From within the huge barn emerged a bushy-bearded man in flannel. “Ah, my best and least favorite customer!” he called, extending his arms broadly. In each hand was a green bottle, one of them uncorked.

  It was Glen the whisky presenter.

  “Welp, that killed the mood,” said Black to Proto. “Sorry, Moo. Our shag in the silo’s gonna have to wait.”

  “This isn’t a silo,” muttered Proto. “Also, he’s here?” He stared at the peat-swilling, flannel-flaunting, beard-sporting hipster. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad he made it and all.”

  “Well, I’m glad someone’s glad,” she replied.

  “I thought I heard someone say ‘whisky’!” the bearded man went on.

  “I thought I smelled something.” Black sniffed. “Are you fermenting barley or yourself?”

  “The best of us do both,” Glen replied, then studied Proto. “Hey. I remember you. You’re the one those girls were laughing at!”

  Proto sighed, as Black smirked at him. It may be the end of the world, but not the end of the world’s amusement at the expense of Proto.

  What can I say, the world must be a woman too! mused the voice of Flua-Sahng.

  “Wait. Wait wait wait.” Glen flashed Proto a peace sign. “Y-side! That was you, right?”

  Well, this was better. Although Black was curling her lip and raising her brow now.

  Proto ignored her. “Y-side!” He returned the gesture.

  Black ughed and swatted his hand down. “Who are you, and what have you done with my ex-boyfriend? As for you”—she turned to Glen—“I don’t know what ruins people more, you or the wares you sell!”

  “Says the bartendress,” the bearded man cheerfully pointed out. “At my favorite bar, mind you. Ex-bar. May it rest in peace.”

  Black shrugged, mollified. “Also, you smell like a Fruit Roll-Up rotting in a barn.”

  “Ah, good. Should be ripe in about a day,” noted Glen.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to wait that long,” she replied.

  “Meh. We don’t cut corners here.” Glen turned to Proto. “So, you made it. To the world’s end and beyond!”

  Twice, in fact, mused Proto.

  “To my surprise, yes,” he replied. “Got any Death Lake?”

  “Ah, Death Lake!” Glen smiled wistfully and shook his head, eying the whisky bottles he was double-fisting. “You’ve hit upon the saddest part of our plight, in a fragmented and flame-ruined world—we may never again have Death Lake.”

  “Say it ain’t so!” lamented Proto.

  “Oh, I wish I could!” sighed Glen. “On the bright side, I do have a metric shit-ton of old peated whisky in there.” He thumbed back at the barn.

  “If you had to pick, which would it be?” asked Proto. “Death Lake or old peated whisky?”

  Glen frowned at him. “That’s like me asking if you’d prefer Black or that black-haired girl at the whisky tasting.”

  Black swatted at his bushy beard, but he dodged it.

  “Hey, look, if he wants to play Edgy Questions, I’m here for it!” said Glen, holding up his hands defensively. “But yeah, what I object to is the idea that you have to choose. Two’s greater than one, right? Variety’s the spice of life?” He held out his two bottles.

  Black swung at his head again, this time successfully bonking it.

  “Alright, I’ll stop there!” Glen assuaged her. “In the interest of staying conscious enough to enjoy this twenty-nine year old.”

  Black blinked. “Excuse me?!” She balled up a fist.

  Glen tilted his head at her, then tapped the “29” on one of his bottles.

  “Ah.” Black turned to Proto. “Yeah, you can see where my mind is 99% of the time these days.”

  “The twenty-nine year old!” mused Glen, his voice going into whisky-presenter mode. He held up the green bottle and studied it. “A fine specimen. Full of light, hot notes at first whiff, but more and more complex, the more you savor it. Perhaps losing just a bit of her youthful verve and spirit—”

  “Maybe I should hit you!” interrupted Black, balling her fist again.

  “—or perhaps not,” he went on. “Perhaps it’s all still there. Perhaps it’s just that more’s been added. A beautiful counterpoint, balancing out her natural fiery notes. After twenty-nine years in a sherry cask, she’s a bit rounded out, a bit thicker—”

  “Not even slightly round! Or thick!” muttered Black, looking down at her tight T-shirt. “Even where I wouldn’t mind being slightly round and thick!”

