The Survivalist - 02 Read online

  Other Books by Dr. Arthur Bradley

  Handbook to Practical Disaster Preparedness for the Family

  The Prepper's Instruction Manual

  Disaster Preparedness for EMP Attacks and Solar Storms

  Process of Elimination: A Thriller

  The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

  Available in print and ebook at all major resellers or at:

  http://disasterpreparer.com

  The Survivalist

  (Anarchy Rising)

  Author: Arthur T. Bradley, Ph.D.

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: http://disasterpreparer.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the author.

  Illustrations used throughout the book are privately owned and copyright protected. Special thanks are extended to Siobhan Gallagher for editing, Nikola Nevenov for the illustrations and cover design.

  © Copyright 2013 by Arthur T. Bradley

  ISBN 10: 1492340626

  ISBN 13: 978-1492340621

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  FOREWORD

  Anarchism is a political philosophy that sees the state as undesirable, unnecessary, and perhaps even harmful. Proponents often advocate the establishment of stateless societies whose organizations are based on voluntary participation. Democratic voting and the ownership of private property are viewed as unfair to the broader population. While not all anarchists advocate the use of violence to achieve their ends, it does resonate as a common thread among many groups.

  Anarchy is generally held at bay for three reasons. First, those who hold political power provide important goods and services to the population, and are, therefore, viewed by many as necessary. The authorities also possess the military might to contain and suppress anti-government movements. To that end, many people fear the violent chaos that might ensue from a stateless society. Most are willing to suffer the imperfections of what is arguably an unfair system for the benefits that it provides. Finally, those who have established or inherited wealth see structured society as a means by which to protect their prosperity, and, thus, are strongly opposed to a change in the status quo.

  Should the world’s societies suddenly be disrupted by a major disaster, such as an asteroid strike, deadly pandemic, or global financial collapse, many of these reasons would no longer hold true. History has proven that when governments can no longer maintain order or provide life-sustaining services, the larger population will rise up and overthrow them. When this happens, more often than not, the streets run red with blood.

  “I'm not afraid to die like a man fighting,

  but I would not like to be killed like a dog unarmed.”

  William H. Bonney (a.k.a. Billy the Kid)

  March 1879

  CHAPTER

  1

  The cab of Mason Raines’ black F150 pickup was quiet and empty, like a school bus that had just dropped off a load of noisy kindergarteners. In his case, however, it was not a welcome silence. Rather, it was the quiet resignation that a soldier feels when he leaves home to go to war. It was not the first time he had felt such loneliness; nor, he suspected, would it be the last. Such was the price he paid for walking a path directed by duty.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror to take one last look at the town of Boone, North Carolina, as it slowly disappeared behind the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The image brought back memories of despair and hope, of life and death, of love and loss. Boone was where a few brave men and women had stood against an enemy bent on destroying any semblance of law and order. They were outnumbered and outgunned, but, with his leadership, they had triumphed in the end.

  Many convicts had died at Mason’s hands, but none he felt who hadn’t deserved it. He had made lifelong friends, including Father Paul, Chief Blue, and perhaps even Erik, Boone’s leader of those infected by the Superpox-99 virus. While the townspeople still had a great deal of work to do, they had taken many important steps, including reestablishing water service, setting up a soup kitchen, and clearing the streets of bodies and abandoned cars so that some rudimentary commercial activity might eventually resume.

  The reflection in the rearview mirror was momentarily blocked by Bowie’s massive head as he peered in through the open window between the cab and the truck bed.

  Mason smiled. “It’s just you and me now, boy.”

  The one-hundred-and-forty-pound Irish wolfhound leaned in and licked his ear, coating it with a thick layer of slobber.

  “Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” he said. “It’s all going to be fine. We’ll be coming back this way soon enough, right?”

  Bowie tried to lick him again, but Mason leaned forward to avoid the dog’s enormous tongue.

  Mason thought about his girlfriend, Ava, standing in the street waving goodbye. He forced himself to recreate her image in his mind . . . thick black hair, dark eyes, and a soft, warm body. He remembered the sound of her voice, the eagerness of her kiss, and the warm sensation of her breasts pressing against his chest. How long, he wondered, would he be able to recall the details with such clarity? A day? A week? Eventually, they would fade like the ink in a journal.

  They had met under the direst of circumstances but had somehow managed to find comfort and even happiness in one another’s arms. He didn’t know if relationships crafted from hope and hardship were lasting or simply short-lived panaceas to ease the pain. Was she still watching his truck drive away like in the closing scene of a classic western? Or, had she already accepted that he was gone and was now waiting instead for the next gunslinger to roll into town?

