Frontier Justice - 01

by Arthur Bradley

  She shook her head. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t necessarily threaten the population. You’re reaching here, Lincoln.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not making myself clear. In time, the paranoia leads to horrible violent tendencies. Those who are most strongly affected become consumed with an overwhelming desire to kill.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that the people who survived the virus are going to try to murder the people who weren’t infected?”

  “Yes ma’am, it appears so. Not all at once, of course. Each person reacts differently, but on the whole, it’s … well, it’s quite serious. Before long, we’ll have a nation that is heavily infested with crazies, for lack of a better term.”

  President Glass closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Can’t we administer some form of cure for this madness?”

  “No, ma’am. There aren’t enough resources left to develop such a medicine, assuming that it could even be made.”

  “So, what then? We just let what’s left of our country be overrun by millions of violent, mentally deranged … whatever the hell they are?”

  The vice president moved even closer, hoping to circumvent any microphones that might be in the room.

  “We will need to take action to prevent this.”

  “And what do you propose?” She didn’t see where he was going but was certain she wasn’t going to like it.

  “I think we need to sort our population into those who were infected and those who were not. That way, we can keep them apart from one another, at least until we can develop a treatment for this disorder.”

  President Glass looked at him as if he had just grown antenna.

  “You’re proposing we set up internment camps?”

  “I wasn’t planning on using that term. But to be blunt, yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I’m proposing.”

  “To what end? What if we don’t find a cure to the paranoia? What then? Do we keep millions of Americans in camps until they die? What about their children? Are they suspect, too? Where does this end, Lincoln?”

  He sat back in his chair, considering her words.

  “I see your point, Madam President.”

  She smiled, finally feeling that she had gotten the better of a man she despised, if for no other reason than for his unshaken confidence.

  “Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right,” he continued. “I see it now. The internment camps would never work.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad that—”

  “There really is only one solution.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We have to finish what the virus couldn’t.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Mason spent the entire next day at his cabin. Not only did it give Bowie time to rehydrate and regain his strength, it also gave Mason time to connect with others on the ham radio. He talked at length with several people around the country. It seemed that things were essentially the same everywhere—people were dead, and structured society had all but disintegrated. The hardest hit areas were urban centers, where people lived in close proximity. By all reports, big cities were places of pure horror, the likes of which even the most gruesome zombie movies couldn’t portray.

  By mid-afternoon, he began picking up an official government radio broadcast. The message was transmitted on numerous shortwave frequencies and repeated every few hours. It started with the familiar Emergency Alert System tone, followed by a robotic voice issuing a simple announcement:

  Due the outbreak, of the Superpox-99 virus, the nation’s utilities have been disrupted. Citizens are encouraged to shelter in place for thirty days, or until, the virus has subsided in their area. The nation’s government remains committed to safeguarding the public. Distribution of critical supplies, including food, water, and medicine will, begin soon. Until that time, survivors are urged to band together to ensure their survival.

  In one sense, it was good news. It meant that some portion of the government was still functioning. On the other hand, it was as grave an announcement as the federal government would ever issue. It also seemed highly unlikely that they would be distributing supplies anytime soon, given the unprecedented loss of life. It was much more likely that the government currently had little, if any, control of the country.

  He assumed that the recommendation to shelter in place for thirty days was meant to give the virus time to kill off those who had already been infected. The problem was that most people had less than a week’s worth of food on hand and no stockpile of clean water. Broadcast or not, necessity would drive people to seek out essential supplies.

  Later in the day, Kate and Jack also signed on as had been previously agreed.

  “It’s good to hear your voices,” said Jack.

  “For me, too,” agreed Kate.

  “Does anyone have a pressing announcement?”

  “I’m assuming that you’ve both heard the government’s broadcast advising people to shelter in place,” said Jack.

  “Good advice but a bit late,” said Mason.

  “Do either of you believe what they said about food and water being distributed soon?” Kate sounded much better than when they had previously spoken.

  “Not a chance,” said Jack.

  “It seems like a stretch to me as well,” said Mason.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “I have been picking up rumors that the government is re-establishing at the outskirts of several large cities,” said Jack. “I heard Denver mentioned in particular.”

  “That’s good, right?” asked Kate. “If the government gets up and going, they’ll eventually provide some relief to those of us who survived. They have to; it’s their responsibility.”

  Mason wasn’t so sure. The nation was passing through uncharted waters. What would happen next was anyone’s guess.

  “Kate, my advice is not to depend on the government or anyone else coming to your aid. Given the size of the devastation, help is going to be very slow in coming, if it comes at all. Do either of you have an idea of the number of dead?”

  Jack was quick to answer.

  “I’ve been asking around, but no one knows for sure. Based on my small survey, and it’s definitely not scientific, I’d say that maybe one person out of every twenty or thirty is still alive. Some contracted and survived the virus. As you can imagine, they’re pretty messed up. Others of us just stayed away from it. And, finally, it seems that a few, including Kate and her son, were just flat out immune.”

