James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“Ten,” Tom said proudly, picking his ear. “But one’s a swayback we’ll be eating this winter, and two are colts not strong enough to carry a baby.”

Walking among the animals, Ryan studied them carefully. Good legs and withers. No sign of split hooves or mange. Their coats were rough, with burrs caught in the tails. The horses needed a serious currying, but otherwise were in good health.

“We’ll take them,” Ryan decided.

“Which two? Or did you want three, mebbe?”

Her cascade of fiery hair gently waving, Krysty held out a hand and stroked one of the nervous beasts. The animal instantly calmed and nuzzled her palm affectionately. “We’re buying all seven.”

Fat Tom roared in laughter, his belly bouncing. “Not even Baron Polk has that much jack! I need some for working the fields. You gonna feed my family this winter? Thought not.”

“Trade you,” J.B. said, dropping the duffel bag to the ground.

The stable owner stroked his greasy chin. “Your redhead doesn’t look like she has the coughing sickness. Of course, I’d want to inspect her cunny first before taking a ride, but if she’s any good, I’d trade you two horses for an hour with her.”

“That’s fifty-nine minutes longer than you would be breathing,” Krysty said, low and cold, her blaster partially drawn.

The man cackled and slapped a knee. “Good un! She’s a fireblast, that one. Redheads, God love ’em.”

“Try again,” Ryan stated in a voice of granite.

“Well, I’ll trade four horses for that fancy scattergun, four eyes.”

“In your dreams.” J.B. frowned.

Fat Tom shrugged. “Just talking. No offense meant.”

Sensing the bargaining was getting serious, Ryan lowered his backpack to the floor and withdrew an oily blanket. Unwrapping the bundle, he hauled into view a AK-47 without a stock.

“Nuke me,” the man whispered, reaching for the weapon and drawing his hands away before touching it. “That a rapid fire?”

“Eight hundred rounds a minute.”

He snorted. “Ain’t that much ammo in the whole world!”

Ryan didn’t contradict the man. “We have two clips, one with ten live rounds, the other empty. Plus, fifty spent rounds you can reload. The stock is gone, but you can whittle a new one.”

“Ten rounds for a rapid fire. That’s one trigger click. No deal.” Then he added, “Besides, got a blaster. Made it myself.”

Ryan had spotted the weapon hanging on the wall when they first entered. It was made of corroded iron pipes bound together with rusty barbed wire and leather straps. He doubted if the shotgun would work more than once without blowing apart. Suddenly, he knew the local was lying for some reason, and staffed his position to keep a watch on the garage doors.

J.B. dropped the heavy duffel bag. “Well, you haven’t got one of these.”

Squinting suspiciously, Fat Tom watched as J.B. opened the drawstrings and lifted out the roll of hide.

“Aw, I don’t need a coat,” Tom sniffed. “Never gets bad cold down here.”

With a flip, J.B. unrolled the skin, sending it across the floor of the stable almost reaching the door. “It’s not a jacket, you fat fool,” he stated. “This is the hide of the gator from the swamp. That’s a hundred pairs of boots, plus gun belts and some jackets.”

“No, it can’t be.” Tom touched the wide expanse of hoary skin in disbelief. “You chilled Frankenstein.”

“Just a gator,” Jak corrected.

“A dead gator.” Licking his lips, the stable owner looked at the companions. “Well now, that is a lot of strong leather. Yeah, sure, I’ll trade you seven horses for ole Frank.”

“Plus tack,” Krysty added, the chestnut mare licking her palm. She had already decided on which horse she would ride.

“Of course, of course,” he muttered, fingering the hide. Even marked with scars, burns and bullet holes, the durable skin was still beautiful, and flexible. He could probably make bulletproof vests from the stuff and sell them to barons for a fortune. Ammo, food and sluts till he died.

“Anything you want,” the man said, beaming. “Saddles and reins. Blankets, too. I wouldn’t want to cheat you on the trade. Fair deal Tom, that’s me. Ask anybody above the soil.”