The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  The man touched a bloody bump on his head.

  “He hit me. Right here.” He leaned forward, and once again, Mason and Jessie had to keep him from falling.

  “Who hit you?” asked Jessie.

  “Yellowbeard hit me.”

  She turned to Mason. “Yellowbeard?”

  He shrugged. “Yellowbeard.”

  “Yes, yes! Yellowbeard hit me!” the man said, striking his head with his fist.

  “Easy,” Mason said, trying to calm him. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Henry,” he said proudly. “Henry,” he repeated as if liking how it sounded the first time.

  “All right, Henry. Do you live around here?”

  The man gave him a big smile. “Yes I do.” That, however, was the extent of his answer.

  “And where is your home?” Jessie said, trying to coax it out of him.

  “I live at the Brambles.”

  Mason and Jessie stood confused.

  “Brambles!” the man said again, his voice rising.

  She reached out to hold one of his hands.

  “Can you show us how to get there?”

  “To the Brambles?”

  “Yes. Can you take us there?”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Yes, yes, I’ll take you.” He began pulling her as he started down the highway.

  Jessie looked back at Mason, uncertain if she should resist or go along.

  “If he’s walking, it must be close. I’ll follow behind you in the RV.” He motioned to Bowie. “Go with them.”

  The dog hurried after Jessie and Henry, occasionally leaning in to sniff the mud on the back of the old man’s trousers.

  Mason returned to the RV, started it up, and inched along behind them. The old man seemed confident of where he was going, leaving Mason reasonably sure they weren’t being led to an empty cornfield somewhere.

  Henry eventually turned down a narrow drive constructed of uneven slabs of concrete. Mason coasted along behind them, feeling the RV bump over each joint in the road. The sides of the drive were lined with saplings just beginning to get their leaves, too sparse for anyone to hide behind. After nearly a quarter-mile, the drive ended at a cul-de-sac with four houses.

  The old man released Jessie’s hand and hurried toward a light gray, two-story home. The sign out front read “The Brambles Day Support Center.” Several people stood by the front door, but upon seeing the RV, they began pushing by one another to get inside. As soon as Henry came close enough, frightened hands reached out and pulled him into the home.

  Jessie stood with Bowie at the end of the drive, and Mason exited the RV to join them.

  They studied the building. A half-dozen men and women peeked out through various windows, swishing the curtains closed whenever they feared they had been discovered.

  “What do you think it is?” she asked.

  “Some kind of assisted living center, maybe.”

  She started for the door. “We should at least make sure Henry’s going to be okay.”

  Mason didn’t believe they were necessarily on the hook for ensuring the old man’s wellbeing, but he didn’t resist either. The willingness to show goodwill toward others was a trait that defined all men.

  Bowie tagged along too, warily eyeing the faces peeking out at them.

  Jessie stepped up to the door and gave it a firm knock.

  No one answered, but they heard the distinct sound of people rushing around inside.

  “I think they’re afraid of us,” said Mason.

  She took a few steps back and looked toward one side of the house and then the other. The faint sound of voices could be heard coming from the backyard.

  “Shall we?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  Together, they followed a brick walkway leading around the house. The backyard consisted of a large courtyard shaded with several oversized umbrellas. Men and women ranging from teenagers to the elderly sat around outdoor tables, coloring pictures and playing children’s card games. All of them seemed oblivious to their approach.

  Jessie turned to Mason and whispered, “I think they’re…” She hunted for the right word. “Impaired.”

  He nodded. The people before him were like children, completely disconnected from the dangers and horrors of the world around them. The question was, how were they still alive?

  Jessie seemed to be wondering the same thing.

  “Where are they getting food and water?”

  “Someone must be taking care of them.”

  No sooner had he said the words than the back door opened. A man hobbled out. The flesh on his face and arms was disfigured from the pox, and he wore a dark pair of wraparound sunglasses, no doubt to shield his eyes from the sun. He dressed as if he were preparing for a spot of Sunday tea, with recently pressed slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a button-up vest. His age was hard to discern, but his hair was gray and he walked with the help of a cane.

  “I can assure you that we have nothing worth taking,” he said in a gravelly voice. “But if you must take what little we have, please do so without hurting anyone.”

  “We’re not here to steal anything,” Jessie said, stepping closer. “We helped an injured man who told us this was his home.”

  “You brought Henry home?”

  “He sort of brought us here. But yes, we walked him down from the highway.”

  The man moved toward them like a spider, slowly and deliberately, placing his feet with the greatest of care and using the cane to probe the ground before him. There was something unnerving about his motion, and Mason instinctively let his hand hang down ready at his side.

  “My name is Porter. Franklin Porter.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Porter. I’m Jessie. This is Mason.” She glanced around to find Bowie licking the face of a middle-aged woman with Down syndrome who giggled with delight. “And that pile of fur is Bowie.”

  Porter noticed Mason’s badge and recited, “Justice. Integrity. Service.”

  “You know something of the marshal service.”

  A thin smile touched the man’s scarred face.

