The End Times Taphouse

By Tyler Roberts

"The End Times Taphouse" is intended for those concerned about the decline of our nation and the current events affecting us all. Christians will most certainly be intrigued by this tale, as will those wondering where God is during these times of our nation's moral crisis. The timeframe is the near future and the story addresses many of the current events unfolding in the world today. The colorful characters, humor, and realistic situations entertain and bring the book to life.
Fiction readers who enjoy stories with dystopian twists will delight in this book's relatable storyline, which is based on current events. There are moments within the story involving faith in God, but this is not a story about religion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350901122

Book preview

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For Carolyn, Dustin, and Zach

The End Times Taphouse

©2023 Tyler Roberts

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

print ISBN: 979-8-35090-111-5

ebook ISBN: 979-8-35090-112-2

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter One

Sucking air and chugging like a locomotive pulling a five percent grade in the heat of the day, Clayton spun on his heels. Firing off three quick shots, he dropped the body he carried and took cover behind an immense boulder.

Scanning with his M4, he picked up movement on the rocky path he’d just traversed and squeezed off two more shots. Another pilgrim joined his pals in hell.

Mortars began falling almost as soon as the men stopped to catch their breath. The shells were off-target, but it wouldn’t be long before they were bracketed.

Ain’t the time for no nap, Clayton, now let’s move before they dial us in. Deacon flipped him the bird and ran past with a body over his shoulder.

The thick muscles in Clayton’s neck tensed, standing out like ropes on a sailing ship, singing in the wind. His black hair dripped salt water into steel-grey eyes and he swiped it away with a dust-encrusted hand before squeezing off two more shots. Then shouldering the body he’d laid down he launched himself further down the path toward Deacon.

Up yours Dork, Clayton yelled as he ran past Deacon moments later. Better move your ass so you’re not the last of the group and the first thing those pilgrims’ see.

The two of them continued running, chasing after the rest of their men as fast as a human possibly can while carrying another human. The raid on the supply dump had gone well. They’d even taken out a small-time Colonel, but that wasn’t part of the plan and the hornets’ nest the attack kicked up was riding them hard. Unable to break contact, their team had been on the run since somewhere around two A.M.

Deacon shifted the weight of the body on his shoulders and humped past Clayton. An AK47 cut loose from behind, kicking dirt up around them both and spurring another dig. It’s gonna be your ass they have if you don’t pick it up, Clayton!

Have my ass? Clayton yelled between gasps. Never happen. That would be the greatest of sins and they’d miss out on all those virgins awaiting them in Allah’s heaven.

Deacon chuckled. Then move those tree trunks you call legs and keep up!

Clayton mumbled something indecipherable. His 6’2" frame packed a lean and muscled 220 pounds, but the fallen solder he carried was still a lot of beef to haul. Clayton had seen the abominable things they did to a human corpse and it motivated him to keep on moving.

Another quarter mile and what remained of their unit gathered behind the heavy cover of car-sized boulders at the base of a barren ridge.

Deacon snapped off two more rounds and dropped another pilgrim as a trailing Clayton rejoined the group. Saved your ass again, big man."

Clayton dropped to the ground, his massive chest heaving. Where’s that bloody chopper? he groaned. Should have been here by now. He puffed and slid the body he carried onto the ground before peering over the boulder in time to see a cloud of pink mist erupt from one of their pursuers. Clayton rubbed at the desert dust crusting on his sweat-drenched face and encrusted eyes.

The enemies came on in waves and were quickly owed down by the Free Men of America, but not without a cost. Clayton was drawing a bead on another enemy when he spun to the ground, holding his left shoulder. Damn!

Deacon kneeled beside him. Hold still and let me have a look. Tearing Clayton’s shirt back, he made a quick diagnosis. Hang on while I bandage that. Clayton couldn’t find a thing comforting in Deak’s brusque voice but given the situation, wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to attend to his wound.

Deacon yelled over his shoulder, Get those claymores set up. Now! It would only be a matter of time before they were overrun.

