The Survivalist - 02 (2 page)

Bowie turned and looked at him through squinted eyes, unsure if he was talking to him.

Mason couldn’t help but marvel at the dog’s uncanny ability to understand him. Whether he told him to lead the way or guard a prisoner, Bowie rarely let him down. Where he had received such remarkable training remained a mystery, but Mason suspected that it was the result of being part of either a military or police K-9 unit. When he had found Bowie, the dog was lying at the feet of his previous owner as she slowly rotted away in the storeroom of a convenience store. The finality of the situation left Mason with more questions than answers about the dog’s origins. Bowie was in many ways like every other dog, fun loving, constantly hungry, and loyal to a fault. But he was also unique, not only for his size and intelligence, but for his willingness to engage in a fight.

Mason leaned closer, and Bowie slowly extended his tongue as if he thought a sneak attack was the only way to hit his mark. When his master didn’t pull away, the dog licked him again, this time with a gentleness that was as comforting as a close friend’s embrace. He reached up and patted the side of Bowie’s massive head. Everything was going to be okay. He had been leaving people behind his entire life. Sometimes he returned, and sometimes he didn’t. But either way, Mason liked to think that the world he left behind was slightly better for his passing.

As for those who remained in Boone, they would do well enough. With the convicts soundly defeated and the town’s major needs addressed, the survivors were well positioned to survive the coming months.

There were still uncertainties, of course. Not the least of which was Erik and the other victims of the virus, who were still living outside the mainstream community. When the Viral Defense Corp soldiers had arrived in Boone, the townspeople had offered no assistance in locating those who had survived the infection. Disfigured men and women had stepped up to fight Rommel and his brutal soldiers when the town was all but lost. Alliances, even if unspoken, had been made. Bonds like those, which had been forged in blood, were not easily broken. The question of whether Erik and the others would eventually pose a threat to the town, as Colonel Gacy had suggested, was still open. For now, the townspeople seemed to have found a balance where all could coexist in peace.

If things became too dangerous, Ava could seek refuge at Mason’s cabin. However, he thought it highly unlikely that she would ever do so, no matter what the threat. Ava was the type of woman who would stick by the people of Boone even through their darkest hour, partly because they needed her skills as a doctor and partly because she needed them to provide structure to her shattered life.

When she and Mason had parted, Ava had told him that she loved him, and he had returned the words without hesitation. Every time he held her close and looked into her beautiful eyes, love was exactly what he felt. And why not? It was a new world where things like love could no longer be waited for; nor could they be tossed around like confetti at a wedding. Now, more than ever, powerful emotions were to be cherished as an important part of the human experience.

Mason hoped to return to Boone within a couple of weeks, but, even as he and Ava kissed goodbye, neither asked for, nor made, any such promises. Nothing was certain anymore. Violence was everywhere, and the best laid plans were only a bullet away from being disrupted.

Looking for a distraction, he popped in a Rolling Stones CD and turned his attention to the road ahead. Mick Jagger’s words were not only catchy; they espoused a cool, carefree philosophy that could comfort even the most worried soul. Before the song was even halfway through, Mason was singing along, tapping his palm on the steering wheel.

You can’t always get what you want

But if you try sometimes

You just might find

You get what you need

As a deputy marshal, Mason felt duty-bound to do what he could to reestablish order, not only in his corner of the world but all across the nation. The events in Boone had proven that such order sometimes required lining the streets with the bodies of those who preferred anarchy. Despite his recent success, he fully understood that he couldn’t do it alone. Mason needed the Marshals as much as they needed him. The question was whether or not the Marshals even existed anymore. He concluded that the only way to really assess their strength and numbers was to travel to his assigned post at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, located in Glynco, Georgia.

The trip from Boone to Glynco was just over four hundred miles if traveled along the interstates. It would be quite a bit longer than that for Mason because he planned to navigate the majority of the journey on two-lane county roads. He figured that he could make it as far south as Gastonia, roughly eighty miles, before having to detour off Highway 321. An indirect route from there forward would allow him to skip Charlotte, which, like other large cities, was likely fraught with all manner of danger.

Mason only made it as far as the small town of Lenoir, about twenty miles south of Boone, before his first encounter. A procession of six vehicles drove slowly north, each following closely behind the other, like a column of army ants. They moved carefully even though the highway near Lenoir was sprinkled only with the occasional car parked on the shoulder.

As the convoy approached, Mason slowed and then stopped his truck on the far right shoulder. He unlatched the floor-mounted rack and retrieved his Colt M4 assault rifle. Bowie was already standing up in the back, peering over the top of the cab.

“This way,” he said, sliding across the seat and exiting through the passenger side door.

Bowie leaned over the edge of the truck bed and dropped carefully to the ground beside him.

Mason stepped around to the front of the truck and set his M4 on the hood so as not to appear too threatening. In a world where violence was now a way of life, first impressions could make the difference between an encounter ending in a gunfight or a handshake. He stood on the opposite side of the engine compartment, figuring that the engine block might offer some protection from small arms fire.

The convoy of cars eased to a stop about thirty yards away. After a few seconds, a man and a woman climbed out of the rusted station wagon that was leading the procession. A girl, no older than six, peeked out through the back window. The man gripped an antique single-shot shotgun with both hands. He and the woman walked slowly toward Mason and Bowie, glancing back at the occupants of the other cars for encouragement.

