The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “That’s it. That’s our turn.”

  “The asylum is part of a museum?” said Tanner.

  “Not officially, no. From what I understand, they acquired the center after it closed.”

  He slowed and turned onto the narrow drive. The trees had grown out over the road, creating a dimly lit tunnel. To the right was a dirt driveway that looked like it hadn’t been traveled in many months.

  Samantha leaned forward to rest on the back of Tanner’s seat.

  “It’s kind of creepy, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t start.” Before he could even get the words out of his mouth, tips of the branches began scraping against the sides of the Country Squire.

  She cringed. “It’s like giant fingernails scratching to get in.”

  Tanner turned to Sister Margaret. “How much further?”

  “It’s still a little ways yet. We have to pass by the museum.”

  He continued on, breathing a sigh of relief when the road opened up into a large parking lot. Surprisingly, there were only three vehicles in sight: a black Crown Victoria, a Jeep Wrangler, and a white Chevrolet Astro Van.

  “That’s it!” exclaimed Sister Margaret. “That’s the van they used.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, that’s good news, I suppose,” he said, pulling the station wagon in next to it. “Maybe we won’t have to search the old asylum after all.” He glanced back at Samantha. “I know Sam will be disappointed though.”

  “Hardly.”

  Together, the three of them climbed from the car and took a long look around. Directly to the south was a handful of buildings with turquoise-colored roofs. The one furthest to their left had a huge sign out front that read “Homemade fudge—Buy 1 lb, Get 1/2 lb Free.”

  “Yum,” said Samantha. “I wonder if they have any left.”

  “Never know,” said Tanner. “We might find a block or two.”

  “Ooh, I hope they have jelly-donut flavor. I love that one best of all.”

  “Do you two ever stop with all the back and forth?” snapped Sister Margaret. “It’s driving me crazy!” She turned and stormed off toward the buildings.

  Samantha watched her go. “What’s gotten into her?”

  He shrugged. “Must not like fudge.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding. “Maybe nuns aren’t supposed to enjoy sweet things.”

  “Either way. More for us.”

  Tanner lifted his shotgun from the car, and Samantha grabbed her rifle. Walking side by side, they took their time approaching the museum. The buildings turned out to be a gift shop, locked up tighter than a jewelry store, two administration buildings, also locked, and an Exhibits Center that served as a passage into the outdoor museum. The door to the Exhibits Center had been propped open with a bale of hay.

  By the time they caught up to Sister Margaret, she was already inside the Exhibits Center, stepping around a life-sized statue of an American Indian that had toppled through a glass display case. To her left was a long counter with a sign hanging from it that read “Tickets purchased here.”

  “What kind of museum is this?” Samantha asked, kneeling to study the fallen statue.

  Sister Margaret said, “It was built to show the different Old World influences on early America.”

  Samantha nudged the statue. “Like Indians?”

  “To some degree, I suppose. Mostly, the museum looks at the influences of settlers from places like Germany, Ireland, and England.”

  “If you ladies are done with the history talk,” said Tanner, “I wonder if we might get a move on.”

  Samantha stood up. “Just getting my education wherever I can.”

  Sister Margaret seemed to like that, a thin smile crossing her face. She turned and pointed to a half-open door on the other side of the Exhibits Center.

  “I would think we should go that way.”

  Tanner took the lead, pushing open the door and stepping out into a small courtyard. On the opposite side, a rock-covered trail wound through a thin copse of trees. Three golf carts sat parked beside the trail, but based on the height of the grass surrounding them, none had been moved in several months. So much for riding.

  “What’s that?” Samantha said, pointing to a handful of ruddy-colored huts to the west.

  “That, darlin’, is our first clue.”

  Tanner led them through the trees and across a field of limp grass. As they drew closer, they saw that the huts were part of a meticulous recreation of a small African village, no doubt to commemorate the contribution of African slaves to the settling of America. A waist-high mud wall surrounded the village.

