Wolves (6 page)

Huxley looks back to the young man.

“Y'all Wastelanders?” he says, looking between them. “That's what Bud said.”

“Word travels fast,” Huxley says, plainly.

The man shrugs. “Don't get Wastelanders that often. And Trigger's right,” he nods toward the owner of the whorehouse. “I know you didn't mean nothin' by it, but we don't deal with the slavers. They don't mess with Borderline 'cause of the walls and the guards, but they've been known to hit some smaller groups.” The man scoffs. “They tell us we're a part of the Riverlands, but that don't mean nothing to the slavers. If they don't get a good haul from the Wastelands, they'll just as soon fill their wagons with our people.”

Huxley works his jaw. “You're gonna have to help me out here. We don't get much news out west.”

The man hesitates for a second, then smiles, as though he is realizing something. “Holy shit. Y'all have no idea what we're talking about, do you?”

“We're from farming communes,” Jay interjects, with a little irritation in his voice. “We keep to ourselves.”

“Huh.” The scrapper rubs his nose with a knuckle. “Well then.”

“What's the Riverlands?” Huxley asks.

“You're looking at it. Technically.”

“Not many rivers around here.”

“Nope. Riverlands started out east. 'Tween the Mississippi and the Red River. We never even heard of it. Then one day, a Black Hat comes into town and tells us we're a part of the Riverlands. This is, oh, maybe five years ago. We says, ‘The fuck is the Riverlands?' He says, ‘The Riverlands is civilization.' Run by the Council. Which is run by Chairman Warner. And they up and decided that they own everything west of the Mississippi. We tell the Black Hat to go fuck himself, and off he goes. But every once in a while one rolls through, says the same shit as the last one. And every time we tell 'em to fuck off.” The scrapper shakes his head. “Doesn't seem to make much difference, either way.”

“What is a Black Hat?”

“They work for the council. They hunt down outlaws and kill 'em. No trial. No judge. They call it ‘serving warrants.' Nobody gets locked up. Ain't no jails. Black Hats come to serve a warrant, they just put you in the ground.” The scrapper shrugs again. “Least, that's what I hear. Like I said, only Black Hats I see roll through and tell us we're part of the Riverlands, and then move on.”

Huxley smirks. “Why do they call them Black Hats?”

The scrapper smiles back. “'Cause they wear black hats.”

“Lot of folks wear black hats.”

The scrapper shakes his head. “Not these ones. They're the wide-brimmed ones. Boonie hats. Old military hats. If you ain't a Black Hat and you get caught wearin' one … they'll put you down just as quick as a common criminal.”

Huxley leans on the table a bit. “And the slavers. Is that where they go? Do they go to the Riverlands?”

The scrapper straightens a bit, his eyes narrowing. “Well, now that's a good question. We're told that slaving is illegal. Black Hats claim to hunt down slavers. But I never seen it. No one that's ever been taken by a slaver ever comes back. And all I know is that they go east. Everybody says they go east. So, yeah … I guess it's somewhere in the Riverlands. Maybe even out past the Riverlands. Hell, maybe there's a port, and they sail through the Gulf of Mexico. Who the hell knows?”

Huxley forces his gaze down to the table, processing what he's been told while he pretends to look over the things offered for trade. He doesn't really register what he is looking at. He is picturing mysterious men in black hats, and some council that claims to be running everything, though they seem not to have much of a civilizing affect this far west. And of course, the slavers. The woman with the black braid. The man with the scorpion tattoo. Going east. To nobody-seemed-to-know-where.

Huxley grinds his teeth.

He is overwhelmed in that instant, and he almost has to grip the table. He has the sensation that none of this is real. His barley fields were real. His wife was real. His daughter was real.

And then there is some horrible nightmare of endless desert and low-lying scrub, and terror, and living like an animal in the Wastelands.

And then he comes out on the other side, and this is waiting here, and he can't really tell whether he's still dreaming or not.

What do I feel?

I feel very confused.

“You okay?”

Huxley looks up at the scrapper. “Yes. Fine. Just … taking it in.”

The scrapper sniffs, looks between the men standing at his display table. These rare Wastelanders. “Well … heard you were looking to trade. Anything in mind?”

