The Last War 1-3 by Peter Bostrom

Author:Peter Bostrom [Bostrom, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-16T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 46

Money Tree Lotto Office

Georgetown, Maryland

United States

Earth

Kyle O’Connor was having a really good day. Winning the lottery will do that. He’d played most of his life, now and then, but this was the first time he’d won anything. He smirked. So much for luck of the Irish.

He hadn’t scored division 1, not by a long shot, but it was enough that he would have a real nice year this year. Maybe pay off the car. Or a chunk of the house. His mind raced with the possibilities.

$888,416.94. The cents both confused and amused him; somewhere, someone had decided that the payout would include exactly ninety-four cents. Why ninety-four? Why not ninety-five or ninety-six? Couldn’t they afford the six cents it would take to round to a dollar?

Whatever. The main thing was collecting his earnings. That was why he had come to the Money Tree Lotto building downtown—a squat, gaudy building perched on a corner in the bustling business district. The double doors were narrow glass sheets, strangely uninviting. Maybe they didn’t really want people to collect their winnings after all.

That made sense.

Kyle stepped up to the doors and waited for them to open. They didn’t. He tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. Maybe the storefront wasn’t open today … maybe he was too early. Nine in the morning couldn’t possibly be too early, though, could it?

The first inklings that, perhaps, there wasn’t any money waiting for him at all began to seep in. He did usually buy a ticket, most weeks, but he sometimes didn’t. But this winning ticket was, apparently, from over a year ago, and this was the first he’d heard of it. How sure were they that the winner was definitely him? It might be some other Kyle O’Conner. There were bound to be dozens of them in Georgetown alone, probably more….

As he stood there, pondering the mathematical chance that this was all just a mistake on behalf of the lotto company, he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder.

Some guy had appeared beside him. An older man, probably in his late forties, with a one-week shadow on his face, black growth speckled with white. His whole left ear was mostly gone, just a lump of scar tissue that couldn’t possibly pick up any sound, gnawed and damaged like some kind of beast had chewed it off. His clothes were nondescript and plain, and even though he had a kind face—despite the ear—there was something odd about him; something off. Something false, as though the whole thing were a carefully crafted act.

“Mister O’Conner?” asked the stranger.

“That’s me,” said Kyle, a little more guarded than he intended to. “Are you here to give me my money?”

The stranger just smiled. “No,” he confessed. “I’m just here to talk to you.” The man held out his hand. “I’m John Smith.”

John Smith? Really? That seemed suspicious to him; such a generic, empty name—he may as well have called himself John Doe.

Kyle took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. “I’m Kyle O’Conner,” he said.

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