Frontier Justice - 01

by Arthur Bradley

  Mason’s thoughts turned to his own family. His father, Tanner Raines, had been incarcerated for more than four years for killing two men outside a bar in Montgomery, Alabama. There was no way to know whether he had he been freed as a result of the president’s directive or was lying dead in his cell. If Mason had to guess, he would put money on his father having found a way out of prison. Tanner Raines was not a man who would go quietly into the night. Indeed, when pushed, he could become as violent and unpredictable as a loan shark collecting unpaid debts.

  While Mason’s first reaction had been one of disbelief when he had heard what the president had done, he also appreciated it on a personal level. She had perhaps given his father a chance at survival. Considering the circumstances, that was as much as anyone could ask. Mason’s mother, Grace, was living with her sister in a small Amish community in Cattaraugus County, New York. Her isolated lifestyle, which had once been of some concern to him, was now rather reassuring. There was definitely a possibility that she had escaped the pandemic.

  The question was what to do first. On one hand, Mason felt an obligation to check on his family, and, on the other, he had a responsibility to see what remained of the Marshal Service. The Marshals, along with other law enforcement agencies, were surely in need of good men now more than ever. Before either effort could be undertaken, however, he needed to better assess his own predicament. Were things as bad as Kate and Jack had suggested? Was everyone in the neighboring towns dead or dying? Or had the isolated Blue Ridge communities somehow survived the pandemic? Unfortunately, the only way to answer those questions was to leave the safety of his retreat.

  Mason went to his bedroom and slid the heavy oak bed to one side. He used a screwdriver to remove several long wood screws that held two floorboards in place. Underneath were a gun case and a large green duffle bag. He lifted both out and placed them on the bed. For a moment, he stared at the case, running his fingertips along the top as if it was a photograph of a recently deceased family member. The time for such weapons had passed in his life, and he was reluctant to admit that such a need existed once again.

  He opened the case and removed the Colt M4 assault rifle. The weapon had been a gift from an old Army supply buddy whose life he had saved. It had been almost two years since he had secured the assault rifle under the floorboards of the cabin, but the weapon was still slick with a thick layer of grease. He held it up and looked down the fixed sights. Memories of combat played like an old home movie clicking along frame by frame, the images no longer real but, instead, snapshots of something that could never be completely forgotten.

  He pulled the charging handle, set the selector switch to semi-automatic, and squeezed the trigger. A familiar metallic click sounded. This was a weapon he trusted, a weapon that had saved his life on more than one occasion. He set the rifle beside him on the bed and untied the heavy drawstring that held the canvas bag closed. Inside were an assortment of cleaning supplies, a stack of thirty-round magazines, and more than a thousand rounds of ammunition. He removed and inspected each item.

  When the bag was finally empty, he opened the cleaning kit and went to work on getting the rifle ready for operation. Many things were still unknown, but one thing was for sure. The world had suddenly become a very dangerous place.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Tanner Raines lay on his small bunk, arms folded behind his head, staring at the iron bars of his cage. He could hear the sounds of prisoners shouting and banging things against their cell doors, desperate men struggling against the injustice of their reality. It had been two long days since guards had walked the white halls of the prison ward. Water was no longer running in the stainless toilets and faucets, and there hadn’t been any delivery of food, toilet paper, or mail. Electricity had also been lost, making for some very dark nights in cells illuminated only by moonlight spilling in through small Plexiglas windows.

  Having had plenty of time to watch TV before the crisis, Tanner knew good and well that the country had gone to pot. A virus was spreading faster than sightings of Elvis. Politicians had talked of freeing some of the prisoners in order to make it easier to care for those who remained. In Talladega, however, that plan had failed to materialize. Instead, the guard patrols became less frequent and then just stopped all together. It appeared that they had simply decided to let the prisoners rot in their cells.

  Despite stories of poncho rafts and ropes woven from toilet paper, it was nearly impossible to break out of a medium security prison like Talladega’s Federal Correctional Institution. Tanner’s cell door was made from hardened steel bars that could not be cut or damaged with anything in his six-by-eight cell. He had but one hope, and that was that someone would let him out. Short of that happening, he would die. He understood this truth and waited as calmly as his nerves would permit. Remaining still not only allowed him to conserve his considerable strength but also to work on an inner peace that he had struggled with most of his life.

  “In this world, people suffer,” he said, reciting the first of the Buddhist Four Noble Truths. “This doesn’t mean that I have to like it, only that I have to accept it.”

  After staring at the door most of the day, he began to doze off. Just as he was about to resign himself to being one day closer to his inevitable doom, he heard footsteps in the hallway. They were hurried and uneven, coming in quick shuffles followed by short pauses. He quickly got to his feet and moved to the door to look out. The man coming down the hall was wearing a blue guard’s uniform, but his shirt was pulled out and unbuttoned, as if he had just stumbled out of a pub. As he got closer, Tanner recognized him as Ray Foster.

