Madness Rules - 04 (6 page)

“Like I said, there have always been bad men.”

“Anyhow, when he finished, she got up and fetched her a tire iron out of the car. That was it for poor old Daddy.”

“And she got away with killing him?”

“Momma ended up getting to know the police chief a little better than she probably should have, if you know what I’m saying.” She grinned. “Anyway, in the end, he declared it justifiable. It all just went away, the way things do in small towns.”

“And here I thought my family was dysfunctional,” he said with a chuckle.

“All families are dysfunctional in one way or another. But they make us what we are, warts and all.”

Mason looked out at the empty stretch of road, wondering whether Connie might be right. As much as he resented his father’s quick temper and willingness to resort to violence, he wondered if they were really so different. Perhaps a man’s blood was not something he could escape. Perhaps he shouldn’t even try.

A few hours into the drive, they passed through Hampton, Tennessee, a small town surrounded by the Unaka Mountains. Hampton stretched only a handful of blocks in any direction and now looked completely abandoned. Mason was about to suggest they consider looking for a place to rest for the night when he spotted a large convoy of RVs and campers up ahead, parked in front of a Shell gas station. A group of at least a dozen men and women stood clustered near the middle of the caravan, talking. From their crossed arms and red faces, the discussion appeared to be quite heated. When they saw Mason’s truck approaching, one of the men hurried into the two-lane road and waved him down.

It took Mason a moment to recognize the middle-aged man as Carl Tipton, a traveler he had met several weeks earlier in Sugar Grove. At their last encounter, Carl and his brother John had been leading a convoy of settlers searching for a safe place to rebuild. From the panicked look on Carl’s face, something must have gone terribly wrong.

Mason pulled his truck in behind the convoy and climbed out. He told Connie to stay behind and for Bowie to watch over her. Neither of them seemed particularly pleased with his orders.

“Marshal Raines, thank God,” Carl said, hurrying over.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve lost my brother John and his wife Jules.”

“What do you mean you lost them?”

“In Elizabethton last night, we were attacked by those infected monsters. Everything got crazy so fast. When we realized we couldn’t fight them off, everyone ran for the RVs and raced out of town.”

“But not John and Jules?”

“They tried, but those damn creatures managed to tip their RV before they could pull away. God forgive us, but we left them.” Carl’s voice broke, and he choked back tears. “I left my own brother behind. And poor Jules, too.”

“What about their daughter?” Mason didn’t even want to consider what the infected might do to a ten-year-old girl.

“Lucy’s safe,” he said, motioning to a motorhome behind him. “She was with me in another RV.”

“That’s something at least.”

“A group of us went back in early today to search for them, but they weren’t anywhere to be found. Everyone insisted on getting out before dark, saying it’s too dangerous.”

“It
is
too dangerous,” Mason said, thinking of the brutality he had witnessed in Richmond Hill when the infected had overrun a band of mercenaries. “They’ll tear your whole group to pieces.”

Carl shook his head. “I don’t care. I need to make this right, even if I die in the process. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done.”

“Forgive yourself or not, that’s up to you. It doesn’t change what’s done.”

Carl put his hands over his face and began to cry.

“I can’t live thinking they might be out there suffering. John’s the only family I got left, Marshal.”

Mason looked back at Connie and Bowie and then turned his gaze north toward Elizabethton. He reminded himself that no journey worth taking was ever a straight line.

“I’ll go in after them.”

Carl looked up and quickly shook his head.

“No, sir, this is my responsibility. I left them, and by God, I’ll go get them.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you do, you’ll very likely die. And then little Lucy will have lost the last bit of family she has left. I don’t think your brother or his wife would want that. Believe me, even if they died last night at the hands of those creatures, they found some measure of comfort knowing that you would take care of their daughter.”

Carl struggled with the truth of Mason’s words.

Finally, he sighed and said, “Do you think you can find them?”

“You point me in the right direction, and I’ll find them. Whether or not they’re still alive, though, is up to them.”

“Thank you, Marshal. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

Mason looked back at the truck. Connie was leaning over in the seat, trying to see what was happening. Bowie kept her in check by licking her face every time she got too close—something that she did not seem to appreciate.

“Do me a favor, will you?” said Mason.

“Anything.”

“Keep an eye on the woman traveling with me.”

Carl looked over at Connie and waved. She returned a halfhearted gesture.

“Of course. Is she your girlfriend?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just another soul in trouble.”

“We’ll keep her safe until you get back with Jules and John. You have my word.”

Both of them heard the unspoken assumptions, but neither felt the need to question the optimism. Things would either work out or they wouldn’t. Hoping for the best rarely made a difference one way or the other.

“You promised me,” Connie said, her face turning a deep shade of red.

“I said I’d help you, and I will.” Mason didn’t quibble over her assertion that it had risen to the level of a bona fide promise.

“You can’t very well help me if you’re dead.”

“Thanks for your concern. I’m touched, really.”

She sighed and slumped her shoulders.

“I don’t mean it that way. I just want to get this done. They hurt me, you know?” Her hand instinctively went to the burn on her chest.

He remembered all too well his own hunger to punish those who had killed Ava. And while he didn’t appreciate Connie’s selfish agenda, he could at least understand it. He stepped forward and carefully took her hand in his. She seemed surprised by the sudden physical contact.

“Listen, Connie, I know what they did, and we’ll go set things right. But first, I need to help these people.”

She stared into his eyes and nodded, as if coming under a spell.

