Read The Survivalist - 02 Online
Authors: Arthur Bradley
Passing through the towns of Hickory and Lincolnton reminded Mason of his time traveling across war-ravaged regions of Iraq and Afghanistan. Festering bodies littered the streets. Dogs tore away pieces of the corpses, as did vultures and crows. Death had not arrived all at once, and the bodies were in different stages of decay. Some remained swollen from the gaseous pressures within. Others had burst, like overfilled water balloons, into pools of blood and bile, serving as grotesque reminders of man’s noxious contents. Still others had started to dry into unrecognizable clumps of skin, hair, and bone. The only constant among the dead was the incessant wave of black blowflies that pushed violently against one another to better enjoy the macabre feast.
On nearly every corner, survivors scavenged through stores, homes, and cars, uncertain and afraid of what the next day would bring. Like prisoners of war, they stared out at him, wondering perhaps if he would render aid. Unwilling to stop and be drawn into their misery, Mason set his eyes on the road and continued ahead. Bowie, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the carnage and suffering, barking enthusiastically as if to offer a warm hello to everyone they passed.
It was less than twenty miles from Lincolnton to Gastonia, but, as he got closer, the roads again became congested and difficult to navigate. Gastonia was a city of nearly one hundred thousand people, large enough that, when bodies started piling up, its inhabitants had tried to get out. Like countless other cities, the roadways quickly became jammed with accidents and emergencies, stranding thousands of motorists, many of whom were already infected with the deadly virus. The result was pure chaos as desperate people tried to either squeeze or ram their way through the stalled traffic.
Mason had planned to drive through Gastonia like he had the smaller towns, but, as he found himself struggling to work his way around the wreckage, he began to doubt that a direct path would even be possible. Frustrated by the slow progress, he finally pulled to the side of the road and opened an atlas with the hope of finding a suitable detour.
Bowie whined from the back of the truck, and Mason motioned for him to go and relieve himself. The dog quickly hopped out and wandered off through the abandoned vehicles, sniffing each of them in his never-ending quest for food. Like every dog Mason had ever owned, Bowie had an insatiable appetite. It didn’t seem to matter if he had just consumed an entire pig, there was always room for a little more.
After studying the map, Mason concluded that the Dallas Cherryville Highway would probably get him around most of the traffic clogging Gastonia’s roads. It forced him to make a wide circle around the city to the west, but the added distance was a small price to pay. As he finished scribbling a few notes on the map, he heard Bowie barking in the distance. It didn’t sound like an angry bark, more of an announcement, like, “Timmy’s fallen into that damn well again.”
Mason climbed out of the truck and walked slowly through the abandoned vehicles toward the sound of Bowie’s incessant call. Many of the cars still had people inside, clutching one another or lying prone on the seat as they had waited for their inevitable doom. He considered searching through some of the cars for additional supplies, but clouds of flies banging against the windows warned him off.
He found Bowie less than fifty yards away, pacing back and forth in front of an overturned BMW.
“What is it, boy?”
Bowie barked at the car, looked back at Mason, and then barked again.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You found something interesting.”
Putting his hand on his Supergrade, Mason squatted down and peered into the overturned vehicle.
Inside, a middle-aged man dangled from his seat belt like a trapeze artist who had lost his balance. The skin on his face had shriveled into deep creases, making it look like his bones were slowly dissolving from within. Both eyes had sunken in, leaving deep black voids where blood had pooled in their sockets. His lips were split and peeling, and his swollen tongue puffed out of his mouth like a pink sponge. A dark brown urine stain had spread across the crotch of what were once bleached white trousers. The amazing part of it was that he was still alive.
“Hang on,” said Mason. “We’ll get you out of there.”
Glassy eyes stared out at him.
Mason reached around and tried to unlatch the man’s seatbelt. The mechanism was mangled and refused to release. Using his hunting knife, he carefully cut the shoulder strap. Before he could catch him, the man tumbled forward and fell to the roof of the car. Mason grabbed him under the arms and dragged him out onto the asphalt. He was conscious but just barely so.
