“You sure this is the right address?”

Ruttort Produce looked as if nothing remotely resembling produce had darkened its doors since before the extinction of the Passenger Pigeon. The grocery’s walls were overrun with ivy, faded advertisements for products that no longer existed, and provided much-needed shelter for generations worth or rats and roaches.

“I’m sure,” Carson said. He pointed at the floor, where the dust was disturbed by sets of human footprints.

The trail led into what must at one time have been the store’s office, only it was doubtful that the long-dead store manager had ever dreamed of anything like the high-powered computer terminal and backup unit humming on his desk.

“Look at this,” Carson said, pointing to cables that snaked across the ground. “This spot’s only a hundred yards from the main fiber-optic pipeline to downstate. Tapped into it like this, Johannes can read the mail of everyone in six counties.”

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