  “Enough,” he said in a loud voice. “When did I get so damn soft?”

  Bowie turned and looked at him through squinted eyes, unsure if he was talking to him.

  Mason couldn’t help but marvel at the dog’s uncanny ability to understand him. Whether he told him to lead the way or guard a prisoner, Bowie rarely let him down. Where he had received such remarkable training remained a mystery, but Mason suspected that it was the result of being part of either a military or police K-9 unit. When he had found Bowie, the dog was lying at the feet of his previous owner as she slowly rotted away in the storeroom of a convenience store. The finality of the situation left Mason with more questions than answers about the dog’s origins. Bowie was in many ways like every other dog, fun loving, constantly hungry, and loyal to a fault. But he was also unique, not only for his size and intelligence, but for his willingness to engage in a fight.

  Mason leaned closer, and Bowie slowly extended his tongue as if he thought a sneak attack was the only way to hit his mark. When his master didn’t pull away, the dog licked h
im again, this time with a gentleness that was as comforting as a close friend’s embrace. He reached up and patted the side of Bowie’s massive head. Everything was going to be okay. He had been leaving people behind his entire life. Sometimes he returned, and sometimes he didn’t. But either way, Mason liked to think that the world he left behind was slightly better for his passing.

  As for those who remained in Boone, they would do well enough. With the convicts soundly defeated and the town’s major needs addressed, the survivors were well positioned to survive the coming months.

  There were still uncertainties, of course. Not the least of which was Erik and the other victims of the virus, who were still living outside the mainstream community. When the Viral Defense Corp soldiers had arrived in Boone, the townspeople had offered no assistance in locating those who had survived the infection. Disfigured men and women had stepped up to fight Rommel and his brutal soldiers when the town was all but lost. Alliances, even if unspoken, had been made. Bonds like those, which had been forged in blood, were not easily broken. The question of whether Erik and the others would eventually pose a threat to the town, as Colonel Gacy had suggested, was still open. For now, the townspeople seemed to have found a balance where all could coexist in peace.

  If things became too dangerous, Ava could seek refuge at Mason’s cabin. However, he thought it highly unlikely that she would ever do so, no matter what the threat. Ava was the type of woman who would stick by the people of Boone even through their darkest hour, partly because they needed her skills as a doctor and partly because she needed them to provide structure to her shattered life.

  When she and Mason had parted, Ava had told him that she loved him, and he had returned the words without hesitation. Every time he held her close and looked into her beautiful eyes, love was exactly what he felt. And why not? It was a new world where things like love could no longer be waited for; nor could they be tossed around like confetti at a wedding. Now, more than ever, powerful emotions were to be cherished as an important part of the human experience.

  Mason hoped to return to Boone within a couple of weeks, but, even as he and Ava kissed goodbye, neither asked for, nor made, any such promises. Nothing was certain anymore. Violence was everywhere, and the best laid plans were only a bullet away from being disrupted.

  Looking for a distraction, he popped in a Rolling Stones CD and turned his attention to the road ahead. Mick Jagger’s words were not only catchy; they espoused a cool, carefree philosophy that could comfort even the most worried soul. Before the song was even halfway through, Mason was singing along, tapping his palm on the steering wheel.

  You can’t always get what you want

  But if you try sometimes

  You just might find

  You get what you need

  As a deputy marshal, Mason felt duty-bound to do what he could to reestablish order, not only in his corner of the world but all across the nation. The events in Boone had proven that such order sometimes required lining the streets with the bodies of those who preferred anarchy. Despite his recent success, he fully understood that he couldn’t do it alone. Mason needed the Marshals as much as they needed him. The question was whether or not the Marshals even existed anymore. He concluded that the only way to really assess their strength and numbers was to travel to his assigned post at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, located in Glynco, Georgia.

  The trip from Boone to Glynco was just over four hundred miles if traveled along the interstates. It would be quite a bit longer than that for Mason because he planned to navigate the majority of the journey on two-lane county roads. He figured that he could make it as far south as Gastonia, roughly eighty miles, before having to detour off Highway 321. An indirect route from there forward would allow him to skip Charlotte, which, like other large cities, was likely fraught with all manner of danger.

  Mason only made it as far as the small town of Lenoir, about twenty miles south of Boone, before his first encounter. A procession of six vehicles drove slowly north, each following closely behind the other, like a column of army ants. They moved carefully even though the highway near Lenoir was sprinkled only with the occasional car parked on the shoulder.

  As the convoy approached, Mason slowed and then stopped his truck on the far right shoulder. He unlatched the floor-mounted rack and retrieved his Colt M4 assault rifle. Bowie was already standing up in the back, peering over the top of the cab.