Mason turned to Bowie.
“Watch him while I get some water.”
Bowie circled once, sniffing his trousers, and then flopped down next to the man as if trying to keep him warm. The scene reminded Mason of when he had first found the dog lying beside its dead master’s chair. Bowie was no stranger to suffering, and, despite his eagerness to enter a fight, he seemed to have a soft spot for those in need.
Mason hurried back to his truck and grabbed a bottle of water. By the time he returned, the man had scooted over and was propping his head on Bowie’s body. The dog looked at the stranger with genuine curiosity, occasionally leaning down to lick the side of his shriveled face. Mason couldn’t help but smile. His ferocious companion had become a four-legged nursemaid whose only treatment was a good tongue bath.
Mason squatted down and held the bottle to the man’s lips.
Gagging and coughing, he struggled to get the water down. When half of it was gone, he pushed the bottle away with his swollen tongue.
“Let that sit a minute,” said Mason.
The man blinked a few times, staring up at him, and then tried to speak. What came out were unintelligible rasps of air.
“Just take it easy,” Mason said, patting him on the shoulder.
The man lifted his arm and pointed at Mason’s holstered pistol. He blinked twice trying to communicate his message.
“You hang in there. I’ve got water, and we can get you through this.”
He pointed at the pistol again, grunting softly.
Mason started to reassure him again, but the pleading in the man’s eyes would not be appeased by any words a stranger could offer.
“Don’t you have family? Someone who wants to see you make it home?”
He shook his head, and the tiniest tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
Mason looked down at the man and saw only suffering and despair. His will to live had been gone for some time, perhaps even before becoming trapped in the car.
“You’re all done, aren’t you?”
He nodded and closed his eyes, relieved that his rescuer understood his request.
“Stay here. I’ll be back.”
Mason stood up and returned to his truck. From his glove box, he removed the snub-nosed revolver that he had taken off Red Beard’s body a couple of weeks earlier. Carrying it with both hands in front of him like a parting gift, he walked slowly back to the man. He considered what he was about to do. Two months ago, such an action would not only have been morally wrong, it would have landed him behind bars. But the world was different now. Rules were different. Maybe even right and wrong had to be recalibrated. He saw the man ahead, lying helpless and utterly alone in the world. His eyes were closed, and he seemed peaceful resting against Bowie.
Mason motioned for the dog to go back to the truck. After hesitating for a moment, Bowie reluctantly got up and left them alone. Mason squatted down beside the man.
“Do you want another drink?”
The man opened his eyes and nodded.
Mason held up the bottle and let him drink the rest of the water.
“More?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure about this?”
He nodded again.
Mason checked the revolver, inspecting the first round to make sure that the primer and casing were both good. They were. The chance of a misfire with properly manufactured ammunition was very low. It would take a lot of guts to squeeze the trigger, and he didn’t want the man to have to work through that kind of anguish more than once.
He carefully placed the revolver in the man’s hand.
“I’ll wait until I hear it go off.”
The man blinked slowly and tried to speak. Words failed him again.
Mason wanted to believe that he was offering thanks, but it could just have easily been profanity against God for his most recent handiwork. With the decision made, he stood up and walked away. Before he had even reached his truck, a sharp boom sounded, followed by the metallic thud of the revolver hitting the pavement.
Tanner knelt beside the road, studying the dark trail of fluid like an Indian tracker.
“Well?” Samantha asked, looking over his shoulder.
“They’re leaking oil.”
“That’s good, right? If they break down, we’ll catch up to them.”
He shook his head.
“No, if they break down, they’ll switch vehicles, and we’ll lose them for good.”
“Oh, right. We should hurry then.”
“They’re headed straight into the city. Are you sure about this?”
She looked at the large buildings off in the distance.
“How bad can it be? Most everyone’s probably dead.”
He stood up. “It’s going to be bad.”
They loaded back into the Jeep, with Tanner behind the wheel this time.
