The Lost Level Read Online Free PDF Page B

as big as my fist and looked like a cross between a bumblebee and a
caterpillar. A key–ring filled with keys dangled from the ignition. The floor
was filthy, and the scattered remains of a bird’s nest poked out of the cup
holder. I tried the glove compartment. It was unlocked. Inside was a green
plastic folder containing the vehicle registration and insurance information.
The Jeep belonged to a John LeMay of Statesboro, Georgia, and the vehicle registration
card had expired in October of 2001. I wondered if somewhere back in
Statesboro, Mr. John LeMay was listed as a missing person. I put the folder
aside and continued rooting through the glove compartment. There was a pile of
faded, crinkled paperwork, half a pack of chewing gum which had long since
hardened, and a tube of lip balm. I pulled the cap off the lip balm and smelled
it. There was a hint of cherries. I rubbed some on my lips and found that it
was okay. I stuck the tube in my jeans pocket and kept searching. The cherry
flavor made my mouth water. Worse, it made me strangely homesick.
    My fingers brushed against something hard and metallic hidden
beneath the papers. I grabbed the object, pulled it out, and whistled with
appreciation. It was a .45 handgun, weathered and in desperate need of a
cleaning, but still perfectly functional. I released the magazine and checked
it. There were a total of eight bullets in the magazine, plus one more inside
the chamber of the gun. I ejected that one into my palm and studied it. Mr.
John LeMay had apparently reloaded his own ammunition, judging by the flattened
lead flush with the edge of the brass casing. I chambered the round again and
engaged the safety.
    “Thank you, John LeMay, wherever you are.”
    Encouraged by this find, my trembling subsided, and I felt a
burst of renewed energy. I was in a bad spot, certainly, but I would persevere.
I sat the gun next to me on the seat and kept searching.
    There was an empty plastic bag on the floor. I grabbed the paperwork
from the glove compartment and stuffed the pile inside the bag, thinking it
might come in handy later if I needed to start a fire. Unfortunately, the Jeep’s
owner hadn’t been a smoker. There were no matches or lighters to be found. In
the center console compartment, I discovered several compact discs. I added
them to the bag. I could snap the plastic and fashion it into arrowheads or
spear tips, and the discs’ reflective backsides might prove useful if I needed
a mirror. Also in the console compartment were a cell phone charger and
adapter, a small pair of collapsible binoculars, a ballpoint pen, and broken
pair of sunglasses. The binoculars were a great find, and I grabbed them right
away. I added the charger and adapter to my bag, thinking I could use the cords
for something—as makeshift fishing line perhaps. I also took the pen. Beneath
the driver’s seat was a dirty travel mug. Something rust–colored had dried
inside of it, but I dropped it into the bag, as well. I assumed the stain was
just coffee or tea, rather than blood.
    On a whim, I reached for the key ring. There were about a half–dozen
keys on it. They jangled as my hand brushed against them. I pumped the gas
pedal and then turned the key, but the Jeep didn’t start. It wasn’t until I’d
tried it a third time that I realized the gas tank was located in the part of
the vehicle that had been fused with the rock. Did that half of the Jeep even
exist anymore? Had its atoms joined with the cliff face? Or was the rear half
of John LeMay’s Jeep still back in Georgia? I turned the key back to the
accessory position, wondering if the Jeep’s battery still worked. I tried the
headlights, but they were dead. Experimenting with the stereo produced similar
results. Sighing, I pulled the key from the ignition and put the key ring in my
pocket, thinking I might be able to fashion the keys into tools or weapons at
some point.
    My stomach grumbled. I was still tired and hungry, but I felt a
little