Three (Article 5 #3)(11)

“Maybe we should leave it,” I said, feeling suddenly like we were desecrating a tomb. Chase had kept a wooden box in his old house filled with memories of his life before the War: pictures of his family, his mother’s wedding ring, which I knew he still carried in his front pants pocket. The thought of someone rifling through his things like we were about to do here made something pinch inside of me, but it wasn’t enough to stop.

“No way,” said Sean, taking the case. He spun the tiny rusted numbers, but the box remained firmly closed.

Chase rubbed the back of his neck. “Might be something worth trading.”

“Might be something worth keeping.” Sean glanced up to where Rebecca was now peeking around the doorframe. “Pain meds or something.”

“Might be filled with more cockroaches,” I said. Sean’s hands snapped back. He gagged, and then reached for the case again.

“Just bugs,” he muttered. “Men aren’t afraid of bugs. Not even if they have tiny little heads and giant shiny bodies.”

Voices outside distracted us from our find and drew us to the front door, where a figure appeared in the rain. Though Jack waved from the garage, I was reluctant to step down into the driveway. The pack of dogs was still absent, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel them, lurking in the shadows.

“Looks like they found something,” said Rebecca. She placed an assortment of cups she’d gathered from the kitchen on the railing, where each immediately began filling with rain water. I grabbed one and rinsed my mouth clean of the sour taste that had gathered there, grateful Rebecca had thought of it.

“They’re not the only ones,” I muttered.

Jack, grimacing against the weather, carried a wooden crate toward the house. It was heavy from the looks of it; he rested it against one hip as he heaved it through the rain. Billy followed, his T-shirt clinging to his pale, skinny chest. In our rush toward shelter, we hadn’t even thought to search the garage.

“Not bad, huh?” asked Billy, dropping his freight onto the warped deck. Inside the box were a dozen rusty cans of food. My eyes grew wide; my empty stomach rejoiced.

“It’s a Horizons truck,” said Jack. He didn’t seem happy about it. He didn’t seem happy about anything since Chicago had fallen—not that there’d been much to celebrate. “All the other houses on this street have been stripped clean.”

Rat was the last to arrive, an enormous green raincoat slung over his shoulders. He stroked the sleeves smugly.

“Can we drive it?” I asked. Rebecca could ride inside while we searched the beach.

“Not unless you have four spares,” said Billy. “The tires are flat.”

Chase scratched the back of his head. “The town’s cleaned out. What’s a supply truck doing here?”

“Who cares,” said Jack, puncturing a can of peaches with his knife. Rust crumbled off the top. The juice dribbled down his stubbly chin as he slurped up the contents.

“No, he’s right,” I said. “Why are we the first to find this stuff? It’s like it was restocked after the evacuation.” I’d never seen so much food left in one place. No one I’d met would leave a Horizons truck unchecked unless it had been guarded by government workers.

I glanced back toward the bodies on the bed and shivered.

“Maybe Wallace restocked it,” said Billy.

Chase and I shared a worried glance.

“He hijacked tons of Horizons trucks in Knoxville.” Though Billy shrugged, his eyes had brightened. “Maybe he knew we were coming,” he added quietly.

I wasn’t sure what to say. The cans had clearly been here for years.

“Or maybe he’s dead,” said Jack bluntly. He motioned toward the garage. “Didn’t I tell you to get that other box?”

I scowled at him as Billy slumped and headed back into the rain.

“What?” he asked. “Like you’re not all thinking it.”

“Shut up, Jack,” I said.

I didn’t know who had left the food, but it couldn’t have been the safe house survivors. They wouldn’t have had a chance to gather supplies before the bombs hit—they’d be scavenging, just like us.

“Looks like you found something, too,” said Rat. Behind me, Sean was in the midst of swinging the lockbox into the side of the house. It hit the side of the house with a thunk.

Just over his shoulder, beside the front door, was a single black metal number marking the address. It was coated with a thick layer of rust and corroded around the edges.

Three.

Chase nodded toward the door. “It was guarded by a couple of stiffs.”

Rat scrunched up his pointy nose. “Still juicy?”

“No,” I said, wanting to rid the image from my mind forever.

Sean shook the box, and from within came a metallic clatter. “I tried messing with the combination. Maybe we should just shoot it open.”

“Three,” I said aloud. The others paused, and faced me.

“There’s four numbers,” said Sean.

Chase saw what I had seen. “Then try zero, one, one, one. Or three zeros, and then a three,” he said.

Sean did. The latch clicked open.

Inside was a handgun and a box of ammunition. We all stared in awe for a full beat before Jack reached to retrieve it. He pulled back the slide; there was already a round in the chamber. The consequent click made me jump.