  Tanner stopped behind a large cypress tree and motioned for Samantha and Sister Margaret to come up beside him.

  “What are we doing?” asked the nun.

  Before he could answer, two women stepped from one of the huts. While it was impossible to make out their faces at such a distance, there was no doubt that they were wearing nuns’ habits.

  “That’s them!” she said, starting to push past him.

  “Easy, Sister,” he said, blocking her way. “I’ve found that it’s usually not the best idea to go running up to trouble, unprepared.”

  “That’s true,” seconded Samantha. “He usually stomps up to it.”

  He threw her a grin. She knew him too well.

  “Let’s just watch for a moment and see what’s what, shall we?”

  Sister Margaret slowly settled behind the tree.

  “Okay, but we need to get them out of there. Look at the poor things.”

  While the nuns appeared to be tired and their clothes a bit dirty, neither seemed injured or otherwise harmed.

  “I think they’ll survive another couple of minutes.”

  At his insistence, they stood quietly watching as the two nuns carried armloads of branches to a fire pit. It wasn’t long before a man stepped out from behind one of the huts, zipping up his pants. Even at a distance, they could see that he was young and handsome, not to mention having both the hair and physique of Chris Hemsworth. A hunting rifle hung lazily from one shoulder.

  “Oh my,” whispered Samantha, her breath catching in her throat.

  Tanner cut his eyes at her. “What was that?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s the one who shoved me to the ground,” said Sister Margaret.

  The gleam in Samantha’s eyes faded, and she reluctantly swung her rifle up to rest on a limb.

  “All right. Where do you want me to wing him?”

  Tanner rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Before we go shooting anyone, let’s see what they want.”

  She stared at him. “Who are you, and what have you done with Tanner?”

  He grinned. “Just cover me while I go say hello.”

  “Snipers’ rules apply?” she said, lowering her cheek onto the stock.

  “You got it,” he called back over his shoulder.

  As Tanner marched off toward the camp, Sister Margaret leaned close to Samantha and whispered, “What exactly are snipers’ rules?”

  “They’re pretty simple, really. First and foremost, don’t shoot Tanner.”

  She nodded. “That one makes sense.”

  “Second, if you do shoot Tanner, don’t shoot him anywhere important.”

  Sister Margaret waited, but Samantha said nothing more.

  “That’s it? All the rules have to do with shooting him?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “It seems like you should have a rule about when to shoot someone else.”

  “Oh, that one’s easy.”

  “It is?”

  “Sure. If Tanner starts bleeding, I start shooting.”

  Sister Margaret quieted as she tried to make sense of her feelings about seeing a young girl aiming down the sights of a rifle.

  Tanner wasn’t a particularly quiet man. Fortunately, Hemsworth wasn’t a particularly
observant man either. If it hadn’t been for the two nuns staring at Tanner with wide eyes, he might have been able to tap the young man on the shoulder and shout “Boo!” As it was, he made it to within twenty feet of the wall before Hemsworth turned to face him.

  The man fumbled to pull the rifle off his shoulder.

  Tanner leveled the shotgun at his belly.

  “That would be a mistake.” He motioned to the side. “Throw it away.”

  After a brief pause, Hemsworth tossed the rifle over the mud wall.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  Tanner advanced through an opening in the wall. As he stepped into camp, a third nun exited one of the huts, folding a green wool blanket with the words “Official U.S. Property” printed on the side. When she saw what was happening, she hurried over to stand next to the other two.

  “That’s three,” muttered Tanner. He sidestepped over to the women, careful not to take his eyes off Hemsworth. “Where’s Sister Mary Number Four?”

  “Who?” said one of the nuns.

  “The fourth nun. Where is she?”

  “Sister Mary Clare was giving them trouble, so they took her away yesterday evening.”

  Tanner nodded, turning his attention to Hemsworth.

  “This is the part when you tell me where to find Sister Clare.”

  “Go screw yourself, old man.”

