The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “Maybe the size of the hole isn’t the problem,” Samantha muttered, as she pulled the flashlight from her back pocket and clicked it on.

  The room was roughly square and about the size of a typical bedroom. The walls were painted a sickly shade of yellow, and the paint had peeled off in bite-size strips that resembled hundreds of Post-it notes ready for the taking. Tile covered the floor, but many of the squares were cracked or missing to reveal a wet subfloor beneath. Even the old metal bedsprings couldn’t hide the true purpose of the room.

  This was a prison cell.

  She turned her flashlight toward the door on the opposite wall. It looked sturdy, and there were window bars to allow staff to see that the prisoner hadn’t managed to hang himself with a bed sheet.

  “There’s a door,” she called. “But I can’t tell if it’s locked.”

  “You want me to come in?”

  Samantha knew that he would if she said yes, but she also knew that he would be a little disappointed. Tanner expected her to pull her own weight, even if it was considerably less than his own.

  “I’ve got it.”

  She picked her way across the room, broken bits of tile crunching under her shoes like twigs in a forest. She reached out and touched the door. It was cold and heavy, and a steel plate surrounded the doorknob to prevent the lock from being jimmied from the inside. Using her thumb and two fingers, she gently tried the knob. It turned with a slight squeak. She gave the door a light tug, and it swung inward a few inches. Okay, mission accomplished. She didn’t dare go any further without Tanner at her side.

  Tiptoeing back to the window, she leaned toward it and said, “The door’s open.”

  “All right. Stand clear.” A leg as thick as a telephone pole swung through the window frame. The hole wasn’t wide enough for Tanner’s thick chest and back, and by the time he was inside, another big chunk of the board had broken free.

  “I don’t know why they have to make everything so darn small,” he said, brushing splinters from his shirt.

  Samantha bit her tongue, saying only, “It’s a mystery all right.”

  Coming from the sunlight, Tanner could barely make out his own hands. He turned and gave the curtains a sharp tug. The rod overhead broke, and the curtains fell in a heap, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air.

  “Better,” he said with a satisfied nod.

  Samantha coughed lightly, but said nothing.

  Even with the infusion of sunlight, there remained a pronounced look of despair to the room. Too many people had suffered for laughter to ever again be heard within its space. The light did, however, reveal dozens of small black handprints adorning one of the walls.

  Samantha walked over and gently placed her hand over one of the prints. It was nearly a perfect match. When she pulled away, flecks of dried black paint stuck to her palm.

  “Kids did this,” she said, her voice solemn.

  “Yep.”

  “Why do you think they put their handprints here?”

  “Same reason prisoners scratch their initials on things.”

  “So they won’t be forgotten.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I bet those kids never thought someone would find them after all these years.”

  “Probably not.” Tanner walked over to the door and pulled it open. A dark hallway went left and right. A matching room sat directly across from him, the door hanging by a single hinge. He glanced back at Samantha. “You coming?”

  “Yeah,” she said, turning away from the prints.

  Together, they stepped into the hallway. Samantha pointed her flashlight first in one direction and then the other. In addition to the broken tile, papers, x-rays, and old medical records littered the floor.

  “You feel that?” she said.

  “What?”

  “The air. It’s wet, like someone just turned off a shower.”

  “Just air.”

  “Evil air, like in a dungeon.”

  He glanced over at her. “Been in lots of dungeons, have you?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure this is how they’d feel.” She paused. “I do have one question though.”

  “Don’t ask me if I think there are ghosts living here.”

  She pressed her lips together, saying nothing.

  “Well?”

  “You said not to ask you.”

  He growled. “Stay close, and use your light to show the way, Kolchak.”

  “I don’t know who that is, but I’m sure he had every right to believe in ghosts.”

  “That he did.”

  She inched closer and shined her flashlight down the hallway. The darkness seemed to push at the edges of the beam, as if threatening to reduce it to nothing but a pinpoint of light.

  “Just so you know,” she said as they began their careful advance down the hallway, “ghosts can turn your hair white.”

  “That’s all right. I like white hair.”

  “Well, sure, at your age it’s fine. Past due, even.”

  “Watch it.”

  “Seriously. Name one girl with white hair who’s pretty. Just one.”

  Tanner thought for a moment. “How about that hot chick on Game of Thrones.”

  “Who?”

  “You know. The one with all the dragons.”

  “Dragons?” she said with a spark of childish joy.

  He smiled. “See. White hair might not be so bad after all. Might land you a couple of dragons.”

  They continued down the hall, passing several identical cells, all of them empty.

  Samantha pointed to something on the floor.

  “What’s that?” she said, squinting. “A dead rat?”

  Tanner walked over and picked it up. It wasn’t a rat. It was a thick padded mitt.

  “It’s a glove,” he said, handing it to her.

  She took a moment to examine it. The outside was made of cloth, but there was a thick layer of cotton batting sewn inside. A cord had been tied around the wrist to hold it in place.

  “What do you think they used it for?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe to keep the kids from hurting themselves. Or maybe to give them a good whipping without leaving a mark.”

