Judgment Day -03

by Arthur Bradley

  “You think so?”

  “I do. And for that reason, I’m going to cut you a break.”

  “How’s that?” he sneered.

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you, Marshal,” he taunted.

  Mason smiled. “I’m feeling generous on account of all the shit you’ve had to shovel.”

  Fabio’s face burned a bright red.

  “I’ll count to three,” he said. “Then we’ll see who’s the boy. How about that, Marshal?”

  Mason took a deep breath and let it out. He could feel the beat of his heart slowly accelerating, providing extra oxygen.

  “No need. I’ll shoot you when I’m ready.”

  “You sure talk big for—”

  Fabio never saw Mason pull the Supergrade, nor did he hear the crack of the firearm. He simply fell, clutching his side, overwhelmed by the pain of a hollow point bullet punching through his side. He screamed in agony, shoving his rifle away as if it had suddenly caught fire.

  Bowie started to move on Jeremy, but the man immediately threw his hands up.

  “Help, Marshal!” he shrieked.

  “Bowie!”

  The dog stopped and looked back at him, licking his lips.

  Mason shook his head.

  Bowie turned and eyed the man but didn’t advance any further.

  “Get in your truck and go,” Mason said, pointing toward the Dodge.

  Jeremy nodded and ran for the pickup. A few seconds later, he was speeding down the highway, dodging abandoned cars and other debris.

  Mason stepped forward and kicked the rifle away from Fabio. The man was pressing his hand against the bullet hole, dark blood oozing from between his fingers. His entire body was covered in sweat.

  “Jeezus,” he cried, “you shot me.”

  Mason squatted down and studied the wound. It was a through and through, but there was the distinct smell of urine. That meant the bullet had punctured one of the man’s kidneys—painful, but not necessarily a death sentence.

  “You gotta help me, Marshal.”

  Mason ignored him. He had learned the hard way not to administer first aid to those he shot. The last man he gave bandages to later tried to kill him for a case of gold coins.

  “Listen up,” he said. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

  Sweat trickled down Fabio’s cheeks.

  “Give me the good news.”

  Mason nodded. “The good news is that the bullet didn’t hit anything you can’t live without.”

  “Oh, thank God,” he groaned, sitting up and sliding over to prop himself against the tire of a nearby car.

  Without saying anything more, Mason stood up and called for Bowie. The dog hurried over, sniffing Fabio as he passed. Together, they started back toward his truck.

  “Hey, Marshal,” shouted Fabio. “You never did tell me. What’s the bad news?”

  Without turning around, Mason pointed off toward the tree line. There in the shadows stood four large German Shepherds.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Tanner followed the North Scenic Highway out of Bland, thankful to see the town disappear in his rearview mirror. Samantha seemed to pick up on his train of thought and turned to look over her shoulder.

  “Let’s not go there again,” she said. “Not ever.”

  “Agreed.”

  She turned back around and began searching the cab of the truck. It was empty except for a few registration papers in the glove box and a tire iron behind the seat.

  Tanner dug something out of his pocket.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a small box of ammunition.

  She opened it up and carefully reloaded the Savage .22 rifle. As she put the rifle back on the floor, her stomach growled loudly.

  “You hungry?” he said.

  She nodded. “My mom always said it’s important to start the day with a healthy breakfast.”

  “Like Froot Loops?”

  “Exactly.”

  He smiled and pointed up ahead to a house with a large detached garage.

  “Want to see if there’s anything left in the cupboards?”

  She looked back over her shoulder again, double-checking that Bland was indeed officially out of sight.

  “Okay, but if there’s a snake on the door, we don’t stop.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Tanner pulled up into the gravel driveway, grabbed his newfound shotgun from the bed, and stepped out. Samantha followed after him with her rifle in hand. They approached the house carefully, their eyes scanning from left to right, looking for anything that didn’t belong. The place looked abandoned. The front door was kicked in, and two large windows were smashed.

  “I think we’re okay,” he said, stepping up onto the porch.

  She moved up beside him and cautiously leaned her head inside the door.

  “Anyone in there?” she hollered.

  No one answered.

  Tanner pushed what was left of the door out of the way, and they stepped inside. It opened up into a living room, with a hallway going off to the right and an eat-in kitchen to the left. It smelled damp and unlived in.

