The Survivalist - 02 (13 page)

Hugging the buildings, he began working his way back toward the alley. Tanner figured that he had run about a mile, so it was going to take him a good thirty minutes to get back. His thoughts went to Samantha. Had they captured her? Killed her? He forced brutal images from his mind. She was okay. He could feel it. Helping her to get home was the first really unselfish thing he had done in years, and, by God, nothing was going to get in the way of his redemption.

There was a gap in the buildings that left him exposed, so he knelt down and began shuffling from car to car. When he got close to a white Toyota 4Runner, he noticed that heat was radiating from the engine compartment. He put his hand on the hood. It was still a little warm. The engine had definitely been run in the past few hours.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. He shuffled around to the rear of the vehicle and found a large jerry can strapped to the rear hatch with several bungee cords. He tapped the side of it. Nearly full. Shifting his position so that he didn’t block the moonlight, he bent down until his face was only inches from the blacktop. Tilting his head from side to side, he saw the light reflecting off a thin trail of oil on the pavement. He could hardly believe his luck. Either the universe was throwing him a whopper of a coincidence, or this was the car they had been pursuing.

He studied the buildings on both sides of the street. All of them were dark. Where had the killers gone? It didn’t make sense that they would park any appreciable distance from where they were headed. And, if they had abandoned the car, they would have taken their spare fuel.

Tanner moved from door to door, listening. Nothing. He spotted a trail of white smoke rising from a vent on the roof of an Army recruiting station. The brick building looked old enough to have been used to recruit troops for the beaches of Normandy. An antique “Uncle Sam Wants You” poster was plastered to the front window, as were several more modern “Army Strong” banners.

He peeked in through the large window, which, surprisingly, had survived the apocalypse. Nothing moved, and there was no light coming from inside. Whatever was generating the smoke was housed deeper within the structure. He stepped through the broken door, crunching the glass under his boots. He stopped and listened to see if the noise caused any sort of reaction. It didn’t.

He took a moment to walk around and survey the recruiter’s station. The entry led into the main office area, where hands had been shaken and commitments signed. Three battleship gray metal desks remained upright. Just outside the main office were men’s and women’s bathrooms. Beyond them was a small storage room, filled with boxes of color brochures and pamphlets. There was also a small service door at the rear of the building.

He opened it barely enough to peek through a small slit between the frame and the door. Like the rest of the building, it was dark on the other side. He swung it open and stepped through. It led to an open-air courtyard that looked like it might have once been part of an alleyway, but was now completely boxed in by two-story brick walls.

Tanner looked up and saw millions of twinkling stars overhead. He took a moment to enjoy the sight. If there was one positive outcome of the virus, it was that, without electric lighting, people could once again marvel at the universe. A small consolation perhaps for the billions who had died, but he was willing to take what he could get.

A round table and two metal lawn chairs sat undisturbed in the small outdoor space. What had once been a delivery entrance was now an outdoor break area for recruiters to enjoy a cigarette. He noticed two other things. The first was a large metal hatch on the ground, and the second was a woman’s tennis shoe. He walked over and picked up the shoe, turning it in his hands as he studied the details. It was a match for the one he had found at the scene of the shooting.

He turned his attention to the hatch. It was military grade, made from steel and hardened hinges. Tanner grabbed the handle and gave it a light tug. No surprise; it was locked tight from the inside. He surmised that it must be an old bomb shelter from the 1950s, a time when governments and individuals alike worried over the growing atomic threat. Kneeling down, he listened at the worn metal door. The faintest sounds of voices came from within. He had found his quarry.

The question now was how to overcome armed assailants locked in an underground vault, with nothing more than a baseball bat. He could beat on the door all night long and do little more than add a few dents. Even if he were lucky enough to somehow get the door open, they would shoot him before he could get close enough to swing the Brooklyn Crusher. There was only one way to have a fighting chance. He had to get them to come out.

