The Seeds of Man

Chapter Two

Except for the yellow bruise off to the west, the rest of the sky was gray. And according to the tiny gauge clipped to his ragged parka, the temperature was thirty-eight degrees, a warm spring day.

Tre was lying on his stomach under an old tarp. It was a standard part of his kit and could be used as a shelter or, in this case, a hide. And hiding was an important skill in a world ruled by predators. Tre had spent the last day and a half watching the town of Jackson, Wyoming, through a pair of highly prized Nikon binoculars. They were small and light and had been found lying next to a skeleton. Two skeletons, actually, an adult and a child, spooned together in the stained remains of a cheap sleeping bag. Had they been sick? Or died of starvation? Either was possible in post apocalyptic America.

Tre pushed the memory aside in order to scan the town below. He had a good vantage point about halfway up Snow King Mountain, just off what had been the path of a chair lift. Some of the cables were down now, as was one of the towers, and trees were repopulating the former ski runs.

The downtown area was laid out in a grid pattern that made it easy to draw on the notebook near his right hand. Because while Tre had a much-creased map of Wyoming, he didn’t have a map of Jackson.

It looked as though half the town had been ravaged by fire at some point, and it was safe to assume that it had been looted as well, but there were very few tracks in the snow-covered streets. Tre figured that three, maybe four people lived in Jackson now, each of whom was probably aware of the others. Did they get along? Or were they trying to kill one another? There was no way to tell. But Tre hadn’t seen any signs that gangs roamed the ruins below, and that was important, because while he could handle one or two assailants if necessary, a group could take him down. That’s why more than a day had been spent watching the town from afar.

Satisfied that he knew as much about Jackson as he was likely to learn from the mountainside, Tre put the binoculars away and began to make the necessary preparations. The plan was to go down, find a hidey-hole, and fort up. Then he’d get up early and go looking for tech, books, and food, in that order—not because he didn’t need food but because he was very unlikely to find any in a town that had been picked over by thousands of people for a period of fifty years.

But tech? Lots of people lacked the knowledge required to use or repair it. And books, well, that was where Tre’s knowledge of technology had been acquired.

So Tre folded the tarp into thirds and rolled it into a tight tube, which he attached to the bottom of his aluminum pack frame just above the precious mummy bag. The Whittaker Marmot sack was filthy, and home to a rank smell, but it could keep Tre warm down to forty below, a very important asset found in a compartment under the floor of a wrecked van. It was why Tre always looked inside vehicles—even if there was every reason to believe that countless other people had already done so. All it took was one Marmot bag to make hundreds of such investigations worthwhile.

Tre strapped the aluminum snowshoes onto his boots, struggled to stand, and bent to retrieve his pack. It felt lighter than it had when he set out from home. But if luck was with him, it would soon be heavy again.

The last step was to open his Savage model 311-A double-barreled shotgun and check to make sure that it was loaded. The weapon was, like everything else, a compromise. Being a .410, it didn’t pack the punch that a twelve-gauge would. On the other hand, the ammo was lighter, and Tre could fire the sawed off weapon one-handed and was likely to hit something if he did. Then he could fire again or run, the second option being the one he favored most.

There was a comforting click as he closed the gun and returned it to the holster strapped to his right thigh. That left Tre’s hands free to use the hand-carved trekker poles. They helped Tre maintain his footing as he made his way down through a scattering of evergreens toward the flatland below. The widely spaced trees weren’t much; however, some cover was better than none.

There were tracks, but not many, since it was hard for animals to find enough food. Tre saw some elk scat, what might have been raccoon prints, and the kind of scratch marks that birds make, but nothing human. And that was the main concern as Tre arrived at the tree line, where he paused to look around. There were no pillars of smoke to be seen, which was a good thing. It was important to cross the open area as quickly as possible.

Except for the occasional caw of a crow, the crunching sound the snowshoes made as they broke through the crusty snow, and the rasp of his own breathing, there was nothing but silence. Having crossed the open area, Tre removed his snowshoes prior to entering a half-burned house. Some partially charred stairs up to the second floor where he took a look around.

After watching for a while, he concluded that if the local residents were aware of his presence, they were content to wait for him rather than come out and do battle. Of course, if they were up high, in a church tower, for example, a single rifle shot could take him out.