  They quickly searched the entire house, making sure that it was indeed unoccupied. When they were satisfied, they returned to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards. The entire place had been picked clean. The only thing that remained was a small bag of cat food.

  “How hungry are you?” he asked, pointing to the bag.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not that hungry.”

  “Come on then, let’s find another house down the road.”

  They stepped back out onto the porch, empty-handed and twice as hungry as when they had gone in. Tanner glanced over at the detached garage. It looked like a workshop.

  “Let’s check that out,” he said, heading down the porch steps.

  She shrugged and followed along.

  The building was locked up tight, the door deadbolted, and the garage secured with slide latches from the inside.

  “It looks like we’ll have to—” she started.

  Tanner gave the door a savage kick, and it tore free from the jamb, long wooden splinters splitting off the frame.

  She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

  The shop was cold and dark, and rank with the smell of grease and sweat. Tanner went over and slid the two garage doors up to let in some sunlight. Whoever had lived in the house had obviously done some auto mechanic work, either as a hobby or profession. A black ’67 Pontiac GTO sat surrounded by three rolling tool chests. The hood of the car stood open, and the engine was partially disassembled.

  “Someone left their baby behind,” he said, looking inside the windows of the car.

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Bite your tongue, girl. A ’67 GTO isn’t pretty.”

  “No?”

  “This was a car built for manly men. And manly men don’t drive pretty cars.”

  She rolled her eyes again.

  “And what, may I ask, is a manly man?”

  “A manly man…” He searched for the right words. “A manly man is someone who not only knows how to live, but also knows how to die.” He nodded, satisfied with his answer.

  “And I suppose you’re one of these manly men?”

  “Well, now that you bring it up... ”

  She scoffed. “Seriously, give me an example of a manly man. Other than you, I mean.”

  He thought about it a moment.

  “All right, I got one. How about Kit Carson?”

  She laughed. “That sounds like a candy bar.”

  He shook his head.

  “Go ahead,” she said, stifling another laugh. “Really, I want to know.”

  “Kit Carson was a trapper and frontiersman, a real tough old bird. He lived with the Arapaho and Cheyenne tribes, and led a regiment duri
ng the Civil War. You know what his final words were?”

  “I don’t know what any of his words were. I don’t even know who he was.”

  Tanner ignored her. “The last thing old Kit ever said was, ‘I just wish I had time for one more bowl of chili.’ Now that, darlin’, is a manly man.”

  She laughed. “That’s a good one all right. What are your last words going to be?”

  “I’m going with, ‘Someone get me another beer.’”

  She snickered. “I can see that.”

  Tanner turned and began digging through one of the tool chests.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “This,” he said, lifting out a pipe cutter. He rummaged a little more and found a long metal file and a sheet of emery cloth. “And these.”

  “What’s all that for?”

  “You’ll see,” he said, carrying everything over to a large cast iron vise mounted to a workbench. He unloaded the shotgun and clamped it in place, using two pieces of wood to keep the vise from marring the weapon.

  “You’re going to cut the barrel off, aren’t you?”

  “I can’t very well carry this thing around.”

  “It is awfully big.”

  “It’s a friggin’ pole vaulting stick.”

  He slipped the pipe cutter around the barrel and positioned it about two inches beyond the end of the magazine tube.

  “Wow, that much?”

  “I figure I’ll cut it down to about sixteen inches. Any shorter than that and it’ll kick like a donkey with a hard—.” He cleared his throat. “—a toothache.”

  He tightened the pipe cutter and began sliding it around the barrel, occasionally retightening it to keep the cutting wheel pressed into the metal. After a couple of minutes, the end of the barrel cut free and fell to the floor with a loud clang.

  “Now, we dress it up a little to get rid of any burrs or sharp edges.” He ran the file around the lip a couple of times and then spent a few minutes with the emery cloth smoothing everything out. When he was finished, he loosened up the vise and lifted out the shotgun.

  “What do you think?” he asked, holding it up.

  “Very manly.”

  He grinned. “Come closer and I’ll show you how this gun works.”

  “I already have a gun,” she said, stepping closer.

  “I know, and the .22 rifle is perfect for you, as you’ve already proven. But there may come a time when you need a little more stopping power.”

  She surprised him by not arguing the point.

  “We load it exactly like we did the other shotgun, only this one has a button underneath that needs to be pressed when you insert the shells. See?” He pressed a large silver button beside the feed ramp.

  She nodded.

