Free Wolves by D. J. Molles

“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.
    â€œBullshit.”
    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.
    â€œLet 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?”
    â€œBigger.”
    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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œOkay,” 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.
    â€œFine,” 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