The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “They’ll know because we’re going to create a diversion to draw away some of the men. When that happens, it’ll be their cue to move.”

  “What kind of diversion?” asked Lulu.

  Issa studied the parking lot more closely. As people waited for the auction to begin, many were mingling outside a large brick building with a Luray Caverns Welcome Center sign out front. A little past it was an outdoor playground, and beyond that, a sprawling single-story structure.

  She turned to Jen. “What’s in that far building?”

  “It’s a museum filled with old cars.”

  Issa nodded. “That’ll do nicely.”

  “Do for what?” said Theresa.

  “For burning.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “You’re going to start a fire?”

  “No,” she said, “we’re going to start a fire. And a big one at that.”

  Issa popped the hatch on the Prius. A five-gallon plastic jerry can full of gasoline rested in the back, with blankets wedged around it. She lifted out the canister and set it on the ground. It was heavy, maybe thirty pounds or more.

  “This should be plenty to get things going.”

  Dolly seemed concerned. “But child, ain’t you gonna need that to get back home?”

  “I’ll find another way.”

  “But yo’ husband—”

  “My husband’s already out looking for me. Of that, I have no doubt. If I can make it to Mount Weather, he’ll find me.”

  Dolly pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “We sure owe you some kinda debt for what you’re doin’ here.”

  “Only if I don’t get us all killed.” Issa closed the hatch and picked up the gas can. “This thing’s heavy, and I’m not planning on carrying it all by myself. So, stay close.” She wheeled around and started back through the forest.

  The walk back to the lookout position seemed to take forever, partly because they had to haul the gasoline, and partly because everyone knew the trouble they were heading toward. They arrived to find the parking lot teeming with people, easily three or four hundred now, and more arriving in a steady caravan of cars and trucks. Unlike pre-Civil War auctions, the slave buyers were not southern aristocrats in search of farm labor but, rather, families who had managed to survive the outbreak only to discover that hardship was now a way of life. The temptation to have a “lesser” person around to do the lowliest of chores was apparently strong enough to overpower any sense of moral decency.

  Issa pulled off her sunglasses and held them out to Dolly.

  “Put these on to hide your eyes.”

  When Dolly slipped on the large-framed glasses, she looked like an African American version of fashion icon Iris Apfel.

  “I’ll try to get ’em back to you when this is over.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You and Jerome just keep running.”

  Dolly nodded. “I’ll put my hand up in the air once I’ve gotten word to him.” She leaned in and gave Issa a hug. “In case I don’t see you again.”

  Issa softly patted the old woman’s back.

  “Just be careful.”

  Dolly said nothing more, releasing Issa and walking out into the parking lot like someone who had stepped away to use nature’s facilities. Her gait was calm and slow, and no one seemed to take the least bit of notice.

  Issa turned to the other women.

  “The rest of us will circle around through the trees and slip in behind the car museum.” She reached down and picked up the jerry can. “Let’s move.”

  Their pace was quicker now, Issa leading them in a slow jog. For things to go off as planned, she needed to have the diversion ready before the auction got underway.

  By the time they arrived at the back of the museum, Issa was breathing heavily, her arms crying for a rest. She set the fuel by her feet and studied the back of the building. While the face of the museum was a conglomeration of brick, wood, and stone, the rest of the structure was constructed of painted concrete block. A low-bay door was at the rear of the building, no doubt to allow cars to be brought in and out. A service entrance sat beside it.

  Issa turned to Jen and Marcy.

  “While we’re getting things ready inside, you two go and get eyes on Dolly. Let me know once she raises her hand.”

  They nodded and hustled around the side of the building.

  Issa, Theresa, and Lulu moved up to the back of the museum. The service entrance was a metal-clad security door without any kind of a handle, lever, or knob. Issa thumped it with her fist.

  Solid core. No way to kick it in.

  She stepped over to the low-bay door and gave the two small handles a tug.