  The “old man” comment stung more than it probably should have, and Tanner considered blowing a knee out as a lesson in good manners. In the end, he let wisdom triumph over vanity, reminding himself that it was tough to get a screaming man to tell you much of anything.

  He raised an arm, waving to Sister Margaret and Samantha. They stepped out from behind the tree and hurried over.

  As soon as they arrived, he turned to Sister Margaret.

  “Here. Hold this,” he said, handing her the shotgun.

  She stared at the sawed-off shotgun like it was the Lance of Longinus, damning her to an eternity of being mauled by hungry lions. She tried to pass it back to him, but Tanner had already turned to face Samantha.

  “If he gets lucky and puts me down, shoot him.”

  Samantha raised her rifle. “Leg or body?”

  “Dealer’s choice.”

  Samantha nodded. “I’ll go leg on account of… you know, his body.”

  “How is that at all fair?” Sister Margaret said as she lowered the shotgun to the ground.

  “I live by the rule that the man who holds the gun decides what’s fair.” Tanner stepped toward Hemsworth and said, “Feel free to tell me when you’ve had enough.”

  Hemsworth raised his hands into tight fists.

  “Maybe you were something back in your day, but—”

  Tanner punched him. It was a quick left jab, nothing more, but it caught Hemsworth squarely in the mouth. The young man stumbled back and raised his hands to his face. When he pulled them away, they were slick with blood.

  “You mother—”

  Tanner hit him with another jab, this time to the nose. Again, Hemsworth stepped back, his nose now at an ugly sideways angle, blood trickling out. He started to say something else when Tanner drove a knee into his gut. Air was suddenly in short supply, and the young man doubled over, gasping.

  “Stop it this instant!” shouted Sister Margaret. “You’re hurting this man!”

  Before Tanner could stop her, she rushed forward and started tending to Hemsworth.

  “Let me see,” she said softly, trying to pull his hands away from his face.

  Hemsworth jerked upright and spun Sister Margaret around. He braced one arm against her throat and the other against the back of her neck. Sister Margaret’s face burned bright red, and she gurgled something that sounded a lot like “Buggers.”

  Hemsworth turned to Samantha. “Put the rifle down, or I’ll break her neck.”

  Samantha looked over at Tanner. “Well?”

  “Shoot him in the eye.”

  The other three nuns all began to protest at once.

  Tanner held up a hand. “Hush. We’re negotiating.”

  Confused, they slowly quieted.

  Samantha raised her rifle. “What if I miss and hit Sister Margaret?”

  “It’s all right. I never liked her that much anyway.”

  Sister Margaret’s eyes widened, but she was incapable of speaking.

  “What are you, crazy?” Hemsworth said, trying to duck behind the woman’s narrow shoulders.

  Samantha took a deep breath and rested her finger on the trigger.

  “Wait!” he shouted, shoving Sister Margaret away and raising both hands in front of him.

  Tanner nudged Sister Margaret out of the way and raised his fists like a boxer getting ready for the bell.

  “Now, where were we?”

  Hemsworth looked left and right.

  “If you run, she’ll shoot you,” Tanner said calmly. “Your only way out of this is to tell me what happened to Sister Clare.”

  “Fine. What the hell do I care anyway? It wasn’t like she was mine.” Hemsworth bent over and spat blood from his mouth. “Last I saw of her she was over at the old dairy building.” He pointed off to the northeast.

  Unless there were maidens outside, milking cows, Tanner had no idea how to tell a dairy building from a lumber mill.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s white and octagonal,” he said, wiggling a tooth to see if it had come loose. “You can’t miss it.”

  Tanner turned to the nuns, finding Sister Margaret standing over them like a mother hen.

  “Did this man…” He searched for a delicate way of saying it. “Break any of your covenants?”

  They seemed utterly baffled by the question.

  He sighed. “Three nuns, one knucklehead with too much testosterone. Come on. You know what I’m getting at.”

  One of the women shook her head.