Finishing up minutes later, Deacon looked Clayton in the eye. Your wound ain’t that bad. You’ll survive. Now get a move on before those claymores blow.

The explosion rocked Clayton, who thrashed about in his bed before bolting upright. Sweat-soaked, heart racing, he rubbed his face, struggling to shake off the dream and get his bearings. The intense hangover from Iraq and Afghanistan was something he feared would always haunt him.

His alarm’s red glow spelled out 3:57 A.M. He sighed and rolled over. His futile attempts to grab a little more sleep only served to further his frustration. The darkened room with the white noise machine was a personal refuge, but it did little for him in times like this.

Clayton threw off the covers and sat up. Why Serita? Why did it have to be her? His hands dug at the sides of his head. Shoulders trembling, he allowed the memory of her loss to overtake him. These were the moments when he missed his wife the most. She would rub his back, soothe his nerves with gentle words and reassure him with a voice that told him things were alright.

She was the only one outside of the men he served with that could even begin to understand what he’d been through. She’d always been there for him, so patient and caring, but Serita was gone, killed in a car crash by a meth head running from police. Clayton’s mind raced, searching everywhere for a solid foundation in place of the empty eternity filling his head.

Roll it out, Clayton. Time to get your head, straight soldier. Mark Rathskeller will have a cold one waiting for you later this afternoon after you check on Jose. Just get to the shower and you’ll be fine. And keep a handle on the drinking today. A warning he knew would most likely be ignored.

After showering and eating some cold, greasy fast-food chicken forgotten on the kitchen table the night before, Clayton carried his first cup of coffee out the back door to his deck. The spring air felt like ice on his skin and threatened to frost the moisture remaining in his hair. He stood unmoving, lost in his thoughts while watching the sun paint the snow-covered Three Sisters Mountains a rosy pink.

She should be here with me to see this. Clayton launched his coffee cup and watched it shatter against the trunk of an ancient elm tree. Storming back inside he swiped at the bible resting on the counter, sending it flying. Why did you take her from me? He knew he shouldn’t have tossed the bible. Marks a good friend and he only means well, but there’s nothing in there that will make me feel better.

Clayton filled another cup with coffee and moved to the living room couch. The wrestling match with his thoughts continued until it wore him out. Two hours later, he awoke with a start when the remains of the coffee he was holding spilled in his lap. After changing his clothes and tossing out the last of the fast-food chicken he stepped outside for the walk to Jose’s.

Always fearful of an ambush, part of the hangover from ‘Stan’, he took brief note of the sunny skies or the songbirds lifting engaging melodies skyward. With his head on a swivel, he marched through downtown Redmond.

Most western states had outlawed the sale of new gasoline-powered vehicles by the year 2035. To encourage the purchase of Electric Vehicles gas prices were artificially forced upward. With gas prices now hovering near $13 a gallon, Clayton rarely drove unless forced to, but in some ways, it didn’t matter.

Whether you had the chip or carried the card-(Clayton refused the implant)-the new Environmental, Social, Governance (ESG) social credit system capped your carbon footprint. Carbon use was tracked, taxes were taken automatically and Medicare and Social Security benefits were determined on the basis of your social credit score. That meant limiting the amount of gasoline you could buy even if you had a pocket full of money and a top-rated score, which, of course, he didn’t. The government prevented military vets from scoring high because they were viewed as national security threats.

Walking thru the cool morning air helped to clear his head and as always happened on these occasions, the memories came flooding back. His body ached with desire to relive the moments when he’d first met her. It was a wild party in a countryside farmhouse and he’d given her a ride home. Upon walking her to the door of her apartment, she’d invited him in. He smiled to himself, recalling how hard it had been to turn her down.

But there was something different about this woman. She had the kind of face that immediately conveyed a friendly persona, not to mention her rare natural beauty. He hadn’t wanted to begin a relationship with her in a blitzed-out state of mind. She deserved better than that, so he’d turned her down. Later, he learned she never expected to see him again.