  It didn’t budge.

  She straightened up and studied the rear of the structure. Her eyes were drawn to three rectangular windows about eight feet off the ground. Used only for light, they had no way of being opened.

  She turned to Lulu, who was by far the lightest of the group.

  “We’ll lift you up so you can climb through and open the door.”

  “And what exactly am I supposed to do about the window?”

  “Smash it out with your pistol.”

  “That sounds like a good way to get myself all cut up.”

  “We have to get inside somehow. Given my condition, I’m not taking a chance on falling. So, unless you want to lift Theresa, you’re the one.”

  Lulu eyed Theresa. While not fat, she had a soft layer of flab covering most of her body.

  “I’ll do it if you want,” she offered.

  Lulu shook her head. “Nah. I’ve got it. Just don’t drop me.”

  Issa and Theresa stood beneath one of the windows, their hands cupped in front of them. Lulu stepped up, and they lifted her into the air. Teetering slightly, she tapped the butt of the Beretta against the glass until it shattered. She took her time, clearing the frame of any remaining shards.

  “Okay, lift me higher so I can climb through.”

  Straining under her weight, Issa and Theresa hoisted her up another foot so that she could slip through the opening. Lulu belly-rolled through and dropped down into the museum. A few seconds later, the back door opened.

  Theresa went in first, and Issa followed, carrying the jerry can. The museum was dark except for what sunlight filtered in through the windows. To their immediate left was a baby-blue 1896 Peugeot. Two faded bench seats sat facing one another, a brass-tipped handle poking up from between the seats, allowing the rearmost rider to steer the vehicle. The front of the car was equipped with a single bulbous headlight that resembled a searchlight, and the sides were adorned with matching brass lanterns. Next to the Peugeot sat a mint-green 1903 Speedwell, and next to it a split-seat 1905 Riley. On the other side was an enormous open-air stagecoach with black leather seats and beautifully polished wood poles supporting the roof.

  “Look at this place,” Theresa said with awe. “It’s like an old movie set.”

  She was right. The entire building was filled with antique cars, old-time carriages, and covered wagons. The women wandered for a moment, reading some of the signs standing in front of the carefully preserved vehicles.

  There was a bright blue 1931 Morgan sports car that would have been at home on the set of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and a 1930 Cord that, with a few added bullet holes, could have passed for Bonnie and Clyde’s getaway car. There were probably fifty vehicles in total, each as irreplaceable as the next. Issa didn’t know if it was a private collection or gathered together for the sole purpose of selling tickets to connoisseurs of vintage automobiles. It didn’t really matter either way because in a few minutes, all of them would be lost forever. Part of her regretted destroying such memorable pieces of history, but if it helped her and the others to survive, so be it. Casualties of war, as it were.

  A desperate pounding sounded on the back door, and a voice hissed, “Issa, open up!”

  Issa hurried over and pushed open the door. Jen stood on the other side, her face flushed, sweat beadi
ng along her forehead.

  “What is it?”

  “They got Dolly!” she panted.

  “What? How?”

  “They caught her talking to the slaves. They’re beating her right now. It’s bad, Issa, real bad. I think they’re going to kill her.”

  “Where’s Marcy?”

  “She got scared and ran back to the truck. Said she’d have it waiting for us.”

  Issa’s nostrils flared as she forced air out. The plan was going sideways. She looked over her shoulder. Theresa and Lulu stood staring at her, uncertain of what to do next. No doubt both were wondering if Marcy had had the right idea.

  “You three get this fire started,” she ordered. “Splash gas on as many vehicles as you can, start the fire, and then get back to the truck. Wait for everyone as long as you can, but when you have to go, go!”

  Jen reached out and touched her arm.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Issa lifted the big Merkel. “Something stupid.”

  Chapter 9

  Even after cleaning out the garbage, the cab of the junkers’ RV stunk of body odor and spoiled fruit. The body odor was easy enough to explain, but it took Bowie’s superhuman nose to find the remnants of a moldy peach under one of the seats.

