The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

Jessie sat next to her father on one of the RV’s long benches, the engine and air conditioner both running. The cool air felt particularly wonderful to Bowie who hovered over a vent with his mouth open and eyes closed. Mason leaned against one of the storage closets, his arms crossed in front of him.

  “I don’t understand this at all,” Jessie said, clearly frustrated. “Why would you continue to put your life at risk? Daddy’s free. We can leave this wretched place.”

  “He’s doing it out of a sense of duty,” explained Jack.

  She stared at her father. “But even if he miraculously won all of his matches, most of those poor souls still won’t go free.”

  “My goal isn’t to set them free. It’s to help people lose their taste for this tournament.” When Mason saw her about to protest further, he said, “Do you remember that boy selling peanuts on the side of the road?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t want him following in these men’s footsteps.”

  “I understand that. I really do. But you’re taking too much on yourself.”

  “Maybe. But right now I’m the only one standing in their way.”

  “That’s… that’s—”

  “Noble?” he said, cracking a smile.

  She snorted. “I was going to say nuts!”

  Their eyes met, and her gaze softened.

  “Isn’t there something I can say that will change your mind?”

  He gently shook his head. “I’ve been told I’m very stubborn. I think I got that from my father.”

  She offered a resigned sigh. “Just know for the record, I’m one hundred percent against this.”

  “Duly noted.” With the matter as settled as it was likely to get, Mason turned to Jack. “Maybe it’s time you tell us what happened.”

  Jack leaned back and took a deep breath.

  “There’s not a whole lot to tell. A man approached me yesterday afternoon and asked if I’d come in from out of town to trade. I told him I had, and that I was looking for a few dresses for my daughter.” He glanced over at Jessie.

  “Daddy, you didn’t need to buy me dresses.”

  “I wanted to do something nice for you. I know it’s been hard since your mother passed.”

  “What did this man look like?” Mason pictured Ramsey’s scarred face, wondering if he might have been involved.

  “He was small and wiry, like a jockey. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Said his name was Jeremy Wilde, and spoke with a slight accent, English or Australian, maybe.”

  None of that lined up with Ramsey.

  “Go on.”

  “He said he could find the dresses for me in exchange for an antique clock that I’d brought to trade.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “A couple of hours later he showed up with three of the nicest little dresses you’ve ever seen. We exchanged items and that was that. I didn’t see him again.”

  “But something went wrong.”

  Jack nodded. “Later, when I was packing up to go home, a man and a woman approached me, mad as hornets. Said I’d been spotted stealing their stuff and demanded I let them search my truck.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, not at first. I figured it was some kind of scam, so I told them to go to hell. We had words, and people started taking notice. If I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s that getting noticed is never a good thing. Not wanting to draw too much attention, I finally gave in.”

  “And?”

  “And as soon as the woman laid eyes on the dresses, she started hollering about how they belonged to her daughter.” He glanced at Jessie. “I tried to talk some sense into them. I really did. But the more I said, the madder they got. Finally, I told them to just take the dresses, that I didn’t want any trouble.”

  “Did that calm them down?” asked Mason.

  “It did the man. Unfortunately, his wife kept pressing him to make an example out of me.”

  “And did he?”

  “He tried.” Jack rubbed his swollen nose. “While I may not look like much, I’ve been in a few fights over the years. When it was all said and done, he was the one on the ground. I started to leave, but his wife still wouldn’t let it go. She kept on until her husband got up and came at me with a knife.” He swallowed.

  “You shot him?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  “But it was self-defense,” Jessie argued, reaching over to hold her father’s hand. “You shouldn’t have been arrested for that.”

  He shrugged. “A few of the local law enforcement types held me until they could investigate. Once they did, they claimed that I was a thief and a murderer.”

  “Were the items really hers?” asked Mason.

  “Probably. I figure the little guy stole them in order to make the trade. Honestly, the whole thing doesn’t make sense. Why would someone go to all that trouble just to get an old clock?”

  Mason shook his head. “It wasn’t about the clock.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was about you, Jack.”

  “Me? I’m nobody.”

  “Exactly. You’re an outsider, without anyone to vouch for you.”

  “True, but no one has reason to wish me harm either.”

  “That’s not the point. It wasn’t personal—it was business. They needed to pad the ranks for the tournament.”

  Jack sat up straight. “You think they set me up?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s one more reason to get out of here,” exclaimed Jessie.

  Mason nodded. “I agree. You and Jack should take his truck and head home. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Bowie let out a loud yawn and everyone turned his direction.

  “Correction. Bowie and I will be along shortly.”

  “But we can’t just leave you here,” she said. “Not after what you’ve done for us.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mason looked over at Jack. “Your father’s been cleared of the charges, but it doesn’t mean that the man’s family or friends aren’t going to come looking for their own justice. I know I would.”

