Wolves by D. J. Molles

He looks between the men at his counter, his countenance wary.
    â€œNow, gentlemen, y’all go easy now,” he says, but something that he sees in their eyes makes his voice shake. He tries to hold up a placating hand. “You got an issue with them boys that just walked in, you should take it to the guards, okay?”
    Huxley is almost leaning across the counter, like he’s about to lump Barry in with the slavers. “You know who they are?”
    â€œThey’s traders, from the—”
    â€œThey’re fucking slavers,” Huxley snaps.
    Barry is shaking. His eyes are shooting back and forth. His voice gets real quiet. “But … the guards …”
    Jay looks like he’s about to reach across the counter for Barry. “You think the guards are gonna do shit to these guys? You’re dreamin’. Because they bring goods to this little trading town and nobody has the balls to question where they came from.”
    The three slavers enter the whorehouse. Huxley’s mind is fire and ash. Like his dreams. Like his nightmares. Borderline isn’t the end of the nightmares. It’s just the beginning of new ones. Unfamiliar ones. At least in the desert, it was a simple nightmare. Here, it seems things have grown complicated.
    Like an echo rising from the bottom of a deep well in the wilderness, he thinks of his own wife and daughter.
    A tremor works its way through Huxley.
    Time to stop hiding, old boy.
    You’re a desperate man with nothing left to live for.
    Huxley’s brain is on fire. It is a strange, intoxicating feeling. He has been so cautious, so careful, always trying to gain those miles, not letting anything sway him from his course … and now, just to put it all aside, to admit to himself that all is lost and that there is nothing left but blood and death, to plunge into it so heartlessly, so mindlessly … 
    It feels good.
    Huxley pulls the scattergun from his back and smacks it harshly on the countertop.
    Barry looks terrified. “I’ll call the guards.”
    Huxley looks at the man that just spoke, as though he is a child that has spoken out of turn. He holds the man’s gaze while he yanks out the bottle of powder that he got from the scrapper. “You call who you want. But know this …” he leans over and speaks quietly. “You know what they are now. You call the guards on me, you’re just helping the slavers. And I’ll kill a man for that. So maybe it’d be best if you just took cover and minded your own fucking business.”
    Barry raises his hands and backs away further into his hovel, seeing the imminent violence like dark storm clouds rolling in on gale winds.
    Huxley looks back to the whorehouse. The tarp is still swinging after the last slaver went in to purchase his pleasure. Eyes fixed on that piece of blue plastic, swaying in the wind, Huxley stands the scattergun up in the dirt and pours a heavy charge from the bottle of gunpowder. A page from the paperback to tamp it down.
    He points to Rigo’s pockets. “Batteries.”
    Rigo hesitates, but produces the items from his coat pocket. The collection of batteries includes several AA and a few D-cell batteries. Huxley snatches one of the D-cell batteries from Rigo’s palm and it slides easily down the barrel of the scattergun. Huxley rips another page from the paperback novel as wadding and crams it down firmly in the barrel. Then he winds the crank on the side of the weapon until the copper filament is glowing red-hot.
    â€œQué vas a hacer?” Rigo says.
    Huxley nods toward the whorehouse. “Come with me.”
    â€œHokay.”
    Huxley can barely even think straight. But this is good. This is better. He is so tired of running. He is so exhausted of sneaking around. Live or die in the next few seconds—it makes no difference to him. To be moving , to be grabbing his fear by the jugular and making