“Darlin’, means are all that ever really matter.”
CHAPTER
9
General Hood stood at attention, staring straight ahead, his thick frame filling out the tightly pressed uniform. He might have been mistaken for a Terracotta Warrior had it not been for the thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead and the Colt .45 hanging on his waist.
“We have a problem, Mr. President.”
President Pike walked over and slowly closed the door to his office. His movement was calm but deliberate, telling any who might be paying attention that this was just another government matter: nothing to see here, move along. Yumi sat in his chair with her feet up on his desk, her skirt riding up her silky thighs.
“What kind of problem?” he asked, unable to take his eyes off Yumi’s legs.
“I received a message this morning from Lenny Bruce, a message that I would classify as threatening.” When Pike failed to respond, the general continued. “If you recall, Lenny is the leader of Fresh Start, a community rebuilding in Lexington.”
Pike nodded, transfixed as Yumi slowly slid her skirt higher and higher.
“Sir,” Hood said a little louder, “Lenny’s the man we made a deal with regarding the rifles taken from Glynco. He’s going to be a problem.”
Pike forced himself to turn away from Yumi, and she giggled.
“Oh fine,” she said. “Talk to the general. You obviously love him more anyway.”
Pike cut his eyes at her, and she giggled again.
“What kind of problem?” he asked.
“The kind that could expose our plans to destabilize the previous administration, not to mention our involvement in the killing of hundreds of US Marshals.”
The president turned to him.
“Yes, sir,” said Hood. “That kind of problem.”
“How could he know all this?”
“I suppose he pieced most of it together. Lenny’s a clever man. He started asking questions and didn’t stop until he figured out what was what. He now believes that we were behind the attack at Glynco and that we intended to have him use the stolen weapons to remove President Glass from office.”
“That’s a hell of a lot of piecing together.”
“Maybe so, but how he got to where he is doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he’s right, and if his allegations are made public, something could stick to us.”
“This one’s easy,” said Yumi. “Get rid of Lenny, and you’ve gotten rid of the problem.”
“Can we get rid of him?” asked Pike.
“Sir, Lenny’s a sewer rat. His entire life he’s been dodging people trying to kill him.”
“You’re saying he would be hard to get to.”
“I’m saying he would be damn near impossible to get to. He’s surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, of loyal followers.”
“Okay, so we send in a few gunships and blow them all to hell and back. I’m the president, remember?”
“I wish it were that easy. Lenny knew he would become a target, so he’s already gone underground. We’re sure he’s in Lexington, but no one we have operating in the area seems to know exactly where.”
“All right, so pay the SOB off. What could it possibly cost?”
“Sir, you don’t understand. Lenny’s worse than an SOB. He’s a true believer. He’s convinced that the country has been given a second chance to build a more puritanical society.”
“With him serving as the Grand Poobah indoctrinating all the young virgins, no doubt,” sneered Yumi.
“If he only wants to harm us,” asked Pike, “why tip his hand and come forward with a threat?”
“That’s the damnedest part of it all,” Hood said with a nervous laugh. “Apparently, he wanted to give us a chance to come clean. To throw ourselves on our own swords, as it were.”
Pike thought for a moment.
“What if we let the bastard go public? What harm would it really cause?”
General Hood stepped a little closer.
“Sir, I don’t think you fully appreciate the… the delicacy of the situation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your relationship with President Glass’s murderer was not as secret as you might have believed.”
“Uh-oh,” Yumi said, playfully.
President Pike stepped away from Hood, surprised by the revelation.
“Who knew?”
The general shrugged. “I knew. Others surely did as well.”
“What are you saying? That I asked Yumi to kill her?”
“No, sir, I’m not saying that at all. But if someone were to come forward with allegations about your intentions to undermine President Glass, coupled with rumors of a relationship with her killer… well, it could lead to complications.”
“I had nothing to do with her murder.”
“That’s true,” Yumi said, raising her hand. “That one was on me.”
“Even so, you wouldn’t be the first man to be hanged for a crime he didn’t commit.”
Pike shooed Yumi out of his chair and flopped down. She moved around to stand behind him, her hands running through his hair.
“You need to do something,” she said. “General Hood is right. Lenny could ruin everything.”
“We need to do something,” said Pike.
General Hood nodded. “Yes, sir, but what?”
“We could drop a couple of those sarin bombs. They certainly did the trick in Glynco.”
Hood shook his head. “The area is too large. Besides, knowing what he does, Lenny’s almost certainly prepared for such an attack.”
