The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  “Are you a Bible-reading man, Mr. Doyle?”

  “You came out here to sell me a Bible?”

  Mason smiled. “No, not to sell you one, but to ask you if you’ve heard the verse, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’”

  Papa Doyle shook his head. “You’re wasting your time, Preacher. I quit believing that garbage when…” He trailed off.

  “When your wife passed?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you know about that?”

  Mason thought of Ava. “I know that losing a good woman can be hard to come back from.”

  Doyle shook his head angrily. “Then you must also know that there ain’t no all-powerful being looking out for us hardworking folks. It’s just us and the dirt.”

  “Daddy?” A girl appeared at the screen door behind Papa Doyle and his sons. She was ten or eleven, and looked weak and tired. Her eyes were dark and hollow, and the nightgown she wore was stained with speckles of dried vomit.

  Doyle turned to his youngest son.

  “Gavin, go take care of your sister.”

  “Pa, you know I hate dealing with that stuff.”

  Doyle’s face grew tight. “You do it, boy! And clean her up some while you’re at it.”

  Without further protest, Gavin turned and went into the house, ushering the girl away from the door.

  “What’s wrong with her?” asked Mason.

  “None of your damn business. That’s what.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say she’s suffering from dysentery and dehydration.”

  Papa Doyle said nothing.

  “Is there something wrong with the food?”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with the food. We been eating the same thing for more than ten years.”

  “The water then?”

  Doyle shook his head. “Boiling it to make sure it’s safe.”

  Mason stepped over to a large black pot sitting atop the outdoor stove. It was filled with murky water, obviously pulled from a lake or river.

  “Boiling isn’t always enough.” He bent over and took a whiff. It stank so much that his eyes began to water. “Not if there are chemicals in it.”

  “Nothing’s wrong with the water.” Despite his assertion, Doyle seemed uncertain. “If there were, my boys and I would have come down with the sickness.”

  Mason straightened up. “I suspect you’ve all had your share of bellyaches, but you’re bigger and stronger than she is.”

  Doyle said nothing, but he glanced back at the screen door.

  “You must have sensed it was the water,” said Mason. “Why else would you hang out the bedsheets, if not to collect rain water?”

  The big man eyed the sheets hanging from the windows.

  “For what good it’s done. Hasn’t come a rain in damn near two weeks.”

  Mason approached to within a few paces, watching as Doyle and his boys visibly stiffened. Bowie inched up beside Mason, ready to do his part.

  “Mr. Doyle, I sense that you’re a man who values an honest day’s work. Am I right about that?”

  “You are. And that’s why I’m not giving anything to those… those people, no matter who they send over here to do their begging.”

  “What if they offered a trade?”

  Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of trade?”

  “Let’s say they give you a gallon of clean drinking water for a basket of strawberries, or whatever else you happen to have coming up at the time.”

  “Where would they get clean water?”

  Mason saw no point in lying. “They’re making it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I’ve seen it myself.”

  “They’re making clean water?” Papa Doyle said it like he still couldn’t quite get his mind around the idea.

  “Only one way to find out.” Mason turned and began to walk away.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “To fetch an olive branch.”

  Mason returned just under an hour later, carrying a clear plastic jug filled with water. Bowie and Jessie were at his side. Porter, too, had come along, which made the pace of the walk significantly slower. Despite hobbling along with the help of a cane, he insisted in bringing a second jug of water as his own peace offering.

  They arrived to find Papa Doyle and Gavin sitting on the porch. Doyle’s daughter sat curled up in Gavin’s lap, her eyes closed and hands clutching her abdomen. The other two sons could be heard working around the side of the house, hammering nails and generally make a manly ruckus.

  Papa Doyle got to his feet. “What do you have there?”

  Mason held up one of the jugs.

  “Fresh, clean water.”

  The big man came closer, licking his dry lips as he stared at the water.

  Mason held it out to him. “Go ahead. Give it a taste.”

  Papa Doyle twisted off the cap and took a long swig, water spilling out around the sides of his mouth. When he turned the jug back down, he used the back of his hand to wipe the water dripping from his chin.

  “What do you want for it,” he said, licking the water from his hand.

  “That one’s free.” Mason glanced over at Porter. “A gift from your neighbors.”

  “Ain’t nothing free.”

  Mason shrugged. “They have more than they need, and you have a sick child. A little goodwill seemed in order.”

  Porter hobbled forward and handed Doyle the second gallon.

  “What’s this one for?”

  “For you and your boys,” he said, still winded from the hike.

  Papa Doyle stood there holding the two jugs of water, looking a bit dumbfounded. For a moment, Mason wasn’t sure if he was going to accept the water or splash it back in their faces. Reluctantly, he turned and set them by Gavin’s feet.

  “Take Katie inside and get her to drink as much of this as she can keep down.”

  Standing up, Gavin draped the girl over one shoulder and grabbed both jugs of water with his free hand.

  As he disappeared into the house, Doyle turned back to Porter.

  “I don’t feel right taking something for nothing. I’ll have my boys get you some strawberries.”

  The old man nodded, knowing better than to refuse a payment in kind from a prideful man.

