“You haven’t said much, Coon.”
He looked up. “Sorry Marshal. Not much to say, I guess.”
Mason smiled and nodded. He had no idea how much he could trust Coon. What would he do if they came under fire? Could he operate with any sense of authority? Or would he be a renegade hillbilly who proved impossible to control or trust? While Mason appreciated every available hand, Coon instilled a nervous energy that wasn’t entirely welcome.
“The water’s on!” Father Paul shouted, clapping his wet hands together as he rushed into the cathedral.
Mason sat at a small table, cleaning his Supergrade, and Bowie was lying at his feet trying to nap the day away. At Father Paul’s sudden exclamation, both looked up.
“Throughout the whole city?”
“Should be,” he said, rubbing his wet hands against his face. “I’m going to take a long shower. It’ll be cold for sure, but still a shower. This is truly God’s work!”
“The work of God or a few hard-working townspeople, who’s to quibble,” Mason said under his breath.
Not hearing him, Father Paul turned and dashed back toward his room, already starting to pull the vestments over his head.
“Praise God!” he exclaimed, one final time as he disappeared around a corner.
Just as Mason finished reassembling his pistol, Chief Blue entered the church.
“You ready, Marshal?”
He worked the action a few times, reloaded the weapon with a full magazine of hollow-point rounds, and holstered it.
“Ready.” He looked down at Bowie. “You should probably stay here.”
Bowie rose to his front paws, his ears up straight. Even sitting on haunches, his head was well above Mason’s waist.
“I mean it,” he said. “If you come along, you’re only going to get yourself shot.”
The dog leaned over and pressed its head hard against Mason’s stomach. He reached down and scrubbed the dog’s neck.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chief Blue, Mason, and Bowie left the church and found the other three deputies leaning against their newly acquired police cruisers parked outside.
“Does everyone have their long guns?” asked Mason.
All three men nodded.
“I’ve got my deer rifle,” Coon added. “I trust it over any of those fancy assault rifles or shotguns we found in the police station.”
“Fair enough. I can appreciate the importance of knowing your weapons.”
Coon smiled, showing off his crooked front teeth.
Looking from one man to the next, Mason said, “For this to work today, we have to keep them off guard. If it ends up in a shootout, we’re going to lose, plain and simple. So, unless it all falls apart, keep your eyes open but your finger off the trigger.”
Everyone nodded, except for Coon, who saluted.
“Chief Blue and I will give you ten minutes to take your positions. Try not to get spotted.”
With a few final parting words, Don, Coon, and Vince left in a caravan of police cars heading east.
Mason retrieved his M4 and two spare thirty-round magazines from his pickup truck. He set the rifle in the rack in Chief Blue’s cruiser and both spare magazines on the seat between them.
“You ready?”
Chief Blue was sweating even though the temperature was barely in the sixties.
“I haven’t shot a man in nearly twenty years.”
“It shouldn’t come to that.”
“But it could.”
“Yes, it could.”
“I hope I don’t let you down, Marshal.”
Mason turned his gaze out the window.
“Don’t worry, Chief. We’ll get it done.”
The distance from the Church of the Fallen Saints to Boone’s Walmart was only about two miles. With the gridlock of abandoned cars, however, it took nearly half an hour. Chief Blue was a careful, methodical driver, and, as he drove, he pointed out various points in the town that had been of interest over the years. There was the famous donut shop that had won a contest for serving the best coffee in the state, the clock tower that hadn’t worked in more than twenty years, and the park that college students rolled with toilet paper after every sporting event, all of which were now completely irrelevant in a town that was just trying to stay alive.
Mason had Chief Blue stop the cruiser in a parking lot a block away from the Walmart. He didn’t want to roll up on a gang of armed convicts with nothing more to protect him than sheet metal doors and a glass windshield. He also had the chief turn on the cruiser’s lights and siren for a full minute before they exited the vehicle. This was about delivering a message, not starting a firefight—that is, if things went as planned.
Mason, Chief Blue, and Bowie approached the Walmart on foot, slow and steady, so as not to startle anyone. Sensing danger, Bowie twitched nervously with every sound or movement, like he was leading a big cat hunt in the African Serengeti.
When they were about a hundred yards out, Mason set his rifle and magazines down behind a car. This would be his retreat position that he would try to fight his way back to, if it came to that. When they were thirty yards from the store, he motioned for the chief to hang back. Chief Blue stopped and stood ready with his rifle in hand. Mason and Bowie continued on ahead.
The Walmart’s two public entrances had been smashed to the point where they were nothing more than twisted metal frames. Cars pinned several bodies against the building, as if store management had resorted to using greeters as human shields as their last line of defense.
