The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Tanner smiled. “It seems like I remember someone else selling that bill of goods. His bold ideas led to gas chambers and mass graves. Where do you think yours are headed?”

  Dr. Langdon shook his head, clearly disappointed.

  “I can see that we’re not going to agree. Very well,” he said, turning to study Samantha again. “We’ve lost three women, but we’ve gained one in return, and a very promising one at that.”

  “I want her,” blurted Blackjack.

  Dr. Langdon cast a disapproving look his way.

  “You’ve already been promised Sister Clare. She’s a much better match for you. Besides, what kind of message would that send to your new wife if you gave up on her so easily? A wife isn’t like an old wallet. You don’t trade her in every time you want something newer.”

  “But she’s over at the asylum. I don’t even know if she’ll come back alive.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your comrade will return with her at any moment. And I’m sure that spending a night in that creepy old building will have calmed her feisty spirit. Believe me, she’ll be most thankful to you for taking her in.”

  Blackjack started to say something, but Dr. Langdon shook his head.

  “I’ll hear no more about it. You and Clare have been carefully matched, and that’s that.” He turned back to Samantha, slipping an arm around her shoulder as he led her toward the back of the room. “I’m sorry about that, dear. Men will be men. Come now. A quick examination will tell us what we need to know.”

  Samantha threw Tanner a frightened look. Clearly, things were heading rapidly downhill. He glanced behind him, assessing the situation with Blackjack. The man’s revolver was still trained on him, but his eyes lingered on Samantha. It was now or never.

  Tanner shuffled toward him, hands already in motion. He parried the pistol to one side before reaching around to try and twist the gun from the man’s oversized mitt. They wrestled for control of the weapon, neither willing to let it go. Accepting that he wasn’t going to wrest the revolver from Blackjack, Tanner trapped the big man’s arm under his own, the gun extended straight out in front of them.

  A thunderous boom sounded, and splinters ripped free from one of the beams over Samantha’s head.

  “Sam! Get down!” he shouted, shifting to cup the big man’s hand with both of his own.

  She dropped, first to her knees, and then all the way down on her belly, as the big barrel swung back in her direction. Dr. Langdon chose only to bend at the waist and cover his ears.

  With his hands gripping Blackjack’s, Tanner began working the trigger, each shot reverberating through his chest. The first round sent a handful of papers flying off a desk, but the second caught Dr. Langdon in the chest. The impact threw him over a nearby chair to land across Samantha’s legs and back, pinning her to the ground.

  The gun fired twice more, both rounds ripping holes through the far wall. When the revolver finally clicked over to an empty cylinder, Tanner released the man’s hand and stepped away.

  Furious, Blackjack hurled the weapon at him. It missed by nearly a foot, knocking one of the framed posters off the wall.

  “I’m going to break your neck,” he wheezed, clenching both fists.

  Tanner took a traditional boxer’s stance, knees slightly bent, hands up and ready. The time for talk had long passed. He took a quick glance back at Samantha. She had managed to roll Dr. Langdon off and was getting back to her feet, knife drawn.

  “Stay there. I’ve got this.”

  “But he’s so… muscley.”

  Tanner studied Blackjack. He was big and strong, but that same muscle would act like saddlebags filled with sand once he got tired.

  “He’s what you call a twenty-second man.”

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Blackjack growled as he advanced.

  “It means I figure you’re good for twenty seconds. After that, you’ll be like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Samantha.

  Tanner had no time to offer an apology. Blackjack cocked a fist and leaped forward with a Superman punch. Given the man’s size and strength, the punch would likely have knocked Tanner out, had it connected. It didn’t. As soon as he detected movement, Tanner bent to the left, bringing his right hand to his ear and letting his forearm and elbow deflect the blow. Before Blackjack could regain his balance, Tanner twisted and fired a short jab to his ribcage. It wasn’t nearly enough to put the big man down, but it did elicit a painful groan.

  Blackjack wheeled toward Tanner, firing four short rapid-fire punches. All four made contact, and Tanner nearly tripped as he backpedaled away. Blackjack rushed forward, firing a left hook followed by a much more powerful cross. Tanner’s ear absorbed the full impact of the hook but he managed to slip the deadlier cross. Sensing an opening, he lunged forward, driving his head into Blackjack’s chin. Teeth crunched together, and the big man howled with rage.

  Blackjack grabbed Tanner’s head with both hands and flung him sideways. Rather than fight the momentum, Tanner went with it, rolling across a long table to land on the other side. Blackjack advanced, flipping the heavy table out of his way. But his pace had slowed, and he huffed air like an overloaded steamship.

  He charged forward, trying to grab Tanner in a bear hug. No good. Tanner ducked beneath his outstretched arms, avoiding the grab while raking an elbow across the big man’s ribs. Blackjack continued his steady advance, throwing a series of wild haymakers as he desperately sought a one-hit knockout. None of them connected, and with each motion, he became slower, clumsier.

  Tanner straightened and let out a breath.

