He waited until they were about halfway across the overpass, too far along to retreat back down the ramp but not close enough to pose a serious threat. When they had just come up alongside the Greyhound bus, he stood up and gripped the handles of the Browning. He gave the butterfly triggers a quick press with both thumbs. The gun bucked back and forth, and a short burst of .50 caliber slugs smashed into the grill of the bus. The hood flipped up, and pieces of its fender tore away.
Nakai and Jeb immediately dove to the ground, using the wheels of the bus to shield them. Both men no doubt knew that the Browning would make short work of any such cover, but their options were limited.
Mason leaned over from behind the gun and shouted to them.
“Toss the weapons!”
Neither man moved.
“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, “if you need a little persuasion...”
He sent another burst toward them, this time smashing out the bus windows and chewing through the metal that held the roof in place. The entire top of the bus caved in.
“Last chance!” he shouted.
One of the men tossed something about thirty yards in front of them, and a cloud of thick gray smoke billowed out. Within seconds, the wall of smoke completely concealed the bus and everything around it. The smoke didn’t reach all the way to Mason, but it did a fine job of obscuring everything else.
He started to squeeze off another burst, planning to sweep from left to right, when he heard Bowie growl. The dog was now completely enveloped in the smoke, and Mason had no way of knowing whether he had moved. More likely than not, Bowie was already making his way toward the enemy.
“So much for this bright idea,” grumbled Mason. Throwing his feet over the side of the HMMWV, he dropped to the ground.
When the first volley of .50 caliber rounds hammered into the bus, Nakai and Jeb instinctively dove behind the bus. It not only minimized their silhouette, it also put something solid between them and the heavy weapon.
“He’ll cut us to pieces,” Jeb said, high-crawling forward a couple of feet and peeking around one of the huge bus tires.
They heard a man shout for them to toss out their weapons.
“He thinks we’re pinned down,” said Nakai.
“We’re not?”
Another burst of gunfire tore into the bus. When the shooting stopped, the roof started to collapse in on itself, like it had become the victim of giant metal-eating termites.
“I’ll pop smoke,” said Nakai. “You go right, and I’ll go straight up the middle, fast and hard.”
Jeb nodded.
Nakai pulled the pin and tossed the smoke grenade as far as he could from a prone position. A cloud of gray smoke poured out, quickly filling the roadway.
Jeb rolled all the way to the right side of the road, scrambled to his feet, and followed the concrete divider forward. He let his AK-47 hang across his chest, freeing his hands to feel his way through the thick smoke. He came to the back end of a car but managed to squeeze past it. The smoke was incredibly thick, and he began to cough. He fought off the panicked feeling of not getting enough oxygen and continued his careful advance. If he could come out along the wall when the man’s attention was on Nakai, he could end things with a careful shot to the head, quick and easy.
Something growled in front of him. Or had it been to the side? He spun left and then back to the right, unable to pinpoint its direction. Jeb grabbed his rifle and swung it up in front of him. If he fired, he would give away his position and almost certainly be cut down by the .50 caliber machine gun. Reluctantly, he released the rifle and slowly slid out his machete. The fat heavy blade could cut through anything, living or dead.
Another growl vibrated ominously through the thick smoke, this time from behind him. He spun to face it, slashing out with his knife. The blade found nothing but air. To his right, he heard a slight scratching sound, like claws dragging on the pavement. What the hell was out there?
Something huge slammed into him, knocking him backwards. Jeb tried to slash it with his machete, but the creature was already in too close. He stumbled over a broken headlight and fell as the beast used its weight to drive him down to the ground. He felt a warm wet mouth engulf his throat. Teeth locked down, piercing his jugular on one side and his airway on the other.
The blade clattered to the ground as Jeb fought against the beast, struggling to pull its mighty jaws open. His fingers bled as they pulled against sharp teeth. For a moment, he thought he might actually free himself. But then the beast shook its head from side to side, ripping his throat out and sending a fountain of blood spraying into the air.
Nakai’s legs were stiff from a fitful night of being on the run, but they didn’t fail him as he barreled out of the smoke, his Aug pressed tightly against his shoulder. He fired short three-round bursts at the .50 caliber position, closing the distance as quickly as possible. Sparks flew as the rounds pelted the HMMWV’s armor plating that protected the machine gun nest. It took him a moment too long to realize that no one was returning fire.
He scanned left and right. Nothing. He started to wheel around when he heard a voice from behind him.
“Freeze!”
He froze.
“Drop the rifle.”