Three men stood outside the store with rifles at the ready. As soon as they saw Mason approaching, one man turned and yelled something into the store. Within seconds, two other men stepped out through the broken doors. The first man was little more than skin and bones and was wearing a bright orange hunting vest that still had a price tag hanging from its collar. The other man looked like a supersoldier who had been cryogenically preserved since the last World War. His physique was strong and lean, and he wore military fatigues, dog tags, and an old metal helmet. A large revolver was holstered at his side.
Mason stepped forward like he might when meeting an enemy general for the purpose of negotiating their surrender.
“I’m assuming you’re the one they call Rommel?”
“Your reputation precedes you, boss,” said the emaciated man in the orange vest.
Mason cut his eyes at him.
“And you are?”
“I’m Slim.”
“Yes,” Mason said with a small laugh, “you most certainly are.”
The man snarled, and Mason turned back to face Rommel, who seemed to be studying him.
“You’re the lawman who killed my men last night.”
“That’s right.”
“That was pretty impressive. Did you have help from your chubby friend back there?” He gestured to where Chief Blue was standing.
“Just me and Bowie,” he said, looking down at the dog.
“You must be pretty good with that sidearm.”
“It’s probably better that you don’t find out.”
Rommel squared his shoulders and let his hands hang free at his sides.
“You know, I fancy myself a bit of a gunslinger. I wonder—” He stopped abruptly.
Mason had drawn his Supergrade and leveled it at Rommel before the self-styled gunslinger could even blink.
Rommel instinctively stepped back, his hand going to the butt of his pistol. The men behind him raised their weapons.
“I’ve known a few gunslingers,” Mason said, lowering and studying his weapon. “Most could put three bullets in their opponent’s chest before he even saw the draw.” He leisurely put the Supergrade back in its holster.
Rommel growled for the men behind him to lower their weapons.
“Why are you here, Marshal?”
“I came to deliver a message.”
“And what’s that?”
“The townspeople
of Boone are giving you twenty-four hours to clear out.”
Slim giggled and kicked his feet against the side of the car.
“They are, are they? Twenty-four whole hours? That’s mighty nice of them, isn’t it, Boss?”
Mason looked at his watch.
“To keep it simple, let’s make it tomorrow at noon. That way we won’t have any misunderstanding about the time.”
Rommel smiled. “Tomorrow at high noon. I like your style, Marshal. You got that whole cowboy lawman thing going for you.”
“Just know that I’m serious.”
“And if we don’t go?”
“Then I’ll come back, and we’ll have a very different kind of conversation.”
“You’re assuming that I’m even going to let you walk away from here.” He looked back at the men behind him. “One word and you and your chubby friend both die. Your ugly dog, too.”
“Go ahead.”
Rommel gave him a questioning look.
“Watch him, Boss,” warned Slim. “He’s slippery.”
“You’re not afraid of dying?” asked Rommel.
“Are you?”
“You’re fast, Marshal, but you’re a fool to think you’d get us all.”
“I only have to kill you, and that I know I can do. My deputies will shoot the rest.”
It took Rommel a moment to fully understand what Mason was implying. When it finally hit home, he turned his head and snarled at his men.
“Get out of the open, you dimwits. He’s got snipers.”
The men scrambled for cover, not sure of exactly which way the bullets might be coming. When Rommel turned back to face Mason, he found himself staring, for a second time, into the business end of the Supergrade.
“You have twenty-four hours,” Mason said, leaning forward until the muzzle of the weapon tapped against the helmet on his head.
Rommel’s jaw tightened. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Mason smiled and tapped the helmet again.
“Yes, you are.”
CHAPTER
18
Tanner and Samantha stayed inside the Mustang until early morning, neither of them willing to risk going back out into the dark, not even for a much-needed bathroom break. The dogs had left after an hour of incessant barking, but Tanner suspected they were never far away.
With the first rays of sunlight, both of them were eager to get out of the car and stretch their legs.
“Think the dogs will come back?” she asked, slipping on her backpack and adjusting the straps.
He looked around, yawning.
“I doubt it, but it wouldn’t hurt to find a weapon just in case. Help me look inside these cars. Someone’s bound to have a gun.”
They walked down the centerline of the highway peering into cars. After only a few minutes, Tanner saw a large shotgun sitting in the backseat of an old Buick. On the front seat were the remains of a middle-aged couple. The dead man’s arms were still wrapped around his wife’s corpse.
“Here,” he said.
Samantha came over and stood beside him. She peered into the window The bodies were in full decomposition, the soft tissue starting to fall away from the bones. Flies and maggots lined the entire front seat of the car.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Come on, it’s kind of touching.”
“Touching? There are maggots in that lady’s ear!”
Tanner laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I’m not standing anywhere near you if you open that door.”
“Suit yourself.”
She made it a point to count out ten large steps away from him.
“If you get stuck in there,” she called back to him, “I’m leaving you here. Just so you know.”
“Where’s my faithful kemosabe?”
“Way over here,” she said, pointing to the ground.
