by W. J. Lundy
Henry puffed on the pipe then pulled it from his lips, exhaling the smoke. “Just looking for a place to rest our heels. We’ve got trades to make iffen your sign back a way holds true about traders being welcome. We can pay for our stay.”
The man let his eyes search the group again, lingering a bit longer on Sean than the others. He looked back at Henry. “Where you all coming from? I haven’t seen your group out this way before.”
“Coming from West Virginia.”
The man’s brow tightened. “West Virginia, you say?” He shook his head slowly then turned to look at one of the men standing watch beside him. The man returned a cinched grin as if he didn’t know what to make of it. The old man looked back at Henry. “Don’t mean to appear rude, but we’ve had a sudden rush on travelers from West Virginia. Why in the hell would you travel north, when all we hear about is how much better things are in the south?”
“Things are changing,” Henry responded just before placing the pipe back between his lips. “Just working our way north, scrapping, trying to make some trades… trying to stay above ground.”
Looking over Henry’s shoulder, the man again eyed the others then looked back at the same guard who this time smiled, moving one side of his mouth. The old man looked back at Henry. “Ya’ll are welcome to enter. Keep your weapons holstered or on slings. No chambered rounds inside the outpost.” The man removed his fur cap and looked back at the outpost. “We already made the monthly shipment back east, so the trucks are all gone. The trade boss ain’t here, but we can offer you a meal and a place to stay.”
“That would be right neighborly of you.” Henry grinned slyly and dropped the magazine on his 1911. He pulled the slide and caught the ejected round before returning the magazine. He turned and watched the others perform the same procedures, clearing their rifles and sidearms. Sean held steady and resisted the temptation to look behind him; he knew that Brooks and Joey would be out there somewhere perched over rifles and watching every move. He cleared his HK MK23 and holstered it in his chest rig.
The white-bearded man from the outpost looked them over and, once satisfied, nodded and signaled for everyone to follow him. Henry kept a close pace with the man, chitchatting as was his nature, while Sean lingered back and let the Baker boys move up ahead of him. He saw that the guards were scanning the outside and not particularly focused on them. Sean wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. Too trusting could be a fault, something to be wary of.
As he neared the building, he could make out more of the outpost’s defenses. There were portholes cut into the bricks between the boarded-up windows and a narrow trench a few feet from the outer wall of the building. It was smart and well thought out, and from a distance, it was all impossible to see. He watched the others move through the entrance. One of the guards held back, waiting on him while Sean stopped at the top of the steps to take a last look around. He put his hand on the red-brick wall and rubbed the surface, noticing there were no pockmarks from bullet holes; the place seemed to have been spared any human attacks.
The guard seemed to not care about what he was doing. The man’s eyes were fixed on the distant tree lines. He was stocky and dressed in jeans and heavy flannels. Sean followed the man’s gaze. “Are you looking for something?”
The man lifted his eyes and looked at Sean. “Saw a group of them this morning. They’ve made runs for the open doors before. Can never be too careful,” he said.
Sean nodded and moved toward the door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
Grunting a response, the man moved behind him. Two more men closed in from inside and secured the heavy door. Sean squinted; instead of entering a building as he expected, it was more of a covered walkway that led into a squared courtyard. He followed the others through to the open space that was lined with tents, shipping crates, and pallets wrapped in thick plastic. He turned in a full circle and could see that the interior windows were all intact—not covered with wood like on the outside.
He watched the guard look back at him again. This time, the man waved a hand, urging Sean to keep up with the group. They wended through the courtyard to a long, narrow building made entirely of scrap lumber. The roof was made of tarps and some large white strips of plastic, punctured by a stove pipe with a stream of white smoke escaping from it.
Just outside the door, White Beard stopped and let them bunch up. He looked at all of them before stopping to speak to Henry. “This is our community tavern, I guess you could say. If you want to grab a drink or some food, this is the place. There are a few other traders inside if you want to make some deals. Tracey inside will get you a place to sleep if you’re interested in that. If not, just find the gate when you’re ready to go.”
