The Survivalist

by Arthur T. Bradley

  Sensing that Mason was debating on the prospect, Blake added, “Marshal, I’ll do whatever you say. These cows are the best chance my family has to stay alive.”

  “All right,” he said, standing upright. “Before you kill an animal, you need to be sure you have everything ready. That starts with having a weapon capable of putting it down with one clean shot. For an animal this size, you need a .30-30 or .30-06. Even a shotgun will do in a pinch.”

  Blake nodded. “I’m sure one of the neighbors would accept something in trade for a rifle.”

  Mason squatted down and placed his finger over the small hole that he had shot through front of the animal’s skull.

  “You can either shoot it a couple of inches above the eyes.” He slid his hands around to the back of the head. “Or here, below the poll, but above the neck line.”

  Blake felt next to Mason’s hand. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  Mason slid his thick-bladed Fällkniven survival knife from its sheath.

  “Once it’s down, you cut the animal’s throat, like this.” He stabbed the point of the knife just above the breast bone at a forty-five-degree angle and cut up and out. A small spatter of blood sprayed out. “That severs the carotid artery and jugular in one motion, removing any doubt about the animal being dead.”

  Blake scrunched his face. “Not at all like what I did to this poor beast.”

  “What you did was a mistake that you’re allowed to make only once, you understand?”

  He nodded. “I do.”

  “To butcher it, you’re going to need a razor-sharp knife with a curved blade.”

  Blake slid the hunting knife from his belt and handed it to Mason.

  “Will this work?”

  The size and shape were about right, but when Mason tested the blade with his thumb, it felt like it would barely cut through a block of cheese.

  “This isn’t even close to being sharp enough.” He handed it back. “Take it inside and sharpen it until it’ll shave the hair off your arm. While you’re at it, bring me an old pair of clothes. Cleaning an animal this size can get a little messy.”

  Blake took the knife and hurried into the farmhouse. When he returned ten minutes later, he carried the knife in front of him as if it were Hattori Hanzo’s Great Sword. He also had a pair of denim coveralls draped over one shoulder.

  “Believe me, Marshal, this thing’s sharp! Maggie did it for me. That woman scares me sometimes, I tell you.”

  Mason tested the blade again. Blake was right. It was indeed razor sharp. He laid the knife next to the carcass and took the coveralls from Blake.

  “Find us something to cut through the bone while I change.”

  Blake quickly located a twenty-two-inch hacksaw hanging on the wall.

  “What about this?”

  Mason nodded. “Grab it.”

  Blake brought it over and placed it next to the knife. Bowie lay nearby on a pile of straw, his eyes growing heavier by the minute.

  Zipping up the coveralls, Mason said, “Do you happen to have water handy?”

  “Sure do. There’s a large tank on top of the house. I can drag a hose in here if you like.”

  “Do it. That’ll help with the cleanup.”

  Blake ducked outside and returned, pulling a faded green hose behind him.

  “Spigot’s on,” he said, giving the hose a quick spray.

  The final thing they needed was a way to hang the animal for easier cleaning. Doing it on the ground made the job many times more difficult. Mason spotted a set of chains with hooks dangling down from a thick overhead beam. It looked as if it had likely been used to pull motors from old cars and tractors.

  He motioned to Blake. “Give me a hand moving this.”

  Once they had dragged the carcass underneath the chains, Mason got to work. While not quite an expert, he had cleaned large animals in the past. If done by a master, an entire cow could be cleaned and quartered in less than thirty minutes. Mason suspected it would take him and Blake twice that long.

  He picked up one of the cow’s back legs and cut along the knee.

  “Cleaning a cow is about cutting only what you want to cut. That means you need to watch your blade carefully.” He bent back the knee, and it made a snapping sound as it broke free. “Having a sharp knife ensures that you don’t have to work too hard.” Mason finished cutting the joint in half and tossed the leg to one side. After repeating the process on one of the front legs, he handed the knife to Blake. “Your turn.”

  Blake mimicked what Mason had done, struggling a bit to break the joints in two.

  “Why do you take off the feet first?” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “We start with what’s easy and work our way inward. There’s a prize in there,” he said, pointing to the carcass with the knife. “Our job is to unwrap it.”

  Mason leaned over and sliced the skin along each leg before running the knife down the belly. He slid around and carefully removed the skin from the back legs as well as around one side of the lower abdomen. He had Blake do the same along the other side. When they were finished, Mason began working from the centerline, carefully cutting and peeling back the skin along the animal’s belly and chest.

  “It’s like you’re undressing him,” Blake said, clearly fascinated.

  “If we do it carefully, the skin can be removed as one large hide that can be used for all sorts of things.”

  Mason leaned down and cut along the animal’s jawlines to further separate the skin. He then made several deep slices along the top of the centerline to part the flesh.

  “That’s as far as we want to go without hanging it.”

  He stepped around to the back of the animal and cut slits between the gam cords and the hock bones along the back legs. When the slits were wide enough, he hooked the chains through them and had Blake turn a crank-driven ratchet on the wall to slowly raise the animal off the floor.

