“Oh no.”
“What is it?” he said, leaning around.
A handful of cars and trucks were speeding toward the church. Either they had heard the gunshots, or the driver of the pickup truck had managed to get word to them.
“Crap! We’ve got to get out of here.” He eyed the Mercedes. The driver’s side door was sitting open, but he couldn’t recall if he had left it that way. “Back to the car, quick!”
They bolted from the church, Samantha leading the way. When they were halfway down the stairs, the driver of the pickup darted out from behind a bush and tackled Tanner. They tumbled a few steps before finally coming to rest.
Samantha stopped, but Tanner waved her on.
“Go! Get the car ready!”
The infected man who had tackled Tanner tore into him, biting and scratching like a wild animal. Tanner flung him off and got back to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the vehicles racing toward them. He had to finish this quick.
As the man scrambled back to his feet, Tanner stepped forward and hit him with a powerful cross. Tanner weighed a good two hundred and fifty pounds, but he hit like a man who weighed a hundred pounds more than that. The blow caught the infected man along the base of his left mandible, dislocating his jaw and cracking two of his back molars. The punch sent him whirling sideways, the man’s legs threatening to take the easy way out. To his credit, he managed to convince them to do otherwise.
As he turned back to face Tanner, an uppercut was waiting for him. The strike rocked his head back, blood shooting from his mouth and nose. He teetered for a moment and then collapsed.
Tanner hopped down the remaining stairs, making a beeline for the Mercedes. Samantha was already climbing into the driver’s seat. Tanner did a less than graceful belly roll across the hood, leaving a deep dent to mark his passing.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted, scrambling into the passenger seat.
Samantha looked at him with cold dread in her eyes.
“No keys.”
He checked the ignition and then the floorboard. She was right. The keys were gone. One of the infected men must have taken them when they checked the vehicle. Frustrated, Tanner slammed his palm against the dash.
A handful of cars and trucks swerved onto the sidewalk and grass, quickly encircling the Mercedes. The infected began to pile out, each one armed and set on blood.
Tanner frantically looked left and right. Think, damn it! There had to be a way out.
If there was, he didn’t see it. The shotgun shells were in his pack, and there wasn’t time to retrieve them before being overrun. Even if there was, a few extra shells weren’t going to win this fight.
He turned to Samantha. “I’ll distract them while you run for it.”
She shook her head softly. “It’s okay.”
Tears filled his eyes. “I mean it. Get out of here!”
She pulled her rifle close. “Let’s make sure they remember us.”
Tanner rubbed his face, rage filling his very soul. He let out a guttural scream and climbed out of the car. Samantha slid across the seat and stepped out behind him. She pressed her rifle to one shoulder, ready to make her last stand as bravely as any twelve-year-old ever had.
The infected slowly gathered, circling them like a pack of hungry jackals. Some held knives, others nail boards. A few even carried rifles, although they seemed perfectly content to use them as clubs for this particular skirmish.
Tanner looked down at Sam. There were no words to express how he felt.
She smiled, her eyes filled with tears.
“Yeah. Me too.”
The infected advanced toward them, their eyes filled with an insatiable lust for violence. Tanner had but one shell left, but that didn’t mean that he was finished. There was a power flowing through his veins unlike any he had felt before. He would pull joints from sockets, rupture organs, and break bones. By God, blood would surely flow in the streets this day.
“Come on!” he shouted, pounding a fist against his chest.
Before they could reach him, a figure shoved her way through the crowd, hissing and screaming. When she finally stepped into view, Tanner’s heart nearly stopped.
Issa.
Chapter 20
Mason awoke to Jessie nuzzling his neck, her bare leg draped across his stomach. Rays of early morning sunlight poured in through the camper’s windows, lighting her flesh like luscious honey. Where Brooke had exuded an intoxicating sexual energy, Jessie radiated a wholesome purity that made a man want to make her his, forever and ever.
Sharing a bed with a woman more than ten years his junior bordered on being morally questionable, but Mason’s reservations about sleeping with her had vanished as quickly as her nightshirt. What happened, happened, and he was only the better for it.
Stirring, she kissed his neck. “Morning.”
“It is that,” he said, using his fingertips to gently trace the triangle of soft flesh along her lower back.
“Next time, let’s find a bigger bed.” She scooted closer, pressing warm breasts against his chest. “Or not.”
“Next time?”
“I’m assuming you’re still interested.”
“Oh, I am, I am.”
She smiled and kissed him again.
Bowie let out a high-pitched whine, and they turned to find him anxiously performing the pee-pee dance in front of the RVs side door.
“Sorry, boy,” she said, hopping up to let him out.
Mason watched the way her naked body moved as she opened the door and let Bowie slip out into the morning light.
“I’m guessing you’re not the shy type,” he said, grinning.
She turned and faced him, her nude body tanned and firm.