“What then? Give me something.”
The general stood at attention, saying nothing as he pondered options.
Yumi whispered in Pike’s ear.
“You’re the president, my love. Do something decisive. Make me proud of you.”
President Pike closed his eyes, feeling the damp heat of Yumi’s breath on his ear. She was right. She was always right. An idea came to him. It was horrible, unforgivable even. And yet, it was perfect.
“General, I have an idea. But once again, I’m going to need your help with its execution.”
“Anything, Mr. President. You should know by now that I’m with you to the very end.”
CHAPTER
10
For lack of anything better to drive, Mason opted to return to Elizabethton in the garbage truck. The windshield was missing, but it was safe enough for traveling the few miles back into town. Bowie sat beside him, and Connie pressed herself against the far door to avoid the dog’s ever-wandering tongue. Even limiting their speed to twenty miles an hour, the warm morning air ruffled hair and brought in the occasional bug, which Bowie couldn’t resist snapping at.
Mason’s first stop was the Blue Ridge Trash Disposal Center, not to return the garbage truck but to retrieve his M4 rifle. Unfortunately, it had been run over when he fled the previous night, and the barrel was bent beyond repair. He ejected the magazine and cycled the bolt to recover the final bullet. In a world where manufacturing was extinct, he couldn’t afford to waste anything. He gently set the weapon on the floorboard, intending to repair it at his earliest opportunity. Swapping barrels on an M4 was not particularly difficult, and there were surely hundreds of thousands of the weapons still clutched in the hands of dead soldiers.
“Was that yours?” asked Connie.
“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, climbing back up into the truck.
“I guess you ran over it, huh?”
“That or a herd of elephants came through here last night.”
“From the way you handled it, I’m assuming it had some special significance.”
“It was a gift from an old friend.”
“At least you still have your handgun.”
He smiled, appreciating her concern.
“I imagine they’ll bury me with this pistol,” he said, patting the Supe
rgrade.
She glanced down at the weapon, wondering what could possibly be so special about a two-pound hunk of machined steel.
“Guns have always been a part of your life, haven’t they?”
“I suppose. My father taught me to shoot when I was a boy. Later, I went on to be a soldier and then a lawman.”
“My mother always hated guns. She said they made it too easy for someone to take a life.”
“That’s ironic, given her actions, don’t you think?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Momma didn’t have anything against killing. She just believed that it should be done looking into a person’s eyes.”
“I see.”
An idea struck her. “Would you be willing to teach me how to shoot?”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “A girl should know how to shoot, especially nowadays. Don’t you think?”
He didn’t see any reason to disagree.
“All right. Next time we make a pit stop, I’ll show you the basics.”
She folded her arms, satisfied.
Mason proceeded down the road a few hundred feet until they arrived at the CVS store. He was relieved to see his truck parked where he had left it. With hundreds of other cars lining the street, the infected hadn’t found a particular reason to notice his.
Keeping a watchful eye on the store, the three of them quickly transferred to the F-150. With the engine running, Mason dug through his supplies and retrieved the Steyr Aug A3 that he had taken off Nakai, the mercenary who had perpetrated the gas attack on Glynco.
“You’ve got another rifle?” she said, a note of surprise in her voice.
“It was a trophy of sorts.”
“Then why bother with the broken one? That one looks like a perfectly fine weapon.”
“The Aug is a perfectly fine weapon—compact, reliable, and easy to handle.” He locked the bolt and did a quick visual inspection. “But it’s not a Colt M4. The trigger’s mushy, and with a sixteen-inch barrel and the compact design, it’s primarily for close quarters combat.” What he didn’t tell her was that he only had a single magazine for the weapon, which meant that he was never more than thirty rounds away from being out of the fight.
“But it’ll do?”
“Yeah,” he said, securing the Aug in the gun rack, “it’ll do.”
As they eased out of the parking lot, Connie rubbed her hands together.
“We should make it to Ashland today.”
Mason said nothing as he stared out the window at a world coming apart at every seam. She certainly had more confidence than he that anyone could travel two hundred and thirty miles without one of those seams ripping wide open.
They drove for the rest of the morning without stopping, never getting much over thirty miles an hour. The roads were all passable, but much like a soldier looking for improvised explosive devices, Mason could never quite shake the feeling that threats lay hidden behind every car lining the shoulder. Bowie, on the other hand, felt no such worry and was snoring loudly on the seat beside him.
