Tales From the Wasteland

Cherry, With the Guns - Death Dealer

Solar torches guided them through the dark, but Cherry knew they were approaching the safehouse before she could see it. The air filled with the smell of a wood fire and the mouth-watering scent of cooking meat. One of the houses towered above the others, a looming silhouette in the dark, built up in an awkward amalgamation of patched walls and a third floor. It was surrounded by a mass of chain-link, barbed wire, and rusting metal sheets. It was lit from within by an orange glow, and from without by the glaring spotlights positioned on each side of the roof, and either side of the massive iron gate.

"Shit," Cherry muttered. "This is a helluva lot more than four raiders."

Vixen did not hear her, or was not listening. To judge by her frantic scratching, wide eyes, and shallow breathing, Cherry guessed her withdrawals had begun. She could only imagine what the woman was used to getting by on. She had heard from older folks that – "before the war" - their day used to start with a pot of something called coffee, which seemed to have a similar affect to a very poorly made ChemPowder. Having had a buffet of needle, powders, and Chems available to her as a dealer, Cherry guessed that Vixen was coming down from more than just one.

'Useless,' she thought. 'A suicide mission. Should've taken the Spider and ran.'

Angelo hailed the guard, and the gate creaked open just enough to admit them. Cherry felt a gut-punch of fear the moment she heard the gate clang shut. There was no way out now that didn't involve blood. Raiders did not take folks in to be friendly; "extra food" was a weak excuse, an oxymoron that simply did not apply in the Wasteland.

"I couldn't pass up a good sale, baby." Marcus's voice played in her head like an old, stuck record. These raiders were just like him, perhaps more vicious but not more dangerous.

'Danger lies in trust,' Cherry thought. 'I know what they'll try. This isn't the same. This won't be the same.'

The safehouse had no doors, and they entered under a porch protected by tarps. Cherry made a list in her head as they moved into a space filled with supply crates, small fuel tanks, and several old, patched easy chairs. One guard at the gate . . . a man beside the porch . . . no guns besides Angelo's . . . a woman walking down the hall . . . two men in the side room . . . air smells like Chem . . .

The chemical scent was prevalent. Angelo motioned for Vixen and Cherry to seat themselves while Thatcher disappeared upstairs and Ruth joined the two men in the side room. Cherry spotted them passing a metal pipe to her in the dim light, and her hope rose a bit. So long as no Twitchers were present, the higher they all were the better for her getting out alive.

Cherry was about to seat herself but Vixen was staring longingly after Ruth. Cherry started to reach out for her, to demand she sit-

"Join them," said Angelo, upon seeing her stare. Vixen looked at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and he motioned her past. "We have enough to share."

Something in her must have warned her of the danger, even if only for a second. Cherry caught her eye a moment, but no amount of desperate head-shaking would turn her now. Vixen vanished into the other room and Cherry bit through the inside of her lip in frustration. Slowly, calmly, she removed her rifle from her back and had a seat, laying the gun across her lap. Angelo called for food and seated himself across from her, regarding her slowly, his gaze lingering on the gun.

"An unusual weapon," he said. "Not many folks carry them seeing as ammunition is so difficult to come by."

Cherry stroked the barrel, the ammunition around her neck suddenly feeling heavier. "You don't seem to have any problem with your own."