The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

by Arthur T. Bradley

As Mason continued his journey down to Highway 321, he couldn’t help but replay his encounter with the two men. Both were surely convicts. The tattoo of the teardrops was common among those who spent time in prison. It occurred to him that many of the survivors of Superpox-99 might indeed be criminals. According to Jack, they had been released only after things had grown so dire that the nation’s infrastructures were collapsing. Unlike the vast majority of law-abiding citizens who had been caught completely unprepared, the convicts would have had the chance to steer clear of others until the virus subsided.

  As with shootings in his past, Mason couldn’t help but wonder why he felt so calm after having just taken two lives. It wasn’t that he necessarily expected to have regrets or second thoughts about his actions. Drawing down on the two men seemed justifiable in this new world where every man had to be held accountable for his actions. He was, however, surprised that he could control his body’s unconscious processes, including his heartbeat and the release of adrenalin. Fellow marshals had accused him of having ice in his veins on more than one occasion. While that was meant as a compliment from one lawman to another, doctors had also warned that emotional baggage was like an audit from the taxman; while extremely unpleasant, it was something that eventually had to be dealt with.

  Mason wasn’t so sure. During his time in the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment, he had learned to kill without questioning why. The enemy was the enemy, nothing more. They had no children, no wives, no dreams for the future. They were simply the epitome of evil that had to be stopped. While such detachment might lead some to sociopathic behavior, it had enabled him to follow an internal compass that he believed always pointed true north. Life was easiest when viewed in black and white, right and wrong.

  To force himself to stop rehashing things that were probably best left in the past, Mason began reviewing his goals for the excursion into Boone. Above all else, he needed to assess the scope and severity of the infection in his immediate area. Were the dead lining the streets as the convicts had suggested, or was there some semblance of society still functioning?

  He had also compiled a list of supplies that he hoped to gather, not the least of which was additional food. He had a large stockpile of dehydrated and freeze-dried supplies in the cabin, but collecting extra canned and prepackaged food was still prudent. Packaged products might last a year or two, and regular canned food could easily be safe to eat for five years.

  Fuel was also a pressing need. Without adequate gasoline, he would be confined to the cabin, which would leave him isolated and potentially vulnerable. He had placed four empty jerry cans in the bed of his truck, two of which were now full. Using his method of draining fuel tanks enabled him to get around, but it relied on having frequent access to other vehicles. It also didn’t account for the fact that fuel would eventually solidify into a gummy substance if it sat for too long. In a year or two, the gas in most of the vehicles would be unusable without some form of pretreatment. A fuel stabilizer was therefore high on his list of needs.

  Next on his list were medical supplies. Mason had a fairly exhaustive first aid kit at the cabin, but he hoped to gather some broad-spectrum antibiotics, anti-diarrheals, and antiviral medicines, if any still existed. In addition to food, fuel, and medicine, he had identified a collection of miscellaneous items that might prove useful, including batteries, ammunition, matches, spare parts for his truck, toiletries, bottles of hand sanitizer, and disposable face masks. He had no idea if the last two items would in any way protect him from Superpox-99, but they seemed to be reasonable precautions to have on hand.

  When he arrived at Highway 321, he paused once again to appreciate the scope of the devastation. Cars and trucks of every size and shape lined the four-lane divided highway. Some were smashed into one another; others had been driven off into the deep ravines lining the shoulder; a few were even propped up on the concrete divider, as if a huge bulldozer had plowed through the stalled traffic. This had been a scene of terrible suffering; people trying to escape something that was not escapable.

  He turned east on the highway and began carefully navigating the congested thoroughfare. He spent much of the time driving on the shoulder, and more than once had to nudge a vehicle that was blocking his path. Most of the automobiles had bodies within, all now in advanced stages of decomposition. Even during his time in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Mason had never seen so much death at one sitting.

  After navigating through the blockade of vehicles for two long miles, he came upon a service station on the right side of the road. Attached on one side was a small convenience store and on the other, a mechanic’s shop that had been partially burned out. Two fuel pumps sat out front with an old rusty Dodge Charger smashed into one of them. A stamped sheet metal sign hung above the store, Sugar Grove One-Stop.

  He pulled into the small parking lot next to the undamaged fuel pump. The pumps wouldn’t operate without electricity, but they almost certainly contained fuel in their underground storage tanks. He waited in his vehicle for a full minute to see if anyone would come out to investigate. No one did.

