Free Wolves by D. J. Molles Page A

rifle, too. And the water.”
    â€œFucking 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.”
    â€œWhat’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. Huxleygathers 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.
    Rigo is tearing at his piece with abandon. The question of the meat is either lost or unimportant to him.
    Over the sound of his own loud chewing, Huxley hears the gate rattling open again. He turns and sees three men entering. The first thing he notices about the men is how they smile and grin. They toss jokes back and forth with the sentries. They are well known here. They seem genuinely happy. And perhaps it has to do with the heavy satchels they are carrying—trade goods, Huxley assumes. Each of them carries a huge, reinforced canvas sack, and Huxley can tell by the way the men carry them that they are heavy. Just by sheer quantity of goods, these men could have the run of Borderline.
    Huxley snorts and shakes his head.
    Jay leans in close, saying exactly what Huxley was thinking. “You think they came by all that loot