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Harold's by A Halo Fan...natic
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Harold's - On Tap & Whiskey Sour
Date: 9 October 2007, 11:51 pm
On Tap
"Hey Harold."
"Hey James. What'll it be for today?"
"Oh, whatever's on tap. I'm not feeling picky."
"Alright, then."
"Thanks."
"So, you hear the news?
"No, what?"
"You remember that fleet they sent out to Harvest a while back?"
"Yeah? The one they tried to cover up?"
"Yeah. Well, a ship came back this morning."
"A ship?"
"Yeah. The rest of the fleet is missing."
"Huh. I wonder what happened?"
"That's what they're speculating about on the news. General consensus is, something bad happened."
"What? Bullshit. Maybe the rest just layed over in the system to keep things orderly, or to pick up more fuel."
"Then why is the government covering it up?"
"Eh… Good point. But what could ground a whole fleet?"
"They're not just saying it was grounded. Most people think it was destroyed."
"Destroyed? How?"
"Nobody knows."
"That's bullshit. Nothing can destroy a whole fleet. It's impossible."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. Nothing's that powerful. Some of those ships could survive a direct hit from a nuke."
"There are things more powerful than nukes."
"I don't care. Ain't nothin' in Heaven or Hell or even in God's own butt-crack that can wipe out a whole fleet."
"Ain't no such animal."
"Huh?"
"There's a story about a hillbilly who was raised miles from any city, ass end of nowhere, see? And he goes to Chicago and visits the zoo, and when he sees the rhinoceros, he points and yells, 'There ain't no such animal!'"
"Hah. But I think we're more sophisticated than that."
"Are we?"
"Sure. Fusion, Slipspace, cars, rockets… I think we're pretty high up on the ladder of sophistication."
"But we don't know all that's out there."
"Sure we do. How could we not? We cross interstellar space all the time."
"But most of that time is spent in Slipspace. We don't really know what's out there. We just have guesses. And how many star systems have we explored? Forty or thereabouts? Out of millions, billions in our galaxy alone. I think there's a pretty decent chance that there's stuff out there we don't know about."
"Oh, quit pulling my leg. You don't seriously believe that something dozens of light-years away can affect us, do you?"
"Well… Maybe not, I guess."
"Damn straight."
"But I'm still worried."
"Why?"
"I dunno… It just doesn't seem right, a whole fleet disappearing like that. Something went wrong. If it's as serious as I think it might be…"
"You're not thinking of leavin', are you? This is the best joint in town!"
"Oh, don't worry, it'd have to get pretty bad before I abandoned 'Harold's House'. Don't worry, you won't have to buy your drinks from Don."
"Hah, speaking of which, I could use a refill."
"Sure thing. Comin' right up."
Whiskey Sour
"Hey Harold."
"Hey James. What do you want today?"
"I think a whiskey sour would hit the spot nicely."
"Sure thing. Ice?"
"Please."
"Alright."
"Ah… I guess I should apologize for not taking you seriously."
"Eh?"
"Haven't you heard the news?"
"No, I haven't had time. Just got a new shipment in."
"Well, the government's released a report on the situation. It doesn't say much, but the general gist is, there were aliens at Harvest, and they wiped out our fleet."
"What!?"
"That's what I said. Look out, you're gonna spill the whiskey!"
"Ah, thanks. What do you mean aliens?"
"I dunno, that's what the government said."
"That's ridiculous!"
"Says Mr. 'There ain't no such animal'."
"Hah, got me there. But aliens? Come on!"
"Look, it's just what I heard on the news stations, and it ain't April first, either."
"But… Jesus, James, do you realize the implications of this?"
"Huh? What do you mean 'implications'?"
"This changes everything! We're not alone in the universe! This affects philosophy, religion, science-"
"Hey, woah, slow down. You do realize that they blew up a fleet? I don't think they'd be willing to share scientific theories with us."
"But we could study things we've captured."
"Eh, I guess. But I don't think that it's right to be so happy after they blew up some two dozen warships. Sounds pretty damn scary to me."
"I agree, but still, the implications…"
"Ah, I guess. Anyways, I doubt they'd be able to do us much harm. We're the top of the ladder. Nothing's higher up than us."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that."
"What? Now you're switching positions on me?"
"I never said the aliens weren't a threat."
"Yeah, you-"
"No, I did not. I said that their discovery has huge implications for our race. In fact, I may leave."
"What!? But you said you wouldn't!"
"No, not right now, but in five years…"
"Bullshit. Where 'you gonna go? You've told me your heart can't take freefall. Are they gonna bring down a special ship, just for you?"
"No, but…"
"But nothin'. Gimme another whiskey."
Harold's: Scotch Rocks and Irish Coffee
Date: 27 October 2007, 7:08 pm
Scotch Rocks
"Hey Harold."
