The old woman seemed ancient and ominous to Marco. Her hard, bloodshot eyes stared at him unblinking beneath her hand wove, grayish head scarf. A small, single yellow candle burned on the table they were seated at inside the crumbling, dilapidated structure she called ‘home’. The candle emitted a slight fragrance of corn; sweet and starchy to Marco’s nostrils. Occasionally it would spark briefly as the flame reached a part of the wick more heavily oiled than previously, beating back the cool shadows enveloping the occupants and make-shift furniture, if only for a second. The woman was beyond noticing these intermittent fireworks, intent on her business with Marco. As for Marco, the entire damn town smelled of corn, so the candle was nothing new.
At one time this house had been a KFC, Marco new, not because of the paint job outside which had faded beyond recognition, but due to a menu still hanging on the rear wall. The dusty pictures offered culinary delights that were outside the realm of possibility now. How much would a KFC three pack go for in this day and age? Assuming you could find such a meal, which Marco knew was impossible, it would easily be worth ten shotgun shells. Old World shotgun shells, too, not the black powder, brass cased ones most people got by with these days.
In other words, a fortune.
Not enough for a vehicle like Marco had parked outside, but enough to get a man killed?
Yeah. People would commit murder for Old World fried chicken, Marco decided. Some would, anyhow. Marco new such men and women. Some he even liked. Well, ‘like’ might be too strong a word. Marco didn’t let himself get close enough to anyone to start caring, truly caring, whether they lived or died. Sure, he might express mock sympathy upon hearing an acquaintance had ended up bad, even go through the built-in social puppeteering programmed into him in another age and shake his head sadly. It wouldn’t interrupt his sleep though. The next day, upon waking, they would have ceased to exist in Marco’s mind.
“Cigarette?” the old woman asked in heavily flavored English.
“Sure, won’t lower the cost though.” Replied Marco in Spanish. The woman’s dull obsidian eyes showed a glimmer of bittersweet humor mixed with appreciation upon hearing her native tongue. She reached into the pocket of her faded white dress and pulled out a diminutive wooden box. The box was weathered, but had elaborate carvings on the top. The hinges and clasp were green brass. The woman opened the lid and Marco took one of the five smokes inside. He examined it closely.
“Real paper, eh?” He said appreciatorily.
“Last trader,” replied the woman as she closed the box and secreted it back into her pocket, “had some rolling papers. The tobacco is from Kentucky I believe.”
“I heard Kentucky had some survivors, may have to travel up there now and see for myself,” replied Marco, still speaking Spanish. “Which trader was it?”
“He went by ‘Sparky’,” said the woman. “He should have been back by now.”
Marco nodded. He’d seen Sparky around the various towns. Drove a greaser converted Peterbilt, sans trailer. He’d never spoken with the man. Traders were notoriously cagey around other traders, afraid that they might try to ferret out where good caches’ of supplies were. Marco was the same way. He personally had the locations of two drug stores locked in his mental vault, each within five hundred miles of here. They looked destroyed and looted from a cursory view, but inside still held plenty of treasures people would pay dearly for. He was knowledgeable of other places as well, some more dangerous to get to than others, each guarding various goods: guns, toilet tissue, tools, candy bars, jewelry. Some of these had practical uses in the New Age, some were merely sentimental. Regardless, they all had a price. Marco didn’t carry anything for free.
Marco pulled out a disposable lighter, itself a valuable object, and lit up. The tobacco’s aroma instantly drowned out the smell of corn, a smell so ever present and pervasive through the entire town that Marco had ceased to notice it till it was swept away. The burning plant was drawn into his lungs, and he instantly felt a tad light headed. He allowed himself a genuine smile and exhaled in triumph.
The woman studied him, emotionless again. Marco held up the cigarette and appreciated it anew.
“My thanks, Senorita.” Marco said.
The old woman merely nodded. “Water?” She asked.
Marco held up the canteen strung around his shoulder, showing it to the woman. “I’m good,” he replied.
“Then let’s get to our business,” stated the woman in a clipped voice. “I have the price you gave me last time you were here.” Standing up she grabbed the candle and walked to a dark corner of the room, motioning for Marco to follow. He stood up and reached the goods as the old woman was pulling away the stitched-together canvas tarp covering them. Marco liked what he saw.
“Two fifty-five gallons of corn gas,” said the woman, nodding to the old steel drums, “one pound of jerky…”
“What kind?” Enquired Marco.
“Mouse.” Replied the woman. Marco nodded approvingly and she continued, “Twenty shotgun shells, black powder of course.”
“Of course.” Replied Marco.
“One leather belt, size thirty-six,” continued the woman.
“I asked for size thirty-eight.” Responded Marco with a touch of admonishment.
“Tell your client to lose weight,” replied the woman sternly, “shouldn’t be hard.” She continued: “Twenty-four bottles of corn whiskey, varying bottles,” she said the last two words slightly apologetic, but Marco understood. Finding twenty-four actual glass bottles must have taken her a lot of time and bartering, regardless. Finding twenty-four identical ones would have been a Herculean task,” sealed with wax.” The woman paused. “And lastly, two gold wedding bands and a pearl necklace, in the plastic box beside the jerky.”