  “That’s terrible,” she said, carefully setting it back on the floor where they had found it. For some reason, she had a strange feeling that they shouldn’t disturb anything in the old building at the risk of angering the spirits that lived within.

  They continued ahead until they came to a tall decorative arch that passed from one part of the building to another. There were children’s paintings along its frame—a robot that looked like a cross between Iron Man and Optimus Prime, a mermaid with rays of sunlight coming from her hair, and a smiling blue fish with teeth as sharp as any great white’s. All were faded and cracked.

  Samantha scanned the floor, spotting a handful of shotgun shells and some bloody gauze. She touched Tanner’s arm and nodded toward her find.

  “There was a fight here.”

  He used his flashlight to study the walls. They were peppered with small holes from the buckshot. The wall closest to Samantha also had deep dents from where something had struck it. She made a fist and set it against one of the crushed indentations. If someone had hit it, they had hands twice the size of Tanner’s.

  “What could do this?” she said nervously.

  “These walls are old. Probably wouldn’t take much to knock them out.”

  A metallic clang sounded from behind them, and Tanner and Samantha spun around.

  A metal bowl wobbled on the floor, some twenty feet away.

  “I’m pretty sure that wasn’t there when we walked by,” she whispered. “And even if it was…” She left the rest unsaid.

  They stood for nearly a full minute, watching the hallway with weapons firmly in hand. Nothing came for them, and the only sound was that of their breathing.

  “Let’s keep going,” he said, wheeling around.

  Samantha gave the bowl one final loo
k before turning to follow.

  At the end of the hallway was a set of double doors. Faint traces of light shone from underneath. Tanner cautiously tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  Samantha leaned forward and placed an ear to one of the doors.

  “I hear something. It sounds like someone crying.”

  “Sister Clare?”

  She shrugged. “You listen.”

  Tanner placed his ear to the door. It was cold and quiet.

  “Hear it?” she said.

  “Uh—yeah. Real faint.”

  She shook her head. “You’re an awful liar.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m a fabulous liar.” He motioned for her to scoot out of the way. “Stand clear.”

  She hurried around behind him as he lined up for the kick.

  “They’re not going to like this.”

  “Who’s not?”

  “The ghosts.”

  “That’s their problem.” Tanner lunged forward, thrust-kicking the doors with the flat of his foot. The lock broke, and both doors swung open.

  Samantha leaned around him with her rifle ready.

  The room consisted of a large open reception area on one end and something resembling a school cafeteria on the other. Row after row of long metal tables with built-in benches filled most of the space, and a doorway in the far wall opened into a commercial kitchen.

  “Smell that?” she said.

  He took a sniff. There was a pungent smoky odor, acrid and sweet at the same time.

  “What is it?” she said, her face wrinkled.

  Tanner wasn’t entirely sure. Not decomposing bodies. That was an odor they both knew all too well.

  “Burnt food maybe?”

  “And the sound? You hear it now, right?”

  He stood still and listened. There was indeed a gentle whimpering emanating from the kitchen.

  “I hear it.” He cut off his flashlight and stepped into the cafeteria. Thanks to a door along the back wall, the room was lit enough to make out all four corners. No one was lying in wait.

  Samantha drifted toward the kitchen. “I think it’s coming from in there.”

  She passed through the open doorway, discovering that the dishwashers and sinks had been removed, leaving bare plumbing sticking up through the floor. The only appliance that vandals had not managed to steal was a brick kiln set into the wall. A waist-high pile of wood sat next to it, and something smoldered within.

  Samantha listened for a moment. The whimpering had ceased, but she noticed a slick trail of blood leading off to a set of accordion-style pantry doors. Hearing Tanner approaching from behind her, she crossed the room and peered into the open forge. It was hot and fiery, and she drew back to shine her flashlight into the oven.

  “Look,” she said, turning to Tanner. “There’s something sparkly in there.”

  Tanner reached down and grabbed one of the boards from the pile. Using it like a fire poker, he slowly dragged out a small chunk of the flaming mass. Even though it was charred to the point where the bones had started pulling apart, there was no mistaking it for anything but a human hand. A large jeweled ring still clung to one finger, the gold so hot that it seemed to glow.

  “Gross,” she said, drawing back even further. It was far from the most disgusting thing Samantha had ever seen, but when combined with the smell of burning flesh, it was pretty rank. “Do you think it’s Sister Clare?”

  “I doubt it. That’s a pretty fancy bauble for a nun.”

  “But why would they burn someone?”

  “My guess is she probably died here in the building, and they wanted to get rid of the body.”

  Tanner used the board to push the hand back into the fire. He turned abruptly when a moan sounded from behind the pantry door.

  “Someone’s in there. And they’re hurt,” she said, pointing to the blood on the floor.

  Tanner walked over and pulled open the doors, shotgun at the ready. A man sat wedged between two giant bags of dog food, clutching his abdomen. His trousers were soaked in blood, and the foul stench of human waste surrounded him. In addition to the gut wound, his face looked like he had been beaten with a baseball bat, large red hematomas on his cheekbones, forehead, and jaw. He was as big as Tanner, but lean like an athlete—no doubt another of Dr. Langdon’s chosen specimens. Between the bushy mustache and hard set eyes, he reminded Tanner of Stacy Keach, back when he played private detective Mike Hammer.

