It was quiet at the bar. The air laden with a quiet hint of tension, the menace of it perforated everything, from the way people walked, to their guarded looks, to their clipped and quiet conversations. It showed above all in their eyes. A silent desperation shone through, a window into souls crushed under the weight of a world of muted greys.

To the side sat a small group, playing a simple game of cards. The five of them barely said a word, none were truly needed, and they played with the easy familiarity of long friends going through the motions. The table over from them were an old couple, their faces lined; mute and still, barely acknowledging the presence of others around them. Others doted the room, a pair played darts in the corner, a young couple sat quietly in one of the darkened recesses, eyes glazed from too much drink, another still played quietly on the fruit machine, the janky loud noises creating an oddly appropriate accompaniment to the hushed conversation of the bar.

The walls were sparsely decorated, a few paintings, reminders of a better time, were placed intentionally along the walls, an attempt, however brief, to alleviate the malaise within the room. By the toilets a pair of posters had been placed, government issue of course, printing having long been regulated; and they brought the world that is, into one of the few places that the world that was still survived. A small and bureaucratic horror, a small part of the blight within.

The only exception was in a single solitary figure. An isolated man in the centre of it, in the centre of all things though none truly knew that. Were he an actor he would be in the spotlight, with all eyes upon him; but here he was, central in a world of his own, a shadow within the shadows, hiding in plain sight.

The barkeep sighed slightly, his hands polishing the pristine bar, finding comfort in the familiarity of the routine. His hands were precise, clean and delicate. His suit a well-tailored black, with bleached white shirt, and crisp clean lines; a clear contrast to the muted colours of his patrons. His movements were languid, slow yet precise, the proof of long years of experience. He was young, his skin clear, his hair trimmed and clean, his smile quick to show and slow to fade, to many he was simply a friendly face, the owner of a quiet sanctuary against the world. But it was in his eyes that the truth of him was shown; not by what they possessed, the twinkle in them at a small joke, the slight reddening at some story of tragedy, or even the glaze of inebriation. No, they were characterised by their absence, the eyes of one who is far too old, of one who is ready to die.

The night progressed as such nights usually do. The old couple left first, the man being harried, quietly but firmly out by his wife. A small fight began between the gambler and one of the card players, some matter over money; the matter went unnoticed except by the bartender who diffused it and removed the blood with remarkable speed. The young lady from the alcove was next to go, slightly dishevelled and clearly upset, her companion looking speechlessly at his glass half full and soon emptied. He was almost rolled out an hour later, and stumbled slowly down the street, the flickering illumination of the streetlights holding the shadows back from his path. The cardplayers finished up, and rather than play another game began a quiet but intense conversation.

Cob the oldest man of the group approached the bar, and sat their quietly, nursing a pint, as the rest of his friends filtered out in drips and drabs. For the better part of an hour he sat there, wrestling with his thoughts.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Is it really that bad Sam?” he said, finally looking up at the impassive barkeep. He hesitated slightly, looking down, then up, then down again.

“I know you know things, more than the rest of us anyway” he hesitated slightly, “I hear things, rumours, you know…” he waved his arm slightly, knocking his pint, and for a moment it teetered dangerously, then righted itself. He looked down again, steadied his drink and took a slow sip, letting the quiet of the bar cloak the two of them.

The barkeep stood for a moment, then for a minute, then a full ten; the quiet turned to silence, and it was almost deafening in its volume.

“Its worse” the words escaped his lips, shattering the menace within the bar. Cob sighed slightly, almost visibly deflating. Slowly he stood, and, downing the last dregs of his beer, began to make his way out of the bar, and back to his home.

The barkeep stood there silent and still for the next hour, then the hour after, the silence that had threated the peace of the bar seeping in through the cracks in its façade, through the posters and unvarnished wood concealed behind the paintings. Still he stood there, as the shadows drew long around his bar.

As the hour struck eleven, he finally moved. Curfew by this time had long been in effect, but was hardly observed by the officials, and so he’d stayed open, and so he had waited. He moved slowly and deliberately towards the door, and barred it with the thick oak plank he kept by, precisely for this purpose. Heavy wooden shutters were pulled to and chained shut, and the lights outside extinguished. For the next hour he swept, small clumps of dirt visible amongst the thin streams of dust pulled forth from nooks and crannies within the bar. The sweeping done, the other small tasks were next, the till tallied and counted, its totals entered into a book that would never again be read, the immaculate bar wiped down, and the valves on casks checked for a proper seal. All of this was done with the greatest attention to detail, with an exactness that had long exceeded excessive.

His tasks complete he made himself a simple drink, a hot chocolate, thick with sugar and cream, rare luxuries, but on this night it seemed appropriate that this reminder of simple innocence would be his. Slowly he savoured it, the heavy sweetness rolling over his tongue and down his throat, a final pleasure in a world that was as ash to him. His duties fulfilled, his tasks complete, he rose, and paused only briefly to wash his mug, before making his way up the narrow staircase behind the bar to his small room, his sanctum within his small kingdom.

He stripped, almost mechanically, the trousers and jacket being hung carefully within his small closet, his shirt placed in the laundry basket alongside his other shirts, and carefully maintained undergarments. Putting on a simple, and unadorned pair of nightclothes he lay down upon the small and spartan bed, and looked up into the shadowy and unadorned room. The silence was broken briefly by the screech of some vehicle turning rapidly, then tearing down the small street in front of his bar, the moment swallowed by a silence pregnant with intent.

For the final time he looked around, and closed his eyes.

The mists erupted around them, as they always did. The streaks of darkness outlined by blinding light streamed up through the void, surrounding and caressing him, a familiar yet heavy burden.

He smiled, genuinely, for the first time in an age, and for the final time.

He looked on as the familiar question rose to meet him, a burden that he’d railed against, one that had slowly broken him.

Is humanity worthy of life? Yes No