“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” he answered, glancing over at John. “There are sixteen armed adults in our convoy. The old adage about there being strength in numbers apparently holds true when society falls apart.”
The RV door opened, and the face of a young girl peeked out.
Jules looked up at her and said, “It’s all right, Lucy. This man’s a U.S. Marshal. He’s a good guy.”
Wearing a pair of wrinkled capri pants and a bright yellow shirt, the girl descended the stairs. She smiled and gave a short little wave.
“Hi.”
“Marshal Raines, this is our daughter, Lucy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lucy,” Mason said, returning her smile.
“She’s the bravest ten-year-old in the entire world.”
“I bet she is.”
“Mom,” said Lucy, obviously embarrassed.
“It’s true,” said John. “When this all started happening, Lucy was a real trouper. Never cried, not even once.”
“You couldn’t say the same about me,” Jules said with a nervous laugh.
John put his hand on her back. “We’re all dealing with the impossible.”
“Marshal Raines, will you be coming with us?”
“Great idea, Lucy.” Carl turned to Mason. “We could really use a man like you.”
“It would sure make me feel safer,” added Jules.
Mason rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking about their offer.
“Where exactly are you folks headed?”
“West toward Johnson City and Kingsport, wherever there might be folks setting back up. Truth is we may be on the road for a while.”
Mason smiled and shook his head.
“I appreciate the invitation. I really do. But I’m not quite ready to move on just yet. Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet up sometime later.”
Only Lucy seemed surprised by his answer.
“Understood,” Carl said, looking around and surveying the service station. “Mind if we help ourselves to a little gas before we move on?”
Mason thought about the two dead bodies inside the building.
“No one here would care,” he said. “Take what you need. I’ll probably fill a couple cans myself.”
“Many thanks,” said Carl, motioning for Jules and her husband to get the refueling supplies.
Mason followed them to the circular refueling ports located on the ground a few paces away from the pumps. There were four ports, each topped with a different-colored lid.
When Carl saw Mason looking over his shoulder, he said, “The red, white, and blue covers are all different grades of gasoline. The big plus symbol on top indicates that the fuel is unleaded. The yellow one here is diesel. That’s what we need most right now.”
Carl and John used a pry bar to remove the yellow cover. Beneath it was a large cap with a protruding handle. John knelt down and removed the cap. Underneath was a six-inch diameter pipe leading down into an underground fuel tank. Jules lowered a rubber hose into the pipe. The other end was connected to a small pump with a battery-powered hand drill attached. A matching hose, attached to the pump’s output port, was routed into a large gas can. When everything was in place, Carl activated the drill, and fuel began pumping from the tank into the can.
“That’s handy,” Mason said, thinking how his method of fuel retrieval paled in comparison.
“John rigged that up for us,” Jules said with a proud smile. “It’s simple, but simple is good when everything’s falling down around you.”
After watching for a couple of minutes, Mason said, “I’m going to check on a friend. I’ll be back in a few.”
Carl nodded, not taking his eyes off the drill pump system.
Mason walked around to the back of the building. The dog was still in the same condition as when he had left. He poured some bottled water into one of the makeshift bowls and dumped some cat food into the other. He set them on the seat and lifted the animal’s head so that it could eat and drink. It didn’t take long for the dog to start lapping up the water. When it had drained a full bowl, it turned its attention to the cat food. It quickly finished two of the small cans before laying its head back down on the seat.
“All right, let’s see if you can keep that down,” Mason said, petting him on the back of his neck. The dog stared up at him, obviously enjoying the attention.
“You’re going to need a name.”
The dog looked at Mason intently, its ears folded back.
“You’re big, that’s for sure. And determined to stay alive. Plus you’ve got those two mismatched eyes, as if your body couldn’t decide which one to choose. Hmm … What shall it be? Twinkles?”
The dog stared at him without any reaction.
“No? Grizzly then?”
Again, nothing.
Mason thought for a moment.
“I’ve got it. I’m going to call you Bowie.”
The dog tipped its head sideways.
“It’s perfect. There’s Jim Bowie, the famous frontiersman and hero of the Alamo, and there’s David Bowie, the musician with two different eyes. Not sure if they’re different colors, but that’s close enough. Sound good?”
The dog set its head back down and licked the seat to see if any cat food might have spilled out.
Mason patted the big mutt on its side.
“I can’t promise things are going to get any easier for you, Bowie. But fate brought us together, so let’s see what else she has in store for us.”
After saying goodbye to Carl, Jules, and John, Mason spent the next few hours carefully searching the convenience store and burned-out automotive repair shop. He loaded up several plastic crates from the back of the store with an assortment of snacks, cigarettes, batteries, toiletries, and over-the-counter medications, all of which could be useful, or, at the very least, traded as barter goods.
