Big John took another step forward.
Mason clenched his jaw, calling up a fiery anger. He had found that unlike a gunfight, hand-to-hand combat was often more about rage than it was control. Things moved fast, and the best way to be the one left standing was to adopt an animal-like ferocity. In other words, it required becoming a nasty sonofabitch. And that, Mason suspected, was why his father was so damned good at it.
He flipped the knife around so that the spine of the blade lay flat against his forearm. As experienced as he was with a knife, it was going to require a little bit of luck and a whole lot of ugly to get past Big John.
The giant charged, cocking the wrench back as he ran. Mason had only a split second to react, swinging the flashlight up to flood the man’s face while dropping to one knee.
Whoosh!
The wrench sliced through the air overhead, smashing into a tangle of pipes and electrical conduits.
Mason arced the blade up, slicing through Big John’s gracillis and adductor muscles on the inside of his thigh. He continued through the motion, severing the femoral artery. As the blade pulled free, a warm spray spurted across Mason’s face, and he pressed his lips together to prevent the diseased blood from getting into his mouth.
Big John teetered as he brought his weapon high overhead.
Sensing the wrench plummeting toward his head like a lumberjack’s axe, Mason dropped prone, landing on his forearms. Once down, he used the flashlight to brace the front of Big John’s ankle while reaching around to slide the knife across his Achilles tendon.
No sooner had the blade made its mark, than Big John began to fall. Rather than try to escape out the back, Mason scrambled forward, pushing his way between the man’s legs. Even as he pressed ahead, he dragged the knife across the inside of Big John’s calf, hoping to bring new meaning to the phrase “death by a thousand cuts.”
Big John collapsed so quickly that his enormous body trapped Mason’s legs beneath him. Mason grunted and tried to wriggle forward but found himself pinned belly side down, free only to twist at the waist. Unwilling to let him go, Big John grabbed one of his ankles and pulled it toward his mouth.
Mason whipped the blade around sideways, sticking the would-be cannibal in the ribs. Big John screamed and reached for the knife, but Mason quickly passed it to his other hand and repeated the same stabbing motion on the opposite side.
Frantic to stop the incessant sting of the blade, Big John flopped backward, hoping to smother Mason with his massive body. It worked. Mason found himself pressed flat against the corrugated walkway, gasping for air.
Big John twisted onto his belly, but as he did, Mason managed to roll as well. They ended up face to face, giant against mortal. As Big John brought his hands to Mason’s throat, the knife slid into his gut, puncturing his gall bladder, stomach, and kidney. Big John tried to press up off the blade, but his muscles were growing weaker by the second.
Mason twisted the knife and drove it deeper, carving through the man’s intestines and nicking his liver before grinding to a stop against his spine. Big John’s bladder and bowels let go, soaking both of their trousers in a pool of warm urine. His eyes fluttered and his body shook violently before falling forward with an ungainly slop.
Mason took a deep breath and rolled him off to one side. The knife was buried nearly to the pommel in Big John’s belly, and he had to push aside bulging, slick intestines to wriggle it free.
Half-expecting the butchered body to sit up and reach for him, Mason eyed Big John warily as he took a moment to calm himself. When he felt steady enough, he stood up and flicked blood and bile from his fingers, once again reminded that killing with a blade was messy business. As he went to stow the knife, he noticed that its tip had snapped off, leaving behind a jagged point.
He shook his head with disappointment. The knife had served him well on more than one occasion. He sheathed it anyway, accepting that a broken knife was better than no knife at all.
Bowie’s incessant barking prompted him to walk over and open the hatch. The wolfhound darted in, his head whipping from side to side as he searched for the enemy. When he discovered that the fight was over, he wagged his tail and pressed up against his master’s legs.
Mason bent over and patted his side.
“Next time, I’d appreciate an assist.”
Bowie became still and looked up at him.
“Yes, I realize there was a door in your way. But whose fault was that?”
Bowie let out a soft whine and fell up against him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, pulling him close. “I forgive you.”
After retrieving his flashlight and Supergrade, Mason continued his steadfast advance into the belly of the ship. A set of steps led down to a short hallway, at the end of which was a makeshift campsite. On the far side was yet another stairway.
Several green army blankets lay spread across the floor, with a woman’s coat rolled up to act as a pillow. A pipe ran down along one wall, at the end of which was a water spigot and a short length of green hose. A small puddle had collected at the end of the hose. A case of emergency rations sat at the foot of the bed, and resting next to it was a covered five-gallon bucket. Mason thought the bucket likely contained human waste, but the stench of diesel was so strong that making that determination would have required going over and popping the top off—something he was most definitely not willing to do.
He kicked aside the blankets, and a blood-stained machete clattered across the floor. Mason assumed that it was what had been used to kill the family of squatters.
Bowie wandered over and gave it a quick sniff.
“Leave it, boy. That thing’s as cursed as Lizzie Borden’s axe.” Mason turned and started down the stairs.
Bowie took one last whiff before traipsing after him.