Slowly, the relationship grew. Knowing you rarely meet women of integrity living life in the fast lane, months later during a trip to Seattle, he took her to the top of the Space Needle and proposed. He was in awe of this woman. He’d never met anyone like her. So many tender moments. His eyes leaked, and he swiped at them. He’d give anything to go back and love her all over again.

What are you doing Clayton? Shut that stuff down. You know it does you no good!

His visit with Jose included a late lunch and the support of a good friend. It helped to know his friend was dealing well with his own PTSD issues, at least for the moment. Leaving there, he continued his walk north along the dry canyon for a couple more miles. The rock-rimmed ravine ran north and south through the city of 35,000. It was filled with juniper, rabbit brush, sage, and numerous hiking trails. When he came to a place atop the dry canyon wall where Serita used to love to sit and watch the sunset, he took a seat in her special place.

The view west of the snow-clad Mt. Jefferson was stunning. He always felt closest to his deceased wife when sitting in her place on the canyon rim. His mind played films of sitting together, leg against leg, shoulder against shoulder, hand in hand. The thoughts both warmed and chilled him at the same time. The miniature people walking the paths below at the bottom of the dry canyon never saw him or knew his heartache.

Clayton was in no hurry and let his mind wander. After a couple hours of endless thoughts careening through every corner of his head, he stood and stretched. Taking a last look towards the mountain tops glistening in the day’s last rays of sun, he headed towards town. The dark cloud hanging over his head followed, refusing to dissipate. Taking his time he slowly made his way downtown to St. Johns Cask and Barrel, where a friendly Mark Rathskeller would greet him. Situated in the heart of Redmond Oregon it was a favorite among locals for its beer and the occasional dispensation of the gospel.

Chapter Two

Mark droned an old-time hymn as he opened St. Johns Cask and Barrel on a dazzling Saturday afternoon in May. The pub was mostly a hangout for society’s Deplorables, but liberals were welcome as well. Mark and his wife, Laura, received all with open arms. It was his heartfelt joy to provide a place of peace and acceptance where all could gather in comfort. With the world doing its best to divide everyone, St. John’s Pub was an island oasis of peace, acceptance, and community.

To Mark’s great dismay, the animosity and retribution promoted by the fake news channels both locally and across the nation had brought his customer’s differences to a raging boil.

Mark had a heart for everyone and he’d successfully created a business with an atmosphere that truly welcomed all. But to his chagrin, the brutal fight required steps to be taken and Mark was forced to uninvite one group of belligerent liberals. They typically deployed their elitist attitude from a round table situated in the middle of the pub and their whacked-out ways were generally viewed as good comedy by the regulars who knew them. It hurt his heart to send them away.

After the group physically assaulted two patrons, Mark was forced to do what he was most loath to do. Violence would not be tolerated and the group he expelled created safety issues for his customers, not to mention the debilitating effect it had on the welcoming atmosphere he had worked so hard to cultivate.

Tony, the massive black barkeep Mark employed, had no problem handling the disturbance. The appearance of his muscular form, straining at the white T-shirt he typically wore, brought closure to almost any disagreement. Laura loved to squeeze the man’s amazing biceps and rarely missed a chance to do so on the days she came in to work.

In memory of the men he’d banned, Mark painted the group’s table pink. As differing as their beliefs could be, he still loved each of them and was sad to see them have to go. It was a poignant testimony to the deep divide splitting the nation and Mark hated every bit of it. Nowadays no one but an unsuspecting visitor ever sat at the pink table.

For the rest of the customers, life continued as usual. An extensive list of microbrews from the northwest’s favorite breweries was offered with a smile. The hometown watering hole possessed a comfortable, homey glow that welcomed a long list of regulars. Some were liberal, many were conservative, and even more didn’t give a damn. They just wanted a peaceful place to gather and share a good beer with friends.