For one brief moment Tre wished that he had brought a rifle instead of the sawed-off shotgun. But he dismissed the thought a second later, knowing that while it would be nice out in the open, a long-barreled weapon would be a disadvantage inside buildings. And that was where the good stuff was likely to be located.

So Tre left the house and followed one side of an arrow-straight street to the center of town. Where possible, Tre minimized his exposure to structures taller than two stories. He was leaving tracks, but that couldn’t be helped. All he could do was pause frequently, check his back trail, and stay alert.

Eventually Tre arrived at what a lopsided sign said was Central Square Park—and paused to look at an arch made out of elk antlers. At first he thought the structure was associated with one of the new religions, some of which involved animal worship, but then he concluded that the structure was too old for that. A prewar tourist attraction perhaps, although he couldn’t imagine going very far to see it.

The snowshoes would be a problem once he began to search buildings, so Tre took them off and strapped them to the pack frame. He was wearing a pair of old Itasca Winter Pac boots. They were one size too large, but a pair of bulky wool socks made up for that. They left enormous footprints as he made his way down the street.

There were lots of stores. Most had broken windows and doors that hung askew. Trash lay strewn all over the floors, and the walls were covered with graffiti. Tre noticed that spray paint had been used to create the first layers of words and images. Then, as spray paint became increasingly difficult to find, graffiti had been added using other substances, some of which could have been blood. Equally noteworthy was the fact that what looked like the most recent additions included a lot of misspelled words. Literacy was fading fast.

Store after store had been stripped of everything useful—or obviously useful, since Tre knew that many of the things that looters left behind could be repurposed. But he couldn’t carry display racks, electrical fixtures, or electric motors home with him. There were some trivial finds, however, including a candle that had rolled into a kick space, a scattering of pennies, which could melted down for the copper they contained, and a brand-new ballpoint pen, all of which went into his pack.

After he’d entered and exited two dozen stores, a sign caught Tre’s attention. It was faded but still legible: “JACKSON UNDERGROUND.” That suggested a subterranean shopping area—and there was a flight of stairs that led down to double doors. But they were blocked by a pile of debris that included a metal desk, a rolling garbage bin, and all sorts of other trash, not the sort of stuff that was likely to wind up there by accident.

No, what Tre was looking at was someone’s attempt to seal off the underground area. Because they were living there? Probably. But when? If recently, Tre would be well-advised to steer clear. But if the people who were responsible for the barricade were gone, it would be safe to enter.

Tre was interested and, more than that, determined to find another way in. The next fifteen minutes were spent casting about. Eventually he found a second entrance down the street, but that was blocked as well. So Tre began to search the surrounding stores, and it wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for.

It was inside a place called the Cowboy Bar, where saddles served as stools. And there, behind the counter, Tre found a trapdoor, one that had been used recently, judging from the fresh scuff marks around it.

Rather than lift the door and peer inside, Tre took a moment to shed his pack and hide his trekking poles under the bar. Then he removed a length of cord from a pocket and tied one end to the trapdoor. Would the door open when he pulled on the rope? And if it did, would someone fire up at him? Or worse yet, would a bomb explode? He’d triggered one six months earlier and had been lucky to escape with only minor injuries.

There was only one way to find out. Tre jerked on the cord. Nothing happened. Maybe the hatch was secured from below or maybe it was stuck. Tre placed the remains of a wooden chair under the rope to act as a fulcrum and tried again. This time it worked. The door came up and flopped onto the floor. There were no gunshots or explosions. So far, so good.

After removing a much-treasured squeeze light from a cargo pocket, Tre approached the opening with the .410 out and ready. The flashlight made a gentle wheezing sound as he squeezed the handle. Then, as he thumbed the switch, a blob of light slid across the floor and into the hole. Slowly, weapon at the ready, Tre looked down through the hatch.

The first thing he saw was bright metal. An aluminum ladder was positioned directly under the opening, a clear confirmation that he was on the right track. But what, if anything, waited below?

Tre looked around, spotted one of the few beer mugs that hadn’t been broken, and dropped it through the hole. He heard it shatter and braced himself for a burst of gunfire. There wasn’t any.

