Page 29 of The Bro Pact
We drive through the creepy town full of no trespassing signs, haunted-looking wooden structures near collapse, and not a single human in sight. Green mountains loom in the distance, but other than that, the grass is dead, and the only vegetation around is low shrubbery.
It’s truly abandoned.
But there’s also this folksy sort of self-expression everywhere, with weird art installations, spray painted school buses, and abstract murals.
“Let’s go,” I say, feeling antsy in my seat as I park the RV in front of the tiny, vacant post office.
We hop out, making sure to lock our doors first, you can never be too careful out here in the middle of nowhere.
I get my camera out and snap a few photos, excited to see how retro the ghost town looks in a Polaroid. I tuck the little squares into my pocket to develop out of the sun.
“Look!Beer for Sale.” I point to the hand-written sign on a piece of poster board that’s nailed to a wooden post. There’s a giant red arrow on it, pointing to a dilapidated old structure.
“No. Absolutely not,” Kyle says adamantly.
“Come onnn . . .” I whine. “Don’t be a scaredy-cat. We’re only here once. Let’s just check it out real quick.”
“If we get murdered out here, I will never fucking forgive you, Warren,” Kyle deadpans, walking next to me as we follow the arrow.
“No one’s getting murdered. Chill the fuck out, Kyle,” I chuckle.
He needs to relax sometimes and stop worrying so much.
This trip is good for him.
I stare up at the crooked sign that’s holding on by a single nail in the left corner.
Saloon.
“We really shouldn’t go in there. It could collapse,” Kyle whispers with worry, grabbing onto my elbow to halt me.
“It’s fine,” I insist, secretly hoping I’m right and this isn’t the end because we get crushed or murdered.
I push through the double swinging doors, and sure enough, behind the bar is a person with a bleach-blonde shaved head, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses. They’re wearing a loose, sweat-stained tank top, very obviously no bra, and khaki cargo pants.
Maybe Kyle was right, and we shouldn’t have come in here.
“Hey. Um, beer for sale?” I ask, because all my brain can do right now in this intimidating person’s presence is repeat the sign back to them.
A crooked grin curls their lips, and they place two cans of beer I’ve never heard of in front of us. “Fifty bucks.”
“Say what?” I rear my head back in complete shock. “Hell nah, bruh.”
“Ren,” Kyle warns, placing a calming hand on my forearm as the bartender calmly adjusts the gun tucked into the back of their cargo pants.
I take a deep breath and with a very tight mouth, I slap fifty dollars on the wooden bartop. No tip, because, fuck them.
Kyle and I pick up our beers, popping the tab and taking a skeptical sip.
Yeah. Not good.
I attempt to start an awkward conversation with this person, starting with introductions. “Well, I’m Ren, and this is Ky. What’s your name?”
“Sam.”
“So, what else is there to do around here, Sam?” As far as I know, there’s not much from here until Moab.
“As of right now? Nothing but get drunk and fix up these old-ass buildings before they collapse.”