Marco stepped in front of the woman, took the candle and inspected the merchandise. He broke the seal on one of the bottles of hootch, in a former incarnation it had held grape soda, and took a swig. It burned down his throat like kerosene and created a camp fire in his stomach.
“Good stuff,” Marco gasped.
“Made it myself, at night after my shifts,” replied the woman.
The moonshine made Marco’s stomach grumble a little bit. “You must want this delivery pretty badly,” said Marco, “you’ve got a king’s ransom here.”
“I do want it badly,” replied the woman, “this is my life’s savings,” she said as she motioned at the goods before them, “You will leave me destitute, but I am not complaining. It’s worth it.”
Marco looked down at the woman’s hands. On her left hand, a circle on the ring finger was a shade lighter than the skin around it. Perhaps it was the whiskey, but Marco opened the plastic box and fished the two gold rings out.
“I like your cigarettes,” explained Marco, holding up the rings, “I’ll trade you these rings for them.” The two rings glittered in the candle light.
The woman’s expression did not break, but looking into her eyes he could see her soul was crying.
“That is not a good deal for you.” Said the woman.
“I decide what’s a good deal for me,” reprimanded Marco, “we got a trade?”
The woman pulled out her box and handed it to Marco, voluntarily sweetening the deal. Marco eyed it. Old World, definitely. Not worth much, but someone, somewhere would want it. He’d ceased to be amazed at the things some people considered valuable a long time ago. He turned the box over. Carved into the wood, in Spanish, was written ‘Happy Mother’s Day, Love Victor’.
“Well built.” Said the woman with a wisp of sadness. “He… the boy who made it was very skilled.”
Marco started to ask if the boy had survived the collapse, but stopped. It was none of his business, and he would not want the question asked of him. He opened the box, took out the four smokes, and handed the container back to the woman.
“I just want the cigs,” explained Marco, “the box is worthless,” he said dismissively.
The old woman bowed her head gratefully and turned, but not before Marco saw her rheumy eyes tearing up. He pretended to examine the merchandise again for a few minutes.
Crying old woman or not, Marco had other shit to do today. “OK, it all seems to be in order. Let’s meet the package.”
“My grand-daughter,” said the old woman “is no ‘package’. Luna!” She yelled.
From the shadows in a back corner Marco saw a figure lift itself off a mattress. Coming forward, she stepped into the light of the candle. Marco beheld a pretty, dark haired girl. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt too large for her petite frame.
“Hello,” Marco said in Spanish. “You excited about your trip?”
The girl looked at him silently, her dark eyes a younger version of the old woman’s. Her face was reproachful, tinged with fear. Her lips were puckered up slightly, as if she was in the presence of something distasteful.
“Luna doesn’t speak Spanish.” The old woman stage whispered to Marco.
“I do a little.” Luna stated. Her voice was crisp like a summer morning of old, high and melodic.
“But not much, not as much as I would have liked to have taught you,” replied the older woman, “and now… now it is too late.”
Luna merely shrugged and looked down at her bare feet. Marco could tell she was trying to be stoic, and failing. Her body shook slightly.
“How old are you, Luna?” Asked Marco, this time in English.
“Sixteen.” She replied.
“You are very beautiful, Luna.” Marco said longingly. He resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her raven hair. “If my daughter had survived, she would be slightly older than you. In another world, perhaps the two of you would have been friends.”
“Perhaps,” Luna said noncommittally.
Marco gazed upon her a second longer and then, discovering he had nothing else to say, decided to go get drunk. “I’ll return in the morning,” Marco said flatly as he handed the candle back to the grandmother. “Have your granddaughter, and the goods, ready to go.”
Marco traded the cool dark of the makeshift house for the bright sunlight outside before either could respond.
#
Stepping into the sunlight, Marco pulled his sunglasses out from his jacket pocket and slipped them on. Somewhere, somehow, the left lens had gotten slightly scratched. Not enough to bother his vision, but he had an image to uphold as a trader. He would grab three or four of the pairs he’d seen next time he went to the outlet mall in Alabama. That is if someone hadn’t scavenged them first.
Walking around the heavily modified armored truck from which he made his living, he spied an odd dozen or so rag-clad children looking upon it in awe not twenty feet away. He inwardly smiled. It never failed, no matter which town he found himself in, the children would be curious. His might be the only gas powered vehicle they’d ever seen. Still, he didn’t want them getting too curious.
“I’m walking to the bar,” he shouted to the children. As if to emphasize the point he put the bottle of corn whiskey to his lips and took another swig. “If I come back, and any of you have touched my ride, I’ll feed you to the zombies!”
“No you won’t!” Said one little girl, about ten, defiantly. “My daddy would kill you!” She crossed her arms over her chest as the other two children watched on.
“Baby girl,” replied Marco, “you’re pappy probably owes me money.” He took another drink, the hurt of the heat was dimming. “And even if the town wouldn’t let me feed you to the zombies, I’m sure they’d at least let me feed them your fingers for touching my truck!” With that he pulled out a huge Bowie knife from it’s sheath on his leg, his speed still incredibly fast despite the buzz he was working on.
