The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  French stood in front of the truck, watching the forest with his rifle ready. Two other men pushed on the front bumper while the fourth ground the gears as they tried to wrest it free of the tangled fence.

  Mason stepped out from the tree line and waved, hoping to get French’s attention rather than draw his fire. French studied him and then motioned for him to advance.

  Bending at the waist, Mason jogged across the short open field with Bowie running alongside him. When French realized who it was, his eyes widened in surprise.

  “Bad time for a visit, Marshal. We’re under attack.” He bent over and gave Bowie a good scrub under the chin.

  “The ones hitting the gate are just scouts,” warned Mason. “The whole army is en route.”

  French straightened. “What kind of ETA are we talking about?”

  “Twenty minutes, tops.”

  “Shit! We’re having a hard enough time holding these bastards off.”

  “This place isn’t defendable. Everyone needs to get out while they still can.”

  French glanced over his shoulder at the main Smithfield Foods building.

  “Locke will have to be the one to make that call.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him to do the right thing. I’m assuming you’ve heard the charges he’s levied against me?”

  “I did, and for what it’s worth, I know it’s complete bullshit.”

  Mason nodded his thanks. “I’m looking for a young man named Joseph Greene. Folks call him Shep. Do you know him?”

  French shook his head. “Is he with security?”

  “A plant worker, I think.”

  “Most of those folks are huddled over in Building 3. Locke wouldn’t let them leave.”

  “Bastard.”

  He shrugged. “The man is who he is.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m not letting him take that young man down with him.” Mason started past French, and one of the men pushing the truck turned and stepped in his way.

  “I can’t let you go in.” He looked over at French. “Not without the okay.”

  French stepped closer. “Let me take you to see Locke. Maybe you can convince him that we need to get out of here. In turn, I’ll help you find this Joseph Greene. What do you say?”

  The thought of talking to Locke made Mason’s stomach turn. But if he were being completely honest, it wasn’t Locke that he was dreading.

  It was Brooke.

  “Fine. But we need to move fast. This whole thing’s going to be over in a few minutes.”

  French pushed past the guard, saying, “You three keep working on getting this fence back up. Marshal Raines, you and your dog are with me.”

  Mason and Bowie followed French as he hurried across a large parking lot and into the Smithfield Foods administrative building. The last time Mason had been there, Locke had admitted to murdering infected people and putting them into his food bars. There was no telling how this particular encounter was going to go.

  As they turned down the corridor to Locke’s office, Mason’s hand instinctively readied near his Supergrade. For close quarters, he preferred a weapon with a short barrel because he found it easier to move between targets. He hoped he didn’t need to use it, but accepted that the choice was not fully his to make.

  Stepping into Locke’s office, they found it teeming with a half-dozen security officers all speaking at once. Locke stood behind his desk, looking down at a map and was so engaged in the discussion that he didn’t notice them enter the room.

  Brooke, however, did.

  She turned away from the window and faced Mason, a smile touching her lips. In it, he saw a mix of emotions—relief, sorrow, and perhaps even hope. She said nothing, simply choosing to watch him. Mason, too, was unable to look away. Brooke was beyond beautiful; she was intoxicating, a drug that made men’s legs quiver and their hearts hammer. With her short dark hair, smooth white skin, and radiant green eyes, she was a modern-day Cleopatra, in all her glory and all her deceit.

  Locke suddenly became aware of the newcomers and stepped back with a start. He looked to French, perhaps fearing a mutiny.

  “What the hell’s going on? Why’s he here?”

  “The marshal says that an army of infected is headed this way.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re already here. Don’t you hear the gunfire?”

  “Those are only the scouts,” said Mason. “A force twenty times their size is only minutes away.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “I saw them from the air.”

  “You’re the one who flew over?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And why should I believe anything you say?”

  “You shouldn’t. You should stay right here and get what’s coming to you. I’m here for someone else.”

  Locke’s eyes cut over to Brooke.

  “Not her,” said Mason. “A young man named Joseph Greene. I understand he’s being held over in Building 3 with the other workers. He’ll be coming with me.”

  Mason waited to see if Locke would push back.

  He didn’t. Instead, he began wringing his hands.

  “If we abandon the plant, there’ll be no coming back. They’ll burn it to the ground.”

  “It deserves no less.”

  Locke said nothing.

  “The way I see it, you have a choice to make. You can either get everyone out, and I mean like right now, or you can all die by the hand of those you’ve so wronged.” Mason looked at his watch. “I’m giving you five seconds to make that call. Four. Three. Two…”

  “Which way would we even go?” said Locke. “We’re taking fire from the south, and they’ve already tried to breach the western fence.”

  “The only way out is to the east.”

  “But the river—they’ll pin us against it.”

  “You’ll have to swim across the Pagan River and head down to the James River Bridge.”

  “Even if we could get that far, they’d just come after us.”

  “I seriously doubt that. Chasing an armed opponent across a bridge five miles long sounds like a good way to get shot to pieces.”

  Locke rubbed his face, thinking.

  “Time’s up.” Mason turned for the door.