"Hey James. Glad to see ya' again - where have you been?"
"Oh, round and about. I had to go up to Tycho Base for psychological evaluation. Thank God they don't think I'm fit for a soldier."
"Amen to that. What'd'ya want?"
"Scotch rocks, please."
"Comin' right up. I was always more of a bourbon man myself."
"I used to be as well, 'till I went to Kentucky, and whoo, the stuff they make there can peel paint."
"Hah, I know it. Here you are."
"Thanks."
"Glad to hear you didn't get picked for conscription - you're one of my best customers."
"Hah, we've known each other for five years and I'm still just a 'customer?'"
"Tut tut, you know I can't let friendship interfere with business."
"Yeah, I know, you gave me that speech before. Say, you hear about the Fomalhaut thing?"
"Yeah, apparently it was just one big clusterfuck, sixty percent casualties."
"Ouch. I didn't know it was that bad."
"Well, the UN ain't exactly advertising it, but as a bartender, well, I've got contacts, ya' know?"
"Hah, you mean old Scotty? He ain't been in the 'Holy Office' for ten years, what's he gonna know about it?"
"Maybe you're right, but he generally seems to know what he's talking about."
"Hey, 'you wanna trust a washed-up, drunken sod of a spook, that's fine by me, but I ain't takin' it as gospel. Besides, he soaks up good liquor like it were cheap beer. I'm pretty sure that's illegal, ain't it?"
"I told you, he's got contacts…"
"Hah!"
"Anyways, whether Scotty is reliable or not, Fomalhaut most certainly did not go off well. You can tell just from looking at the Admiral's face on Tri-Dee."
"Yeah, even my old lady thought he was actin' kinda fishy."
"Speaking of which, how are things at home?"
"Oh, alright. The wife's been a bit upset with me since I haven't had time for her lately, but she'll get over it."
"You'd think she'd realize that you can't spend time with her, with your work and all."
"Hah, well, Satan will get frostbite before us men start understanding women, so we might as well live with it, eh?"
"Right on."
"Hey, 'you seen some of those new spaceships they're building out by the Moon?"
"Haven't had the chance to."
"Well, I have. We passed one on our trajectory out to Tycho. Big mothers, they are."
"What tonnage?"
"Easily twice the Admiral's flag."
"Bullshit."
"No, I kid you not. Those things make the Panthers look like a joke."
"Well, I hope they help us out in the war."
"They'd better - we're paying for 'em."
"Hey, speaking of that, how is the UN paying for all this? Taxes haven't been raised more than two percent."
"Beats me. Economics might as well be tensor calculus for all I know about it."
"Well, tensor calculus ain't that bad once you-"
"Hey, woah, where did you learn that shit?"
"As a bartender, I've gotta know these things…"
"Bull. Where did you really learn it?"
"I went to college to be an engineer, remember?"
"I thought you washed out."
"I did, but not before three semesters of calculus. It's not that bad, really, and the quanters certainly help a lot."
"Never got a chance to work one of those things. Don't they fill up most of a room?"
"Yeah. Lemme tell you how to work 'em-"
"No thanks. My laptop is enough of a pain as it is - thinking about mainframes gives me a headache."
"Hah, yeah, well, in any case, I'm confident that whatever the government's doing, it's doing it right. We've had wars before, so this shouldn't be too tough either. We'll do alright."
"Amen. Gimme another shot, I'm thirsty tonight."
Irish Coffee
"Hey James, how's the weather?"
"Freezing. We lost our heat last night. Gimme an Irish Coffee"
"Workin' on it. Really?"
"Yeah. 'War time confiscation', or some bullshit like that. What the hell right have they got taking our heating oil?"
"Kerosene is pretty important to the armed forces. We can't have our troops getting frostbite, now can we?"
"I suppose not, but it ain't right! I mean, they're letting you keep your heat."
"Actually, I lost it last week."
"What!?"
"Look over at the fireplace."
"Jesus, that thing still works?"
"I wasn't sure it would, either, but once I got the flue open it worked like a charm."
"What's a flue?"
"Ah, nothing. Here's your coffee."
"Thanks. Mmm, this is great. Where do you get your beans?"
"Classified."
"Hah, that and half this planet! Do you know, I tried to log into the Federal Exchange's database last night to see how our stock is doing, and you know what it said to me?"
"What?"
"'This information is classified and requires a level three security clearance.' Can you believe that?"
"Yes, I can. I tried to look up how much the UN is going to tax alcohol this quarter and I got a similar message."
"Jesus! It ain't right, I tell you."
"Tell that to the Holy Office."
"No thanks, I'd rather keep my brain intact, thank you very much."
"Here, here."
