The Survivalist (Freedom Lost)

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Jessie turned and headed across the field, her pace quickening.

  Bowie watched her go, whining softly.

  Eyeing the wolfhound, Leroy said, “I believe that’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen.”

  “His name’s Bowie.”

  Leroy leaned over to give him a pat, but when Bowie pulled his lips back, he thought better of the decision.

  “He suits you. Mean as all sin.”

  Mason eyed the scoreboard. The names of the five gunfighters were listed along the left side, and numbers one through four were shown across the top.

  “It’s a simple tally showing which gunfighters win each round,” explained Leroy.

  “Five gunfighters, four rounds. That means twenty of the Fallen could be killed.”

  “Possible, I suppose. But I don’t expect that to happen. Competitions like these are unpredictable. Someone fumbles a draw or trips over their own shoelaces. You know what I always say.”

  “Shit happens.”

  Leroy grinned. “Exactly. Someone will fall short along the way. That’s what makes this kind of thing interesting.”

  “You said those who manage to complete all four rounds will have the option to face off at the end.”

  “That’s right. The final phase of voluntary showdowns between the winners lets greed decide who goes home with a larger share of the purse, and who gets buried at the hands of his comrades.”

  “How are the gunfighters and prisoners matched?”

  “The order of the gunfighters is determined by a simple card draw. In this case, Muchado came up with the low card, so he’s going first. The Fallen were chosen by Ramsey.” Leroy pointed to a man standing near the prisoners. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties, and had a wiry, dangerous look to him.

  “He and I still need to talk.”

  “The tournament will be over tomorrow. You can talk to him then.”

  Mason looked off toward Jessie and her father. He seemed to be arguing with her, no doubt about Mason standing in for him.

  “Was Jack selected to fight in this challenge?”

  Leroy nodded. “He’s up last. Or should I say, you are.”

  “Did you arrange that?” By going last, Mason would have the best opportunity to come up with a plan. It was as much as any competitor could ask.

  Leroy offered a thin smile but said nothing.

  “Who will I be going up against?”

  “You’ll face Bones. He’s particularly effective up close, and I know firsthand that you’re faster than rattlesnake spit on the draw. Since neither of those skills will come into play during this particular challenge, it should be a pretty fair match.”

  Mason studied the field. “What exactly is the challenge?”

  Leroy pointed to the two lines of cars.

  “The gunfighter stands behind one set of cars, the Fallen behind the other. Both men are given an identical unloaded handgun. One cartridge is placed atop each of the cars. The challenge is to see who can retrieve the ammunition, load their weapon, and dispatch their enemy the fastest. It’s the ultimate test of operating under pressure.”

  “Any rules?”

  “Only that the fight goes on until a contestant is unable to continue.”

  “It doesn’t have to be to the death?”

  “No, but most end up that way.”

  “What happens if a Fallen should win?”

  “If that happens, the gunfighter is removed from the board and the Fallen goes free.” Leroy motioned toward the prisoners. “It’s easy to feel sorry for them, but you have to remember that they’re serious criminals. This competition gives them a chance to wipe the slate clean, maybe even come out as something of a folk hero.”

  Mason studied the line of prisoners. Many were trembling so violently that their legs could barely hold them up.

  “Funny,” he said. “They don’t look like heroes.”

  Jack, Jessie, Mason, and Bowie stood clustered together on one side of the field along with hundreds of others, watching as Leroy used a bullhorn to announce the start of the first round. When his name was called out, Muchado marched onto the field, waving to the crowd as he took his place behind the first row of cars.

  His opponent was simply called “Prisoner 11,” a man in his late forties with the build and complexion of someone who had spent much of his adult life sitting behind a desk. When he refused to step forward, two guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out onto the field.

  “Listen!” he screamed. “There’s been some kind of mistake. I didn’t do anything wrong. Please, you’ve got to believe me!”

