The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  A lopsided grin came over his face as he pushed the gun toward her.

  “Ain’t it obvious? I’m robbing you.”

  “She ain’t the smartest nun, is she?” cackled Deb.

  “Apparently not.” Billy’s face turned serious, and his hand steadied. “Now get out of my truck, all of you.”

  Tanner weighed his options. Going for his shotgun was a nonstarter. If he punched the gas, they would almost certainly get clear of the hitchhikers, but not before Sister Margaret took a bullet. Given that she was the one who suggested that they stop, it seemed only fitting. Having such thoughts and acting on them, however, were two very different things.

  “I ain’t gonna say it again!”

  “Get ’em, Billy. Get ’em good,” Deb said, wringing her hands like a junkie in need of a fix.

  Sister Margaret climbed out. “Would you really rob those who offered to lend a hand?”

  “You bet your holy britches I would.”

  Deb snickered. “Holy britches. That’s a good one, Billy.”

  Billy spun Sister Margaret around and pushed her against the hood, like a police officer preparing to frisk. He slapped her playfully on the butt.

  “Stay put now, you hear?”

  She said nothing.

  Billy turned the gun toward Tanner.

  “You next, Tarzan.”

  Tanner opened his door, leaving his shotgun resting on the floorboard. He caught Samantha looking toward her rifle leaning against the rear door. Tanner shook his head and pulled her door open as well.

  “Out you go, kiddo.”

  Billy watched them carefully, holding the gun close to his mangled nose. As they came around to stand beside Sister Margaret, he motioned to Deb.

  “Check ’em for anything valuable.”

  Deb inched forward and ran her hands up and down the nun. Her only find was a set of worn wooden rosary beads stuffed into Sister Margaret’s pocket. She studied them for a moment before tossing them onto the hood.

  “She ain’t got—” Deb stopped as she noticed that Sister Margaret was clutching something at her neck. “What you got there?”

  Sister Margaret opened her hand to reveal the silver crucifix.

  “It’s just a token of my faith. It’s worth nothing to you.”

  Deb spun her around to face her, and slapped her hands away so that the cross hung freely from Sister Margaret’s neck.

  “It’s purty, and I want it. Take it off.”

  “Please, a crucifix is not—”

  “Billy,” Deb said, turning to him. “She won’t give me the cross.”

  He stepped forward and pressed the gun against Sister Margaret’s stomach.

  “Give her the damn necklace, or I’m gonna open a hole in that fat belly of yours.”

  Tears formed in the nun’s eyes as she slowly pulled the crucifix over her head. Deb snatched it from her, giggling, as she moved on to search Samantha.

  “What you got, little girl?”

  Samantha leaned back against the truck, her hands behind her back.

  “I don’t have anything, but you should probably check to be sure.”

  Feeling a bit more confident with a twelve-year-old girl, Deb squatted down and began quickly frisking her, starting at the ankles and working her way up. In the blink of an eye, Samantha’s knife appeared from behind her back. She grabbed the woman’s hair with one hand and brought the knife against the back of her neck with the other. Billy swung the pistol toward her, but as he did, Tanner stepped forward and grabbed it. The gun discharged, a bullet ricocheting off the asphalt to strike the bottom of the truck. Tanner wrenched the pistol away and flung it behind him.

  Billy rushed forward, driving a shoulder into Tanner’s chest. At barely a hundred and fifty pounds, it wasn’t even enough to make him take a step back. Instead, Tanner twisted at the waist and drove a forearm onto the smaller man’s back. Legs buckled, and Billy went down to his knees. He frantically wrapped both arms around Tanner’s legs. Perhaps he was hoping for a takedown, but it looked more like he was preparing to do something untoward.

  Tanner reached down, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled the man back to his feet. As soon as he was upright and dancing on his toes, Tanner turned to check on Samantha. Deb knelt before her, doing her best to remain still. A thin streak of blood was visible across the back of the woman’s neck.

