The Survivalist - 02 (21 page)

The helicopter hovered over the street, tipping its nose down like a giant insect studying them. It unleashed a long string of machine gun fire, tearing hundreds of holes in the Jeep and sending the hood flying through the air. A few seconds later, the car burst into flames with a soft whoosh.

The front doors of the mansion were locked, and Libby and Samantha frantically pulled and pushed on the handles. Without breaking stride, Tanner charged ahead and smashed shoulder first into one of the doors. Two hundred and fifty pounds of angry violent offender were enough to tear the striker plate out of the support beam between the doors. He stumbled in, and the others quickly followed, slamming the door behind them.

The house was hot and stale inside. Sunlight spilled in through a large window at the back of the open living area.

“Why aren’t they shooting us?” asked Samantha.

He glanced out a small panel of windows beside the door.

“They must want you alive.”

Libby instinctively put her arms around Samantha, only to get a confused look from the girl.

“Can we fight them?” she asked.

Tanner looked at Samantha and grinned.

“What do you think?”

She put on a brave smile.

“We’re not dead yet.”

“Not yet.” He looked back out the window. “They’ll hit us with flashbangs and CS gas.” He turned to Libby. “Go to the kitchen and gather a few small towels. Soak them in either lemon juice or vinegar, something acidic. That will help with the smoke.”

“Sam, you go up to the bedrooms and look for earplugs. If you can’t find anything else, round up a pack of cigarettes.”

“Cigarettes?”

“Worse comes to worst,” he said, “we can use the filters as makeshift earplugs.”

“Oh,” she said. “Hey, that’s pretty smart.”

“Go!”

Samantha turned and bolted up the winding staircase. In less than a minute, she returned, racing back down and tossing him a partially used pack of Basic cigarettes. A book of matches had been placed inside the cellophane wrapper.

He shook his head, studying the pack.

“Living in a million-dollar house and smoking generics. What’s the world come to?” He shook a cigarette out, stuck it between his lips, and lit it with a match. It had been more than ten years since his last cigarette, and might be ten more before his next. Assuming he lived that long.

“Really?” Samantha said, completely exasperated. “You do know that smoking can kill you in, like, a thousand different ways?”

Tanner looked at her, wondering if she would see the absurdity of her concern.  She didn’t. Right was right. Wrong was wrong. He took one final drag and snubbed it out against the doorframe.

The sound of the helicopter started to change, and he turned to look out the window, expecting to see it lowering to the ground to deposit an elite group of commandos. To his surprise, the gunship was lifting higher into the air. When it cleared the trees, it turned east and sped away.

Tanner stood, scratching his chin and staring off into the distance, wondering what exactly had just happened.

Within minutes of the helicopter’s unexpected departure, Tanner, Samantha, and Libby were on the move. He found keys to a black Cadillac Escalade parked in the garage, and they were now racing down the side streets of northern Atlanta.

“I don’t get it,” Samantha said, digging through her backpack for a bottle of water. “Why didn’t they come in after us?”

“We’re not sticking around to find out.”                                             

Libby was riding in the back seat, carefully watching their mouths as they spoke. She scribbled a note and passed it up to him.

“Libby says that she thinks God spared us,” he said.

Samantha thought about it for a moment. She had never really thought that God did much of anything. Not for little people, anyway. Maybe for that pastor on television who helped people walk, but not someone like her. She didn’t even pray except for when she wanted something really bad. Like when she was lying under the Jeep. Had he heard her then? The monster had left without finding her. Maybe Libby was right. Maybe God was watching over them.

“What do you think? Could He,” she said, pointing upward, “really be on our side?”

“As a Buddhist, I’ve never bought into the divine intervention thing. Good or bad, we make our own lunches.”

“How else would you explain what just happened?”

He thought about it before answering.

“You ever heard of Miyamoto Musashi?”

“Is that the knife that cuts through cans?”

He smiled. “Musashi was reputed to be the greatest samurai who ever lived. The story goes that, one day, he came to a narrow bridge crossing a long river. At the other side of the bridge was a much younger samurai. The two stared at one another for several minutes. The proper thing to do would be for the younger samurai to step aside and let Musashi pass, or dare risk disrespecting the great master. Instead, the young samurai strode directly onto the bridge toward Musashi.” He stopped to let the story build.

“So what happened?” she asked. “Musashi cut him in half, right?”

“No. Musashi stepped aside and let him pass.”

“What? Why? You said he was the greatest samurai ever.”

“Ah, yes,” Tanner said, holding up a finger. “Many asked that same question. Musashi’s only answer was that, when he looked into the other man’s eyes, he saw his own defeat.”

Samantha wrinkled her brow.

“What does that have to do with the helicopter?”

“Perhaps,” Tanner said without the slightest hint of a smile, “when the soldiers looked into my eyes, they saw their own defeat.”

Libby laughed from the back seat and patted him on the shoulder like he had just told a doozy.

“That’s-that’s ridiculous,” stammered Samantha. “Are you saying that a battalion of soldiers in a helicopter took one look at you and ran for their lives?”

“It’s just a working theory.”

She made a funny face at him before turning to Libby.

“I think you might be right about God helping us,” she said with a loud, exaggerated movement.

“Why are you talking like that?” he asked. “She still can’t hear you.”

“I know that,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “I just figured I’d make it easier for her to read my lips.”

He shook his head.

“Where are we going, anyway?” she asked.

