The Survivalist - 02 (19 page)

He shifted around. “Not bad.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger. “I had that brought in special.”

“No . . . ma’am.”

She pinched the jagged cut closed.

“That hurt?”

“Only when you do that,” he answered, grimacing.

“Great,” she said. “We’ve got a wise acre.” She slid the metal cart over and retrieved a small pair of scissors, a needle, and a spool of monofilament line. She pulled out about twelve inches of the line and clipped it off.

“Is that fishing line?”

She squirted a glob of sanitizer onto her palm and smeared it over the needle and line.

“String is string,” she said, threading he needle. “So, let’s hear it. How’d it happen? Tell an old woman a story already.”

“Head butt,” he said simply.

“Uh-huh.” She poked the needle through his skin and started pulling the thread through.

He winced but said nothing.

“You want some pain medicine?” she asked.

“You got any?”

She laughed. “Nope.”

“Figured.”

Seemingly, for the first time, she noticed Samantha and Libby standing quietly by the door.

“Are you two traveling with this brute?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Samantha.

“Even if he could find someone to mate with, which I doubt, you’re too young to be his daughter. Granddaughter then?”

“No, ma’am. We’re . . . friends.” She looked at Tanner, and he nodded slightly.

Betty let the needle hang from the string down in front of his face. Then she walked over and gently touched Samantha’s cheek.

“You’re pretty. I remember my daughter being your age.” She shook her head. “That was a long time ago.” She turned to Libby. “And who are you? Not his wife, I hope.”

Libby smiled and held out her hand.

“She’s deaf,” said Samantha. “She can’t speak either. We rescued her yesterday.”

Betty squinted her eyes, studying Libby for several seconds.

“I don’t like her. Too damn quiet.”

The old woman spun around and returned to Tanner. She picked back up the needle and continued stitching, like her brief departure was all perfectly normal.

“What’s a brute like you doing traveling with two sweet young ladies?”

“I ask myself that all the time.”

She squatted down and stared into his eyes.

“Uh-huh,” she said, standing back up.

“What?”

“I was looking for that darkness that I sometimes see in men. It wouldn’t do for you to have it in you. Not with them two around, anyway.”

“And did you see it?”

“No,” she answered. Then, when he thought she might leave it at that, she added, “You’ve got something different in you. Dangerous and just plain mean. You’re like a cranky dog that someone woke up from its nap.”

He thought about arguing the point but realized her assessment was spot-on.

“Still,” she continued, “there are times when a cranky dog is exactly what’s needed.” She pulled hard on the last suture to snug it up. “All done.”

“Ouch.”

“Have one of your lady friends cut out the sutures in about a week.”

He nodded, scrunching up his forehead a few times.

She reached over and grabbed a small plastic bottle shaped like a bear.

“Honey?” said Tanner. “Exactly what kind of doctor are you?”

She squirted a little onto her fingers and rubbed it on his wound.

“It isn’t going to make you any sweeter, but it might help with infection. If the wound starts to fill with pus, find antibiotics or a shovel.”

“A shovel?”

“To dig your grave with, of course.”

CHAPTER

18

Mason stood beside his truck, drying off and taking stock of his situation. The knife, Supergrade, and Mini-14 were laid out on the seat. Beside them were three magazines for the Supergrade and two for the Mini-14. The bullets had gotten wet when everyone had gone into the drink, and he took a few minutes to unload the magazines and dry and inspect each round. When he was finished, he discarded only two that looked suspect. Total round count was seventeen for the Supergrade and fifty-four for the Mini-14. That was enough to do some damage but not enough to wage war on a small army.

He started with the Mini-14, loading two of the 20-shot magazines to capacity, and the third with the remaining bullets. Next, he topped off the Supergrade and slid it into the holster. Fully loaded, the weapon weighed only about forty-five ounces, but even the weight of Thor’s hammer couldn’t have been more reassuring. He put the spare magazines in the leather carrier on the other side of his belt, one fully loaded with eight rounds, and the other empty. The ever-trusty hunting knife topped off his waistband arsenal. It felt good to be armed and in control of his own destiny again.