Relieved but still wary, Tre considered his options. The opening was too small to pass through while wearing his pack. Should he drop it down—only to have someone snatch it? Or leave it up top, where the same thing could occur?

After giving the matter some thought, Tre tied the cord to the pack and positioned it right next to the hatch. Then, with shotgun in hand, he descended the ladder. There was some light from above but not enough, so Tre felt for the flashlight. Three strong squeezes brought the device to life. What he saw was a corridor with storefronts on both sides. All sorts of garbage littered the floor, including a scattering of what might have been human bones. But he was used to that. Millions of people had died in the United States and very few of the bodies had been buried.

There was a rustling noise from the left, and Tre’s heart jumped as he brought the light around. Red rat eyes glared at him before disappearing into a nearby hole. He was surprised to find that he had been holding his breath, and let it out. Then he felt for the cord, gave a sharp jerk, and managed to catch the pack as it fell. All that remained was to climb up and close the trapdoor. It was always a good idea to conceal his presence to whatever extent possible.

Down below again, Tre shouldered his pack and set off to explore the underground mall. If he found things to scavenge, then well and good—but he was also in need of a place to fort up. He entered a souvenir shop only to discover that while there were still plenty of coasters, elk horns, and wind chimes to be had, all the good stuff was gone. That included sweatshirts, T-shirts, and every single item in a case labeled “POCKETKNIVES.” But that was to be expected.

The same was true of the women’s clothing store next door, the Ski Chalet down from that, and the completely empty Wine Rack, all viewed via the fluctuating illumination provided by the squeeze light. After a long series of disappointments, Tre found himself standing in front of a store called Book Ends. That made his heart beat just a little bit faster. What, if anything, waited inside? Unfortunately, as both the temperature and the literacy rate fell, entire libraries had gone up in flames as people burned books in return for a few moments of transitory warmth. So it was with a feeling of trepidation that he entered the store.

Predictably enough, it had been ransacked. And while Tre had no way to know what the stock had been like the day the first wave of looters had entered the mall, he guessed that hundreds of books had been taken. But hundreds were left! Some were on shelves, but many were on the floor, where they had been trampled.

Still, just the sight of them was sufficient to fill Tre’s heart with something akin to lust. Who knew what wonders lay before him! History, science, and entertainment, and new friends to see him through the long, lonely evenings at home.

The voice came from behind him. “This is my mall—and this is my store.”

Tre whirled to find himself face-to-face with an old man. He had a bald pate, hair that hung like a stringy curtain around his head, and eyes that looked like chips of coal. He was dressed in a plaid shirt, khaki-colored bib overalls, and a pair of mukluks, footgear that was just right for sneaking around. And one more thing, a fact that spoke volumes: the apparition was well fed. The .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol was very steady. But so was the .410.

It was a standoff. Or was it? The old man had been in a position to shoot Tre between the shoulder blades. So why hadn’t he? Because, Tre reasoned, the man wanted to talk. “My name is Tre.”

The old man nodded. “I’m Bob. You holster your weapon and I’ll holster mine.”

“You first.”

Bob smiled and two rows of yellow teeth appeared. “We’ll do it on three. One, two, three.” As the old man lowered his weapon, Tre did likewise. Both guns slid into their respective holsters, or in Bob’s case into a pocket. “So,” he said. “You can stay the night—but it will cost you.”

Tre was willing to consider that. He preferred to avoid violence when possible and wanted access to the bookstore. “Okay… I’ll give you three rounds for your .45 and I get all the books I can carry.” It was the longest speech he’d made in months.

Bob blinked as he stared into the fluctuating light. “Make it ten rounds.”

“Five.”

“Eight.”

“Seven, and that’s final. A full magazine… not bad for a few books.”

Bob paused and delivered a nod. “Okay, seven it is. Four now and three in the morning.”

“Have you got a flashlight?”

Bob turned, went outside, and lit a lantern. Then he brought it in.

That allowed Tre to tuck the squeeze light away and slip his left hand into a pants pocket. He fingered the bullets there, chose four, and brought them out, all the while keeping his right hand free to draw the .410.

