Books by Dr. Arthur T. Bradley
Handbook to Practical Disaster Preparedness for the Family
The Prepper's Instruction Manual
Disaster Preparedness for EMP Attacks and Solar Storms
Process of Elimination: A Thriller
The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)
The Survivalist (Anarchy Rising)
The Survivalist (Judgment Day)
The Survivalist (Madness Rules)
The Survivalist (Battle Lines)
The Survivalist (Finest Hour)
The Survivalist (Last Stand)
The Survivalist (Dark Days)
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)
The Survivalist (National Treasure)
Available in print, ebook, and audiobook at all major resellers or at: http://disasterpreparer.com
The Survivalist
(Freedom Lost)
Author: Arthur T. Bradley, Ph.D.
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://disasterpreparer.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
Illustrations used throughout the book are privately owned and copyright protected. Special thanks are extended to Siobhan Gallagher for editing, Marites Bautista for print layout, Park Myers and Vanessa McCutcheon for proofreading, and Nikola Nevenov for illustrations and cover design. Special thanks to John Avoli for graciously showing me around both the DeJarnette Center and the Frontier Culture Museum.
© Copyright 2017 by Arthur T. Bradley
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
“Freedom is never given; it is won.”
A. Philip Randolph
1889–1979
Foreword
The first African slaves arrived in Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619 to aid the colonists in farming tobacco and other lucrative crops. By the Revolutionary War, slavery had become a full-fledged institution, with slaves being recognized as a distinct societal class. Most slaves were brought over from West Africa and forced to endure the “Middle Passage.” En route, they were chained together in the tight confines of the ship’s hull and forced to ride as cargo on a horrific journey across the Atlantic. An estimated two million slaves died at sea, a full 15% of those bound for the New World. The number of fatalities was closer to four million, if loss of life due to capture, suicide, and other factors are considered. Surprisingly, only about 388,000 slaves were shipped directly to North America, with the vast majority transported to the Caribbean and South America.
The journey across the Atlantic varied from one to six months, depending on weather conditions. Slave ships typically contained several hundred slaves, with only a few dozen crew to manage them. The males were shackled at the ankles using iron bilboes and only infrequently allowed to exit the hold to breathe fresh air. At most, slaves were fed once a day, although such meals were always contingent on the crew eating first. Diseases were rampant throughout the slaves’ meager living space and included smallpox, dysentery, measles, syphilis, and scurvy. The slave hold was often so foul that crew avoided entering the space, sometimes leaving slaves shackled to dead compatriots for days before finally disposing of the bodies overboard.
Shortly after the Revolutionary War, northern states began to abolish slavery. In 1807, Thomas Jefferson prohibited the importation of new slaves, although it did little to quell the interstate slave trade used to support cotton plantations across the Deep South. By the start of the Civil War in 1861, the slave population had reached four million. It wasn’t until President Lincoln’s signing of the Emancipation Proclamation in 1863 that slaves were legally declared free. Even with that proclamation, however, it took until the end of the war, in 1865, for their freedoms to be fully bestowed.
There is no scourge quite like slavery. It takes everything from a person—family, dignity, and free will. Slavery is a horror that displays mankind’s darkest nature, the willingness to dehumanize another for personal gain. Freedom is a treasure we are fortunate enough to carry with us from our first breath to our last. It neither requires locking away for safekeeping nor shining like a gaudy trinket. Freedom enables us to dream of what is yet to come, to enjoy personal choices, and to experience lifelong exploration. If the very thought of liberty does not cloud your eyes with emotion, you have yet to fully understand it.
Chapter 1
For the first time in his life, Deputy Marshal Mason Raines was a wanted man. Thanks to some clever maneuvering by The Farm’s CEO Oliver Locke, his photo was likely being hung on the walls of law enforcement offices all across the New Colony. If Mason were lucky, their security forces would be of a mind to apprehend him. Given what he had done to Dix and the rest of his detail, however, he couldn’t count on that kind of restraint. More likely, those sent after him would conclude that a little payback was in order, and would be all too happy to parade his lifeless body through the streets as a lesson to others.
Mason believed that his best chance at clearing his name was to reach out to General Carr, the New Colony’s Chief of Security. With Norfolk situated at the tip of a peninsula, however, undetected entry would be extremely difficult. Thoroughfares in or out of Norfolk included the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel, the Monitor-Merrimac Bridge-Tunnel, and the much smaller Miller E. Goodwin Bridge that crossed over the Nansemond River. The bridge-tunnels were obvious pinch points, all but impossible to get through without being caught, and the Goodwin Bridge was heavily patrolled to ensure the unimpeded flow of goods between The Farm and the New Colony.
Going in by water was another option, but doing so without having General Carr in on the incursion was also likely doomed to fail. Mason’s only chance was to contact Carr remotely to see if they could work out some way in which he could come in as anything less than a hostile combatant. To do that, he would need to gain access to a high-powered amateur radio system and electricity with which to operate it.
