Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5)

by Arthur Bradley

  The room reeked of cigar smoke. Samantha paused and breathed it in a few times. The smell was both objectionable and strangely comforting. Her father had smoked cigars on special occasions, and while she had consistently voiced her objections, the odor had subconsciously become associated with times of joy and family celebration.

  She swallowed hard. The pain of her father’s death was a loss that she had been unable to share with anyone, including her own mother. Tanner had asked about him a few times, but when she showed reluctance, he had let the matter drop. He was good about that. He was good about lots of things. But despite their pretending to be father and daughter, he would never replace her real father… her dad. Nor, she suspected, did he want to. They had developed their own relationship, one that was impossible to put into words. She loved him, and he loved her. That was all she could really say for sure.

  Samantha moved to the other side of the desk and began rifling through its drawers. She found an assortment of papers, pens, staplers, scissors, and a small black metal canister, but no key. She picked up the canister and studied it. The word “FOX” was written in big green letters, and a cartoon of a fox’s head was printed in the middle of the “O.” Below the brand name were the words “Mean Green.” On the back of the canister were warnings about it being the hottest pepper spray in the world, citing three million Scoville heat units, whatever that meant. She stuck the canister in her pocket, intending to ask Tanner about it later.

  Next, she moved over to examine the filing cabinet. Inside were hundreds of folders, most of them stuffed full of receipts and promissory notes. Still, no key. She was about to make a last ditch effort and rifle through the bookshelves when she noticed a flat wooden box sitting on the corner of the desk. It had a dried leaf inlaid on the lid. She slid the box closer and opened it. Inside was a stack of thick tapered cigars, each with a simple red and white band that read Montecristo. Next to the cigars lay a silver cutter and a small ring of keys.

  Samantha lifted out one of the cigars and sniffed it. It smelled woody and earthy, not at all like the pungent odor they put off when burning. She thought about taking a few for Tanner but decided against it. He certainly didn’t need another bad habit. Besides, she didn’t want to risk clouding the memories that she had of her real father.

  She returned the cigar to its rightful place in the box and picked up the ring of keys. She smiled, swinging it around her finger.

  Mission accomplished.

  By the time Tanner got the motorcycle running, it was nearly dusk, and Samantha suggested that they spend the night in the pawnshop.

  “You just want to look through all this cool stuff,” he teased.

  She shrugged. “Is that okay?”

  “Fine by me,” he said, picking up a stack of green Army blankets. “Look around to your heart’s content. I’ll get the beds ready.”

  Samantha spent the next forty-five minutes dumping out boxes and marveling at the wonders inside. When the storage room finally became too dark to see, she returned and sat down on the blankets next to Tanner.

  “Find anything?”

  “A deck of cards and this,” she said, touching a small silver locket hanging around her neck.

  “I didn’t take you for a girly girl.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You know… perfume, makeup, jewelry, foo-foo sponges in the shower.”

  “Foo-foo sponges?”

  He grinned. “Let me see the cards.”

  She tossed him the pack of playing cards. They were printed during the first Gulf War and featured the faces of Iraqi leaders. He dumped the cards into his palm and gave them a good shuffle.

  “What do you want to play?”

  She thought a moment.

  “Go Fish?”

  “No.”

  “Old Maid?”

  He growled. “Stay here.”

  Tanner got up, rummaged through a few boxes and finally returned carrying a large handful of collectible coins. He dumped them onto the blanket, dividing the pile in half.

  “Those are yours. These are mine.”

  She held up one of the coins. It was an old wheat back penny.

  “What am I supposed to do with them?”

  “We’re going to play poker.”

  “Like in Las Vegas?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You really think it’s appropriate to teach a twelve-year-old to play poker?”

  “It’s part of your survival training.”

  She looked amused. “Really? How’s poker going to help me survive?”

  “You never know. Maybe some day your life will depend on whether you can win a hand of cards. It’s happened before. Besides, as I’ve told you countless times, I’m here to teach you life’s lessons.”

  “If you say so,” she said with a shrug. “I should warn you, though, I’m very lucky at cards.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, tossing one of his coins onto the blanket. “Now, ante up, Poke Alice.”

  For the next hour, they played poker by candlelight: five-card draw, seven-card stud, blackjack, and Texas hold ’em. True to her claim, she won his coins hand after hand. In the end, he had but a single coin remaining, a 1913 Buffalo nickel.

  “It looks like you won,” he said, clutching the last coin.

  “Not yet. You still have one coin.”

  “I’m keeping this one.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  He held the coin up for her to see.

  “This one’s really valuable.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I used to collect coins. A 1913 Buffalo nickel is extremely rare.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. Much more valuable than all those other coins.”

  Samantha looked down at her pile of coins, and they suddenly seemed to lose their luster.

  “It’s not fair that you get to keep the really valuable coin.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” he said, rubbing the coin between his fingers. “It’s just that you’re so good at this game. I really don’t want to lose it.”

  “I know, but it’s only fair that I have a chance to win it.”