  For a couple of years, Tanner had been teaching Kenpo Karate to Ray and three other guards. Not only did it lead to his receiving a few special perks from the guards, it also helped to keep his proficiency up, something that came in handy while in prison. Standing six-foot-four and weighing just over 250 pounds didn’t hurt either. Even at fifty-four years old, Tanner was a tremendously powerful man by anyone’s measure. Time, however, was every man’s enemy, and serving a fifteen-year sentence all but ensured that his art would be lost if he didn’t pass it on while in prison. The guards were quite receptive to being the student of a man who had proven the lethality of his style of self-defense on more than one occasion.

  At this point, however, Ray did not look well. His face was swollen, his eyes were laced with bloody cobwebs, and his clothing was soaked in sweat. Even though Ray was as close to a friend as he had, Tanner stepped back from the jail cell door.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I’m no good,” Ray mumbled, moving up to the bars and fumbling with a large ring of keys. “No good,” he repeated.

  When he found the right key, he held it up for Tanner to see.

  “Only you,” he said. “For what you did for me. No one else. Promise me.”

  Tanner said nothing.

  “I cleared the entire lower ward yesterday. Only non-violents there. But here …,” he shook his head. “We can’t let them out. Promise me.”

  “Okay, but they’ll die. And not in a good way. Long and slow from dehydration.”

  “The lives they chose,” he said, shrugging, before breaking into a long uncontrolled coughing fit.

  When he finally recovered, he inserted a key into the door lock and turned it hard until a loud clunk sounded. The door moved inward a few inches with the weight of his body resting against it.

  “Don’t touch anything I touch,” he said. “And don’t get too close either.”

  Tanner nodded. No chance of that.

  Ray turned and motioned for him to follow.

  They made it as far as the prison courtyard before running into trouble. Ray was shuffling across the courtyard toward the prison’s main gate, which was already propped open, when two men approached from the minimum security ward. One man carried a screwdriver and the other a three-foot length of pipe. From the twisted looks on their faces, they weren’t out to offe
r thanks to the innkeeper for a comfortable stay.

  “Hold up!” the man with the screwdriver shouted as he and his partner hurried to intercept them.

  When Ray saw them, he started to run, but, after only a few steps, he fell. He struggled to stand back up but quickly lost his resolve and collapsed on the asphalt.

  Tanner was deliberately ten or fifteen steps behind Ray, but it wasn’t difficult to hustle into the path of the two oncoming men. Both were wearing orange jumpsuits identical to his, but he didn’t recognize either man. When they came to within a few steps of Tanner, they stopped.

  The convict with the screwdriver took a step forward, pointing it at Ray.

  “He’s got it coming. We got no beef with you, big man, but if you don’t want some of the same, you’ll step aside.”

  Tanner moved his right foot slightly behind his left, a position he had taken many times when confronting angry men.

  “Let him be.”

  “They left us to rot in those cells, and for that, he’s going to bleed.”

  “You look free enough.”

  “After two days of nothing to drink but my own piss.”

  “And here I thought that was just a milk mustache.”

  Screwdriver’s cheeks turned a bright red, and he bit down hard on his lip.

  “You think you’re a funny man?”

  “Don Knotts was a funny man. I’m something else.”

  “Two of us and one of you. That gives us the advantage,” said Screwdriver. “Plus, we got weapons and you don’t.”

  The man with the pipe tapped it against his palm to emphasize the point.

  “Wrong on both counts,” Tanner said, tightening his hands into fists the size of sledge hammers.

  Ray moaned loudly, and all three men looked his way. Taking it as an opportunity to get the jump on Tanner, the first convict lunged forward with the screwdriver extended in front of him like a fencer might with an epee.

  Tanner brushed it aside and leaned into a powerful ridge hand strike across the man’s throat. The blow hit him with tremendous force, his head whipping back as his feet lifted six inches off the ground. He landed flat on his back with his head smacking the pavement with a wet squish.

  The man with the pipe looked from Tanner, to his partner, and then back to Tanner. His eyes were wide with fear.

  “Did …did you just kill him?”

  Tanner nudged the fallen man with his shoe. He didn’t move.

  “Could be.”

  The man took a step back, dropped his pipe, and ran.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Early the next morning, Mason repeated his ritual of securing the cabin and loading his truck with supplies. He intended to return by nightfall but packed enough food and water to last a full week, in case things took a turn for the worse. He also secured the M4 assault rifle to a floor-mounted rack in the cab of his pickup. If trouble found him, he could have a long gun in his hands within a few seconds. He continued to carry Marshal Tucker’s Supergrade on his hip, which he hoped one day to have the opportunity to return. Until then, he would use it for what it was intended. He was sure that Marshal Tucker would have wanted it that way.

  As he pulled away from the cabin that had been such a big part of his childhood, Mason couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever see it again. Nothing seemed certain anymore. What he did know was that it had saved his life by keeping him away from the virus, and, for that, he was thankful.

  A little more than a mile down the road, Mason came upon the old blue pickup that he had discovered the day before. He pulled up beside it and stepped out. The inside of the windows were covered in a thick layer of black blowflies, the adult relatives of the hundreds of thousands of maggots that were busy devouring the bodies within.

