Barry ‘Bardog’'s Arc

Chapter 1 of 13

Barry stood in the empty shell that would become his bar, counting what he had left. The lumber alone would cost more than he could scrape together in six months. He needed a backer, and there was only one person in Rust Creek with that kind of reach. Sherrie arrived at noon with two men carrying crates. She walked through the space like she already owned it, tapping walls and testing floorboards. Then she set a collection of bottles and jars on the plywood he'd laid across sawhorses. The labels were pristine, pre-war quality, the kind of stock that could fill his shelves for months. She didn't ask if he wanted them. She waited for him to understand what she was offering and what it would cost. Her eyes moved to the upper floor, the rooms he'd planned for travelers, and she said one word: "Safehouse." Barry looked at the bottles, then at Sherrie. Her organization needed a place that looked legitimate, somewhere her people could disappear into when things went wrong. He'd have to take in whoever she sent, no questions, no records. It wasn't money she wanted and it wasn't labor. It was cover. He picked up one of the bottles, turned it over in his hands, and set it back down. Then he nodded once. The bar would open, and it would serve two purposes now. Outside, a rusted bin with faded white letters reading "Deliver Here" sat against the wall where Sherrie's men had left the crates. Barry watched through the window as she climbed into her truck. She didn't look back. The deal was done, and the rules were set. His inn would shelter travelers, but it would also hide people running from things he'd never ask about. He turned away from the window and looked at the bottles on the plywood. The bar had its funding now, and Barry had his first permanent guest arrangement.