Desperation

They turned and saw Ralph bent over the padlock (to Mary he looked like the Pieman bent over Simple Simon on the Howard Johnson’s signs), peering at it through the helmet’s faceplate. The lock was now warped and twisted, with a large black bullet-hole through the center of it, but when he yanked on it, it continued to hold fast.

“One more time,” he said, and twirled his finger at them, telling them to turn around.

They did and there was another whipcrack. No bird-cry followed his one. Mary supposed whatever had called was far away by now, although she had heard no flapping wings. Not that she would have, probably, with two gun-shots ringing in her ears.

This time when Ralph yanked, the lock’s arm popped free of its ruined i

David ran to him and gave him a high-five. “Good go-ing, Dad!”

Steve pulled the door open and peered in. “Man! Darker than a carload of assholes.”

“Is there a light-switch.” Cynthia asked. “No windows, there must be.”

He felt around, first on the right, then the left. “Watch for spiders,” Mary said nervously.

“There could be spiders.”

“Here it is, I got it,” Steve said. There was a click-click, click-click, but no light.

“Who’s still got a flashlight.” Cynthia asked. “I must’ve left mine back in the damned movie theater. I don’t have it, anyway.”

There was no answer. Mary had also had a flashlight—the one she’d found in the field office-and she thought she had tucked it into the waistband of her jeans after dis-abling the—pickup trucks. If so, it was gone now. The hatchet, too. She must have lost both items in her flight from the pit.

“Crap,” Joh

“There’s one in the truck, behind the seat,” Steve said. “Under the maps.”

“Why don’t you go get it.” Joh

He—was looking at Joh

“Nope,” Steve said. “Nothing wrong, boss.”

“Then step on it.”

Steve Ames marked the exact moment when control over their little expeditionary force passed from David to Joh

Why don’t you go get it.

Anominal question, just six words, and everything had changed.

What’s changed. What, exactly.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, opening the driver’ s-side door of the Ryder truck and starting to rummage through the crap behind the seat. “That’s the hell of it, I don’t really know. — The flashlight-a long-barrelled, six-battery job-was under a crushed litter of maps, along with the first-aid kit and a cardboard box with a few road-flares in it. He tried the light, saw that it worked, and jogged back to the others.

“Look for spiders first,” Cynthia said. Her voice was just a little too high for normal conversation. “Spiders and snakes, just like in that old song. God, I hate em.”

Steve stepped into the powder magazine and shone his light around, first ru

“David, stand right outside the door,” Joh

“Give a yell,” David finished. “Don’t worry.

Steve centered the beam of the flashlight on a sign in the middle of the floor-it was on a stand, like the one in restaurants that said PLEASE WAIT FOR HOSTESS TO SEAT you. Only what this one said-in big red letters-was:

WARNING WARNING WARNING

BLASTING AGENTS AND BOOSTERS MUST BE KEPT

SEPARATE!

THIS IS A FEDERAL REGUL4TION CARELESSNESS WITH EXPLOSIVES WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!

The rear wall was studded with spikes driven into the cinderblock. Hung on these were coils of wire and fat _ white cord. Det-cord, Steve assumed. Against the right and left walls, facing each other like bookends with no books between them, were two heavy wooden chests. The _ one marked DYNAMITE and BLASTING CAPS and USE EXTREME CAUTION was open, the lid up like the lid of a child’s toybox. The other, marked simply BLASTING AGENT in black letters against an orange background, was padlocked shut.

“That’s the ANFO,” Joh

“How do you know that.” Mary asked.

“Picked it up somewhere,” he said absently. “Just picked it up somewhere.”

“Well, if you think I’m go

“You guys have any ideas that don’t involve shooting.”

“Not just this second,” Joh

Steve walked toward the dynamite chest.

“No dyno in there,” Joh

He was right about the dynamite, but the chest was far from empty. The body of a man in jeans and a George town Hoyas tee-shirt was crammed into it. He had been shot in the head. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve from below what might once have been blond hair. It was hard to tell.

Steeling himself against the smell, Steve leaned over and worked at the keyring hanging on the man’s belt.

“What is it.” Cynthia asked, starting toward him. A beetle came out of the corpse’s open mouth and trundled down his chin. Now Steve could hear a faint rustling. More insects under the dead guy. Or maybe one of his nice new friend’s beloved rattlers.

“Nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

The keyring was stubborn. After several fruitless efforts to depress the clef-shaped clip holding it to the belt-loop, Steve simply tore the whole thing off, loop and all. He closed the lid and crossed the room with the keyring. Joh

he said. “I knew him well.”

“Joh

“Fine.” Joh

Steve gave the keys to Ralph. “One of these, maybe.” It didn’t take long. The third key Ralph tried slid into the padlock on the chest marked BLASTING AGENT. A moment later the five of them were looking inside. The chest had been partitioned into three bins.

Those on the ends were empty. The one in the middle was half full of what looked like long cheesecloth bags. Littered among them were a few escapees: round pellets that looked to Steve like whitewashed birdshot. The bags had drawstring tops. He lifted one out. It looked like a bratwurst and he guessed it weighed about ten pounds. Written on the side in black were the letters ANFO. Below them, in red: CAU—TION: FLAMMABLE, EXPLOSIVE.