Run by Blake Crouch Read Free Book Online

pulled into a small grocery with several gas pumps out front. He sent Dee and the kids inside to scrounge for food while he flipped the lever and prayed there was something left. There was. He topped off the Rover’s tank, walked into the grocery. The cash register stood unmanned, the shelves stripped bare, the store pillaged.
    He called out, “You finding anything?”
    Dee from the back: “Slim pickings, although I did get a road map. Any gas left?”
    “I filled us up.” Jack grabbed two five-gallon gasoline cans off a shelf in the barebones automotive aisle and went outside to the pump and filled them up. He cleared out a spot amid the camping gear and lifted the red plastic cans one at a time through the open window of the back hatch. Inside the store again, it took him several minutes to find the plastic sheeting. He carried two boxes of it, a roll of duct tape, and the single remaining quart of 10w-30 motor oil back outside with him. Dee and the kids were already in the car when he climbed in.
    “How’d we do?” he said.
    “Three strips of jerky. A can of diced tomatoes. Box of white rice. Bottle of seasoning.”
    “Sounds like a meal.”
     
    Up Greene Street for several blocks. Most of the shops closed. No one out. The sky sheeted over with uniform gray clouds which had moved in so suddenly that just a wedge of autumn blue lingered to the south, all the brighter for its dwindling existence. Jack turned into a parking space.
    “I won’t be long.”
    He left the car running and stepped into the sporting goods store. It smelled of waterproofing grease and gunpowder. Everywhere, racks of bibs and jackets patterned in every conceivable design of camouflage and mounted deer and elk heads with their impossible racks and a stuffed brown bear standing on its hind legs looking back toward an aisle of nets and fly-rods and hip waders. A burly-looking man with the girth of a drink machine stood watching him from behind the counter. He wore a flannel shirt, a vest flecked with renegade feathers of down, and he was pushing rounds into a revolver.
    “What are you lookin for?”
    “Shells for a twelve gauge and a—”
    “Sorry.”
    “You’re out?”
    “I ain’t sellin any more ammo.”
    The gun cases behind the counter had been emptied.
    “Tell you what.” The man reached under the counter, brought out a sheathed hunting knife, and set it on the glass. “Take that. Best I can do. On the house.”
    Jack walked to the counter. “I already have a knife.”
    “What kind?”
    “Swiss Army.”
    “Good luck killin some son of a bitch with it.”
    Jack lifted the large bowie. “Thanks.”
    The storeowner flipped the cylinder closed and set to work loading a magazine.
    “Are you staying?” Jack asked.
    “You think I look like the type of hombre to let some motherfuckers run me out of my own town?”
    “You should think about leaving. They wiped Durango off the map.”
    “Under advisement.”
    Someone pounded the storefront glass, and Jack turned, saw Dee frantically waving him outside.
     
    When he pushed the door to the sporting goods store open, Jack heard a distant growl, a symphony of engines growing louder with each passing second, like the opening mayhem of a speedway race.
    Dee said, “They’re here.”
    As he reached to open his door, gunshots broke out in the south end of town and men were yelling and he glimpsed the lead trucks of the convoy already turning onto Greene Street. He jumped in behind the wheel and reversed out of the parking space and shifted into drive. Fed the engine gas, the hotels and restaurants and gift shops racing by, Jack running stop signs, doing seventy by the time he passed the courthouse at the north end of town.
    The road turned sharply.
    Jack braked, tires squealing.
    Dee said, “You know where you’re going?”
    “Sort of.”
    The road left town and went to dirt, still smooth and wide enough for Jack to keep their speed above sixty. It ran for a couple of miles above