As he did, Mason broke into a full charge, his feet splashing across the wet ground. He hit Beebie with every bit of momentum a man of his size could muster but found only a wall of muscle waiting for him. The collision sent Mason flat on his back, muddy water quickly soaking through the seat of his trousers and shirt.
Beebie swung a leg forward and stomped. The blow would surely have cracked Mason’s sternum had it landed. Fortunately, by the time his boot pounded against the ground, Mason had rolled away and was pushing back to his feet.
With his attempt at a surprise attack leaving him sore, not to mention a bit embarrassed, Mason began shuffling from side to side as he looked for an opening. Fighting Beebie was going to require exploiting the big man’s weak points. The wounded shoulder was an obvious choice, but there were other targets too, including his eyes, throat, and groin. Unfortunately, Beebie had been in more fights than Kimbo Slice and knew full well how to protect himself.
“Come on, Marshal,” Beebe taunted as he advanced with his hands clenched into fists the size of cantaloupes, “you can do better than that.”
Mason whipped a low roundhouse kick to outside of his lead knee. It landed with a solid thwap but wasn’t quite enough to buckle the big man’s leg.
Beebie responded with a quick left jab, rocking Mason’s head back. It was just a probing attack, but it felt like someone had dropped a sandbag on his face. He stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. As Mason brought his hands back up, he felt his lower lip beginning to swell and tasted blood.
What might have caused a lesser man to turn and run, only lit a fire in Mason’s belly. He came at Beebie with a flurry of punches, and actually forced the big man to take a step back. As he did, Mason drove the point of his elbow into Beebie’s wounded shoulder.
The big man howled in pain, shoving him away. The motion was so powerful that Mason fell, tumbling head over heels across the wet ground.
Beebie pounced upon him, raining down a fresh blow with every growl.
“You—son—of—a—bitch!”
Desperate to stop the hammering, Mason flipped a leg up and hooked it around Beebie’s neck. He rocked up to a sitting position, which in turn, sent Beebie flopping onto his back. Before Mason could secure a triangle choke, the big man pulled his legs apart and squirmed free.
Both men slowly got back to their feet, eyeing one another warily.
Mason felt like he had been trapped in a washing machine with a bag of bricks, his eye, lip, ribs, and chest all throbbing with pain. If he didn’t do something fast, Beebie was quite literally going to kill him.
“Are you enjoying the dance, Marshal?” Beebie shuffled toward him with his hands up. “I know I am.” Despite his words, the fresh blood leaking from his shoulder told a different story.
Mason retreated, doing his best to keep a safe distance while he worked on coming up with a plan, one that hopefully involved less losing and more winning. The rain continued as a steady downpour, and both men had to wipe water from their eyes. The ground had also become soggy, and every step sent them sinking into the wet muck.
Accepting that he simply wasn’t going to win without a weapon, Mason scanned the area for something hard or sharp. Beebie was careful to stay between him and his knife, and Mason put his chances at nil of getting any of the firearms operational before being snapped in two.
His eyes settled on the stack of newspapers resting near the base of the tower. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
Careful to stay out of Beebie’s reach, he made a wide circle as he navigated closer to the papers.
Thinking that he intended to escape up the tower, Beebie warned, “If you climb it, I’ll shoot you off like a bird on a wire.”
Instead of reaching for the tower, Mason squatted down and tugged on the plastic straps holding the bundle of papers together. Weather had left them brittle, and the cords snapped with little more than a quick jerk of his hand. He pushed aside the top few papers that were well along their way to dissolving and retrieved two that were still fairly dry.
Clearly amused, Beebie said, “You planning to catch up on a little light reading?”
Mason rolled the paper into a tight log and then folded it in half.
“Something like that.” He slapped the improvised weapon against his palm. It hurt. Reportedly invented by English football hooligans, the Millwall brick wasn’t as effective as a wooden baton, but it could still deliver a painful wallop.
Beebie chuckled. “If you manage to put me down with a rolled-up newspaper, it’s high time I retire.”
They advanced toward one another, and when he was within range, Mason swung the Millwall brick at the same knee he had kicked earlier. It hit the side of the kneecap with a sharp thwack, and Beebie’s face twisted in pain. He immediately responded with a short right cross. The blow caught Mason on the back of his left ear, and he stumbled away, the world going dark around the edges.
Beebie tried to close and finish him, but as he advanced, his injured leg buckled, and he ended up stumbling forward with his hands outstretched for balance.
Mason twisted back to the left, swinging the newspaper straight up the middle. The end of the brick caught Beebie under the chin, rocking his head back as blood and spit sprayed from his mouth.
Dazed, Beebie grabbed for Mason, hoping to pull him into a crushing bear hug. Mason managed to slip one hand, but the other closed around the collar of his shirt. Dropping the newspaper, he stepped closer and smashed his forearm against Beebie’s injured shoulder. While not quite as effective as the point of his elbow had been, it was enough to cause Beebie to groan in pain. He responded by wrapping his other arm around Mason, but as he did, Mason spun inward, driving his hips into Beebie’s waist and throwing him off balance. With Beebie now leaning forward, Mason pulled his arm over his shoulder and flipped him onto the wet ground.
