Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) Read online

  Mason tightened his grip on the M4. Perhaps Ashby’s sewer monster wasn’t as far-fetched as he had first thought.

  They continued on, eventually coming to another set of stairs leading up. The staircase itself was undamaged, but the once beautiful bone-white carpet was now stained with streaks of dried blood. Ashby hurried up, holding onto the rail for balance. When he got to the top, he turned right and led them to the end of yet another corridor. It opened up into a tile-covered sitting room, the walls decorated in a bright yellow wallpaper.

  “There,” he said, pointing to a slab of flat gray metal roughly the size and shape of a bank vault door. There were no handles or levers, not even a clever combination lock to crack. It was simply closed to the public.

  Cobb walked up and rapped the door with his knuckles.

  “This thing must be three feet thick.”

  “If you think this one’s big,” said Ashby, “you should see the East door. That one was designed to be the primary entrance for Congress. Of course, it wouldn’t be of much use to them now.”

  “Why not?” said Cobb.

  “Cause they’re all dead, dummy,” said Rodriguez.

  Cobb glared at him.

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Ashby. “The East door is right next to the loading docks, and that whole area is clogged up with delivery trucks. There’s no way to get in or out, except maybe on foot.”

  “So, theoretically speaking,” said Leila, “if a large group did want to get in, how would they do it?”

  Ashby thought for a moment. “I suppose they could come in the way we did, through the hotel itself. But more than likely, they’d go through the West Tunnel Entrance. It’s plenty big enough, and it’s situated up by the stables. Last time I checked, there wasn’t a soul up there.”

  She looked over at Mason, and he nodded. If Hood was coming in with any significant force, they would likely try to go in that way. It was good to know, but it did little to solve their immediate problem of how to get into the bunker.

  “I’m curious,” said Bell. “Why do they call this the Exhibit door?”

  “I suppose it’s because they used this floor for special exhibits. Even the elevators have an ‘E’ in place of the number three. Believe me,” he said with a chuckle, “that little oddity has confused many a tourist.”

  She pressed her lips together. “I don’t think it’ll be much of a problem anymore.”

  “No,” he said with a slight frown, “I suppose not.”

  When Bell turned around, she saw Mason running his fingers around the lip of the huge door. Bowie was standing next to him, his head tilted sideways as he tried to figure out what his master was doing.

  “Marshal, what are you looking for?”

  “A camera.”

  “You think they might be able to see us?”

  “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look.”

  Leila and the cadets joined in, expanding the searching to the nearby walls.

  “No cameras that I know of,” offered Ashby. But even he joined in.

  In the end, none were discovered. Once the bunker doors were closed, they shut off all contact with those outside. There was no ringing of doorbells or waving of arms to gain entrance. And that, thought Mason, was by design. When holing up to survive the end of the world, it was better not to witness other people’s suffering. It reduced the temptation to do something stupid, like open the door.

  Finally giving up, he said, “All right, one door down. Three to go.”

  “But first we get Claret,” Ashby said, eyeing him.

  Mason nodded. “First we get Claret.”

  His face brightened. “Thank you, Marshal. This way.”

  He led them back down the corridor and up yet another flight of stairs. More of the guests’ doors had been broken in, and some of the corpses had even been dragged out into the corridor for easier feasting. Rodriguez and Cobb took up the rear, stopping briefly to inspect a body that had been draped over the bannister like a soiled door mat. Dried blood soaked the man’s Polo shirt and white golf pants, but his head and hands were completely missing.

  “What do you think did that?” Cobb asked, making a face.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.”

  “Why not?”

  Rodriguez slapped the stock of his rifle.

  “Cause if I see it, I’m gonna give it a new belly button.”

  “Right,” Cobb said nervously.

  “Come on, you wuss. We’re falling behind.”

  Cobb took one last look at the headless body before turning to follow. While he didn’t dare say it out loud, he found it strange that even though the rifle in his hands was identical to the one Rodriguez carried, it didn’t seem to impart the same unbridled confidence.

