The Survivalist (National Treasure)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Blackmail, plain and simple.

  He let the folders fall to the floor, stepping away and staring at the cabinets in disgust. No doubt they contained every national secret: Roswell, 9/11, the Kennedy assassination, maybe even the disappearance of D.B. Cooper.

  But who the hell cared?

  For Tanner to discover that the government had been filled with a bunch of deceitful sons of bitches was about as enlightening as reading the back of a cereal box.

  He let out a sigh.

  In the end, it wasn’t the nation’s gold that had to be most protected; it was its secrets.

  Samantha heard the men coming nearly a full minute before they appeared in the doorway. There had been a time when the sound of a group of strangers approaching would have caused her to tremble with fear. That time had passed. Tanner had ingrained in her never to think of herself as a victim. The men would bring about a situation that had to be dealt with, and no amount of cowering was going to change that.

  Despite her acceptance of the situation, Samantha recognized that her options were terribly limited. Hiding would leave Tanner’s lifeline completely exposed, and drowning by way of hose didn’t seem like a good way to go. That meant she would either have to convince them to go on their way, or fight to save both their lives.

  Of the two, she strongly preferred talking things out. The complete disregard for laws made negotiation challenging, especially for a twelve-year-old girl. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. She had a little food to trade and was young enough that many men still looked at her as a child.

  Unfortunately, some did not.

  Samantha glanced over at the Mare’s Leg sitting atop Tanner’s pack. It would give her more firepower than the derringer, but she had no idea if it had a safety, how many rounds it held, or if she could even handle the recoil. No, she thought, drawing the derringer, it was better to stay with what she knew.

  She quickly double-checked that it had two fresh cartridges in the chamber. It did. Two shots likely weren’t enough to stop a group of men, but they could at least give them pause. No one, not even the bravest of men, would willingly take a .45 slug to the chest.

  “Okay, Samantha,” she said. “Time to put on your charm.”

  Four men staggered into the room like drunken sailors returning from shore leave. One was short and pudgy, another tall and prickly faced. The third looked seriously ill, pale, with sunken eyes and a sweat-soaked shirt, and the fourth was a tall dark-skinned athlete whose best days were behind him.

  They were the men from Gran’s house, and all but one had marks to show for it.

  “What the hell you doin’ here?” said Woods.

  Samantha smiled like they were old friends.

  “Tanner and I came looking for the gold.”

  “You find any?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “This place is pretty much cleaned out.”

  The men advanced a little closer. Of the four, Oscar seemed particularly angry. The blood stains on his shirt left no doubt as to the reason why.

  “Where’s the big guy who hit me?” Even as he spoke, his eyes swept over to the open hatch, quickly putting two and two together.

  “Tanner’s awfully sorry about that. In fact, he said that if we were to ever see you again, I should offer you some food.” She nudged her backpack with her foot. “I have some, if you’re hungry.”

  Oscar’s mouth turned up in a wicked smile.

  “He’s down in the water, ain’t he?”

  “He’s on his way back right now.” She hoped that was true.

  Oscar started toward the hatch. As he did, Samantha brought the derringer out in front of her where the men could see it.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do that.”

  The big man stopped, his eyes studying the weapon. Before he could decide whether it was real or some kind of toy, Doherty, the sickly man, stepped away into the corner and began to heave.

  Samantha donned a pained expression. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Sick, on account of the morphine,” said Woods.

  “There were some empty boxes in the other room. If you look around, you might still find a vial or two.”

  He shook his head. “Ain’t none. They took it all.”

  “Who?”

  “That army dude and his men. Gave us just enough to get hooked and then disappeared with the rest, as well as the gold.”

  “The army took the gold?”

  He shook his head. “He wasn’t real army, not anymore anyway. Said the government owed him for a debt that hadn’t been paid. Recruited dozens of us to help carry it out.” He looked over his shoulder at Doherty. “The least he could have done was leave us with a box or two of medicine to get by on.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  He shrugged. “Last I saw, they were headed northeast on the CSX line.”

  “He went by train?”

  Woods nodded. “Why so many questions?”

  “Tanner and I were kind of hoping to get some gold for a friend.”

  As they spoke, Oscar began inching closer to the hatch.

  Samantha brought the derringer up. “I’m asking nicely. Please don’t.”

  “You gonna shoot me, li’l girl?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Right now, I’d say it’s fifty-fifty.”

  “Easy now,” Woods said, stepping closer with his hands up. “Ain’t nobody needs to get shot.”

  With Woods moving to one side, and Oscar inching forward on the other, Samantha found it hard to watch them both. Felix hadn’t advanced yet, but the tightness of his eyes said that he was thinking about rushing her. Only Doherty seemed content to leave her be, and that was because he looked like he was close to collapsing.

  Samantha took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was little else to be said. The decision was theirs to make.

  And make it they did.

  All three men moved at once. Woods lunged forward with hands extended, as Oscar bolted toward the open hatch. Felix ran ahead too, grunting like a linebacker coming straight down the middle.

