When it was all over, he helped Samantha to sit down, and they both settled back against the door of the utility truck. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.
“It’s over,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She seemed unable to speak as tears dripped down her face.
Tanner held her for several minutes, resting and collecting himself. He hurt from a dozen places, but the worst were his ribs. He touched them to make sure that nothing was poking out that shouldn’t be. There wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said, choking on the words.
“For what?”
“For freezing up. I couldn’t move.”
“Wasn’t that you who shot it in the back?”
She nodded. “Yes, but—”
“If you hadn’t gotten its attention, it would have broken my neck.”
She stared at the ground, not at all convinced.
“Sam, we do what we can. Every single time.”
“I could have done more.”
“Okay. So, next time, do more.”
She swallowed and nodded.
He squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned against him.
“How can something like that even exist?” she asked.
Tanner looked over at the beast lying in a huge pool of blood.
“The virus is changing people. Making them bigger and stronger. This one lived in a dark tunnel and had plenty to eat. Ideal conditions, I suppose.”
“He doesn’t look human anymore.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Do you think there are more of them in here?” she asked, looking around.
“No,” he answered quickly.
“How can you be sure?”
“If there were, they would have already come for us.”
“Right.” She looked over at him. “What about you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. He barely even scratched me.”
“Let me see.”
He pulled away and let her have a look at him, acting as his field medic like she had on many occasions.
“Your eye looks terrible,” she said, grimacing. “It’s huge and purple.”
“It’ll heal.”
“What about here?” She pressed against his ribs, and he had to bite his lip to keep from screaming.
“Can’t feel a thing,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Okay,” she said, standing up.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, we should get going. If we hurry, maybe we can get through the tunnel before the motorcycle riders show up.”
He smiled and slowly pulled himself to his feet.
“Glad you’re back.”
CHAPTER
16
Mason spent the rest of the day driving north on Highway 321, his thoughts repeatedly drifting back to the dying horse. The pointless cruelty reminded him of when soldiers became traumatized or bored and took to tormenting the locals in occupied territories. Whether it was Nazis raping young French farm girls, or the Imperial Japanese Army brutalizing prisoners of war, people with violent authority could quickly forget their decency. When finally confronted, they would justify their barbarism, but it always came down to one simple truth. Some people lacked the moral strength to keep their humanity when they believed they would no longer be held accountable.
While leaving Fabio as dog bait was perhaps unduly harsh, it struck Mason as poetic justice. Perhaps he would get to his rifle in time and manage to kill the dogs. Even if he did, Mason hoped that their confrontation would forever serve as a reminder that actions had consequences.
Without thinking about it, he flipped on the radio and spun the dial. He didn’t know what he was hoping to pick up, maybe a news announcement, maybe an old-timer transmitting a little big band music from an antenna set up on the roof of his garage—anything to help take his mind off dead horses and the jackasses who shot them. What he found on several stations was a short government broadcast that looped over and over.
Citizens of the United States should not give up hope. Emergency supplies are being distributed as infrastructures are slowly being rebuilt. The cities of Norfolk, Virginia, Denver, Colorado, and Olympia, Washington have been designated as the first of the New Colonies. These cities, much like the nation’s founding colonies, will serve as places where people can live in safety, businesses can be established, and basic human needs can be met. Future broadcasts will indicate when citizens should move to these locations. For now, everyone is encouraged to join together with family and friends, sharing supplies and skills, in order to survive this most difficult time.
Mason listened to the broadcast several times before shutting off the radio. He hadn’t seen any evidence of supplies being distributed, but that didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t, only that they hadn’t yet reached the areas through which he had traveled. The concept of establishing New Colonies seemed like a step in the right direction. If the government was able to create viable city-states, they could serve as the building blocks of a new nation.
Encouraged by what he had heard, Mason popped in a little Steely Dan and sang along with the music as he worked to put miles behind him. He made it all the way past Columbia without difficulty. He passed a few travelers scavenging for food and water, but none paid him any attention.
As the sun slowly set to his left, he entered the outskirts of Chester, South Carolina. The town was barely a mile across, and he thought he could probably get from one side to the other in less than five minutes. He had driven through Chester years before, but his only memory was of a family-run restaurant that served homemade barbeque pork sandwiches. Like Pavlov’s dog, even the mere thought of the moist meat caused his mouth to water.
