Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

12. Meet the Farmers (Part 5)

"That disgusting old road?" said a harsh woman's voice. "Why would anyone want to go down there? You'd be killed for sure."

The voice belonged to an equally harsh woman. She was tall and elegant, with cheek bones so sharp you'd cut your finger on them, assuming she so much as let you near her face. She wore a long, shiny red robe beneath a heavy leather travelling coat, with jewellery of every shape and size adorning her ears, nose, fingers, neck, forehead, eyebrows and, if you believed the stories, a few more private places too.

"Nah, Lorry, ya got it all wrong!" replied Jeb, taking another swig from his pint of frothy grog.

They were seated in the Second Thought, a tavern at the heart of its eponymous trader's village that, quite to the original tavern owner's pleasure, seemed to have sprung up around it over the years. A thick crowd thronged outside the grubby tavern windows as locals and travellers alike wove their way through the myriad stalls and stores of Second Thought looking for a bargain (in order to fob the same product off at twice the price over in the next town).

Orsen smiled widely in a seat next to his travelling companion, his fingers wrapped around a pint glass of the same frothy liquid, but a steaming hot version. He didn't order it hot, but when the tavern owner poured his drink, it seemed to come out hot. Jeb had offered to swap for his cold one, but Orsen decided that a nice hot drink would be good on a chilly day like this, even if nobody knew quite why was hot in the first place.

"There aren't no bandits on the Back Road, Lorry," the boy smiled. "That's why we all use it. None of the tribes can be bothered trailing along it when there's better traffic along the Highway."

The gaunt woman seemed unconvinced. "So if there isn't enough traffic, where exactly do you expect me to be able to pass on the Great Word of Gachook, our Lord and Saviour?"

Jeb and Orsen exchanged a sly glance. The horrors of 80 Cu t were being drowned in the same mental catacombs as all the other horrors they had witnessed in life. Jeb winked knowingly at the woman. "Well ya see, ain't that just th' trick. We're headed t' a secret bar a ways down the Back Road. Smack-dab, it's called, an' ya won't find no bandits there. Bert hates the buggers."

Lorry's pale face frowned. She had what could only be described as piercing eyes. The kind of eyes that could bring back all sorts of awful childhood memories with just the slightest of rebuke. These eyes glanced around the Second Thought, making some of the other patrons duck out of the way in terror. Then the eyes fell back on Jeb, and his grinning, wrinkled face.

"A bar," she stated.

Jeb nodded. "Aye, best in the Waste if ya ask me."

"But we're already in a bar." She waved one of her elegant, bejewelled hands.

Orsen leaned forwards. "But it's a different bar!"

"Aye," said Jeb, "An' one ya ain't banned from preachin' in."

"So you wish me to pay you to take me to this ... secret bar, where you are confident there are individuals receptive to the Great Word of Gachook, our Lord and Saviour?" She drummed her long fingernails on the scrap-metal table.

"Err," said Jeb, briefly glancing at Orsen. The boy smiled back. "Aye," he continued. "They's plenty receptive. I've always thought, ain't that Bert receptive t' other people's ideas in her bar? Very welcomin' environment, if ya ask me."

Lorry stared at them both, showing clear disdain at the very notion of travelling together.

Jeb and Orsen grinned back innocently.

Her fingers drummed more on the table, then stopped.

"Fine, I shall take your word that this Smack-dab shall receive the Word of Gachook. Perhaps my Lord and Saviour is simply testing me."