Bowie rushed forward, growling. Cam didn’t so much as twitch a finger, and that struck Mason as proof positive that he was indeed unconscious. Not many people could keep their nerve and lie still with a hundred-and-forty-pound wolfhound breathing down their neck.
“Bowie!” Mason said in a firm voice.
The dog stopped and looked back.
Mason shook his head.
Bowie turned back to face Cam but made no further move toward him.
Mason slowly advanced, the Supergrade held at the ready. Using his boot, he rolled Cam onto his back. The man lay still, but his chest moved up and down. Mason squatted and studied the wound. The slug had passed through the quadriceps, likely fracturing his femur in the process. The good news was that based on the slow trickle of blood, it hadn’t nicked the femoral artery. He might need a cane for a few months, but at least he wouldn’t bleed to death.
Mason took Cam’s Smith and Wesson, stuffing it into the back of his waistband. He considered taking the AR-15 as well but decided it was the wrong weapon for the tight confines of the ship. Instead, he removed the rear pin holding the upper and lower receivers together, pulled the bolt assembly, and extracted the firing pin. It was about the size and shape of a ballpoint pen cartridge, and he slipped it into his pocket for safekeeping. Setting the rest of the rifle aside, he stood up and moved to the edge of the stairwell.
Red had surely heard the gunshot. Given that he hadn’t come charging to the rescue, Mason could only assume that he was busy readying some sort of ambush. He considered calling to him, trying to make a last-minute plea for the man to surrender or make peace. No, he thought, Red and the others had made their decision on the bridge. Mason had no obligation to ask them to reconsider it. When they’d had enough, they could shout uncle. Until then, he would continue the fight.
“All right, boy, you’re my ace in all this.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Go find Red.”
Bowie turned and headed down the stairs, sniffing the floor as he went. Whether or not he understood was beside the point. Bowie would seek out anyone hiding below, and that, Mason hoped, would prevent him from stumbling into another man’s sights.
Bowie led the way down the stairs and out onto the walkway where Big John had been killed. Even with the man’s eviscerated body having been rolled onto the lower landing, the corridor looked like a room at the Bender Family Inn. Blood was splattered everywhere—the floor, the walls, the hatch. Mason stood stunned by the raw carnage, reminded once again that battlefields held a special kind of horror the morning after.
Bowie poked his head back through the hatch, checking to see why his master had yet to follow.
“Right behind you,” he said, shaking off the paralysis.
Their next stop was at Big John’s campsite. The blankets, case of rations, leaky spigot, and machete were all as Mason had left them. Bowie took a quick lick from the puddle of water before continuing down the final set of stairs.
“On your guard, boy,” he warned. “There aren’t many places left for Red to hide.”
Down they went, and with every step they took, Mason became more convinced that the next corner would bring them face to face with his final opponent.
But it didn’t.
They arrived at the flooded engine compartment without so much as a clue as to Red’s whereabouts. There was no sound of splashing, no clunking of a rifle against the bulkhead. Only a steady ripple moved across the surface of the fuel, and that no doubt was due to the boat’s incessant wobbling in the river. The smell was even worse than Mason remembered, and he thought it highly unlikely that Red would choose to hide in such an area. Not only was it toxic; there was a decent chance that a gunshot might set the whole damn thing ablaze.
Bowie seemed confused, moving back and forth along the walkway as if uncertain why the trail had suddenly gone cold.
Mason turned back toward the stairs and holstered his Supergrade. It was possible that Red wasn’t down below at all. He could have slipped back out of the hold while Mason was busy dealing with Dix and Beebie.
“Boy, I think we must have missed—”
Strong hands grabbed Mason from behind, pulling him into the pool of diesel fuel. Red clamped an arm around his neck and submerged him in the cold, slick liquid. Mason thrashed from side to side, trying to slip out of the choke, but each time he thought he might break free, his head was forced back under. Soon his eyes and nose were burning, and his diaphragm began to spasm as it threatened to suck in the deadly liquid. Mason used every bit of willpower to fight the urge to take in a breath, knowing there would be no recovery from such a mistake.
Just when he thought he could endure it no longer, Red released him.
Mason sat up, coughing, as he frantically splashed his way back toward the landing. The lake of fuel churned behind him, as if a giant kraken had come up from the deep to save him. But it wasn’t a sea monster.
It was Bowie.
The dog had leaped out into the fuel, and now wrestled with Red. Together, they thrashed about, growls and screams filling the hold. Mason expelled the last bit of fuel from his nose and turned back, pulling his knife free as he did.
As their vicious struggle continued, Bowie and Red drifted further out, and Mason found himself stumbling toward them with little to show for it.
Bowie yelped as Red slammed him into a metal tank, but before the man could escape, the dog was back on him, snapping and snarling, driving ever closer to his throat.
Mason tried to call to the dog, but all that came out was a strangled croak. More troubling still was that the further he pushed out into the fuel, the weaker he felt. Realizing that he wasn’t going to catch them before he passed out, Mason stowed the knife and drew his Supergrade. He hesitated, wondering if a gunshot might send the whole place up in flames.
