The morning following the shooting at the hospital, Mason called his four volunteer deputies together to discuss the security of the town. They met at the Boone police department, one of the few remaining buildings that hadn’t been ransacked. The front window and glass door were cracked, but they were covered with bars that helped keep them structurally intact. Fortunately, retired Police Chief Blue still had keys to the station and was able to let everyone in without any difficulty.
The inside of the small police station looked pristine, as if the departing officers had simply locked it up for the night. Portable radios sat in chargers, and papers were stacked in neat piles on the three desks. The holding cells were empty, except for long metal benches and stainless steel toilets. The town’s seven police officers had all died from the virus, but they were to be saluted for closing the facility in an orderly fashion, and with a sense that, one day, it might be needed again.
Mason and his deputies sat in a small interrogation room that had also served as a break room for the town’s officers. A large coffeemaker was sitting on a side table, Styrofoam cups neatly stacked beside it. Coon, the scruffy hillbilly who seemed most out of place, was slowly breaking one of the cups into small pieces and then lining them up on the table into a makeshift jigsaw puzzle.
Chief Blue said, “Marshal Raines, I heard what happened last night. It’s good to see you’re still standing.”
“Apparently, this is the second time they’ve hit the hospital for drugs. We obviously need to stop that sort of crime.”
“We’ll have to set up patrols,” said Deputy Sheriff Vince Tripp. “There are only five of us, and we’ll all need down time, so coverage is going to be spotty. Best we can do is probably half on and half off at any given time.”
“Agreed,” said Don Potts, the Army MP. “If push comes to shove, we can always call for all hands on deck.”
“I want everyone to keep in mind that our goal at this point is to prevent violent crime,” Mason pointed out. “We need to start by rooting out the worst offenders. If we can do that, the townspeople will largely step up and take care of the petty criminals.”
“A sense of security will go a long way to helping everyone get back on their feet. No pun intended,” Don said, patting his prosthetic leg.
Mason grinned. Don seemed to be a man who could not only take care of himself but also take a joke. Such men were rare.
“Chief Blue, you know your way around this station. Can you get it up and going? We may have to bring in a few prisoners, even if just to put a scare into them.”
“Sure. There are two holding cells. We could probably get three people in each if needed.”
“That should be plenty. I don’t expect hardcore criminals to surrender to our makeshift police force. They’ll call us out instead.”
“The convicts are holed up over at the Walmart,” said Vince. “Evidently, they broke into the store and are now using it as a de facto headquarters.”
“That’s actually not a bad move,” said Don. “Plenty of supplies. Food, drinks, clothing—even some over-the-counter meds.”
“The question is what do we do about them?” asked Chief Blue. “Just occupying the store isn’t a violent offense in itself.”
“It is if they use it as a base from which to attack innocent people,” countered Vince.
Mason thought for a moment.
“I think we can all agree that Boone is better off without these criminals. Let’s tell them it’s time to leave town.”
“They’re likely to just shoot us on the spot,” said Vince.
“Could be.”
“We should wear uniforms,” said Don. “It will give us a bit more credibility.”
“I have my deputy sheriff’s uniform,” said Vince.
“And I still have my old police uniforms, assuming I can stuff this belly into them,” Chief Blue said with a chuckle.
Don rubbed his chin, thinking. “I don’t have a civilian police uniform, but I suppose I could put on my old Army BDUs.”
“If you guys want to wear uniforms, that’s fine,” said Mason. “At a minimum, everyone should carry a badge. Chief, do they keep spare badges here in the station?”
“Let me check.” He hopped up and left the room. In less than a minute, he returned holding three badges and an armful of portable radios. He set everything on the table.
“I found the badges in various desk drawers. I still have mine at home, so I won’t need one.”
“And I’ll wear my Marshal’s badge,” Mason said, as he passed the three badges out to his deputies. “I don’t plan on being a permanent member of Boone’s police force anyway.”
“You’re not here to stay?”
“I have other obligations. I’ll help to put the town back together, but then I’ll have to move on.”
The chief nodded.
“Those radios could come in handy,” Mason added. “Can they be made to work point-to-point with disposable batteries, or are they part of some bigger trunked system that requires a base station?”
“These particular radios haven’t been used since before I left office. Unlike the more complicated systems in the cruisers, these can be made to talk unit to unit by simply selecting one of the GMRS channels. If we can drum up a few batteries, I’m confident that we can get them to work.”
“I’ve got a huge stockpile of batteries that I grabbed from one of the hardware stores,” said Don. “I’ll take on the job of getting the radios up and running.”
