Battle Lines (The Survivalist Book 5) (4 page)

Mason continued on, but Bowie lingered to sniff a stain on the woman’s dress. As he approached the Protestant church, a man and a woman hurried out through the front door.

“Let me see your hands,” Mason directed, bringing the M4 up to his shoulder.

They stopped and slowly raised their hands.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

“Deputy Marshal Mason Raines.” He made no effort to show them his badge. A rifle required two hands to operate effectively, and he wasn’t about to compromise his position.

“Marshal, we need help,” the woman said. “People are badly hurt inside—burns and broken bones. Please.”

Mason glanced at the open door of the church. He couldn’t afford to get pulled into what would surely be endless days of caring for the injured. If he was to have any chance of success, he had to stay focused on the mission at hand.

“I’m looking for a man named Lenny Bruce.”

The man and woman turned to one another with a mix of surprise and suspicion.

“What do you want with Brother Lenny?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“I need to talk to him.”

“About what?”

Mason gestured toward the ruined city.

“To find out more about what happened here.”

“Why would Brother Lenny know anything about the bombing?”

“He’s a prophet, isn’t he? I would think he knows something about everything.”

“I suppose.”

“So, is he inside or not?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Do you know where he might be?”

“The last time I saw him—”

“Judy,” the man said, “I’m not sure you should be discussing Brother Lenny with the authorities. For all we know, this man is with the people who bombed the city.”

Mason tightened his grip on the rifle.

“Let the lady talk.”

The man shrugged but said nothing more.

Judy seemed uncertain about what to do next.

“Go on,” said Mason.

She bit her lip. “I’m not sure where he is. And that’s the truth.”

“But you know something.”

She didn’t answer.

“Look,” he said, softening his tone. “I’m not here to harm Lenny. In fact, I’m trying to make sure that the people who committed this atrocity pay for their crimes.” While all that was true, he left out the fact that he also considered Lenny to be part of the conspiracy.

After a moment, she said, “You could stop in at WKYT.”

“What’s that? A radio station?”

“Radio and television. Lenny’s brother William used to run the place. I doubt that he’s still there. But if anyone knows where Lenny’s at, it’s him.”

Mason nodded his thanks and turned to leave.

“Wait,” said the man. “The people inside need help. Surely, you have some medicines or supplies you can share.” He eyed Mason’s backpack. “You’re a marshal for God’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Why not?” the man called after him.

“Because I’m not on a mission of mercy.”

Chapter 3  

Tanner set his pack and shotgun next to several boxes of food in the back of the Range Rover. The sport utility vehicle was Land Rover’s top-of-the-line supercharged model, equipped with a 510-horsepower engine and every manner of comfort. It would not only get them away from the house; it would do so in style. Why the vice president had left behind such a fine vehicle was anyone’s guess. Most likely, he had been evacuated by helicopter, and therefore limited to bringing only the most basic necessities. A classic case of one man’s misfortune being another man’s gain.

Samantha stood in the garage’s open doorway and looked back at the house.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yep,” he said, lifting a five-gallon jerry can filled with gasoline.

“Explain to me again why we’re burning down such a beautiful house?”

“Because I don’t want to be responsible for setting loose an army of the infected. Do you?”

“I guess not.”

“So we burn it to the ground. Hopefully, the building will collapse in on itself and seal off the tunnel.”

“And if they still get out?”

“Then the few people around here will suffer and die. All we can ever do is try.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “But why is it that you seem to be enjoying this so much?”

He grinned. “How often does someone get the chance to burn down the vice-president’s house? Now, do you think you can pull the car around front?”

She snatched the keys.

“Of course, I can. I’m probably a better driver than you are now.”

“Darlin’, that ain’t saying much.”

Tanner hurried back into the house with the can of gasoline in one hand and a lighter in the other. A few gallons of gas weren’t really enough to torch the place properly, but he thought that if he started the blaze in the library, it might do the trick.

As he made his way through the living room, he splashed gas on the entryway rug, curtains, and couches, anything that might hold a little fuel. By the time he finished, the stink of the gasoline was so pungent that his eyes began to water. He moved next to the library, carefully soaking the bottom row of books in each bookcase. The best fires started low and burned their way up, and books, he thought, would act as great kindling. All he needed to do was ensure that there was enough fuel to really get them going.

A loud clang sounded from behind the bookcase that led down to the tunnels. Tanner straightened up and listened. It was quiet. Too quiet. The rhythmic pounding had stopped.

“Shit.” He quickly unscrewed the top of the can and began splashing gas in every direction. The time to do it right had come and gone.

The bookcase covering the secret passage suddenly bumped forward as a dozen bodies slammed against the back. Deformed hands reached around the side, pushing and clawing as the infected tried to breach the final seal. Tanner tossed the gas can toward them and turned to flee. As he bolted from the library, the bookcase tipped forward and crashed to the floor with a thunderous clap. The horde of infected spilled into the room, screaming with rage as they gave chase.

