Chapter 13: Deals in the Dark
The crawler shrieked, leaping. Reaper fired. The round took it in the open maw, punching through the soft palate in a spray of black fluid and shattered bone. Its momentum carried it forward, a dead weight of spindly limbs and rancid meat, crashing into his chest and driving him to the asphalt.
The air exploded from his lungs. The creature’s weight was immense, a sack of wet gravel. He could smell its decay, a sweet-rot stench that coated the back of his throat. His ribs screamed in protest. Johnny skidded to a halt, turning back. “Reaper!”
“Go!” Reaper snarled, shoving at the twitching corpse. His fingers slipped in the oily mess of its head. “Get the winch to the truck! Move!”
Johnny hesitated for one brutal second, his face a mask of conflict, then gave a sharp nod. He turned and sprinted after Davies and Kieran, his footsteps fading. Reaper wrestled the dead weight off, rolling to his knees. Pain lanced through his side. He ignored it, clambering to his feet. The clicking from the depot had become a chorus. More shadows detached from the deeper darkness within.
He ran, each footfall sending a jolt of white-hot agony up his torso. The alley blurred at the edges of his vision. He focused on the retreating backs of his team, on the shape of the winch bouncing on Davies’s shoulders. He caught up to them as they reached the skeletal billboard that marked the extraction point. The truck’s engine was already growling.
“Drive,” Reaper gasped, hauling himself into the passenger seat. He didn’t need to say it twice. The tires tore at the rubble, spinning them around in a cloud of dust and gray powder. In the side mirror, he watched pale, scuttling shapes spill from the alley mouth and stumble into the sunlight, their distorted forms shrinking as the distance grew.
No one spoke. The only sounds were the roar of the engine and Reaper’s own ragged, controlled breathing. He peeled off the gas mask, then the balaclava, his face slick with sweat. He pressed a hand against his left side. His fingers came away clean. The bleeding was internal. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, listening to the steady, reassuring sound of Johnny shifting gears as they left the graveyard behind.
The caravan sprawled across a rocky overlook like a bright, noisy fungus, a sudden explosion of color and life against the drab badlands. Tents of patched canvas and plastic flapped in the dry wind, strung between hulking, modified vehicles. The air smelled of roasting meat, diesel, and unwashed bodies—a familiar, almost comforting market stink. Valeria, Dante, Arami, and Carla stepped out of the van onto the packed earth.
Four merchants detached themselves from the crowd, their faces breaking into genuine grins of recognition. “The wanderers return!” one called, clapping Dante on the shoulder. “You still owe me a bottle of that shine from the valley run!”
“Next time, Jax,” Dante laughed, but his eyes were already scanning the crowd, assessing.
From the largest tent, a structure of faded truck tarps lashed to the side of a scarred motorhome, Marco emerged. His laughter was a deep, rolling sound that shook his substantial belly. His hair was a mix of gunmetal grey and stubborn black, and his eyes were shrewd pockets in a fleshy, friendly face. “Arami! Carla! What wind blows trouble my way today?”
Carla smiled, a sharp, knowing curve of her lips. “Business, Marco. We’ve come to negotiate.”
Marco’s eyes gleamed. He gestured grandly to the tent’s dark interior. “Then come inside! Let’s talk where the flies and the spies can’t listen.”
Valeria and Dante exchanged a glance, staying behind to begin the more public bartering for general supplies. Arami and Carla followed Marco into the shaded, cluttered space. It was a treasure trove of junk and miracles: shelves of mismatched tools, boxes of corroded electronics, stacks of yellowed books, and bundles of wire. He settled his bulk behind a table strewn with gears and gestured for them to sit on two crates.
He didn’t waste time. “I hear you’re looking for detonating cord.” He laced his fingers over his stomach. “Serious stuff. For serious people.”
“We are,” Carla said.
“Do you have any?” Arami asked, her voice level.
Marco leaned forward, the crate groaning beneath him. He purred, the sound oily and intimate. “I might have something… for the right price.”
Carla nodded at Arami, a silent, practiced signal. Arami nodded back, stood up, and without a word, walked out of the tent, leaving Carla alone with the caravan master. The canvas flap fell shut, muffling the market’s noise.
Carla gave Marco a flirty smile, tilting her head. She stood up and slowly sauntered around the table. “So, where’s your bed?”
