Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5)

by Arthur Bradley

  Bowie hung his head low and walked outside, stopping beside the motorcycles to look back at him.

  “Stay there until I check this place out.”

  Bowie flopped down beside the bikes and got busy trying to figure out the mystery of the squawking bird.

  Mason slipped off his backpack and leaned it against the closest wall. Fighting while wearing a heavy pack was akin to fighting drunk. The extra mass could help to hit harder, but it also made a fighter slow and clumsy. He slid the M4 around to hang across his back and drew his Wilson Combat Supergrade. He also removed the flashlight from his pack and crossed it under his gun hand. While the M4 had significantly more firepower than the Supergrade, he preferred a short-barreled weapon when operating at close range.

  He stepped into the room and took a long moment to let his senses adjust to the new setting. Nothing moved, but there was an undeniable feeling that the building was occupied. The air had a faint pet odor—cats probably, and dew had settled over the small coffee tables. Keeping an eye on the two doorways, he approached the receptionist counter. Other than a few pens, a broken lamp, and a map of Lexington, there wasn’t much to see. He slipped the map into his back pocket, figuring that even with the city destroyed, it might prove useful.

  When he was satisfied there was nothing else to be found, he moved over to inspect the left hallway. It led to a long row of offices, at the end of which was an exit and a staircase leading up. Moving from office to office, he carefully cleared each room. All of them were empty, the desks covered in tidy stacks of papers, as if the occupants had expected to return at some later date. When he got to the end of the hallway, he cracked open the exit door and leaned out. It opened up into a courtyard that overlooked a weather radar dome and a cement building equipped with a high bay. The building, he thought, likely contained utility equipment. While it was certainly possible that Lenny’s brother could have holed up in one of the structures, the main building seemed a more likely retreat.

  He returned to the reception area and circled around to the right hallway. It led to the station’s broadcast studios, now idle and dark. He clicked on his flashlight and shined it through the first of two heavy glass doors. Inside was a radio studio furnished with a variety of electronic equipment, including several computer workstations, an acoustic panel with sliding knobs, and numerous microphones extending down from the ceiling on telescoping arms. The second glass door led to an even more elaborate television studio. It had been divided roughly in half between a control room and a news set, complete with an anchorman desk and a large weather map.

  Mason tried the doors and was not surprised to find them both locked. Getting into either studio wouldn’t have been particularly difficult, but doing so quietly would be all but impossible. Deciding that it was not worth the risk, he turned and discovered that the wall behind him was lined with framed photos of the station’s employees. One near the top had a small brass plate beneath it that read William Bruce, Station Manager. He studied the man’s face, not only to more easily recognize him but also on the hunch that Lenny would share similar features.

  Satisfied that the lower floor was empty, Mason returned to the left hallway, rechecking the offices as he passed. Assume nothing, he reminded himself. When he came to the stairs, he stopped and listened.

  It was quiet. No sounds of people talking. No footsteps. No cocking of machine guns.

  He put one foot on the carpet runner and tested the stairs with his weight. There was no noticeable creak or moan. Stairwells were a death zone in urban combat, and he took every precaution, sweeping his pistol left and right as he crept up to the landing.

  The second floor consisted of four rooms, the doors to two of which were already open. The first was a bathroom with small shards of glass covering the floor from a broken shower stall. The lid to the toilet was up, and the distinct smell of human waste wafted out. The second room was an electronics storage area filled with racks of old radio gear. The two doors that remained closed were on opposite sides of the hallway and offered no hints about their room’s contents.

  Mason stepped up to the first door and gently placed his ear against it.

  It was quiet inside.

  He tried the knob, and it turned easily. Rather than burst in, he dropped to one knee and gently pushed the door inward. An ammonia-like stench stabbed at his eyes. He leaned back and took a breath, trying to clear the stink from his nostrils. It didn’t help. The room was a small home office, furnished with a couch, desk, and several sitting chairs. The dried remains of at least a dozen cats lay scattered about the room, fur sagging from their withered bodies. Food and water bowls had been left on the floor in front of the couch. The food bowls still had a few morsels, but the water bowls were bone dry.

  Mason shook his head. The poor animals had almost certainly died from dehydration after being confined to the room for many weeks. Likely, their owners had believed it sufficient to leave food and water with the intention of returning for them later, a mistake made by pet owners, but one paid for by their pets.

  He stood up and turned to face the final door, hoping that whatever was inside didn’t push him any closer to retching. If the motorcycles out front belonged to anyone, they either had to be inside the room or in one of the secondary buildings out back. Before Mason could decide what to do next, the door suddenly burst open. A thick-chested man with tattoos covering both forearms stood in the doorway looking out. He held a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol with both hands. His face and arms were burned so thoroughly that he looked like one of Barsoom’s Red Men.

  “Who’s there?” he barked, waving the gun from side to side.

  Mason stood in the doorway of the home office, not more than ten feet away, and yet the man seemed unable to see him.

  “I said who’s there?” He turned his head sideways in an attempt to use his peripheral vision.

