The Survivalist - 02 (7 page)

“I said watch them. Don’t eat them.”

The dog turned back and eyed the two injured men. To their relief, he stopped his advance.

Mason dug through the supplies on his truck and pulled out a thick white bandage. He tossed it over to Blacksmith.

“From the looks of it, I didn’t hit the femoral artery. That’s good news for you. Keep some pressure on it, and the bleeding should stop before long.” He turned to Cletus. “And you better keep that bite clean if you don’t want to lose the arm to infection.”

“You’re a dead man,” Blacksmith said through clenched teeth. “You’re so goddamned dead—”

“Save it,” Mason said, holstering his pistol. “I let you off easy this time. If there’s ever a next time, I won’t be so kind.”

Blacksmith continued to mumble threats as he tore open the bandage and began to wrap it around his leg. Cletus had nothing to say as he shook the fabric of his trousers with his good arm, hoping to help them dry a little faster.

Watching the big man work to stem the flow of blood, Mason wondered if he had made the right decision. Leaving an enemy behind who might be inclined to follow was never a good idea. On the other hand, killing in cold blood wasn’t something he could do either. He had opted to shoot for the leg, and he would have to live with that decision.

Resigned to leave things the way they were, he lowered the tailgate and motioned for Bowie to get back into the truck. Once the dog was settled in, he went around and swung open his own door. Before he climbed in, Blacksmith issued one last threat.

“This ain’t over, lawman. I promise you that.”

Mason nodded.

Shifting the gold to the floorboard, he climbed in and started back down the highway. Glancing down at the blue case, he couldn’t help but consider how many people had been killed throughout history for the shiny metal. Whether it had all started with the Spanish ransacking of the Incan empire, or many thousands of years before that, gold and blood were never far apart.

He caught a final glimpse in the mirror of Blacksmith and Cletus struggling to get to their feet and decided that carrying around such a large cache of gold coins would only invite more violence. He would need to hide his newfound treasure.

Mason traveled down a small county road that weaved through Kings Mountain State Park. Tall oak trees towered above him, shadowing the single-lane road as the sun slowly began its descent to the west. The park was barely ten minutes out of his way, and it appeared uninhabited, save for the wild turkeys and occasional deer. It seemed an ideal location to bury the gold because it offered the right compromise between isolation and convenience. Certainly, the park was better than an urban area, which would all but invite discovery with the widespread scavenging underway.

He followed the road until it came to a dead end directly in front of Lake Crawford. Based on the tall grass and potholed road, the lake had not been a big attraction even before the world’s demise. Its only parking was a small gravel lot that allowed would-be fisherman to try their luck.

Mason parked his truck and carried the box of gold and a length of paracord with him down to the lake. He wasn’t exactly sure how or where to hide the gold, but he thought that something would probably present itself. Bowie ran ahead, barking, his ears flapping in the wind. The dog never complained about riding in the truck, but it was easy enough to see that Bowie was happiest when running free, rolling in the grass, and smelling the planet’s most unusual odors.

Lake Crawford measured about two hundred feet across and perhaps four times that in length, making it small enough that most people would probably have called it a pond. The Clark Fork stream ran off each end to eventually connect to larger lakes in the state park. Grass and trees grew very close to the edge of the lake, except in one area where enough foot traffic had made a muddy boat ramp. A flat-bottomed aluminum jon boat lay upside down, tied to a small metal stake in the ground.

Seeing the boat secured to the bank gave Mason an idea. He went over, untied the rope, and pulled up the stake. Taking the stake with him, he called on Bowie to lead the way around the lake, hoping that the dog might detect and scare away any snakes enjoying an afternoon sunbath.

Mason walked slowly and deliberately, carefully counting his steps. When he reached exactly one hundred steps, he stopped and secured the paracord to the handles on either side of the case. Stepping out on a small dirt ledge, he leaned over and slowly lowered the entire blue case into the water. Weighing over thirty pounds, it quickly settled to the bottom, about four feet below the surface. No bubbles rose up, which told Mason that the combination of plastic cases was waterproof. Even if water did leak through to the gold, the metal would not rust. Gold had been pulled from the bottom of the ocean after sitting for a thousand years, and, with a little cleaning, was made as shiny as the day it had been lost.

He tied the other end of the paracord to the metal stake and drove it into the muddy soil a few inches out into the water. With the weight of the case, he doubted that the anchor was even necessary. But when it came to gold, he figured that one could not be too careful. He stepped back and observed his handiwork. The water was cloudy enough that both the case and anchor were completely invisible to anyone on the bank.  Even from a boat, someone would be hard pressed to see the box as anything more than a rock.