  “All right, all right!” Locke motioned to French and the other men in the room. “Get everyone who doesn’t work security out of the compound. Tell them to bring anything that might float. If this thing goes poorly, we’re all likely to end up in the James River.”

  As French started to leave, Mason caught his arm.

  “Bring Shep here, to me.”

  He nodded and ducked out of the room with the rest of the men, leaving Mason, Locke, and Brooke staring at one another. Bowie had found something interesting in one of Locke’s desk drawers and was busy trying to nudge it open with his nose.

  “Well, this is a little awkward,” Brooke said with a tentative smile.

  “Awkward is accidentally saying ‘I love you’ to your boss when you hang up the phone. This,” Mason motioned between them, “this is something else.”

  “You’re right, it is, and I don’t mean to make light of it.” She sighed. “Things sure didn’t turn out the way any of us had planned.”

  “By that, if you mean that you weren’t able to kill me, then yeah, I’d have to agree.”

  “You have to understand the position you put me in,” blurted Locke.

  “No,” Mason said with a quick shake of his head, “I don’t. And assuming we live through this, you’ll answer for what you’ve done. That includes having your thugs attack General Carr this morning.”

  Instead of denying his involvement, Locke crossed his arms and said, “I suspect you’re going to have to answer for a few things yourself, Marshal.”

  “Listen, you son of a—"

  “Now boys,” Brooke said, stepping between them, “this sort of bickering is only going to get us killed. We need to put our differences aside, at least until we’re out of h
ere.” She looked from Mason to Locke. “Can we do that?”

  “Fine.” Locke reluctantly extended his hand toward Mason. “Marshal?”

  Mason stared at his hand, unable to shake it.

  Brooke bridged the gap by placing one hand in Locke’s and the other in Mason’s.

  “Like it or not,” she said, “we’re all in this together.”

  Mason had once sat through a sermon that warned about the dangers of holding hands with the Devil, but as he felt Brooke’s soft fingers, he couldn’t quite force himself to pull away. Maybe it was because she was right about the importance of their working together. Or maybe it was just that her touch felt so damn good.

  As Mason, Brooke, Locke, and Bowie exited the main building, sporadic gunfire continued to sound from the front gate, as well as along the western tree line. It was just enough to keep The Farm’s security forces engaged, preventing them from setting up a more defendable perimeter. Eventually, the larger force would arrive and overwhelm their defenses. And that, as they say, would be that.

  A large group of men and women, many dressed in white jumpsuits and blood-smeared rubber aprons, hurried toward Mason and the others. They instinctively ducked their heads at the sound of each gunshot, not that it would have done any good. French and three other guards led the way, with two more taking up the rear.

  “Eighty-four workers accounted for, so far.” When French spoke, his eyes drifted from Locke to Mason and then back again, obviously uncertain about who was giving the orders.

  “And Shep?” said Mason.

  “He and a couple of others apparently went over to the armory to get weapons and ammunition. Do you want me to go after them?”

  “No,” Mason said with a quick shake of his head. “Get these people out through that breach in the eastern fence. Once you’re across the Pagan River, head for the bridge, just like we talked about.” Mason turned to Locke. “You and Brooke go with them. I’ll find Shep and catch up to you later.”

  “I still have a few things that I need to gather from my room,” said Locke.

  “Nothing you can’t live without. Just go.”

  Locke shook his head. “There are papers I can’t leave behind, as well as a great deal of money.”

  Mason sighed. Fools would be fools.

  “Besides,” Locke added, searching for something that would endear him as anything but a greedy robber baron, “I need to get my dogs from their pen.”

  Mason recalled the two thick-muscled pit bulls that Locke had trained to hunt wild boar. As much as he wanted to order Locke to leave, Mason accepted that he would never have left Bowie behind, no matter who told him to do so.

  “Fine. Do what you want. If I’m still here when you get back, you can go out with me and Shep.” He turned to Brooke. “There’s nothing keeping you here. So go, now.”

  She threw French a friendly smile. “As much as I trust in his abilities, I think I’ll stay with you.”

  “Brooke, I don’t think you understand what’s coming.”

  “Maybe not, but I know that you’re the one man who might actually get me out of here alive.”

  Mason growled. He didn’t have time for this.

  He turned back to Locke. “Get word to your security forces to fall back to the armory. Once I find Shep, I’ll lead a tactical retreat out of here. We’ll be moving fast, so tell them to pack light. Anyone who falls behind is on their own.”

  Locke looked at his watch. “Fine. We’ll meet you at the armory in ten minutes.” He reached out and grabbed Brooke’s hand, making it clear that he expected her to go with him. Locke was no fool. Despite their tenuous relationship, he understood that Mason wasn’t about to leave her behind. The same could not be said of him.

  Mason glanced off to the west. The enemy hadn’t yet appeared from the tree line, but he could feel their dark eyes studying him.

  “Better make it five.”

  Chapter 9

  Major and Dusty were both American Quarter Horses, thick and strong, with small, refined heads, and powerful, rounded hindquarters. Each stood roughly fifteen hands tall, not huge for such an animal, but not small by any means either.

