Frontier Justice - 01

by Arthur Bradley

  She smiled. “Yes, we’re helping.”

  Ava emerged from one of the treatment rooms and spied Mason across the room. She waved and walked toward him. She was wearing the same green scrubs as earlier in the day, and, despite being sprinkled in blood and other bodily fluids, she looked amazing.

  “Marshal Raines,” she said with a big smile. “What a nice surprise.”

  “I thought I’d walk the town a bit to see what it was like after dark.”

  She came close and he could smell a faint trace of perfume.

  “I can tell you that all sorts of things happen around here at night,” she said. “None of them good.”

  “Something good happened tonight,” Fran said, blatantly nodding her head in Mason’s direction.

  Ava turned to him and rolled her eyes.

  “Please don’t believe a thing this crazy old coot tells you.” Even as she said the words, Ava leaned over and hugged Fran.

  “I think she’s planning our wedding,” he said.

  Ava’s eyes opened wide.

  “Fran, what did you—”

  Fran immediately sat down and started scribbling in her log.

  “Get along you two. I’ve got work to do. In case you’ve forgotten, this is a hospital.”

  Ava surprised Mason by reaching out and grabbing his arm.

  “Come on,” she said with a sigh. “Let me show you around before she names our first child.”

  As they turned to leave, Mason heard Fran murmur, “Daniella would be nice.”

  Ava led him through the waiting area and into a long hallway with treatment rooms on both sides. Curtains were drawn across most of the rooms, but a few appeared to be occupied. Candles, identical to those in the waiting room, lit each of the small treatment areas. An elderly doctor with thick gray hair was leading a patient out while giving him a small bottle of pills.

  Ava pulled Mason over to the doctor.

  “Marshal Raines, this is the best doctor in town and my dearest friend, Chuck Darby.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Marshal,” he said. “I couldn’t make it to the church earlier, but Ava speaks highly of you. We all appreciate your efforts.”

  Mason extended his hand, but the doctor just smiled in return.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “but we’re trying our best to prevent the spread of germs and viruses. Without water, I find myself using hand sanitizer at least twenty times a day.”

  “I understand,” Mason said, making a mental note to do a better job of minimizing his own exposure.

  The doctor was about to say something else when a loud commotion came from the waiting room.

  “Oh, no,” Ava said, turning and hurrying back into the main room.

  Mason and Dr. Darby quickly followed.

  By the time Mason entered the waiting room, Ava was already standing face to face with a man who could have moonlighted as a World Wrestling Federation competitor. The barrel-chested goon had arms as big as Popeye’s archenemy, Bluto, and a tangle of curly, black chest hair poking up through the neck of his shirt to match. His forearms were awash in dark green tattoos, and his face sported a bushy black mustache.

  Fran was lying on the floor behind her small entryway table, struggling to get up.

  “Get out!” Ava commanded, pointing to the door.

  Bluto reached forward to grab her, but stopped short when he saw Mason.

  In the two seconds that it took Mason to take everything in, three other men strode through the front door. Two had handguns in their waistbands, and the third carried a large stainless steel revolver hanging at his side like a fistful of bad news.

  For a moment, no one moved. Everyone just stared, looking from one face to the next. Sensing things were about to go from bad to worse, Ava began backing away from Bluto. The patients in the room instinctively moved closer to the walls in an attempt to blend in with their surroundings.

  Mason walked slowly to the center of the room, struggling to keep his heartbeat in check. Calm hearts lead to calm hands, he reminded himself.

  Ava stepped back to stand beside him. Bowie peered in from outside the door. His ears were pinned back, and his tail was tucked. He was a sneeze away from ruining someone’s day.

  “That brute attacked my nurse,” she said, as if needing to explain what had transpired.

  Mason noticed Fran holding one arm close to her body. Her carefree smile had been replaced with anguish and worry. Bluto stood confidently in the center of the room, obviously enjoying the attention. His three henchmen watched Mason, not advancing any closer but not retreating either. None of them seemed to notice the giant dog standing just a few feet behind them.

  Mason turned to Bluto and parted his jacket to expose his pistol and badge. He placed his hand on the butt of his Supergrade.

  “The doctor made it clear that you men are not welcome here.”

  “We go where we want. We take what we want,” Bluto said in a deep voice befitting of his girth. “If she’s not nice, we may take more than just drugs.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure that his men were still there. They were.

  The man holding the revolver smiled at Mason, showing off a single gold tooth.

  Without ever taking his eyes off the men, Mason said, “Ava, I want you and Dr. Darby to remain very still.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “Because,” he said in the same even tone, “it looks as if I’m going to have to kill these men, and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire.”

  “You really think you’re fast enough to draw on me?” the man with the revolver said, cocking the hammer back but not yet raising his pistol.

  “Are you kidding me? You’ll never get that hand cannon up in time.”

  The man’s smile faded.

  “I’ll make this simple, Marshal,” said Bluto. “Throw down your pistol, or we’ll kill everyone in this room.” When Mason didn’t move, he said, “I mean it. We’ll butcher them like pigs in a slaughterhouse.”

