Hunger

“Jeez, man, I don’t know.” Quinn shook his head.

“Thirty-two caliber,” Albert said. “That was the smallest size the guy had.”

“Why isn’t Cookie helping us?” Quinn wondered.

In answer, Lana, from somewhere outside, said, “Guys, I’m going to look around for food. Cookie will help me.”

“Cool,” Quinn said.

In a few minutes they had all the gold up out of the hole.

They began walking the gold to the truck, a few bars at a time. The gold bars were not big, but they were heavy. By the time Albert and Quinn had finished hauling the gold they were sweating despite the chill of the night.

Albert climbed in and pulled a canvas tarp over the gold.

“Listen, man,” Albert said as he worked to tie down the corners, “this isn’t something we want anyone talking about. Right? This is just between the four of us here tonight.”

“Hold up, dude. You’re not telling Sam?”

Albert climbed down to stand face-to-face with Quinn. “Look, I’m not trying to get over on Sam. I have the most total respect for Sam. But this plan works better if it all comes out at once.”

“Albert, I’m not going to lie to Sam,” Quinn said flatly.

“I’m not asking you to lie to Sam. If he asks you, tell him. If he doesn’t ask . . .”

When Quinn still hesitated, Albert said, “Look, man, Sam is a great leader. Maybe he’s our George Washington. But even Washington was wrong about some things. And Sam doesn’t get what I’m talking about. How people all have to work.”

“He knows people have to work,” Quinn argued. “He just doesn’t want you getting over on everyone, making yourself the rich guy.”

Albert wiped sweat from his forehead. “Quinn, why do you think people work hard? Just to get by? You think your folks worked just to get by? Did they buy just enough food? Or did they get just barely enough house? Or a car that barely runs?” Albert’s voice was urgent. “No, man, people like a good life. They want more. What’s wrong with that?”

Quinn laughed. “Dude, okay, you’ve thought about all this and you’re probably right. I mean, what do I know? Anyway, look, am I going to go running straight to Sam and tell him what we did? No. As far as I know, I don’t have to do that.”

“That’s all I’m asking, Quinn,” Albert said. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to lie.”

“Uh-huh,” Quinn said cynically. “What about the Healer? She . . .” He looked around, suddenly aware that he hadn’t heard her or Cookie in quite a while.

“Lana!” he yelled.

Then, “Healer!”

The night was silent.

Quinn aimed the flashlight into the truck cab. Maybe she was in there. Asleep, maybe. But the cab was empty.

He swiveled the light around the area, picking out the poles that had once held Hermit Jim’s water tower.

“Lana? Lana? We’re ready to go,” Quinn yelled.

“Where is she?” Albert wondered. “I don’t see her or Cookie. Or her dog.”

“Lana! Healer!” Quinn shouted. No answer came.

He and Albert exchanged looks of horror.

Quinn leaned into the truck, intending to sound the horn. She’d have to hear that. He froze when he saw the Post-it note. He tore it from the steering wheel and read it aloud by flashlight.

“‘Don’t try to follow us,’” Quinn read. “‘I know what I’m doing. Lana.’”

“Okay,” Albert said, “Okay, now we have to tell Sam.”

TWENTY-ONE

18 HOURS, 23 MINUTES

JACK STRAINED AGAINST the door.

It was built strong. Very strong. Steel in steel.

But it creaked and groaned, and Jack could see the seam between door and jamb growing.

His strength was shocking to him. He’d done very little to learn to control it. He hadn’t really tested it much. In fact, he kept forgetting he had it because it was not, it never would be, part of who he really was.

Jack had grown up being a brain. He liked being a brain. He wore the geek label proudly. He had no interest in being some superstrong mutant. In fact, even as he pushed against the door, he was wondering if there wasn’t an electronic control of some sort on the door. Wondering where the control panel might be. Wondering whether he could cut a wire, or solder another wire, and open the door. Wondering whether it might be computer-controlled, in which case it would be a question of hacking.

Those thoughts engaged Jack’s mind. And that gave Jack pleasure.

Pushing on a steel door like some kind of ox? That was stupid. It was what stupid people did. And Jack was not stupid.

“Keep at it, Jack,” Caine encouraged him. “It’s starting to give.”

Jack heard Diana saying to Drake, “I told you he was strong. And you thought you’d just go and pick him up and bring him to Coates? Hah.”

The door would give way in another few seconds, Jack could feel it.

“When it goes, Jack, you need to drop to the floor,” Caine said.

Jack would have asked why, but the exertion was popping the veins in his neck, squeezing his lungs, bulging his eyes, and generally making it hard to imagine engaging in conversation.

“Soon as it goes, Jack, drop to the floor,” Caine reiterated. “Someone in there might start shooting.”

What? Shooting?

Jack lessened his effort.