Beebie hit hard. Reeling from the pain in his shoulder, he rolled to his hands and knees. Mason knew that this was probably the only chance he was going to have of walking away from the fight with anything less than a broken neck.
He jumped on Beebie’s back and slid his forearm across the big man’s throat while securing the choke from behind. Like a wild bronco, Beebie began to buck. Nearly thrown free, Mason braced his feet on the inside of Beebie’s thighs and hung on for dear life.
Surrendering to the fact that he wasn’t able to simply buck Mason off, Beebie used one hand to support himself while reaching up with the other to try to break the choke.
No luck. As jiu jitsu experts had taught many a larger man, escaping from a spider riding your back was no easy task.
Becoming more desperate, Beebie toppled over and rolled onto his back, pinning Mason beneath him. He pulled at Mason’s forearm, and when that didn’t work, began tearing at his fingers. Had it not been for his injured shoulder, he might well have succeeded. As it was, each time he came close to loosening the choke, Mason shifted his hands ever so slightly to keep it in place.
With the carotid artery’s blood flow pinched off, Beebie’s vision began to darken. He rolled back to his belly and pushed up with his good arm. With great effort, he managed to stand, the weight of Mason hanging from his back like an overstuffed pack. With his oxygen nearly depleted, Beebie did the only thing he could. He fell backwards, hitting the ground like a fallen tree. The impact slammed Mason into the wet ground, nearly causing him to black out. Gasping for air, he held on with every bit of strength he could muster.
Both men were fading fast, and it became a question of who would last the longest. As Beebie’s efforts grew weaker and weaker, the answer became clear.
In less than a minute, the big man’s arms fell by his sides.
Mason rolled him off and scrambled toward his weapons, the world still fuzzy and dark. By the time he had them in hand, he was breathing easier, and the danger of losing consciousness had subsided. He loaded the Supergrade with a spare magazine pulled from his belt, sheathed the knife, and sto
od to face Beebie.
The big man was stirring but had yet to regain consciousness.
Mason retrieved the fallen magazines and reloaded his M4. Once he was squared away, he dragged Beebie’s pack closer and sat on it, his pistol resting on his thigh.
It took Beebie nearly three minutes to fully awaken, and by the time he did, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle. He tried to stand, but after nearly falling, settled back to the ground to keep from passing out.
“What are you waiting for?” Beebie said, grimacing as he slowly rotated his injured shoulder.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with you.” The idea of sparing someone so intent on ripping him limb from limb was a hard pill for Mason to swallow.
“I’m not going to stop coming after you. You might as well know that.”
“Maybe not,” mused Mason, “but a bullet in each leg would go a long way toward slowing you down.”
Beebie said nothing. While being shot in the legs was not something any man wanted, convincing an enemy to just go ahead and kill him seemed foolhardy.
“I tell you what,” said Mason. “I’ll give you a choice just like you gave me.”
Beebie’s lips turned up. “You’re going to fight me?”
Mason touched his swollen cheek. “Hardly. I’ll either put you down once and for all, right here in this wet field, or you can come with me and see that I wasn’t lying.”
Beebie’s brow furrowed. “To the woman?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s real? You weren’t making that up?”
“You’ll have to see that for yourself.” Mason leveled his Supergrade at Beebie. “So, what’s it going to be?”
Beebie carefully pushed up to his feet, grimacing as he put weight on the injured knee.
“Point the way.”
“Do I have your word that you won’t move against me until we get back to her?”
“Will my word keep you from pointing a gun at me?”
“No, but it will keep me from shooting you.”
“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “You have my word.”
With Beebie’s AK-47 slung over one shoulder and his own M4 hanging across his back, Mason trailed a few steps behind Beebie as they returned to the boat. As it came into view, they spotted Bowie standing on the bow, his tail pointing and eyes alert as he eagerly awaited his master’s return.
“I wondered what happened to your dog,” said Beebie.
“Now wouldn’t you have felt guilty killing me back there and leaving Bowie all alone in this world?”
Beebie glanced back at him. “Believe me, I’d have gotten over it.”
As soon as they stepped aboard the boat, Bowie rushed first to Mason and then to Beebie, giving each the kind of enthusiastic greeting that only a dog could muster.
“Still as big as ever, I see,” Beebie said, scrubbing him behind the ears.
“No doubt, he’s thinking the same about you,” Mason said as he motioned for Beebie to take a seat on a bench to the rear of the deck.
As Beebie walked over and flopped down on the vinyl cushion, Bowie returned to stand beside Mason at the captain’s console.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll jump overboard?” asked Beebie.
“Go right ahead. With that wound on your shoulder, you’d probably end up dying of an infection before the week was out.”
Beebie eyed the muddy water. “Sounds like my kind of luck.”
Mason turned the key, and the boat rumbled to life with another belch of black smoke. They crossed the river without incident and left the boat tucked in a small inlet leading into what could only be described as a swamp. The boat wasn’t as hidden as Mason would have liked, but if spotted, he thought someone would likely conclude that it had been abandoned after running out of fuel.
