The End Times Taphouse

Chapter One

Sucking air and chugging like a locomotive pulling a five percent grade in the heat of the day, Clayton spun on his heels. Firing off three quick shots, he dropped the body he carried and took cover behind an immense boulder.

Scanning with his M4, he picked up movement on the rocky path he'd just traversed and squeezed off two more shots. Another pilgrim joined his pals in hell.

Mortars began falling almost as soon as the men stopped to catch their breath. The shells were off-target, but it wouldn't be long before they were bracketed.

"Ain't the time for no nap, Clayton, now let's move before they dial us in." Deacon flipped him the bird and ran past with a body over his shoulder.

The thick muscles in Clayton's neck tensed, standing out like ropes on a sailing ship, singing in the wind. His black hair dripped salt water into steel-grey eyes and he swiped it away with a dust-encrusted hand before squeezing off two more shots. Then shouldering the body he'd laid down he launched himself further down the path toward Deacon.

"Up yours Dork," Clayton yelled as he ran past Deacon moments later. "Better move your ass so you're not the last of the group and the first thing those pilgrims' see."

The two of them continued running, chasing after the rest of their men as fast as a human possibly can while carrying another human. The raid on the supply dump had gone well. They'd even taken out a small-time Colonel, but that wasn't part of the plan and the hornets' nest the attack kicked up was riding them hard. Unable to break contact, their team had been on the run since somewhere around two A.M.

Deacon shifted the weight of the body on his shoulders and humped past Clayton. An AK47 cut loose from behind, kicking dirt up around them both and spurring another dig. "It's gonna be your ass they have if you don't pick it up, Clayton!"

"Have my ass?" Clayton yelled between gasps. "Never happen. That would be the greatest of sins and they'd miss out on all those virgins awaiting them in Allah's heaven."

Deacon chuckled. "Then move those tree trunks you call legs and keep up!"

Clayton mumbled something indecipherable. His 6'2" frame packed a lean and muscled 220 pounds, but the fallen solder he carried was still a lot of beef to haul. Clayton had seen the abominable things they did to a human corpse and it motivated him to keep on moving.

Another quarter mile and what remained of their unit gathered behind the heavy cover of car-sized boulders at the base of a barren ridge.

Deacon snapped off two more rounds and dropped another pilgrim as a trailing Clayton rejoined the group. "Saved your ass again, "big man."

Clayton dropped to the ground, his massive chest heaving. "Where's that bloody chopper?" he groaned. "Should have been here by now." He puffed and slid the body he carried onto the ground before peering over the boulder in time to see a cloud of pink mist erupt from one of their pursuers. Clayton rubbed at the desert dust crusting on his sweat-drenched face and encrusted eyes.

The enemies came on in waves and were quickly owed down by the Free Men of America, but not without a cost. Clayton was drawing a bead on another enemy when he spun to the ground, holding his left shoulder. "Damn!"

Deacon kneeled beside him. "Hold still and let me have a look." Tearing Clayton's shirt back, he made a quick diagnosis. "Hang on while I bandage that." Clayton couldn't find a thing comforting in Deak's brusque voice but given the situation, wouldn't have chosen anyone else to attend to his wound.

Deacon yelled over his shoulder, "Get those claymores set up. Now!" It would only be a matter of time before they were overrun.

Finishing up minutes later, Deacon looked Clayton in the eye. "Your wound ain't that bad. You'll survive. Now get a move on before those claymores blow."

The explosion rocked Clayton, who thrashed about in his bed before bolting upright. Sweat-soaked, heart racing, he rubbed his face, struggling to shake off the dream and get his bearings. The intense hangover from Iraq and Afghanistan was something he feared would always haunt him.

His alarm's red glow spelled out 3:57 A.M. He sighed and rolled over. His futile attempts to grab a little more sleep only served to further his frustration. The darkened room with the white noise machine was a personal refuge, but it did little for him in times like this.

