The merchant pushed his shopping cart along the highway littered with corpses of cars. All that remained of the once mighty chariots were rusty skeletons, overgrown with moss at places the sun did not shine. Inside some, human skeletons sat. Some with their hands at the wheel. Some shielding their loved ones. The highway was the most prominent reminder of how the land looked before. Before it all became a victim to the madness. The riches of the people before the madness was astounding—sometimes there were still riches to be found. Bags, metal, bottles. All could be traded for food and water. The highway itself was a strong reminder how long it has been since the madness struck; sand and mud slowly reclaimed the black asphalt. The cracks in the tarmac showed an occasional plant or flower growing out of it.

  A big truck that lay sideways on the road made the merchant sigh. Barricades like these were dangerous, sometimes traps. The road itself was the easiest way to travel. All knew. Also the ones that you do not want to run into. He pushed his cart close. Squatted. Gazed under the truck. He held his breath. The world fell silent. Not a bird chirping, not a gust of wind howling through the graveyard behind him. He heard his heart thumping in his ears. He closed his eyes to focus. Any sound, any murmur could mean people were watching, waiting for the trap to spring.

  He waited.

  Waited until he was satisfied there was no sound at all.

  He stood up. He turned his head towards the barrier of the highway. He was on a bridge over what was once a stream of water. He simply had no other choice than going over the truck, which meant emptying his cart and moving the whole thing over it in a few trips.

  He took a few paces back with the cart and laid it all out on the tarmac. A thick plastic plaid which doubled as a tent and to keep dust and rain out of his merchandise. After a layer of canned and jarred foodstuffs and three large plastic bottles of water. Underneath his merchandise: plastic bags, empty canisters, metal pieces, some copper wire. After his prized goods: a binocular in a box, which was maybe his most expensive merchandise. He dared not use it. Four knives in different types and conditions. Some bullets, a chain and a padlock, with the key. The final layer was another thick plastic plaid. The merchant filled the bags with the goods. Decided what would be the first trip. Then he looked at the way to go. He had to climb the truck, then somehow lower himself again. A deep exhale as he saw the easiest way. Where the truck and the semi connected it was a bit lower. A car stood in front of it as a stepping stone.

  He shook his head. This smelled like a trap all over it. He reached for a piece of tarmac that was loose. With a hurl he threw it over the truck. He waited again. Heard the sound of the piece falling. It bounced two or three times. When the silence returned he nodded while exhaling air through his lips.

  The merchant turned his head. The mirage of a sound reached him. A soft bump. He closed his eyes again. He heard it clearer, a pounding sound, fists on a window. He immediately lay down on the floor looking under the truck, waiting to see where the sound came from. Nothing. A muffled “Help” sounded. A nauseous feeling originated in his stomach. He tasted a bitter substance on his tongue. The merchant looked at the cars behind him; the way back loomed as lost time. Lost time meant lost supplies. His three bottles of water would not survive a detour. A curse left his lips. He took a knife and started to climb the truck. His hands touched the cold rusted metal, every time before he made a step, he tested if his weight held. On top His heart pounded, adrenaline-fueled senses scoured when he very slowly put his head above the truck.

  On the other end, his worst nightmare. A trap. Two lines of cars were lined so that a small pathway was the only way to progress. They slowly narrowed toward a small opening, there stood a van parked.the cars were stacked too high to climb from the truck there was no other way to go. In front of the van a body lay in a dark red stain. Fresh, at least fresher than the skeletons. The meat was still on it, the unhealthy pale white tint of the dead. His blood long gone from its cheeks now laying as a crust beneath him. The merchant looked further; the body apparently fell close to the van. A shotgun was blocking the door. Another pounding. The merchant saw the van door moving with every pound. His eyes lingered on the dead. Did he look like a robber or a victim? Guns were very rare and the clothing of the dead was lightweight, the colour of the road. He was clothed to run and hide not to fight—a traveler.

  He descended the truck, lowering himself slowly on the road beneath. Then looked every inch of the path towards the van. Some dark stains spotted the highway. He counted ten stains. He touched one with his hand. It was old. The car next to the stain had some familiar holes in it. The merchant sat down for a few seconds. He held his hands in his hair, looking up. He heard the cry of help, softer this time. Two more steps, very slowly, he looked inside the van. A woman sat there. A woman in a thick black outfit. A scar on her eye, another on her cheek. She wore a belt of shotgun shells. The merchant knew instantly. The woman's eyes teared as she fell on her knees. Her cheeks showed the contours of her skull. Her movement was dulled, slowed by hunger and thirst. Her hands in prayer towards him.