The children looked at him with terror in their eyes.
“Huzzah!” He screamed, leaping forward a half foot, his arms widespread in menace and a snarl on his face. Screaming, the children ran away from him, darting into alleys and doors. Marco chuckled and sheathed the knife. That ought to keep his truck safe, at least till the morning. No point in sleeping in it tonight. The bar had plenty of rooms and his remaining credit would cover both bed and beverage.
He didn’t want to sleep alone, though. At forty he wasn’t an ugly man, but he wasn’t a prize either. Scars lined his face, tattoos his arms. His ponytailed dark, Latino hair had begun to recede, if only a little. His nose had been broken many times in his youth and the pattern had continued well into adulthood. The constant breakages had made his nose bulbous and slightly misshapen. Also, it gave a slight nasal quality to his otherwise baritone voice.
He was, however, well built. The last working scale he’d come across weighed him at 190. Not bad for someone slightly over six feet tall, but he knew it was almost all muscle. He kept in shape. Honestly, he had no other choice. You were strong and quick as a trader or you weren’t in the profession for very long. If nothing else he did push-ups when inside his truck. Sometimes, though, he’d come across a survivor town that still had a gym standing. While none of the electrical machines worked anymore, the free weights would often be found unmolested. It was far from ideal, as far as work out regimes went, but he still felt as strong as he did in his early thirties. Certainly better than he had at 21, before the world died. Back then he’d been a stoner college student and part time pizza delivery guy. Man, all the pizza he’d seen. You couldn’t find a decent pizza anywhere now. Screw KFC, he wanted some Dominos.
‘And frogs want wings so they don’t bump their ass when they jump’ thought Marco to himself as he made the short trek to the town’s tavern, maybe a half mile away. As he walked he looked upon the remains of a once great civilization. This had been Main Street, crossroads of a town-almost-city called Sulfur, TX. He’d never visited here before The Fall, but it was easy to imagine how it had once looked. In his mind’s eye he replaced the broken windows that leered at him like hungry mouths with perfectly clear panes. He repaired the splintering concrete and nearly exhausted asphalt. He took a giant mental sponge and cleaned the numerous burn marks both on the road and the buildings. He painted everything in sharp, vibrant colors. Structures long dead returned to life: an ice cream parlor here, a Radio Shack there. Families walked with their children down streetlamp lit pathways to eat at an exciting new restaurant while jazz music played from overhead speakers. Sanitation workers would empty the trash regularly, the gutters wouldn’t be clogged with leaves and God knows what else.
He would have liked this place back then, Marco thought to himself. He’d never been much on big cities. He’d been to Houston, Austin, Dallas, etc. as a kid on various field trips, but the metropolitan allure had never materialized for him. Too many faces, too many places. He liked routine, comfort, security.
He still liked those things. Too bad they didn’t exist anymore. Not for him, not for anyone.
As he strolled towards his destination he’d occasionally see another face looking at him from a window. He’d wave. Sometimes they waved back, sometimes not. Despite being a trader, and having been here numerous times, he was still a ‘stranger’ to many of the residents. And strangers were dangerous. Strangers could be infected. Despite the numerous inspections they gave him before letting him over the moat and past the gate into the town, some people flat refused to have any dealings with him.
That was understandable, Marco thought to himself. If he were them, he might be the same way.
Besides, he really didn’t care to interact with everyone. The hagglers he didn’t mind. It was inbred into the human race to want something for nothing, or at the very least to get the better deal than the guy you’re trading with. He enjoyed debating the worth of objects with people. Sometimes he’d put on a little show, like a night time TV infomercial pitchman of old, and really hawk the shit out of this or that doo dad. Other times, if he had something unique and rare, he might simply play the hard ass till he came across something he really wanted. Those were fun times as well, watching the customer keep upping the ante in a desperate desire to obtain his heart’s longing. He’d once had a guy give him a working Mossberg shotgun, along with two Old World shells, for a carton of Camel Menthols and six leather bound books.
People could do some crazy shit when they had their minds set on something. Sometimes that worked to Marco’s advantage, other times it was a source of danger. But there was no denying the old saying: the heart wants what it wants.
In short order he made it to the bar. Some renovations had been made since his last visit. The broken outside windows were now covered with sheets of plywood, screwed into the brick wall. “Tony’s Bar” had been written in bright red paint on the boards. The old wooden door had been replaced. In its stead was an iron gate, seven feet high and wider than the opening. If Marco had to guess, he’d figure that somewhere the remains of a real nice house were missing it’s real nice iron-wrought fence. Tony must have paid dearly to get the Mayor to authorize the use of the generator and welding machine. Still, it looked impressive. The door could probably hold off all but the oldest and strongest of zombies. Stepping inside, Marco saw that the windows were the same way. A few heads lifted up from candle lit tables and then went back to drinking.
From the gloom a voice shouted out good naturedly: “Marco the Sharko! Good to see you still pushing air, man.” Tony stepped away from behind the bar and came and shook Marco’s hand.
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