“I’m surprised you guys are open.”

I shrug, shaking a mixer and turning to face the newcomer. It was a cop who sometimes patrolled outside the club. I’ve heard stories about him from Leeroy, the bouncer. The Final Pour is a bar that serves people from the fringes of society, and a lot of cops tended to give us a hard time for it.

This particular cop is in uniform and I can’t help but notice the gun at his side.

“And what about you—John isn’t it? You on duty tonight?”

The door opens as a couple of regulars enter and I catch a glimpse of the horrifying shade of crimson the sky has turned. The karaoke singer starts shouting the chorus to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell.

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m supposed to be out patrolling, but… what’s the point?” John says as a man wearing a jean Misfits vest stumbles into him. John shoves him away, knocking him into another regular, almost breaking them out of a zombie-like trance before they turn their attention back to the static flickering on the TV above the bar.

The news had ceased broadcasting days ago, leaving us in a void of information, but it didn’t matter. The reality is there for all to see outside the windows of my bar, where the streets lay empty, and the sky churns with unnatural colors.

Yet, here inside, life persists in its own stubborn way. The karaoke machine plays the first few chords of “What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes and a few people at the bar shout their appreciation of the next singer’s choice.

“What’ll it be?” I ask.

“Whatever’s on tap,” John replies.

After a moment he asks a question of his own. “Why are you still working? Don’t you have a family?”

I hand him a glass of well. “I always believed that a good bartender needs to be part listener, part confidant, and part storyteller,” I say, wiping down the bar. “Now, I find myself embodying each role more than ever, sharing tales of brighter days and listening to the fears and hopes of my guests. We are a strange kind of family, bound not by blood but by circumstance.”

I can see by his eyes that he’s not satisfied with my answer, so I give him a little more insight into the lives of those of us in the Final Pour. “These people here, me and the other bartender, Diane, and Leeroy,” — I point to the muscular black bouncer near the pool tables — “We don’t belong. The world has always made that abundantly clear to all of us. The world that’s ending out there for all of you? It ended for us a long time ago…”

The cop takes a long gulp of his drink.

Diane must have heard what we were talking about, because she walks over to chime in, her green eyes flashing with contempt for the cop on the other side of the bar. “When going to work or shopping at the store or dealing with your relatives causes you anxiety — puts your body into trauma response — you’re labelled a weirdo or crazy or worse. Before the end of the world started, this is the only place we could all fit in.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Before the end of the world started?”

“Well, yeah. When it’s the end of the world, being in constant fight-or-flight mode is pretty normal, right? For the first time, our reaction to everything is considered well-adjusted…”

Nicki, a regular seated next to John, leaned on the bar, her pink bangs falling into her face, hiding her many piercings. Her voice cuts through the tension, light but with an undertone of seriousness. “This place… it’s more than just a bar. It’s a sanctuary. For many of us, The Final Pour is the one spot where the chaos outside doesn’t matter, where we can drown out the madness with a drink and a song.”

John looks around, his gaze lingering on the faces of the patrons, each lost in their own world, yet together in this strange haven. The cop’s stern façade softens, perhaps for the first time understanding the true essence of this place.

As the night wears on, the atmosphere in The Final Pour thickens with stories and songs, laughter and tears mingling with the music. Diane and I keep the drinks flowing, and Leeroy watches over the crowd with a gentle but firm presence, ensuring the peace, despite the now-constant rumbling, like a low-grade earthquake.

Suddenly, the doors swings open, the hum of destruction filling the room and disrupting the relative calm. The otherworldly glow from outside is blinding. Everyone freezes, the drag queen singing “I Will Survive” stops mid-verse, and all eyes turn towards the entrance. Leeroy moves swiftly, positioning himself between the patrons and the potential threat.

The hollow sounding karaoke keyboard music is the only sound as a figure finally enters the bar, silhouetted against the eerie glow of the outside world.

It’s Maria, a street artist known for her murals depicting scenes of hope amidst despair. She’s panting, her eyes wide with urgency. “They’re coming,” she gasps, “The Cleansers. They’re heading this way, removing everything they deem ‘unfit’ for their new world.”

The weight of Maria’s words hangs heavy in the air for a moment as everyone takes in their meaning. John stands up while everyone else is reeling, his hand instinctively going to his gun, his face a mask of resolve. “I’ll handle this,” he declares, the uniformed protector suddenly emerging from the shell of the disillusioned cop.

But it’s not just John who rises. One by one, the patrons of the Final Pour stand, a ragtag assembly of the marginalized and misunderstood, ready to defend their sanctuary. Diane nods to me, and I understand what must be done. Together, we begin to organize our defense, rallying the regulars into a formidable force.

As the rumbling rising in volume, a mix of fear and determination settles over the bar. We know the fight ahead will be perilous, but for the first time, the outcasts and misfits have something they’re willing to fight for.

John steps out into the street, the patrons behind him, a bizarre army ready to face the oncoming threat. And as they prepare for what might be their last stand, The Final Pour transforms from a mere bar into a legend, a beacon of hope and defiance in the face of the apocalypse.

“Last call!” I shout over the deafening roar shaking bottles off the shelves behind me. I catch a particularly expensive bottle that tumbles from the top shelf, pouring shots and handing them out to patrons as they run into the blinding light outside.

I pour two shots for Nicki and Diane, the last two people in the bar, and watch them dash out into the blinding glow. Before I can join them, the ceiling collapses in around me, blocking any way out from behind the bar. I pick up a half shattered glass and realize that the Final Pour continues to be what it always has been: a declaration of freedom, a statement that even in the darkest times, there are places and people worth protecting.

And so, under the blood-red sky, as the world outside crumbles, I find solace behind the bar, polishing glasses that might never again hold a drink.