The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  He stood at the edge of the mangled lift to the James River Bridge. The enormous shipping barge on which he and the others had fought Marshal Raines lay twenty feet beneath his feet. The vessel had keeled sideways, becoming irrevocably lodged between the bridge’s heavy concrete pylons. Dozens of colorful shipping containers had fallen into the river, but many hundreds more remained stacked on the red, grit-covered deck.

  Kneeling behind a thick flap of steel, Beebie let his eyes slowly wander over the vessel. Even though he couldn’t see the shipping container that Raines had pinned him to, he knew that it was down there somewhere. No doubt his blood still stained the rusty metal, acting as an enduring reminder of his failure.

  Raines had gotten the better of him, the better of all of them. He was good like that. But being good didn’t mean he couldn’t be beaten; only that Beebie would have to be more careful next time. He had lost by relying too much on his size and strength, just as Marshal Raines knew he would. But that wouldn’t happen again. Next time, things would end differently.

  Raines had done more than just wound Beebie; he had darn near drowned Dix, left Cam crippled, and killed Red. That left Beebie as the only one able to settle accounts, and he was damn sure out to collect.

  He looked up and watched as a caravan of people crossed the bridge on foot. He had been monitoring them for the past thirty minutes as they steadily drew closer. A quick count estimated their number at nearly a hundred. Most were wearing jumpsuits or other uniforms.

  Escapees from The Farm.

  Beebie knew that The Farm had come under attack, and seeing the workers didn’t at all surprise him. The only question was whether or not Marshal Raines was leading their exodus. He almost hoped that he wasn’t. Shooting Raines with a rifle seemed too good for him. He deserved something more personal.

  Remaining behind protective cover, Beebie let the group get close enough to begin to make out their faces. None appeared to be Raines, and there was no sign of his giant wolfhound. He waited another minute to be sure before finally stepping out from behind the steel girder.

  As soon as he appeared, the closest of the workers hurried toward him. He was a young man with an M16 slung across his back. His uniform was stained with a black slimy substance, and even standing a few feet away, the odor was palpable.

  “You need to get out of here!” the young man urged. “The infected, they’re coming this way.”

  Beebie looked off toward the far end of the bridge. He saw no signs of a pursuit.

  “I think you’re safe for now.”

  The man turned and looked back the way he had come.

  “Even so. I’m telling you, they’re coming. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of them.”

  Beebie nodded. “What’s your name, son?”

  “They call me Shep. Why?”

  “No reason. Just like to know who I’m talking to, that’s all. Mind if I ask how you folks managed to get out?”

  Workers and guards spilled past them as they talked.

  “Most went out through the fence before the worst of it. A few of us managed to slip out later through a water pipe.”

  “Are there any others left inside?”

  “I’m sure there must be. We couldn’t get word to everyone. Plus, there’s Locke, his pretty assistant, and the marshal.” He looked to his feet. “They didn’t make it out through the pipe.”

  Beebie’s eyes tightened. “Are you talking about Marshal Raines?”

  “That’s right. He helped the last of us to escape.”

  Beebie looked off in the direction of The Farm.

  “You say he didn’t make it out?”

  “The last ones to come through the pipe said that Locke had been injured. I think the marshal must have stayed behind to help him.”

  “Always the hero.”

  “You know Marshal Raines?”

  Beebie brought his fingers up to his injured shoulder.

  “We’ve had dealings with one another.”

  “Then you know what kind of man he is. If anyone can find a way out, it’s Marshal Raines.”

  Beebie nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shep said, starting past him. “I have to get across. The infected can’t be far behind us, and they’ll know we came this way.”

  The bridge did present a bit of a problem. Not only would it attract the infected, it might also allow Raines to cross while Beebie was off searching for him.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure no one comes this way.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  He pointed to the barge down below.

  “That thing’s filled with diesel fuel. I’m gonna blow it up.”

  “But what about Marshal Raines and the others?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” he said with a smile. “It’s like you said—if anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s Marshal Raines.”

  Chapter 14

  Mason took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Now was the time to move with purpose and clarity, not doubt and fear. Survival on the battlefield was about making snap decisions based on an understanding of their respective risks and rewards. Such decisions required being fully in the moment, awareness at the front of all thought.

  A warm hand gently touched his back.

  Brooke.

  She said nothing, just a soft press to convey, “I’m here.” Her touch, however, did anything but help to focus his mind.

  Frustrated, Mason pushed the emergency door open a few inches and peered out through the narrow crack. A figure raced by, and then another. Neither took notice of him or the partially open door. The smell of something burning filled his nostrils.

  He opened the door a little further, careful not to let Bowie push past. Chaos reigned in every direction. Smoke billowed from buildings, workers ran for their lives, and screams filled the air in a chorus of fear. The full raiding party had arrived, and they wouldn’t slow in their butchery until every last person had been punished.

  Still shielded by the door, Mason studied the backdrop. The Farm’s huge processing plant lay about two hundred yards directly ahead. The army of infected had shattered windows and bashed doors as they swarmed their way in. The building was so large and complex, however, that it might take at least an hour to fully search.