  The crowd appeared deaf to his pleas, and the guards never slowed as they moved him into position behind the second row of cars.

  Ramsey walked onto the field and delivered an unloaded Colt Trooper to each of the men. Chambered in .357 Magnum, the Trooper was a common service revolver back in the 1970s and 80s. Both weapons were well worn, but equally operable. Ramsey called their attention to the cartridges placed across the tops of the old cars. He also pointed to a man standing ready with a rifle, should one of them break the rules and go for the ammunition before the match had officially started.

  With the rules clearly explained, Ramsey hurried from the field as Leroy once again brought the bullhorn to his mouth.

  “Shooters ready?”

  The big Mexican waved his hat in the air. Prisoner 11 just stared at the gun in his hands.

  Leroy raised his pistol into the air and fired. The match had begun!

  Muchado strode toward the closest car, calm like he was getting ready to put down a lame horse.

  Realizing he had only one chance to survive, Prisoner 11 rushed forward, stumbling and falling before he could even reach the cars. He scrambled back to his feet and lunged for the first cartridge. His panic caused him to knock it over, sending it rolling off the other side of the car. Frantic, he looked over at Muchado. The big Mexican had arrived at his car and was calmly retrieving the cartridge. He held it up in his opponent’s direction and offered a toothy smile.

  Prisoner 11 looked left and right, trying to decide which way to go. Both remaining cartridges were roughly the same distance away. He ducked down and waddled his way over to the next car. Terrified to even look in Muchado’s direction, he stood up and dove across the roof of the second car, landing on the hood with the cartridge clutched firmly in his hand.

  Lying on his back, he fumbled to open the revolver. His hands were shaking so violently that it took five long seconds to figure out how to release the cylinder. It was only as the weapon finally opened that he realized he was no longer alone.

  Muchado stood ten feet away, the revolver hanging loosely at his side. Without saying a word, the big Mexican brought the weapon up and fired. Traveling along a downward trajectory, the bullet pierced the man’s left eye, exited through his mandible, and tunneled into the car’s engine compartment. Prisoner 11 rolled off the hood, leaving behind a bright wet stripe of blood.

  Muchado came closer and bent down to pick up the unused cartridge that had fallen from Prisoner 11’s hand. He blew it clean and carefully loaded it into his own revolver. Once he had the cylinder lined up, he bent over, placed the muzzle of the gun to the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger.

  The concussion from the blast sent blood and brains spraying out to either side.

  The big Mexican straightened and offered another flamboyant wave of his sombrero to the crowd. A thunderous cheer erupted. Like spectators at a cage match, it took only the scent of blood to bring out their most primal urges. They whistled and cheered, some even calling for him to retrieve another cartridge and shoot Prisoner 11 again. Before Muchado could decide whether to comply with their bloodthirsty request, Ramsey and another man hurried onto the field to remove the body.

  Jessie stood beside her father, watching in horror. When she spoke, her voice trembled.

  “How could anyone do that?”

  Jack put his arm around her shoulder a
nd turned her away from the field.

  “Men who have lost their humanity can do anything to one another. I know that from my time in the war.” He looked over at Mason. “Marshal Raines, I can’t let you go in my place. If this is to be my final hour, I’ll face it with my head held high.”

  “I’m sure you would, Jack, but that isn’t something you want your daughter to witness.”

  Before he could reply, Jessie turned to Mason, her voice pleading.

  “You said that your friend was a marshal. Surely, he must know this is wrong. Talk to him. Make him stop.”

  Mason watched as Ramsey and the other man lifted Prisoner 11’s body into a wheelbarrow. This wasn’t about right and wrong. It was about entertainment in its most primitive form.

  “I’m afraid this thing has taken on a life of its own. The only way forward is straight down the middle.”

  Jessie’s face tightened. “I can’t watch someone do that to you. I just can’t.”

