Chapitre 47: INTO THE TREES [3]
The overall impression was of a people on the cusp of modern society, a community with one foot in the technological age and one still firmly planted in ancient tribal traditions.
"So how do we find this Mowen guy?" asked Logan.
"I suggest we ask someone," Purna replied.
"Why don't we try here?" said Xian Mei, pointing at a building coming up on their left.
It was a ramshackle wooden homestead with steps leading up to a long canopied porch. It reminded Sam of some of the houses built way out on the bayou back home, houses reputed to be populated by voodoo priests and priestesses, and surrounded by constantly dripping trees which loomed from 'gator-infested swamplands. This particular building, however, had a sun-bleached sign that simply read "STORE" dangling on rusty chains from its wooden canopy. Another sign – this one metal and screwed to the door – was emblazoned with the proud boast "WE SELL COCA-COLA."
Purna shrugged and pulled up next to a pale blue flatbed truck that looked as if it might have been new back in the 1950s. The five of them climbed out, stretching and groaning, still uncomfortably aware that they were being candidly and silently assessed by the local population but trying to ignore it.
Logan sidled up to Sam. "Hey, man, ever feel like a virgin at a rapist convention?"
"Hush up," Sam hissed, glancing anxiously across at Jin.
Realizing what he had said, Logan clapped a hand to his mouth. "Sorry, man, I forgot," he mumbled.
They trooped up the steps into the store, Purna in the lead. Though he knew it wouldn't have exactly made a great impression, Sam felt a little nervous about leaving their weapons in the van.
The interior of the store was surprisingly well stocked. There were tinned goods, boxes of overripe fruit, various dried meats beneath a sheet of transparent plastic to keep the flies off, and an upright drinks cooler, which did indeed contain cans of Coca-Cola, as well as Sprite, 7-Up, and lemon Fanta. There was even a creaky old paperback spinner stuffed with dog-eared books that looked as though they had been transported here from the 1970s. Flipping through it briefly, Logan recognized authors his parents used to read – Harold Robbins, Nevil Shute – as well as a novel he had read in high school (possibly the only novel he had read in high school), "The Wolfen" by Whitley Strieber.
Standing behind the counter was a gangly old black man with a halo of white hair and a thick fuzzy beard. His arms were so thin that they made his work-calloused hands look huge. He watched them warily, saying nothing.
Purna smiled and walked up to him.
"Hi," she said. "You speak English?"
The old man simply stared at her.
"We're looking for someone," said Xian Mei. "A man called Mowen. You know him?"
The old man frowned a little.
"Mo-wen," repeated Logan, drawing out the name, emphasizing each syllable. He held up his hands and grinned. "It's OK. We're friendly."
"Don't do that, man," muttered Sam. "Makes you look even more of a psycho than you already do."
To their surprise, Jin suddenly stepped forward and spoke a few words to the old man in a language they didn't understand. The old man responded with a few words of his own, then turned and stuck his head around a ratty blue curtain covering an opening at the back of the counter.
He shouted a word that sounded like, "Afreela."
"What's he doing?" said Logan.
His question was answered a moment later by the appearance of a boy of twelve or thirteen.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone