Still sniffing the ground, Bowie headed off into the night. Mason followed along, warily eyeing the buildings as he went. The dog led them to a door that had been propped open with a small stone.
Mason stepped back and scanned the side of the giant metal building. The number “3” was painted in the upper right corner. They had arrived at their destination.
Bowie was growing more excited, and he tried to scratch the door the rest of the way open.
“Someone sure wants us in there. The question is why.” He moved up beside the door and pulled Bowie over next to him. “Wait until I say go.”
Using his boot, he pushed the door open.
Nothing happened. No gunshots. No cries for help. No evil villain drawling, “Good of you to join us, Mr. Raines.”
Instead, it opened into a vast room. A handful of overhead fluorescent lights had been left on, illuminating a long row of stainless basins and cutting boards that made up a sprawling assembly line. A roller-driven conveyer system stacked full of orange plastic tubs ran in front of operator stations obviously designed for meat processing. The conveyer belt originated through a large hole cut in the wall, no doubt where the livestock were first butchered into more manageable blocks of meat. Pushed along from station to station, the meat was cleaned and cut, finally arriving at a massive cooler that spanned the entire left side of the building.
Mason eyed the cooler’s door. It too had been left slightly ajar, and a cloud of cold mist wafted from within.
“Why is it I’m starting to feel like a pawn in someone’s little game?” he muttered.
Bowie’s eyes remained fixed on the cooler, but he made no move to leave Mason’s side.
The smart thing to do would have been to turn around and go back to bed. But curiosity tugged at Mason as sure as a rope tied to his waist, and he found himself walking toward the cooler door.
Bowie fell in behind him, either having lost the scent or simply having decided to let caution prevail.
Mason peeked inside the cooler. It was too dark to see much of anything. He tried his flashlight, but the cold white mist reflected the light like high beams in the fog.
“Stay here and watch the door,” he said in a hushed voice.
For once, Bowie didn’t fuss about being left behind. Apparently, he wasn’t too keen on exploring dark frosty meat lockers.
Without opening the door any further, Mason slipped inside, one hand resting on the Supergrade and the other holding the flashlight. A chill ran up his back, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was stepping into the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He took a few steps, and dark shapes that hung from the ceiling began to materialize in the mist. He reached out and touched the closest one, his fingers finding stiff frozen fur. The dog was a big yellow Labrador. Its head had been sawed off, and the carcass now hung from a heavy steel hook at the end of a long chain.
Mason continued ahead, pushing his way through the maze of animal carcasses. It occurred to him that it was probably best that Bowie had stayed outside. A room full of decapitated dogs hanging from hooks was something he would never be able to understand, and might cause him more than a few nightmares.
Pressing ever deeper, Mason gently bumped against the dead animals. Even in death, he thought, they sought a friendly touch. It was only as he brushed by a large carcass that he stopped, his hand outstretched. At first, he thought it must be a pig. But as it slowly swung around to face him, he stepped back in shock.
A frozen human cadaver hung from the hook. The head had been removed, but there was no hiding that it had once been a man. He had been cut from groin to sternum, the internals removed and the cavity washed.
Mason studied the body, confused and revolted by what he was seeing. The man’s skin was pocked from the virus, but that hadn’t been what killed him. Three neat holes about the size of Mason’s pinky were in line with his heart. Death by high-velocity lead poisoning.
He slowly walked around the body and narrowly missed bumping into another cadaver in the process. The second body was that of a woman. She too had been infected, and she too had been killed by gunfire.
“My God,” he muttered. Mason had seen his fair share of atrocities, even cannibalism once. But people butchered like cattle was a fresh low on his lack-of-humanity scale.
Bowie began barking, and Mason whirled around. He sprinted toward the door, pushing past carcasses like they were frozen piñatas. As he stepped clear of the cooler, he found Bowie standing with his back hunched and tail tucked.
Cash squared off with him, a hand resting on his CZ 75.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he demanded.
“Becoming a vegetarian,” Mason said, using his foot to push the cooler door shut behind him. Even though he knew them to be dead, it just felt better to have a latched door standing between him and an army of headless creatures.
Cash pulled a small white card from his waistband. It appeared identical to the one left under Mason’s door.
“Did you leave this for me?”
Mason pulled out his own card and held it up for Cash to see.
“Someone brought us both here.”
“Why the hell would they do that?”
Mason glanced back at the cooler.
“I suppose they brought me here to see that, and you here to catch me. I assume you know what’s inside.”
“Of course I do.”
Mason shook his head. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you’re not murdering people and using them as food.”
Cash stiffened. “We’re not murdering anyone. We’re cleaning up this planet, making it safer for everyone.”
“But they’re human beings.”
“Human beings? Are you kidding me? They’re fricking animals, no different than dogs or pigs.”
Mason had seen firsthand the brutality that the infected brought to the world. But he had also met others who managed to keep their humanity. To lump them all together as nothing more than inhuman monsters was as unfair as it was inaccurate.
“They’re not all like that. There are plenty who are just like you and me.”