"Did you hear that the UN is thinking of confiscating cars?"
"Yes I did, but I'm not sure what to think of it."
"If they do that, I'm standing up for my rights. They can't confiscate personal property like that!"
"Yes, they can."
"Huh?"
"They have the power. They've had the power for a long time."
"Bullshit! It's in the charter, they can't take private property away like that, it's-"
"Listen! They may not have the legal, de jure right, but they have a perfectly good de facto right to do it. It's technically illegal, but is anyone going to oppose them? No. Therefore, they can do whatever they want."
"Well, there's always civil disobedience."
"Yeah, then you get a knock on your door in the middle of the night. No thanks."
"I suppose you're right…"
"And not only that, if any region did revolt, the UN can just cut their utilities."
"They can do that?"
"Sure. Ever heard of a water monopoly empire?"
"No."
"Well, a water monopoly empire forms when a small group of people, either the government or the plutocrats, control the general publics' access to fresh water or other necessities."
"Go on."
"The people are afraid to revolt, because they won't be able to live without water, and the government gradually takes more and more control over the peoples' lives."
"Sounds like a book I had to read in high school, what was it, ah, Nineteen Eighty-something?"
"Nineteen Eighty Four, yeah. Kinda like that. But anyways, water monopoly empires were all over in ancient times. Dynastic China, the European Monarchs, the Aztecs, then later the Warsaw Pact and Western Africa."
"And you're saying we're one now?"
"Not quite, but getting pretty close to one."
"Oh, come on, quit pulling my leg!"
"I'm not! I'm dead serious. Ever heard of the two-province system?"
"No. Is it like the water monopoly empire?"
"Kind of. It's a tactic used by them. Let's say you have two provinces, A and B. There's a famine, or a drought, or a war. Province A has a record of cheating on its taxes, so the ruler sends all of Province A's food or water or soldiers to Province B. You get one province that's strongly loyal, and one that no longer exists. Divide and conquer."
"Jesus… You're not saying the UN would do that to us if we misbehaved?"
"I'm not saying that they would, but they might. They most definitely might."
"God damn, Harold, now you've given me chills all over again. Gimme another coffee."
"Sure thing. Comin' right up."
Harold's: Killian's and Vodka
Date: 18 November 2007, 11:56 pm
Killian's
"Hey Harold."
"Hey James. What's up?"
"Eh, not much. I'll have a Killian's."
"Sure thing."
"Ah, thanks."
"How have things been at home?"
"Eh, not so good lately."
"Wife?"
"Yeah. We had a fight last night. She's been really upset with me, and she won't tell me why."
"Hum. Maybe you should have a night out together?"
"That's what I suggested, but she said no, she didn't want to."
"Ah, she'll get over it eventually."
"Heh, right."
"Anyways, you hear the news last night?"
"No, I was busy setting up on the couch."
"Ouch. Well, they lost another colony."
"Another? Damn. Who fucked up this time?"
"No one. We just got our asses kicked."
"Bullshit. We can't keep losing over and over just because 'they're better' or whatever. Anyone who says that is unpatriotic. It's probably some dipshit general, or something."
"Well… Ah, whatever."
"What?"
"Well, we can't blame every loss on the commander. We've had some pretty good generals out there, with master strategies. It might be more than just…"
"Than just what?"
"It's not important. Anyways, the three little piggies had some good advice."
"What? Oh…"
"Yeah. So, what about last week's game?"
"Man, I can't believe Brazil beat Russia. Unbelievable. Gimme another glass, why don't'cha, and we'll talk about it."
"Comin' right up."
Vodka
"Hey James, how's-"
"Give me a Vodka. Straight."
"Ah, sure thing. Here you are."
"Thanks."
"You alright?"
"Yeah. Another."
"You shouldn't-"
"Just give it to me."
"Alright, man. Here you are."
"And one more."
"Bit early for that much liquor, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Any particular reason?"
"Mary left me."
"Mary… Oh. I'm… I'm sorry."
"I got home and… And she's not there, and the kids are gone, and there's this note on the couch, and… God. Give me another."
"I'll give you half. I don't want you passing out at the bar. What did the note say?"
"Don't water it down so much. It said, 'I'm sick of you being away so much. You're never at home. Ashley and Jason deserve a proper father.' God, I can't go on."
"Hey, it's alright, man. It's alright. It's not the end of the world."
"It might as well be. Fuck."
"Hey, come on, man, you don't want to sound like a wimp, do ya'?"
"She called me one."
"So? What does she matter? Hey, don't start crying on me, now."
"Give me another vodka, dammit."
"No. I'll give you a Gin and Tonic, though, and everything else will be on the house."
"Well… Fine. Whatever."
"I've seen good men drink themselves into oblivion, and I'm not going to help you do it too."