Sean interrupted, putting up a hand. “Who is in charge here? I’d like to have a word, if that’s possible.”
The man started laughing, his stained teeth contrasting with the beard. “This ain’t that kinda place. This is a community; you want to speak to the trading manager, he ain’t here. Like I said, he took the last supply train east. He’ll be back in a few days. You find you need something, just ask for Seth and someone will send for me.”
Sean scratched at the bottom of his beard. “Tell me, Seth, where east did the trade boss go?”
The man gave Sean a sideways glance and answered, “To the railhead. Where else would he go?”
Sean tightened his brow and nodded, trying to fix his error. “The trains are running then?” he said.
“Yeah, the trains are running. Why wouldn’t they be?” Seth answered, his tone hardening.
Sean shrugged and showed his palms. “No reason, we just met some folks on the road that said the trains were down.” Sean could see that the guards had gained sudden interest. The man that was lingering back with his shotgun before looked up and took a step closer.
“What sort of folks?” Seth asked.
“Man and a woman. They were headed north. They said something about the trains being down,” Sean said.
The white-bearded man looked puzzled and shook his head. “Not that we’ve heard of, but trains don’t run regular no how. They run folks west then pick up goods on the way back. We don’t head to the depot unless we have a full load or they call for us.”
“So…” Sean asked. “No man and woman passed through here?”
“Traveling alone? They have a death wish or something? Dangerous country out there.”
Sean nodded as he placed his hands in his pockets “Yeah, I reckon it is.”
The man looked at Sean, his teeth clenched as he took in a deep breath, his eyes studying him. “If something was bothering you, I might be able to help you myself,” the man offered.
Chomping like he was chewing a piece of grass, Sean shook his head. “Nah, I think I’ll be okay. So how’s the menu in here?” he said, walking away from the group and entering the tavern.
The room was dark, musty, and smelled of smoke and dry wood, the only light entering from small breaks in the roof. The floor was covered with tables made from large, empty cable spools. The outer edges of the bar were lined with longer plank tables, several of them occupied by men sitting over bowls of stew or half-empty glasses. At the end was a long bar with lights hung over it. Sean stopped and listened; he could hear the hum of a generator. He moved around the spool tables to a far corner and dropped his pack before taking a seat at a table that faced the door.
Sean watched the others enter the room behind him, but it was Riley who caught his eye. The man entered coolly then seemed to take notice of a pair on the far side of the room. The two men were wearing worn canvas shirts that were at least a size too big. One had a bright green trucker’s hat turned backward on his head. The other looked to be at least fifty years old, all skin and bones with sunken eyes. Both had greasy hair and beards that hadn’t been trimmed or groomed in weeks.
Riley turned away and adjusted his cap low to cover his face then followed the others in. He picked a seat on the far sid
e of the table, away from Sean, and kept his chin tucked while his eyes stayed locked on the men in the corner. Sean let the others drop their gear and sit before he turned to Riley. “Who are they?” he asked.
Riley’s head snapped toward Sean. He looked down at the scratches and marks carved into the table. “Who are you talking about?”
“The pair your eyes are trained on; the ones you are pretending not to notice. You know them?”
Riley looked up at the distant table then back to Sean again. “I know ’em.”
“How?” he asked.
“From Crabtree; they’re part of Gus’s crew.” Riley hushed as a heavyset woman in a dark apron approached the table.
The woman set a large pitcher of water in the center and a wooden tray filled with stacked glasses and bowls next to it. She looked them over, pointed to a blackboard over the bar with scratched-on white writing, and then read aloud in a husky voice. “Rabbit stew today; there’s plenty of root vegetables in it, so it ain’t too bad. All the bread for today is gone.” She pointed at the pitcher. “If ya want something besides water, Carl’s got a batch of mead that ain’t too awful for what it is. And we’ve always got the mash. No filling canteens from the pitcher. You need water, we got a hand pump out back you’re welcome to use.”