“Guns,” Huxley says, quietly. “We need guns.”

The scrapper purses his lips. “Guns. Of course.” He clears a portion of the table. “What've you got?”

Huxley, Jay, and Rigo all look amongst each other again.

“Come on,” Huxley says, motioning for everyone to put their items on the table. “Let's pool everything together.”

Jay and Rigo empty their satchels on the tabletop.

“Hmmm …” the scrapper pokes through the items, seeming to mentally calculate what they're worth. He grimaces, as though it is coming up short and it pains him.

Huxley points to the 9mm cartridges. “Those bullets have to be worth something, right? You can't find them anywhere. And the batteries …”

The scrapper wobbles his head back and forth. “Well … when's the last time you seen anyone with a cartridge gun besides a .22?”

Huxley doesn't answer. The last time he saw anyone use a cartridge gun was maybe two years after the skyfire.

“You got any .22s?” the scrapper asks.

Huxley shakes his head.

The scrapper grunts to himself and continues poking through the pile. His fingers flit past the couple of fuses, uninterested. Then he double-takes and seizes one from the table, holding it up to the light and inspecting the filament. Realization dawns on him that these fuses are intact. He grabs the others off the table and inspects them as well.

He turns narrowed eyes to Rigo. “Where'd you find these?”

Rigo looks confused. “Qué? No comprendo, amigo.”

The scrapper points to the fuses that he cradles in one hand. “Dónde?”

“D
Ó
nde?” Rigo repeats.

The scrapper nods. “Dónde? Dónde you find these?”

Rigo seems uncertain with his answer. “Al túnel?”

“What? A tunnel?” The scrapper looks to Huxley. “What did he say?”

Huxley shrugs. “I don't speak Spanish.”

But Rigo is nodding. “Yes. Yes. Tunnel. De los coches al túnel.”

The scrapper keeps staring at them for a long moment, and he seems unwilling to let them leave his hand. He closes his fingers around them and continues to rifle through the pile with his other hand. He separates a few more odds and ends that he seems interested in, but still isn't happy.

“I'm sorry there's just not enough for a gun here.”

“That's all we got,” Huxley says.

The scrapper looks at him.

Huxley shifts his weight. “Alright, let's talk water and food.” He points to a collection of plastic bottles of water. “Are those bottles still sealed?”

The scrapper snatches one up and sets it before Huxley. “Sealed as the day it came out of the factory. Perfect, clear, purified water, my friend.”

Huxley takes up the bottle and closely inspects the cap. He can see the tiny burn marks in the plastic where the enterprising scrapper has resealed the bottle ring to its cap. It doesn't mean the water is bad, but it certainly isn't factory-fresh. Huxley sets the water bottle back on the table and regards the scrapper with a skeptical eye.

“Bullshit.”

The scrapper's jaw works. “You calling me a liar?”

Huxley shrugs. “Maybe you didn't know. In any case, those bottles have been resealed.”

The scrapper takes the bottle back and pretends to be shocked as he looks at the cap, though Huxley knows he is the one that resealed it. “I will not be trading with the man that brought these in ever again. Clearly he is not an honest trader. I apologize for the misinformation. But the water looks just as pure.” The scrapper shrugs. “The fuses and the duct tape.”

Huxley nods toward his clenched fist. “What you want those fuses for anyway?”

The scrapper withdraws the hand protectively. “Something I'm building.”

Huxley smiles. “You know you'll never find an unblown fuse without some serious traveling.”

The scrapper doesn't answer.

“Let me see your guns.” Huxley taps the table with his fingertip. “Just out of curiosity.”

The scrapper breathes in and out slowly. “What you planning to shoot? Small game? Or something bigger?”

“Bigger.”

The scrapper ducks into his shack and returns a moment later with a firearm cobbled from parts. The barrel is short and wide and made of some ordinary pipe, about an inch in diameter and three feet long. It is attached unceremoniously by rusted metal bands to a chunk of wood that the scrapper has carved down into a rudimentary stock. A bulky looking trigger and ignition system takes up the back end.