  Taking his M4 with him, Mason climbed out of his truck. He double-checked the chamber and slapped the magazine to make sure that it was fully seated. It was a safety click away from being ready for action. He positioned the single-point sling over his neck and shoulder so that the weapon could hang freely.

  His first stop was the Charger that had crashed into the fuel pump. Thankfully, there were no rotting corpses inside. A few hand tools were scattered on the floor, and a small duffle bag was on the seat. He searched the bag and found only a set of women’s clothes.

  He left the tools and bag in the truck and walked to the front of the convenience store. The glass door was smashed, and several shelves that had been barricaded against it were pushed over into the store. A man lay face down on the floor a few feet inside. A .22 rifle was poking out from underneath his body, probably his last line of defense against looters. Hundreds of flies buzzed around his decaying corpse, taking their fill of the rotting flesh.

  As Mason carefully maneuvered through the blocked doorway, the sour stink of decomposition hit him in the face like a sweaty boxing glove. He forced himself to take shallow breaths through his mouth as he proceeded into the store. Most of it had been thoroughly ransacked. The shelves were tipped over and the glass cooler cases smashed. Candy, chips, bottled drinks, and a mishmash of food products covered the floor. If not for the dead body, it would have been a junk food paradise.

  “U.S. Marshal,” he called out. “Anyone alive in here?”

  For several seconds, there was no reply. Then he heard a faint scratching sound coming from the back of the building. He brought his M4 to the ready and slowly approached the small hallway at the rear of the store. On one side were the men’s and women’s bathrooms, and on the other was a storeroom. He stood in the hallway and listened. The scratching sounded again, clearly coming from the storeroom.

  Standing to one side of the door, he bumped on it with the muzzle of his rifle.

  “This is Marshal Raines. Anyone in there?”

  The only answer was the same scratching sound.

  He tried the door knob, but it was locked from the inside.

  “Stand aside,” he said. “I’m coming in.”

  Mason lined up with the door and gave it a good kick. The frame split and the door swung in. Inside was a young woman sitting at a small table. Based on the advanced stage of decomposition, she had been dead for more than week. A large pool of blood, organs, and bile had spilled across her chair and onto the floor. Much of her flesh was split, and several bones were already visible.

  Lying beside her chair was the largest dog Mason had ever seen. Covered in a thick coat of gray, brown, and white fur, the Irish wolfhound rested just outside the pool of the woman’s blood. The dog didn’t look long for this world.

  “Hey, boy. You okay?”

  The dog winced and scratched the floor. His eyes were only half-op
en, and his huge tongue hung from his mouth like a wet mop.

  Mason approached the dog slowly and squatted down. It made no effort to get up. He wondered if it had contracted the virus. The woman in the chair had blisters covering her arms and face, but he saw no signs of blisters on the dog’s skin. Mason knew that most viruses didn’t cross-infect between species, but he couldn’t be sure if that was true of Superpox-99.

  He knelt beside the dog for nearly a minute, considering his options. The smart thing to do would be to walk away, perhaps putting a bullet in the dog to end its suffering. Before he could firmly make up his mind, the dog slid its head forward to rest on the toe of Mason’s boot.

  “I hear you,” he said, reaching down and petting the animal’s head. “You’re not ready to give up just yet.”

  The dog whined.

  “I don’t suppose you can stand?”

  It looked up at him with two different-colored eyes, one blue and the other brown.

  “That’s what I figured,” he said, scooping up the huge animal into his arms. The dog offered no resistance, not even a growl. Instead, it draped over the sides of his arms like a sleeping child being carried to bed.

 

  Mason couldn’t believe how heavy the dog was. Even suffering from dehydration and malnutrition, it easily weighed over a hundred pounds. He carried it from the convenience store out to his truck and placed it on the tail gate. Then he opened the passenger-side door.

  “If I let you ride up front, you’re going to have to promise not to puke up anything. Deal?”

  The dog blinked in response.

  He scooped the dog up again and placed it on the seat.

  “Stay here while I get you something to eat and drink.” There was no point in breaking into the supplies in the back of his truck when there was a store full of them only a few steps away.

  He re-entered the store and searched through the debris. On the floor, he found several unopened bottles of water and a tray full of miniature cans of cat food. He dumped out a couple of three-liter bottles of soda and used his newfound hunting knife to cut the bottoms off to act as makeshift bowls.

  As he exited the store, supplies in hand, Mason heard the distant sounds of traffic approaching from the east. He sprinted back to the truck, tossed the supplies on the floorboard, and slid into the driver’s seat. Being caught with very little cover and only a lame dog to back him up was not his idea of a solid defensive position. Seeing no other option, he quickly pulled the truck around to the back of the convenience store. There was nothing large enough to hide it behind, so he parked it as close to the building as possible.