  Mason remained absolutely still.

  A second voice sounded from behind Red Man.

  “Ain’t nobody there, jackass.”

  “I told ya you were hearing things,” said a third man. “Now put that gun away before you shoot your pecker off.”

  Without turning around, the man slowly backed into the room, pushing the door closed with his boot. Just before the door swung shut, Mason caught sight of the other two men. One was lying on a couch with a wet rag draped over his face, and the second was urinating out an open window. All of them looked like trouble.

  Mason stood absolutely still for two full minutes. When he was confident that they weren’t standing ready to ambush him, he quietly retreated back down the stairs.

  He stood at the foot of the stairs thinking about what had just happened. The man who had come to the door had obviously suffered thermal burns to his eyes, the result of staring at the nuclear blast. His two compatriots were also likely equally impaired. Why else would a blind man answer the door? While the men were almost certainly escaped prisoners, Mason saw no need to confront them. For the time being at least, they weren’t a threat to him or anyone else. Whether their eyes would eventually heal was anyone’s guess. If they didn’t, the three men would likely die in a manner not so different than the cats across the hall.

  As Mason walked back to the reception area, he heard Bowie growl. It was followed almost immediately by a woman’s voice. The voice was calm and gentle, and laced with a slight accent. French, perhaps.

  “Easy, boy,” she said. “I don’t mean you any harm.”

  Hoping to start things off on a friendly note, Mason holstered his Supergrade before stepping quietly out onto the porch. A woman knelt in the driveway, her hand extended, holding a small strip of beef jerky. She had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a lean athletic build. Her clothes were wrinkled from having slept in them, but that in no way took from her striking appearance. She carried a small military rucksack on her back and had a padded camera case slung over one shoulder. A bloodstained bandage was tied around her right hand.

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sp; Bowie sat where Mason had left him, looking at the woman with a mix of caution and curiosity. Like Lex Luther, she had found his Kryptonite—food. Neither of them had yet to notice Mason.

  “It’s all right,” she continued. “Try a little. It’s good.” To emphasize the point, she pretended to nibble the meat and then extended it back toward him.

  Bowie licked his lips as he slowly succumbed to temptation.

  Mason cleared his throat.

  Bowie and the woman both jerked, startled by his sudden appearance.

  The woman dropped the jerky and scrambled to free a knife from her belt. When she finally got it in hand and turned to face him, she found herself staring at the wrong end of his Supergrade.

  Mason had no desire to shoot the woman, but with stitches still healing thanks to a maniacal clown, he understood too well the dangers posed by a sharp blade.

  “Put it away,” he said. “Please.”

  Seeing that she was clearly outgunned, the woman reluctantly slid the knife back into its sheath.

  “Should I raise my hands?” she said with a coy smile.

  He holstered the Supergrade. “No need. I’m not a robber.”

  Bowie looked first to Mason, then to the woman, and finally to the strip of beef jerky lying unattended on the driveway.

  “Is this your dog?”

  “You’d have to ask him that,” Mason said, grabbing his pack and sliding it out from behind the door.

  “I didn’t mean anything by trying to feed him. He just looked hungry.”

  Mason carried his gear down the steps and set it next to Bowie.

  “Believe me. He practices that look both day and night.”

  The dog had yet to eat the jerky, but his eyes were now fixated on it, as if he had fallen into a trance.

  “Go on,” Mason said, patting him on the side. “It’s rude to refuse a gift.”

  Bowie lunged forward and quickly gulped down the piece of meat.

  “You have a badge on your belt,” she said. “Does that mean you were a policeman?”

  “US Marshal.”

  “I see. Marshals deal with fugitives, yes?”

  “Among other things,” he said. “Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”

  She hesitated as if trying to decide how much to tell.

  “Forget it,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t trusted anyone in quite a while. You understand.”

  “I do.”

  She extended her left hand.

  “I’m Leila Mizrahi.”

  “Mason Raines,” he said, shaking her hand. “Leila… that’s Israeli, right?”

  She smiled, and Mason couldn’t help but return one of his own. He had concluded long ago that a man’s body had certain natural reactions, especially when around beautiful women. A smile begot a smile. A kiss, a kiss. And so on. It was how the species moved forward.

  “I’m an Israeli journalist. When the pandemic first occurred, I was sent here on investigative assignment. Unfortunately, society deteriorated so quickly that I never made it back home.”

  “And that’s what you’re trying to do now? Get back to Israel?”

  “I have all but given up on that dream. Right now, I’m simply trying to survive. Same as everyone else, I suppose. But when I saw this station, I thought I might at least check to see if anyone was still broadcasting.”

  “So that you could contact your family?”

  “No,” she said with a sad smile. “My mother and younger sister Roni were both killed by the virus. All I have now is my country. But even hearing the voices of strangers speaking Hebrew would be comforting.”

  “I’m sorry about your family.”

  She nodded and turned toward the station.

  “Anyone inside?”

  “Only a few questionable occupants living upstairs. If I were you, I wouldn’t chance it.”