"Eh, I… I guess."
"Now, let's get your mind off her. You see the news the other day?"
"Yeah, that Admiral Hood guy. Sounds like a fucking dumbass to me. Old man, tha's what he is."
"Eh… I suppose so, but he seemed pretty levelheaded. Had a good sounding plan."
"We don't need no stinkin' plan."
"Heh, well, that's one point of view."
"Damn straight. Another gin, please. And don't water it down so much, dammit."
"I'm going to add as much water as I please. I don't want you shitfaced. Here, have some pretzels."
"Thanks, man. I am a bit hungry. I didn't have any dinner."
"Gotta soak up some of that alcohol, too."
"Heh, guess so."
"But Hood seems like a good guy to me."
"Eh, maybe, maybe."
"He's supposed to have another speech tonight. Just a few minutes, actually. Here, lemme turn up the volume on the TD."
"Sounds like a plan."
"-clean feeling! So try Herbies today!"
"This is Patricia Lyons, reporting from the UN building in New York. The newly appointed Admiral Hood will be making a speech shortly, expounding on his theories as to how the war with the religiously fanatical 'Covenant' should proceed. He has made many waves since his appointment, calling current Secretary General, William Dean, a 'pasty faced old coot,' and the head of the UN Security Council, Vladimir Putznich, a 'modern-day KGB agent' and 'Stasi,' among less complimentary remarks. Many people are anxious to hear his opinions on the war, despite official condemnation. The Secretary General is reviewing his action of appointing Hood and is considering instead a 'Colonel James D. Lowden.' The Admiral is stepping onto the platform now."
"Damn, I hadn't heard that he said that."
"Yeah. Gimme another."
"Alright. Hey! Quiet, everyone! This is important!"
"Hello, my fellow people of Earth. I'm sure most of you are expecting a usual political speech, but I'm going to be candid with you; I despise politics. I'm here to bring some common sense to the current hierarchy.
"It has become common practice, of late, for those powerful in our governing body, the UN, to suppress all information unfavorable to their own agendas. This censorship has grown so oppressive that many of us are afraid to speak our minds in public places, or even in our own homes! The so-called 'Security Council' has become a tool of terror for the behind-the-scenes operators of the UN. They have become secret police – we should rename the Security Council the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit!"
"God damn! He's saying that out loud?"
"I believe that we've had enough of this nonsense. It's time to stand up and let our governors, our 'protectors,' know that we want them to take accountability for their actions. They have been doing a despicable job of protecting Earth and her colonies from this alien menace that every day comes closer to our home. And yet the government spends half its money – still! – on pork-barrels and private projects. Just last month, the UN voted to raise their salaries by twenty percent!
"It's time we paid attention to threats to our homeland. I'm going to kick the council's ass into gear and get some money spent on this war. It's about time we paid attention to what's right in front of our noses. This 'Covenant' is a deadly threat, and we need to fight it. I propose to quadruple – yes, quadruple! – funding for the war and streamline our command structure. We've got to protect ourselves, and the current leaders aren't doing a decent job.
"We've had enough, and it's time that we let the top brass know it. Stand up, my people, and let the government know what you think of them. Thank you. Good night."
"Damn."
"That's the word, alright. Do you think they'll let him stay?"
"Shucks if I know, heh."
"Yeah – Hey! Where did you get that bottle?"
"I 'shnook it when ya' weren't lookin', heh."
"God dammit. You're going home. Here, take this pill."
"What ish it?"
"It's a detox pill. Take it. I'll pay for a taxi home for you."
"I don't need –"
"Yes you do. You're absolutely shitfaced. Dammit, why'd you have to sneak?"
"Ah was thirsh'ty."
"Fuck it. Follow me, we're getting a cab for you."
Harold's: Paint Thinner and Double Malt
Date: 18 May 2008, 11:49 pm
Paint Thinner
"Hey Harold."
"Hello, can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, gimme a Glenfidditch."
"No Scotch. I've got some two-week-old paint thinner if you want it, and some horse piss, but not much else."
"Hah, give me the paint thinner."
"Sure thing."
"So… no big 'Welcome back!' for me?"
"I know your face, but I must not have seen you in a while…"
"It's James."
"James! Hey, long time, no see. It's been, what, five years now?"
"Yeah, that's about right."
"Jesus man, where've you been?"
"Navy."
"Navy? Uh, didn't you get judged as unfit for military service?"
"They were desperate."
"Hah! I bet they were if they recruited you."
"Oh, piss off."
"Heh, so, what're you doing back here?"
"Oh, just… leave. Say, how's Mary?"
"Oh, uh… She left. Two years ago. She has a New Cookie."
"… Damn."
"Yeah. Hey, you'll want to drink that fast."