  There were cars and delivery trucks at the back of the building. Many of them might be operational, but with the sheer number of infected swarming the building, it seemed an impossibility to get to them without being detected.

  The Farm’s main exit lay beyond the processing plant. Unfortunately, a sprawling caravan of cars, trucks, and tractor-trailers now blocked the road. Making their way through the enemy convoy without getting pinned down seemed equally unlikely.

  Mason leaned out and looked left. Church Street was only about fifty yards away, and beyond it, untended woodland. Normally, the trees would have been a viable retreat path, providing both cover and concealment. With Locke injured, however, he doubted they could make a successful escape on foot.

  To his right was a large animal pen, as well as an attached building that likely contained feed and other supplies. Pigs scurried around the pen, at least fifty, probably twice that. He wondered if the infected would kill them. Perhaps instead, they would see them as victims of The Farm, no different than their brethren who had been hunted for meat.

  Somehow, he doubted it. Pigs had been getting a bum rap for more than twelve thousand years. It seemed unlikely that the infected would somehow find the compassion that had so eluded the rest of mankind.

  Highway 666, more commonly known as Berry Hill Road, ran adjacent to the pen and exited the compound to the west. A dozen or so of the infected had set up a small roadblock to prevent would-be escapees from getting out. Mason thought the barricade was vulnerable to being breached if he could find something heavy enough to push its way through. Once out, they could turn south onto Highway 10. That would take them toward the New Colony. With the Goo
dwin Bridge destroyed, they would need to cut across the James River Bridge, but at least they would be free of The Farm and heading in the general direction of safety.

  He scanned the area for something substantial enough for what had to be done. Several tractor-trailers sat in a gravel parking lot not far from the door. If he could get one started, it would probably have enough weight to push through the makeshift roadblock. But that was a big “if.” He had no keys, and hotwiring one without being seen would require the stealth of a master spy. It was certainly possible that a driver had left keys in one of the rigs, but it wasn’t something on which Mason was willing to bet his life.

  He let his gaze wander a little further, finally settling on the armored buses that had been used to block the main gate. They had been moved back toward the armory in anticipation of a tactical retreat, and now sat untended far from the fighting. The buses offered several advantages. First and foremost, they likely didn’t require keys, instead starting by way of a switch or button. They were also heavily armored with steel plating, providing both weight and protection. And let’s not forget about the barrels of fifty-caliber machine guns poking out their sides.

  If he could get Locke and Brooke into one of the buses without being torn to ribbons, they might actually stand a chance. But it wouldn’t be easy. Both buses sat more than a football field away, and Locke wasn’t about to make it that far without drawing the attention of the invading horde.

  Mason ducked his head back into the hallway and turned to face them.

  “All right, listen up. We’re going to make our way over to the building beside the animal pens. You two will stay there while I get us a ride out.”

  “Don’t leave us,” pleaded Brooke.

  “It’s our only chance. If I can get to one of those buses, we might be able to make a run for it.”

  “And if they catch you?”

  He shrugged. “Then I’ll be dead.”

  “And so will we.”

  Mason said nothing. The truth was the truth.

  He used a hand to point in the general direction of the animal pen.

  “We’ll exit and turn right. It can’t be more than forty yards. Stay as low as possible, but try to keep up. I’ll do my best to get us there in one piece, but if I go down, you two just keep running.”

  Both Brooke and Locke indicated that they understood.

  “Ready…” Mason put the flat of his hand against the door. “Move!”

  He pushed open the door, wheeled right, and shuffled ahead at a steady double time. Mason kept the M4 pressed to his shoulder, sweeping it across his field of view as he advanced. Infected charged by in seemingly random directions, some chasing plant workers, others set on destroying the place one brick at a time.

  A heavyset worker in a bloodstained uniform raced toward Mason, screaming for help. An infected man chased after him, a bloody hatchet in his hand. Mason shifted his aim slightly and shot the infected man in the chest. He fell, squirming on the ground like a worm touched by a hot match.

  As the worker hurried toward him, Mason shouted, “Go east! Toward the water!”

  To the man’s credit, he immediately swerved toward the fence line. Whether or not he would make it was anyone’s guess, but the fact that he had adapted so quickly was a good sign. Those who could think on their feet tended to be survivors. Those who couldn’t tended to be casualties.

  Mason pressed ahead, engaging the enemy only when absolutely necessary.

  “Nothing to see here, boys,” he muttered. “Just a lawman, his dog, and a couple of nobodies.” While staying low and not drawing attention were important to going unnoticed, Mason firmly believed that it was as much about attitude as anything else. Swim like a little fish, and the enemy tended to pass you by in favor of a prize more worth mounting.

  Unfortunately, Bowie didn’t seem to understand this philosophy and barked nonstop at the mayhem that surrounded them.

  Even so, they managed to arrive at the pen without drawing the attention of a significant threat. As he drew closer, Mason noted that there were many more pigs than he had first thought. They huddled against one another, a giant pink mass of bodies and bristle, the gunshots and screaming causing them to tremble in fear. One lay dead near the fence line, although it was unclear whether he had been the victim of a stray gunshot or simply died of fright.

