Frontier Justice - 01 (9 page)

When Mason came across an automobile fuel pump and some rubber tubing, he decided to try to build a fuel retrieval system similar to the one that Carl had demonstrated. He started by securing the fuel pump to a small piece of plywood using metal straps and wood screws. Next, he attached a ten-foot length of tubing to the input and output ports. For power, he wired the pump’s terminals to one of the car batteries using an electrical switch that he took out of the partially burned wall.

He carried the apparatus over to the fuel ports that Carl had explained earlier and lowered the input hose down into the underground tank of unleaded fuel. He put the other hose into one of his gas cans and turned on the pump. The unit sputtered briefly as air was purged from the system, but then it began to pump out gas in a smooth, powerful stream. Mason couldn’t help but grin at his accomplishment. As long as reserves were available, either underground or in vehicles, his fuel problem was essentially solved. He continued running the system until he filled up the remaining fuel cans and topped off his truck.

As Mason loaded the fuel retrieval system into the truck bed, Bowie sat up and leaned his head out the passenger side window.

“You’re feeling better.”

Bowie laid his head on the windowsill as if to argue the point.

“I said better, not perfect, you big baby.”

Bowie looked at him and yawned.

“I’ve got a load full of supplies, and you’re going to need some time to recuperate. I had hoped to push into Boone today, but I think we’re better off returning to the cabin for a couple of days.” After what he had heard about Boone, it didn’t seem wise to roll into town with darkness only a few hours away.

He fed Bowie another can of cat food and then began the six-mile trek back to the cabin. Traveling the roadway was a little easier because Carl and his caravan of RVs and campers had cleared a decent path. The biggest risk was running over broken glass, tail lights, and other debris that might puncture a tire. Mason had a spare tire secured under the bed of the truck, but he had no desire to use it.

As he approached Buckeye Road, the turnoff from Highway 321, Mason saw a car approaching from the opposite direction. It was an older model Impala, and the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. As the Impala came to within a few car lengths of Mason’s truck, it slowed and stopped. Mason had already unlatched the M4 and was prepared to take cover behind his truck if things took a turn for the worse.

A heavyset man stepped from the Impala and waved to Mason.

Bowie sat up and peered over the dash. The dog’s ears were standing straight up as it stared intently at the stranger.

Mason rolled Bowie’s window all the way down.

“If I get into trouble, I expect you to remember who fed you.”

The dog’s only response was to look at him and then back to the stranger.

Leaving the M4 in its rack, Mason exited the truck and walked slowly toward the man. Unlike his previous encounter with Teardrops and Red Beard, this man appeared quite harmless. He was a portly fellow, balding except for puffs of white hair along his temples, and dressed in a bloodstained priest’s vestment. If he had been holding a shepherd’s crook, the man could easily have passed for Friar Tuck.

“Good morning,” he said with a friendly smile. “I’m Father Paul.” He didn’t offer a handshake or a last name.

“Marshal Raines.”

“I seem to be having better luck today.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Not more than two hours ago, I met several families traveling westward. Now I’m talking to a peace officer. Good luck indeed.”

Mason figured that the families that he was referring to must be Carl and his caravan of RVs.

“Are you on your own, Father?”

“Never truly alone,” he said, gesturing up to the sky. “And yourself?”

Mason thought of his missing family and friends. He shrugged.

“For now.”

“It seems we are two men in uniform with little more than our sense of duty.”

“I suppose so.”

“Are you coming from Boone?”

“No, I didn’t get past Sugar Grove. What about you? Are you headed into town?”

“Oh, yes. I live there. I was away visiting sick friends in Elizabethon when this all happened. I stayed on after their passing to help the good people there. I’ve done what I can. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”

“From what I’ve seen, He has his hands plenty full.”

“It’s the end of times, my friend. One would expect the Lord to be busy.”

“No offense intended, Father, but if it’s the end of times, shouldn’t you have been called up into heaven? Revelations and all that?”

The priest smiled and rubbed his chin.

“I must confess that I’ve wondered about that myself. I can only assume that the Lord left a few of the faithful behind to do His will. I feel quite honored actually, as should you.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Nothing happens purely by chance. You are here for a reason no less important than my own.”

“Fair enough. I suppose we’ll each do our part, whatever that may be.”

The priest leaned in close like he was about to share a secret with an old friend.

“My part will be to heal the sick, bless the dead, and help feed the hungry. What will yours be, Marshal?”

Mason didn’t respond for a moment, but the priest stood patiently awaiting his answer.

Finally, he said, “I suppose I’ll stand in the way of those who would do harm. It’s what I do.”

Father Paul bowed his head slightly.

“A peacekeeper. God surely has need of such men in these troubled times. May He bless you on your mission of justice as He does me on my mission of mercy.”

“Amen to that,” Mason said, wondering what his “mission of justice” might ultimately require.

CHAPTER

9

R
ay Foster didn’t get back up. Tanner tried to coax him to his feet from a safe distance, but the man just waived him on. “Go,” he breathed. “Just go.”

There seemed no reason to argue the point, so he left Ray lying in the prison yard. How long he would live, Tanner couldn’t say. But he suspected it wouldn’t be long.

He walked out the front gate of the prison, a slave who had suddenly awoke to discover that he had been emancipated. The weather was comfortable, and his orange jumpsuit was enough to keep away the chill. Not having anywhere else to go, Tanner walked east along Renfroe Road in the direction of a large plume of black and gray smoke. Whatever was on fire had plenty of gas and oil to keep it going.

