Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) (6 page)

“Ain’t nobody there, jackass.”

“I told ya you were hearing things,” said a third man. “Now put that gun away before you shoot your pecker off.”

Without turning around, the man slowly backed into the room, pushing the door closed with his boot. Just before the door swung shut, Mason caught sight of the other two men. One was lying on a couch with a wet rag draped over his face, and the second was urinating out an open window. All of them looked like trouble.

Mason stood absolutely still for two full minutes. When he was confident that they weren’t standing ready to ambush him, he quietly retreated back down the stairs.

He stood at the foot of the stairs thinking about what had just happened. The man who had come to the door had obviously suffered thermal burns to his eyes, the result of staring at the nuclear blast. His two compatriots were also likely equally impaired. Why else would a blind man answer the door? While the men were almost certainly escaped prisoners, Mason saw no need to confront them. For the time being at least, they weren’t a threat to him or anyone else. Whether their eyes would eventually heal was anyone’s guess. If they didn’t, the three men would likely die in a manner not so different than the cats across the hall.

As Mason walked back to the reception area, he heard Bowie growl. It was followed almost immediately by a woman’s voice. The voice was calm and gentle, and laced with a slight accent. French, perhaps.

“Easy, boy,” she said. “I don’t mean you any harm.”

Hoping to start things off on a friendly note, Mason holstered his Supergrade before stepping quietly out onto the porch. A woman knelt in the driveway, her hand extended, holding a small strip of beef jerky. She had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a lean athletic build. Her clothes were wrinkled from having slept in them, but that in no way took from her striking appearance. She carried a small military rucksack on her back and had a padded camera case slung over one shoulder. A bloodstained bandage was tied around her right hand.

Bowie sat where Mason had left him, looking at the woman with a mix of caution and curiosity. Like Lex Luther, she had found his Kryptonite—food. Neither of them had yet to notice Mason.

“It’s all right,” she continued. “Try a little. It’s good.” To emphasize the point, she pretended to nibble the meat and then extended it back toward him.

Bowie licked his lips as he slowly succumbed to temptation.

Mason cleared his throat.

Bowie and the woman both jerked, startled by his sudden appearance.

The woman dropped the jerky and scrambled to free a knife from her belt. When she finally got it in hand and turned to face him, she found herself staring at the wrong end of his Supergrade.

Mason had no desire to shoot the woman, but with stitches still healing thanks to a maniacal clown, he understood too well the dangers posed by a sharp blade.

“Put it away,” he said. “Please.”

Seeing that she was clearly outgunned, the woman reluctantly slid the knife back into its sheath.

“Should I raise my hands?” she said with a coy smile.

He holstered the Supergrade. “No need. I’m not a robber.”

Bowie looked first to Mason, then to the woman, and finally to the strip of beef jerky lying unattended on the driveway.

“Is this your dog?”

“You’d have to ask him that,” Mason said, grabbing his pack and sliding it out from behind the door.

“I didn’t mean anything by trying to feed him. He just looked hungry.”

Mason carried his gear down the steps and set it next to Bowie.

“Believe me. He practices that look both day and night.”

The dog had yet to eat the jerky, but his eyes were now fixated on it, as if he had fallen into a trance.

“Go on,” Mason said, patting him on the side. “It’s rude to refuse a gift.”

Bowie lunged forward and quickly gulped down the piece of meat.

“You have a badge on your belt,” she said. “Does that mean you were a policeman?”

“US Marshal.”

“I see. Marshals deal with fugitives, yes?”

“Among other things,” he said. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”

She hesitated as if trying to decide how much to tell.

“Forget it,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t trusted anyone in quite a while. You understand.”

“I do.”

She extended her left hand.

“I’m Leila Mizrahi.”

“Mason Raines,” he said, shaking her hand. “Leila… that’s Israeli, right?”

She smiled, and Mason couldn’t help but return one of his own. He had concluded long ago that a man’s body had certain natural reactions, especially when around beautiful women. A smile begot a smile. A kiss, a kiss. And so on. It was how the species moved forward.

