Finest Hour (2 page)

“Do you think they’re up yet?” she asked, seeing Mason looking in the rearview mirror.

“They must be. They’ve got a fire going.”

“We could go back, maybe have breakfast together.”

He shook his head. “It’s better that we get underway.” Like most men, Mason hated backtracking, even if it was only a few hundred feet. Once a voyage had begun, he believed it best to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

She touched his leg. “You’re worried that you won’t see your father again, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure exactly what’s bugging me.” Mason rolled the window down a few inches, hoping the cool air might help reduce the condensation forming on the windshield, not to mention improve his sullen disposition.

“Did you at least get a chance to say goodbye last night?”

“My father and I have said our share of goodbyes over the years. Neither of us thought another one was needed.”

“I see.”

Mason glanced over at Leila, and when she offered an understanding smile, it lifted the fog hanging over him. What the hell did he have to be so heavyhearted about, anyway? A beautiful woman was at his side, Bowie lay in the bed of his truck, and together, they were embarking on a quest for justice that was long overdue. All in all, things were as they should be. He needed to accept that his father’s fate was just that—his father’s. Nothing Mason could do would change the outcome of Tanner’s quest to kill President Pike. It was better to quit worrying so much and get focused on the mission at hand.

“Sorry. I’m usually a better traveling companion.”

She leaned closer and kissed his cheek.

“It’s early, and you stayed up too late.”

“I most certainly did,” he said with a grin.

She punched him playfully. “That’s
not
what I meant.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Well… maybe. Any regrets?”

“Only that we didn’t have more time. You?”

She pretended to think about it a moment.

“Hey,” he said, “that was supposed to be an easy question.”

She laughed. “Mason Raines, I don’t think you need me or anyone else telling you that you’re one of the sexiest men alive.”

“That’s laying it on a bit thick, but I do appreciate the sentiment.”

She turned back to the map.

“Greenbrier is about two hundred miles from here. How much time do you think we have before General Hood makes his move?”

“President Glass said that she’d come out of hiding in three days. I would think that’s the general’s deadline for cleaning things up.”

“Which means we’ve got a day, maybe two.”

“Probably two. Hood is going to need time to find a way into the bunker.”

“Assuming there is one.”

“There’s always a way in.”

She looked down at the map.

“Any preferences on the route?”

“In my experience, interstates are best avoided.”

“Agreed.” She studied the map for a short time, tracing several roads. “What do you think about taking Highway 221 north to Highway 100, and then turning east on 219?”

“You’re the navigator.”

“Ah, in other words, if we get lost, it’s my fault.”

He grinned. “You’re onto me.”

Leila pushed the map onto the dashboard and glanced back at Bowie. The dog was curled up against the cab, snoring softly.

“You’ve got the laziest dog I’ve ever seen.”

“He’s saving his strength.”

“I see,” she said, snickering. “Where did you get him anyway?”

Mason pointed ahead. “A few miles up the road.”

“Really?”

“Bowie was trapped in the back room of a service station. When I found him, he was nearly dead from dehydration.”

“And you rescued him?”

“I did.”

She looked back at Bowie again, this time with an affectionate smile on her face.

“Will you show me where you found him?”

“Sure, but it’s not that interesting.”

“That’s okay. He’s part of our family, and I feel like I should know more about him.”

“All right.”

Mason couldn’t help but wonder about her use of the words “our family.” He and Leila hadn’t known each other for very long, and a part of him was still having trouble letting go of Ava, his previous girlfriend. Even so, Leila was a loving and beautiful woman, and he wasn’t about to spoil their newfound relationship by expressing something as destructive as doubt.

They continued down the small mountain road, slowing as they passed a faded blue pickup sitting with two wheels stuck in deep ruts along the shoulder. The skeletal remains of three people lay inside, undisturbed since Mason had first discovered them more than two months earlier. Leila glanced inside as they passed but said nothing. What would have previously brought shock-filled horror now barely registered as anything outside the norm. More than ninety percent of the world’s population had perished from the Superpox-99 virus, and dried, withering bodies would no doubt litter the planet for some time to come.