  “My God,” said Kate. “Can that be right? Could there really be hundreds of millions of Americans dead?”

  “If you push those numbers to a global scale,” said Mason, “we’re talking about many billions.”

  “Take my estimates for what they’re worth. All I know for sure is what I see around me. The streets are littered with cars. Homes are quiet because no one is alive inside. Bodies are everywhere. That’s my reality. Are you two seeing something different?”

  “I haven’t been into any towns or cities yet, but I can confirm that the streets are as you say. Very few people alive here,” Mason said, thinking briefly of the encounters he had during his last outing.

  “I try not to go out much,” said Kate. “But, yes, you’re right. Almost everyone is dead around me. I do occasionally see a car go by on the road behind my house, but not more than once or twice a day. I haven’t had the courage to approach anyone.”

  Mason said, “Kate, you’re sheltering in place just as you should be. When things right themselves and it’s time to seek help, you’ll know it. For now, keep yourself and your boy safe.”

  “I’m not sure that I can continue to do that.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Jack.

  “My big need now is gasoline. I took the gas cans from my neighbors’ garages, but I’m almost out. Without gas, I won’t be able to run the generator, and, without the generator, I won’t be able to use the radio or anything else requ
iring electricity.”

  “Cars are all around you with fuel in their tanks. You just need to pump it out.”

  “How do I do that?” she asked. “With a siphon?”

  “As long as the gas can is lower than the gas tank, the siphon will work fine,” replied Jack. “The problem is that most cars have anti-siphon blocks. That makes it a bit tricky to get the hose down into the tank. Are you good with your hands?”

  “Uh, no. It took me nearly half a day to figure out how to drain my water heater.”

  Jack was slow in answering.

  “Marshal, you got any ideas?”

  “Kate, you should be able to retrieve fuel just like you did the water.”

  “Tell me.” Her voice sounded hopeful.

  “You’ll need to drain the fuel tanks of the cars in your neighborhood. If you look underneath a vehicle, you’ll see a large container located toward the rear. If you see hoses running out of it, you can disconnect or cut the lowest hose and drain the tank that way. If you can’t access the hoses, look for a flat drain plug on the very bottom of the tank. The drain cock can be pried out with a flathead screwdriver. If all else fails, use a sharp screwdriver and a hammer to puncture the tank at the lowest point. You’ll obviously need to be ready with a container that can be slid beneath the car and still hold a lot of liquid.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Would a child’s swimming pool work?”

  “Better than a roasting pan,” he said, laughing.

  “I’m sorry, what, Marshal?”

  “I said it sounds perfect.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. Please don’t give up on me. I’ll get stronger and more capable. I promise.”

  “Kate, I’m not going to give up on you. You and Jack are the closest things I have to friends in this entire world.”

  A deep rumble, like that of a large boat propeller sputtering through choppy waves, sounded from far away. Mason pushed it from his mind, dropping down once again into the dark abyss. Something wet touched his ear, and his eyes shot open.

  Bowie bumped him again with his giant nose. Mason sat up, straining to see through the darkness. Bowie turned to face the bedroom door, his growl growing louder and more menacing.

  Mason reached down and put his hand on the dog.

  “Shh,” he said.

  The dog quieted, but the growl still rumbled deep in its chest.

  Mason slid off the bed and grabbed his Supergrade from the night- stand. He approached the bedroom door, walking lightly on the balls of his feet. Bowie followed closely beside him, his claws clicking against the aged wooden floorboards. Mason paused and listened at the door. For several seconds, he heard nothing. Then, just as he thought Bowie had disturbed his sleep for nothing, there was a loud metallic clang that sounded like a large spoon falling off the counter.

  Mason told himself that it was probably just raccoons. He reached for the doorknob, but stayed his hand before turning it. He listened and waited.

  A sharp whisper sounded from the cabin’s main room.

  “Quiet!”

  Bowie turned to him as if to ask if he had heard it, too.

  Mason patted him and nodded.

  The door to the bedroom was made from two-inch thick, solid oak planks, more than enough to stop a pistol bullet or even shotgun pellets. A high-power rifle or shotgun slug might get through, but not without first losing much of its punch. As with most doors, however, the lock itself could easily be destroyed. Fortunately, in his experience, intruders tended to ignore locks and shoot for the center of doors instead.

  Mason considered his options. He could take cover in the bedroom. Even if they managed to breach the door, he would have a decent chance at pegging them in the doorway. The problem was that if he didn’t take them all out quickly, they’d use the walls of the cabin as cover, making for a prolonged gunfight. With only nine rounds in his Supergrade and no spare magazines in the bedroom, that scenario didn’t bode particularly well for him.

  Option two was to slip out the bedroom window and hide out in the tree line until they left or he could initiate a successful attack. The risk there would be that they might hear the heavy window slide open and try to intercept him around back. Also, there was the problem of leaving Bowie to fend for himself, something he was not prepared to do. Taking the dog with him wasn’t possible either because, even in his wildest dreams, he couldn’t imagine Bowie fitting through the small window.