  “He’s right,” said Jack. “If I stay here, it’s going to put all of us in danger.” He turned to Jessie. “We need to leave. Now.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Not only might the man’s family come for me, the organizers of this little tournament might as well. If I really was set up, they may see me as a loose end.” Jack got to his feet, and Jessie held an arm to help steady him.

  Mason straightened, and when he did, Bowie raised his head.

  “It’s settled then. You two will head home while Bowie and I get a few answers.”

  “How are you planning to do that?” asked Jessie.

  “Simple. I’m going to ask Jeremy Wilde where he got those dresses.”

  It was approaching dusk by the time Mason walked Jessie and Jack to their pickup truck. He offered the appropriate farewells, a firm handshake for Jack and a warm hug for Jessie. She seemed to want to say something more to him, but settled for a quiet squeeze of his hand.

  As they drove away, Mason and Bowie stood next to the RV, watching as the truck disappeared in the distance. Bowie turned to him and whimpered. Mason couldn’t be sure whether the dog was thinking of Jessie or the beef jerky, but he knew which was on his mind.

  “Maybe we’ll see them again one day,” he said softly.

  Bowie cocked his head as if he didn’t understand.

  “Besides, it’s better this way. A girl that nice didn’t need to be hanging around with the likes of us.”

  Bowie turned back to the road, perhaps hoping to catch one final glimpse of the truck. He didn’t. Jessie and her father were gone.

  Mason turned and walked north, toward the clubhouse. Bowie calmly trotted beside him, doing his part as the steadfast companion. They wandered past a large crowd settling bets. None were particularly happy to see Mason.


  “You cost me a lot of money,” one man shouted.

  Mason continued on, saying nothing. Engaging in a shouting match with a crowd that had lost money was a good way to wind up face down behind a dumpster.

  As he circled the clubhouse, a woman in her sixties hurried toward him. Her grown son clopped along behind her, as if wearing shoes three sizes too big. Physically, he was every bit a man, but there was a vacant look in his eyes that suggested he didn’t have all of his faculties. Neither of them seemed intent on congratulating Mason on his industrious win, and he stopped and squared himself as they approached.

  “Where is he?” the woman demanded.

  “Who?”

  “That murderer you saved. The man who killed my husband!”

  “He’s gone.”

  She spat on his shirt. “You bastard.”

  Bowie didn’t like the tenor of the conversation and brushed past Mason with a growl. The woman’s son reached behind his back, and when he did, Mason placed a hand on the Supergrade.

  “You’d better be reaching for a dog biscuit.”

  The young man turned to his mother, and she gave a quick shake of her head. He shrugged and let his hand fall back by his side.

  Mason turned to the woman. Even though he could understand her rage, he would not permit unchecked violence. Neither did he bother saying the meaningless “I’m sorry for your loss.” In all his years, he had never once seen those five words make a damn bit of difference.

  Instead, he said, “It wasn’t my intent to rob you of your justice.”

  “Your intentions don’t mean a damn thing,” she snarled. “Only what you’ve done.”

  She was right, of course. The old saying about good intentions paving the way to Hell was spot on.

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “How did you and your husband learn that Jack stole your dresses?”

  “What’s that matter?”

  “I’m guessing that a short man with blonde hair tipped you off.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How’d you know that?”

  “I know because he’s the one who gave the items to Jack.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  He shrugged. “Believe what you want. But if I’m right, that man is the one truly responsible for your husband’s death.”

  She looked over at her son. “Lucas, you ever seen him around before?”

  He thought for a moment. “Yes, Momma, a few times.”

  “Where?”

  He pointed to the throng of trading stalls to the south.

  “Near that booth that sells the maple candy.”

  The old woman turned back to Mason.

  “Why would he steal our things, give them to someone else, and then tell us he had them? That don’t make no sense.”

  “Maybe you should ask him. It could be that your anger is misplaced.”

  “Or it could be you’re full of donkey shit.”

  Mason chuckled. “Could be.”

  She stared at him a bit longer before turning to her son.

  “Come on, Lucas. Let’s go see if we can find him before it gets dark.”

  They took a wide circle around Bowie as they marched toward the open-air market. Mason followed for a time but eventually lost them in the crowd. The smell of food was thick in the air, as many of the booths had switched over to selling supper. There was everything from rabbit stew to goat kabobs, and despite reminding himself that hygiene was no doubt lacking, Mason found himself walking ever closer to the stalls.

  Bowie pressed the point by tipping his nose into the air and taking deep whiffs of the food.

  “Fine,” he said. “But if I get sick, I’m blaming you.”

  Mason stopped at the nearest stall and exchanged a few credits for several thick slices of pork and an enormous yeast roll soaked in butter. He made his way out of the market and sat with his back pressed to an oak tree to enjoy his supper. The bread proved a bit chewy, but the pork was delicious. Bowie seemed to agree with his assessment, wolfing down the meat as fast as Mason could toss it to him.

  As they were eating, Mason kept a watchful eye on the market, hoping that he might catch a glimpse of Jeremy Wilde. Dozens of people moved in and out, making it impossible to watch them all, and he eventually settled against the tree to enjoy the coming sunset.

