John lent forward on the bar stool and took a long, deep drag on his
cigarette. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke weave its way gradually out
of his mouth and down into his glass. So, this was what his life had
amounted to.
The bar was packed. Some were regulars, miners from the town who were spending their hard earned cash the only way they knew how; swigging booze that tasted like dog piss and betting on the fights. Most, however, were there for the same reason as John. They were convoy guards, waiting around for the next caravan to come in and load up, so they could get out into the wastes and earn their pay. You could tell who fell into which category. The guards, all secretly grateful to be breathing another day, were downing alcohol like apple juice, and laughing boisterously with friends as the leant against the bar. The miners, nervous around these rowdy invaders, kept themselves to themselves, huddled in small groups around rickety old tables.
"Another drink, mate?" John looked up to see the barman standing over him, smiling crookedly, "cos to me, it looks like yer've got a bit of an empty feelin in the bottom of yer glass."
He was a portly man, not above six feet, and balding, so that only a tuft of hair was left on the back of his head. His apron was stained with too many spilt drinks, and his eyes were small and pig-like.
"Yeah, sure. Why not?" John passed his glass forward across the bar, and watched as the barman took out a glass from the shelf behind him, pop the lid, and pour the liquid in. He passed it back to the customer. "That one's on the house, Mr Utren."
John look up quizzically, certain that this fat man must want something from him. "I'm a friend of Benny Hiller." John immediately recognised the name. Hiller was John's last employer, a rough old man whose bite was definitely worse than his bark.
"Sounds like you did a good job for him with a posse of bandits back on the road."
"I did what I was paid to do," John grunted, taking another drag.
"Maybe, but yer did a lot more than most would've," the barman extended a hand across, "Wayne Cale, proprietor of the Sinkin Saddle, Redding's finest bar, pleasure to meet yer."
John looked up, glanced at the hand, and looked down again. Cale waited a few more seconds, still slightly optimistic of a warm meeting. He blinked twice, realised that he wasn't going to get anything apart from frosty glares from this man, and lowered his hand. A commotion from the bar entrance gave him the perfect opportunity to get out of an awkward situation.
"I, er, better go sort that out," he mumbled, lifting the hatch and walking past John towards the doorway. The caravan guard turned to watch him go, and instantly saw the source of the commotion. A short, middle-aged fat man, more rotund than Cale, had entered the building, and the clientele, miners and guards alike, were hurling both abuse and bottles his way. The cause of this was blatant. The man wore what looked like a leotard, blue with a gold stripe around the waist. A vault suit.
"Oi, 'citizen," a patron scorned, "aren't we a bit low for yer? Why don't yer go back to yer snot-nosed city an' stay there, eh?"
"Alright, quiet down," Cale arrived and spoke for all to hear, "he's welcome to drink 'ere, no matter his origin. Anyone who wants to argue the point can get out, or I'll call the Sheriff!"
The rabble quietened, and returned to their previous topics, and Cale led the newcomer up to the bar. "Just sit 'ere and keep yer head down, got it?" the barman, none to happy about the disorder brought about by the recent arrival, seemed just as annoyed as his customers, "hope yer don't mind this man sittin next to yer, Mr Utren?"
John, who had turned back when Cale had returned, lifted his head to reply, when he caught the look of astonishment on the vault-citizen's face. The guard turned round to face him
"What're you looking at, Vault-Scum?"
"D-did he just call you Utren?" The man stammered, wavering under John's fierce look.
"What of it?"
"I've been looking for you for a long time, sir. I need to speak with you about you twin."
John's right hook knocked the man off the stool, and he lay sprawled on the dirty floor. John grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet and into his face, so that their noses were almost touching. "What the hell did you just say?"
The man, dazed from the punch, tried to focus his eyes. "Your.twin brother.."
"Cale, I need to use your back room. Now!"
"Yeah, sure Mr Utren," The barman stuttered, but John had already dragged the stunned man through the door into the back.