As they approached Kingsport on Highway 23, Connie pointed to a colorful billboard showing an elephant wearing a tasseled red hat, announcing that the Annual Shriners’ Carnival would be at the Appalachian Fairgrounds for two short weeks. The distinctive shape of a Ferris wheel still towered in the distance, suggesting that, even though those weeks had come and gone, the carnival had remained.
“Do you think we could make a quick stop?” she asked.
“You’re not going to get to ride the Ferris wheel, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I know that,” she said, laughing. “I figured they’d have a few porta-potties and maybe a shooting gallery. It might be a good way for me to learn to shoot.”
Mason didn’t bother pointing out that the entire world was now essentially a shooting gallery.
“Okay, but we’ll need to hurry,” he said, pointing to a wall of dark clouds. “There’s a storm coming.”
She nodded. “It won’t take long. I promise.”
He exited onto Gray Station Road, using the Ferris wheel to guide him in. The carnival ended up being less than a quarter of a mile from the exit and had been set up in a large dirt field, surrounded by a chain link fence. Mason followed the fence line around until he came to the entrance.
A small brick building sat beside the gate, probably used as a basic security post to keep people from bringing in alcohol or weapons. The door to the building had been kicked in, and it looked empty inside. Beyond the gate stood the lure of popcorn stands, games, and other amusements, soiled only by the drink cups and wrappers blowing across the fairgrounds.
Mason and Connie climbed out of the truck and walked over to inspect the gate. It was chained and padlocked, but the top edge was bent over, making for an easy climb. Bowie raised his head and looked out the open window, but he seemed reluctant to give up his early afternoon nap. Looking at the gate and then back at the hundred-and-twenty-pound dog, Mason motioned for him to stay put. Getting Bowie over the top was all but asking for a hernia.
Bowie yawned and dropped back out of sight.
Mason quickly scaled the gate and dropped down on the other side.
Connie hesitated, looking beyond him at the vacant park.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Is there a problem?”
“I don’t know. It just feels kind of weird.”
“We can go somewhere else if you like.”
“Nah, it’ll be okay. Those porta-potties are really calling to me.” She carefully pulled herself over the fence, using his outstretched hand for support.
They walked past a ticket booth decorated with red, white, and blue streamers, obviously designed to convey the notion that carnivals were as American as apple pie. Never mind the opportunistic conmen, rickety rides, and smell of elephant dung. This was about more than childhood fun; it was about national pride.
Even though the place had likely been abandoned for weeks, there was still the unmistakable odor of popcorn in the air. The fair itself was understandably dark and still, the silence broken only by an occasional creak of a ride settling or the flap of a tent blowing. And without the chimes of bells or joyful revelry of children running between rides, the entire setting seemed staged and artificial.
Connie inched closer and hooked her arm around his.
“Do you get the feeling that we’ve stepped into a bad dream?”
“Definitely a little creepy,” he said.
They approached a row of blue plastic porta-potties. One of the small buildings had been tipped over, and the smell of sewage was so pungent that Mason’s eyes began to water.
He checked the unit furthest from the spill. It was empty and looked to be fairly clean.
“Are you going to be okay in there?”
“I think I can manage,” she said with a smile. “But don’t go far.”
He nodded.
After Connie went inside, Mason stepped around a large concession stand and relieved himself. Strategically, he couldn’t justify confining himself to a small outhouse, unable to see anyone who might approach. Men had been peeing on bushes and in alleys since they had learned to stand upright, and he saw no reason to buck the trend.
When he was finished, he took a quick peek back around the corner. Connie wasn’t out yet.
“I’ll be back in a minute!” he hollered in her direction.
She didn’t answer.
He turned and walked a short distance, surveying the huge fairground. It was obviously designed to support all types of activities, everything from carnivals and rodeos to Independence Day fireworks. A series of long tin buildings resembling chicken houses were at the back of the property, probably storing bleachers, chairs, tents, and other fairground supplies.
The carnival itself had been set up in the center of a large dirt field. The main attractions were the Ferris wheel, which looked a little wobbly fo
r anyone old enough to shave, and an antique carousel with hand-painted horses. Even though the motorized merry-go-round wasn’t working anymore, he thought that Connie might like to see it. Sexist or not, every woman he had ever known liked carousels, and this might be her last chance to see one for a while.
He walked back around to the porta-potties and was surprised to find that Connie was still not out. It had been nearly five minutes, and he seriously doubted that she was doing her makeup inside a portable john. He put one hand on the Supergrade and bumped the porta potty with the other. The thin plastic door swung open, held shut only by a loose spring.
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