The Survivalist (Solemn Duty)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  The driver quickly relayed his concern to the other jet ski operator, and both began swerving erratically as their riders scanned the bank for the shooter. Mason thought there was little chance of them actually seeing him, and even if they did, he could easily drop all four men before they reached the water’s edge. The power of a rifle was never clearer than when standing at range against men with handguns.

  Realizing they were sitting ducks on the open water, both drivers whipped their jet skis about and raced upriver at full throttle, a white wall of water shooting up behind them. Not entirely sure of the circumstances, Mason lowered his rifle. Killing was not something that could be undone or apologized for later.

  He turned his attention to the gillnetter, fully expecting the captain to make good on his escape. Instead of speeding away, the boat slowed and then came to a stop as it gently bumped against a long wooden dock not fifty yards from where Mason crouched.

  Bowie made a little sound that was halfway between a growl and a whine.

  “I’m not sure what he’s doing either. Maybe planning to abandon ship and run for the woods. It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  The engine quieted, but no one stepped off.

  Mason waited a couple of minutes to see what Caruso would do next.

  Nothing. The boat wobbled listlessly from side to side, thumping the wooden dock with a hollow twop, twop, twop.

  Bowie started forward, and Mason slipped an arm around him to stem his advance.

  “A little longer.” Following the old adage “When in doubt, wait it out,” had kept Mason alive more times than he could count.

  After five long minutes, curiosity finally got the better of him.

  “All right. Let’s go see.” Mason stood, and with his rifle at the ready, started toward the boat. Bowie walked beside him, nose tipped into the air as if hoping to solve the mystery with nothing more than the clues carried on the afternoon breeze.

  The gillnetter had to be fifty years old, and the dark red rings of rust running along its hull suggested that it was nearing the end of its seaworthy life. How it had ended up in the Nansemond River was anyone’s guess, as Mason would have expected to find such a vessel in a larger body of water, perhaps the Chesapeake Bay or the Gulf of Mexico.

  A mast topped with a panel of floodlights and a broken radio antenna protruded into the air at the bow of the boat. A folding metal boom and a sizable winch sat aft, a thick pile of netting lying in front of them. The helm was a simple covered shelter, now littered with bullet holes. There was, however, no sign of Caruso.

  Had he managed to slip off undetected, perhaps going overboard into the water? It seemed unlikely that Mason would have missed him unless Caruso was some kind of master diver who had let himself be carried downriver before surfacing.

  Taking nothing for granted, he carefully stepped aboard the boat, motioning for Bowie to stay close. He whipped around the captain’s console with his rifle pressed to one shoulder.

  Caruso lay on the floor, bright streaks of blood smeared down the front of the console.

  Mason turned to Bowie and said, “Watch him.”

  The dog moved closer, studying the injured man. As he did, Mason pulled open a small door to the cabin and ducked inside for a quick look.

  Empty.

  He checked several small cargo areas on the deck.

  Also empty.

  With the gillnetter swept, Mason returned to Caruso. He gently pushed Bowie aside and knelt to check the man’s neck for a pulse. At his touch, Caruso stirred, rolling onto his side as his eyes fluttered open. Mason could see a dark hole pumping blood in the center of his chest, and while he wasn’t a doctor, it was clear that Caruso wasn’t long for this world.

  “Help me,” he choked.

  “You’ve been shot,” Mason said, sitting him up to rest against the console. “I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”

  The realization of his fate quickly set in, and Caruso’s shoulders slumped, his hands resting in his lap.

  “I’m dying?”

  “Yes.”

  “I always wondered how I’d go.” He coughed lightly. “Now, I guess I know.”

  Mason offered a soft smile. “I guess you do.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to stay with me until I pass?”

  “Of course.”

  The man quieted, perhaps taking his last moments to reflect on the important points of his life.

  Finally, he said, “I guess he got us all, brother, daughter, and now me.” Mason could hear a wet wheezing with every breath Caruso drew.

  “Who got you?”

  “Laroche.” When he saw that Mason didn’t recognize the name, he said, “He runs most everything around here.”

  Hearing that a violent warlord had taken control of the area was not surprising. It wasn’t called The Badlands for nothing.

  “What’s his beef with you?”

  A thin smiled touched the man’s lips.

  “I’ve been bringing him all kinds of misery, destroying his shipments, killing his men, and burning his supplies.” Caruso swallowed a mouthful of blood, and it bubbled out onto his lips.

  “Because of what he did to your family?” After Ava’s murder, Mason understood the need for vengeance as well as any man.

  Tears filled Caruso’s eyes. “Because of what he did to my little girl.”

  Given the man’s age, Mason assumed that his “little girl” was in fact a young woman. Even so, the thought of a father having to bury his child made Mason’s jaw clench.

  “Laroche killed her?”

  “No,” he said softly. “He did worse than that. And when she saw that there was no light left in this world, she wrapped a sheet around her neck…” Caruso’s voice broke, and tears trickled down his weathered cheeks. “Afterward, Laroche dumped her body in a garbage pile outside the prison.”

  “Prison?”

