The Survivalist (Solemn Duty)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “Your problem is that everyone sees you as a threat,” Mason said with a smile. “Bowie and I, on the other hand, are much more approachable, downright likable even.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re likable all right,” Beebie said with a chuckle. “That’s why nearly everyone you’ve ever met would love to put a bullet in your head, and that includes your closest friends.”

  Mason smiled but said nothing more. Beebie was right. There were very few people left in the world who he could honestly trust. Most had been killed by the pox, and others, like Marshal Leroy were but a misunderstanding away from drawing down on him. He was alone in this world, save for Bowie and Jessie, assuming she would still have him once he returned.

  Staying to the highway, they passed several fenced pastures, although there remained no signs of cows or horses within. When people began dying in large numbers, many farmers had simply let their livestock go, figuring they would gather the animals back up when better able to care for them. That time never came, and cows, pigs, goats, and horses were all forced to learn to survive in a new and complex ecosystem filled with millions of feral dogs and cats, as well as hungry survivors.

  People all across the land were learning that once docile cows could not only smell an intruder up to five miles away, they can also outrun an Olympic sprinter. With hunting an all but forgotten skill, fresh meat had become quite the luxury.

  Gunshots sounded in the distance, followed by the rev of car engines. At first, Mason ignored them, but as the sounds grew steadily closer, he led Beebie and Bowie off the road to seek cover behind a copse of trees.

  A few moments later, a white sedan barreled by, a man dangling lifelessly out the passenger-side window. The driver hardly seemed to notice the condition of his passenger, as he was clearly in a race for his life. A caravan of at least twenty cars and trucks chased after him, infected men hanging out the windows and standing in the beds of pickup trucks to fire upon him. Mason recognized the driver of one of the vehicles as the fearsome commander who had attacked The Farm.

  Bowie started forward, but Mason reached out and grabbed him.

  “Easy boy. Even if we wanted to help, there’s not much we could do.”

  When the caravan had finally passed, Beebie said, “I’m assuming those were your friends from Smithfield.”

  “That would be them.” Mason released Bowie, and together, they returned to the road.

  “They must really want to see you dead, probably on account of you being so likable.”

  Mason grinned. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”

  “Not anytime soon, no.”

  Mason looked off in the direction the caravan had traveled.

  “I suspect it’s not about me at this point. The infected will eventually kill enough to satisfy their thirst and return home. The good news is that they’re presence is going to keep some of the riffraff busy. That might actually make it a little safer for us.”

  “It’s not a good sign when you’re counting on an army of bloodthirsty mutants to make it safer.”

  Mason glanced back up the highway. “We’ll need to be careful not to get caught out in the open.”

  “As long they keep to their vehicles, we should hear them coming.”

  “Even so, let’s stay out of sight.”

  “Agreed.”

  They continued on for another mile, ducking behind cover whenever they suspected trouble. Twice, they saw small bands of armed men roll by in trucks but couldn’t tell whether they were Laroche’s men, or simply brigands out to rob wayward travelers. While engaging them might have provided an answer as to the jail’s location, it hardly seemed worth the risk.

  As they approached the northern outskirts of Suffolk, they spotted a white panel van turning onto a narrow drive marked with a sign that read “dead-end.” The van followed a curve through the woods before disappearing from sight. From his time as a marshal, Mason knew that regional jails were often hidden out of sight. It tended to help keep property values up and resident’s concerns down.

  “What do you think?”

  Beebie shrugged. “Seems kind of small to be the road to a jail.”

  “Even so, let’s check it.”

  They turned and started up the narrow road, Bowie briefly detouring to sniff several bags of garbage that had been lost out of the back of someone’s truck.

  As they rounded the curve, they came upon a Presbyterian Church set at the end of a cul de sac. The red brick structure looked established, perhaps twenty years old. There were no other buildings nearby, but surprisingly thirty or forty vehicles sat in the parking lot.

  Two armed men stood like Roman legionnaires at the top of the stairs immediately outside the doors to the church. At the sight of Mason and Beebie, one of them banged his fist on the door, and the other brought his rifle to low ready.

  Mason offered a friendly wave, but it seemed to do little to relieve their suspicion.

  “Not the jail,” Beebie said, positioning himself to stand behind the engine compartment of a nearby car.

  “No, but I’m betting they know where it is. Hang back while I go and talk to them.”

  “Why? You afraid I’ll scare them?” he said, puffing out his massive chest.

  “Of course, you’ll scare them. You scare everyone.” Mason slid his rifle around to his back. “Besides, I’d like to have a shooter at a distance if things go sideways.”

  Beebie rested his AK-47 on the hood of the car in front of him and took a knee.

  “Roger that.”

  Mason started toward the men, slow and easy, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. Even with the Supergrade a split second from being up and on target, he was no match for two men with rifles. Bowie quickly caught up to him, and Mason made sure that he stayed close so as not to further spook the men.

