The stall has officially been set up, we took our time to find the proper materials and to ensure that our shop doesn't look like a rushed job, risking raising suspicion. It's been three days since we've gouged them of their equipment and one of their likely leaders' souls; two since I've had that dream.
The stall we have set up isn't too far from our tent, but still far enough away that we can likely get lost in the crowd and hide away if we were to be targeted and hunted down. It wasn't hard to set up a stall, especially an illegal one, which is far more common than stalls that go through the proper registration process. Apparently, people avoid the process for a multitude of reasons; being required to prove their competence through an aptitude test, being required to speak a minimum of three of the local languages, provide a dead set list of what your selling, for what prices, your suppliers, expected customer base, present tax numbers and a minimum of five forms of identification, proof of your family tree, and so, so much more. It's headache inducing and likely takes years just to set up a small shop of only one to two items. It's ridiculous.
I know Verother was annoying with its rules and regulations, but at least the process to get a permit was only thirty days and didn't stick a massive target on your back in terms of the locals tracking you down through public records or government workers selling peoples' data.
"The locals are watching us," Antonio mumbles, sitting down on a flimsy stool, covered head to toe in fabric, safely shielded from both the sand and harsh sun alike. It's impressive, I would've assumed his eyes were closed, others likely would've thought him to be some napping elderly man, leaving his products unguarded. Off to our right, gathered around an unremarkable collection of tents, are five locals, presumably all women, as they whisper while only being a few inches away from each other. I ignore them, responding the same way any local woman would and just focus on surviving each and every day.
"How has the scouting gone, do you really think today is the day that they'll finally make it to us?" I ask quietly, eyes dry and heavy as I stare tiredly at him, my skin itches with the harsh sand cutting me through my clothes.
"Definitely, through connections they've managed to obtain a spare vehicle and have been taking the time to question locals about car parts, primarily batteries, so we'll be good to go so long as they focus on our stall above the others, which should be easy, we're the cheapest and have a decent amount of batteries available."
The wind shifts and I gaze off in the distance, cars of red and destruction come barreling through hills of colourful sand, flying through the scorching granules before slamming back into the hard Earth. "They didn't seem to mind missing a leader, purely neutral to it all."
My eyes shoot to meet his own, harsh, wide-eyed, concerned, confused, curious. "Really? Why do you think that is? They're psychos, correct? I'm aware that that then means they don't possess the mental ability to process someone close to them seemingly vanishing- wait- do they know that he's dead, or just think he's out on some sort of trip and is working on making his way back to camp?"
Despite his entire body and face being covered, I still manage to sense a sly smirk beneath it all as he snaps his finger, pointing at me calmly as he says swiftly, "Bingo."
"Oh- oh fuck, that's good."
"Exactly." He nods slowly, now sitting back in his seat, arms over his head, relaxed and confident.
"So we should request a mask of him to be produced?" He shakes his head, and it takes me no time to understand why. We can't, because it's likely that nobody around here, especially those living in such harsh groups, possess the identification or enough photo coverage to recreate something like that.
Except.
We don't need all those details.
We don't even need to be absolutely accurate, no, not even close.
We just need to recreate his general skin tone, eye colour, and eye shape—hardly even require that as the only necessity is his clothes, something that he is bound to have at least one more pair of.
Does Antonio realize this? He must, but it doesn't seem so. He's confident, and sure of himself, but doesn't appear to know the best next steps to take when considering the opportunity that has found its way in our laps.
I slouch as they grow closer, stopping just a few feet from our stand and sprinting towards us with drugged-up limps, armed and prepared to skin. I spot the areas of those clothes where the mouth is, they're darker, soaked through with few of them appearing foamy.
Steadily, Antonio raises his hand, stopping them in an instant before they collide with us. Simultaneously, it's like they all snap out of it, now focused on us like living, conscious beings who have just come out here to shop and nothing else. "How can I help you?" Antonio speaks cooly, like he knows the exact volume, tone, and words to use to manipulate them and get whatever he wants.
