someone
could shoot you.”
“Why would they
want to do that? I ain’t got nothing anybody would want, and if you want
something nowadays, you just take it. No need to steal. Plus, I’ve been sitting
out here every day for over a year and you’re the fourth person I’ve seen. The
other three just asked for directions.”
Stryker thought it
over for a moment, remembering that he only had two violent encounters since
the die off, and both had been the result of fighting over salvage. “Maybe
you’re right,” he agreed. “Anything you need me to do while I’m here?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Better get going
then.”
“Have a safe trip.
Where you going?”
“San Angelo. I’m
heading to the trading post.” When the man didn’t reply, Stryker stood and
added, “See you later.” He went back to the Jeep and headed north again,
clearing the town limits in a few minutes.
The road was
straight and all but deserted and the blacktop made a whining noise as the
tires passed over the roadbed. There was the occasional solitary billboard sign
for fast food restaurants that lay miles ahead. The land opened up again, still
the same dingy brown color, flat and unremarkable. He kicked the speed up and
didn’t slow down until he crossed the muddy Concho River and entered town after
passing Goodfellow Air Force Base. The base looked forlorn and empty. He drove
by a Walgreens that had smashed windows and then was surrounded by vacant fast
food joints. Stryker passed an abandoned hospital and entered another
commercial area of town.
He turned west,
continued to the main parking lot of San Angelo University, and got out of the
Jeep with his M-4 dangling from his shoulder in a two-point sling. His XD was
in his holster. He hoisted the pack that contained his salvage and started
walking toward a group of eighty or so men and women milling around the west
side of the lot. As he approached, Tom, the trading post organizer, approached
him. He had an AR hanging from a sling. The two men shook hands. Tom kept a cut
of all the trades that were made, and that’s what made him go to the trouble of
organizing the weekly event.
“How you been?” he
asked.
“It don’t suck
being me, I guess. How about you?”
“Same.” He shrugged
once. “What do you have today?”
“Notebooks, gold,
and a handheld ham radio.”
“What’re you
looking for?”
“Solar panels.”
“Come with me,” he
said, after looking thoughtful for a while. They moved to the last foldable
table, where a woman sat with a boy that he guessed was her son. “This is
Sara.” They shook hands.
“Name’s Stryker.”
“That a first or
last name?”
“It’s the only
name.” She looked a bit puzzled. She was an attractive woman, with dark hair
that was as smooth and shiny as an otter’s pelt, and even features.
“He’s looking for
solar panels,” Tom explained.
“I have eight of
them, still in boxes, in my van.” She nodded toward the parking lot.
“What do you want
for them?” Stryker asked. He really needed twice that number, but had to start
somewhere.
“What you got?”
“I have gold, a ham
radio, and two notebooks.”
“How much gold you
have?”
“How much do you
want?”
“Two ounces.”
“Done.” He extended
his hand and they shook. Tom followed them to the van and she opened the rear
doors.
“I’ll give you a
hand loading them,” Tom said. The two men made four journeys between the van
and the Jeep before Tom asked, “You need anything else?”
“I dunno. I guess
I’ll pay her and look around.”
“Okay, see you
later.” Tom left to greet another shopper. Stryker paid the woman, and then
walked from table to table looking at the merchandise. He was leaving when he
spotted a giant of man, even larger than he was, screaming at the woman who
sold him the panels.
“I want those
panels!” he yelled again, shaking a fist at the woman. She backed up, looking
fearful.
“I already sold
them.”
“You said
could shoot you.”
“Why would they
want to do that? I ain’t got nothing anybody would want, and if you want
something nowadays, you just take it. No need to steal. Plus, I’ve been sitting
out here every day for over a year and you’re the fourth person I’ve seen. The
other three just asked for directions.”
Stryker thought it
over for a moment, remembering that he only had two violent encounters since
the die off, and both had been the result of fighting over salvage. “Maybe
you’re right,” he agreed. “Anything you need me to do while I’m here?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Better get going
then.”
“Have a safe trip.
Where you going?”
“San Angelo. I’m
heading to the trading post.” When the man didn’t reply, Stryker stood and
added, “See you later.” He went back to the Jeep and headed north again,
clearing the town limits in a few minutes.
The road was
straight and all but deserted and the blacktop made a whining noise as the
tires passed over the roadbed. There was the occasional solitary billboard sign
for fast food restaurants that lay miles ahead. The land opened up again, still
the same dingy brown color, flat and unremarkable. He kicked the speed up and
didn’t slow down until he crossed the muddy Concho River and entered town after
passing Goodfellow Air Force Base. The base looked forlorn and empty. He drove
by a Walgreens that had smashed windows and then was surrounded by vacant fast
food joints. Stryker passed an abandoned hospital and entered another
commercial area of town.
He turned west,
continued to the main parking lot of San Angelo University, and got out of the
Jeep with his M-4 dangling from his shoulder in a two-point sling. His XD was
in his holster. He hoisted the pack that contained his salvage and started
walking toward a group of eighty or so men and women milling around the west
side of the lot. As he approached, Tom, the trading post organizer, approached
him. He had an AR hanging from a sling. The two men shook hands. Tom kept a cut
of all the trades that were made, and that’s what made him go to the trouble of
organizing the weekly event.
“How you been?” he
asked.
“It don’t suck
being me, I guess. How about you?”
“Same.” He shrugged
once. “What do you have today?”
“Notebooks, gold,
and a handheld ham radio.”
“What’re you
looking for?”
“Solar panels.”
“Come with me,” he
said, after looking thoughtful for a while. They moved to the last foldable
table, where a woman sat with a boy that he guessed was her son. “This is
Sara.” They shook hands.
“Name’s Stryker.”
“That a first or
last name?”
“It’s the only
name.” She looked a bit puzzled. She was an attractive woman, with dark hair
that was as smooth and shiny as an otter’s pelt, and even features.
“He’s looking for
solar panels,” Tom explained.
“I have eight of
them, still in boxes, in my van.” She nodded toward the parking lot.
“What do you want
for them?” Stryker asked. He really needed twice that number, but had to start
somewhere.
“What you got?”
“I have gold, a ham
radio, and two notebooks.”
“How much gold you
have?”
“How much do you
want?”
“Two ounces.”
“Done.” He extended
his hand and they shook. Tom followed them to the van and she opened the rear
doors.
“I’ll give you a
hand loading them,” Tom said. The two men made four journeys between the van
and the Jeep before Tom asked, “You need anything else?”
“I dunno. I guess
I’ll pay her and look around.”
“Okay, see you
later.” Tom left to greet another shopper. Stryker paid the woman, and then
walked from table to table looking at the merchandise. He was leaving when he
spotted a giant of man, even larger than he was, screaming at the woman who
sold him the panels.
“I want those
panels!” he yelled again, shaking a fist at the woman. She backed up, looking
fearful.
“I already sold
them.”
“You said
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