The Old Brookville Store

“I swear to you, as sure as I’m standing here, it’s still there.” The man’s finger rested on the map, halfway down a side road none of them knew. “Little mom-and-pop grocery, even has a pump around the side. Used to fill up there sometimes when my wife forgot to get gas—”

“And it hasn’t been hit?”

“Only the locals really know it’s there. And they’re all dead,” he sputtered out a nervous laugh, “or undead.”

“Why aren’t you holed up in there right now, if it’s so well-stocked?”

“It’s a fishbowl.” His eyes darted around, found no comprehension on their faces. “Glass front. I’ve seen them push in big windows like that, shatter ‘em just on pressure alone.”

“All right.”

“Anyway, I’m alone. No gun. I can’t fight, all I can do is run. If there’s one in there, or more than one, what would I do about it? But you fellas, you—”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re waiting here, handcuffed. A couple of my guys are going to recon the place. If everything checks out, you get to stay, and you get a share of the haul. If you’re lying — and I mean, about anything — you’re dead.”

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