  “He uses it as his fortress.” Caruso took a deep breath, and it caused him to cough violently. When he had finally collected himself, he said, “No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t save her. I thought the least I could do was avenge her, but even in that, I failed.”

  The idea that a lord possessed the right to sexually subjugate women in his kingdom dated as far back as Gilgamesh. Whether they called it droit de seigneur, jus primae noctis, or simply the rights of a southern slave owner, those in power had long known that they could simply demand what they wanted from those whose lives they controlled. Most civilizations had moved past such sexual barbarism, but the recent loss of law and order had apparently invited its return.

  “What was her name?”

  “Sarah. Sarah Elizabeth.” He swallowed again, this time nearly choking on the blood. “Mother and I called her Ella.”

  Mason felt his face grow hot with anger.

  “You can pass on, knowing that I will find justice for Ella.”

  Caruso studied him. “Why would you do that? You didn’t even know her.”

  It was a good question. If Mason’s father had taught him anything, it was to stay out of other people’s troubles. Even so, duty was not to be denied.

  “I’ll do it because you can’t.”

  Caruso took a shallow breath, gasping to pull it in. When he spoke, he could barely manage a whisper.

  “Are you truly the kind of man who could deliver justice?”

  Mason leaned closer. “Yes.”

  Caruso tried to swallow again, but this time, the blood spilled from the corners of his mouth.

  “Tell him—” he swallowed, “tell him I’ll be waiting for him in Hell.”

  Mason squeezed his hand. “Count on it.”

  “Thank you,” he gasped.

  And with that, he was gone.

  Mason let out a breath and slowly got back to his feet. He turned to find Bowie staring at him, his head cocked sideways.

  “Yeah, I know. But what’s a man like me to do without a promise or two to keep?”

  Mason stood over an
open fiberglass panel, staring down at the enormous inboard engine. The label read Scania, and based on its size, the engine was surely capable of providing a few hundred horsepower. The entire motor was covered in a thick layer of oil and grime, which he thought if ever removed, would likely allow half a dozen small pieces to fall off. Hoses ran this way and that, and while worn, none looked cracked or swollen. All in all, it was a fitting engine for the aging vessel.

  Unfortunately, it was also a diesel.

  “Well, crap,” he muttered. So much for siphoning off a few gallons for the Trans Am.

  He lowered the panel, letting it drop the last few inches with a deck-shaking thud. Diesel or not, he counted finding the boat as a bit of good luck and was reluctant to just let it go without reaping some kind of reward.

  An idea came to him.

  Maybe the Trans Am wasn’t the answer at all. Perhaps he and Brooke could just putter downriver a few miles. Or better yet, up river. By heading northeast, the gillnetter could take them all the way to the New Colony. If things went well, they might be able to dock at the Norfolk Naval Station, a few slips down from the John F. Kennedy.

  The answer to their problems might literally be right under his feet.

  Mason looked over at Bowie and smiled.

  “What do you know? I think we found our way out of here.”

  He glanced back at Caruso’s body lying in front of the console. Mason had given the man his word that he would bring justice to Laroche, and he would keep that promise. But one thing at a time. He needed to get Brooke to safety before he worried about exacting Caruso’s revenge.

  There was the matter, however, of the man’s corpse. Dead bodies were quick to become a stinky smorgasbord for maggots, and such macabre scenes tended to put a real damper on things. The simplest solution would be to dump it overboard. Mason firmly believed that the dead were dead. The body they left behind was just a mass of decaying tissue, free of rights or feelings. Even so, he also believed that the way a person treated the dead said something about their character. As such, he strived whenever possible to treat human remains, even that of an enemy, with at least some modicum of respect.

  Mason decided to carry Caruso’s body back to the New Colony for a proper burial. If things went bad along the way, or if his efforts to contain the stench were unsuccessful, he could always reassess the decision later.

  He took the folded canvas tarp that lay next to the netting and spread it out across the deck. Placing Caruso’s body along one edge, he folded in the sides and began rolling him up. When he was finished, he had created a tight bundle that looked a bit like an oversized eggroll. The canvas wouldn’t fully contain the smell, but it would at least prevent Caruso’s remains from spilling out.

  Next came the matter of hiding the boat. He certainly didn’t want the jet skiers returning to sink or steal his getaway vehicle. If he could tuck it away in some small alcove, he thought it a pretty good bet that it would remain undetected long enough for him to return with Brooke.

  Mason scanned the captain’s console and found a small silver key with the word “Start” printed directly beneath it. He gave it a turn, and the engine coughed to life with a loud burp of black smoke, followed by a steady warble that sent the boat rocking from side to side.

  Bowie sounded off with a series of nervous barks as he struggled to keep his balance.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll smooth out once we get moving.”

  Mason nudged the throttle lever forward and steered the boat away from the dock. While not intimately familiar with the Nansemond River, he had been on enough resource runs for the New Colony to know the general layout of the area. Dumpling Island, a place made famous for its importance to the early settlers of Jamestown, lay off to the east. At its northern tip, Wilroy Cove opened up to a small offshoot of the river that sliced the island away from the eastern shore. Neither offered much in the way of concealment for stashing the boat, however.

