After a moment, she said, “You could stop in at WKYT.”
“What’s that? A radio station?”
“Radio and television. Lenny’s brother William used to run the place. I doubt that he’s still there. But if anyone knows where Lenny’s at, it’s him.”
Mason nodded his thanks and turned to leave.
“Wait,” said the man. “The people inside need help. Surely, you have some medicines or supplies you can share.” He eyed Mason’s backpack. “You’re a marshal for God’s sake.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Why not?” the man called after him.
“Because I’m not on a mission of mercy.”
Chapter 3
Tanner set his pack and shotgun next to several boxes of food in the back of the Range Rover. The sport utility vehicle was Land Rover’s top-of-the-line supercharged model, equipped with a 510-horsepower engine and every manner of comfort. It would not only get them away from the house; it would do so in style. Why the vice president had left behind such a fine vehicle was anyone’s guess. Most likely, he had been evacuated by helicopter, and therefore limited to bringing only the most basic necessities. A classic case of one man’s misfortune being another man’s gain.
Samantha stood in the garage’s open doorway and looked back at the house.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yep,” he said, lifting a five-gallon jerry can filled with gasoline.
“Explain to me again why we’re burning down such a beautiful house?”
“Because I don’t want to be responsible for setting loose an army of the infected. Do you?”
“I guess not.”
“So we burn it to the ground. Hopefully, the building will collapse in on itself and seal off the tunnel.”
“And if they still get out?”
“Then the few people around here will suffer and die. All we can ever do is try.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “But why is it that you seem to be enjoying this so much?”
He grinned. “How often does someone get the chance to burn down the vice-president’s house? Now, do you think you can pull the car around front?”
She snatched the keys.
“Of course, I can. I’m probably a better driver than you are now.”
“Darlin’, that ain’t saying much.”
Tanner hurried back into the house with the can of gasoline in one hand and a lighter in the other. A few gallons of gas weren’t really enough to torch the place properly, but he thought that if he started the blaze in the library, it might do the trick.
As he made his way through the living room, he splashed gas on the entryway rug, curtains, and couches, anything that might hold a little fuel. By the time he finished, the stink of the gasoline was so pungent that his eyes began to water. He moved next to the library, carefully soaking the bottom row of books in each bookcase. The best fires started low and burned their way up, and books, he thought, would act as great kindling. All he needed to do was ensure that there was enough fuel to really get them going.
A loud clang sounded from behind the bookcase that led down to the tunnels. Tanner straightened up and listened. It was quiet. Too quiet. The rhythmic pounding had stopped.
“Shit.” He quickly unscrewed the top of the can and began splashing gas in every direction. The time to do it right had come and gone.
The bookcase covering the secret passage suddenly bumped forward as a dozen bodies slammed against the back. Deformed hands reached around the side, pushing and clawing as the infected tried to breach the final seal. Tanner tossed the gas can toward them and turned to flee. As he bolted from the library, the bookcase tipped forward and crashed to the floor with a thunderous clap. The horde of infected spilled into the room, screaming with rage as they gave chase.
Still running, Tanner flicked the lighter and hurled it blindly behind him. Only afterward did it occur to him that the open flame might have ignited the very air in the room, trapping him in a fiery inferno. Fortunately, the air-gas mixture wasn’t right, and the room didn’t burst into flame. Rather, the lighter landed at the foot of one of the couches, and a loud whoosh sounded as fire sprang to life all across the first floor. Cries of the infected rang out as they found themselves rushing into rooms filled with blistering heat.
Tanner raced out onto the front lawn, barely escaping the flames. Before he could congratulate himself on an arsonist’s job well done, two of the infected dove through the front window, crashing heavily to the ground. The first was as big as legendary linebacker Dick Butkus, his limbs thick and deformed from the disease. The second man, although no larger than Pee-wee Herman, looked equally set on blood. Both men wore Kevlar helmets, undoubtedly taken from soldiers killed in the tunnel.
They scrambled to their feet, Butkus immediately charging toward Tanner with arms outstretched and teeth bared. Pee-wee started for him too, but when he caught sight of Samantha sitting in the Range Rover, he veered in her direction.
Rather than closing with Butkus, Tanner waited for the brute to come to him. When he was finally within arms’ reach, Tanner grabbed his shirt and flipped him with a quick twist of the hips. The judo throw was perfectly executed, and Butkus landed flat on his back in the wet grass. Before he could get back on his feet, Tanner stomped down with the heel of his boot. The blow knocked the helmet from his enormous head, leaving a bloody scrape across his cheek and ear.
Butkus scrambled to his feet, punching and clawing as he came. Jagged fingernails scratched Tanner’s neck, and knuckles pounded against his cheek. Butkus was flailing so wildly that Tanner found it difficult to defend against the ferocious onslaught. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the old Chinese adage: When two tigers fight, one is injured, and the other is killed. He could only hope that he was the fiercer of the two beasts.
