Frontier Justice - 01 (4 page)

For the next ten minutes, Mason didn’t see a single car on the road. That in itself was a little surprising because the area was frequented by outdoorsmen hoping to pull in a few trout as well as young mountain bikers hitting the trails.

As he came around a long bend that opened up to a popular scenic stop, he discovered two cars involved in a head-on collision. The larger vehicle, a white Lincoln Town Car that looked as if it belonged at the yacht club, clearly got the better of a much smaller Honda compact. The windows were wet with condensation No one stood beside either car; neither were there any police or tow trucks present.

Mason stopped his truck in the center of the road, blocking off any potential traffic that might approach from behind. A quick check of his cell phone showed that service was still unavailable. He climbed out of his truck and approached the accident with a disconcerting feeling of dèjá vu. Given that the collision must have happened hours earlier, he was surprised that the accident had not yet been discovered and reported to the highway patrol or local authorities.

The Town Car had only a twisted bumper and broken headlight, and no one was sitting inside. The driver’s door was wide open, suggesting that he may have quickly fled the scene, as was often the case when an accident involved a drunk driver. The Honda had not fared nearly as well. The entire front end was crumpled, and a large puddle of antifreeze and oil had pooled beneath it like blood from an injured warhorse. Two people were sitting in the front seats. Both were badly mangled, and there was no doubt that they were stone-cold dead. From the awkward positioning of the bodies, Mason assumed that they were still in rigor mortis, which aligned well with his conclusion that the accident had occurred sometime in the night.

He rubbed his chin, mulling over what he was seeing. In all his years, he had never come across two scenes within minutes of one another where people were lying not only dead but unattended. It was either a strange coincidence, or more likely, the two were somehow connected. As he had done at the previous scene, he walked around the vehicles to ensure he hadn’t missed anything important. As he came around the Lincoln, he nearly stumbled over another body lying beside the rear wheel.

It was of a woman in her late thirties, dressed in an expensive-looking gray skirt and white silk blouse. The cause of her death was difficult to determine. Her face and arms were covered in large, pus-filled boils that early decomposition couldn’t hide. There was also bloody foam on her lips that looked as if she had aspirated her favorite fruit salad. Her eyes were open, and the whites were laced with a network of red streaks caused by petechial hemorrhaging. Suffocation seemed to be the probable cause of death except for the fact that, from the knee down, her right leg was completely missing. A long trail of blood led up into the woods. Animals of some sort had obviously gotten to her. Whether that happened while she was alive or dead was difficult for him to say.

Perhaps even more disturbing than her grotesque appearance was the repugnant odor that outgassed from her body. Mason knew too well the putrid stink of decaying bodies, but this was something different. It was more of a rancid smell, and it made him want to cover his nose and spit the saliva from his mouth. While he was certainly no bacteriologist, he had smelled enough curdled milk to know when something had gone bad.

He returned to his truck, walking slowly and methodically. Three people shot to death, a car crash with bodies lying unattended, and a potentially infectious disease the likes of which he had not seen before. Having been a soldier and lawman for most of his adult life, Mason considered himself hardened to death and violence. But, taken together, the bloody scenes felt surreal, as if civilization’s normal checks and balances were being tested.

He tried the two-way radio again, but the airwaves remained silent. He reached up and held his cell phone out the window with the hopes of picking up even spotty reception. Nothing. Mason shook his head in disbelief. The universe was clearly conspiring against him. He flipped on the blue light sitting on his dash, popped his truck into drive, and started down the mountain road with a newfound sense of urgency. It was time to get some help.

When Mason turned from Buckeye Road, a small rural stretch that led up to hiking trails and weekend getaways, onto Highway 321, his first thought was that there had been a huge accident. Hundreds of vehicles were scattered along the roadway, facing every possible direction, as if they had been tossed into the air as part of a colossal game of pick-up sticks. Several had crashed, or perhaps been pushed, into the deep gullies that lined the sides and center of the thoroughfare. Cars, trucks, tractor-trailers, emergency vehicles, and even a school bus were mixed into the automotive bedlam.

Mason stopped his truck and paused a moment to try to grasp what he was witnessing. It was an impossible sight, one that he found hard to accept even when seeing it with his own eyes. It was as if thousands of people had attempted to flee some supernatural evil only to be caught in its clutches on this cursed stretch of freeway. The war zones that he had experienced in Iraq held nothing over the destruction before him now.

Not a single person walked along the highway. A few cars still had their headlights glowing dimly, but, other than the occasional spinning wheel of an overturned car, nothing moved. The roadway was utterly lifeless, as if mankind had been suddenly scratched from the planet, leaving only the scars of its technology behind. Mason could only think of a single word to describe the chaos that he was seeing:
Armageddon.

