“Very.”
“Would you like some more?”
Tre extended his bowl. “Yes, please.”
Bob served up a refill, and as Tre went to work on his second helping of chili, the older man peppered him with questions. Where was he from? Where was he headed? And what had he seen along the way?
Tre answered the first two questions with lies but tried to answer the third as honestly as he could. That was the least he could do to repay Bob’s openhanded generosity. “There isn’t much to see. I try to avoid people. But I did talk to a couple near Hoback Junction. They think the weather is getting better.”
Bob produced a resonant belch, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and nodded sagely. “That’s true. Or so it seems to me. But the change is so gradual I’ll be dead by the time things really improve. How about the food lords? What are they up to?”
Tre knew Bob was referring to the scattering of individuals who, for one reason or another, controlled large amounts of food—or the means to produce it. They lived like the feudal lords he’d read about in a book called Agincourt by Bernard Cornwell. Some people willingly surrendered themselves to the lords in return for food and a place on one of their sprawling estates. Others were forced into lives of slavery. “I try to steer clear of them,” Tre answered, “but they continue to fight each other.”
Of course Bob knew that. So by the time the dinner was over, he hadn’t gained much. But Tre got the impression that the other man was satisfied with his end of the bargain. “You can bed down next to the fire if you want to,” Bob offered.
“Thanks,” Tre replied, “but I’m used to sleeping alone.”
If Bob was offended, there was no sign of it on his weathered face. “Okay, there’s plenty of room. Pick a spot and I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tre thanked his host, took his gear, and left. With the aid of the squeeze light, he was able to find a spot directly across the corridor from the bookstore. It had been a travel agency, and by moving some furniture, he was able to clear a spot large enough to lie down in. Then, after getting ready for bed, he let the light run down. The result was total darkness. There were sounds, though, including the rattle of a tin can as something nosed it, an occasional groan from the building itself, and the distant tinkle of breaking glass, all of which seemed harmless enough. Still, it was Tre’s intention to stay awake until he was well clear of the town. Then and only then could he hole up and rest.
As Tre waited for the night to pass, he told himself stories, invented new machines, and thought about girls—mysterious creatures he knew next to nothing about but felt drawn to. At some point he drifted off to sleep, because he awoke with a jerk and didn’t know why.
It was still dark, too dark to see. But Tre thought he could detect some movement, and hear it too, even if the sound was nothing more than the swish of fabric on fabric, and what might have been a metallic click. That was followed by a pause and a sudden shaft of light as a battery-powered light came on. It swept left, then right, and settled on the tarp-draped pile of trash. Then Tre saw a series of bright flashes as old Bob fired the .45. Blam! Blam! Blam!
The empty casings were still bouncing off the floor when Tre fired from the corner. The Tarus revolver was unique in that it could handle either .45 rounds or .410 shotgun shells, and that was why Tre carried it. Having a pistol that could eat the same ammo as the shotgun was a definite plus. At the moment, all five of the weapon’s chambers were loaded with .45 hollow points. Tre fired four of them into the spot where Bob should be. He heard a grunt as the light clattered to the floor and lay aimed at a wall. Next came a soft thump.
But was Bob dead, wounded, or faking it? Tre slid the revolver back into its shoulder holster and took hold of the .410. Then, with his heart beating wildly, he went to retrieve the light. As the beam swept across the floor, Tre saw that three of the four shots had hit their target. That didn’t make him happy or sad. It simply was. Perhaps it was because old Bob wasn’t the first man he had killed.
Two years earlier he had returned from a hunting trip to discover that his mother had been murdered and their food stolen. So after burying his mother, he took his scope-mounted .22 rifle and went hunting—not for rabbits, but for men. There were two sets of tracks. After following them for two days, fifteen-year-old Tre caught up with the killers near Etna, Wyoming. It was dark and they were sitting around a campfire. Tre put them down with one bullet apiece. Then he stripped the bandits of everything useful and left their bodies for the coyotes.
And there had been a man roughly twelve months after that, a half-crazy scarecrow who dropped on Tre from a tree and tried to cut his throat. Fortunately, by pointing the .410 back over his shoulder, Tre had been able to blow the creature away. A second shot finished the job.
Still, Tre had never reconciled himself to violence, and he blamed himself for remaining in the underground mall even though he could sense that Bob wasn’t trustworthy. His hunger for books had overridden his common sense.
Unfortunately, Bob had not only shot holes in the multipurpose tarp but fallen on it as well, so Tre elected to leave it. The .45 would come in handy, though, as would the extra magazine Tre found in a pocket, and the Gerber folding knife on Bob’s belt. Having collected those items, Tre took a moment to recharge the Tarus with alternating .410 and .45 rounds before restoring the weapon to its holster.
Then, with his pack on his back and Bob’s flashlight to show the way, Tre left the travel agency. He could feel the pull the bookstore exerted on him but refused to give in. The first priority was to search for Bob’s hoard. And there was bound to be one.
Upon returning to the fire pit, Tre saw that a small blaze was still burning. He had no interest in most of Bob’s personal items. He did take a pair of reading glasses, however, which might come in handy someday, or could be traded for something else.
Then, as he swept the beam of light back and forth across the floor, Tre saw a clear wear pattern in the filth. The trail led down the corridor to a door labeled “MAINTENANCE.” Tre saw that a new hasp and a heavy-duty padlock had been added to the barrier. I missed the key, he thought, and knew he would have to return to the travel agency.
Tre retraced his steps, entered the office, and knelt next to the body. Now that he knew what to look for, the chain was obvious. After pulling it free, he saw the key. Rather than wrestle the chain off over Bob’s head, Tre cut it free with the Leatherman tool he carried on his belt.
With key in hand, he went straight back to the door. The lock opened easily, as did the door. Tre found himself standing at the entrance of what amounted to a vault.
Shelves lined the left wall, and large pieces of smoked meat hung from hooks on the right. That was when Tre realized that one of them was shaped like a human leg. He remembered the chili, felt the contents of his stomach rise, and threw up on the floor. After a series of convulsive heaves, Tre stumbled away to vomit in the hall.
Finally, with nothing left to give, Tre fumbled for his water bottle. Having rinsed his mouth, he went back to where the flashlight lay and picked it up. Now he understood. The blocked entrances, trapdoor, and ladder were all part of an elaborate plan to lure scavengers into his underground kingdom. Then Bob would invite them to dinner, enjoy an evening of conversation, and kill the unsuspecting guest. If they were carrying something of value, that went into the vault. And after some butchery, the body parts were added to Bob’s larder. Had Tre been a drinker, or less vigilant, he would have been on a future menu.