Numerous taps meted out heady IPAs and a few hearty, barrel-aged stouts from the local brewery owned by St. Johns Cask and Barrel. Rumor had it that Mark’s influence with law enforcement allowed him regular access to certain products others could rarely, if ever, acquire. Though the rumor could never be substantiated, it was clear Mark offered things other places had no access to. His friends sometimes teased him about how much beer it must cost him each month to keep the local constables happy.

Another word circulating around the pub was that a good woman, a real woman worth the time and effort to get to know, drank stouts and avoided that watery clear stuff others referred to as trans-beer. Male patrons could be seen carefully observing what beer the lady clientele drank before ordering the same and chancing a visit to their table.

The ancient stone building housing Mark’s business hailed from an era long forgotten. The massive beams cut nearly a century ago from old-growth timber served as a reminder of times when men were men, the mills ran full time, wages were tops, freedom prevailed and the gospel was taken seriously.

Viewed from outside, three six-foot weathered wood frame windows with rounded crowns dressed the front of the brick and stone building. To their right stood a massive wooden front door, framed in brick and heavy timbers.

The windows delivered the only natural light into the confines of the long, narrow building. A bit dark in the back for some patrons, but others found it to be just what they were looking for. Sconces adorned the left-hand wall and helped provide the perfect atmosphere. The beer was the main draw, but privately it was also known as a place one could find the encouraging words of the gospel shared by barkeep Mark.

The forlorn condition of the nation could weigh heavy if allowed, but Mark mentally shut it out. You have a choice: he reminded himself. One could trust in his faith and be content or wallow in the worries of the world. Mark always chose faith and contentment.

After some serious personal trials years ago, the Lord had richly blessed Mark. Committing the rest of his life to serving the Lord, he was confident in his path forward. With most churches dispensing anything but the Word of God, Mark learned how even within the confines of his pub, the harvest could be plentiful.

Tony was whistling softly to himself when Clayton walked in. Good afternoon. He beamed.

Is it? Clayton said. I guess I hadn’t noticed.

Whoa, ol’ buddy. What’s going on?

Clayton looked down the bar to where he normally sat and saw Mark in conversation with Sheriff Nutbush. Taking a seat at the bar near the front door he turned back to Tony. Sorry man. Sometimes it all gets to be too much.

Tough night with your PTSD, huh.

Yup. You could say that. It’s hard to deal with sometimes and that’s not even taking into consideration the condition of this crazy world we live in.

I hear you. We’ve all got our battles. Tony paused and looked down the bar towards Mark. Then smiling, But you know me, I just give mine to the Lord.

Clayton ignored him and quickly changed the subject. Nodded towards the back where Mark met with Nutbush. What’s going on down there?

Not sure. Sheriff’s up to something though. Now, what can I bring you?

Clayton smiled for the first time. My old standby, Pallet Rack.

While Tony was drawing the beer Clayton continued observing the conversation taking place at the end of the bar. Mark shuffled back and forth from one foot to the other. Clayton knew that was something he did when he was uncomfortable.

Tony returned with the beer. I’ve been watching those two as well. Can’t be a good thing having to deal with that guy.

No doubt.

You know he brought girls here from Portland. Roach says there’s some truth to the rumors that most of em were kidnapped. The lucky ones get to be strippers.

The lucky ones?

Sex trafficking.

Seriously? The guys a bigger monster than I thought.

Can’t prove anything but that’s the word on the street. Nutbush ran quite the operation in Portland before they busted him down here. Jacks’ convinced his daughter’s disappearance is tied to Nutbush.

Speaking of Jack. How’s the ole boy doing? Haven’t seen him for a while.

Ok, I guess. He and Scarlett haven’t been in for a while.

Suddenly the volume of the conversation between Mark and Nutbush picked up. Well, you think about it Mark and I’ll check back with you later. Nutbush pushed away from the bar and set a preposterous white cowboy hat on his head before heading towards the front door. From under his black unibrow, beady eyes raked Clayton in a baleful glare as he walked past.

What was that all about? Tony had seen the look.

He knows I’m ex-military. Best not to let him know you are as well. We are all under suspicion.

