Page 10 of The Dead Don't Talk
“You’re such a dick!”
Pursing my lips knowingly, I climb the remaining length, my boots landing heavily on the open wooden platform that creaks beneath my weight. My lips quirk at the man sitting in one of only two chairs in the place, the vines behind him a contrast to the gruffness staring back at me.
“Wilson,” I greet the man that runs this post. “Nice shot.”
“Who’s the fucking kid?”
Amo, who is still yelling after me, makes me chuckle as I plop down on the seat across from Wilson.
He’s as scruffy as ever, chest hair spilling out of his worn flannel, his bow sitting across his knees as his thick fingers fiddle with the spindle.
“Recruit,” I answer and steal the open jar next to his elbow. He grumbles from behind his beard but doesn’t protest when I take a swig.
The liquor burns down my throat, dry and otherwise flavorless. Strong enough to hit my gut like a rock and make me hiss.
“This is a terrible batch,” I say and tilt the glass to look at it, the clear liquid inside sloshing around.
“Thanks, boss. I was waiting for just that compliment.”
I take another sip and hand it back to him.
“How’s the weather?”
“Dead. Red due to come soon, too.”
The rattle of the chain makes his words feel almost ominous, but I keep those thoughts close as the sound continues to travel up the trunks and echoes in the open air porch.
I can already feel the rain coming. I don’t need him to tell me that.
Seems to be every few weeks now that the skies flood an odd tinge, an abnormal color and dump infectious precipitation down on us. The crops. Our animals and feed.
It makes places like this, far away from supplies and assistance, unsafe to be for quite some time. Hard to get to without risk. Even more difficult to come back from, unless you’re already infected.
“We’ll be here ‘til morning,” I rumble out. “You need supplies?”
“Give me back my arrows and I’ll run,” he says roughly after a drink of the pure alcohol. “The traps are all set. Sounds in place to warn ya. I’d get some shut eye if you can.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before stretching to stand with a groan, his beloved bow in his grip.
“You get that other shit bottled up?”
Slinging his weapon to the holster across his back, he gestures vaguely in the direction of the cabinets that are lined with green spiny looking plants I know to be calledaloe.
The leaves have grown since last time I was here, but not as much as I recall from last year, which is not a good thing for him and I and our daytime activities.
“Should be enough ‘til next time,” He mutters distractedly as he gathers a few things for his trip back to my cabin that sits just outside of the community where the supplies he requested should be waiting for him.
The chain makes a loud clink, pulling my attention away from Wilson’s growing collection, to the thud of footsteps that hit the platform, and my smirk grows at Amo’s breathlessness. There’s even a little perspiration sitting above the brow not covered by his deflating curls.
“Here’s the fucking arrows minus one. I’mnotgoing back down there to fucking pick it up.”
He shoves them at Wilson despite the man’s sneer and aims his death glare on me.
“You’re a complete asshole,” he pants out.
“You did fine.”
Wilson grumbles something that resembles sarcasm about how the rest of my night will unfold and descends the chain with a grace that never did make sense to me. With just one arm wrapped up in the links, his thick body barely makes a sound, and then he’s gone, heading back to the community for his supplies.