While Alexus and a few of her militia were on his short list of people he wouldn’t mind bringing to justice, Mason would have been willing to walk away. Even with her forced detention, it really wasn’t personal. The problem, of course, was that they had made a huge mistake. They had kept Bowie. Not only did they have him, but she had threatened to kill the dog if he didn’t return with the gold by nightfall. Given her past actions, he had no reason to believe that she was making an idle threat. The situation with Bowie dictated that he would have to return to York and settle accounts.

The question was what kind of entrance to make. As a sworn lawman, Mason faced an all too familiar problem. He had to go against an enemy who was willing to kill him without hesitation, but, until they demonstrated such aggression, he felt obliged to show some measure of restraint. Killing townspeople who were just trying to pick up the pieces didn’t fit with the oath he had taken when becoming a marshal. His only option was to try to get in and out with as little collateral damage as possible. If bullets started to fly, however, he would have no choice but to shift from noble lawman to ruthless soldier. If they forced a war, he would give them one they would never forget.

Alexus had boasted that her militia numbered around forty. Even if that count was exaggerated, it meant that he was significantly outnumbered. Overcoming an enemy of that size required three things: surprise, confusion, and fear.

Confusion and fear were like on-the-job accidents and personal injury lawyers. If you had one, the other could be counted on to show up in short order. Surprise was the hardest of the three to achieve. Alexus would know there was a very real chance that Mason would overpower Coveralls and return looking for a little payback. She would have put into place safeguards to prepare for that scenario. At a minimum, all the major roads going in and out of York would be guarded.

Mason pulled the atlas from his glove box and studied a map of the surrounding area. He counted at least twenty roads leading into York. The larger ones, like Highway 321, would be best protected. Also, those on the north side would likely be on high alert since that was the direction from which he and Coveralls had departed. But York was not a military compound. There were simply too many entry points to protect them all with anything more than a single sentry.

The Ross Branch waterway wound its way in through the southwest corner of York. If followed long enough, it eventually merged into the Upper York Reservoir. It flowed directly under Liberty Street, York’s central thoroughfare. The intersection between the waterway and street was less than a quarter mile from the courthouse and only a hair more than that from Rose Hill Cemetery. Ground zero for where he anticipated the action would eventually take place.

He folded up the map and finished readying his weapons. In less than an hour, he would be knocking on their back door.

CHAPTER

19

Charcoal grills had been set up on the tennis courts directly behind the clubhouse, and several dozen people stood around talking and eating from paper plates.

“Are you guys hungry?” asked Angelo.

Tanner, Libby, and Samantha all nodded. No one had eaten for more than twelve hours, and the smoky smell of barbecued meat was as luring as chum to a shark.

Angelo ushered them to the front of the line, ensuring that each got a plate of boiled potatoes and something that looked like pork, although no one dared to ask. Then he took them around and introduced them to various members of the group. Tanner was pretty certain that most of them were convicts, not so much by their faces or even their tattoos, but more by the look of newfound freedom still shining in their eyes.

Despite the questionable background of nearly everyone in the group, none seemed particularly dangerous. They were no different than a gang of Hells Angels. With Angelo’s introduction, the three were adopted into their band, and harming them would be viewed as sourly as beating up one’s own grandmother.

But Tanner was no fool. Men of all statures could be dangerous if given the opportunity. His job was to keep that opportunity from ever presenting itself. So, while all three mingled, shook hands, and got to know the group, he was careful never to let the girls out of his sight. Libby and Samantha eventually migrated to a small corner of the tennis court, where several other women were socializing.

“What do you think?” asked Angelo. “Pretty cool, right?”

Tanner looked around, nodding at a few of the people he had met.

“Keep them from killing one another for long enough, and you might have something here.”

