part0004

He walked through the door, chimes announcing his entry and stepped back into the past.

The General Store had paneled walls covered with stuffed animal trophies. Deer, Elk, a Moose all watched the eight packed aisles. A freezer took up one wall, and each aisle was dedicated to select goods.

One for dry goods, one for canned goods, one for camping supplies, one for pre-packaged food. Beer took up one lower shelf and looked to be the most travelled section besides the sacks of rice and beans.

The man behind the counter was between sixty and seventy, weathered skin from years in the sun made a map of wrinkles across his brow. He watched Brill with alert eyes and nodded with a tight smile.

Brill smiled back and returned the nod as he made his way to the dry goods aisle.

He selected the cheapest items he could find. Ramen noodles and plain oatmeal.

He counted out eight dollars’ worth in his head, which would feed him for a couple of weeks and carried it back to the counter.

"That going to be it?" the old man raised an eyebrow at the narrow choice of food.

The man began ringing it all up on a cast iron register that looked like it belonged in the last century.

The door swung open, tinkled the windchimes above the frame and they both glanced over.

Two men rushed in, bandanas covering their lower faces, beanies tugged low over their heads almost obscuring their eyes.

The first man was about Brill's height, rail thin and twitchy. He held a grimy .38 revolver in a shaky hand that wavered in front of Brill's nose.

"Don't move," the robber squeaked.

Brill held up his hands. The old man did the same.

The robber's buddy stood by the door, another ancient pistol swinging back and forth to cover the empty aisles.

Squeaky moved his gun from Brill to the owner and licked his chapped lips.

Brill grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed his face into the counter.

The robber's nose crunched and fountained a stream of blood across the floor as he slid into a crumpled pile.

Brill jerked the pistol from his hand as he fell and aimed it at the second gunman.

"Drop it," he warned.

The man ignored him or couldn't hear, so lost and hopped on something that made his pupils the size of saucers.

He lifted the pistol in a slow arc.

Brill thought about shooting him. It would be easy enough. He could tell by the weight of the pistol that it was loaded.

There was the real chance that the weapon would explode in his hand due to negligent care, but he took the chance and pulled the trigger.

The pop of the bullet was loud in the confined space of the general store and made the robber flinch. The bullet thudded into the doorframe where Brill aimed, showering splinters of wood across the gunman.

He made a noise between a grunt and a shriek, fell backwards out of the door and disappeared, leaving his partner to face the owner and the erstwhile hero.

"Should I shoot him?" Brill shrugged and glanced at the old man behind the counter.

"Probably," the old man sighed. "But that'd be more trouble for you than for him."

Brill slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants and searched through the rack of camping supplies. He grabbed a pack of zip ties and secured the unconscious robber's wrists and feet.

"How long before the police respond?" he asked.

"We've got a Deputy that routes out here," said the owner as he watched Brill truss up their prisoner.

"Take her about twenty, maybe thirty minutes to get here."

"Make the call," said Brill. "I can't wait that long."

"Yup," said the owner.

He scrutinized the man who saved him from being robbed.

He was forgettable, with a plain face, average height, average hair. The only thing that set him apart from any of the hundreds of other visitors he got a week was the extreme musculature in his forearms and development under his clothes. The man exuded fitness, like an endurance athlete to the extreme.

That was saying something, thought the owner.

He saw dozens of hardened climbers and runners each week, so he knew an athlete when he saw one.

There was something about his eyes though. The face was lined, there were scars on his cheeks, and knuckles, but the eyes were bright and dark, like a predator's.

They studied the room, studied the owner, studied the robber on the floor.

The owner felt measured and like he came up short.

"You said eighteen dollars," Brill pushed the twenty dollar bill across the counter.

The owner pushed it back.

"Fill up your tank, and fill up a couple of bags of chow," he said. "Just my way of saying thanks."

Brill nodded and put the twenty back into his thin wallet.

"Thanks," he grunted.

"My gratitude to give," said the old man.

"Leon," he introduced himself.

"Nice to meet you," said Brill shaking his hand. "John."

"The Deputy is going to want to ask you some questions," said Leon.

"Tell him that he slipped," said Brill.

He took two bags off the counter and began filling them with supplies.

He kept to low cost, easy to prepare items. Leon might be grateful, but he still had a business to run.

"Appreciate it," said Brill as he headed for the door.

"Where you planning to camp?" Leon asked.

"Got any suggestions?" Brill asked.

If he shared information with the old man, as well meaning as he might be, that intel might be given to the police and they would come looking for him.

If the police came looking, there was a fifty fifty chance they would want him to come in, and if they ran his prints, alarm bells would go off in the Beltway and bring a river of shit down on the region.

A river full of black helicopters and jack booted mercenaries’ intent on scorching the earth to turn up a man that important people thought was dead.

Better to avoid the civilized world altogether, hence his sojourn to the wild lands of North America.