The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Mason figured the woman’s tongue might be a little looser with a paying customer.

  “Sure. See if there’s anything on the trailer that might be worth a couple of bags.”

  The woman motioned to her son, and he hurried around to examine the trailer. When he returned, he was holding a fishing rod, complete with a reel of string and a bright yellow lure. It wasn’t an even trade, but given that the rod wasn’t Mason’s to begin with, he quickly agreed.

  As she passed the bags of peanuts through his open window, he asked, “Is this Grey’s Point?”

  She shook her head. “That’s still another half a mile or so up the road. They don’t have no room though. If you’re lookin’ for a place to settle for the night, you’ll have to do it here.”

  The teen leaned past his mother and said, “Are you here for the tournament?”

  “What tournament is that?”

  “The gunfighting tournament!” He tugged at a leather gun belt that held up a Taurus 82S revolver. “Momma says I can compete when I get a little older.”

  “No,” she quickly corrected. “I said you might get to compete. Right now, you couldn’t hit a dog if he was wettin’ on your leg.”

  The boy’s face flushed. “You just wait and see. By this time next year, I’ll be better than anyone.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Until then, you’d best get busy with them peanuts. You wanna eat tonight, don’t you?”

  Before the boy could say anything more, Mason offered a parting wave and eased back into traffic.

  “What do you think that was about?” said Jessie.

  “The tournament?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Boys wanting to play cowboy, I guess.”

  “Or girls.”

  He smiled. “Or girls. Let’s just find Jack and get out of here before the shooting starts.”

  “Right.”

  They continued ahead, quickly becoming part of a long procession of RVs, campers, and trucks. The turnoff to Grey’s Point Camp was marked with a blue and gray sign adorned with the image of a large fish. A banner had been draped across the sign that read, “Gunfighting tournament begins at 4 PM today!”

  Mason turned in behind the other vehicles, finally making his way to a security booth at the entrance to the camp. A handful of men holding AR-15s stood guard. Without so much as a word, the lead man gave the trailer a quick onceover before hurriedly waving him through.

  Once past the gate, the road split in three directions. Mason took the first right and meandered around the camp to get a better feel for the lay of the land. The north and west sides of the camp were small communities of mobile homes, perhaps three or four hundred units in all. Narrow roads with names like Shady Lane and Placid Harbor wove through the collection of boxy metal houses. Every home appeared to be occupied, kids playing in the yards, women hanging clothes out to dry, and men cleaning siding, painting roofs, and mending fences. These people weren’t squatters; they were homeowners.

  The camp butted up against Meachim Creek, a shallow bed of water, bordering the much deeper Rappahannock River. As such, scores of people fished the banks, working to pull in their suppers. The docks along the western shore were equally as busy, with boats filling many of the slips.

  “I had no idea,” Jessie said, marveling at the activity. “It’s like a little city in here.”

  Mason was equally surprised. While it was far smaller than the New Colony, Grey’s Point had a sense of ambitious busyness to it. The residents showed a frontier-like fortitude, far different than the colonists who had become accustomed to feeding off the government dole.

  He steered the RV down Oyster Point Road, a long straight stretch of asphalt with a handful of small aircraft parked at one end. While it was not quite up to the standards of the private airfield they had passed earlier, the makeshift runway looked long enough for a small plane to get airborne.

  He followed a tight curve and ended up near a large clubhouse at the heart of Grey’s Point. Behind it were dozens of long parking lanes designed for buses and watercraft. South of the parking area was a huge market, tents of every shape and color stretching between rows of neatly aligned trees. Hundreds of people pushed their way through the crowded bazaar, trading everything from bottles of water to hiking boots.

  Jessie leaned forward. “There!” she said, pointing. “That’s Daddy’s truck.”

  A rusted 1976 Chevrolet Silverado sat in one of the long parking lanes between the clubhouse and the market. Mason pulled the RV in behind the truck and killed the engine. Bowie sat up and pressed his nose against the window.

