Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalipse

Moro’s eyes got hot. "Hell with you, lady. I don’t need the company that bad."

"Fine." Ginny sniffed the air and walked out. "You have a nice day."

Moro watched her walk. Watched denims mould her legs, studied the hydraulics of her hips. Considered several unlikely acts. Considered cleaning up, searching for proper clothes. Considered finding a bottle and watching the tapes. A plastic embrace at best, or so he’d heard, but a lot less hassle in the end.

#

Possum Dark watched the van disappear into the shop. He felt uneasy at once. His place was on top. Keeping Ginny from harm. Sending feral prayers for murder to absent genetic gods. His eyes hadn’t left Dog since he’d appeared. Primal smells, old fears and needs, assailed his senses. Dog locked the gate and turned around. Didn’t come closer, just turned.

"I’m Dog Quick," he said, folding hairy arms. "I don’t much care for Possums."

"I don’t much care for Dogs," said Possum Dark. Dog seemed to understand.

"What did you do before the War?"

"Worked in a theme park. Our Wildlife Heritage. That kind of shit. What about you?"

"Security, what else?" Dog made a face. "Learned a little electrics. Picked up a lot more from Moro Gain. I’ve done worse." He nodded toward the shop. "You like to shoot people with that thing?"

"Anytime I get the chance."

"You ever play any cards?"

"Some." Possum Dark showed his teeth. "I guess I could handle myself with a Dog."

"For real goods?" Dog returned the grin.

"New deck, unbroken seal, table stakes," Possum said.

Moro showed up at Ruby John’s Cot Emporium close to noon. Ginny had a semiprivate stall, covered by a blanket. She’d bathed and braided her hair and cut the legs clean off her jeans. She tugged at Moro’s heart.

"It’ll be tomorrow morning," Moro said. "Cost you ten gallons of gas."

"Ten gallons," Ginny said. "That’s stealin’, and you know it."

"Take it or leave it," Moro said. "You got a bad head in that rig. Going to come right off, you don’t fix it. You wouldn’t like that. Your customers wouldn’t like it any at all."

Ginny appeared subdued but not much. "Four gallons. Tops."

"Eight. I got to make the parts myself."

"Five."

"Six," Moro said. "Six and I take you to dinner."

"Five and a half, and I want to be out of this sweatbox at dawn. On the road and gone when the sun starts bakin’ your lovely town."

"Damn, you’re fun to have around."

Ginny smiled. Sweet and disarming, an unexpected event. "I’m all right. You got to get to know me."

"Just how do I go about that?"

"You don’t." The smile turned sober. "I haven’t figured that one out."

#

It looked like rain to the north. Sunrise was dreary. Muddy, less-than-spectacular yellows and reds. Colours through a window no one had bothered to wash. Moro had the van brought out. He said he’d thrown in a lube and hosed out the back. Five and a half gallons were gone out of the wagon. Ginny had Del count while Moro watched.

"I’m honest," Moro said, "you don’t have to do that."

"I know," Ginny said, glancing curiously at Dog, who was looking rather strange. He seemed out of sorts. Sulky and off his feed. Ginny followed his eyes and saw Possum atop the van. Possum showed a wet Possum grin.

"Where you headed now?" Moro asked, wanting to hold her as long as he could.

"South," Ginny said, since she was facing that direction.

"I wouldn’t," Moro said. "Not real friendly folks down there."

"I’m not picky. Business is business."

"No, sir," Moro shook his head. "Bad business is what it is. You got the Dry Heaves south and east. Doom City after that. Straight down and you’ll hit the Hackers. Might run into Fort Pru, bunch of disgruntled insurance agents out on the flats. Stay clear away from them. Isn’t worth whatever you’ll make."

"You’ve been a big help," Ginny said.

Moro gripped her door. "You ever listen to anyone, lady? I’m giving good advice."

"Fine," Ginny said, "I’m ’bout as grateful as I can be."

Moro watched her leave. He was consumed by her appearance. The day seemed to focus in her eyes. Nothing he said pleased her in the least. Still, her disdain was friendly enough. There was no malice at all that he could see.

#

There was something about the sound of Doom City she didn’t like. Ginny told Del to head south and maybe west. Around noon, a yellow haze appeared on the ragged rim of the world, like someone rolling a cheap dirty rug across the flats.

"Sandstorm," Possum called from the roof. "Right out of the west. I don’t like it at all. I think we better turn. Looks like trouble coming fast."

There was nothing Possum said she couldn’t see. He had a habit of saying either too little or more than enough. She told him to cover his guns and get inside, that the sand would take his hide and there was nothing out there he needed to kill that wouldn’t wait. Possum Dark sulked but climbed down. Hunched in back of the van, he grasped air in the shape of grips and trigger guards. Practiced rage and windage in his head.

"I’ll bet I can beat that storm," Del said. "I got this feeling I can do it."