The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  The words touched him, and he glanced back at her.

  “Thanks Sam. That’s sweet.”

  “And if we happen to end up going in the other direction on account of all the people we’ve shot, you’ll be around to keep me safe there too. You’ll do that, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even against angry demons with pitchforks and flames shooting from their eyeballs?”

  “Most especially against them.” He had reached the top of the hill and looked around to get his bearings. “What’s with all the death talk anyway?”

  She hesitated, trying to decide how much to tell him. Tanner almost certainly wouldn’t take her premonition seriously. Still, warning him seemed like the right thing to do.

  “I think the world is going to try to kill you,” she said bluntly. “And soon.”

  “Darlin’, the world’s been trying to kill me since I was old enough to walk. It hasn’t been successful yet.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. I had a dream.”

  “What, like Martin Luther King?”

  “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Go on.”

  “Well, see, in this dream, we were at Malina’s house.”

  “The crazy voodoo woman?”

  Samantha nodded. “She said you were going to die, remember?”

  “Correction. She foretold of death in general, not necessarily mine. Besides, she was nothing more than a scheming old hag.”

  “I don’t know… She seemed to know things.”

  “Parlor tricks.”

  Samantha shrugged. “Either way, this dream keeps coming to me. In it, she’s reading your future and flips over the Death card. When I look around, there’s a skeleton with glowing green eyes and a sword, sneaking up behind you.”

  “How’s a skeleton going to carry a sword without any muscles?”

  “They’re magical.”

  “Magical skeletons?”

  “Of course,” she said, as if it should be obvious. “What other kind would have green eyes?”

  “Good point. Keep going.”

  “Not much else to tell, really. I wake up before it actually happens. But it’s clear that he’s going to…” She made a little stabbing motion. “You know, run you through.”

  “Then you’ve never actually seen him stab me?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, there you have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “It could be that he’s not going to stab me at all.”

  “Why else would the Skeleton of Death be sneaking up on you with a sword?”

  “Could be he needs directions.”

  Samantha stared at him. “Directions?”

  “Sure. Maybe he’s looking for someone else and wants to know if I’ve seen him. I’m very good with directions. You know that.”

  “You’re terrible with directions.”

  “Even so, he doesn’t know that.”

  Samantha shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Skeletons holding swords don’t make sense. Someone needing directions…” He shrugged. “That happens all the time.”

  Samantha’s mouth fell open, and Tanner couldn’t help but grin.

  “It was a dream, nothing more. Now, what do you say we go find some food?” He patted his thick stomach. “I, for one, am starving.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. But for the record, skeletons don’t ask for directions.”

  “Duly noted.” Without another word, he wheeled around and started walking.

  She hurried up beside him. “How far do you think we are from Fort Knox?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. Somehow it had managed not only to stay on his wrist but also survive the brief underwater swim.

  “Given that it’s nearly noon, we should basically be there. That assumes, of course, that the pilot knew where he was going.”

  “Speaking of the pilot,” she said, looking back in the direction of the submerged helicopter, “what do you think happened to him?”

  “Drowned.”

  “I know that. What I meant was why did he crash?”

  “Some kind of medical issue. Heart attack, maybe.”

  “Jeesh,” she said, shaking her head. “What are the chances of something like that happening to us?”

  “Doesn’t matter what the chances are. Things are either going to happen or they’re not. If they do, you fight your way through them, and if they don’t, you count your lucky stars.”

  As he topped a small ridge, he spotted a long sandy road leading out of the quarry. Without another word, Tanner headed for a metal gate at the end of the road, stomping the last bit of water from of his boots as he went.

  Samantha fell in beside him, scanning from side to side as she took in the enormity of the quarry. From north to south it probably spanned a mile, and from east to west, nearly half that.

  “I’ve never been to a quarry before. Have you?”

  “A few times. We had one down the road when I was a kid. Used to go there and poke around at night with a few friends.”

  “You had friends?” She sounded genuinely amazed.

  “Funny.”

  Samantha snickered. “Seriously, what were you like as a kid? Mean, I bet.”

  “Nope. A gentler soul never walked the earth.”

  She looked up at him. “Really? Then what happened?”

  “Are you suggesting that I’m no longer kind and loving?”

  “To me and Issa maybe, but you pretty much treat everyone else like they’re in need of a good pummeling.”

  He smiled. “Pummeling. I like that word.”

  She grinned. “I thought you might. So, what did happen? Did a bully pick on you at school or something?”

  “No one has ever picked on me.” It was a statement, not a boast.

  “Okay. Then did your karate teacher force you to fight people as part of your training?” Her eyes lit up as imagination kicked in. “Ooh, I bet that was it. You probably competed in tournaments on some tropical island, fighting other kids, or better yet, ninja robots.”

  “I’ve had many karate teachers, but none ever made me compete in a blood sport.”