  “It’s okay, you can keep being perfect,” replied Proto.

  “Nicely said, Moo,” Black patted his hand. “Very wisely said!”

  “Ahem. Her complexity is a bit rounded out,” continued Glen. “There’s some sweetness now. Still understated, but it comes through from time to time. Not right after pouring, but after she’s been resting for a while, mellowing, during those quieter moments.”

  “You see!” grumbled Black, turning to Proto. “Softie keeps coming out, and I don’t know what to do about her!”

  “I think I’ll stop there,” noted Glen, “without predicting what will happen between ages twenty-nine and thirty-nine.”

  “Good idea,” said Black.

  “Here, I think you’ll appreciate this.” Glen handed Proto the unopened bottle. “A gift for surviving the end of the world.”

  “Wow, thanks. This is the best twenty-nine-year-old gift for surviving the end of the world that I can imagine,” replied Proto.

  Black instantly bonked him on the head. Laughing, he didn’t even try to dodge.

  “Not a problem! Good things should go to those who like good things,” declared Glen, flashing a peace sign, then pointing it at Proto. “Y-side!”

  Proto returned the gesture. “Y-side!”

  “I swear, if you two stick those two Ys into each other, I’m leaving you two Y-friends here and never coming back!” threatened Black.

  “Speaking of which, I’m looking for a partner,” said Glen. “That is, someone to help with the distilling. It’s really not a one-man job. Assuming that man sleeps. Which I rarely do, these days.”

  “I am interested in distilling,” admitted Proto. This was true. Lilac had taught him all about distilling spirits.

  Of course, they hadn’t needed to distill anything, when they could just retrieve eighty-year-old armagnacs and perfectly macerated absinthes from the Sea of Dreams. But he’d sort of wanted to try it anyway.

  Also, in this postapocalyptic world, there likely wasn’t much use for a marketing A/B tester with a statistics background. Not unless the future needed saving again.

  “Suppose I’ll need a job here at the end of the world, right?” continued Proto.

  “My man!” enthused Glen, raising his remaining bottle. “Partner! Free whisky for all partners.”

  “Ugh, what have I done,” muttered Black. “Should’ve stopped here yesterday. Alone.”

  “Yeah, anyway, this was our old distillery, which we’d turned into a temporary warehouse. Not so temporary anymore, eh?” observed Glen. “But that’s fine. The conditions in the dank, dark, chilly basement closely replicate Scotland, which is perfect.”

  Proto thought back to something Wentsworth had said. “I hear Scotland makes for fine spirits in casks, and rather prickly spirits in kilts.”

  “Sheesh, are you a southeast Englishman from 1910 or something?” replied Glen. “Anyway, yes, quite true.”

  “Don’t say sheesh! You have a beard, for F’s sake,” Black admonished, then turned to Proto. “Also, where is Volucre from, anyway? Doesn’t sound very English. Or Scottish.”

  “Welp, if it wasn’t Scotch before, it is now!” declared Glen. “Welcome to the family, Partner.”

  “Honored to be a part of it, Partner,” replied the former visitor and seer.

  “Hey, feeling’s mutual,” replied Glen. He thumbed back at the white barn. “I’ve got a nice loft up there. Nice couch. Nice Sega Saturn. You can totally crash here any time.”

  “Shit!” muttered Black.

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  “Which you may want to do, since the entire basement is full of whisky casks. Which I frequently sample,” continued Glen.

  “This is just sounding better and better,” replied Proto.

  “Shit!” repeated Black. “Is this really how it’s gonna go, Moo? Partnering up with my arch-frenemy, Stonkey MacFruitbeard?

  “Y-siders stick together,” shrugged Glen. “Also, did you just call me Stonkey MacFruitbeard?”

  “So, Stonkey, I’m here for whisky,” she said. “I was going to tour the casks downstairs. But a case of whatever I smell in that bottle you’re holding would do nicely. And I’d rather not be in a closed space with whatever I smell wafting from your beard.”

  “You really think I’m going to do business with you after that?” replied Glen.

  “Yes,” said Black.

  “You know me well,” Glen nodded. “Name your price.” He sipped his whisky.

  Black shrugged. “Free meals at the diner for two months.”

