S.C.U.D.

Chapter 11991 The jukebox rattled incessantly, the jangle of purposefully forlorn guitars weaving in and out of sad narratives that he knew he was supposed to empathize with but simply did not have the patience for. Hootie and the Blowfish? Was that their name? What kind of a name was that? Angrily, he picked at the label on his bottle, brown glass, white paper, the names of breweries and states he had never bothered to read. Sensing the attention of the man behind the bar, realizing he was making a mess of the surface before him, scattering shards of curling paper, so he placed the bottle down again, straightening up and fishing his carton of cigarettes out of the top pocket of his flannel shirt; red and white paper, silver foil. He struck a match against the warm underbelly of a book advertising some hotel in the loneliest city in Eastern Europe, a dotted phone number beneath the curled shape of its name—Hotel Palat—and lifted it up to the tip of the cigarette, inhaling deeply, failing to register the shape of the man standing next to him, looking down at him, until it was too late to extricate himself from the forthcoming conversation. “This seat taken?” He glanced over at the other man, six or seven years younger than he was, somewhere in his early thirties he guessed, hair thick with product, just the right amount of fashionable stubble, gleaming white teeth. An audible sigh escaped his lips, as he shook his head and turned back to his bottle of beer, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. “Damn it, Rocket, if you must.” Deftly, the bartender glided over, and the younger man, Rocket, not paying much attention simply gestured, keeping his gaze fixed upon the older man as he said, “Bourbon, straight, no chaser, no ice.” “Do you have a particular preference?” the bartender asked, determined to engage him. At last, he looked up, taking in the man behind the bar, roughly the same age as his unwilling companion, bleached blond hair slicked back, something graceful in his manner, something that excited Rocket’s smile. “I’ll let you pick.” The bartender nodded. “As you wish.” He glided away to prepare the drink and Rocket returned his attentions to the older man as he exhaled furiously and took a swig from the neck of the brown bottle. “We almost had him,” the older man growled, slamming the bottle down on the bar, as he turned to look at the younger man, his face alive with anger. “In Bucharest, we almost had him.” The other nodded. “Oh, so that’s what eating you up.” The anger seemed to intensify on the older man’s face. “Of course it’s eating me up. Jesus, it would eat any man up.” He took another furious swig from the bottle before slapping it down again. “We were right there, in the same city, and we just let him waltz right out from under our noses without knowing.” He turned away, inhaling, exhaling, watching with anger as the bartender returned, placing a glass of amber liquid down in front of Rocket. Smiling, the younger man reached for his worn leather wallet, unfolding it and placing a note down on the bar, winking knowingly at the presence behind the wood that divided them. “Keep the change.” The bartender inclined his head graciously and retreated, leaving them to their conversation, and with a sigh, Rocket turned to his companion again. “Come on, Hummer, you can’t take this personally.” He smiled ruefully, playfully. “After all, it’s not like this is the first time he’s got away from us.” “That doesn’t make it any better,” the older man grumbled. The sound of the music changed, the bluesy acoustic guitars and soulful apologies transitioning into something that sounded, he thought, like Black Sabbath being dragged through a tar pit. It was not an improvement. He slammed the bottle down hard against the wood again, exciting a look from the man behind the bar, and a wry smile from the other at his side. “Every time,” he declared with displeasure. “Every time we get close, he just vanishes, as if he turns to smoke.” Rocket nodded with sympathy. “That’s one of his gifts, they say.” Once more, he slammed the bottle against the wood, a dull thud, the remaining beer sloshing about within the brown glass. “Damn it, Rocket, I know what they say about him.” “Then you know that you’re being too hard on yourself,” the other man said softly. He turned to look at him, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what irked him more, the fact that he was right, or the fact that he was so comfortable with their failure. “We all made a promise,” he said, his voice trembling, his hand gripping the neck of the bottle so tight that his knuckles turned white. “We all made a promise when we joined that each of us would do whatever it took to end the curse of Dracula, so don’t come in here telling me that I’m being too hard on myself. I know what’s at stake here, I know what’s going to happen because we screwed up. Maybe you’ve forgotten that.” He slammed the bottle down again, visibly trembling with rage. “Because we failed our mission, because we missed our chance to nail that son of a b***h when we had him in our sights, someone’s going to die, maybe not tonight, maybe not even this week, but there will be another a victim, and another victim after that, and another after that. All because we couldn’t get to Dracula before he got wind of us.” Gently, Rocket reached out, placing a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself, Hummer.” Angrily, he shrugged off the touch. “I can, and I will.” Pushing the stool out, the scrape of wood upon wood, he stood up. Behind the bar, the man paused from running his dirty rag about the glasses, a look of curious expectation upon his face. “Until I find him, until I finally put an end to Dracula’s evil, I won’t rest.” Rocket looked sadly at his friend, but said nothing. With a grunt, and a nod of his head, his mind apparently made up, a slight sway in his step, Hummer turned and made his way across the wooden boards of the floor towards the illuminated exit.