  As he stepped from the truck, the dog gave a soft woof.

  Mason looked over at him. The dog struggled to raise its head.

  “You’ve got more courage than strength. Let me handle this. You rest.”

  The dog slowly lowered its head and closed its eyes.

  Mason readied his M4 and went to the corner of the building to see who was approaching.

  A caravan of four RVs and two campers traveled single file down the highway. One camper rode at the front and one at the rear, running sentry for the convoy. When they neared the service station, the vehicles slowed to a stop.

  The door to the lead RV opened, and two men and a woman stepped out. The men were armed with rifles, and the woman carried a pump shotgun. She stayed by the RV while the two men went up and checked out the store. After a couple of minutes, they returned. One of the men had his arms full of snacks, and the other carried their rifles.

  Mason decided to take a chance. He swung the M4 to his back and shouted from the corner of the building.

  “Hello there!” he called, waving his hands.

  They all turned in his direction. The man carrying the snacks quickly dropped them to the ground, and everyone raised their rifles. However, no one took careful aim. Mason took a step away from the building, ready to dive for cover if needed. The three talked among themselves and then turned back to him and waved.

  “Hello!” one of the men yelled.

  Mason took that to be a good sign. Careful to keep his hands where they could see them, he walked toward the group. When he got to within a few yards, he stopped. The three kept their weapons in hand but didn’t point them directly at him. Another good sign. They didn’t know it, but they were in just as much danger as he was. Mason could draw and shoot all three in just over one second, faster than most people could even comprehend a situation, let alone react.

  The two men were in their late forties or early fifties. The woman was perhaps a few years younger. All looked exhausted. The older of the men stepped forward and offered his hand. Mason shook it.

  “Good to see a friendly face,” the man said. “I’m Carl Tipton, and this is my brother, John, and his wife, Jules.” The others nodded and smiled at Mason.

  “I’m Mason Raines.”

  Carl looked down and saw the badge on Mason’s belt.

  “Well, I’ll be darned. I haven’t seen one of you Marshals since my days as a bail bondsman.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve encountered other law enforcement officers?”

  “Not a single one. Of course, there are plenty of cop cars littering the streets. But I can’t say as I’ve seen anyone alive in uniform.” He looked to John and Jules. They both shook their heads.

  “Most of them abandoned their posts when things got bad,” said Jules. “Who can blame them? Family comes first for all of us.” To emphasize the point, she reached out and placed a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “Have you been through Boone?”

  All three stiffened at his question.

  “Yes sir, we have,” answered Carl. “I wouldn’t advise you go that way, especially with that badge.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The place has been overrun by a gang of thugs. Not what you’d call law-abiding citizens. The worst part is that I suspect there are quite a few survivors hiding out, just too afraid to come out of their homes for fear of being victimized.”

  Mason nodded, giving his words the attention they deserved.

  “Sounds as if somebody’s going to have to go into Boone and help those folks.”

  Carl sighed. “I suppose you’re right. But that would be a tall order. You’d probably have to put down more than a few people in the process.”

  “Did you folks run into any trouble?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle,” he answered, glancing over at John. “There are sixteen armed adults in our convoy. The old adage about there being strength in numbers apparently holds true when society falls apart.”

  The RV door opened, and the face of a young girl peeked out.

  Jules looked up at her and said, “It’s all right, Lucy. This man’s a U.S. Marshal. He’s a good guy.”

  Wearing a pair of wrinkled capri pants and a bright yellow shirt, the girl descended the stairs. She smiled and gave a short little wave.

  “Hi.”

  “Marshal Raines, this is our daughter, Lucy.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Lucy,” Mason said, returning her smile.

  “She’s the bravest ten-year-old in the entire world.”

  “I bet she is.”

  “Mom,” said Lucy, obviously embarrassed.

  “It’s true,” said John. “When this all started happening, Lucy was a real trouper. Never cried, not even once.”

  “You couldn’t say the same about me,” Jules said with a nervous laugh.

  John put his hand on her back. “We’re all dealing with the impossible.”

  “Marshal Raines, will you be coming with us?”

  “Great idea, Lucy.” Carl turned to Mason. “We could really use a man like you.”

  “It would sure make me feel safer,” added Jules.

  Mason rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking about their offer.

  “Where exactly are you folks headed?”

  “West toward Johnson City and Kingsport, wherever there might be fol
ks setting back up. Truth is we may be on the road for a while.”