“I’m an Israeli journalist. When the pandemic first occurred, I was sent here on investigative assignment. Unfortunately, society deteriorated so quickly that I never made it back home.”

“And that’s what you’re trying to do now? Get back to Israel?”

“I have all but given up on that dream. Right now, I’m simply trying to survive. Same as everyone else, I suppose. But when I saw this station, I thought I might at least check to see if anyone was still broadcasting.”

“So that you could contact your family?”

“No,” she said with a sad smile. “My mother and younger sister Roni were both killed by the virus. All I have now is my country. But even hearing the voices of strangers speaking Hebrew would be comforting.”

“I’m sorry about your family.”

She nodded and turned toward the station.

“Anyone inside?”

“Only a few questionable occupants living upstairs. If I were you, I wouldn’t chance it.”

“I see. And what about you, Marshal? Why are
you
out here?”

Like her, he paused to consider exactly how much to reveal, and she picked up on his hesitation immediately.

“It’s okay. Like you said, our business is our own.”

He felt a little embarrassed. Who was to say that his secrets were any greater than hers?

“I’m looking for a man named Lenny Bruce. He was the head of a militia group known as Fresh Start. I don’t suppose you happen to know him?”

“No, but I know
of
him. He was very powerful in this area. I was heading into Lexington with hopes of learning more about him when the bomb hit.”

“Good thing you weren’t a mile or two closer to the city.”

“That’s very true. The blast picked up my car and tossed it into a ditch. If I’d been closer…” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Well, I suppose we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Is that how you hurt your hand?”

She looked down at the bloody bandage.

“I put it right through the windshield.”

“Would you like me to take a look at it?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I’ve seen my share of injuries. If it’s not too serious, I can probably help.”

She studied him. “Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why would you help me? You’re not a marshal anymore. You don’t have to do anything for anyone.”

Mason stepped a little closer.

“Consider it my returning a favor.”

“What favor?”

“You fed my dog.” He reached down and gave Bowie a quick pat.

“All right,” she said with a playful smile. “That sounds fair.” She raised her hand, and he carefully unwrapped the bandage. The gash stretched across her palm, and meat bulged out through the open skin. Her pointer and index fingers were also purple from having been broken at the proximal interphalangeal joints.

“We need to wash this out to remove any glass that might still be in the wound.”

“At the moment, I don’t have any water to spare.”

“It’s all right. I have some.”

She looked into his eyes but said nothing.

“After that,” he continued, “I should probably stitch it up.”

“Okay.”

“And—”

“There’s an
and
?”

“Your fingers are broken. I’ll need to straighten and tape them.”

She exhaled heavily. “Anything else?”

“I don’t have any anesthesia.”

She smiled. “Of course you don’t.”

“You’ll be all right,” he said, grinning. “Let me get—”

Mason was interrupted by the sound of heavy feet stomping down carpeted stairs. He spun, his hand instinctively going for his Supergrade. Bowie jerked upright, baring his teeth as three men stumbled out through the station’s front door, pistols in hand. All three were badly burned and squinting in the morning sunlight.

“Who’s out here?” Red Man shouted, waving his pistol in their direction.

The other two men split left and right, blindly feeling their way along the front of the porch. Bowie barked and folded his ears back. Red Man turned and fired, the bullet puffing up dirt in front of the dog’s feet.

“Stop!” Mason shouted, instinctively raising his hands to ward them off.

All three swung their pistols in his direction. The man on the right immediately squeezed off a round, but the shot went wide, whistling through the trees. Red Man leaned forward, squinting as he tried to line up for a shot at Bowie.

Mason drew the Supergrade and shot Red Man in the chest, a quick
tap-tap
. The man stumbled back, a bloody wet spot forming in the center of his shirt. As he started to fall, Mason swung left and then right, dropping the other two men. The time from his first shot to his last was less than one second.