No choice. It was either take the shot or risk losing Bowie forever.
He brought the weapon up and took aim, his vision wavering from the fumes. As he placed his finger onto the trigger, the lake of fuel suddenly calmed. Red stopped screaming, and Bowie paddled back toward Mason, pushing the body in front of him like an oversized pool toy.
Mason hurried forward and grabbed Red. He dragged him back to the landing and rolled him up onto the metal platform. Blood pulsed from several deep puncture wounds along the man’s neck and arms.
Bowie tried to climb out, but his legs were too weak from the fight, and he fell back into the pool with a splash. Mason managed to catch him before his head went under. Struggling, he half-pushed, half-lifted the dog onto the platform. Even though it wasn’t particularly cold in the engine room, Bowie lay on his side, shivering uncontrollably.
Mason grabbed the edge of the landing and hauled himself out.
“Hang in there, boy,” he said, bending down to lift the dog.
As he did, Red reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Please,” he choked, “help me.”
Mason looked from Bowie to Red. He simply didn’t have the strength to save them both.
He pulled free of Red’s grip and scooped Bowie into his arms. Doing his best not to fall, he stumbled up the stairs and raced over to the water spigot in Big John’s campsite.
With a quick turn of the knob, fresh clean water poured from the hose. Starting with the dog’s head, he flushed his eyes, ears, and mouth. When water got into Bowie’s nose, he snorted and coughed, before collapsing back onto his side. Mason continued rinsing him, working the water through his thick fur.
When Bowie was sufficiently clean, Mason grabbed one of the green army blankets and wrapped it tightly around the dog, leaving only his head exposed.
“You’ll be all right,” he said, stroking Bowie’s head. “We just need to get you out of here.”
Bowie opened his eyes for a moment, took in a deep breath of air, and was gone again.
Watching to make sure that Bowie didn’t stop breathing, Mason quickly hosed himself off, rinsing the fuel out of his hair and clothes. No doubt he
still smelled like the inside of a tractor, but at least he wouldn’t spontaneously combust in the sunlight.
He shut off the water, picked up Bowie, and staggered through the narrow maze of corridors. When he got to the topmost level, he found Cam sitting upright, tying a strip of cloth around his blood-soaked leg.
As soon as he saw Mason, Cam snatched up a small pocketknife.
“Stay back!” he warned, waving it in front of him.
Mason hurried past without saying a word. He stepped through the open hatch, crossed the room with the bodies, and exited out into the fresh air. Closing the door behind him, he leaned back and let himself sag down to the deck, Bowie resting on his lap.
He placed a hand on Bowie’s chest. The dog’s breathing was rapid and shallow, like he couldn’t pull in enough air. Watching him struggle to breathe, Mason realized just how lost he would be without the dog. Bowie was the only steadfast thing in his entire life. Without him, there was nothing but violence and hardship.
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he swallowed, trying to keep his emotions in check. He decided that he would sit there as long as it took for Bowie to recover, and God help anyone who tried to make him do otherwise.
Time crept forward, seconds becoming minutes. Slowly, but surely, the dog’s breathing improved, growing deeper and less labored.
Finally, Bowie opened his eyes.
“There you are,” Mason said, stroking the soft fur between his eyes.
Bowie raised up a few inches, pressing against his hand.
“Rest a little longer. We’re in no hurry.”
Mason reached into his jacket pocket, wondering whether his harmonica was still there. It was. The instrument had been a gift from a needy traveler, and from time to time, he would use it to escape to places that only music could take someone.
He blew on the back side of the instrument to clear it out.
“What do you say, boy? Want to hear a little something?”
Bowie closed his eyes, letting his tongue slide in and out of his mouth.
Mason began to play “Tears in Heaven.” It was a slow, sad song, written by Eric Clapton after his son died falling from a window. The music floated over the deck and out across the water, a prayer for his fallen comrades. When the song was over, Bowie nudged his hand as if wanting him to play it again.
“Maybe later,” he said, putting the harmonica back in his pocket and climbing to his feet. “Right now, we have a promise to keep.”
Bowie wriggled free of the blanket and managed to stand. He sneezed a couple of times and began to look around the ship’s deck.
Mason smiled. The world was right again.
Together, they navigated the tight corridors between the shipping containers. When they arrived back at the two doors sandwiched together, Mason was surprised to see that the trap was now empty. The knife he had hammered into Beebie’s shoulder still dangled from the hole, wet blood smeared across its blade.
Mason carefully slid the knife free and examined its edge. It remained unbroken and razor sharp, a true testament to the quality of the steel. He reached down and retrieved its sheath from the deck. The black nylon resin had slots for a belt as well as a leg strap. Removing his belt, he swapped out his broken knife for the new one. The old hunting knife had saved his life more times than he could count, but every soldier understood the importance of not getting too attached to his equipment.
Bowie let out a short woof as he sniffed the trail of Beebie’s blood.
“I see it.”
