Judgment Day -03

by Arthur Bradley

  “Father Paul, can I trust that you’ll take care of Ava?” Mason’s words were calm, masking the pain beneath them.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know that little lovers’ lookout to the west of town?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “There’s a big Northern Red Oak with Ava’s name carved on it. I think she’d like to be buried up there.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Ava has many friends who will take care of her. You go and do what you must.” Father Paul put his arm around Fran, Ava’s friend of more than twenty years.

  “You kill that sonofabitch,” Fran said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You kill him good.”

  Mason turned and opened the door of his truck. Before he could climb in, a police cruiser rolled up behind him. Vince Tripp and Don Potts scrambled out of the car. Vince had worked for years as a Watauga County Deputy and looked every part the lawman. Don had spent four years as a military policeman and now walked with a prosthetic leg. Both were good men who had stepped up when the town had needed them most.

  “What’s happened?” asked Vince.

  “Those bastards killed Ava,” Fran said, choking out the words.

  Don looked at Mason. “Who did it, Marshal?”

  “Father Paul can fill you in the details. All that matters now is that I’m going after them.”

  “We’re with you,” Vince said, patting Mason on the shoulder.

  “Damn straight we are,” added Don.

  Mason shook his head. “These men work for the government. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of this.”

  Vince looked hurt. “After all we’ve been through, you think there’s any chance we’d let you go off and do this by yourself?”

  “Not gonna happen, Marshal.”

  Seeing the determination in both men’s eyes, Mason reluctantly nodded.

  “All right,” he said, looking off toward the mountains. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  Mason and Bowie rode in the truck, and Vince and Don followed closely behind in the police cruiser. They drove as quickly as the road allowed, and twice Mason scraped his truck against abandoned cars in his haste. The only thing that mattered was getting to the cabin before Agent Sparks and his men departed.

  He fishtailed onto Buckeye Road, dust flying up behind his truck. Vince and Don dropped back a few car lengths so they wouldn’t accidentally end up going off the side of the mountain. Three good men, thought Mason, going out after a handful of bad men. He wondered if the Earp brothers and Doc Holliday had felt the same sense of purpose when facing off against the outlaws at the O.K. Corral. People were going to die today, and there was no guarantee that justice would triumph.

  As soon as he saw the turnoff to his cabin, he pulled to the side of the road. Vince and Don swung in behind him and jerked to a stop. Doors flew open as everyone scrambled out.

  “Where do you want us?” asked Vince.

  “Leave your car here, and come up on foot with your long guns. They’ll try to come around and get me from behind. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop them.”

  Don nodded. “We’ve got your back, Marshal.”

  Both men readied their gear: bulletproof vests, AR15 rifles, and plenty of spare magazines. Mason did the same, checking his M4 and slipping on one of the vests he had taken from the dead marshals in Glynco.

  “I’ll go right,” Vince said to Don. “You go left.”

  Without waiting for additional instructions, they nodded to each other and hurried into the thick woods. Mason smiled. Both men were brave and battle-tested. He trusted them with his life.

  Mason climbed back in the truck and headed up the long dirt driveway. When he got to the metal barricade, he swung it open and used the open space to do a quick three-point turn. If his plan was to work, he needed the bed of his truck to face the cabin. He hoped that not having spotted a helicopter in the air meant the men were still on the ground. If that were the case, they had to be in the clearing directly in front of his cabin. It was the only place open enough to land a helicopter.

  He backed the truck up the final leg of the driveway, slow and easy, until he reached the edge of the clearing. The cabin sat about fifty yards directly ahead. The black UH-60 helicopter had set down in the tall grass to one side of it. A man sat in the cockpit, but he was watching the cabin and didn’t immediately see Mason’s truck.

  Mason jumped out and vaulted into the bed of his truck. He whipped the tarp off the Browning .50 caliber machine gun and slid into position behind it. Bowie sat beside him, his ears perked up as he watched his master’s every move.

  As Mason swung the heavy weapon around, the pilot finally spotted him. The man began to frantically fumble with buttons and switches, and the huge rotors started to turn.

  Mason double-checked that the Browning was loaded and ready to fire. Carefully adjusting the sights, he lined up on the helicopter. The distance was close enough that he could have hit it with a rock, but he took his time to get it right.

  By now, the rotor was spinning up, and the tall grass bent in huge waves. The helicopter tipped forward as the landing skids started to pull away from the ground.

  Mason squeezed the trigger.

