Books by Dr. Arthur T. Bradley
Handbook to Practical Disaster Preparedness for the Family
The Prepper's Instruction Manual
Disaster Preparedness for EMP Attacks and Solar Storms
Process of Elimination: A Thriller
The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)
The Survivalist (Anarchy Rising)
The Survivalist (Judgment Day)
The Survivalist (Madness Rules)
The Survivalist (Battle Lines)
The Survivalist (Finest Hour)
The Survivalist (Last Stand)
Available in print, ebook, and audiobook at all major resellers or at: http://disasterpreparer.com
The Survivalist
(Last Stand)
Author: Arthur T. Bradley, Ph.D.
Email: [email protected]
Website: http://disasterpreparer.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.
Illustrations used throughout the book are privately owned and copyright protected. Special thanks are extended to Siobhan Gallagher for editing, Marites Bautista for print layout, Nikola Nevenov for the illustrations and cover design, and Parkinson Myers and Vanessa McCutcheon for proofreading. Thanks are also due to Linda Walls for graciously providing a tour of The Greenbrier’s bunker.
© Copyright 2015 by Arthur T. Bradley
ISBN 10: 1517076048
ISBN 13: 978-1517076047
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“All you need for happiness is a good gun, a good horse, and a good wife.”
Daniel Boone
1734–1820
Foreword
Whether it was Spartans repelling Persian invaders, samurais charging Gatling-gun fortified Imperial positions, or the venerable Swiss Guard holding their ground against mercenaries hoping to loot St. Peter’s Basilica, the world is ripe with stories of a few standing against many. Most end in utter annihilation, but it is not the loss that is remembered; rather, the undaunted courage of those brave enough to stand tall in the face of certain death.
Arguably, the most famous last stand for our countrymen was that of the Alamo. Jim Bowie, William Travis, and approximately two hundred other brave Texians stood their ground, refusing to retreat or agree to an unconditional surrender of the Alamo Mission. On March 6, 1836, President General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna ordered his fifteen hundred troops to conduct an all-out offensive. The Texians managed to repel the first two attacks. When the third wave came, however, they were forced to retreat to the interior buildings, engaging in the equivalent of urban warfare.
The details of the battle understandably vary by storyteller, each account designed to reinforce their respective agenda. According to most historians, when the dust finally settled, a handful of Texians had escaped, a few others had been captured (only to be executed hours later), and the rest had been killed, many bayonetted as they lay bleeding in the dirt.
The story of the Alamo is one of both victory and loss, barbarism and mercy. Mexicans would point out that the Texians were in fact invaders, outsiders who chose to occupy their sovereign lands. While most know that Santa Anna ordered his soldiers to kill without quarter for the enemy, many don’t know that he allowed a small number of noncombatants to return to Texas, giving each woman a warm blanket and two silver pesos. Santa Anna even offered to adopt one woman’s young daughter so as to have her educated in Mexico City, an offer that was flatly rejected.
Such small acts of kindness, however, could never quell the outrage that Texans felt at the murder of their beloved heroes. The brave sacrifice of Bowie, Travis, and others who gave their lives to defend the small outpost led to an incredible resurgence in the Texian Army, as well as pride in the Republic of Texas. Six weeks later, the Texian Army soundly defeated Santa Anna’s troops at the Battle of San Jacinto, an engagement that lasted only eighteen minutes but left 630 Mexican soldiers dead and 730 captured. Only nine Texians were reportedly killed. As the emboldened Texians overran the Mexican Army, many could be heard shouting those immortal words, “Remember the Alamo!”
Chapter 1
Deputy Marshal Mason Raines studied the jumble of mattresses, lawn mowers, barbeque grills, and soiled recliners blocking Highway 219. It looked as if a colony of beavers had abandoned the use of poplar and cottonwood in favor of more eclectic building materials.
Leila Mizrahi sat next to him, leaning out the F150’s passenger-side window to get a better view. As she did, Mason’s Irish wolfhound, Bowie, moved to the front of the truck bed and craned his gigantic head around to slather the side of her face.
“Bowie!” She pulled her head back inside and reached for a small rag that she kept on the floorboard for just such occasions. “I swear, Mason, your dog is absolutely merciless.”
He grinned. “Bowie takes after his owner.”
“You I can handle, but this,” she held up the rag so that he could see the glop of sticky clear and white goo, “this is unnatural.”
He chuckled and patted her on the leg.
“Just be glad he likes you.”
Before she could protest further, a lime green Ford Mustang pulled up alongside the truck. Cadet Corporal Rodriguez slid out enough to sit on the sill of the passenger-side window. Lieutenant Bell peered out from behind the steering wheel, and Private Cobb leaned forward from the back seat expectantly.
“What the hell is that?” Rodriguez said, straining to get a better look at the debris.
“Roadblock,” said Mason.
“I can see that. But who dumped all that crap in the middle of the road?”
“Good question.”
“And why?”
“An even better question.”
