Free The Rule of Three by Eric Walters Page B

refill.”
    “This fuel makes you a target for looters and vandals,” Herb said.
    “That’s why I’ve been sleeping in the building. Somebody has to watch it.”
    “I guess so. Now let’s get some of that gas in our tank.”
    *   *   *
     
    We drove away and the man waved and offered a big smile. Herb and the gas station manager had used a piece of garden hose and a foot pump to siphon the gas from the holding tanks and into my car. While that was happening Herb had talked to the man, Mr. Singh, about buying more gas—much more gas—had gotten to know him, and had offered for the sentries at the intersection to help watch the station and for the police patrols to go past regularly. He’d also gotten a candy bar for each of us.
    Herb had done a lot more than just fill my tank.

 
     
    10
     
    “Slow down,” Herb said, “but keep rolling.”
    I eased my foot off the gas pedal.
    Brett leaned over the seat and I braked lightly as we came up to a burned-out vehicle right in the middle of the road.
    “That’s what we call a barbecue,” Brett said. “Somebody torched it.”
    There was nothing left but the blackened metal skeleton of the car’s frame.
    “But why would somebody do that?”
    “Some people are just stupid and looking for kicks,” Herb said.
    “How would they even do it?” Rachel asked from the backseat.
    “It’s easy. They pry open the gas tank, stuff a piece of cloth in, light the end on fire, and then run like hell,” Brett explained. “I saw another one last night. I’m surprised we haven’t seen more.”
    As we passed by, an acidic burning smell seeped into our windows.
    “What would happen if somebody did the same thing with that gas tanker up at the service station?” I asked.
    “It would be quite the show. There’d be a huge explosion with a deadly fireball and shock waves that would knock down nearby buildings. We need to do something about that tanker,” Herb said.
    “We could bring it into the neighborhood,” I said.
    “But wouldn’t it be better to take it farther away from our houses, not closer?” Rachel asked. She sounded anxious.
    “Adam’s right. If it’s in the neighborhood it can be protected by the patrols and the checkpoints so nobody can get to it,” Herb explained. “Besides, it would guarantee that we have a source of fuel for the patrols for a long time.”
    “How much gas do you think eight or so little two-stroke engines and a few cars need?” Brett asked.
    “And how long do you think we’re going to need them?” Todd asked.
    “I guess I’m just being a silly old coot about all of this. It’s really just a safety precaution,” Herb said.
    They looked a bit reassured, but I had a feeling that he’d revealed too much and then backtracked. He was lots of things, but a silly old coot wasn’t one of them. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d heard more news on the shortwave that he hadn’t shared.
    We crossed Highway 403 on the overpass. Below us were lots of abandoned cars. The overpass took us across the sort of unofficial boundary between the suburbs and the countryside. Lori’s farm wasn’t far from here, but it was like a different world.
    We continued down the road until we came to the lane leading to the farm. I turned and slowed to a crawl even though I felt like racing up the drive to see her. Up ahead a hay wagon blocked our progress. We coasted to a stop right in front of it. I turned off the car and Brett, Herb, and I climbed out. Herb asked Todd to stay in the backseat with Rachel until he gave the all clear.
    “I guess we walk the rest of the way,” I said. “Maybe I should honk the horn to let them know we’re here.”
    “I think they know that already,” Herb said. “Just wait.”
    The words were hardly out of his mouth when I caught a hint of motion off to the side. It was Lori’s father—he was walking toward us carrying a shotgun, barrel toward the ground. Herb didn’t seem surprised to see the weapon,