  The UH-60L was specifically designed to be ballistically tolerant, but that in no way meant that it could take repeated close range fire from a .50 caliber machine gun. The huge 706-grain ball ammunition pounded through the windshield, killing the driver instantly and ripping apart the cockpit. Mason continued peppering the bird until it pitched forward and smashed into the ground. The four rotor blades beat against the dirt, breaking apart to send fragments of titanium and composites in every direction.

  Three soldiers and a man dressed in a dark suit raced out of the cabin. Mason swung the gun in their direction. Even as they darted back inside, he knew that he could end it all with a few more presses of the butterfly triggers. As sturdy as the cabin was, it wouldn’t withstand the kind of firepower a Browning could put out. Not for long, anyway.

  Two things kept him from opening fire. First, he didn’t know if his father and the girl were inside. And second, the cabin was important to him, not only as a retreat, but also as the only remaining artifact of his family’s presence on the planet.

  The man in the suit leaned his head out through the cabin’s door.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted.

  “Step out with your hands up!”

  “We’re federal agents! Hold your fire!”

  Mason sent a short burst into the dirt in front of the cabin. The agent ducked back inside.

  “Step out!” he repeated.

  The man stepped cautiously through the doorway and inched out onto the porch. He held a pistol in his right hand, which Mason thought was like bringing scissors to a swordfight.

  “Put the gun on the ground, and move away from the cabin!”

  The man set the handgun on the porch, walked slowly down the stairs, and knelt in the dirt with his hands on top of his head.

  Mason caught a glimpse of two men darting away from the back of the cabin and out into the woods. As he had expected, they were trying to come around him.

  He grabbed his M4 and hopped down from the bed of the truck. Bowie stayed close by his side. Gunfire sounded to his left. Mason recognized the quick, pop, pop, pop of an AR15. Not fast enough to be automatic fire, but rather, three quick squeezes of the trigger. It was most likely Don bringing down one of the men. Almost immediately, a second burst of gunfire came from his right—maybe ten or twelve shots, followed by a long burst of automatic fire, and then a single shot. Vince had found the other soldier, but it was harder to predict how it had all played out. Was he still alive? Mason had to trust that he had done his job.

  He raised his M4 and approached the kneeling man. Even if the last soldier in the cabin had a weapon trained on Mason, he likely wouldn’t fire—not if he wanted their leader to continue breathing. Mason stopped about ten feet
away.

  “Listen,” the man blurted, “I’m an agent with the US Secret Service. We’re here on official government business. You’re making a big—”

  “Are you Agent Sparks?”

  The man looked startled.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know everything I need to know about you. I know that during your search for Samantha Glass, you murdered the woman I love.”

  Bowie began circling around behind the man, growling.

  “Keep that dog away from me.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to let Bowie kill you. Now, get on your feet.”

  Agent Sparks pushed himself up and dusted off the knees of his pants.

  “Listen, we can work this out,” he began.

  A soldier suddenly stepped out from the cabin with an M4 pressed to his shoulder.

  “Hold it right there!” he shouted. “One move and you die.”

  Bowie immediately turned toward the soldier. The dog’s ears were folded flat, and his lips were curled in a menacing snarl.

  “Maybe,” Mason said, his finger tightening on the trigger of his own rifle, “but if you pull that trigger, we all die.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because,” Agent Sparks said, looking over his shoulder, “he’ll shoot me, and the dog will tear you to pieces.” He glanced back at Mason. “Do I have that about right?”

  Mason nodded. “And I wouldn’t count on those other two soldiers coming to your rescue either. I’m pretty sure they’re lying face down in the woods.”

  Sparks looked to the trees, searching for any sign of his men. There was none.

  “All right,” he said, “it seems you’ve got us at a bit of a disadvantage. The question is what do you want?”

  “Let’s start by you telling me who killed the doctor in Boone.”

  Sparks eyes darted toward the man in the doorway.

  Without warning, Mason lifted his M4 and shot the soldier in the face. The man dropped his weapon and stumbled out onto the porch. He fell down the steps and lay in the dirt, clutching his face, screaming.

  Bowie raced over, latched onto the back of his neck, and gave him a few quick shakes. The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started.

  For the first time, Agent Sparks noticed Mason’s badge.

  “Congratulations, Marshal, you’ve just murdered a federal agent.”

  “If his actions are those of our new government, I’ll kill every damn one of you.”

  Agent Sparks bit his lip and looked off toward the trees, weighing his chances at a possible escape.

