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few.”
    “But isn’t that the right way? The fair way?”
    He looked over at her and smiled.
    “That depends, darlin’.”
    “On what?”
    “On whether or not you’re one of the few.”

    By the time they reached Hillsville, Virginia, the sun was already high in the sky. The town seemed to consist of only a single intersection, where Highway 52 crossed Highway 221. Unlike the other communities, Hillsville was bustling with activity. A hodgepodge of colorful tents and makeshift wooden stalls had been set up on both sides of the street, and hundreds of people milled about them.
    Tanner stopped the Hummer and took a moment to study the scene.
    “What do you think’s going on here?” asked Samantha.
    He pointed to a huge banner hanging across the road. Flea Market and Old Timey Days . A large flap of cardboard was stapled below the banner that read, “No guns allowed in Hillsville.”
    “I’ve heard of a flea market,” she said. “But what’s an Old Timey Day?”
    “Don’t know.”
    “Should we check it out? It looks interesting.”
    Tanner thought about it. While the stop certainly wasn’t necessary, he didn’t feel a pressing need to hurry off to the tunnels. The mutants would be there waiting, regardless of when he and Samantha arrived.
    “Sure, why not?”
    “Good. Maybe we can get something to eat too.”
    “We’ve got food in the back.”
    “I know, but look.” She pointed to smoke rising up from one of the tents. “They’re cooking something.”
    As if on cue, Tanner’s stomach growled.
    She reached over and patted his belly.
    “It sounds like a thunderstorm in there.”
    “No wonder. I only had a few eggs for breakfast. Hardly enough to hold over a giant.”
    “That’s true,” she said, missing his sarcasm.
    Tanner backed the truck up onto one of the curbs and shut it off.
    “What about our guns?” she asked, looking down at her Savage .22 rifle.
    Tanner studied the crowd. He didn’t see a single firearm in the mix.
    “Leave ’em. There’s probably a small town sheriff lurking nearby with nothing better to do than rough up out-of-towners who think they’re above the law.”
    She placed her rifle and his sawed-off shotgun on the floorboard and draped a jacket over them.
    Tanner climbed out of the Hummer and did a quick survey of the people in their vicinity. No one seemed to be paying them any attention. A woman and her husband stood at the entrance to the market. She played a banjo, and he a fretted dulcimer. They strummed along, cutting in and out of a little mountain piece, highlighting the unique tones of the two stringed instruments. A black banjo case sat open at their feet with a sign that read, “We’re Hungry!”
    Tanner leaned back into the Hummer and grabbed his pack, figuring that he might be able to trade some of their supplies for a hot lunch. As he did, Samantha slid out of the passenger side, her eyes wide with excitement.
    “It’s like a circus,” she said softly.
    “Let’s just hope there isn’t a freak show,” he said, walking toward the huge bazaar.
    She followed in his wake, studying the various stalls. Most of them were set up to act as trading booths. Vendors displayed a wide assortment of homemade goods, including soap, jars of honey, dried meat, jugs of apple cider, ground wheat, canned vegetables, freshly churned butter, and plastic bottles of water that had obviously been refilled more than once.
    “Do you think they make all this stuff?” she asked.
    “Sure they do.”
    “But how?”
    “What do you mean how ? They grow it, kill it, or mash it the same way people have been doing for centuries.”
    “But where’d they learn how to do that?”
    “Darlin’, country folks have been making food long before there were Piggly Wigglys.”
    She giggled. “What’s a Piggly Wiggly?”
    “You really have lived a sheltered life,” he said with a sigh. “Come on. Let’s see what these folks have.” Tanner stepped over to a stand being operated