By Scott Howard Phillips
It was winter. The blizzard raged against the earth, flinging thousands upon thousands of white darts at its mortal enemy. The streets, cars, buildings—all were buried under the suffocating carpet of snow. The cold was its ally; it was omnipresent, sinking deep within men's bones and chilling them to the core, even to their heart.
In the midst of this, a traveler struggled to walk through this battlefield. Visibility was limited outside; not much could been seen of him, except as a tall, dark figure. He was clothed in an overcoat, wearing a Russian ushanka, and using a cane to walk.
The Traveler looked up, and through the screen of snow he read a neon sign. Marlin's Tavern, it read. I could use a drink, he thought. At the very least I'd get out of this blizzard. He reached out a gloved hand to the door knob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The Traveler shut the door behind him, shook all of the snow off him, and looked around the room. The Traveler's entrance had not disturbed the conversations around him. For such a storm occurring, the bar was packed with people, laughing and having a good time. A pleasant odor of all sorts of food wafted throughout the room.
The Traveler breathed in the smell and smiled. The whole scene reminded him of more pleasant times, times when he could laugh, be with friends, enjoy the company of his family, and just enjoy life, before...
Before...
The Traveler shut his eyes tight and hung his head, shuddering. His right hand gripped the cane tighter, until his knuckles turned white. Don't think about it. Just don't think about it. Just... go get something to drink and forget all this. You've focused on the past enough.
The Traveler opened his eyes, lifted his head, and walked to the bartender, his cane tapping the floor.
“Get me a beer,” The Traveler said to the bartender.
The bartender didn't even look at him; he was scrubbing a glass with a rag. “You got I.D.?”
“Do I look underage to you?”
“It's the law,” the bartender responded, and turned to him; whatever the bartender was going to say next died in his throat.
The Traveler's grey eyes bored into the bartender, silently judging him. His face was worn and weary, as if he had suffered for a long time. Yet, at the same time, his face was hard, intimidating; the bartender made a mental note to not cross this stranger.
The Traveler sighed, and reached into his pocket. The bartender tensed, but relaxed slightly when The Traveler pulled out a waller. He fished out a driver's license and handed it to him.
The bartender took the license and examined it. 21? Good lord, he looks like he's 30! Who is he anyway--
And that's when the bartender saw it. The Name. His heart stopped, and his hands began to tremble. No... It can't be... the bartender thought as his eyes widened.
The license slipped out of the bartender's fingers and slapped the counter. The bartender sharply looked up, all color drained out of his face.
The Traveler stood before him, one eyebrow raised. “Well? Are you satisfied?”
The bartender nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. I... I'll just g-go get it,” he stammered, and then hurried away.
The Traveler waited, drumming his fingers on the counter. After a few minutes the bartender returned with a bottle of beer. The Traveler slid some money to him, and noting he looked frightened, gave him a small smile before he turned and walked to an empty booth.
The Traveler slid into the seat and took off his overcoat and hat. He opened the bottle, took a swig, then closed his eyes and sighed. It had been a long time since he could sit down like this and relax.
It's been three years since... that... happened. I doubt They are still looking for me after all these years. After all, I've been careful; if I went out in public, it was in small towns like this one.
The Traveler thus reassured, he reflected back on happier times and let his mind drift away.
“You're a long way from home, aren't you, Mr. Rawlings?”
The whole bar went silent. All the bar's occupants turned to The Traveler. Some shrieked when they saw him, but quickly controlled themselves.
The Traveler opened his eyes. It was Them. Two suited men stood before him; one short, the other tall. The tall one wore a black fedora, while the short one was not wearing a hat. Both their eyes were black.
“Agents Smith and Jones,” The Traveler said, nodding to the tall and short one respectively. “How did you find me?”
“You shouldn't have used your own I.D.,” Agent Jones said, grinning. “Bartender called us, saying he found you. Come on, how dumb could you get? At least try to make a fake I.D. next time.”
“There won't be a 'next time,'” Agent Smith said coldly. “You are under arrest, Mr. Rawlings, for the murder of your family and for the terrorist attacks you plotted.”
The Traveler glared at Agent Smith. “We both know very well I didn't and couldn't have done those things.”
Agent Smith smiled. “Oh, we know,” he whispered, “but we gotta make an example out of someone on occasion.”
“So that's it then?” The Traveler responded. “So what are you bringing me in for? My political beliefs, or the comments I made about your Dear Leader?”
Agent Smith frowned. “Enough of this! We're bringing you in.”
“I still think we should kill him here,” Agent Jones said, not noticing The Traveler reaching into his overcoat pocket. “After all, everyone would think we're hero—”
A gunshot roared, and bullet ripped through Agent Smith's chest. The Traveler pointed his .357 revolver at Agent Jones next and squeezed the trigger. The force of the impact knocked Agent Jones down, his grin slowly fading away.
The Traveler quickly gathered his belongings and stepped out of the booth. His face was drained of any color, and his hands shook as the crowd stared back at him. Some people had screamed when the shooting began, but they were silent now, waiting on The Traveler's next move.
The Traveler's head spun, and he staggered around the bar. I.. I gotta get out of here, he thought. What have I done? Now... now they have a legitimate reason to kill me.
The Traveler realized he still had his revolver out, so he put it back inside his overcoat.
“I... I didn't mean to kill them,” The Traveler said, gesturing to the bodies of the government agents.
He turned around and left the bar, struggling once again through the blizzard.