“What can I say? I’m a country girl. We tend to accept nature the way it is.” She put her hands on her hips, letting him get an eyeful. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
Mason wet his lips. “Believe me, disappointment is the furthest thing from my mind.”
She sauntered over to the sink and began filling the basin.
“We’d better get cleaned up.”
Mason checked his watch. It was a little past eight in the morning. He would need to get ready soon if he was going to reach the field before the competition started.
He sat up and tossed aside the thin sheet, his eyes refusing to completely turn away from Jessie as she dipped a rag into the sink and began washing her body.
“What do you think it’s going to be like?” she said, running the wet rag over her neck and arms.
“Brutal and bloody. Same as yesterday.”
“But you’re going to win.” It was less question than statement of fact.
“Of course.”
“Because you’re better than they are?” Once again, she was clearly fishing for reassurance. Perhaps it was to relieve her worry, or maybe she was just hoping to assess the likelihood of her first real lover returning to her in one piece.
“‘Better’ may be beside the point. I suspect today will be more about adapting than it is conventional gun handling.”
“Why do you say that?”
“This is a show, not a gunfight. If it wasn’t, they’d simply have us draw against one another to see who has the steadiest hand.”
“Like in the Wild West.”
“Exactly.” He pulled on his trousers and hunted for a pair of socks.
Jessie moved on to gently scrubbing her stomach, letting the water run down the length of her thigh. Mason stopped with one sock on and one off, his mouth hanging open.
“You okay?” she said, looking back at him with feigned innocence. “You seem to have lost your concentration.”
Mason tossed aside the sock and started toward her.
“You, young lady, are what’s known as a vixen.”
A seductive smile came over her face, and when she spoke, it was with a rich southern accent.
“Why, sir, I have no idea to what you are referring.”
>
He slipped an arm around her naked waist and pulled her close.
“Well, hang on to your petticoat, miss, because you’re about to.”
Thanks to Jessie’s sponge bath, they were nearly late to the parade grounds. A crowd of several hundred people had already gathered along both sides of the field. Leroy was standing next to the scoreboard, and Ramsey was out in the center of the field inspecting two large wooden trusses.
“What do you think those are for?” she asked.
Mason shrugged. “They must be part of the challenge.”
They stood for a moment, Jessie awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.
Mason said, “I hate to ask, but would you mind taking Bowie away from here? I’m afraid he’ll run out onto the field.”
She looked at him for a long moment, knowing full well that his request wasn’t just for Bowie’s sake.
“Of course,” she said, leaning in and kissing his cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, uncertain of her meaning.
“I didn’t distract you with my—my bath.”
He cracked a smile. “Truth be told, my knees are still a little shaky. Even so, I think I’ll manage.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, this time on the lips. When she pulled away, there was a fierceness burning in her eyes.
“Give ’em hell.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked off toward the four remaining gunfighters. Hell was exactly what he intended to bring.
With a last lingering look at Mason, Jessie whistled for Bowie, and together, they headed back to the RV.
As they disappeared into the crowd, Mason turned and walked over to Leroy. The old marshal stood tall and proud, watching as his field was readied for battle.
“I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t show,” he said, extending a hand.
“You know that’s not me,” Mason said as he shook it.
“No, I suppose not. You were never one to back down from a fight.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d just call this whole thing off?”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” He turned and motioned toward the crowd. “Look at them. They’d lynch me if I tried.”
Together, they turned and watched Ramsey directing several men as they put the final touches on the wooden trusses. Mason hadn’t expected Leroy to have a change of heart overnight, but he still had one card left to play.
“I found the man who set up Jack Atkins.”
“Oh?”
“He admitted to working for someone here in the camp.”
“Doing what?”
“At first, he was helping to root out wrongdoers. When those became in short supply, it turned into something else.”
Leroy grunted but said nothing.
“Was it you, Leroy?”
“Hell no, it wasn’t me.”
“Then it was Ramsey, or one of your other men. Someone in your organization is responsible for innocent people being shot dead. In my book, that amounts to murder.”
“I’d like to have a word with this man, see if his story holds water.”
“That’d be hard to do.”
“Why? Did you kill him?”
Mason shook his head. “We found ourselves the targets of a vengeful widow. I got out. He didn’t.”
“Shame. With him gone, there’s no way to know what’s what.”
Mason decided to press harder. If he could get Leroy to see the light, perhaps no one had to die today.
“This tournament’s become something different than the rough justice you envisioned. It’s become a crime in itself.”
“Says the dead man?”
Mason’s tone turned serious. “No. I’m saying so.”
Leroy cut his eyes at him. “Careful. Old friendships only go so far.”
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that I can’t stand by and watch innocent men die, not by any man’s hand.”
Leroy turned and stepped closer, their faces only inches apart.
“For a minute, that almost sounded like a threat.”
“There was a time when I wouldn’t need to threaten. Not about something as wrong as this. Let the prisoners go, Leroy. You can banish them from the camp if you like, but set them free.”