Marco chuckled, a low, wheezing sound. “No bed. My wife wouldn’t like knowing I used the bed.”
Carla huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “But she doesn’t mind you fucking someone else as long as it’s not the bed?”
He smiled at her, a frank, open expression of carnal commerce. “As long as she doesn’t know, she won’t get mad. But using the bed… that would be disrespectful.” He pushed himself up and led her to a curtained-off section at the back of the tent where two long, grease-stained couches faced a low coffee table piled with catalogs. He sat on one, spreading his arms across the back, and nodded at the space between his knees. “Come on, get to work.”
Carla walked over, her movements economical. She knelt on the thin rug, its fibers gritty with sand. She unbuckled his belt with quick fingers, popped the button of his trousers, and pulled his soft cock out. It began to fatten in her hand. She leaned down and took him into her mouth without ceremony.
Marco let out a pleased sigh, his head thumping back against the couch. He grunted as her tongue swirled around his head, her suction deliberate and strong. “Fuck, your little mouth is always so good.” His hands came down to cup her head, not forcing, just guiding. His hips gave a small upward jerk.
She worked him with a focused, relentless rhythm, using her hand to pump the base in tight twists. He hardened fully in her mouth, his cock thickening against her tongue. She could taste salt and stale skin. After a few minutes, his breathing grew ragged. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her off with a wet pop.
“Come here,” he rasped, his face flushed. “I need to get you ready. I’m a gentleman, after all.” He lifted her by her waist, turning her, and settled her onto his lap so she straddled him. His big hands pushed her shorts and underwear down to her thighs. One thick finger pushed inside her, then two, scissoring roughly. Carla moaned, a low, theatrical sound, and began to ride his hand, grinding her clit against the heel of his palm. She rolled her hips, fucking herself on his fingers, her own wetness slicking his knuckles.
“That’s it, get nice and loose for me,” he muttered, his other hand squeezing her breast through her shirt. He pumped his fingers in and out, the crude sound echoing in the tent. After a minute, he pulled his wet fingers free. “Alright. Turn around. Doggy. On the couch.”
Carla complied, bending over the arm of the couch, presenting her ass to him. He spat into his palm, slicked his cock, and positioned himself. He pushed into her with one long, grunting shove, burying himself to the hilt. She gasped, her fingers clutching at the cheap fabric.
He fucked her with steady, deep, piston-like strokes, his belly slapping against her ass with each thrust. The couch squeaked in a frantic rhythm. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, pulling her back onto him. “Tight little cunt,” he panted. “Always so fucking tight. You miss this dick?”
“Yeah,” Carla breathed, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts. “Fuck, yeah, just like that.”
He leaned over her, his sweat dripping onto her back. His pace increased, becoming harder, less rhythmic, a drive toward climax. “You gonna come for me? Huh? Come on this old cock.”
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in rough circles. The combined sensation—the deep, full penetration and the abrupt, electric pressure on her clit—tipped her over. Her orgasm was sharp and surprisingly intense, a clenching ripple that made her cry out, her inner muscles spasming around him.
The crawler shrieked, leaping.
Reaper fired. The round took it in the open mouth, punching through the soft palate and into the malformed brain case. The creature went limp mid-air, crashing into a pile of rotten pallets in a tangle of unnatural limbs. The echoes of the gunshot rolled down the street like thunder, an advertisement they couldn’t afford.
“Move!” he roared again, sprinting after the others. More clicks and shrieks erupted from the depot behind them, a waking hive. They ran, the world narrowing to the burn in their lungs and the thunder of their boots. Davies, with the winch, was flagging, his face a purple mask of strain. Kieran and Johnny covered their rear, firing sporadic shots at pale shapes emerging from doorways and alleys.
The extraction point was the shell of a petrol station two blocks away. The truck was still there, a beautiful, rusted monument. They piled in, Davies heaving the winch into the bed with a final, agonized grunt. Reaper slammed the driver’s door as Johnny vaulted into the passenger seat.
The engine turned over once, twice, then caught. Reaper stomped the accelerator. The truck lurched forward just as the first wave of crawlers spilled into the street behind them. He didn’t look back. He watched the ruined city begin to blur in the side mirrors, his knuckles white on the wheel, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. They had the tool. The city kept its ghosts.
