CHAPTER 2

Hera: Mossberg Salvage

I needed a drink. A really big one, quart-sized maybe. Luckily I had a bottle stashed in my flop, a full gallon of genuine corn squeezins I’d traded some work for at the farm over the ridge. Horrible stuff straight up, suitable for use as hull paint remover, but not too bad if it was cut with something. Just so happened there was some apple juice left in the cooler and I thought there was one cigar left. Not exactly paradise, but after dis-arming that bomb it’d do me.

My home, such as it is, ain’t much to look at. Just a big white shipping container with a Blue Sun logo down each side, set out at the south end of the yard all by its lonesome. It made for a bit of a stroll each day but I liked my privacy, and the location helped cut down on the noise from all the crashing and banging over in the yard.

The nice thing about livin’ and workin’ in a salvage yard is havin’ access to all manner of hardware and electronics. When I first got here about a year ago this box was just a shell, too tore up to be useful as anything but junk storage. I saw the possibilities in it, so got permission from Jeb to make it my own.

My front porch is roofed over with a tail fin from a fighter, and the posts holdin’ it up are a pair of mis-matched, bent-up landing jacks. A curved piece of engine cowl made a dandy swing once I figgered out how to pad it up. I’d really like to have a rocker, but ain’t got round to it yet. Until then, there’s an ejection seat that’s pretty comfortable. It’s still armed, but don’t tell anyone, eh?

I’d gotten real weary of tugging open the double doors at the end of the container, so I borrowed a sliding hatch from some busted up freighter. Still needs a little grease but it works okay.

The insides ain’t nuthin’ special either. Got a bunk, small kitchen setup, indoor toilet and bath. All the comforts of home. Yeah, right. Does beat sleepin’ in the mud, though. Done enough of that too.

Behind the partition wall rests my baby, a two-seater AG mule.