They continued along Buckeye Road, finally turning east onto Highway 321. The two-lane road was packed with hundreds of abandoned vehicles, including passenger cars, tour buses, emergency vehicles, and even a few motorcycles. Fortunately, many of the vehicles had been pushed or bumped aside, creating a narrow lane that snaked through the wreckage. Careful to avoid snagging a bumper or running over broken glass, Mason navigated through the traffic. Thankfully, the road was free of other travelers. The days of passers-by offering a friendly wave were gone. In a nation filled with escaped convicts and bloodthirsty mutants, the appropriate reaction to every encounter was to reach for one’s firearm.

After weaving through the gauntlet of wreckage for nearly thirty minutes, they finally arrived at the Sugar Grove One-Stop. The right half of the cinder block building had been a convenience store, and the left, a mechanic’s shop that was partially burned out. An old Dodge Charger sat smashed into one of the gas pumps out front. The hose from the other one had been ripped away, the victim no doubt of a brazen pump-and-run. A white Toyota Corolla sat nose down in a small culvert next to the road, and the dried remains of a young man lay next to it on the asphalt. While a few details had changed, the scene was essentially the same as when Mason had discovered it during his first foray into town months earlier.

He eased his truck into the parking lot and stopped behind one of the pumps. It didn’t offer much protection; at best, a little cover, should someone decide to shoot at them from inside the service station.

No one did. The place remained dark and lifeless.

Bowie stood up in the back and danced around, his nails clicking against the metal truck bed.

“This is it,” Mason said, killing the engine.

 “Strange,” Leila said, looking around and shaking her head.

“What’s strange?”

“That you found a dog as smart as Bowie in a place like this. No offense to the previous owners, but this looks like the kind of place where you’d expect to find an old mutt chained to a pole out back.”

“I don’t disagree. When I found him, Bowie was lying beside the decomposing corpse of a young woman. Who knows? Maybe she was a famous dog trainer before coming out to live in the country.”

“Could be.”

Mason swung the driver’s side door open and stepped out with his M4 assault rifle. Leila slid across the seat and climbed out after him.

As soon as he saw them, Bowie let out a loud whine.

“Of course you can come too,” Mason said, walking around and dropping the tailgate.

The dog carefully jumped down, took a quick sniff of the air, and trotted toward the convenience store.

“I think he remembers that this was his home,” she said.

“That or he smells something to eat.”

They followed Bowie to the front door, where he wriggled under a shelf that blocked the entrance. Mason tipped it out of the way so that he and Leila could step inside. The store was completely ransacked, the shelves collapsed and glass coolers smashed. Bugs crawled over an assortment of potato chips, Little Debbie cakes, candy, and other snacks lying squished on the floor. The air had a sweet but pungent odor, an unpleasant mix of human decomposition and moldy Twinkies.

Bowie stopped briefly to sniff a dried corpse buried beneath an overturned rack. The barrel of a .22 rifle poked out from under the body.

“Was that his owner?” Leila asked, wrinkling her nose from the smell.

“No, she’s in the back.”

They tiptoed their way through the mishmash of rotten snacks until arriving at a narrow hallway. On one side were the men’s and women’s bathrooms, and on the other, a storeroom. The door to the storeroom had been kicked in, the jamb and frame splintered, but it had swung closed, blocking their view of the inside.

Mason motioned for Leila to step to one side of the door as he crossed to the other. She slid her Beretta 9 mm pistol from the back of her waistband and readied herself. When they were in position, Mason leaned over and gave the door a soft push with the muzzle of his rifle. It swung inward, revealing a room filled with metal shelving and a small table and chair. The clump of a young woman’s remains sat in an indignant pile at the foot of the table. Her jeans, shirt, and shoes were tangled in the mass of dried flesh and bones.