“You’ve got better eyes than me,” he said. “Don’t let me lose their trail.”
“Me Tonto. You Lone Ranger,” she said in a deep voice.
“Just watch the road.”
They drove for nearly four miles, following the trail of leaking oil down Atlanta’s side streets. Every few hundred yards, they lost sight of it and had to get out and hunt around to pick back up the trail. With every mile deeper into Atlanta, the chaos around them became more complete. The major roads were essentially parking lots, filled with thousands of vehicles and, thus, completely impassible. The side streets were better, but not by much. Whoever they were chasing, however, was familiar enough with the condition of the roads to know which ones still allowed passage.
As they steered through a small alleyway that cut between streets, Tanner saw an unmistakable shadow pass over them from above. He stopped the Jeep and leaned out the window, looking up.
“What is it?” she asked.
Tanner shoved the Jeep into park and killed the engine.
“Helicopter,” he said. “Grab your pack. We’re on foot for a while.”
Samantha snatched up her pack with one hand and opened the door with the other.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Where they can’t see us. Come on.”
They ran back down the alley, turning left when they got to the street. The sidewalk was cluttered with debris, overturned garbage cans, bicycles, pizza boxes, shopping carts, and bodies—so many bodies. A Sonic Drive-In diner was to their right, and a CiCi’s pizza to the left. Across the street was a huge Bass Pro Outdoor World.
Although the helicopter was not yet visible, the heavy
thwup thwup thwup
of its blades buffeted against the walls of the alley.
“There!” Tanner yelled, pointing at the sporting goods store.
They ran, dodging between cars and jumping over decomposing corpses. About half-way across the street, Samantha stumbled over the bloated leg of a dead woman and fell to the ground. Flies immediately swarmed her, eager to lay claim to a fresh meal.
She screamed and blindly batted the air with her hands. Tanner reached down and scooped her up, holding her against his chest with one arm as he continued running at full speed for the store.
The front of Outdoor World had been designed to look like a rustic lodge. Huge logs framed the entire structure, stone chimneys poked out the top, and a thick canopy of artificial moss and leaves covered the forest-green roof. An enormous wood carving of a buffalo head hung precariously above the four entryway doors, all of which had been ripped from their hinges.
Tanner raced into the building, leaping over blister-covered bodies that were piled in the doorway. Entering the store was like stepping into a scene from Lewis and Clark’s historic expedition. Elaborate motifs of animals roaming through yet uncharted wilds stretched from corner to corner. The closest had four mountain goats perched on a huge boulder surrounded by patches of sagebrush. Someone with a questionable sense of humor had defiled the beasts by painting smiley faces on their bone white fur using hunter’s orange spray paint.
Further into the store, an open pond was surrounded by jagged cliffs on three sides. On the fourth side was a small staircase that crossed over the water to an overhanging viewing platform. At one time, water had flowed down the face of the cliff, but, without electricity, the pool had become green and stagnant.
Overturned racks of hats, shirts, waders, books, and every imaginable piece of camping gear stretched across the enormous store. Most of it had been ransacked, and what remained of the equipment and clothing was now strewn across the warehouse floor.
Not far inside the entrance was the body of a large black man wearing camouflage clothing. An empty pump-action shotgun lay at his side, the stock split in half from having been wielded as a club. Twenty or more spent plastic casings were scattered on the floor. The body itself was a mess, hacked so badly that pieces of flesh and bone had splattered fifteen feet in every direction. He looked as if he had been caught in a boat propeller and then dumped in a blender for good measure. Samantha had her face buried against Tanner’s chest and was thankfully spared from having to see the grotesque brutality. The pungent smell of decomposition, however, could not be escaped.
Tanner raced across the large room, knocking aside anything that stood in his way. He vaulted the viewing platform stairs two at a time until he was standing above the pool of slimy green water. With his hands under Samantha’s arms, he hung her over the side, leaning over as far as he dared. From the bottom of her feet to the water was only about three feet.