The Survivalist - 02 (27 page)

He took a breath. There was nothing new here. Victory or defeat waited on the other side of every fight.

A shot rang out. And then another.

It had begun.

He popped the truck into low gear and eased it forward, straddling the railroad tracks. The night was dark, but the moonlight lit the tracks well enough to keep the truck centered. The few times he drifted too far one way or the other, the tires scrubbed against the track, telling him to correct his position.

Two bright explosions flashed several hundred feet to the right, as cars burst into flames. So far, so good. The gunfire became more rapid—soldiers returning fire on the professor’s position. A fifty-caliber machine gun began spiting heavy rounds, reverberating through the night like a sledge hammer pounding on a cement slab. He and Bob wouldn’t last long on the roof. Hell, the roof wouldn’t last long. More small arms fire sounded, coming from nearly every direction now. Tanner hoped that it was from his team getting into position, not from soldiers who had ventured out on the hunt.

The long structure of the railway station came into view as he crept around the bend. Spotlights from vehicles shone out onto the street and toward the various points of attack, but none faced back onto the tracks. It was too far away for him to see if soldiers had set up defensive positions behind the building. If they had, he would know it soon enough.

Like a lone caboose, the UPS truck slowly inched up behind the train station. When he was in position, Tanner killed the engine and tossed the keys into the weeds. Then he climbed out with his shotgun in hand and crept around to the back of the truck. The rear of the station was dark, but it sounded like all hell was breaking loose out front. Loud explosions shook nearby buildings as soldiers cut loose with rocket-propelled grenades.

He opened the back door and inspected the bomb. It consisted of four parts: the fertilizer-fuel mixture, which stunk to high heaven, a three-foot length of homemade detcord, a shotgun shell that had been configured to act as a blasting cap, and a roll of epoxy-coated twine.

The professor had said that the idea was simple enough. The twine would bring the flame, which would set off the blasting cap. That, in turn, would ignite the detcord. The resultant shock wave, from which, would get the fertilizer mixture to explode. Yeah, thought Tanner, simple.

He gave a short salute to the bomb.

“Don’t you fail me.”

He picked up the roll of twine and routed it through the handle of the back door to secure it in place. Then he started unspooling it as he slowly backed down the train tracks. When he got about fifty feet away, he knelt down, cut the twine, and lit the poor man’s fuse. The epoxy sizzled for a moment and then ignited. The flame slowly spread down the length of twine. Tanner had no idea how long it would take for the fire to reach the truck, or whether it would even make it there at all. All he knew for sure was that, if it made it, and if the professor’s calculations were right, there was going to be one hell of an explosion.

With nothing left to do, he turned and ran.

When nothing happened for four whole minutes, Tanner became convinced that something had gone wrong. There had been no explosion, not even a simple gasoline fire. That could only mean that the fuse had burned out somewhere along the way. Gunfire still sounded from the direction of the train station, but it was slowly tapering off. The only option left was to gather the girls and get out of town as quickly as possible.

He had just rounded the corner to Professor Callaway’s street when the explosion finally went off. Even from nearly a quarter of a mile away, the blast was powerful enough to blow out nearby windows and knock him off balance. He looked back and saw a huge orange fireball swell up into the sky, surrounded by a plume of smoke and dust. Bits and pieces of the train station, trees, and cars flew through the air, only to rain back down all across town.

Tanner ducked behind a large pickup truck, waiting for the hailstorm of debris to subside. The burnt and twisted shape of an engine block skittered down the street toward him, as chunks of painted yellow boards smashed into roofs and cars. When it finally quieted, he stood up and looked in the direction of the train station. All he could see was a faint orange glow lighting up the sky.

He needed to witness the destruction firsthand to know whether the fight was over or just beginning. Darting across the closest yard, he jumped over a small chain-link fence and ran into the alley beyond. He turned north, racing in the direction of the train station.

Before he had even gone two blocks, Professor Callaway came hobbling down the alley toward him, his face covered in a layer of dirt and gunpowder. His pants had a large hole in them, and blood was soaking the fabric from the knee down. He was barely recognizable as the mild-mannered father whom they had met only hours earlier.

“Well?” asked Tanner. “Is it done?”

The professor carefully lowered himself to sit on the ground.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Yeah, but did it take out the train station?”

“That and more. The only thing left of the station is that old engine the tourists used to come to see.”

“It’s over then? The soldiers are dead.” The last part was more of a statement than a question.

He nodded. “God rest their souls.”

Tanner put his hand on Professor Callaway’s shoulder.

“We fight to win. There’s no other way.”

“I know,” he said, looking back at the column of rising smoke. “My worry now is the fire. Without running water, we’ll have to resort to bucket brigades and portable water trucks. We don’t want to lose the other half of our town.”