At the edge of town, the highway changed names to Columbia Road. Mason slowed his truck and turned his full attention to the road. Anywhere survivors congregated, whether in towns or on interstates, there existed a greater potential for danger. Several small houses were on the left side of the street, and a billboard for Henry the Hammer, attorney-at-law, was on the right. He pressed on a little further, hoping to find a suitable place to rest for the evening.
As he passed a mechanic’s garage, a sheriff’s car pulled out behind him and hurried to catch up. Mason quickly pulled to the side of the road and shut off his engine. Bowie stood up in the bed, leaning out over the tailgate, eager to see who was behind them.
Mason slid out of his truck and moved around to stand in front of the engine compartment. While such an action would have been considered foolhardy under normal circumstances, he couldn’t take the chance of getting caught in the cab.
A man stepped from the cruiser, wearing a wrinkled sheriff’s uniform. He was thick around the middle, but strong too, like he had baled hay and fixed tractors his entire life. He carried a pump-action shotgun in both hands and had a Glock G22 holstered at his side. As he approached Mason’s truck, Bowie gave a short woof.
He smiled at the dog but said nothing.
Mason put a hand on his Supergrade and called out to the man.
“I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. Identify yourself.”
The man stopped and lowered the shotgun.
“Howdy Marshal. I’m Sheriff Billings. Don’t worry now, I don’t mean you or your dog no harm.” He turned back to Bowie and said, “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yes.”
To Mason’s surprise, Bowie danced around, whining for affection from the stranger.
Mason stepped from behind the truck and took his hand off the Supergrade. Bowie had proven himself a pretty good judge of character in the past.
“Good to meet you, Sheriff,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.
Billings nodded and then looked over at Bowie.
“May I?”
“If you don’t, he will.”
The sheriff stepped over to the bed of the truck and gently wrestled with Bowie, talking to him in a soft, loving voice. The dog licked
and scrubbed against him like he had known the man his entire life.
Mason smiled. He had always considered himself a ‘dog person,’ but Sheriff Billings was a true dog whisperer.
“I’m surprised that a town the size of Chester still has a sheriff’s department.”
Billings kissed Bowie on the nose and then turned back to face Mason.
“Well, there’s not many of us left. That’s for sure. What about you, Marshal? You outa Glynco?”
Mason nodded. “I taught at the law enforcement center.”
Sheriff Billings smiled, spitting on his hand and slicking his hair down.
“Being a federal marshal and all, you probably take me for some dumb redneck, and you’d be right enough. But please don’t take me for soft, okay, Marshal?”
Mason met the man’s eyes.
“That I won’t do.”
Billings smiled and nodded.
“We folks in Chester have always been a tough lot.”
“I can’t say I know much about the town, but I have no reason to doubt it.”
“About the only thing we’re famous for is what happened to Aaron Burr back in 1806.” He pointed down the street. “Stories have it that, on his way back to be tried for treason, the vice president jumped off his horse and begged the good folks of Chester to help him get away.” Billings laughed as he imagined how the scene probably played out. “Didn’t do him no good though. They hog-tied him and sent him on his way. That’s Chester for you.”
Mason smiled. “Sounds like an interesting story.”
“You hear it told from time to time.” He looked back over at Bowie. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“That’s Bowie. He seems to have taken a liking to you.”
Hearing his name, Bowie propped up on the tailgate and whined for more attention.
“I’ve always had a way with animals.” Seemingly unable to resist Bowie’s call, the sheriff stepped a little closer and began rubbing behind the dog’s ears.
“Is there a place we could bunk for the night?” asked Mason. “We’ve been driving all day.”
“Sure,” said Billings, his face lighting up, “I know the perfect place. Bowie will have to sleep outside though. They have their rules.”
Mason nodded. “As long as he’s safe.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’ll look after him personally. Nobody around here’s gonna harm a dog like Bowie. Not while I’m alive, anyway.”
Mason followed Sheriff Billings’ cruiser down a long winding road that paralleled a set of train tracks. They passed a little grocery mart, a small junkyard for farm equipment, a real estate office, and a feed-and-seed store. Most places were empty, but the feed-and-seed had a small crowd gathered out front. The people were talking amongst themselves, exchanging goods, and generally seemed to be doing well enough.