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  The merchant swallowed hard. He looked at the dead man at his feet, the gaping shotgun wound in his stomach. The dead man's hands were still on the shotgun that locked the door. A last stand, as if he trusted she would join him in the land of the dead soon. The face of the dead man smiled.

  The merchant looked at it, then at the woman. The woman looked down; when her eyes locked with the merchant's eyes she quickly looked back down. A word escaped her. The merchant could not clearly hear her.

  He stood there for a full minute. He shook his head, slowly turned away. He went back over the truck. One by one he got the bags of his things over the truck. The shopping cart was the hardest part. He ended up throwing it on the top of the truck and then lowering it carefully on the ground on the other side. it still touched the tarmac hard, one of the wheels became crooked and squeaked when it turned.

  Every trip he made he saw the woman looking out of the window. She punched the glass once. The merchant shook his head again. After that she just looked at him.

  The merchant had all of his belongings back in the cart. He pushed the cart alongside the window. Looked the other way. Somewhere in the back of his mind he understood this was a one-way trip. If anybody asked him if he was an honorable man he was not sure what to tell them anymore. A slap on the window, soft, as if it was a last wave goodbye. The hand lingered on the glass.

  The merchant looked. An act that made him silently curse his own name. The woman took her shotgun bullet belt off and with two hands held it in front of the window. The merchant looked at it. Merchandise that was expensive; it was worth a risk. He looked at the dead man, then shook his head again. The woman looked at him, a glimmer showed in her eyes then she collapsed in tears.

  The merchant started to kneel to undo the dead man's boots. He took the mans glasses too and some small items he found on his person. The bottle of water and some food he left, unknown in quality or toxicity. Two slaps on the door, one quickly after another.

  The woman started to undress while looking at him, an unblinking death stare. At first the merchant shook and blocked her from vision with his hand. After a few seconds he could not help himself. She sat there naked. Her starving body was difficult to look at. A woman still. She was still looking at him. The merchant grabbed his hair and pulled. He exhaled sharply.

  “Fine!” his hoarse voice said.

  The woman started crying when the words hit her.

  “Go back!”

  The woman went all the way back in the van. The merchant reached for the shotgun.

  “What the hell am I doing?”

  Halfway he stopped. The woman rushed back forward. Shook her head. Her hands went over her body.

  The merchant took the shotgun. Checked if it was loaded. It was not. He opened the van and threw the water and food of the dead man towards her. He took the bullets. Left the clothes.

  “Wait one hour,” he said, holding his finger up. “Don’t follow me. I will shoot you.”

  The woman drank and ate. She retched.

  “Small bites, small sips. Your stomach needs to get used to food again.”

  She nodded. Took a small sip of water. Then a small bite of food.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was as parched as she was.

  “You killed many. I’m not sure I should.”

  He loaded the shotgun. The click made him more relaxed. He was pretty sure the starved woman would not do anything.

  She looked at her nakedness and shivered. Then slowly moved toward the merchant.

  “I will not,” the merchant said, and pointed at her clothes.

  ***

  The merchant was on the road again and the wheel of the cart squeaked heavily, it would not hold on for long. When he looked back the row of cars was no more than a reflection on the horizon. He thought about the dead man, how his final smile was in vain. How he took that from him. He tried to walk as fast as possible, not trusting the woman for one moment. He looked toward the cars once more. A big red signal flare was shot into the air.

  The merchant sank to his knees. buried his head into his hands. “You idiot!”

  He was on the highway, between outstretched fields of dead vegetation. Anyone could see him. His tracks would not be concealable.

  A sound cut through the silence, clear but dulled by distance. Another flare was shot. He saw black smoke rising from afar. He looked at a ditch next to the road, stepped in it with the shotgun in his hand. With trembling hands he took his prized binocular out of the casing, searched the horizon toward the smoke.

  He saw a car closing fast. Four men with guns on it. Their faces covered with paint.

  He clicked the shotgun shell ready and removed the safety.

  “Let’s see how many I can take with me.”