The Survivalist - 02 (14 page)

Alexus stepped close to Mason.

“His blood is on your hands, not mine.” She nodded to Coveralls, and he immediately hoisted the rope, lifting Stogie into the air about two feet. He tied it off on a metal peg that stuck out from the support post. The guard kicked and thrashed as he slowly suffocated.

“If you do this, you’re all murderers,” said Mason.

 “You don’t think I’m compassionate?” she asked, flashing him a wicked grin.

She walked over to the hanging man, wrapped both arms around his legs, and dropped downward, bouncing up and down with her full body weight until his neck snapped. When she was satisfied that he was dead, she got to her feet and turned to Mason.

“See?” she said. “My cup runneth over with compassion.”

His eyes turned cold.

“You’re a regular Mother Teresa.”

Coveralls lowered Stogie, slipped the noose off his neck, and pushed the body off the stage.

“You’re next, Cowboy.”

Mason had been thinking about how to get himself out of the mess. His only chance was to convince Alexus that he had something she wanted more than revenge.

“If you kill me,” he said, “you’ll never get the gold.”

Everyone turned to face him.

“What gold?” she said.

“Check my front pocket.”

She stepped forward and slipped her hand in his pocket. When she pulled it out, she was holding the shiny gold coin. She held it up to the light of the moon.

“Where’d you get this?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have four hundred and ninety-nine more of them in safekeeping.”

“You’re lying.” But, even as she said the words, she seemed to be calculating the benefits of owning such a large cache of gold.

“I think you know that I’m not.”

She studied the coin.

“It looks new.”

“They’re all new. And in pretty little cases too. Total size is about . . .” He held his hands out to roughly the size of the blue box. “. . . yay big.”

“All right. Then you’d better tell me where the gold is right now.”

Mason laughed. “Or what? You’ll have me killed?”

“I could do a hell of a lot worse than that.”

“You could,” he said, meeting her stare. “But, as a soldier who’s seen his fair share of torture, I can tell you that it almost never gets you what you want.”

Trying a different approach, she stepped very close and placed her hands on his chest.

“What do you want for the gold? Your freedom?”

“That. And my dog. And my truck. And anything else you took from me.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She thought about his offer.

“If I let you go, I’ll never see you or the gold again. Am I right?”

“I could offer you my word.”

She laughed. “Not nearly good enough. Try harder. You’re bargaining for your life.”

“Send one of your best men with me,” he said, glancing over at Coveralls. “When we get the gold, he can bring it to you, and Bowie and I will go on our way.”

“Hmm,” she said, rubbing her chin. “Still not good enough. You could get the jump on my man, and then I’m left with nothing. I tell you what. I’ll keep your dog here with me. When you and my man both come back here with the gold, I’ll give your dog back, and you can go on your way. If you don’t, I’ll gut your dog and hang his carcass right here for everyone in town to see.”

Mason took a deep breath to keep his voice in check.

“If you hurt my dog, I’ll come back and kill every last one of you.” He looked around at the guards, studying their faces for any future hit list that he might have to make. Most of them looked away from his stare. Coveralls just grinned.

“Then we have an understanding,” she said. “How far is the gold?”

“If we leave in the morning, we could be back by dusk.”

She studied the coin again, rubbing it between her fingers. The metal had cast its spell over yet another greedy soul.

“Good,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to be rich.”

CHAPTER

14

Samantha wiped the condensation from the Jeep’s windows, hoping to see Tanner swagger around the corner like he didn’t have a care in the world. The alley remained quiet and still, which, given the circumstances, wasn’t so terrible either. Now that she was inside the Jeep, holding a loaded shotgun, she felt more tired than afraid. The one thing she was most afraid of was falling asleep and waking to find the mysterious creature staring in at her. Even the trusty shotgun might not be able to stop such a monster. More likely, it required a silver bullet or holy water. It usually did.

She wondered what time it was. She had never worn a watch because they pinched her wrist, but she decided that it was probably a good idea get one. She might be in a situation like this again, and knowing how long she had been waiting would make her feel better. Next chance she got, she would ask Tanner to find her one. He didn’t mind stealing things.

She wiped away a fresh layer of condensation and looked out again.
Where was he?

Tanner had an idea. The door to the underground shelter was very sturdy, but the black rubber seal around it was cracked and even missing in some places. Getting the occupants to open the door might not be as hard as he first thought.

With as much stealth as his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame would allow, he made his way back to the white 4Runner. Thankfully, there were still no signs of the infected. He unhooked the jerry can from the back of the vehicle and set it on the ground. It was heavy, which was good for what he had in mind. He unscrewed the cap and took a quick sniff. Gasoline. Perfect.

He hauled the can back through the recruiting station and set it down beside the bunker. He leaned down and put his ear to the door again. It was quiet inside. He smiled. It was going to get really noisy, really fast. Before the main attraction, however, there were a few things he had to get ready. He went back and collected several handfuls of broken glass, spreading the small shards between the bunker door and the recruiter’s office. Then he moved the bodies and furniture around in the room so that nothing would look familiar.

When he was satisfied with the setup, he returned to the hatch. Hoisting the jerry can into the air, he began to slowly pour the fuel along the top of the hatch. The gasoline ran down the rubber seam, seeping in through the gaps. It worked even better than he had expected because the fuel started dissolving what was left of the rubber gasket. He estimated that the can contained three or four gallons of gasoline, and, by the time he had emptied it, shouts were coming from inside the bunker.

