Long Road to Survival: The Prepper Series

by Lee Bradford

  “Oh, man, I needed that,” he said. “My legs feel like they’re getting stuck with pins and needles. Hate that.” He walked in circles before leaning into the truck to pop the gas tank release. “Top her up, would you, Paul? I gotta leak something fierce.” That was when Buck reached under the seat and pulled out a semi-automatic pistol, one that had a square muzzle and looked to Paul like a Glock.

  “The heck you need that for?” Paul asked.

  Buck slid it into the waistband of his jeans. “I’d feel more comfortable going in with my AR-15 if it wouldn’t make folks wet themselves.”

  Paul shook his head, watching as Buck disappeared around the back of the service station. If that man wasn’t careful he was going to get them killed.

  After undoing the cap Paul grabbed the nozzle, inserted it and then squeezed the trigger. He held on for a full five seconds before he realized nothing was happening. His eyes scaled up the pump to the display which, predictably, he found blank. After he squeezed a number more times in rapid succession with the same disappointing result, Paul replaced the nozzle and headed inside. Surely there had to be another way to get gas.

  The mid-afternoon sun mirror-shaded the Gasmart’s windows, but nevertheless Paul could see an attendant inside. Just to the left of the convenience store were two garage doors. That meant there might also be a mechanic on site. In a worst-case scenario, maybe he might be able to suggest something about getting fuel. Thankfully, the Hummer wasn’t bone dry. They still had a quarter tank as well as the jerry cans on the back. But if this was a hint of what lay ahead, they might never make it to Atlanta. That last thought weighed on his heart as he walked inside.

  Two men sat behind the counter. Both of them looked like they might be mechanics. Paul stabbed a thumb over toward the Hummer, which the two men were already admiring.

  “I know the power’s out,” Paul began. “But I was hoping there was some way we could get some gas.”

  “Gas?” the one nearest the cash register said as though he’d never heard the word before.

  “Yeah, is there a way?”

  The man waved him over. He was thin and his hair looked greasy and was flattened against his skull. “Pumps ain’t working, but for the right price we may be able to help you.”

  “I’d be happy to throw an extra twenty bucks in for your trouble,” Paul told him, grinning as he approached.

  The two men looked at each other and laughed. “It’s gonna cost you more than that, hombre,” the other one said.

  “That’s right,” Skinny said. “Runaway inflation.”

  Paul frowned. “So how much are we talking about?”

  “For you,” the skinny one said, flashing a mouthful of missing teeth, “let’s make it ten bucks a gallon.” When he spoke, the air passing through his mouth made a sharp whistling sound.

  A quick calculation told Paul that it would cost nearly three hundred bucks to fill up. “That sounds a bit steep, don’t you think?”

  Both men shook their heads at the same time. “Not one bit, fact the price just went up to eleven bucks a gallon.”

  Paul realized the two men were having a good time at his expense. “All right, gentlemen, my friend and I are going to shop elsewhere. Sorry we wasted your time.”

  The skinny one was looking outside as Paul spoke. “That the friend you were talking about?”

  Outside, Paul spotted Buck walking across the gas station parking lot toward the Hummer. Buck’s hands were raised and behind him were three men wielding shotguns and pistols. Paul felt the blood drain from his face. He didn’t even have time to utter a word of shock before he heard a click. He looked over, his eyes wide like saucers, to find the barrel of a .45 aimed at his face. On the other end was the skinny gas station attendant.

  “Daryl,” he said. “Go on and search that man for the keys to that Hummer.” He glanced outside again. “She looks like a mighty fine ride.”

  Daryl did as he was told, pushing Paul up against the counter, rows of candy bars beneath him. He shoved his hands into Paul’s left pocket and came away with his Blackberry. Then a hand jammed into his right and emerged waving the paper where Paul had written Autumn’s address.

