The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

by Arthur T. Bradley

Early the next morning, Mason repeated his ritual of securing the cabin and loading his truck with supplies. He intended to return by nightfall but packed enough food and water to last a full week, in case things took a turn for the worse. He also secured the M4 assault rifle to a floor-mounted rack in the cab of his pickup. If trouble found him, he could have a long gun in his hands within a few seconds. He continued to carry Marshal Tucker’s Supergrade on his hip, which he hoped one day to have the opportunity to return. Until then, he would use it for what it was intended. He was sure that Marshal Tucker would have wanted it that way.

  As he pulled away from the cabin that had been such a big part of his childhood, Mason couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever see it again. Nothing seemed certain anymore. What he did know was that it had saved his life by keeping him away from the virus, and for that, he was thankful.

  A little more than a mile down the road, Mason came upon the old blue pickup that he had discovered the day before. He pulled up beside it and stepped out. The inside of the windows were covered in a thick layer of black blowflies, the adult relatives of the hundreds of thousands of maggots that were busy devouring the bodies within.

  Digging in his truck bed, he retrieved a few tools, two five-gallon gas cans, and a large roasting pan that he had brought from the cabin for one specific purpose. He lay down on his back and slid a few inches under the rear of the blue pickup.

  The smooth shape of the truck’s fuel tank was directly above him. He felt around until he found the flat drain cock at the base of the tank. Using a large flathead screwdriver, he pried the plug about halfway out. The fuel started to leak around the plug and onto his fingers. He quickly slid the pan under the drain to catch the gasoline.

  When the pan was nearly full, he pushed the plug in enough to stop the flow and poured the fuel from the pan into the gas can. He repeated the procedure until the two gas cans were completely full. It worked, although by the time he finished, he had spilled as much gasoline on his clothes and the ground as he had transferred into the cans. He would need to figure out something more efficient later. For now, he had a simple method of keeping his vehicle fueled.

  As he climbed back into his truck, Mason took one last look at the blue pickup. Thankfully, the three people within were spared from ever having to see the horror of the insect feast they had become. The world slowly took back all that it gave, and it was humbling to even the hardest of individuals to witness. He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the road.

  He saw his first signs of life less than three minutes later, as two men riding off-road motorcycles whipped around a sharp bend in the mountain road. They appeared so suddenly that he had to slam on the brakes and pull to one side to avoid hitting them. They sped past him, laughing and looking over their shoulders as they passed. Neither man was wearing a helmet, gloves, or any other motorcycle gear. Mason watched in the rear-view mirror to see if they would stop or continue on. After a few seconds, they motioned to one another and turned back in his direction.

  Not wanting to get caught sitting in his truck, he opened the door and stepped out onto the unpaved mountain road. Mason made sure that his badge and gun were clearly visible on his waist. He had been in enough confrontations to know that running put you at a disadvantage that was hard to overcome. If these two were looking for trouble, he would give it to them head on.

  The two men sped toward him, stopping when they got to within about twenty feet. They dismounted from the dirt bikes and walked in his direction slow and easy, like matadors approaching a toro bravo. Both wore dirty shirts, worn jeans, and work boots, none of which fit quite right. Neither man looked to have shaved or even taken a sponge bath in a couple of weeks.

  The larger of the two looked as if he could have worked as a bouncer at an Irish pub, his plaid shirt filled out with tight muscles and his face covered in a thick red beard. He carried a hunting knife at his side that was canted forward for quick access. His partner was a full head shorter, with distinctly Asian facial features. He had two black teardrops tattooed below his right eye, and more important, a Glock pistol sticking out from a makeshift holster on his waistband.

 

  Mason nodded to them as they approached.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, keeping a watchful eye on their hands.

  They nodded and advanced to within a few steps. He saw a sudden nervous look pass between them as they spotted his badge.

  “Officer,” Red Beard said in a tone that sounded well practiced.

  “I’m a Deputy Marshal.”

  Red Beard smiled, his front teeth showing wide gaps between them as if he had used a woodworking rasp to floss.

  “Close enough.”

  “What can I do for you men?”

  “We were wondering if you might have any food or water,” said Teardrops. “The folks in Boone were none too kind, and we’re hungry enough to eat a horse, hooves and all.”

  “I’m out looking for supplies myself.”

  “There’s nothing you can spare?” Teardrops glanced over at Mason’s truck.

  He shook his head.

  “Sorry.”

  “You sure you’re not holding out on us?” asked Red Beard.

  Mason ignored the question.

  “What can you tell me about Boone?”