Before either of them could decide what to do next, Bowie pressed his way into the room, sniffing the floor as he went. He walked directly to the pile of remains and tipped his head sideways, as if confused.

“Poor thing,” said Leila. “This must be terribly sad for him.”

Mason gave a noncommittal nod. He was reluctant to read too much into Bowie’s actions. Animals and people lived in different worlds, and while it was true that those worlds often interacted, he doubted that man or beast could ever fully understand the other’s existence.

He stepped in and carefully cleared the rest of the room. Boxes of snack foods and other store supplies were haphazardly stacked on the shelves. Surprisingly, no one had bothered to loot them. A large American burial flag with embroidered stars and sewn stripes hung on the back wall. The bottom corner of the flag was frayed from having flown outdoors. To the right of the flag sat a roll-top desk that looked like it belonged in an antique store.

“Keep an eye on the door, will you? I want to check this out.”

Mason began rifling through the desk. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he had a hunch there was something worth finding. The drawers were stuffed with receipts, pens, an old stapler, a nearly empty pack of chewing gum, and various bills—now long past due. Small wooden cubicles at the back of the roll-top cabinet contained papers and a set of car keys, presumably to the old Charger out front.

He spent a full three minutes rummaging through the papers and was about to abandon the whole thing as a waste of time when he discovered a white envelope with a return address from Lackland Air Force Base. He had never been to Lackland, but the postmark indicated that it was located in San Antonio, Texas. The top edge of the envelope had been neatly sliced open. He carefully removed a typed letter and a faded newspaper clipping.

Dear Mrs. Quinn,

As the commanding officer of the 341st Training Squadron, I was heartbroken to learn of the loss of your husband, Staff Sergeant Trevor Quinn. By all accounts, SSGT Quinn was a fine Animal Care Specialist, as compassionate to his animals as he was dedicated to his mission. Military Working Dog (MWD) Gunny spent two years in Iraq, working side by side with SSGT Quinn to save countless lives. What you may not know is that your husband had a reputation for telling a good story, regaling troops with the feats of his miraculous animals. If even half of those stories were true, Gunny is undoubtedly one of the smartest dogs to have ever served.

With the loss of his handler, MWD Gunny is being retired. It is with great pleasure that I accept your offer to adopt this fine animal. Gunny has done more than his fair share for his country, and it’s time for him to enjoy a quiet life with you in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I have pushed through the necessary adoption paperwork, and you should be hearing from animal shipping within the next few days.

With warmest sympathies,

Colonel Kendra Rice

Mason turned his attention next to the newspaper article. It featured a photograph of a young soldier squatting next to an enormous Irish wolfhound, on a dirt road with a caravan of military vehicles behind them. The title of the article was “Hero Dog – Lone Survivor of Rescue Effort.” The story explained how SSGT Quinn and MWD Gunny had been part of a six-man special operations team sent in to rescue a journalist taken hostage by Iraqi militants. When they encountered an insurgent force far stronger than had been originally estimated, they found themselves outnumbered and fighting for their lives. By the time reinforcements arrived, all six US soldiers had perished, as had the eighteen insurgents. Only MWD Gunny and the hostage survived. The hostage later confirmed that Gunny had killed four of the insurgents in his heroic fight to protect her.

Mason studied the photo. There was no doubt that Gunny and Bowie were one and the same. The story helped to explain why the wolfhound was so well trained, as well as how he had ended up in the rural town of Sugar Grove.

“Did you find something interesting?” Leila asked, peeking through the shelves.

Mason walked over and handed her the letter and newspaper article.

She read both and then studied the photograph. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said, handing the papers back to Mason. “Your dog was a hero.”

Mason folded them and placed them into his shirt pocket.

“In my book, he still is.”

They heard a whine and turned to see Bowie lying in front of the mound that had once been his adopted owner.

Leila touched Mason’s arm. “Bowie hasn’t quite had the peaceful life he was promised.”