  “All right. That’s twenty.” He went after Blackjack with a combination of precision and power, strike after strike pummeling the big man’s face and body. Blackjack tried to fend him off, but nearly every counterpunch found only empty air. Soon, his face was swollen and bleeding, his ribs aching and bruised. He made one last desperate lunge toward Tanner, hoping to pull him to the ground where he could better use his mass.

  It was the opening Tanner had been waiting for. With Blackjack’s weight shifting to his lead leg, he became vulnerable to one of the most vicious strikes in all of martial arts, the Muay Thai roundhouse. Tanner whipped his leg around, connecting just above the big man’s knee. As he executed the strike, he focused on the fundamentals, body upright and hips thrust forward as he rose onto the ball of his rear foot for maximum rotation. With so much weight on his lead leg, Blackjack had no chance to block it with his shin, instead taking the full blow to the knee.

  The effect was devastating. Tanner’s shin smashed against Blackjack’s femur, dislocating it from the patella with a muffled pop. The man’s leg bent sideways at the knee, and he howled from pain as his lower leg dangled beneath him like a broken chicken wing. Desperate to steady himself, he reached for a nearby table.

  Tanner was having none of it. He shot forward and side-kicked Blackjack’s back leg out from under him. The big man went down with a crash, pulling the table down on top of him.

  Despite the dislocated knee, Blackjack rolled over and tried to get to his feet. Tanner quickly stepped around behind him and straight-leg punted between his legs. It was a kick comparable to Matt Prater’s sixty-four-yard field goal, rupturing both of Blackjack’s testicles and lifting his weighty frame nearly a foot off the ground. When he came down, Blackjack collapsed onto his belly with a thud and a grunt. He lay there, unmoving.

  Satisfied that he was out for the count, Tanner turned to check on Samantha. She stood next to Dr. Langdon’s body. Having taken a .50 slug to the chest, the doctor’s white coat had become little more than a poor excuse for a towel.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded. “You?”

  “I’m fine,” he growled, turning toward the door. “Let’s go find our guns and finish this.”

  Samantha trailed after him, hiding a smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “For a minute, I thought you
said nuns.”

  Chapter 13

  Jessie hummed Faith Hill’s “The Way You Love Me” as Mason steered the RV down Highway 3. It was a scenic drive, the road lined on either side with dark green fields now overgrown with peanuts left unharvested. A light rain had begun to fall, just enough to force Mason to cycle the windshield wipers on and off.

  “That was some pretty smooth negotiating you did back there,” she said, rotating in her seat to face him.

  “Unlike my father, I don’t believe that every nail needs a hammer.”

  “Do you think they’ll be okay? I can’t imagine any two people being more different than Porter and Papa Doyle.”

  “Sometimes different is okay, good even. The important part is that they learn to complement one another.”

  She hesitated and then said, “Is that why you’re still alone? Because you haven’t found someone who complements you?”

  He glanced over at her. “You sure ask a lot of personal questions.”

  Rather than apologize, she smiled and said, “A woman likes to know about the man she’s traveling with.”

  Mason couldn’t fault her for that. Jessie was taking quite the chance going off with him.

  “I’ve known four women since the virus hit. One used me to get revenge on men who had wronged her, another put her mission above all else, and the most recent tried to have me killed.”

  “Yikes! You have had bad luck with women.”

  “Told you.”

  “But you said four women. What happened with the other one?”

  Mason shook his head, unable to bring himself to talk about how Ava had died.

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie said, reading his expression.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “The woman who tried to have you killed, what was her name?”

  “Brooke.” Even as he said the name, Mason felt his gut clench. The wound hadn’t yet had time to heal.

  “Were you serious about her?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And Bowie?” she said, glancing back at the sleeping dog. “Did he like her too?”

  “Bowie?” It seemed like such a strange question.

  “He is your best friend in the whole world. I figured his opinion mattered.”

  It was not something Mason had considered before.

  “They sort of tolerated one another.”

  She shook her head lightly. “Not a good sign.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Forgive me for asking, but why do you think you keep getting involved with those kinds of women?”

  He shrugged. “Men are blind when it comes to—”

  “Sex?”

  “I was going to say love, but yeah, that works too.”

  “You loved them?” Jessie seemed surprised, maybe even a bit disappointed.

  “I don’t know. Some of them.” It was a question that he didn’t want to think about. “Let me ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “Why did you lie to me earlier?”

  Jessie shifted nervously in her seat.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You told me that you’d had lots of boyfriends, even rattled off their names.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So, they were made up.”

  “Why would you say something like that?” Her cheeks were becoming flushed.

  Mason started counting them off on his fingers.

  “Tom Doniphon, Will Kane, and Jason McCullough.” He looked over at her and offered an understanding smile. “I know those names.”

  “You do?” she said sheepishly.

  “You’re not the only one who grew up watching Westerns.” When she said nothing, he repeated, “So I ask again, why’d you lie?”

