The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  So far, so good.

  Shep hurried back to the group with the wrenches in hand. Mason took the larger one and handed it to a thick-chested guard with a nametag that read “Boxer.”

  “Your job is to break the nuts free.” He passed the smaller pipe wrench to a man standing beside him. “Once he does, you work them off. Keep in mind that our lives depend on how quickly the two of you can get this done.”

  They took to the task with the seriousness that it demanded and, one by one, the nuts began to come off.

  “I just had a thought,” said Brooke. “This is a feed-water pipe. That means it probably comes out underwater.”

  “Good point.” Mason turned and faced the group. “When it’s your turn to go in, strip down to your skivvies. Body armor is a one-way ticket to the bottom of the river.”

  Brooke raised an eyebrow. “You want us to undress?”

  His eyes drifted down her slender body.

  “Within reason. These men need to keep their minds on what they’re doing.”

  She grinned. “Understood.”

  As people began to strip off flak jackets and other equipment, Shep said, “What about our rifles? Do we leave them too?”

  If a soldier had asked such a question, Mason would have thumped him on the back of the head. As it was, he had to take a moment to remind himself that Shep was just a boy trying awfully hard to see another day.

  “No, son, your rifle stays with you, now and forever.”

  He nodded, his face flushing. “Yes, sir.”

  Mason divided the guards into three teams. The first was assigned to watch the catwalk, the second to barricade the door leading back to the turbine room, and the third to guard the double doors leading further into the plant. Three exits were two too many, but as long as nothing serious came their way, he thought they should be okay long enough to get the pipe open.

  While everyone took up their positions, Mason walked over and checked the second set of double doors. A short hallway went twenty feet and then turned right. With his flashlight, he could see a door at the end of the hall marked “Emergency Exit.” If worse came to worst, it might serve as a backdoor.

  He closed the door and quickly returned to the group. Everyone was moving with a sense of purpose, either breaking free the pipe, stripping down to bare necessities, or guarding the exits.

  Mason nodded his approval. Having something to do was keeping their minds off just how fragile their position really was. They had been incredibly lucky so far, and he could only hope that it would hold out for a few more minutes.

  It did.

  Not a single infected burst through the doors by the time the giant elbow was finally pulled free. The two men working the nuts were sweating profusely from the effort. They had taken his words to heart.

  As soon as the pipe was lifted off, a rotten swampy smell wafted out.

  “Jeezus,” Locke said, waving a hand in front of his nose, “it smells like a damn sewer in there.”

  Mason stepped to the open end of the pipe and clicked on his flashlight. The interior was pitch-black, and the smell brought back memories of the sewers under The Greenbrier. The tube went straight for about thirty feet before veering left.

  He rubbed his hand against the inside of the pipe. It was slick with a thin layer of slime. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad thing. Going uphill would be difficult, but going down would be like riding a Slip’N Slide.

  He pointed to Boxer and the other man who had helped to undo the pipe.

  “You two go first.” He picked up the heavy wrench and handed it to Boxer. “Take this in case you have to break out a screen at the other end.”

  The big man set it and his rifle inside the pipe and began working his way in after them.

  “Hold on a minute!” Locke shouted, grabbing Boxer by the shoulder. “Why do they get to go first?”

  Mason met Locke’s stare. “Two reasons. First, they busted their butts opening this thing. And second, both of them look like they can handle themselves in a fight. There’s no telling what we’re going to be dropping into, and I want men who can begin to set up a defensive perimeter. That’s why you and Brooke will bring up the rear.”

  Locke let the man go, but his look of frustration remained.

  “Fine, but let’s just not forget who’s in charge around here, shall we?”

  “Believe me. I’m not about to forget that.”

  Boxer disappeared into the pipe, arms stretched out overhead. Mason motioned for the next man to enter, and then the next. As the fourth man squirmed his way in, the sound of boots could be heard marching around the catwalk in the boiler room.

  Things were about to go sideways.

  “Heads up, everyone!” He turned to Shep. “Into the pipe.”

  “But I can help fight.” He slapped the stock of his rifle as if to prove the point.

  “I’m sure you can, but I made a promise that I intend to keep. Go!”

  The bark of Mason’s voice caused Shep to all but dive headfirst into the tube. Within seconds, he, too, was out of sight.

  Mason turned next to Brooke. “Now you.”

  She stared at him with curious green eyes.

  “I thought Locke and I were to go last.”

  Before he could explain that it might be now or never, the door to the catwalk burst open.

  Locke’s soldiers opened up, shredding the first few infected through the door. The next handful tried to dive in, ducking down to see if they might find cover. There wasn’t any to be had, and they quickly met with the same fate as their brothers. Blood was everywhere, on the walls, the door, and even dripping down through the catwalk’s grated floor.

  More infected pushed through the door, tripping and stumbling as they tried to crawl over the dead. The room continued to echo with gunfire, soldiers killing one after another before they could even reach the ladder.