Hopping down into the knee-deep sludge, Mason, Beebie, and Bowie slogged their way toward the row of expensive houses. It took nearly ten minutes to step clear of the marsh, but thankfully by then the rain had given way to sunshine and patches of fluffy white clouds.
Beebie stomped some of the mud from his boots.
“Which way?”
Mason pointed across the large dirt field.
“Another mile.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the one holding the gun.”
If for no other reason than to prove Beebie wrong, Mason holstered his Supergrade and took up a position about fifteen feet behind him. Walking with a weapon up and ready was both tiring and dangerous. Besides, it seemed impossible that someone as large as Beebie could get the drop on him before he could draw and fire the Supergrade. Add Bowie to the mix, and Mason felt confident that Beebie had little chance of turning the tide.
As if reading his mind, Beebie glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, unlike you, my word actually means something.”
Mason grinned. “All I can say is I hope you like the taste of humble pie.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that once you’ve seen what’s what, you’re going to feel more than a bit duped.”
Beebie quieted, but with every step, he seemed to grow more and more frustrated.
Finally, he stopped and turned to face Mason.
“It doesn’t make sense… what she told us, her eye being bruised, the kidnapping and rape. It all added up to—”
“It added up to what she and Locke wanted it to. They played you, same as they played me.”
“But why?”
“To get us to do what they couldn’t.”
Beebie’s eyes narrowed. “Just for conversation’s sake, let’s say what you’re saying is true. What’s their connection?”
“Father and daughter.”
His mouth fell open. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“I wish I were.”
Beebie started walking again. “And Locke, I suppose you killed him?”
“What makes you say that?”
“People who cross you tend to wind up dead. So?”
“Dead, yes, but not by my hand. The infected killed him when they overran The Farm.” Mason didn’t bother explaining the specifics of Locke’s death. Dead was dead, and that was all that really mattered.
“And the cannibalism thing? I suppose that was true too?”
“Exactly as I said. They were chopping up the infected and putting them in their food bars for a little added protein.”
“For the record, that’s the one part I actually believed. I’d been saying for months that something wasn’t right about those bars.”
“People weren’t meant to eat people.”
“No argument from me on that. Did the infected have their revenge?”
Mason thought of the carnage they had left behind.
“And then some.”
“Good.” Beebie took a moment to hunt for the right words, finally saying, “I’m not saying that I believe you about the girl, but even if what you say proves out, you can understand why we went after you on that boat. It was a hell of a tale, especially given what she was saying.”
“Are you asking for a pass?”
“If I was, it would only be fair.” He touched his wounded shoulder. “I think I paid my price. Hell, we all did.”
While forgiving someone who had tried to kill him was not normally in Mason’s nature, he couldn’t see much upside to holding a grudge.
“I did what I had to. No more. No less.”
“What you did to me—” Beebie took a deep breath to keep his emotions in check. “It hurt my pride as much as it did anything else. But you could’ve killed me, and you didn’t. For that, I’m thankful.”
Mason studied him, uncertain if Beebie was speaking from the heart or just trying to placate his captor. Either way, it didn’t matter. Soon he would hear everything straight from Brooke’s own mouth.
“For what it’s worth, I never wanted to go against any of you. We were…” Mason hunted for the right word. “… friends. At least, I thought we were.”
“When you say it like that, I almost hope you’re lying about the girl.”
“Why? Because it’ll mean you tried to kill an innocent man?”
Beebie glanced back at him. “I’ve never met an innocent man. Have you?”
“Not really, no.”
“It’s not about innocence or guilt. It’s about whether or not I screwed a friend. If you end up being on the right side of this, I’m going to owe you one. And I don’t like owing anyone, especially someone who stuck me in the back with a knife.”
“What do you say we get back to Brooke before we decide whether or not to kiss and make up?”
“Fine,” he said, continuing ahead, “but I still don’t get one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Again, just on the off chance that you’re not full of shit, why would she be with you now?”
It was a good question, and one that Mason didn’t want to answer, at least not fully.
“I helped her to escape, figured I would at least get her to safety.”
Beebie shook his head. “You’re a better man than me, Marshal.”
Mason thought of Jessie waiting patiently at her family’s farm, staring out the window wondering when, or if, he would ever return. Somehow, he didn’t feel like a better man.
“I’m guessing not everyone would agree with that,” he muttered.
Thinking that he was talking about his old security team, Beebie said, “You’re right about that. Dix swears he’ll cut your heart out one day, and I don’t think anything the woman says could ever change that.”
That didn’t surprise Mason. Dix had been the victim of a clever boobie trap that sent him plunging into the James River. Talk about a bad day. Even so, he had lived, and Mason felt no remorse at stopping a man intent on killing him. If there was to be a day of reckoning with Dix, he would deal with it, just as he dealt with everything else.
They continued ahead, a quiet resignation falling over both men. Things had happened, and no amount of regret or second guessing was going to change that. Better to move forward and see what the future held.
A gunshot sounded in the distance. Then another. And another.
The Survivalist (Solemn Duty) Page 7
