Farmer One by Christian Cantrell

Author:Christian Cantrell [Cantrell, Christian]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Cantrell Media Company
Published: 2011-09-02T15:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Baybrook Mall

Dillard's Parking Lot

Friendswood, Texas

Lunchtime

Baker is on the left, Ponch on the right, and Lockwood is sitting on the stool in the center. Min is behind the counter of the stall, trying to reconcile her delight at seeing Lockwood with her disgust at the men he brought with him.

"Do you have jook-sing[13] noodles today?" Lockwood asks. Both elbows of his parka have been patched with duct tape.

Min shouts something in Cantonese over her shoulder, then looks back at Lockwood. She is standing on a crate or a bucket, but she still looks short. "What do you want with them?"

"Fish balls."

Baker almost spits out his tea. "Fish balls? I didn't even know fish had balls."

"Nice one," Ponch says.

Baker and Ponch lean back, peer over their plastic dollar-store shades, extend their arms, and connect in some elaborate and homoerotic fashion behind Lockwood's back. They are both wearing their crosses on the outside of their long dark woolen coats.

"You two are asshats," Lockwood says. "Did you know that?"

Min responds in Chinese to a question from the shadows behind her, then switches back to perfect Texan. "You two want something?"

"Do you have anything besides Chinese food?" Ponch says.

"I have water," Min says. "That's pretty much universal."

"Is there anyplace to get boxed rations around here?" Baker asks.

"Nobody here sells rations," Min says, "and nobody takes food stamps or vouchers."

"Do you have Pop-Tarts?"

Lockwood thinks Baker is making another very clever joke, but is even more horrified when he looks over and sees that the man is actually serious.

"Look around you," Min says. It was not phrased as a request, so the three men do so promptly. Plucked fowl and splayed pigs hang from massive butcher hooks in the openings of tents; long silver fish with wide dry eyes lay agape on mounds of ice; chickens strut noisily by at their feet, and sacks of rice are hauled through narrow passages on bent, osteoporotic backs. Substitute tent poles for bamboo shoots and expanses of cracked asphalt for the South China Sea, and they could just as easily be in Guangdong as suburban Texas. "I can make anything you want out of anything you see, but that's it. No protein patties, no vitamin cups, no cheese foam, and no Fruit Roll-Ups. Got it?"

"Do you have burrito tubes?" Ponch says.

"You can get the freshest and tastiest burritos you've had in your life over in Macysburg," Min tells Ponch.

"That sounds like a splendid idea," Lockwood says. "Why don't you two go find yourselves some burrito tubes or chili bars or nacho malts, and let me enjoy my last non-quarantined meal on this planet in peace."

"Nice try, Brother Austin," Baker says. "But we're not taking our eyes off you."

"Not even for the prospect of cotton candy?"

"I'll just stick with tea," Baker says.

"I think I'll try some of that water you mentioned," Ponch says.

Min fills a plastic cup from a jug and sets it on the bar in front of Ponch. Someone shouts something in Chinese from the back of the

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