Not knowing what else to do, he shut off his truck and got out. His first steps were tentative as he unconsciously tested the asphalt to see if it might suddenly collapse and drop him into an invisible abyss. No such doom befell him. On the contrary, the air was calm and the scene strangely peaceful. Only the occasional creak of a settling vehicle broke the silence.

He walked slowly toward a small camper trailer that had partially overturned. The passenger door was wedged open, and the corpse of a fat man was leaning out, dangling from his seatbelt like a condemned man from the gallows’ noose. Mason circled around to the front of the camper to get a better view of the cab. Another man rested behind the steering wheel, also quite dead. Both were covered in the same blisters that he had seen on the woman lying beside the Town Car.

He checked several other vehicles, and nearly all of them contained decaying corpses with similar symptoms. Something terrible had killed these people. Most of the cars were facing away from Boone, but there were also some heading into the small town. Whatever had killed them was so widespread that they hadn’t known which direction offered salvation.

Mason made his way back to his truck and shut off the flashing blue light on the dash. He started to reach for his phone again but surrendered to the fact that it wasn’t going to work. There was only one logical explanation for why he didn’t have radio or cellular phone service. The entire area had been affected by some sort of pandemic or biochemical attack. That in turn must have led to the loss of infrastructure services. The only other possibility he could think of was that the authorities had sealed the area and intentionally cut off all forms of communication to prevent those who were contaminated from calling out for help. No one wanted those 911 calls played back for years to come.

Mason had a long list of questions that needed answering. How widespread was the pandemic or attack? What methods were being used to contain it? Was it airborne, and, if so, was he in danger? What steps could be taken to prevent infection? Had a quarantine zone been set up to prevent the spread of the illness? And if so, how could he safely exit it?

He swung the truck around and headed back the way he had come. Everything he needed to get answers was back at the cabin.

CHAPTER

5

B
y the time Mason arrived at the cabin, his mind was racing like a rookie trying to win his first NASCAR title. What he needed most was information. He had repeatedly tried the two-way radio and cell phone, both of which had failed him miserably. Now it was time to broaden his reach. He hurried around back and once again fired up the generator. Then he went inside and climbed a ladder to a small upstairs loft where his radio equipment was set up. He had been a licensed amateur radio operator for several years and knew from experience that, under the right conditions, one-hundred-watt broadcasts such as his could skip halfway around the world. Reaching out to those beyond the area of infection should be quite easy.

He switched on the radio and checked the power level and antenna selection. Everything was a go. He tuned to a frequency in the 20-meter band that was active during emergencies, hoping to hear traffic. When he didn’t hear any transmissions, he said, “This is KB4VXP. Is anyone listening on this frequency? I’m looking for information on the pandemic.”

He waited for a response. When none came, he repeated his call for help.

After his second transmission, a voice said, “Who is this?” The voice was that of a young woman. She wasn’t following standard Ham jargon.

Mason keyed his microphone.

“This is KB4VXP. What is your call sign, over?”

“I … I don’t know. This was my husband’s radio.” She sounded close to having an emotional breakdown.

“Okay. No problem. Take it slow. Where are you broadcasting from?”

“I’m in Ukiah.”

“Where’s Ukiah?” he asked, wondering if she was even in the States.

“Northern California. Where are you? Are you close? My son and I need help.”

Mason didn’t like what he was hearing. Surely, the pandemic or attack hadn’t reached all the way to the West Coast.

“Tell me what’s going on. I’m listening.”

“They’re dead,” she cried.

“Who’s dead?”

“Everyone’s dead!”

Mason took a deep breath.

“What’s your name, dear?”

There was a slight pause.

“Kathryn. Kate. I’m Kate Battens.”

“All right, Kate, I’m Mason. Relax, okay? Let’s just talk. We’ll figure this out together. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Right,” she said, her voice steadying. “We’re in trouble here. Nearly everyone around us is dead, and no one has come to help.”

“How did they die?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“The virus. Superpox-99. Only my son and I survived.”

Mason had never heard of Superpox-99, but he wasn’t going to lose his only link to the outside world by having her question his usefulness.

“How many are dead in Ukiah? In California?”

“They’re all dead. My neighbors. My husband. My co-workers. My pastor. They’re all dead,” she repeated, her voice rising again.

“Has Superpox-99 affected the major cities? Los Angeles? San Francisco?”

“I think so,” she answered. “We have no TV. No radio. No power or even water. I’m running this radio using my husband’s generator. Please, we need help desperately.”

Mason considered the implications of what she was telling him. He reminded himself that she could be wrong. People who were in disaster areas often made assumptions about things that later proved untrue. Maybe the virus wasn’t as widespread as she claimed.