“You sure you want to eat here?” Conner asked, but Michael was already thumbing through a plastic menu on the table. Conner gave up and looked at Jonathan. “You want to go get some beers?” Jonathan nodded and they walked to the bar. The bartender took his time coming down. He looked worse up close, lips cracked, the skin of his arms marked with puncture wounds.
“Kitchen open?” Conner asked.
“Sure thing, you just let me know what you want.” They ordered two pitchers of beer and paid cash. Conner left a good tip, which seemed to soften the bartender up a bit.
“You boys just get in from out of town?” he said.
Conner settled into his social easiness, like water around any obstruction. “Yeah, we were supposed to meet up with Bill Flood, but we can’t find him anywhere.”
“Bill Flood? What do you want with that old bastard?” The bartender was practically laughing.
“We rented his cabin up in Coombs’ Gulch. He was supposed to take us out there tonight to open it up, but he isn’t home and isn’t answering the phone.”
“You guys ain’t trying to hunt up there, are you?”
“Why?”
“Place is dead as a grave. I don’t think anybody’s shot anything up there in a decade. Bill done took you for a ride if you’re paying good money to go hunt the Gulch.”
“Really?” Conner said. “We did pretty good last time we were here.”
“When was that?”
“’Bout ten years ago.”
“Well, things have changed up there,” he said. “Listen, friend. Don’t give Bill Flood your money. I got a couple buddies here that will take you out to some real hunting spots, show you around a bit. They’re kinda like guides.” He gestured down to the end of the bar. Four thick-faced men with small shiny eyes raised their beer glasses to them, and Conner nodded back. One had a big, red beard, hands thick as a bear’s paws and sweat pouring down the sides of his head. He smiled and stared at them. Jonathan felt a deep discomfort in his stomach. The bartender gestured over his shoulder. “Larry here knows these woods better than anybody. Takes folks out hunting all the time.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Conner said. “But I think we’ll take our chances as it is. Have you seen Bill at all?”
The bartender suddenly cooled, seemingly offended at the rejection of his offer. “Nah, I ain’t seen him since last night when he was tying one on. He’s probably up at that cabin right now, drunk out of his mind.” The bartender leaned over the bar, in close, and Jonathan could suddenly smell him, flesh and sweat. “Listen, you guys don’t want to go up there. Last group that went up there, they lost a couple guys. Got all turned around; two of them died of exposure, stuck outside all night. You boys don’t want to go there, ’specially if you don’t know what you’re doing. They’re gonna pave over that whole section of forest next year. In my opinion, it can’t come soon enough.”
Michael came to the bar and interrupted the awkward moment, changing the subject to food. They ordered burgers and wings, loading up for the night, and then took their seats, pouring out draught beer into pint glasses.
“So that was interesting,” Conner said.
“What happened?” Michael said.
“They pretty much warned us off of Coombs’ Gulch.”
“Fuck them,” Michael said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jonathan said. “We just need to get this done. We need to find Bill.”
“There must be somebody who knows where he is.”
“Like the guy said, he’s probably at the cabin right now, drunk off his ass.” The bartender talked with the good ol’ boys down at the end of the bar, occasionally glancing at their table, probably trying to figure out how they could make some money off of the newcomers aside from their failed ‘hunting guide’ offer.
They ate simple food, nothing the kitchen could screw up too badly. Conner kept trying to call Bill Flood.
Michael went up to use the bathroom at the shadowed end of the bar, and Jonathan sat dazed, staring into his beer. Conner was sending Bill an email telling him they were looking for him. Then there was a commotion, activity that bled into Jonathan’s vision from the corner of his eye. Michael, one arm extended, shoved a big, red-bearded lurcher back into his barstool. It seemed to happen in a separate moment in time, the rest of the world waiting to catch up. Then everything went fast and loud. The others pushed Michael back against the wall, and someone reached over and grabbed him by the shirt collar. A quick punch was thrown. Beer glasses spilled and broke. Michael threw a fist over someone’s shoulder, breaking a nose. Jonathan and Conner were up, pushing chairs out of their way, rushing toward the melee at the end of the bar. The bartender got out a piece of pipe. Everything was hazy and smoky and blurred. They rushed into a mess of arms and shoulders that felt like rock, pushing them off Michael. A fist the size of a ham caught Jonathan above the eye. He swung out with a left, and then a battery of
