oncoming hangover.

Nick’s troubles were subsiding, but the sight of a bright neon sign brought him a new kind of misery. It read: ‘Martin’s’. “Well, shit. Even if it’s not him, we can probably still get a cheap drink.” The sign also bore an arrow pointing down a flight of cobblestone stairs. Black-painted windows at gutter level flashed with the ghost of colored lights behind them. If anything screamed ‘Martin’, it was a subterranean bar in a city that sat below sea level.

Lopsang stepped up beside him. “Feel familiar?”

“Unsurprisingly, I’ve got a fuzzy memory of the last Martin’s we visited.”

“I believe you keeled over right as we sat down at the bar.”

Shirley scoffed. “Well, that bodes well.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t count when it’s in the Land of the Dead.”

“I’ll give you that one. But no freebies in here.” Lopsang grinned.

Nick was halfway through rushing toward the steps when Shirley moved in front of him. “Oh come o—"

“Nick, this is a government operation now. We’re going by the book, we’re keeping a log, and we—"

“Ah good, the government stooge speech. Look, I’ve told people this a hundred times, you—"

“Don’t want to see you work without booze?” finished Shirley. “The last time you told me that was in a hick diner in the middle of nowhere. How did that work out?”

Nick shrugged. “We finished the job, didn’t we?”

Shirley’s eyes were ice. “I spent six months on the run and lost everything about my old life.”

Nick was about to retort, but Shirley held up her hand.

“Enough, Nick. I’m running point on this. You are here to assist me and we’re paying you handsomely. So, shut up and do your job.”

“Alright, fine.” It was hard to argue with the pay. If he didn’t hate the government so much, he could get used to subsidized contracts.

They stood in silence, the mood underscored by muffled jazz music braying from the bar below.

“It looks like any old dive bar,” offered James, trying to break the tension.

“We’re meant to think it is.”

As if to prove the point, the door banged open. A scruffy old man in a faded duster walked up the stairs pinching a bloody nose in one hand and holding a wide-brimmed hat in the other. He muttered something under his breath about cheating.

Nick gave him a polite nod. “Better luck next time?”

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“Fuck off.” The man gave him the finger and walked away.

“See? Just like any other dive.”

Shirley rolled her eyes. “There’s that famous Ventner charm. Follow my lead.”

Nick looked to Lopsang and James who remained silent. “Some help you are.”

“She’s paying us,” replied James.

Lopsang shrugged. “Last time we went into a bar, I had to carry you out.”

“The Land of the Dead doesn’t cou—”

“No, Nick, that was this morning.”

]“Fine, Shirley, lead the way.” He tried to inject an ounce of venom in every syllable, but his heart wasn’t in it. The blinding memory of the morning’s hangover agreed with Shirley.

“Thank you. Everyone, we’re going to keep an eye on each other, but don’t cluster. My sources say the fighting pits are below the bar somewhere. We’ll need to find a way in.”

“Couldn’t we just ask to see the fighting pits? Usually people ju—"

Shirley cut him off. “I think we’re going to need a little more tact than that.”

Nick shrugged and motioned toward the stairs. They would need his help sooner or later. In the meantime, he was going to see how many free drinks he could get on the government’s dime.

Shirley walked in and Nick followed, careful to be the last one to enter. The music grew louder with each step and charged out like an angry dragon when they opened the bar’s black door. Inside, the thumping rhythm of an upright bass and braying of horns made any thought of polite small talk vanish. Each step stuck to the floor slightly, adhered by thousands of spilled drinks and nights gone wrong. Nick smiled; it was a good dive bar after all.

The bar wasn’t large, but the band playing on the back stage sure acted like it was. They weren’t talented, but they made up for that with volume. Off to the left was a long bar that ran nearly the length of the wall. Booths stuck to the edges of the room like leather barnacles. Multicolor lights illuminated the stage, and the rest of the bar was left in a dingy yellow.

“Can I see some IDs?”