  Showing more wisdom than his teammates, one infected man leaned his rifle around the doorframe and fired blindly down into the room. Everyone instinctively ducked behind cover, and Mason grabbed Bowie, pulling him behind a section of feed-water pipe.

  As soon as the shooting slowed, he leaned around with his M4 and took aim. When a head poked out to see what damage had been inflicted, Mason shot it.

  He waited for another to take its place.

  None came. It was over, for now.

  “Brooke, where are you!” he shouted.

  “Over here!”

  He darted from one pump to the next, until he found her sitting behind a heavy cabinet. Locke leaned against one of the doors, his leg leaking blood.

  Bowie pressed closer to get a better look, but Brooke reached out and shoved his nose away.

  “No!” she cried. “Can’t you see he’s hurt?”

  The dog seemed confused by her anger but settled onto his haunches to study them.

  “Let me see what we’ve got,” Mason said, helping Locke to stretch out his leg.

  The bullet had entered through the middle of his thigh, but there was no obvious exit wound.

  “Do you hurt anywhere else?” he asked, wondering if the slug might have ricocheted off a bone to exit through his back or buttocks.

  “Just the leg,” he said, grimacing.

  That meant that the bullet had either lodged in the muscle or simply bounced around a bit and settled elsewhere in his body. A steady trickle of dark blood bubbled out of the neat round hole, bringing to mind the old saying, “Arteries pump; veins dump.” Whatever path the bullet had taken, it had thankfully missed the femoral artery.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Brooke was nearly gasping.

  Mason found her concern a little surprising given her history with Locke, but said only, “For now.”

  “I’m fine,” Locke said through gritted teeth. “Just hurts like a bugger.”

  Mason pulled a bandage and a roll of white gauze from his pack and quickly dressed the wound.

  “Keep pressure on it.”

/>   “Right,” Locke said, wincing as he clamped his hand over the bandage.

  A loud clanging sound brought their attention back to the open pipe. One of the guards had accidentally kicked over the elbow as he scrambled inside. Realizing that time was running out, the last of the men pushed and crowded as they tried to enter the safety of the tube.

  Mason took a quick peek around the cabinet. The door at the end of the catwalk remained empty. They had either killed the first wave, or those who remained had decided to wait for reinforcements before trying their luck.

  He slipped an arm under Locke’s shoulder.

  “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Locke managed to get to his feet, but his legs began to shake.

  “I’m dizzy,” he said, doubling over. “And I feel like I might throw up.”

  Mason wasn’t sure what that meant for his prognosis, but it sure as hell could impact their ability to escape. If Locke passed out in the pipe, everyone behind him would be stuck. Trying to push two hundred pounds of dead weight would be nothing short of impossible.

  “Vomit if you need to. Just stay conscious until we get through that pipe. You understand?”

  Locke nodded, and together they made their way across the room. Brooke hurried behind them, occasionally reaching out to keep Locke from falling.

  Bowie did a quick once around the room before rejoining them. Perhaps he was searching for survivors, or perhaps he was just wondering where everyone had gone. Whatever the case, he, Mason, Brooke, and Locke all arrived at the pipe as the last remaining soldier scrambled inside.

  Mason leaned Locke against the pipe and turned to Brooke.

  “You first.”

  “He should go first. He’s hurt.”

  Mason pulled her off to the side and lowered his voice.

  “If he passes out, we’ll be stuck behind him. Locke has to go last.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You’d let your dog go ahead of a human being?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “You—”

  “Save it. After what you two did, I don’t owe either of you anything but a bullet to the head. Be thankful I’ve gotten you this far.”

  “But what if he can’t make it through the pipe? There’ll be no way for us to turn around and pull him.”

  “If he doesn’t make it, he’ll die. Simple as that.”

  Her eyes tightened. “I can’t let that happen.”

  “I don’t know where this loyalty comes from, but believe me, if you were the one injured, he’d leave you without thinking twice.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I seriously doubt it.”

  She looked over at Locke. He was doubled over, a small pool of vomit at his feet.

  “You don’t know him.”

  “And you do? He’s a user, Brooke, nothing more.”

  She hesitated, biting her lip.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Fine. I’m tired of your lies and secrets anyway. As far as I’m concerned, you can both go straight to hell.” He turned away and reached down to lift Bowie into the pipe.

  “I’m his daughter,” she blurted.

  Mason wheeled around. “What?”

  “You heard me. Locke is my father.”

  Still holding Bowie, Mason stood, dumbfounded, the questions flashing by like signs on a freeway. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Now that explains a lot.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Meaning that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “I’m proud to be his daughter. We’re survivors. You of all people should appreciate that.”

  Trading jabs was a waste of precious time, and besides, Mason’s heart wasn’t really in it.

  “So?” she said. “What do we do now? I can’t let him die in a stink-filled pipe.”

  The answer was simple enough. He and Bowie would leave them to their just deserts. Why then did he slowly set the dog back on the floor? Was it duty? No man left behind, and all that jazz?

  No. It was something else, something not nearly so noble.

  Damn it. Damn her.

