Cruel World(99)

“You weren’t?” Quinn whispered back.

“No. Mom didn’t tell the truth.”

“About what?”

“About me talking about you after we left you. I asked why you weren’t coming with us, and she told me to be quiet, so I did. I wanted to go back, but she decided to come find you.” Ty turned his head toward his mother, but she seemed to be dozing again, her hand resting lightly on the rifle.

Quinn squinted at the boy and then squeezed his hand.

“I’m really glad you guys came back.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, go sit with your mom. If you hear anything after I leave, you wake her up, all right?”

“All right.”

“See you soon, little man.”

Quinn moved through the door and locked it behind him. He eyed the mountain bike leaning against the wall. It was quiet, but not fast enough to outrun anything other than a man. He walked around the side of the building, re-adjusting Alice’s holster on his hip, and spotted a maintenance shed set back close to the encroaching woods. The door was unlocked, and when he stepped inside, the smell of cool concrete and gasoline assaulted him. A shape sat in the dark near the rear of the shed, and he threw the doors wider, illuminating the Honda side-by-side ATV. A key jutted from the ignition. He climbed inside the machine and turned the key, ready to return to the mountain bike, but the engine responded with an enthusiastic growl that became a hum. In a matter of minutes, he had backed out of the shed and was howling down the paved road leading away from the recreation center.

The wind coursed past him, flowing through his hair. Sunlight slipped between trees filling his sight with its honey glow. The road flew past, and he pressed the pedal down, increasing his speed. The aches and pains of the prior day’s injuries retreated with the exhilaration of driving the ATV. Driveways scrolled by, mailboxes, an empty car. The road was his, and he had a clear purpose, people depending on him. The miles fled behind him, and he watched the wood lines, searching for pale skin or swaying movement.

The town of Ferry boasted a population of fifteen thousand people according to its welcome sign. To the south a great field of rotting cornstalks waved in the wind, and the north held a giant building with a sign proclaiming Ferry Poultry Inc. that gave off such a tremendous odor of death Quinn gagged as he passed by. The rest of Ferry, Ohio, was a conglomeration of meek, single-story businesses and homes set into the side of a sweeping hill that hadn’t gained the full shade of green it would become as summer grew stronger.

Quinn slowed the ATV and stopped at the mouth of the main street running into and out of town. He waited, watching the side alleys as well as windows and roofs.

Nothing moved.

He idled forward, throwing a look back over his shoulder.

The road was empty, the sun a hand’s width from the horizon.

He unfolded the map he’d brought from the lodge and studied the expanded view of Ferry. The business district consisted of four streets that intersected in a hashtag pattern. The business names weren’t listed anywhere on the map. He refolded the pages and placed it in the glove compartment before urging the Honda forward.

The buildings closed in around him and seemed to grow taller, their blank windows dead eyes, the broken ones busted teeth. Water ran in a steady stream from beneath the door of a beauty parlor, flooding the sidewalk outside and a portion of the street. A woman wearing a bright yellow dress was sprawled near the front of a hardware store, her skin purplish, hair matted and tangled, obscuring her features. One of her shoes was missing.

Quinn scanned the business signs, his heart leaping when he saw the word GUNS in massive bold print above one storefront. He pulled the Honda to the side of the road, reluctantly shutting the engine off.

The wind was his only company on the street.

He ducked inside the store, handgun drawn.

The shelves were immaculately clean. There wasn’t a single weapon left. In the rear of the store he found a solitary magazine that would fit the AR-15 along with a spilled half box of matching shells. He gathered these up, pouring them back into the container before leaving the store behind.

On the following street, two burnt husks that had once been pickups were locked together by their crushed front ends. The drivers had either escaped or been ravaged by the flames so violently that they were no longer visible. Quinn skirted the wreck and pulled to the curb beneath a flapping awning, its garish purple and orange colors bright amidst the drab surroundings. He drew the pistol again and eased inside the drug store.