Junkyard Cats - Faith Hunter Page 0,2

and though the Gov. and the Law said Devil Milk was illegal, the local law officers weren’t in pain. Mateo was. So, screw ’em. I protected my own.

I didn’t use. I never would. Except for surgery, we Outlaw Militia Warriors didn’t use drugs of any kind. Before and after, OMW just toughed it out. Not that the militia organization even knew I was alive anymore. But some traditions were never to be neglected. I stayed clean.

Except for beer. And a little tequila if it was the good stuff.

But not drugs. Ever.

Today’s half-imported, half-homegrown, fermented delight was a lovely extra stout, dark as sin, with a head the color of caramel and a body so thick it was like sipping a milkshake. Best beer ever made, including pre-war stuff. With the beer came gourmet hummus with hot green chilies, a green salad with tomatoes, asparagus, okra, a homemade dressing of basil vinegar mixed with olive oil, and fresh bread. Just like yesterday and the day before, the veggies changing only with the growing seasons, not that I complained. Most anything was better than prepackaged ready-to-eat meals, and not many people got fresh food anymore.

As a chef, Mateo was dependable, not inventive. He lost that part of his brain along with the rest of his body parts, but I never turned away a military vet who wanted a meal, a gallon of fresh water, or a job. Never. It was part of the creed left to me by Pops, my father, who was OMW to the core.

Leaning into the NBP compression command seat, I looked over the boards and screens that ran and oversaw the junkyard’s office. I breathed the air released from the leaves of the modified air-scrubber plants and watched the burning Tesla. I fanned myself with my damp floppy hat, and let the A/C cool me, drying my sweat to a crusty, salty layer of white. I ate, drank the beer and a lot of water, took several electrolyte tablets, and watched through the heavy-weapon-fire resistant window as the Maltodine burned across the exterior of the ancient AGR Tesla.

I could separate, recycle, and sell the body. The hemp tires were dry-rotted, the interior of the cockpit—what I had seen through the silk-plaz canopy—was bare to the frame, the space-worthy NBP compression seats were gone, electrical and hydro were gone. The wings had been stripped off and secured to a separate skid with military flex for easier transport. The rear engine compartment was sealed and invisible from the outside, but the weight alone told me that the Tesla-23B Massive Particle Propulsion engine I had paid extra for—a lot extra for—had been tucked into the hatch along with the weapons, just as I had been promised.

Sooo. That meant my jitters were solely from the ants—my own personal nightmare come calling. Pops had said, “Fear is a peculiar thing, love. You either run toward it, away from it, or you freeze.” Yeah. I had frozen, and that was stupid in the middle of a battle.

I was always in the middle of a battle, even if it was just the one in my head.

Half an hour later, the fire was out. I used the composting toilet, brushed my teeth, put on more 110 SPF sunscreen, and smeared on moisturizing lip gloss in a deep-orange color. Just because it was practical didn’t mean it couldn’t be pretty, even in the treeless, rocky West Virginia desert landscape where no one could see me.

I headed back to the Tesla. It was steaming in the day’s heat as the last of the toxic fumes blew away. The mounting jacks used for the pulse weapons, the AntiGrav, and the WIMP engine were now superheated hot-pink metal, as were the stripped weapons mounts. Using the wrench I had put aside earlier, I popped the lock, and the hatch over the rear engine compartment began to lift, ripping through the fire-proof yellow tape that marked it as sealed by various West Virginia authorities.

The black maw opened. The stench boiled out.

The engine and the weapons I’d been expecting had not been sealed inside after all.

The body in their place smiled at me. So to speak. He’d been dead a while. Most of the tissue of his lips, nose, and lids were gone, revealing tobacco-stained teeth and empty holes where his eyes had been. He was naked and mostly covered by hundreds of bicolors. I froze in place, not breathing, my heart beating so hard it felt as if it would pound