  “He’s got to be here somewhere,” said Jessie. She eyed the bed of the truck. The bright blue tarp looked odd, like it had been haphazardly put back in place.

  They climbed out of the RV and slowly walked around the pickup. The windows were up and the doors locked. There was nothing to indicate that Jack had fallen victim to foul play. Bowie seemed particularly interested in something in the bed, propping his feet on the bumper and nudging the tarp with his nose.

  Mason motioned for Jessie to take a step back. In his experience, Bowie took notice of only two things: food and dead bodies.

  Mason grabbed the edge of the tarp and carefully folded it back. Underneath was a case of sixteen-ounce mason jars. He lifted one out and discovered that it was filled with dark strips of dried meat. Mystery solved, at least as far as Bowie’s interest.

  “That’s Daddy’s homemade jerky,” Jessie said, breathing a sigh of relief.

  Even though the jars were sealed, Mason wasn’t surprised that Bowie could smell the meat. A dog’s nose was nothing short of miraculous.

  “Think he’d mind if Bowie had a little?”

  The dog’s head whipped around, staring at Jessie as if awaiting word on some life and death medical procedure.

  “Of course not. If anything, he’d insist that you both have some.”

  Mason opened the jar and gave it a quick sniff. Worcestershire, brown sugar, molasses, and some kind of smoke flavoring. He lifted out a piece and took a nibble. Sweet but good.

  “Here you go, boy,” he said, tossing the rest of it to Bowie.

  The meat was gone in an instant. Mason fed him three more strips before putting the jar back under the tarp. Bowie stared at him, his tongue snaking out to lick around his mouth.

  “Maybe later,” he said, securing the tarp. “Right now, we have a job to do.”

  “How are we ever going to find him?” Jessie asked, slowly turning in place. “There must be a thousand people here.”

  Mason pointed to the clubhouse. “Whoever runs this place is probably operating out of that building. Let’s start there.”

  Mason, Jessie, and Bowie made their way toward the clubhouse, weaving their way through a seemingly endless mass of people. There was a buzz of energy in the air as folks haggled over goods or shared stories of what was happening across the country. Women carried fish wrapped in old newspapers, and children ran through the crowd, playing tag.

  Security was present too, men in traditional blue police uniforms, carrying riot shotguns. By the looks of it, they were serious men used to doing serious work. With nearly every adult armed, Mason suspected that the crowd was also self-policing. If someone got too far out of hand, mob justice was going to take over.

  Jessie hooked an arm through Mason’s, not wanting to lose him in the crowd. Bowie used the opportunity to dart from place to place, investigating every new sound and smell. Together, they wove their way through the bustle of people, drawing ever closer to the camp’s clubhouse.

  They arrived to see a man emerging onto the clubhouse’s second-story balcony. A crowd had gathered out front as if the Pope were preparing to bless them. Given the throng of people blocking their way, Mason and Jessie had little choice but to stop and listen.

  The man could have been Sam Elliot’s double, tall and lean, with a thick gray mustache, a white ten-gallon hat, and clothes that would have been right at home on a ranch in
Montana. A pistol hung at his side, and one hand rested on it as he spoke.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” he said into a microphone, “if I can have your attention, please.”

  The crowd slowly quieted.

  “Before we discuss the upcoming festivities, I’d like to remind everyone of the rules of Grey’s Point.” He began counting them on his fingers. “First, if you can’t afford it, keep your grubby paws off it. Second, if a woman says no, put your pecker away. And third, don’t hurt anyone without due cause. If you break any of these rules, you know what’ll happen.”

  Several people began to chant “Fallen! Fallen! Fallen!” Soon, the entire crowd had joined in.

  The announcer waved his hands, shushing them.

  “That’s right. If you break the rules, you’re in the tournament.” He glanced at his watch. “In a little under two hours, we’ll gather at the fairgrounds to witness the first brutal test of speed and accuracy. For those of you interested in a front row view, let me remind you that if a stray bullet should happen to find your backside, feel free to take it home as a souvenir.”

