Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Hood gagged, releasing a huge spray of vomit into the sludge. But that did little to help his cause. Carr drove him even deeper, burying his face in the gelatinous white slime all the way up to his ears. Panic set in, and Hood thrashed from side to side as he struggled to get air. His mouth filled with the congealed grease, and he inadvertently inhaled some of it into his lungs. He coughed, but that only caused him to pull in another mouthful. Darkness closed in, and General Hood’s last thought was as strange as it was irrelevant.

  Cooking grease tasted a lot like french fries.

  Mason tried the handle on the old fire station door. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. He and Bowie hurried inside. A bright red fire truck sat front and center, freshly waxed and ready to take the resort’s firefighters to burning buildings, cats trapped in trees, and neighborhood fundraising events. To his left were peg hooks lined with reflective Kevlar turnout jackets and a long row of helmets. Further in sat several giant rolls of faded yellow hoses, and at the very back of the building was a small wooden staircase leading up to a loft. The only things missing from the firehouse were the firemen.

  Bowie immediately went over to the coats, sniffing each for clues about their respective owners.

  Mason surveyed the fire truck before settling into a deep alcove lined with spigots and gauges. Pressing up against the truck’s control panel wasn’t the perfect defensive position, but it did offer protection from three sides.

  He took count of his ammunition—eight rounds in the Supergrade and two spare magazines with seven rounds a piece. Twenty-two rounds in total. Not nearly enough for an extended firefight, but plenty to take someone else’s weapon.

  Mason settled back into the recess and waited. He thought about calling Bowie over, but patience had never been one of the dog’s strengths. It was better to let him wander a bit. That way if trouble came through the door, Bowie would be more likely to have the element of surprise.

  The fire truck’s driver-side window suddenly exploded, showering Mason with tiny shards of glass. One piece sliced his right forearm, opening a two-inch gash. Bullets pinged the driver’s door, and Mason pressed himself back into the alcove to get out of the line of fire. Based on the angle, the shooter must be positioned at one of the firehouse’s front windows. While he didn’t have a direct bead on Mason, he was also too far away to engage effectively with a pistol.

  With little to do but wait for the enemy to come closer, Mason holstered his firearm and turned his attention to the wound. It wasn’t terribly deep, but a steady stream of blood seeped out. Worst of all, the cut was on his gun arm, making it more likely that he might fumble a draw. He slipped out his knife and sliced a strip of cloth from the cuff of his trousers to serve as a bandage. It probably wouldn’t stop the bleeding, but it should at least help to soak up the blood.

  Another string of automatic fire broke out, this time peppering the rear tires. The giant truck began to settle onto its rims with a loud hiss of air. Mason chanced a quick glance around the corner, catching sight of a man walking around the outside of the building. Bowie saw him too, and before Mason could stop him, the dog raced over and leaped through one of the shattered windows.

  “Bowie!” he shouted, stepping out from the small niche.

  Only then did Mason realize that he was not alone.

  Buckey stood fifteen feet away, the Hawk hanging loosely at his side. He had a scarf pulled up over his mouth and looked every bit as tough as Mason had imagined. He seemed calm and confident, as if the coming fight were a mere formality.

  Blood trickled down Mason’s forearm, finally making its way to his fingertips before dripping onto the painted concrete floor. He clenched his fist a few times. The wound stung, but his fingers seemed to work well enough.

  He had never faced off with someone holding a tomahawk and wasn’t sure what threat the man posed. The way he saw it, Buckey could make one of two plays. He could either charge, swinging the Hawk as he came, or he could throw it, probably with a single upward sweep of his arm. Of the two, the throw was the most worrisome. Even with bloody hands, Mason had no doubt that he could drop Buckey before he could close the distance.

  The timing of the throw, however, was much less certain. Buckey had but to swing his arm up, releasing the tomahawk at the right moment. Even if Mason managed to shoot him, the Hawk would still continue to fly forward, and at such a close range, it would almost certainly find its mark. And then there was the issue of Buckey’s tactical vest, requiring that any shot be to his head or an extremity. It was that line of thinking that led Mason to wait for the slightest advantage before reaching for his Supergrade.

  “I’m glad we had a chance to meet like this, Marshal,” Buckey said, gently rolling the handle of the tomahawk in his grip. “I had hoped to see the face of the man who shot me.”

  Blink.

  Mason nodded. “Does seeing my face make it hurt any less?”

  Buckey wiggled his injured leg.

  “Not really, no. But killing you might.”

  “With that thing?” He looked down at the tomahawk and smiled. “If you want to put it away, I’ll give you a moment to take out a real weapon.”

  The slight seemed to get under Buckey’s skin.

  “Oh, you’re a real comedian. You ever heard of the Gurkhas?”

  “I have.”

  “Then you know that once they draw their blades, they don’t put them back away until they’ve drawn blood. If there’s not an enemy nearby, a Gurkha soldier will drag the blade across his own back, rather than disgrace the weapon.”

  Blink.

  “I doubt that’s true. But even if it were, I’d extend the same offer to them.”

