Ghost Commerce Novels & Stories

Not only was there was something about the way they said the word that gave her the impression that their idea of friendly and hers wasn’t the same, but their filthy, rag tag appearance revulsed her with every step their horses took to close her into a tighter circle. Most who came to the trading post were trappers, miners, and loggers. They were hard working men who were often in need of hygiene lessons, but they were well mannered and respectful for the most part. These characters were not only smelly and filthy, but they were bold and uncouth in their mannerism toward her. When one of them lept off his horse and tossed her to the ground, she quickly learned what they meant by being frie

Two Years Later *Tjeck* It’s Thursday, which means I have a new delivery of goods to manage. By ‘goods,’ I mean weapons and ammunition that we sell to other rogue packs. Each pack has its own way of surviving and making money. Since it’s virtually impossible to unload illegal shipments in the middle of Catrista’s upscale tourist district, I’ve got to pay Zombie a hefty sum each month for the privilege of using his harbor. The harbor is Zombie’s domain, the lifeblood of his pack’s finances. Only on Thursdays can I be there without the risk of getting shot or attacked.

Instead, a plain black Mercedes-Benz sat there, stripped of emblems, built for moving unseen. Heading toward The Rogue Market. Beyond the town's edge it sat, tucked behind broken walls where an old factory once stood. Outcasts ran this zone, wolves without packs, fighters for hire, those who dealt in things better left buried. My name carried weight elsewhere. Not here. Strength made decisions. Coins opened doors.

He paid for a return ticket and even received change he didn't need. Walking toward the train platform, he spotted a beggar crouched at a corner, watching passersby with desperate eyes. Nobody approached and dropped the change into the beggar's can, then quickly left before the man could even mutter a thank you. The HammerHand agency was already waiting when Nobody arrived. The building had no sign, no corporate name, and no obvious reason for anyone respectable to enter it. From the street, it looked like an abandoned commercial warehouse that had somehow survived three decades of urban redevelopment, its windows boarded and its brickwork stained by decades of exhaust and rain.