  Digging in his truck bed, he retrieved a few tools, two five-gallon gas cans, and a large roasting pan that he had brought from the cabin for one specific purpose. He lay down on his back and slid a few inches under the rear of the blue pickup.

  The smooth shape of the truck’s fuel tank was directly above him. He felt around until he found the flat drain cock at the base of the tank. Using a large flathead screwdriver, he pried the plug about halfway out. The fuel started to leak around the plug and onto his fingers. He quickly slid the pan under the drain to catch the gasoline.

  When the pan was nearly full, he pushed the plug in enough to stop the flow and poured the fuel from the pan into the gas can. He repeated the procedure until the two gas cans were completely full. It worked, although by the time he finished, he had spilled as much gasoline on his clothes and the ground as he had transferred into the cans. He would need to figure out something more efficient later. For now, he had a simple method of keeping his vehicle fueled.

  As he climbed back into his truck, Mason took one last look at the blue pickup. Thankfully, the three people within were spared from ever having to see the horror of the insect feast they had become. The world slowly took back all that it gave, and it was humbling to even the hardest of individuals to witness. He took a deep breath and turned his attention to the road.

  He saw his first signs of life less than three minutes later, as two men riding off-road motorcycles whipped around a sharp bend in the mountain road. They appeared so suddenly that he had to slam on the brakes and pull to one side to avoid hitting them. They sped past him, laughing and looking over their shoulders as they passed. Neither man was wearing a helmet, gloves, or any other motorcycle gear. Mason watched in the rear- view mirror to see if they would stop or continue on. After a few seconds, they motioned to one another and turned back in his direction.

  Not wanting to get caught sitting in his truck, he opened the door and stepped out onto the unpaved mountain road. Mason made sure that his badge and gun were clearly visible on his waist. He had been in enough confrontations to know that running put you at a disadvantage that was hard to overcome. If these two were looking for trouble, he would give it to them head on.

  The two men sped toward him, stopping when they got to within about twenty feet. They dismounted from the dirt bikes and walked in his direction slow and easy, like matadors approaching a toro bravo. Both wore dirty shirts, worn jeans, and work boots, none of which fit quite right. Neither man looked to have shaved or even taken a sponge bath in a couple of weeks.

  The larger of the two looked as if he could have worked as a bouncer at an Irish pub, his plaid shirt filled out with tight muscles and his face covered in a thick red beard. He carried a hunting knife at his side that was canted forward for quick access. His partner was a full head shorter, with distinctly Asian facial features. He had two black teardrops tattooed below his right eye, and, more important, a Glock pistol sticking out from a makeshift holster on his waistband.

  Mason nodded to them as they approached.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, keeping a watchful eye on their hands.

  They nodded and advanced to within a few steps. He saw a sudden nervous look pass between them as they spotted his badge.

  “Officer,” Red Beard said in a tone that sounded well practiced.

  “I’m a Deputy Marshal.”

  Red Beard smiled, his front teeth showing wide gaps between them as if he had used a woodworking rasp to floss.

  “Close enough.”

  “What can I do for you men?”

  “We were wondering if you might have any food or water,” said Teardrops. “The folks in Boone were none too kind, and we’re hungry enough to eat a horse, hooves and all.”

  “I’m out looking for supplies myself.”

  “There’s nothing you can spare?” Teardrops glanced over at Mason’s truck.

  He shook his head.

  “Sorry.”

  “You sure you’re not holding out on us?” asked Red Beard.

  Mason ignored the question.

  “What can you tell me about Boone?”

  Teardrops looked to Red Beard, and when he didn’t answer, said, “Boone’s the same as every
other place we’ve been. Homes and cars are filled with rotting bodies. The stink is somethin’ awful. It’s almost like the dead rose up from their graves.”

  “Who’s in charge down there?”

  “Not the law if that’s what you’re asking. Close as we can tell, it’s become a regular Wild West. People are killing one another for just about any reason.” His eyes narrowed. “Even for food and water.”

  Mason nodded, thoughtfully.

  “People do all kinds of stupid things. More often than not, it gets them killed.”

  Red Beard took a small step forward.

  “I guess that makes you the Lone Ranger.”

  “You mean Wyatt Earp.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Lone Ranger was a Texas Ranger. I’m a U.S. Marshal, like Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson.”

  Red Beard looked irritated.

  “My point was that you’re all alone now.”

  Mason shrugged. “Do you know how many men Wyatt Earp killed?”

  “What does that have—”

  “Some say ten. Others bring the count all the way up to thirty. Can you imagine that? One man killing thirty. I’d wager there’s a lesson in that somewhere.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I always took it to mean that a determined lawman will triumph over lowly cowards. Your takeaway might be a little different.”

  Red Beard’s face tightened, and he squinted his eyes.

  “I bet those same cowards eventually put him in the grave, though, didn’t they, Marshal?”

  “Not hardly. Wyatt Earp lived to the ripe old age of eighty. Now Bat Masterson—”

  “Listen,” said Red Beard raising his voice, “we don’t give a hoot about what happened to your cowboy buddies. We need food and water.”