At the bottom of the steps, the hallway opened into the ship’s engine room. The drive system was as big as a school bus and consisted of an intricate array of valves and copper tubing. Mason could see a thick stainless steel shaft protruding from the far end, presumably leading off to a giant propeller located along the vessel’s stern.
Two enormous fuel tanks ran along either side of the hull. One of the tanks had been punctured by a large pipe that had broken free, leaving the entire landing floating in three feet of diesel oil. The other tank appeared to be intact, as did the hull.
The smell was bordering on toxic, and Mason held a hand over his mouth and nose as he stood atop the landing and swept his flashlight around the engine compartment. In addition to the drive system and fuel tanks, he saw several large generators used to produce the ship’s onboard electricity.
He had no idea how much fuel was in the ship, but it was surely north of a hundred thousand gallons. Finding it was one thing. Getting it out would be quite another. But that, he thought, was for another day. Just setting eyes on the fuel confirmed that the venture hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
“Come on, boy,” he said, looking down at Bowie. “Let’s go get some fresh air.”
They turned and retraced their steps, passing through the various stairwells and exiting back out onto the deck. After making their way around to the main wheelhouse door, they squeezed through the narrow passage, grabbed their gear, and headed for higher ground. When they got back to top of the wheelhouse, Mason lifted Bowie onto the gangplank and coaxed him to make his way across. Once the dog was safely back on the bridge, Mason stepped up and followed in his footsteps.
As he approached the tanker, Dix couldn’t help but notice that Mason’s clothes were soaked in blood and other bodily fluids.
“Jesus, Top! You okay?”
“It’s not my blood,” he said, sliding his pack across the seat and digging out a bottle of water and a fresh change of clothes.
Cam poked his head around through the passenger side window.
“You delivering babies down there?”
Mason grinned. “Something like that.”
“Find anything
useful? A boxcar filled with Omaha Steaks maybe?”
“No steaks, but plenty of diesel fuel.”
Cam nodded. “No doubt they’ll have us coming back for it in a few days.”
Mason pulled off his shirt and pants and flung them over the side of the bridge. Even a whole box of Tide wasn’t going to get out that mess. He took a few moments to quickly wipe himself down and slip on a black t-shirt and a fresh pair of trousers. As he did, he told them about his encounter with Big John.
When he was finally put back together, he said, “All right, let’s get back to it.”
Dix shook his head, as if amazed by what he was seeing.
“What?”
“What do you mean ‘What?’ You come back soaked in another man’s blood and piss, and two minutes later you’re ready to push on without so much as a shot of Jack Daniels. I’m beginning to believe what folks say about you, Marshal.”
“And what’s that?”
“That something ain’t quite right about you.”
Mason shrugged. “What can I say? Some days are easy. Some days are hard.”
Dix rolled his eyes. “That’s something you find inside a fortune cookie. It’s not the sort of thing most men would find comforting after having gutted someone like a trout.”
Mason said nothing more as he climbed into the cab and fired up the big diesel engine. A few seconds later, they were once again underway. Bowie hung out the passenger-side window, watching until the big ship disappeared from view. When there was nothing left to see, he came over and flopped down next to his master.
Mason stroked the dog’s head. “What do you think? Has all this killing turned me into an unfeeling bastard? Or maybe I was that way all along?”
Bowie closed his eyes and let the tip of his tongue protrude from between his front teeth.
Mason smiled.
Maybe Dix was right. Maybe one day something would finally break inside his soul, leaving him as nothing more than a cold emotionless killer. But thanks to Bowie being at his side, that day wasn’t today.
Chapter 6
Issa paced back and forth across the cabin’s wooden porch, faithfully watching the long winding driveway. As soon as she saw the dark blue Prius appear, she paused and brought both hands to her stomach, caressing the unmistakable bulge of an unborn child.
Tanner pulled in beside a shiny red Dodge Power Wagon, a vehicle they had adopted a few months earlier to do some of their heavier chores. Samantha scrambled out of the car, grabbed her books, and hurried up the stairs. Tanner was a little slower, partly because the Prius was the size of a clown car, and partly because he knew that Issa wasn’t going to like what he had to say.
“Sorry we’re late,” Samantha said, pulling open the screen door and setting her books on the table inside. “There was a big town meeting, and we got asked to come.”
Issa’s concern over why they were late coming home was quickly replaced with a fresh type of worry. She stepped to the edge of the porch and looked down at Tanner.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
He started up the stairs with the sawed-off shotgun hanging down at his side.
“What do you say we discuss it over a cup of coffee?”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” blurted Samantha. “The nuclear plant might blow up.”
“What!” Issa looked from Tanner to Samantha and then back to Tanner.
“It’s not that bad,” he said in a slow voice as he trudged up the stairs. When he was nearly at the top, he bent over and lightly kissed her stomach. “Mornin’, Babycakes.”
Issa unconsciously brought her hands back to her belly. Of all the things Tanner did, it was the love he showed his unborn child that touched her the most.
“But a nuclear plant…” she half-whispered.
“Come on, inside, both of you.” He wrapped one arm around Issa and used the other to shoo Samantha through the partially open door. “Conversations like these are best conducted sitting down.”