  “This is all he’s got,” Daryl said, handing both to the skinny man. Tossing the phone aside, he flattened the scrap of paper on the counter, careful to keep the .45 on Paul. “Who’s Autumn in Atlanta?” he asked, grinning. “That your girlfriend?”

  Paul didn’t say a word, but the skinny guy must have read the anger building behind Paul’s eyes.

  “That’s a pretty name. Whoever she is, you love her a great deal. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t ever think about becoming a professional poker player, ’cause that face of yours is like an open book.”

  Paul swallowed hard. He was fantasising about knocking the gun out of the skinny man’s grip and using it to knock out his few remaining teeth.

  “The fat one must have the keys,” Skinny said, motioning to Buck outside as he rubbed the piece of paper between his fingers. “Bring him into the garage. We’ll let Finch decide what he wants to do with ’em.”

  Chapter 12

  Paul and Buck were forcibly moved at gunpoint into the gas station’s garage and tied to the single piston of a raised hydraulic car lift. Extension cords were wrapped around them, tying both men to the piston, the way kids used to tie each other to trees when they played cowboys and Indians. Above them was a Dodge minivan without tires. Their faces and clothes were slick with oil dripping on them from the van’s undercarriage. At the doorway stood one of the armed men who had captured Buck.

  “Did you at least get a chance to do your business?” Paul asked, trying to take his mind off the image of the skinny man making threats against Susan and Autumn.

  Buck grunted, which was as close to an acknowledgment as Paul was probably going to get.

  Through the frosted garage windows they were just able to see the outlines of the other men going through Buck’s Hummer. The doors and rear hatch were open and the contents from inside were being removed and inventoried. These guys didn’t seem very worried about the cops showing up.

  “We ain’t got no beef with you,” Buck told the man in the doorway. “Country’s gone to hell in a handbasket and we’re all in the same boat now. We do better looking out for the man next to us than stabbing him in the back.”

  Even Paul was surprised to hear Buck speak of community and cooperation. These were four-letter words to the old man. It could only mean he was buttering the guy up so they could make an escape.

  The slick metal of the hydraulic piston was cold against Paul’s skin and he couldn’t tell whether this was the thing sending shivers up his spine or the idea that they were probably a few minutes away from being shot in the head.

  Buck went to say something else when the man at the door told him to save his begging for Finch.

  The guard at the door lowered the barrel of his shotgun and leaned his shoulder against the frame. He was wearing a blue coverall which was nearly identical to the ones worn by the two who had pulled a gun on Paul inside. Paul had assumed they were mechanics, but something about the rough way that they spoke, acknowledging each other with a “yes, sir” or “no, sir,” as well as the experienced way they seemed to handle their weapons, told Paul that he was wrong.

  It wasn’t until a few minutes later as Paul’s gaze passed over his now all-too-familiar surroundings that he saw the doorway toward the back of the garage. But it wasn’t the door itself which caught Paul’s attention. It was the trail of dark motor oil trickling out from under it that drew his eye. The more he studied that trail, the more he was gripped with horror. The stuff coming out of that room wasn’t oil at all, it was blood.

  “I see what you’re looking at,” the man in the blue coverall said. His hair was closely cropped. Peering out from the Vee of his one-piece outfit were a series of grotesque-looking tattoos. It was hard to tell from here, but none of it looked like butterflies or unicorns. A grinning sku
ll with muscle attached to bone was Paul’s best guess.

  Paul didn’t reply.

  “You wondering what’s in here, ain’t you?” the man said, approaching the door.

  “What’s going on?” Buck whispered.

  The guy in the blue coverall was gripping the door handle, his eyes locked on Paul as he rattled it back and forth. “You wanna see what’s in here?”

  Paul’s jaw fell open and he hoped his head was shaking vigorously that no, he didn’t want to see what was in there, but in his growing terror, he couldn’t be entirely sure what his body was doing.

  But it didn’t matter because the guy with the shotgun and coveralls opened it anyway and as he did Paul felt a scream clawing at his throat and threatening to burst past his lips. He bit down hard to hold it in, all the while unable to grasp what his eyes were seeing.