  He made a pained face as if struggling with the decision.

  “One chance. That’s it.”

  Her eyes lit up as she nodded.

  “But the wager needs to be fair. Since this one is so valuable, I’ll bet it against all your other coins. We’ll each draw a single card. If your card is bigger than mine, you get to keep my special coin. If mine’s bigger, I get your pile. Fair?”

  She nodded. “Sure, that’s fair.”

  He held out the deck and let her draw a card. It was a ten of diamonds. Good but not great. Tanner slid the top card off the deck and flipped it over. It was a queen of spades. He tossed it down next to her card.

  “Looks like I won.” He reached across and made a point of slowly dragging the entire pile of coins to his side of the blanket. When he looked up, she was squinting at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she grumbled.

  He grinned. “Like I said, darlin’. I’m here to teach you life’s lessons.”

  Chapter 14

  Mason shut off the forklift but left it parked in front of the heavy doors. The creatures on the other side continued to beat and bang with unchecked fury, but they appeared to be no closer to getting through. Satisfied with the barricade, he hopped down and hurried over to Leila and Bowie. The dog lay with his head in her lap, eyes closed and tongue snaking in and out of his mouth. His sides were heaving up and down as if it hurt to breathe. The wounded soldier lay nearby, still unconscious and leaning against one of the heavy tote bags.

  Mason squatted down and stroked the dog.

  “Are you sleeping on the job again?”

  Bowie opened one eye and then closed it.

  “I think he’s hurt,” said Leila.

&
nbsp; Starting at his head, Mason carefully examined Bowie for injuries. When he got to the dog’s rib cage, Bowie gave a little whimper.

  “That’s the spot, huh?” He gently slid his fingers along each rib. He couldn’t feel a break, and there were no signs of crepitus. Likely, nothing was broken. Even so, bruised ribs could be painful for a few days.

  “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

  “He might have a bruised rib or two, but mostly I think he’s just winded.” Mason leaned down and kissed Bowie on the head. “You rest a while.”

  Bowie lifted his head slightly and licked Mason’s face. Mason let him lick him for a moment, and when he finally pulled away, the dog stood up to get in a parting shot or two.

  Mason shifted his attention to the soldier. The man was sweating profusely, but his skin was cool to the touch. He checked his pulse. It was weak and beating rapidly. The bleeding around the compound fracture had stopped, but the injury had already taken a huge toll on his body.

  “Leila, give me a hand with him. I think he’s going into shock.”

  She hurried over and, together, they loosened the man’s clothing as they carefully laid him out on the concrete floor. Mason grabbed a small bucket sitting near one of the totes and used it to gently prop up the man’s feet. The elevation of extremities would increase blood flow to the brain, as well as help to minimize further bleeding. Once they had him situated, Mason retrieved an armful of uniforms hanging from wall pegs and draped them across the man’s chest.

  As he covered him up, he noticed a patch on the soldier’s sleeve, depicting a growling dog.

  “These men are Black Dogs.”

  “Which are what exactly? Special forces?”

  “They’re a black ops team who specialize in search and destroy missions, very dangerous men who don’t mind a little wet work.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “It means they definitely weren’t here to capture Lenny or even gather information. This was a kill team.”

  Leila pulled on Mason’s arm, and they stepped away a few feet.

  “Whoever he is,” she whispered, “he doesn’t look so good.”

  “No, but without fluids or oxygen, there’s not much else we can do. If he goes into hypovolemic shock, his organs will shut down, and that’ll be that.”

  “I don’t mean to sound cold, but what do we do with him?”

  Mason glanced at his watch. It was nearly seven in the evening.

  “If I were in his shoes, I’d want a fighting chance. What do you say we give him one?”

  “How?”

  “Let’s stay with him through the night and see if his condition improves.”

  She eyed Mason with suspicion.

  “You want us to spend the night together? Here, in this factory?”

  “What?” he said with a grin. “You never wanted to make out in a peanut butter factory?”

  She laughed. “Sorry. By now, you’d think I would have figured out that you’re one of the good guys.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I imagine that a woman who looks like you has spent her whole life having to worry about men’s intentions.”

  “But not with you, right?”

  He winked. “I never said that.”

  Leila awoke to find Bowie nuzzling against her neck. She reached up to push him away only to discover that her entire collar was soaked with dog slobber.

  “Gross,” she said, sitting up.

  Mason was a few feet away, kneeling next to the injured soldier.

  “How is he?”

  He shook his head. “Not good. If we don’t get him some medical attention pretty soon, he’s going to die.”

  She slid Bowie over a little and stretched.

  “What should we do?” She glanced over at the small service door leading out into the plant. “We can’t very well navigate the dark halls carrying him.”

  While she was sleeping, Mason had worked through the various options. The easiest choice would have been for them to leave the soldier. He would die, but then again, people were dying every day. Still, something didn’t sit right with Mason about leaving a fellow soldier to die alone in a dark room. On the other hand, they had no supplies and couldn’t very well hang around hoping that the man recovered.

