He’s got my gun. I’m defenseless. Should we leave it with him and get out of here? Would he really just let us leave?
Just then, a chubby boy of about seven or eight appeared around the corner of the row of buildings at the end of the block. He wore a striped polo shirt and khaki shorts. He froze when he saw David and Ellie, his full cheeks flushed and red, his eyes squinting and piggish.
“Pop?” the kid said.
Turk turned and waved to the boy. “Get on back now, Sam. Tell Mom these nice folks will be joining us for breakfast.”
There was no acknowledgment in the boy’s expression; he simply pivoted right there on his heels and took off in a labored trot in the direction he had come.
He’s got a son. Can this guy be that bad if he’s got a son?
“Pancakes, bacon, and home fries,” said Turk. “Yeah, boy.” He winked at Ellie, then turned and sauntered up the block, the shotgun leaning on one broad shoulder. Before Turk turned the corner to join his son, David noticed his handgun poking up from the waistband of the man’s pants.
22
Turk led them three or four blocks off the main thoroughfare, where the stores and traffic lights surrendered to a grid of single-family homes. The street was quaint and lined with oaks, their branches bare this late in the season. There were many cars parked along the street and in a number of the driveways, but David did not see another living soul, with the exception of Turk’s chunky son, who traipsed ahead of them, wading through drifts of dead leaves and peering back at them every once in a while. There were no lights on in any of the houses, no blue flashes from TVs in the windows. Worse than that were the red X’s emblazoned on every single front door, like some curse had befallen this quiet suburban neighborhood. Looking at every door, David realized that was exactly what had happened—that a curse had befallen this community and all the people who’d once lived here. All the world, really.
“Newspapers said this place had been evacuated,” David said, sidling up beside Turk as they followed his son through a yard.
“Yep.”
“Is there anyone else here besides your family?”
Turk offered him a sidelong glance. “Absolutely,” Turk said. “Some just ain’t as friendly as me an’ my family. Best to keep that in mind.”
They followed Turk’s boy onto the front lawn of a quaint bungalow with lime-colored siding and an American flag hanging from the porch. The name on the mailbox read POWELL. There was a red X on the front door here, too, but Turk didn’t bother mentioning it as he led them up the porch, opened the door, and waved both David and Ellie inside.
David took Ellie’s hand and entered the house with some trepidation. The first thing that struck him was the smell of food cooking—bacon, toast, coffee—and he felt his stomach flip; he hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been until that moment. The smell of the food set him somewhat at ease, though he did not let go of Ellie’s hand. When he glanced down at her, he saw her licking her lips. He laughed and ran a hand through her hair.
“Baby,” Turk called down the hallway. “We got company. Break out the good china.” Then he turned and winked at David, as if he’d just gotten off a good joke.
“I’m Sam,” said Turk’s boy. He’d inched closer to Ellie as they stood in the foyer, and now it looked like he might actually reach out and grasp her hand.
“I’m Ellie.”
“Like the letters? L and E?”
“No. It’s short for Eleanor.”
“Oh.” The tip of the boy’s tongue poked out one corner of his mouth. There was a smudge of something on his forehead—grease or dirt. “Do you want to come see my room?”
“No,” Ellie said flatly.
“Not just yet,” David softened, grinning at the boy.
“C’mon,” Turk said.
David and Ellie followed Turk down the hall. The smell of the food grew more substantial, causing David’s stomach to clench painfully. It was a simple country kitchen with curtains over a wall of windows, a tidy kitchen table already set with plates and glasses, and wallpaper with little roosters on it. A woman stood before the stove, slim and pretty, with a plain face that needed no makeup. She looked up from a frying pan, a somewhat bemused expression on her face at the sight of David and Ellie. Her mouth opened, but she said nothing.
Turk made the introductions. “This is Dave. And that’s his daughter, Eleanor. Found them wandering along Bixby like they just fell from the sky or something.” He leaned over the stove, inhaled, grinned. “Smells delicious.” He pecked his wife’s cheek. To David, he said, “This is my wife, Pauline.”
“Hiya,” she said. The surprised look had yet to leave her face.
“Hello,” David said.
“Well, it’s a good thing I made extra,” she said. Then she swatted Turk on the rear end. “Show these nice folks where the washroom is, then set a couple more plates.”