  Glen spat out his whisky. “Come on! I’m a purveyor of luxury goods! Not an unfortunate seeking a food kitchen. . . . I want at least four months.”

  “Not possible.” Black gestured at Proto. “Consider it a gift to your new partner here. Partners drink free, right?”

  “We’re not playing that game,” replied Glen. “You’re not turning my friend here into Free Whisky for Black Forever.”

  “So half off then. Since his half is free and mine’s not,” reasoned Black. “So, two months instead of four months. And I’ll throw in a few free breakfasts.”

  Glen sighed and eyed Proto, then Black. “I don’t want to set a precedent.”

  “Precedent?” Black waved dismissively. “This is pure logic, not precedent. 50/50!”

  “Logic would be, I charge you 200% to make up for his 0%,” replied Glen. “So eight months instead of four months.”

  “Stonkey, you don’t want your best and least favorite customer to become your worst and least favorite customer, do you?” said Black. “Probably a bad place to be at the end of the world.”

  “Fine! Fine,” sighed Glen, raising a finger. “If ‘Stonkey’ is retired permanently, with immediate effect.”

  “Good doing business with you, Glen,” Black cheerfully replied.

  “Ruthless bitch,” grumbled the whisky presenter.

  Black nodded agreeably, turning to Proto. “That’s negotiations lesson #1. Be ruthless. Take 99% if you can, but always leave him 1% to feel good about.”

  “I am still standing right here, you know,” Glen pointed out.

  “Lesson #2,” she continued, ignoring him. “Make him feel like he’s the absolute least important thing in your life. I recommend ignoring at least 51% of what he says. But never more than 99%. Same reasoning.”

  “See if I ever give you whisky again,” grumbled Glen.

  “Hm?” Black turned to him. “Oh, hey, it was good to see you . . . what was that name again? Ston . . . ? Stonk . . . ? Fruity . . . ?”

  Glen grimaced beneath his bushy beard. “Look forward to doing business again.”

  “Ah”—Black snapped her fingers—“Glen, that’s right. Likewise.”

  “Well, I’ll let you two take your leave. Before she takes the rest of my possessions,” said Glen. “See you soon, Partner.” He flashed a peace sign to Proto. “Y-side!”

  “Y-side!” Proto affirmed, returning it.

  “Y-side!” Black V’ed her fingers and waggled them in Glen’s beard.

  Then, she wrinkled her nose at her fingers and wiped them on her pants.

  “Don’t they just ruin everything?” Proto said to the other man.

  “Eh, if not for them, I wouldn’t be who I am today,” shrugged Glen. “A habitual drinker.”

  “Cheers,” said Black.

  And off she went, with Proto in her wake.

  By now, the sun was low enough that daylight had started dimming. But Belladrengr soon came into view—first the old grey tower of the power station, and then its gas station with a single pump, and finally its sign: Welcome to Belladrengr, Pop. 1,537.

  “1,538?” asked Proto.

  “1,539,” corrected Black. “Well, maybe. I’m still deciding. Get going.” She frowned at his smile.

  Minutes later, they arrived at the diner. Try Our Cheesesteak with Homegrown Peppers! the sign outside still beckoned.

  “Soo . . . fancy some silver-dollar pancakes?” asked Proto.

  “Funny you should ask,” replied Black. “When the skies fell and I showed up here, that’s what the old-lady owner said to me: ‘You’re that nice girl who ate all the pancakes!’”

  “Ah, a deft judge of character,” said Proto.

  “Yep, it’s my favorite way of being greeted. Along with ‘you’re that skinny bitch who ate all the gummies,’” said Black. “Anyway, the old lady had been planning to shut up shop and retire, soon as the time was right. And civilization’s collapse seemed like as good a time as any.”

  “Only problem was, this place was her life’s work, and she didn’t want to let it die,” recalled Black. “We had a long chat, and she told me: ‘If only they still made nice girls like in my day—high hopes, no degrees, and lots of food service experience!’ Or something to that effect.”

  “Enter me!” the bartendress went on. “I helped her for a few days. Turns out work at a modern gastropub isn’t so very different from work at a 1950s diner! Match made in Heaven. So, she showed me the ropes for a couple weeks, then handed over the keys. Now she spends all day dancing to Barry Manilow LPs at her house, I give her free meals for life, and we’re all happy.”