  Buckey grinned. “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight, is that it?”

  “Something like that.”

  “See, the thing is, I’ve never met anyone who could get a gun out of a holster faster than I could stick them with this baby.” He hefted the Hawk lightly. “No one.”

  Mason shrugged. “Even if you get that thing off, you’ll never know if it hits me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’ll already be dead.”

  He chuckled. “I believe you’re the cockiest sonofabitch I’ve ever met. It must be one of those marshal things, right?”

  Blink.

  Mason went for the Supergrade, bending his knees and leaning back like an old-fashioned gunfighter. The time it took for Buckey’s eyes to reopen was two hundred milliseconds. It took another hundred milliseconds for his brain to process movement. By then, Mason’s pistol had already cleared the holster. Buckey’s arm began to swing upward, but before he could release the tomahawk, a 235-grain hollow-point slammed into his shoulder. A look of panic came over him as his arm dangled from his side, paralyzed.

  Mason immediately shifted his aim and shot Buckey through the bridge of his nose. The bullet rocked his head back, and he toppled over like a fallen tree, his limbs stiff and unmoving. Mason stood absolutely still, replaying the draw, the aim, and the subsequent follow-up shot. Plan it. Execute it. Analyze it. It was the only way to continue to improve.

  Once he had dissected every motion, he walked over and picked up the Hawk. It was a beautiful weapon that might come in handy one day. He looked down at fallen man, realizing that he hadn’t yet answered Buckey’s question.

  “Yeah,” he said, holstering the Supergrade, “it’s one of those marshal things.”

  Mason discovered Bowie crouched next to the body of another of the Black Dogs. The man was big and strong, not an easy fight, even for Bowie. His throat had been torn out, but only after suffering dozens of bites to his arms and face. Like the others, he wore no insignia other than the patch of a snarling dog—an irony that was not lost on Mason, considering the man’s demise.

  As soon as Bowie spotted Mason, he rose and came over to stand beside him. He walked with a noticeable limp, as he avoided putting weight on one of his front legs.

  Mason squatted down next to him.
/>
  “You okay, boy?” he said, petting under his chin.

  The dog lifted his head and licked Mason’s face. His breath smelled of blood, but Mason made no effort to push him away. Blood of the enemy was something to be honored, not shunned.

  He took a few minutes to carefully examine Bowie for injuries. One leg was swollen at the elbow, but it didn’t appear to be broken. He also had a few tender spots along his ribs, but again, nothing felt fractured. In the end, Mason concluded that, like the cut on his forearm, the dog’s battle wounds would heal on their own.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, standing up. “We’ll take it slow from here on. Now, let’s go see how the others are faring.”

  General Carr, Mason, and Bowie stood on the dock, watching as more than a dozen Blackhawk helicopters buzzed overhead. Jack Fry had been lifted back into his chair and was doing his best to pick pieces of rotten cabbage from his clothes. One of Carr’s eyes had swollen shut, and blood stained his lips and teeth, but even so, he seemed in remarkably good spirits.

  “I sure hope they’re friendly,” Mason said, looking up at the helicopters.

  “Given that we’re still alive, I’d say they must be.”

  Mason’s and General Carr’s radios both sounded at once.

  “Listen up. This is General Reed. A contingent of heavily armed Marines is currently breaching the bunker. Anyone who does not want to be shot on sight should lay down their arms and surrender immediately.”

  Mason looked to Carr. “Do you know him?”

  Carr smiled, looking up at the sky.

  “He’s one of the good guys.” He placed the radio to his mouth. “Chappie, you old fool, this is Kent Carr. What the hell took you so long?”

  “We had a little mop-up out here to take care of. I hope we’re not late to the party.”

  “No, sir, you’re right on time. Marshal Raines and I will meet you and your team at the West Tunnel Entrance.”

  “Roger that. See you in five.”

  Carr eyed the makeshift bandage on Mason’s forearm.

  “What do you say we leave some of the fighting to them?”

  He nodded. “You go on. Bowie and I will get President Glass and Leila from the sewers and meet you at the blast door. I’m sure they’re ready for a breath of fresh air.”

  Carr slapped Mason on the shoulder.

  “I think this thing’s finally winding down. Who would have thought we’d still be standing, aye, Marshal?”

  Mason smiled but said nothing. He had learned a long time ago never to call a fight over until all the bodies had been counted.

  Chapter 20

  The sound of seven hundred infected men and women talking, burping, and shuffling their feet filled the train. Tanner and Samantha stood in the driver’s booth, looking lengthwise down the long row of cars. Issa was there too, after having explained that their customs required that any woman without children fight beside her mate.

  Samantha rested her hands on the controls.

  “Tell me when we’re ready.”

  Tanner turned to Issa. “You don’t have to do this.”

  She moved closer, pressing her body against his.

  “I go where you go.”

  Tanner felt his heart begin to race, and he swallowed the lump that seemed to form in his throat every time she got too close.

  “All right then, go let everyone know that we’re about to get underway. Those who aren’t onboard in the next sixty seconds will have to walk.”

