The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Bowie let out an uneasy growl.

  “It’s all right, boy. I don’t think they mean us any harm.” Mason eyed the RV. “Besides, if we play our cards right, maybe we can hitch a ride.”

  While abandoned vehicles remained easy enough to come by, finding one that had both a working battery and serviceable fuel in the tank was no easy matter. As such, they had been walking since crossing the James River Bridge earlier that morning, and Mason thought it might be nice to give his feet a much-needed rest.

  He started toward the motel office, his pace slow and relaxed so as not to alarm the junkers.

  As he approached, the two men standing guard visibly stiffened.

  “Mister, if you’re lookin’ for trouble, you might wanna rethink it.”

  Mason offered an understanding nod. “I would say the same to you.”

  The man noticed the badge hanging on Mason’s belt.

  “You some kinda policeman?”

  “Deputy Marshal.” It was perhaps a bit misleading to identify himself as a lawman given his current circumstances, but Mason had found that it tended to let others know more about his intentions than words ever could.

  The junker stepped forward and extended a gloved hand.

  “Name’s Bartley.” He gestured toward the man beside him. “This here’s my half-brother, Kyle.”

  Mason shook Bartley’s hand and then Kyle’s.

  “Mason Raines.”

  Bartley studied Mason’s badge, a silver circle surrounding a five-pointed star.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a marshal. You, Kyle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who knows,” said Mason. “I may be the last.”

  Kyle said, “Sounds like a good title for one of them western shoot ’em ups.” He briefly changed his voice to sound like that of a TV announcer. “The last marshal stands up to a band of dangerous outlaws.” He turned to Mason. “Is that what you do, Marshal?”

  Mason glanced back at the motel room that he and Bowie had just scurried away from, the term “lily-livered scaredy-cats” coming to mind.

  “Only when I have to.”

  Bartley followed his gaze, surveying the rundown motel.

  “You claimin’ this spot?”

  Mason knew that junkers were very territorial, often staking claim to buildings they considered ripe for the taking.

  “Based on what I saw, there’s all kinds of trouble waiting inside those rooms. But if you boys have a mind to, it’s all yours. I got what I needed.”

  That last part seemed to interest both junkers, no doubt fearing that he had already removed “the good stuff.” Hoping to put their minds at ease, Mason pulled the phonebook page from his back pocket and unfolded it.

  “I was looking for an address.” He held the page out to Bartley. “I don’t suppose you know where I could find Morris Farm Lane?”

  Bartley took a long look at the page, thinking. He glanced over at his brother.

  “Morris Farm. That’s up by Capahosic, ain’t it?”

  Kyle nodded. “Not much out that way though, ’cept for farms and such.”

  Mason nodded his thanks. “Any idea how far?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen miles.” Bartley looked around the parking lot. There were a handful of cars, but none looked like they had been recently moved. “You needin’ a ride?”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. I’d be happy to offer a trade, of course.”

  Before a deal could be reached, the third junker stepped out from the motel’s office. He was big and smelled like sour mash—an odor that Mason had been unfortunate enough to experience firsthand thanks to an old moonshiner.

  “And you are?” the junker said, revealing a mouth full of yellowed teeth.

  “He’s the last Marshal,” Bartley said as if introducing a movie star.

  Still hoping for that ride, Mason extended his hand.

  “Mason Raines.”

  The big man stared at his hand, making no move to shake it. He turned to Bartley and Kyle.

  “What’d you two tell him?”

  Bartley’s eyes tightened. “We didn’t tell him nothin’.”

  “Good, ’cause you both got big mouths.”

  “Come on, Hoss,” said Kyle. “He ain’t out for nothin’ of ours.”

  Hoss turned back and looked Mason up and down, his eyes occasionally flicking over to Bowie, who had developed a steady rumble in his chest.

  “What are you doin’ here, anyway?”

  Before Mason could inform Hoss that where he went was no one’s business but his own, Bartley said, “He’s lookin’ for a ride up to Morris Farm.”

  Hoss met Mason’s eyes. “We ain’t no taxi service.”

  “He said he’d pay us,” Kyle added.

  “Yeah? Pay us what?” Hoss leaned around to get a peek at Mason’s pack. “Don’t look like he has much.”

  “What is it you need?” asked Mason.

  Hoss looked back at the trailer attached to the RV.

  “It look like we need anything?”

  “You must need something or you wouldn’t be poking around this old dump.”

  The big man pressed his lips together, thinking.

  “You got any candy?”

  “I have a chocolate bar.”

  “A big one? Or one of them little pissy things?”

  Mason lowered his pack to the ground and pulled out a large Hershey chocolate bar. On another occasion, it would have been worth more than a ride across town, but at the moment his feet were telling him otherwise.

  “Will this one do?”

  Hoss seemed more interested in Mason’s pack.

  “What are those? Perc-a-pops?”

  Mason glanced down and saw that the fentanyl lozenges were visible. He quickly closed the flap. While he wasn’t opposed to trading the medications, doing so with the likes of Hoss would have felt a bit too much like drug dealing.