"Sure."
"So—"
"Christ on a crutch! Whoo, I've been near hand grenades that weren't as strong as this stuff."
"Don't worry; the second one goes down easier. The first one stuns your gullet."
"I believe it. Refill, please."
"Right away."
"So, what's with this rotgut you're serving, anyway?"
"No good liquor anymore."
"Why's that?"
"The UN passed a new tax last year. Forty percent on all alcoholic berages—"
"Holy crap!"
"Yeah. Most of the microbreweries and distillers have gone out of business. The big ones, the ones who make their ethanol in space, are all making antiseptics for the military."
"Shit-fire."
"That about sums it up."
"Hey, by the way, have you seen Dave or Ben around? How are they doing?"
"Dave joined the third armored about a year and a half ago. Said he always wanted to drive a tank. Ben is still bumping around, popping up here and there. He still puts on a gig for me every now and then."
"Good, good. Say, uh, I need to tell you something, okay?"
"Sure, what is it?"
"Uh, maybe we should go back in your storeroom."
"Why?"
"Just trust me."
"Okay… Hey Cathy, watch the bar for a tick, will ya'?"
"Nice stock."
"Oh, don't mind the labels. Almost all of it's my own make."
"Where's you still?"
"Classified."
"Heh. Hey, what was your new barmaid's name? Cathy?"
"Yeah. I hired her two months ago."
"She looks a lot younger than twenty-one."
"People don't ask questions nowadays."
"Not even the UN police?"
"They don't give a shit, so long as I don't cause trouble."
"Do you…"
"Okay James, what was it you wanted to tell me? Spit it out."
"You need to leave."
"Say what?"
"You need to leave. Get out of here. Not just Toronto; get off Earth. Do it as soon as you can."
"What the hell? Why?"
"Things aren't going well in space."
"What's going on up there?"
"I can't tell you."
"We're losing, aren't we?"
"Yes."
"How badly?"
"Badly."
"Christ…"
"Look, I've got a pass that can get you as far as the moon. Go to the Winnipeg Space Center on the second of May, 'round noon, there's a shuttle there that'll get you as far as Tycho, it's called—"
"I'm staying."
"Look, I'm not kidding, Harold, you need to—"
"No. The Bar and Grill is all I've got. I'm not leaving."
"Christ! Harry, you stay, you die. The Covenant is coming. We're not sure exactly when, but they're going to get here eventually. You need to get out while you've still got time."
"No."
"God damn it, Harry! Damn it!"
"I'm not leaving. You go."
"Christ. Look, is there anyone else you want me to get out instead of you, then?"
"… Cathy. She has her whole life ahead of her. I don't. Give your pass to her."
"Fine. Last chance."
"No. Get Cathy out."
"Damn it. If you say so."
"Thanks."
"I hate to leave you here to die, Harold."
"Let's just say I've been getting used to the idea these past five years. My joints are getting stiff, my arteries are getting clogged, and not even Alka-Seltzer and B1 are enough to end my hangovers these days. I'm getting old. I'll die eventually anyway. But I'm not leaving."
"Alright."
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow. We're heading out to a big base on Reach."
"Reach?"
"Yeah. Hey, what's this?"
"Uh—"
"This is unopened! Hey, I thought you didn't have any Scotch!"
"I don't. Not according to the records. That there's just a figment of your imagination."
"2492 double malt? I love my imagination. Want to have some?"
"I think this justifies an inch or two."
"Great, get some shot glasses."
"Comin' right up."
Harold's: The Last Glenfiddich
Date: 29 May 2008, 9:31 pm
Harold Reddington leaned against one of the surviving walls and sighed. Heaps of rubble; broken glass; shattered walls. Thousands of memories reduced to dust and ash, memories and people that would never again inhabit the old bar: Scotty nursing his Scotch in the corner, the boys playing a game of poker—or gin rummy—Cathy smiling as she fetched more booze from the basement…
Most of the street was wrecked as badly or worse than the Bar and Grill. Collapsed buildings and burned out shells were the norm. Harold's had gotten off light with nothing but a collapsed front wall and a wrecked interior. Lucky, if you were willing to stretch the definition.
The street was nearly deserted. A few scroungers picked through the snow and rubble looking for food or trade goods, but they were fairly discreet and tended to disappear when a patrol marched by. Sometimes UN police walked the streets, marching wearily, their breath steaming in the frigid air, boots churning the thick snow into a slushy, muddy mess. Sometimes the mud was red. The wise stayed out of their way, especially the women. The police weren't much better than the bandits.
Harold shivered a bit and rubbed his thick arms. February in Toronto was no joke, even if it was edging into March, and heating oil was as much a legend as the Fountain of Youth. Harold wasn't sure which he'd pick first, given the choice. Looking at the snow on the ground—a half a foot deep in places—he tentatively decided on oil.