  “Help me, please,” he croaked.

  Tanner studied the man’s stomach. The wound was uneven with deep jagged bite marks along its periphery. Something had gnawed his belly open, and intestines now bulged out from between his fingers.

  “What happened to you?”

  Keach didn’t seem to hear him, instead continuing his incessant pleading.

  “Listen to me,” Tanner said, lifting the man’s chin. “I’ll get you out of here, but first you need to tell me where you took the nun.”

  “The nun?”

  “That’s right. Where is she?”

  “You’ll help me?”

  Tanner nodded. “Tell me where she is, and I’ll carry you out to Dr. Langdon. He’ll get you patched up in no time.”

  Keach looked down at his belly.

  “I’ll… be okay?”

  “Are you kidding? A few stitches and you’ll be right as rain.”

  Keach swallowed, gagging on something that had bubbled up from his gut.

  “Peery Building, second floor,” he gasped. “You’ll need…” He swallowed again, finding it harder to keep down the bile. “Keys.” He twisted sideways so that Tanner could see the ring of keys hanging from his belt loop.

  Tanner pulled the ring free. There were a dozen keys, but even so, it was a manageable problem.

  He stood up. “Come on, Sam.”

  Bloody fingers reached for him. “You promised!”

  Tanner leaned over so that his face was directly in front of Keach’s.

  “If I were a better man, I’d put a bullet in your head. But I’m not. So you’ll sit here smelling that woman you burned, hoping that whatever did this to you doesn’t come back for a late-night snack.”

  Tanner straightened up and headed toward the set of double doors leading into the Peery Building. Samantha followed after him, taking one final look back at Keach. The big man sat with his eyes closed, face twisted with agony and hopelessness.

  “You were right,” she said, her voice subdued.

  “About what?”

  “You are a fabulous liar.”

  Chapter 15

  Jessie stood beside the RV, wringing her hands.

  “I can’t let you do this. It’s not right.”

  “I don’t see any other way to get Jack out of this mess,” countered Mason. “Do you?”

  Her eyes widened as an idea formed. “I’ll do it. I’ll compete in his place.”

  Mason shook his head. “No, Jessie. This isn’t for you.”

  “Why not? I can—”

  “You’re not a killer. That’s why not. You said so yourself.”

  “But I’m his daughter. I should be the one to stand in his place.”

  “Jack would never allow it. You know that.”

  She pressed her eyes shut. “This whole thing is just so unfair. There’s no way Daddy could have murdered anyone, and whoever’s saying that he did is a liar.”

  “That may well be, but it’s an injustice we’re going to have to live with.”

  “But what if…” She swallowed hard. “What if something happens to you?”

  “If it does, I’ll need you to do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  Mason looked down at Bowie. The big dog lay on his side, occasionally raising his head as if someone in the distance were calling his name.

  “Take care of Bowie for me.”

  Jessie squatted down and gently scrubbed Bowie’s belly. In response, he rolled onto his back, hoping for something a bit more vigorous.

  �
�Of course, I’d take care of him.” She stopped and looked up at Mason. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why are you? You don’t even know Daddy, not really.”

  He smiled. “No, but I know you.”

  She nodded, her eyes clouding.

  Mason looked off toward the parade grounds to the south. A large crowd was gathering. The tournament would be getting underway soon.

  “We’d better get over there before this thing starts.”

  Jessie stood up and wiped her eyes. Bowie took notice and rolled to his feet. As they started toward the open field, Jessie reached out and took Mason’s hand. It surprised him, but he said nothing, content to feel her fingers pressing against his. Bowie trudged along behind them, pausing only to smell the occasional passerby.

  After nudging their way through the thick crowd of spectators, they arrived at the edge of the parade grounds. Chest-high steel barriers had been erected along both sides for spectators to duck behind them, should the need arise. Tractor-trailers had also been parked at either end to act as backstops. In the center of the field were two rows of old cars, spaced about twenty yards apart. Mason suspected they were likely put there to act as cover for the upcoming challenge.

  Like opposing football teams, the Fallen stood to one side, and the gunfighters to the other, the difference being that the Fallen also had a contingent of armed guards to act as cheerleaders.

  “Come on,” he said, leading Jessie by the hand. “Let’s go find out how this thing works.”

  They hurried across the open field to find Leroy standing in front of a makeshift wooden scoreboard.

  “Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.

  She nodded, a coldness in her eyes.

  “Believe me,” he said, “I understand your sentiments completely.” His voice softened. “Have you had a chance to speak with your father?”

  “No,” she said, turning to face the prisoners. “Is he here?”

  “I had him pulled from the line.” Leroy pointed, and she spotted two guards standing next to her father at the far end of the field.

  “Is it all right if I go to him?”

  “Of course.”

  She looked to Mason, and he nodded.

  “Go on. Explain things to him.”