Nakai quickly calculated his chances of dropping to a knee and firing the Aug as he turned. Not good. He lowered the Aug to the ground and lifted both hands to shoulder level. He left the Sig Sauer P226 in its holster at his side.
“Walk forward ten steps, then turn slowly.”
He did as instructed. When he turned, he saw a man wearing civilian clothes, a blazer and blue jeans, and a belt with a badge clipped on it. He pointed a 1911 pistol at Nakai’s head, and from the way he held the weapon, there was no doubt he knew how to use it.
Mason looked down his sights at the man who had callously murdered so many of his fellow marshals. He was tempted to squeeze the trigger, forever putting an end to him. But he stayed his hand, knowing that this would be his only chance to get answers.
“You and I are going to talk,” he said.
Nakai nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. I’m assuming that you’re Nakai?”
“I am.” Nakai’s eyes darted left and right, looking for Jeb.
A shape slowly emerged from the smoke, but it was not his trusted lieutenant. It was a giant dog, and the animal’s mouth was covered in bright red blood. Mason motioned for Bowie to come to his side, and he quickly obeyed, never taking his eyes off Nakai.
“If you’re expecting your big friend, I think that’s a train that won’t come.”
“Impressive animal,” he said.
“Bowie can hold his own.”
“You said you had questions.”
Mason nodded. “I do.”
“You want to know why we killed the marshals.”
“That and other things.”
“And I suppose you’re going to offer me my life in return.”
Mason stared hard into his eyes.
“No. Judgment day is here for you. Nothing you say is going to change that.”
“Then why should I cooperate?”
“Because if you tell me the truth, I’ll give you a chance to go for that piece at your side.”
Nakai bit at his lip. “A fair fight?”
Mason nodded.
“All right. What do you want to know?”
“Why did you bomb FLETC?”
“We were hired to retrieve a large batch of rifles. The chemical bombs were provided to help us complete the mission.” He motioned to the tractor-trailers around them. “You can check our cargo if you like.”
“No need.”
Nakai smiled. “You already knew that much.”
“One of your men told me.”
“All right. What else then?”
“Who hired you?”
Nakai thought about the question before answering.
Normally, he would never betray a customer, but this situation was a little different. Either he or the marshal would be dead in less than a minute. If the marshal died, so would his betrayal of confidence. And if he died, he could forgive himself a final transgression for a chance at survival.
“An old friend of mine from the service, Major General William Hood.”
Mason had never heard of him.
“Why would a US general hire you to steal rifles?”
“He wanted them delivered to a man named Lenny Bruce. He runs a militia up near Lexington.”
Mason nodded again. The facts jived with what Van Gogh had told him.
“For what purpose?”
“That I don’t know. My best guess is that he wants Lenny to stir up some trouble.”
“Was he trying to enable a coup of some sort?”
Nakai shook his head. “Nothing that ambitious. I think it was a distraction or maybe a statement of some kind. I can’t say for sure.”
Mason thought for a moment, trying to put the pieces together.
“General Hood’s not at the top of this, is he?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Who, then? Give me a name, and I’ll give you your chance.”
“I have your word?”
“You do.”
“The truth is I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that Hood has been working closely with another man for the better part of ten years. My guess is that he’s the one running things. But as I said, it’s only a guess.”
“Give me a name.”
Nakai hesitated. “His name is Lincoln Pike.”
Mason shook his head. “You’re lying.”
“No. Everything I told you is true. The question is whether or not your word means anything.”
Mason heard his father’s voice in his head. You don’t owe this dirtbag a damn thing. Put a bullet in his head and move on.
Despite the warning, Mason lowered his Supergrade and shoved it into its holster.
The corners of Nakai’s mouth twitched with a satisfied little smile as he slowly brought his hands down to hang at his side.
Bowie growled, not at all comfortable with the way things were proceeding.
“You ready?” asked Nakai.
Mason nodded.
Both men went for their guns at the exactly same time, neither waiting for the other to move first. Nakai’s P226 cleared his holster a millisecond before Mason’s Supergrade. But rather than raise his weapon, Mason immediately flipped the muzzle up and fired from the hip. The 230-grain jacketed hollow point punched through Nakai’s sternum, nicking his heart before smashing against his backbone. He fell to his knees, teetered for a moment, and then pitched forward on the bloodstained asphalt.
Bowie slowly walked over and nudged Nakai’s lifeless body. When he didn’t move, the dog turned back to face Mason.
