Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110757 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 554(@200wpm)___ 443(@250wpm)___ 369(@300wpm)
“Come in,” he says, annoyed.
I run a quick risk assessment. If it’s just him, I could overtake him. But he could call others in here, and I don’t like that.
I take a single step through the doorway, stopping.
He sighs through his nose, aggravated. “Either come in and show me what you’ve got, or get out. I’m busy.”
The painful, swollen welt on my back reminds me that I have to do this. I need to get in and out of this city as fast as I can.
I shuffle to the side, never turning my back to him. He closes the door. I pull my dad’s Bren Ten gun from my bag, still expecting him to jump me.
He takes a quick look and it and shakes his head. “Can’t get ammo for that.”
Damn. He’s right. This gun was obsolete before the virus, but Dad had ammo with it in his safe so I took it. Now it’s just a useless hunk of metal.
“What else?” He crouches down to my level, where my bag is, and the movement makes me shift backward.
He scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, honey. You smell worse than an entire herd of cattle. I’m not gonna touch you. What else you got in there?”
The COP. It’s useless in a bad situation because it takes so long to reload. I’m digging for it when the guy says, “I’ll take that hunting knife.”
I freeze. He can see the Randall. It was Dad’s most prized hunting knife, and I’d never let go of it. Not for anything.
“No,” I say.
He stands back up. “Look, I don’t mess with guns. It’s too dangerous. Either trade the knife for what you need, or kick rocks.”
My head feels on the verge of exploding. The pain is intense. I just want to get what I need and get out of here, but I still need to get salt.
“Come on,” I plead. “You know that’s not a fair trade.”
He shrugs. “Everyone gets at least ten medical credits a month. What’d you do with yours?”
I huff, exasperated. “Maybe I’m not a law-abiding resident here, but you’re in a back room trying to make a deal, so that makes two of us.”
“The knife’s what I want. Let’s make the trade, or see yourself out.”
I tighten the drawstring on my bag harder than necessary, glaring at him as I stand up.
He’s outside the doorway now, and he could easily trap me in here. I don’t want to get close enough for him to be able to grab my bag, but I have to in order to get out of the room.
I duck my head and hurry out of the building, relieved when humid summer air hits my skin again.
Just the salt, then. I’m hoping that will be easier to secure. If I can find a beehive in the woods, I can make a honey poultice to apply to the bite. Vendors were setting up their wares at an outdoor market I passed on my way here. I’ll go back there for salt and a few food staples, and then it’s back to the forest, where I’m safe.
The sweet scent of freshly baked bread makes my stomach rumble before the market even comes into view. I never imagined something that used to be widely available and inexpensive would become an unattainable luxury.
Same with soap. I know how to make it from things I can find in nature, but it’s a lot of work and I’m just too tired after finding food to put in the extra work. So yeah, I’m sure I do smell really bad.
One of the first vendors I see at the market is selling nuts. There are wood crates filled with walnuts, pistachios, pecans, almonds, and peanuts. I approach because nuts are small and nutrient dense—just what I need.
Someone grabs my upper arm, the hand big and the hold tight.
“Need to see your ID, miss.”
Time slows as I turn to look at him, my stomach dropping with terror. This is worst-case scenario. I want to run, but he has an iron grip on my arm.
“It’s in my bag,” I lie. “Can I ...?”
He lets go of me, but now there are three other guards, and they’re forming a half circle around me, the vendor’s cart at my back.
I can’t even dig through my bag because I’ll risk exposing the weapons inside.
“Stand up,” a male voice says from nearby. “Let me see your face.”
I look up and see the man the voice belongs to, my skin prickling.
He’s tall, and he looks around forty, his light-blond hair thinning. But it’s what he’s wearing that makes my mouth dry.
The olive-green uniform is showier than the fatigues the other guards are wearing. The shoulders of his jacket are wide and squared, and colorful medals adorn his chest.
“Take out whatever’s in your hair,” he orders.
I lower my brows, scared but not wanting to show it. “Why? I just forgot my ID. I can go get it.”