“How’s the mash?” Henry asked.
She shrugged. “Keeps the generators running, so I guess it ain’t so bad.”
“Bring a bottle then,” Sean said.
She stopped and gave Sean a stern look. “How you boys plan on paying?” she asked.
“What’ll you take in trade?” he said.
She grinned, her cheeks dimpling. “Most folks pay with ammo, but we can barter on most things.” She looked at the packs and slung rifles. “Say fifty rounds of .223 for the bottle of mash” —she paused and counted the men seated at the table— “and another ten for the five bowls of stew.”
Henry grinned. “You got any tobacco?” he asked, holding up his pipe.
She nodded. “We got some.”
Reaching inside the top flap of his pack, Henry removed two twenty-round boxes of .308 ammo from his pack and set them on the table. “Add on the tobacco, and let’s make it forty rounds of real bullets for all of it.”
She lifted the Winchester ammunition boxes and eyed the seals, seeing they were brand new. She nodded and dropped them into a pouch on the front of her apron. “Deal.”
Before she could walk away, a large boy approached from behind the bar, holding a deep cast-iron kettle. Sean could tell be the way the kid moved that he had a quirk of some kind. He was too big for his mannerisms, and he walked with an awkward gait. He took the bowls and lined them up carefully before filling each with hearty portions from the kettle.
The boy looked back toward the kitchen the woman had just disappeared into. “I ain’t ’posed to, but if you want seconds you just give me a holler, and I’ll get you some more. You just say, ‘Frank, I’m still hungry.’ And then I’ll know.” He closed his mouth and looked away as he saw the woman walking back toward the table, carrying the bottle of mash.
She batted a hand at the boy and said, “Frank, go check on them fellas over in the corner.” The boy nodded and moved away, still holding the kettle, and headed to the corner table. The woman handed the corked bottle to Sean then pulled a paper pouch from her apron and placed it on the table in front of Henry.
The old man let go of his spoon and wiped his chin with the sleeve of his jacket. He lifted the pouch and opened it, sniffing the contents. He looked up at the woman and grinned. “This’ll do just fine, ma’am.”
“Call me Tracey,” she said, her eyes moving to the corner where Frank had gone.
Sean was pouring two fingers of the shine into his glass and caught the woman’s concerned stare. He shifted in his seat and could see the men in the corner were increasingly harassing the boy. It went from playful to more aggressive as they caught on that the boy wouldn’t fight back. “Who are they?” Sean asked her.
She looked at him, then eyed back at the corner. She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it; Frank’s dealt with worse than that.”
“He shouldn’t have too,” Sean said, his jaw clenching.
Ruckus and laughter came from the corner. Sean turned to see a man pointing a hand toward their table. The man with the trucker cap yelled a jumbled slur of words that Sean couldn’t make out while pointing at Frank. The boy shook his head and backed up. The man yelled again, and Frank turned and looked directly at Riley before turning back to the pair and shaking his head again. One of the men shouted toward their table as the man on the right reached out and kicked Frank away with his boot, causing the other to laugh. The man with the cap shouted for Riley by name.
“Looks like your friends have recognized you,” Sean whispered.
“They ain’t no friends of mine,” Riley said back, his jaw locked with his lips hardly moving.
Riley pushed himself back from the table and stood, straightening his jacket before removing it and placing it over the back of his chair. With his jacket off, the revolver showed prominently on his hip. Tracey turned and looked at him. “We don’t want any trouble. Just let it be, okay?”
Riley used the back of his right hand to rub at his chin. “I ain’t looking for trouble either. But yet here I am, with it looking for me.”
“You need some backup?” Sean asked.
The big, red-bearded man grinned and rolled his shoulders. “Just going to have a chat; go on and enjoy your rabbit,” he said, stepping away from the table.