  Inside the room was a stack of bodies—four, maybe five. It was hard to tell. Each of them wore nothing but underwear and undershirts which used to be white, but were now drenched in the liquids of death. Piled on top of them were orange jumpsuits.

  Right away Paul began to put the pieces together. These weren’t car mechanics who’d gone off their rockers and decided to take advantage of people during the darkest days of the Republic. These men were convicted criminals who had somehow managed to escape during the chaos. Men who were waiting to draw in what supplies and weapons they could before God knew what.

  There was a good reason the man in the blue coverall had opened that door. And it wasn’t just to scare the two of them. He was making a point, letting them know that their time here on earth was ticking down every second.

  “Eckhart, close that damned door, will you?” a male voice shouted from the doorway. “You’re stinking up the place.”

  Eckhart did as he was told.

  Now Paul and Buck shifted their attention away from the gruesome scene to the man they could only assume was the leader of this gang. Was this the Finch they’d heard about? He was short, maybe five-five or five-six, with long tangled hair and wild eyes. His chin was covered in a short, matted beard, making him an almost dead ringer for Rasputin. But unlike the Russian seer, this man wore a light brown coverall that had short sleeves and Phillips 66 stitched above the right breast. Above the left was the name Pete. Something about the crazed look in the man’s eyes told Paul his name wasn’t really Pete. The Pete he knew helped walk old ladies across the road. This one looked like he’d rather slit their throats.

  “We’re just about done going through your truck,” the new one said. “It seems at least one of you knows a great deal about survival and I wanted to thank you personally for the supplies you’ve donated to me and my men.”

  “Donated?” Buck cried. “We didn’t donate nothing. You’re a bunch of thieves.”

  The man reached into the pocket, plucked out a wallet and flipped it open. His eyes darted between the wallet and Buck.

  “You’re Buck, aren’t you?” More flipping. “I see you’re a proud member of the NRA. Isn’t that nice.”

  Out came another wallet. This time the man studied the image before his gaze rose to meet Paul’s.

  “You know who we are,” Paul said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I think it’s only fair we know who you are.”

  The man grinned. “What, don’t you recognize me?”

  “Should we?” Paul replied, trying to buy time before the inevitable.

  Buck tilted his head. “You sure do look familiar underneath all that hair.”

  “I’m sure I do. I hope you’ll trust me when I tell you a shave and a haircut is one of my top priorities. My name is Staff Sergeant Finch.”

  Paul recoiled. There was no way this guy was military. He was either crazy or lying.

  “I know who you are,” Buck said, the edges of his white beard smeared with grease. “You were an instructor over at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, sent to Fort Leavenworth a couple years back for raping twenty-five female cadets.”

  That grin was back on Finch’s face. “Twenty-eight, thank you very much. And I’m sorry to say that the two of you gentlemen aren’t my type.”

  Fort Leavenworth was only a few miles from here, which meant the men must have just broken out.

  Just then Paul felt Buck shift ever so slightly. Even though his eyes were glued on Finch, the old man’s right leg was bent at an angle. There was something in his boot he was trying to get at. The other man, Eckhart, was looking over this way and Paul realized he needed to distract him.

  “You didn’t need to kill those men,” Paul said.

  “That wasn’t me,” Finch replied. “See, killing’s not my thing.”

  That seemed encouraging enough, coming from a psycho rapist.

  “You sound like a regular saint,” Buck spat. “So when you gonna untie us?”

  Finch smiled and this time the expression almost looked tender. That was when he turned and left the room.

  Eckhart followed him out, which gave Buck the chance he needed to reach into his boot.

  “What are you doing?” Paul whispered.

  “Trying to get us out of here.”

  “Or get us killed.”

  “Did you see what they have stacked in that closet?” Buck growled. “Besides, I’m not about to let them take my truck.”

  “You’re as crazy as Finch, you know that? I wasn’t sure before, but now I am.”

