Free The Rule of Three by Eric Walters Page A

Rachel called out as she rounded the corner.
    “Then we better get going,” Herb said. “We need to get back before dark.”
    Rachel climbed into the backseat of the Omega along with Brett, and Herb was in the passenger seat.
    I was backing out of my driveway when somebody appeared in my rearview mirror and I slammed on the brakes. It was Todd, and he came to my open window.
    “Are you trying to get yourself run over?” I asked.
    “Not only can I move faster than your car, but if it did hit me it probably would have broken or stalled out,” he joked.
    “Don’t insult the best car in the neighborhood.”
    “Think again. That judge over on Trapper Crescent has a ’57 Chevy and Mr. Langston on Wheelwright drives a ’66 Camaro. He gave my dad and me a ride yesterday.”
    “Okay, fine, one of the best cars in the neighborhood.”
    “I changed my mind. I’m coming along,” Todd said. “Once you woke me up I was instantly bored. If I’m not careful my mother will have me working in the garden or babysitting your little brother. Parents are so much easier to deal with when they go away to work.”
    Before I could even think to answer he pulled open my door, shoved my seat forward so that I was squished into the steering wheel, and climbed into the back.
    “We’re going horseback riding,” Rachel said.
    “Fantastic. I hate horses, but I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.”
    I was happy enough to have him along, and not just because he was my friend. Another person, another big person, could only help.
    We rumbled up the street and past the mini-mall. With the exception of the plywood covering two of the windows of the supermarket, it looked normal. I knew Ernie would be open for food distribution later that day. It would follow the same pattern. Nobody would go hungry in the neighborhood, and because of the system Herb had put in place it would all be orderly.
    The checkpoint was just up ahead. They’d taken patio furniture from the nearby houses and set it down in the middle of the intersection. There were lots of people there—more than the eight men assigned—women and children, including a few kids riding bikes and some playing Frisbee. It was like they’d set up a picnic in the middle of the street.
    “Quite a little street party going on,” Herb said.
    “Do you want them to stop?” Brett asked.
    “No, it’s probably better this way. More people being there provides more protection. Let them enjoy.”
    I tapped on my horn and everybody turned to us. A couple of the men on the line waved, and then four others picked up a picnic table and moved it out of the way so we could pass. I eased through the intersection and turned into the gas station. I drove around the big tanker truck and went to pull in beside one of the pumps.
    “No, park it right in front,” Herb said.
    I came to a stop beside the entrance. Herb climbed out. He had a big smile on his face and waved to the man inside, who gave a little wave and a nervous smile in reply.
    “Open the door!” Herb called out. “We need a fill-up.”
    Reluctantly the man came to the door and opened it a crack. “Sorry, but without electricity there are no pumps.”
    “We could siphon up the gas, and of course we’d pay. Straight cash.” Herb produced a thick wad of cash from his pocket.
    “With that amount of money you could buy half the gas in that tanker truck!” the man exclaimed.
    “It’s probably a stroke of bad luck for you that that truck was here when everything stopped working.”
    “It’s not my truck, but now it’s like I’m responsible for it.”
    “And it’s bad enough that you have to be responsible for all of the gas in the holding tanks below. How big are your tanks?”
    “Between regular, ultra, and diesel they can hold almost twelve thousand gallons.”
    “What’s in there now?” Herb asked.
    “Close to ten thousand. I don’t even know why the truck was here to begin with. My tanks weren’t low enough to need a