Sean watched as Riley wended across the tavern, weaving his way through the spool tabletops in the center. He’d seen enough fights in his time and the look in a fighter’s eyes to know a talk wasn’t coming. Others had apparently seen it too, as men were leaving tables and clearing out of the tavern. As the big man got closer to the pair, Frank used the distraction to move away from the duo.
The man with the green trucker’s hat waved a hand at an empty chair, but Riley didn’t sit. Instead, he stepped up close to the table, placed his flat hands on the surface, and leaned in to talk to the men. The man with the cap pointed at Riley’s sidearm. The big man shrugged and, using his fingertips, removed it from the holster and placed it on the table.
Then something happened that Sean was not expecting from the big man he’d previously considered a buffoon. The man with the cap signaled for the second man to retrieve the revolver. The man pushed back his chair and leaned over the table. Once his hands had reached the gun, Riley reached out and snatched the trucker-cap-wearing man by the collar of his shirt. He pulled him forward and out of his chair then slammed his face onto the tabletop before delivering an elbow with a sickening crunch to the back of the man’s neck. The second, skinny man yelped and backed away from the table, now holding Riley’s own revolver leveled at his chest.
Sean pushed up from his seat, and the skinny man turned to point the gun at him. “Now ya’lls just calm down; this between us,” he shouted, looking at his dead partner and then back at Riley, who was standing with his arms up and his hands balled into fists. “This between me and Riley here.”
Not allowing the man to say anything more, Riley closed the distance. Sean could hear the pistol clicking on empty chambers and Riley delivering solid blows to the man’s face, knocking him back and onto the floor. Riley didn’t show any mercy; he stepped forward and stomped on the man’s throat, filling the room with a crack as the neck broke.
A door slammed. Sean turned to see more of the tavern patrons pouring out. He could see that Tracey, now behind the bar, was holding a double-barrel shotgun in her hands. She yelled across the room at Riley to raise his hands.
Riley ignored her commands and carefully retrieved his pistol from the dead man, using his thumb and pointer finger. He then let it drop into his holster. The big man reached over the body and turned the man’s pockets out, gripping the contents in his fist. Turning back to the table, Riley took the dead man’s trucker hat
and dropped in the fistful of contents then searched the other man’s pockets. He looked up at Tracey and waved the hat at her. “Like you said, we don’t want any trouble. These two did.” He snorted and dropped the hat on the table. “If I was you, I’d take everything they had on them to make up for it.”
“You can’t just come in here busting up my place,” she shouted.
Riley shook his head. “They were raiders. You know they ain’t allowed in outposts as much as I do.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “You sure?” she asked. “How do you know that?”
Riley moved behind the table and grabbed one of the men’s packs and lifted it to the tabletop. He unzipped the rain flap and reached inside. He pursed his lips and pulled out a grey parka and a box of pistol cartridges. He dropped the parka to the table as he began loading his pistol. “You know what this is?” he asked.
“Captain’s jacket,” she said, frowning. “But why were they here?”
“Now that’s a problem for you and your security, not me,” Riley said. He turned to move back to the table when he heard the church bells sound.
“Might be your problem after all,” Tracey said, now holding the shotgun down, her face held in concentration as she counted the bells.
Sean got up from his seat, watching the door as he moved toward her. “Is that security? You know this was self-defense.”
She shook her head and grimaced, holding up ten fingers. “Not security, there is nobody coming for you; that’s the gate bell. Ten bells is signaling Regulars at the gate.” The big woman looked down at the floor, her jaw clenched. “We are no more friends to the raiders than we are to the Regulars that take a cut of everything we earn and call it protection fees. They can kiss my ass.” She turned and saw Frank behind the bar, his eyes locked on the dead men. “Frank, get your ass up here and hide these bodies.” She turned back to Sean. “I hope you got more in those sacks than ammo, because this is going to cost you.”
Chapter 21
