Marigold keeps biting me this morning. Flat teeth or no, when a horse nips you, it hurts.

  “Youch!” I suck the tip of my thumb and glare. Her long blonde tail swats me in the face as she snorts, turning away from me. “You prissy little…”

  She nays and I understand her opinion all too well.

  “Fine, be that way.” I drop the unopened bag of oats and cross my arms. “I mean, with Charlotte gone, I wanted to go out for supplies–”

  She whinnies and turns her head, just a fraction.

  “– but I guess I can just skip a run to the craft store…”

  She turns around, nuzzling me with the softest part of her nose. I chuckle softly and stroke the finer hair on her cheek, stopping to scratch the underside of her chin. “You know I hate leaving you behind.”

  She lets out a loud, unconcerned, puff, leaning into the scratches.

  “So, we good?”

  She blinks once before closing her eyes in pure pleasure. If she were a dog, her back leg would have been going berserk.

  There’s a certain solidarity in nodding to everyone who hears the quick clips of Marigold’s hooves down the heavily packed dirt paths. I take the long way to the craft store, avoiding the old, pocked asphalt roads. Not only would Marigold’s hooves dig new potholes, but the hard paths were also murder on the old girl's joints.

  Children run along the side of the path, a couple making pew pew noises while they pretend to shoot from twigs and toys roughly shaped like guns. The ones at the front moan and stagger theatrically.

  “Robbie, I got you! You're out!”

  “Nuh, uh!”

  I roll my eyes and hope my snort passes as one of Marigold's. Just what the world needs, more kids making light of lurchers.

  At least it ensures a certain level of job security. Besides, there aren't too many rugrats ambling about. These were the ones deemed too immature for live-fire practice. They'd been introduced to firearms and weapons, but only in a matter-of-fact way:

  These are everywhere and they are dangerous.

  You will not touch them.

  The rest of the street is fairly baren. Just men and women walking from their errands, most headed towards the saloon. A couple skip towards the petting zoo.

  A ruckus draws my attention to the red-stiped tent. Something disturbs the upbeat tempo of the music. Underneath the instrumental doo-doo-doodle-loos and guttural moans, is an abnormally tiny scream. I growl, dismounting Marigold and quickly limping across the road with my side piece already in hand.

  I storm through the tent flap, ignoring the doorman shouting after me about payment.

  Inside the big top, Norman stands in the middle of his dirt stage, a little girl screaming as his sides as lurches near him. He doesn’t hold a firearm, the fool. Only an old-fashioned whip. The girl is cowering behind him, clutching one leg while Norman snaps the whip around a zombie’s ankle, shaking the whip and slamming the creature onto the floor. It must be old; the whip rips right through the flesh down to the bones. Another two lurches come up behind them, ready to pounce on the girl. I lift my piece, breathe out to slow myself, and fire. The nearest one falls back and I shoot again, taking out a second.

  “Hey!” Norman shouts, dropping his whip and glaring.

  “I warned you.” I take out another in front of him.

  My interference is hardly noticeable in the practice ring. Out in the display area, occasional pops of gunfire punctuates the air and one of the moans seems to die or rise in volume. Just another Tuesday at the zoo.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “You just lost me seven zombies!” Norman kicks the nearest corpse. “Jesus, Anthea, what am I going to do for tonight’s act?”

  “Don’t care.” I holster my side arm and cross my arms. “You’re not bringing this act back.”

  “She’s not a real kid.” Norman runs a hand down his long bear before indicating his companion. “See for yourself.”

  At first, I assume he means kids like her won’t be taken elsewhere, but his last words catch me off guard. What I assumed was a little girl puts his tiny fists on the hips of the frilly dress and glares up at me from an adult sized face.

  “Seriously, Pete?” I laugh but it’s dark. “You’ve let him push you this far?”

  Does the man have no self respect? In answer, the little man flips me the bird and starts towards the corpses on the ground, grunting at the security behind me.

  “Not a kid; I kept to our bargain.” Norman winds the whip and scowls at me. “You owe me new inventory.”