  Mason knew that pigs were typically allowed to get to around two hundred pounds by time of slaughter. Pigs were big animals with big appetites, and many of those in the pen looked like they were only a few feedings away from that magic weight.

  While pigs held in captivity were not terribly aggressive, they were also far from docile, especially when terrified. Getting too close was asking to be knocked to the ground and trampled to death.

  Mason wheeled right and ran along the corral until he and Bowie arrived at the attached building. The door was already open, and the stink of manure nearly choked him as he hurried inside. To the left were fenced pens that opened up to the corral outside, and to the right were long narrow chutes that led to individual feeding troughs supplied by bright blue overhead bins. The rest of the building was empty, but every step was met with the wet squish of pig dung.

  Bowie charged in behind Mason and immediately began sniffing his way around the room. Brooke and Locke had done a respectable job of keeping up, and stumbled in shortly after. Locke immediately lost his footing, and went down, landing on his hip in a thick pile of the manure.

  “Dammit it to hell!” he growled. This was not shaping up to be his best day.

  “You two stay here,” directed Mason.

  “Don’t forget about us,” Brooke said as she helped Locke to his feet.

  “Just be ready to move when I pull up.”

  She nodded.

  Mason whistled for Bowie, and together, they returned to the doorway. Infected raced across the open field, first in one direction and then another. Most of the workers and guards left behind had either been killed or retreated to the buildings. The enemy now had open run of the The Farm.

  The buses remained about a hundred yards away. Even keeping a low profile, making it that far without drawing the attention of at least a few of the infected seemed unlikely. And once he became the target of choice, they would quickly overwhelm him and Bowie. This was not a fight they could win.

  Mason picked up a handful of straw from the floor and tossed it out through the open door. The wind blew it back toward him.

  Good.

  He slid the M79 off his shoulder, opened the breach, and loaded one of the smoke grenades. A single grenade wouldn’t be enough to cover the entire distance, but with the wind blowing in his direction, two should do the trick.

  He flipped up the leaf sight and took aim. The bus was well within range of the launcher. He just had to keep from over- or under-shooting it by more than a few yards. He brought the six-pound launcher up, aimed, and fired. The gun thumped against his shoulder with a hollow bloop. Mason watched the grenade sail through the air, smack against the back door of the bus, and settle by one of its rear tires. A cloud of pale yellow smoke began to billow out.

  Bullseye.

  He opened the breech, flipped out the spent shell, and loaded a second. He placed the second grenade about halfway between him and the bus. Together, the two should help to cover his advance. But he had to hurry. Smoke dissipated quickly, and there would be no do-overs if he were caught standing out in the open.

  Mason dropped the M79 and readied his M4. He looked down at Bowie. Telling the wolfhound to stay with Brooke and Locke seemed pointless. Bowie was not a creature who would stand idly by when his master was in trouble.

  “Stay close or you’re going to get lost in the soup.”

  The dog’s ears twitched as he studied the smoky battlefield.

  Mason broke away from the door and ran straight into the thick yellow cloud. Bowie bounded along beside him, but within seconds, the smoke had grown so thick that Mason could no longer see him. />
  He began counting his steps in an attempt to keep from inadvertently running past the bus. A hundred yards was roughly thirty steps, so if he hadn’t found it within thirty-five, he could safely assume that he had gotten off target.

  “Eleven, twelve, thirteen—”

  A shape appeared to his left, dark and closing fast. He swung the rifle and fired a quick three-round burst. It was met with a spray of warm blood and an agonizing gasp as the man fell.

  Five more steps, and a second figure appeared to his right, this one managing to get hands on him. Mason let the M4 hang from its sling as he drew the Supergrade. Before he could bring it up, his attacker was yanked away, Bowie’s growl loud and ominous.

  Continuing ahead with his Supergrade in hand, Mason shouted, “Leave him!”

  Another figure appeared, a tall, lanky man with a face covered in boils.

  Mason leaned right and fired from the hip. The 220-grain hollow point caught the man along the left ribcage, breaking bones as it punched through his body. Even as he twisted in pain, he managed to snag Mason’s shirt, whirling him around in a circle. Mason fired twice more, one round catching him below the clavicle, and the other missing all together. A fist struck him in the left eye, setting him back on his heels. He fired again, and the man stumbled away in the thick yellow fog, clutching a wet hole in his throat.

  Mason slowly turned left and then right, his eye throbbing. He had lost his bearings, and the smoke was too dense to know which way was which. He stood motionless, listening. He could hear Bowie panting beside him, people shouting off to his right, and the distant rumble of engines directly ahead. If the engines were from vehicles at the entrance to the compound, it would also be the direction of the buses. It was a dangerous gamble, but one that he had no choice but to take.

  Swapping back to his M4, Mason shuffled ahead. He didn’t stop until the muzzle of his rifle bonked against something metallic. He reached out and found the cool metal door of one of the school buses. He felt around until he located the handle. The lever pulled out like an industrial refrigerator, but the door didn’t open. He let his hands slide along the door’s seam and discovered a thick weld line. There was also an uneven panel of hardened steel that had been attached to act as armor plating.