  Papa Doyle grunted and started to turn away.

  “Your family’s going to need a steady supply of water,” Porter said quickly.

  “Yeah?” Doyle said, turning back around. “How you gonna help with that? By bringing me water every day like we’re some kinda babies on the teat?”

  Porter met his stare. “No, Mr. Doyle. I’m going to show you how to make your own.”

  Papa Doyle’s eyes pressed together. “Now why the hell would you go and do a dumb thing like that? Once we have our own water, we won’t be needing you anymore.”

  “I’ll do it because our families will be living next to one another long after you and I are gone. It might be a good idea for us to learn to help one another from time to time.”

  “And what exactly would we do for you?”

  Porter nodded toward a thick baseball bat leaning against the house.

  “You and your boys strike me as men willing to put up a fight, if it comes to that.”

  “So?”

  “So that might be helpful, should trouble come our way.”

  Doyle seemed amused. “You want us to protect you?”

  Porter swept his hand out before him.

  “These are Sparta’s walls.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a famous quote from King Agesilaus. When people would ask why Sparta lacked fortifications, he would gesture toward his men and say, ‘These are Sparta’s walls.’”

  Papa Doyle mulled over the proposition.

  “You’re suggesting that we act as a little muscle if unsavory folks come around.”

  “What knocks on my door is only a few minutes away from yours. Besides,” he said, smiling to reveal stained teeth, “I thought you
Irish loved a good roughhousing from time to time.”

  “Oh we do,” Doyle said, grinning. “We definitely do. And in turn, you’ll help us to set up and maintain this magical water system of yours?”

  “We’ll do more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Porter gestured toward a portable generator next to the house.

  “I think we can help you to get that up and running as well.”

  Doyle shook his head. “Can’t. Ain’t no fuel.”

  Porter turned and pointed to the large outhouse.

  “That, along with manure from your cattle, will be your fuel.”

  Doyle chuckled. “You’re going to convert crap into gasoline? Now that, I gotta see.”

  “Organic waste can be converted into methane gas, which with a small modification, your generator can use for fuel.”

  Papa Doyle looked uncertain, wondering perhaps if he was the butt of some joke.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I most certainly am. We’ve already started assembly of a digester, and we could help you to do the same.” He looked up at the sky. “The weather’s warming, which will help to shorten the digestion cycle. I would expect that we’ll have serviceable fuel within a month.”

  “What are you, some kinda rocket scientist?”

  “No, Mr. Doyle. I’m just a man trying to keep his family alive. Same as you.”

  Mason watched with a sense of satisfaction as Porter extended a hand and Papa Doyle did the same. The big Irishman’s paw completely enveloped the old man’s bony fingers, but the deal was sealed nonetheless.

  The unlikeliest of alliances had just been formed.

  Chapter 12

  “What’s the plan?” Samantha whispered as she crouched in front of a large buttonbush.

  Tanner studied the old dairy building. What was most noteworthy, of course, was its unusual octagonal shape. Based on its clean lines and heavy trim, he thought it likely to be of German construction. Americans tended to keep farm buildings simple and replaceable, whereas Germans had a reputation for building things that lasted a lifetime. The structure had been freshly painted a nondescript white, and glass double doors now replaced the original swing-out barn doors. So unless cows had put in a requisition for a better view, the building must have been recently repurposed.

  The doors were propped open, as were the building’s many windows. An elderly man in a white lab coat could be seen sitting at a desk on the second floor, busily writing.

  Samantha pointed. “That must be Dr. Langdon.”

  “Yeah,” said Tanner. “The question is where’s the other—”

  He was interrupted by the unmistakable click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked back.

  From behind them, a voice with a distinctively Eastern European accent said, “Hands up and turn around.”

  Tanner and Samantha turned, careful not to make any sudden movements.

  A man the size of professional wrestler Blackjack Mulligan towered over them. Easily four inches taller and eighty pounds heavier than Tanner, Blackjack was an incredible specimen of a man. Thick muscle defined his arms, chest, and shoulders, and what little neck remained had been swallowed by taut cords of meat. The impressiveness of his body, however, was offset by his repugnant face. Nothing was in proportion. His eyes were set too close, his nose bulbous and bright red, and his lips cracked to the point of bleeding.

  Blackjack waved a massive Smith & Wesson 500 in front of them. Chambered in .50, the five-shot revolver could down a full-grown wooly mammoth.

  “Drop the hardware.”

  Tanner tossed his shotgun away, and Samantha gently placed her rifle on the ground. This was not a time to get cute.

  Blackjack pointed behind them. “March.”

  They turned and began trudging toward the dairy building, Samantha muttering, “That sure didn’t go as planned.”

  Tanner said nothing. Having been on the wrong side of a gun twice in one day wasn’t sitting well with him.

  They entered through the double doors, stepping into a space that was part office and part medical center. The front half of the room was filled with a handful of gray government desks, all of them wiped clean. Metal examination tables lined the far side of the room, each covered with a thin white sheet. A rolling cart equipped with an assortment of calipers and rulers sat between them.

  Behind the tables were shelves lined with medical books and plastic anatomical aids, including models of a human heart, a woman’s reproductive organs, and a life-size newborn baby with detachable abdomen and skull.