  Wheeling the vessel around, he idled upstream about a hundred yards. As he scanned the shoreline for a suitable place to hide the gillnetter, his eyes were drawn to a radio tower off to the northeast. It was too large for an amateur radio operator and too small for a commercial broadcaster.

  Military perhaps.

  He couldn’t help but think that the tower might give him the height needed to reach Jessie on the small handheld radio buckled to his belt. She was surely worried sick about him, and it seemed only right that he check in to let her know that he had survived the ordeal at The Farm. There was, of course, the sticky matter of Brooke being along for the ride, but perhaps that little detail could wait until he and Jessie were once again face-to-face.

  Despite the risks of a delay, the temptation of hearing her voice proved too great, and he turned the wheel in the direction of the tower. It was only about three hundred feet across the river, and he carefully steered the craft into a narrow inlet shrouded by trees on both sides. If the little alcove hadn’t been on the wrong side of the river, it would have been an ideal place to stash the boat until he and Brooke could return. As it was, he thought the cubbyhole would at least keep the boat out of sight while he took a few minutes to radio home.

  Mason killed the engine and let the boat glide forward the final few feet, the bow scrubbing gently against the sand. He set his pack on the floor next to Bowie, and the big dog looked up at him, confused.

  “I need for you to stay with the boat. I won’t be long.”

  Bowie protested with a loud whine.

  “Unh-unh. I’m not about to carry you up a radio tower. Besides,” he said, reaching down and giving Bowie a good scrub under the chin, “we don’t want anyone stealing our boat and leaving us to swim across the river. You keep it safe. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

  Before Bowie could really lay it on thick, Mason straightened and hurried off the gillnetter. Sitting up straight with his ears perked, the wolfhound watched him go, a prolonged whimper chasing after him.

  Without his pack, Mason was able to move more quickly, and he hurried through the lightly forested area with his rifle clutched in both hands. The trees eventually opened up into a sprawling grassy field. In the distance, he could see the tower, and at its base, a large T-shaped building. A desolate asphalt road surrounded the field, measuring perhaps a mile from end to end. An offshoot of the road meandered back toward the Nansemond River, and another branched off east to what looked like a small military complex. A ring of eight-foot-high fencing lined the road, but sections of it lay toppled over, and with a few careful steps, Mason was able to make entry.

  As he started toward the tower, the distant sky rumbled with thunder. Dark clouds churned to the north, promising to bring rain. Mason picked up his pace. Getting caught on the tower when the storm hit was asking for trouble.

  As he drew closer, Mason saw that the T-shaped building measured roughly a football field in length and nearly half that in width. It was old and run down, with windows broken out, plants and trees growing up through the surrounding sidewalk, and graffiti painted on the gray cinderblock walls. There was a rusty shed nearby, as well as a burned-out truck with some kind of Navy insignia on the door. Thanks to the outbreak, the world had died roughly a year ago, but this place had met its maker a decade or two before that.

  Abandoned buildings and hordes of bloodthirsty infected seemed to go hand in hand, and Mason had no intention of going inside to say hello. Instead, he shuffled toward the radio tower, which was painted with dull red and white stripes and reached a good two hundred feet into the air. A thick stack of newspapers, still strapped together, sat at its base to act as a stepping stool to a welded metal ladder running up the side. The setting reminded him of the time he and Bowie had been trapped atop a water tower with hordes of infected attempting to pull it down. He sincerely hoped that a repeat performance was not in the cards.

  Mason slid his rifle around to his back and gave the closest rung a good shake.

  Sturdy.

  With one
eye watching the approaching storm and the other scrutinizing the ladder, he began his careful ascent. When he was roughly a quarter of the way up, a loud clap of thunder sounded, shaking the entire tower. Mason wrapped both arms around the ladder, his heart hammering against his chest.

  Once again, he studied the sky. The storm was coming in faster than he had anticipated, and if he didn’t get down soon, he would find himself forced to ride it out hanging onto a giant lightning rod.

  Hooking one arm through the ladder, he clicked on the radio and brought it to his mouth.

  “This is Mason Raines. Is anyone there, over?”

  No reply.

  “This is Mason Raines, over,” he said again.

  Still nothing.

  Crap. He would need to get higher if he wanted to have any chance of reaching her.

  Mason stared up at the enormity of the tower still above him.

  “A few more feet,” he told himself. If that didn’t work, he would have to abandon the effort in favor of common sense.

  Moving more quickly, Mason climbed another forty feet, taking him nearly halfway up the tower. The wind had begun to pick up, and the pounding of his heart reminded him of what would happen if he were to lose his grip.

  He tried the radio again.

  “This is Mason Raines. Is anyone there, over?”

  After a few seconds, an excited voice said, “Mason, it’s me, Jessie!”

  Just the sound of her voice was enough to convince him that the risk of going up the tower had been one worth taking.

  “Are you okay? I thought maybe something had happened to you.”

  “I’m fine, Jessie. No need to worry.”

  “Did you get your friend’s son out?”

  Mason thought of Betsi Greene’s son, Shep. The last time he had seen him, the young lad was disappearing into a feedwater pipe. If all had gone as planned, he should be nearly back to the New Colony by now.