Mason swung his door open and stepped out. A few hundred yards off to their right was a small trailer park. The neighborhood was set down in a bog, and even those homes that weren’t rusted completely through were covered with tree sap, mold, and velvety green moss.
He walked around and lowered the tailgate for Bowie.
“What do you say, boy? Feel like stretching your legs?”
Bowie danced around for a moment before carefully jumping down.
With the dog at his side, Mason returned to stand between the truck and the Mustang. He looked over at Rodriguez.
“Keep a watch on things while we go check it out.”
Rodriguez swung his legs out through the window and immediately brought his 6.5 mm Grendel rifle up to his shoulder. The weapon was one of the spoils the cadets had taken from the Radford Army Ammunition Plant. It was accurate, hard hitting, and as reliable as any standard AR-15.
“Marshal, I swear you treat your dog better than you treat your woman.”
Mason grinned but said nothing as he walked toward the roadblock. Whether it was true or not, discussions of that nature should never be held when one’s “woman” was within earshot. As he approached the debris, Mason let his hand gently rest on the grip of his Wilson Combat Supergrade. It wasn’t that he expected someone to jump out and take a swipe at him. Rather, the smooth steel simply served as a reminder to keep his guard up.
Whoever had barricaded the road had done a decent job of it, shattering bottles underneath the rubble so that even if the larger items were dragged out of the way, a driver would still risk a flat tire. Short of goin
g off-road into a thick crop of trees and shrubs, the only way around was to follow a narrow gravel road down into the trailer park. It was obviously an attempt to funnel unsuspecting travelers into some sort of an ambush. The only question was whether or not the trap remained set. The roadblock looked as if it had been in place for quite some time, and in all likelihood, whoever had built it was either long gone or killed by a well-armed traveler.
Bowie worked his way from one side to the other, sniffing anything that looked interesting. When he was confident there wasn’t anything edible in the pile, he returned to stand beside his master.
Mason looked off toward the trailer park. It was impossible to see much of anything through the trees and thick brush. For all he knew, someone was staring at him through a rifle scope at that very moment. Rather than tuck and roll, he turned and walked slowly back to his truck.
Leila had slid across the seat and was now leaning out through the open driver’s side door. Rodriguez stood next to her, shifting his feet around like he had accidentally stepped in a pile of fire ants.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what?”
“What did you find?”
“A pile of junk.”
Rodriguez rolled his eyes. “I got that much from back here.”
Leila said, “I’m assuming it’s a trap.” She turned toward the trailer park. “To route us in there?”
Mason nodded.
“So, what do we do?” Rodriguez said, eyeing the park.
“The only thing we can. We go in and see what’s what.”
Lieutenant Bell steered the Mustang down the narrow driveway, its tires crunching across the loose gravel. Her eyes darted between rusty mobile homes, overturned garbage cans, and abandoned cars. There were a hundred places to hide, and even with all three cadets on the lookout, there was no way to scan them all. At best, they might get a split second’s warning.
Rodriguez sat in the passenger seat, the muzzle of his rifle pointing out the open window. Cobb leaned forward from the backseat, his Grendel protruding from the corner of Bell’s window. While far from perfect, their setup did at least provide some measure of firepower from both sides of the vehicle. All three cadets understood that shooting it out from inside a car was a losing proposition. Not only were they confined to a thin metal box, the gunfire would be absolutely earsplitting inside the car. Even so, it was resoundingly agreed that deaf was better than dead.
Leila followed a short distance behind, driving Mason’s F150 with the windows down and her Beretta 9 mm clutched firmly in her left hand. Following so closely made the group more vulnerable than she would have liked, but it was deemed best to keep the vehicles together in case they should have to set up a defensive position alongside one another.
When they were a few hundred feet into the park, Bell steered around a sharp turn to the left. The gravel on either side had been littered with shards of broken glass, leaving little room to maneuver. It was an obvious pinch point, and she was confident that if the trap remained set, it was about to be sprung.
A gunshot rang out, and then another.
Lieutenant Bell punched the gas, squealing around the curve to finally break out onto a short straightaway. She barreled ahead, the Mustang quickly reaching fifty miles an hour. Another turn lay ahead, this time to the right. She swung the wheel hard, skidding around the corner. The exit to the park lay directly ahead.
“Go! Go! Go!” Rodriguez shouted, pounding his palm on the dashboard.
She floored the pedal, and the Mustang bounced over a faded yellow speed bump, sending all three cadets colliding with the car’s headliner. As they came down, the car bucked over the lip of the asphalt and sped out onto the open highway. Bell let their momentum take them a few hundred yards before finally skidding to a stop.
Cobb patted her on the shoulder from the backseat.
“Good job, Lieutenant!”
“Yeah,” she said, lookup into the rearview mirror, “but where’s Leila?”
Leila’s reaction to the gunshots was much the same as Bell’s. She floored the gas pedal with the hope of getting the hell out of the line of fire. As she skidded around the first curve, the truck’s rear end fishtailed, and she was forced to hit the brakes to avoid going into a full 360-degree turn. Her head whipped from side to side as the truck came to a jarring stop.