  “Well, something made you…” she hunted for the right word. “Ratty.”

  “Ratty?”

  “Sorry, I used up all my creative juices on the robots. So, what was it?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do. Really.”

  He debated telling her the story. It bordered on being sappy, and sharing anything remotely sentimental with Samantha was inviting playful ridicule. It was one of the many things he liked about her.

  “I am who I am, at least in part, because of Kobo.”

  “Who?”

  “Not who—what. Kobo was a mountain gorilla.”

  “A what?”

  “A gorilla. You know, big and hairy with arms down to his knees.”

  “I know what a gorilla is. But how would he make you so mean? Surely, you didn’t have to fight him? Or did you?” Her eyes grew wide as she conjured up the image of Tanner facing off against a powerful mountain gorilla. Remarkably, it seemed like a fair fight.

  “Of course not. I used to go see Kobo at the zoo when I was a kid. Amazing animal, with arms as thick as light posts and a swagger matching that of Robert Conrad.”

  “What happened?”

  “He became the victim of our world’s righteous bullshit, that’s what.”

  Normally, Samantha would have chided Tanner for resorting to profanity, but the fire in his eyes told her that this was not the time.

  “Some poor excuse for a mother let her two-year-old run loose in the exhibit. Kids being the wily devils that they are, he managed to slip through the bars and slide down into Kobo’s pen.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “What did Kobo do?”

  “What any gorilla would do. Walked over, picked the boy up, and carried him around
like a ragdoll.”

  “I’ll bet that little boy was terrified.”

  “Of course he was. Even at his age, he seemed to understand that Kobo could pull his arms off or hurl him thirty feet in the air.”

  “Did the gorilla… hurt him?”

  Tanner shook his head. “No, and I don’t think he would have either. Eventually, Kobo would have lost interest, and rescuers could have simply scooped the boy up, no harm, no foul.”

  “But that didn’t happen?”

  Tanner’s face hardened. “No.”

  “They killed Kobo, didn’t they?”

  “Shot him right through the heart.” Tanner brought a hand up to his chest, as if imagining the gorilla’s pain.

  “That’s awful.”

  “Kobo sure thought so.”

  “Was the boy okay?”

  “Fine. Cried for a few minutes, then went to get some ice cream with his no-good mother.”

  Samantha took a moment to choose her words carefully. This was clearly something that mattered to Tanner, and she didn’t want to come off as insensitive.

  “I guess the rescuers did what they thought was right,” she said softly.

  “They did what was easy. It wasn’t Kobo’s fault that a kid decided to wriggle under the fence. He was killed for being exactly what he was supposed to be—strong and powerful.”

  “And that led you to want to be strong too? So you could show them that strong doesn’t have to mean dangerous?”

  “Exactly the opposite. I became what I am to show the world that strong does mean dangerous.”

  Samantha cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t get it. Isn’t that what got Kobo killed?”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not out to prove that they were wrong to kill him. Truth is, I don’t know that they were.”

  “What then?”

  The thick muscles in Tanner’s chest tightened.

  “I walk this earth to be what Kobo never had a chance to be.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I think Kobo would be proud.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. You make a great gorilla. You’re strong and smelly, and you snort like an ape when you get mad. Now that I think about it, it’s hard to tell the two of you apart.”

  Tanner stopped and turned. But instead of grumbling, he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Thanks Sam.”

  She smiled. “Don’t mention it.”

  Chapter 5

  The radio blared from the den like a tornado siren.

  “This is an emergency broadcast for Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. Come in, over.”

  Jack, Mason, and Jessie stopped eating and looked up from their plates. Before anyone could speak, the radio sounded again.

  “Mason, it’s me, Betsi. Come in, over.” There was a shrill of desperation to her voice.

  “It sounds like you’d better take that,” Jack said, pushing his chair away from the table.

  Mason stood and hurried down into the den, with Jack and Jessie following behind him. The radio had been left tuned to the frequency on which he had last spoken to the New Colony’s communications operator, Betsi Greene, two days earlier. The fact that Betsi was using his name over the air suggested that whatever was happening was serious enough that it warranted revealing her communication with a wanted criminal.

  Mason sat down on the stool and pressed the microphone button.

  “This is Mason. Go ahead.”

  “Oh, thank goodness! Marshal, we have a situation.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “General Carr was attacked this morning.”

  “Attacked? By who?”

  “Two men, apparently some kind of hit squad.”

  “Professional killers went after Carr?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Were they successful?” Mason knew that Carr had survived two wars, but all men could be brought down under the right circumstances.

  “Negative. The general survived, but he’s badly hurt.”

  “And the men?”

  “Both dead.”

  Good for him, thought Mason. “Any idea who sent them?”

  “Carr’s convinced that Oliver Locke was behind the attack.”

