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Rain didn't bother the Horse Trader, but the corpse had a small brass case of good cigarettes, and the downpour would have ruined the delicious experience of smoking one.
"Nice bit, there," he muttered conversationally to the body, sprawled and boneless on broken and lonely asphalt. "What else have you got for me, eh?"
His hand flitted through the dead man's clothes like a scorpion, and came away with a small, leather-bound book. His other hand was a pit bull; the gun it cradled was always watching.
Giving the book a brief look, he tucked it into his heavy coat, and his hand went back again, seeking more prey.
“Little more than a wallet,” he thought aloud with cheerful resignation, rain drumming on his shoulders. The cigarettes were nice, and he could trade the case as well, but money didn't do much for his regulars. Pity; trade was slow these days, and Mary was looking a bit thin.
With a slight sneer of realization, he recognized the residue of violence on the body. It was the Children who had killed this man, but they probably hadn't meant to. Wire snare marks on the wrists and ankles, bruises and slashes meant to hamper, not kill. He'd escaped them and died anyway.
And that leaves you with me, thought the Horse Trader with a sudden grin. He stood, and listened, drowning out the jagged static of reminders in his brain, spiking his reptile brain to the fore, taking a deep breath of air through his nose.
He was a survivor, and always had been.
There had been prices to pay to live, but he'd paid them.
Or cheated his way through.
Whatever it took, though he couldn't remember what had happened now.
He couldn't dare to, or he felt that way at times.
Frequently, people would mistake the Horse Trader for a human being. He looked the part; a fit man, a career soldier who had lost his job, wearing an exile's wardrobe of dun and drab. His face was tanned and weathered, with the faint shadow of stubble around sharp lines and quick glances. Cropped and unruly dusty hair seemed almost an afterthought.
Closer, often too close, one could see that his eyes were hunger trapped in amber, and his wry smile was too toothy, too sudden; a bared threat, or a promise.
No sounds, no smells outside the smoggy norm. The Children had lost the trail.
Stooping again, he tucked the gun loosely in his shoulder holster, and drawing his work knife, started to slash away the wet clothes on the man's legs.
If Mary is hungry, then Mary needs something to eat.
Suddenly, the corpse started coughing, and he immediately sprang onto the man’s back, knife pressed to the neck.
“wait!” gasped the man.
“I’m in a hurry. What’s your life worth?”
“Horse Trader?” The ragged voice clearly wanted confirmation, and the Horse Trader sighed. Well, customers are customers. He released his hold, and crow-hopped around to face the wounded man. A face bruised out of shape strained up at him, but the eyes were bright and shrewd.
“Hello there,” he offered. “Not looking good.”
“Have…. Can help…” the man coughed heavily a moment, and propped himself up on his arms. “My name is Marion… I came to trade with you…”
“With what? Didn’t find much when I was searching you.”
Marion blinked painfully a couple of times, and fumbled at the remains of his coat, finally ripping open a seam, and bringing out a scattered handful of something that looked like congealed earth, in a small plastic bag. The Horse Trader snared the bag, broke the seal slightly for a gentle sniff, and pondered the worth.
“Well,” he began, and then noticed that Marion had collapsed again.
Bloody impolite, he thought with irritation, and pondered turning the man into meat. He’d done it before. Or, he was fairly certain he had.
But a deal was a deal, and this one wasn’t finished yet. He didn’t have much choice now; he had to take the man with him, because was damn well not going to crouch in the rain and wait any longer.
Deals had to be honored. It wasn’t the only thing he had left, but it was close.
“Right then,” he murmured, sheathing his knife, and heaving Marion’s body up into a fireman’s carry before briskly walking through the shattered street towards his home, or his lair, or someone else's hotel, or whatever building it was he kept going back to.
He didn't even know what city he was in. Had been in.
There had been so many of them. And how many times had he carried a body like this?
The rain was also trying to remind him of something, a time when he still had his own name, but strangled another man with it. A dark place, riddled with the flash and thunder of bombs.
But he was alive, and the other name was dead.
However, carrying the man also reminded him of the first time he found Mary, and thoughts of his Mary distracted him. She had been a lot lighter, of course, and just asleep, and not bloody, not at that point. There was that little accident later on, but it was just a little accident.
His current Mary was probably shivering at home, huddled with some good coffee he’d left for her; this Mary had gotten a touch sick. Poor girl needed some tending. She was his favorite Mary after all. Nice and warm, and remembering the little sounds she made when he spoke to her made him grin.
She was very much his favorite Mary.
Stepping off the street into a dripping alley, he pondered that this Marion might end up as meat anyway, and the thought brightened him even further.