  “If we don’t get that Hummer back, we won’t make it to Atlanta in time. And in a couple days from now that radiation’s gonna come floating over and start melting people’s faces right off.”

  Buck had such a wonderful way with words. The old man was still working to cut the knot when they heard a noise.

  “Someone’s coming,” Paul told him, trying to keep his voice down.

  Buck tossed the pocket knife a few feet from where he was tied.

  “What’d you do that for?” Paul began, just as Eckhart reappeared.

  “I told you two to shut up,” he said, stepping into the garage. “If it wasn’t for Finch, we woulda gutted you two long ago.” Eckhart’s eyes settled on the floor by Buck’s feet. “That better not be what I think it is.” He stormed over to the open pocket knife and reached down to grab it.

  That was when Buck kicked his feet out from under him. The gunman swung in mid-air and came crashing down, the rear of his skull making a sick sound as it thudded against the smooth concrete floor. The force of Eckhart’s fall sent his shotgun skidding under one of the mechanic’s red tool boxes in the corner of the garage.

  After that, Buck and Paul struggled against the extension cord. Now that it was loose enough, all they needed to do was bring it up and over their heads.

  They were nearly there when Finch came charging in, his eyes ablaze with rage. In a flash he lunged at Buck, at precisely the same moment the old man broke free from the cords. The two of them rolled around, fighting to grab hold of the other man’s throat. Paul went to retrieve the shotgun under the toolbox when someone else entered the gas station.

  Paul snatched the shotgun by the stock with the tips of his fingers, pulled it out and gripped it tightly. Without giving it another thought, he racked the weapon right as one of Finch’s men came running in, a semi-automatic pistol in hand. Both men raised up at once and two shots rang out. A flash and a deafening sound echoed from each weapon. One of the glass panes behind Paul’s head shattered.

  Finch’s man was thrown back against the wall, his chest torn open in a red mist.

  Still shocked at what he’d just done, Paul looked over just in time to see Buck, his pocket knife in hand, swinging the blade down into Finch’s left eye socket. Finch let out a thundering howl as he clutched the wound. Almost on cue a barrage of fire from outside tore through the thin garage door, filling the air with bits of glass and metal fragments. Paul and Buck dove to the ground as rounds ricocheted in every direction. There was an emergency exit over by the far wall. Paul pointed in that direction.

  “It’s our
only hope,” he hollered over the noise. “We’ll never make it if we try rushing out the front door.”

  Buck nodded and the two of them made a break for it, slamming against the push bar and into the open air, escaping the smell of death and motor oil.

  Chapter 13

  Paul glanced over his shoulder as soon as they exited the garage. A handful of Finch’s men stood by the Hummer, firing their weapons at the garage. Another group was moving toward the Gasmart entrance, probably intending to storm in and kill them once and for all.

  When he looked back, Buck had already disappeared around the back of the service station. It looked like it was nothing but forest ahead of them, but Paul had spent some time studying the map during the drive and knew that if they cut through the woods, they would find a street and hopefully some houses. Surely by now someone—motorists or local residents—had heard the shots and was finding some way of contacting the police.

  The two men stopped long enough to catch their breath, Paul clinging to the heavy shotgun, which seemed to be gaining weight by the second.

  “What about the Hummer?” he asked when he caught up to Buck.

  The old man was bent over, his hands on his knees, sucking in air like it was going on special. With his white bushy beard and overhanging belly, he looked like an overweight guy hitting the gym for the first time.

  “There’s no way we’d get within fifty feet before those boys cut us down,” Buck said with genuine sadness in his voice. He loved that truck.

  “We have nothing now, Buck. They took our supplies, weapons, even our darn wallets.”

  They started moving again. “Well, unless the power magically comes back on, our plastic money’s as good as useless. I ain’t worried about the cash, though, it’s losing all that other stuff that’s going to hurt bad.”

  Paul glanced down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. Buck noticed it too.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you,” the old man said.