“Right now, we need distance between us and them. Whether it was divine intervention or battlefield prowess, I’d rather not have them pick up your signal again.”

“We’re heading to Virginia?”

“Not yet. We’ve lost nearly all of our supplies. We need to get someplace safe where we can restock and regroup.”

“And where’s that exactly?”

He smiled. “We’re going to my house.”

CHAPTER

20

To Mason’s disappointment, the Ross Branch waterway was little more than a stream in early spring. He had expected it to be large enough, and, more important, loud enough to mask his approach. As it was, he could literally step across it at some points. The waterway was, however, recessed about twenty feet from ground level and lined with a thin barricade of birch trees on both sides. He hoped that the channel would offer enough concealment for him to make his way into the town undetected.

He carried the Mini-14 and had his Supergrade holstered at his side. Even though he didn’t have enough firepower or ammunition for the task at hand, it felt good to be armed and free.

From where he had parked his truck, the walk along the waterway to Liberty Street was only about half a mile. He moved slowly, keeping a careful eye out for anyone who might take notice of his approach.

His first encounter was with an old woman washing clothes in the stream. Like countless pioneers before her, she knelt beside the waterway, first dipping the clothes and then scrubbing them against a smooth rock. She had a box of detergent sitting beside her that she occasionally sprinkled onto the clothes.

Mason got to within a few steps before she even noticed him. The sight of an armed man approaching startled her, and she fell back. He hurried forward and helped her to her feet.

“It’s okay, dear,” he said.

“You scared me,” she said, hanging onto his arm to steady herself.

“I’m sorry. Alex has me out on patrol. You haven’t seen anyone unusual, have you?”

“Just you,” she said, looking down at the basket of laundry that had fallen over.

Mason squatted down and picked up the clothes, placing them back in the basket.

“There you go,” he said. “All better?”

“I wish you boys would put away all those guns and get some water running through the pipes. That’s what we really need.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll suggest that to Alex the next time I see her.”

The woman squatted back down at the water’s edge.

“Don’t tell her where it came from. We don’t want any trouble.” She studied her clothes to see what required the most attention.

“Of course not,” he said, slowly walking away.

When Mason was sure that she wasn’t actually a clever spy about to run up and sound the alarm, he continued his hike into York. He didn’t see another person until he got all the way to the intersection with Liberty Street. A young man, barely out of his teens, stood on the small bridge that passed over the waterway. He was holding a rifle, and his attention was clearly on the road.

Mason worked his way to the edge of the bridge and crouched in its shadow. He doubted that he could get any closer without the guard spotting him. Picking him off with a single shot to the head would be easy enough, but he remained unwilling to use deadly force without just cause. That meant he would either have to rush up and take the man out in close quarters, something he felt uneasy about after his botched encounter with Stogie, or wait for him to step away from his post. Reminding himself that a patient man has the advantage of selecting the battlefield, he decided to wait.

Mason shuffled under the bridge and sat down. He didn’t think it would take long. A man standing guard on a bridge over a steady stream of trickling water was bound to need a pee break.

In less than thirty minutes, he heard footsteps trudging down the steep embankment. The guard was whistling Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” obviously unaware that death might only be seconds away. He stepped down onto the driest part of a little dirt landing at the water’s edge, set his rifle on the ground, and unzipped his trousers. Mason waited until he finished and started to zip up before rushing him. Such courtesy had been paid him in the past, and it seemed only fair play.

He came up from behind, cupping the man’s mouth with one hand and bringing the knife around to his throat with the other. He felt the soft stubble under his palm of what were perhaps the young man’s first whiskers. Before the youth could react, Mason swept his feet out from under him, guiding him to the ground with the press of the knife. Once he was flat on his back, Mason stepped over and straddled his chest. The man’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and his heart pounded so violently that Mason could see the carotid artery in his neck pulsing with every beat.

“Keep quiet if you want to live,” he said.

The man swallowed and nodded.

Mason slowly removed his hand from the man’s mouth.

“Please! Please!” he whispered. “Don’t kill me.”

Mason patted him down with his free hand. He didn’t find any weapons and only a handful of bullets in his shirt pocket.

“Give me a reason not to gut you like a fish.”

The man’s eyes darted left and right, searching for anything with which to negotiate.

“I . . . I know where your dog is.”

“I’m listening.”

“Alex brought him to the cemetery. She says that she’s going to hang him for everyone to see unless you come back with the gold.”

Mason pushed the knife against the man’s throat.

“I know that already. What else?”

“I can get him for you,” he said, feeling out the words. “Yes, yes, that’s it. I’ll bring him here. You won’t even have to go into town. I’ll do it for you.”

Mason considered the man’s offer.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Tears formed in his eyes.

“Look, you’re sparing my life. I won’t forget that. If you let me go, I’ll bring the dog. You have my word. Swear to God.”

Mason stood up and stepped back. He extended his hand and helped the young man to his feet.

“What’s your name, son?”

“I’m Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, this is the luckiest day of your life. I’m going to wait right here under this bridge for you to come back with my dog. Don’t you disappoint me.”

“No, sir,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. “I’ll bring your dog. You’ll see.”

Mason inspected the man’s rifle. It was a bolt-action, .30-06, deer rifle, which packed a solid punch but was too slow to be of much good in a modern firefight. He removed the bolt and threw it into the water before handing the weapon back to Jimmy.

“Carry this, or they’ll know something’s up.”

“Right,” he said, looking at what was now a useless hunk of metal and wood.