Bowie started toward the fallen men, back hunched and teeth bared.

“Bowie!”

The dog stopped and glanced back at Mason.

“It’s over, boy,” he said, shaking his head.

Bowie studied the men for a moment longer and then returned to stand beside his master.

Mason turned to Leila. She was standing perfectly still, her hand resting on the pommel of her knife.

“You okay?”

She nodded but said nothing.

“Are you sure?”

She swallowed. “I’m okay.” She looked down at the pistol hanging at his side. “I’ve never seen anyone as fast as you are.”

“I used to be a firearms instructor.”

She nodded. “It shows.”

Mason stepped up onto the porch and checked that all three men were dead. Thankfully, they were. The thought of having to put another bullet in a man who was already down didn’t sit well with him. Such brutality was best saved for the battlefield.

Leila stepped closer and studied the men.

“They were blind, weren’t they?”

“The blast did that,” Mason said, recalling his own temporary blindness.

“Do you think all the survivors will be blind?”

He shook his head. “In closer to the city, instinct would have been to look away.”

“I guess that’s something they can be thankful for.”

“Not really. The same heat will have burned them alive.”

Leila squatted down and touched Red Man’s burned face.

“Our numbers are getting fewer and fewer every day.”

“Maybe so, but these men wouldn’t have helped the gene pool.”

“No, I suppose not.” She reached over and picked up Red Man’s Beretta with her left hand. Using her thumb, she carefully activated the de-cocker, returning the weapon’s hammer to a safe position.

“You know your way around firearms.”

She slid the handgun into the back of her waistband.

“Not like you I don’t. But this model is similar to one used by soldiers in my country.” She held up her injured hand. “Too bad, I’m right-handed.”

“Even so, a pistol in the wrong hand is better than no pistol at all.” Mason recalled his own training with non-dominant hand shooting. It took practice to learn to control a semi-automatic handgun with the weak hand, and many shooters, even those in law enforcement, neglected to master the skill.

“I guess I should say thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life, of course.”

“You could have just run off. I doubt they would have hit you.”

“If that’s true, then why didn’t you run?”

He shrugged. “I had more than just me to worry about. Besides, if I’d have run, my dog would have lost all respect for me.” He reached down and scrubbed Bowie’s neck. “And I can’t have that.”

She studied him. “You’re an interesting man, Marshal Raines. I wonder though…”

“What?”

“Does it bother you to have shot these men?”

“I don’t know why it should. They brought the fight to me.”

“Even so, they were blind.”

Mason stepped down off the porch and moved to stand directly in front of her.

“Leila, I learned a long time ago that I don’t get to choose my enemies.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That, Marshal, is very true.”

“Now,” he said, reaching out and carefully lifting her injured hand. “Let’s see what we can do about that hand of yours.”

Chapter 5  

Rosalyn Glass tried to sit up, frantically pulling the oxygen mask away from her face. Firm hands pressed against her shoulders.

“Easy, Madam President. You’re safe.” General Carr’s voice was calm and reassuring.

She settled back against the hospital bed, sliding up to get a better look around. A sterile plastic bubble surrounded most of the room, puffing outward from the constant pressure of purged air. Dr. Tran stood at the foot of the bed, wearing scrubs and a white lab coat, and General Carr sat next to her.

President Glass tried to speak but managed only a garbled croaking sound. She brought her hands to the bandage covering her neck.

“The doctor says your voice may come back with time. For now, you’ll have to communicate through writing and with this thing.” Carr held up a device that looked like a fancy microphone.

Her eyes opened wide with horror.

“Ah, it’s not so bad.” He pressed the electrolarynx against the bottom of his mandible and began to speak. The voice coming from the device was very different than his own, but it remained clear and distinctively male. “I figured it out pretty quickly. The main thing is to speak slowly and clearly. Also, try not to force air through your throat. It works by vibrations in the jaw, not air flow.” He held it out to her. “Here, you try.”