“Excellent.”
“What about police cars?” asked the chief. “Three of them are parked right out front. It might be a good idea if we used them to patrol the town.”
“Agreed. Keys?”
“Hanging on a peg board at the check-in desk.”
“I’ve still got my sheriff’s cruiser,” volunteered Vince. “That gives us four vehicles.”
“Which leaves us one short.” Don looked at Mason. “Are you going to stick with your truck? I’m assuming you have a light and siren on board.”
“My truck will be fine.”
Mason paused to size up the men who would likely be holding his life in their hands. Each of them stared back at him with a sense of purpose. All except for Coon, who was busy polishing his badge by first breathing on it, and then wiping it with his dirty shirt.
“You haven’t said much, Coon.”
He looked up. “Sorry Marshal. Not much to say, I guess.”
Mason smiled and nodded. He had no idea how much he could trust Coon. What would he do if they came under fire? Could he operate with any sense of authority? Or would he be a renegade hillbilly who proved impossible to control or trust? While Mason appreciated every available hand, Coon instilled a nervous energy that wasn’t entirely welcome.
“The water’s on!” Father Paul shouted, clapping his wet hands together as he rushed into the cathedral.
Mason sat at a small table, cleaning his Supergrade, and Bowie was lying at his feet trying to nap the day away. At Father Paul’s sudden exclamation, both looked up.
“Throughout the whole city?”
“Should be,” he said, rubbing his wet hands against his face. “I’m going to take a long shower. It’ll be cold for sure, but still a shower. This is truly God’s work!”
“The work of God or a few hard-working townspeople, who’s to quibble,” Mason said under his breath.
Not hearing him, Father Paul turned and dashed back toward his room, already starting to pull the vestments over his head.
“Praise God!” he exclaimed, one final time as he disappeared around a corner.
Just as Mason finished reassembling his pistol, Chief Blue entered the church.
“You ready, Marshal?”
He worked the action a few times, reloaded the weapon with a full magazine of hollow-point rounds, and holstered it.
“Ready.” He looked down at Bowie. “You should probably stay here.”
Bowie rose to his front paws, his ears up straight. Even si
tting on haunches, his head was well above Mason’s waist.
“I mean it,” he said. “If you come along, you’re only going to get yourself shot.”
The dog leaned over and pressed its head hard against Mason’s stomach. He reached down and scrubbed the dog’s neck.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chief Blue, Mason, and Bowie left the church and found the other three deputies leaning against their newly acquired police cruisers parked outside.
“Does everyone have their long guns?” asked Mason.
All three men nodded.
“I’ve got my deer rifle,” Coon added. “I trust it over any of those fancy assault rifles or shotguns we found in the police station.”
“Fair enough. I can appreciate the importance of knowing your weapons.”
Coon smiled, showing off his crooked front teeth.
Looking from one man to the next, Mason said, “For this to work today, we have to keep them off guard. If it ends up in a shootout, we’re going to lose, plain and simple. So, unless it all falls apart, keep your eyes open but your finger off the trigger.”
Everyone nodded, except for Coon, who saluted.
“Chief Blue and I will give you ten minutes to take your positions. Try not to get spotted.”
With a few final parting words, Don, Coon, and Vince left in a caravan of police cars heading east.
Mason retrieved his M4 and two spare thirty-round magazines from his pickup truck. He set the rifle in the rack in Chief Blue’s cruiser and both spare magazines on the seat between them.
“You ready?”
Chief Blue was sweating even though the temperature was barely in the sixties.
“I haven’t shot a man in nearly twenty years.”
“It shouldn’t come to that.”
“But it could.”
“Yes, it could.”
“I hope I don’t let you down, Marshal.”
Mason turned his gaze out the window.
“Don’t worry, Chief. We’ll get it done.”
The distance from the Church of the Fallen Saints to Boone’s Walmart was only about two miles. With the gridlock of abandoned cars, however, it took nearly half an hour. Chief Blue was a careful, methodical driver, and as he drove, he pointed out various points in the town that had been of interest over the years. There was the famous donut shop that had won a contest for serving the best coffee in the state, the clock tower that hadn’t worked in more than twenty years, and the park that college students rolled with toilet paper after every sporting event, all of which were now completely irrelevant in a town that was just trying to stay alive.
Mason had Chief Blue stop the cruiser in a parking lot a block away from the Walmart. He didn’t want to roll up on a gang of armed convicts with nothing more to protect him than sheet metal doors and a glass windshield. He also had the chief turn on the cruiser’s lights and siren for a full minute before they exited the vehicle. This was about delivering a message, not starting a firefight—that is, if things went as planned.