  The crowd shared a nervous chuckle.

  “Since many of you are no doubt unfamiliar with the rules of the tournament, allow me to explain. There are four rounds to the competition. Each gunfighter must successfully complete each round to advance to the next. The gunfighters who successfully complete all four rounds will be declared victors of the competition. At that point, they will be given the choice to either take their cut of the purse or compete against one another for an even larger share. Additionally, the gunfighter who ends up being the crowd favorite will be awarded a no holds barred—or should I say no holes barred—night with Lolita and her two lovely sisters!”

  He turned and motioned to the door behind him. Three beautiful Latinas dressed in sexy white lingerie hurried across the balcony, waving and blowing kisses to the crowd.

  The audience cheered and whistled.

  “This, my friends, is definitely a case in which the only way to enter is to win!”

  Some of the men pretended to pull away from their wives as if they too wished to join in the contest. More laughter ensued, and the announcer wagged a playful finger at them.

  “All right now. It’s time now to introduce you to our brave gunfighters.”

  He turned once again, giving someone behind him the thumbs up. Almost immediately, five men marched into view. They reminded Mason of American Gladiators, each man’s persona taken to the point of caricature.

  There was “Muchado,” a big-bellied Mexican with a colorful sombrero and twin six-shooters holstered on gun belts draped across his chest, “Ringo,” a handsome cowboy with fringed leather gloves, vest, and chaps, “Liberty,” a barrel-chested, special ops soldier decked out in all manner of tactical gear, “Bones,” a gangbanger whose face and arms had been painted to resemble a skeleton, and “The Reverend,” a tall somber man with thick leather boots, a black duster that hung down to his knees, and a Nighthawk VIP hanging at his side.

  Upon seeing the gunfighters, the audience went from attentive to ecstatic, hooting and hollering, and waving their hands in the air like they were in the presence of movie stars. The gunfighters stood before them, each reacting to the hysteria in his own way. Muchado got into the spirit of things by vigorously waving his hat in the air. Ringo and Liberty took a few gracious bows, while Bones flipped everyone the collective bird. The only one who seemed unmoved by the cheering was The Reverend. He stood stoic and cold, as if the entire event were beneath him.

  The announcer inched back up to the microphone.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said, motioning for the crowd to once again hush. “If you really want to show your support, I encourage you to place your bets on the gunfighters you believe will emerge victorious. The house will be taking bets at each stage of the competition, but the best payouts are for those bets placed early.”

  The announcer waited until the gunfighters were offstage before continuing.

  “A contest isn’t a contest without worthy opponents. In our case those challengers have a name.” He wound up like he was about to deliver a pitch. “Join me in welcoming… the Fallen!”

  A line of twenty prisoners paraded across the balcony. Some were old enough to be grandparents, others young enough to have pimples. Most looked like they hadn’t bathed in a month, their clothes soiled and hair greasy. All in all, they were a sorry-looking lot, hardly fitting of the descriptor “worthy opponents.”

  The crowd booed, some throwing water bottles or what was left of their lunch.

  Jessie gasped and gripped Mason’s hand.

  “What is it?” he asked, fearing that someone had decided to play grab-ass with her while he wasn’t looking.

  “There!” she said, pointing to one of the prisoners. “It’s Daddy.”

  Jack Atkins was much like Mason had envisioned: average height, slender but not skinny, military haircut, and eyes set hard with determination. He was pushing into his early sixties, but by looks of it, had another thirty years left in him. Dried blood covered his nose and mouth, and he walked with a discernible limp as he made his way across the balcony.

  “He’s hurt!” Jessie cried, trying unsuccessfully to push her way forward through the crowd.

  Mason slipped an arm around her waist and gently pulled her back.

  “There’s nothing you can do for him right now.”

  She stood motionless, her eyes unable to leave her father.

  Once the last of the Fallen had passed, the announcer returned to the microphone.

