The Survivalist - 02 (8 page)

She used the cloth to scrub off the scab and coat the entire area with iodine. Blood started trickling down his cheek.

“Jesus, Mary, are you trying to treat me or kill me?”

“My mom always says that you have to start with a clean wound to ensure that the scab forms properly.”

“Was she a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know she knew what she was talking about?”

“Did I mention that she’s the President of the United States? She’s obviously very smart.”

Once again, he couldn’t find fault with her logic.

“Fine.”

She pressed the cloth tightly against his head for a full minute before pulling it away slowly to inspect the wound.

“And?” he asked.

“You’re not getting any prettier, that’s for sure,” she said, setting aside the bloody cloth.

Tanner scoffed and stood up.

“Give me the iodine and a couple of those water bottles,” he said as he tore open a pack of black shoelaces.

She handed them to him, obviously curious about what he was about to do.

“Keep an open mind,” he said, walking back over to the pool of green water.

“If you think I’m going to drink that slime, you’re even crazier than I thought.”

He wrapped the shoestring around the lip of the bottle and cinched the knot tight.

“Did you see how I tied that?” he asked, sliding the knot up and back along the cord. “This knot lets you snug things tight. Think you can tie it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

He untied the shoestring from the bottle and handed both to her.

She wrapped the string around the bottle and struggled to get the knot right. He talked her through the process until it was tied correctly.

“I’ve got it now,” she said.

He untied it again.

“Prove it.”

This time she wrapped the shoestring around the bottle and quickly secured the knot.

“Told you.”

He nodded, satisfied.

“Does the knot have a name?” she asked.

“Every knot has a name. This one’s the taut-line hitch.”

“What are you, some kind of Jedi Master of knots?” she asked, laughing.

“When you’re cooped up in a cell for twenty hours a day, you find ways to entertain yourself.”

“Taut-line hitch,” she said, trying out the words. She handed him back the bottle and cord. “That’s kind of cool.”

Tanner leaned over and lowered the bottle into the water below. It dipped down deep enough for him to get the liter-sized bottle about three quarters of the way full before hoisting it back up. The water was indeed green, although the smoky shade of the plastic made it look more like a muddy brown. He opened the iodine, filled the built-in eyedropper, and dripped eight drops into the water. Then he put the lid on and shook the bottle a few times. When he was satisfied, he repeated the process with the second bottle.

“What’s the iodine do?” she asked. “Kill the germs?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m still not going to drink it.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why in the world did you fill the bottles?”

“Because, if we don’t find water by tomorrow, we’ll both change our minds.” He put one of the bottles in a pouch on the side of her pack and the other in his own. “Enough about water. Let’s see if we can find some cleaning supplies and fresh rounds for the shotgun.”

“Right.”

They searched the hunting section of the store, finding several jars of bore cleaner, a bottle of CLP lubricant, and a cleaning brush. Even after a careful search, however, they didn’t find even a single shotgun shell. The ammunition shelves were completely bare, and the only bullets in the store were a handful of .22LR bullets scattered on the floor. Tanner gathered them up and put them in his pocket.

“Take a look around for a weapon of some sort while I clean the shotgun.”

Samantha nodded, continuing her search.

As he finished field stripping and cleaning the shotgun, she came back holding a rifle.

“What about this?” she asked, handing it to him.

Tanner looked it over. It was a brand new Savage .22 Varmint rifle, fed by a small five-round magazine. He would have preferred something with more stopping power, but a .22 would still throw lead. Not to mention the fact that he had a pocketful of bullets.

“It’s a fine rifle,” he said.

Samantha watched him load the rifle and frowned.

“Are those even real bullets?”

“Don’t insult our rifle. It will most likely save our lives.”

“Most likely?”

“Too optimistic?”

She sighed and shook her head.

They spent the next few minutes making sure they hadn’t left behind anything that could prove useful. Then they carried their packs to the front of the store and peered out into the street. The soldiers were nowhere in sight.

“Where to now?” she asked.

“We need to get water and ammunition from the Jeep.”

She took a step toward the door, but he reached across and blocked her path.

“Agent Sparks is probably still too close for us to be out in the open. Let’s wait until dark.”

“Oh, great,” she murmured.

“What? Now you’re afraid of the dark?”

“Of course not.”

“What then?”

“I’m afraid of what comes out in the dark.”

CHAPTER

9

Mason was getting tired. Traveling across a wasteland filled with abandoned cars and rotting corpses forever kept him on edge. Mix in the needy travelers, violent convicts, and a box of gold coins, and it had been nothing short of an exhausting day. He had moved Bowie up front, hoping that a little companionship might help to keep him alert. Unfortunately, after only a few minutes, the dog had flopped down on the seat and was now curled into a ball, snoring like he had taken a double dose of Ambien.

They were approaching the outskirts of York, South Carolina, from the north, along Highway 161. According to the map, the town was very small, perhaps only a mile or two across. With nightfall only a few hours away, it looked like as good a place as any to rest for the evening.

As he came around a sharp bend, Mason saw a large dump truck parked sideways across both lanes. On the side of the truck, the word “Stop!” was scrawled in red spray paint. Four men armed with identical Bushmaster AR-15 semi-automatic rifles stood in front of the dump truck. By the time Mason saw the roadblock, he was too close to reverse or turn around without becoming target practice for wannabe Marines.

The only thing he could think to do was ease off the gas and coast up to the barricade as peacefully as possible. He rolled down both windows as he came to a full stop. Then he placed both hands on top of the steering wheel where they could easily be seen.