  As he approached, Mason saw that one of the men looked like Bruce Willis, his head and face both cleanly shaven. The other had a raggedy goatee and dark crazy eyes that reminded him of a young Toshiro Mifune. Willis carried a .30-06 hunting rifle, the stock held together with duct tape, and Toshiro had a single-shot squirrel rifle pressed to his shoulder.

  When Mason and Bowie arrived at the bottom of the stairs, Willis said, “That’s far enough, partner.”

  Mason stopped and offered a friendly nod.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Willis returned the gesture. Toshiro did not.

  “We help you with something?”

  “I was hoping you might point me in the direction of the local jail.”

  Willis’s eyes narrowed. “What for?”

  Mason saw no reason to lie. “I need to see a man named Laroche.”

  “He a friend of yours?” Toshiro said with a slight Japanese accent.

  It was a gamble to answer either way.

  “Let’s just say he took something from me, and I’m looking to get it back.”

  He scoffed. “Good luck.”

  Willis added, “Laroche takes what he wants, who he wants. Most around here would like to see him hang for what he’s done.”

  “Does that include you?”

  He patted the broken stock of his deer rifle.

  “Call me old fashioned, but I’d be happy putting a bullet in his head.”

  Mason gestured to the door behind them.

  “Services going on inside?”

  “Something like that.

  Mason glanced back at the parking lot full of cars and trucks.

  “Pretty good turnout, considering.”

  “What can I say? Lots of church going folks ’round here.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Toshiro growled, “Why are you so damn nosey?”

  Not liking the man’s tone, Bowie’s lips pulled back into a snarl.

  “Easy, boy,” Mason said, never taking his eyes off Toshiro. “We’re strangers. For all they know, we’re working for Laroche.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  Mason pulled aside h
is jacket so that his badge was visible.

  “I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal.”

  “A badge doesn’t tell us what kind of man you are.”

  “That part’s true enough.”

  Willis seemed to be more trusting, saying, “You’ll have to forgive my friend. We’re one mistake away from being dead these days.”

  “Because of Laroche?”

  “He’s the worst of ’em, but there are plenty of others. Honestly, if it wasn’t for us, this whole town would’ve gone to hell in a hand basket by now.”

  Toshiro gave him an irritated nudge.

  “Are you planning on telling him where we sleep at night, too?”

  “What? It ain’t exactly a secret what we do ’round here.”

  “And what exactly is it that you do?” asked Mason.

  “Provide a little law and order, make sure folks have enough to eat and drink. That sort of thing.”

  “Sounds like a noble cause. Where do you get the supplies?”

  “Simple,” he said with a smile. “We take ’em from Laroche.”

  “Ah, I get it now. You’re the merry band, and Laroche is the evil Sheriff of Nottingham.”

  Willis bumped Toshiro. “See, he gets us.”

  Toshiro seemed unimpressed, saying only, “We don’t know him.”

  “Does your group have a name?” asked Mason. In his experience, men who banded together for a common cause always had a name. It was just part of the experience.

  “We call ourselves the Suffolk Armed Militia, but ’round here, folks just call us Sammies.”

  Mason had met all sorts of vigilante groups. Some were good men driven by honorable causes. Others were opportunists, hiding selfish intentions. He couldn’t say for certain which these men were.

  “And is there a Robin Hood?”

  “Sheriff McCabe’s in charge, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Your leader is a lawman?”

  “And a fine one at that. You should meet him.”

  Toshiro growled. “We’re supposed to be guarding the door, not setting up lunch dates.”

  “Come on,” said Willis, “you know McCabe would want to meet a US Marshal. Go on. I got this.”

  Toshiro eyed the wolfhound, and when he did, Bowie licked the fur around his mouth.

  “You sure? That’s one hell of a big dog.”

  “I’ll be fine. The marshal and his dog ain’t threats.” He looked at Mason for a confirmation. “I’m right about that, ain’t I?”

  Mason nodded. “You are.” He glanced back at Beebie. The big man was growing impatient. “Better make it quick though. My friend doesn’t do well waiting.”

  Satisfied, Toshiro pulled open the door and stepped inside. When he did, Mason caught a glimpse of several dozen men and women crowded around tables in the center of the church. The scene reminded him of the planning meetings he had had with the residents of Boone when they stood against Rommel and his gang of bandits. History, it seemed, was playing out the same all across the country.

  While they waited for Toshiro to return, Mason said, “Mind telling me a little about Laroche?”

  Willis shrugged. “What’s there to say? He’s a killer, and worse.”

  “What’s worse than a killer?”

  “Let’s see… lately, he’s taken to kidnapping young women to make ’em sex slaves for his men. Must’ve grabbed a couple dozen by now. I call that worse.”

  The capture of women to fuel a sex trade was perhaps the worst of all criminal activities that Mason had ever had the displeasure of dealing with. Even when freed, the victims were often irrevocably scarred. It also meant that Brooke was in real trouble.

  “Can’t you men stop him?”

  “Believe me, we’ve tried. But getting through his defenses would all but wipe us out, especially given this shit we’re fighting with.” He slapped the stock of his taped-together rifle. “So, we pick at him where we can, when we can. Mostly we resort to stealing shipments and ambushing small pockets of his men. It’s about all we can do at the moment.”