One of the leaders, an average height male with what appears to be reverse scoliosis, speaks, his throat dry and raspy, "Batteries for cars."
"Ah a project I see, very well-"
"And information."
"Oh well, I may not be the best source, but I sure as hell can try to help-" Finally, he stands, marching over and perching on our stall until he meets the eyes of the target, confident. "For a price."
With everyone masked up, there are no signs of anyone's current state of mind, no context clues behind breaths, expressions, and shifting pulses. No, I can only go purely off of vocal connotations.
"You'll be paid when you earn it, pest-"
Pest? You're all just drug addicted psychoes, yet you call us the pests? Pathetic, your nation is lucky to have outsiders like us around, at least have a fraction of stable-minded people present.
"-Tell us, have you seen any locals in the area traveling South-East recently? They apparently have a truck with the claws of a deranged viper and the coverage of a shadow."
The what of a what?
Vipers don't have fucking claws!
Are they seriously that stupid in a nation like this that they don't understand basic animal anatomy? No wonder they're dropping so low just to sell drugs, poisoning their neighbours, and for what?
"Well I can't tell you much of a lizard nor patches where light do not meet-"
Something doesn't seem right here.
"-I can however ensure that we have the car batteries you need, and for far cheaper than the others."
What's this character of his? Where did it come from? It's so unnatural for him to be nice. Ever since we got here he hasn't been as outwardly nice, more of keeping silently to himself than anything else. So what's he up to?
"Show us." He orders, his words scratching like nails on a chalkboard.
Calmly, Antonio gestures to our collection and speaks, lying, "Here's pretty much all of it, what types of car are you working with?"
They shoot a quick, collective glare at him, focusing back on the batteries, six of the (18?) we've collected, cleaned, blotted out, and weathered to hide any signs of their origin. The one in charge mumbles, "You do not ask us questions, we only choose to share information, and our transportation does not concern you."
My fists clench and release, harsh and tense as I watch their subtle movements, their unintentional revelations of their desires and inhumane cravings. Beasts. That's what these people are, all beasts. That boy they had tortured, an understandable punishment? Of course. But not even giving him the opportunity to explain and vouch for himself? Ripping his skin clean off whilst also electrocuting him?
After a few silent moments of them scanning through the supplies, they finally stop and focus on us, showing an unnerving blend between menacing and confident. "How would you two say you're doing financially? Must have some pretty nonexistent expenses if you're able to charge this low." He gazes us up and down, slowly taking in every bend and twist of our clothing like he's reading to strands as it spells out our story. "Where y'all from?"
"Nowhere important," Antonio starts, responding casually. "But we could use the extra cash, is there something about to happen?"
Shaking his head, he shrugs and gestures to our entire collection, "Not if we decide it isn't going to go down. So give us your collection and we will be more than happy to allow you both to chip in on the next raid, you both seem to have the build for it anyway."
"What could that possibly mean?" Antonio utters naively.
They laugh, and not a human laugh, it's sharp and howling, wild and pitchy, foreboding and evil, it drags me in, unwelcoming, drifting me closer to an unplanned slaughter. They grip onto each other, pulling one another close before pushing them away immediately.
It's like they've lost control of their own bodies and egos.
One manages to finally stop themselves, failing to acknowledge the nonstop laughter that is poisoning those around them. "We'll be taking these with us, and in return, you can meet us straight South-East of here, you will coordinate with us our next group outing. The name is Woods, and you two?"
"Blake." Antonio answers plainly.
"Juniper." I add neutrally, feigning curiosity as I stay put, watching the few lackeys grabbing our stolen, unpurchased products and carrying them away without any protest from either of us.
"We'll find you when you're needed, don't keep us waiting." They scurry away without any further words, chucking the batteries inside and leaping into their truck as they yelp and squeal incoherently.