Run - Blake Crouch [15]
“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 store owner 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 the river and then emerged into a higher valley. They passed ruined mines. Mountains swept up all around them, the craggy summits edging into the falling cloud deck. In the rearview mirror, Jack eyed the dust clouds a mile back, and when he squinted, raised the half dozen trucks contained within them.
They passed the remnants of another mine, another ghost town.
The road became rocky and narrow and steep.
“Jack, you have to go faster.”
“Any faster, I’ll bounce us off the mountain.”
Naomi and Cole had unbuckled their seatbelts and they both sat up on their knees, facing the back hatch and watching the pursuing trucks.
“Get down, kids.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to get shot, Naomi.”
“Jack, come on.”
“Are they going to shoot at me, Daddy?”
“They might, Cole.”
“Why?”
Why.
The road had gone completely to hell, the Rover’s right tires passing inches from a nonexistent shoulder that plunged a hundred fifty feet into a stream boiling with whitewater.
“Dad, I’m cold.”
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry.”
Snow starred the windshield. A signpost appeared in the distance. Beside the words Cinnamon Pass, which had been engraved in the wood, an arrow pointed to a road that could hardly be called a road—just a single lane of broken rocks that switchbacked up the flank of a mountain into the clouds.
Jack took the turnoff. Snow blew in through the open windows. They climbed several hundred feet above the other road, above timberline, and as Jack negotiated the first tight switchback,