  “You can run for it if you want,” Mason said calmly. “Really, go ahead. Bowie would enjoy the chase.”

  Hearing his name, Bowie looked over at them and barked.

  “Next question. Who are you working for?”

  Sparks glared at him. “I work for the Secret Service. I already told you that.”

  Mason squinted. “No, I think you’re like a rat hiding in the shitter. You figure it stinks so bad, no one’s going to notice you. Who’s really running you?”

  Sparks said nothing.

  An idea struck Mason.

  “It’s General Hood, isn’t it?”

  Sparks eyes betrayed him.

  “Ah,” said Mason, “it’s him again. It seems everywhere I go, that man is killing people I care about.”

  “Now that you’ve had your revenge,” said Sparks, “you’d be better served by letting me go.”

  Mason felt emotions swelling up inside him, and it took everything he had not to shoot the man.

  “Revenge?” he said through clenched teeth. “You think that’s what this is?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Mason stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of the M4 against Agent Sparks’ forehead.

  “I’m not a vengeful man, but I am a just one.”

  “And shooting me like this? That’s your idea of justice?”

  Mason tightened his finger on the trigger. He wanted to feel the gun buck in his hands, to see the man’s head reel back from the shot. But something inside him struggled against it. This was not his way.

  He stepped back and lowered his M4, and slid it around to hand across his back.

  Agent Sparks said, “We’re all just doing our part, Marshal. Surely, you understand that. If you let me go, I can deliver a message to General Hood.”

  Mason looked over at the man’s pistol, lying on the porch.

  “Go pick it up.”

  “I’m not going to have a gunfight with you.”

  “Then you’ll die a coward.”

  Sweat rolled down the side of Agent Sparks’ face.

  “That’s how it’s going to be?”

  Mason nodded.

  Agent Sparks walked over to the porch and slowly climbed the stairs. He bent over and carefully lifted the handgun with two fingers. Then, without warning, he swung it up and fired.

  The instant that Sparks’ hand swung up, Mason drew his Supergrade, sidestepped to the right, and fired a single shot. The bullet passed through the man’s mouth, splintering his front teeth before exiting through the base of his neck.

  Agent Sparks collapsed to the ground, choking on his own blood.

  Mason stepped up on the porch and stood over the man.

  “I think you might have been right,” he said, raising the pistol. “I am a vengeful man.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  After two days filled with all manner of crazy, Tanner and Samantha enjoyed a long day of driving with nothing more exciting than a roadside check by the Viral Defense Corps. By the time they entered the small town of Salamanca, New York, they were tired, but also elated at their progress.

  “I can hardly believe it,” she said, sitting forward in her seat. “We’ve had nearly a whole day without a single zombie, Backson, or bandit.”

  “The day’s not over yet,” he warned.

  Ignoring him, Samantha unfolded the note and read off the dead man’s address.

  “Do you see 112 Adams Street?”

  Keeping one eye on the road, Tanner attempted to study the map that was draped across the steering wheel.

  “Here it is, Adams Street,” he said, tapping the paper.

  She clapped her hands with excitement.

  “Let’s hope it was worth the drive,” he added, feeling a bit like the Man of La Mancha, traipsing off on a fool’s errand.

  “It will be. I’m sure of it.”

  They continued on Broad Street, the only significant road other than the expressway to skirt the southern edge of town. The west side of Broad Street sported several stores and restaurants, but from the number of ramshackle buildings and “For Rent” signs hanging in windows, it was clear that Salamanca had not been a vibrant, growing community, even before the pandemic.

  When Samantha saw the Seneca Iroquois National Museum on their left, she asked, “Are there actual Indians living here?”

  “There sure are. In fact, this whole area is part of the Allegany Reservation. I think the Seneca Nation of Indians own every square inch of it.”

  “Does that mean everyone who lives here is American Indian?”

  He shook his head. “Other people rent the land for businesses and such.”

  “I see. And that’s where the Indians get their money?”

  “Along with the casino and bingo parlor.”

  “Grownups play bingo?”

  “Some do.”

  “For money, right?”

  He nodded. “If you like, maybe we can stop on the way out and let you play a few cards.”

  “Really?” Her eyes grew wide.

  He grinned.

  “You’re pulling my leg,” she said. “The people running the bingo game are all dead.”

  “Maybe, but look on the bright side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’d probably win.”

&
nbsp; She rolled her eyes.

  “How come you know so much about this place, anyway?”