  “You okay?”

  Samantha’s eyes were set with determination. “This is us being sheepdogs, right?”

  “It most certainly is.”

  “So what does a sheepdog do with her?” She tilted the woman’s head up slightly.

  “Leave that to me.”

  Dragging Billy behind him, Tanner stepped over and grabbed Deb by the hair. She shrieked in pain as he yanked her to her feet. Samantha sheathed the knife and watched as Tanner steered the two would-be robbers over to where Sister Margaret stood.

  “Give her back the necklace.”

  “Here! Take it!” Deb squealed, holding out her hand.

  Sister Margaret slipped the crucifix back over her neck and said, “Please, there’s no need for any more violence.”

  Tanner ignored her. Sister Margaret clearly didn’t understand when the need for violence ended. Still holding Billy and Deb by their hair, he dragged them around to the rear of the truck.

  “Sit,” he commanded, shoving them to the ground next to the fender.

  Both of them flopped down, rubbing their scalps.

  “Do something, Billy!” she whined. “He hurt me.”

  “Whaddya want me to do? He took my damn gun!”

  “I dunno. Hit him or something. You’re a man, ain’t you?”

  “Damn right, I’m a man.” He started to stand, but when Tanner turned with a glare, Billy settled back to the ground. “I’ll get him if he touches you again. Promise.”

  Samantha squatted down to look under the truck. A steady trickle of fuel dripped onto the asphalt.

  “They hit the gas tank.”

  Tanner bent over and took a quick peek.

  “Crap,” he muttered.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “With them or the truck?”

  She shrugged. “Both.”

  “These two are easy. I’ll put a boot to their heads and leave them for the buzzards.”

  Samantha tilted her head sideways as if to say, “Really?”

  “What? They shot our truck.”

  “Still…”

  “You better listen to her,” started Billy, “’cause if you don’t—”

  Tanner stepped forward and kicked him in the thigh. It was hard and fast and no doubt would leave one hell of a bruise.

  “Shut your pie hole.”

  Billy flopped over, clutching his leg and moaning like he had just been shot. Seeing her boyfriend hurt, Deb jumped to her feet, screaming like a wounded barn owl.

  Tanner kicked her too, the toe of his boot catching her on the hip. She fell back to the ground, tears streaking down her face.

  Sister Margaret rushed forward and pulled at Tanner’s arm.

  “What’s wrong with you? A man doesn’t kick a woman!”

  “Says who?”

  “Says anyone with a sense of decency. By dropping down to their level, you become nothing better.”

  He pulled his arm free. “Who ever said I was going for anything better?” He turned back to Billy and Deb. “I’m going to fetch my shotgun out of the cab. If you’re still here when I get back, I’ll put a load of buckshot in both your bellies.” He turned and started around the truck, listening as they scrambled to their feet and ran down Highway 11. He didn’t even bother returning with the shotgun. Instead, he stopped and dug through a small toolbox in the truck bed.

  Samantha came over and stood beside him.

  “That was nice of you.”

  “I’ve been telling you I’m nothing but sweet.”

  “You’re a bully is what you are,” chided Sister Margaret. “And frankly, I’m
ashamed to be associated with you.”

  “Feel free to head off in search of better company at any time,” he said, straightening up with a screwdriver and a small wrench in hand.

  Sister Margaret’s nose flared, but she said nothing more.

  “What are you thinking?” Samantha said quietly.

  Tanner reached in through his open window and popped the hood.

  “Right now, I’m thinking we need to get some new wheels.”

  He stepped around and began removing the lugs that held the battery in place. When it was free, he lifted the battery out and set it on the ground. Next, he hoisted out two of the jerry cans from the bed.

  “You two carry the gas, and I’ll get the battery.”

  “Are we taking them with us?” Samantha asked, testing the weight of one of the cans. It was heavy but manageable, if swapped from hand to hand.