  Mason felt the pangs of guilt. The only reason Locke would have to kill General Carr was to keep him from telling Governor Stinson about his butchery at The Farm. But how could Locke have known that he had told Carr?

  Brooke.

  Mason had mentioned Carr’s involvement when they were escaping across the James River Bridge. It was before her betrayal, and she had seemed understandably concerned about who they might trust. Once again, she had betrayed him, and once again, it had nearly cost a man his life.

  “How’s the general doing?”

  “He’s in surgery right now. Broken arm and ribs, and an awful gash on his shoulder.”

  “Do they think he’ll make it?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason smiled. Carr was one tough old bird.

  “How can I help?”

  Mason was pretty sure he knew what was coming next. Betsi was going to say that the colony wanted him to go after Locke, and that would be one mission he would gladly accept. Who knows? Perhaps a full pardon for what happened with his men might be part of the deal. He waited for the pitch, quietly reminding himself not to sound too eager.

  “It’s The Farm. They’re under attack.”

  “What!”

  “They just radioed for help a few minutes ago. There are more than three hundred workers there, many of them good people just trying to make ends meet.”

  “Who’s attacking them?”

  “An army of infected. We don’t know how many.”

  “Why hasn’t the colony sent troops?”

  “Governor Stinson tried to send a small contingent to help evacuate, but the bridge over the Nansemond River has been taken out.”

  “Taken out? How?”

  “Explosives.”

  “The infected blew up the bridge into Smithfield?”

  “Affirmative. Stinson had the troops secure our side, but that’s as much as he’s willing to do.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. He could at least put a few gunships in the air, provide a little suppressive fire.”

  “He could, but he won’t. He’s using what happened to Carr as an excuse not to take action.” There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was little more than a whisper. “I think he learned about something going on there, something ugly, and he’s hoping this might make it disappear.”

  Now, that made sense. Rather than answer for the government’s shortcomings, Stinson was choosing to sweep it under the rug. No doubt, he was betting that with The Farm wiped out, no one would dig too deeply into what they had been doing. And he was probably right. They were not living in times that allowed thoughtful inquiry. If something didn’t directly contribute to the New Colony’s survival, it had to be let go. Food, water, heat, sex—these were the basic needs people chased. Everything else took a backseat.

  Mason leaned away from the radio and rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking. The situation was complicated, and he saw no obvious path forward. He certainly didn’t possess the ability to stop an army of infected from wiping out The Farm, and even if he did, why would he? Locke had tried to have him killed and, even in failing, had turned him into a fugitive.

  As if reading his mind, Betsi said, “Mason, you have to help them.”

  He said nothing.

  “Mason!”

  He sat forward and pressed the microphone button.

  “What would you have me do? I’m just one man.”

  “When has that ever stopped you? Please, those people need you.”

  “Even if I were so inclined, I’d never get there in time.”

  “So, find a way!” Her voice had risen to a squeal. There was more to this than she was letting on.

  “What’s going on, Betsi? Why’s this so personal?�
��

  There was a long pause.

  “My son. He’s there.”

  “At The Farm?”

  “Yes. He’s worked there for the past two months. We needed the money,” she said, as if needing to explain.

  “You never told me he worked there.”

  “I never had reason to. Mason, he’s only nineteen, a boy, really. You’ve got to help him. He’s all I have left in this world.” She was nearly sobbing now.

  Mason felt his stress level rising. Leaving a man behind was not in his nature, and as an old soldier herself, Betsi knew that as well as anyone.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Joseph, but everyone just calls him Shep. He’s nothing to them, but everything to me. Please, you’ve got to get him out of there.”

  “Even if I go, I can’t promise I’ll be able to save him.”

  Despite the disclaimer, she seemed to hear only that he would help.

  “Thank you, Mason. Thank you so much.”

  “Stay close to the radio. I may need you.”

  “I won’t leave this chair until I know he’s safe. You have my word.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  There was a pause.

  “Betsi?”

  “This might not be important, but Beebie’s missing. I’m afraid he may be heading that way, hoping to find you for a little payback.”

  Mason sighed. Some men just couldn’t let a little thing like being stabbed go.

  “Wonderful. Is that it?”

  “That’s it. And Mason?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please don’t get yourself or Bowie killed.”

  “I’ll do my best. Out here.”

  Mason took his hand off the microphone and slowly got to his feet. The situation was bad, bad as in going on a suicide mission to rescue Taliban terrorists kind of bad.

  He turned to face Jack. “I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “You haven’t heard the favor.”

  “Marshal, you saved my life not more than twenty-four hours ago. To say I owe you one would be a gross understatement.”

  Mason glanced through the window at the barn out back.

  “Does that old plane of yours still work?”

  “With a little sweet talk, it does.”

  “How quickly do you think you could get me over to Smithfield?”

  Jack thought for a moment. “It’s barely a thirty-mile flight. Assuming we can find a place to put down, you could be there inside of an hour.”