Clayton threw off the covers and sat up. Why Serita? Why did it have to be her? His hands dug at the sides of his head. Shoulders trembling, he allowed the memory of her loss to overtake him. These were the moments when he missed his wife the most. She would rub his back, soothe his nerves with gentle words and reassure him with a voice that told him things were alright.

She was the only one outside of the men he served with that could even begin to understand what he'd been through. She'd always been there for him, so patient and caring, but Serita was gone, killed in a car crash by a meth head running from police. Clayton's mind raced, searching everywhere for a solid foundation in place of the empty eternity filling his head.

Roll it out, Clayton. Time to get your head, straight soldier. Mark Rathskeller will have a cold one waiting for you later this afternoon after you check on Jose. Just get to the shower and you'll be fine. And keep a handle on the drinking today. A warning he knew would most likely be ignored.

After showering and eating some cold, greasy fast-food chicken forgotten on the kitchen table the night before, Clayton carried his first cup of coffee out the back door to his deck. The spring air felt like ice on his skin and threatened to frost the moisture remaining in his hair. He stood unmoving, lost in his thoughts while watching the sun paint the snow-covered Three Sisters Mountains a rosy pink.

She should be here with me to see this. Clayton launched his coffee cup and watched it shatter against the trunk of an ancient elm tree. Storming back inside he swiped at the bible resting on the counter, sending it flying. Why did you take her from me? He knew he shouldn't have tossed the bible. Marks a good friend and he only means well, but there's nothing in there that will make me feel better.

Clayton filled another cup with coffee and moved to the living room couch. The wrestling match with his thoughts continued until it wore him out. Two hours later, he awoke with a start when the remains of the coffee he was holding spilled in his lap. After changing his clothes and tossing out the last of the fast-food chicken he stepped outside for the walk to Jose's.

Always fearful of an ambush, part of the hangover from 'Stan', he took brief note of the sunny skies or the songbirds lifting engaging melodies skyward. With his head on a swivel, he marched through downtown Redmond.

Most western states had outlawed the sale of new gasoline-powered vehicles by the year 2035. To encourage the purchase of Electric Vehicles gas prices were artificially forced upward. With gas prices now hovering near $13 a gallon, Clayton rarely drove unless forced to, but in some ways, it didn't matter.

Whether you had the chip or carried the card-(Clayton refused the implant)-the new Environmental, Social, Governance (ESG) social credit system capped your carbon footprint. Carbon use was tracked, taxes were taken automatically and Medicare and Social Security benefits were determined on the basis of your social credit score. That meant limiting the amount of gasoline you could buy even if you had a pocket full of money and a top-rated score, which, of course, he didn't. The government prevented military vets from scoring high because they were viewed as national security threats.

Walking thru the cool morning air helped to clear his head and as always happened on these occasions, the memories came flooding back. His body ached with desire to relive the moments when he'd first met her. It was a wild party in a countryside farmhouse and he'd given her a ride home. Upon walking her to the door of her apartment, she'd invited him in. He smiled to himself, recalling how hard it had been to turn her down.

But there was something different about this woman. She had the kind of face that immediately conveyed a friendly persona, not to mention her rare natural beauty. He hadn't wanted to begin a relationship with her in a blitzed-out state of mind. She deserved better than that, so he'd turned her down. Later, he learned she never expected to see him again.

Slowly, the relationship grew. Knowing you rarely meet women of integrity living life in the fast lane, months later during a trip to Seattle, he took her to the top of the Space Needle and proposed. He was in awe of this woman. He'd never met anyone like her. So many tender moments. His eyes leaked, and he swiped at them. He'd give anything to go back and love her all over again.

What are you doing Clayton? Shut that stuff down. You know it does you no good!

His visit with Jose included a late lunch and the support of a good friend. It helped to know his friend was dealing well with his own PTSD issues, at least for the moment. Leaving there, he continued his walk north along the dry canyon for a couple more miles. The rock-rimmed ravine ran north and south through the city...