He waited a long minute, alert for signs of movement. Something behind the curtains of the front window. Nothing in the sniper’s nest. So maybe it was just sparrows after all.
“Hey! In the house! My name is Amos Burton, and I’m looking to trade!”
A man’s voice came, shrill and angry. “This is private property!”
“That’s why I’m out here fucking my throat up instead of ringing the goddamn doorbell. I heard you were prepped for this shit. I got caught with my pants down. Looking to trade for guns.”
There was a long silence. Hopefully the bastard wouldn’t just shoot him, but maybe. Life was risk.
“What’re you offering?”
“Water recycler,” Amos shouted. “It’s on the back of my rig.”
“I’ve got one.”
“May need another. Don’t think they’ll be making more anytime soon.” He waited to the count of ten. “I’m going to come up to the house so we can talk.”
“This is private property! Don’t cross the line!”
Amos opened the gate, smiling his biggest goofiest smile. “It’s okay! If I was armed, I wouldn’t be trading for guns, right? Don’t shoot me, I’m just here to talk.”
He crossed the line, leaving the gate open behind him. He kept his hands in the air, fingers spread. He could see his breath ghosting before him. It really had gotten cold. That wasn’t getting better soon. He wondered if he maybe should have said he had a heater.
The front door opened and the man came out. He was tall and thin with a stupid, cruel face and a long-barreled assault rifle aimed at the center of Amos’ chest. It had to be illegal as shit under UN gun laws.
“Hey!” he said with a wave. “My name’s Amos.”
“You said.”
“Didn’t get yours.”
“Didn’t say it.”
The man walked forward to take cover behind his pretend military transport.
“Nice rifle,” A
mos said, keeping his hands up.
“Works too,” the man said. “Strip.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me. You want to trade with me, prove you’re not hiding any weapons. Strip!”
Well, that was unforeseen, but what the hell. Wouldn’t be the first guy he’d ever met who got off on feeling powerful. Amos shrugged off his shirt and heeled off his shoes one at a time, then dropped his pants and stepped out of them. The cold air bit his skin.
“Okay!” Amos said. “Unless I’ve got a pistol up my ass, we can agree I’m not carrying, yeah?”
“Agreed,” the man said.
“Look, if you’re still worried about it, you can get someone to come out, look through the clothes here. You keep the gun on me, make sure I don’t try anything.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
That was a good sign. Made it seem more likely that the fella was on his own here. He glanced up at the attic. If there were a second person, that would be the place to put them. Tiny gray-brown wings fluttered into the attic like the answer to a question.
“Where’s this cycler?”