  Teardrops looked to Red Beard, and when he didn’t answer, said, “Boone’s the same as every other place we’ve been. Homes and cars are filled with rotting bodies. The stink is somethin’ awful. It’s almost like the dead rose up from their graves.”

  “Who’s in charge down there?”

  “Not the law if that’s what you’re asking. Close as we can tell, it’s become a regular Wild West. People are killing one another for just about any reason.” His eyes narrowed. “Even for food and water.”

  Mason nodded, thoughtfully.

  “People do all kinds of stupid things. More often than not, it gets them killed.”

  Red Beard took a small step forward.

  “I guess that makes you the Lone Ranger.”

  “You mean Wyatt Earp.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Lone Ranger was a Texas Ranger. I’m a U.S. Marshal, like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson.”

  Red Beard looked irritated.

  “My point was that you’re all alone now.”

  Mason shrugged. “Do you know how many men Wyatt Earp killed?”

  “What does that have—”

  “Some say ten. Others bring the count all the way up to thirty. Can you imagine that? One man killing thirty. I’d wager there’s a lesson in that somewhere.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I always took it to mean that a determined lawman will triumph over lowly cowards. Your takeaway might be a little different.”

  Red Beard’s face tightened, and he squinted his eyes.

  “I bet those same cowards eventually put him in the grave, though, didn’t they, Marshal?”

  “Not hardly. Wyatt Earp lived to the ripe old age of eighty. Now Bat Masterson—”

  “Listen,” said Red Beard raising his voice, “we don’t give a hoot about what happened to your cowboy buddies. We need food and water.”

  “I thought we already covered that.”

  Teardrops said, “I guess we were hoping that after having time to get to know us, you might decide to share—”

  “No.”

  A vein on Red Beard’s forehead swelled, like a night crawler wriggling its way to the surface. “You’re telling us that—”

  “I’m telling you no.”

  Red Beard clenched his fists so tightly that Mason could hear the knuckles pop.

  Teardrops reached over and patted his friend on the shoulder.

  “It’s no problem, Marshal. We’re cool. We’ll find something down the road a ways.”

  As Teardrops spoke, Red Beard slowly slid his hand toward the small of his back.

  Mason squared himself, his gun hand hanging ready at his side.

/>   “Just so we’re clear,” he said in a firm voice, “if either of you makes a move I don’t like, I’ll shoot you both.”

  Red Beard’s hand froze, and he brought it back around front. Both men looked at each other, uncertainty in their eyes but a determined tightness to their jaws.

  Teardrops took a step toward Mason, his hands spread open with the palms up.

  “You got it all wrong, Marshal. We’re not looking for any trouble.”

  Red Beard suddenly made a quick grab for the gun at the small of his back. Before the weapon could clear his belt, Mason drew the Supergrade and shot him twice below the throat. Both bullets punched through nearly the same hole. He immediately sidestepped and fired more two shots into the smaller man who was standing transfixed by the sudden explosion of violence. The first bullet passed through his heart, and the second split his sternum. Both men hit the ground at the same time.

  Mason stood watching the wisps of burned gunpowder rise into the air, as if they were the spirits of the fallen men. He replayed every facet of the gunfight, including his draw, grip, trigger squeeze, and recoil control. Then, waking from the trance, he stepped forward and looked down at Teardrops. The vacant stare in his eyes told Mason all he needed to know He moved over and knelt down beside Red Beard. The man lay clutching his throat, like a prospector trying to hold back oil, blood pulsing out from between his fingers. He gurgled and coughed as he gasped for air, desperately trying to hang onto life. Mason reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Red Beard’s eyes grew wide and tears began to stream down his face. He blinked once, then his body spasmed and he was gone. His big green eyes stared up at the sky like two polished emeralds floating in pools of milk.

  Mason stood and looked down at the bodies. Only minutes before, these two men had been riding carefree through the mountains with the cold morning air stinging their faces. Now they lay dead, their warm blood slowly draining out onto the dirt beneath them. It had been a defining moment for them, one that they surely didn’t appreciate the importance of until it was too late. Mason cleared his throat and spat. Such was life.

  He carefully searched them, taking the hunting knife, the Glock pistol, and a small snub-nosed Colt revolver that Red Beard had been hiding behind his back. He put the knife on his belt and the two pistols into the glove box in his truck. Once he was certain they didn’t have anything else that might be of use, he rolled the two bodies over the edge of the steep mountain road and kicked some dirt to cover the pools of blood. He walked the motorcycles off the road and leaned them behind a nearby tree. He would pick them up on his return trip. Mason didn’t particularly enjoy riding motorcycles, but they were very fuel-efficient and might serve a valuable need if gasoline became scarce. From this point forward, it was all about survival.

  Chapter 8