Another half-mile up they came to a church, across from which was a two story Holiday Inn. The church was completely abandoned, except for a single black hearse parked under the awning. The hotel’s parking lot, however, had a dozen cars neatly parked in front. The cruiser pulled into the driveway of the hotel and stopped. Billings climbed out with a smile on his face.
“You’re gonna like this, Marshal,” he said.
Mason looked around at the cars.
“All these people are visitors to Chester?”
“What can I say? We have what they want.”
“And what’s that exactly?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Mason told Bowie to sit tight and followed Sheriff Billings into the hotel. As soon as he stepped through the door, everything became clear. Six women, three white and three black, sat on two long couches. A third couch remained empty, except for a giant of a man with a shiny gold badge pinned to his shirt and an AR15 lying across his lap.
The women ranged in age from perhaps twenty to well over fifty, but none were hard on the eyes. They wore tight-fitting pants and bright blouses, or thigh-length dresses with fishnet stockings.
“Ladies,” Billings said with a nod, “say hello to Marshal Raines.”
Each woman said hello in her own way, either with a wink, a pursing of her lips, or a simple wave. One of them, a petite young lady with short black hair, seemed to study Mason more carefully than the others.
Mason turned to the sheriff.
“Is this what I think it is?”
“It depends. What do you think it is?”
He turned away and lowered his voice so that the women wouldn’t hear.
“It looks like a house of ill repute to me.”
Billings wrinkled his brow.
“A whorehouse,” clarified Mason.
The sheriff grinned. “Then it’s exactly what you think it is.”
Mason gently grabbed the sheriff’s arm and led him back outside.
“You’re running a whorehouse?”
“Of course not. I’m the sheriff. It’s my job to make sure the women stay safe. That’s all. I’m a peacekeeper, same as yourself.”
“And the town’s okay with this?”
“Are you kidding? It’s one of our most successful businesses. Sex is like sugar. People can do without it for a few days, but much longer than that can leave you craving a candy bar in a bad way.”
“And what about you? Are you okay with pimping out these women?”
“Marshal, you got it all wrong. These girls don’t work for the town. They work for themselves. They choose to trade their services for goods. Usually food, water, and necessities, but it’s always up to them. Most of the girls are only doing this for a while to keep their kids or husbands fed.”
“Husbands?” laughed Mason. “You’re kidding me, right?”
He shrugged. “Nowadays, people do what they have to. When things get better, I’m sure they’ll quit and do other things. Right now, it’s this or work the fields. And believe me, the fields are harder on the back. The way I see it, at least these women are safe, and they can bring supplies home to their families.”
“And what does the town get out of it?”
“The tax is set at twenty percent. That was voted on too. The girls grumble about it, of course, but I think most of them agree it’s fair. If you feel like we’re doing something illegal here, Marshal, you can take it up with the council. They’re reasonable enough folks. Every man and woman has a voice here in Chester.”
Mason scratched his head, not quite sure what to make of the situation.
“You said this was one of the town’s businesses. What else is there?”
“Paper money isn’t worth anything, so it all comes down to bartering. We trade water, gasoline, food, medical care, and,” he pointed to the hotel, “sex.”
Mason shook his head but said nothing.
“We figured this kind of thing was gonna go on anyway,” the sheriff continued. “So, the town council thought we might as well at least keep the girls safe.”
“And take your cut,” added Mason.
Billings nodded. “And take our cut.”
Sheriff Billings put Mason up in one of the hotel rooms without charge, saying that it was the least he could do for a fellow lawman. Neither Billings nor the girls seemed to understand why he insisted on sleeping alone, but no one objected or pushed their wares. Bowie slept in the back of the truck, which Mason suspected might help to keep curious fingers away from his supplies.
Mason lay in the bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the small town of Chester. They were making their own way in the world, and he couldn’t muster up the outrage necessary to stand in their way. Who was he to dictate other people’s morals? If the women of Chester wanted to trade their bodies to improve their lot in the new world, that was their business. Prostitution had been around since the dawn of time for one good reason. It was marketable.
A headboard bumped against the wall in the room next to his. Then again. And again. It started picking up the pace
. Bump, bump, bump.
Mason began to laugh. It started off as a soft chuckle, but before long, he was as loud as the couple in the adjacent room. He couldn’t explain why, but the absurdity of the situation struck him as incredibly funny.
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