Chapter 15: The Wasteland Trade

The convoy stopped a hundred yards from Conroy's trucks.

Fourteen vehicles, mismatched, with plow blades welded to the front of the first and a yellow school bus at the back.

The engines idled.

The man who climbed down from the lead truck wore a motorcycle jacket and a hat pulled low, and he walked up the middle of the road.

"Who's in charge here?" he called.

"I am," I said.

Conroy moved up beside me without being asked.

I let him.

"Pretty farm," the man said. "Smoke from here says you're the only ones left with lights on. Where I come from, we call that a toll."

"Where do you come from?"

"The depot." He jerked his thumb north. "Every drop of fuel in this county is in my tanks. You want any, you pay."

"I have fuel."

"You do now." He smiled. "I counted the barrels in your barn from the hill. Half of it, to start. Plus anything with a trigger."

Behind him, his people had spread along the road with their rifles low.

A dozen, maybe more, with the bus full behind them.

Appraise ran, and I read down the line.

Carrying: pistol, radio, an empty insulin pen.

Intent: taking.

The man behind him was carrying a rifle he didn't know how to hold.

Intent: afraid.

I looked past the convoy to the north, and the road lit up.

[Level 7. Skill unlocked: Price.]

The new line sat over the leader's head, thin and purple.

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