Finest Hour (9 page)

“I made a mistake leaving that man alive.”

“You couldn’t very well shoot him.”

“Maybe not, but I could have been a little slower calling off Bowie.”

“That’s not you, Marshal,” she said, touching his arm. “Thank God, it’s not.”

Mason didn’t argue the point. Every man had a list of weaknesses, and mercy was apparently at the top of his.

“Do you think we can outrun them?” she asked.

“The cars maybe, but not the bikes.”

Leila turned to study the surrounding roadway. To one side was a thick stretch of trees and, to the other, a large open field. The town of West Jefferson flashed in and out of view as the road crested and fell.

“What do we do?”

“We start by seeing if we can lose them. Hold on!”

Mason pulled the wheel hard to the left, swerving the truck off the road and down a grassy slope, narrowly threading two copses of trees. Bowie barked as he lost his footing and flopped over in the bed. The truck bumped and bounced for a quarter-mile, finally plowing through a tall chain-link fence and coming to rest on a stretch of cracked asphalt. Ahead of them was the cinder block wall of a small grocery store. Next to it sat a faded green dumpster with a sign that read “Property of Mike’s Groceries. No dumping!”

Mason circled around the store and sped past a row of gas pumps. The parking lot exited onto Beaver Creek School Road, a thoroughfare that paralleled the interstate. Directly across the street sat the Ashe Baptist Association Center, a nondescript brick building that offered neither cover nor concealment.

He turned right and began weaving his way through the logjam of cars. Pressing ahead as fast as he dared, he passed a series of rusted sheet-metal buildings, a builders supply store, and a Nation’s Inn motel—none of which seemed suitable to make a stand against a band of pissed-off Ravagers.

Things only grew worse the further north they went. A huge multi-car pileup blocked the intersection ahead, leaving it completely impassible. A few drivers had tried to squeeze around the mayhem, only to find themselves pinched between cars and the corners of adjacent buildings. Mason saw no way to navigate the narrow road, short of ditching the truck and going on foot, and that was not something he was prepared to do.

Continuing to follow the path of least resistance, he turned into a large parking lot. To the right was a Dollar General, to the left, a Waffle House, and directly ahead stood a Jiffy Lube. A pickup truck had plowed into the front of the Dollar General, leaving a gaping hole in the wall and the unassuming yellow and black sign dangling precariously overhead. Pregnancy tests, socks, miniature bottles of shampoo, and kitchen utensils littered the ground like breadcrumbs for diehard value shoppers.

Mason felt his blood pressure rising. Despite his best efforts, every turn seemed to put them in a box that squeezed tighter and tighter. With the sound of engines growing ever louder, backtracking was no longer possible. They would have to hole up somewhere and hope they went undetected.

He swung the truck around to the back of the Waffle House and parked a few feet from the building. The roof of the restaurant cast a long shadow, and he was reasonably confident that the truck would be invisible both from the highway and Beaver Creek School Road.

“We’ll hide here until they pass,” he said, shutting off the engine.

“Do you really think this will work?”

He swung open his door.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On how determined they are to find us.”

Mason climbed out and began stuffing a handful of fully-loaded M4 magazines into his waistband. Leila scrambled out after him with her Beretta nine-millimeter held awkwardly in her left hand. The gash on her dominant hand still forced her to work the pistol weak-handed, a skill she had yet to master.

Together they eyed the back of the building. There was only one way in, a small nondescript service door. There was no handle on the outside, presumably to thwart would-be breakfast thieves, but a brick had been used to prop the door open.

“Let’s check it out,” he said, pointing.

Bowie hopped down from the bed of the truck and followed along.

Stepping to one side of the door, Mason eased it open a few more inches. When he did, the smell of pancakes, maple syrup, and bacon wafted out. As far as odors went, it was far better than most they had encountered of late.

Bowie tipped his nose up and took a few deep sniffs.

“Easy, boy,” he warned, pressing his hand lightly against the dog’s chest. The lure of food was powerful to any dog, and Mason gave him a fifty-fifty chance of actually obeying.

To his credit, Bowie stood fast, soaking up the odor but never pushing into the building.

They stood motionless, leaning forward to listen. Other than the roar of vehicles racing down the highway, the only sound was the soft
thump-thump-thump
of Bowie’s tail thwapping against the metal door.

Confident that things were as they appeared, Mason removed his hand and gave Bowie the nod. The dog scurried in through the open door, and he quickly followed, sweeping the room with his M4. To the right was a large walk-in cooler and, to the left, a dishwashing station and a shelf stacked with thick bundles of paper napkins. A set of saloon-style doors led further into the restaurant.

Bowie quickly circled the room, stopping briefly to sniff the bottom of the refrigerator door.

“Clear,” Mason called back over his shoulder.

Leila stepped in behind him, nudging the brick out of the way and easing the door shut. Unfortunately, the lever for the deadbolt had been broken off, and there appeared to be no way to secure the door from the inside.

“Leave it,” he whispered. “If they want in, that door won’t stop them.”

Mason motioned for Bowie to proceed into the restaurant, and the dog plowed ahead, bumping the saloon doors open with his nose. A few seconds later, he poked his head back through, leaving Mason to conclude that the restaurant was not only safe, it was also void of anything worth eating.

Following Bowie’s lead, Mason and Leila pushed through the doors and stepped into the waitress station. Along the rear wall was a large metal grill, coffeemakers, juice dispensers, and a glass pie case, all of them clean and empty. A long laminate counter with swivel stools separated the waitress area from a row of tables and benches. Coffee cups, plates, and water glasses were piled in neat stacks on the counter, as if the owner were preparing to put on a king’s feast.