Once they were inside, everything seemed to slow down. Issa brewed a pot of coffee, and Samantha flopped down on the couch with one of her textbooks open across her lap. When the coffee was ready, Tanner and Issa moved to sit at the small dining room table.
“Okay, now tell me,” she said, more calmly this time. “What’s going on?”
Tanner took a long sip of coffee before answering.
“They’re having some trouble over at Watts Bar.”
“The nuclear facility in Tennessee?”
He nodded. “Apparently, they sent out an emergency broadcast asking for help.”
“What kind of help?”
“No one seems to know. The broadcast was cut short.”
“It’s probably a giant radioactive goo monster,” Samantha said without looking up.
Tanner cut his eyes at her. “More likely they’re running out of supplies and are looking for a refill.”
“Can’t the folks in Boone call them back on the radio?”
“Tried. No one picked up.”
“That’s because goo monsters eat radios,” said Samantha.
“Or…” he growled, giving her a withering look she didn’t see, “maybe their radios are on the fritz.”
Issa stared at her coffee, thinking.
“What’s the council going to do about it?”
“Them? Nothing.” He hesitated. “They want me to go and have a look.”
“You? But we don’t even live in Boone.” It was clear from Issa’s tone that she was having none of it.
“I go to school there,” said Samantha. “Doesn’t that sort of make us Boonies? Or is it Boonites? Booners?”
Issa shook her head. “They can get someone else to do it.”
“You don’t understand,” started Samantha. “It’s just a quick—”
Issa whipped her head around, and Samantha immediately quieted and looked back down at her book. While she didn’t doubt Issa’s love, she also understood that her newly adopted mother was not a woman who appreciated the fine art of negotiation.
Issa turned back to Tanner.
“You’ve done enough for this world. Besides,” she said, leaning back and rubbing her stomach, “in a few months, you’re going to have other responsibilities.”
“That’s what I told them.”
“And?”
“And they said they don’t have anyone else.”
“Of course they do. They have a whole town full of people. Why does it have to be you?”
He shrugged. “I suppose they see me as someone ornery enough to get the job done.”
Issa couldn’t argue that point.
Unsure of what else to say, they sat in silence, drinking their coffee.
After a long awkward minute, Tanner reached across the table and placed his hand on hers.
“I think it has to be done. If the nuclear doohickeys overheat, they could spew radiation all over the place. None of us want that.” He glanced over at Samantha. “Sam might end up growing an eyeball in the middle of her forehead.”
“Ooh, like Cyclops!” she said, looking up from her book. “Although technically, if I kept the other two, I’d be Triclops.” She mused on that for a moment. “That doesn’t sound as cool. Maybe the other two would dry up or something.”
“We could only hope,” muttered Tanner.
Issa raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingers.
“What exactly do they want you to do?”
Tanner relaxed slightly, relieved that she seemed to be coming around.
“Just find out what’s wrong and see how Boone might help. That’s it.”
“Ooh, ooh,” said Samantha. “We should take the truck in case they end up needing supplies.”
Issa’s eyes narrowed. “We?”
“I’ve been telling her the whole ride back that I’m going alone.”
“And I’ve been telling you that you’re not,” argued Samantha. “I go where you go. We agreed on
that a long time ago.”
Tanner leaned across the table and whispered, “Talk some sense into her, will you?”
Issa silently weighed the decision.
After a moment, she said, “Sam’s right. If you go, she should go too.”
Both of them turned to her with a collective “Huh?”
“Sam keeps you out of trouble. If you’re going to go and do this fool thing, it’s better that she goes with you.”
“See!” exclaimed Samantha. “Issa gets it.”
“No, Issa most certainly does not get it,” she snapped. “But I also don’t want Tanner off by himself—not doing something dangerous, I don’t.”
“It’s settled then?” he said, suspecting that it wasn’t.
Issa didn’t immediately answer, and when she did, her voice was different, more calculated.
“I’m pregnant.”
Tanner cracked a smile. “And here I thought you’d been raiding the pantry.”
“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, “and I shouldn’t be. I mean, it shouldn’t be possible. Infected women aren’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. You saw that down in the tunnels.”
Tanner shrugged. “So, you’re special.”
Issa gently shook her head. “It’s not me.” She looked up at him. “It’s you.”
“Me? Darlin’, I’m flattered, but—”
“You don’t understand. I think the reason I became pregnant is because you’re not infected.”
“What are you saying? That the men in your little commune were shooting blanks? But what about Mother? They impregnated her.”
“True, but Mother is one of a kind.”
Tanner recalled Mother’s bulbous body and six flabby breasts.
“No argument there.”
“Her body changed to allow impregnation, even by our men. But the rest of us were believed to be barren.” She touched her stomach. “I think we had it wrong. I think it was the men who were sterile.”
“Even if you’re right, what difference does it make? It’s not like there are uninfected men standing in line to, you know, to donate, if you get my meaning.” He glanced over at Samantha, who was grinning from ear to ear. “Besides, it’s like I said. They have Mother to ensure the settlement’s propagation.”
Dark Days Page 6