Мередит Притчард - Heartbeat

“LOOKIN’ TO TRADE, KID?” The shopkeeper’s face is scarred; smudges of dirt cross his forehead, a hand-rolled cigarette bounces on his bottom lip with each word.

“You got any oil?”

He reaches under the counter and sets a tiny jar filled with amber liquid on the scarred slab of wood.

“No.” I shake my head. “Motor oil.”

The tiny jar disappears; a new jar with coffee colored liquid takes its place. “What else?”

“Two bolts.”

One thin brow rises in interest. “Bolts? Metal like that’s hard to come by.” He drops an elbow on the counter, rests his chin in hand, taps stained fingertips on a hallowed cheek. “What’s a kid like you wantin’ bolts for?”

Ash drops from the cigarette in a flutter of flakes like snow from old picture books.

“Wheelbarrow needs fixing.”

“Hm.” The shopkeeper reaches behind the counter again. “Still using wheelbarrows these days?”

“Still buying potatoes from the commune down the road?”

Shopkeeper grunts as he pushes himself to standing using the counter as support. “Work there?”

“Work lotsa places.”

“Best potatoes for miles.” The shopkeeper drops two bolts next to the jar of oil. “Soil’s so rotten nothing else will grow.” He pinches the cigarette between his fingers, sets it on a rusty can filled with ash and tiny bits of rolling paper. “Last two bolts for fifty miles, at least. Been keeping them underground. Ever had a tomato, kid?”

“What’s a tomato?”

The shopkeeper laughs, hearty and deep until he starts coughing uncontrollably.

I wait for him to calm down, itching to get out of this place. Don’t like the dim of the shops. Don’t like the closeness, lack of safe places to hide.

“Tomato was a—” The shopkeeper glances behind me. “Don’t worry about it. Plenty of things from the oldworld you’ll never taste.” He sets his hand over the jar and the bolts. “What’s your trade?”

Reaching into my pack, I pull out a coyote hide and set it on the counter.

This elicits a double eyebrow rise from the shopkeeper. He spreads both of his hands across the gray fur, petting it.

“Used to have a German Shepherd, ‘fore the world went to shit.” Shopkeeper clears his throat. “Had him at my side for a long time. Since I was a kid. Dusters came in one day, took him away,” he knocks on his pant leg, a hollow sound, “took ‘em both. Dog and leg. Ate ‘em for dinner no doubt.”

“That was nobody’s pet. Caught it in the wild.”

“Worth more than a baby food jar of oil and two bolts.” The shopkeeper picks up his cigarette, takes a deep drag, exhales the smoke from his nose.

“I can catch a live one for you.”

Dark eyes focus on me. “Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Stretching up on my toes, I pluck the cigarette from his mouth, take a deep drag, exhale the smoke in a staccato of rings.

“Once upon a time it was illegal for a kid your age to smoke.”

“I keep my promises.” I nod to the pelt, exhale a last mouthful of smoke. “Favor equals a favor.”

“What do you want?”

“Need five by seven sheet of stainless steel, two more bolts, three nuts.”

The shopkeeper whistles. “That kind of metal will get your ass added to the registry. Before you know it, kid, authorities will be hauling your scrawny butt off to the smelter.”

The shop windows darken; didn’t think the sepia haze of the world outside could get any darker.

“Probably them now.” The shopkeeper grabs the pelt.

I grab the oil and bolts, shove them in the hidden pocket of my pack.

“The metal?” I ask.

“The dog?”

After a quick calculation, “Two days. Maybe less.”

The flooring rumbles under my feet.

“Guess we meet again in two days.” The shopkeeper drops to his knees, pulls open a trapdoor and climbs inside.

I adjust my pack and run out of the shop.

The world outside is a windstorm of dust. A Sentinel hovers over the building that houses the shops, no doubt scanning the inhabitants. Sprinting for the edge of its shadow, I’m eager to escape them finding what’s hiding in my pack, eager to escape the pulse of the drone scanner increasing its radius.

Boom .

Ten feet.

Boom .

Twenty feet.

Boom .

I leap to the edge of the Sentinel’s shadow, claw at the air, hit the dirt knees first and roll.

Boom .

Clear.

I scramble to my feet, add more dust to the drone wind and take off for the mountains in the distance. The bolts start to clang against the glass of oil. Afraid of it breaking, I swing the pack to my front and hold it against my chest. Precious cargo. Took me months of scouting out that shop to work up the courage and ask for what I really wanted. Took me months of hiding in the shadows, figuring out how to dress, swear and smoke. A mountain education didn’t teach me any of that.

I run through narrow streets, foul smelling and dark, until I reach the dirt road that leads to the mountain.

This land used to be rich. Grass covered every inch, there was a river, trees. Now it’s all ocher and dryness. Few live very far from the shops, the pipes that trickle rust stained water and government slop for dinner.

As far as I know I’m the farthest away with an eight mile hike to the base of the mountain. I rarely ever walk the full eight miles though. I’ve got underground tunnels that get me where I need to be.

“Jessie?”

I stop in my tracks at the sound of Nettie’s voice. Should have known better, I’m never able to get past the barn without her noticing.

The old woman moves from behind a potato stand built into the front porch of her house. Rotting rattan bins are nearly empty. “What are you running from?” she asks.

Shifting my pack into place, I catch my breath. “Drone at the shops.”

“No reason to run unless you’re hiding something.” Nettie settles her fists on her hips. “You’re not hiding something. Are you?”

“Course not.” I pat my bag. “Just had to pick up a few things.” I point at the mountain. “They want me back before dark.”

“Was a time when sending a kid your age out to traipse across burnt-up land like this was illegal.” Nettie rounds the potato stand. “Your people have more stock for me?”

“Just brought a batch three days ago.”

“Know how folks are nowadays. Food like that, few and far between. Sold the potatoes for a price. Kept the crew here turning new soil to get our crops up and running again.” Nettie’s eyes narrow on my pack. “I’d like to purchase more stock.”

I take a step back. “I’ll tell them.”

Nettie cocks her head to the side. “Heard a rumor your people like to fix things.”

My heart thumps. My people .

Nettie walks to the potato stand, reaches to the shelves behind. She’s carrying a figurine as she walks towards me. Holds it out. “Can they make it dance again?”

I’ve never seen anything like it before. A human figure, thin arms and legs, erected on the point of a tiny foot, slender fingers reaching for the sky with the strangest clothing—muted pink, frilly cloth around its waist.

“Ballerina. Someone gave that to me a long time ago.” Nettie holds the figurine at the base. “Innards are plastic.” She flips it over, presses a button on it’s back that pops open a door. “Started using plastic when the great metal harvest began.”

The mechanics are transparent, the tooth of a gear is broken, jamming the motor and a spring is bent to the side.