  Their quest for Claret ended at a door marked 7702. Following Ashby’s lead, they had navigated all the way to the seventh floor, a feat that required traversing four different sets of stairs seemingly spread on opposite ends of the enormous building.

  “This is it,” Ashby said, gently running his hands over the closed door.

  “Anyone else think something’s not right about this?” said Rodriguez.

  For once, Mason was in agreement with the cadet. Unless Claret possessed the survival skills of Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman, there was no way she could have survived in a small room without it being stocked with food and water—a scenario that made even less sense.

  Ashby reached down and rattled the door lever.

  “Marshal, can I get a little help with this?”

  “Why don’t you just knock?”

  “Please, Marshal.”

  Accepting that the only way to get answers was to see what lay on the other side of the door, Mason stepped forward and gave it a quick onceover. The door was old, which was both good and bad. Time had probably made the wood brittle, but unlike modern doors designed more for looks than security, this one was made of solid maple. The lock had been retrofitted with a keycard scanner, but thankfully, there was no sign of a deadbolt.

  Mason had found that breaking in a door was best done with the feet and not with a shoulder. There were two viable techniques. The first involved a front thrust kick, and the second, a rear mule kick. Of the two, he had always preferred the latter, mostly because the mule kick kept him from stumbling into the room when the door gave way.

  He nodded to Rodiguez, and the cadet brought his rifle up to cover him.

  Mason turned around, bent slightly at the waist, and heel kicked an inch below the handle. The jamb broke free from the frame, and the door swung open.

  To the resort’s credit, the room was nicely appointed, with a beautiful king-sized bed, a matching fabric chair and loveseat, an antique armoire, and two nightstands with hand-painted ceramic lamps. Three suitcases lay on the floor, their flaps unzipped and open. There was, however, no woman. Nor was there a dried and withering body curled up in the chair. The place was empty.

  Rodriguez went in first, sweeping the room with his rifle.

  “Sorry, but your lady friend seems to have—”

  “Out of my way,” Ashby said, pushing past him. He rushed straight to the largest of the suitcases and rummaged around, finally standing up holding a shiny silver pitcher. Bowie moved closer and tried to sniff the cup, but Ashby turned away and held it out of reach.

  “What the hell is that?” said Rodriguez.

  Mason said nothing. He had suspected from the beginning that they were on a fool’s errand. At least now, the nature of their folly was clear.

  “What is it you have there, Mr. Ashby?” Leila said, stepping closer.

  The man clutched the trophy as firmly as Golem had his precious ring.

  “Mr. Ashby,” she said again, this time offering a warm smile.

  He brought it to his lips and kissed the silver.

  “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re wondering. I didn’t. I only took it to keep it safe. After more than two hundred years, it was going to be lost forev
er.”

  “No one said you stole it,” she coaxed. “Is that what you came for? Is that Claret?”

  He nodded. “This is the Claret Jug, a symbol of all that’s precious about the beautiful game of golf.”

  Cobb shook his head in disbelief.

  “We risked our lives for a trophy?”

  Bell nudged him. “Let it go, Private. We’re no worse for the wear.”

  “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

  She turned to Mason. “What next, Marshal?”

  Rather than answer her, Mason spoke directly to Ashby.

  “Now he holds up his end of the bargain.”

  Ashby nodded. “I’ll show you the doors just like I promised. I’m a man of—”

  An explosion shook the building, and then another, a quick one-two punch that left everyone reaching for something to hold onto. Without saying a word, they raced to the bedroom window and saw a cloud of black smoke rising in the distance. Bowie whined to see, finally pressing between two of the cadets to get a peek of what was going on outside. Rodriguez flipped the latch on the bottom of the window but struggled to break the painted seal that had glued it shut for decades.

  Mason looked back at Ashby.

  “What’s over there?”

