A short story of bad people, murder, mystery, and horror.
Hank stared through the windshield at the snow. His wipers shoved fat clumps. Where they didn’t reach, the slush piled two inches thick. Hank squinted and leaned forward over the steering wheel. The light from the bar’s sign barely came through.
He checked the clock. He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter what time it was. It did matter that he hadn’t driven far enough. Even with this storm, they could still be following him. If they were following him. He looked into the backseat at the duffel. Three-hundred grand. Not bad.
Hank popped the driver’s side door and climbed out. Cold cut through his jacket and snow stuck to his face. He brushed it away and opened the back, pulled out the duffel, and slung it over his shoulder. Fuck it. If he had to wait this thing out, at least he could do it with a roof over his head and a beer in his hands.
He trudged the thirty feet to the bar’s front door. Only one other car in the parking lot: a station wagon some distance away, obscured by snow. At the bar’s entrance, Hank stopped. Was there someone in that other car? He glanced back. Too much goddamn snow. But he didn’t think so. No, only shadows.
He had a gun in the duffel. He thought about taking it out, but didn’t. Jumpy. You’re just jumpy. Cut it out, get a beer to settle your nerves. This’ll blow over soon. Then you can get back on the road and drive. The safe house is only a few hours further. After that, you wait for the bigger storm — the shit storm you and your buddies just stirred up — to settle. This snow is nothing compared to that one.
Hank pushed open the bar’s door and stepped inside. Light and warmth and a jukebox playing the Talking Heads. He stood in the entrance, brushing snow from his hair and his jacket. He stomped his feet, knocking more snow from them. The small room held six tables. Along the far wall ran the bar proper, yards of polished oak and worn stools. A man in a turtleneck stood behind it, gaunt, with high cheekbones.
The man looked up, cocked his head, and chuckled. “Cold out there, innit?” he said, rubbing the bar with a rag.
Hank nodded, walking over. “Fucking cold as hell,” Hank said. He pulled out the stool…