These larger and more damaged places had been taken over and used by the trickle of outsiders who had come to the ville over the preceding years: to such an extent, in fact, that smaller buildings made of waste rubble and corrugated iron had been built into shacks that ran off the main drag and into the areas around the old business area.
As well as housing the overspill of newer residents to Charity, these places also played host to a different kind of business. Before skydark, the main drag of the town had been home to the grocery store, the tourist-trap gift shops, the clothes and furniture stores of a normal ville. Now, the trading for food and clothing was carried on in other quarters, and there were no tourists, only outsiders. The business that was carried on in these areas was the sale of jolt and derivative chemicals and hallucinogenic plant extracts—this was, after all, New Mexico, where such plants grew in abundance and were stronger than ever after rad mutation. There were also saloons where you could drink cheap liquor until you dropped, and gaudys where you could sate your carnal needs if you had the ability after spending so long in the saloon.
There was no law anymore, so these businesses couldn’t be outside any law. These were violent times, so the idea of a no-go area for Charity residents was ridiculous—on the contrary, they loved the main drag and the old business district. But there was a distinct purpose to making the main drag and the business district the areas where there were bars and gaudys and drug dens. By containing all these activities strictly to within these areas, Baron Al Jourgensen and the barons who had preceded him had been able to control the amount of jack that flowed in and out of Charity with a firmer hand than in many villes. People knew where to buy, and where to sell, and even at seven in the morning, it was always party time down on the drag, and party time in Baron Al’s private vault.
But all the jack in the world wouldn’t buy seed crops, wouldn’t buy food, if there was none to be had—hence the deal with Summerfield and the sale of the ville’s women and hence the trade caravan that the Hellbenders were out to raid.
Gaining access to the ville had been absurdly easy. It was isolated and off the main roads and trails that ran through these parts. Only those who truly wished to visit the ville, either for trade or for pleasure, would come this way. So the sec guards who patrolled the perimeter were inclined to be slack at times, especially as the land was flat for miles around, and any wags would be easy to see from a distance,
Not so a party of seven who traveled light and had selected a sheltering place to hide out. Once they had packed their tents away and eaten from some of the self-heats they had carried as supplies, they assembled around Lonnie, who told them that from his knowledge of the sec routine, there would be a gap in less than an hour where they could just walk in.
It seemed a long time to wait as the sun began to blaze hot. The sec guards patrolled the ville perimeter on old motorcycles, fuel being one of the few things Baron Al had a supply of, and one of the things that he had tried to use for trade.
“There they go,” Lonnie whispered triumphantly as two sec guards on old choppers, with belts of ammo across their chests and old Thompson blasters resting in the crook of their arms, crossed virtually right in front of the spot where the recce party was concealed. The two guards stopped to talk briefly, the hum of their conversation buried beneath the guttural growl of their bikes. Then they throttled the choppers and moved off in opposite directions.
“And that’s it?” Dean asked incredulously as the noise of the bikes receded into the distance.
“Yep, that’s it,” Lonnie confirmed. “See, most people only come to this ville to trade with Baron Al or to visit the drag. And they’re pretty few and far between.”