Last Call

By Jon Adcock

There are places where the boundary between this world and the next has grown thin. At one such location, where the divide is as flimsy as gauze, there is a bar. It’s located down a long dirt road, nestled in a cypress grove at the edge of a swamp. Ages ago, a sign proudly displayed the bar's name, but after a hurricane tore it down, the name was eventually lost to time. In the early evening, the bar is packed with patrons, but as the witching hour approaches, the locals gradually begin to leave, making way for a different set of regulars.

***

The angel flew low over the swamp, the tips of his wings lightly brushing the water with each downstroke. He landed gracefully in a parking lot paved with crushed shells, where half a dozen cars were parked. The bar was built over the swamp, resting on thick pilings driven deep into the muddy floor. The walkway leading to it creaked and swayed beneath his feet. Both the bar and its deck were sun-bleached and weathered, looking as though it wouldn’t take more than a huff and a puff to blow it all down. There was something stronger than just nails holding everything in place.

Before entering, he leaned against the railing of the deck and closed his eyes. The night was peaceful and calm, but in a world of tooth and claw, desperate struggles were occurring all around him in the dark. Even the least of these creatures died in earnest, and the angel whispered words of comfort.

The bar was large, with over a third of the tables occupied. Blue Öyster Cult’s This Ain’t the Summer of Love played on the jukebox. At a table near the counter, a beautiful brunette was deeply engaged in a conversation with a young man. As the angel passed by her, she paused to take a sip of her drink. She smiled when she caught the angel’s eye, revealing extremely long and sharp canines. In the nearby mirror, she didn’t cast a reflection.

“Whaddya have?” the bartender asked. To the angel’s eyes, the bartender’s curse was as visible as if he were branded. Luckily, tonight wasn’t a full moon.

“Whiskey neat.”

The angel sat on a barstool, pulled the hood of his cloak up, and sipped his drink. When the BOC song played for the fifth time, he waved the bartender over.

“What’s with the song?” the angel asked.

“It’s those assholes over there. The big one fed in a bunch of quarters and queued it up a shit ton of times.” The bartender nodded towards a table where three people sat.

As he nursed his drink, the angel observed them from the corner of his eye. They were engaged in a good-natured argument, and the angel could only catch snippets of their conversation. The largest man wore boots, fatigue pants, and a leather vest, open over his bare chest. His arms and chest were covered in tattoos; the most prominent was a crusader’s cross on his right pectoral, and he had a sword sheathed at his side. To his right sat a shorter man with a long, thin nose, a receding hairline, and small, dark eyes devoid of compassion. The third person was a woman, dressed entirely in black. She was so thin that she appeared emaciated; her pale skin, hollow cheeks, and the dark circles under her eyes gave her a "heroin chic" aesthetic.

“Fuck you and fuck the Black Death,” the big man said, his voice rising.

“Thirty million dead, my friend. Try beating that,” the smaller man said, his shrill voice filled with pride.

"Last call!" the bartender announced.

“Fleas. Fucking fleas,” the large man said derisively as he got to his feet with difficulty.

As he weaved his way to the counter, he bumped into a table and knocked over a drink. The lesser demon sitting there cursed him and began to rise. 

“Sure you wanna start something, hell spawn?” the big man said, his hand on the hilt of his sword and his eyes suddenly twin bits of flame. “Thought so,” he said as the demon sat back down, and as he walked away, he added, “Pussy.”

"One more round," he said to the bartender while leaning against the counter.

“It’s on me,” the angel said, taking out a gold coin. “And another for my friend over there,” he added, nodding towards the demon.

“You’re late,” the man said, staring at the angel with bleary eyes.

“And you’re drunk.”

“Just taking the edge off. Bring the drinks to the table. I wanna play one last song.”

R.E.M.’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) began to play when the man came back to the table. As the other three sang the refrain with laughter, the angel felt a tear slide down his cheek.

“Fuck me, are you crying?” The big man asked the angel with disbelief. “Do you actually feel sorry for these homicidal monkeys? You, of all beings?”

“My job can only be done with love for those I harvest. And I’ll weep for all they were and all they could have been,” the angel replied.

“Well, shit…Whatever. Like the song says, tonight’s the night we ride, so let’s get this show on the road,” War declared. As they all stood up, he turned to the angel and asked. “Hey, what name do you like to be called anyway, Thanatos or Mors?” 

“Death is as good as any,” the Angel of Death replied.

There were four horses outside the bar, and Famine and Pestilence easily mounted theirs. War struggled to get on his horse and eventually demanded, “Help me up.” With Death’s assistance, he managed to climb into the saddle, where he sat swaying slightly. Death mounted the pale horse. In his right hand, his scythe appeared.

They began at a trot until they reached the dirt road outside the bar. Then, the horses galloped on the hard-packed dirt, running faster and faster until they lifted from the earth and took to the winds. The Four Horsemen had been unleashed upon the world. Up ahead, the night sky brightened with the light of a thousand suns as the thermonuclear warhead detonated over New Orleans. While the others whooped with joy, Death quietly wept.

Over the days, weeks, and months that followed, as Death harvested souls, his tears fell on the world like rain.

About the Author

A lover of alt-rock, Akira Kurosawa movies, and craft beer, the author lives in Northern California with his wife and two kids.

His beautiful wife definitely could do better, but, luckily for him, she hasn't caught on to that fact yet.

Rage Against the Machine, the Black Keys, and the Warlocks are in heavy rotation on Spotify for writing inspiration.