Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(47)

190 Rudy Lane.

“This is it?” I asked, feeling a growing sense of unease. It did not look inhabited, but maybe that was for security.

“I think so.” He removed the gun from his belt. It wouldn’t be left in the bag after what had happened at the sporting goods store. The precaution sent a quiver of anxiety through my chest.

We followed the circular step-stones around the yellow siding to where the back door gave way to an open brick patio. The edge of the yard was bordered by a broken-down laundry line, and beyond it lurked a dark, dense forest. Chase continued around the perimeter before returning to the entrance.

“Come here,” he called after a moment. I followed.

There, posted on the side paneling of the house, was a dented tin sign, marked by black, spray-painted letters. It wasn’t crossed out like the MM insignia we’d seen around, but it was clearly FBR propaganda.

One Whole Country, One Whole Family.

Chase had a perplexed look on his face.

“You don’t think it’s a trap, do you?” An image filled my mind of soldiers meeting here, but then I realized how ridiculous that was. The MM paid for buildings and signs, not abandoned houses tagged with graffiti.

“No,” he answered, but could not provide a better answer. He turned back toward the rear of the house.

We knocked on the back door. Nothing.

The concern that had been brewing within me finally boiled to the surface.

“Are you sure it was Thursday?”

Chase’s temper flashed. “That’s what my uncle said.”

Your uncle also abandoned you at the age of sixteen, I wanted to say. I’d foolishly trusted him because Chase trusted him, but I’d forgotten that I barely trusted Chase.

“Do you think we’re too late?” It wasn’t yet noon, but we didn’t know when the carrier left. My mistake was looming just over my head, ready to rain down its punishment.

One shoulder shrugged. I jiggled the doorknob hard, but it was locked.

No answer.

This had to be it. We weren’t wrong. We couldn’t be wrong. Not after everything we’d been through.

I hadn’t realized how fragile I was until that moment, when all the fear and anxiety slammed into me with the force of a sledgehammer and I cracked. I beat my hands against the wood. I kicked the door, bruising my feet. I screamed for them to let me in. I barely registered Chase’s arm around my waist, yanking me back.

He set me aside with one stern look. Then he backed up slightly and, with a heave, kicked the door, just above the handle. A loud crack split the air. He kicked again, and the wood bowed, dislodging the lock.

“Stay here,” he told me as he pushed through into the dark room and disappeared. I was still breathing hard and shaking. A few moments later he returned, beckoning me forward into the glow of his flashlight. Without a thought, I reached for the switch, and to both of our surprise, an overhead light poured brightness into a quaint, rectangular kitchen.

“Huh,” said Chase. “We must be close enough to a city to get standardized power.”

The space smelled heavily of mildew, but after a short while I no longer noticed. Atop the counter were blankets, a cardboard box of secondhand clothes, and empty cans of nonperishable foods. Canned vegetables. Tuna fish. There was a paper shredder plugged into the wall and a stack of blue forms about the size and shape of index cards.

U-14 forms.

Chase had referenced this when we’d been pulled over. This was what you had to have to cross into a Red Zone.

This certainly seemed like the right place. So where was the carrier?

Down the hallway was a bedroom with not much more space than a double bed and dresser required. A dining room followed. The overhead chandelier blanketed the room with a nostalgic kind of elegance, despite the cobwebs that connected each light. There were fresh footprints in the dust on the floor.

I wandered to the bathroom and found the glass-box shower, immediately remembering how dirty I was from the mud and the ash and the vomit. Linens were stacked in the narrow closet behind it. For some reason the sight of clean towels made me miss home terribly.

Chase searched upstairs, but there was no one home.

“Do you think we missed him?” I asked urgently.

“I doubt it. I think he might just be out for a while. No one would be stupid enough to leave those forms on the counter for a full week.”

Unless he didn’t have the time to clean up. Neither of us voiced what we both thought.

Maybe Chase was right; he was out just for a little while. Or maybe he was making a run to South Carolina. Worst-case scenario, we’d have to hide out here for the next few days. I tried to think positively, but the prospect of waiting another week to see my mother was a crushing disappointment.

I used an extra pillowcase to wipe down the counters in the kitchen and was somewhat heartened when water gurgled then shot out of the spigot into the sink. The stove worked as well. The moment I turned it on, my stomach began to growl. I hadn’t been able to eat anything since I’d thrown up in the cornfield.

Luckily, resourceful Chase had taken a camping pot and a knife-spoon combo from the store earlier. I filled the pot with water and set it on the stove, preparing to make vegetable soup from a packet of dried crumbles.

While I stirred the soup, Chase sat at the table and flipped on the MM radio. The mere sight of it retriggered my apprehension, but I was morbidly curious to hear if we’d made the headlines.