Running Red Read Online Free PDF Page B

it. A shiny brass weathervane with a rooster on it sits atop the tower. A black, wrought iron fence, roughly three feet high, tipped with spikes, runs along the front and down the north and south sides of the yards.
    A highly varnished plank of pine hangs on a pair of small gauge chains above the steps to a truly magnificent veranda. The porch wraps around three sides of the house. The hanging sign that once announced, “Welcome to Heather House” has had the word “Heather” blocked out with duct tape. Someone has written “freedom” in all capital letters.
    White wicker furniture decorates the terrace. A white haired old lady reads a book on a hanging love seat, her back to the tents set up along the west side of the house. She looks up when the gate squeaks open and we pass through. Her lips are thin and set. She puts her book down on the wooden slats of the porch swing.
    The part of the backyard I can see is crowded with tents. People go about talking to one another, hanging clothes on lines of rope, stoking small campfires. A faded privacy fence runs along the back of the yard. Thick, old trees grow not far behind it. The last row of tents I can see sits about three feet from the wood panels. Coiled razor wire has been added across the top.
    I can only see the corner of what appears to be a detached garage. In the space between the fence and the outbuilding’s wall is a makeshift pen. I can see at least one large hog lying on its side behind the chicken wire. A hand painted sign nailed to a decorative brace on the front of the garage reads “Our farm, our food.” It need not say anything more.
    A child’s tree house, nothing more than a wooden frame platform fitted into the crux of a tree with three jutting branches of a common trunk, holds two armed men. From their perch they can see the entire backyard and the front west side of the house. One of the men has a cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth. He is a large man, bald, with some sort of tribal looking tattoos over his scalp. Even though he wears large, plastic sunglasses, I can feel his eyes on me. He leans against one of the splits from the center trunk.
    His companion, a skinny man with greasy, thin hair and a thin mustache, sits with his legs over the edge. He swings them back and forth. The larger, tattooed man rests a long barreled rifle over his chest. The skinnier man has a pistol in a holster on his hip.
    Matt closes the iron gate behind me. It has finality to it as it clangs into place. A few of the people milling around the tents look at me. Three women stare blankly in our direction. A man in his thirties pokes his head out of a tent. He squints through his glasses and turns to speak to someone still inside the tent. He fixes his eyes on me for a moment and then pulls back inside.
    It’s a compound, I think. Are they survivors or prisoners?
    Matt jumps up on the porch. He pats the old lady’s knee.
    “Hey, Aunt Alice,” he says. “Denny around?”
    Aunt Alice looks up from her book. She smiles at Matt. “He took a group into town.”
    “How long ago?”
    Aunt Alice looks up Main Street. The town is only a few blocks away. I can see the single traffic light hanging over a junction intersection. The word “quaint” comes to mind. “Right after you and Aubrey left. What did you bring back?” She looks at me.
    Aubrey pulls the wagon to the foot of the steps. “Pro Drink,” he says. He hands one of the boxes up to Matt. “And these.” The open carton of cigarettes is in his hand. Auntie Alice smiles and nods. Aubrey unloads the second box.
    “There’s more of that drink,” Matt says. “We’ll go back and get it later. But check it out.” He flops down on the swing next to the woman. “We found a runner.”
    Aunt Alice closes her book. I can see the title on the spine: On the Beach .
    “A runner,” she says. Her attention turns to the south.
    “Yeah. Denny’s gonna be so happy.”
    Her voice is as far down the road as