  “Those aren’t for trade.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s why he’s goin’ to Morris Farm,” Bartley blurted. “He’s takin’ them to a sick kid. Ain’t that right, Marshal?” Clearly Bartley was trying to keep things from getting out of hand.

  Mason held out the candy bar.

  “You want this or not?”

  Hoss seemed unable to let the fentanyl go.

  “All right then,” Mason said, tearing open the candy. He snapped off a piece and put it in his mouth. “Umm, that’s good. Say what you want about those fancy brands. There’s nothing quite like good old Hershey.”

  Everything stood still for a moment as Hoss let differing desires duke it out. Finally, he reached out and grabbed the candy bar.

  “Quit eatin’ my damn chocolate.”

  Bartley and Kyle both sighed with relief.

  “We should go ahead and get a move on, right, Hoss? Ain’t no reason to hang around this place. The marshal says monster freaks are all up inside it.” While it wasn’t exactly what Mason had said, Bartley’s description was probably fairly accurate.

  Hoss bit off a big chunk of the candy bar, and when he spoke, the chocolate was smeared across his front teeth.

  “Your dog coming too?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you two are ridin’ in the trailer. I don’t want no mutt stinkin’ up my camper.”

  Mason nodded, doing his best to hide a grin.

  “We most definitely wouldn’t want that.”

  Chapter 2

  Tanner and Samantha stood in front of the Raines’ family cabin, the sun just beginning to light the trees around them. He hadn’t said ten words since getting up, and she knew that it was because of his concern for Issa. Desperate to show the women of her colony that they could become pregnant, Issa had departed for Mount Weather some forty-eight hours earlier but had yet to return. That could only mean one thing.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Samantha tossed her pack into the bed of the Power Wagon as Tanner struggled to unfold
a map and lay it across the hood. The sheet metal was cold and damp from the early morning dew, and she had to reach across to help smooth the bunched-up paper.

  “Issa would have avoided the highway,” she said. “That leaves out I-81.”

  Tanner grunted, studying the map.

  “If she went east to Greensboro, she could have taken Highway 29 all the way up to Mount Weather.”

  He grunted again.

  Samantha turned and looked up at him.

  “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “Huh?”

  “Breakfast? Did you eat?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you have enough?”

  He squinted. “What are you getting at?”

  “It’s just that you’re snorting more than usual.”

  “I’ll have you know that I ate fried potatoes, four eggs, and some of that stuff we pretend is bacon.”

  She shrugged. “A start, I guess.”

  Tanner growled and turned back to the map.

  “Issa would have skipped Boone. She’s never felt comfortable around those folks.” He ran a finger up a small highway that cut north through the Blue Ridge Mountains. “I’m thinking she went straight up Highway 421 through Mountain City, and then turned east on Highway 11. That would get her almost all the way there.”

  “Highway 11…” she said, frowning. “Why’s that sound familiar?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  Samantha began tracing the highway. “Wait a minute,” she said, her voice rising. “That goes right by the Natural Bridge!”

  “So?”

  “So that’s where we ran into that crazy army guy with the bow!”

  “He’s dead. You know that.”

  “Still, what if he had friends?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He wasn’t the friend-making kind of guy.”

  She mused on that for a moment.

  “Fine. But we’re not stopping there or anywhere else along the way. Agreed?”

  “Okay by me.” He folded up the map and took a moment to count the jerry cans in the back of the pickup. Four cans, each filled with five gallons of fuel. It should be enough, but just barely so.

  “Why are we bringing those anyway? Can’t we just siphon gas from cars along the way?”

  “We’re bringing them because most of the gas left in cars is about as useful as grape Kool-Aid.”

  “Now why’d you have to go and bring up Kool-Aid?” she said, licking her lips. “You know I miss that stuff.”

  “My point was that gas is degrading.”

  “Why’s it doing that?”

  “Because back in the early 2000s, the powers that be started mixing ethanol into fuel to make it burn cleaner.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Well sure, but nothing’s free. Ethanol-blended gas only lasts a few months before it starts to absorb water. Once that happens, it doesn’t burn right. Not to mention that the water rusts out a car’s fuel system.”

  Samantha furrowed her brow. “Is the gas in cars like that now? All watery?”

  “If it’s not there already, it’s getting darn close.”

  “All of it?”

  “Ninety, ninety-five percent. Darn near all of it.”

  A worried look came over her face.

  “Does that mean the world’s going to run out of gas? That we won’t have enough for cars or generators? We’ll be back to the horse and buggy days!”

  “Nothing wrong with horses or buggies.” When she started to protest further, he said, “But don’t worry. I suspect there’s plenty of gas without ethanol sitting at the refineries. Someone just has to go and get it.”

  “But not us.”

  He shook his head. “Not us. Not today, anyway.”

  She glanced over at a small gravity-fed fuel pump they had installed along the side of the cabin.

  “What about our gas? Is it turning watery too?”

  “It took some effort, but I managed to get nearly a hundred gallons of the good stuff. Unfortunately, thanks to our little trip over to the nuclear plant, we only have about half of it left.”