  Mason offered an understanding smile. “Why don’t you take Bowie back to the RV and wait for us. Jack and I will be along as soon as it’s over.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please, Jessie,” urged her father. “Go on.”

  She looked into Mason’s eyes. “Tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  When he spoke, his voice was calm and reassuring.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  Jessie pressed her lips together and nodded. She leaned in and gave Mason a long kiss to his cheek. With her lips to his ear, she whispered, “Be careful.”

  She released him and turned to Bowie. “Come on, boy,” she said, trying to adopt a happier voice. “What do you say we go back and have some more of that jerky?”

  Bowie looked up at his master, uncertain if he should go or stay.

  Mason gave him a quick nod. “Go on. Keep her safe.”

  How much the wolfhound really understood was anyone’s guess, but he followed Jessie into the crowd, licking his lips as he went.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Jack turned to Mason.

  “I’m not going to allow you to compete in my place.”

  Mason had expected as much. When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate.

  “Yes, Jack, you are. Because when you stop and think about it, you’ll come to the same conclusion that I did.”

  “What conclusion?”

  “That some things are best left to professionals.”

  The next three rounds went by as quickly as the first, Ringo, Liberty, and The Reverend all dispatching their opponents with little difficulty. Each man had his own particular persona, Ringo playing the wholesome gunslinger set on vanquishing outlaws, Liberty, the patriotic soldier carrying out a sanctioned seek-and-destroy mission, and The Reverend, the mysterious, cold-blooded preacher who rode into town determined to deliver final penance. All proved themselves not only capable of keeping their nerve under pressure, but also of killing without hesitation or remorse. The Reverend, in particular, moved with a precision rivaling that of any professional assassin.

  When the fourth round was complete, Ramsey approached with guards at his side to escort Jack onto the field. It was the first time Mason had seen Ramsey up close, and he was struck by his disfigurement. The left side of his face was stippled with a strange branch-like pattern of scars. It looked like the limb of a tree, complete with offshoots ending in leafy-like protrusions. By itself it was not particularly repulsive. Some might even say it was intriguing. The right side, however, was something else entirely. His face had melted from the eyebrow all the way down to his chin. The ball of the eye remained intact, but the whiskered skin along his cheek and chin looked like lumpy vanilla pudding sprinkled with coffee grounds.

  Ramsey faced Jack and said, “Are we going to have to drag you out, old timer, or are you man enough to walk?”

  Before he could reply, Mason stepped forward.

  “I’ll be fighting in his place.”

  Ramsey sized him up. “You’re the one who came to see Leroy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You two know one another?”

  There was a cockiness to the man’s voice that didn’t sit well with Mason, so instead of answering, he said, “When things calm down a bit, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  Ramsey’s eyes opened wide, and he turned to one of the guards with a grin.

  “Can you believe the stones on this one?” He turned back to Mason. “What the hell do you want with me?”

  Mason nodded toward Jack. “I’d like to hear your version of what happened.”

  “My version? Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Mason straightened to his full height, his hand hanging down by his Supergrade.

  “I’m a Deputy Marshal inquiring about the commission of a crime.”

  “No, hotshot. Right now, you’re nothing but a walk-on.” He held out his hand as he eyed the Supergrade. “Hand it over.”

  Mason slowly pulled the pistol free, but instead of handing it to Ramsey, he passed it to Jack. The guards stiffened, but they made no attempt to take it from him.

  “Hold this until I get back.”

  Mason’s bravado seemed to irritate Ramsey, and he turned to Jack and said, “My bet is you’re going to get to keep it.”

  Mason followed Ramsey and the two guards out onto the field. Bones was already in place behind the opposite set of cars. He wore blue jeans but no shirt or shoes. His face, chest, arms, and feet had all been recently painted white, making him look like Baron Samedi.

  Once Mason was in place, Leroy raised the bullhorn and said, “Shooters ready?”

  Bones responded by blowing him a kiss. Mason just offered a quick nod.