  “Oh no, nothing like that. They wanted us to be pure for the weddings.”

  “The weddings?” exclaimed Sister Margaret. “Don’t they know you serve God?”

  “They knew, but I got the feeling that was why we were chosen. They wanted women who were pure, both morally and physically.”

  Tanner turned back to Hemsworth. “All in all, that’s good news for you. It means no broken bones.”

  He stepped forward and fired a tremendous right cross to the man’s jaw. Hemsworth went down hard, landing flat on his back with his arms splayed out to either side. Tanner raised his foot, preparing to add insult to injury. As he did, Sister Margaret gasped. Tanner stomped anyway, hard, like he was putting out a campfire. When he was finished, Hemsworth’s face looked worse than Jess Willard’s after going three rounds with Jack Dempsey.

  Tanner bent over and used the man’s t-shirt to wipe blood from his boots.

  “Horrible,” Sister Margaret cried, as she tried to shield the eyes of the other nuns.

  “I know,” he grumbled. “These are new boots.”

  Tanner and Samantha took point, leading Sister Margaret and the other three nuns along the gravel trail. Their first stop was at a decrepit English cottage whose walls were a patchwork of dark pink panels framed by thick black beams. The roof had been constructed from overlapping clay tiles, and a tall brick chimney protruded high into the air. At the base of the chimney was a stone that read EW 1692.

  “Wow,” said Samantha, pausing to study the old home. “It’s like the witch’s house in Hansel and Gretel.” She stuck her nose into the air and sniffed, as if hoping to smell gingerbread cooking.

  A young woman appeared from a small patch of trees to the south, a wooden yoke balanced across her shoulders. A bucket dangled from each end, water sloshing with every step. When she saw Tanner and the others, she set the water down and hurried around to the rear of the house.

  Samantha turned to Tanner. “Do you think she lives in this old house?”

  “If she does, she’s not alone
.” He nodded toward one of the windows on the second floor. A man could be seen staring out.

  “Should we go check it out?”

  Tanner shook his head. “They’re leaving us alone. Let’s do the same.”

  As they walked past the cottage, Samantha said, “Why do you think they chose to live in such an old home?”

  “Not everyone wants the cushy life that we have.”

  She snickered. “You do realize that we live in a cabin.”

  “So?”

  “So, I used to live in the White House.”

  “If you think about it, the only difference between our cabin and the White House is the color of the wallpaper.”

  She rolled her eyes. “When you say stuff like that, I know you’re just trying to sound smart.”

  “Actually, I’m trying to get you to ask yourself what really defines happiness.”

  “There you go again,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Or better yet, whether happiness is something to be defined at all.”

  “Stop, you’re killing me!”

  He smiled. Samantha didn’t like accepting his tidbits of wisdom, but he hoped that at least a few of them managed to wriggle their way into her nutty little brain.

  They continued along the trail, eventually coming upon a small estate. According to the sign out front, it was an original construction from the 1700s, brought over from Ireland. The small farming spread consisted of a home and two secondary buildings, their roofs made from thick layers of stiff yellow straw.

  A stone pen had been built in front of the home, and within the pen were a handful of well-fed pigs. Directly behind the pen was a garden with tiny green plants poking up through freshly tilled soil. The only thing that seemed out of place was a bright yellow poster hanging on the stone wall. On it, a burly man tossed seeds from a metal tray. At the bottom of the poster were the words “Only Healthy Seed Must Be Sown!”

  A woman peeked out through an open window, a fretful expression on her face. She turned and spoke to someone, and a few seconds later, a man with thick arms and an even thicker body appeared in the open doorway. He cradled an over-and-under shotgun in both hands, but his relaxed posture suggested that he wasn’t looking for a fight.

  Tanner raised a hand, and the big man reluctantly wandered over, stopping on the far side of the stone pen. Sensing there wasn’t any immediate danger, Samantha leaned over the short wall and began patting one of the pigs. The pig snorted and pressed its snout to her palm.