the day the world was supposed to end — Chapter 7
The world was prepared for their certain death. The asteroid never hit and they survived. Now citizens try to rebuild a disordered world caused by panic and desperation of an end that never came. Everyone wants to know how the asteroid missed them. In a world controlled by local legions and militias and with communications systems destroyed survival can prove as difficult as to answers on why they survived.
A new chapter is released every Sunday afternoon/evening. Below is a link to the last chapter:
Gerald and Ed simultaneous opened their car doors and headed in opposite directions. Gerald needed a drink and the bar was adjacent to the dusty parking lost. Ed was headed to the Command Post to get his next instructions and hopefully an update if America’s government would return. Both men hoped to leave their conversation locked in the jeep.
Gerald walked through the patio of the bar. He received stares from the militia men. He was out of place, unarmed and alone. He walked into the bar and found a quieter environment with one bartender, a jukebox playing honky -tonk in the background with another patron sitting at the end of the bar. The bar was not small but not large enough for the men who congregated in the patio. You couldn’t blame them. The sun was beaming and the temperature was cool and comfortable to gather outside. Near the jukebox was a pool table with pool cues hung neatly with the balls stacked in the center waiting for a game. Above the bar, a television screen aired the replay of the 1998 national championship game between Tennessee and the Florida State Seminoles. The bar was clean although the bar stools and tables were worn out.
Gerald pulled up a bar stool and sat in the middle of the bar, glancing at the only other person in the bar besides the bartender. The bartender, an older man in his sixties with a full set of grey hair and a shirt that read “Drinking my way to the end times.” Gerald then noticed the sign above the the bar and in different parts of the bar “End Times Bar.” “I know we need to re-brand the place. We were expecting to die with drinks in our hands” said the bartender anticipating Gerald’s thought on the name of the bar. “What can I get you?” “I don’t have any money and not sure what I can trade for a drink” Gerald said sheepishly. He bravely sat at the bar but now realized the commerce of goods in this world was complex. Currency as in cash money was accepted in some places but trades of goods or services were more common.
“Put it on my tab” the voice coming from the man at the end of the bar. “The man looks likes he badly needs a drink.” The bartender started to clan a glass a glass for Gerald. “So what will it be?” Before Gerald could say anything, the bartender provided the two options “I got an assortment of beer and vodka. One specific type of vodka — Crystal Head Vodka.” He pulled out the familiar crystal skeleton bottles that had been part of the Oak Ridge Legion and the very strange communion on his last day at the camp. “I am familiar with the vodka, I will take it” Gerald said. The bartender poured out the vodka in a small glass that had two cubes. “My name is Sam, let me know if you would like another. As long as your on his tab” the bartender looking at the man at the end of the bar. Sam nonchalantly lit a cigarette and made his way to the patio as the commotion of the group outside was briefly heard.
“Thank you” as Gerald raised his glass. The man with nodded recognizing Gerald's appreciation. He wore the same typical khakis of the militia men but with no ball cap and a simple long sleeve button shirt. He had a small pistol holstered to his belt. He was of average height straight black hair, fair skin and thin glasses sat on his large nose. “Your welcome” he said and went back to writing on a pad. On second glance it was a crossword puzzle from an old New York Times paper. If his mother could see having a drink in a bar, it would bring out her face of disappointment. Although, Gerald was raised with the Presbyterian freedom toward alcohol, his mother was silently skeptical of drinking. His mother grew up Southern Baptist but married a Presbyterian preacher and accepted alcohol in the church and in the house but never on her lips.
Gerald’s knowledge and theology was shaped by his father and the family tradition of men who became pastors and missionaries. His heart was shaped by his mother. Although not formally trained in theology, she could apply grace and redemption of the Gospels in her relationship with people. Where she lacked the depth of scriptures, the scriptures lived in her actions and her incredible discernment. She was Becks before Becks ever entered his life. He was starting to realize this connection and the taste of the vodka tasted terribly bitter. He placed the drink on the bar and slightly distanced it from him.
“Would you rather have a beer?” the voice of the man at the end of the bar broke the silence. “No. I thought I needed a drink, now I don’t. I am sorry I added the drink to your tab” Gerald said. “There is plenty of skeleton vodka here. I am sick of it. I stick with beer or water. Whats your name?.” “Jerry.” “I’m Al.” Gerald was not in need of a drink but of a conversation. Gerald turned his body to face Al. “I do enjoy this vodka I’m just not in the mood for it it right now.” Balancing the crossword and a new conversation with a stranger Al engaged Gerald. “You looked like you needed a drink. not much of a drinker?” Gerald shook his head. “I drank enough of this vodka and alcohol in my life. In fact our legion lived off this stuff. They are probably drinking as we speak.”
Al was working on his crossroad puzzle as he was listening to Gerald. He put his pen down. “Let me guess your from the Oak Ridge Laboratory.” Gerald was surprised but as he thought about this interaction he figured out this man was not foreign to him at all. “Your A.W. from the research facility in Oak Ridge” Gerald blurted out as a student answering a question on the blackboard.
“Yes. Albert Wegener.”
