Frontier Justice - 01

by Arthur Bradley

Mason gestured for Bowie to come to him, and the dog immediately obeyed. He bent over and patted Bowie on his side.

  “That’s a good boy.” There could be no mixed messages. When it was time to fight, it was time to fight. “All I want to know is how you fit through that window.”

  Bowie looked up at him and licked the blood off his lips.

  Mason rolled the last body off the bed of his truck, watching as it tumbled down the steep mountain pass like an out-of-control skier. It settled several hundred feet below, not too far from the bodies of the other two men he had killed on the roadway. He rolled up the plastic sheeting that lined the bed into a tight bundle and secured it with a length of black paracord. He suspected that it might come in handy again one day.

  He sat down on the edge of his tailgate, and Bowie immediately flopped down beside him, taking up nearly half of the truck bed. With all three men dead, Mason had no way of knowing how they had found his cabin, where they were from, or whether they were part of a larger group. His best guess was that they had come from Boone, since it was the closest town, but it was nothing more than a guess. What was clear was that they were bad guys out doing bad things, and that was enough for him.

  He reached down and scratched the dog’s thick neck.

  “We got lucky this time.”

  Bowie’s hind leg bounced up and down with excitement from each scratch.

  “From here on out, we’re going to need to be more careful. Let’s start by making the cabin a bit less accessible. We can drag a few dead trees across the driveway and make the turnoff a bit harder to see by obscuring it with brush. Also, I’ll start parking the truck around back. That will help some, but the truth is we need to think about securing more than just the cabin.”

  Bowie raised his head and watched as squirrel ran up a nearby tree. When he was satisfied that it was outside his reach, he flopped back down on Mason’s lap. Unlike his newfound master, he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “We could turn this place into a fortress and try to ride things out until the government gets back on its feet,” Mason continued. “A good defense is sometimes enough, yes?”

  Bowie looked up at him and gave a short woof.

  While it sounded logical, Mason wasn’t entirely convinced. For one thing, the condition of the government was unclear. Some officials had almost certainly been sequestered in time. The broadcasts seemed to confirm as much. But when and how they would emerge to take charge was anyone’s guess. The lack of broadcasts on the police scanner suggested that law and order had broken down, at least in his immediate area. People were operating in survival mode with every person out for himself. The stability that had taken hundreds of years for the country to establish was destroyed in a few short weeks.

  The good news was that people were still alive; the human race hadn’t been wiped out. Decimated perhaps, but not exterminated. There were still people like Carl, Jules, and Father Paul, who were out there working to ensure that mankind would carry on. It made sense for Mason to do his part as well. He needed to help systematically establish the rule of law. That might be a tall feat, given the current demographics, but it was nonetheless necessary.

  Boone seemed a reasonable place to start. It sat too close to his cabin to allow it to remain lawless and violent. It would only be a matter of time before another group of men stumbled onto his retreat and either cleared it out while he was away, or, worse, cut his throat while he was asleep. Cleaning up Boone was an important step to ensuring his own security.

  Once Boone was safe, Mason could turn his attention to bigger challenges, including checking on his father in Talladega’s correctional facility and his mother in New York. He could also try to get word to the Marshal Training Center in Glynco that he was able to assist, assuming there was anyone there who even cared. Or anyone there at all.

  CHAPTER

  12

  Mason understood that his mission in Boone would require more than a single lawman riding in and doling out justice like he was at the O.K. Corral. He hoped to start with a quiet, unobtrusive survey of the situation. People who survived the pandemic would be frightened. Rolling in and haphazardly shooting lawbreakers on sight would only make matters worse.

  Before the outbreak, there had been roughly seventeen thousand people living in Boone. If Jack’s estimate was anywhere near correct, Mason might expect to find a thousand people still alive. Hopefully, that would be enough to establish a viable society that could sustain itself until the larger government got up and going. If not, they would suffer the same fate as many of the early settlers, the vast majority of which starved or died of disease.

  For the third time in less than a week, Mason spent the morning loading his truck with supplies. Once again, there was no guarantee that he would make it back to the cabin in a timely manner, so he packed plenty of extras, including food, water, fuel, and ammunition.

  He also added a double-magazine pouch to his belt. With eight rounds in each spare magazine and nine in his Supergrade, that would hopefully be enough for him to fight his way to his rifle. He loaded five magazines for the M4, each with thirty steel-tipped 5.56 mm rounds. While Mason had always been more proficient with a pistol than a rifle, he nevertheless appreciated that rifles put out far more firepower, and at longer ranges. He had told his students many times that the primary purpose of any pistol was to help them fight their way to a rifle or shotgun.

  When Mason got everything loaded and ready, he and Bowie set out on their trip to Boone. They drove all the way to Sugar Grove without encountering a single traveler. When he arrived at the convenience store where he had found Bowie, Mason spotted a white Toyota Corolla sitting in front of the fuel pumps. The driver’s side door was open, and a body was lying on the asphalt a few feet away.