Both wore filthy clothes, discolored from weeks of accumulating sweat stains and spilled soup. Even at a distance, their body odor was stiffer than a block of Limburger cheese. The woman’s hair was a matted, stringy mess, and her face was smeared with more dirt than makeup. The man didn’t look any better with a scruffy beard that extended along the underside of his neck and greasy hair that draped down in front of both eyes.

“What’s your name, mister?” the man asked in a nasal voice that sounded a lot like Ernest T. Bass from the old
Andy Griffith
show.

Mason stepped around from behind the truck, leaving his assault rifle where it lay. His Wilson Combat Supergrade .45 pistol was holstered at his side. Bowie stood beside him, eyeing the strangers, a deep grumble sounding in his chest.

“I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines,” he said, parting his jacket so they could see both his badge and his gun. Each conveyed an important message that he didn’t want overlooked. “And you folks?”

The man looked over at the woman, and she shook her head, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Our names don’t matter none.” He looked over at Mason’s truck. “You got any water in there?”

Mason shrugged. “A little.”

“We need some real bad.”

“How many of you are there?”

The man looked back at the convoy. A few people had gotten out to better see what was happening.

“Twenty seven, including the young’uns,” he said. “So you got any water or not?”

“Not enough for twenty-seven thirsty people.”

“How much you got?” He stared at Mason with suspicion, the shotgun slowly swinging toward him. It was a 20-gauge and likely loaded only with birdshot, but even so, it could ruin a person’s day.

Mason couldn’t help but play back his encounter with the two convicts, Red Beard and Teardrops, only a couple of weeks earlier. Like these people, they had needed supplies. And, like these people, they seemed willing to take them by force. But Ernest T. and his wife weren’t convicts, just desperate people trying to survive however they knew how. Mason wanted to believe there was a difference. He wanted to believe there was a way forward that didn’t end with someone bleeding out on a deserted highway.

He put his hand on his Supergrade, and, when he did, Bowie tensed as he prepared to leap forward.

“If you point that pop gun at me,” said Mason, “I’ll have to put you down. I don’t think you want your wife and daughter to see that. Do you?”

Ernest T. sucked in a deep gulp of air between wide-spaced teeth as he turned once again to his wife for direction.

She reached out and put a hand on her husband’s arm.

“We don’t mean no harm, Marshal,” she said with a deep drawl. “Just thirsty, that’s all. Real thirsty.” She licked her lips, which were just starting to split.

Mason thought long and hard before answering.

“I’ll tell you what. Have each of your people bring forward a cup or bottle, and I’ll fill them. That will be enough to get you down the road a ways.” 

His generosity would nearly empty one of his three, five-gallon, water cans, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. The decision to be generous or selfish was often dictated by circumstance. For now, he had plenty of supplies, and watching children suffer was not something he could justify.

The woman smiled, showing off a missing front tooth.

“God bless you, suh.” Before he could say another word, she turned and hollered to the rest of the group. “The marshal’s gonna give us some water. Come on!”

Before Mason knew it, two dozen people were swirling around his truck, poking into things they had no business in.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Move away from the truck.”

Most of them didn’t even hear him. The few that turned to look at him paused only for a moment and then went right back to rifling through his belongings.

Mason drew his Supergrade and fired a shot into the air. The sound echoed above their heads like the sharp crack of lightning.

People screamed and rushed back toward their cars, ducking their heads as they ran. Bowie chased after them, barking and circling like a sheepdog facing an unruly flock.

Ernest T. scrambled to pick up his shotgun, which he had leaned against one of the tires on Mason’s truck.

“Don’t,” Mason said in a stern voice.

Seeing the marshal standing on one side and the dog approaching from the other, Ernest T. stepped away from the shotgun.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” said Mason. “You’ll bring the cups and bottles a few at a time. Once I fill them, you’ll take the water back to your people. Are we clear?”

He nodded. “Yes suh.”

“If, at any point, I feel that my generosity is less than appreciated, the deal is off. Clear on that too?”

He nodded again.

Mason holstered his pistol and secured his M4 back in the cab. He went to the bed of the truck, slid aside a tarp, and hoisted out a blue jerry can filled with water. He carried it around front and set it on the hood a safe distance from his other supplies. Ernest T. was on his best behavior now, patiently waiting for Mason to begin pouring the water.

With the ground rules now in place, the distribution of water was completed without any additional fuss. Most of the people took their time drinking it, fearing that it might be the last water they would have for a while. When Ernest T. was done with his, he came back holding an old handkerchief with something wrapped inside. He held it out to Mason.

“It’s the only thing I got of any value.”

Mason reluctantly took it and unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a beautiful antique silver harmonica. The sides were inlaid with gold letters that read
Hohner Meisterklasse
. Mason didn’t know much about harmonica brands, but it looked valuable.

He immediately started to hand it back to Ernest T. but then stopped himself. Who was he to refuse another man’s gift?

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I pay my debts, Marshal. We appreciate that water. It was real good.”

Mason wrapped the harmonica back up in the handkerchief and stuck it in the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Papa!” Ernest T.’s daughter was leaning out her window. “Mama says, come on!”

He nodded to Mason and turned to leave.

“Hold up a second.” Mason quickly dug through his supplies and came back with three large Hershey chocolate bars. He handed them to Ernest T. “For the kids,” he said.

“You got my word. Bless you, Marshal.”

“I suggest you head toward Boone. It’s about twenty miles that way.” He pointed up Highway 321. “Go straight to the church and ask for Father Paul. If nothing else, he’ll make sure that everyone gets food and water.”