  The back of the RV, however, was in surprisingly good shape. The Plateau XLTD followed the traditional camper design with two long cushioned benches that doubled as beds, a laminate table between them, and a collection of storage cabinets, bellows, and cutouts. The camper also featured a refrigerator, a small range, a sink, and a bathroom closet that offered both commode and shower. Everything was high end, with solid maple cabinetry, white Corian countertops, and supple leather upholstery.

  The live-in area was directly accessible from the driving compartment, giving the cab a roomy feel. The driver’s and front passenger seats both faced forward, but the second row could swivel to face either the road or the camper’s interior.

  As Mason stepped from the RV, he found Jessie waiting for him. She had a daypack slung across one shoulder and was wearing a pair of knee-length hiking shorts, a tight-fitting black undershirt, and a lightweight flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Around her hips hung an old-fashioned leather gun belt equipped with a stainless-steel Ruger Vaquero and a long line of .45 Colt cartridges.

  “Better?” she said, extending her arms to either side.

  “Much.” He nodded toward the gun. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  She drew the Vaquero and used her opposite palm to slap back the hammer. An old clay pot near the corner of the yard exploded. Jessie gave the pistol a quick spin around her finger and pushed it back into the holster.

  “Well enough,” she said with a sly grin.

  While Mason was not one who thought much of fancy gun tricks, the motion was fluid and the bullet on target, which suggested that she had spent the requisite time practicing.

  “Shall we go?” he asked with a smile. “Or would you like to shoot a few silver dollars out of the air first?”

  “Funny.” She rubbed the handle of the Vaquero. “Daddy gave me this for my sixteenth birthday.”

  “Did he teach you to shoot it too?”

  “We spent the whole summer shooting soup cans off the fence out back. By the time Halloween rolled around, I could hit ’em as fast as I could work the hammer.”

  “Beautiful and dangerous,” he said with an approving nod. “Nice.”

  She beamed with delight. “I’ve had men describe me as one or the other, but never both.” She turned and studied the junkers’ trailer packed full of oddities. “Are we taking all that with us?”

  “I thought it might help us to blend in. You did say that Grey’s Point was a big swap meet.”

  “Makes sense to me.” She walked around and opened the RV’s passenger-side door.

  Mason let Bowie into the backseat and then climbed in behind the wheel.

  “I’m assuming you know the way.”

  “Oh sure,” she said, settling against the leather. “I’ve lived here all my life.” She looked out the side window as if considering half a dozen routes. “It’s probably best if we go straight up Highway 14 to Fort Nonsense and then turn left onto Highway 3.”

  “Fort Nonsense? That’s a real place?”

  Jessie smiled. “Daddy said they named it that way on account of the military having built their fortifications facing the wrong direction during the Civil War.”

  He chuckled. “That would do it.” Mason started the RV, put it into gear, and eased away from the curb. “About how far is it to the campground?”

  “Maybe twenty miles. Even pulling a trailer, we should be there inside of an hour.”

  “Did you leave a note for your father in case we miss him?”

  She nodded. “I told him I ran off with a tall, dark stranger.”

  He cut his eyes at her and she giggled.

  “Lighten up, Marshal. This is going to be fun.”

  Bowie added his two cents by leaning forward and licking the back of his ear.

  Mason forced a smile but said nothing. Having made a living out of finding people, he had come to one conclusion. When someone went missing, more often than not, fun was the last thing involved.

  The first half of the trip to Grey’s Point Camp passed without incident. Highway 14 was empty of traffic, save for the occasional traveler or farming tractor. Those who did pass offered a wary wave, perhaps out of neighborliness, or perhaps as an attempt to keep altercations to a minimum.

  Jessie proved to be a good traveling companion, never feeling the need to fill the cab with unnecessary chatter. Instead, she sat peacefully looking out the window as the world slowly rolled past.