In the garage, he found a large rack of car and truck parts, several cases of motor oil, four brand new Diehard batteries, a couple more empty fuel cans, and a red metal chest filled with hand tools. His greatest find, however, was a two-kilowatt inverter. The unit, which was about the size of a thick briefcase, would enable him to convert DC battery power into AC power. It even had an adapter that allowed it to be plugged directly into a car’s cigarette lighter. While two kilowatts wasn’t a great deal of power, it was enough to power a microwave oven, a computer, or nearly any other small electronic item with a standard three-prong plug.
When Mason came across an automobile fuel pump and some rubber tubing, he decided to try to build a fuel retrieval system similar to the one that Carl had demonstrated. He started by securing the fuel pump to a small piece of plywood using metal straps and wood screws. Next, he attached a ten-foot length of tubing to the input and output ports. For power, he wired the pump’s terminals to one of the car batteries using an electrical switch that he took out of the partially burned wall.
He carried the apparatus over to the fuel ports that Carl had explained earlier and lowered the input hose down into the underground tank of unleaded fuel. He put the other hose into one of his gas cans and turned on the pump. The unit sputtered briefly as air was purged from the system, but then it began to pump out gas in a smooth, powerful stream. Mason couldn’t help but grin at his accomplishment. As long as reserves were available, either underground or in vehicles, his fuel problem was essentially solved. He continued running the system until he filled up the remaining fuel cans and topped off his truck.
As Mason loaded the fuel retrieval system into the truck bed, Bowie sat up and leaned his head out the passenger side window.
“You’re feeling better.”
Bowie laid his head on the windowsill as if to argue the point.
“I said better, not perfect, you big baby.”
Bowie looked at him and yawned.
“I’ve got a load full of supplies, and you’re going to need some time to recuperate. I had hoped to push into Boone today, but I think we’re better off returning to th
e cabin for a couple of days.” After what he had heard about Boone, it didn’t seem wise to roll into town with darkness only a few hours away.
He fed Bowie another can of cat food and then began the six-mile trek back to the cabin. Traveling the roadway was a little easier because Carl and his caravan of RVs and campers had cleared a decent path. The biggest risk was running over broken glass, tail lights, and other debris that might puncture a tire. Mason had a spare tire secured under the bed of the truck, but he had no desire to use it.
As he approached Buckeye Road, the turnoff from Highway 321, Mason saw a car approaching from the opposite direction. It was an older model Impala, and the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. As the Impala came to within a few car lengths of Mason’s truck, it slowed and stopped. Mason had already unlatched the M4 and was prepared to take cover behind his truck if things took a turn for the worse.
A heavyset man stepped from the Impala and waved to Mason.
Bowie sat up and peered over the dash. The dog’s ears were standing straight up as it stared intently at the stranger.
Mason rolled Bowie’s window all the way down.
“If I get into trouble, I expect you to remember who fed you.”
The dog’s only response was to look at him and then back to the stranger.
Leaving the M4 in its rack, Mason exited the truck and walked slowly toward the man. Unlike his previous encounter with Teardrops and Red Beard, this man appeared quite harmless. He was a portly fellow, balding except for puffs of white hair along his temples, and dressed in a bloodstained priest’s vestment. If he had been holding a shepherd’s crook, the man could easily have passed for Friar Tuck.
“Good morning,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m Father Paul.” He didn’t offer a handshake or a last name.
“Marshal Raines.”
“I seem to be having better luck today.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“Not more than two hours ago, I met several families traveling westward. Now I’m talking to a peace officer. Good luck indeed.”
Mason figured that the families that he was referring to must be Carl and his caravan of RVs.
“Are you on your own, Father?”
“Never truly alone,” he said, gesturing up to the sky. “And yourself?”
Mason thought of his missing family and friends. He shrugged.
“For now.”
“It seems we are two men in uniform with little more than our sense of duty.”
“I suppose so.”
“Are you coming from Boone?”
“No, I didn’t get past Sugar Grove. What about you? Are you headed into town?”
“Oh, yes. I live there. I was away visiting sick friends in Elizabethon when this all happened. I stayed on after their passing to help the good people there. I’ve done what I can. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”
“From what I’ve seen, He has his hands plenty full.”
“It’s the end of times, my friend. One would expect the Lord to be busy.”
“No offense intended, Father, but if it’s the end of times, shouldn’t you have been called up into heaven? Revelations and all that?”
The priest smiled and rubbed his chin.
“I must confess that I’ve wondered about that myself. I can only assume that the Lord left a few of the faithful behind to do His will. I feel quite honored actually, as should you.”
“Me?”
“Of course. Nothing happens purely by chance. You are here for a reason no less important than my own.”
“Fair enough. I suppose we’ll each do our part, whatever that may be.”
The priest leaned in close like he was about to share a secret with an old friend.
“My part will be to heal the sick, bless the dead, and help feed the hungry. What will yours be, Marshal?”
Mason didn’t respond for a moment, but the priest stood patiently awaiting his answer.
Finally, he said, “I suppose I’ll stand in the way of those who would do harm. It’s what I do.”