After walking about a half mile, he came upon a site more appropriate to the streets of Mogadishu than eastern Alabama. A UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter had crashed into the roof of a Church’s Chicken fast-food restaurant. Bright yellow flames licked out from the wreckage, although the blaze was clearly on the way to burning itself out. The building was in pretty good shape, from the outside at least. Soot-colored smoke billowed between the small row of restaurants and shops, as if an old Indian medicine man was enjoying his favorite pipe of kinnikinnick.

The two intersecting roads were deserted save for a few cars that had either been abandoned or become the final resting places of their owners. The small community was as quiet as a graveyard, not a single soul standing around gawking at the most unusual sight.

A young girl, perhaps ten or twelve years of age, stumbled to the edge of the roof, doubled over and coughing. She was standing dangerously close to the edge, obviously trying to escape the heat of the fire. Tanner watched to see if anyone else would appear on the roof. No one did.

The girl looked up and saw him. She started motioning frantically for his help. He hurried across the street and stood next to the brick wall of the restaurant. She was about ten feet above him, teetering on the edge of the roof.

“Help me,” she cried, coughing.

He looked around but didn’t see anything that could easily be moved to lift him up. Seeing no other option, he said, “Hang off the edge and drop. I’ll try to catch you.”

“I can’t. It’s too far.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, turning to leave.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

He turned back.

“If you want my help getting down, you’ll have to hang and drop.”

“Are you sure you can catch me?”

Tanner shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never caught a girl falling from a burning building. But I’d say the odds are better than fifty-fifty.”

From the disappointed look on her face, she apparently didn’t appreciate his honesty.

“Okay, okay,” she said, first sitting down and then sliding her legs over the edge.

He moved close to the building and reached up. She was still about five feet out of his reach.

“Okay, now lower and drop.”

She carefully lowered herself, but as she was about halfway down, she started to cough, lost her grip, and fell backward.

Tanner saw her fall but accepted that there wasn’t much he could do to change what would happen next. He moved back half a step and spread his arms as wide as possible, hoping to act as a human net. The girl landed butt first on his left shoulder and then fell backward as if tumbling off a teeter-totter. He managed to cross his arms around her ankles, just in time to prevent her from flipping completely over his shoulder. When she finally stopped falling, she lay dangling across his back with her feet up near his head.

Tanner carried her across the street and set her on the curb. The girl’s whole body was trembling.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re okay.”

She nodded. “But it was close.”

“Yes, it was close.”

“You did good. Thanks.”

He smiled. “How old are you, kid?”

“I’m eleven,” she said, stiffening. “I’m just short for my age.”

He sized her up. “No, I’d say you’re about right for eleven.”

“You look … well, you’re as big as Oscar.”

“Who’s Oscar?”

She looked back toward the helicopter.

“He was my bodyguard. He’s dead now.”

“What kind of kid needs a bodyguard?”

She shrugged.

“That’s not much of an answer. You got rich parents or something?”

“Something like that.”

Tanner looked back at the wreckage.

“Where were you headed?”

“To my mother’s.”

“Where’s she at?”

“Virginia. It’s east of here.”

“I know where Virginia is.”

“Any chance … you’re headed that way?”

“I’m not really headed anywhere.”

“You just break out of jail?”

She pointed to his orange jumpsuit, which had the word “prisoner” stamped across the front and back.

Tanner looked down at her and furrowed his brows.

“For your information, I was released.”

She nodded slowly, obviously not buying the story.

“Okay. Does that mean you don’t plan to kill me?”

“I don’t
plan
to.”

“Okay,” she repeated.

They both turned as they heard several loud motorcycles approaching from the north.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get off the street.” He turned and hurried over to a small submarine sandwich shop with a sign above it that read, Vinny’s.

The girl stared up the road, weighing whether the motorcycle riders might prove more helpful than a reluctant rescuer wearing a prison jumpsuit. After a few seconds, she turned and followed him.

A handwritten sign hung on the window informing would-be patrons that the restaurant was closed until further notice. Tanner tried the door, and wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He bumped it with his shoulder, and the lock broke free of the doorjamb.

“Come on,” he said, ushering her in and pushing the door closed behind them.

A few seconds later, a group of four men rode into the intersection. Tanner recognized one of them as Wesley, a fellow inmate who had been doing time for molesting his neighbor’s fifteen-year-old babysitter. Like most sexual predators, he tended to stay with his own type while in prison. Wesley was a big man known in the yard for two things: he was the only inmate capable of bench pressing more than five hundred pounds, and he enjoyed forcing himself on young men who were new to prison.

For the moment, the four riders seemed completely enthralled with the helicopter crash. Tanner didn’t know how long that was going to last, but he was sure that, if they found the girl, she would become the unwilling object of their affection.

He turned to her. “Look around for somewhere to hide.”

“Okay,” she said, her face turning a sickly shade of white.

She walked around the small store, opening cabinet doors and looking in closets.

After a brief search, she said, “I found something.”

When Tanner turned around, he saw that she was holding a large revolver with both hands.

“It was under the cash register.”

“Bring it here.”

She held it out in front of her like a pair of dirty work boots. When she got close, she suddenly had a change of heart. “Maybe I should keep it with me.”

“There’s only one problem with that.”

“What?”

“That’s a Taurus Judge.”

“So?”

“It’s loaded with .410 shotgun shells, which means it will kick like a stick of dynamite. Even if you could pull the trigger, which I doubt, it would jump right out of your hand or, worse, smack you in the forehead.”