  Bowie, on the other hand, fidgeted in the backseat, moving from one side to the other, but never quite willing to go back into the main camper to lie down.

  “Are you not comfortable back there, boy?”

  Hearing his master’s voice, the dog pressed his enormous head between Mason’s and Jessie’s seat and let it settle onto the center console.

  Jessie reached down and stroked the soft fur on his nose.

  “Poor thing. He looks lonely.”

  “I can’t see how. He’s got me 24/7.”

  “Maybe he needs the company of a female dog.”

  “A doggy girlfriend?”

  “Exactly. It seems only fair. I’m sure you’ve had a few lady friends along the way.”

  “Don’t get me started,” he grumbled.

  “Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been all bad.”

  Mason thought of Ava lying next to him in the grass, of the warmth of Connie West in the cab of his truck as rain poured down outside, and of the passionate whispers of Leila Mizrahi in the darkness of his mountain cabin.

  “No,” he admitted softly, “not all bad.”

  “What were they like?”

  “My girlfriends?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. Women.”

  “Really? Women, you say?” She chuckled, and he couldn’t help but join in.

  “Sorry. I’ve never been good at talking about old flames.”

  “Why’s that, do you suppose?”

  “For one thing, I’m not sure they’d want me talking about them.”

  “Ah, I get it. You’re not one who likes to kiss and tell.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Any other reason?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I feel a sense of loss when I talk about people who are no longer part of my life, girlfriends or otherwise.”

  She studied him thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “It just surprises me that you’re such a sensitive man. It’s no wonder women are drawn to you.”

  “You say that, and yet here I am spending my nights with this slobber monster.” He reached over and ruffled Bowie’s fur. “What about you? Lots of boyfriends over the years?”

  “Oh sure. Let’s see… there was Tom Doniphon, Will Kane, a
nd oh yeah, can’t forget Jason McCullough. All rugged, hardworking men. Just the way I like ’em.”

  Mason smiled. “I see.”

  Something caught Jessie’s eye, and she turned and pointed up ahead.

  “Look! There, beside the road.”

  Mason spotted an old man sitting along the edge of the asphalt, his face cupped in both hands. He wore dirty slacks, a pair of mud-soaked pants, and a thin white undershirt that was torn and smeared with blood. As the RV approached, he tried to stand but lost his balance and fell back to the ground.

  “He’s hurt,” she said.

  Mason brought the RV to a stop a few feet short of the man.

  “Just be careful. We don’t know—”

  Without waiting for him to finish, Jessie swung open her door and hopped out.

  Bowie squeezed his way into the front seat and turned to Mason, obviously seeking permission to go after her.

  “Yeah, yeah, go on.”

  The dog scrambled out of the cab, quickly catching up to her.

  Mason opened his door and climbed out, taking a moment to study the road. On one side sat a storage rental facility, and on the other, an overgrown field with a sign that read “Mobjack Nurseries.” Neither of them looked like good hiding spots for would-be robbers.

  While it wasn’t particularly cold, Mason walked around and lifted out one of the green army jackets from the trailer. By the time he reached the old man, Jessie was helping him to his feet. The stranger was in his late sixties or early seventies and seemed confused, his eyes wandering from person to person as his mouth moved, even though no sound came out.

  “Put this on,” Mason said, slipping the jacket over his shoulders.

  The man turned to him, leaning so far forward that he nearly fell.

  “Johnny…? Is that you, boy?”

  “No, not Johnny. Just a friend,” Mason said, keeping him upright as he worked to get his arms into the sleeves of the jacket.

  “Not Johnny?”

  Mason spoke slowly. “I’m Mason. And that’s Jessie and Bowie.”

  The man’s eyes grew wide as he spotted the wolfhound.

  “Reindeer!”

  Mason chuckled. “Close enough. Can you tell us what happened to you?”