his pistols as a precautionary measure, but did not draw the weapon.
Expecting as much from anyone in that position, none of the three locals reacted to the mildly aggressive display. The man on the far right was the one to catch the coin, and he examined it for a few seconds before handing it over to the leader of the trio. The guy in the middle looked the coin over and even sniffed it before saying, “You got another one of these and you can fill your tank.”
“Another one fills my tank as well as one gas can.”
“The other coin as pure as this one?”
The biker nodded. “From the same set. You melt those down and you should be able to add some werewolf hides to your collection.”
Near the front door of the station, hanging from a wooden rack that had probably once been used for displaying cheap stadium blankets or decorative flags, were three pelts taken from small Half Breeds that had been brought down by at least four shotgun blasts each. The local man looked back at the skins proudly. “All right then,” he said. “Hand it over.”
“You keep that one there and you’ll get the other one when I’m done filling up.”
The spokesman nodded. “You take one more drop than what we agreed and you won’t leave this station.”
The price he’d bartered was a good deal compared to what he’d found in Brigham City. Even so, the biker grumbled as he rummaged in his pockets for one of the several silver coins he had stashed away. Instead of a simple silver dollar, the ones he’d used to pay for the gas had been found in an abandoned house in Colorado and were from a commemorative set engraved with the faces of Mount Rushmore. They’d been minted as overpriced keepsakes but were now more valuable than most any other form of currency. Since he’d developed a knack for sniffing them out in ruined houses and pawn shops, the biker tossed the second coin over without any more argument.
As he used one of the pumps to fill the tank in his motorcycle, the biker kept a close eye on the three men at the station. When he was done, he untied one of the two plastic gas cans secured to the back of his seat by a pair of bungee cords. He was watched extra carefully while filling up, and he replaced the nozzle before giving any of the three men a reason to assert themselves.
“I need to log in somewhere,” the biker said. “Is there any internet access in this town?”
“What do you need it for?” replied the local with the sweet tooth.
“Does it matter?”
“Only one geek in town. I’ll tell you where to find him for another Snickers.”
“You guys aren’t very friendly to visitors,” the biker said.
“We don’t get many around here.”
“So you squeeze them as much as possible, huh? Not a good way to win someone over.”
“What the hell are you gonna use to plug in anyway?” the candy man asked. “If you want road reports or if you need a few pieces of mail passed along, we can set you up for a lot cheaper than any geek will charge.”
The biker reached into his grocery bag and found a bag of M&Ms. He tossed it to the guy with the sweet tooth who examined the little package closely. Fortunately, the local seemed to be a fan of almonds.
“There’s a place on Fifteenth and Salisbury Avenue,” the local said. “Little gray building with a wood awning out front. Double garage on either side. If anyone can get you connected, it’s the dude who lives there.”
“You need directions?” the one in the middle asked.
Squaring away his saddlebag and gas can, the biker replied, “I can find it on my own. I’ve had about all the hospitality I can afford.” He climbed onto his bike, tensed and ready for a confrontation that didn’t come. That was surprising since he’d shown himself to be a source of good silver. Then again, he doubted the local boys would do much with any coins apart from handing them off to someone who could melt them down and really put them to use.
It was a gray afternoon
Expecting as much from anyone in that position, none of the three locals reacted to the mildly aggressive display. The man on the far right was the one to catch the coin, and he examined it for a few seconds before handing it over to the leader of the trio. The guy in the middle looked the coin over and even sniffed it before saying, “You got another one of these and you can fill your tank.”
“Another one fills my tank as well as one gas can.”
“The other coin as pure as this one?”
The biker nodded. “From the same set. You melt those down and you should be able to add some werewolf hides to your collection.”
Near the front door of the station, hanging from a wooden rack that had probably once been used for displaying cheap stadium blankets or decorative flags, were three pelts taken from small Half Breeds that had been brought down by at least four shotgun blasts each. The local man looked back at the skins proudly. “All right then,” he said. “Hand it over.”
“You keep that one there and you’ll get the other one when I’m done filling up.”
The spokesman nodded. “You take one more drop than what we agreed and you won’t leave this station.”
The price he’d bartered was a good deal compared to what he’d found in Brigham City. Even so, the biker grumbled as he rummaged in his pockets for one of the several silver coins he had stashed away. Instead of a simple silver dollar, the ones he’d used to pay for the gas had been found in an abandoned house in Colorado and were from a commemorative set engraved with the faces of Mount Rushmore. They’d been minted as overpriced keepsakes but were now more valuable than most any other form of currency. Since he’d developed a knack for sniffing them out in ruined houses and pawn shops, the biker tossed the second coin over without any more argument.
As he used one of the pumps to fill the tank in his motorcycle, the biker kept a close eye on the three men at the station. When he was done, he untied one of the two plastic gas cans secured to the back of his seat by a pair of bungee cords. He was watched extra carefully while filling up, and he replaced the nozzle before giving any of the three men a reason to assert themselves.
“I need to log in somewhere,” the biker said. “Is there any internet access in this town?”
“What do you need it for?” replied the local with the sweet tooth.
“Does it matter?”
“Only one geek in town. I’ll tell you where to find him for another Snickers.”
“You guys aren’t very friendly to visitors,” the biker said.
“We don’t get many around here.”
“So you squeeze them as much as possible, huh? Not a good way to win someone over.”
“What the hell are you gonna use to plug in anyway?” the candy man asked. “If you want road reports or if you need a few pieces of mail passed along, we can set you up for a lot cheaper than any geek will charge.”
The biker reached into his grocery bag and found a bag of M&Ms. He tossed it to the guy with the sweet tooth who examined the little package closely. Fortunately, the local seemed to be a fan of almonds.
“There’s a place on Fifteenth and Salisbury Avenue,” the local said. “Little gray building with a wood awning out front. Double garage on either side. If anyone can get you connected, it’s the dude who lives there.”
“You need directions?” the one in the middle asked.
Squaring away his saddlebag and gas can, the biker replied, “I can find it on my own. I’ve had about all the hospitality I can afford.” He climbed onto his bike, tensed and ready for a confrontation that didn’t come. That was surprising since he’d shown himself to be a source of good silver. Then again, he doubted the local boys would do much with any coins apart from handing them off to someone who could melt them down and really put them to use.
It was a gray afternoon
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