  “Have to. No guarantee they’ll be here when we get back.” He brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as he stared down the highway. There wasn’t a single abandoned car in sight. “It might be a hike, but with a battery and fuel, we should eventually be able to get back on the road.”

  “Even if we manage to come back for the other gas cans,” she said, passing him his shotgun and retrieving her rifle from the cab, “they won’t be enough to get us to Mount Weather and back. Not with losing a tank full of gas.”

  “We’ll manage. We always do.”

  Samantha picked up one of the cans and grunted.

  “I hope it isn’t too far.”

  “You and me both,” he said, lifting the battery.

  They turned and started down the highway, Sister Margaret reluctantly trudging along behind them. Tanner stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. The remaining can of gas sat untouched beside the truck.

  He nodded toward it. “Believe me, Sister, it isn’t going to get any lighter.”

  The search for a new set of wheels led them to a small white house facing Highway 11. A lawn mower sat in the center of the yard, grass and weeds nearly swallowing it whole. A rusted white and brown 1976 Ford Country Squire sat parked in the gravel driveway.

  Samantha set the gas can down and rolled her shoulders around as she peeked in through the station wagon’s dingy windows. The headliner hung down, and insulation from one of the rear seats puffed out from a large split in the upholstery. Crumpled beer cans lined the floorboards, and there was a sealed glass jar of dark yellow liquid sitting beside the driver’s seat.

  “It’s not much to look at.”

  “Maybe not,” said Tanner. “But it’s old enough to hotwire.” He pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket and held it out to her. “You still remember how?”

  She opened the driver-side door, and it made a noisy squeak.

  “I think so.”

  “And how do you know this isn’t someone’s car?” Sister Margaret said, breathing heavily as she set the gas can down.

  Tanner faced the house. “Good point. I certainly wouldn’t want someone stealing my vintage station wagon. Come on, Sam. Let’s go see if anyone’s home.”

  “I’m assuming vintage is a nice word for junk,” she said, following after him.

  “You know the old saying: ‘One man’s junk is another man’s vintage.’”

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I think I’ve heard that one.”

  They left Sister Margaret standing beside the car as they stepped up onto the porch and gave the door a quick knock.

  No answer.

  Tanner tried the knob.

  Unlocked.

  He leaned his head inside and hollered, “Red Cross! Anyone home?”

  Again, there was no answer. The house looked like a lonely bachelor’s pad with a sunken recliner, a worn carpet trail leading between the chair and the kitchen, and a plate of half-eaten food sitting on a small TV stand.

  Tanner stepped inside, swinging his shotgun up to waist level. Samantha followed behind him, her rifle also at the ready. She wandered over to the plate and used the muzzle of her rifle to nudge what looked like it might have been a pork chop in a previous life.

  “How old do you think this is?”

  Tanner didn’t answer as he carefully moved into the kitchen. It too was empty. He pulled open a couple of cupboards. Cans of food lined the shelves.

  “Found some food,” he said over his shoulder.

  Samantha hurried into the kitchen. “What kind?”

  He scanned the labels. “Fruit cocktail. Refried beans. Chicken noodle soup. Tomato sauce.”

  “Tomato sauce isn’t food.”

  “Tell that to the Italians.”

  Before he could stop her, Samantha pulled open the refrigerator. The inside was covered in a thick layer of slimy black mold. Red plastic bowls sat neatly stacked with labels stuck to the front. Monday: Chicken and black beans. Tuesday: Roast pork and potatoes. All of this she took in with a quick glance before immediately slamming the door closed.

  Too late. The stench of mold and rotting food filled the kitchen.

  “Whew,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “That’s awful.”

  Tanner waved his hand in front of his face and coughed.

  “Let’s go see what else is here.”

  They proceeded through the living room and down a narrow hallway. A bedroom sat to either side, with a bathroom between them. The corpse of a man, dried and withered, lay in front of the commode. From the looks of it, he had died while using the toilet, his pants pulled down and bunched around his ankles.

