Apartment 905 by Sahin, Ned (best color ereader TXT) 📗

She walks back from the field and grabs one of the sandwiches. I see the kind of happiness a good meal can trigger. Toshi’s face lights up with a similar expression too.

We get back to the road after our short break. I watch the deserted fields and lonely farmhouses through the open window. I can smell the dead crops around abandoned houses. Some of them have open doors and shattered windows while the rest seems intact even though they don’t provide shelter to anyone anymore.

I see a house surrounded by chain-link fencing and windows covered by plywood. I think it’s a deadly mistake to set up a perimeter like this. They might as well have put a neon sign that says: “There is a huge stockpile of food and water here.” If it was in the territory of Saviors, that house would most likely have been one of the first to be sacked.

“That must be the refinery,” Kathleen says while pointing to a steel contracture with a tall chimney and pipelines around.

Toshi looks out for road signs. “There it is. Exit 47,” he says and reduces speed.

We all carefully scan the area for any threats. There is no sign of humans, animals, and Ricas. We approach what looks like a gas station near the refinery building. By the size of its pump area and wide lines in the parking lot, it looks like a gas station for truckers.

Toshi turns to enter the station.

There are two sets of pumps. The ones on the left seem to be dried out. Hoses are on the floor and trash cans are toppled. There is even a truck that hit the iron pole on the side of a pump.

“The ones on the right...” I say. All six pumps appear in good condition, and there are no trucks or cars parked around them.

Toshi slams the brake when he sees a man sitting on a beach chair between two stations in the center of the pump area. He is a middle-aged man with a long beard wearing a cowboy hat and jeans jacket. He holds a cigarette in one hand while keeping his other hand on an AK-47 laying on his lap.

He doesn’t stand up or change his position. He keeps staring at us while smoking.

“Let’s get out of here,” Toshi says.

“The tank is almost empty.” Kathleen objects to him. She has a point. Even if we turn around and leave, we won’t be able to drive far.

I remember the triple-A rule from one of the survival shows I watched before the outbreak: Assess the surroundings, avoid a conflict, attack if there is no other choice. I check the surroundings. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else, but I am pretty sure he is not alone. He wouldn’t be this relaxed if someone else wasn’t watching his back. We should attempt to get gas while avoiding trouble with him.

“Let’s give it a shot,” I say. I still have the bow the kids gave us in the church. The shotgun is also with us but there are no rounds. We asked if Rowan or his friends have guns or ammo that we can take, but they don’t have any type of firearms in their town as we expected. Harmony gave us kitchen knives that we covered in shirt sleeves and attached to our belts under our t-shirts.

Since we outnumber him, knives and a bow can give us a chance against an AK-47 if we use them wisely. I still want to stick with the “avoid a conflict” rule, though.

The bearded man keeps staring at us as Toshi slowly moves the car and parks within a safe distance where we have a chance of turning around in case he—or anyone—decides to shoot.

I roll down the window and try to smile. “Hey. Is there still some gas left?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. His squinted eyes go between me, Kathleen, and Toshi.

“You hear us?” I ask. Who knows, he might be deaf.

“What you got?” he finally speaks.

It’s a world of trading now.

“We are coming from Purple Haze. We have a trade deal with Rebels,” I say.

“So?” He takes another breath from his cigarette. It looks like he doesn’t care about either of them. We should find a way to make a deal with him.

“Three days of food and water for a full tank,” I say. This would be a good trade for us. We will still have enough supplies for several days if he accepts the offer.

“Five days for half a tank,” he counters with a pouty face. The corner of his mouth twitches and the tip of his nose rises every time he takes a breath.

A half tank wouldn’t even take us to Denver. I share a look with Toshi and Kathleen. Both of them shake their heads.

“Five days of supplies and a quarter pound of weed for a full tank,” I say.

Toshi was against the idea of taking weed from Rowan, but we all agreed that it would come handy for trading.

He tilts his head and narrows his beady eyes. “Now you’re talking,” he says with a toothless grin.

“Jack!” he yells at the gas station’s convenience store. A younger man comes out of the store, and the man nods his head.

The younger man walks to the pump and extends the hose. Toshi moves the car closer to the hose.

I leave the bow on my seat and get out of the car. Kathleen gets out of the car too.

I open the trunk to meet our side of the bargain while keeping an eye on the guy. The guy stares at Kathleen's thighs.

“Hold on, Jack!” he yells. “I want a private dance from her.”

That’s a red line I won’t let anyone cross. His dark eyes fill with lust and saliva leaks over his ugly beard. This is what a man who makes decisions between his legs looks like. The apocalypse didn’t eliminate assholes like him. It