  Bowie lay beside him, the big dog doing his best to extract a twig that had gotten tangled in his fur. Mason reached over and pulled it free, holding it out for him to inspect.

  “Thumbs, my friend. They make all the difference.”

  Bowie sniffed the twig and gently pulled it from his fingers to chew on.

  Mason smiled. “Fair enough. You’ve got your ways, and we’ve got ours.”

  A shadow came over them, and Mason wheeled around, drawing his pistol as he rose to one knee. The old widow stood alone, looking down at him.

  “What do you want?” he said, holstering the weapon.

  “I know where he is.”

  “Who?”

  “The man you claim stole my dresses.”

  “Okay. Where is he?”

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you.”

  Mason stood, and Bowie did the same.

  “Why didn’t you and your son just deal with him?”

  “I’m an old woman, in case you didn’t notice. And Lucas, well, he ain’t quite right. Even if he was, I wouldn’t want him getting caught up in something like this. Next thing you know, they’d put him in with the Fallen.”

  “Better me than him, is that it?”

  “Hell yes, better you than him. Besides, you owe me.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You freed the man who killed my husband. The least you can do is help avenge his death.”

  The woman turned, and against his better judgment, Mason followed. They walked north, passing the clubhouse to enter the housing district. Neat rows of mobile homes lined both sides of the street. A few people still milled about, preparing for nightfall, but most had retreated to the safety of their homes. There were no streetlights or electric lighting, and the only light shining through windows was the soft glow of candles.

  When they arrived at the end of the street, the woman walked over and ducked behind a car. Lucas was already kneeling behind it, his eyes fixed on the nearest mobile home. He cradled a Bushmaster AR-15 in both hands.

  “Is he still in there?” she asked.

  He nodded vigorously. “I’ve been watching the whole time, just like you said, Momma.”

  She turned to Mason. “We found him. Now you go do the rest.”

  All in all, it seemed like a fair request. Even so, he said, “I’m not here to kill him. I’m here to question him.”

  “If you don’t do what’s right, we will.”

  There seemed no point in discussing it any further, so Mason turned to Bowie and said, “Come on, boy. Let’s go see if anyone’s home.”

  Mason approached at an angle, doing his best to stay out of the front window’s line of sight. He paused at the end of the home and hopped onto the metal trailer that protruded from underneath. A small window allowed him to peek inside, but he could only make out a bed and an antique dresser. Violin music sounded from further within, but with the bedroom door closed, he couldn’t determine whether it was live or from a battery-operated player.

  He paused to consider his options. If he had been trying to breach the home, or simply lay siege to it, a whole assortment of tactics could be employed. Given the uncertainty of the situation, however, Mason decided to keep it simple.

  He continued around the front of the home, climbed the concrete steps, and rapped on the door.

  The music stopped. Definitely live, not a music player.

  He knocked again, this time stepping out from in front of the door. Old habits die hard.

  After a few seconds, the door inched open. A man peered out, short, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. When he spoke, there was a slight E
nglish accent.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’d like to have a word with you, Mr. Wilde.”

  “Sorry,” he said, closing the door. “I’m quite busy at the moment.”

  Mason stepped forward and placed his boot in the way of the door.

  “Make time.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Let’s just say that we have a mutual acquaintance.” Mason peered past him into the mobile home. A museum-quality M1 Garand leaned against the couch. It was a big weapon for such a small man, and he wondered if it was as much for show as it was self-defense. “Mind if Bowie and I come in?”

  Wilde glanced at Mason’s badge and then over at Bowie.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not so much, no.”

  He stepped aside. “Then by all means, come in.”

  Bowie went in first, sniffing his way around the man’s living room like someone had hidden a box of Bil-Jacs.

  Wilde motioned toward a violin leaning against an open case.

  “While it’s not quite a Stradivarius, it is my most precious belonging. If you don’t mind, I’d like to put it away.”

  “Go ahead,” Mason said, resting his hand on the Supergrade. “Just don’t make me nervous.”

  “Of course.” Wilde picked up the violin and gently placed it into the case.

  “How long have you been playing?”

  “Almost four years,” he said, snapping the case shut. “As I’m sure you heard, I’m still quite the beginner.”

  “It sounded pretty good to me.”

  He offered a gracious smile. “You’re too kind. But, alas, like so many things, I’m afraid it’s a dying art.”

  Once the violin was safely stowed, Wilde walked over and took a seat on the couch. The M1 Garand remained within reach.

  “I’d appreciate you keeping clear of that rifle.”

  Wilde smiled. “Says the man with his hand on a gun.”

  “A necessary evil of my profession, I’m afraid.”

  Wilde slid to the other end of the couch.

  “Better?”

  Mason nodded, turning to look around the mobile home. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a coffee table, and a small dinette set. Everything looked old but expensive, like they had been procured from a wealthy estate.

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “Indeed,” he said with a smile.