  “Or at least, she sure is,” noted Black. “I mean, shit, that’s my dream life, minus the Barry Manilow part.”

  “As for me, I sell food and drinks all day and live in the basement at night, listening to loud music. Basically, it’s like I’m nineteen again,” she continued. “And here you are, right back there with me! Just like old times! Reunited! Back in action! We’re like the Beatles in their rooftop concert!”

  “On the verge of being arrested and going our separate ways?” questioned Proto.

  “Okay, funny, but let’s not ruin this please, Moo,” she replied. “Anyway, yeah, turns out going to this diner after our concert was my best decision ever. Or at least in a decade.”

  “A decade?” he said.

  “Yep. That’s when I asked out some cute loser who was too chicken to ask me out.” She shrugged.

  Lips curving up, Proto raised his brow at her.

  “I know, I know!” lamented Black. “It’s my late-stage Gen X-ness. We have to bare our mushy inner selves in the end, revealing that our prickly hardness was always just the shell protecting our inner vulnerability.” She paused, then flicked his ear. “Chicken.”

  Proto double-gunned her. “Welp, I’ve got the wings and drumsticks covered, if you’ve got the bre—”

  Black grabbed his neck and lightly throttled him.

  “Sheesh, are you that upset at my bad humor?” he complained.

  “No, I’m just choking the chicken,” she answered calmly.

  “ . . . oh, you didn’t.” Proto eyed her flatly.

  “I did! Yes I did!” Black gleefully affirmed. “That’s where I went, and you came right along with me! Chicken.”

  She walked inside the diner, and he followed.

  The world outside might’ve changed drastically and irrevocably, but inside the diner, things still looked 1955 as ever. The floor was black-and-white-tiled, the seats were padded with red vinyl, and the tables were as sleekly curved as old hotrods and UFOs.

  The sole exception was a giant framed painting on the wall, which hadn’t been here when Proto last visited. It showed thick clouds bulging and weltering on a reddening horizon, glowing strangely. Trees were tilting as though in a ferocious wind. A woman who looked like Helen was clutching a hide blanket as though to cover herself, but failing to cover exactly the parts one would most expect her to be covering. Nearby, a muscular man was likewise unclothed, although his barbarian loincloth at least was placed over his loins. He was facing the tempest, and his fist was clenched readily.

  Proto considered asking about that painting, but was distracted by another observation—no one seemed to be here.

  “No customers?” He absently set his whisky bottle on the front counter.

  “Yeah, that is a bit odd,” noted Black. “But maybe that’s cause no one’s at the counter. Not even so much as a scribbled note saying, ‘Be back in a jiff.’ I don’t know, what do you think, Jakeson?!” She shouted the last word into the empty room.

  Proto blinked, recalling the other bartender at Black’s Rock. “Oh, nice. He’s here too?”

  “Evidently not!” observed Black. “But yes, he was visiting his mom here the night the sky fell. Cute, huh? I offered his newly jobless self a job—for the second time, mind you! And, since he theoretically accepted, he theoretically works here. Meaning, he deigns to grace us with his presence for about two or three of the eight hours I pay him for each day.”

  “It’s the end of the world, and we still have hourly wages?” asked Proto.

  “Sure. Workers have rights, you know! You think money’s total loss of all value would change that?!” she replied, and he chuckled quietly.

  “Yeah, no. No money,” she continued. “The diner is supplied by local farms. We’ve been paying by making them meals. Jakeson works here, gets free meals and sleeps in the attic. It’s worked for a few weeks now. We’ll probably have to work out something all complicated and capitalistic at some point. But I’m in no rush.”

  “I can tell it’s working well.” Proto eyed the empty counter.

  “Yeah, I don’t know where Jakeson is. Taking a two-hour smoke or shit, probably.” Black shrugged. “Cause that’s never happened before!” she yelled out to the empty room.

  “Workers have rights, you know,” Proto pointed out.

  “Where’s my gold-tipped cane?! The one I use for caning the proletariat!” huffed Black, with a pose and voice like the Monopoly man.