Just as the front door closed Deacon and Barrett walked in and greeted Clayton. Thought we might find you here, Deacon said

Mark joined them, took their orders, and returned with two more glasses of beer.

So what did the Sheriff want? Clayton asked.

Mark grimaced and shook his head. You’ll never believe it. The guy wants me to put in a pole and a dance floor for strippers in the back.

Deacon raised his eyebrows and grinned devilishly. I’m not cheap, but if you twist my arm.

Barrett smacked him on the arm. One look at your hairy back and every woman in the place would leave.

The front door opened, and each man’s eye caught on the beautiful blond that entered. She crossed the room and took a window seat at the table situated furthest from the door.

Before Deacon can scare her off, I’d better go say hello, Barrett ordered up two beers from Tony and headed her way.

She was just getting settled in when an unfamiliar waiter approached and extended two glasses of beer. Hello, Miss. I understand you enjoy a Deep Vat stout. He had no clue what she liked, but the stout was as good a play as any.

Angel looked into the face of a sandy-haired man she had never seen before. Well, as a matter of fact, I do. You must be new here?

Um, no, but…

Then how did you know what beer to bring me?

Oh, uh, well, Mark shared that with me. He fibbed. Now before we go much further, please let me introduce myself. My name’s Barrett and I don’t actually work here, but…

Look. Angel interrupted. I’d really prefer to be left alone right now, ok. This has been one rough day and I wouldn’t be the best company anyway, so if you don’t mind.

Barrett set the glass of beer on her table and tipped a non-existent hat. Certainly. I understand. Sorry to bother you. Maybe another time. Beers on me. He smiled briefly and turned to go.

Returning to the bar, Barrett observed Clayton quietly laughing to himself. I never fail to get a kick out of seeing you turned down, my friend. He laughed a little louder this time. Someday I’ll show you how it’s done.

You’ve been out of circulation too long, old man. Don’t think you could show me much of anything.

Someday. You’ll see.

From the other side of Clayton, Deacon joined the banter, and the taunting continued until Barrett got serious. So, friend to friend, I know it’s a tender subject, but it’s not good to spend your life alone. When you gonna get back in the saddle Clayton?

Ok, I’ll admit, getting back in the saddle sounds good, but I get by. When the time’s right I’ll be ready, but I’m not gonna hurry anything. I’m thirty-five, just like you, and see no reason to be in a rush. Besides, I’ve got you and Deacon here to keep me entertained and Mark’s gonna preach me right into church someday.

Barrett chuckled and tilted his head. Alright, my friend. You know, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse.

Noting the inside reference to their time in Afghanistan the three clinked glasses in memory of lost friends.

Moments later, the lights flickered, and the power went out.

Deacon rolled his dark eyes, Here we go. Must have lost a blade off another windmill.

Rolling blackouts were a common feature of the new green deal. The climate alarmists refused to allow a move back to more reliable energy sources such as natural gas, even as a backup, and without a backup to meet peak demand on windless or cloudy days the system often crashed. Even though power was regionally shared on a tight schedule, shortages were unavoidable without a reliable backup. Though it was a well-documented fact the earth’s temperatures had been both rising and falling since the beginning of time, those facts didn’t fit the zeitgeist.

Blackouts became a normal part of life and Mark was quickly about the place with lanterns and candles. He liked to draw attention to a National Geographic special with Leonard Nimoy. Filmed in the early ’70s, they claimed a new ice age was coming. It was always good for a laugh. Incredibly the program could still be found on the internet.

Will someone please tell me when the climate wasn’t changing? God’s in charge of the earth’s thermostat. Only mankind’s ego allows him to believe he could be in charge of it. It was a common refrain heard from Mark.

Mark approached the three amigos with raised eyebrows and a ‘what’s new’ look on his face. How we doing here, guys? The rhetorical question needed no answer, and he continued. I used to have a generator that kicked in when this happened and the lights would be back on in an instant. But with fuel prices where they’re at…

In that instant, the lights popped back on and