  She nodded toward the jerry cans.

  “Are those enough to get to Mount Weather and back?”

  “They are, as long as we don’t get sidetracked.”

  “Then we’re doomed for sure.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When was the last time we didn’t get sidetracked?” She waited for an answer, and when it didn’t come, said, “Never, that’s when.”

  “If we end up walking, so be it.”

  “Easy for you to say. You like walking.” Samantha didn’t complain about much, but walking long distances was on her short list of bellyaches.

  “I’ll have you know that some doctors say that putting one’s feet in contact with the earth provides all kinds of health benefits. They call it grounding.”

  Samantha seemed surprised. “Really? Is that why you walk so much?”

  “Of course not. I walk to get from one place to the other.”

  “But what about the doctors?”

  “Nut jobs, every last one of them.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you make no sense whatsoever.”

  “Never.”

  Samantha scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

  He smiled, and they stared at each other for a moment. Another journey was about to begin, and they both felt the flutter of butterflies.

  “You feed your chickens?”

  “Of course. Did you leave a note for Issa in case she comes back while we’re gone?”

  “Of course,” he said, mimicking her tone.

  “Then I guess we’re about as ready as we’re going to get.” Samantha swung open the driver’s-side door and scrambled into the cab of the big truck. “Another day, another dollar.”

  “How’s that?” he said, climbing in.

  “My dad used to say that. It means that each day costs you a little something.”

  Tanner rarely corrected Samantha’s misunderstandings of idioms. While it was probably not very parent-like to allow her to keep the misconceptions, he enjoyed hearing her humorous takes on such phrases.

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, starting the truck.

  “What do you think today’s going to cost us?” she said, staring down the long dusty driveway.

  He popped the truck into gear. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, darlin’, we’re going to pay it either way.”

  They weren’t even out of the driveway before life reminded them of the old adage about the best laid plans. A dark blue Impala barreled up the dirt road, bouncing over potholes as it narrowly avoided careening into the trees.

  Tanner hit the brakes and reached for his sawed-off shotgun.

  “It’s Father Paul,” Samantha said, laying her hand on his. Father Paul only infrequently came to visit, and never at such an early hour. “Something’s wrong.”

  As the car drew closer, it came to an abrupt stop, sending a cloud of dust over the Power Wagon. Tanner and Samantha barely had time to open their doors before Father Paul climbed out and hurried toward them. He was a portly man, bald except for a white ring of hair that had always reminded Samantha of a fuzzy halo. Dressed in a dark blue union suit, it looked like he had just rolled out of bed. As he approached, they noticed there was a woman in his car, but with the reflection of the early morning sun, it was difficult to make out her face.

  “Oh thank heavens,” he breathed. “You’re here.”

  Tanner nodded. “Father.”

  “Mr. Raines, I have a favor to ask.”

  Tanner shook his head. “Sorry, padre, not a good time.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t terribly important.”

  “What is it?” said Samantha.

  Father Paul offered a perfunctory smile but quickly turned back to Tanner.
r />   “Please, sir.”

  “Not this time,” he said, turning to get back into the truck.

  “But bad men have done something awful.”

  Tanner pulled his door open. “Bad men are always doing something awful. That’s why they’re called bad men.”

  “What did they do?” said Samantha.

  Father Paul looked back toward the Impala as if seeking the occupant’s approval. Finally, he said, “It has to do with the nuns.”

  “There are nuns in Boone?” Samantha didn’t remember seeing anyone that even vaguely resembled a nun. Perhaps they dressed differently now?

  “No, no,” he said, quickly shaking his head. “Their monastery is over in Crozet, Virginia.”

  Crozet? Samantha thought that the word sounded strange, like a cracker with cheesy stuff on top.

  “Let’s go, Sam,” Tanner said, standing with his hand resting on the truck’s door frame.

  She was about to suggest that they at least hear Father Paul out when the passenger climbed from the Impala. A woman in her early sixties came forward, dressed in a white habit, black scapular and veil, and a thin red belt tied around her pudgy waist.

  Samantha smiled, but it was met with a dispassionate stare.

  The nun gently placed a hand on the back of Father Paul’s shoulder.

  “God will help us to find another.”

  “I’m sorry, Sister, but there are no others. The townspeople in Boone won’t undertake something so far from home. For things like this,” he said, and looked at Tanner, “we come to him or his son. There is simply no one else.” Father Paul raised his hands, palms clasped together as if about to offer prayer. “You will help us, won’t you?”

  “It’s like I said, Father—”

  “We’ll help,” said Samantha. She turned to Tanner and repeated in a quieter voice, “We’ll help.”

  “But Issa—”

  “Issa would want us to help. You know that.”

  He sighed. “Detoured before we’ve even left the driveway.”

  “Which means that our journey hasn’t technically yet begun.” She turned back to Father Paul. “What is it you need us to do?”

  “Allow me to introduce Sister Mary Margaret, the prioress of Our Lady of the Angels Monastery.”