  “Lately, it seems I know something about nearly everything.”

  Henry’s bruised face appeared in the window behind Porter, and he waved enthusiastically.

  Jessie smiled and waved back. “I’m afraid Henry got into a little trouble before we found him.”

  “That part,” said Porter, “was Papa Doyle’s doing. His or one of his boys.”

  “Who’s Papa Doyle?” asked Mason.

  He turned and pointed off to the northeast.

  “A most unfriendly neighbor.”

  “Your neighbor assaulted Henry? Why?”

  “Doyle would no doubt say that Henry was stealing some of his crops.”

  “Was he?”

  Porter shrugged. “Probably. Strawberries have started to come in, and they can be pretty tempting. I’m afraid it will only get worse as summer approaches.”

  “Can’t you talk with this Doyle fellow?” said Jessie. “Let him know about Henry’s condition? Surely he—”

  “No, dear. Papa Doyle is not a man of such sensibilities. To him, these people are nothing more than unwanted mouths to feed—weeds to be plucked from the field, as it were.”

  “And to you?” said Mason.

  Porter slumped forward, letting his weight rest on the cane.

  “To me? How could I even put it into words? They are family. Brothers and sisters, each and every one of them.”

  It was spoken with such heartfelt sincerity that Jessie felt her eyes cloud with tears.

  “You must have cared for them for a very long time,” she said.

  “No, dear, not long at all.”

  “Oh,” she said with surprise. “I thought that—”

  “I know what you thought, but my story is not one of a caretaker growing old with his patients. Come. Let me show you something.”

  Porter began his careful advance toward the far corner of t
he property. Mason and Jessie followed, leaving Bowie behind to watch over those playing games.

  Porter stopped in front of a row of eight identical wooden bins, each measuring roughly three feet in both width and length. The structures had been constructed with the greatest of care, the interiors painted black, and the tops sealed with large plates of glass set at a slight incline. Misty streaks of condensation covered the inside surfaces of the glass, water droplets slowly trickling down into a collection channel made from PVC pipe. From there, the water routed through a short length of yellow tubing, passing through a tight-fitting rubber stopper into a clear, gallon-sized jug.

  “What are they?” asked Jessie.

  Porter looked at Mason, pausing to see if he might be able to answer.

  “They’re solar distillers.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Jessie leaned over one to look inside. A pool of cloudy water rested in the bottom.

  “I get it. You fill them with polluted water and let the sun evaporate out the fresh. Is it pure enough to drink?”

  “Oh yes, very much so.”

  “Pretty clever. Did you build them?”

  “Oh heavens, no,” he said. “I merely designed them. One of our residents, who was once a master carpenter, led their construction.”

  “How much water do they produce?” asked Mason.

  “A unit provides approximately a gallon of fresh water each day. That accounts for a few milliliters being discarded to eliminate the hydrocarbons that evaporate first, of course.”

  Jessie nodded her approval. “Wow, they’re lucky to have someone around that’s so smart.”

  “That, my dear, is the remarkable part.”

  Sensing he had a story to tell, Jessie and Mason turned to face him.

  “You see, six months ago, I lived here as a resident. My cognitive abilities were roughly that of a kindergartener.”

  “How’s that possible?” said Jessie.

  “How indeed?” Porter rubbed bony fingers over his scarred flesh. “I can only conclude that the virus somehow caused a mutation in my brain. I not only regained my intellect, I began to see things in ways that I could never have imagined. That new understanding enabled me to develop solutions to some of our many challenges.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “You’re saying that the virus made you into a genius?”

  He closed his eyes and nodded humbly.

  “I believe that is accurate.”

  Jessie looked over at Mason. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

  “No, but I have seen mutations that were truly unbelievable.” Images of the gluttonous pishtacos that lived in the JIF peanut butter plant came to mind. “The notion that the virus might affect cognitive abilities in a positive way isn’t such a stretch.”

  She turned back to Porter. “Did any of the other residents see a similar improvement?”

  “All of the others who became infected died, including our original caretakers. I was the lone survivor of the virus. The rest of the patients you see here were fortunate enough not to become infected.”

  “And now you’re using your intellect to help them.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What are you doing for food?” asked Mason.

  “We eat from many sources, including scavenging from abandoned homes. But one source that was particularly bountiful through the winter months was our deer traps. Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  Porter led them into a grove of trees a short distance from the house. Within it sat a chest-high cage constructed from fencing, metal pipe, and a door screen. The screen had been drawn up like a set of blinds and suspended in place with a simple cotter pin, leaving one end of the cage open. A trip wire was tied to the pin and routed across the inside of the cage about three inches above the dirt. A thin trail of dried corn led to a larger pile at the far end of the cage.

  “You’ve built a Clover trap,” Mason said, eyeing the setup.

  “Is that what it’s called? Sometime in my life, I must have seen something similar. Its concept and construction became rather obvious when, well, when I began to think again.”

  Jessie poked her head in through the open door and studied the apparatus. It was all pretty simple. As the deer entered to eat the corn, it would bump the wire and cause the screen to fall, trapping it inside.