Still running, Tanner flicked the lighter and hurled it blindly behind him. Only afterward did it occur to him that the open flame might have ignited the very air in the room, trapping him in a fiery inferno. Fortunately, the air-gas mixture wasn’t right, and the room didn’t burst into flame. Rather, the lighter landed at the foot of one of the couches, and a loud
whoosh
sounded as fire sprang to life all across the first floor. Cries of the infected rang out as they found themselves rushing into rooms filled with blistering heat.

Tanner raced out onto the front lawn, barely escaping the flames. Before he could congratulate himself on an arsonist’s job well done, two of the infected dove through the front window, crashing heavily to the ground. The first was as big as legendary linebacker Dick Butkus, his limbs thick and deformed from the disease. The second man, although no larger than Pee-wee Herman, looked equally set on blood. Both men wore Kevlar helmets, undoubtedly taken from soldiers killed in the tunnel.

They scrambled to their feet, Butkus immediately charging toward Tanner with arms outstretched and teeth bared. Pee-wee started for him too, but when he caught sight of Samantha sitting in the Range Rover, he veered in her direction.

Rather than closing with Butkus, Tanner waited for the brute to come to him. When he was finally within arms’ reach, Tanner grabbed his shirt and flipped him with a quick twist of the hips. The judo throw was perfectly executed, and Butkus landed flat on his back in the wet grass. Before he could get back on his feet, Tanner stomped down with the heel of his boot. The blow knocked the helmet from his enormous head, leaving a bloody scrape across his cheek and ear.

Butkus scrambled to his feet, punching and clawing as he came. Jagged fingernails scratched Tanner’s neck, and knuckles pounded against his cheek. Butkus was flailing so wildly that Tanner found it difficult to defend against the ferocious onslaught. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the old Chinese adage:
When two tigers fight, one is injured, and the other is killed.
He could only hope that he was the fiercer of the two beasts.

Meanwhile, Samantha sat behind the wheel of the Range Rover watching as Pee-wee charged toward her. She didn’t have the time or space to ready her rifle, so she popped the car into drive and pressed the gas pedal. Tires barked as the supercharged engine propelled her down the long circular driveway. Pee-wee gave chase a short distance but quickly fell back.

As she came around the curve, Samantha straightened up the car and punched the gas. The Range Rover raced toward Pee-wee, its xenon headlights lighting up the entire front lawn. Unwilling to give ground, he stood in the middle of the drive, hands in front of his eyes right up to the moment that the five-thousand-pound vehicle plowed him down.

Even hearing Pee-wee’s sudden shriek failed to slow Butkus as he continued flailing and biting like a rabid animal. Tanner grabbed the man’s greasy hair and jerked his head down into a knee strike. Bone met nose, and blood splashed across his pants. Butkus tried to pull away, but Tanner refused to let go of his hair, driving his knee up, over and over. But even with his face taking a terrible beating, Butkus refused to fall. He seemed all but impervious to ordinary strikes, and Tanner wasn’t entirely sure that he had the strength to finish the man.

Butkus suddenly jerked back, leaving Tanner holding a chunk of bloody hair, like the scalp of a wayward settler. He looked toward Tanner and touched the bloody bare spot at the top of his head.

Tanner tossed him the clump of hair.

“I believe that’s yours, sunshine.”

Butkus charged again, screaming with fresh rage. Tanner planted his feet and twisted into a horizontal elbow strike. The blow caught Butkus squarely on the left temple, sending him spiraling down into the dirt. Without waiting to see if he was down for good, Tanner stomped on the back of his neck. Butkus jerked once, and then his eyes rolled back, and he began gagging on his tongue as he flopped up and down on the grass. Tanner raised his boot for one final stomp, but slowly settled it back to the ground. Even for him, there was such a thing as overkill.

He turned to find Samantha backing the Range Rover over Pee-wee. The five-thousand-pound SUV was doing a number on the man’s bony frame. When Tanner waved, she bumped over him one final time before pulling up onto the grass and rolling down her window.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Better than that fella you were treating as a speed bump.”

“I thought I’d better be sure. That’s what we do, right?” She searched his face for any sign of admonishment.

He offered none. “That’s what we do.”

Tanner walked around to the back of the Range Rover and popped open the hatch. Everything had been tossed about from Samantha’s Death Race 2000 antics, and it took him a moment to find his shotgun. When he turned around, Samantha was standing beside the SUV, her rifle slung over one shoulder.

“You’ve got a bite mark on your cheek,” she said.

“I’m all right.”

“Still, you should wash it out.”

Without arguing, he pulled a bottle of water from his pack and used it to wash his hands and face.

“Better?”

She shrugged. “Cleaner, anyway.”

A horrifying scream suddenly sounded from inside the house, and both of them turned to look. A single figure stumbled across the living room, clothes and hair on fire like a demon that had risen from the Pit. When he finally fell, the fire took him in totality, puffing and popping as it sucked the last bit of moisture from his body.

The exterior of the wood-framed structure was already engulfed in flames, and it spit and flashed as its innards slowly caught fire. The inferno grew so large that Tanner and Samantha were forced to move behind the Range Rover or risk a nasty burn. For several long minutes, they stared at the bright flames and thick black smoke rising up into the night sky. It was a sight as symbolic as the burning of Rome.

“How many of them do you think we killed?” she asked.

Tanner leaned over and spit blood from his mouth.

“Not nearly enough.”