Read Online Wolves by D. J. Molles - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œGuns,” 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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œHmmm …” 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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œD Ó nde?” Rigo repeats.
    The scrapper nods. “Dónde? Dónde you find these?”
    Rigo seems uncertain with his answer. “Al túnel?”
    â€œWhat? 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.
    â€œI’m sorry there’s just not enough for a gun here.”
    â€œThat’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.