Judgment Day -03 (4 page)

Bowie immediately sat up on the seat beside him, the dog’s head nearly touching the roof the cab. As soon as Mason opened the door and stepped out, Bowie hopped down and began sniffing the cars around them.

Mason took a moment to quickly inspect his rifle. During his time as an Army Ranger, he had found that Colt’s M4 assault rifle was a remarkably reliable weapon. Like all firearms, however, it required that the operator keep it properly maintained and ready for action. Other than a few scratches from when he had thrown it to the ground during a firefight in Boone, the weapon looked to be in virtually new condition.

He ejected the magazine and set the weapon on the seat, one round still in the chamber. He pulled another fully-loaded thirty-round magazine from the bed of the truck as well as a roll of duct tape. Flipping the second magazine upside down, he taped the two together. He seated the dual magazine into the M4 and flipped it around a couple of times to make sure there wasn’t any interference on either end. It worked perfectly. He now had sixty rounds at his disposal, enough for most one-man firefights.

“Come on,” he said to Bowie. “Let’s go do a little recon.”

They moved slowly, but steadily, keeping their eyes on the road ahead of them. When Mason got to within fifty yards of where the convoy had stopped, he squatted down behind a silver Lexus. Inside was a woman’s corpse, topped with a mop of long red hair. She had been decomposing for more than three weeks, and her body had burst on the seat into a puddle of dark blood, guts, and human waste. Her flesh was as dry as parchment, and it was splitting open along jagged seams. Bones stained with dried blood peeked out through her elbow joints as the skin began to sag and fall away. The car’s windows were partially open, and a steady stream of black blowflies buzzed in and out.

The rotting corpse was hardly unique. Most of the cars around him had decaying bodies inside, people who had fled the cities when the outbreak reached its crescendo. Flies worked relentlessly to clean up the mess, leaving behind their maggot children to do much of the dirty work. In a few more months, only bones, hair, and cadaver stains would remain of the billions who had perished. Until then, the grotesque horror show would continue.

Bowie propped himself up to peek in through the window. When he was satisfied that there was nothing tasty to eat inside, he dropped back to the ground and walked in a small circle before lying down beside his master. Leaning around the front of the Lexus, Mason took a long moment to study the interstate. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds of life. He shook his head slowly, a little disappointed that his instincts had driven him to take an unnecessary and time-consuming detour.

Bowie tipped his head up and took several deep sniffs, his moist black nose sponging up odors from every direction. Then he looked over at Mason as if to ask,
Don’t you smell that?

Mason smelled the air, searching for anything that didn’t belong. There were many odors, human decay and gasoline being the strongest. But there was something else too—a faint hint of cigarette smoke. He caught it only for an instant, but the smell of burning tobacco was unmistakable. He scanned the cars ahead of him, hoping to see a wisp of smoke rising into the air like an ethereal arrow pointing to his enemy. No such luck.

He studied the road for places where someone might hide. There were plenty of cars, most smashed into one another or pushed to the side of the road. While someone could certainly hide inside, the loss of mobility would put them at a significant disadvantage. Professionals wouldn’t do that, he thought. Then he saw it. Three giant concrete pipes sat beside the road in a deep culvert, a small Toyota pinned beneath one of them. Mason could only assume that they had rolled off a tractor-trailer as it plowed its way through the stalled traffic.

The pipes were roughly lined up end-to-end, creating a makeshift tunnel with small gaps between the sections. The heavy concrete pipes were easily eight feet in diameter, making them traversable even when standing upright. It was an incredibly solid defensive position, providing cover, shooting ports between the pipes, and only two ways in or out.

Something dark crossed the gap between two of the pipes.

Mason’s heart quickened. The question of whether or not someone was inside had been answered. Now what? Getting any closer without being seen would be difficult.

There were plenty of places around him to use as cover or concealment, should he choose to engage in a firefight, but none were as good as the pipes. The M4’s 5.56 mm rounds had no chance of penetrating the ten-inch-thick concrete. His best bet was to draw them out. Unfortunately, luring trained soldiers out of a defensive position was nearly impossible. Every infantry soldier knew the merits of putting something bulletproof between himself and the enemy.

A second option, albeit a more dangerous one, was to stealthily approach from one end of the structure. There was enough roadway clutter that Mason thought he could probably low crawl his way to the culvert without being seen. Once there, he could snake his way to the end of the far pipe and pop in like an unwanted in-law. At that point, the pipes would act to trap the men. The biggest unknown was how many men were inside. If there were too many, even the element of surprise might not be enough to win the day.

Fresh out of ideas, Mason decided to give it a go.

“Stay put,” he whispered, giving Bowie a quick pat on his side.

Then he turned away and leaned his M4 against one of the tires. Low-crawling twenty yards on asphalt covered in broken glass without being detected was going to be hard enough. Trying to do it while pushing a rifle ahead of him seemed all but impossible. Next, he lay flat on the ground, head first, with his legs splayed out behind him.

Bowie whined softly but didn’t move.

Keeping his head pressed against the pavement, Mason began to shimmy his way forward. The low crawl offered the smallest silhouette to anyone who might be keeping an eye on the road, but it in no way guaranteed that he would remain undetected. To keep from drawing attention to his motion, he kept his progress slow, advancing only a few inches at a time. He carefully snaked around cars, pausing any time he made a noise. After nearly five full minutes, he arrived at the grassy embankment on the far side of the road. The smell of cigarette smoke was stronger now.

Believing that he was out of their direct sight, he rolled slowly down the embankment to the bottom of the small gulley and into a puddle of cool, muddy water. The first pipe straddled the ditch, with the end lying almost directly above him. He lay there for nearly a minute, listening. The only sound was that of boots scrubbing across concrete. He waited a little longer and was rewarded for his patience with the sound of voices.