“Even if what that man said is true, it doesn’t mean that most of the Fallen aren’t guilty.”
“Justice doesn’t work that way, and you know it. Your system has been compromised. That means everyone gets a second chance.”
“And if I don’t set them free?”
Mason met his stare. “Either you’ll clean this up, or I will.”
Leroy’s eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand on his Five-seven. Mason knew that drawing on someone standing so close was a skill in its own right. It required creating a small gap while keeping the firearm tight against the hip. He didn’t know if Leroy had developed such skills, but he certainly had. Mason was confident that he could put three rounds in Leroy’s gut before his gun ever cleared its holster.
Leroy relaxed and took a step back, an idea forming.
“I tell you what. I’ll make you a proposition.”
“Go on.”
“I’ll pit you against the gunfighters, one at a time.” He snapped his fingers four times in rapid succession. “If you win, I’ll take it as a sign from Lady Justice that you were right.”
“The Fallen won’t have to compete?”
“Not until this matter is settled. If you win, they go free. If you lose, the tournament gets back underway. We might be shy of a gunfighter or two, but we can always find someone willing to step in.” He extended his hand. “What do you say… old friend?”
Mason weighed the offer. It was as good as any he was likely to get.
He reached out and shook Leroy’s hand.
“Agreed.”
Ramsey hurried over, his face tight with concern.
“Is there some kind of trouble here?” he said, glaring at Mason.
“Not at all,” said Leroy. “Mason and I were just discussing a new development.”
“What kind of development?”
“He’s concerned that our selection process might have been flawed. Says someone was creating an environment that inadvertently put innocent men into the ranks of the Fallen.” He glanced over at Ramsey. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Ramsey’s expression hardened.
“It doesn’t matter,” Leroy said, shaking his head. “Marshal Raines has volunteered to be the hand of justice. We’ve agreed to pit him against the gunfighters, one at a time. If he wins all four rounds, we’ll release the Fallen.”
“Why the hell would we do that? Do you know how long it took me—”
“We’re doing it,” he said, raising his voice, “because ever since I’ve known this S.O.B., he’s been a man who knows right from wrong. The least we can do is give him a chance to drag us poor sinners down the righteous road of justice.”
Ramsey exhaled and looked out at the crowd.
“It’ll mean canceling a lot of bets.”
“That’s all right. Folks can place new bets, either on Mason or the gunfighters. Besides,” he said, slapping him on the shoulder, “you’re missing the opportunity here. What’s better than a stranger coming out of nowhere to challenge our best? People are going to dig deep to put wagers on these fights.”
Despite the pep talk, Ramsey was clearly not a fan of the new plan.
“I’ll need a couple of hours to get everything sorted out.”
“That’s fine.” He looked back at Mason. “Tell folks that old Leroy guarantees they’re in for one hell of a show.”
While Leroy and Ramsey worked to restructure the tournament, Mason used the time to return to the RV and visit with Jessie and Bowie. Together, the three took a long walk around Grey’s Point. Much of the camp was quiet and deserted due to f
olks gathering at the parade grounds, but there was still the occasional old woman hanging clothes, or children playing kickball in the street. It was a peaceful prelude to a day that portended all manner of violence.
“I’m curious about something,” Jessie said, holding Mason’s hand as they walked.
“What’s that?”
“How do you do it?”
“I thought I showed you that last night,” he said with a grin.
She squealed, turning and punching him playfully.
They both laughed, enjoying not only the frisky nature of their blossoming relationship but also the comfort of having someone by their side.
“I meant,” she said, her expression more curious than somber, “how do you stand in front of a man intent on killing you and not freeze up?”
“Admittedly, that can be a problem, especially for first-time shooters. The stress of a life-and-death situation can cause the loss of fine motor skills, some to the point where they can’t work a safety or squeeze a trigger. Others have trouble with their vision, things becoming so blurry that they can’t even see their sights.”
“But not you?”
He shook his head lightly. “No. Not me.”
She waited for more.
“I believe there are different kinds of people in this world. The vast majority have an inner flame that keeps them moving forward to do things like seek a better job, or ask a beautiful woman to dance.” He squeezed her hand gently.
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Sure it is. Without it, they’re doomed to spend the rest of their life in their mother’s basement, sucking down two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew while playing endless rounds of Call of Duty.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Thank you for that vivid scene of utter failure!”
“My point is that while most people have an inner flame, it never burns quite hot enough to function well in real do-or-die situations.”
“But yours does?”
“I like to think so.”
“Does that mean you don’t feel afraid?”
He shrugged. “My pulse quickens, like everyone’s, I suppose. The difference is that I’m able to use the adrenalin as fuel. Instead of my reactions becoming slower, they speed up. And instead of things becoming cloudy and muddled, everything suddenly comes into sharp focus.”
The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) Page 25