Meanwhile, Samantha sat behind the wheel of the Range Rover watching as Pee-wee charged toward her. She didn’t have the time or space to ready her rifle, so she popped the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal. Tires barked as the supercharged engine propelled her down the long circular driveway. Pee-wee gave chase a short distance but quickly fell back.
As she came around the curve, Samantha straightened up the car and punched the gas. The Range Rover raced toward Pee-wee, its xenon headlights lighting up the entire front lawn. Unwilling to give ground, he stood in the middle of the drive, hands in front of his eyes right up to the moment that the five-thousand-pound vehicle plowed him down.
Even hearing Pee-wee’s sudden shriek failed to slow Butkus as he continued flailing and biting like a rabid animal. Tanner grabbed the man’s greasy hair and jerked his head down into a knee strike. Bone met nose, and blood splashed across his pants. Butkus tried to pull away, but Tanner refused to let go of his hair, driving his knee up, over and over. But even with his face taking a terrible beating, Butkus refused to fall. He seemed all but impervious to ordinary strikes, and Tanner wasn’t entirely sure that he had the strength to finish the man.
Butkus suddenly jerked back, leaving Tanner holding a chunk of bloody hair, like the scalp of a wayward settler. He looked toward Tanner and touched the bloody bare spot at the top of his head.
Tanner tossed him the clump of hair.
“I believe that’s yours, sunshine.”
Butkus charged again, screaming with fresh rage. Tanner planted his feet and twisted into a horizontal elbow strike. The blow caught Butkus squarely on the left temple, sending him spiraling down into the dirt. Without waiting to see if he was down for good, Tanner stomped on the back of his neck. Butkus jerked once, and then his eyes rolled back, and he began gagging on his tongue as he flopped up and down on the grass. Tanner raised his boot for one final stomp, but slowly settled it back to the ground. Even for him, there was such a thing as overkill.
He turned to find Samantha backing the Range Rover over Pee-wee. The five-thousand-pound SUV was doing a number on the man’s bony frame. When Tanner waved, s
he bumped over him one final time before pulling up onto the grass and rolling down her window.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Better than that fella you were treating as a speed bump.”
“I thought I’d better be sure. That’s what we do, right?” She searched his face for any sign of admonishment.
He offered none. “That’s what we do.”
Tanner walked around to the back of the Range Rover and popped open the hatch. Everything had been tossed about from Samantha’s Death Race 2000 antics, and it took him a moment to find his shotgun. When he turned around, Samantha was standing beside the SUV, her rifle slung over one shoulder.
“You’ve got a bite mark on your cheek,” she said.
“I’m all right.”
“Still, you should wash it out.”
Without arguing, he pulled a bottle of water from his pack and used it to wash his hands and face.
“Better?”
She shrugged. “Cleaner, anyway.”
A horrifying scream suddenly sounded from inside the house, and both of them turned to look. A single figure stumbled across the living room, clothes and hair on fire like a demon that had risen from the Pit. When he finally fell, the fire took him in totality, puffing and popping as it sucked the last bit of moisture from his body.
The exterior of the wood-framed structure was already engulfed in flames, and it spit and flashed as its innards slowly caught fire. The inferno grew so large that Tanner and Samantha were forced to move behind the Range Rover or risk a nasty burn. For several long minutes, they stared at the bright flames and thick black smoke rising up into the night sky. It was a sight as symbolic as the burning of Rome.
“How many of them do you think we killed?” she asked.
Tanner leaned over and spit blood from his mouth.
“Not nearly enough.”
After twenty harrowing minutes of bumping and scraping their way down Davis Place, they had managed to travel only a few short blocks. The road was packed from curb to curb with cars, trucks, buses, and tractor-trailers. Everyone had been seeking a way out of the city, but few had actually managed to escape.
Samantha eased the Range Rover onto the sidewalk and attempted to squeeze the SUV through a narrow gap formed by a police car and a small brick retaining wall.
“I don’t think it’s going to fit,” Tanner said, leaning away from the passenger-side window.
“It’ll fit.”
Samantha felt her teeth rattle as the passenger door scrubbed against the brick wall, and the car ground to a halt. She popped it in reverse, but the wheels only spun in place.
“Hmph. I guess you were right.”
“Aren’t I always?” he said with a grin.
She glared at him. “Why are you so happy?”
“Ah, it ain’t so bad.”
“We’re stuck in Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night with nothing more than our backpacks. The roads are so jammed with cars that we’re going to have to walk out. And the one home that I actually liked is on fire! How’s that not so bad?”
He shrugged. “I’m counting our blessings.”
“Really? I’d like to hear them.”
“All right.” He started to count on his fingers. “One, neither of us is injured or sick. Two, we’ve got several days of supplies. And three, no one is currently out to kill us. Overall, we’re sitting pretty.”
She snorted but said nothing more.
Tanner laid his seat back and pulled a jacket over his shoulders.
“We’re sleeping here? In the car?”
“Unless you want to walk around in the dark with monsters nipping at our heels.”
Samantha turned and looked out the window half expecting to see a coven of evil witches circling the vehicle.
“No,” she said, quickly double-checking that her door was locked. “But who’s to say that we’re safe in here?”
