James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

The whore beamed a smile and closed her blouse, stealing a quick jealous glance at Krysty and Mildred.

“Old man Polk is the baron here,” she said, sidling closer and reaching out for the bullet. “He’s okay. Finds us enough to eat each winter, don’t allow no rape in public. But ya better hop when he says frog, or you’ll serve the wheel. Any sec man can load that in his blaster and fire it.”

So that’s where the slaves at the grinding stone came from—local criminals slow to obey. Ryan withdrew his hand. “More.”

Placing hands on hips, she glared in hostility, then burst into laughter. “Okay, fair dealing. This is Flat Rock ville, and unless you’re a stupe, that’s obvious.” She jerked her head toward a squarish boulder in the middle of the ville located near an empty flagpole and a World War II howitzer in remarkably good condition.

“Get a lot of strangers?” Krysty asked.

“I sure do!” Feather grinned, wiggling her hips suggestively, then ceasing the act since it was getting her nowhere. “Yeah, sometimes outlanders arrive, but not very many these days of the mutie in the water. Big nasty thing, lots of teeth and—”

“Not interested,” Ryan interrupted. “Is there a stable where can we buy horses?”

“Buy a horse?” Feather gasped. “You that rich?”

Ryan said nothing.

She shrugged. It wasn’t her business. “Go down the street, past the burned-down church. Then follow your nose.”

Ryan tossed her the bullet. “Thanks.”

Tucking the round someplace safe, the slut watched them walk away. The bullet would buy her a week of sleeping under a roof and all the stale bread she could eat. And just for talking. Outlanders were idiots. Then she reconsidered that. Mebbe they really did have enough jack to buy horses. They certainly gave up a brass easy enough.

Heading across the town, the companions passed numerous folks in the street, many of them carrying long poles tipped with curved blades or heavy nets laced with dull copper wiring.

“Gator hunters,” J.B. guessed.

Shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder, Jak snorted. “Too late.”

Beyond a hole in the ground filled with rubble and stained glass, Ryan found their goal. The stable was a former gas station, the horses corralled in the service bays, water troughs where the fuel pumps used to be located. The office was now living quarters, ratty furniture resting on bricks instead of legs. Iron grates covered the window, and curtains made from shag carpet had been hung to afford some level of privacy.

Ryan knocked on a metal sign bearing the logo of a winged horse. “Customers!” he called out. “Anybody home?”

Out of a back room walked a man with a protruding belly, his clothes covered with food stains, a throwing ax in his hand.

“Oh, just outlanders.” He grimaced. “No jobs here. Got a stable boy for the mucking. Try the farms north of here.”

“We’re here to buy,” Ryan said, lifting a fistful of rounds from his pocket. The action also showed the SIG-Sauer resting on his hip. The demeanor of the stable owner changed on the spot.

“Well, well! Why didn’t you say so?” he gushed, tossing aside the ax and rushing over to push up the garage doors. They rose with a squeal of tortured metal, and he stepped inside. “Want a horse, do you? Fat Tom got the best in the world.”

“Highly doubtful,” Mildred commented, wrinkling her nose at the smell of used hay and fish-oil lanterns.

A scrawny stable boy sat in the corner, polishing a saddle with spit and a wad of congealed grease. Mounds of dirty hay covered the stained concrete, and split rails sectioned the repair shop into a double row of small stalls. Horses of various colors stood in each, nibbling hay, and watching the humans with fearful expressions. Obviously, they were beaten into submission and not won over with kindness. Ryan immediately classified the stable owner as a coward. There was no other reason to beat animals who delighted in working for humans. Men with horses had conquered most of the old world, because they enjoyed being together.

“Not bad,” J.B. said diplomatically, thinking he wouldn’t want to store shit here. “How many do you have?”