Chapter 9: Blackguard Brawl

Ash struggled to rise from the ground. He spat blood, wiping himself with the back of his hand. He could not believe that for the second time in four days, he found himself in a bar fight.

* * *

Ash, Sander, and Kiara prepared themselves to leave the gas station. Despite the hauntings of the previous day, Ash felt a little better with his circumstances. He managed to sleep more than the previous night and even suffered through a large breakfast.

Kiara leaned on the motorcycle she had chosen. Since killing the three gang members, she replaced her overly large leather jacket with a smaller one and began to wear a pair of sunglasses from the man she shot. She had no concerns that her new clothing came from dead men. Instead, she almost relished that fact.

“Come on!” she shouted.

Ash emerged from the gas station with his canvas bag filled and his rifle slung across his back. Sander helped the kid pack his items onto the second-best motorcycle. Kiara took the best one for herself, but Sander was gracious enough to let Ash take the next most reliable vehicle. In his eyes, the kid needed all the help he could get. Even though Ash spent some time in the morning practicing his acceleration, braking, and turning, he still struggled with the controls. It seems as though his avatar had not been very experienced with motorcycles.

While the group couldn’t pack everything they wanted to bring, Kiara stashed anything of minor value in the ceiling alongside a five-gallon water jug filled from the water barrels on the roof. Everyone swore to each other that if things got really bad and they got separated, they would come back here and wait for two weeks. After a true fortnight, the worse would have to be accepted.

Ash straddled the motorcycle and revved the engine. He felt adrenaline kick into his veins with the hum of the motor. He tightened the strap of the rifle a little closer to his chest. He was scared that he would lose the gun on their journey. Besides the rifle, he was armed with the knife in his boot and the submachine from the man he killed. The others decided that since he killed the man who owned it, the gun was rightfully his. Ash didn’t like this logic, but consented to it out of his own timidness to reject their pressure. He touched his pocket and felt the weight of the mostly-full magazine.

Sander drove ahead of him, since he knew the way to the closest settlement. On his bike, the pronghorn skin had been rolled up tight and secured against the rear fender. For his part, Sander gave back Kiara her shotgun and the remaining 12-gauge shells, contenting himself with a semi-automatic pistol and an automatic rifle with a full magazine, but since his pistol required 9mm bullets, he took only thirteen of them and left the rest for Ash’s submachine gun.

Kiara held the rearguard. Elated by being on the road, she kept taunting Ash. She would speed up her bike and shout for him to pick up the speed, only to fall back into position and dawdle behind. With her shotgun safely tucked into a front fork bag, she kept her revolver close to her hip. Among the various pockets and bags from the dead gang members, Kiara found an assortment of .38s to fill five of her six chambers. The rest of the bullets seemed to be lower calibres or simple junk rounds that had greater use as currency than ammunition.

The three of them drove for two hours without spotting another human being. Still, despite the lack of traffic, the motorcycles could not hit top speed due to the ruined asphalt of the highway and the various chunks of debris and wreckage that scattered along it. Even so, the road proved trustworthy enough to prefer it over the dirt shoulder of the road. Twice, Sander halted their progress to check out an old car, but it became readily apparent that everything that could be scavenged on the highway had been long ago.

Then, the walls of Invernstead punctured the horizon.

Sander reached the front gate. He dismounted from his motorcycle and spoke to the outpost of guards. Inside a small structure, sat three soldiers -- two men and a woman. At the sight of newcomers, one of the men exited the structure and surveyed the prospective entrants.

“Welcome, travellers,” the guard greeted. The thick jowls along his face bobbed as he spoke.

“Howdy,” Sander said with a cheerful grin. “We’re looking to trade some minor wares.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the man chuckled to himself. “As is everyone who comes to Invernstead. Trade capital! Ah, but you already know that. No matter. But your cycles do provide a problem.”

“A problem?” Sander mirrored the guard’s statement, tilting his head. The feigned ignorance held a certain charm and warmed the guard.

