Flight

The old rat behind the bar slams another cracked glass down in front of me and the railroad spike behind my left eye digs a little deeper. I wrap my hands around the glass, pulling it to me and sheltering it even though I'm the only one sitting here - everyone else is scrambling outside, trying to find some way out of this mess. I can hear them squawking like a bunch of frightened geese.

"You pay now!" the bartender croaks, "I leaving! You pay now, you go!"

I pull a twenty out of my shirt pocket and wave it in front of him.

"Go ahead, take off." He eyes the bill hungrily. "But leave the bottle."

Old reflexes make him uninclined to accept, but we both know that a twenty might mean the difference between bribing the right guy and getting a seat on one of the last few crates out of here, or being left behind to face the guerrilas that are closing in on this hilltop village even as we sit here dicking around.

Finally he snatches it out of my hand, thrusts the bottle at me, and rushes out the door, stopping only to grab a weathered bag bulging with clothes and trinkets. He shoulders past Wilmer, who enters with a scowl on his face.

"What the hell are you still doing here? I told you to meet me at the plane - I don't think I can hold your seat much longer! You know how much they're paying out there for a spot? Cash money?" He stands by me, agitating nervously.

I drain the glass in one long pull and lean back in my chair. The headache dulls for a moment, but I know it'll be back - worse.

"Think they'll let me take the bottle?" I ask. He rolls his eyes and turns to fight his way to the plane.