  “You do know if you keep hitting him, he’ll eventually come for you.”

  “Which is why we meet at different locations every time.” He motioned toward the parking lot. “Despite our numbers, most of us don’t have much fighting experience.”

  Mason nodded. Like others who had found themselves pushing against powerful authorities, the Sammies were limited to picking away at the enemy with the hope that they would never draw his ire.

  The door reopened, and Toshiro reappeared. A man in his early sixties stepped out behind him, tall with a thick black mustache and a head of hair to match. He wore a tan sheriff’s uniform and knee-length, black leather boots, like a motorcycle cop fresh off the beat. A Beretta APX hung at his side, along with two magazine pouches and a pair of handcuffs.

  With Willis and Toshiro at his side, he shuffled down the stairs, his hand extended toward Mason.

  “Sheriff Matthew McCabe at your service.”

  “Deputy Marshal Mason Raines,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Wasn’t sure any of you boys were still alive.”

  “A few, I suspect.”

  As if knowing Bowie since he was a pup, McCabe reached down and gave him a good scrubbing behind the ears.

  “You come over from the New Colony?”

  It was a tricky question for Mason to answer honestly because he had yet to be fully exonerated for his purported crimes.

  “I’ve been doing some work for them lately,” he said, dodging the question.

  “And are they still having trouble with people going batshit?”

  “I believe that’s coming to an end.” With The Farm having fallen, Mason assumed there would be no more food bars, and thus, no more Craze.

  “Good. People need a safe place to live. Lord knows they’re few and far between, nowadays.”

  “Have your people considered moving to the Colony?”

  “Some have talked about it. A few have actually gone off and done it.”

  “At least we’d get to eat more than rice and beans,” Toshiro said, patting his tight stomach.

  The complaint seemed to fall on deaf ears, McCabe saying, “We’re doing all right.”

  “Even so,” said Mason, “I know they’d be glad to have another lawman.”

  “Me?” said McCabe. “Nah, I’m too old to turn tail and run. I’ll die right here on the streets that I patrolled for more than thirty years.”

  Mason wasn’t surprised. Men like McCabe drew purpose from trying to make things better.

  “They tell me you’ve set up a militia that’s working to keep people safe.”

  “For all the good it’s doing. With Laroche and his army kidnapping and killing, we’re fighting a losing battle. Still, a man’s gotta try, right?”

  “That he does.”

  McCabe let his eyes turn to Beebie standing across the parking lot.

  “He with you?”

  Mason nodded. “We’re on our way to see Laroche about getting a friend released.”

  “A woman?”

  “Very much so.”

  McCabe shook his head slightly. “Good luck with that. Laroche isn’t known for his hospitality toward women.”

  “Understood. I was hoping someone might point me in the right direction.”

  McCabe turned and pointed back toward the highway.

  “The jail’s easy enough to find. Continue another mile down Highway 10. The big sign’s been pulled down, but look for an old white house on the left. Turn there, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “If you go in there with a badge,” added Willis, “you’ll come out in a box. Guaranteed.”

  “Good advice, thank you.”

  “One more thing,” said McCabe.

  “Yeah?”

  “Laroche fancies himself a businessman. If you want to get your lady friend back, go in prepared to make a deal.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”<
br />
  Mason shook McCabe’s hand once again.

  “Good luck to you and the Sammies.”

  “To you as well, Marshal. Come back by sometime, and we’ll break bread together.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, nodding farewell.

  As Mason started across the parking lot, Willis called after him.

  “If you get a chance to put a bullet in Laroche’s head, do the world a favor and take it.”

  Mason waved over his shoulder but said nothing in return. He had already promised a dying man that Laroche would meet justice. In his experience, something like that rarely needed to be said twice.

  Chapter 9

  “Issa!” The voice was sharp but barely above a whisper.

  Issa’s eyes flicked open as she jerked upright in bed, her hand instinctively reaching for the Merkel.

  “Issa!” the voice called again. “Over here.”

  She turned to find Giselle standing at the open window, her face drawn with worry. Giselle was in her twenties, attractive without being beautiful, with copper red hair and a petite frame. The pox had left her with mild facial scarring and arthritic hands, but all in all, she counted herself as one of the lucky ones. She was also one of the eight women who had taken Issa’s unusual offer to sleep with her husband with the hopes of getting pregnant.

  Issa stood and hurried over to the window.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Have you told anyone?” Giselle’s voice was trembling.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What we did with your husband. Did you tell anyone?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  She swallowed hard. “Chloe’s dead.”

  “What! How?”

  “Come with me. Please Issa, we’re scared.”

  Confused, Issa nodded and said, “Give me two minutes, and I’ll meet you around back.”

  “Thank you, Issa. Thank you.”

  Not knowing what type of danger, if any, they might be in, Issa went back to her bunk and clipped on the fanny pack of ammunition. She also checked that her two knives were securely stowed in the bandolier across her chest. With the Merkel and her trusty blades, she felt as ready as the warrior queen, Boudicca, preparing to take back her fallen kingdom.