The Survivalist - 02 (28 page)

Bowie sat up and looked over the edge of the truck bed, yawning.

“Go check it out,” Mason said, gesturing toward the defunct restaurant.

Bowie climbed down and slowly walked toward the building, his head hung low as if being forced to plow a farmer’s field. Mason followed behind him, his hand on the Supergrade. Both were equally startled when an old woman suddenly appeared on the other side of the screen door to the restaurant.

The woman was short and squat, and had more wrinkles than Iron Eyes Cody. She wore a plain denim apron, an old pair of house shoes, and dark-rimmed glasses.

“What have we here?” she said.

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

Still unnerved by her sudden appearance, Bowie backed away, growling lightly.

“That’s a fine dog you got there.”

Mason motioned for him to stop growling. Bowie quieted but never fully relaxed.

“Are you here by yourself?” he asked.

She eyed him suspiciously.

“Who wants to know?”

He showed her his badge.

“I’m one of the good guys.”

“A lawman?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She snorted. “My boys will be home soon enough. Until then, you might as well come on in outta the sun.” She held open the screen door.

He walked toward her, glancing over at the smoker.

“Cooking up some lunch?”

“Sure am,” she said with a broad smile. “We had a trucker roll in with some fresh meat two days ago.”

“And he just left the truck?” he asked, looking back at the eighteen-wheeler.

“We traded for everything he had. Next thing we knew, he done took off in that little sports car that used to belong to Doc Perkins.”

He nodded. “Do you want some help moving it out of the road?”

“Nah,” she said. “We figure it gives people a reason to stop and say hello. You’re welcome to stick around and enjoy some lunch, if you like.”

He nodded his appreciation. Most of Mason’s meals came from cans or pouches, and the thought of a freshly cooked meal was enough to start his mouth watering.

As he stepped through the door, Mason found that the inside of the restaurant had been converted to a residence, and it looked like the transformation had occurred a long time ago. The living room opened up into a large kitchen that still had a commercial stainless steel dishwasher, a ten-burner gas stove, and an old Philco refrigerator that may well have been purchased to protect its owner from an atomic bomb.

“I’m Flo,” the old woman said, walking back into the kitchen where she had been busy chopping carrots on a cutting board. She pulled down a couple of drinking glasses.

“I’m Mason, and that’s Bowie.”

Bowie stared through the screen door, whining to come in.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, motioning for Mason to take a seat on an old couch.

The couch was covered with stains and cigarette burns, but he sat anyway. Southerners prided themselves on their hospitality, and recipients were expected to play a part in that dance as well.

“Where you headed?”

“Marshal center in Brunswick. Have you and your boys lived here long?”

“Better part of thirty years. Bought this place for a nickel on the dollar—”

A man suddenly screamed from a back room.

Mason jumped to his feet, his hand going to the grip of his pistol.

Flo didn’t even look up.

“Quiet down, you ol’ fool!” she hollered. Before Mason could ask, she said, “My husband. He’s got the pox. Sufferin’ real bad. But, knowin’ my luck, he’s gonna make it.”

The man’s scream turned into a plea for mercy.

“Just kill me!” he yelled. “Kill me!”

Flo handed Mason a glass half-full of a dark orange liquid.

“What is it?” he asked, still unsettled by the sudden outburst.

“Just the best darn mash you’ve ever tasted.”

He sniffed it.

“It smells like peaches.”

She laughed. “That’s cause it’s made with peaches right outta the backyard. Go on, give it a go.”

He took a sip. It had a little bite, but, as far as moonshine went, it was right up there. He drank a little more.

“Good enough for a Yankee?” she asked with a warm smile.

He nodded, taking another sip.

She picked up the butcher knife and continued chopping carrots.

“We got nothin’ else to do ’round here but make the mash.”

The screaming from the back room subsided, replaced by a soft sobbing.

“Shouldn’t you check on him?” he asked.

“My boys and I, we keep him clean and fed. Can’t nothin’ else be done. You’re welcome to look in on him if you like. Just gotta watch the pox, is all.”

Mason shook his head.

“I don’t know what I could do for him.”

“Ain’t nothin’ you can do. Either he’ll live or he won’t.”

Mason took another drink and returned to the couch. Bowie suddenly started barking as he moved away from the door to let two men enter the house. They were both well over six feet tall and probably weighed six hundred pounds all told. One wore military fatigues that were a size too small, and the other, a pair of white painter’s pants and a black AC/DC t-shirt. Given their sizes and striking resemblance, they reminded Mason of Tweedledee and Tweedledum from
Alice in Wonderland
.

They seemed alarmed to see him in the house. One raised a hatchet that was already in hand, and the other reached for a large knife hanging on his belt.

“Unh-unh,” said Flo. “No need for that, boys. This here’s Mason. He’s just passin’ through. Show him a little hospitality, already.”

Mason had already gotten to his feet, but he kept his hand clear of his weapon. This was their home after all. Bowie was back at the screen door, giving a deep warning growl to the two men.

Tweedledee turned to his mother.

“You give him some of the good mash?”

“I did,” she said, smiling. “We ain’t gonna be selfish with our guests.”