It was winter. The blizzard raged against the earth, flinging thousands upon thousands of white darts at its mortal enemy. The streets, cars, buildings—all were buried under the suffocating carpet of snow. The cold was its ally; it was omnipresent, sinking deep within men's bones and chilling them to the core, even to their heart.
In the midst of this, a traveler struggled to walk through this battlefield. Visibility was limited outside; not much could been seen of him, except as a tall, dark figure. He was clothed in an overcoat, wearing a Russian ushanka, and using a cane to walk.
The Traveler looked up, and through the screen of snow he read a neon sign. Marlin's Tavern, it read. I could use a drink, he thought. At the very least I'd get out of this blizzard. He reached out a gloved hand to the door knob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
The Traveler shut the door behind him, shook all of the snow off him, and looked around the room. The Traveler's entrance had not disturbed the conversations around him. For such a storm occurring, the bar was packed with people, laughing and having a good time. A pleasant odor of all sorts of food wafted throughout the room.
The Traveler breathed in the smell and smiled. The whole scene reminded him of more pleasant times, times when he could laugh, be with friends, enjoy the company of his family, and just enjoy life, before...
Before...
The Traveler shut his eyes tight and hung his head, shuddering. His right hand gripped the cane tighter, until his knuckles turned white. Don't think about it. Just don't think about it. Just... go get something to drink and forget all this. You've focused on the past enough.
The Traveler opened his eyes, lifted his head, and walked to the bartender, his cane tapping the floor.
“Get me a beer,” The Traveler said to the bartender.
The bartender didn't even look at him; he was scrubbing a glass with a rag. “You got I.D.?”
“Do I look underage to you?”
“It's the law,” the bartender responded, and turned to him; whatever the bartender was going to say next died in his throat.
The Traveler's grey eyes bored into the bartender, silently judging him. His face was worn and weary, as if he had suffered for a long time. Yet, at the same time, his face was hard, intimidating; the bartender made a mental note to not cross this stranger.
The Traveler sighed, and reached into his pocket. The bartender tensed, but relaxed slightly when The Traveler pulled out a waller. He fished out a driver's license and handed it to him.
The bartender took the license and examined it. 21? Good lord, he looks like he's 30! Who is he anyway--
And that's when the bartender saw it. The Name. His heart stopped, and his hands began to tremble. No... It can't be... the bartender thought as his eyes widened.
The license slipped out of the bartender's fingers and slapped the counter. The bartender sharply looked up, all color drained out of his face.
The Traveler stood before him, one eyebrow raised. “Well? Are you satisfied?”
The bartender nodded quickly. “Y-yeah. I... I'll just g-go get it,” he stammered, and then hurried away.
The Traveler waited, drumming his fingers on the counter. After a few minutes the bartender returned with a bottle of beer. The Traveler slid some money to him, and noting he looked frightened, gave him a small smile before he turned and walked to an empty booth.
The Traveler slid into the seat and took off his overcoat and hat. He opened the bottle, took a swig, then closed his eyes and sighed. It had been a long time since he could sit down like this and relax.
It's been three years since... that... happened. I doubt They are still looking for me after all these years. After all, I've been careful; if I went out in public, it was in small towns like this one.
The Traveler thus reassured, he reflected back on happier times and let his mind drift away.
“You're a long way from home, aren't you, Mr. Rawlings?”
The whole bar went silent. All the bar's occupants turned to The Traveler. Some shrieked when they saw him, but quickly controlled themselves.
The Traveler opened his eyes. It was Them. Two suited men stood before him; one short, the other tall. The tall one wore a black fedora, while the short one was not wearing a hat. Both their eyes were black.
“Agents Smith and Jones,” The Traveler said, nodding to the tall and short one respectively. “How did you find me?”
“You shouldn't have used your own I.D.,” Agent Jones said, grinning. “Bartender called us, saying he found you. Come on, how dumb could you get? At least try to make a fake I.D. next time.”
“There won't be a 'next time,'” Agent Smith said coldly. “You are under arrest, Mr. Rawlings, for the murder of your family and for the terrorist attacks you plotted.”
The Traveler glared at Agent Smith. “We both know very well I didn't and couldn't have done those things.”
Agent Smith smiled. “Oh, we know,” he whispered, “but we gotta make an example out of someone on occasion.”
“So that's it then?” The Traveler responded. “So what are you bringing me in for? My political beliefs, or the comments I made about your Dear Leader?”
Agent Smith frowned. “Enough of this! We're bringing you in.”
“I still think we should kill him here,” Agent Jones said, not noticing The Traveler reaching into his overcoat pocket. “After all, everyone would think we're hero—”
A gunshot roared, and bullet ripped through Agent Smith's chest. The Traveler pointed his .357 revolver at Agent Jones next and squeezed the trigger. The force of the impact knocked Agent Jones down, his grin slowly fading away.
The Traveler quickly gathered his belongings and stepped out of the booth. His face was drained of any color, and his hands shook as the crowd stared back at him. Some people had screamed when the shooting began, but they were silent now, waiting on The Traveler's next move.
The Traveler's head spun, and he staggered around the bar. I.. I gotta get out of here, he thought. What have I done? Now... now they have a legitimate reason to kill me.
The Traveler realized he still had his revolver out, so he put it back inside his overcoat.
“I... I didn't mean to kill them,” The Traveler said, gesturing to the bodies of the government agents.
He turned around and left the bar, struggling once again through the blizzard.