“He let me win,” July fumed as Tom joined him at the booth.
“Forget that guy,” said Thomas. “We have more pressing matters to deal with.” He waited for July to get over his loss and pay attention. “Slate was a dead end. He has a vehicle but won’t take us north no matter what we pay him. We need a new plan.”
The shame of being outmatched at his favourite game left July in a bitter mood, even though he pushed the thought from his mind and, like on the chess board, began scanning for his next move. “No plan we make is gonna get us out of here,” he shook his head. “To make it worse, I’ve been getting odd looks – we don’t have a lot of time.”
Someone haughtily pushed open the front door but no one other than July, Thomas, and (though he was on his way out) Oliver, raised their heads. The man’s heavy boots thumped as he walked. He scratched his stubble and shot an ugly glare at Oliver, then took a seat with some other patrons at the bar.
Tom lowered his voice, discretely moving his hand to hide his face. “Oh shit, that Slate. I’m running out of ideas here.”
“We just need to stay calm,” July assured him, though his own confidence wavered. “Don’t do anything brash.”
“We need a miracle.”
A sound of commotion came from across the room. Slate leaned over the bar with a red mark on his cheek; apparently, for whatever reason, his friend had hit him. Slate growled, took his friend by the collar with one hand and hit him in the jaw with the other – July felt the shock of the impact from afar. The men around the two brawlers were now standing and shouting, none as loud as the barmaid who told them in vain to go outside. July had read about bar fights in novels but the real things was more fascinating.
But Tom disagreed. “Let’s go.”
“No.” July caught his arm. “Run upstairs and get our things. Quick.” Though puzzled, Tom turned towards the stairs.
The impetus of the brawl increased as July hobbled over, his eyes fixed on something shiny attached to Slate’s belt, if he could just get there without being killed – manoeuvring wasn’t exactly easy with a fake leg. Slate headbutted one man, knocking him out. Another fell towards July and accidentally pushed him into the bar, where his hand nudged a bottle of whiskey. Someone punched or threw Slate in July’s direction. The big man barely noticed him. A little dazed, Slate took a swig from the whiskey bottle as July tenderly attempted to pick the keys from his pocket. Slate caught his hand with surprising reflexes and their eyes met. July’s heart dropped. He reached for the nearest object (the whiskey bottle) and shattered it over Slate’s head. Shards of glass went flying and the smell of whiskey filled the air as Slate crumbled to the floor, and while the other brawlers were occupied with each other, July bent over for the keys.
Thomas ran down the stairs with both their packs and paled at the unruly sight that had swept Kedra’s Bar. July scrambled out of the thick of it, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Time to go.”
The rabble of the fight only grew louder and Thomas’ eyes remained fixed, especially on Slate’s unconscious body. “What happened?”
July anxiously showed him the keys. “Now!”
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