  His mind made up, Mason quickly slipped on a pair of blue jeans, a black tee shirt, and his boots. He also secured his pistol in its holster, and double-checked the knife on his hip. He squatted down beside the dog.

  “I need you to make some noise.”

  Bowie stared at him and then turned back to look at the door.

  “That’s right,” he said. “Good boy. But wait until I’m ready.”

  The dog turned back to the door, its ears standing straight up.

  Mason moved to the window, unlatched it, and gave it a light tug upward. As he suspected, it was stuck. He looked back at Bowie.

  “Okay, boy, get ‘em!” He raised his voice with the last two words, and Bowie got the message. He charged to the door and began barking wildly.

  Mason jerked the window upward, and thankfully, it came free. The cool air spilled into the room like icy water into a submerged vehicle. He wasted no time, leaning out the window and falling forward. He hit the ground, rolled on one shoulder, and quickly scrambled to his feet. It wouldn’t have earned him many points in a gymnastics competition, but it did get him out and ready to fight very quickly.

  Mason ran around the cabin while keeping close to the wall to avoid setting off the flood lights. When he came to the front, he hopped over the railing onto the porch and peeked around the corner. Not fifteen feet from him was a man standing at the top of the stairs. He was holding an assault rifle at the ready, but his back was to Mason.

  A man with long dreadlocks charged out the cabin door, looking back the way he had come. The two men exchanged words, and the man with the rifle shoved him back toward the cabin. Dreadlocks reluctantly re-entered, pistol in hand.

  The man outside the cabin brought the rifle to his shoulder and watched intently at what was happening inside. Mason drew his knife and held it low, at the ready. Staying in the shadows for as long as possible, he charged across the porch.

  By the time the man saw Mason approaching, it was too late. He barreled into him, sending both of them down the stairs to slam into a large red Hummer that was parked out front. They bounced off the truck and fell to the ground.

  Landing on top, Mason thrust the knife up under the man’s rib cage. When it hit his backbone, he jerked it out and stabbed again. With the second blow, the man immediately grew limp, his arms falling away to his sides. Leaving the knife sticking out of him, Mason snatched up the rifle and rolled onto his back to face the cabin door. The door to the cabin was still open, but no one came out to check on the commotion.

  Taking a moment to examine the rifle, he saw that it was a cheap, Chinese-made AK-47, not something he was willing to let his life depend on. He tossed it aside and drew his Supergrade—not as much firepower but much more reliable. He waited another ten seconds, but no one came out of the cabin. Seeking a better fighting position, Mason stood and quietly advanced to one side of the door.

  From inside, he heard Dreadlocks say, “That damn bedroom door must be a foot thick. I don’t care what Ricky says. We’re not getting through it without a grenade.”

  “Let’s just take what we can and get the hell out of here,” said a second man. “I got a bad feeling about this place.”

  “Ricky thinks there might be a woman hiding in there. Remember how sweet that peach was from the Zippy Mart.”

  Both men laughed, the unmistakable sound of lust in their voices.

  “You know that Ricky will take her first,” said the second man. “He’ll probably hurt her a bit, too.”

  “Long as she’s still ki
cking, I’ll get mine.”

  Both men laughed again.

  Mason leaned around the doorframe just far enough to peer into the cabin. Dreadlocks was standing with his back toward Mason. The other man was facing him, but his view was mostly blocked by his partner. Both were carrying handguns and flashlights. The man further away was wearing either a down vest or some form of body armor.

  With just his hand and part of his face exposed, Mason raised the Supergrade and shot Dreadlocks in the hamstring. As Dreadlocks fell, the second man raised his pistol and blindly fired two rounds in Mason’s direction. One bullet splintered the top of the doorframe, and the other passed through the open doorway. Mason shot him twice in the groin and once through the left eye. He fell back against a small table, draping over it like a dirty rug.

  Dreadlocks screamed in agony, clutching his leg and rolling around on the floor. He still had his pistol in one hand, but his flashlight had fallen away.

  “Throw the gun away,” Mason ordered, taking aim at him.

  Dreadlocks rolled to his side to see who had shot him. He started to raise his pistol but decided against it.

  “Okay, okay. I’m throwing it,” he moaned. He tossed the gun several feet away. “Don’t shoot me again.”

  Keeping his pistol aimed at Dreadlocks, Mason stepped into the cabin. A shape suddenly rushed past him from outside. The giant creature descended on the prone man, tearing into him with horrible ferocity. Mason instinctively jumped back and raised his weapon. Only then did he see that it was Bowie.

  He moved to grab the dog, but stopped when he realized there was no point. Dreadlocks was already dead, his throat torn out with one powerful rip from Bowie’s massive jaws. Mason stood back, watching as the huge dog shook the man from side to side like he might a child’s doll. When Bowie was satisfied that the man was dead, he dropped the lifeless body to the floor. He turned back to look at Mason, the fur around his mouth wet with blood.