Wolves by D. J. Molles Read Free Book Online Page B

“Come on,” he calls out, showing his hands. “We’re not gonna hurt you. Come closer.”
    The caravanner waits, but Huxley doesn’t give him anything else. Now they are both waiting each other out. But Huxley has the water. He has the friend. And the caravanner has nothing. Nothing but dead family behind him and empty, dangerous roads in front of him.
    After about a minute of staring at each other in silence, the caravanner hitches up his loose pants and starts walking forward again, slowly. When he is close enough that they can speak without shouting, he stops again. His good eye is looking at Huxley, but Huxley is looking at the bad one. The clouded one. Maybe that is rude. He doesn’t care.
    â€œAmigos?” the man asks.
    â€œThe slavers,” Huxley says, instead. “You know about them?”
    The caravanner glances around, uncomfortable. His cloudy eye tracks with the same movements as his good eye, it just doesn’t look like it works. “Los lobos,” he says, darkly.
    â€œSlavers.”
    â€œYes. Slavers.”
    â€œWhere do they go?”
    The caravanner looks a little confused, but shrugs, and then points east.
    â€œYeah,” Huxley says under his breath. “No shit.” He holds up his hands again and crosses the distance between the two men until he is standing right in front of him. For some reason, he feels like he needs to speak quietly. He’s not sure why. “Are you going east?”
    â€œSí.” The man points east again. “I go.”
    â€œAre you going after them?”
    â€œQué?”
    â€œThe slavers,” Huxley says with some irritation. “Are you going after them?”
    The caravanner touches the corners of his moustache, deep in thought for a moment, his eyes—dark and light—looking away from Huxley. He is thinking something through. Sorting through his small repertoire of English words. When he finally speaks, he combines his words with exaggerated gestures.
    â€œYou call slavers,” he says, carefully. “They take. Hermano. Hermana. They kill. I go. Take back.” He makes a motion like he is gathering things close to his body. Then he forms a gun with his thumb and forefinger, fires it silently a few times. “Kill back.”
    Huxley searches the other man’s eyes. He has a round face. Maybe even jolly once. But his drooping, cloudy eye lends him a harder aspect, and his good eye holds the same cavernousness in it that Huxley feels in his own gut. The same lack of feeling. There’s nothing left in this man either. It’s all been taken from him.
    Huxley looks back over his shoulder at Jay. “Give him some water.”
    Jay, far from begrudging now, seems to be watching the other man with the same intensity as Huxley had. Seeing the same things. Recognizing the same emptiness. Huxley fully expects him to protest giving the man water, but instead Jay just takes the skin from his shoulder and holds it out.
    The man hesitates, then takes it. He uncaps it hurriedly, like they might change their minds, and he drinks deeply.
    Huxley watches the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he drinks.
    â€œLos lobos,” Jay says, quietly. “You know what that means?”
    The way he asks the question, Huxley can tell that Jay does.
    Huxley shakes his head.
    â€œIt means ‘the wolves.’” Jay crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s what the slavers think they are. They think they’re the top of the food chain. The most dangerous animal in the Wastelands. But they’re wrong on that. Look at what they’ve done.” He gestures to the caravanner, then to himself and to Huxley. “Look at what they’ve made.” He laughs. “You take everything from a man and you leave him with nothing. Not even hope. And what does he have to live for?”
    The caravanner leaves some water in the water skin, hands it back.
    Jay