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Mounted in its ironic glory before me stood a wooden cross in an abandoned farm field, marking an underground bar. I observed the hand-crafted structure and the ground it sat in, reminding me of the days when cars worked, and crosses signified the crash site of a loved one.

Rounding the bereft cross, I stood off to the side, careful not to stand on the door. I pushed it several feet to the right, watching as the earth opened beneath me, revealing a set of wooden stairs.

Leading up to the world’s collapse, during the height of the Elemental and Kinetic war, humans went into prep mode, bracing for the apocalypse they had long since feared.

Underground homes and bartering businesses were constructed. But the most common were the speakeasies, where the humans gathered to drink moonshine and unwind.

They also were told to be Griffin’s favorite haunts.

I descended a few of the warped steps into the tight vertical tunnel. It left me in a dank void. The wooden stairs were attached to the somehow sturdy concrete walls.

Thankfully, with our heightened vision, I could see through the pitch-blackness. Not even the magnetic magic-inhibiting bracelet could suppress that trait.

The makeshift stairwell dropped at least twenty-five feet into the earth, the air growing thicker the further down I went, with the musty scent of Georgia red clay permeating the confined space. Once I landed at the bottom, ventilated air from the pipe system the humans had built filled my lungs.

Muffled laughter and raucous voices sounded from the other side of the wall. I followed the tunnel leading to the speakeasy’s entrance.

Reaching the end of the tunnel, I pulled open the thick, weighty door made of unpolished wood. The speakeasy held an old rustic vibe reminiscent of the 1920s. With no electricity due to the powerful EMP strike five years ago on Devolution Day, candles and lanterns provided the light source. It was what I imagined an old pirate tavern would have looked like.

I searched for my formidable target through the mass of men and women crowded around makeshift tables, gathering in a jovial nature that I envied. The humans were in high spirits tonight as they decompressed from life topside.

My attention landed on a man in tattered jeans and a grungy tee playing an upbeat pop song on a beaten guitar before catching on a cloaked figure sitting in a rear corner. His back was to me, facing the wooden barrels that lined the backside of the U-shaped bar. Cases upon cases of colorful moonshine in glass jars lined the stone wall on wooden crates.

Most of the patrons in the establishment were disheveled like the guitar player. But standing out amongst the unkempt, militia rebels could be seen mingling with the rest, dressed in faded and stained military fatigues.

Blending in as a rebel, I walked to the bar toward the back of the speakeasy, squeezing past drunken couples before raising a casual hand to snag the runner’s attention. From the opposite end of the bar, he acknowledged me with an upward tilt of his head, making his way toward me. He tossed a dingy rag over his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm. “How can I help ya?”

Leaning on the unlacquered bartop with my forearms, I smiled. “Whatever you got.”

The speakeasy runner didn’t try to hide his roaming eyes. I wasn’t sure how he could check out a woman in this baggy uniform, but he seemed pleased with what he saw. He nodded, walked to the crates nailed into the wall, and reached up, grabbing a glass jar filled with blue moonshine.

When he returned, he set it down and sighed. Scratching his thick beard, he asked, “I hate to do this, but what’s the trade, darlin’?”

Summoning my inner femininity, I shook my head and waved him off. “Oh, of course.” I pulled the loaded magazine clip and pistol from the holster at my waist. “Will this do?”

The speakeasy runner’s eyes widened. “That’s a hefty price for some ‘shine. The magazine will do just fine, sweetheart.”

Having no use for a fucking gun, I shook my head. “No, I insist. It’s the least I can do,” Isaid innocently, sliding the pistol and clip across the bar. “I can always get another one at the compound,” I said with a shrug.

The runner looked skeptical, but he relented. “I owe you another drink then.” As tempting as that was, I declined. My only aim here was to find Griffin and kill him, not get lit off moonshine. “Just one is fine. Thank you, though…um, I don’t think I caught your name?” I replied with a forced aura of flirtation.

“Jensen.” He held out his hand and offered a smile.

I closed my fingers over his rough palm. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “This place yours?”

With a nod, he answered, “It is. My parents had it built before Devolution Day. When they died, it became mine.” Jensen busied himself behind the bar, putting away the gun and magazine clip underneath the counter. In this world, humans could never have too many weapons.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” I said, studying my laced fingers on the bar before pulling back and taking a sip of my drink. The alcohol content was strong enough to make one breathe fire.

Jensen shrugged. “It happened on Devolution Day. They were on a flight.”

“Fuck,” I whispered over the rim of my Mason jar before taking another sip. I’d grown accustomed to the harsh burn the past five years, seeing as there wasn’t much variety in alcoholic drinks these days.

After Devolution Day, bootleg moonshiners created a booming business for themselves. They thrived in their trade as well as the farmers. While beer and other liquors were made, moonshine became the most prominent alcoholic drink in our post-modern era.

Jensen wiped down the bar and met my eyes. “Let me know if you need anything, ya hear?”

I nodded. “Thanks, Jensen. See you around.” With a small smile, I pushed away from the bar, taking my drink with me and weaving through the crowd in the direction of the man cloaked in darkness in the corner.