Elliott usually tried to be stoic about his love of beer; he didn’t want to look like an alcoholic or something. But he couldn’t remain stoic here, in this place, this temple of hops. It was a beautiful haven, and he wanted to stay. The moment they walked in they were flooded with more life and joviality than they’d seen in Portland. Of course, that could be because they’d only been to the police station.
The lobby of the hotel was filled with people having a great time, laughing and drinking beer, safe from the horrors outside. Or appearing to anyway: there was a wildness to the festivities, a tinny ring that belied their nervousness. Nonetheless, there was cheer; the electrical grid hadn’t yet failed and lights shone brightly and merrily from crystal chandeliers and fixtures. The noise was unbelievable, a wall of sound that hit Elliott so hard it took him a moment to sort out individual sources. There was a wonderful barrage of smells and sounds as well. Someone had a hot dog stand nearby, and the smell of the boiling dogs made Elliott’s stomach rumble; he heard Roger’s do the same. There was a buttery undertone of popcorn too.
But of course the greatest and most pervasive smell was that of the beer, the glorious beer. Hops and wheat and fermentation, with a citrus note from the piles of lemon and orange for the hefeweizens.
There couldn’t be a better reason for drinking than the zombie apocalypse but he hadn’t had a single beer since it started. And he couldn’t have one now either; he needed to focus on finding Junie. He could never forgive himself if something happened to her. He glanced once at Roger and thought he could see the same argument raging in his friend’s mind, though he didn’t exactly seem to be coming to the same conclusion: there was a beer bottle in his hand and he was close to draining it. But he was looking a little guilty about it. They weren’t more than ten feet in the door and Elliott couldn’t even see where the beer might have come from.
“Rog, we can’t be drinking! We have to keep our wits,” Elliott hissed.
“I’m getting my wits right now, my boy!” Roger said. “A few more and I’ll have more wits than the whole lot of ya!” He flagged down a little blonde woman in jeans and a t-shirt who seemed relatively sober. She turned big blue eyes on Roger and smiled charmingly. “Pardon miss, but have you seen a daft blonde around with a large, homicidal looking coffee mug?”
The blonde melted a little, probably because of the accent. Her eyes twinkled when she answered, “Well I don’t have a murder mug but I can be as daft as you want me to be.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder as if to remind him that she, too, was blonde.
Roger blinked and Elliott snickered. Roger could be dapper when he wanted but Elliott didn’t think he’d meant to turn on the charm; he looked somewhat flabbergasted. Rog thought he was out of shape, and Elliott couldn’t deny that he’d gone a bit soft around the middle, but the accent made up for no time at the gym.
“No, you misunderstand. I’m looking for a specific daft blonde,” he said apologetically. “With a homicidal coffee mug,” he added as an afterthought.
“Oh, I see,” the blonde blushed prettily but looked not the least bit embarrassed by her gaffe. “Well, no I haven’t. Did you check with Carl and Pete at the front? The security guards?”
“Aye, we asked them already,” Roger said, discouraged.
The blonde shrugged. “Well, keep looking. It’s a big place.” She gestured expansively as though they couldn’t possibly have seen how big it was without her say so, and walked away, throwing one glance over her shoulder at Roger. Elliott didn’t think she’d registered his presence at all. “Oh, and don’t forget to ask the Brewmaster.” She was gone before they could ask who that was.
Both men looked longingly at the variety of taps available as they passed, but made sure to keep a sharp eye on the crowd as well. Elliott noticed that there were a few ballrooms set aside for underage children, who ran around playing as though nothing bad in the world were happening; apparently they didn’t have the heart to turn away anyone needing protection, even if they weren’t drinking beer.
They searched and asked about Junie with anyone who looked knowledgeable, but they got no bites. A number of patrons also suggested the elusive Brewmaster, but all failed to elaborate on where this man could be found.
At last they asked a man dispensing an IPA, a red ale and a porter from polished wooden taps at his booth.
“Ah, yeah, Brewmaster Tedd. He knows everyone. But he isn’t here,” the man said, shaking his head so that his red, shaggy hair swung. “He left yesterday. But should be back soon. He’s never far from the highest concentration of beer in the area. And right now, that’s here.”
It wasn’t the answer they were hoping for, but undaunted, Elliott and Roger kept looking, both hoping (though never saying out loud) that the others were having more luck.