Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

Central Ontario, Early Summer, 2036

“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted across the saloon. “Who’s Bertrand Russell?”

Without so much as a blink, Aristotle continued to read her book, a hardcover that looked heavy enough to snap a moose’s back.

“I told ya,” Grant said, elbowing Jackson in the ribs. “The woman is an ice queen. Looks like you owe me a drink.”

Franco, owner of Franco’s Saloon, smirked in amusement from behind the counter. The sun had just fallen below the horizon, yet Jackson and Grant were already heckling the other patrons. This was going to be a long night.

“Wait, let me try one more time,” Jackson said. He stood six foot five, with ice-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Years of farm work had given him enough strength to wrestle a black bear. His body was a weapon all in itself; the pistol at his hip was merely a backup.

“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted. “What’s your real name, honey?”

Aristotle didn’t acknowledge the comment, as she turned to the next page of her book, A History of Western Philosophy .

“Looks like you owe me two drinks,” Grant said. He was a stocky man, about six feet tall with dark hair. Like Jackson, he was a farmer, though his physique didn’t show it. He holstered a pistol as well.

“What’s your poison?” Franco asked.

“Whiskey, straight up,” Grant replied. “Same for you, Jackson?”

“Fine,” Jackson said.

“Two glasses,” Grant said, making a V with his fingers, “of the good stuff.”

“Oh, it’s all good — only the finest moose piss for you boys,” Franco said, giving his bar a once-over as he turned to pour the drinks. He had five customers tonight. Jackson and Grant were seated at their usual stools on the long end of the L-shaped counter. Two other patrons sat on the short end, their backs to the entrance, drinking bathtub brew and bickering about who’d bagged the bigger buck. Franco couldn’t recall their names as they didn’t come in often.

And at a table near the front door Aristotle sat alone, in the same crimson hoodie she’d worn every day since she first stepped into Franco’s a month or two back. She was cute, with round eyes, a smooth nose, thin lips, and short brown hair. Young, too — Franco guessed she was twenty or so. Her real name was a mystery — another regular had nicknamed her Aristotle, “cause she reads too many darn books,” as he’d explained. Jackson and Grant thought the name was a hoot, too, so it stuck. Franco wondered what her name really was, but as long as she bought and paid for a drink when she came in, he was content to let it go. She didn’t say much, letting the mammoth revolver she always placed on her table speak for her.

Besides, Franco knew she just came to his saloon for the light — the unflickering electric rays that beamed down from above. Since the Desolation, most buildings relied on oil or kerosene lanterns, but not Franco’s Saloon. Solar panels, recovered from a derelict office building with help from Jackson and Grant, charged a battery by day to power fluorescent bulbs late into the night. The lights were a unique feature that few bars in Ontario could boast of.

Franco finished filling two whiskey glasses, eyeballing them to make sure they were even, and slid them across the counter. For their help, Franco had offered Jackson and Grant free booze for three months. He wasn’t convinced he’d gotten the better end of that bargain.

“Enjoy the drinks, boys,” Franco said.

“One shot!” Grant said, raising his glass and clinking it against Jackson’s. Then both men downed their whiskey in one gulp. One shot, indeed, thought Franco. The phrase had caught on a few years before the Desolation, imported from some far corner of the world.

“Two more,” Jackson said, pushing the empty glasses back across the counter.

“Coming right up,” Franco chirped, wondering what he’d been drinking when he agreed to give Jackson and Grant bottomless glasses.

As he began refilling the whiskey, the front door creaked open and a new guest stepped in — a man Franco had never seen before. The stranger set his bulky green pack by the door and proceeded to the counter. He was lean, stood about six feet tall, and wore a dark plaid flannel shirt and tattered blue jeans. A vintage revolver was holstered on his hip.

“Make yourself at home,” Franco called out.

The stranger gave an easy nod in reply. That’s when Franco noticed the beard, hanging from the stranger’s chin like a shrub just begging to be pruned. Franco hadn’t seen even a mustache in years, not to mention a full, bushy beard. Every grown man he knew kept his face smoother than a sow’s nipple. The line between man and nature had blurred over the past decade, leaving the daily shave as one of few ways a man could stand up and proclaim, “I’m civilized, dammit!”

Without a word, the stranger strolled up to the bar and took a seat next to Jackson.

“Nice beard you got there, buddy,” Jackson said. “I think my neighbor’s goat has one just like it.”

Grant’s nose flared as he fought the urge to giggle.

“Don’t worry — the drinks aren’t as bad as the humor,” said Franco. “What can I get ya for?”

The stranger looked up at the taller man from the corner of his eye, then back at Franco.

“Whiskey, neat, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said with an upward nod.

“Sure thing,” Franco said. He grabbed another glass and picked up the whiskey bottle he’d left sitting on the counter. It was running low, and though the label read Jim Beam , it hadn’t held a lick of Kentucky bourbon in years. Despite the wide assortment of bottles along the wall, Franco’s Saloon served only two varieties of hard liquor: clear and brown. Not that Franco went out of his way to advertise that fact.

“What’s a scrub like you doing, asking for something ‘neat’?” Jackson asked.

“Will you give the guy a break?” Franco said as he slid the drink to the stranger.

“Thanks,” the stranger said, lifting the glass to his lips to try the whiskey. “Not half bad.”

“Where you from, anyway?” Jackson asked.

“Maine,” the stranger replied.

“Oh yeah?” Jackson said. “And how’d you end up here?”

Fair question , thought Franco. Without any infrastructure left to provide fuel for motorized transportation, a guy couldn’t just hop on a Greyhound.

“I walked,” the stranger said.

“Right,” Jackson said with a nasal snort. “And my buddy here flew in from the moon.” He gave Grant a hearty slap on the back, hard enough to make the hefty man grimace.

The stranger shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said as he lifted his glass and closed his eyes, inhaling the alcohol vapors before taking a sip.

Jackson stared at the stranger for a moment then downed his whiskey in one gulp, slamming the empty glass on the counter.

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat ,” he said mockingly, shoving the glass toward Franco.

“How about you let me catch up first?” Grant said, discreetly winking at Franco then taking a small sip of whiskey.

“How about, our friend Frankie makes me a drink?” Jackson said.

Franco frowned in reply. He didn’t appreciate the nickname.

“Sorry,” the stranger cut in. “Is my being here a problem?”

“Oh no, sit and stay awhile,” Jackson said with an exaggerated smile. “Bless us with your beardedness, as Frankie pours me another drink.” He grabbed the whiskey and swirled it around the bottom of the bottle.