  Mason smiled and shook his head.

  “I appreciate the invitation. I really do. But I’m not quite ready to move on just yet. Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet up sometime later.”

  Only Lucy seemed surprised by his answer.

  “Understood,” Carl said, looking around and surveying the service station. “Mind if we help ourselves to a little gas before we move on?”

  Mason thought about the two dead bodies inside the building.

  “No one here would care,” he said. “Take what you need. I’ll probably fill a couple cans myself.”

  “Many thanks,” said Carl, motioning for Jules and her husband to get the refueling supplies.

  Mason followed them to the circular refueling ports located on the ground a few paces away from the pumps. There were four ports, each topped with a different-colored lid.

  When Carl saw Mason looking over his shoulder, he said, “The red, white, and blue covers are all different grades of gasoline. The big plus symbol on top indicates that the fuel is unleaded. The yellow one here is diesel. That’s what we need most right now.”

  Carl and John used a pry bar to remove the yellow cover. Beneath it was a large cap with a protruding handle. John knelt down and removed the cap. Underneath was a six-inch diameter pipe leading down into an underground fuel tank. Jules lowered a rubber hose into the pipe. The other end was connected to a small pump with a battery-powered hand drill attached. A matching hose, attached to the pump’s output port, was routed into a large gas can. When everything was in place, Carl activated the drill, and fuel began pumping from the tank into the can.

  “That’s handy,” Mason said, thinking how his method of fuel retrieval paled in comparison.

  “John rigged that up for us,” Jules said with a proud smile. “It’s simple, but simple is good when everything’s falling down around you.”

  After watching for a couple of minutes, Mason said, “I’m going to check on a friend. I’ll be back in a few.”

  Carl nodded, not taking his eyes off the drill pump system.

  Mason walked around to the back of the building. The dog was still in the same condition as when he had left. He poured some bottled water into one of the makeshift bowls and dumped some cat food into the other. He set them on the seat and lifted the animal’s head so that it could eat and drink. It didn’t take long for the dog to start lapping up the water. When it had drained a full bowl, it turned its attention to the cat food. It quickly finished two of the small cans before laying its head back down on the seat.

  “All right, let’s see if you can keep that down,” Mason said, petting him on the back of his neck. The dog stared up at him, obviously enjoying the attention.

  “You’re going to need a name.”

  The dog looked at Mason intently, its ears folded back.

  “You’re big, that’s for sure. And determined to stay alive. Plus you’ve got those two mismatched eyes, as if your body couldn’t decide which one to choose. Hmm … What shall it be? Twinkles?”

  The dog stared at him without any reaction.

  “No? Grizzly then?”

  Again, nothing.

  Mason thought for a moment.

  “I’ve got it. I’m going to call you Bowie.”

  The dog tipped its head sideways.

  “It’s perfect. There’s Jim Bowie, the famous frontiersman and hero of the Alamo, and there’s David Bowie, the musician with two different eyes. Not sure if they’re different colors, but that’s close enough. Sound good?”

  The dog set its head back down and licked the seat to see if any cat food might have spilled out.

  Mason patted the big mutt on its side.

  “I can’t promise things are going to get any easier for you, Bowie. But fate brought us together, so let’s see what else she has in store for us.”

  After saying goodbye to Carl, Jules, and John, Mason spent the next few hours carefully searching the convenience store and burned-out automotive repair shop. He loaded up several plastic crates from the back of the store with an assortment of snacks, cigarettes, batteries, toiletries, and over-the-counter medications, all of which could be useful, or, at the very least, traded as barter goods.

  In the garage, he found a large rack of car and truck parts, several cases of motor oil, four brand new Diehard batteries, a couple more empty fuel cans, and a red metal chest filled with hand tools. His greatest find, however, was a two-kilowatt inverter. The unit, which was about the size of a thick briefcase, would enable him to convert DC battery power into AC power. It even had an adapter that allowed it to be plugged directly into a car’s cigarette lighter. While two kilowatts wasn’t a great deal of power, it was enough to power a microwave oven, a computer, or nearly any other small electronic item with a standard three-prong plug.

  When Mason came across an automobile fuel pump and some rubber tubing, he decided to try to build a fuel retrieval system similar to the one that Carl had demonstrated. He started by securing the fuel pump to a small piece of plywood using metal straps and wood screws. Next, he attached a ten-foot length of tubing to the input and output ports. For power, he wired the pump’s terminals to one of the car batteries using an electrical switch that he took out of the partially burned wall.