  It was all too much to take in at once, and Samantha had to instantly choose which of three posed the greatest threat. She swung the derringer toward Oscar and fired. A loud boom sounded as the gun bucked violently in her hand. The 250-grain slug caught him on his right side, splintering his ribs and tearing through his liver. He stumbled and fell, landing on the open hatch and falling into the water, inadvertently pulling the hose in along with him.

  Sensing Woods closing fast, Samantha stepped back and pivoted on her lead foot. He was at her when the gun bucked a second time. It too found its mark, blowing a dime-sized hole through the man’s sternum. Even though the bullet killed him instantly, Woods’ momentum carried him forward, taking her with him to the ground.

  Samantha struggled to get clear of him as she drew her knife. No sooner had she rolled free than Felix’s foot caught her on the side of the head. She toppled sideways, dizzy and disoriented. He kicked her again, this time knocking the knife from her hand, and then a third time, along her lower back.

  Darkness threatened to take her, and Samantha fought hard to bring the world back into focus. Felix was having none of it as he brought his foot up and stomped it into her gut. She curled up on the floor, clutching her stomach as she pleaded with him to stop. Instead of relenting, he tried to stomp her again, this time targeting her ribs. His foot missed the mark and instead grazed along her back.

  Struggling to pull in her next breath, Samantha reached out and wrapped her arms around his ankles. Felix tried to step free, lost his balance, and fell beside her. Before she could escape, he shoved her onto her back and moved to straddle her.

  Seeing him cock his fist, Samantha brought her hands up to her face, hoping to protect herself from the blow. He swung wide, hitting her along the left temple. Her eyes rolled back, but consciousness refused to let her escape the beating.

  Leaving one hand at her
face, she used the other to jab her fingers into his eyes. Felix shrieked and leaned back, batting her hand aside. As soon as he was clear, he reached down and clamped both hands around her throat.

  “You little bitch!” he choked, shaking her head up and down. “I’m gonna kill you for that.”

  Samantha pulled at his hands, panicked by not being able to breathe. She scratched and clawed, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not break his grip. Her hand snaked out, feeling along the floor, hoping, praying, that her knife might be within reach.

  It wasn’t.

  The last thing Samantha saw before she died was the dark wet shape of the Grim Reaper rising up behind her killer.

  Chapter 19

  Brooke cradled her father’s head in her lap. His breathing had become irregular and his skin slick with a layer of cold sweat. His last bout of consciousness had been nearly an hour ago, and she wasn’t sure if he would have another before morning.

  The distant bark of dogs fighting over something drew her attention to the open door of the bus. She placed a hand on the Colt Python. Could she even hit a wild animal if it came for her?

  Brooke wasn’t sure. She had never had any formal firearms training. Instead, she had mastered the fine art of convincing others to protect her. When it came to men, she was far from helpless. But such skills would do nothing, should a pack of hungry dogs catch her scent.

  Mason had been gone for nearly three hours. She had heard gunshots, but they didn’t have the noisy bite of his rifle. Had he been ambushed and killed? She seriously doubted it. Mason was unlike anyone she had ever known—dogged, honorable, and deadly. It was why she had picked him over all the other men her father had asked her to consider. He was to be her lover, her husband, and most importantly, the right hand of the empire that her father would build from the ash that remained.

  At first, she had treated it like every other assignment, a courting with the goal of entrapping a man with her many wiles. Love was for suckers, after all. It wasn’t until Mason spared her life on the James River Bridge that she realized that she had become the biggest sucker of them all.

  She, too, had fallen in love.

  With her betrayal, Mason had left her like she knew that he would. But miraculously, he had returned, and to save her, no less. Now, he was gone again, and every moment they were apart, she felt a hole in her heart that could not be filled. Love was surely the cruelest punishment of them all.

  “Relax,” she whispered. “He’ll come back.”

  But then what? Would they find a way to get her father to a doctor? And if they did, wouldn’t his recovery forever remind Mason of her betrayal? Forgiveness under such circumstances seemed like too much to ask of anyone.

  Brooke studied her father’s face. He was not a good man, perhaps even evil if looked at in the wrong light. Before anyone passed judgment, however, she would remind them that his actions had kept the New Colony alive when they were threatened by rampant starvation. Perhaps his methods had been questionable, but as he had told her many times, “Do what needs to be done, and the world will remember you. Fail to do it, and you will surely be forgotten.”

  It was in those hallowed words that she saw a way forward.

  Brooke shined her flashlight down at his leg. In the dim light, the bandage looked as if it were caked in thick black tar. Her hand slowly settled over the gauze. It was hard and crusted with dried blood. She carefully pulled the knot free and pried the bandage away from his leg. Almost immediately, the wound reopened and blood began to spill out.

  “Forgive me, Father. It’s the only way not to be forgotten.”

  Maggie followed Mason and her husband out onto the porch. The air was cool, and the only sound was that of insects starting up for the night. Mason didn’t know if the silence meant that the infected had moved past them, or were simply taking a breather to recover from their battle at The Farm. Either way, he welcomed the peaceful interlude.