Nick jumped at the sight of a small, toadlike man in a fedora sitting on a stool beside them. “Of course, just give me a second.” The trick was sorting through all the false pieces of identification to find the one piece that was real.

“I’m just fucking with you.” The toad man laughed, a grating noise that sounded like it had been filtered through an ashtray. “Bar is on the left, the band is on for another fifteen minutes. If you’re talent, see Margie in the back.”

Déjà vu hit Nick like a freight train. He felt suddenly lightheaded. “I’m going to get a drink.”

Shirley was on the verge of protesting when Lopsang spoke. “Me too. Good luck.” He patted James on the shoulder and walked into the crowd.

“Save me a—” but James’s voice was drowned out by the booming band starting up a new number.

Nick sat down on a ripped stool with wobbly legs and ran his hands across the bar. The pock-marked finish was rough under his fingertips and brought him back to the present moment. “Whiskey?” he asked as Lopsang sat down.

“Make it a double.”

“A man after my own heart.” Nick motioned to the bartender. “Two double whiskeys, no ice, thank you.”

They didn’t speak while they waited. The room washed over them, filling the space. When the drinks arrived, Lopsang took a sizeable gulp before speaking. Even finding the words seemed like a painful task. “So, what are the odds?”

“Finding a bar mirrored after one we went to in the underworld? I’d say it’s about par for the course.” In truth, Nick was feeling strange just sitting at the bar. Ordinarily, there was nowhere he would have felt more at home. He looked down at the hourglass tattooed on his wrist. There were still plenty of sand grains in the upper bulb, but it was hard to tell how much was left.

“That thing still work?”

“Some days I think yes, some days I think it’s just another stupid tattoo.” Allegedly, the sand grains mirrored Nick’s remaining life, but when that life was a blur, it was difficult to keep track.

“Why do you think this is here?” Lopsang finished his whiskey and called for another.

“Well, it seems like there are two options. One, someone else has been to the Land of the Dead. Two, the original Martin built this place, died, and then rebuilt it in the Land of the Dead.”

Lopsang looked around the bar. “The one down there’s better, right?”

“Oh, by a mile.” Nick tried to think about the Land of the Dead as little as possible, but their moment at Martin’s had been one of the high points. Sure, the standard for a high point on that wretched journey was low, but it was a bright spot.

“Are they going to find anything?” Lopsang nodded his head toward James and Shirley.

“Almost certainly, but I can guarantee they’re going to be back here asking for help any minute.” Martin was a shadow priest, paranoid by nature, and insular. He also had a deep distrust of anything that looked vaguely like governmental regulation—agencies didn’t look kindly on the idea of undead fighting pits.

Nick and Lopsang passed their next round in as much silence as the bar afforded. The musicians got better as their set progressed, but the volume never ceased being near deafening. Neither man minded the opportunity to avoid conversation. It had been a long year and putting what they had experienced into words wasn’t an easy task.

Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait in silence for long. James and Shirley reappeared, both looking crestfallen. This perked Nick up. “Well, that was quick. Did you find the entrance?”

Shirley chewed her lip. “Yes.”

Nick sipped the remnants of his second whiskey. “Well, should we order another round, or…”

“They wouldn’t let us in.”

Nick smiled, false warmth positively radiating. “Well, guess we should just call it a night then.”

“He’s going to get you in.” Lopsang smirked. “But he’s going to make you work for it.”

Shirley swallowed. “Will you please help us?”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “The great Shirley Codwell asking me for help. Feels familiar and yet still brings me joy. Alright, Lopsang, drink up, we’ve got work to do. James, you’re still my apprentice, so drinks are on you. Leave a nice tip for the barkeep.” He stood up and headed toward the bathrooms.

“Hey, wait a min—”

Nick held up a finger. “Don’t test me, my young apprentice!”

Lopsang put a hand on James’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll work off the whole resurrection debt someday.”

Shirley slipped James a black card. “Put it on that. The Sixth Side owes us a few libations every now and again.”

“Sure.” James muttered something sarcastic under his breath and went to pay the bill.