CHAPTER

13

After Alexus stormed out, Mason searched the bedroom for anything that might help with his escape. The only things he found were a can of black shoe polish and a roll of electrical tape. When he was satisfied there was nothing left to find, he lay down on the bed to rest for a few hours.

As a soldier, he had discovered that guards tend to become much less aware in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was their internal clocks shutting down, or maybe their minds tended to wander about the next day’s activities. Either way, there were a few hours when an alert individual had a significant advantage over those just passing the hours.

He lay quietly until a few minutes after one in the morning. Then he carefully dressed, tucking the laces into his boots to prevent them from snagging, and using the electrical tape to make sure that nothing was loose or flapping. He smeared a little shoe polish on anything metal as well as his cheek bones, chin, and forehead. When he was buttoned up tight, he opened the bedroom window and peered out. To his surprise, no one stood guard outside the front door.

He slid both legs out the window, sitting precariously on the ledge. It was about seven feet to the metal awning below. Rather than jump, he spun around, grabbed with both hands, and lowered himself down. His feet touched the awning even before he was fully extended. Without letting go of the window sill, he allowed more and more of his weight to rest on the awning. When his weight was fully supported, he let go of the sill, ready to make a grab for it, in case something went wrong. It didn’t. The awning felt sturdy enough to hold Andre the Giant.

Mason sat down and slid his legs over the edge. He then repeated the hang-and-drop process to the ground. In this case, however, the awning was a little high, and he was forced to fall about two feet. He landed, surefooted, and immediately stepped into the shadows lining the edge of the building.

He stood quietly doing nothing for about thirty seconds, giving his eyes time to adjust to the night. The oil lanterns cast small puddles of flickering yellow light in a sea of darkness, and the bright white moon hung overhead like a lucky silver dollar. He spotted two men patrolling west on Liberty Street. Based on their distance, he estimated that they had passed Alexus’s house less than a minute before his stealthy exit.

Staying close to the buildings, Mason headed east in the direction of the cemetery. It was only two blocks away, and it took him less than five minutes. He was relieved to find his black F150 parked across from the cemetery, exactly where he had seen it earlier in the day. A lone man stood on the sidewalk with an over-and-under shotgun propped on his shoulder, broken open like he was returning from a day of duck hunting. He leaned against the truck, smoking a long, thin cigar. The unmistakable odor of Cavendish tobacco spread through the air.

Mason planned his approach. The truck was on the other side of the street, so the safest route was probably to come parallel to it and then cross over. He crouched down and shuffled forward, hiding behind a line of cars. Each time he came to a gap between cars, he rushed forward to the next one. He made it all the way to the car parked directly across from his pickup without being discovered. The riskiest part, however, still lay ahead. He looked left and right. All clear. It was now or never.

Rather than trying to hurry across the street hunched over, Mason straightened up and sprinted across the two-lane road. When he got to the truck, he ducked down by the rear driver’s side wheel and waited. Nothing happened. He heard the man take a final drag on his cigar and flick it away.

Mason stood and peeked over the top of the truck bed. Stogie was leaning against the passenger door, less than six feet from him. Mason was pretty sure he could sneak around the front of the truck without the man hearing him. Then it would come down to a quick, violent struggle. Assuming that the fight went in his favor, he could interrogate the guard about the whereabouts of Bowie and Coveralls.

He shuffled forward to peek into the cab. Unfortunately, the M4 was no longer in its rack. He was disappointed but not terribly surprised. Mason liked the weapon but accepted that he would leave it if necessary. He wondered if the Glock 17 was still in the glove box. It was a far cry from an assault rifle but was still much better than being unarmed. Many of his fellow lawmen had labeled the Glock their “business gun” because of its outstanding reliability on the street. While Mason had always preferred a 1911-style handgun, the Glock would put him one step closer to being back on the right side of things.