There were no bodies, which helped to explain the less than objectionable odors, and about half of the windows were covered with pages from the Ashe Mountain Times. Somewhere along the way, the owner had either realized the futility of his actions or simply run out of pages.

“Not much in the way of hiding,” she said.

Mason studied the restaurant and then looked back at the swinging doors. Leila was right. The counter wouldn’t stop much, and even if it could, it left them exposed on one end. Without a word, he returned to the back room, walking straight to the cooler door. He gave it a quick tap. The combination of insulation and stainless steel cladding appeared thick enough to stop a bullet.

Leila and Bowie came up behind him.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He grabbed the door handle.

“I’m thinking that you might want to hold your nose.”

Mason gave the handle a tug and stepped back, certain that he wasn’t going to like what was inside.

He was right.

The cooler was filled with tubs of maggot-infested sausage, buckets of moldy pancake batter, and huge cardboard cartons stacked high with spoiled milk. A sour organic stink puffed out like the burp of a binging college student.

Bowie sneezed and shook his head.

“Whew,” Leila said, waving her hand in front of her nose. “I think I’d rather take my chances with the Ravagers than hide in there.”

“Agreed. But that wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Mason swung the door open a little further and examined the hinges. They were typical reversible cam-rise designs in which reinforced nylon pins were sandwiched by die-cast zinc straps. He grabbed the front edge of the door and lifted. Both nylon cams slid up, but he wasn’t quite strong enough to lift them free of the straps.

“Give me a hand, will you?”

Leila hurried forward to help lift the door.

“What in the world are we going to do with this?” she said, grunting.

“You’ll see.”

Once they got it free, he lowered the door on the floor and pushed it into the waitress station. Realizing that it wasn’t quite wide enough standing upright, he tipped the door sideways so that the hinges rested on the ground. He slid the entire thing over next to the grill, the hinges leaving deep scratches in the tile that no buffer in the world was ever going to take out. When it was in place, he swung the door around, finally kicking it with his boot until it was wedged firmly between the grill and the counter.

“You’re making a barricade.”

“I hope we don’t need it, but it’s better to be prepared.”

Mason hopped over the door and crouched behind it, checking for possible bullet trajectories. To the rear was a three-layer wall consisting of laminate, sheetrock, and brick. To the right was a bathroom and, beyond that, another brick wall. The big industrial grill sat to his left, and the cooler door protected the front. Climbing onto the roof and shooting down through the ceiling might be possible, but the enemy would not only be shooting blindly; they would also be giving away their position, a scenario that did not bode well for the shooter. All in all, it wasn’t bad for a makeshift defensive position.

“Very clever,” Leila said, patting the door with her palm.

He offered an appreciative nod.

“Let’s just hope an entire gang of road warriors doesn’t show up for breakfast.”

The sound of motorcycles whined closer, circled the parking lot, and then split off in several directions. Mason rested a hand on Bowie’s back, partly to reassure him, but mostly to keep him calm so as not to give away their position. Once the motorcycles had quieted, Mason and Leila peeked over the cooler door. Most of the gang had gone off to search other areas, but three of the ravagers remained behind. They watched as the men dismounted from their bikes and cautiously entered through the collapsed wall of the Dollar General.

“They’re not sure where we went,” she whispered.

“No, but we won’t be hard to find.”

Leila pushed the slide on her Beretta back slightly to double-check that there was a round in the chamber.

“What’s the plan?” she whispered.

“We need to take them out quietly so as not to alert the others.”

She looked down at the pistol in her hand and then over at his M4.

“Not with these we’re not.”

Mason looked around the restaurant. The place had been picked clean. Short of throwing plates, options were pretty scarce. He turned and looked out through one of the uncovered windows. The Dollar General might contain something useful, but with the Ravagers inside, it posed an even greater risk. His eyes settled on the bright red and white sign hanging above the Jiffy Lube.

“Stay here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Over to that small garage.”

“Why?”

He stood up. “I’ll explain when I get back.”

She reached over and grabbed his hand.

“Mason…” There was a pleading to her voice, an unspoken worry that couldn’t quite find words.

He leaned down and kissed her softly.

“Five minutes, tops.”

A smile touched her lips.

“I’ve heard that before.”

He kissed her again. “And I came back, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” She squeezed his hand. “Be careful.”

Mason slid across the counter, and when he did, Bowie scrambled to his feet.

“Sorry, boy, I’ve got to do this alone.”

The dog whined.

“If you leave,” Leila said in Bowie’s ear, looping her arm around his neck, “who’s going to protect me?”

The dog licked her cheek but immediately turned his attention back to Mason.

“I’ve got him,” she said. “Go.”

Staying low, Mason edged around the counter and cautiously pushed his way back through the saloon doors. With the freezer door missing, the stench of rotten food now filled the entire area, and it took all he had not to retch. He hurried back out through the service door, using the brick to prop it open for his return. His first stop was the bed of his truck, where he retrieved a roll of black duct tape. Slipping it onto his wrist, he raced to the corner of the building.

The collapsed wall of the Dollar General was completely blocked from view. Good, he thought. If he couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see him. With his rifle in both hands, he bent forward and dashed across the parking lot, circling around to the back of the Jiffy Lube. It was a small building, divided into a service bay and a customer waiting area. The three bay doors were closed up tight, but a small entrance used by employees to take a quick smoke break had been left unlocked.

He swung it open and stepped inside. The service bay was an absolute mess. A thick pool of brown oil covered the concrete floor, and several racks of air and oil filters had been tipped over, scattering small blue and white boxes to every corner of the room.