“You see anything?” a man asked.

There was no answer.

“Hey, jackass, I asked you a question.”

“If I saw something, don’t you think I’d tell you?” a second man said with a strong New England accent. “Finish your damn cigarette, and look for yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, a couple more drags.”

Two voices meant at least two men. There could easily be more, however.

Mason quietly slid his Supergrade from its holster. It wasn’t the right weapon for the task, but it was what he had. The full length of the pipes was probably only about fifty feet, well within his range, but if anyone made it out of the end pipe, Mason would be at a serious disadvantage against their long guns.

He glanced over and saw Bowie peeking at him from around the Lexus. The dog would help whether he wanted him to or not. If someone made a run for it, Bowie would give chase. It was in his nature to do so, and nothing Mason said or did was going to stop that.

Mason had no way of knowing whether anyone was looking down at his end of the pipe, and he couldn’t chance raising his head up to get a better look. He would hold the advantage of surprise, and that would have to be enough. Worrying that Bowie might decide to come check things out for himself, Mason decided to move sooner, rather than later. He pushed up and rolled to a kneeling position, swinging the Supergrade into position.

Two men, dressed in black fatigues, stood in the chain of pipes. One man was very close, perhaps eight feet away, holding a cigarette up to this mouth with one hand, and resting the other on an AK-47. His left ear was completely missing, sliced off as cleanly as Van Gogh’s. The second man was all the way at the far end of the pipes. He had an M4 rifle up and ready as he peered out to watch the road.

Mason immediately sighted in on the far man and fired two shots in rapid succession. The first bullet caught him under the ribcage, and the second in the neck as he tumbled backward. At the sound of the gunshots, Bowie bolted from behind the car, barking as he raced toward Mason. Van Gogh spun around, shock and confusion on his face.

“Drop it!” Mason commanded, quickly adjusting his point of aim. At eight feet, he could empty the magazine into the one-eared man before he could get his rifle in hand.

Van Gogh glanced at his partner and then back at Mason. After only a short deliberation, he released his rifle, letting it clatter against the concrete pipe. At that same instant, Bowie raced around Mason and scrambled up into the pipe.

Mason shouted for him to stop, but Bowie tore ahead. At the sight of the snarling dog, Van Gogh turned and ran. Mason jumped to his feet and raced around the outside of the pipes, hoping to cut him off. The soldier was remarkably agile, making it out the far end of the pipe, with Bowie hot on his heels.

They raced out onto the freeway, the man finally turning and screaming while holding his open hands out toward the dog. Bowie hunched his back and began to slowly advance, snarling, without a hint of mercy.

“Bowie!” shouted Mason.

Bowie tipped his head to the side to acknowledge his master’s call, but refused to take his eyes off the soldier.

Mason approached and placed one hand on the dog, trying to calm him.

“Easy, boy,” he said, careful to keep the Supergrade pointed at Van Gogh.

Bowie relaxed, letting his fur settle along his back.

“Keep that monster away from me,” Van Gogh pleaded, his voice trembling.

Hearing the fear in the man’s voice, Mason thought he saw his way in.

“That depends on how cooperative you are. My dog hasn’t eaten in a couple of days, and right now, you look a lot like a ribeye steak.”

Van Gogh bent slightly, and his gaze flicked toward his boot knife.

Mason shook his head.

“That’s not going to end well for you.”

Van Gogh gently pulled the knife out with two fingers and tossed it a few feet away.

“Smart,” said Mason. “Now, drop to your knees, and lace your fingers together on top of your head.”

Shaking slightly, the man did as he was told, his eyes never leaving Bowie.

Mason glanced back at the soldier he had shot. The man’s body half out of the pipe, blood dripping from his neck down into the gulley. He was definitely out for the count.

“I assume you two were waiting for me?” he said, turning back to his prisoner.

Van Gogh didn’t answer.

Mason shrugged. “Okay, dinner it is.” He loosened his grip on Bowie, and the dog immediately lunged for the soldier.

“All right, all right!” the man screamed, leaning away. “Yeah, we were waiting on you.”

“Why?”

“Just to find out who you were. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh, and then put a bullet in my head, right?”

Van Gogh started to deny it but stopped himself.

“Hey, man, I was just following orders. This wasn’t personal.”

“I assume you’re a private contractor?”

He nodded. “I used to be regular army, but the pay was shit, you know?”

“Who are you working for now?”   

“Look, the best thing you can do is turn around and walk away from this. I’ll tell my boss that you got away. Simple as that. He’s not going to come looking for you. Why would he?”

“He won’t need to,” Mason said calmly. “I’m going after him.”

“That’s suicide. Nakai is—” Van Gogh caught himself. “Shit!”

“Who’s Nakai? Another mercenary?”

“It doesn’t matter what you know. If you go after him, he’ll kill you for sure. I’m telling you, you should let this one go.”

“I’m touched that you’re so concerned for my wellbeing. Really, I am. Did you feel that way about the marshals you murdered back in Glynco?”

The man’s face turned pale.

“Listen, I had no part in that. I swear to God. That was Nakai all the way. Most of us showed up after it was already done. We were only there to pick up the guns.”

Mason smiled. Van Gogh was a veritable gold mine of information.

“That’s what this is about? Guns? It must have been a hell of a haul to need five tractor-trailers.”

Van Gogh shrugged. “Not so many. A couple thousand rifles, maybe.”

“Why did you need the guns?”

He shrugged again. “They’re not for us. We we’re hired to deliver them to a guy named Lenny Bruce. He’s building a little army up near Lexington. It was just a job. That’s it.”

“All right, you’re doing great. You may actually live through this.”

“There’s no need to kill me. I’m nothing more than a grunt left behind for a little clean up. You know how it is.”