The man dressed as a fire-fighter eyed the half-pint of sealed, aged whiskey hungrily, he even licked his lips.  Sealed bottles like that were the rarest of the rare, by this time aged<em>at least</em>a hundred years to perfection--anything over a year was considered "smooth" in this world.  He looked up and eyed the stranger in a red coat suspiciously, then slowly, cautiously, rose to his feet, and crept down the side of the dune.<br/><br/>He watched the stranger curiously, until the other man spoke harshly.  Eying the man warily, he reach under his large, heat-resistant fireman's coat and produced what they used to call a magazine.  The fireman tossed it down on the ground next to the bottle and quickly snatched up the liquor, stuffing it away out of sight under his clothes somewhere.  After sizing the man up, he beleived the other man truly meant him no harm, so he felt he could get away with acting tough for a moment.  Eyeing the other man, he pointedly said, "you can have the ammo.  I don't need that."  He stared for a moment, then glanced at the mule, "watch him Nix," he said to the animal, ten scurried over the dune's peak and down the other side toward the little of dead bodies.