  “Nothing but the old train station.”

  “Who would want to blow up a train station?” said Cobb.

  His answer was quick in coming as a black X-49 SpeedHawk cleared the trees, the rotors giving off an ominous thump-thump-thump as it beat the air.

  Leila instinctively grabbed Mason’s arm.

  “They’re here.”

  “Yes,” he said, gritting his teeth, “and we’re not ready.”

  By the time Mason and the others got back outside, one helicopter had turned into four. A Chinook hovered off to the east, three men rappelling down drop ropes dangling from its belly. Another Chinook was settling onto the golf course, not two hundred feet from the clubhouse where they had first met Ashby. More troubling still were the two SpeedHawks circling the resort, looking for anything worthy of their attention.

  Rodriguez stopped and brought his rifle to his shoulder, sighting in on one of the rappelling soldiers.

  Mason reached out and gently pushed down the muzzle of the weapon.

  “Hold your fire.”

  “I can hit him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But one thing’s for sure. If you draw the attention of those SpeedHawks, we’re all dead.”

  Rodriguez lowered his rifle and growled.

  “It’s hard not to take a shot, isn’t it?”

  Mason couldn’t help but smile. It may have been the first time the cadet had ever said anything even remotely resembling wisdom.

  “Yes, it’s hard. But knowing when to hold your fire makes you more dangerous.”

  Cobb stepped closer. “Don’t worry, Marshal. I won’t shoot either.”

  Rodriguez rolled his eyes and muttered, “Brown-noser.”

  Mason turned to Ashby. “Could those men on the ropes be headed to the air shaft?”

  “I–I don’t understand,” he stammered, staring off at the huge plume of black smoke rising in the sky. “Who are they? And why did they bomb the train station?”

  “They’re looking for a way into the bunker, same as us. Now, where are those men going?”

  “I suppose they could be dropping down to the air shaft, but it’s hard to say for sure. That one,” he said, pointing to the other Chinook, “is definitely landing over by the West Tunnel Entrance. But you still haven’t answered my question. Who are they?”

  Ignoring him, Mason turned to Lieutenant Bell.

  “I need for you, Cobb, and Rodriguez to get eyes on the West Tunnel door.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leila, Bowie, and I will see if we can stop the soldiers from sneaking in through the air shaft. If we’re successful, the others may not get in at all. In which case, you three stay out of sight until they get bored and go home.”

  “And if you’re not?” said Rodriguez.

  “Then do what you can to slow them down. But be smart about it. If they get wind that you’re out here, they’ll come for you in a big way.”

  Bell nodded. “Understood. We’ll stay out of sight.”

  Mason felt his heart pounding. Things were going to start moving very fast.

  “Look at me,” he said, getting the attention of all three cadets. “It’s been an honor, and I hope to see all of you when this is over.”

  Rodriguez’s face hardened with determination. Cobb’s turned pale. As for Bell, she simply offered a sharp salute.

  “Go!” he said.

  The three cadets took off at a dead run, darting between trees as they raced around the main Greenbrier building. Ashby stood for a moment, clutching his precious silver cup, staring at the flames still licking up into the sky. Then he followed the others, wandering off in the direction of the golf course.

  Mason looked over at Leila and then down at Bowie.

  “All right,” he said. “We’re up.”

  The entrance to the air shaft was not at all like Mason had expected. The dark green building measured ten feet on a side and sat nestled between trees. At first glance it could easily have passed for a common storage shed, the likely home of garden shears, a lawn mower, and perhaps a shovel or two. A closer inspection, however, would have revealed the flood lights, metal-clad security door, and reinforced concrete walls. The door had already been breached, but there were no soldiers in sight, which meant that the Black Dogs were at least a few minutes ahead of him.

  Bowie, Mason, and Leila lay next to a towering oak tree, watching for any signs of movement. There weren’t any. Three men had come down the ropes, and all three must have gone into the building.