“Believe me,” he said, holstering his firearm, “he had it coming.”
CHAPTER
12
The sheriff’s office in Bland’s courthouse looked like it had been taken right from the set of Mayberry. A small jail cell lined one wall, bare except for two bunks with neatly folded blankets, and a five-gallon potty bucket. An empty rifle rack sat behind the sheriff’s desk, as did a cradle for handheld radios. The entire place had been picked clean. The only things left were the battered furniture and a few sheets of paper scattered on the floor.
Tanner and Samantha sat in heavy wooden chairs, worn smooth from years of use. Brother Lands sat across from them, leaning back in a swivel chair that squeaked every time he moved. He had an excited look about him, as if waiting for a piece of good news.
The room’s only window was open, and a cool breeze filtered in through a thick metal grating. Three men from the congregation were stationed around the office, shifting from foot to foot like they were wearing new shoes. One was short and bald, another other had a bad haircut that hung down in front of his eyes, and the third had a nose that looked like it had been stuck in a pencil sharpener. Of the Three Stooges, only Curly looked like a serious contender. Even so, Tanner was confident that they wouldn’t be a problem, should it come to that.
“You folks lose many to the outbreak?” he asked.
“Nearly everyone,” replied Lands. “Of the county’s nearly seven thousand residents, only thirty-seven of us remain.”
Tanner was stunned. “The virus killed all but thirty seven of you?”
“Sadly, no. The virus did its part, to be sure, but we did the rest. Those who became infected were systematically killed to prevent the spread. The few who survived took vengeance when they were well enough.” He sighed. “In the end, the town killed as many as the sickness.”
“That sounds like a bloodbath. How’d you folks manage to survive?”
“We discovered the source for our salvation, the way people always do when put in impossible situations.”
“Religion?”
He nodded. “We took a hard look at our faith and realized that God was punishing us.”
“Why would God do that?” As a Buddhist, Tanner put no credence in such notions, but he figured it didn’t hurt to better understand the situation at hand.
“Because God is vindictive,” Lands said without the slightest hesitation.
“Okay,” Tanner said, tentatively. “And so—what? You decided to live a more righteous life to get off His shit list?”
“Let’s just say we learned to live differently. And when we started to trust in Him, really trust, He began to care for us again.”
Tanner studied him, trying to read what was behind the man’s dark eyes. Something wasn’t quite right. A return to religion was to be expected, given what had happened, but that didn’t account for his alarm bells going off the way they were.
“If there’s only thirty-seven of you left, darn near everyone must have been at the church.”
“Indeed. Everyone who remains is part of our fold.”
“Everyone? Not a single Jew, Catholic, or atheist remains?”
“Everyone came to understand that we’re here to do His work.” Land’s eyes settled on Samantha.
The voice of caution that had been whispering in Tanner’s ear for the past ten minutes now rose to a level that couldn’t be ignored. He stood and walked to the open window to look out. The metal grating looked stout enough to prevent prisoners from skedaddling. He could see a patch of overgrown grass and weeds at the back of the courthouse. Beyond that, there were a few houses as well as a couple of old cars parked across the street.
“You get many travelers passing through?”
“No, not many,” answered Lands. “Certainly not people traveling with children.”
Tanner nodded. The threat had something to do with Samantha.
The room fell silent for nearly a minute, broken only by the squeak of Brother Land’s chair.
Growing more and more uncomfortable with the silence, Samantha turned to Brother Lands and said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, child.”
“Why is there a white ‘S’ painted on all the doors?”
“Who says it’s an S?”
“It looks like an S. I guess it could be a worm or a snake, but that would be even weirder than an S.”
Lands seemed a little miffed by her comment.
“It’s a symbol of our faith. Nothing more.”
She thought about it for a moment.
“What? Like the snake from the Garden of Eden?”
He squinted at her.
“Yes, child, something like that.”
From the window, Tanner glimpsed two men coming up from the back of the courthouse. Both were hunched over, shuffling from corner to corner as they worked their way around to the front of the building. One man carried a deer rifle, and the other a long-barreled shotgun.
Tanner turned and quickly surveyed the room. His fishing gaff was sitting in the co
at rack beside the front door. It wasn’t particularly useful against men with rifles but enough for a few unarmed men confined to a sheriff’s office. He walked to the office door and threw the deadbolt. Then he shoved in the anchor bolts at the top and bottom of the frame. It was a heavy fiberglass door, and having been secured at three points, it would all but require an axe to break through.
Judgment Day -03 Page 12
