The horses had picked up their pace, thinking that they were about to be watered and fed, but I didn't smell the wood smoke that had always greeted as us we approached Ed's property.
Chris didn't say anything, but I could tell he'd noticed the same thing.
As we rounded the bend, the first thing I saw was Ed's big red pickup in the driveway. For a moment, I was relieved. If his pickup was there, he must have been home.
But then I noticed the snow in the driveway. There wasn't a tire track or footstep on it. It was pristine. The last snowfall had been five days earlier, so no one had come or gone since then.
"Fukkadillo." Chris pulled in his horse's reigns.
We paused and listened for any sign of life. The place was totally silent.
The back door was locked. We peered in through the window. It was dark inside, but nothing seemed out of order.
"Ed!" I called out. I banged on the window.
A moment passed, and then another, and still no one answered.
Crap.
There were only a few precious hours during the week when we could be certain that Ed's address wasn't scheduled for a Home Guard inspection. So we always carefully planned the timing of our supply runs. Ed hadn't ever missed one. Not one.
He usually stored the donated supplies that came in from his network of Underground sympathizers in one of the back rooms of his huge truck shop. I braced myself as we approached the building. Ed was our sole supply line to the dwellings outpost. Without Ed, we were screwed.
Chris unlocked the padlock at the store room door. Warily, he pushed it open.
My heart plummeted: two sacks of rice.
That was it. The pair of meager sacks lay tossed in the corner, and, otherwise, the entire store room contained nothing but dust.
"What are we going to do?" I slumped against the wall, cold and exhausted from the long trip we'd just made.
"First thing first, we're bouncing the hell out." Chris grabbed the rice and hurried from the store room. "We do not want to get caught here," he called over his shoulder. "Get up."
I followed him back to the horses and climbed up into Kaypay's saddle.
Once Chris had secured the dismally small quantity of rice to one of the pack mares, he took off his fur cowboy hat and slammed it into the snow.
"Fukkadillo!"
"Chris," I whispered. "Quiet!"
"Okay, look." He lowered his voice, gathering himself as he picked up his hat. "I think one of Ed's underground contacts processes FEMA airdrops and 'loses' some of the items. Pretty sure he supplies like half the donations we get. Ed's been cagey as hell about his network, but I think I know who the guy is. I'll see if I can track him down." He climbed onto his horse looking hopeless. "It'll be a start anyway."
"Well, I'm finding Ed," I said. "I'm going into town. I'll ask around."
"Ashley, Ed might not even be . . ." Chris didn't finish his sentence. He eyed me warily. "You do remember that you're like terrorist numero uno on the Home Guard's Most Wanted list. Right?"
"I'll be careful."
Chris steadied his horse, eyeing me skeptically.
"You've heard what they might be doing to people caught harboring positives?" He lowered his voice even further. "I mean, you've heard what people are saying?"
"What are people saying?"
". . . I don't know." He looked down, avoiding my eyes. "I'm sure it's just a rumor. Forget about it. Just be really, really careful."
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