Killing another of his team was the last thing Mason wanted. Given his condition, Mason thought it likely that the big man was holed up somewhere, no doubt with a heavy pipe in his hand. That, or he had gone overboard and was busy swimming his way to safety. Either way, it didn’t make sense to go traipsing after a wounded lion.
“Come on, boy,” he said, heading back toward the wheelhouse. “We’ve got one more enemy to deal with.”
Chapter 19
The sun was directly overhead by the time Tanner and Samantha reached the Watts Bar Dam. Their hike away from the nuclear plant had been slowed not only by the incessant pull of the thick forest, but also by having to avoid Watchmen patrols out prowling for the missing operators.
“Remind me again why we’re walking,” she said, adjusting the straps on her pack.
“Simple. We can’t get the truck back across the dam without running into Hardin and his men.”
“Couldn’t we have just crossed the river somewhere else?”
“Perhaps. But to hear old Duncan tell it, we’re on the clock. Best if we stick to a path already traveled.”
Samantha leaned out from the tree line and looked left and right. The highway was clear in both directions. She stepped out and turned to face the electrical substation that ran along the back of the dam’s control tower. Tanner followed after her, sweeping the area with his newly-acquired bullpup rifle.
“Sorry I left your shotgun in the truck.”
“Don’t be.” He patted the X95. “This baby provides lots of firepower in a neat little package.”
“It looks like something a Storm Trooper might carry.”
He held it out to her. “Want to give it a try?”
She shook her head. “Maybe later. Like you said, we’re on the clock.”
He turned and pointed to the fenced-in yard filled with electrical equipment.
“Let’s come up from behind the substation. It’ll help keep us out of sight.”
“Okay, but stay clear of the power wires. I don’t want either of us to get shocked.”
“You do realize there’s no electricity.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what this whole thing is about.”
She shrugged. “Still, if it can kill us, I say we assume it’s there until we know otherwise. Safer that way.”
Tanner thought about arguing the point, but for once found himself agreeing with her.
Following the tree line, they circled behind the substation before making their way out onto the highway. The control center sat to their right, and the elevated highway lay directly ahead.
“What do you say we put a little pep in our step?” he said, breaking into a jog.
Over the past several months, Samantha had grown stronger and faster, and she had no trouble keeping up. When they had gone a few hundred feet, he began to take longer and longer strides. Samantha didn’t have his legs, but she picked up her pace and managed to stay beside him. They ran hard like that for several minutes, and even though it hurt to breathe, Samantha found herself smiling.
“What are you trying to do?” she said between breaths. “Break some kind of speed record?”
He smiled and slowed to a fast walk.
“Checking your endurance.”
“You do realize I’m twelve?”
“Twelve’s old enough to run.”
She shook her head, amused.
“What?”
“I wasn’t suggesting that I’m too young.” She let the rest go unspoken.
“Oh, that hurt.”
“Don’t get me wrong. You move pretty well for, you know, an old guy.”
He squinted at her, and she cracked up, bumping against his shoulder.
They walked on, enjoying the sunshine, one another’s company, and the feeling of being strong and free. About halfway across the dam, they arrived back at the abandoned service truck, its hood propped open.
He nodded toward the truck. “That would sure beat walking.”
Samantha opened the driver’s door and climbed in.
“It’s a stick.”
“So?”
“So, you know I’m not very good at driving a manual.”
“Which is obviously why it’s here.”
She cocked her head. “You’re saying that this truck was put here so I could practice driving a stick? That’s completely nuts. You know that, right?”
“Hey, don’t tell me. I’m not the one who
left it here.”
She rolled her eyes. “I swear, half the time you make no sense whatsoever.”
“Yeah? And the other half?”
Samantha grinned. “What other half?”
“Funny. Check the column for a key.”
She felt of the steering column. “Nope.”
Tanner reached in and flipped down the visor. A small key ring fell onto Samantha’s lap.
She picked it up and twirled it around her finger.
“Clearly, you must come from a long line of car thieves.”
“Guilty as charged.” He stepped around to inspect the engine. The radiator cap was loose, and when he lifted it off, he could see that the coolant level was low. Everything else looked old and worn, but still functional. “I think it just overheated.”
“Can you fix it?” she said, hollering through the open window.
“Sure can.”
Samantha heard a zipper, followed by an unmistakable trickling sound. She froze, her hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Please tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
“Darlin’, urine is a multipurpose survival tool, like a knife or a hatchet.”
“Urine is not a survival tool,” she said, wrinkling her nose as if she could smell it.
He zipped up and stepped around to her window.
“Sure it is. Let’s say you’re cold at night. What do you do?”
“Add another blanket?”
“Nope. You pee in a bottle and stuff it into your sleeping bag. Likewise, if you’re hot, you pee on your shirt and let it slowly evaporate into the air.”
“I’m not wearing a shirt soaked in pee.”
“Then I guess drinking it is out of the question.”
She cringed.
“It’s not necessarily good for you, but it’s sterile. If you can distill it, that’s even better. I bet you didn’t know that pee can even be used to wash out your eyes.”
Dark Days Page 23