Soulburn

Chapter 2 Part 2

It was about a mile and a half to town from the apartment. After checking the weather report—a near-perfect spring evening—Guyton decided to walk. How long had it been since he took a long walk? Years. He used to enjoy those rambles, and spent much of the walk into town wondering when and why he stopped.

The sidewalks were just uneven enough to trip up unwary pedestrians. "Should have changed first," he chided himself, stepping lively to avoid a right-turning car. He had landed in the recliner wearing a charcoal grey casual suit jacket over a dark blue shirt, and had not bothered to change. On the other hand, if he was naturally going to blend in, he might as well go with it.

Fenced houses and apartment complexes gave way to retail joints as he reached the center of town. Evening traffic along the main drag remained thick, but most people used the sidewalk only to go between a parked car and one of the restaurants or bars along the street.

As he reached a traffic light, a sign across the street caught his eye: Depot Tavern. On a whim, he crossed on the green and slipped inside.

Bars were bars, differentiated only by the decor and the clientele. The latter seemed okay, to Guyton's practiced eye. As for the decor, it was railroad-oriented to fit the name. Guyton sniffed. No soulburn.

"Good," he muttered to himself, making his way to the bar. "I'd have probably shot the maggot just to get rid of the stink."

"Sorry, didn't notice you," the bartender greeted him after a minute. "What you having?" His soul smelled like pineapple—a sign he genuinely liked people, so he was well-suited for a job like this.

"I get that a lot. What's local?"

"All our local beers are up on the board." The bartender pointed to a colorful chalkboard. At the bottom, someone had drawn an old steam locomotive; the smoke wreathed the beer list.

"Uh... how about Bunny Hop Lager?"

"Good choice. That's our spring seasonal." As he poured, a couple took stools down from Guyton's. "Catch ya later," the bartender added, dropping the mug and a coaster in front of him before moving on.

Guyton took his time with the beer—it was good—and took some time to admire the decor. It looked like someone had gone to the trouble of taking apart real train cars. The entry to the bathrooms looked like the side of a boxcar, including the sliding door. The wall with no windows was covered with the inside of an art deco-era passenger car, and the booths along that wall could have come from a dining car. The bar itself had that art deco look as well. The patrons looked well-off enough that this might be a prime area for soulburned; Astin and Birch said his quarry mostly targeted middle and upper-middle class demographics.

"Might as well get familiar with the layout," he told himself. The bartender was occupied with the couple down from him, so he made his way to the mens' room. The alcove looked like a perfect spot to do his business with the soulburned—wide enough for two people to slide by each other, but no more. An intimate place for sending them back to Hell.

At the end of the hall, past the door to the men's room, was an unmarked door. Guyton tried the knob, and it opened. As expected, it was a small closet with mops and other cleaning stuff. They probably left it unlocked so the staff could get to it fast if someone upchucked.

Closing the door, he turned to the one meant for patrons of his gender. The bathroom was basic, but clean, and sported modern fixtures. His training suggested these were the best places to pull the trigger; doing it in the seating area would only invite trouble, and quarry with any experience tended to park close to doors (legally or not) to minimize opportunities outside.

After returning his used beer, he went back to the bar and resumed his survey. Soulburned preferred tables with certain characteristics, only some of which had to do with privacy. In life, Guyton had thought feng shui a New Age fad, but his training taught him different. There were principles that humanity only vaguely understood, governing indoor spaces and those who used them. Certain spots were best for celebrations, others for creative work, quiet business deals, or... well, sinning. Or enticing others to sin.

Guyton had long finished his beer, but the bartender did not come back. One of the drawbacks of being only partly visible, it seemed. He had already paid, so he laid an extra two dollars on the bar and left.

Despite having chosen a beer with a high alcohol content, Guyton felt nothing. That was unusual; even one beer that strong should have had some effect. No matter. He stepped outside, blinked at the headlights of the cars prowling for convenient parking, then turned and headed back toward his apartment.

"Hey." A voice up ahead. "Can I ask you something?"

"What?" Guyton began sizing up the man-

"Into the alley." He drew a pistol.

"Hey, easy with that." Guyton put his hands up, and backed just inside the narrow passage between two buildings.

"Gimme your wallet."

"Jeez, dude. I just got into town, and I figured I'd swing by the bank tomorr—"

Pop pop pop. Pain exploded in his guts, but some part of his old cop brain thought .25 caliber Saturday Night Special. He staggered back into the narrow alleyway.