  Using the hacksaw, Mason sawed partway down the centerline of the carcass and had Blake finish by cutting through the sternum. Mason then cut deeper along the jawline and pulled the arteries and tongue out through the open neck. Deep-red blood spilled out through the silver dollar-sized arteries, but until then, the entire process had been remarkably blood-free.

  “Rinse it,” he said, stepping out of the way.

  Blake picked up the hose and gave the carcass a good spray to remove the blood. Mason used the opportunity to rinse his hands as well.

  “To be honest,” said Blake, “I thought it would be messier.”

  “Do it wrong, and you’ll be up to your elbows in all kinds of nasty stuff, not to mention ruin much of the meat. Remember, it’s about careful cutting.”

  Blake nodded. “Slow and steady. Got it.”

  Once everything was clean, Mason moved to the back of the animal and cut the skin off from around the anus and tail. When he had most of it cut free, he motioned for Blake to peel the last bit of hide down the tail.

  “Give it a good tug, like you’re peeling a catfish.”

  Blake’s face twisted uncomfortably as he grabbed the flap of skin and pulled it down over the tail.

  “Wow. It’s so short,” he said, surprised by the stub that was left behind.

  Mason used the knife to cut the base of the tail so that it flopped over like a broken finger, and then continued removing the skin from the animal’s back. The hide was coming off as a large wet sheet, lined with a layer of slick white fat.

  Once he had it peeled away as far as he could, Mason stepped around and carefully sliced down the lower belly. A huge white pillow of guts and intestines bulged out. Instead of cutting it open, he opened the cavity further so that the entire package of guts and organs fell forward. Using his hands and a few final cuts inside the cavity, he carefully worked it out until everything lay at his feet in a pile that reached up past his knees. Again, despite its grotesque contents, there was almost no blood, and since he hadn’t nicked the stomach or intestines, there was no visible
waste either.

  He slid the innards to one side and used the hose to rinse out the cavity.

  “That was amazing,” breathed Blake. “I never thought someone could clean a cow without getting into all of its guts.”

  “If you mess that part up, Maggie will have you sleeping in the guest bed for a week.”

  He motioned for Blake to raise the carcass higher, after which Mason used the knife to work the last bit of skin from around the animal’s head. When it finally pulled free, the entire hide was intact.

  He tossed it toward Blake, and it landed at his feet with a wet slap.

  “Have one of your neighbors teach you how to tan the hide. Don’t you let that go to waste.”

  Blake stared down at the pile of wet flesh, his face equally as wrinkled.

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  With the head now hanging loose, Mason used the hacksaw to cut down the backbone. It was hard work that was better done with an electric saw, but with Blake’s help, they managed to get the job done in a few minutes. When they were finished, the animal was severed into two halves with the exception of small tendrils holding them together at the head. Mason quickly severed those, tossed the head aside, and let the two pieces of beef swing from the hooks.

  “They’re like what you might see at a butcher’s shop,” marveled Blake.

  Mason gave everything one final spray before stepping back and inspecting their handiwork. All in all, it looked pretty darn good. He was always amazed by how differently people felt when looking at a dead cow hanging from a hook than at two slabs of butchered beef. One brought nausea, the other, a feeling of hunger. Humans were such strange creatures.

  “How are we going to keep it from rotting?”

  “You’re only now thinking of that?” Mason said, slightly annoyed.

  “We were hungry. I guess I didn’t really think it all through.” Blake ran his hands tentatively over one of the slabs of beef. The meat was warm to the touch, a reminder that it had been walking around an hour earlier. “I hate to waste any of it.” As he spoke, his tongue unconsciously touched his lips.

  Being hard on a man trying to feed his kids was not in Mason’s nature.

  “I don’t suppose you have electricity?”

  “There’s a generator, but we just operate it an hour at a time so as not to run out of fuel.”

  “Then that leaves you with three choices: you can cure it, can it, or smoke it.”

  Blake started to open his mouth and then realized that he didn’t know enough to even begin his questioning.

  “Let’s start with curing,” said Mason. “No matter how you do it, it’s about preserving the meat using salt. I’m assuming you have salt?”

  He nodded. “Two large sacks in the pantry.”

  “Good. Dry curing involves first covering the meat with salt to pull out the moisture and prevent bacterial growth. If you do it right, you can then store the meat someplace cool, and it will stay edible for at least a few months.”

  “We have a cellar. It’s cool down there, even this time of year.”

  “Perfect. Larger pieces can be stored in buckets or barrels filled with brine. Either way, you’ll want to use lean cuts like the brisket, or round, so that the fat doesn’t turn rancid.”

  “What goes in the brine?”

  “Some folks put seasonings of one sort or another, but it all starts with a cup of salt to every two gallons of water, plus a little vinegar.”

  “How long do you soak the meat?”

  “Keep it in there for a week or two. Then pull it out, dry it off, and store it in sacks down in the cellar along with the smaller cuts.”

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “Of the three options, it is the easiest. Your next choice is to can it.”

  “Using a pressure canner?”