Only one idea came to mind, and it required reaching out to an old friend, Jack Atkins. Jack was a self-proclaimed prepper who had spoken with Mason numerous times over the airwaves. He had shared that his residence was in Gloucester, Virginia, a small community just northeast of Newport News, but for obvious reasons, had not broadcast his exact address.
Mason eyed the single-story, L-shaped motel directly before him. A red and white roadway sign read “Gloucester Inn Motel.” While phonebooks were at one time ubiquitous in nearly every home, such was no longer the case with the advent of the internet. Motels, however, especially one as dated as the Gloucester Inn, were all but certain to have a phonebook in every bedside drawer.
Even the sight of the worn brick building gave Mason pause. On two previous occasions, he had witnessed the infected living out of motels. While he had no rational explanation for such, it seemed that they were drawn to motels as surely as zombies were to public bathrooms.
Bowie whimpered.
Mason looked down at the big wolfhound and smiled.
“You big baby. For all we know, the place is empty.”
Bowie cut his eyes at him, clearly not buying it.
Mason reached down and gave him a little pat on the side.
“It is what it is.”
He straightened and brought his M4 to the low-ready position and started toward the closest building. Bowie took a moment to consider his options before r
eluctantly falling in behind his master.
The manager’s office sat to the front of the property. The door had been torn from its hinges and lay atop an abandoned police cruiser. Someone had used black spray paint on the motel’s wall to write, “It’s over. Why not party?”
Mason approached the open doorway and peered inside. The lobby looked like someone had gone after it with a sledge hammer. Fist-sized holes had been bashed through the walls, tile flooring obliterated into black and white shards, and light fixtures dangled from the ceiling by taut electrical wires. The check-in desk resembled something out of the Overlook Hotel, spatters of dried blood covering an old-time paper register. An open door revealed a small bedroom directly behind the counter, the remains of a decomposing corpse decorating the floor.
Mason stepped cautiously into the office and swept the room with his rifle.
Clear.
Whoever had played demolition derby was long gone.
He tiptoed behind the check-in desk, doing his best to avoid brushing against something brown and sticky smeared along its side. Other than the motel ledger, a small silver bell taped to the counter, and a photograph of an old Indian man and his wife, there wasn’t much to see.
Bowie wandered past him and began sniffing the dead body. From the sarong wrapped around his waist, Mason assumed that it was the old man from the photo. His body had decomposed into little more than hair and bones, suggesting he had been dead for several months. A dark cadaver stain surrounded the corpse like a chalk outline at a murder scene. The man’s skull had separated from his body and rolled sideways to face a small window, as if trying to enjoy the early morning sunlight.
Beyond the skeleton lay a small bedroom, fitted with a double mattress on the floor and a dresser that had been tipped over and rifled through. Clothes and empty food cans lay scattered about, as did a wicker basket piled high with brightly packaged condoms.
Mason reached down and pocketed a few, not because he was hoping to get lucky but because he knew that they could be used for a whole host of things, including storing water, keeping tinder dry, acting as fishing bobbers and sling shots, and even preventing crud from finding its way into the muzzle of his rifle.
Seeing nothing else of value, he turned and led Bowie back outside.
Together, they stared at a long row of crimson-colored doors. Bowie stood fast, not at all keen to lead the way.
“Think of it like we’re contestants on Let’s Make a Deal. If we pick the right door, there’s a prize waiting for us. And if we don’t…” He let the words trail off.
While Bowie clearly had no idea what Mason was talking about, the little pep talk was enough to get him moving down the narrow sidewalk. He stopped at the first door and sniffed along its bottom edge. A plastic “Do Not Disturb” placard hung from the doorknob.
Mason cupped his hands and tried to peer in through the window.
No good. The curtains were drawn tight, and even if they hadn’t been, a layer of dirt covered the glass that would have required a scraper and a whole bottle of Windex to remove.
Moving to one side of the door, he reached over and gave it a good rap with his knuckles. While some might question the tactical soundness of announcing his presence, Mason thought it only polite to knock before kicking in a door. Who knows? A fellow survivor might be holed up and about to step into the bathtub. Such courtesies tended to keep misunderstandings to a minimum.
No one answered. Nor could Mason hear any movement coming from within.
He turned and heel-kicked just below the lock. The latch broke free, but a swing bar pulled taut, preventing the door from opening more than a few inches. Mason slipped his fingers inside and felt of the bar’s construction. The mechanism seemed to be fairly heavy duty, and while door chains could be knocked in easily enough, bar guards tended to be more resistant to brute force.
Bowie pressed his nose to the narrow gap, doing his best to discern what was inside.
“Hold on, boy. We’ll be in soon enough.”