Father Paul bowed his head slightly.
“A peacekeeper. God surely has need of such men in these troubled times. May He bless you on your mission of justice as He does me on my mission of mercy.”
“Amen to that,” Mason said, wondering what his “mission of justice” might ultimately require.
CHAPTER
9
Ray Foster didn’t get back up. Tanner tried to coax him to his feet from a safe distance, but the man just waived him on. “Go,” he breathed. “Just go.”
There seemed no reason to argue the point, so he left Ray lying in the prison yard. How long he would live, Tanner couldn’t say. But he suspected it wouldn’t be long.
He walked out the front gate of the prison, a slave who had suddenly awoke to discover that he had been emancipated. The weather was comfortable, and his orange jumpsuit was enough to keep away the chill. Not having anywhere else to go, Tanner walked east along Renfroe Road in the direction of a large plume of black and gray smoke. Whatever was on fire had plenty of gas and oil to keep it going.
After walking about a half mile, he came upon a site more appropriate to the streets of Mogadishu than eastern Alabama. A UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter had crashed into the roof of a Church’s Chicken fast-food restaurant. Bright yellow flames licked out from the wreckage, although the blaze was clearly on the way to burning itself out. The building was in pretty good shape, from the outside at least. Soot-colored smoke billowed between the small row of restaurants and shops, as if an old Indian medicine man was enjoying his favorite pipe of kinnikinnick.
The two intersecting roads were deserted save for a few cars that had either been abandoned or become the final resting places of their owners. The small community was as quiet as a graveyard, not a single soul standing around gawking at the most unusual sight.
A young girl, perhaps ten or twelve years of age, stumbled to the edge of the roof, doubled over and coughing. She was standing dangerously close to the edge, obviously trying to escape the heat of the fire. Tanner watched to see if anyone else would appear on the roof. No one did.
The girl looked up and saw him. She started motioning frantically for his help. He hurried across the street and stood next to the brick wall of the restaurant. She was about ten feet above him, teetering on the edge of the roof.
“Help me,” she cried, coughing.
He looked around but didn’t see anything that could easily be moved to lift him up. Seeing no other option, he said, “Hang off the edge and drop. I’ll try to catch you.”
“I can’t. It’s too far.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, turning to leave.
“Wait! What are you doing?”
He turned back.
“If you want my help getting down, you’ll have to hang and drop.”
“Are you sure you can catch me?”
Tanner shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never caught a girl falling from a burning building. But I’d say the odds are better than fifty-fifty.”
From the disappointed look on her face, she apparently didn’t appreciate his honesty.
“Okay, okay,” she said, first sitting down and then sliding her legs over the edge.
He moved close to the building and reached up. She was still about five feet out of his reach.
“Okay, now lower and drop.”
She carefully lowered herself, but as she was about halfway down, she started to cough, lost her grip, and fell backward.
Tanner saw her fall but accepted that there wasn’t much he could do to change what would happen next. He moved back half a step and spread his arms as wide as possible, hoping to act as a human net. The girl landed butt first on his left shoulder and then fell backward as if tumbling off a teeter-totter. He managed to cross his arms around her ankles, just in time to prevent her from flipping completely over his shoulder. When she finally stopped falling, she lay dangling across his back with her feet up near his
head.
Tanner carried her across the street and set her on the curb. The girl’s whole body was trembling.
“Relax,” he said. “You’re okay.”
She nodded. “But it was close.”
“Yes, it was close.”
“You did good. Thanks.”
He smiled. “How old are you, kid?”
“I’m eleven,” she said, stiffening. “I’m just short for my age.”
He sized her up. “No, I’d say you’re about right for eleven.”
“You look … well, you’re as big as Oscar.”
“Who’s Oscar?”
She looked back toward the helicopter.
“He was my bodyguard. He’s dead now.”
“What kind of kid needs a bodyguard?”
She shrugged.
“That’s not much of an answer. You got rich parents or something?”
“Something like that.”
Tanner looked back at the wreckage.
“Where were you headed?”
“To my mother’s.”
“Where’s she at?”
“Virginia. It’s east of here.”
“I know where Virginia is.”
“Any chance … you’re headed that way?”
“I’m not really headed anywhere.”
“You just break out of jail?”
She pointed to his orange jumpsuit, which had the word “prisoner” stamped across the front and back.
Tanner looked down at her and furrowed his brows.
“For your information, I was released.”
She nodded slowly, obviously not buying the story.
“Okay. Does that mean you don’t plan to kill me?”
“I don’t plan to.”
“Okay,” she repeated.
They both turned as they heard several loud motorcycles approaching from the north.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get off the street.” He turned and hurried over to a small submarine sandwich shop with a sign above it that read, Vinny’s.
The girl stared up the road, weighing whether the motorcycle riders might prove more helpful than a reluctant rescuer wearing a prison jumpsuit. After a few seconds, she turned and followed him.
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