“My thoughts exactly. The more families that join, especially those with kids, the more likely it is we’ll become a community where people look out for one another.”

“Where are you getting your supplies, food, water, that sort of stuff?”

Angelo glanced around, as if someone might be listening in.

“That, my friend, is something I’ll have to show you.”

Tanner looked back at Samantha and Libby, unwilling to leave them. They had found lawn chairs and were now sitting at the edge of the tennis court, enjoying the early morning meal.

Sensing his apprehension, Angelo called to his brother.

“Dani, watch the girls for a few.”

“All right,” he said, getting up and starting off their direction.

“Hey,” said Tanner.

Dani looked over his shoulder.

“Something happens, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Don’t worry, big man. I got ‘em.”

Angelo led Tanner around to the back of the country club. Parked side by side were two large tractor-trailer trucks with official government markings painted on the side. The back doors of both trucks were shut, and a guard stood nearby smoking a cigarette, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

He nodded to Angelo.

“What’s up?”

“Give us a few.”

The guard shrugged. “No problem. I need to pee anyway.” He headed off, disappearing around the corner of the building.

Angelo stepped to the back of one of the trucks and pulled hard on a metal handle, swinging open the door. Inside were hundreds of boxes, drums, and crates, most still tightly wrapped in cellophane.

“We captured these trucks about a week ago. FEMA was trying to get them into Atlanta. There’s everything in here—MREs, bottled water, blankets, candles, paper goods. This will keep us going for a while.”

“It looks like quite a haul. What happened to the truckers?”

Angelo hesitated. “We let the drivers go free.”

Tanner stared at him with doubt in his eyes.

“The guards didn’t give up so easy.”

“What about the folks in the city? The ones who they were taking the supplies to?”

“You saw what happens after dark. How many uninfected people do you think are still alive?”

Tanner shrugged. “A few maybe. Some would have banded together, just like you did.”

“What can I say? We saw ours as the greater need.” He patted the side of the truck. “Convicts aren’t at the top of the government’s relief efforts, but we got to eat too, you know? As far as I’m concerned, the government is our enemy. Anyone who works for them is an enemy . . . what’s it called?”

“Combatant.”

“Exactly,” he said, snapping his fingers. “The government has everything and gives out nothing. While we starve and fight monsters off our children, they sit in their ivory castles, drinking lattes. We can’t let that stand. You with me on this?” Angelo’s voice was rising.

“I understand where you’re coming from,” Tanner answered, dodging the question.

“While we work to make peace with our unfortunate brothers and sisters around the country, we’re going to wage a little war on the empire that put us here. Some might call us unpatriotic, but the truth is we’re freedom fighters.”

Tanner nodded again, unwilling to voice support but equally unwilling to make a stand against him. He didn’t give a crap about Angelo’s politics either way. Let them fight their little war.

“The reason I showed you this is that we’d love for you and the ladies to stick around. Like I said, families are our future.”

Tanner pretended to give his offer the consideration that Angelo would have expected.

“I don’t have any love for the government,” he said, “but we’ll be moving on.”

Angelo tipped his head forward as a sign of surrender.

“I had to ask, you know? We could use a man like you. But we’re all about freedom and liberties, so I can respect you choosing your own path. I only hope that one day we’re not on opposite sides.”

“You do what you need to do in order to survive,” said Tanner. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with me or mine, I won’t have a beef with you.”

“That’s exactly the sort of attitude we’re after. Let us be, and we’ll let you be. When we’re big enough, we’ll spread that way of thinking to anyone who will listen.” Angelo smiled and extended his hand. “Friends?”

Tanner grabbed his hand and patted him on the shoulder. “You were good enough to doctor and feed us. And for that, I’m thankful.”

“One day, maybe—”

Tanner held his hand up, silencing Angelo. A soft rhythmic thumping sounded in the distance, as powerful blades cut through the air. Without saying another word, he turned and ran toward the tennis court.