Slaughter Laughter After #1

 

Water was what I needed. Not coin, not foodpaste, not nothing else but water.

I crept through the dark sand-strewn roads, ears peeled and eyes pricked and every hair on my neck needle-sharp and up on end. You didn’t go out at night in Sadune. You didn’t go out at night at all if you wasn’t armed and armored. Or you wasn’t supposed to, anyway.

A potbellied cook thumbed his nose at me, having spotted me from the dim-lit window facing back at the alley from inside his kitchen. I paused. Maybe he had some to spare. Some water. Some moisture, at least. I turned and showed him my face, showed him my open palms. He blinked. I struck him dumb. Or I struck him as dumb. He looked like he was ‘bout to laugh, then he just shut the window instead.

It was like that.

I kept on crawling my way up the roads ‘til I came to the edge of the shadows, right about King Street. There’s where the lights kick on. There’s where the big shots congr… Congress…? That’s where they get together, anyways.

Coin changed hands real quick there. Men in armor thick as a car stood up front of every damn place, guns and swords and hammers latched to their thighs and backs and shit. Iron Heels, we call ‘em. Call ‘emselfs Star Knights or some such. Rogue calls ‘em mercs. They’s mercs, alright. Would fight for us Walldwellers if we had coin for ‘em. Or moisture. Don’t got either.

A few big shots was pissing off near the corner of the alley, two ‘em leaning up on the wall, the third standing facing back at the Strip with his arms crossed. All them wore nice pants, shiny shoes, waist coats ‘n all. The style of the time, I guess. Like a colorful take on what us Walldwellers wear. We wear rags. Dusty, patched up coats and pants. Socks made up of old shirts. That kinda shit. All brown and tan and sun bleached. Them big shots must’ve thought it been real funny, wearing nice versions of our duds. Or maybe they wanted us to feel real funny. Bad, crappy reflections of ‘em. Maybe that.

My hand drifted to the shiv tucked into my belt. Them three had moisture, alright. And coin. They were piss drunk. And pissin’, too. Distracted, I mean. Would’ve been easy, I figured. Then I got to thinking what Rogue might say.

Rogue’d be half a block away, siphoning water out a house tank. No violence. Just a quick and easy op. Only, Rogue had Federation schooling. Knew how to do that kind of shit. And Rogue wasn’t around no more. Rogue was off taking pot shots at Dynasty floozies, on account of getting drafted for the Border War out East. And Rogue never taught me that fancy shit. Couldn’t siphon air from a balloon, me.

Even so. I backed off. Slinked back into the deep shadows. Had to be a better way. A safer way. Like the Sky wanted to tell me yes, an Iron Heel came stomping past the alley not a minute later, started chewin’ out the big shots for gettin’ too far from the Strip’s safe zone. I swear that giant fuck saw me. Looked right at me with them glowin’ green eyes of his.

Didn’t shoot, though. Just stomped off once he’d corralled the big shots.

I took it as the sign from the Sky that it was, and started back for the Wall. Passed the same kitchen; window was still closed. Stopped when I got to the crossroads that split off in six directions; south, the way I’d come from, which led back to King Street and the Strip. North, which led back to the Wall’s main entrance. West, which led to Sadune’s main gates, then out into the Badlands. East, which led to the docks; you might could hop a ride on a sandSkip that-a-way, travel up the Great Rut and into the Dust Sea. Then y’had north-east and north-west; both them just led to different corners of the slums. Slums were pretty much just an extension of the Wall; when we got to be too many, they let us spread out into shacks ‘n shit.

I thought to go home an’ crawl into my alcove. Then I got to thinking, I’d gone out to get water. Or at least moisture. Got to thinking that raw meat could’ve been squeezed for blood and shit, could’ve been grilled and we might’ve scraped the fat runoff and used it to flavor some of our half-purified water if nothin’ else. What kinda look would the others give me if I came back empty handed, anyway?

Dumbest thoughts I ever had, pretty much.

I sucked in some breath, turned on my heel, and started back toward the Strip. I stopped when I got to that kitchen window, and started lookin’ around. Found a brick. Picked it up and thought about smashing my way through the wooden board the cook had shut over the window, then thought better of it. Instead, I walked up to the door and tried the knob.

The sun damned thing twisted, and a little shove was enough to creak the door open. Some real chill lighting seeped out through the crack. I peered inside and saw a whole lot of nothing happening. No sounds or nothing. Figured they was either dead or had closed already. Licking my chops, I slipped inside, took a gander.

Floor was pristine white, barring a few oil stains here and there. A sleek silver door stood tall against the far wall. I got up close to it and felt cool air seeping out through the metal. Tried the handle, and it popped right open. The sudden chill that blasted outta that room was enough to start me shivering. I hugged myself and rubbed at my arms, but went right in, anyway.

Gallons of water. They had gallons in there. Not to mention food stuff. Real food stuff. Slabs of meat. Vibrant fruits, melons the size of my head, apples—I’d only seen apples in paintings we found in the dumps.

I snatched up an apple and stuffed it into my pocket. Grabbed two gallons of water and used ‘em to prop open the door. I filled my pockets with grapes and stuffed wax-paper wrapped meat and bread into my bag. Figured, hell with it, we can start a fire and burn it all. Still taste good to us, all charred and shit.

Food stuff dripping outta every pouch and pocket I had, I hefted them two gallons of water and hustled awkwardly back toward the alley-facing door. And that’s when the cook finally popped out the woodwork.

He stepped up into sight, blocking me from the exit. His thick arms were crossed over his chest. He was hairy and slick with sweat, stank of tobak and a faint touch of the drink. He smiled down at me, pale eyes looking animal-like in the low light.

“Thought y’might try that,” he growled.

I didn’t say nothin’. There was nothin’ too say.

And I’m about done talkin’ for today. It’s hard stuff, what I’m telling you. Hell. Iron Heel hears me yappin’ and that’ll be the end of me, anyway. You want more, you come back tomorrow with somethin’ for me. Coin. Strip of bacon. Just something to make it worth my while.

Now scram.