Brock growled and marched away in his socks as he went in search of another pair of boots. Meanwhile, Tyler was doing his best to smother a laugh.
“What is this stuff?” Samantha said, studying her jar of opaque substance. “It looks sort of like lip gloss.”
“It’s homemade napalm,” answered Tanner, “and believe me, you don’t want it anywhere near your lips. Stuff burns at two thousand degrees Fahrenheit and won’t come off with anything less than a potato peeler.”
“Gross,” she said, cringing. “Why would we possibly need something like this?”
“You kidding? We’re going off to fight mutated creatures that don’t like heat. Napalm’s the perfect weapon.”
“I don’t want to smell people burning,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s either that, or we take a chance ending up like that boy.”
Samantha imagined lying on a table with some monstrosity glued to her back, slowly leeching her life away through the living yellow paste.
“Fine, but if I get sick, it’s your fault.”
“Think of it like a barbeque.”
“Believe me, that doesn’t help.”
Tanner turned to Purdy and Tyler.
“You two give us a hand. The sooner we get this stuff made, the sooner we can be on our way.”
Reverend Purdy and Tyler each retrieved a jar and began helping to mix the homemade napalm. By the time Brock returned wearing a set of OD green jungle boots, they were just finishing up.
Tanner examined the six jars of napalm. If he and Samantha could find the creatures clustered together, a couple should do the trick. Even if they were spread out, he felt confident that six could get the job done. Fire had a way of coming to life and spreading, especially when it was burning at a couple thousand degrees.
He motioned to Purdy. “Fetch us the other supplies so we can get going.”
Purdy nodded and hurried back toward the main building. Tyler followed, but Brock remained behind, glaring at Tanner. He waited until Purdy was out of sight before advancing toward Tanner.
“I’ll have you know those were new boots.”
“Believe me, green is more your color,” Tanner said with a grin.
Brock stuck his bony chest out, clearly itching for a fight.
“If it wasn’t for your little girl being here, I’d wipe my ass with you.”
Tanner’s jaw tightened, and he turned so that they stood facing one another like two schoolyard bullies, albeit one a hundred pounds heavier than the other.
Hoping to keep him from killing Brock, Samantha said, “Tanner, please be nice.”
“Always,” he said, meeting Brock’s angry stare. “What are you, a buck fifty with a pocket full of quarters?”
“I’m twice the man you’ll ever be.”
“Really? Then I want you to take a good hard look at what’s happening here. My eleven-year-old—”
“Twelve,” corrected Samantha.
“My twelve-year-old daughter and I are going off to fight your monsters. Not ours. Yours. We’re only doing this because you men couldn’t get it done. So, when you feel that anger of resentment, remind yourself that if you had a little more fire in the belly, we wouldn’t even be here.”
“Are you saying that we’re a bunch of pus—,” his eyes cut over to Samantha, “pansies?”
“Pansies? No. Pantywaists?” He shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”
Brock’s face flushed a bright shade of red.
“You mother—”
As Brock cocked his fist back, Tanner reared forward and headbutted him. The top of his forehead smashed against the bridge of the man’s nose, and Brock stumbled back, his eyes turning glassy as blood trickled from both nostrils. He tried to take a step forward, but his legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground. He wasn’t quite unconscious, but he wasn’t going to be answering any questions on Jeopardy for a while either.
Samantha moved up next to Tanner.
“I asked you to be nice.”
“That was nice, and you know it.”
She looked down at Brock. “He’s probably not a bad guy if you got to know him. You two might even be friends.”
“I don’t need friends.”
“Everyone needs friends.”
“Not me.”
“What if you wanted to go fishing with someone?”
“I’d take you. You’re a great fisherman.”
“That’s true, I am. Okay, what if you needed someone to help change a tire?”
“You’d help me.”
“But I wouldn’t be very good at it.”
“You’d figure it out.”
She pursed her lips, thinking.
“What if you—” she paused. “Never mind. Now that I think about it, you might be right. I’m pretty much all you need.”
“Which is why I bring you along on these foolhardy missions.”
“No, you bring me along because I refuse to let you ditch me.”
“That too.” Tanner glanced up at the sky. They had perhaps three hours until sunset. “Purdy better hurry. I’d rather not be out monster hunting in the dark.”
“Speaking of which, why is it we always have to do these things in compete darkness?”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not always dark.”
“No?” She started counting on her fingers. “Giant Backson in the tunnel—dark. Were-pig in the insane asylum—really dark. Pack of vicious dogs who tried to eat me on the highway—also dark.”
“Fine,” he said, holding up his hands. “Point taken.”
“Just once I’d like for it to be daylight. Is that really too much to ask for?”
Tanner recognized Samantha’s bellyaching for what it was—nerves. She was afraid, and she had every right to be.
“Don’t worry, Sam. Day or night, we’ll get it done.”
“Of course, we will. It’s for Issa.”