  “I’ll make my way out to their helicopter and get their trauma kit.”

  “And then what?”

  “I’ll come back, and we’ll see if we can stabilize him. If it looks like he’s going to pull through, we can craft some kind of gurney. But we can’t do that until we have a clear path out.”

  Leila weighed his plan. “What you’re saying makes sense, but I don’t like the idea of being left here alone.”

  “Bowie will stay and protect you.”

  Still sleeping, Bowie rolled onto his back and poked his legs up into the air.

  “Yes, I can see that he’s taking his job very seriously.”

  “He’ll come through when you need him.” Mason slipped his jacket back on and adjusted his holster. “The sooner I get going, the sooner I’ll be back.”

  “Here,” she said, standing up and handing him the M4. “You’ll need this.”

  What Leila said made sense, but it would leave her almost defenseless. A rifle could be propped on something and fired with a bum hand fairly easily. Not so with the Beretta semi-automatic handgun.

  “You keep it for now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He patted the Supergrade. “This should be enough for finding a way out.” Mason looked down at the soldier. “There is one thing that would make it easier.”

  He bent over and gently pulled the optics harness off the man’s head. The unit was a standard military-issue PVS-14 night vision monocular. The PVS-14 had been around for more than a decade and was considered both reliable and functional. Like other night vision devices, it performed image intensification using both ambient visible and infrared light.

  Mason slipped the harness over his head and adjusted the straps until everything felt snug. The monocular hung down in front of his left eye, leaving his dominant eye free to aim the Supergrade. Having used the PVS-14 numerous times as an Army Ranger, he was sufficiently familiar with its controls and operation.

  He clicked the unit on, adjusted its gain, and watched as the ghostly green image slowly materialized. Leaving both eyes open, he scanned the room. The chemlight still glowed dimly from the center of the room, and his brain had to sort the visible and enhanced images. Similar to hearing a foreign language in one ear and a translation in the other, he quickly adapted to extract and combine the most important aspects from each image.

  “Is it working?” she asked.

  “Perfectly.”

  “You’re not going to have any moon or starlight. Does it have some sort of light?”

  “It does.” Mason pulled the power button, and the infrared illuminator turned on. The image grew brighter, and he could now see into the furthest corners of the room. “The infected have their black eyes, and I’ve got this. I’d say that puts us about even.”

  Bowie started to snore, and both of them turned to look.

  “My guard dog,” she snickered.

  Mason walked over and squatted down next to the dog. Bowie jerked awake and rolled to his feet. Mason reached out and held the dog’s head with both hands, partly to make him feel loved but mostly to keep him from licking the optics.

  “You stay here and watch Leila,” he said softly.

  Seeming to understand the message perfectly, Bowie whined.

  “She needs you. Besides, you don’t like the dark, and Leila has our only flashlight.”

  Bowie looked over at Leila, and she flicked the flashlight on and off a few times. Mason gave Bowie one final pat and stood back up. Seeing that the decision was firm, Bowie hung his head and wandered over to stand beside her.

  Mason shook his head. Bowie was never above milking a situation for all it was worth.

  Leila stepped toward
Mason. She ended up a little closer than she had intended, but neither of them retreated.

  “You’re a decent man, Marshal Raines.”

  “Why? Because I didn’t try to sleep with you?”

  She blushed. “That too. But I was referring to what you’re doing for this soldier. Not many men would go to this kind of trouble to save a stranger. Especially one they might have to shoot tomorrow.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I’ve seen too many men left behind.”

  As he turned and started toward the door, she called out, “By the way, the answer is maybe.”

  “What?”

  “You asked me if I’d ever wanted to make out in a peanut butter plant.” She smiled. “The answer is maybe.”

  He grinned. “Good to know.”

  Mason walked down the long hallway, the heel of his boots thudding softly against the tile floor. The hallway had doors along each side but was without windows, making the passage as dark as any underground cavern. The total darkness, as it turned out, actually made it easier. One eye saw the green image from the intensifier, while the other was completely blind.

  Papers, chairs, and overturned carts littered the hallway. There were plenty of dead bodies too, clumps of dried skin, bones, and hair shriveled on dark cadaver stains. Dark bloody smears led away from some of the corpses, the result of pieces being dragged off by scavengers. There were, however, no signs of life.

  He carefully stepped over a corpse, instinctively putting his hand on the grip of his Supergrade as if expecting it to suddenly reach up and grab his ankle. While some lawmen might have questioned his decision to keep the weapon holstered, Mason believed that it not only helped to reduce the chance of an accidental shooting, it also kept him from inadvertently thinking that everything should be solved with a gun—the classic hammer-and-nail syndrome.

  He continued along the hallway until he came to an intersection that split left and right. He was pretty sure that if he turned left, he would end up back in the main factory—somewhere he most definitely did not want to be. Whether or not the pishtacos were willing to come out into the smaller hallways was not something he could say for sure. So far, it was just him and the dead bodies, and that was how he preferred to keep it.