  “I, um, I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of wallflower—you know, inexperienced with men.”

  “And are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Inexperienced with men?”

  She took a moment to collect herself, her face slowly returning to its natural color.

  “I’m twenty-three years old.”

  “And?”

  “And I’ve never… You know.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re waiting for your Prince Charming. Good for you.”

  “I guess. Still, I felt a little embarrassed being around a man with your experience.”

  “My experience?” he said, chuckling. “You act like I’m some kind of post-apocalyptic Casanova.”

  “You sure look like one,” she said under her breath.

  Mason turned to find her staring at him. When their eyes met, she quickly looked away.

  “To be honest,” she said, “I’m beginning to wonder if my Prince Charming is even still out there. Maybe he died from the pox, and I’ll have to settle for his ugly brother, Prince Boring.”

  Mason shook his head. “You’re a gorgeous young woman, Jessie, and one day some lucky man is going to have the good fortune of sharing in that beauty. Don’t give it away to someone unworthy of you.”

  That brought a huge smile to her face.

  “You really think I’ll find the right man?”

  “I know you will. Now, can we quit talking about our love lives and get back to the task at hand?”

  “Of course.” Jessie turned her attention to the highway, but it was clear that she was still thinking about what he had said. After a moment, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “For making me feel special.”

  With that, Jessie let the talk of relationships, both real and imaginary, fade away. Even though Mason welcomed the newfound silence, he couldn’t help but reflect on the soft press of her lips.

  A few minutes later, she leaned forward in her seat and pointed out the window at a private airstrip to their left.

  “We’re getting close. Daddy used to mention that airfield. He said that the next time he came up, he might try to land there, just to get the old plane some air time.”

  “I saw the yellow Air Tractor in your barn. I’m assuming he bought it for crop dusting?”

  “That’s what he’d tell you. Momma and I knew better.”

  “Oh?”

  “Daddy’s always been happiest when he’s in the air.”

  “I see.”

  “What about you? What are you happiest doing?”

  He thought for a moment, finally saying, “I guess I like setting things right.”

  “Like with Porter and Papa Doyle?”

  “That, and other times.”

  “Give me an example.”

  “All right. A good example is what happened with the marshals at Glynco. When I discovered that a group of mercenaries had poisoned them to steal weapons, I felt the need to get justice for those who had fallen.”

  “Mercenaries poisoned U.S. Marshals?” she said in disbelief.

  He nodded. It had been more than six months, but Mason could still remember the bodies lying with pools of vomit beside their open mouths.

  “What did you do?”

  “I followed them and made sure they paid for their crimes.”

  “By killing them?”

  “Some.”

  “You let the others go free?” She seemed surprised.

  Mason envisioned the hacked-up remains on the overpass. They had suffered a fate far worse than dying by his hand.

  “No,” he said, calmly. “No one went free.”

  Jessie’s voice softened. “You’ve had a lot of death around you this past year, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve had a lot of death around me for a very long time. First as a soldier, then as a lawman, and now as… whatever it is I am to this world.”

  She reached over and placed a hand on his.

  “You’re the man who sets things right.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  They continued on, passing the airfield to come upon a large self-storage complex. The contents of m
any of the lockers had been pulled out and sorted through, likely by junkers in search of trade-worthy goods. A little past the facility sat Eckkards, a steak and seafood restaurant that was surprisingly teeming with customers. Motorcycles, RVs, trucks, and cars filled the small parking lot. Many other vehicles were either making their way into the establishment or back out onto Highway 3. Across the street, the Pilot House Inn motel was also nearly filled to capacity, with most of its doors propped open to allow for a little air flow.

  People of every size and shape moved about, walking between rooms with bottles of liquor in hand, or crossing the road between Eckkards and the motel. Nearly everyone carried a gun, whether it be a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder or a Glock holstered at the waist. It wouldn’t have surprised Mason to see a banner hanging over the road that read “Proud Sponsors of the NRA.”

  Despite the congestion, he didn’t see anything even remotely resembling a campground.

  “Is this it?” he asked.

  Jessie shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I expected something… different.”

  Bowie sat up, and upon seeing all the people outside, tried to squeeze his way into the front row of seats for a better look.

  Jessie put her arm across to block him.

  “Just hang in there, boy. You’ll get your chance to make friends once we stop.”

  The dog reluctantly backed off, but the anxious look never left his eyes.

  “I’m going to pull over and ask for directions,” said Mason. “See if you can keep Bowie from going out a window when I do.”

  She reached over and began stroking the dog’s head.

  “Oh, he’s not going anywhere,” she said in a puppy-dog voice. “Are you, boy?”

  Bowie flopped down onto the console to better enjoy her attention.

  Mason spotted a middle-aged woman and her teenage son standing on the side of the highway, selling small paper sacks of boiled peanuts. He pulled up alongside and rolled down his window.

  “Afternoon,” he said with a friendly smile.

  “It surely is,” she said, revealing a missing front tooth. “Care for some peanuts?”