“Don’t worry, Professor. Unlike a gun battle, I suspect you won’t have any trouble finding volunteers willing to save their homes.”

A cloud of thick white smoke still engulfed most of Hendersonville as Tanner loaded up the Escalade. Professor Callaway had been gracious enough to provide him with a few days’ supply of food and water. If all went well, they would be at Tanner’s cabin within hours and wouldn’t need to use it. But, as they were learning, the path between points A and B was not always a direct one.

Tanner knew what was coming even before Libby stepped out of the house with her paper and pen in hand. As she approached, he nodded to her.

“You’re staying, right?”

She smiled and scribbled on the paper.

It’s okay?

“Of course,” he said. “I think the professor and his daughter will be lucky to have you here.”

Rachel is a wonderful little girl. She needs a mother. And the professor is injured.

“Darlin’, you do what you need to. Sam and I will push on.”

You saved my life.
Tears welled up in her eyes.
I don’t know how to say thank you.
She underlined “thank you” several times.

Tanner leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Given the life I lead, it’s good that I had the chance to balance out my karma a little. It doesn’t put me in the black, but maybe it moves me a little closer to being out of the red.”

Libby leaned in and cupped his face with both hands.

“Thank you.” She struggled to voice the words, and they were distorted and throaty. Then she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, a long, warm kiss that said thank you in ways that words or paper could not.

Tanner enjoyed the soft press of her lips, but they were gone all too soon. The sight of Samantha hurrying out the door with her backpack brought him back to reality. Libby wasn’t his. She never had been. But he had his own family, of sorts.

Samantha tossed her pack into the backseat of the Escalade, but, before she could climb in, Libby ran around the vehicle and embraced her.

“Okay, then,” Samantha said, leaning away. “We’ll be seeing you.”

Libby kissed her on the forehead and then reluctantly let her go. Samantha quickly hopped into the Escalade and closed the door. She didn’t roll down the window.

Tanner looked over and saw Professor Callaway and his daughter standing in the doorway of their home. The lower half of his leg was wrapped in a long white bandage. Tanner nodded to them and climbed into the SUV.

As he started the engine, he looked over at Samantha.

“It’s just you and me again, kid. You cool with that?”

She tilted her head as if giving the question serious consideration.

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m cool with that.”

CHAPTER

26

Mason drove south on Highway 321 for more than a hundred and fifty miles. The route was a bit off the beaten path, but it allowed him to bypass all of the major cities, including Columbia and Savannah. It also kept him off the interstates, which were both heavily congested and becoming more dangerous by the day. He passed through an endless string of small South Carolina towns, including Chester, Winesboro, and Denmark. Unlike the town of York, the other small communities had yet to organize and provide any services to their survivors.

As he got closer to the Georgia border, he switched over to Highway 301 outside the town of Allendale. The community had been in decline for more than a decade, and, even before the pandemic, only boasted a population of four thousand. The entire town, end to end, was no more than a single mile wide and that counted a few houses that had long since been abandoned to four-legged critters.

The sun was high in the sky when Mason slowly rolled into Allendale, like a gunslinger wandering the badlands. Bowie was sleeping in the truck bed, completely disinterested in yet another lifeless town. A large sign for the Executive Inn pointed off to the right. The rotting corpse of a man lay draped around the base of the pole, like he was waiting for a bus that would never come. An eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer was parked in the middle of Dorr’s Ferry Highway, a two-lane road that acted as the town’s single thoroughfare. The truck’s rear doors were swung open wide, and the only thing left in the back was a push broom leaning against the wall.

Mason steered his truck around the tractor-trailer to see if anyone was in the cab. It was empty, but the driver’s door was ajar, like he had just stepped away and planned to return. The truck was parked directly in front of an old white cinderblock building. A rusty neon sign, like that of a vintage movie theater, stood by the road featuring a large red anchor and a lobster with a top hat and monocle. Perhaps, many years before, it had been a local favorite for those with a taste for seafood. Now, however, it appeared lifeless and rundown, like countless other small town businesses that suffered when tourists migrated to the interstates.

An ice machine and a black cast iron smoker sat out front. Soft white smoke puffed out from the smoker. Mason pulled into the driveway and stepped out of his truck. Despite something cooking only a few feet away, the stench of decomposing bodies eclipsed any odor of the food. The putrid smell of death and decay were ever-present nearly all across the country. It was like living with a giant industrial paper plant as a next-door neighbor. Mason guessed that it would take months for bodies to degrade enough to fully release all their noxious fluids and gases. Until then, every corner of the planet would stink of mankind’s demise.