“Are you kidding? This is a Range Rover.”
She stared at him. “So?”
“Range Rovers are miniature tanks for rich people. Nothing can get to us in here.”
“Really?” She knocked her hand against the window. “Miniature tanks? Are you sure?”
He smiled and closed his eyes.
“I’m sure. Now get some sleep. It’ll be light in an hour, and we have a long day ahead of us.”
Chapter 4
Mason continued west on Winchester Road. Bowie followed a few paces behind, occasionally racing into the woods to chase a squirrel or bird. They passed several electrical substations, and Mason found himself speculating on whether the nation’s power grid would ever again be operational. Given that the infrastructure required an enormous workforce of engineers and technicians to operate and maintain, it seemed more likely that man would be relegated to using fuel-burning generators and solar panels for the foreseeable future.
Like most highways, Winchester Road was littered with abandoned vehicles. Most were in even worse shape than Mason’s truck, sporting flat tires, cracked windshields, and open hoods. Some still contained the dried remains of people looking to escape the pandemic. Had it not been for the nuclear blast, survivors from Lexington would have eventually salvaged the cars for parts. Now, he thought, the vehicles would almost certainly sit and rust like old chicken houses.
One car in particular caught Mason’s eye. It was a late model Nissan Altima, sitting nose first in the ditch lining the road’s shoulder. The car was pitched forward into the muddy embankment, its rear tires floating a couple of feet in the air. Every window was broken, either from the crash or, more likely, the explosion over Lexington. The driver’s door sat open, as did the trunk. Mason walked around to the side of the car and glanced inside. Food wrappers and empty water bottles lined the floorboard, but there were no bodies inside. The driver had managed to get out, but a bloody handprint on the dash confirmed that it was not without injury.
He walked around to the rear of the car and examined the trunk. It was empty except for an open aluminum camera case. The foam insert had been tailored to house an SLR camera and a zoom lens, both of which had been taken. Mason wondered if the camera would even still work. The blast had sent powerful electromagnetic waves toward the surface, capable of damaging a wide array of semiconductor-based electronics. Even so, he thought the odds were pretty good that a camera sitting inside an aluminum case might have survived because the metal would have acted as a poor-man’s Faraday cage.
Mason looked left and right. There were no houses in sight, but it wouldn’t have been hard for the driver to find a place to sleep for the night, whether it be in another car or curled up under a tree. There were also no obvious signs of foul play, but even if there had been, it was a puzzle he didn’t have time to investigate.
He continued on.
Bowie gave the car a quick once over, hunting for food, no doubt. Finding nothing more interesting than a few empty potato chip bags, he hurried after his master.
After another quarter mile, they came across the WKYT radio and television station. The complex sat well away from the road, surrounded by an array of broadcast antennas. An enormous red and white transmit tower had toppled over and now stretched all the way to the edge of the highway. A dozen smaller dish antennas were scattered across the yard, some partially filled with dirty rainwater like oversized birdbaths. A colorful statue of a painted horse sat in front of the station’s brick sign, but the head of the animal had been severed by a falling tree.
Mason wondered if the station could still transmit radio broadcasts. Even with the primary antenna lying on its side, the station’s transmitter should theoretically be capable of broadcasting many miles in every direction. Of course, that assumed they had both a functioning generator and adequate fuel, and that the station’s electronics hadn’t been burned out by the EMP. All in all, not very likely.
He turned up the long paved driveway, passing a hedge neatly trimmed in the shape of the station’s call letters. Directly ahead wa
s a two-story mansion with intricate brickwork and tall white portico columns. The whole spread resembled something that might have belonged to a southern aristocrat. Mason thought it had probably been built as a residence and later converted to the radio and television station. The location was ideal because it was remote enough to allow high-powered broadcasting but still close enough to reach Lexington and the surrounding communities.
As he approached the brick building, Mason spotted three motorcycles tipped over in the driveway. All of them were large expensive cruisers designed to carry bankers-turned-bikers to their favorite weekend watering holes.
Bowie sniffed one of the leather seats and looked up at him.
“Stay alert,” he said, stepping around the bikes.
The station’s front door was sitting partially ajar, the jamb splintered from where someone had kicked it in. Mason moved up beside the door and leaned around with his rifle. The entryway looked like the waiting room in a doctor’s office, with half a dozen chairs lining the walls and small coffee tables set between them. Magazines, potted plants, and pictures lay scattered across the floor. A receptionist counter was centered along the back wall with open doorways to either side.
Bowie pressed by him and did a quick once around the room. He returned carrying a stuffed bird that looked like it was probably a toy for a cat or small dog. He bit down on it, and the bird made a loud squawk.
“Shh,” Mason said, holding his finger to his lips.
Bowie squeezed it again. Squawk.
Short of taking the toy away from him, there was little Mason could do. And getting a toy away from any dog usually involved a chase.
“Take it outside,” he said, pointing behind him.
Bowie tipped his head and squeaked the toy again.
“I mean it. Out you go.”
Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) Page 3