“I build pretty decent scatterguns,” the scrapper says proudly. “Actually built that one out front. The
scattergatling.
That's what I call it.” He sets the scattergun down on the table. “This'n takes about thirty revolutions on the crank, but the coils'll stay hot for about a minute. It'll shoot pretty much anything you put down the barrel. Great weapon for a traveler such as yourself. I can give you a pound of my own powder mix to go with it.”

Huxley takes a sidelong glance at Jay. The other man is biting his lip. He looks at Huxley and nods. He wants the scattergun.

“Okay,” Huxley says. “And you say there's not enough here?”

The scrapper looks pained again. “Well … no. Just not quite enough. I'd be taking a loss. You could barely afford the gun, let alone the powder and wadding.”

Huxley senses there's room to wiggle here. He thrusts his hand out. “Then we'll take our business elsewhere. I'll have those fuses back now.”

The scrapper pretends not to care. He hesitates for a brief moment before pouring the fuses back into Huxley's hand. Huxley and Rigo then begin gathering up the items from the table. Rigo doesn't seem to really know what's going on, but he follows Huxley's lead. Huxley places the fuses on the tabletop for the scrapper to look at while they gather up the other items.

Huxley is about to sweep the fuses off the table when the scrapper's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

The two men stare at each other in silence for a moment.

“Fine,” the scrapper says, under his breath. “You're fucking killing me. But I want the fuses, the wiring, the multitool, and the duct tape. I want all of it. Except for the batteries and the cartridges. You can keep that shit.”

Huxley's jaw bunches. “I'll give you all of that. But I want the powder and wadding for the rifle, too. And the water.”

“Fucking bandit!” the scrapper cries.

Huxley shrugs. “That's the offer.”

The scrapper bares his teeth. “Fuck me. I can't do the water. That's too much. You're crazy. But I'll do the gun and the powder and the wadding. And I can give you a tip.” He holds up a finger. “A tip that will help you get some food and water. But that's as much as I'll do. You're robbing me as it is. Fucking Wastelanders.”

“What's the tip?”

The scrapper extends his hand. “Deal first.”

Huxley looks at Jay and Rigo. Jay presses a finger against his lips in thoughtful repose and nods silently. Rigo is staring off at the whores. He realizes that Huxley is looking at him and holds up one of his thumbs and says, “Está bien.”

Huxley takes the scrapper's hand and shakes it once. “Deal. What's the info?”

The scrapper begins to gather the items he has traded for. His eyes flicker across the way to the smokehouse. “Barry, the guy that runs the smokehouse? He's got an old Luger 9mm. He'll give you plenty of food for those cartridges.”

Huxley eyes the man suspiciously. “Why didn't you take the cartridges to trade with him?”

The scrapper smiles slyly. “I knocked his daughter up and now he won't barter with me.”

The scrapper puts a pound of powder on the table in an old, plastic Coke bottle. He grabs an old paperback book and waves it in the air, saying “That's your wadding,” and then slaps it down on the table. Huxley
gathers the powder and the wadding and shoves them into Jay's satchel. The scattergun is equipped with a nylon strap secured in two points by nails driven into the wooden stock. Huxley slings the weapon onto his back.

Rigo scoops back his batteries and 9mm cartridges.

The scrapper gives a heavy sigh. “Now y'all get out of here. Go rob someone else.”

At the smokehouse, Barry trades them three pounds of salt beef and fills their water skin for the eight cartridges from Rigo's pockets. Huxley leaves one of the pounds of salt beef on the smokehouse counter, and puts the other two in Jay's satchel. Huxley takes the remaining pound and carves it into three equal parts. Jay and Rigo each grab a part.

Still standing in front of the smokehouse, Huxley rips into his piece. It's salty, and hard. It is really meant to be cooked with water to rehydrate it, but it can be eaten like jerky in a pinch. And Huxley is hungry. The ribs and loins from the oxen the previous night have only gone so far to temper his starvation. He wants bread, but it doesn't seem like they get much grain, and he doesn't have much else to trade for it.

Jay gnaws on a piece. “Think it's actually beef?” he says quietly.

Huxley eyes his piece, still chewing. It could be dog. Probably was. Huxley hadn't seen any cattle around here. But he doesn't really care. He's eaten worse than dog. Far, far worse. He shrugs and keeps eating.