  Mason fished out a spare rifle magazine and set his pack aside.

  “I’m going in. You and Bowie stay here until I signal you.”

  “I can help,” Leila said, pressing up on her forearms.

  He set his hand on her shoulder.

  “I know you can, but I need you here to make sure no one comes in behind me.”

  “At least take Bowie.”

  Hearing his name, the dog raised his head and made a little sound that might have passed for “Huh?”

  Mason stroked him softly. “Not until I know that he can help.”

  Seeing that his mind was made up, she said only, “Okay, but be careful.”

  He leaned in and kissed her.

  “Ten minutes, tops.”

  She smiled. It was an old joke, but one that she apparently still found amusing.

  “Wave us in if we can help.” Leila wrapped her arms around Bowie, and the dog immediately began licking her face. He only stopped when he saw Mason stand up and dash for the building.

  The total distance was less than fifty yards, and Mason cleared it without so much as a broken shoelace. As he came to the building, he pressed his back against the concrete wall and slid forward until he could peer through the open doorway. A thick metal plate lay next to a dark hole, the topmost rungs of a ladder barely visible within.

  Mason stepped into the building and inched up to the edge of the hole, doing a quick lean forward to catch a glimpse of what lay below.

  Darkness.

  He had to make a decision, and it was one that might well cost him his life. Going down a ladder with the light above him would provide a perfect silhouette to anyone waiting below. If it had been his team, he would have positioned someone at the bottom of the ladder precisely for that purpose. But his options were limited. If he shined his flashlight down the hole, it would likely alert the enemy, sacrificing the one thing he currently had going for him—surprise.

  It took him only a moment to accept that it was a chance he would have to take.

  He leaned back out the open doorway and held up a fist, indicating that Leila should stay put. There was no reason to put her at risk, and the thought of carrying Bowie down on his shoulders was no
t at all appealing.

  Mason slipped the M4 over his head and let it rest across his back. Climbing down was going to be hard enough, no reason to have a rifle clattering against the rungs. He took one last look into the shaft and then stepped out onto the ladder, half holding his breath.

  Nothing happened.

  Moving as quietly as he could, he started down the ladder, quickly disappearing into the pool of darkness. Other than the bright circle of light overhead, everything around him was perfectly black. It was also amazingly quiet, which surprised him. How could three men be operating below without so much as the rustle of clothes or the rattle of gear?

  His boots unexpectedly found the bottom about twenty feet down, and he dropped into a deep squat. He remained like that for several seconds, motionless, straining to hear something. Anything.

  There was nothing. No breathing. No scrubbing of boots. Not so much as a whisper.

  He extended his hands, finding himself surrounded by cold concrete walls. Turning slowly in place, he discovered that the shaft opened up into a narrow horizontal tunnel, no more than four feet in height. What it lacked in height, however, it made up for in length, and tiny flashes of yellow light flickered in the distance.

  Cutting torches.

  It was impossible to judge how far away they were without some kind of reference. As many a soldier had learned, light could give away one’s position across a vast stretch of desert as easily as it could a courtyard.

  The tunnel turned a bad defensive position into an even worse one. If the soldiers turned a flashlight beam in his direction, he would be outnumbered and without cover. His only hope was to get close enough to get the drop on them.

  Mason carefully retrieved his M4 and lowered onto his belly. The approach would be agonizingly slow, but one thing he prided himself on was patience. Propping on his forearms, he began to high-crawl down the narrow tunnel. With every push of his boots and slide of his arms, his enemy came into greater focus.

  There were three men. Two stood in front of a miniature version of the vault door he had seen inside The Greenbrier. The third man was off to one side, working the cutting torch. The tunnel opened up a few feet in front of the door, allowing the men to stand upright. Mason credited the height differential with making his approach even possible. It put the men’s eyes at a different elevation than the incoming tunnel, allowing him to essentially sneak in at knee level.