  “Once you load it, pull the bolt handle back, and let it fly forward. That moves the first shell into the chamber.”

  “Seems easy enough.”

  “Show me.” He handed her the sawed-off shotgun.

  “It’s heavy,” she said, hefting it with both hands.

  “Yes, and it will probably knock you on your butt if you ever have to fire it. But it’ll also get the attention of whatever you’re shooting at.”

  He handed her the shotgun shells one at a time, and she loaded four. The last one was hard for her to push up the feed ramp, but she finally got it. She pulled the bolt handle back and let it slide forward.

  “Now, top it off,” he said.

  She slid one more into the magazine tube.

  “The difference between this weapon and the one I had before is that this one feeds the next shell automatically. That means that when you pull the trigger, it automatically ejects and chambers a new shell.”

  “You don’t pump it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why wouldn’t they make every shotgun like that? Isn’t it faster?”

  “You bet it is. But autoloaders are more likely to jam than pump shotguns.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Makes sense.”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take it outside and shoot a few shells. While we’re at it, I’ll let you try out the Bearcat too. If you’re going to stay alive, you’ll need to know your way around guns.”

  As they turned to leave the garage, Samantha noticed a pillowcase sitting on the floor beside one of the garage doors. It was stuffed full and tied closed with a bright orange ribbon.

  “What do you think that is?”

  Tanner nudged the makeshift sack with his boot. It felt heavy. He untied the ribbon and saw that there were dozens of cans of food inside, as well as several bottles of water. He lifted out a can of chicken noodle soup and held it up for her to see.

  “It’s not Froot Loops, but it’ll fill your belly.”

  Samantha came over and started rummaging through the pillowcase. She pulled out a can of yellow peaches.

  “This wouldn’t be too bad,” she said. “Should I go back inside and see if I can find a can opener?”

  “No need,” he said. “There are plenty of ways to open a can.”

  She looked around the shop.

  “Like how? With tools?”

  “Sure, tools would cut the cans open. But I’ll show you another method that doesn’t require anything more than a little concrete.” He squatted down and placed the can of soup, top-side down, on the concrete floor. “The edge of a can is nothing more than a flap of rolled steel. If you rub it against concrete or a smooth rock, you can abrade it away and get into the can.”

  “Is this another one of your survival tricks?” she asked, her face coming alive.

  He shrugged. “If you want to call it that.”

  “Okay, show me. I want to learn all the tricks.”

  “Here goes.” He started scrubbing the can back and forth on the floor, sending dust up into the air. After about thirty seconds, liquid started leaking out onto the concrete. “When you see the liquid, you’re getting close.”

  He continued for another few seconds, and then slipped his finger under the can and turned it right side up. He gave the sides of the can a gentle squeeze, and part of the metal lid popped up.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed. “You did it!”

  He pulled the lid the rest of the way off, and the smell of salty chicken immediately began to permeate the garage. Tanner tipped the can and dumped some of the soup into his mouth.

  “Now you try,” he said, talking through a mouthful of noodles.

  “Okay, but I probably won’t be able to do it.”

  “So says the girl who shot four men and outran an army of satanic worshippers.”

  She set the can on the floor and began sliding it around, imitating what Tanner had done. It took about a minute before liquid started seeping out.

  “Hey, I’m getting it.”

  “Give it a little longer, and then use your fingers to make sure the lid doesn’t fall off.”

  She did exactly as he said, and when she flipped the can back up, the lid had drooped down into the can. She tipped the can forward and gave it a little shake to get the lid to pop out. Then she pulled it the rest of the way off and smiled as she looked down at a can full of tender yellow cling peaches.

  Breakfast was served.

  With a pillowcase full of canned food and bottled water, Tanner and Samantha were able to turn their attention to putting miles behind them. They decided to steer clear of the interstates, except when absolutely necessary. Instead, they stayed on the North Scenic Highway, paralleling I-77, all the way to the East River Mountain Tunnel.

  The huge gray and white concrete structure reached forty feet into the air and had two lanes going east and two others going west, with a thick dividing wall between them. All four lanes were jam-packed with cars, many of them crashed into one another. A few had caught fire and were nothing more than blackened metal shells.

  “Please tell me we’re not going in there,” she said.

  “What? You mean
you don’t want to crawl around cars filled with dead bodies in a pitch-black tunnel?” he asked, grinning.