Tanner let Issa’s beautiful image come into his mind, her warm smile, the scratch of her fingernails against his back when they made love, the sharpness of her voice when she disagreed with him. He loved her as much as any man could, and even the thought of being away from her twisted his stomach into a painful knot.
“For Issa,” he breathed.
Chapter 12
By the time Mason exited the prison with his M4 in hand, Beebie had already begun tallying up how much it was going to cost to keep Bowie flush with kibble. Spotting Mason and Chong stepping clear of the building, he gave the big dog a pat on the side and said, “Looks like you may not have to come live with Uncle Beebie after all.”
Bowie hardly heard him. An instant after his eyes had settled on Mason, he bolted across the parking lot, fur flowing in the wind.
Mason squatted down and braced himself, knowing that if he didn’t, Bowie would surely leap into the air, expecting to be caught like a spunky Chihuahua. As it was, the dog slammed into him, whining like they had been separated for the better part of a year. Mason wasn’t entirely sure if Bowie was expressing relief at his return, or sorrow at not having been by his side. Either way, it was good to be loved.
“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too,” he said, wrapping his arms around the dog’s giant head.
Watching them brought a smile to Chong’s face.
“That dog loves you something fierce, man. Kind of makes me jealous.”
“He and I have been through a lot.”
“Dogs are the best, man. Maybe one day I’ll get one.” He glanced back at the prison. “Assuming I ever get clear of this place, you know.”
Mason stood and watched Beebie cross the parking lot at a pace far less frantic than Bowie’s had been.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, man, anything.”
“How’d you get tied up with Laroche?”
He shrugged. “He’s like the only game in town, you know.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“No, man, it ain’t.”
“In for
a penny, in for a pound. Is that it?”
He shrugged again. “Honestly, I got nowhere else to go.”
“Why don’t you take that vacation you were talking about? Head over to the New Colony for a while.”
“That was just talk, man. The Colony ain’t gonna take in some bum like me.”
Chong was probably right. In an effort to keep crime down, the New Colony had become rather selective about who they allowed in. For Chong to become a citizen, he would have to possess a skill or provide something else of value to the Colony.
An idea came to Mason.
“You could tell them you have information.”
Chong’s eyes cut over to Mason.
“What kind of information?”
“Tell them you know the whereabouts of a dangerous fugitive.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“You’re a fugitive, man? I thought you were a lawman.”
“It depends on the day.”
Chong rubbed his stubbly chin. “You think that would work?”
“They want me something awful. If you tell them that you’ll give up my location in exchange for a job and a place to sleep, I think they’d go for it.”
“But they’ll come and get you, man.”
Mason shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. By the time they get here, I’ll be long gone.”
“Really, man? You wouldn’t mind me selling you out?”
“Not a bit.”
Chong seemed a little choked up by the gesture.
“Thanks man. You’re one of the good guys.”
Mason smiled. “Like I said, it depends on the day.”
Beebie slow jogged up to them, clearly uncertain about what was going on.
Before Mason could explain, Chong turned and started toward the pickup truck they had pulled up in.
“What’s going on?” Beebie said in a hushed voice.
“I’ll explain in a minute. Let’s get out of here first.”
As they approached the pickup, they saw Farley sitting in the passenger seat. His eyes were closed, and his head lay back against the cushion.
Chong bumped the door, and the big man jerked upright.
“You gotta get out, man. Laroche said to give them the truck.”
“What the hell?” Farley said to no one in particular as he climbed out and brushed crumbs from his lap.
Chong passed the keys to Mason.
“Any chance you could do something with old Franky?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Honestly, man, I don’t think anyone would mind if you rolled him off into a ditch somewhere. Just not near the prison, okay.”
Mason nodded. “We’ll take care of him.”
“And what are we supposed to do?” Farley said, acting as if he had just been fired from a job.
“I don’t know about you, man, but I’m going on vacation.” Chong looked over at Mason and offered an almost imperceptible nod.
Farley glanced back at the prison entrance.
“I wonder if I could get a girl. It’s not like we got anything else to do.” He smiled, and his eyes got a dreamy, far-away look to them. “I could take all day giving it to her.”
Mason thought of young Carol, and before he could stop himself, he stepped forward and rifle butted Farley in the groin. Being hit by a pugil stick in the nuts was god awful painful; getting racked by the butt of a seven-pound rifle was beyond excruciating. Farley would be lucky to piss standing up, let alone “giving it” to anyone for the next couple of weeks.
Chong looked down at Farley curled up on the ground.
“You’re having a really bad day, man.”
Mason turned and motioned for Bowie to hop up into the bed of the pickup. Once the dog was settled, he climbed in behind the wheel and started it up. Beebie hurried around and squeezed in the other side.
“So,” he said, “did you find her?”
Mason dropped the truck into gear and pulled away from the jail.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And Laroche promised to let her go if we hijack a truck from one of the New Colony’s convoys.”
“You do realize those are the same convoys you and I guarded not so long ago.”
“I do.”