“Yessir. You need to entrust them to our compound. Just around the left there,” he pointed to a lot of parked vehicles surrounded by chain-link fencing. “Park ‘em there, and Dunstan will take care of the rest.”

Sander thanked the guard, driving the short distance with Ash and Kiara behind him. As they approached the compound, they were surprised at the sheer variety of vehicles held under trust: motorized bicycles, single-engine rickshaws, fortified dune buggies, three-wheeled motorcycles, and all manner of customized cars. There was even a mechanical contraption that seemed to be a monowheel with attached turrets.

A man exited the compound’s cabin. He was a large barrel-chested man, who wore a pair of patched-up denim overalls. When he came out of the cabin, he placed a large set of callipers into his front pocket and pulled a dirty rag from a nearby workbench. He looked at the group’s motorcycles and gave them a big whistle. “I won’t ask you where you caught those hogs,” he said with a baritone voice.

He cleaned his blackened hands with the rag and tucked into his back pocket. “The name’s Dunstan,” he said, holding out his hand, still slick with grease. Ash felt repulsed by the man and his general demeanor, but Kiara took shook his hand without hesitation.

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“Hello,” she said, pitching her voice higher than usual. Ash’s eyebrow went up. Clearly, this technique allowed her to get her way with men. “We’re just looking for a safe place to keep our rides while we go in and trade.”

“No doubt,” Dunstan said, his eyes remaining on their motorcycles. He crouched beside one of the tires and examined them. “Looks like you’re missing a nut over here. I can bring these lovely ladies to a higher standard.” He smiled, revealing a few missing teeth.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sander jumped in firmly. “Just need to park them.”

“Alright, I won’t press the matter. Two bullets per bike per night.”

“Two bullets per night!” Kiara exclaimed, “That’s highway robbery.”

“That’s the going rate, missus,” Dunstan responded.

Sander cut in front of Kiara. “That’s six total, which we don’t mind. I won’t haggle you lower, since you have more important things to do, but how about you give these bikes a little shine at that price. You can take mine for a spin, I won’t mind. And, who knows, if you find a replacement for that nut, I’d appreciate your extra effort.”

“Ah! I like the way you handle yourself,” Dunstan said with a full-throated chortle.

Sander knocked six bullets out of a leather satchel that he pulled from one of the gang member’s bodies. These junk rounds useless for their current loadouts.

Dunstan took the bullets and brought them close to his eye, as though he had trouble discerning if they were actually bullets. In the meantime, the group unloaded their wares. Kiara draped the largest of the leather jackets over Sander’s wounded shoulder, concealing his injury while adding an air of intimidation. Ash, however, had to carry his bag, rifle, submachine gun, and the skinned pronghorn as well as one of Sander’s bags.

Kiara double-checked their motorcycles, only to be interrupted by Dunstan’s impatience.

“You’re’ll good. This way! This way!”

He showed them into his cabin. The shabby interior seemed more a storehouse for automotive parts and an assortment of mechanical tools than a residence. Ash spotted a course cloth hammock hung above the disorder of gadgets and scrap metal.

“Here you go,” Dunstan said as he reached a bare wall. He hit the wall of his cabin with a cryptic flurry of knocks, which caused a metal slit to pull horizontal. A set of piercing eyes and thick eyebrows looked through the opening.

“Three riders. They’re’ll good.”

The metal slit closed and the wall began to slide along a horizontal rail. On the other side of the false wall, a muscular man with a black beard pushed the door open. He said nothing as the three of them passed him.

“Enjoy your time!” Dunstan called out. The man with the black beard pulled the sliding door back into place. Ash looked at the doorman, who stared back with mute aggression. Ash looked away and caught up to Sander and Kiara before they left too great a distance. The three of them crossed through the barracks training yard, where soldiers had been practicing their drills. If raiders tried to sneak into town via the compound, they would enter the worse place possible.

As they entered into the town proper, Sander cleared his throat: “Lady and gentleman, Invernstead.”

Ash drank in the disorganized assembly of built shacks and shanties. These houses formed a living maze of residence, travellers, and merchants. The town did not have roads as much as narrow arteries left in the gaps of these convoluted structures.