“Okay, but you’ll never get back before dark.”

“We’ll see.”

Bowie gave a short bark as he played with Carl, and both Mason and Connie turned to watch.

“Are you taking your dog?”

“Of course.”

“But not me.”

“Bowie’s a fighter, and I trust him with my life.”

“But not me,” she repeated softly.

“Can you knock a man down and rip his throat out in three seconds flat?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a nervous grin. “I’ve never tried.”

“I’ll come back for you, Connie. Until then, I need you to stay safe.”

She squeezed his hand. “Okay, but please don’t get killed. There are very few heroes left in this world.”

It was barely two miles to the outskirts of Elizabethton and only another half mile to the CVS Pharmacy where, according to Carl, they had been camping the previous night. The streets were still and quiet, not so much as a single survivor out scavenging for supplies.

Mason watched as the sun slowly lowered toward the horizon. He guessed that he had a little less than an hour of daylight left. The one thing he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to get caught out after dark in a town full of infected survivors. The last people who had made that mistake ended up needing to be cleaned up with a mop and bucket.

The CVS parking lot was full of cars, many of them dented with their windshields smashed in. Several bodies of the infected littered the parking lot, bullet holes riddling their grotesque corpses. A thirty-four-foot Four Winds motorhome lay passenger side up, oil and gas still seeping from the undercarriage. Most of its windows were broken in, and parts of the sheet metal siding had been torn away.

Mason grabbed his M4 assault rifle, loaded with the double magazine that he had taped together earlier. That gave him sixty rounds of 5.56 mm ammunition, enough to give a hell of an account of himself, should it come to that. He shut off the truck and stepped out.

The drug store appeared deserted from where he stood, but Mason couldn’t quite shake the feeling that eyes were watching him from every dark window. Bowie hopped down to stand beside him. The dog seemed to sense they were in enemy territory, his ears perked up like small radar dishes.

They walked slowly toward the RV, coming upon it from the front of the cab. Mason squatted down and looked in through the shattered windshield. No one was inside, but a blood-soaked jacket was wadded up on the driver’s seat. There was also a handful of rifle casings scattered throughout. John and Jules had apparently survived the initial assault long enough to get off a few rounds, but not without injury. Based on the blood smears, they had climbed out through the windshield, which made sense since climbing up and out through the opposite door would have been difficult with a leaky leg or gut. The injury also helped to explain why they hadn’t simply walked out at daybreak. Assuming they were still alive, they must have decided to hole up somewhere until the cavalry rode in after them.

Bowie caught the smell of something on the ground and began circling toward the back of the RV. Mason followed, constantly scanning the street for anyone who might have taken notice of their arrival. So far, it appeared that they had gone undetected, at least by anything willing to come out into the light.

There was no door at the rear of the motorhome, only a small curtained window and an aluminum ladder that now ran from left to right. Bowie inched up to the broken window and began growling.

“Easy boy,” Mason said, pulling him back.

The window posed a bit of a dilemma. He sure as hell wasn’t going to drop to all fours and blindly crawl in through the small hole. Nor did he want Bowie to do so.

“You stay here,” he said. “I’m going up top.”

Bowie lowered his head and hunched his back, staring intently at the small curtained window. If someone crawled out, they were in for a nasty surprise.

Mason slung the M4 across his back and used the sideways ladder to climb up onto the passenger side of the motorhome. A door and a double window, which remained surprisingly intact, were centered along the wall. He readied his M4 and carefully walked toward the window, the metal paneling crunching under his boots as he left imprints with every step.

The setting sun reflected off the glass, making it impossible for him to see through the window. All he could really make out were a few cushions tossed about and a mattress propped up with one corner resting against the window sill.

He continued on to the door. With his right hand holding his rifle at the ready, he leaned down and turned the knob. It was unlocked. He pulled it open it just enough for the bolt to clear the striker plate, and then stepped back and waited.

Nothing. No shouts for help. No one bursting out through the door.

He squatted down and used the muzzle of his rifle to flip the door all the way open.

There was the sound of brief movement inside, but no voices.

Mason leaned over and quickly peeked inside. Even with the sunlight at his back, it was still too dark to see much more than the general layout. A stove was directly beneath him, and boxes of food littered the floor.

He cupped his mouth with one hand.

“John? Jules? You in there? It’s Marshal Raines.”

No one answered.

Mason weighed his next action carefully. Going into the hole, as it were, was not without risk. On the other hand, if John and Jules had chosen to hide somewhere, the RV was as likely a place as any. He couldn’t leave without checking it.

The drop was only about seven feet, but with all the pillows, dishes, and food lying about, there was no guarantee that he would land on his feet. Mason gently set down his M4 and drew his Supergrade. It would serve him better in close quarters. He also double-checked the hunting knife on his belt, although he knew that if he were forced to draw it, the fight was already half lost.

“Ready or not,” he whispered.

Mason took a step forward and dropped down into the motorhome. His landing was better than he had feared, one foot planting firmly on a microwave oven and the other smashing through a glass-faced cabinet door.

As soon as he hit, an infected man leaped at him from the front of the RV, his hands extended like bony claws. Mason swung the Supergrade up and fired a quick shot. The slug hit the man directly between the eyes, generating enough compressive force to blast a golf ball-sized hole out of the back of his head. The 230-grain bullet, however, didn’t have nearly enough mass to overcome the man’s momentum, and Mason found himself wrestling with the dead body.