  Leroy stuck his pistol in the air and squeezed the trigger.

  Watching four matches before his own had given Mason perspective on what worked and what didn’t. The challenge was not so much a test of shooting skill as it was steady hands. The competitor who could load and fire first was likely to win the event. The problem was there were no guarantees that the firearm was accurate or the cartridge reliable. A bent sight or a bad round could turn victory into failure. With a single shot, there were no second chances. That line of thinking led Mason to formulate an entirely different strategy.

  As soon as the crack of Leroy’s pistol sounded, Mason broke into a dead run. Instead of stopping at the first row of cars, he slid across the hood and continued across the open gap. Bones was also in motion, rushing forward with his hands outstretched. It took him three full seconds to realize what was happening, but by then it was too late.

  Bones struggled to mentally change gears as he frantically grabbed for the closest cartridge. He had it in hand and was in the process of opening the revolver’s cylinder when Mason slammed into him.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it was effective.

  Bones found himself lying flat on his back with Mason scrambling atop him. He swung the empty revolver up, hoping to clock Mason on the side of the head. Fighting from one’s back, however, was rarely a winning proposition, and Mason managed to quickly hook his left arm around the man’s elbow, locking it in place.

  “Get the hell off me!” Bones shouted as he tried to buck him off.

  Mason’s answer was to smash his revolver into the man’s face. The Trooper was the equivalent of a forty-three-ounce metal mallet, crushing the man’s nose and opening a gash along his cheekbone. Blood leaked out, and he fought frantically to get out from underneath him.

  Wriggling on his back, Bones squirmed away a few inches, but it wasn’t enough to escape a second blow, this one to his mouth. Teeth broke and gums tore, and he began gagging as his mouth filled with blood.

  He bucked again, this time managing to free his trapped arm and roll onto his belly. Exposing his back was the last thing he should have done. Mason brought the pistol down to the base of his skull. Much like a rabbit punch, the blow brought both pain and disorientation. Confused and desperate, Bones pushed up and be
gan scrambling forward, spit and blood dripping from his mouth.

  Not wanting to kill the man, Mason released the pistol and slipped an arm around his neck. He hooked it back against his other arm and set the choke. With his forearm and bicep cutting off the flow of blood to the man’s brain, Bones was unconscious before he could recite N.W.A.’s timeless line, “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.”

  Mason held him for another ten seconds to be sure that he was out cold before he got back to his feet and retrieved both pistols. An uncomfortable hush had settled over the crowd. No one was expecting the violent gangbanger to be bested by some unknown challenger. Worse yet, no shots had been fired. What kind of gunfighting competition didn’t involve the shooting of guns? Boos rose from the crowd, accompanied by fists waving angrily in the air.

  Leroy hurried onto the field and brought the bullhorn to his mouth.

  “Everyone shut the hell up!” He nudged Bones with his boot. The man didn’t so much as moan. “One competitor is unable to continue, and the other remains standing. He is, therefore, the winner.” He lifted Mason’s hand into the air to officially bring the match to a close.

  More boos and jeers sounded, but they eventually tapered off as the losers reluctantly accepted their bad luck.

  Looking down at Bones, Leroy said, “That’s one way to get it done.”

  “So, that’s it then,” said Mason. “Jack’s free to go?”

  “As promised.” He looked off toward the setting sun. “You might want to get him and his daughter out of the camp before nightfall to avoid any undue fuss with people who lost bets.”

  “And tomorrow? The killings continue?”

  “The tournament will go on, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Mason shook his head. “This isn’t right. You know that, Leroy.”

  Leroy’s eyes tightened. “Mason, you and I have seen what bad men can do. This tournament is a way to send the message that no one is above the law. Now,” he said, letting out a frustrated breath, “I really do think it’s best if you take your leave.”

  An idea scratched its way to the forefront of Mason’s mind. It bordered on the crazy, but there was a simplicity to it that felt undeniably right.