A family of what the government was calling "temporarily dispossessed" walked by: expensive clothes, in the yuppie style, worn and shabby. There was a man with the body of a tennis court athlete, with a strong chin; probably an investor, when there was something to invest in. His wife, lost-looking, with expensive earrings dangling from her bewildered face, followed along behind. Two children, past complaining, stared suspiciously at strangers as they passed. They hurried by the remains of what was once the façade of Harold's Bar and Grill, scurrying, almost, as they tried to avoid being seen.
It was a changed world.
Harold considered having a drink to fight off the cold—after all, alcohol was one thing he wasn't short of—but he remembered that the warming that came with alcohol was just your blood rushing to your skin, heating the outside of your body but leaving the inside colder than before. Drinking when cold was liable to kill you quicker. A shame: he still had a quarter of a bottle of that Glenfiddich.
He shook himself and went to the basement door—being careful not to impale his foot on a shard of glass—and went inside, sliding a steel bolt in place behind him. The stairs creaked a bit, and the dim interior was only slightly warmer than outside, even with the fire he had going in a metal bin in the corner. The place reeked of alcohol and beans, along with a faint whiff from Harold's hastily dug latrine. The stacks of decaying cardboard boxes did nothing to improve the atmosphere of the cold concrete room. The single ceiling light, powered by a pair of MD batteries and a prayer, flickered unpredictably. It didn't provide much more illumination than the fire.
Carefully, Harold measured a tiny amount of naphtha into a cup, and then poured it into a Sierra stove next to the fire. Next he rummaged in a box and found a can of baked beans, which he put over the stove. Only then did he light it. He'd have to be careful; he only had a half-liter of fuel left for the stove. If he'd had more he'd have burned it all already as heat, but what little he had wouldn't have kept him warm for an hour.
The smell of the chemically treated, genetically altered beans smelled indecently good, considering their origin. Harold was literally drooling. When the beans were almost hot enough to eat, he pulled a bag of party mix from another box. It was carbohydrates at least, and some of it was cheesy. Better than just beans, at least.
Better than nothing at all.
A knocking came from the basement door. Harold snatched the gun he'd acquired—and for a good bottle of bourbon, too he thought inanely—and worked the slide with a satisfying snick! It was an antique, firing the ancient 9mm Parabellum round, but it'd kill or wound at close range, and Harold had had lessons in shooting before. The man he'd got it from, a shabbily dressed character in a trench coat, a walking cliché, had told him it was a family heirloom that he no longer wished to possess. More likely he'd stolen it off some poor sod that had died in his home. At least it was well cared for: the action worked with a smooth, well-oiled motion that spoke of regular cleaning and oiling.
Harold hadn't had to fire it yet, but he'd brandished it a few times to scare off looters and once a family of beggars—who often were just as dangerous as the looters.
A knock was unlikely to be bandits—they were more likely to just kick down the door—but sometimes the trickier ones pretended to be officials. It might be the police, looking for a place to raid for food, of course; in which case fighting was just likely to get him killed. The police were just bandits with automatic weapons and body armor. It might also be beggars, who were harmless if you refused to give in, but turned into persistent—and dangerous—parasites if you offered them anything. Or it could be a genuine visitor…
He went cautiously to the top of the stairs and opened the thick wooden door a crack. "Who is it? What do you want? I don't have anything of value." He tried to make his voice sound gruffer than it really was. Certainly his ample beer belly wouldn't do much to scare off a bandit.
"I'm sorry, I'm looking for a Harold Reddington?" The voice was that of an educated man, but not a snob. It sounded familiar…
Harold thought for a moment, then replied, "Harold died in the attack."
The man was quiet for a bit, then: "Oh. Did you know him? Can I come in? I was a friend of his. My name is James Ortega."
Harold threw the door open. "James! Hey, oh god—it's good to see you again!"
James jumped. "Harold? Hey!" His black hair was longer than it had been the last time Harold saw it, and more unruly. He was dressed in blue jeans and a pseudo-leather jacket over a maroon sweater. Accompanying him was a backpack, nearly empty, slung over one shoulder.
He was a friend. "Come on in, I don't have much, but I might as well share, especially with as good a friend as you. What did they used to say? 'My house is your house?'"
"Yeah, that's about right." James nodded. "Christ, Harold, you really had me going. You don't sound at all like you used to. Don't look much the same either."
"Yeah, well, war tends to do that to people." Harold shook his head in disbelief. What was James doing here? No matter, a friend was a friend, and you needed friends in post-war Toronto. "Come on in. It isn't that much warmer inside than out, but it's at least a mild improvement."