He glanced into the truck bed and quickly surveyed its contents. His supplies had clearly been rummaged through, but the only things he immediately noticed missing were the two ammo cans containing .45 and 5.56 mm ammunition. He didn’t keep a firearm in the back, but he noticed his hunting knife wedged between two large cans of beans. Coveralls had thrown it in the truck when they were at the roadblock, probably thinking that the vehicle would later be scavenged. While Mason had no intention of killing Stogie, a sharp blade might help to loosen his tongue.

Leaning over the edge of the truck bed, he inched toward the knife. An instant before he could get it in hand, Stogie casually glanced back his direction. Mason froze. He wasn’t sure if a slight sound had tipped him off, or whether it had been nothing more than a bit of bad luck. Either way, the man stared at Mason like he was an apparition that had materialized in the night.

Stogie was tired, not to mention surprised, and it took him a full two seconds to process what he was seeing. In those two seconds, Mason leaped into the truck bed and dove headfirst at him. The impact knocked the shotgun out of Stogie’s hands and sent the two men tumbling to the pavement. Mason ended up on top, and Stogie bucked violently, trying to throw him off.

Not knowing how else to quiet him, Mason leaned in and placed his forearm across the man’s throat.

“Just calm down,” he whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stogie managed to get a leg between them and kicked upward, flipping Mason over the top. As he felt himself being launched into the air, Mason latched onto Stogie’s right wrist with both hands. He landed flat on his back and immediately pushed out with his legs, stretching Stogie’s arm out straight. Then he bowed upward from the waist and locked the man’s elbow. The guard screamed in pain as his elbow bent the wrong direction. Rather than breaking Stogie’s arm, Mason dropped the heel of his boot onto the man’s face. By the third kick, Stogie was bloody and unconscious.

He released Stogie’s arm and rolled to his feet. He was disappointed that things had gone so poorly. Not only was the confrontation far noisier than he would have liked, it also made it impossible to ask the man any questions. Besides, he didn’t relish hurting someone whose only crime had been drawing the short straw when it came to midnight guard duty.

Two men were already running in his direction from the east end of Liberty Street, each carrying a semi-automatic rifle. Mason looked left and right, considering his options. None of them seemed particularly good. He could quickly search his truck in hopes of finding a weapon, or he could run off into the night, unarmed in a town full of hostiles. In the end, he did neither. He simply put his hands on top of his head and dropped to his knees beside the fallen guard.

Within minutes, six armed men surrounded him like a posse cornering a notorious outlaw. Not having been trained as soldiers or lawmen, they stood with rifles pointed, waiting for someone to tell them what to do. Mason considered trying to negotiate his way out of the mess, but accepted that he had little with which to bargain. Instead, he did what any smart prisoner does when caught. He sat quietly and kept his mouth shut.

Alexus and Coveralls showed up at the same time but from different directions. Neither looked pleased to see him. Stogie was waking up too. Blood covered his face and shirt, and he seemed a bit disoriented. He struggled to stand, cradling his right arm.

Alexus turned to Stogie with anything but sympathy in her eyes.

“What happened?” she barked.

“He jumped me. I think he broke my arm.” He held it out before him, obviously wanting her to understand that he had put up a fight.

She looked over at Mason.

“Why?”

Mason shrugged. “A prisoner tries to escape.”

“But . . .” She shook images from her head. “It was a game, right? You were playing games with me.”

There was no right answer, so he didn’t offer one.

She turned to Coveralls.

“Take them both over to Rose Hill,” she said, pointing to the cemetery across the street.

Coveralls grabbed the guard, and two other men grabbed Mason. Together, they pushed and dragged them across the street and up onto the large wooden stage in the center of the cemetery. The dead man who had been swinging from the gallows earlier in the day was no longer there. Instead, the empty noose floated in the night air beckoning its next victim.

Coveralls immediately pushed Stogie into position, securing his hands with a small leather strap and slipping the noose over his head.

“Please,” the man begged, “it wasn’t my fault. He jumped me.”

“He’s right,” said Mason. “There’s no need for this. He put up a hell of a fight.”