  Mason looked over at Locke. He seemed to have recovered slightly and was standing up straight, even if he looked a bit pale.

  “I think I can make it,” he said, his voice wavering.

  “No,” said Mason, “you can’t.” He turned and looked up at the catwalk. It was still empty, but the second wave would be along soon enough. And once they arrived, his lone gun wouldn’t be enough to stop them from coming through.

  He eyed the double doors leading to the emergency exit. Mason had no idea what lay waiting for them outside, but he knew what would happen if they stayed put.

  “Brooke, get him over to the doors.”

  “You’re leaving us?” her voice had moved up a notch on the panic scale.

  “It would serve you right if I did.” He shooed her along. “Just go. We don’t have much time.”

  She slipped an arm around Locke, and together, they hobbled toward the doors.

  Mason looked down at Bowie. The dog’s gaze shifted between him, the open pipe, and Brooke.

  “If I thought you’d go without me, I’d put you in that pipe right now.” He reached down and stroked the dog’s head. “But we both know you wouldn’t. So, what do you say we find another way out of here?”

  Bowie’s tongue snaked out to lick Mason’s wrist. Ever faithful, ever fierce. One couldn’t ask for a better friend.

  Mason turned and took another look around the room. There wasn’t much to work with. The motors and pumps were huge monstrosities that couldn’t be rigged to do much of anything. The only things left were pipes and conduits.

  One in particular caught his eye.

  It was a two-inch galvanized pipe with bright yellow tags hanging from it that read “Hazard. Natural Gas.”

  There was no time to disassemble the coupling, so Mason picked up the remaining pipe wrench and struck it. One end pulled free, and he immediately detected the odor of gas. Given that the service had surely been lost many months earlier, it could only mean that there remained a reservoir at the plant.

  Creating a natural gas bomb was extremely difficult in a room so large. The mixture had to reach a concentration of at least five percent, and that would require a large volume of gas, not to mention time to fill the room.

  But Mason didn’t need to blow up the room. He just needed to make it hard to enter.

  He grabbed the pipe and bent the open end to face the ladder down from the catwalk. Once he had it positioned, he led Bowie over to the double doors where Locke and Brooke stood waiting.

  “All right, everyone out.”

  They pushed through, Bowie quickly assuming the lead.

  When everyone was safely outside the room, Mason stepped behind the double doors, flicked his lighter, and carefully lobbed it toward the gas line. A loud whoosh sounded as the gas caught fire. Rather than explode, the end of the pipe emitted a huge yellow flame that projected onto the rungs of the ladder like a giant blow torch.

  Mason smiled.

  For someone to come down, they would not only have to navigate around the flames, they would have to cling to rungs that would quickly reach two thousand degrees Fahrenheit.

  Good luck with that.

  While the flames would eventually extinguish when the reservoir was depleted, the residual heat might prevent entry from the catwalk for at least an hour after the fire died down. There was, however, another way into the room and, barricaded or not, the infected would eventually find their way through the turbine room. Until then, Mason hoped that the flames might buy those going through the feed water pipe enough time to reach safety.

  As for him and Bowie, they would have to find another way out.

  Chapter 11

  As Issa traipsed across Mount Weather’s compound, what st
ruck her most was the stillness of it all. What had previously been a vibrant military complex now reminded her of a college campus over summer break. Formations of soldiers had been replaced by small squads rushing from one place to the next, as they struggled to cover the compound’s endless duties.

  Mount Weather had been configured to operate as a small city, with cafeterias, water towers, fuel tanks, a motor pool, and even a medical center. With the bulk of the men away, the women and children were expected to cover the community duties, including retrieving water, cleaning quarters, washing clothes, and performing other routine jobs. And while they seemed to be managing, Issa couldn’t help but wonder whether Mother might have miscalculated in leaving so few of her soldiers behind.

  The residents were an eclectic group that included doctors, lawyers, police officers, engineers, mechanics, and others from nearly every walk of life. Many had lived in the Washington, D.C., area when the virus hit. After surviving the infection, they had retreated into the tunnels to avoid the violence that followed. Driven by an uncontrollable rage to strike back at those who saw them as monsters, they had banded together under a common cause.

  Others had come to Mount Weather after its liberation, thanks to word spreading across the country that there existed a place safe for the afflicted. Over the past six months, the population had grown to more than four thousand, nearly half of which had been conscripted into Mother’s army.

  The inhabitants’ disfigurements were as varied as their professions, some suffering horrible deformities, others only swollen joints or patches of missing hair. Issa had been one of the decidedly more fortunate. Other than her eyes being the color of obsidian, she had suffered only a slight hoarseness to her voice and a few scars on her extremities from the blisters.

  At one time, she had considered Mother to be a queen in the truest sense of the word, a woman that God had put on the earth to carry on their species. Why else would she have mutated in a way that allowed her to bring so much life into the world?

  Now, however, things seemed different. Issa had her own family, not to mention an unborn child on the way. Despite Mother retaining a hallowed place in her heart, Issa would never permit her wishes to take precedence over those of her husband and children.