The Final Trade Read Online Free Page B

nauseates her but she’s nearly beyond caring now. So many years passed, so many opportunities missed, and the one person who keeps her moving is probably decaying in the ground somewhere.
    Wen stops herself. No more of that. She shouldn’t have even gone down that lane of thinking. Just move, keep moving. Here and now, as Robbie always says, there’s nothing else.
    The fried cakes come out of the pan a golden brown, their scent making her stomach growl. With deft strokes of her largest knife she cuts them into sections, doing the math in her head. Five for the men’s container, three for the women’s. She wraps the two piles of cakes in pieces of worn cloth and tucks in her blouse, making it poof out around her waist a bit, before sliding the two bundles holding the cakes through a gap between the buttons. The warmth hasn’t fully left the cakes and it seeps onto the skin of her stomach. After making sure the bulge doesn’t look strange or obvious, she covers the omelets, sets the plates on a serving tray, and leaves the kitchen.
    Outside the sun brightens the eastern horizon and the sound of work has increased. Wen glances both ways before scooting across the gap between the kitchen and the towering coliseum. A man passes her carrying a bundle of rope but he doesn’t even pause to look at her. She’s become a fixture of everyday life for most of them. Something to gawk at but never touch. Except for Vidri. He’s getting bolder.
    She spits on the ground thinking of the taste of his mouth again. Ahead, the midway is coming apart at the mercy of deft hands who’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times. The stands decay in steady progress as more and more men appear to help deconstruct. Wen waits until she’s sure no one is looking in her direction and flits to the far side of the wide alley, slinking behind one of the sideshow tents.
    Ahead are the two shipping containers, their oblong shapes mere shadows in the early light. At their fronts three guards lean against the steel, talking. Their weapons are slung low from straps around their shoulders. Cigarette smoke drifts to her and she remembers another life where she puffed ten or more of the cancer sticks down to their filters every day. She shakes herself free of the past and moves.
    Across the gap between the tent and the first container. She strides quickly and evenly, making sure not to trip. The silverware rattles on the tray and she watches the guards but they are deep in conversation. Moving day is always exciting, and it’s the only day she can pass everyone relatively unseen.
    The hole in the rear of the first container is round and about the size of a large man’s fist. Wen pauses only a second, expertly drawing out the first cloth of cakes. She reaches up and dumps the cakes free through the hole. They don’t hit the floor on the other side.
    “Thank you,” a whispered voice says, but she’s already walking away, crossing to the women’s container. The hole there is lower and she repeats the process. The women aren’t ready and Wen hears the cakes strike the floor with dull thumps. She waits only a moment, listening, silently praying for movement.
    After a teetering second she hears it.
    A short scuffling sound and a muttered word she can’t make out. It’s enough.
    She walks away from the back of the container, holding the tray with both hands now, the two cloths tucked away in her pants pocket.

4
    When she reaches the nest, the guards look her over.
    She had to retrace her steps to appear like she was coming from the mess building. She hopes the omelets haven’t grown too cold.
    The guard closest to the door approaches her, smiling as she stops before him. He pats her down, his hands lingering near her groin and on her chest, his breath smelling of smoke. She bears it without a word. They take turns frisking her, even gamble for the chance to do it more than once a rotation.
    When he steps away and opens the door for her, she walks