Prologue

Rather than getting right back onto the freeway after stopping for gas in a small town he’d never been to, the man in the pickup had decided to continue along on the back roads for a while. He was in no rush. He could let Google Maps navigate him back home from anywhere. He was starting to get hungry and would rather patronize a small business than a chain off the highway. So he thought sticking to back roads, he might come across a diner somewhere and give them his money.

                It was starting to get dark by the time he came to the bookstore. It was strange. It looked like maybe there used to be a gas station out front. Now there was a 2-level house with a sign marking it as a bookstore. Looking at it, the man in the pickup figured that the owners lived upstairs and ran the business downstairs. But there was also a barn. He wondered what their story was.

                Driving slowly, he noticed a stand out front just past where he thought the gas pumps maybe used to be. There were boxes and a sign that said “FREE” on the stand. His curiosity piqued, the man pulled into the driveway and stopped. He got out to investigate. The boxes were from a bakery and they were full of donuts and pastries.

                It was Sunday. He could bring them back and take them to the office tomorrow. He kept meaning to stop at Dunkin Donuts on his way in to provide treats for his co-workers, but he never actually did. Free donuts and pastries in front of him seemed too good to be true.

                He looked around and then noticed a man on the porch of the bookstore that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t heard him come out. That was strange, but not unnerving.

                He waved at the man on the porch.

                The man tipped his head to the side.

                He gestured to the boxes in front of him.  “Really free?” he asked.

                The man nodded. “Day olds,” he said simply.

                It seemed odd that there’d be dozens of boxes of day olds, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

                “Thanks,” he called. “This’ll make a lot of people happy tomorrow.”

                The man on the porch didn’t respond. A second man came out of the bookstore and stood next to him, and they both watched him.

                “Can I give you a few bucks?” he asked the two men.

                They stared at him.

                That was when he started to feel the vague weirdness break into the beginning of fear. Something was just off. These guys were in their twenties or maybe early thirties, white, with nothing particularly remarkable about either of them. In that moment he thought to wonder if he would be able to describe either of them to a sketch artist but there was something just bland and vague and nondescript about both of them.

                But he had a truck.

                There wasn’t another vehicle nearby. He could get away quickly. They didn’t seem to have guns. He would be fine. He always was.

                “Well…thanks,” he called warily, keeping his eyes on them as he got back into his truck.

                He watched them in the rearview as he drove away.

                He didn’t see the familiar nuances of the look they shared.

                He didn’t see them counting down on their fingers as he accelerated to 55 down the road away from them in the growing darkness.

                All he knew was that he had escaped. He was a survivor. That was the story of his life. He had gotten away. There were no headlights following him. He would be safe and victorious again.

                He didn’t see the speed of their legs as they bolted off the porch toward him.

                He didn’t see them clear three quarters of a mile in a matter of seconds on foot.

                His mind drifted along as he thought about work tomorrow.

Death came quickly enough that he only had a fraction of a second to register surprise before his consciousness was extinguished.

                He didn’t see it coming. He didn’t see any of it.

                But they didn’t see who he was before they killed him.

                They didn’t see what was to come next as they hopped jovially into his truck, executed a perfect 3-point turn, adjusted the mirrors, and headed back to the bookstore, leaving him off in the field somewhere after he landed.

                They didn’t check his wallet.

                All they knew, as they pulled into the barn, was that they had won. They were proud and victorious again. As always.

                For now.