“Morning,” Tyrel greeted him.

The man inclined his head. He was tall, maybe six foot four, lean, strongly put together, graying brown hair in a tight crew cut, clean-shaven, dressed in a simple t-shirt, jeans, and sensible work boots. His alert gaze and erect posture said either ex-military or law enforcement.

“Good morning,” the man replied. He took in Tyrel’s dark beard and longish hair tied back under a headscarf, expression saying not impressed.

“Tyrel Jennings. This here’s Caleb Hicks.”

I leaned forward so the man could see me better and waved. He nodded to me, then shifted his attention back to Tyrel. “Name’s Lance Morton. Saw you folks come in last night. Some trucks, a jeep, couple of Humvees.”

Tyrel nodded. “Yep. That was us.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Friend of ours knows a guy owns a cabin up here. Had a key. Figured it would be a good place to hole up for a while.”

“What’s the guy’s name owns the cabin?”

“Dale Forester.”

Morton seemed to relax a bit. “I know Dale. Good fella. What’s his friend’s name?”

“Joe Hicks.”

“You don’t say. Dale mentioned him a few times.” Morton stepped closer to get a better look at me. “Say, you Joe Hicks’ son? I seem to recognize you.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “We come down about once a year or so, go fishing.”

“I’ve seen the two of you around before. Don’t believe we’ve met.”

Now that I thought about it, Morton did look vaguely familiar. “I think I might have seen you at the bait shop a time or two,” I said.

“I remember that. Your father around?”

“Farther north up the lake,” Tyrel said. “He’ll be back sometime this afternoon.

“Where are you two headed?”

“Recon. Getting ready to round up supplies.” Tyrel said it casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I was worried Morton might take umbrage, but he surprised me by simply nodding.

“Figured. Was thinking about doing the same thing myself.”

“You’re more than welcome to come with us.”

Morton shook his head. “I’m just fine on my own. If we happen to show up at the same place, should I expect trouble?”

There was no challenge in his voice, but I could feel the tension in Tyrel as he replied. “We’re open to negotiation, no need to fight over things. With all these houses, seems there’ll be plenty to go around.”

“Agreed,” Morton said. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”

Tyrel nodded once. “Take care. Come see us sometime.”

“I might do that.”

We spent most of the rest of the day searching what remained of the peninsula south of us. By four in the afternoon, we had almost given up on finding anyone else alive. As we were just about to leave the last neighborhood on our part of the map, I spotted a curtain moving in an upstairs window of a house on a flat portion of the lakefront. We had tried the house before—there was a BMW sedan in the front yard—but no one answered. I pointed it out to Tyrel.

“Think we ought to try that one again?”

“Probably best to. Pull on up.”

I parked the truck in the driveway and got out. Tyrel motioned me to stay put and approached the front door. He knocked several times, calling out that we had seen someone in there and just wanted to talk. Several minutes passed with no response.

“Listen,” he said, irritation in his voice. “If we meant you any harm, we could have busted down the door by now. Can you just come talk to us for a minute, please?”

More time passed. Finally, Tyrel threw up his hands. “Fuck it. Can’t say we didn’t try.”

As he was walking back to the truck, I heard the latch click on the front door and a squeak as someone pulled it open a few inches.

“Hello?”

The voice was soft, definitely female. Tyrel turned around slowly, hands upraised in a non-threatening gesture. “Hi there,” he said. “Name’s Tyrel. The kid over there is Caleb. We’re new around here.”

The door opened a little further, and I saw a slender, unmistakably feminine silhouette in the doorway. It was too dark inside the house to make out any of her features. “I’m Lola,” she said. “Lola Torrance.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lola Torrance,” Tyrel said, putting his hands down.

Lola stepped out the rest of the way. She was petite, maybe five foot two, brown hair, glasses, early thirties, not especially pretty, but not unattractive either. She kept one hand out of sight behind the door. It probably says something about my upbringing that I could tell by the angle of her arm and the set of her shoulder she was holding a gun.

“You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

By Tyrel’s body language, he also knew she was armed. Honestly, I couldn’t say I blamed her. I would have done the same thing.

“We got in yesterday,” Tyrel said. “We’re planning to gather supplies from the empty houses in the neighborhood. Figured we’d offer you a chance to come along, take what you need.”

Silence stretched for several seconds. “That’s stealing,” Lola said.

“No ma’am, it’s harvesting. Things back east are pretty bad. Houston’s gone. I doubt anyone is coming back here any time soon. No sense in letting perfectly good supplies go to waste. Seeing as you were here first, we figured you got a right to your share, but you should start gathering it pretty soon. No telling who might come through here looking for food.”

Lola hesitated. I had a feeling none of what Tyrel said had occurred to her.

Peering closer, I noticed she looked exhausted. Not just road weary and sleepy like my group, but the kind of tired where your cheeks hollow out and your clothes hang loose from your bones. She obviously had not been sleeping or eating very much for a long time. As she stood watching us, her eyes clouded over with warring thoughts, apprehension written plainly on her face. Finally, she seemed to come to a decision.

“I’m going to step outside,” she said. “Just so you know, I’m armed.”

“I know,” Tyrel said.

This gave her a moment’s pause. Gingerly, she stepped out on the porch, a massive .44 magnum revolver in her hand. I almost laughed—that much gun would have broken her wrist if she had tried to shoot it.

“Do either of you have any medical training?” she asked.

Tyrel and I exchanged a glance. “We both have extensive first responder training, ma’am. Is someone injured inside?”

She nodded, her shoulders beginning to shake. When she spoke, her voice came out in a tremulous whisper. “My husband, there’s something wrong with him. He’s … not right.”

Tyrel stepped slowly closer. “Ma’am, we’d be glad to help, but I’m going to have to ask you to put the gun down first, okay?”

She looked at him with eyes like a hunted thing. Her hand slowly came up, offering Tyrel the gun. He plucked it gently from her grip, unloaded it, stuffed the cartridges in his pocket, and held a hand toward the house.

“Lead the way, please.”

We followed her inside.

EIGHTEEN

The house must have been nice, once.

Tasteful decorations on the walls and over the fireplace, Monet and Rembrandt prints, plush expensive-looking furniture, rich cherry and rosewood coffee table and bookshelves, hardwood floors, gorgeously intricate rugs in burgundy and black, and a collection of vases that probably cost more than both the Humvees back at the cabin. People who lived on the lake were not known for being impoverished.

The house had an empty, lost feeling about it. Our feet scraped and echoed a little too loudly on the floor, the rustle of our clothes grating and garish as we entered the foyer. Empty wine bottles occupied nearly every tabletop, the redolent scent of sour grapes heavy in the air. Dust covered everything, even Lola’s clothes. It looked like she had not changed them in a while. Despite the lush décor, I felt like a sane person walking into a rundown asylum.