Two men stepped in front of the truck while the other two split and came up along each side.

“Out of the truck!” commanded a burly man, wearing dirty denim coveralls.

Bowie sat up and growled.

“Easy, boy,” Mason said, patting him on his side. “Stay in the truck.”

Bowie whined and pressed his head to the windshield as Mason stepped from the vehicle with his hands raised.

Coveralls spun Mason around and searched him. He pulled the Supergrade from its holster and stuck it in the front of his own waistband. Then he slipped the hunting knife out of its sheath and tossed the heavy blade into the bed of Mason’s truck. When he came across his Marshal’s badge, he seemed to lose a little of his unabashed confidence.

“You’re a lawman?”

Mason nodded. “Deputy US Marshal.”

He thought about it a few seconds.

“Well, not around here, you’re not. We’re the law.”

“Okay. And who are you exactly?”

“We’re members of the Free Militia,” the man said with an air of pride.

Mason kept his tone calm and friendly. He considered Coveralls and his men to be extremely dangerous. After having stood for days on end on a deserted county road, they were undoubtedly looking for any excuse to try out their new Bushmaster toys. He had seen similar aggression in young soldiers who found themselves bored and looking for a little excitement to test their training. The best thing he could do was to try to appear nonthreatening without being so weak that it invited sadistic brutality.

“Do you men have a leader?”

“He’s talking about Alex,” said one of the men.

Coveralls tipped his head and looked over at him.

“What am I, a dumbass?”

“No, boss.”

“Then shut your pie hole, and let me do the talking.”

The man looked down at his feet.

“Yes, boss.”

Coveralls turned back to Mason.

“If you give me trouble, it’s within my right to shoot you.” He leaned over and looked into the cab. “That goes for your dog, too. We clear?”

Mason nodded.

Coveralls made a motion for one of the men to get the dog out of the truck. As he approached, Bowie started barking ferociously, daring him to stick his hand in the open window. The man raised his rifle.

“With your permission,” Mason said, stepping toward the man, “I’ll get him out. He’s a good dog, but he gets a bit nervous around strangers.”

The man thought about it a moment, then shrugged.

“If he bites me, I’ll shoot him sure as shit.”

Mason slowly opened the driver’s-side door. He glanced at the glove box. In a couple of seconds, he could have the Glock 17 in his hands. But a semi-automatic 9 mm pistol against four men with semi-automatic rifles was not a fight he would likely win. Besides, he was hopeful that the situation might yet be resolved with words.

Bowie leaned his head out and growled at the strangers.

Mason patted him again.

“It’s okay, boy,” he said in a reassuring voice. He leaned down and let Bowie lick his face. He did this for two reasons. The first was to calm Bowie, and the second was to show Coveralls and the other guards that the dog wasn’t a threat.

Bowie eventually quieted, trusting his master’s judgment.

Gripping his collar, Mason carefully led him out of the truck.

Coveralls stepped forward and put a heavy hand on Mason’s shoulder.

“You’re coming with us.”

“Okay,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“To see what Alex wants to do with you.”

“And my truck?”

Coveralls nodded to the man who had threatened to shoot Bowie.

“He’ll bring your truck. You and the dog will ride with us.”

“Any idea how long this is going to take?”

Coveralls shoved him toward a faded blue station wagon.

“Just get in. You ask too damn many questions.”

Unlike the other towns Mason had passed through, York was bustling with activity. People hurried along the streets, many of which had been cleared of abandoned cars and dead bodies. A white bakery truck drove slowly through town, the driver stopping at nearly every corner to hand out loaves of freshly baked bread. They passed a shopkeeper, who was using a bucket of water to wash blood and body parts off the sidewalk. On the other side of the street, a woman and her teenage son hung fuel-burning lanterns from historic lamp posts.

Coveralls and two other men escorted Mason to the town’s courthouse, a two-story yellow brick building with large Victorian columns out front. An old man was already out front, waiting to lead Bowie away. Mason considered protesting but feared that anything he did would only make the situation worse. The man was easily seventy years old and seemed to have experience handling animals. Not only did he pet Bowie as he led him away, he also spoke to him, which Mason took to be a good sign that the dog wouldn’t end up on someone’s dinner plate.

The guards led him up a single flight of stone stairs to an office that had the word “Magistrate” etched on the glass door. After about ten minutes of waiting, an attractive woman entered the office. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and was wearing blue jeans, a tight-fitting white cotton shirt, and a pair of leather work gloves.

She pulled off the gloves and extended her hand to Mason.

“Marshal, it’s a pleasure.”

Mason shook her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip.

“Are you the magistrate?”

“The magistrate, the mayor, and the supreme leader of these degenerates,” she said, looking over at Coveralls with a reassuring smile.

“Alex?”

“Alexus,” she said with a nod of her head. “What can I say? My father wanted another jarhead, but he had to settle for me instead.” She extended her hands, showcasing her body, which in Mason’s eyes looked pretty fantastic.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you look better than any jarhead I’ve ever seen. And believe me, I’ve served with plenty.”

“Thank you,” she said with a cute little wink. “You’ve got a rugged handsomeness yourself.” This time she didn’t offer a consolatory smile to Coveralls.

Mason nodded his appreciation.

“You’re probably wondering why my men brought you here.”

“I assume they were making sure I wasn’t a threat to your town.”

“That’s right.”

“And am I?”

“To be honest, I don’t know yet.” She moved close to the window and stared out. “When the pandemic hit, our town fell apart. People were literally dying in the street. Those were dark times.”