2

Ivy draped the leather satchel over her shoulder; the strap crisscrossed her chest with the barbed chain her father had made for her. It was just an old tow chain with sections of barbed wire between the links. It was a perfect whip when used properly. It could shred flesh through leather, and with the right twist of her wrist, it could take off a molark’s head. She had to wear it carefully to prevent from injuring herself. Over the years, she had wounded herself on the chain more than once, especially when she was learning to use it.

She took her sawed-off shotgun off the table and slipped it into the holster strapped to her right thigh. She took her hunting knife and slipped it in her boot. She took two Glocks and holstered them on her hips. Ivy then took her cloak down from the hook and pulled it on. With spare shells and clips tucked in the pockets of her cloak, Ivy grabbed her rifle and left her home. She was headed for the city. It was only a few hours away. She needed money for water, which meant she needed to find something she could sell.

She took the quickest route through the trees. She knew this land inside and out so she could avoid the major roads, which were well travelled by slave traders and mercenaries. It was safer off the roads.

When she reached the city limits, she crawled on her belly to the edge of the cliff overlooking the city. She took her binoculars from her satchel and watched the city streets looking for danger. For any signs of someone or something else. She watched for a long time just to be sure, but she saw nothing, so she got up and returned her binoculars to her bag and started carefully down the cliffside and into the city.

It was just a small city but a city nonetheless. This one wasn’t big enough for a subway, but molarks could still be lurking in the sewers or dark places the sun couldn’t reach. She had to be on her guard. Ivy marched through the streets peeking through doors and windows. She’d been through this city before, and she wasn’t sure she’d find anything. It had been picked clean, but then she saw it.

In the distance, a bombed-out store with a sign hanging by one corner. It read liquor. Not too many people in the wasteland could read, very few actually, but her father had taught her as his father had taught him and his father before him. It was a useful skill when scavenging, to know what things were without having to guess. It made the resale value go up when she could tell the buyer what it was. Nothing sold better than liquor, real aged liquor instead of that piss warm grog they bar owners made in their filthy stills in the back of the house. They could get top dollar for a drink of the good stuff, which meant she got top dollar for every bottle she brought back with her.

Ivy kept low and crept up to the door. She peeked through the shattered window. She didn’t see anyone. Ivy pushed open the door and went inside. There was broken glass all over the floor — overturned display racks. The place looked as if it had been ransacked. She checked the shelves and under debris, trying to find something that had survived the blast and the looting.

It was looking like she would find nothing until she checked the back room and found a case of bottles. Ivy opened the box and reached inside, nine perfectly intact bottles of Scotch whisky. Three hundred and fifty year old Scotch, Ivy giggled to herself. She’d hit the jackpot. This would be more than enough to keep her in water for months. She may even keep a bottle or two for herself.

A shadow darted across the wall, and Ivy grabbed her rifle. She placed the bottle back in the box and backed up against the wall, her weapon ready. She cocked the rifle and looked through the storage room door into the main room of the shop. She held her breath, listening for any sign. There was a noise behind the display. Ivy lifted her weapon and took aim. Whoever it was, she’d make them wish they were never born. Then something big came around the display.

It was a dog. She held her fire; it didn’t seem vicious; actually, it looked timid and tame. It was skinny and sort of shabby looking. She didn’t know what sort of breed it was. It looked sort of mutated. Its fur was black and brown, very short, and patchy. Its snout was long with powerful jaws. Its ears twitched. It had a long, lean body with a long bushy tail.

It took a step toward her, and she lifted her weapon cautiously. The mutt lay down and whimpered. It looked weak. It was probably starving. With one hand still on her weapon, she reached into her bag and took out a piece of jerked meat and tossed it to the dog. He snatched it up quickly, devouring it without a second thought. It was a big dog, but it didn’t seem to mean her any harm.

Ivy lowered her weapon and held out her hand, inching closer to try and pet it. She was amazed when it let her. Ivy chuckled. It was friendly. She put down her rifle and pet the mutt, scratching it behind the ear, which it seemed to like. It wagged its tail and licked her hands and face. “Aren’t you a sweet little thing?” She said with a smile. “You’re just hungry,” it began to sniff her satchel. “You want another piece?” She asked, taking out a second piece of meat. This time it ate right from her hand.

The dog was no threat, so she stood up and went to retrieve her take. She took each bottle and carefully placed them in her satchel. All nine bottles took up the only space she had, so she was headed home. Ivy left the shop and started back to the city limits with the dog trotting happily at her side. It was going to follow her home, which was ok with her. She could use the company now that she was alone.