  Dusty had spent her entire life plowing fields, pulling out old stumps, and performing other manual labor on Gran’s farm. As such, she had been slapped and cajoled so many times that she was now as docile as a teddy bear.

  Major, however, seemed to come from a long line of destriers, and would have been equally at home jousting or riding into battle. That much was clear by the way he snorted and scrubbed his hooves on the ground when Tanner first approached. Despite his show of bravado, however, he seemed to understand that he wasn’t going to win and eventually settled down enough to be saddled.

  Samantha sat atop Dusty, stroking the animal’s thick neck.

  “Don’t worry,” she cooed. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  “It’s a horse,” Tanner said, grabbing the pommel of the saddle and swinging his leg up and over, “not a baby kitten.”

  “True. But I think she’s kind of sensitive, like me.”

  Gran stepped closer and gave the rigs a quick onceover. When she was satisfied that everything was properly secured, she stepped back and said, “If you steal my horses, I’m gonna come lookin’ for you.” She patted the Mare’s Leg. “And it ain’t gonna be to talk neither.”

  “We won’t,” promised Samantha. “Tanner and I don’t steal from good people.” She looked over at him and seemed to rethink the statement. “We don’t, right?”

  Rather than answer, Tanner looked down at Gran.

  “Which way to the school?”

  She pointed northeast. “Follow Lodie Drive. You can’t miss it. It ain’t even a mile from here.”

  Tanner made a clicking sound as he gently kicked backwards with his heels.

  Major moved ahead with a start before finally settling into a slow walk. Dusty instinctively followed after him, and Samantha hollered back over her shoulder, “Don’t worry, Gran. We’ll bring back your husband. I promise.”

  Gran leaned back against the old corral, watching them go. The horses were the last living things she had left in this world. First, their old hound Pepsi had got run over. Then Carl had caught the pox. Weren’t nothing left.

  “Jes’ a lonely old woman waitin’ to die,” she muttered.

  She sat there for a spell, and as she did, an idea formed. It was the kind of dark notion that once set loose, couldn’t be put back in its cage. The harder she tried, the stronger the desire became to see it through. Eventually, she understood that the choice had been made a long time ago, and no amount of fighting it was going to change the outcome.

  She turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes.

  “Gonna take a little courage, that’s all.”

  With the decision firmly in hand, Gran turned and headed back to the house. There were preparations to be made before her visitors returned.

  The ride to the elementary school was quiet and hot. The sun had started its afternoon descent, but the temperature had not yet decided to follow it. Lodie Drive was empty except for the occasional abandoned car and a garbage truck that had overturned after hitting a telephone pole. Dozens of plastic bags had spilled out, only to be shredded by dogs and raccoons, leaving newspapers, fast-food wrappers, and plastic milk jugs blowing for miles in every direction.

  “I think I like horseback riding,” Samantha said, steering Dusty around an old pizza box.

  “What’s not to like? Other than a sore butt, chafed legs, and the incessant stink of horse all around you.”

  “Ah, come on. You have to admit it doesn’t get much better than this.”

  While Tanner was the last person to ever willingly adopt Samantha’s sunny disposition, he was in fact enjoying the ride. The rumble of an engine had been replaced by the steady clop-clop-clop of the horses’ hooves on the warm black asphalt. More than that, the world around them seemed to move a little slower, a reminder that life didn’t alway
s have to be played on fast-forward.

  “It could be worse.”

  She smiled. “You would have made a great cowboy.”

  “Why? Because I know how to ride?”

  “That, and other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, you like animals and fresh air. Surely, cowboys liked those things too.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m thinking you probably would have been one of those bandits that climbed aboard trains to steal pocket watches and women’s jewelry.” She smiled, her eyes going dreamy. “I can just see it now…”

  “What makes you presume I’d be an outlaw? Maybe I’d have ended up a sheriff of some Podunk town plagued by rustlers and wild Indians.”

  She pursed her lips, considering the idea.

  “Nah. You don’t like people enough for that job.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. He didn’t like people.

  “What about you? What would you have been?”

  “Oh, that one’s easy. I’d be Secret Agent Kitty McBride.”

  Tanner chuckled. “That’s pretty darn specific.”

  She smiled. “My dad and I used to watch an old black-and-white show that had a secret agent roaming the Wild West. When I went to bed at night, sometimes I’d think about being there with him, jumping out windows and facing off against mysterious strangers.”

  “And the name Kitty McBride? Where’d that come from?”

  “I’m not really sure. It sounds cool though, right?”

  “Sounds like a Scottish pole dancer.”

  “What’s a pole dancer?”

  “Tell you another time.” He gestured up ahead. “Our turn is coming up. Stay alert.”

  “Stay alive,” she said reflexively.

  It was a habit they had developed, his reminding her to keep her attention focused on what was going on around them, and Samantha responding with a recognition of its importance. Tanner had picked up the saying from an old army grunt many years earlier, and for some reason, it had stuck.