  “I’m surprised the deer don’t try to fight their way out.” She had once seen a full-grown buck nearly kill a man and couldn’t imagine the thin wire cage holding such an animal.

  “Indeed, I supposed they could if they were so inclined. Fortunately, deer are surprisingly docile when trapped and will remain relatively motionless until they see people approaching. The cage can then be collapsed on top of the animal to hold it down for dispatching.”

  “How many traps do you have set up?” Mason said, looking around to see if he could spot another one.

  “A handful. We leave the cage doors tied open until our food runs low. That way the deer come to trust them. It’s rare that we must prepare a meal without meat. We also started a garden, but most of the crops won’t be ready until summer. Hence, the reason for our problems with Papa Doyle.”

  Jessie looked over at Mason. “There must be something you can do.”

  “Anything I do would be short-lived. They’ll be neighbors long after we’re gone.”

  “He’s right,” said Porter. “Whatever treaty we agree to has to work for us in the long run. It can’t rely on the interventions of an outsider.”

  “Still,” she said, touching Mason’s arm, “you could at least talk to him. Maybe see if you could convince him to soften his response a little.”

  “All right,” Mason said reluctantly. “But don’t expect a miracle. Men like Doyle don’t change their ways with a good talking to.”

  Chapter 10

  “It’s a good thing you were there to help,” said Samantha. “Tanner and I wouldn’t have known what to do with that poor girl.”

  Sister Margaret offered only a curt nod. Ever since treating the young woman, she didn’t seem to be in the mood for talking.

  Samantha turned to Tanner. “I should really learn some doctoring skills. You know, in case you get shot.”

  “Me? What about you?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess that’s possible too. I just figured you’re more likely because of your…”

  “My what?”

  “You know. Your size.”

  “What about my size?” he said, sucking in his gut.

  “You’re what my mom would call ‘well-upholstered.’”

  He cracked a smile. “Well-upholstered. I like that one.”

  “I thought you might. Seriously though, I should take some formal medical training, maybe at the hospital in Boone. You and Mason both know the doctor there. I’m sure he’d be happy to teach me. Who knows? Maybe one day I could become a doctor myself.”

  “I figured you more for a chicken farmer.”

  She smiled. “I do love chickens.”

  “Me too,” he said, licking his lips.

  Sister Margaret watched their banter out of the corner of her eye, saying nothing.

  For the next hour, their conversation ebbed and flowed as Samantha recounted tales of their many adventures. She seemed particularly pleased with herself whenever she could draw a concerned look from the good sister. In time, they quieted, each settling into their own rhythm of passing the time.

  As they neared the town of Staunton, Sister Margaret began to guide them, pointing out the various turns to take. They circled a large shopping mall and carefully traversed a neighborhood populated with houses that had surely been built when Tanner was a child.

  She pointed to an intersection ahead.

  “We’ll need to turn up there.”

  Tanner steered the station wagon onto Frontier Drive, passing two small banks that shared a common green space between them. Whether there was still money in their vaults had become irrelevant to even the most ard
ent treasure hunter when the New Colony had declared that the “greenback” was officially nothing more than funny money. The only currency that held any value in the post-pandemic America was the gold-backed credit, and even it was often looked upon with suspicion.

  With the banks disappearing in his rearview mirror, Tanner noticed that the roadside attractions were becoming fewer and fewer.

  “You sure this is the way?”

  Sister Margaret nodded. “They built the hospital away from things to keep it out of the public eye.”

  He steered around a slow curve, and a large brick building came into view on their left side. The sign out front read “Coffman Funeral Home and Crematory.”

  “That’s kind of gross,” Samantha said, leaning her head out the window to get a better look.

  “People must be prepared for burial,” countered Sister Margaret.

  “Well, yeah, but putting a funeral home in with an ice cream shop.” She shook her head. “That just seems wrong.”

  Sister Margaret looked to Tanner to see if he would correct her. When he didn’t, she said, “It’s not that kind of cream, dear.”

  “No? What kind is it then? My mom liked cream in her coffee, but I really like whipped cream. Tanner does too, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” he said with a grin.

  “It’s not any kind of cream,” Sister Margaret said, her voice rising. “It’s a crematory.”

  She turned to Tanner. “They don’t make cream at a crematory?”

  “Seems like they should.”

  Sister Margaret let out an exasperated sigh.

  “A crematory is a place where bodies are burned.”

  Samantha looked surprised. “Bodies? Like human bodies?”

  Sister Margaret nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Then why don’t they call it a burnatory or a meltatory? Even crispatory would be better than crematory.”

  “I suppose it’s because—”

  “I mean, really, why bring cream into it at all?”

  Sister Margaret shook her head. “Young lady, you are impossible.”

  Samantha looked to Tanner and shrugged. “Did I say something?”

  Before he could answer, Sister Margaret pointed toward a sign resembling a small gravestone. Faded blue letters spelled out the words “Frontier Culture Museum.”