He set the can aside and hurried back into the recruiter’s office. There weren’t really any great places to hide for an ambush, so, instead of hiding, Tanner simply lay face down on the floor. In the dark, he thought he could easily pass for one of the dead. He certainly smelled like a corpse.

After a few seconds, he heard the bunker door flop open with a heavy metal clang.

“Careful!” It was the voice of a young man.

There was a pause.

“No one’s out here.” The second man’s voice was throaty, like he had spent a lifetime smoking Marlboros—the real ones, not the pansy-ass lights. “The gas can is here all right, but whoever did it isn’t. You stay down there, Junior. If anyone other than me pokes his head in, you shoot it off.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll shoot it off all right!”

Tanner heard footsteps crunching the broken glass as the man slowly approached. He was lying just inside and to the left of the back door, one arm splayed out above his head at an awkward angle, the other underneath him, holding the bat. The footsteps came very close and then stopped.

“No one’s in here either,” the man hollered back toward the bunker. “I’m going to check the street. You be ready!”

Footsteps continued past Tanner, and, as they did, he tilted his head slightly to get a better look. The man was middle-aged, short, and stocky. He held a large revolver out in front of him with both hands. When he was about five feet away, Tanner sat up and swung the bat with everything he had.

The Brooklyn Crusher caught the man on the side of his right knee, and it not only canted inward, the femur actually broke away from the patella and tore through the flesh on the inside of his leg. As the man was falling, Tanner rolled up to one knee and brought the bat down on top of his head. The man’s skull compressed downward against his spine, dislodging several vertebrae and severing his spinal cord. The gun fell from his hand, hitting the ground about the same time as his head.

Tanner shuffled closer and bent over him. The man’s eyes were open, and blood bubbled from his mouth. He quickly searched the man’s pockets, finding only a stainless Zippo lighter and a set of car keys. He took the lighter but left the keys.

“How many are inside?” he whispered.

One of the man’s eyes stared at him while the other slowly swiveled up to look at the ceiling.

“Got it. You’re in no mood to talk.” Tanner picked up the revolver. It was a Smith and Wesson Model 29, chambered in .44 Magnum, the same model made famous by the
Dirty Harry
movies. He popped the cylinder and checked the shells. Six unfired rounds were inside. He snapped it shut and stood up, letting the bat fall to the ground. He had officially traded up.

Tanner walked back into the small outdoor break area. The bunker door was still open. A light shone from inside. He moved to stand about ten feet from the hatch.

“Hello, down there.”

There was movement but no answer.

“I’m going to make you a proposition.”

There was a brief pause, and then, “What’d you do to my pa?”

“He’s here. My guess is he’s busy asking Jesus for forgiveness.”

“You kill him?” There was pain and anger in the young man’s voice.

“He’s alive,” said Tanner. “For now, anyway.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m here for the girl.”

There was another pause.

“What girl?”

“How many you got down there?”

“We ain’t got no girls down here.”

“That’s too bad, because, if I don’t see a young woman walk out of your little love shack in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to toss a match down there.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“The hell I wouldn’t.”

There was another brief pause.

“If I send her out, you’ll go away and leave us be?”

“Unless I don’t like what I see.”

Tanner heard more movement from inside the shelter. The young man started talking to someone close by.

“I told pa you were nothing but trouble. Now you’d best get up the ladder. Do it now before I change my mind and shoot you in the eye. Ah hell, you don’t know how to do nothin’.  Here, put your hands on it. There. Now, get.” There was the unmistakable sound of a hand smacking against flesh, followed by a small cry.

After a few seconds, footsteps sounded as someone began climbing the metal ladder leading out of the underground bunker. Tanner leveled the pistol at the open doorway. A woman in her early thirties stepped out. She had short, pixie-cut blonde hair and a petite frame. She was barefoot and blindfolded, and wearing white pants and a black t-shirt that were spattered with blood. Her hands were bound in front of her with bailing wire, and her shoulders slumped in defeat, as if being forced to walk the Bataan Death March.

“Step this way, dear,” he said softly.

She didn’t move.

“Over here,” Tanner said a little louder. “I won’t hurt you.”

She still didn’t move.

“She can’t hear you,” said the voice from down in the hatch, with a laugh. “She’s a freakin’ mute.”

Careful not to get in the line of fire, Tanner leaned over and gently pulled the woman closer.

She trembled with his sudden touch, but stepped forward without complaining. He removed her blindfold. Bright blue eyes stared back at him. She pulled away, stumbling backward, nearly falling back down into the shaft.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She pointed at his clothes and made a disgusted face.

Tanner looked down at the blood, vomit, and crap covering his shirt.

“It was a rough night,” he said with a grin. “Normally, I dress nicer when in the company of a lady.”

She gave him a tentative little smile.

“Let me see your hands,” he said.

She stepped closer and held them out without saying a word.

Keeping an eye on the bunker, he carefully unwound the wire. The metal had gouged the tender flesh, leaving thin bloody rings around both wrists. Tanner felt anger rising in his gut.

“You’re okay now,” he said, gently rubbing her hands to get the circulation back into them.

She reached out and touched his hands. It was a soft touch. A gentle thank you, perhaps.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, still examining her hands.

She didn’t answer.

He tipped his face up so that she could see his mouth.

“Did they hurt you?” he repeated.

She touched the side of her head.

He stepped around and looked carefully at the wound. It was a small cut, not too deep, but enough that the hair around it was covered in dried blood.