Tanner opened the Buick’s rear door and stepped back. Waves of buzzing blowflies swarmed out like bats emerging from their subterranean hideaway. When the black wave finally thinned, he held his breath and leaned inside the car. A Remington 870 Police Magnum shotgun, two boxes of triple-aught buckshot, and a case of bottled water lay on the back seat. He grabbed everything and carried it to the hood of a nearby car. Then he went back and closed the car door to prevent the smell from drawing the dogs.
When it was all done, Samantha walked slowly back over to him.
“It’s a good gun?”
He picked up the shotgun and looked it over.
“It’ll do.”
“Will it kill really big dogs?”
“With these shells, this thing will kill Superman.”
She nodded. “Good.”
He loaded the shotgun with four shells, shucked one into the chamber, and loaded a final fifth round.
“Now, let’s go find us a car.”
The I-285 loop around Atlanta proved to be utterly impassable to automobiles. Tens of thousands of cars jammed the freeway like Christmas shoppers pushing their way into a Black Friday giveaway. Tanner and Samantha were forced to leapfrog their way around the city, driving a vehicle until it became gridlocked and then switching to another. In the end, they spent more time on foot than in a car.
“Why do you think people didn’t just stay in their homes?” she asked, stepping over a small pool of blood as if it was nothing more than a puddle of rain.
“When people are scared, they run.”
“If I had to die, I’d rather be at home in bed.”
“Why?”
“At least I’d be comfortable.”
He nodded.
“You wouldn’t?”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Want to die at home?”
“Nah, too easy. You only get to go out once. Best make it count.”
“How then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in an arena with a whip and a shield in my hands.” He made a whipping motion with one hand.
“Like a gladiator?”
“At least I’d go down fighting.”
“You like violence too much.”
“That’s not true,” he said, his tone slightly defensive. “I have a tendency, not a taste, for violence. In fact, my religion teaches me to try to achieve a peaceful existence while helping others.”
She snickered. “You may need to go to church more often.”
He frowned at her, but it slowly melted into a smile.
“So, what religion are you?” she asked.
“I’m a Buddhist.”
“You’re not going to ask me for money like those guys in the airport, are you?”
“Wrong religion.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Buddhism teaches people to come to terms with, and perhaps reduce, the level of suffering in this world.”
She looked around. “This is a lot to come to terms with.”
“It is.”
“My mom says we’re Protestants. I think that means we argue too much, but I’m not really sure.”
The soft pat-pat-pat of a helicopter sounded in the distance. Both Tanner and Samantha stopped walking and searched the sky.
“You hear that?”
He nodded, spying the helicopter coming their direction.
“We should wave them down,” she said.
“It’s probably a military chopper. They won’t land for us.”
“They will.”
He looked at her.
“Why would they land?”
She didn’t answer.
“The same reason you were crawling out of a Blackhawk when I found you?”
Still she didn’t say anything.
The helicopter came closer and closer, finally circling and landing about fifty yards away. Two men hopped out, one wearing military fatigues and the other a simple black suit and tie. The pilot remained in the helicopter with the engine running. As the two men approached, Tanner took a step forward, partially blocking Samantha from their view.
The man in t
he suit walked up and offered his hand.
“Agent John Sparks, Secret Service.”
Tanner shook his hand but didn’t offer his own name.
The soldier eyed Tanner suspiciously but said nothing. He had an M4 carbine resting against his chest on a single-point sling. His finger was off the trigger, but at the ready.
Agent Sparks leaned around and looked at Samantha.
“Is that you, Sam?”
She stepped around so that he could see her more clearly.
“Do I know you?”
“I’m John. It’s my job to protect you. Just like Oscar. You remember Oscar?”
“Of course I remember Oscar.” She felt her head. “Does it look like I suffered brain damage?”
He smiled a big toothy smile.
“Of course not, dear. You look great. Who’s your friend here?”
“This is Tanner. They let him out of prison. But don’t worry. He’s a Buddhist.”
“Is he now?” he said, looking at Tanner.
“He’s taking me to my mother.”
“I see. Has … has he hurt you, Samantha? Touched you, maybe?”
Tanner stepped forward and hit Agent Sparks squarely on the jaw. The man stumbled to his right, like a drunk with a few too many in him, and then toppled over.
“I don’t believe I like you,” said Tanner.
The soldier tightened his grip on his weapon and stepped back, looking to the agent for orders.
Agent Sparks sat on the ground, wiggling a loose tooth. He tipped his head to the side and let a large mouthful of blood drip out.
“If he moves, shoot him.”
When the soldier turned back and started to raise his weapon, he found himself staring down the barrel of Tanner’s Police Magnum.
“Think about it.”
The soldier lowered his rifle and took his hand off the grip, letting the weapon hang freely in front of him.
“You’ll pay for that,” growled Agent Sparks.
“My mother used to tell me to think before I opened my mouth. Yours should have done the same.”
The agent slowly got to his feet, nearly falling once in the process.
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