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What used to be the Oklahoma State Fairground was now an open-air market where one could buy weaponry, food, clothing, information, sex, car parts, and many other goods and services if one desired.
The grounds were ideal for this function, as they were fenced with one large entrance and only a few other small entrances. The entire set-up was easily fortified, guarded and controlled, and a post-apocalypse entrepreneur named Phyllis (who’d been a secretary to a school superintendent before the world had ended and always felt her organization skills were under-utilized) had hired muscle, rented spaces and turned the power on and was now enjoying the fruits of her labor.
A secondary fence surrounded the parking lot, and armed security roamed it. A large sign declared, “Looting will not be tolerated,” in a way that implied looters would be shot and disposed of.
At the main gate, a smaller sign listed the State Fair rules.
• No weapons of any kind.
• Theft will not be tolerated.
• Violence will not be tolerated.
• No demons.
• No vampires.
• Enjoy your visit.
“But he’s with me,” Wesley patiently told the guard again. “And anyway, he has a soul. I promise you, he’s not going to start snacking on your patrons.”
“Look, buddy,” the guard said, “lots of people use vampires for security these days, but they can’t come in here. You can stash him there and pick him up when you leave,” and he pointed at a trailer beside the entrance.
It had its own sign, which read, “Liquor. Fresh blood. Humans enter with caution.”
Wesley sighed and gave Angel a look. Angel held out his hands. “Seriously?”
“I have to go find our contact,” Wesley said reasonably. “You have some pocket change, go grab a drink and I’ll come get you when I’m finished.”
“This is discrimination,” Angel told the guards. “You’re racists, you know that?” He pointed a finger at their bored faces, and let Wesley steer him away.
At the door to the blood bar, the guard looked up from his book with a single quick glance and asked, “He need chained up?”
Wesley paused and Angel pinched him, hard, on the wrist. “No,” Wesley said. “He can behave.”
He left. Angel watched him enter the fairgrounds with disappointment. From inside the grounds he could hear music and people and see the lights of what looked like some of the old rides and games. He went into the trailer.
It was very dark, and small. A bar lined one long wall, and tiny tables and chairs were lined along the other. At the end of the trailer, two vampires were playing darts.
Angel grabbed a barstool. A purple demon with horns tossed the rag he’d been using to wipe down the bar over his shoulder and said, “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey,” Angel said. “Blood to chase.”
He paid with little packets of wet wipes, always good trade at a bar. He tossed back the whiskey and then sipped at the blood. He looked at the guy seated beside him and realized he wasn’t a vampire.
“Hey, you’re human,” he said.
“Unfortunately,” the man said, and tapped the bar for a refill. The purple demon obliged.
“So what’re you doing out here with the rest of the outcasts?” Angel said, then continued without waiting for a reply. “Can you believe those rules at the gate? Blatantly racist, but no one says a word. Sure, now it’s demons and vampires, but you wait, soon it will be,” he floundered and waved his mug of blood around vaguely, “and then they’ll be sorry.”
“It is impossible to conduct trade inside there anyway,” the man said. “The ignorance is too pervasive and deliberate.”
Angel sighed. “I guess.” He sipped his blood. “Do they have the rides up?”
“Some,” the man said. “The one where you go around and around very fast until you are sick.”
“I love that one,” Angel said wistfully. He looked at the man again. “So, why are you out here again?”
“My skills of negotiation leave something to be desired,” the man said, and it sounded like he was quoting someone else. “Especially when they involve my fist and a liar’s face.”
Angel scoffed. “He was asking for it,” he said. “No violence. Figures, from the no-vampire people.”
The man drank and stared at the mirror behind the bar morosely. Besides the purple demon, he was the only person reflected there. He turned and looked at Angel for the first time, curiously.
“Why do you have a soul?” he asked.
“You can tell that?” Angel said in surprise.
“Yes,” the man said, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, uh, gypsy curse,” Angel said, and waved his hand again. The man nodded, accepting. “How could you tell?”
“I’m an angel of the Lord,” the man said, and turned back to his drink. “At least, I used to be. I can still see some things.”
“Really?” Angel said. “Like, an angel in heaven with wings?”
“I was stationed on earth,” the man said. “But I had wings.” After a beat, he added, “They’re gone now.”
“Oh.” Angel, who had been about to ask if he could see them, was disappointed. “Funny,” he said after a second. “My name is Angel.”
The man cut him a disapproving sidelong look, but only offered his own name in return. “Castiel.”
“Castiel.” Angel went back, back, back through the file drawers of his mind. “I don’t think I’ve heard of you. What are – were – you an angel of?”
“Thursday,” the man said curtly.
“Thursday?”
“Thursday.”
Angel thought about that. “Okay,” he finally said. “So, uh, why aren’t you an angel anymore?”
“I was bitten by a zombie,” the man said, and signaled for another drink. Angel gestured to his whisky glass as well, and finished off the blood.
“Wow,” Angel said, then, “I wonder what a zombie bite would do to me.”
“You can buy them inside,” the bartender said as he refilled their drinks. “If you wanted to find out.”
“Yeah, too bad I can’t get inside,” Angel said with harsh sarcasm.
The bartender shrugged. “Your human could buy you one,” he said. “Some folks keep them for pets, but if you ask me, the only thing they’re good for is Zombie Fight Club.”
“There’s a Zombie Fight Club?” Angel asked with interest.
“Saturdays,” Castiel said. “Biggest betting night of the week.” He looked at the bartender. “Hey, Harry, what day is it?”
“Uh,” Harry thought, “Wednesday?”
Castiel nodded. “I should be back in by then,” he told Angel. “My human hates to miss Zombie Fight Club.”
“So you’re like in time-out for fighting?” Angel asked, and Castiel shrugged.
“We do a lot of business here,” he said. “It’s not like I smote someone.” He looked wistful. “I haven’t smote anyone in years.”
“Yeah,” Angel said, melancholy.
They drank in silence.
* * *
Wesley brought a guy back with him, good-looking but with a wicked scar across his forehead. “This is our guy,” Wesley said, sitting down and waving Harry over for a drink. “He’ll come with us and lend a hand.”
The guy plopped down on the other side of Castiel and slapped him on the shoulder. “Up for a killing spree?” he asked cheerily.
“Is this your human?” Angel asked Castiel with interest.
The guy’s face wrinkled in displeasure. “Dude, stop calling me that,” he said, taking Castiel’s drink from him and downing it. “Also, you’re human now too.”
“His name is Angel,” Castiel said.
“Hey,” the guy said brightly, “and you used to be one. Funny old world, isn’t it?”
Angel smiled at him. Wesley ignored them and slammed back his whisky. Castiel stared at himself in the mirror.
Harry wiped down the bar.