"Gladly." James was in civvy gear, not naval duds, which surprised Harold a bit until he realized that one soldier marching alone was likely to be lynched. So when they tramped down the creaking wooden steps, Harold helped James with his thick jacket. He put the pistol on a crate by the door. James pretended not to notice.
"So… welcome to my humble abode."
James looked around and nodded. "Well, it's not much to shake a stick at, but you seem to be better off than most of the people I've seen."
"Most people don't show off their wealth. Those that do end up without it, or are found dead in an alley with their balls cut off."
James looked at Harold as if expecting him to laugh, then, realizing it wasn't a joke, shuddered. Flailing for a change of subject, he said, "Hey, are those baked beans?"
Harold nodded affirmation. "Yeah, but I don't have much, so you won't get—"
"Oh, I don't mind not getting any—"
"—as much as you'd probably like," Harold finished. They both laughed. It was a release of tension. They sat down on the concrete floor. Harold scooped the beans onto duraplast plates and added a liberal handful of party mix. James produced a ham MRE from his backpack and set that to cooking while Harold nodded appreciably. Sharing food was something one took seriously.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, until finally James asked, "How did you survive?"
Without hesitation, Harold replied: "I just did. That's all."
"I know, but how?"
"Well, it all started with a bottle of bourbon…"
"Tell me about it."
"I was moving a crate of bourbon up from storage when the alarms and public alert systems started banging off. Now, realize that everyone was already on edge because of the whole Kenya fiasco and we were all either about to jump in our bomb shelters or go into hysterics. Well, the alarms set 'em all off and half the people in the room started screaming. It developed into a full-blown bar fight within a couple of minutes. Me and a couple of the more levelheaded people managed to calm everyone down a bit and we kicked most of the people out. There was one guy, a big fellah, I took one of those bottles of whiskey and broke it over his head. We carried him out to the street and left him. He's probably dead now.
"Well, that left me, Dave—you remember Dave—a guy named Rick and his girlfriend, and some old fellah named Paul. They all lived a ways away and didn't want to risk trying to get home, so they figured staying here was probably the best thing to do.
"Now, we certainly had plenty of food and water—and alcohol!—and I had my stun gun, and Dave had that little .22, so we figured we might be able to hold our own if the Covenant showed up. Heh, yah, I know, bunch of idiots we were. I blame the beer.
"Well, we didn't get to test our theory on how tough we were. Right when we were starting to get into the swing of things—storing food and beer and setting up crates against the windows—we felt the shockwave from that rock they dropped in Lake Huron. That spooked everyone out a bit, and Rick and his girl took off. The three of us, Dave, Paul, and I, went down into the basement and hid.
"Man, that explosion sure made a hell of a tidal wave. I was watching from the basement door, and we got about two inches of water rushing across the street, like a real heavy rain. Freaky, I tell ya'. Came in under the front door, and about a half an inch poured down the steps. Ruined most of the food in the bottom crates, but we didn't know that yet. After that the rain from the vaporized lake water started coming down, like God was emptying his bathtub on our heads.
"We stayed in the basement for about two hours after that, until we heard this terrible racket outside. We all went up, and it's the fucking Marines! They were going down the street with a tank, telling people to evacuate and asking for volunteers for a militia they were setting up. Well, Dave went off and they gave him a rifle. He left the pistol with us, and I gave it to Paul. He was kind of disappointed they wouldn't let him in the tank, but he was glad enough to be able to fight. They all went off, and me an' Paul went back to the basement.
"Good choice that was! Right after that they started bombing us. The building started rocking, there were shockwaves, scary as hell. It lasted about fifteen minutes. We went up to see what the damage was.
"It was bad. People dead in the street, the next building over was just gone, all the windows were broken… We just sort of milled about for a while. Then the second wave came along.
"Paul was out in the street when it started. The wash from one of those plasma bombs washed over him, and… Yeah. I ran back to the basement as quick as I could. I must have dropped the stun gun on the way. I went down there and didn't come up for a whole day.
"When I came up, everything was different. The whole street was covered in rubble, the front of my bar was gone, there were dead people in the street… awful. Just awful. After that, I've just sort of been staying in the basement, coming out when I need to. Somehow, that crate of bourbon I'd been bringing up when the alarms went off was still there. I drank one of the bottles right then, that kept me drunk for a while, and hung-over for longer. Eventually, when my head wasn't about to fall off, I went back outside. I traded one of those bottles for a pistol from some guy in a trench coat. That's come in handy a few times. So I've just been living off of beans and snacks, waiting for this all to be over."
James was nodding in thought. "Well, you certainly seem to have come off not-so-bad. I've passed quite a few bodies… A lot of them are burned or hit by shrapnel, but there are a lot of starvation cases. Frozen, too."