The northern trade route was a dust-choked scar between limestone bluffs. Eli’s caravan wasn’t hard to find; the stench of unwashed bodies, fried gutter oil, and animal shit preceded it by half a mile. Arami parked the jeep a respectful distance away, her eyes assessing the fortified wagons and the hard-eyed guards.
“Let me do the talking,” she said to Valeria, who merely nodded, her hand resting on the pistol at her hip.
Eli himself was a scarecrow of a man draped in oily furs, his fingers stained black with grease and tobacco. He watched them approach from a throne made of stacked car seats, not smiling. “Arami,” he drawled. “Heard you’d settled down with the gun-toting charity cases. Need something, or is this a social call?”
“Need something,” she confirmed, stopping before him. She didn’t smile either. “Industrial lubricant. Ten gallons. Detonation cord, fifty meters.”
Eli whistled through brown teeth. “Planning a party. That’s expensive party favors.” His eyes slid over her, then to Valeria, calculating. “What’s your currency? Your Captain’s credit is shit out here.”
Arami unslung her pack and pulled out the oilcloth bundle. She unrolled it on a nearby crate, revealing the torque wrench. The steel gleamed dully in the sun, the calibration marks pristine, a relic of a world that cared about precision.
Eli’s disinterest vanished. He leaned forward, his breath catching. A trembling, grease-caked finger hovered over the tool but didn’t touch it. “Where did you…?”
“Do we have a deal?” Arami’s voice was flat.
He looked from the wrench to her face, his own a conflict of naked greed and something like reverence. “The cord, the lube, and…” he swallowed, “…and a five-gallon drum of my best ethanol. For the wrench.”
“Done.” She rolled the wrench back in its cloth. “But we load it now. We’re on a clock.”
Eli shouted orders, and his people scrambled. Within twenty minutes, the jeep’s rear compartment held their prize. As they turned to leave, Eli called out, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Arami. That tool… it’s a dead man’s hands. You understand?”
She understood. It was a piece of a soul. “I know,” she said, and got in the jeep.
The base felt different upon their return—tenser, louder, a hive preparing for a storm. Clark took the supplies from Arami with a grunt of thanks, his eyes bloodshot from planning. “Reaper’s team made it back an hour ago,” he said. “Winch is secured. They lost no one. Keller’s got a nasty gash from climbing gear, that’s it.”
The tight knot behind Arami’s ribs loosened, just a fraction. “Where is he?”
“Debriefing. Then probably sharpening every blade he owns.” Clark squinted at her. “Your other two. The loud one and the pretty one. They back yet?”
“Carla and Dante went to secure the last of the lumber from the sawmill commune. They should be back by dusk.”
They weren’t.
By nightfall, Arami was pacing near the east gate, Valeria a silent shadow beside her. “They can handle themselves,” Valeria finally said, though her tone lacked its usual certainty.
“Dante gets distracted,” Arami muttered, her mind cycling through worst-case scenarios involving ambushes, broken axles, or worse. The raven, Poe, croaked softly from a nearby perch, as if sharing her unease.
They didn’t need to handle themselves, as it turned out. They’d handled their business, just in their own particular way.
The sawmill commune was less a community and more a loosely affiliated band of lumberjacks and traders run by a bear of a man named Marco. His “office” was the back of a salvaged hardware store, walled off by moth-eaten curtains.
Carla stood before his desk, having just finished listing the base’s needs. Marco leaned back, his chair groaning, and gave her a slow, appraising look that travelled from her boots to her cropped hair. “That’s a big ask. Lumber’s valuable. What’s in it for me?”
“Standard trade allotment. Ammo, fuel filters, antibiotics.”
“Got those.” His smile widened, revealing a gold-capped tooth. “But I’ve got a different kind of ache. One you used to be real good at easing.”
Carla didn’t blush. She met his gaze, her own cold and practical. “That was a long time ago, Marco.”
“Some things don’t change. You help me with my… situation… I’ll load your truck myself. Throw in the tarps you’ll need for the fire trenches. No extra charge.”
She held his stare for a ten-count, weighing the disgust against the necessity. The base needed the lumber. Reaper’s team had risked the city. Her pride was a currency she’d spent before. “Fine. But you load the truck first. I see it done.”
Marco’s laugh was a boom of triumph. He shouted orders to his people, and soon the sounds of loading began outside. He stood, locked the flimsy door, and pulled the curtain closed. The room smelled of sawdust, male sweat, and old oil.
