Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalipse

"Beat it where?" Ginny said. "We don’t know where we are or what’s ahead."

"That’s true," Del said. "All the more reason then to get there soon as we can."

Ginny stepped out and viewed the world with disregard. "I got sand in my teeth and in my toes," she complained. "I’ll bet that Moro Gain knows right where storms’ll likely be. I’ll bet that’s what happened, all right."

"Seemed like a decent sort to me," Del said.

"That’s what I mean," Ginny said. "You can’t trust a man like that at all."

The storm had seemed to last a couple of days. Ginny figured maybe an hour. The sky looked bad as cabbage soup. The land looked just the way it had. She couldn’t see the difference between sand recently gone or newly arrived. Del got the van going again. Ginny thought about yesterday’s bath. East Bad News had its points.

Before they topped the first rise, Possum Dark began to stomp on the roof. "Vehicles to port," he called out. "Sedans and pickup trucks. Flatbeds and semis. Buses of all kinds."

"What are they doing?" Del said.

"Coming right at us, hauling timber."

"Doing what?" Ginny made a face. "Damn it all, Del, will you stop the car? I swear, you’re a driving fool."

Del stopped. Ginny climbed up with Possum to watch. The caravan kept a straight line. Cars and trucks weren’t exactly hauling timber… but they were. Each carried a section of a wall. Split logs bound together, sharpened at the top. The lead car turned and the others followed. The lead car turned again. In a moment, there was a wooden stockade assembled on the flats, square as if you’d drawn it with a rule. A stockade and a gate. Over the gate a wooden sign:

FORT PRU

Games of Chance & Amusement

Term * Whole Life * Half Life * Death

"I don’t like it," said Possum Dark.

"You don’t like anything’s still alive," Ginny said.

"They’ve got small arms and they’re a nervous-looking bunch."

"They’re just horny, Possum. That’s the same as nervous, or close enough."

Possum pretended to understand.

"Looks like they’re pulled up for the night," she called to Del. "Let’s do some business, friend. The overhead don’t ever stop."

#

Five of them came out to the van. They all looked alike. Stringy, darkened by the sun. Bare to the waist except for collars and striped ties. Each carried an attache case thin as two slices of bread without butter. Two had pistols stuck in their belts. The leader carried a fine-looking sawed-off Remington 12. It hung by a camou guitar strap to his waist. Del didn’t like him at all. He had perfect white teeth and a bald head. Eyes the colour of jellyfish melting on the beach. He studied the sign on the van and looked at Del.

"You got a whore inside or not?"

Del looked him straight on. "I’m a little displeased at that. It’s not the way to talk."

"Hey." The man gave Del a wink. "You don’t have to give us the pitch. We’re show business folk ourselves."

"Is that right?"

"Wheels of chance and honest cards. Odds I know you’ll like. I’m head actuary of this bunch. Name’s Fred. That animal up there has a piss-poor attitude, friend. No reason to poke that weapon down my throat. We’re friendly people here."

"No reason I can see why Possum’d spray this place with lead and diarrhetics," Del said. "Less you can think of something I can’t."

Fred smiled at that. The sun made a big gold ball on his head. "I guess we’ll try your girl," he told Del. "’Course we got to see her first. What do you take in trade?"

"Goods as fine as what you’re getting in return."

"I’ve got just the thing." The head actuary winked again. The gesture was starting to irritate Del. Fred nodded, and a friend drew clean white paper from his case. "This here is heavy bond," he told Del, shuffling the edges with his thumb. "Fifty percent linen weave, and we got it by the ream. Won’t find anything like it. You can mark on it good or trade it off. Seventh Mercenary Writers came through a week ago. Whole brigade of mounted horse. Near cleaned us out, but we can spare a few reams. We got pencils too. Mirado twos and threes, unsharpened, with erasers on the end. When’s the last time you saw that? Why, this stuff’s good as gold. We got staples and legal pads. Claim forms, maim forms, forms of every sort. Deals on wheels is what we got. And you got gas under wraps in the wagon behind your van. I can smell it plain from here. Friend, we can sure talk some business with you there. I got seventeen rusty-ass guzzlers runnin’ dry."

A gnat-whisker wire sparked hot in Dels head. He could see it in the underwriter’s eyes. Gasoline greed was what it was, and he knew these men were bent on more than fleshly pleasure. He knew with androidial dread that when they could, they’d make their play.

"Well now, the gas is not for trade," he said as calmly as he could. "Sex and tacos and dangerous drugs is what we sell."

"No problem," the actuary said. "Why, no problem at all. Just an idea, is all it was. You get that little gal out here and I’ll bring in my crew. How’s half a ream a man sound to you?"