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.