  Several people in the emergency room started to cry and lower themselves to the floor.

  “How much do you weigh?” asked Mason.

  “What?”

  “Two hundred and eighty pounds, give or take?”

  The man puffed his chest out.

  “I was two-eighty when I was twelve years old.”

  “And you’re what? Six-foot-five?”

  “Are you planning on making me a suit?” Bluto laughed, looking over his shoulder to his buddies for their approval.

  “No,” Mason said, shaking his head. “I was just wondering how many men it was going to take to drag your giant carcass out of here.”

  Before anyone could take another breath, he drew his Supergrade and fired a single shot through the bridge of Bluto’s nose. The man’s lights went out instantly, but his body teetered for a moment as it tried to sort out the sudden lack of electrical impulses.

  Mason shifted his aim and put two bullets in the chest of the man holding the revolver.

  Both of the other men went for their guns. The faster of the two fumbled the draw, and the pistol fell heavily to the floor. He reached down to pick it up, but before he got it in hand, Bowie was on him. The dog knocked the man to the floor and began ripping into him with its mighty fangs.

  The fourth man got his pistol in hand, but, when he brought it up to fire, he became disoriented. Mason had dropped to one knee, and by the time the man processed the change in his target, a bullet punched through his mouth and took off the top of his head.

  Everything fell silent except for the terrible screams of a man being mauled by a one-hundred-and-forty-pound animal with a head the size of a cannonball.

  Mason and Ava sat outside on a stone bench in the hospital’s garden. Soft rays of candlelight from the emergency room spilled out to provide just enough illumination for them to see one another. The night was filled with the sounds of insects and Bowie’s incessant licking as he worked to clean his paws.

  “That was
horrible,” she said, her voice shaking almost as much as her hands.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “As a doctor, I’ve seen things that would repulse any normal person. But I’ve never been so close to that kind of violence.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, not sure of what else to say.

  “The gunfire, the screaming … and your dog.” She shook her head, trying to clear the images of the past few minutes.

  Bowie looked up as if he understood that he was the topic of conversation. When Ava didn’t reach down to pet him, he went back to chewing on his paws.

  “I was terribly afraid. I suppose that makes me a coward.”

  “I was afraid, too. Does that make me a coward?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anyone being more confident.”

  Mason said nothing as he looked out into the night. He was thankful that she couldn’t see the relentless procession of “what ifs” that were marching across the parade ground of his mind.

  “How did you get so good with a gun?”

  “I train,” he said, simply.

  “I wouldn’t have thought it possible for one person to defeat four.”

  “You’re forgetting about Bowie,” he said, leaning down and patting the dog. Bowie started to rise for more attention, but Mason motioned for him to lie back down.

  “Even without your dog, those men never stood a chance.”

  Mason shrugged. “Most people don’t realize that reaction is slower than action.”

  She looked confused.

  “It just means that the person who moves first generally wins.”

  “So, you move first.”

  “I try to.”

  She reached over and laid her hand on his.

  “I admire your humility. Most men would be stomping around boasting about their victory.” She sat quietly for a moment, never removing her hand from his.

  “Is Fran going to be okay? Nothing broken I hope.”

  “She’ll be fine. I think it bruised her spirit as much as her arm. She certainly fared better than her attacker.”

  “When a man the size of a boxcar starts bullying an old woman, he deserves everything he gets.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many times?”

  He thought of the bodies decomposing at the bottom of the ravine near his cabin.

  “Yes,” he repeated.

  “Do you mind if I ask how it makes you feel when you take a life? I’ve heard soldiers say it gives them a feeling of power, even elation, at having overcome their enemy.”

  Mason shook his head, slowly.

  “I take no pleasure in killing.” He paused, collecting his words. “But I don’t feel much remorse either. To be in front of my gun means a person has made choices that can’t be undone, or even forgiven. It becomes a moment of reckoning, a moment of justice.”

  She squeezed his hand, apparently satisfied with his answer.

  “You’re a good man, Mason Raines, a strong man.”

  He looked over and saw that she was crying.

  “Ava, what’s wrong?”

  She smiled and wiped the tears away.

  “I’m sorry. I’m behaving like a little girl.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at me, holding your hand, searching for some sign of strength and security in a world filled only with death and suffering.” She pulled her hand away and sat up straight. “I’m sorry. You don’t need this baggage.”

  He reached over and put his arm around her.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about. We’re all trying to find hope. Despite the death, there is also life, purpose, and maybe even love.”

  She looked up at him, the tears still trickling down her cheeks.

  “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  Ava leaned over and laid her head against his chest.

  Mason pulled her close, smelling the soft hint of her perfume as it mixed with the freshly burnt gunpowder still swirling through the air.

  CHAPTER

  17

  The morning following the shooting at the hospital, Mason called his four volunteer deputies together to discuss the security of the town. They met at the Boone police department, one of the few remaining buildings that hadn’t been ransacked. The front window and glass door were cracked, but they were covered with bars that helped keep them structurally intact. Fortunately, retired Police Chief Blue still had keys to the station and was able to let everyone in without any difficulty.