  “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “Fell off the pot.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I know that. But how do you die sitting on the toilet?”

  “I’d rather not know.”

  Tanner pushed open one of the bedroom doors. Inside was a double bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser. A sliding closet door was slightly ajar. He walked over to the nightstand and picked up a set of keys. One was a house key, but the other was almost certainly for the old station wagon out front.

  “These might make things a little easier,” he said, jingling them in the air.

  Samantha nodded as she eyed the closet with curiosity.

  “Go on,” he said. “Figure out why it’s calling to you.”

  She stepped closer and slid the closet door the rest of the way open.

  “Anything?” he said, rifling through the nightstand.

  “Clothes.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “You might like these.”

  When he looked up, he saw that she was holding a pair of boots. They were big and black, and looked like they could kick in the side of a school bus.

  “I might indeed.”

  She passed them to him. “They’re heavy, but then again…”

  “Then again what?”

  She shook her head, smiling. “Nothing.”

  He growled as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots. They had carried him hundreds of miles, not to mention going a couple of rounds with a Komodo dragon. An upgrade seemed long overdue.

  Based on their nearly unblemished soles, the black boots looked to be basically new, perhaps worn for a few hours to break them in. A small American flag was stitched into a flap hanging from the cuff. He checked the label inside. Danner Acadia, size 13 EE. Tanner slipped them on. The fit was about right, maybe just a bit snug in the toe box. He laced them up and got to his feet.

  Samantha stood watching him. “Well?”

  He jumped up and down a few times, and the lighting fixture overhead shook.

  “I think they’ll work.”

  “Assuming the house doesn’t come down on us first,” she said with a snicker.

  “Anything else in there?” he said, looking past her.

  She turned back to the closet. On the top shelf was a shoe box with a dingy orange rag poking out the top. Samantha lifted it down and set it on the bed. Inside, she discovered a box of .45 Colt ammunition, an empty crossdraw leather holster, and an
oil-soaked rag wrapped loosely around something.

  She carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing a stainless-steel derringer. It had two barrels, one sitting directly on top of the other, and a rosewood grip carved with an eagle overlaying an American flag. The word “Patriot” was etched below the flag.

  “Tanner?”

  “Yeah?” he said, still admiring his new boots.

  “What’s this?” She turned to him, holding up the pistol. It wasn’t much bigger than her palm, but there was an undeniable heft to it.

  He whistled softly. “That, darlin’, is a Bond Arms derringer.”

  “A derringer?”

  “You don’t see them much anymore on account of all the newfangled polymer guns.”

  “Are they any good?”

  “Nothing better, if you’re up close and personal.”

  She held it out to him. “How’s it work?”

  “To load it, you push this lever and turn the gun over.”

  When he flipped the pistol, the barrel flopped open, rotating around a thick metal hinge. Both chambers were empty. He reached into the shoe box and retrieved one of the cartridges.

  “Why’s it silver?” she asked, staring at the cartridge curiously.

  “Some folks believe silver flies straighter and hits a little harder than lead.”

  “Does it?”

  “Let’s just say I’d rather not be hit by either one.” He inserted it along with a second cartridge into the pistol. When he flipped the weapon back over, there was an audible click as it latched shut. “Safety’s here,” he said, working a small pin that slid in front of the hammer. “If you can see red, it’s ready to fire, just like a shotgun.”

  “Do both barrels shoot at the same time?”

  He shook his head. “The gun automatically indexes between barrels when you cock the hammer.”

  “But you have to cock it before firing, right?”

  “Yep. It’s single action.”

  “At least it wouldn’t go off accidentally.”

  “Exactly.” He handed it back to her.

  She held it up and aimed down the fixed sights machined into the steel.

  “Do you think I could handle it?”

  “What’s to handle? Put it to someone’s chest and pull the trigger. Worst case, the gun and the bad guy hit the ground at the same time.”

  Samantha lifted out one of the cartridges from the box. They were big and beautiful.