Mason pulled the “Do Not Disturb” placard from the doorknob. Lining it up with the bar guard, he carefully eased the door back to the point of being almost closed. Then he pushed the placard forward, swiveling the bar off the guard’s fixed lever arm. Once he could no longer feel any resistance with the placard, he gave the door a gentle push.
Voilà. It swung open.
Without waiting, Bowie pushed past him into the room. Two withered bodies lay on the bed, a thin white sheet draped over them. Like the innkeeper, they had died several months earlier and consisted of little more than bones, teeth, and clumps of hair. From the way their bodies were intertwined, it appeared that they had been holding one another to the very end.
The rest of the room was empty except for a nightstand, a television, and a bright green plastic chair that looked like it had been stolen from someone’s backyard picnic. A doorway led into a small bathroom, the moldy shower stall visible within. What stood out most, however, was a four-foot-diameter hole in the motel room’s wall.
Mason inched closer with his rifle pressed to his shoulder. A similar hole had been smashed through the adjacent room, and another in the room beyond that, forming a veritable tunnel that ran the entire length of the motel.
He stood for a count of thirty, listening.
Other than the gentle patter of Bowie’s paws on the stained carpet, it was quiet. If someone or something were in the other rooms, they were either asleep or unwilling to challenge him.
He turned and motioned for Bowie to check the bathroom. The wolfhound immediately complied, and a few seconds later emerged with the fur around his mouth wet. When he saw his master staring at him, he licked the water from his nose as if to say, “What? I was thirsty.”
“I’ll take that as an all clear,” Mason said, moving up to the bathroom door and giving the room a quick sweep. The commode had been torn from the floor, and a hole had been made that was just big enough for a man to squeeze through. “This place is like an ant farm.”
Bowie moved closer and poked his head down into the wet hole.
“Leave it. I’m done sloshing through sewers.”
Mason returned to the bedroom, sliding the M4 around to hang across his back. As he approached the bed, he noticed a small white box sitting atop the nightstand. The label read “Oral Transmucosal Fentanyl Citrate.” Fentanyl—the residing king of opioids. He opened the box and found a dozen individually sealed packages inside. Curious, he popped one open, uncovering what was for all practical purposes a small lollipop. An orange label was wrapped around the base of the stick that read “1600 mcg.” From his time in the army, Mason knew that doses of that magnitude were reserved for victims of extreme trauma.
He stuffed the remaining painkillers into a pouch on his backpack. Should he ever suffer a gunshot wound or other grave injury, something that softened the sting might make a trek out of harm’s way that much more possible. Besides, medicines were easily traded, and a find as valuable as a box of high-potency opioids was not to be left behind.
Mason studied the bodies. Several spent Fentanyl lozenge sticks lay beside their pillows. He peeled the sheet down. They were naked, except for fuzzy green and red Christmas socks covering the woman’s feet. It was hard to tell whether the two were husband and wife, boyfriend and girlfriend, or just two strangers who preferred not to die alone. All Mason could say for certain was that they had gone out together, and in a manner of their own choosing.
He covered them back up and turned his attention to the nightstand. Inside was a Bible with a wad of chewing gum stuck to the cover, a telephone book, and a pack of matches with the motel’s name printed on its face. He stuffed the matches into his pack before turning his attention to the phonebook. Using the bed as a makeshift desk, he flipped through the white pages until he found what he was looking for: Atkins, Jack and Peggy, 3736 Morris Farm Ln, Gloucester, VA.
Bowie swung his head toward the bathroom, his ears perking up.
Mason
became still and listened.
There was a wet sloshing sound, like feet mashing a vat of grapes.
He quickly tore the page from the phonebook, folded it, and stuffed it into his back pocket.
“This isn’t our fight. Come on.”
Bowie was already darting toward the exit, and Mason hurried after him, pulling the door behind them. As they high-stepped away from the building, a silver RV towing a flatbed trailer pulled into the parking lot. The RV looked more like a camper than a bus, measuring twenty-two feet from bumper to bumper and built around a Mercedes dual rear-wheel wide-body chassis. The trailer behind it was a simple welded-steel frame that had likely been designed to haul lawn tractors. Now, however, it was piled high with so much miscellaneous junk that Mason wouldn’t have been surprised to see a sign on the side that read “Sanford and Son Salvage.”
He counted three men, all of them in the cab of the RV. The man riding shotgun spotted Mason and extended an open hand out the window. Mason reciprocated. A wave not only showed that one’s hand was empty of weapons; it also suggested that someone was willing to act in a civilized manner.
By the looks of it, the men were junkers, people who made their way by collecting and reselling goods that had been left behind by the dead. Junkers dealt in everything from solar panels to boxes of tampons—anything of value to those trying to survive in the new world. Like all groups of people, there were good ones and bad, those willing to settle for what they could find and those ready to take what they wanted at another’s expense.
The RV stopped, and all three men climbed out with short-barreled shotguns in hand. Two moved to stand beside the motel office’s door while the third man went inside.
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 1