  “I would think you’d remember how this conversation went last time,” I quip, eyeing an ugly patch job over the hole I left in reply last year.

  “Not a conversation.” Norman starts snapping at Pete and his other employees and they drag the corpses away, leaving brown trails in the dirt floor. Before I can give it much thought, he steps up so close, I can smell the rot of his teeth when he smiles. “I already lost one act to you.”

  “You lost that act because the town agreed with me,” I shoot back. How do you think the elders will feel if I tell them about you letting lurchers off their chains?”

  Norman smiles the infectious, charismatic grin that hides his nasty teeth and even nastier intentions. “How’s the leg?”

  I try to stand straighter.

  “Looked like you were hobbling, must be bad.” He chuckles, his eyes roaming down my left.

  “I twisted it in a job,” I almost yell, making sure anyone can hear that

  “I’ll bet.’ He snorts and waves me off. “I’ll give you a week to replace them. After that, I’m charging interest.”

  I’m not sure if the interest involves his silence or more bodies. I don’t ask, pushing my way past the bouncer and back into the streets. People stare and I force myself to walk more slowly this time, avoiding the limp.

  Marigold gives me a look that almost screams, Anyone could have taken me.

  “Sorry, girl.” I rub her nose. “That was not my brightest moment.”

  Norman and I operate off mutual insured destruction. I’m usually so careful to avoid his business. Marigold leans into my touch and I rest my forehead against her face. “Let’s go.”

  Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on Norman. We both make money from the lurches. But my business has never relied on the vulnerable and I’m not convinced his still doesn’t.

  At least a lot more folks are walking in and out of the craft store.

  Fabric Frenzy is in this old L-shaped building with wood and stone siding. The wood rotted long ago and Al has torn most of it out and redone everything with an adobe mixture after I cleared the building for him last summer. Everyone thought he’d change the name for sure but he said it was a waste of time.

  Honestly, I think he chose the space because of the word Frenzy, but what do I know? The prior owners took great pains to lock it up before leaving, evidenced by the huge chains that Al had repurposed into heavy-duty, very jingly, curtains on all the front windows. The shelves are all heavy-duty metal, the same as the roof. Both still have a little rust from years of exposure.

  Marigold submits to being reined to an old post before I walk up the concrete stairs, careful to keep my stride level. The door always squeaks when I enter, the hinge announcing me before I shout, “How’s it going, you cranky old bastard?”

  “Anthea!” A large thump sounds somewhere in the back and the floor shudders as Al runs up to swallow me in a giant bear hug. He lifts me off the ground, spinning me before plopping me directly in front of the gun counter. “Took you long enough, my darling.”

  “Yeah, you know how it is.” I smirk. “I had to let the vinegar fumes air from my clothes.”

  “God’s wounds!” Al slaps a broad hand over his muscled chest, staggering back like I’ve shot him. “You know it’s the best way to clear the rust.”

  “So you say.” I shrug the bag from my shoulders and lay it on the counter with a heavy thunk, careful to avoid the neat stack of Shakespeare Al claims to read on imaginary breaks. “When do you even find the time to run this joint and gather merch?”

  “Sleep is for the dead, my dear. So what’ll it be today?”

  “Trade.” I unzip my bag and begin pulling out the neatly packed shells and cases, careful not to jostle the journal from its fake pocket. “I can take either .556 or .223. I have fifty-six .233 spent brass to trade.”

  “Ooooo.” Al waggles his big unibrow, the grin on his chiseled jaw expanding. “Somebody had a big month.”

  I smile despite my best effort. “Nah, the Ortiz family had an infestation.”

  “Again!?” He runs a palm over his smooth skull. “Well, at least you have job security.”

  “Too true.”

  “Anything besides the replacements?”

  “Sure, what kind of dried goods you got?”

  We barter for some prunes, jerked chicken, and dried apples. He has me hand over fist on that last one; Marigold would never forgive me if I left them. Luckily I evened it out with a good price on the bird. I'll have to hide those from Penelope, and today’s scuffle from Charlotte.