  Posters hung along many of the eight walls. One showed a woman sitting on a stool as she pondered the question: “Are you fit to marry?” Another read “Some people are born to be a burden on the rest.” And yet another read “We neuter our pets… why not our weird friends and relatives?” The most interesting of them all, however, was a red and black Star Trek movie poster with the face of Ricardo Montalbán as Khan, the genetically engineered superhuman. Someone had penned “Was he so wrong?” across the bottom.

  Blackjack shouted, “Dr. Langdon! We have visitors.”

  A few seconds later, the elderly man they had seen sitting by the window descended from a spiral staircase at the center of the room.

  “Visitors, you say?”

  “I caught them hiding out back, with guns.”

  Dr. Langdon turned to Tanner, and when he spoke, he seemed more curious than angry.

  “Might I ask your names?”

  “I’m Tanner Raines, and this is my daughter Samantha.”

  The doctor studied Samantha, his eyes thoughtful.

  “Such a lovely young lady,” he said, and tipped up her chin up with his fingers. “Especially here, and around the eyes.” He stroked her hair. “Yes, very nice.”

  If it hadn’t been for the hand cannon pointed at the back of his head, Tanner would have killed Langdon right then and there. Instead, he clenched his fists, imagining squishing the old man’s eyeballs between his fingers.

  “Thank you,” Samantha said, smiling uncomfortably. “People say I look like my mother.”

  Dr. Langdon studied Tanner’s face. “You surely must. Better for you though, I suspect, eh, dear?” he said with a little chuckle.

  She looked over at Tanner. “I don’t know. He’s not so bad. Big, sure, and smelly sometimes. But I’ve seen worse.” She glanced over at Blackjack. “A lot worse.”

  Dr. Langdon patted her on the head.

  “That’s the spirit, dear. Always make the best of what you have.” He turned to Tanner. “Why were you hiding in the bushes? Are you robbers?”

  Tanner hesitated, debating on what excuse to offer.

  “We’re here to rescue Sister Clare,” said Samantha. She knew that it was a gamble to just come out with it, but anything else they dreamed up would surely be seen for the lie that it was.

  “Ah,” he said with a nod. “You’re here for the young women we…” He hunted for the right word.

  “I believe kidnapped is the word you’re looking for.”

  Dr. Langdon smiled. “Witty, too. I like that very much.” He turned to Blackjack. “We should check on the other three women.”

  “No need,” said Samantha. “They’re already gone.”

  Dr. Langdon seemed surprised, the softness in his eyes having been replaced with something more sinister.

  “And how would you know that, my dear?”

  “I know because we set them free.”

  Dr. Langdon looked over at Blackjack, perhaps for a denial, but the big man only shrugged.

  “All right,” he hissed. “Where did they go?”

  She shrugged. “The last time I saw them they were heading toward the highway in a bright yellow car. A Toyota, I think. Or maybe it was a Honda. I always get those two mixed up.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “If that were true, you would have gone with them.”

  “That’s what I kept telling my dad.” She glanced over at
Tanner. “But he insisted that we stay behind and find Sister Clare. Father Paul says he’s a Good Samaritan. That means that even though he despises people, he tries to help when they’re in trouble.”

  Dr. Langdon turned to Tanner. “Is what she says true?”

  “All but the Good Samaritan part.” It was a reasonable story, and if believed, it might keep Sister Margaret and the others from being discovered.

  After a moment, Dr. Langdon shrugged and offered a resigned smile.

  “I’ve always said that things will be what they’ll be. Accepting life’s little setbacks is how we move forward. Am I right?”

  Tanner thought that sounded a lot like Buddhism, but he said no such thing.

  “I’m curious though,” Dr. Langdon continued. “Do you even know what we’re doing here?”

  “Starting a cult, by the looks of it.”

  “A cult? Oh heavens no, nothing so crude. We’re trying to build a better society, one in which good people can live good lives.”

  “By kidnapping nuns?”

  “It’s not as bad as you make it sound. We’re finding women suitable for marriage, and matching them to hardworking men. History shows that arranged marriages of this type are much more likely to succeed.”

  “And if they don’t want to get married?”

  “It’s my belief that nearly all women want to marry and have children. Even those who don’t should understand that it’s their responsibility to do so.” He began to pace. “Do you know why we chose this place to build our special society?”

  “I’m guessing it’s because of the asylum nearby.”

  He turned, surprised. “You know of the DeJarnette Center?”

  “I know they used to conduct forced sterilizations and other butchery there.”

  Dr. Langdon nodded. “Ah, yes. On the surface, it might indeed have seemed like barbarism. But before you pass judgment, let me ask you something. What do farmers do to ensure superior offspring from their livestock?”

  Tanner didn’t answer.

  “I’ll tell you. They match the best animals. Those with weak traits are not allowed to breed. Truthfully, they’re doing the entire species a favor by employing selective breeding. The late Dr. DeJarnette understood that, just as I do. Rather than sterilize women, however, I choose only to bring together morally and physically pure individuals to build a healthier society. Is that really such a terrible thing?”