[Note: This short story that is not so short is being serialized and slowly rewritten in my blog. This is the sixth installment.]
The girl pedaled faster looking to impale Jack in the chest. Sad had to think fast. He saw a large bone and threw it at the bike. The bone didn’t catch in the spoke, but it hit her and caused Sally to veer off and fall. The girl tumbled twice and ended with her butt sticking up in the air.
Jack took advantage of her fall, and he ran towards her. Sad looked past them and saw all of her friends charging towards them; there were at least ten, including the weird kid with the clean shirt, who trailed behind them without enthusiasm.
“NO JACK! IT’S A PACK ATTACK!”
Jack stopped on his tracks, and they ran off towards the market.
A grown up yelled in the distance, “Look at your sister!”
By the time they reached the market sign, they were out of breath. Sad turned back to see a woman smacking all the kids with Sally’s broomstick. Jack guffawed and turned to his brother. They grinned at each other, turned, and took in the market.
There were a mere two rows and five vendors. Sad remember two years ago, when the market was full of vendors. There were more old people, then, and more mothers. He remembered a yellow haired woman who would always give him popcorn. That was before the werewolves were so many. Before people started turning on each other because anyone could turn into them. To the right, there was a woman selling dried dog meat. Another one sold mismatched parts for tents. A small group of teenagers bartered herbs for cloth. On the left were the weapons. There were no guns today, just homemade slayer sticks. Even Sad knew they broke easily and wouldn’t pierce werewolf skin; most of them were spray-painted silver. A slayer stick had to be razor sharp with real silver coating. Sad stared at the guy manning the table; he was young with a large scar on his left cheek. “Man, your slayer sticks suck!” said Jack. The man wanted to rebuff, but he recognized the kids and kept quiet. At the end was the rat roaster. Sad giggled when he saw he wore a skirt with flowers on it and a thin red shirt.
They walked slowly inspecting the goods. Sad slumped disappointed; nobody was peddling cans.
“Hey Jack!” said the rat roaster, “You boys causing trouble?”
“Hi—Mr.—Wong,” answered Jack, “Of—Course—Not.” Jack grinned at the old man, making a point to pause at the skirt.
Mr. Wong eyed Sad, “Gotta watch out with the urchins. They’re tough.”
“I know,” answered Sad, “I think I broke a boy’s nose. He didn’t even cry.”
Mr. Wong chuckled and offered them a rat on a stick, “Fresh off the grill.”
“Freebies?” asked Jack with a charming smile.
“No way Jose. This isn’t the Tucson Commie Camp.”
Sad laughed, “Those guys are crazy. One of them gave me some of their stuff to read. I used it for toilet paper.” Sad took out his lollypop and offered it.
“Hmm, well, that’s a start. Got anything else?”
Sad reached into his inside pant pocket and slowly pulled out part of his treasure, “Here, found these in the dessert.”
“Ah! Two rats then.” The old man took the nails, “Good for large traps.”
Sad spoke between slobber, “Hey, Dad says he wants to trade bullets for food. Carry food.”
“I don’t want the eyes!” whined Jack.
Sad grabbed the stick and bit the head off.
“Just the eyes!”
“Shut up,” muffled Sad.
“How many bullets?” asked Mr. Wong. He wiped the sweat off his face with a red sock. Sad admired his eyes and dark skin. Mr. Wong always talked to them like people, not barked orders or ignored them. Or worse, tried to use them for something bad.
Sad pretended to remember, “I think five, maybe seven.”
“Please, don’t try to con me, squirt,” said Mr. Wong.
Jack laughed, “You know dad has lots of bullets.”
“Silver?“ asked Mr. Wong.
“Four,” answered Sad as honestly as possible, “He has a lot of regular rounds. They were soaked in holy water.” That was true.
The old man’s face lit up, “No fooling?”
“Hunter’s honor,” said Jack, holding up his left hand, “We found an underground church in Flagstaff. The priest blessed all of our stuff. He even dunked Jack in water and said something long and boring. It was funny.”
Mr. Wong chuckled, “Tell your dad I have tomatoes and pees. Nothing else.”
“Ah, man,” whined Jack, “I hate tomatoes.”
“Dad doesn’t,” said Sad, kicking at his brother, “Thank you Mr. Wong. We’ll be right back.”
Mr. Wong analyzed the boys, “Hmmm. Looks like you two better shave your heads.”
Jack looked startled, “Oh, no! Don’t tell Dad. We used up all the stuff he had.”
“What’s with the dress?” asked Sad, changing the subject.
Mr. Wong paused, “I’ve lost so much weight, Mrs. Wong needs to repair my pants. Besides, the skirt is cooler.”
Jack caught on, “Ha ha! Are you sure you’re not Mrs. Wong?”
Mr. Wong laughed, rattling his make shift grill, “I swear—“
A lonely howl froze the old man. Mr. Wong grabbed his grill, shouted, “RUN!” and ran, faster than was ladylike.