  She kissed him and hurried away.

  As soon as she disappeared, Samantha said, “Do you think she’ll like living with us in the mountains?”

  “Who said she’s living with us?”

  “Of course she’s living with us. You can’t very well leave your wife behind.”

  “We’re not married. Besides, she’s not going to want to come with me once Jarvis’s juice wears off.”

  “I don’t know about that. Issa acts like she’s drinken a magic love potion.”

  “Drinken?”

  “Drunk? Drank maybe? Whatever. The point is, she’s really into you.”

  “Today, maybe. But women have been known to change their minds, especially when it comes to how they feel about me.”

  “I could see that. You are kind of…” She hunted for the word. “Primitive.”

  “What, like a caveman?”

  “Exactly!” she said with a warm smile. “You’re big, and hairy, and smelly. Some women don’t like that sort of thing.” He was about to protest, when she quickly added, “The good news is that Issa doesn’t seem to mind at all.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “So don’t run her off, okay?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you think she’ll get in the way of us.”

  He looked over at Samantha. “You worried about that?”

  “Not really. Are you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Don’t be. I think she’s just looking for a family. And we have room for one more, right?”

  He grunted.

  “Besides,” she added, “you’d have trouble finding anyone else that pretty.”

  “You have noticed that she’s infected, right? Black eyes, scars, and all that?”

  Samantha turned to him with an amused look on her face.

  “Are you saying you don’t think she’s pretty?”

  Tanner said nothing.

  “Because I’ve seen how you look at her.”

  “Oh? And how do I look at her?”

  “Like she’s a bucket of fried chicken.”

  Tanner rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t keep from chuckling.

  “For you, I’m pretty sure that’s love.” Samantha made a little smooching sound with her lips.

  “Just focus on driving the train, Dr. Ruth,” he growled.

  She turned to study the controls, and when she did, Tanner walked over to the door and leaned his head out for a breath of air. All this talk about love and magic potions was giving him a headache.

  Their first stop was at a railway junction. A set of tracks split off to the left, disappearing down another long dark tunnel. It was the first such turnoff they had seen, and Tanner thought there was a good chance that it led to Mount Weather. Grabbing his shotgun, he hopped down from the train and went ahead to inspect the junction. Issa and Samantha stayed behind, watching him through the conductor’s window.

  He stepped out from the shine of the train’s headlights and strode a few yards down the tunnel. There was a lifelessness to it, like an appendage that had died and was slowly withering away. He clicked on his flashlight and swept it across the walls. A green and white sign read Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center, 53.2 mi.

  They had found the right tunnel. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get the train to make the turn.

  Tanner wheeled around and returned to the railway junction. He was about as close to being an expert on trains as he was to being a neurosurgeon. Fortunately, everything had been built with simplicity in mind. The designers undoubtedly appreciated that in the case of a true national emergency, novices would be required to operate the train system. In this case, the mechanism to switch in a linked pair of tapering rails involved doing nothing more than squeezing a release handle and pushing forward a long lever arm.

  As he did so, the rails made a slight squeaking sound, followed by a metallic clunk.

  He walked the curved tracks a couple of times, making sure that he understood how the train would move. Everything seemed right. Once he was satisfied, he returned to the train and climbed aboard.

  Samantha said, “Did you change the tracks?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure? Because if we pass it, I’ll have to go all the way to the other end of the train to back up.” She looked at the army of infected milling about in the cars behind her. “And I really don’t want to do that.”

  “The tracks are switched.
Just give it some juice.”

  “All right. Here goes.” She eased the controller handle down, and the train began to inch forward. As it came to the turn, the driver’s car began to angle left. A few seconds later, they were through. She waited until all eleven cars had cleared the turn before speeding back up. “Woot! Woot!” she said, pretending to pull an invisible whistle. “Next stop, Mount Weather.”

  Tanner rested his shoulder against a metal storage locker built into the wall of the train. He took a long moment to study Samantha and Issa. Neither of them noticed his attention. Samantha was busy driving the train, and Issa leaned out through the door to ensure that the tracks remained clear. It occurred to Tanner that the two had only one thing in common, him. While Samantha had always felt like a responsibility, a calling even, Issa was something different. She brought emotions to him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Whether or not it was the kind of romantic love that Samantha kidded him about, he couldn’t say. All he knew for sure was that he didn’t want to see anything bad happen to either of them. And that necessitated a conversation.

  “Sam. Issa.”

  They both turned.

  “When we get to Mount Weather, I need for you two to hang back and stay by the train.”

  They immediately started to protest.

  “Hear me out,” he said, raising his hands. “If things go as planned, this whole thing’s going to turn into a blood bath. People who did nothing more than get up this morning are going to have their brains bashed in. I don’t want either of you to be a part of that.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” argued Issa. “There’s no reason to leave me behind.”

  “Of course, there is. I need for you to watch over Sam.”

  “I don’t need watching over!”

  “Oh really? So you want to be all alone down here in the tunnels?”

  “I’m not saying that I want to,” she said, losing some of her steam, “only that I could.”