If Mary was hungry…
"Nice bit, there," he muttered conversationally to the body, sprawled and boneless on broken and lonely asphalt. "What else have you got for me, eh?"
His hand flitted through the dead man's clothes like a scorpion, and came away with a small, leather-bound book. His other hand was a pit bull; the gun it cradled was always watching.
Giving the book a brief look, he tucked it into his heavy coat, and his hand went back again, seeking more prey.
“Little more than a wallet,” he thought aloud with cheerful resignation, rain drumming on his shoulders. The cigarettes were nice, and he could trade the case as well, but money didn't do much for his regulars. Pity; trade was slow these days, and Mary was looking a bit thin.
With a slight sneer of realization, he recognized the residue of violence on the body. It was the Children who had killed this man, but they probably hadn't meant to. Wire snare marks on the wrists and ankles, bruises and slashes meant to hamper, not kill. He'd escaped them and died anyway.
And that leaves you with me, thought the Horse Trader with a sudden grin. He stood, and listened, drowning out the jagged static of reminders in his brain, spiking his reptile brain to the fore, taking a deep breath of air through his nose.
He was a survivor, and always had been.
There had been prices to pay to live, but he'd paid them.
Or cheated his way through.
Whatever it took, though he couldn't remember what had happened now.
He couldn't dare to, or he felt that way at times.
Frequently, people would mistake the Horse Trader for a human being. He looked the part; a fit man, a career soldier who had lost his job, wearing an exile's wardrobe of dun and drab. His face was tanned and weathered, with the faint shadow of stubble around sharp lines and quick glances. Cropped and unruly dusty hair seemed almost an afterthought.
Closer, often too close, one could see that his eyes were hunger trapped in amber, and his wry smile was too toothy, too sudden; a bared threat, or a promise.
No sounds, no smells outside the smoggy norm. The Children had lost the trail.
Stooping again, he tucked the gun loosely in his shoulder holster, and drawing his work knife, started to slash away the wet clothes on the man's legs.
If Mary is hungry, then Mary needs something to eat.
Suddenly, the corpse started coughing, and he immediately sprang onto the man’s back, knife pressed to the neck.
“wait!” gasped the man.
“I’m in a hurry. What’s your life worth?”
“Horse Trader?” The ragged voice clearly wanted confirmation, and the Horse Trader sighed. Well, customers are customers. He released his hold, and crow-hopped around to face the wounded man. A face bruised out of shape strained up at him, but the eyes were bright and shrewd.
“Hello there,” he offered. “Not looking good.”
“Have…. Can help…” the man coughed heavily a moment, and propped himself up on his arms. “My name is Marion… I came to trade with you…”
“With what? Didn’t find much when I was searching you.”
Marion blinked painfully a couple of times, and fumbled at the remains of his coat, finally ripping open a seam, and bringing out a scattered handful of something that looked like congealed earth, in a small plastic bag. The Horse Trader snared the bag, broke the seal slightly for a gentle sniff, and pondered the worth.
“Well,” he began, and then noticed that Marion had collapsed again.
Bloody impolite, he thought with irritation, and pondered turning the man into meat. He’d done it before. Or, he was fairly certain he had.
But a deal was a deal, and this one wasn’t finished yet. He didn’t have much choice now; he had to take the man with him, because was damn well not going to crouch in the rain and wait any longer.
Deals had to be honored. It wasn’t the only thing he had left, but it was close.
“Right then,” he murmured, sheathing his knife, and heaving Marion’s body up into a fireman’s carry before briskly walking through the shattered street towards his home, or his lair, or someone else's hotel, or whatever building it was he kept going back to.
He didn't even know what city he was in. Had been in.
There had been so many of them. And how many times had he carried a body like this?
The rain was also trying to remind him of something, a time when he still had his own name, but strangled another man with it. A dark place, riddled with the flash and thunder of bombs.
But he was alive, and the other name was dead.
However, carrying the man also reminded him of the first time he found Mary, and thoughts of his Mary distracted him. She had been a lot lighter, of course, and just asleep, and not bloody, not at that point. There was that little accident later on, but it was just a little accident.
His current Mary was probably shivering at home, huddled with some good coffee he’d left for her; this Mary had gotten a touch sick. Poor girl needed some tending. She was his favorite Mary after all. Nice and warm, and remembering the little sounds she made when he spoke to her made him grin.
She was very much his favorite Mary.
Stepping off the street into a dripping alley, he pondered that this Marion might end up as meat anyway, and the thought brightened him even further.
If Mary was hungry…