  “This way,” he said, sliding across the seat and exiting through the passenger side door.

  Bowie leaned over the edge of the truck bed and dropped carefully to the ground beside him.

  Mason stepped around to the front of the truck and set his M4 on the hood so as not to appear too threatening. In a world where violence was now a way of life, first impressions could make the difference between an encounter ending in a gunfight or a handshake. He stood on the opposite side of the engine compartment, figuring that the engine block might offer some protection from small arms fire.

  The convoy of cars eased to a stop about thirty yards away. After a few seconds, a man and a woman climbed out of the rusted station wagon that was leading the procession. A girl, no older than six, peeked out through the back window. The man gripped an antique single-shot shotgun with both hands. He and the woman walked slowly toward Mason and Bowie, glancing back at the occupants of the other cars for encouragement.

  Both wore filthy clothes, discolored from weeks of accumulating sweat stains and spilled soup. Even at a distance, their body odor was stiffer than a block of Limburger cheese. The woman’s hair was a matted, stringy mess, and her face was smeared with more dirt than makeup. The man didn’t look any better with a scruffy beard that extended along the underside of his neck and greasy hair that draped down in front of both eyes.

  “What’s your name, mister?” the man asked in a nasal voice that sounded a lot like Ernest T. Bass from the old Andy Griffith show.

  Mason stepped around from behind the truck, leaving his assault rifle where it lay. His Wilson Combat Supergrade .45 pistol was holstered at his side. Bowie stood beside him, eyeing the strangers, a deep grumble sounding in his chest.

  “I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines,” he said, parting his jacket so they could see both his badge and his gun. Each conveyed an important message that he didn’t want overlooked. “And you folks?”

  The man looked over at the woman, and she shook her head, furrowing her eyebrows.

  “Our names don’t matter none.” He looked over at Mason’s truck. “You got any water in there?”

  Mason shrugged. “A little.”

  “We need some real bad.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  The man looked back at the convoy. A few people had gotten out to better see what was happening.

  “Twenty seven, including the young’uns,” he said. “So you got any water or not?”

  “Not enough for twenty-seven thirsty people.”

  “How much you got?” He stared at Mason with suspicion, the shotgun slowly swinging toward him. It was a 20-gauge and likely loaded only with birdshot, but even so, it could ruin a person’s day.

  Mason couldn’t help but play back his encounter with the two convicts, Red Beard and Teardrops, only a couple of weeks earlier. Like these people, they had needed supplies. And, like these people, they seemed willing to take them by force. But Ernest T. and his wife weren’t convicts, just desperate people trying to survive however they knew how. Mason wanted to believe there was a difference. He wanted to believe there was a way forward that didn’t end with someone bleeding out on a deserted highway.

  He put his hand on his Supergrade, and, when he did, Bowie tensed as he prepared to leap forward.

  “If you point that pop gun at me,” said Mason, “I’ll have to put you down. I don’t think you want your wife and daughter to see that. Do you?”

  Ernest T. sucked in a deep gulp of air between wide-spaced teeth as he turned once again to his wife for dir
ection.

  She reached out and put a hand on her husband’s arm.

  “We don’t mean no harm, Marshal,” she said with a deep drawl. “Just thirsty, that’s all. Real thirsty.” She licked her lips, which were just starting to split.

  Mason thought long and hard before answering.

  “I’ll tell you what. Have each of your people bring forward a cup or bottle, and I’ll fill them. That will be enough to get you down the road a ways.”

  His generosity would nearly empty one of his three, five-gallon, water cans, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. The decision to be generous or selfish was often dictated by circumstance. For now, he had plenty of supplies, and watching children suffer was not something he could justify.

  The woman smiled, showing off a missing front tooth.

  “God bless you, suh.” Before he could say another word, she turned and hollered to the rest of the group. “The marshal’s gonna give us some water. Come on!”

  Before Mason knew it, two dozen people were swirling around his truck, poking into things they had no business in.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Move away from the truck.”

  Most of them didn’t even hear him. The few that turned to look at him paused only for a moment and then went right back to rifling through his belongings.

  Mason drew his Supergrade and fired a shot into the air. The sound echoed above their heads like the sharp crack of lightning.

  People screamed and rushed back toward their cars, ducking their heads as they ran. Bowie chased after them, barking and circling like a sheepdog facing an unruly flock.

  Ernest T. scrambled to pick up his shotgun, which he had leaned against one of the tires on Mason’s truck.

  “Don’t,” Mason said in a stern voice.