  He slowed to get a better look. The corpse was that of a young man who couldn’t have been much older than twenty. His skull and face had been crushed, and the ridged impressions from a framing hammer were clearly visible on the bone. The man’s arms and legs were sticking out at awkward angles, stiff with rigor mortis.

  Mason stopped the truck, grabbed his rifle, and stepped out. He motioned for Bowie to follow. The dog immediately began smelling the ground, making its way to the Corolla. Mason followed, keeping an eye on the convenience store. The car’s backseat was filled with supplies—bags of cereal, jugs of water, blankets, and an assortment of clothing. The passenger seat had a yellow sweater draped across the back. There were two open bottles of water in the cup holders, along with a large open bag of beef jerky sitting on the center console. Whatever had happened to these people, it had occurred with little warning.

  Mason walked around the front of the car and felt the hood. It was cold. He turned to Bowie, who had his snout buried in the bag of jerky.

  “Hey.”

  Bowie looked up at him, a piece of beef jerky sticking out of his mouth.

  “Stay here and watch the truck.”

  Bowie took a quick look around, and, when he was satisfied they weren’t in any danger, turned his attention back to the food.

  Mason walked around the outside of the building looking for signs of what had happened to the missing woman. He didn’t find any. His best guess was that she might have been taken by the three men who had invaded his cabin the previous night. There was no way to know whether she was still alive, but, based on what he had overheard, it didn’t seem likely. He did a quick search of the store, but she wasn’t inside either.

  Mason didn’t want to leave when someone might need his help, but he resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t possibly right all the wrongs of the new world. He returned to his truck and whistled for Bowie. The dog came running, although, at its size, it looked more like a horse galloping in the derby. Bowie scrambled up into the cab of the truck as if fearing he might get left behind.

  They pulled out of the service station and back onto Highway 321. Mason glanced in his rearview mirror to take one final look at the abandoned car a
nd dead body. He suspected that it wouldn’t be the last time he would feel a sense of helplessness.

  Highway 321 changed names and became King Street at the edge of Boone. As were the other roads, King Street was cluttered with cars, many of which had been pushed to the shoulders and up onto sidewalks to allow a single lane of traffic to pass. Some of the cars were empty, but many were filled with swarms of blowflies that buzzed about like evil shadows trying to find a way out into the world. Both sides of the street were lined with a variety of shops that had once sold sporting goods, books, ice cream, and souvenirs. Mason had always found Boone to be a quaint place with the kind of charm only found in small towns that had a longstanding history behind them. In this case, the history revolved around the life of Daniel Boone.

  The street was not entirely deserted. A few people were searching through stores and cars, undoubtedly looking for supplies. Fortunately, no one seemed particularly dangerous. Mason wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, perhaps a cross between Dodge City and Fallujah. As it turned out, there was no overt violence anywhere. Not at the moment anyway. People were just out trying to meet their basic needs by good old- fashioned scavenging.

  Having been through Boone several times before, he knew that the town was only about three miles across. Much of it directly or indirectly supported the Appalachian State University and the Appalachian Regional Medical Center. He suspected that the medical center in particular might be useful. While he doubted that the hospital was still operating, there might at least be a valuable assortment of medicines and supplies, assuming they hadn’t already been pilfered.

  At the center of downtown was the Church of the Fallen Saints, a historical landmark that was over one-hundred-and-twenty years old. Mason had passed it at least a couple of dozen times in the past but had never gone inside. As he approached the church, he wasn’t surprised to see Father Paul’s Impala parked out front.

  Mason drove his truck up over the curb and onto the grass directly in front of the church. He and Bowie got out and surveyed the area. A woman and a young boy were across the street watching them with obvious concern. Mason waved. The woman put her arms around the boy, and they quickly ducked into the closest store. So much for small-town hospitality.

  Turning to the church, he gave the massive oak door a push. Despite its size, the door swung open with surprisingly little effort. Bowie pushed his way in and Mason followed. Things were not as he had expected. The smell of human decomposition was nearly overpowering, causing him to retch from the stink. While there were only a few bodies within sight, the floors and pews were covered in dried blood and cadaver island stains, which resulted from the release of fluids during decomposition. A lot of people had died in this building.

  Mason grabbed a hymnal and propped the front door open—anything to get a little fresh air circulating.

  An excited voice sounded from deep inside the church.

  “Marshal Raines!”

  Mason turned to see Father Paul hustling toward him. He was wearing a black union suit and elbow-length rubber gloves covered in blood and hair.

  “Good to see you, Father,” said Mason, his voice sounding a little nasal as he forced himself to breathe through only his mouth.

  “And you, my friend.” Father Paul worked off the long gloves and draped them over a nearby pew. “I had a feeling that you and I might cross paths again.”

  “It’s funny you should say that. I felt that way as well.”

  “I am often reminded that all things are connected like the strands of a spider web.”

  “Careful. You sound a lot like my dad, and he’s a devout Buddhist.”

  “Do you know the difference between a Buddhist and a Catholic?” the priest asked with a warm smile.

  “No.”

  “Nor do I. Whether we call it God’s divine plan or the world’s oneness, the results are the same.”