Her words were slow and slurred, like they were being played back at half speed. Mason swayed to his left and then his right, unable to maintain his balance. Flo and her two sons smiled and stared at him, their faces swelling and shrinking like reflections in a fun house mirror.

“You okay, Marshal?” Tweedledum said with a chuckle. His voice was slow and deep.

Mason knew that he was about to fall. As he felt himself teeter forward and then back, he drew his Supergrade and began firing. He saw the first bullet blow the top of Tweedledum’s head off. The next four bullets were all shot blind, as he fell into the darkness.

Mason woke to find himself lying on the couch, with Bowie’s huge sticky tongue sliding across his face. He tried to push the dog away, but his arms refused to move.

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, unable to get his mouth to fully form the words.

The dog didn’t slow its incessant licking.

Mason tried to sit up. All he managed to do was tip over on the couch so that his face was pressed into the dirty cushion. It did, at least, stop Bowie from continuing the tongue bath. Mason rotated his head and blinked a few times. The room spun counterclockwise in a slow, circling motion. When it finally stopped, he saw the body of Flo’s youngest son lying halfway out the front door. The top of his head was completely missing, and blood was splattered across the screen like someone had thrown out a jar of spaghetti sauce.

His older brother lay to his left in a huge puddle of blood. He had a bullet hole in his left shoulder, but that was clearly not the cause of death. The man’s left leg had been chewed almost completely off. From the tremendous amount of blood, Mason could only guess that his femoral artery had been severed. As for Flo, he didn’t see her anywhere.

He tried to sit back up and, with a great deal of effort, managed to slowly right himself. Bowie moved to sit across his lap, spanning the entire length of the couch. Over the next ten minutes, Mason slowly regained control of his limbs. It started with the major muscles first and slowly extended all the way to fingers and toes. He sat there for several more minutes letting his vision clear, petting Bowie. The dog’s tongue licked in and out of his mouth, and his hind leg bounced up and down as he relished in the attention.

When Mason finally went to push him off so that he could stand, Bowie whined in pain. He pulled his hand back to find bright red blood on his fingertips. Mason gently slid Bowie off his lap, making him lie on his side so that he could get a better look. There was a gash on the dog’s right rear leg.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

Mason struggled to his feet. The world was no longer spinning, but he still felt like he’d had one too many pints of Dogfish Head ale. He carefully leaned down and picked up his Supergrade off the floor, replacing the partially spent magazine with a fresh one. Keeping an eye on his surroundings in case Flo or someone else decided to show up, he went back out to the truck and retrieved his first aid kit. When he came back into the restaurant, Bowie was stretched out on the couch with his eyes closed.

Mason poured hydrogen peroxide over his hands and shook them dry. Then he flushed Bowie’s wound, washing away the blood and soaking the fur around it. The cut was clean and didn’t appear to have sliced into the muscle. It looked painful to be sure, but not in any way debilitating. The biggest risk was infection. He blew on the wound until the hydrogen peroxide evaporated. Then he withdrew a needle and small roll of black suture from his kit, coating both with the peroxide.

“This is going to hurt,” he said, threading the needle.

Bowie’s injured leg twitched as if he knew what was coming.

Mason pinched the wound together and began stitching. Bowie whined a little, but he never once growled. When Mason was finished, he smeared a thick layer of antibiotic ointment over the area. Then he laid a non-adhesive pad over the wound and wrapped it with a gauze roll, taping down the end.

“You’ll live,” he said, leaning over and kissing Bowie on his head. Mason couldn’t help but feel emotion swelling up inside him. If it weren’t for Bowie, he would almost certainly be dead. “Did you get the old broad, too?” he choked out.

Bowie stared at him, tilting his head sideways.

He sighed. “One day, I’m going to have to teach you how to talk.”

Mason stood and made his way toward the kitchen. Even before he entered the room, he saw Flo lying on the tile floor, her face resting in a pool of blood. She looked as dead as her sons, but, just to be sure, he put a bullet in the back of her head.

The man in the back room screamed again.

Bowie crawled off the couch and hobbled over to Mason, keeping his rear leg raised a few inches off the floor. He tugged on Mason’s pant leg, trying to lead him out of the restaurant.

“Not yet,” he said, patting the dog on its side. “Let’s see what this is all about.”

Bowie released him but started whining in protest. Mason walked slowly to the bedroom door, twisted the knob, and pushed it in.

A man was lying on an old brass bed. One arm and one leg were tied to the bedposts with electrical cords. The other two limbs were missing. The leg had been cut off at the knee. A bloody sheet was wrapped around the stump and strapped tight with a belt. The man’s arm had been removed at the elbow, and it, too, was wrapped in bloody bed linen and bound by a makeshift tourniquet. Strips of the man’s face had been sliced off, as had sections of his scalp and shoulders. One of his eyes was missing, the vacant socket stuffed with an old dishrag.

For a full five seconds, Mason stood in the doorway, unable to move or even look away. Blood rushed to his face, and he fought to keep from vomiting as the horror threatened to overwhelm him.

The man was conscious and staring at Mason with his one remaining eye.

“Please,” he begged. “Please kill me.”

Mason felt like he was moving in slow motion as he drew his pistol and fired.