Before she could straighten up and get back underway, she spotted a skinny man in shorts and a sweat-soaked tank top racing across the road, dragging a long metal cable behind him. He looped it around a telephone pole, pulling it taut so that it hovered two feet above the ground, and then quickly ducked out of sight.
Leila popped the truck in reverse. Too late. An identical cable was already being secured twenty feet behind her. She jerked the door open and stumbled out, swinging the Beretta up. Still tending to stitches in her right palm, she was forced to hold the weapon in her non-dominant hand, and it wavered from side to side.
Three men raced toward her with pistols raised. Two of them were the ones who had pulled the cables, and the third looked like Abraham Lincoln’s delinquent brother, complete with a greasy chinstrap beard.
Leila adjusted her aim, moving from one man to the next. It took only a moment for her to accept what they already knew. This was not a fight she was going to win.
She slowly lowered her gun, flipped it around, and held it out butt first to Lincoln.
“Three on one. I guess you win.”
He smiled, showing off swollen gums and tobacco-stained teeth.
“You’re right about that.” Lincoln took her pistol and stuffed it into the back of his waistband. Then he shoved her over to one of the other men. “Keep her from doing anything stupid.”
“I plan to do more than that with this little honey,” he said, wrapping both arms her around her waist.
Lincoln approached the truck and leaned into the cab. A quick search of the glove box and behind the seats yielded nothing of interest. He stepped around to inspect the bed. Boxes of food, water, and supplies were scattered everywhere, but his eyes quickly settled on the Browning M2HB machine gun.
He ran his palm over the barrel, caressing it like he might a woman’s thigh. When Lincoln looked back at Leila, his eyes held a new kind of interest.
“My daddy used to say, ‘If you ever find a woman who likes to play with guns half as much as you do, marry her.’” He patted the Browning. “I hope you brought your wedding dress, ‘cause this is gonna be your lucky day.”
Mason knelt behind the corner of an old mobile home, staring down the sights of his M4. Bowie sat next to him, a sneeze away from bolting into the fray.
“Easy, boy,” he whispered. “Let’s see what we’re up against first.”
They watched as Lincoln searched the truck, his eyes finally fixating on the Browning. He turned and said something to Leila, but they were too far away for Mason to hear the words. No doubt, he had offered a suggestive quip about pretty young women and their affinity for big guns.
Leila shook her head, and Lincoln stepped closer, letting his eyes slowly drift up and down her curvaceous body. The man who was holding her ran a hand down her backside, slapping it playfully.
Mason forced air out through his nostrils but made no move to come to her aid. This was not the time to be impulsive. Assess before attacking. Many a battle had been lost by forgetting that simple rule. He had to be certain that others weren’t in hiding. When he was confident that he understood the enemy’s forces, he would move. But not a moment before. He had little doubt that any hidden foes would make themselves known soon enough. Men weren’t about to let themselves be excluded from enjoying the spoils of war, especially when the pickings included the affections of a beautiful woman.
Less than a minute later, a fourth man emerged wearing a white undershirt and tattered camouflage shorts. Thanks to a swollen beer belly and thick tufts of chest hair poking up through the neck of his shirt, he was a dead ringer for Larry the Cable Guy. A scoped bolt-act
ion deer rifle hung across one shoulder. It didn’t take long for an argument to break out between him and Lincoln. Even at a distance, the cause of the disagreement was easy enough to see. They were bickering over Leila. Probably not about who got to keep her, but rather who would partake of the prize first.
Following the philosophy that he who is most aggressive usually gets what he wants, Larry pushed his way past Lincoln and grabbed Leila by the arm. She cried out as he jerked her forward. The man who had been holding her raised both hands, the universal sign for “Hey, man, take what you want.”
Mason gritted his teeth. If he waited much longer, Leila would undoubtedly find herself lying on a stained mattress with all sorts of unpleasant things being done to her. He took a final moment to consider his options. With the M4, he could likely drop two of the men before the rest ducked behind cover. Unfortunately, that would leave Leila right in the middle of a firefight—not a good place for anyone. On the other hand, fighting at close range would require taking out four men with a handgun. Again, a dicey situation at best.
Bowie pressed closer, as if to remind him that he was not alone.
“Even with you at my side,” he muttered, “lots could still go wrong.”
Bowie licked his lips.
Mason squinted. “Fine, but you get the big guy.”
He slung the M4 around to hang across his back, reasoning that it was much less likely that four rednecks would start shooting at a lone man approaching with a holstered pistol than one with a rifle at the ready. Taking a deep breath, he stepped around from behind the mobile home. No one immediately took notice, so he began walking toward the group at a brisk pace, as if he had something important to tell them. It didn’t take long for one of the men to spot him, and the entire gang quickly turned in his direction. Larry shoved Leila back toward Lincoln and slid the hunting rifle off his shoulder.
Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) Page 1
