Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home Popovich, A.D. (any book recommendations txt) 📖

A team of Enforcers glared down at them from the daunting guard tower over the entrance. “Good to know.” But Dean was more concerned with the layout of the place. An army of Enforcers stood inside the fenced perimeter, facing the market. All it would take was a heart attack. One dead-head could turn into a horde before you could say, Joe Bob Briggs.

With the way the guards were posted, the chances of surviving a horde attack just decreased substantially. He sure as hell didn’t want to be in the center when they started shooting. Scenes of overzealous guards firing into the crowd flooded his mind, which he found odd. He wasn’t one to let his imagination get the best of him.

“Son, they know the hordes are still out there. Why do you suppose they opened the market? Seems like an awful waste of manpower that could be better spent clearing out the hordes.”

“I know. Right?” Justin rolled his eyes in a bout of theatrics. “They don’t give a freakin’ frack about Zhetts. All they care about are their precious Elites and citizens’ productivity levels. The last statistic I read showed cits need morale boosters. A visa to Zhetto Market increases productivity like sixty percent.”

“Arms up, legs apart,” an Enforcer barked. Dean and Justin tolerated the brief frisk without a word. Good thing they had squirreled their Glocks into the back of the driver’s ripped seat.

Once inside the market, they walked past the strategically placed food trucks. The tantalizing aroma of fried foods sent his stomach into overdrive, reminding he hadn’t eaten since 6:00 a.m. If one could call day-old bean burritos from a gas station a legitimate food source.

“You wanna stop?” Justin asked as if reading his mind.

“Why don’t we catch it on our way out.” Dean wanted to get this over with. He scanned the pop-up tents ahead, wondering what they would find. A produce tent beckoned. “Think I’ll test out my RFID chip with some of those tomatoes.” They must grow them in hothouses.

According to Zac, their chips were preloaded with one thousand Last State Credits, whatever the hell that was worth. He selected several tomatoes, cucumbers, and a tub of ruby-red strawberries that made his mouth water. He casually placed them on the vendor’s counter.

“Fine day, isn’t it?” the middle-aged clerk greeted, weighing the produce. “That’ll be fifty-five LSCs.”

Dean balked inwardly as he held out his hand for the scan. He had just spent nearly one-twentieth of his credits. Relief surged through him when the clerk bagged his produce and thanked him for the purchase. His RFID chip worked. Another problem to check off his perpetual worry list.

“See the super-big, blue tent across the way?” Justin pointed. “They sell bulk dried goods.”

They pushed their carts toward the circus-like tent at the opposite end of the market. At those prices, they’d be eating a lot of beans and rice. Heck, they had lived off beans, rice, and cornbread back when camping along the Old Santa Fe Trail during their search for Ella and Father Jacob’s wagon train.

Seems like they spent most their time hunting down one of the gang. He sure hoped Zac had found the note on Quinton’s refrigerator. If Zac had talked his way into acquiring a gig, they’d be leaving for the Lost States of America any day.

A cowboy hat display caught his attention. Curiosity got the better of him. “You mind if I take a look-see?” He felt naked without a hat.

“You definitely should get one.”

They cut across the crowd, straight for the Western wear vendor. A selection of cowboy hats lined the countertop. He was like a child in a candy store, his eyes darting from hat to hat.

“D-dude, this is so you.” Justin held up a Johnny Cash, black Stetson.

“Excellent choice,” gushed the merchant decked-out in a western rhinestone-studded tuxedo, like something right out of the Grand Ole Opry.

“Naw,” Dean rebuffed. Before he knew it, the merchant placed the satin-lined hat on his head. Dean couldn’t help but admire it in the countertop’s vanity mirror.

“It’s a Diamante.” The words rolled off the merchant’s tongue as if it had been custom-made for royalty. “You won’t come across one of these beauties in the Zones. No siree. The fourteen-karat-gold belt’s adorned with no less than twenty-six authentic diamonds!”

On that note, the indulgence was over. “Too rich for my blood,” Dean admitted. “Got anything in the X-zoner’s price range?” He risked one last look in the mirror, knowing he shouldn’t. His heart skipped a beat. What the devil’s Krasinski doing here?

He gingerly handed the Diamante back to the disappointed merchant while angling for a better view behind him. The merchant handed him a cheap straw cowboy hat. For the heck of it, Dean pretended to admire it and tilted the mirror just so. Damn. Krasinski’s face came in loud and clear. Don’t tell me Krasinski’s tailing us? Dean muddled through the possibilities.

“Dude, let’s go already. I just bought you the hat.”

“Uh, why’d you go do a thing like that?” Dean quickly wiped off his befuddled expression.

Justin laughed. “Like, you couldn’t stop staring at it in the mirror.”

Dean didn’t bother asking how much the cheap rendition of a cowboy hat had set the kid back. “Thank you, sir.” Dean tipped his hat to the merchant, mentally plotting his next move.

“You okay?” Justin asked.

Dean ignored the question, anxious to rule out the possibility that Krasinski was indeed tailing them. “Say, there’s a bookstore. I promised Twila a surprise.” Dean strode into the three-tent store before Justin could argue.

“Might I help you with anything in particular?” a spectacled man asked.

Dean stood by a bookshelf with the best view outside the market. Sure enough, Krasinski lurked in the shadows inside the tent across the way. To buy