The back room was little more than a stock cupboard, three metres square in area, and the walls were lined with shelves of bottles. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging every now and then, casting distorted shadows over the room.
John shoved the man against a ledge, and was on him in a moment. "Now, what does that piece of scum want with me now?"
"I am his personal assistant, sir," the man replied, shrinking down from this man, this beast in front of him, "I am Mr Adam Edmunds."
"A personal assistant?" John spat, "Paul always did like people running around after him. Guess he got more used to it after he walked out on his family and married that Vault City.woman." Instant initiation into the Vault. New, better, healthier life with more money than you can swim in.
"Mr Utren would never walk out on family, sir!" Edmunds stated, but shrank back as John screamed at him.
"He did, though, didn't he? What, didn't he tell you? Didn't he say how he left his good parents, his brother, in their own little slum of a world and wandered off down lollipop lane with Ms Perfect? He betrayed family to make life better for himself! So, what does he want with me? Does he need a janitor? A gardener?"
"He is dead, sir!"
John took a step back. His facial expression changed. Not to sadness, but confusion. "I see. But what does that have to do with me?"
"You are his brother, sir!" Edmunds exclaimed, shocked at John's nonchalant attitude.
"I was his brother, before he walked away! Now, I know you didn't come out here into the wastes, miles away from you're precious Vault just to tell me that a brother I haven't seen for 20 years is dead!"
"You are right, of course, sir," Edmunds admitted, nodding his head, "you see, sir, Mr Utren has a son."
"And?" John grunted, not liking the way this conversation was heading.
"Well, sir," Edmunds explained, "he is only 16. In Vault laws, he is too young to live by himself. He needs a guardian, sir."
John pushed a hand through his jet black hair. He sighed.
"There is no way I'm going look after a Vault-Dweller."
"Sir, were you not the one talking about walking away from family?" Edmunds pointed out smugly, but returned straight faced as soon as the guard shot him a glare. "You would not have to live in Vault City, sir."
John chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, I bet I wouldn't. I wouldn't quite fit in, would I?" He sighed again, and looked into Edmunds' eyes. "Where is he now?"
"Outside, sir."
The bar was packed. Some were regulars, miners from the town who were spending their hard earned cash the only way they knew how; swigging booze that tasted like dog piss and betting on the fights. Most, however, were there for the same reason as John. They were convoy guards, waiting around for the next caravan to come in and load up, so they could get out into the wastes and earn their pay. You could tell who fell into which category. The guards, all secretly grateful to be breathing another day, were downing alcohol like apple juice, and laughing boisterously with friends as the leant against the bar. The miners, nervous around these rowdy invaders, kept themselves to themselves, huddled in small groups around rickety old tables.
"Another drink, mate?" John looked up to see the barman standing over him, smiling crookedly, "cos to me, it looks like yer've got a bit of an empty feelin in the bottom of yer glass."
He was a portly man, not above six feet, and balding, so that only a tuft of hair was left on the back of his head. His apron was stained with too many spilt drinks, and his eyes were small and pig-like.
"Yeah, sure. Why not?" John passed his glass forward across the bar, and watched as the barman took out a glass from the shelf behind him, pop the lid, and pour the liquid in. He passed it back to the customer. "That one's on the house, Mr Utren."
John look up quizzically, certain that this fat man must want something from him. "I'm a friend of Benny Hiller." John immediately recognised the name. Hiller was John's last employer, a rough old man whose bite was definitely worse than his bark.
"Sounds like you did a good job for him with a posse of bandits back on the road."
"I did what I was paid to do," John grunted, taking another drag.
"Maybe, but yer did a lot more than most would've," the barman extended a hand across, "Wayne Cale, proprietor of the Sinkin Saddle, Redding's finest bar, pleasure to meet yer."
John looked up, glanced at the hand, and looked down again. Cale waited a few more seconds, still slightly optimistic of a warm meeting. He blinked twice, realised that he wasn't going to get anything apart from frosty glares from this man, and lowered his hand. A commotion from the bar entrance gave him the perfect opportunity to get out of an awkward situation.