  “Remember, this is as much a competition for them as it is our fearless gunfighters. If one of the Fallen should manage to defeat a gunfighter, his crimes are immediately forgiven, thereby releasing him from the competition. Let no one say that we at Grey’s Point are not fair and just.”

  The crowd offered a supportive round of applause, but it hardly reached the hysteria they had shown the gunfighters.

  “All right, folks. I’ll see you over at the parade grounds. Remember, you can’t win if you don’t bet.” The announcer offered one final tip of his hat before turning to leave the makeshift stage.

  “My God,” whispered Jessie, “they’re going to kill Daddy.”

  “Maybe not.”

  She turned to him, confused. “You saw him. He’s in no condition to fight. Not against men like that.”

  Mason nodded toward the announcer as he disappeared into the clubhouse.

  “Maybe he’ll help to get your father out of this.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Mason rested a hand on his Supergrade.

  “Because he and I have history together.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You know him?”

  “I should. I served with him for nearly three years in the marshal service.”

  “That man’s a U.S. Marshal?”

  “He was. I’m not sure what he is now.”

  Mason sat on an old yellow sofa, staring out the clubhouse window at a tarp-covered swimming pool. Security officers stood to either side of him with shotguns in hand. He had asked Jessie and Bowie to wait outside because of her outrage at Jack’s treatment and the dog’s temperament toward men with guns. This was a time for diplomacy, not war.

  The clubhouse consisted of a sitting room, a game area with billiard and foosball tables, and a large kitchen that no doubt had been used to host kids’ parties and homeowners’ association meetings. Several small hallways also led off to private offices. The announcer from the balcony appeared from one such hallway, his big white hat in hand.

  As soon as he saw Mason, his face came alive.

  “Mason Raines in the flesh. How about that!”

  Mason stood up nice and slow so as not to startle the guards.

  “Hello, Leroy.”

  Leroy Tucker walked over and pulled him into a big hug.

  “I swear to God, it feels like a long-lost brother’s come back from the grave.”

 
Mason patted him on the back. “You too, my old friend.”

  Leroy leaned away to get a better look at him, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the Supergrade.

  “I see you’ve still got my gun. I hope it’s served you well.”

  “I couldn’t have asked for anything better.” Mason drew the weapon slowly and flipped it around so that the grip extended toward Leroy. “I’m sure it’ll tell you a few stories.”

  Leroy gently pushed the pistol away. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it from you. A man doesn’t break a bond like that. Besides,” he said, resting his hand on his own firearm, “I’ve gone modern.”

  The pistol at his side was an FN Five-seven. Chambered in 5.7x28 mm, the Five-seven was notoriously accurate with a trajectory kept to within a couple of inches all the way out to two hundred meters. It was also lightweight, had a twenty-round magazine, and with the right ammunition, could penetrate NATO’s CRISAT body armor.

  Mason nodded his thanks and holstered the Supergrade. Even with the Five-seven’s obvious benefits, he would never have chosen one over a good 1911. Some things just felt right in his hand, and no amount of technological whiz bang could change that.

  Leroy motioned for him to retake his seat as he settled into a chair, crossing his legs like a southern gentleman.

  “You look good, Mason. You really do.”

  “You look as ornery as ever, old timer.”

  The nickname brought a smile to Leroy’s lips.

  “God, that brings back memories. Do you remember that time we cornered those three hombres hoping to scoot across the border with that sweet little waitress?”

  Mason pressed his lips together. “I remember.”

  “The big one with the droopy eye thought he had it all figured out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a respectable Hispanic accent. “Go ahead, Marshal. Arrest us. It don’t matter none. In three months, we’ll be back in Mexico with a warm titty in one hand and a cold cerveza in the other. Who knows? Maybe next time we come over, we say hello to your madre.” He dropped back out of the accent. “What was it you said?”

  “I said there won’t be a next time.”

  “And then bam!” Leroy slapped his hands together. “It was over. I hardly had time to get my pistol out of the holster before all three of them were face down.” Leroy shook his head as if reliving the moment. “My question is what would you have done if they hadn’t gone for their weapons?”