A Beer At the End Of the World
by Russ Anderson Jr.
Copyright 2012 Russ Anderson Jr.
Published by Anderfam Press
All Rights Reserved.
Cover design by James, Goonwrite.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
When Marcus opened his eyes, he was standing in a garbage dump in the middle of the night. This was quite a surprise to him... but not too much of a surprise. He'd known going in that this was a test run. That was why he'd worn the pressure suit, after all – just in case he ended up in the ocean or floating in space or something.
He checked the chronometer on his wrist, and here was something that was truly puzzling. It had stopped. He tapped it with one bulky gloved hand, but it continued to tell him that it was 13:21:09 on 2/29/2012, the moment he’d left his garage in Baltimore. That was one reaction he hadn't expected, but he recognized he was in uncharted territory here. He could figure out the why later. For now, he had to get moving. He had an appointment to keep.
The junkyard was suddenly bathed in light, and Marcus looked up as a ribbon of red and orange incandescence traveled from one end of the night to the other, filling half the sky and then burning out before it reached the opposite horizon. It was like the night had momentarily been painted with a flash of sunset.
What in the hell had that been? It hadn't looked like any aurora Marcus had heard of, and a meteorite would have flashed before it disintegrated. This had just sort of dissipated.
Now that it was gone, though, Marcus realized there was something wrong with the sky. There wasn't a star in it, just blackness as far as the eye could see. “Overcast,” he mumbled by way of explanation, but saying it out loud didn't make it any more convincing. The sky was too black to be shrouded with clouds. It was black as space up there.
Marcus pulled the time machine out of its holster on his right hip. It was a rectangular contraption, with a long handle poking out of one of its short ends and a triangular antenna extending from the other. It was not a pretty device, but considering that he'd cobbled it together in his garage, he would give himself a pass on the duct tape and the exposed circuit boards.
“Oh, that can't be good,” he said, noting that the time/date stamp on the machine had zeroed out. He'd almost rather it had simply stopped like his watch had. He smacked the machine against one thickly gloved palm a couple of times, but the time/date remained stubbornly composed of goose eggs.
He obviously wasn't where he wanted to be. He thought about trying to reach Theresa again, but the best, the safest, thing to do was to go home and try to figure out what went wrong. He'd have to spend another three days recalculating everything, but better that than... whatever else might go wrong.
He activated the time machine's “home” preset, flipped the protective cover off the GO button, and punched it.
Absolutely nothing happened.
The sky was momentarily filled with another ribbon of color – this one blue and silver and streaking across at a different angle – but Marcus was too focused on his time machine to care much. He smacked it against his palm again and shook it. He held it up, squinting at it through his helmet's mirrored visor as he turned it right to left. The thing was still at nearly full power, and it didn't appear to be damaged.
He pushed the GO button again, and held very still as nothing continued to happen.
He sighed and tucked the time machine back into its holster. He was going to have to take it apart. He hadn't thought to bring any tools with him, but he was in a junkyard. There had to be something resembling a screwdriver around somewhere.
He picked a direction and began to walk. It was an odd junkyard, full of lots of things that were recognizable and lots of things that were not. Here was a silver sports car, its wing doors spread permanently open and an engine unlike anything Marcus had ever seen emerging through the hood like a gopher. Over here was a gigantic glass ball that had once been big enough for six or seven people to roll around in. One of its sides was smashed in now. Next to it, a semi-crushed glass and aluminum phone booth was propped up against something that looked like a steampunk sled, with a bewildering array of levers surrounding the seat. There was an uprooted tree with a sword stuck in it, and a suit of medieval armor with bullet holes in its breastplate. Every once in a while another ribbon of multi-colored light would bathe the sky and vanish as quickly as it had appeared.
He walked for a long time (he had no idea how long, thanks to his busted watch, but it sure felt like a while), and never found a screwdriver or the end of the junkyard. His feet were getting sore, and he was sweating like a racehorse in the pressure suit. Along with a screwdriver, he was now wishing he'd brought an air analyzer so he could tell if the air was breathable.
He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to find a small white dog standing in the middle of the path. The dog had emerged from another path that crossed the path Marcus was walking, and now stood for a moment considering him before finally turning and unconcernedly continuing on its way. If the dog had been surprised or frightened at the sight of a grown man in a modified spacesuit, he hadn't shown it.
That was a pretty convincing indication that the air was breathable, Marcus thought. He popped the seal on his helmet and let the air hiss noisily out before pulling it off. The air in the junkyard tasted better than the air in the suit had, and he took a moment to enjoy it. Then, tucking the helmet under one arm, he shuffled after the dog.
The dog had looked clean and tame, so that meant there were people nearby. And people meant, among other things, screwdrivers. He wasn't sure what this place was, but the air and the dog had gone a long way to setting his mind at ease; and now that the helmet was off, he could hear something nearby. He paused for a moment, listening, and decided, yes, that was music and raised voices he was hearing.
He had followed the path the dog had been on for only a few minutes before a steady glow became visible over the wall of junk to his left. He turned that way at the next intersection.
The junkyard didn't so much end as start to diminish, and as the walls of junk shrank in front of him, Marcus could make out a squat wooden building in the distance with a glowing neon sign sitting on top of it. The sign read
LAST STOP BAR & GRILL
The junk continued right up to the steps of the building, but Marcus had lost interest in it. He moved slowly toward the building, taking in the details as he did. It was a plain wooden structure, with only one story and absolutely no pretensions. Windows circled the place, and through them he could see bright light and many shapes moving. He was close enough to make out the music now – Angie, by the Rolling Stones. The dog had vanished, and he wondered if it was still wandering the junkyard.
The porch wrapped around the building and was lined with chairs. Some were rockers, but all were as unpretentious as the building they sat sentinel for. As Marcus mounted the steps, he saw that only one of the chairs was occupied. A young, boyish woman sat with her feet on the porch railing and the chair teetering back on two legs. She was dressed in mid-20th century flight gear – flared pants, a bomber jacket, and a leather cap hiding most of her blond hair.
“Good evening,” he said, thinking he was going to have to explain the pressure suit. She didn't seem bothered by it, though, just smiled and tipped her beer at him.
“'Evening.” Her accent was Alabama.
“This is gonna sound like an odd question, but can you tell me where I am?”
“Didn't you see the sign?”
“Right. Last Stop Bar & Grill.”
She laughed, and he didn't much like the condescending note in it. “I can see by your expression that you require a more general answer, and with that I cannot help you. Maybe somebody inside can.”
“Right.” He took a step toward the door, then paused. “You haven't seen a little white dog around here, have you?”
“Sure, I've seen him,” the woman said, her voice descending into a growl. “He's a goddamn know-it-all, is that dog. And he cheats at poker.”
“Uh huh.” Marcus thought he understood now why this woman didn't have anybody to sit with. He reached for the door. “You have a good night.”
“Yeah,” she said, frowning into her bottle. “You too.”
The door had a knob, but no latch, so he pushed it open and stepped through into the building. The place was full of round wooden tables, and there were a bunch of booths tucked back against the far wall Waiters bustled about, bearing drinks to the bar and grill's customers. There was a second level, and more tables up there. Nobody seemed to be eating, but everybody was drinking, and nearly every seat in the place was full. Marcus guessed at a glance that there were close to four hundred people in here, not counting the bustling staff. He wouldn't have guessed the place could hold that many from the outside.
He also saw immediately why the girl outside hadn't