“Are we gonna do it?”
“I don’t see that we have a choice.”
Beebie shook his head. “This outlaw thing seems to be growing on you.”
Mason slowed the truck as they approached the fortified gate. This time, the guards paid them little attention, waving the truck out as if irritated by the interruption. He continued past the small subdivision to arrive at the intersection where they had first spotted the truck. Rather than turn, he sat for a moment, staring out at the empty road.
“What’s bugging you?” said Beebie.
“You mean other than women being held as sex slaves, and Brooke facing the same horrible fate?”
“Yeah, other than that.”
Mason sighed. “It seems I have two very different missions that are at odds with one another.”
“Two?”
“The first is to hijack the convoy to ensure Brooke’s release.”
“Yeah, and the other?”
“Break Laroche’s chokehold on this area.”
“Why would you want to take on something like that?”
“I sort of gave my word, twice.”
“Did you see that place? It’s not doable for two men and a dog, no matter how good we are.”
“That’s what’s bugging me.”
“I’ve known plenty of men who gave their word, only to reassess the wisdom of their promise later. I mean in the grand scheme of things, what does it really matter?”
Mason’s thoughts went to Caruso and his daughter, to Carol cowering in her cell, to the other women whose battered faces he had not yet seen. Sometimes a man’s word was all that mattered.
Beebie sensed the answer even without Mason having to say it.
“You’re not going to rest until Brooke’s out and Laroche is dead. I get it.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it’s possible, but I get it.”
“You’d be surprised what’s possible.”
“You’ve got to be the pluckiest man I’ve ever met. I’ll give you that.”
“Is that another way of saying I don’t know when to quit?”
“You don’t even know the meaning of the word.”
Mason looked over at him. “This is obviously a volunteer mission. No hard feelings if you walk away.”
“I’m good for helping to get Brooke out. After that, we’ll see.”
“Understood.” He pointed off to the right. “Laroche says the convoy will be traveling west along Highway 460.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got three hours.”
Beebie’s eyes tightened as he imagined the convoy of trucks rolling by, heavy machine guns at the ready.
“Three hours isn’t enough time to set up a proper ambush.”
“Oh ye of little faith.”
“I don’t need to remind you that people just like you and me are going to be riding shotgun. Even getting them to stop will require nothing short of a rocket launcher, and in case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have a rocket launcher.”
“No, but I have something even better.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“An idea.”
Mason, Beebie, and Bowie stood beside the pickup, staring at a three-car garage. The rusty red and white sign out front, read “Smitty’s Auto Service.” One of the bay doors had been left up about three feet, but there was no light coming from within the shop. A matching single-story brick home sat to the left of the garage, a weathered American flag flying out front. A boat sat in the yard with a “For Sale” sign taped to the bow, and a small shed was visible to the rear of the property with stacks of cut firewood peeking out.
Beebie eyed the garage. “This is your grand idea?”
“Over the years, I’ve learned to make do.”
“That’s an understatement. You’re a regular MacGyver of boobie traps.”
“Still sore about that shoulder?” Mason said, smiling.
“You pinned me like a goddamn butterfly. Of course, I’m still sore.”
As they talked, Bowie craned his enormous head around to get a better look at his master, perhaps hoping that seeing his lips move would somehow solve the ever-elusive mystery of human speech. It didn’t. What he could discern was that the two men seemed to be getting along. That, along with the promise of exploring a building spewing with interesting smells, meant that life was good.
Mason started for the garage, and Bowie eagerly trotted alongside him. Beebie took up the rear, eyeing the adjacent house for any movement. When they got to the partially open door, Mason sent Bowie in first, the dog crouching slightly before disappearing into the darkness.
A minute passed. Then two. Still no Bowie.
Mason motioned to Beebie. “Watch my back.”
Without waiting for a reply, he dropped to his belly and rolled under the door with his M4 clutched to his chest. The old building smelled of oil and sweat, and even in the darkness, it took only a moment for him to see what had happened to Bowie. The wolfhound had managed to paw open a cooler sitting on the floor. Inside was a sack lunch, and inside that was Bowie’s nose.
“Careful now,” he warned. “Whatever’s in there’s likely to make you sick.”
At the sound of Mason’s voice, Bowie raised his head and shook the bag loose. A sandwich poked out of his mouth. An instant later it was gone.
Mason stood and shoved the bay door the rest of the way up.
Beebie stepped inside, sweeping the room with his AK-47. When he spotted Bowie and the sack lunch, he laughed.
“Why is it that food always seems to be behind your dog’s failings?”
“He’s reminding us that we’re all slaves to our true nature.”
“Yeah, and what trips you up?”
“That one’s easy,” Mason said with a smile.
“Women?”
“Oh yes.”
Mason took a moment to study the cooler. The fact that the sandwich hadn’t already decomposed meant that someone had left it there recently. The question was why? It took all of ten seconds for him to have his answer.
The Survivalist (Solemn Duty) Page 15
