The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  The Farm’s armory was a single-story cinderblock building once used to store Smithfield Foods’ service equipment. It had two heavy metal double doors, one set to the front and one to the rear. There was but a single window, secured by the addition of a steel frame welded to the outside.

  As Mason and Bowie approached, two soldiers staggered out, carrying a long wooden crate between them.

  “Where are you men going?” he asked.

  “To the front gate. They’re running low on .50 cal.”

  “How fierce is the fighting?”

  “Not bad. I think we’ve got them on the run.”

  It was clear that the man had no idea what was coming.

  “Have them pull the buses back this way. And tell everyone to conserve their ammo. We may need it later.”

  “Why the hell should we listen to you?”

  “You should listen because I’m your best chance of walking out of here alive. If you don’t like it, go talk to your boss.”

  He looked to his buddy to see where he stood on the matter. The man only shrugged.

  “All right, whatever. We’ll have them move the buses, but those bastards are going to get inside the gate when we do.”

  “They’re coming in either way. We need a smaller area to defend. Now move!”

  The two men shuffled away, toting the case of ammunition between them.

  Mason stepped into the makeshift armory and took a quick look around. The building had been gutted so that rifle racks and heavy shelves stacked with ammunition now lined every wall. A young man with an M16 hanging from his shoulder stood behind a long metal table, loading a stack of magazines.

  “Joseph Greene?”

  He looked up. “Who’s asking?”

  Mason walked over and extended his hand.

  “Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

  Joseph wiped his hand on his jumpsuit.

  “Good to meet you, sir. Folks around here call me Shep.”

  As they shook hands, Bowie inched closer and gave Shep a tentative sniff.

  “Is he yours?”

  “As much as a dog can be anyone’s.”

  “He’s a big’un.” He carefully extended a hand, and Bowie reciprocated by nudging it with his nose. “Friendly too. Did Mom tell you that she trains dogs?”

  “She’s mentioned it a time or twelve.”

  He chuckled. “She does love animals. I’m assuming she sent you to get me out of here.”

  “That’s right. And believe me, there’s a whole mess of trouble coming.”

  “How much time do you think we have?”

  “A few minutes, no more. Most of the workers are already on their way out.”

  Shep stuffed a couple of thirty-round magazines into his pockets.

  “You want me to go with them?”

  “I’d prefer that you stay with me on account of the promise I made to your mother.” Mason glanced at his watch. Locke was due any minute. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  Shep slid the M16 off his shoulder.

  “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Have you ever fired one of those things?”

  “I’ve hunted for most of my life, so yeah, I know my way around a rifle.”

  “All right then. Keep an eye out for the others while I take a quick inventory of what’s here.”

  Shep hurried over to the door and peered out.

  While he kept watch, Mason and Bowie explored the small building. Locke had managed to get a hold of some military armament, including the M16s, a few Browning .50 cals, and several M60 machine guns. There was also enough ammunition for a small war, not that it would do much good. An enemy the size they were facing would overrun their position in minutes, ammunition or not.

  The one thing that caught Mason’s eye was a case of M79 grenade launchers. The top of the crate had been removed, but all four launchers remained. The M79 was an old-school shoulder-fired launcher that opened at the breech like a shotgun. The “Thumper,” as it had been named by soldiers in Vietnam, was supremely simple to operate and fired a host of different 40 mm cartridges, including high-explosive, parachute illumination, buckshot, and CS gas. Unfortunately, the only cartridges Mason could find were M676 smoke grenades.

  He lifted out one of the launchers and quickly checked its folding ladder sight and ammunition tube. When he was sure that everything was functional, he slung it over his left shoulder. He also stowed two of the smoke grenades in the outside pockets of his backpack. Smoke wouldn’t stop an enemy, but it might help to cover a retreat.

  Shep shouted, “The buses—they’re coming this way!”

  Mason rushed to the door, and Bowie followed. The two armored buses that had acted as a barricade for the front gate pulled up to the armory with a loud groaning hiss. The sound of .50 caliber fire from their broadsides quickly subsided, and six men scrambled out, including the two that Mason had sent to retrieve the buses.

  “We’re here,” one of them said. “Now what?”

  Mason turned and studied the compound. Where the hell was Locke? He checked his watch. Four minutes past due, and that was four minutes they didn’t have.

  “All of you on my six, let’s go.”

  Mason took off at a quick jog in the direction of Locke’s quarters. Shep and the others fell in behind him, a collective feeling of worry surrounding them. Bowie hung back long enough to sprinkle one of the bus tires with a few dribbles of urine before hurrying after them.

  It took Mason another four minutes to locate Locke, Brooke, and a small contingent of guards. The two Pit Bull Terriers were nowhere to be seen. Locke was carrying a soft-sided briefcase, papers poking out through the top. He also had a Colt Python revolver equipped with a four-inch barrel stuffed into the front of his waistband.

  “Did I not make myself clear!” barked Mason. “I said five minutes.”

  “We’re here now,” Locke said as if that somehow made up for the delay.

  “And your precious dogs? Where are they?”