Nevertheless, every once in a while, these corridors opened onto a small plaza. In the first plaza, a handpump well stood in the middle, its water gushing onto the cobblestones around its base. A mass of people pushed and shoved toward the well in order to fetch water and fill their containers. Beside the handpump, a guard kept watch. He wore light leather armour and a kept a nasty looking baseball bat at his side. He kept the peace with a loud voice and the occasional act of violence.

The three of them continued their wanderings, searching for either the marketplace to unload their loot or a place to rest without worry. Surging into the next plaza, they saw the promise of room and board. Above a crowd of smokers and riff-raff, there hung a wooden sign, sutured from two wooden doors, which read: The Blackguard Inn.

“Seems as good a place as any,” Kiara said to herself. She took initiative and made her way. Sander turned to Ash, shrugged, and followed her into the establishment. Ash hurried behind him.

Patrons congregated around wobbly square tables, eating lunch or enjoying a midday drink. The room smelt of stale beer and body odor. Behind the bar counter, a man and woman bustled back and forth, taking orders, pouring drinks, and closing accounts. They appeared to be twins.

Kiara sidled up to the bar counter and tried hailing one of twins. Time after time, she was over-looked. The man seated beside her took notice of her predicament. While no longer young, the man held a charm of lost disintegrated beauty.

“Let me get their attention for you, luv,” he said. He flirtatiously ruffled his fingers through his thinning blonde hair. Ash noticed the drunken glaze of his eyes. With a quick furry, the man slapped his hand on the table. “Oi, Francis! This lady wants to speak to ye!”

The man behind the counter, surprisingly formal as he sported a dilapidated pin-strip suit, rolled his eyes and approached them. He folded the bar towel in his hands and draped it over his shoulder. “What did I tell you about making a scene? Huh, Filip? One more strike and I’ll have to kick you out.”

“Ah, you’re a good man,” Filip said, patting the barkeep’s hand. “This here lady has a thing to ask ye.”

Francis turned to Kiara. Then, with a quick movement of his eyes, he realized that Sander and Ash accompanied her. “How can I help the three of you?”

“We’d like a room,” Kiara said.

“Just one?”

“Yes,” Kiara said.

Ash instantly blushed. The three of them in a room would be awkward. Even though they spent the last two days together at the gas station, their quarters would be tighter, more intimate.

“One room, three cots,” Francis tapped the bar with a sequence of fingers. “Five bullets.”

“Three,” Kiara said quickly.

“Five,” Francis responded without a flicker. “I’m not interested in bartering.”

Ash felt the need to try to impress Kiara, to prove himself to Sander.

“She said three,” Ash said, his voice shaking a little.

[Barter Check Failed]

“And I said five. If that’s too steep for you, maybe you can find room and board elsewhere.”

Sander jumped in, “Please forgive my friend. He’s a bit of a fool. Let’s settle on four bullets, and the kid can make up for his rudeness by sweeping the floor and helping you clean up.”

“Deal!” Francis said with a laugh. “You have no clue what you conscripted your friend into.”

“And there you have it!” shouted the drunk man beside them. Filip put his finger on Ash’s chest. Ash looked down, only to meet the man’s dirty finger against his nose. “Since I got ye what ye wanted,” he said, making eyes to Kiara, “how about me? I’ll take a kiss.” The drunk leaned toward Kiara, puckering his lip.

Without hesitation, Kiara punched the man square in the face. The man tumbled into the man sitting behind him, dropping him like a domino. Filip, the drunk man, regained his composure despite the blood that flowed from his nose. He grabbed the barstool he had been sitting on and swung it at Kiara’s head.

She ducked.

Unfortunately, Ash stood behind her and received the blunt end of the stool. He tumbled backward, flipping over the table behind him, rudely disrupting the lunch of two heavily tattooed women. They leapt up from their seats and pulled out recurved blades. They were angry.

Then, with the explosive pop of a cork, the whole bar erupted into combat.