“What, fly away? Go to fuckin’ California? Try your luck in Europe?” Mike shook his head. “You’ve got a chance to actually do something. Help us get our people out of Dallas and we can fuck the Kingdom’s advance. Maybe even throw them back.”

Manny thought about it, sighed, and said, “I think I do need a drink.”

Skullfucker Mike nodded. He pointed over to a table lined with a dozen different beer taps.

“The normal stuff’s self-service. I recommend the Wheat Haze. Pretty mild, but it’s good for stock humans like y’self.”

Manny got up, grabbed a glass from a dispenser at the edge of the bar and walked over to the beer table. Each keg had a thick strip of white tape across the front. The only details given about each beer were vague, almost illegibly scrawled names. Manny found two labels that both looked like they might say “Wheat Haze.” He picked one at random, then headed back to the bar and sat next to Reggie.

Mike looked impressed for some reason. “Good choice,” he said with a nod. Manny took a sip. It was really good, a mild pale ale with just a hint of sour. He leaned in and looked at the maps and scrolling updates on Reggie’s screen. The journalist finished writing down a couple of notes and shook his head.

“I’m really sorry man. Truly.” He gestured toward the live map, “This is so fucked.”

“You gonna stay here to cover the fall?” Mike asked. Reggie shook his head. He looked frustrated.

“Got a message from my editor a bit ago. They’re trying to work out an extract for me. Gonna send a team out here to drive me west, to El Paso. I guess it’s not safe to fly out of Austin right now, so…”

He trailed off. The three of them drank in silence for a minute. Skullfucker Mike gulped down the last of his glass and ordered another, along with three shots of bourbon. Manny started to turn down the shot, but it was soon apparent that Mike wanted all three shots for himself. He downed them all in the space of around a second, belched loudly, and then returned to staring at Reggie’s screen.

“Fuck,” he sighed out again. “Fuck, fuckedy fuck.”

Manny was halfway through his beer when Donald Farris approached. The old documentarian wore a burgundy velvet waistcoat underneath a slightly battered but well-tailored tweed jacket. He had a glass of probable whiskey in his hand and the soberest eyes Manny had seen that day.

“Hello there, gentlemen. Skullfucker Mike. Getting caught up on the latest catastrophes, are we?”

“Yep,” said Mike. “How ya been?”

The older man shrugged and took his seat at the table. He gulped his whiskey and looked down the table at Manny. It was strange to see an actual old person this close up. The creases in his forehead and around his lips were so deep they could have been carved with a knife. There were spots on him, a clear sign he’d taken no JuvEn treatments at all. His voice had a deep craggy richness that lent every word he said a certain vague majesty. Donald Farris spoke and Manny felt compelled to listen.