The basement was getting colder as night fell. Toronto in February had three temperatures: mild, cold, and damn cold. Harold thought tonight was going to be damn cold, and from how early the temperatures were dropping, the weather was probably trying to out-do itself. Yeah, I can understand frozen, Harold thought, shivering.
They sat in silence. Wind howled outside. That it could reach into the recess that used to be Harold's bar spoke of its power. Harold wondered what it was like for the poor bastards caught outside, then quickly decided he didn't want to know. It would be snowing too, now, and Harold would have to shovel out the snow that piled against the door. For now the remnant of the ceiling was providing some meager protection from the elements, but it wasn't much. He didn't know what he'd do when the ceiling collapsed. Die, maybe.
Suddenly, Harold couldn't stand the silence anymore. "Well, what's your story?"
James jerked out of his contemplation and replied rather sheepishly: "Well, mine isn't as interesting as yours."
"Come on, I wanna know. Didn't Reach get glassed? How did you survive?"
"Well, alright…
"I was stationed in a MAC gun up in geo-sync over the equator, the Abraham Lincoln. I was just sitting in my quarters playing gin rummy with a few of my roommates, when suddenly the whole station started shaking like an earthquake, which is insane, I know. It only lasted about two seconds, but it sent the cards all over, so we had to stop playing. A shame that was, I was ahead on points.
"We ran out into the hallway and asked the first person we saw, some crewman, what the hell was happening. He said that the Covenant were in-system and that the shaking was the main gun firing. Then the station started canceling spin—we used centripetal force for gravity, not induced gravity like the Earth stations—and it started thrusting laterally at the same time, changing course, and the gun fired again, and we didn't know what the hell was going on. The gravity was pulling us towards a corner; it was like the whole place was being tipped on its side.
"I panicked. I ran for the nearest lifeboat station, leaving my roommates, everyone behind. Christ… I got into the lifeboat, by myself, and hit the emergency launch button.
"The lifeboat took me out away from the station, and the momentum from the spin launched me at a tangent, so I was heading in a sort of parabolic orbit past the moon. About ten minutes after I launched, I saw the Lincoln get hit. You could sort of see the laser beam, there was already debris and dust in our orbit, but damn… It punched right through the fuel tanks for the attitude jets, we were using lox and hydrogen, and the whole thing went up like a box of fireworks in just a couple of seconds. I'm glad I got out, but…
"Anyway, apparently no one saw me, or bothered to take me out if they did, so I just drifted for a couple of days. I was… Not doing well in there. I was lonely. Suddenly, though, on the third or fourth day, the radio picked up this transmission, it was like the voice of God. It was a ship that had just come in, popped in and sent out a beacon and asked if there were any survivors. I turned on my beacon and waited. About two hours later I was picked up.
"They took me in through one of the airlocks, and man, I'd missed people. They gave me a shower and decent food—by Navy standards, heh—and gave me a cot to sleep on. They picked up one or two other survivors—they got fourteen of us in all, fourteen out of millions—and then high-tailed it for home. They were low on fuel, they'd been dodging Covenant kill teams as they picked us up, and they were running scared.
"So I wound up in Wunderland, 'round Alpha Centauri, and got reassigned right away to a system patrol ship. Everything after that is fairly uninteresting. Just normal ship life for several months, then we heard that Earth got hit. Half the warships in the system set off for Sol, but we didn't get here in time to do any good. I was in orbit for two weeks until I got a pass to visit Earth. Mary's gone, a lot of the people I knew had evacuated, so I started by looking for someone I knew would stay put: you."
The wind was ferocious now, screaming like a dying animal. The basement door, thick as it was, was starting to creak. It sounded like a blizzard, probably the last one of the season, though it was hard to tell with the way all the meteor impacts had mucked up the climate.
The trash bin fire was almost out, and the light bulb was flickering more insistently, as if begging for more power. Harold and James sat in flickering darkness, neither saying anything. The elements pounded at the door like furies, like demons, eager to claim new victims.
Finally, James broke the silence. "I need a drink."
Harold grinned slyly. "I've still got some of that Glenfiddich you drank last time you were here."
"Still?"
"I've been saving it for a special occasion, something I could say 'cheers' to and mean it."
"Well, does this count?"
"Hell yes."
Harold rooted around and found the bottle and a couple of shot glasses. He poured them full, almost to the brim, and handed one to James. "You know," he said, looking at the glass meditatively, "This is probably some of the last Glenfiddich on Earth."
"Or off it." They sat in silence a moment longer, then James raised his glass.
"Skaal!"
"Cheers!"
The whiskey went down like cold fire, then settled down warmly in Harold's stomach. The two grinned at each other, and James held out his glass. "More?"
"Comin' right up."
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