Cash shrugged. “Better to clean them all up and let God sort them out.”
Mason forced out a breath. “You need to take me to see Locke. Right now.”
Cash let out a cruel laugh.
“You think Locke doesn’t know what’s going on here? Hell, he’s the one who sends us out on the meat runs.”
Images of Locke stabbing the boar came to Mason’s mind. No matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, he knew that Cash wasn’t lying. This was Locke’s enterprise in all its bloody glory.
“He may know, but the people eating this slop sure as hell don’t.”
“No, and they never will.” Cash’s hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. Similar in many ways to a Browning Hi-Power, the Czech-designed CZ 75 was an outstanding weapon, chambered in nine-millimeter and capable of carrying seventeen rounds. Cash had it stuffed into a quick-draw kydex holster, and it would take only an instant to get into play.
Bowie pulled his lips back and snarled.
“Don’t worry,” said Cash. “Once I deal with your master, I’ll plug a few holes in you too. Hell, if I do it right, folks will be having you both for Sunday dinner.”
Mason had always believed that there was a point in any confrontation when talking should end and action should begin. Clearly, they had reached that point.
“Say goodbye,” he said in a cold voice.
“To what?” snickered Cash.
“To every goddamn thing you hold dear.”
Mason’s hands were stiff from poking around the freezer, but his grip was true as he pulled the Supergrade from its holster.
Cash was also an experienced shooter, and as he drew the CZ 75, he simultaneously sidestepped to his right.
Mason fired first, but thanks to Cash’s evasive movement, the slug missed his heart, catching him instead in the left shoulder. Cash fired an instant later, but
he got greedy and went for a head shot, sending the bullet whistling by Mason’s ear.
Mason fired twice more, allowing the Supergrade to track Cash as he continued sidestepping. The first round tore a hole in his neck. The second split his ribcage before continuing on to rupture his spleen.
Cash struggled to bring his weapon back on target, but the pain and shock from his injuries were too great, and the pistol fell from his grip. He took a half-step back and collapsed onto the floor, blood bubbling from his nose. A moment later, he rolled onto his side and vomited thick chunks of partially digested boar meat.
Before Mason could finish him, Bowie charged in and clamped his powerful jaws around the man’s throat. Cash let out a short gasp and fell silent. Bowie shook him a couple of times before dropping his lifeless body onto the floor.
Mason knew that the gunshots would not go undetected, and he had a choice to make. He could either flee the scene or stay and deal with the aftermath. Both bore risks. With Bowie’s bloody paw prints all around the body, there would be no doubt about who was responsible for Cash’s death. Running would also imply guilt.
On the other hand, staying meant that he would either have to stand his ground or risk putting both him and Bowie at the mercy of a man who had proven himself capable of the worst kind of atrocity.
Bowie looked up at him, his eyes clear and steadfast.
Mason nodded. “All right, we’ll stand our ground.”
Chapter 11
Neither Tanner nor Samantha said a word about Malina or her mysterious cat for the next two hours. Instead, they focused on navigating their way southwest, toggling back and forth between Highways 321 and 411. They sped through Newport, Pigeon Forge, and Maryville, all of which passed without incident. It wasn’t until they turned north onto Highway 68, toward the town of Sweetwater, that Samantha finally seemed ready to talk.
“I saw Malina telling your future with those cards.”
“Yeah, so?”
“What’d she say?”
“Some gobbledygook about my not knowing something.”
“That’s sort of a given, isn’t it?”
“Exactly.”
“Anything else?”
He thought for a moment. “That my future will be filled with defeat and death. The usual sunshine and roses kind of stuff.”
“Really?” Samantha said, sitting up straight. “She said that?”
“It was typical gypsy hoodoo. Nothing more.”
“But what if it’s true?”
“Then I suppose we’ll see what’s what.”
“But—”
“No buts. We come into this world accepting that our days are numbered. And I’m not about to let some gypsy keep me from enjoying every last one of them.”
“I guess,” she said, biting her lip. “I just don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
“It won’t. And if it does, it won’t be because of some cards read by Voodoo Mama Juju.”
She giggled. “If you’re so sure she’s a fake, why’d you play along about her talking to my mom?”
“Because for thousands of years, men and women smarter than me have prayed to idols, chanted incantations, and cleansed away their sins in filthy rivers. We all want to believe there’s something out there, something more than what we can see and feel. Who am I to say with absolute certainty what’s real and what’s not?”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance that Malina might be real? That her cat might actually be able to talk to the dead?”
“I’m saying that folks should believe whatever they want to believe. It’s what made America great.”
“Believing in gypsies made America great?”
“No. Having the freedom to believe in gypsies, fairies, or one-eyed unicorns is what made us great.”
She furrowed her brow. “Why would a unicorn have only one eye?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he lost the other in a fight.”
“Unicorns don’t get into fights. They’re sweet creatures that carry maidens around.”
“Yours maybe. My unicorns carry knights into battle. I bet lots of them have eyes missing.”
Samantha let the subject of unicorns go and settled back against the seat, quietly mulling over what she should believe.