  He carried the apparatus over to the fuel ports that Carl had explained earlier and lowered the input hose down into the underground tank of unleaded fuel. He put the other hose into one of his gas cans and turned on the pump. The unit sputtered briefly as air was purged from the system, but then it began to pump out gas in a smooth, powerful stream. Mason couldn’t help but grin at his accomplishment. As long as reserves were available, either underground or in vehicles, his fuel problem was essentially solved. He continued running the system until he filled up the remaining fuel cans and topped off his truck.

  As Mason loaded the fuel retrieval system into the truck bed, Bowie sat up and leaned his head out the passenger side window.

  “You’re feeling better.”

  Bowie laid his head on the windowsill as if to argue the point.

  “I said better, not perfect, you big baby.”

  Bowie looked at him and yawned.

  “I’ve got a load full of supplies, and you’re going to need some time to recuperate. I had hoped to push into Boone today, but I think we’re better off returning to the cabin for a couple of days.” After what he had heard about Boone, it didn’t seem wise to roll into town with darkness only a few hours away.

  He fed Bowie another can of cat food and then began the six-mile trek back to the cabin. Traveling the roadway was a little easier because Carl and his caravan of RVs and campers had cleared a decent path. The biggest risk was running over broken glass, tail lights, and other debris that might puncture a tire. Mason had a spare tire secured under the bed of the truck, but he had no desire to use it.

  As he approached Buckeye Road, the turnoff from Highway 321, Mason saw a car approaching from the opposite direction. It was an older model Impala, and the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. As the Impala came to within a few car lengths of Mason’s truck, it slowed and stopped. Mason had already unlatched the M4 and was prepared to take cover behind his truck if things took a turn for the worse.

  A heavyset man stepped from the Impala and waved to Mason.

  Bowie sat up and peered over the dash. The dog’s ears were standing straight up as it stared intently at the stranger.

  Mason rolled Bowie’s window all the way down.

  “If I get into trouble, I expect you to remember who fed you.”

  The dog’s only response was to look at him and then back to the stranger.

  Leaving the M4 in its rack, Mason exited the truck and walked slowly toward the man. Unlike his previous encounter with Teardrops and Red Beard, this man appeared quite harmless. He was a portly fellow, balding except for puffs of white hair along his temples, and dressed in a bloodstained priest’s vestment. If
he had been holding a shepherd’s crook, the man could easily have passed for Friar Tuck.

  “Good morning,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m Father Paul.” He didn’t offer a handshake or a last name.

  “Marshal Raines.”

  “I seem to be having better luck today.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Not more than two hours ago, I met several families traveling westward. Now I’m talking to a peace officer. Good luck indeed.”

  Mason figured that the families that he was referring to must be Carl and his caravan of RVs.

  “Are you on your own, Father?”

  “Never truly alone,” he said, gesturing up to the sky. “And yourself?”

  Mason thought of his missing family and friends. He shrugged.

  “For now.”

  “It seems we are two men in uniform with little more than our sense of duty.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Are you coming from Boone?”

  “No, I didn’t get past Sugar Grove. What about you? Are you headed into town?”

  “Oh, yes. I live there. I was away visiting sick friends in Elizabethon when this all happened. I stayed on after their passing to help the good people there. I’ve done what I can. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”

  “From what I’ve seen, He has his hands plenty full.”

  “It’s the end of times, my friend. One would expect the Lord to be busy.”

  “No offense intended, Father, but if it’s the end of times, shouldn’t you have been called up into heaven? Revelations and all that?”

  The priest smiled and rubbed his chin.

  “I must confess that I’ve wondered about that myself. I can only assume that the Lord left a few of the faithful behind to do His will. I feel quite honored actually, as should you.”

  “Me?”

  “Of course. Nothing happens purely by chance. You are here for a reason no less important than my own.”

  “Fair enough. I suppose we’ll each do our part, whatever that may be.”

  The priest leaned in close like he was about to share a secret with an old friend.

  “My part will be to heal the sick, bless the dead, and help feed the hungry. What will yours be, Marshal?”

  Mason didn’t respond for a moment, but the priest stood patiently awaiting his answer.

  Finally, he said, “I suppose I’ll stand in the way of those who would do harm. It’s what I do.”

  Father Paul bowed his head slightly.

  “A peacekeeper. God surely has need of such men in these troubled times. May He bless you on your mission of justice as He does me on my mission of mercy.”

  “Amen to that,” Mason said, wondering what his “mission of justice” might ultimately require.

  Chapter 9