6
Trinity. The village's name was emblazoned in spray paint on a billboard. Half of a smiling baby's face, weathered and cracked, was all that remained of the original advertisement.
Her leash had been removed as soon as the village came into view, and she now stood at his side. For reasons that had been made dreadfully clear in the past, outward signs that she was his slave were best concealed when dealing with strangers. She tried not to fidget as her master banged his fist on the flimsy, plywood gate.
Villages along the road were few and far between. She'd long ago stopped thinking in miles. Now, it was days. Walking, they averaged about a month's separation. The rationale made sense: close enough to trade, far enough to discourage hostilities. A month on the road in their new world was wrought with hardships besides the very obvious night danger. Why risk it to fight with your neighbors?
A man with a round, puffy face poked his head out from the top of the ten foot gate. He and her master had a brief conversation, terse on both sides. They merely wanted shelter for the night and to barter for a few provisions, her master informed the man. She was surprised. They usually went into a village only for supplies. Rarely did they stay overnight, unless it was the only option. Her master distrusted strangers, and gathered groups of them even more. The man said there was an inn with reasonable rates, then laughed at the notion of procuring a bag of coffee.
The gate swung open with a wooden creak. The moment she stepped inside the rickety walls, her breath came easier. The village was little more than a collection of ramshackle structures, pieced together from whatever debris the inhabitants managed to scrounge together, and the wall surrounding it could only be described as fortified by the loosest of definitions, but even the semblance of security was more than she could pray for most nights.
The gate guard jutted his arm toward the village's largest structure. Unlike all the makeshift domiciles surrounding it, the inn was pure brick and mortar. It stood two stories high and boasted a front door of glass. Though most were boarded up, a few of the windows were actually intact. It was easy to see the village had sprouted up around this building.
From experience, she knew what they'd find within. The lobby would be a bar. There was always a bar, though the quality of liquor varied greatly from one settlement to the next. There would be rooms to rent for the night, and rooms to rent for an hour. Occasionally, there would be someone with some manner of instrument playing a tune, but not often. There would be food. The quality of that would vary even greater than that of the liquor, but it would be hot and prepared by hands other than her own. Trade currency varied as well. They had very few possessions of value to barter, so labor was their usual tender. For the now depleted bag of coffee grounds, they'd harvested squash and bell peppers in a garden behind a long abandoned convenience store.
Standing at the entrance to the inn, her master turned to her. "Do I need to tell you how to behave in here?"
"No, Master."
"Good."
The bar, she was surprised to see, had actually been a bar in the old world. It was a sizable room with a long, curved counter near the back wall. The wall was mirrored and supported rows of shelves, all empty save the bottom one. It held differing-sized jars of differing-colored liquids. There were booths lining the two side walls and tables with chairs in the middle. The booths were empty, but three of the tables were occupied by quiet drinkers.
Wrinkling her nose at an offensive smell as they entered, her eyes were immediately drawn to the dust-ridden piano in the corner. She noticed her master's gaze had gone to the exact same place. It had seen better days, but she silently prayed that it still held its tune. It had been such a very long time since she'd heard him play. Sometimes, when they'd bedded down for the night, he would sing in that voice as lovely as his face, and she'd spy his fingers moving nimbly at the air as if he had a set of keys in front of him.
Months ago, while scavenging in a derelict building in one of the many ghost towns they came across, she'd found an old guitar. She'd cleaned it up, and presented it to him that night with a bright smile warming her face. The smile he returned had been all the reward she needed, but she begged him to play for her. He obliged her gleeful request, but the guitar hadn't sounded true. He fiddled with the tongs and strings for a long time, his eyes closed, a look of intense concentration on his face. He tried again, and it was better, though not exact. He played and sang for her the rest of the night. She'd fallen asleep with the heavenly music still vibrating in her head. Sometime deep in the night, though, she'd been awakened by a crashing sound. She bolted up in a panic, but he immediately came into the room, told her everything was okay, to go back to sleep. In the morning, she discovered the splintered remains of the guitar. He'd smashed it in half against a doorframe. He never said why, and she didn't ask. She knew the answer. He couldn't make the thing match the melodies he remembered in his head, back before their life had been annihilated. He couldn't abide it and chose the memories instead of that pale imitation.
"Help you?" the man behind the counter asked. He was lean and wiry, his face cleaner than his bar, but not by much.
"We need a room for the night, supper, breakfast," her master said, "and, if possible, baths."
"I can do all those. We ain't expensive here," the man said, his eyes passing from her master and settling on her, "but we ain't free neither."
"I wouldn't think so," her master said.
"Got chicken and potatoes tonight. Eggs and beans in the morning."
"Perfect. Baths?"
"Yeah. Lye soap. Some people it burns like fire, but it'll get the job done. Water's hot."
"That will work," her master said.
The man's eyes hadn't left her. "What you got for trade?"
"Not her."
The man tugged his leering gaze from her and settled it on her master. "Oh?"
"Not me either, friend," her master said. He then produced something from his pocket. He rested his closed fist on the countertop. When he opened it, a glint caught her eye and she peered in wonder at the small pebble of gold resting on his palm.
The barkeep's eyes went as wide as hers. "Don't see too much of that anymore."
"I take it we have a deal then," her master said.
The barkeep made a slow move as if to grab the nugget, then frowned and pulled his hand back. He scratched at the back of his neck and sighed. "No sir. Afraid not. I'd love to, believe me, but it's too much. I'm a lot of things, mister, but a cheat ain't one of them."
"It's hardly cheating if I proposed the deal."
She could see the man thinking it over, trying to will himself into the trade. The small nugget was surely more currency than he'd seen in years in this nothing of place. Finally, though, he just sighed again. "Maybe not, but that little piece you got there would buy you a month's stay and probably half the liquor on my shelf. Unless you're planning to lay down some roots for a bit..."