“I think I’ll believe that Babik talked to my mom.”
“Go right ahead. And I’ll believe that he was nothing more than a furball who liked fish.”
“Yeah,” she said, rubbing her chin, “but you’re also the guy who believes in one-eyed unicorns.” Before he could offer a suitable comeback, she sat forward and pointed out the front window. “What’s that?”
Tanner slowed the Power Wagon. The town of Sweetwater should have been dead ahead. Only it wasn’t. In its place were piles of rubble and deep craters. Dozens of explosions had opened the earth, hurtling rock and dirt into the air to flatten everything in their path. Other than the occasional twisted sign poking up through the field of rubble, nothing was recognizable. It was as if Godzilla and Mothra had decided to duke it out smack dab in the middle of Sweetwater.
“The town,” she said, her eyes wide. “It’s gone.”
Tanner stopped the truck and opened his door. He climbed into the bed and then up onto the roof of the cab. Samantha carefully followed after him. From the top of the truck they could see that the devastation stretched for nearly a mile along Highway 68. The bulk of Sweetwater lay to the east, and while much of it had suffered secondary damage, it had been spared from the worst of the blasts.
“It’s mostly along the highway,” she said. “The rest of the town looks sort of okay.”
“Yep.”
“What do you think happened?”
Tanner pointed to a collection of sandy brown HMMWVs sitting near what remained of the highway. Several of the vehicles had been tossed into the air, only to land on their sides or plunge down into the blast craters.
“Looks like a military convoy. My guess is it was some kind of accident.” He turned and hopped back down. “Come on. Let’s go take a look.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?”
“Probably, but we don’t have much of a choice. Watts Bar is twenty miles dead ahead.”
Samantha carefully lowered herself off the roof and climbed back inside the truck.
Tanner followed the highway until it became little more than thick slabs of buckled asphalt. He turned off the road and carefully steered over mounds of dirt and bricks, weaving his way around the rim of the first crater. They passed several HMMWVs and a deuce-and-a-half, all of them mangled with their windows shattered and wheels blown half-off.
“What kind of bomb could do this?” she asked, looking down into the earthy hole.
Tanner braked and pointed across the crater to a tractor-trailer balancing precariously on its rim. One side of the truck rested on firm ground, but the other dangled over the pit. On the back of the trailer were several racks filled with some sort of bombs or missiles.
“That kind,” he said, turning the wheel and starting in the direction of the tractor-trailer.
“What are you doing?” cried Samantha. “Those are bombs on the back!”
“Relax. I just want a look-see.”
She shook her head. “I think you’re determined to prove Malina right. Only problem is, you’re going to take me with you.”
Tanner grinned but said nothing more. When they got to within fifty feet of the tractor-trailer, he stopped and shut off the engine.
They climbed out of the Power Wagon and carefully approached. The cab of the big rig was empty, and the driver’s door had been left sitting open. A strip of uniform hung from a sharp corner along the door’s edge. Someone had gotten out in a hurry.
Before Samantha could tell him not to, Tanner scrambled up into the cab.
“Be careful! You’ll send the whole thing tumbling into the crater.”
“Nah. If anything, I’m keeping it from going over.” He picked up a folded map sitting on the seat. A r
oute was carefully marked between Holston Army Plant and Pope Army Airfield. It wasn’t clear, however, which was the origin and which the destination.
He checked the ignition. The keys were missing.
“No keys.”
“Good,” she said, crossing her arms.
He climbed back down and walked along the side whose wheels were still on hard ground. He ran his hands over one of the bombs like a man might a dancer’s thigh. It was about six feet in length and eight inches in diameter, and had collapsible fins running along its sides. He read the descriptor printed near the copper-colored tip. GBU-39. It meant nothing to him.
Samantha came closer and counted the bombs on the trailer. There were four racks of four.
“Why would the military leave behind sixteen bombs?”
“Maybe they had bigger worries.” Tanner took a few steps back and studied the rig. There was no way to recover it without a very large tow truck, and even that would have been risky. “All right,” he said, marching back toward the Power Wagon. “Let’s roll.”
Samantha stood, dumbfounded. “You’re going to leave them?”
“Of course. I don’t have a need for a truckload of bombs.”
“I know that, but I’m surprised you know that.”
“Wise beyond my years, darlin’—that’s what people say about me.”
“Believe me,” she muttered, trailing after him, “that’s not what they’re saying.”
Once they cleared Sweetwater, it was smooth sailing west along Highway 68 all the way over to the Watts Bar Dam. They passed a small service road on the left that led down to the dam itself, but Tanner continued up onto a two-lane elevated bridge running over the top. To their right lay Watts Bar Lake, a vast body of water that spanned nearly forty thousand acres. And to their left was Chickamauga Lake, a reservoir along the Tennessee River that stretched all the way down to Chattanooga. With the heavy rains of the past several months, the water on the Watts Bar side was easily seventy feet higher than that of the Chickamauga side.
“Explain something to me,” Samantha said, studying the dam. “How in the world would a boat get from one side to the other?”
Dark Days Page 13