Mason smiled. His treasure was officially buried.

CHAPTER

8

Less than two hundred miles away, Tanner and Samantha stood submerged from the neck down in the pool of mosquito-infested water. To make it easier on her, Tanner squatted down and held her against his chest so that she could push her arm as far under the water as possible. Both of them strained to hear what was happening above them in the sporting goods store.

Voices shouted, glass crunched, and racks were knocked over as men advanced.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!” The last voice was very close, likely from a man standing on the viewing platform overlooking the pool. It was followed by the sounds of several people approaching.

“They came in here. I’m sure of it.” The voice was that of Agent John Sparks, a man who claimed to be on an official government mission to retrieve Samantha, but whose intentions had never been made completely clear. When she had refused to go with him, pleasantries had been dispensed with, and he left empty-handed, spitting blood.

“They probably slipped out the back through the loading dock,” said a gruff voice.

“Nothing on the tracker?”

A pause. “No, sir. It’s clear. With these buildings, though, they could be as close as a few hundred yards.”

There was another pause as actions were considered.

“Fine, go!” said Agent Sparks. “But, remember, put the big guy down first thing—no hesitation. Three to the chest. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. And the girl?”

“My orders are to bring her back alive. But, if it looks like she’s going to get away again, do what you need to. Better dead than on the loose.”

The soldier cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of boots stomping through the store slowly faded as the men retreated. After a few minutes, Samantha relaxed her grip on Tanner’s arm.

“They’re gone,” she whispered.

He touched his fingers to her lips. After another couple of minutes, there was the sound of a single set of shoes leaving the viewing platform and walking slowly through the store. It, too, eventually faded away. When there was no sign of their pursuers for a full ten minutes, Tanner took his hand away from her mouth.

“I think we’re clear,” he said quietly, standing up.

“Good, because I’m freezing.”

He let her go and slid forward a few feet to peek around the rocky alcove. The stairs and platform were both clear.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of this water.”

He walked back around to stand in front of the platform and lifted Samantha into the air. He held her there until she was able to get a handhold on the rocks. She quickly climbed over the railing and back onto the platform. Before climbing up himself, Tanner used his feet to feel around the bottom of the pool. When he finally found the shotgun, he bent over and came up with it in his hands. Green slime poured from the barrel as he tipped it over.

“That’s a mess,” she said, looking down at him.

“Can you catch it if I toss it up?”

“As long as you don’t hit me with it.”

“I’m not going to hurl it like a javelin. Just hold your hands out and grab it before it falls on my head.”

She shrugged. “I’ll try.”

He lobbed the shotgun up, and she caught it on the first try.

As he climbed up the ledge, she asked, “Will it work, being this wet and slimy?”

“I doubt it,” he said, hopping over the railing. “Water will have gotten into the shells.”

“Without a gun, what will we do if they come back?”

“We’ll figure something out. Right now, let’s worry about getting out of these wet clothes.”

They were forced to scrap their wet backpacks, as well as most of the gear inside. Fortunately, even after being looted, Outdoor World contained a wide assortment of clothes and supplies.

“This feels a bit like shopping,” Samantha said, picking up a small plastic eating utensil that doubled as both a fork and a spoon.

“Do you know the difference between shopping and stealing?” asked Tanner with a sly grin.

“No . . . what?”

“About thirty days in the county jail.”

She tried to suppress a smile, but it eventually forced its way out.

“I suppose that’s convict humor.”

“Darlin’, if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that whatever makes you smile is good.”

“If you say so.” She held up a white cotton shirt. “Hey, what do you think of this one?”

“It looks about your size.”

Samantha draped it over one shoulder and continued sifting through the piles of clothes. When they were finished, they had changed into sturdy hiking pants, shirts, and boots, and had stuffed day packs with long underwear and lightweight jackets to keep off the evening chill.  They also found several packages of freeze-dried meals, as well as nuts and dehydrated fruit. Headlamps and batteries were easy enough to find, as was a compass and several plastic Nalgene water bottles. They took everything they could fit in their packs. What they didn’t find was water.

Samantha approached with a clean, white cotton bandana wadded up in her hands and a small bottle of iodine.

“Let me clean the cut on your head.”

He touched the side of his brow. The bleeding had stopped, and a small scab was already starting to form.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “I heal fast.”

She opened up the bottle and poured some iodine on the bandana.

“If it becomes infected, you’ll get all sweaty and weak. You’re too big for me to move, so I’ll have to leave you to die. Are you sure you don’t want me to clean it?”

“You can be pretty convincing,” he said, sitting down on a stuffed warthog that had been on display in the hunting section. “Go ahead.”