In a sense, he was lucky to be able to make this walk at all. Only three months ago, there was no such thing as a bar at all in Barrow. The village voted that there could be only one, as they thought it would help keep people from buying their booze from bootleggers. King honestly felt like he’d stepped back in time, or into another world entirely. Most people in the town of four thousand were native Alaskans. A lot of them still only spoke Iñupiaq, the language they’d known their entire lives. King sensed how out of place he was. Only a small percentage of people looked like King, and an even smaller amount differed from there. The uptick in the Caucasian population had been the recent influx of Russians moving in. Something it didn’t take long for King to figure out that wasn’t a popular thing here in the village.
So here he was, in the northernmost city in the United States, the ninth most northern city in the world, walking to a bar like he would in any other city at nine o’clock at night if he’d run out of booze. Some things never change.
It was quiet in the frozen town. No one was really out on the roads. The frozen arctic ocean just a couple hundred feet away ensured not much else could make noise either. Since it wasn’t time for one of the two commercial flights a day, the airport was silent as well. The fact that there were no roads in and out of this region of Alaska—not to mention no boats could float on ice—the term isolation had been taken to a whole other level. But right in front of him sat the most bustling place in all of Barrow—and for King, the only piece of his home he could get so far from the lower forty-eight: good ole Kentucky bourbon. And thankfully, a heater.
King walked through the door and into the warmth. His cheeks felt like needles were stabbing into them as the heat penetrated his cold skin. The bar wasn’t big. Probably the size of a McDonald’s in total, but decorated much differently. The hardwood floor met the hardwood walls, which held the likes of deer heads, moose busts, and even a full-sized Kodiac bear in the far corner. The bar top ran along the entire right side of the room, ending in the restrooms and a juke box, which fortunately was playing “Walk The Line” by Johnny Cash.
Though the population of Barrow was 65 percent native, the bar, at the moment, was nearly 100 percent Caucasian. King had heard some chatter over the last couple of days that alcohol was severely frowned upon by most natives. That was clear by the patrons gathered there. In the middle of all the four-top tables in the bar was a pool table. Probably the most popular place in the city since the bar had opened. Certainly one of the most dangerous as well. King had already seen two fights in two visits, and they were already ramping up, from what he could tell. The place was full. Only one lone seat at the far end of the bar. He put his head down and made his way there.
King didn’t plan on staying long. His second security shift of the day started in just an hour. The first few days on the job he was just being trained on how to keep the Volkov Mining site secure.
Tonight he would start the real reason he was sent to the northern edge of the world: to try to stop the manufacturing, and therefore the spread, of a virus that could potentially put an end to the American way of life as everyone knew it.
3
King removed his scarf and his coat and draped them on the back of his stool. As he removed his wool skull cap and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair, the other reason he’d made the freezing cold walk to the bar three nights in a row began walking his way.
And she was really something else.
Her sandy-brown hair bounced in her work ponytail. From the looks of her white V-neck T-shirt and snug blue jeans, it was clear she knew how to stay in shape. But it was her smile that melted what was left of the cold for King, and it was at full sparkle when she spoke to him.
“Let me guess. Bourbon, neat.”
“Is there any other way?”
“Not sure, I’m a tequila girl. But judging by your accent, you come by your love of bourbon honestly.”
She picked up one of only three bottles of bourbon the bar had—Maker’s Mark—and poured him a drink. The other two bottles weren’t up to par.
“Kentucky,” King said.
“Yeah?” She set the glass down in front of him. “What’s a Kentucky boy doin’ all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?”
King took the glass in his hand and gave her a nod. “Thank you. And I just needed a change of scenery.”
“Bullshit,” she said with a grin. “People go to Cancun for a change of scenery, not Barrow freakin’ Alaska.”
“That right?” he said as he took a sip.
“That’s right. People are either here because they were raised here, trying to strike it rich here . . .” She nodded to the Russians who were getting obnoxiously loud by the pool table. “Or they are running from something. Now I know you weren’t born here, and I also know that you work security at Volkov Mining, so you aren’t trying to get rich . . . so what was her name?”
“Natalie,” King lied. Though that was her name, it wasn’t why he was in Alaska. He was going to have to get used to lying, no matter how much he hated it. But at least there was a bit of truth to it.
She was drying a glass with her towel. “Well, she must have been something to drive you all the way out here.”
A man approached the bar aggressively and slammed a beer mug down on the bar top. “Who the hell you talking to, Cali?”
Cali took a step back. “Excuse me? You can’t talk to me like that, Ryker.”
“Okay.” The man shifted his focus to King. “Who the hell are you, and who do you think you’re talking to? She’s with me.”
Ryker was a big man, young, probably late twenties. He was clearly native Iñupiat by his dark hair, accent, and other Native American features. King didn’t care who the man was; he only cared about not getting involved.
King held up his hands. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Make no mistake,” Cali said. “I am not with you, Ryker. Leave the man alone, he’s new in town.”
“I can see that. We don’t take too kindly to newcomers around here.”
“Really?” Cali interrupted again. “You’re going to be that guy? Mister Cliché Townie?”
Ryker looked over and pointed his finger at Cali. “You shut your mouth.”
King stood from his bar stool. He hadn’t meant to. It was just a reflex. He could not afford to make an example out of this guy.
Ryker got in his face. His breath wreaked of alcohol. “Ooh, the big man stood up. You gonna do something?”
Cali rounded the corner of the bar and forced her way in between King and Ryker. She pushed Ryker back, but he grabbed her by the shoulder and tossed her aside. King watched as she fell to the floor, and before he could stop himself, King two-arm shoved Ryker so hard his feet left the ground and he landed hard on his back.
King instantly regretted it, because now he knew he was going to have to take a beating. He couldn’t be the new guy in town who knew how to fight. King just hoped someone would pull Ryker off him before it got too bad.
As soon as Ryker got back to his feet, the door to the bar opened behind him. A man in a police coat walked in and momentarily drew the attention of the bar. Ryker didn’t turn around. He was seething, solely focused on King.