Nemesis Games

Amos shrugged. “Don’t know. Thing about civilization, it’s what keeps people civil. You get rid of one, you can’t count on the other.”

She smiled. She really wasn’t looking that good. He wondered in passing what he’d do if she died. Figure something else out, probably. “You sound like you’ve done this before,” she said.

“Shit, I grew up like this. All these folks are just playing catch-up. Thing is, we’re humans. We’re tribal. More settled things are, the bigger your tribe is. All the people in your gang, or all the people in your country. All the ones on your planet. Then the churn comes, and the tribe gets small again.”

He waved a hand at the dark gray landscape. This far out, the trees weren’t knocked over, but the weeds and bushes were starting to die from the dark and the cold.

“Right now,” he said, “I figure our tribe at about two.”

Either she shuddered at the idea or else the cold was getting to her worse. He stood up, squinting down the road. The tent guy wasn’t coming. That was good.

“All right, Peaches. Let’s get going. We’re going to have to head off the road for a bit.”

She looked north, up the road, confused. “Where are we going?”

“East.”

“You mean where we aren’t supposed to go because of some crazy asshole shooting at people?”

“Yup.”

The town had been a decent size last week. Cheap little houses on narrow streets, solar panels on all the roofs sucking in the sunlight, back when there had been some. There were still people here and there. Maybe one house in five or six where the tenants were waiting for help to come to them or so deep in denial that they thought staying put was an option. Or they’d just decided they’d rather die at home. As rational a decision as any other, things being what they were.

They walked on the sidewalks even though there weren’t many cars. A police van skidded by a few blocks ahead once. A sedan with an old woman hunched in the front seat who carefully ignored them as she passed. When the batteries ran dry there was no power grid to charge them back up, so all the trips were either short or one-way. One house had words painted across the front: EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE IS THE PROPERTY OF THE TRAVIS FAMILY. LOOTERS WILL BE HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED. That left him laughing for a couple of blocks. The supermarket at the center of town was dark, and stripped down to the shelves. So somebody in the place had understood the gravity of their situation.

The compound was on the eastern edge of town. He’d been worried they might walk by it without noticing, but it hugged the road and the signage was clear. PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING. ARMED SECURITY ON SITE. His personal favorite was NO RELIEF SERVICES.

A wide, flat field of a yard led up to a white modular house. The transport parked in front of it looked like something manufactured to imitate military equipment. Amos had lived in an actual military design long enough to recognize the difference.

He put Peaches in place at the edge of the property first, then walked the perimeter once, taking it all in. The fence had barbed wire all the way around, but nothing electrified. He was about fifty-fifty that there was a sniper’s nest in the attic, but it might have just been a bird. Easy to forget that even with the massive burden of humanity, there was still wildlife on Earth. The house itself was prefabbed or else printed in place. Hard to say which. He also saw three tubes coming up out of the ground that looked like they could be ventilation. There were bullet holes in the bark of the trees at the property’s edge, and one place where it looked like there was blood on the leaves of the dying bushes.

This was where he wanted to be.

He started by standing at the edge of the property, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting.

“Hey! In the house! You there?”

He waited a long minute, alert for signs of movement. Something behind the curtains of the front window. Nothing in the sniper’s nest. So maybe it was just sparrows after all.

“Hey! In the house! My name is Amos Burton, and I’m looking to trade!”

A man’s voice came, shrill and angry. “This is private property!”

“That’s why I’m out here fucking my throat up instead of ringing the goddamn doorbell. I heard you were prepped for this shit. I got caught with my pants down. Looking to trade for guns.”

There was a long silence. Hopefully the bastard wouldn’t just shoot him, but maybe. Life was risk.

“What’re you offering?”

“Water recycler,” Amos shouted. “It’s on the back of my rig.”

“I’ve got one.”

“May need another. Don’t think they’ll be making more anytime soon.” He waited to the count of ten. “I’m going to come up to the house so we can talk.”

“This is private property! Don’t cross the line!”

Amos opened the gate, smiling his biggest goofiest smile. “It’s okay! If I was armed, I wouldn’t be trading for guns, right? Don’t shoot me, I’m just here to talk.”