  “Did you leave it next to your Wisdom from Lennon and Lenin book?” asked Proto.

  She frowned. “Look, Moo, we all go through phases. It’s a sensitive age, late teens!”

  “Welp, Scrooge McBlack, I like what you’ve done with the place,” said Proto.

  Black spread her arms toward the diner and nodded with exaggerated graciousness.

  “For example, that poster.” He pointed at the stormy, red-skied scene with the semi-clothed barbarians. “Looks like something that Reks guy from the concert would’ve painted.”

  “Probably cause he did,” she replied, eliciting a blink from Proto.

  “Yeah, he asked if he could make me a poster in exchange for some meals,” she recalled. “So, I told him, ‘Yes, but no bodies, no blood, no weapons, no fire, no ruins, and no nudity.’”

  “And he looks at me, like George looked at John and Paul when they told him, ‘Yes, you can have a song on this album, but no Hindustani spiritual music and definitely no sitar.’ And so I broke down and said, ‘Okay, tasteful nudity is fine.’ And, so, here we are.”

  “I suppose next you’re gonna tell me that concert security guard, Stang, is here?” said Proto.

  “Yes, actually!” she replied. “Stang already lived near here. That’s why he worked as a guard up at the Summit Exhibition Grounds. And that’s why Reks was here too. He was meeting with Stang to talk about some new T-shirt line for Stang’s brother’s internet business. Which, unfortunately, is not doing too well in the post-internet era.”

  “What’s he up to now?” asked Proto. “Stang, I mean.”

  “I wanted him as a bouncer. But the town needed a policeman, so that kind of took precedence,” answered Black. “You know how they got him to do it? They made his title the Master of War. So, that’s what Stang is now. Belladrengr’s Master of War! He carries around an F’ing glaive. Which he just happened to have!”

  “That said, he’s had to beat up some crazies from the city already. And he’s very good at what he does. And I’m sure he’ll have to beat up lots more. So, probably best to let our Master of War keep Master-beating.”

  Proto smirked and eyed her sidelong.

  “What? I’m glad he takes such pleasure in his job,” Black protested. “Unlike Jakeson! Probably off mastur-doing something else!” she yelled toward the bathroom hallway.

  “In any event, since my sole employee is gone, I guess it falls to me to put some skin on those bones.” She waved at his torso. “Hope you’re good at making skin from whisky and breath mints. If I can do it, you can too!”

  Proto liked whisky, but it had been almost two years since his last bite of food. “Anything I can eat with a fork?”

  Black sighed dramatically. “The things I do to please my Moo! That’s the life I chose, eh? Nice girl. No degree. Experience in food service!” She strolled off toward the kitchen.

  “Much obliged!” called our hungry hero.

  Fifteen minutes later, the two of them were sipping lemonade and eating cheesesteaks.

  “Good peppers. Homegrown?” asked Proto through a mouthful.

  “You can taste it, can’t you?” she asked cheerily, then frowned down at herself. “Hmph. Look what you’ve become, Karen! What’s next, block parties and PTO meetings?”

  “This is the best cheesesteak I’ve ever had,” observed Proto.

  “Really?!” She beamed, then frowned at his quirked-up lips. “Shit!”

  They both absently reached for the ketchup at the same time, with the result that his hand clasped hers. Their stares met.

  “ . . . well, that’s just F’ing cute,” observed Black. “Wanna make eyes and play footsie?

  Proto made eyes at her.

  “Cut that out!” Black reached for his face and scrunched his eyes back to normal size.

  “It all began in high school,” narrated Proto grandiloquently. “But their moment of truth came at Black’s Diner. Their moment made in the stars.”

  “Someone’s gonna be seeing stars,” frowned Black, balling a fist.

  “Speaking of rising stars,” said Proto, “what ever happened to that song you were writing ten years ago?”

  Black swung at him, and Proto dodged it, chortling. “You’re really bad at small talk, Moo!”

  “Bad at small talk, but great at dodging!” he countered.

  Black’s lips quirked up. “That’s for the best, or we’d soon be short one Moo.”

  She finished her last bite of cheesesteak, then yawned and stretched. “So, now that we’re all settled in and cozy, you wanna see my secret place?”