Tre forced himself to ignore the stench of his own vomit and go back in. He directed the light away from the meat and over to the shelves. There were at least fifty cans of food, a variety of ammo, and a collection of valuable spices. Further back, laid out on a shelf, a jumble of long guns could be seen. And there were all sorts of other items too… some valuable and some whimsicaclass="underline" a cell phone, a Barbie doll, a sphere-shaped puzzle. The puzzle looked interesting, so Tre took it.
But he could only carry so much weight, so he was forced to make some tough decisions. Finally he chose to take ten cans of food, the spices, and the ammo home with him. A rifle, a shotgun, and Bob’s .45 would go into the Pelican rifle case that was stored in the back of the room. It was large enough to accommodate two boxes of bullets, cleaning kits, and some miscellaneous survival items. Once he was outside of Jackson, Tre would bury the case and everything in it, something he had done on previous occasions as well. Because home was only home so long as no one else discovered it. And if they did, Tre could use such a cache to make a fresh start.
Finally, with the pack on his back and the Pelican case in hand, Tre went back to the bookstore. The next two hours were pleasurable as well as frustrating—pleasurable because there were books for the taking, but they were heavy, and difficult decisions had to be made. Finally he settled on 101 Science Projects, Electronics for Dummies, The Invisible Man, a children’s book about dinosaurs, and three novels by authors he had read before, stories he would ration by reading no more than one chapter per night.
Then he had to break it off. He wanted to leave Jackson before the sun rose, and he was tired. Very tired. So Tre left the bookstore, climbed the aluminum ladder, and paused to retrieve his trekking poles. He couldn’t use them, not while carrying the gun case, so he tied them crosswise to the pack frame. After putting the snowshoes on, Tre clumped out onto the street. It was pitch-dark and Tre knew he would have to risk occasional blips from Bob’s flashlight in order to find his way. But it was extremely cold, and the chances were good that the rest of the town’s inhabitants were snug inside their various hidey-holes. Would one of them eventually take possession of Bob’s grubby kingdom and claim his supply of smoked meat? Tre shivered. He knew the answer was yes.
After glancing at his compass, Tre set off in southerly direction. The pack was heavy, as was the gun case, so he had to switch hands every now and then. Once he was on old Highway 89, it turned southwest for a little bit before going south again. The trick was to avoid running into the wrecks and debris that littered the snow-crusted road. Tre knew there was a slope off to his right but couldn’t see it. He also knew he was too tired to go very far, so he felt grateful as the sky began to lighten in the east, making it possible to scan the countryside. He hadn’t seen any smoke, which was good, but he knew the area wasn’t as deserted as it looked. And if the locals spotted a lone hiker carrying a pack and a Pelican case, they would come after him.
So it was with a sense of relief that he spotted a ridge on the left and the cell tower that was halfway up a steep slope. It would take all his remaining strength to reach it, and there was no guarantee that someone else hadn’t take up residence there, but based on previous experience, he didn’t think so. People knew they weren’t going to find anything they could use at a cell tower, so why climb up?
Having made his decision, Tre turned off onto the maintenance road that led up to the site and wished that there was a way to conceal his tracks. But barring a storm, there wasn’t. All he could do was plod up the hill with eyes fixed on the tower, willing himself to make it. Finally, after a twenty-minute slog, Tre was close to the top. He hadn’t seen any signs of habitation on the way up but knew better than to assume anything. So he put the case down, shrugged the pack off, and went forward with the .410 at the ready.
There were no tracks in the snow other than his own, and the door to the equipment shed at the base of the tower was open. Careful to expose as little of himself as possible, Tre took a look inside. About half of the interior was taken up with electronics, but there was an open area where he could lie down. Judging from the trash and scribblings on the wall, somebody had camped there before him. That was to be expected. All he cared about was the fact that no one had used the place recently.
Tre holstered the shotgun, did what he could to clean the shed out, and went back for his gear. Before getting settled, he removed the Remington Model 700 XCRII stainless from the case and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He had no intention of hauling the scope-mounted weapon home but knew the rifle would be ideal should someone try to approach the shack from below.
After that, it was a relatively easy matter to unpack, heat some baked beans over a can of Sterno, and wash the meal down with melted snow. Then he went outside to scan his surroundings for any signs of trouble. There were none.
Tre never felt entirely safe, regardless of where he was, even at home. But with a metal shed to protect him, he could take a nap, get up, take a look around, and take another nap—not the most restful way to sleep, but the safest way to do so. The floor was hard, but the bag was warm, and Tre fell asleep in a matter of seconds. Dreams were waiting, and so was Bob.
Chapter Three
The leavers were gathered around the Sno-Cats, ready to board, when Hal Mackey and six protectors appeared. As the police charged out onto the perimeter road, Mackey shouted for the dissidents to surrender. But a man named Stan Valez had other ideas. He ran straight at Mackey, shouting obscenities. And that was when one of the police officers shot him.
The bullet hit Valez in the chest, plucked him off his feet, and dumped him onto the ground. None of the protectors had killed a citizen before, so the death stunned everyone except former police officer Larry Fry, who opened fire with his assault weapon. The slugs were intentionally aimed low, so most of the protectors had their legs knocked out from under them. But automatic weapons have a tendency to rise as they’re fired—and as Lora looked on she saw a bullet smash into Hal Mackey’s face. As he fell, George grabbed her arm. “Get on the Sno-Cat—now!”
Lora did as she was told, heard the doors slam, and felt the vehicle jerk into motion. As she looked out the window, she could see protectors sprawled in all sorts of positions. Most were out of action, but one fired a pistol. Fry shot her dead.
Hatch 5 was open by that time, and snowflakes swirled around the Sno-Cat as the V-shaped blade mounted on the front of the vehicle pushed through a snowdrift. The headlights swung wildly and Lora got a glimpse of stunted trees as the driver turned onto an old access road. Lora heard someone say, “The second Cat is out,” and knew the group was in the clear—all except for Stan Valez. He was dead and she was to blame. Lora began to cry, and a woman named Cassie Elano tried to comfort her. “Everything will be okay,” Cassie said, but Lora knew better. Everything wouldn’t be okay, couldn’t be okay after what she’d done. The Cat bounced wildly as it passed over an obstacle, the headlights bored holes in the darkness, and the wilderness consumed them.
Lora stopped crying after a while and sat with her eyes closed and listened to the adults talk. The majority believed there was very little chance that the council would send protectors after them. For one thing, the leavers had both Sno-Cats. Even so, the protectors could follow on snowmobiles if they chose to. But most thought they wouldn’t. The keepers feared the outer world and were unlikely to send protectors into it.