Bob examined each cartridge with great care, and that was wise. According to what Tre had read, there had been something like 350 million guns in America prior to the nuclear war, a number roughly equivalent to the population. But two-thirds of the people were dead now, and that meant there was no shortage of firearms in post apocalyptic America. But ammo? That was precious. Some people, Tre included, could make reloads for some of their weapons, but most couldn’t, and he figured Bob was one of them.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” Bob said as the bullets disappeared into a pocket. “I’m going to serve you dinner, and no, you won’t have to pay. It will be nice to have some company for a change.”

Tre didn’t want to eat dinner with the old man but didn’t wish to offend him either, especially with a treasure trove of books at stake. “Okay, thanks.”

Bob lifted the lamp shoulder high and led Tre out into the passageway. The lantern threw grotesque shadows onto the walls as Tre followed the old man to a circular area that had once been at the center of a small food court. And there, surrounded by curved benches, was an open fireplace. It had once been a magnet for skiers and consisted of a fire pit, a sheet-metal hood, and a chimney. Hooks had been added under the hood so Bob could hang chunks of elk meat over the fire. The result was a primitive smoker, and Tre was impressed. “Have a seat,” Bob said, “and I’ll get things going.”

So Tre dumped his pack and sat on one of two mismatched chairs as Bob placed splinters of wood on the glowing coals. “I keep her tamped down during the day,” the old man said. “You didn’t see any smoke, did ya?”

“Nope,” Tre replied as the kindling burst into flames.

“Good, ’cause I don’t need any trouble. I hope you like elk chili, ’cause that’s what we’re having. We’ll have a drink first.”

Tre didn’t like the taste of alcohol and never used it for anything other than a disinfectant, but he could tell that the drink was important to Bob, so he let his host pour a dollop of amber liquid into a metal cup. “There you go,” Bob said as he handed it over. That’ll fix what ails ya.”

Tre forced a smile and pretended to take a sip. “So what do you think?” Bob demanded.

“It’s good,” Tre lied, “real good.”

The old man took a swig and grinned. “You got that right.”

The fire crackled as Bob threw some more wood on it. Tre saw that a makeshift mattress and sleeping bag were laid out on one of the benches that surrounded the fireplace. That made sense. Bob could keep a fire going during most of the night and let it die down at about three a.m. Having stoked the fire, Bob turned his attention back to Tre. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”

Tre forced a smile. “I don’t have much to say.”

Bob seemed to consider that. “Most people talk too much. Not me, though. I’m a listener.” Tre nodded and pretended to sip his drink.

“You’re black,” Bob said accusingly, as if Tre had done something wrong.

“Brown.”

“Black, brown, it’s the same thing.”

Tre shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do. Black people caused the war.”

“India attacked Pakistan, they responded, and China got involved.”

“And all of them people are black, right?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

The old man considered that. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? You weren’t round then. I was, but I don’t remember it. How old are you anyway?”

Tre was seventeen but knew that divulging his actual age might put him at a disadvantage. “I’m twenty.”

“I envy you,” Bob said feelingly. “I’m sixty-seven, near as I can make out, and everything hurts.” Tre couldn’t think of anything to say. Most lives were shorter now. Very few people made it to sixty, much less sixty-seven.

“Enough talking,” Bob said. “Time to eat.” And with that he went over to pull an improvised swing arm out into the open. A fire-blackened cast-iron pot was dangling from it, and as Bob removed the lid, a mouthwatering odor wafted into the air. Tre took the opportunity to pour his drink into what had been a planter.

“I use chopped elk, onions, tomato sauce, kidney beans, chili powder, and brown sugar,” Bob said. “I used to add cumin but ran out. There you go,” the old man said as he ladled some brown brew into a plastic bowl. “Tuck into that.”

Tre accepted the bowl and a dirty spoon. The chili smelled delicious, but his mother had taught him not to eat until she sat down. And she taught him something else, too, what she called street smarts, even if he didn’t spend much time on the streets. “Be careful what you eat, son… and always think about who’s giving it to you. We live in troubled times.”

That’s why Tre waited to make sure that Bob was going to eat from the same pot. Once he did, Tre figured the chili was safe to eat. And it was good. Very good. The bowl was empty three minutes later. Bob smiled knowingly. “Good, huh?”

“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.

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 whimsical: 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.