  The inside of the small police station looked pristine, as if the departing officers had simply locked it up for the night. Portable radios sat in chargers, and papers were stacked in neat piles on the three desks. The holding cells were empty, except for long metal benches and stainless steel toilets. The town’s seven police officers had all died from the virus, but they were to be saluted for closing the facility in an orderly fashion, and with a sense that, one day, it might be needed again.

  Mason and his deputies sat in a small interrogation room that had also served as a break room for the town’s officers. A large coffeemaker was sitting on a side table, Styrofoam cups neatly stacked beside it. Coon, the scruffy hillbilly who seemed most out of place, was slowly breaking one of the cups into small pieces and then lining them up on the table into a makeshift jigsaw puzzle.

  Chief Blue said, “Marshal Raines, I heard what happened last night. It’s good to see you’re still standing.”

  “Apparently, this is the second time they’ve hit the hospital for drugs. We obviously need to stop that sort of crime.”

  “We’ll have to set up patrols,” said Deputy Sheriff Vince Tripp. “There are only five of us, and we’ll all need down time, so coverage is going to be spotty. Best we can do is probably half on and half off at any given time.”

  “Agreed,” said Don Potts, the Army MP. “If push comes to shove, we can always call for all hands on deck.”

  “I want everyone to keep in mind that our goal at this point is to prevent violent crime,” Mason pointed out. “We need to start by rooting out the worst offenders. If we can do that, the townspeople will largely step up and take care of the petty criminals.”

  “A sense of security will go a long way to helping everyone get back on their feet. No pun intended,” Don said, patting his prosthetic leg.

  Mason grinned. Don seemed to be a man who could not only take care of himself but also take a joke. Such men were rare.

  “Chief Blue, you know your way around this station. Can you get it up and going? We may have to bring in a few prisoners, even if just to put a scare into them.”

  “Sure. There are two holding cells. We could probably get three people in each if needed.”

  “That should be plenty. I don’t expect hardcore criminals to surrender to our makeshift police force. They’ll call us out instead.”

  “The convicts are holed up over at the Walmart,” said Vince. “Evidently, they broke into the store and are now using it as a de facto headquarters.”

  “That’s actually not a bad move,” said Don. “Plenty of supplies. Food, drinks, clothing—even some over-the-counter meds.”

  “The question is what do we do about them?” asked Chief Blue. “Just occupying the store isn’t a violent offense in itself.”

  “It is if they use it as a base from which to attack innocent people,” countered Vince.

  Mason thought for a moment.

  “I think we can all agree that Boone is better off without these criminals. Let’s tell them it’s time to leave town.”

  “They’re likely to just shoot us on the spot,” said Vince.

  “Could be.”

  “We should wear uniforms,” said Don. “It will give us a bit more credibility.”

  “I have my deputy sheriff’s uniform,” said Vince.

  “And I still have my old p
olice uniforms, assuming I can stuff this belly into them,” Chief Blue said with a chuckle.

  Don rubbed his chin, thinking. “I don’t have a civilian police uniform, but I suppose I could put on my old Army BDUs.”

  “If you guys want to wear uniforms, that’s fine,” said Mason. “At a minimum, everyone should carry a badge. Chief, do they keep spare badges here in the station?”

  “Let me check.” He hopped up and left the room. In less than a minute, he returned holding three badges and an armful of portable radios. He set everything on the table.

  “I found the badges in various desk drawers. I still have mine at home, so I won’t need one.”

  “And I’ll wear my Marshal’s badge,” Mason said, as he passed the three badges out to his deputies. “I don’t plan on being a permanent member of Boone’s police force anyway.”

  “You’re not here to stay?”

  “I have other obligations. I’ll help to put the town back together, but then I’ll have to move on.”

  The chief nodded.

  “Those radios could come in handy,” Mason added. “Can they be made to work point-to-point with disposable batteries, or are they part of some bigger trunked system that requires a base station?”

  “These particular radios haven’t been used since before I left office. Unlike the more complicated systems in the cruisers, these can be made to talk unit to unit by simply selecting one of the GMRS channels. If we can drum up a few batteries, I’m confident that we can get them to work.”

  “I’ve got a huge stockpile of batteries that I grabbed from one of the hardware stores,” said Don. “I’ll take on the job of getting the radios up and running.”

  “Excellent.”

  “What about police cars?” asked the chief. “Three of them are parked right out front. It might be a good idea if we used them to patrol the town.”

  “Agreed. Keys?”

  “Hanging on a peg board at the check-in desk.”

  “I’ve still got my sheriff’s cruiser,” volunteered Vince. “That gives us four vehicles.”

  “Which leaves us one short.” Don looked at Mason. “Are you going to stick with your truck? I’m assuming you have a light and siren on board.”

  “My truck will be fine.”

  Mason paused to size up the men who would likely be holding his life in their hands. Each of them stared back at him with a sense of purpose. All except for Coon, who was busy polishing his badge by first breathing on it, and then wiping it with his dirty shirt.