  “That’s right. Cut the meat into small stew-sized chunks and pack them into jars. You can either can it raw or cooked. If raw-packing, add about a teaspoon of salt and screw on the lid. That’s it. If hot-packing precooked meat, cover the meat with boiling broth or water. In both cases, leave an inch of headspace. Once the meat is in the jars, follow your canner’s instructions for pressure and time.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure Maggie can handle that.”

  “The last option is to smoke the meat, and while that can do a wonderful job, I don’t recommend it in this case.”

  “Why not?”

  “The smell of cooking meat is bound to draw attention, and that’s something you don’t need.”

  “Right.” Blake looked over at the slabs of beef. “Any chance we can cut a little of this up for dinner?”

  Even though Mason knew that the meat hadn’t had time to break down and become tender, his stomach was telling him that tough meat was better than no meat at all.

  He gave the knife a quick rinse.

  “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

  Chapter 17

  Issa stood in the corner with her back pressed against the nearest locker, a knife clutched in each hand. Her bunk sat nearby, neatly stuffed with pillows to make it look as if she were sleeping. She had even managed to find a wig in one of the lockers, which she had carefully placed around a wadded-up towel to act as the decoy’s head. The setup was far from perfect, but given the darkness, she thought it would likely pass for her long enough to get the drop on whomever came calling.

  After leaving the cafeteria, she had made two stops. The first was to Tillman, and the next to Musketeer. Both men had been asleep in their quarters, recovering from around-the-clock guard duty the night before.

  She told each man she was in possession of proof showing that the pilot had been poisoned. Not only that, but she was close to uncovering those responsible. She asked them a few probing questions that hinted at her suspicion of their involvement, but fell short of actually accusing them of anything. Both men denied any knowledge of the poisoning and assured her that they would do anything she asked to help find those responsible. Issa then departed, informing them that she planned to meet with Mother in the morning to report her suspicions.

  The trap had been set. The only question remaining was whether or not the rat would come to get the cheese.

  As the hours passed, Issa’s legs grew tired. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, but even that only helped for so long. By midnight, she had surrendered to the fact that it might be a long night of waiting, and settled onto the floor with her knees drawn to her chest.

  Sleep weighed on her eyes and shoulders, and several times she caught her head slowly drooping forward. Eventually, she tired even of holding the knives and put them back in their sheaths.

  Waiting was hell.

  Issa’s mind went to thoughts of Tanner and Samantha. Where were they? What were they doing? Had they perished in the crash? The thought of them lying dead in the burned-out wreckage caused the breath to catch in her throat.

  She tried to pull it back in, but it was too late. Ink-colored tears rolled down her cheeks, and she began to sob. She sat like that for nearly an hour, crying, her arms wrapped around her knees as she rocked back and forth like a child stuck in a dark closet.

  In time, the sadness gave way to a memory of them living back at the cabin. Issa had been standing at the kitchen window, preparing breakfast, while they went out to gather eggs. Tanner shooed aside the chickens with his enormous feet, only to be lectured by Samantha on the importance of treating Disney Princesses with the love and respect they deserved.

  They were as unlikely a pair as any she would care to meet. Yet somehow, they had managed to make one another whole. Most blessed of all was that they had taken in a woman who had resorted to hiding in dark tunnels and eating scraps like a wild animal.

  They had given her hope.

  They had given her a family.

  Issa smiled and wiped away the tears. Tanner and Samantha would not give up on her, and she would not give up on them. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  A faint
creak sounded—the front door pushing open.

  Issa scrambled to her feet, rubbing her legs to rid them of pins and needles.

  A soft patter of footsteps moved past the bathroom. Whoever was coming was trying to do so quietly. The rat had arrived.

  The moonlight was more than enough for her to watch as a lone figure crept to the end of the long row of bunks. He was tall and slightly hunched over, and he clutched a weapon in both hands. A rifle? Surely not. A gunshot would bring attention to his actions. This was to be a silent kill.

  A pipe.

  Tillman.

  Issa waited until he approached her bunk before stepping around from the locker.

  “It was you,” she said calmly, her rage having given way to resignation.

  Tillman jerked with a start at the sound of her voice. For a moment, he seemed to consider running, his black eyes cutting toward the hallway.

  “It wouldn’t matter,” she said.

  He straightened and brought the sharpened metal pipe in front of him.

  “Fine. Then there’s only one way this ends.”

  Issa sidestepped so that the corner of one bunk remained between them. She needed answers before exacting her revenge.

  “One question first. Why did you poison the pilot?”

  “Same reason I’m going to kill you and that abomination in your belly.”

  The thought of him harming her baby caused Issa’s skin to grow hot.

  “What is it you hate so dearly?”

  He advanced around the bunk, and once again, she sidestepped to keep it between them.

  “Issa, you’re a damn fool. Don’t you see what’s happening?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Mother is keeping us in bondage. I’m not the only one who sees this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s always been weak. First, we cowered in those foul tunnels. Now, we huddle together like frightened sheep atop a mountain, waiting for the wolf to come and eat us.”