As the horsemen caravan entered the quaint, tiny town at the border of Missouri, a rumble sounded from Tim’s stomach. Lifting his wrist, his watch read 4:12. The horses trotted past the faded wooded sign beneath a cluster of trees to the left.
“Welcome to Seneca.”
This place seemed as good as any to wind down for the night. There were only a few scattered shops along the street and up ahead they could see where the town ended in less than a half mile. They approached an old railroad track that appeared to run straight through the middle of the town, the pavement elevating at a slight incline at the junction. Standing at the bottom of the incline near the asphalt were five teenage boys, puffs of smoke rising from each one.