  “We wouldn’t feel right accepting your help without giving something in return,” said Maggie.

  Mason rubbed his taut stomach. “You’ve done enough.” He glanced down at Bowie who was still gnawing on a thick bone. “For both of us.”

  “Even so,” she said, “we’d like to do more. What is it you need, Marshal?”

  Mason thought of Locke lying in the school bus.

  “I don’t suppose one of you happens to be a doctor.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry, no.”

  “What about a car? Do you have one you could spare?”

  She turned to Blake. “You could give him Arlo’s old Pontiac.”

  While “Arlo’s old Pontiac” didn’t sound overly promising, Mason reminded himself that beggars can’t be choosers.

  “I haven’t started that thing in more than two months. Battery’s surely dead. Even if we could get it running, we don’t have any gas to spare.”

  “Gas wouldn’t be a problem,” said Mason. “I’ve got a broken-down school bus nearby that I could drain. I could use it to jump start the car, too.”

  Blake shrugged. “We’d have to push it. How far away are you?”

  Mason pointed toward Industrial Park Road.

  “Couldn’t be more than a half mile.”

  “It’s doable, I suppose.” He looked over at Maggie. “Are you okay with me going off for a bit?”

  She stepped forward and kissed his cheek.

  “I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  “All right then.” Blake turned and started down the porch steps. “Come on, Marshal. Let’s see if we can get it down the drive.”

  Mason offered one final nod to Maggie before turning to follow. Realizing that he risked being left behind, Bowie picked up his bone and trudged along behind them.

  Blake led them across the yard to one of the detached garages, and when he pushed up the door, Mason’s eyes grew wide. “Arlo’s old Pontiac” was nothing less than a 1977 Trans Am, identical, except for a few scratches and a little rust around the wheel well, to the one Burt Reynolds drove in Smokey and the Bandit.

  He let out a soft whistle. “Now, that’s a car.”

  Even Bowie seemed impressed, briefly dropping his bone to sniff one of the tires.

  “The only thing Arlo loved more than this car was his wife, Trudy. Honestly, I don’t see what the fuss was all about. It’s just an old car.”

  “A collector might beg to differ.” Mason placed his hand on the golden firebird painted across the hood’s raised intake. “Are you sure you’re okay parting with it?”

  Blake pulled a small keyring down from a nail on the wall and tossed it to him.

  “It’s yours.”

  Mason nodded his thanks. “It’s probably worth seeing if it’ll start. Who knows, maybe there’s a little juice left.”

  He climbed in and gave it a try.

  Nothing.

  “That’s what I figured.” Blake walked around to the back and placed his hands on the trunk. “Might as well get this over with.”

  Mason put the car in neutral and stepped out, leaving the driver’s-side door open. Leaning in to work the steering wheel, they began pushing the car out of the garage. The good news was that the driveway and Industrial Park Road were both downhill. The bad news was that the 1977 Trans Am weighed nearly four thousand pounds.

  Bowie watched as the car slowly rolled past him. After a moment, he picked up his bone and hopped in, settling into the passenger seat.

  Mason looked over at him and smiled.

  No one ever said that Bowie wasn’t smart.

  It was nearly nine in the evening by the time Mason and Blake pushed the Trans Am into the old steel plant. As it coasted to a stop behind the bullet-ridden bus, Mason straightened and rubbed his shoulders and neck. He was going to be sore in the morning. Hopefully, it had been worth the effort. If he could get the car running, they would have their way out.

  He turned and offered his hand to Blake.

  “Thank you for doing this.”

>   “It’s nothing compared to what you did for us,” he said, shaking Mason’s hand. “I only hope that I can remember everything you taught me.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  He nodded. “I’d better get back to Maggie and the boys.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Nah,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ll be all right.” He offered one final nod goodbye and hurried off into the night.

  Mason and Bowie followed as far as the door, watching as Blake jogged down Industrial Park Road. When he was out of sight, Mason walked over and thumped the side of the bus.

  “Brooke, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”

  “In here,” she called softly.

  He turned to Bowie. “Stay out here and keep watch.”

  The dog yawned and settled onto the concrete beside the Trans Am.

  Mason climbed the stairs and found Brooke sitting with her father’s head resting in her lap. The flashlight sat beside her, now little more than a soft orange glow.

  “How is he?”

  She shook her head. “He passed almost an hour ago.”

  Mason came over and knelt beside the seat. Locke lay stretched out, the lower half of his legs hanging off the seat to rest on the briefcase he had insisted on retrieving. His trousers were soaked in fresh blood even though the bandage remained in place.

  “He started bleeding again?”

  She lifted her hands into the light, and he could see that they were covered in blood.

  “I tried to save him.” When she looked over at Mason, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “I did.”

  She leaned toward him, and he caught her with one arm. Brooke settled against his shoulder and began to sob.

  “It’s better that he passed with you at his side than at the hands of those out there.” It wasn’t much of a condolence, but it was all Mason could muster for a man who had tried to have him killed.