  “Cut ’em loose. Figured they could do more damage if they ran free.”

  The whole damn thing had been a ruse. Locke didn’t give a damn about those dogs. Mason gritted his teeth but said nothing more. Time was too precious to waste on words.

  In his peripheral vision, he detected movement from the western tree line. Instinctively, he spun and brought his rifle up. Scores of infected men poured from the trees, shouting in unison like they were part of a Highland charge. And like Scottish Highlanders, many carried spears and axes. Unfortunately, many more had rifles, shotguns, and pistols.

  It was too late. They had missed their opportunity to escape.

  Mason glanced back toward the front gate. It, too, was spilling over with the infected. The enemy had arrived, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  Fighting a superior force while standing out in the open was nothing short of suicide. Mason’s first thought was to return to the armory. It was reasonably defendable, and there was a large cache of ammunition on hand. But it was also a small building. A single grenade lobbed through the window would make corned beef hash out of everyone.

  They needed something bigger, something that would give them a chance to stay on the move.

  Mason spotted the steam plant off to the south. Thick above-ground pipes fanned out from the facility in nearly every direction.

  “There!” he said, pointing. “Inside, quick!”

  Without waiting for anyone to second-guess his decision, Mason broke into a run.

  Bowie raced alongside him, the dog’s fur billowing in the rush of wind. There was excitement in his eyes. He had been in enough conflicts to know that a fight was coming.

  They arrived at the main entrance to the steam plant five full seconds before Shep and the others. Mason burst through the heavy double doors and waved the rest of the group in.

  “Come on! Let’s go!”

  One by one they rushed in, and as they
did, Mason began to lay down suppressive fire. He took his time, picking off the closest of the infected as they charged unimpeded across the compound. By the time Locke and the others were safely inside, six of the infected had been sent to meet their devilish maker.

  Mason slammed the doors and latched the deadbolt. Even though it was a thick industrial door, it would be easy pickings for a battering ram or any kind of explosive. Putting a little effort into slowing the enemy seemed only prudent.

  He pointed to a handful of Locke’s guards.

  “Find something to barricade the door.”

  They scrambled about, dragging metal cabinets in front of the doors, as well as jamming a heavy wrench through the handles.

  As they worked, Mason turned and studied the room. Four large generators filled most of the space. Conduits of various sizes went to and from the generators, many of them routing through the adjacent walls. While the heavy equipment offered cover, it wouldn’t be nearly enough to make a successful last stand.

  “Who’s familiar with this building?” he said, doing his best to remain calm. “We need an exit.”

  Everyone looked to each other, but no one spoke.

  “Perhaps you don’t understand the situation. If we don’t find a way out, we’re all going to die, right here, right now. So, I ask again, who’s familiar with this building?”

  Shep took a small step forward. “I’ve been in here a few times, sir. There’s an exit up there.” He pointed to metal stairs leading to an elevated walkway that circled the generators. “It goes over to the room with the big turbine. There’s a walkway around it too, but I’ve never been that far.”

  Going up had its advantages and disadvantages. Fighting from an elevated position, especially against those who didn’t have firearms was certainly beneficial. But it also carried the risk of becoming stranded on a platform with the enemy more easily able to surround them.

  Mason pointed to two men. “You two are the last to go up. If the enemy hits the door before we’re out, your job is to make them think twice about coming through. We clear?”

  Their eyes went wide, but neither man complained as they hurried into position behind the generator closest to the open stairwell.

  “The rest of you follow me.”

  Mason motioned for Bowie to lead the way, and together, they hurried up the metal stairs. At the top, they turned left and raced along the catwalk toward a small metal door along the back wall. Mason could hear Locke, Brooke, and the others coming up the stairs behind him, many of them murmuring about how there was no way they were going to get out of this alive.

  The way he saw it, their best chance was to keep on the move until they could either escape out a back door or find a hardened position from which to fight. Of the two, he strongly preferred escape, as there seemed little chance that a dozen armed men could hold off the force overrunning The Farm.

  When Mason came to the door, he moved to one side and pushed it open. The next room was a huge cylindrical space that might have passed for the inside of an oil storage tank. A turbine larger than any he had ever seen sat at its center. The narrow catwalk continued around the turbine to a matching door on the opposite side of the room. Below it sat a set of double doors, but getting back down to the first level would require traversing a ladder mounted to the inside of the wall. That was a no-go for Bowie unless Mason wanted to carry him on his shoulders.

  With barely a pause, Mason started around the metal walkway. As the group hurried after him, the entire structure began to shake and rattle, their combined weight threatening to pull it away from the wall and send them plunging thirty feet to the concrete below.

  Holding up a fist, he stopped and turned to face them.

  “Listen up. We’re probably six people too many for this rickety thing.”

  Worried eyes turned toward the floor, and several people instinctively wrapped an arm through the railing.

  “I need everyone to walk slowly and out of step with one another.”

  Heads nodded.

  “All right then. Let’s try this again.” Mason turned and proceeded ahead at a slower, more controlled pace. The rest of the group did the same, careful not to step in unison.