He didn’t bother with foreplay. He unbuttoned his jeans, freeing a thick, heavy cock that was already fully hard. “You remember the drill.”
Carla unzipped her own trousers, pushed them and her underwear down to her knees, and turned around, bending over the cluttered desk. She braced her hands on a stack of water-stained ledgers. Marco spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and positioned the blunt head at her entrance.
He pushed in with a single, grunting shove, burying himself to the hilt. Carla sucked in a sharp breath at the sudden, stretching fullness. He felt bigger than she remembered, and the dry friction burned for a moment before her body reluctantly yielded.
He fucked her with a steady, piston-like rhythm, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. The desk shook, sending pencils and rusted bolts skittering to the floor. His breathing was loud and ragged in her ear. It was impersonal, transactional, a bodily function to conclude a deal.
After a few minutes of this, he pulled out completely. The cool air on her wet skin was a shock. He pressed the slick head of his cock against her other hole, the tight, forbidden pucker. He applied pressure.
Marco switches holes and groans, “Yesss… this little ass is always so fucking perfect.”
Carla pants, “Put your fingers in my pussy.”
Marco chuckles and says, “Ohh, I know you love it up the ass.”
He slides two fingers into her pussy. Carla feels herself getting close again. Marco moves them faster. Carla moans urgently, “Come on, use that old cock of yours properly and fill my ass up.”
He shoved into her ass in one brutal, claiming stroke. Carla cried out, a sharp sound of pain and shocking, unwelcome pleasure. The burn was intense, a white-hot line of feeling, but his fingers inside her cunt were rubbing a furious, wet rhythm, finding a spot that made her vision blur.
Carla cries out loudly as his fingers hit her G-spot just right.
The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a confusing storm of violation and raw physical response. Her body, betraying her utterly, clenched around his invading fingers and began to tighten around his cock. She came with a choked, shuddering gasp, her orgasm ripped from her by clever, cruel fingers even as he brutally sodomized her.
Feeling her convulse, Marco growled, his own rhythm becoming frantic, slamming into her with punishing force. With a final, deep thrust, he held himself there, pulsing hot inside her bowels. He collapsed over her back, his sweat soaking her shirt.
When they’re done, Carla asks him about the detonator cord and requests the lube. Marco smiles and tells her where it is, adding that she should tell Paul and Lauren to load it into the van for her.
Carla cleaned up with a rag from his desk, her movements swift and mechanical. She pulled up her clothes, the feeling of his spend leaking from her ass a vile reminder. Marco, zipping his jeans, looked smug and satiated. “Pleasure doing business.”
She didn’t answer. She walked out, her spine straight. The truck was fully loaded, just as promised. Valeria was leaning against the jeep, her face impassive. She took one look at Carla’s rigid expression and asked no questions.
Carla steps out of the store saying she has everything now. Not seeing Dante, she asks about him. Valeria just nods her head toward another tent.
Carla walks over, pulls the curtain open, and sees Dante bent over a desk, getting fucked hard by a merchant. Dante looks at her with a hazy smile and moans, “Oh, you’re done already? I’ll be right out…”
The merchant, a wiry man with intense focus, had Dante braced on the desk, his trousers around his ankles. He was pounding into him with a steady, driven pace. Dante’s face was a portrait of blissful distraction, his cheek pressed to the wood.
A woman walks up, lies back on the desk with a smile, and spreads her legs. The man fucking Dante finishes inside him, and Dante immediately steps between the woman’s thighs and starts fucking her. Carla sighs, closes the curtain, and tells him, “Hurry the fuck up.”
She returned to the jeep. Ten minutes later, Dante emerged, fastening his belt, his hair mussed and a serene smile on his face. He carried a small crate of fresh eggs, a jar of honey, and a spare coil of strong rope. “Got us some bonuses,” he said cheerfully, loading them into the back.
No one spoke on the drive back. The lumber, the cord, the lube—it was all in the truck. The cost was carried silently within them. The gates of the base welcomed them home to the smell of welding torches and the shouted drills of the bottleneck defense preparations. Arami met them, her worry dissolving into relief.
“Any trouble?” she asked, helping unload.
“No trouble,” Carla said, her voice devoid of inflection as she hefted a heavy tarpaulin. “We got everything we needed.”