Yamato slapped the coins out of the man's hand. Their jingle was muted by a thin layer of dust on the wooden floor of his fruit stand, remnants of the latest in a long string of dust storms on the barren plains.
"It's all I have."
"What good will coins do me out here, old man!?" He threw an arm to the horizon, which stood unopposed along the flat line of ground stretching endlessly into the distance. "If you don't want to die, you'd better come up with something to trade." Yamato crossed his arms, his rifle sitting on the counter behind him. "Any iron?" The man shook his head. Such a valuable weapons making resource had been snatched up quickly by the survivors, the soft metal of coins was no use in times like these.
"My goggles, for one piece of fruit." The man took them off, the shape of them printed on his dusty face.
"You can always use a spare!" Yamato put his hand up.
"Sorry, old man. I don't need them. You're not the first one to think of that. Unless you've got iron or gunpowder, or something else of interest, I've got nothing for you. Get on down the road." Yamato pointed, then turned his back on the man, heading behind the counter again.
"Please. I haven't eaten in 2 days, you're the only food I've seen. I haven't even seen a rat... or a bug. Please." Yamato heard the man take a step toward him and looked over his shoulder.
"I can't buy my meat by giving you charity, old man. We're all in it alone now. I'm sorry." He stepped through the small doorway into the back, just as he saw the man glance at his gun. He reached for it, and before he could lay a finger on it, it was pointed in his face. "I said, get on down the road." Yamato's gaze was leveled over the barrel, staring unblinkingly into wild, desperate eyes.
It all happened in an instant, he raised a hand to try to grab the gun, and in the same second, the man no longer had a head. Yamato closed his eyes a half second before the splatter hit him. He wiped it off with the back of his hand, already mourning the loss of one of his precious few remaining bullets. He set the gun behind the counter, and grabbed the body by the arm, dragging it out to the small sign declaring his wares and propping it up beside it. This man, like a few others since this catastrophe had begun, would serve as a warning to any potential hijackers - the person who ran this rickety shop was willing to kill to survive.
Yamato returned to the sanctuary of shade, sitting heavily on the floor. This was far from his first kill, and surely not his last. He wondered if the man had wanted to die when he had reached for the gun - knowing that down the road, only dehydration and starvation waited for him. Yamato's own thin arms, gaunt face, they did not justify the taking of someone else's life. But these days, he got by with reminding himself that in this world, justice no longer existed. Survival was the only thing left.