  “I see. And what about you, Marshal? Why are you out here?”

  Like her, he paused to consider exactly how much to reveal, and she picked up on his hesitation immediately.

  “It’s okay. Like you said, our business is our own.”

  He felt a little embarrassed. Who was to say that his secrets were any greater than hers?

  “I’m looking for a man named Lenny Bruce. He was the head of a militia group known as Fresh Start. I don’t suppose you happen to know him?”

  “No, but I know of him. He was very powerful in this area. I was heading into Lexington with hopes of learning more about him when the bomb hit.”

  “Good thing you weren’t a mile or two closer to the city.”

  “That’s very true. The blast picked up my car and tossed it into a ditch. If I’d been closer…” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Well, I suppose we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “Is that how you hurt your hand?”

  She looked down at the bloody bandage.

  “I put it right through the windshield.”

  “Would you like me to take a look at it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I’ve seen my share of injuries. If it’s not too serious, I can probably help.”

  She studied him. “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why would you help me? You’re not a marshal anymore. You don’t have to do anything for anyone.”

  Mason stepped a little closer.

  “Consider it my returning a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “You fed my dog.” He reached down and gave Bowie a quick pat.

  “All right,” she said with a playful smile. “That sounds fair.” She raised her hand, and he carefully unwrapped the bandage. The gash stretched across her palm, and meat bulged out through the open skin. Her pointer and index fingers were also purple from having been broken at the proximal interphalangeal joints.

  “We need to wash this out to remove any glass that might still be in the wound.”

  “At the moment, I don’t have any water to spare.”

  “It’s all right. I have some.”

  She looked into his eyes but said nothing.

  “After that,” he continued, “I should probably stitch it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “And—”

  “There’s an and?”

  “Your fingers are broken. I’ll need to straighten and tape them.”

  She exhaled heavily. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t have any anesthesia.”

  She smiled. “Of course you don’t.”

  “You’ll be all right,” he said, grinning. “Let me get—”

  Mason was interrupted by the sound of heavy feet stomping down carpeted stairs. He spun, his hand instinctively going for his Supergrade. Bowie jerked upright, baring his teeth as three men stumbled out through the station’s front door, pistols in hand. All three were badly burned and squinting in the morning sunlight.

  “Who’s out here?” Red Man shouted, waving his pistol in their direction.

  The other two men split left and right, blindly feeling their way along the front of the porch. Bowie barked and folded his ears back. Red Man turned and fired, the bullet puffing up dirt in front of the dog’s feet.

  “Stop!” Mason shouted, instinctively raising his hands to ward them off.

  All three swung their pistols in his direction. The man on the right immediately squeezed off a round, but the shot went wide, whistling through the trees. Red Man leaned forward, squinting as he tried to line up for a shot at Bowie.

  Mason drew the Supergrade and shot Red Man in the chest, a quick tap-tap. The man stumbled back, a bloody wet spot forming in the center of his shirt. As he started to fall, Mason swung left and then right, dropping the other two men. The time from his first shot to his last was less than one second.

  Bowie started toward the fallen men, back hunched and teeth bared.

  “Bowie!”

 
The dog stopped and glanced back at Mason.

  “It’s over, boy,” he said, shaking his head.

  Bowie studied the men for a moment longer and then returned to stand beside his master.

  Mason turned to Leila. She was standing perfectly still, her hand resting on the pommel of her knife.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “Are you sure?”

  She swallowed. “I’m okay.” She looked down at the pistol hanging at his side. “I’ve never seen anyone as fast as you are.”

  “I used to be a firearms instructor.”

  She nodded. “It shows.”

  Mason stepped up onto the porch and checked that all three men were dead. Thankfully, they were. The thought of having to put another bullet in a man who was already down didn’t sit well with him. Such brutality was best saved for the battlefield.

  Leila stepped closer and studied the men.

  “They were blind, weren’t they?”

  “The blast did that,” Mason said, recalling his own temporary blindness.

  “Do you think all the survivors will be blind?”

  He shook his head. “In closer to the city, instinct would have been to look away.”

  “I guess that’s something they can be thankful for.”

  “Not really. The same heat will have burned them alive.”

  Leila squatted down and touched Red Man’s burned face.

  “Our numbers are getting fewer and fewer every day.”

  “Maybe so, but these men wouldn’t have helped the gene pool.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She reached over and picked up Red Man’s Beretta with her left hand. Using her thumb, she carefully activated the de-cocker, returning the weapon’s hammer to a safe position.

  “You know your way around firearms.”

  She slid the handgun into the back of her waistband.

  “Not like you I don’t. But this model is similar to one used by soldiers in my country.” She held up her injured hand. “Too bad, I’m right-handed.”

  “Even so, a pistol in the wrong hand is better than no pistol at all.” Mason recalled his own training with non-dominant hand shooting. It took practice to learn to control a semi-automatic handgun with the weak hand, and many shooters, even those in law enforcement, neglected to master the skill.