"I, er, better go sort that out," he mumbled, lifting the hatch and walking past John towards the doorway. The caravan guard turned to watch him go, and instantly saw the source of the commotion. A short, middle-aged fat man, more rotund than Cale, had entered the building, and the clientele, miners and guards alike, were hurling both abuse and bottles his way. The cause of this was blatant. The man wore what looked like a leotard, blue with a gold stripe around the waist. A vault suit.
"Oi, 'citizen," a patron scorned, "aren't we a bit low for yer? Why don't yer go back to yer snot-nosed city an' stay there, eh?"
"Alright, quiet down," Cale arrived and spoke for all to hear, "he's welcome to drink 'ere, no matter his origin. Anyone who wants to argue the point can get out, or I'll call the Sheriff!"
The rabble quietened, and returned to their previous topics, and Cale led the newcomer up to the bar. "Just sit 'ere and keep yer head down, got it?" the barman, none to happy about the disorder brought about by the recent arrival, seemed just as annoyed as his customers, "hope yer don't mind this man sittin next to yer, Mr Utren?"
John, who had turned back when Cale had returned, lifted his head to reply, when he caught the look of astonishment on the vault-citizen's face. The guard turned round to face him
"What're you looking at, Vault-Scum?"
"D-did he just call you Utren?" The man stammered, wavering under John's fierce look.
"What of it?"
"I've been looking for you for a long time, sir. I need to speak with you about you twin."
John's right hook knocked the man off the stool, and he lay sprawled on the dirty floor. John grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his feet and into his face, so that their noses were almost touching. "What the hell did you just say?"
The man, dazed from the punch, tried to focus his eyes. "Your.twin brother.."
"Cale, I need to use your back room. Now!"
"Yeah, sure Mr Utren," The barman stuttered, but John had already dragged the stunned man through the door into the back.
The back room was little more than a stock cupboard, three metres square in area, and the walls were lined with shelves of bottles. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging every now and then, casting distorted shadows over the room.
John shoved the man against a ledge, and was on him in a moment. "Now, what does that piece of scum want with me now?"
"I am his personal assistant, sir," the man replied, shrinking down from this man, this beast in front of him, "I am Mr Adam Edmunds."
"A personal assistant?" John spat, "Paul always did like people running around after him. Guess he got more used to it after he walked out on his family and married that Vault City.woman." Instant initiation into the Vault. New, better, healthier life with more money than you can swim in.
"Mr Utren would never walk out on family, sir!" Edmunds stated, but shrank back as John screamed at him.
"He did, though, didn't he? What, didn't he tell you? Didn't he say how he left his good parents, his brother, in their own little slum of a world and wandered off down lollipop lane with Ms Perfect? He betrayed family to make life better for himself! So, what does he want with me? Does he need a janitor? A gardener?"
"He is dead, sir!"
John took a step back. His facial expression changed. Not to sadness, but confusion. "I see. But what does that have to do with me?"
"You are his brother, sir!" Edmunds exclaimed, shocked at John's nonchalant attitude.
"I was his brother, before he walked away! Now, I know you didn't come out here into the wastes, miles away from you're precious Vault just to tell me that a brother I haven't seen for 20 years is dead!"
"You are right, of course, sir," Edmunds admitted, nodding his head, "you see, sir, Mr Utren has a son."
"And?" John grunted, not liking the way this conversation was heading.
"Well, sir," Edmunds explained, "he is only 16. In Vault laws, he is too young to live by himself. He needs a guardian, sir."
John pushed a hand through his jet black hair. He sighed.
"There is no way I'm going look after a Vault-Dweller."
"Sir, were you not the one talking about walking away from family?" Edmunds pointed out smugly, but returned straight faced as soon as the guard shot him a glare. "You would not have to live in Vault City, sir."
John chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, I bet I wouldn't. I wouldn't quite fit in, would I?" He sighed again, and looked into Edmunds' eyes. "Where is he now?"
"Outside, sir."