Mason, Chief Blue, and Bowie approached the Walmart on foot, slow and steady, so as not to startle anyone. Sensing danger, Bowie twitched nervously with every sound or movement, like he was leading a big cat hunt in the African Serengeti.
When they were about a hundred yards out, Mason set his rifle and magazines down behind a car. This would be his retreat position that he would try to fight his way back to, if it came to that. When they were thirty yards from the store, he motioned for the chief to hang back. Chief Blue stopped and stood ready with his rifle in hand. Mason and Bowie continued on ahead.
The Walmart’s two public entrances had been smashed to the point where they were nothing more than twisted metal frames. Cars pinned several bodies against the building, as if store management had resorted to using greeters as human shields as their last line of defense.
Three men stood outside the store with rifles at the ready. As soon as they saw Mason approaching, one man turned and yelled something into the store. Within seconds, two other men stepped out through the broken doors. The first man was little more than skin and bones and was wearing a bright orange hunting vest that still had a price tag hanging from its collar. The other man looked like a supersoldier who had been cryogenically preserved since the last World War. His physique was strong and lean, and he wore military fatigues, dog tags, and an old metal helmet. A large revolver was holstered at his side.
Mason stepped forward like he might when meeting an enemy general for the purpose of negotiating their surrender.
“I’m assuming you’re the one they call Rommel?”
“Your reputation precedes you, boss,” said the emaciated man in the orange vest.
Mason cut his eyes at him.
“And you are?”
“I’m Slim.”
“Yes,” Mason said with a small laugh, “you most certainly are.”
The man snarled, and Mason turned back to face Rommel, who seemed to be studying him.
“You’re the lawman who killed my men last night.”
“That’s right.”
“That was pretty impressive. Did you have help from your chubby friend back there?” He gestured to where Chief Blue was standing.
“Just me and Bowie,” he said, looking down at the dog.
“You must be pretty good with that sidearm.”
“It’s probably better that you don’t find out.”
Rommel squared his shoulders and let his hands hang free at his sides.
“You know, I fancy myself a bit of a gunslinger. I wonder—” He stopped abruptly.
Mason had drawn his Supergrade and leveled it at Rommel before the self-styled gunslinger could even blink.
Rommel instinctively stepped back, his hand going to the butt of his pistol. The men behind him raised their weapons.
“I’ve known a few gunslingers,” Mason said, lowering and studying his weapon. “Most could put three bullets in their opponent’s chest before he even saw the draw.” He leisurely put the Supergrade back in its holster.
Rommel growled for the men behind him to lower their weapons.
“Why are you here, Marshal?”
“I came to deliver a message.”
“And what’s that?”
“The townspeople of Boone are giving you twenty-four hours to clear out.”
Slim giggled and kicked his feet against the side of the car.
“They are, are they? Twenty-four whole hours? That’s mighty nice of them, isn’t it, Boss?”
Mason looked at his watch.
“To keep it simple, let’s make it tomorrow at noon. That way we won’t have any misunderstanding about the time.”
Rommel smiled. “Tomorrow at high noon. I like your style, Marshal. You got that whole cowboy lawman thing going for you.”
“Just know that I’m serious.”
“And if we don’t go?”
“Then I’ll come back, and we’ll have a very different kind of conversation.”
“You’re assuming that I’m even going to let you walk away from here.” He looked back at the men behind him. “One word and you and your chubby friend both die. Your ugly dog, too.”
“Go ahead.”
Rommel gave him a questioning look.
“Watch him, Boss,” warned Slim. “He’s slippery.”
“You’re not afraid of dying?” asked Rommel.
“Are you?”
“You’re fast, Marshal, but you’re a fool to think you’d get us all.”
“I only have to kill you, and that I know I can do. My deputies will shoot the rest.”
It took Rommel a moment to fully understand what Mason was implying. When it finally hit home, he turned his head and snarled at his men.
“Get out of the open, you dimwits. He’s got snipers.”
The men scrambled for cover, not sure of exactly which way the bullets might be coming. When Rommel turned back to face Mason, he
found himself staring, for a second time, into the business end of the Supergrade.
“You have twenty-four hours,” Mason said, leaning forward until the muzzle of the weapon tapped against the helmet on his head.
Rommel’s jaw tightened. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Mason smiled and tapped the helmet again.
“Yes, you are.”
Chapter 18
The Survivalist (Frontier Justice) Page 19