Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

“Al!”

Wake dropped the blowtorch, grabbed the shotgun.

“Come here, you got to see this!”

It wasn’t fear in Barry’s voice, it was excitement.

Wake walked over. “What’s up?”

“Check this out,” Barry said proudly.

Wake stared at the complicated assemblage of copper tubing and glass bottles that surrounded a large, copper tank. Fifty-pounds sacks of corn were stacked haphazardly in the corner. It looked like rats had gotten into them. “What is that thing?”

“What is it? It’s a still ,” said Barry. “You’re even more a city rat than I am.”

“A still?” said Wake, moving closer. He touched one of the copper coils. “To make whiskey?”

“To make moonshine .” Barry handed him a quart jar of clear liquid. “Taste it.”

Wake shook his head. “That stuff can be poison.”

Barry took a swallow. He grabbed his throat, rolled his eyes, started twitching, head jerking back and forth.

“Barry?”

Barry opened his eyes, laughing. He held out the mason jar.

“This is good stuff, Al.”

Wake took a swallow, gasped. “It tastes… tastes like lighter fluid.”

“See, I told you it was good.”

Wake passed him one of the lanterns. “Let’s go check out the house.”

“Fine, but I’m bringing the white lightning.” Barry took another swallow, and then screwed the lid back on the jar. “Top grade musicians, top grade moonshiners… those Anderson geezers are a national treasure,” he said, following Wake out of the barn.

“Maybe you could ask the government to make room for them on Mount Rushmore,” said Wake.

“There’s no money in mountaintops.” Barry unscrewed the lid and took a sip, sloshing moonshine down his hand as he walked. “This thing… this thing’s got reality show written all over it. I could sell the pitch in a heartbeat.” He licked his wrist. “Good to the last drop.”

The farmhouse was unlocked. Wake stood in the doorway, swiveled the flashlight beam across the living room, saw only furniture and a band poster half-peeling off one wall. He turned on the lights. “It’s safe,” he said, going inside.

“Of course it’s safe,” mumbled Barry. He turned on a floor lamp in the living room, then the lights in the kitchen and a light in the hallway. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

The living room was furnished with dated but high-quality furniture. A buttery brown leather sofa with a yellow cashmere afghan thrown across the back and white pine bookshelves. A cut crystal coffee table and an antique, gold-leaf mirror over the fireplace. The carpet on the hardwood floor was a pale gray Iranian weave; Wake had seen a similar one in a New York store for thirty thousand dollars. At the same time, the television was an old-fashioned tube model instead of a flat-screen, and the stereo components didn’t include an iPod hookup.

A series of 8×10 color photos on one wall showed the Andersons performing at concerts around the world. The brothers strode the stage playing V-shaped guitars, wearing Viking helmets, fur vests, and thigh-high leather boots. One photo was taken at an outdoor stadium, the brothers bathed in red light, the crowd in the tens of thousands. Wake remembered the first time he saw them, the two brothers arguing in a booth at the Oh Deer Diner. He remembered one of them, could have been either Tor or Odin, asking him to play “Coconut” on the jukebox, and the simple delight on their faces when he slipped the quarter in the slot of the machine. He wished he could have done more for them.

“Nice place. Looks like it’s been recently lived in too,” said Barry, pointing to the dishes on the counter in the kitchen. “Guess the Andersons have a hall pass out of the nuthouse anytime they want.”

Wake turned on the light at the stairs, walked up to make sure they were alone. There were three small bedrooms upstairs. No Taken, but no note from the Andersons either.

He looked out the window. The generator beside the stage was still pumping out diesel smoke, the speakers still blasting out the best of the Old Gods, the field still empty, as though the crowd had gone home but the concert continued. Wake left all the lights on in the bedroom, then walked downstairs.

“Did you find it?” said Barry.

Wake shook his head, headed toward the kitchen.

Barry turned on the radio, and Pat Maine’s voice purred out. He sat down on the couch, unscrewed the jar of moonshine.

“As you regular listeners know,” said Maine. “I tend to work through the night, but I’m not the only one. Deputies Mulligan and Thornton are taking a couple of moments off their busy schedule to join me here in the studio. Boys, how busy are you now? Deerfest is almost here, isn’t it? I bet that keeps you in business.”

“Hey Al, let’s take a drink every time somebody says ‘Deerfest,’” called Barry.

“It’s been pretty busy, yeah,” said Mulligan.

“Actually, Pat, we’ve been real busy with other stuff,” said Thornton.

“Things which concern an ongoing investigation, so we can’t talk about it,” said Mulligan.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. I was just saying that we’ve got, you know, other irons to fry besides Deerfest,” said Thornton.

“Deerfest!” cheered Barry, taking a swallow from the jar of moonshine.

“And how would you boys compare your workload to last year’s?” said Maine. “Things have seemed relatively peaceful to me, but people do tend to get a little wild around Deerfest, don’t they?”

“Deerfest!” said Barry, taking another drink.

“It’s crazy, Pat,” said Thornton. “There’s been all sorts of trouble this year. Vandalism, fighting, public disturbances… a lot of people missing too.”

Wake looked on the kitchen counter and checked the drawers, but there was no sign of a note. He started a circuit of the living room, checking the desk, the fireplace mantel.

“Now, is it just me, or does Deerfest get wilder every year?” said Maine. “People seem to be more drunk, at least, and they start earlier, and younger…”

“And then there’s the Taken,” chimed in Barry, toasting the radio, “that always adds to the festivities.”

“Oh, it’s definitely not just you, Pat,” said Mulligan, “but what’s weird is most of the trouble seems to be coming from middle-aged guys, people who oughta know better, you know? The kids are doing fine this year.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” said Maine. “Boys, I want to thank you for stopping by. I’ll let you get back to your patrol. Be careful out there.”

“Sure thing, Pat,” said Mulligan.

“Ditto,” said Thornton.

“Did you hear him?” Barry said to Wake. “He said ‘Deerfest’ four times.”

Wake stood in the middle of the living room. “No, he didn’t.”

“Four times,” insisted Barry, taking a drink. “You need to catch up, Al.”

“You have too big of a head start,” said Wake.

Barry stared at the jar of moonshine. “What do they put in this stuff?”

“Packed with vitamins and minerals, I’m sure,” said Wake.

“No wonder I feel so good.” Barry offered Wake the moonshine. “Here, take your vitamins. Don’t want to get scurvy.”

Wake hesitated, then took a sip. He let it burn slowly down his throat, then took another sip. The second one didn’t burn quite so badly. “I think you may be right.”

“Course I’m right,” said Barry.

Wake took another drink. “He definitely said ‘Deerfest.’”

“ Four times,” said Barry, giggling.

Wake took a long swallow, held the jar high. “Four times.”

“Deerfest, Deerfest, Deerfest.” Barry looked at Wake, eyes drooping. “Am I talking too loud?”