  The second door was as nondescript as the first, painted a flat gray, with a silver knob for a handle. Standing to one side, Mason gave it a push.

  The next room was identical in size and shape, except that instead of a turbine, it contained a giant metal vessel measuring thirty feet high and fifteen feet across. There was little doubt about what he was looking at.

  The boiler.

  Gas pipes fed in from the bottom, and water pipes came in through the top and sides. Also connected to the boiler was a pump the size of a small pickup, and attached to it, another generator.

  Like the rooms before it, the catwalk circled the boiler. This time, however, the overhead walkway appeared to be used solely for inspection, as there was no door on the opposite side. The only way forward was a ladder leading down.

  Like it or not, Bowie was going for a piggyback ride.

  Mason stepped over to the ladder and proceeded down a couple of rungs. When he was in position, he motioned for Bowie to come closer. The dog seemed uncertain about the proposition. No wonder. The last time they had been on a ladder, it had taken them atop a water tower that had ultimately collapsed.

  “Come on, boy. It’s not like we have a choice.”

  Bowie reluctantly meandered closer, brushing his wet nose against Mason’s cheek as he let out a little whine.

  “I know you’re scared,” he said in a soft voice, “but it’ll be okay. I promise.” Mason slipped one arm under the dog and carefully lifted him onto his shoulders. “See? It’s not so bad.”

  Locke, Brooke, Shep, and the first of the guards approached as Mason started down the ladder.

  “Wait until we get to the bottom,” he directed. “I don’t want to spook Bowie.”

  They did as he instructed, but Locke in particular was growing more anxious by the minute.

  Mason was confident that they still had a little time. The two men who were taking up the rear had yet to fire a single shot, which could only mean that the enemy wasn’t about to overrun their position.

  At least, not yet.

  As soon as Mason set foot on the lower level, he squatted and let Bowie scramble free. Carrying a hundred-and-forty-pound dog across one’s shoulders was unpleasant, but at least they had been going down this time.

  He waved up to Locke and the others, indicating they should come down. As they did, he took stock of the boiler room. Double doors lay to either side. One set led back to the turbine room and the other further in, likely to some kind of control station. If they continued in that direction, they might find a way out of the steam plant. Of course, that didn’t mean their exit would be clear, only that they might have the privilege of dying out in the open.

  He hurried around the water pump, and Bowie followed after him. It was heavy and old, and looked like an industrial mixer used to make bagels. A large black pipe ran into the bottom, and a sign hung from it that read “Feed Water.” On the far side of the pump, a rotating shaft poked out and mated with the motor. The motor looked like a new addition to the plant and had a bright-yellow natural gas line coming out of it, as well as several electrical conduits.

  With all the pieces now in place, Mason thought he understood the general idea of the plant’s design. The motor drove the pump, which in turn sucked in feed water from an external water source. That water was then heated to steam before being passed on to the turbine to generate electricity. The only question remaining was how that knowledge might help them to escape.

  Mason stepped closer and examined one of the massive, black feed-water pipes. He tapped it with the muzzle of his rifle—steel, at least half an inch thick. One end of the pipe routed through the far wall and the other to an elbow that fed into the pump.

  “Where to?” Shep asked, coming up behind him.

  Ins
tead of answering, Mason said, “Do you know where these pipes go?”

  He shook his head. “No idea.”

  “They go over to the Pagan River,” Locke said, pushing his way forward, “maybe eight hundred yards south of here. Why?”

  “I think they may be our way out.” Mason scanned the room and spotted a tall red toolbox in one corner. He turned back to Shep. “See if you can find us a couple of wrenches.”

  The young man nodded and hurried over to the chest. As he did, Brooke, along with several of the guards, crowded closer to see what Mason had in mind.

  “Do you really think we can escape through the pipes?” she asked. “Eight hundred yards sounds like an awfully long way to crawl.”

  “The way I see it, we can either crawl through a bulletproof tube or run across an open field. Anyone prefer the field?”

  No one raised their hand.

  “All right then. It looks like we crawl.”

  Locke remained unconvinced. “Not all of us are in the kind of shape you are, Marshal.” He patted his flabby stomach. “I, for one, don’t know that I can make it that far without giving out.”

  Several of the larger-framed guards grumbled in agreement.

  Mason was in no mood to argue, so he kept it simple.

  “Each and every one of you has a choice to make. You can either go through the pipe, or you can find your own way out. What I can tell you is that Bowie, Shep, and I will be going out this way.”

  One by one the men nodded, indicating their intention to follow him.

  Letting out a little snort, Locke said, “Fine. But my back may never recover from this.”

  Brooke smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine, old man.” It was a friendly gesture that suggested that whatever disagreements they may have once had were now a thing of the past.

  Shep turned and raised two wrenches high into the air. One was a combination wrench, easily four feet in length, and the other a short pipe wrench.

  “Which one?” he hollered.

  Mason waved him back. “Bring ’em both!”

  By now, the two guards Mason had assigned to take up the rear had retreated into the boiler room and were starting down the ladder. Not a single shot had been fired, and Mason had already found a potential exit.