  Mason nodded, looking around the church.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’ll never get the smell of death out of this place.”

  “And yet, we try in all things.”

  “Indeed we do. In fact, that’s why I came to Boone.”

  Having checked out the ground floor, Bowie suddenly appeared from around the corner of a pew. Father Paul immediately backed away, mumbling some sort of prayer to act as a protective incantation.

  Mason said, “It’s all right, Father. Bowie is a friend.”

  The priest stopped retreating but couldn’t take his eyes off the dog.

  “That animal is a beast of war if I’ve ever seen one.”

  Bowie approached the priest, slowly and cautiously, obviously sensing the man’s fear. When he got close enough, he hopped up on his hind legs and placed his front paws on the priest’s shoulders. The dog’s head was a good six inches higher than Father Paul’s.

  The priest let out a shriek. He stopped when Bowie lowered his head and licked the man’s face with his huge tongue.

  “What in the world?” exclaimed the priest, wiping globs of slobber from his cheek. “How can a creature be so fearsome and yet filled with so much love?”

  “He’s just trying to find his way in this new world. A world in which violence and love are both needed.”

  Bowie nuzzled his snout against Father Paul’s neck and whined. The priest reluctantly put his arms around the beast and gave him an awkward pat. Bowie dropped back to the floor, circled the priest one time, and returned to stand beside Mason.

  Father Paul approached and put his hand on Mason’s shoulder. “My friend, I think you came to see me for a reason. How can I be of assistance?”

  Mason was still struggling to breathe with the awful stench and motioned for the priest to follow him to the open doorway.

  “I’d like to help the people of Boone get back on their feet. Specifically, I want to help them put in place a rule of law that is followed and enforced.”

  Father Paul rubbed his chin in thought.

  “To do that, we would first need to ensure that basic necessities are met. Without food and water, people will do what they must to survive. Unfortunately, that has meant taking things from others, sometimes at the point of a gun.”

  “Then we’ll start by setting up the necessary infrastructures.”

  “Besides the violence motivated by necessity, we also have a serious problem with a large gang of criminals.”

  “Convicts?”

  “That would be my guess. They certainly weren’t here before this crisis.”

  “Do you know how many?”

  “Thirty or forty, I’d guess. I’ve heard that their leader goes by the nickname of Rommel. Taken, I suppose, from the famous general in World War II.”

  Mason rolled his eyes.

  “Criminals and their nicknames.”

  “He’s reputed to be particularly ruthless, but what else would you expect.”

  “Then I’ll start with him. My experience is that, if you cut the head off the snake, it dies rather quickly.”

  “True, but these are hard men,” warned Father Paul. “None are going to cower at the sight of a single lawman.”

  “I’ve dealt with hard men most of my life.”

  Father Paul smiled a sad smile.

  “I believe you. And I also believe that you are exactly what this town needs. Why else would God have brought you to us?”

  “And here I thought it was my idea.”

  The priest patted him affectionately.

  “He works through each of us in different ways, but always with gentle nudges. The choices are ours to make.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “How do you plan to deal with these criminals?”

  “I’ll start by kicking the hornet’s nest and see what happens. In the end, blood will almost certainly be spilled. I want you to understand that going in.”

  “The hand of righteousness must sometimes be called to strike down evil. I have no illusions about that.”

  “I’ve found that violenc
e is never far behind me. The same has always been true for my father as well.”

  “Oh, is he a lawman too?”

  Mason thought a moment before shaking his head.

  “No, but I suppose he could have been. He’s as tough as nails to be sure. Unfortunately, he’s also an angry man, and that ultimately landed him behind bars. Given the president’s initiative, I’m not sure if he managed to find his way out of prison, or…if he didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I pray that he finds his way to peace, wherever he might be.”

  “I’m sure he would appreciate that.”

  Father Paul clapped his hands together.

  “There’s much work to be done. Are you willing to lend a hand?”

  “I am. I wondered if we might start by calling the townspeople together. Perhaps even bring them here?”

  “That’s an excellent idea. The Lord’s house is always an appropriate venue to bring hope to those who are suffering.”

  “Do you have any idea how we can get the word out?”

  Father Paul thought for a moment, and then a big smile came over his face.

  “Follow me.”

  The sound of church bells rang out over the town of Boone like the song of angels over a bloody battlefield. At first, people merely stared in the direction of the church, uncertain of what it could mean. Then, a few at a time, they came. Christians and atheists alike gathered their loved ones and sought solace in their community’s oldest establishment. Some were motivated by simple curiosity, most by faith and hope.

  After three hours of incessant ringing, the entire church was filled to capacity. There were easily three hundred people in the building and another hundred outside leaning in to listen through doors and opened windows. Those who gathered spanned every demographic element: old and young, mothers and fathers, wealthy and poor, black and white. They looked tired, dirty, and afraid, but they also shared an excitement, like miners who’d been freed from an underground grave.

  Even before Father Paul got up to speak, the huge room was buzzing with activity. People hugged, talked, and cried. When he finally walked up on the dais and raised his hands in the air, the priest looked like the ringmaster at a traveling circus.