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

After twenty harrowing minutes of bumping and scraping their way down Davis Place, they had managed to travel only a few short blocks. The road was packed from curb to curb with cars, trucks, buses, and tractor-trailers. Everyone had been seeking a way out of the city, but few had actually managed to escape.

Samantha eased the Range Rover onto the sidewalk and attempted to squeeze the SUV through a narrow gap formed by a police car and a small brick retaining wall.

“I don’t think it’s going to fit,” Tanner said, leaning away from the passenger-side window.

“It’ll fit.”

Samantha felt her teeth rattle as the passenger door scrubbed against the brick wall, and the car ground to a halt. She popped it in reverse, but the wheels only spun in place.

“Hmph. I guess you were right.”

“Aren’t I always?” he said with a grin.

She glared at him. “Why are you so happy?”

“Ah, it ain’t so bad.”

“We’re stuck in Washington, D.C., in the middle of the night with nothing more than our backpacks. The roads are so jammed with cars that we’re going to have to walk out. And the one home that I actually liked is on fire! How’s that not so bad?”

He shrugged. “I’m counting our blessings.”

“Really? I’d like to hear them.”

“All right.” He started to count on his fingers. “One, neither of us is injured or sick. Two, we’ve got several days of supplies. And three, no one is currently out to kill us. Overall, we’re sitting pretty.”

She snorted but said nothing more.

Tanner laid his seat back and pulled a jacket over his shoulders.

“We’re sleeping here? In the car?”

“Unless you want to walk around in the dark with monsters nipping at our heels.”

Samantha turned and looked out the window half expecting to see a coven of evil witches circling the vehicle.

“No,” she said, quickly double-checking that her door was locked. “But who’s to say that we’re safe in here?”

“Are you kidding? This is a Range Rover.”

She stared at him. “So?”

“Range Rovers are miniature tanks for rich people. Nothing can get to us in here.”

“Really?” She knocked her hand against the window. “Miniature tanks? Are you sure?”

He smiled and closed his eyes.

“I’m sure. Now get some sleep. It’ll be light in an hour, and we have a long day ahead of us.”

Chapter 4  

Mason continued west on Winchester Road. Bowie followed a few paces behind, occasionally racing into the woods to chase a squirrel or bird. They passed several electrical substations, and Mason found himself speculating on whether the nation’s power grid would ever again be operational. Given that the infrastructure required an enormous workforce of engineers and technicians to operate and maintain, it seemed more likely that man would be relegated to using fuel-burning generators and solar panels for the foreseeable future.

Like most highways, Winchester Road was littered with abandoned vehicles. Most were in even worse shape than Mason’s truck, sporting flat tires, cracked windshields, and open hoods. Some still contained the dried remains of people looking to escape the pandemic. Had it not been for the nuclear blast, survivors from Lexington would have eventually salvaged the cars for parts. Now, he thought, the vehicles would almost certainly sit and rust like old chicken houses.

One car in particular caught Mason’s eye. It was a late model Nissan Altima, sitting nose first in the ditch lining the road’s shoulder. The car was pitched forward into the muddy embankment, its rear tires floating a couple of feet in the air. Every window was broken, either from the crash or, more likely, the explosion over Lexington. The driver’s door sat open, as did the trunk. Mason walked around to the side of the car and glanced inside. Food wrappers and empty water bottles lined the floorboard, but there were no bodies inside. The driver had managed to get out, but a bloody handprint on the dash confirmed that it was not without injury.

He walked around to the rear of the car and examined the trunk. It was empty except for an open aluminum camera case. The foam insert had been tailored to house an SLR camera and a zoom lens, both of which had been taken. Mason wondered if the camera would even still work. The blast had sent powerful electromagnetic waves toward the surface, capable of damaging a wide array of semiconductor-based electronics. Even so, he thought the odds were pretty good that a camera sitting inside an aluminum case might have survived because the metal would have acted as a poor-man’s Faraday cage.

Mason looked left and right. There were no houses in sight, but it wouldn’t have been hard for the driver to find a place to sleep for the night, whether it be in another car or curled up under a tree. There were also no obvious signs of foul play, but even if there had been, it was a puzzle he didn’t have time to investigate.

He continued on.

Bowie gave the car a quick once over, hunting for food, no doubt. Finding nothing more interesting than a few empty potato chip bags, he hurried after his master.

After another quarter mile, they came across the WKYT radio and television station. The complex sat well away from the road, surrounded by an array of broadcast antennas. An enormous red and white transmit tower had toppled over and now stretched all the way to the edge of the highway. A dozen smaller dish antennas were scattered across the yard, some partially filled with dirty rainwater like oversized birdbaths. A colorful statue of a painted horse sat in front of the station’s brick sign, but the head of the animal had been severed by a falling tree.

Mason wondered if the station could still transmit radio broadcasts. Even with the primary antenna lying on its side, the station’s transmitter should theoretically be capable of broadcasting many miles in every direction. Of course, that assumed they had both a functioning generator and adequate fuel, and that the station’s electronics hadn’t been burned out by the EMP. All in all, not very likely.

He turned up the long paved driveway, passing a hedge neatly trimmed in the shape of the station’s call letters. Directly ahead was a two-story mansion with intricate brickwork and tall white portico columns. The whole spread resembled something that might have belonged to a southern aristocrat. Mason thought it had probably been built as a residence and later converted to the radio and television station. The location was ideal because it was remote enough to allow high-powered broadcasting but still close enough to reach Lexington and the surrounding communities.

As he approached the brick building, Mason spotted three motorcycles tipped over in the driveway. All of them were large expensive cruisers designed to carry bankers-turned-bikers to their favorite weekend watering holes.

Bowie sniffed one of the leather seats and looked up at him.

“Stay alert,” he said, stepping around the bikes.

The station’s front door was sitting partially ajar, the jamb splintered from where someone had kicked it in. Mason moved up beside the door and leaned around with his rifle. The entryway looked like the waiting room in a doctor’s office, with half a dozen chairs lining the walls and small coffee tables set between them. Magazines, potted plants, and pictures lay scattered across the floor. A receptionist counter was centered along the back wall with open doorways to either side.

Bowie pressed by him and did a quick once around the room. He returned carrying a stuffed bird that looked like it was probably a toy for a cat or small dog. He bit down on it, and the bird made a loud
squawk
.

“Shh,” Mason said, holding his finger to his lips.

Bowie squeezed it again.
Squawk
.

Short of taking the toy away from him, there was little Mason could do. And getting a toy away from any dog usually involved a chase.

“Take it outside,” he said, pointing behind him.

Bowie tipped his head and squeaked the toy again.

“I mean it. Out you go.”

Bowie hung his head low and walked outside, stopping beside the motorcycles to look back at him.

“Stay there until I check this place out.”

Bowie flopped down beside the bikes and got busy trying to figure out the mystery of the squawking bird.

Mason slipped off his backpack and leaned it against the closest wall. Fighting while wearing a heavy pack was akin to fighting drunk. The extra mass could help to hit harder, but it also made a fighter slow and clumsy. He slid the M4 around to hang across his back and drew his Wilson Combat Supergrade. He also removed the flashlight from his pack and crossed it under his gun hand. While the M4 had significantly more firepower than the Supergrade, he preferred a short-barreled weapon when operating at close range.

He stepped into the room and took a long moment to let his senses adjust to the new setting. Nothing moved, but there was an undeniable feeling that the building was occupied. The air had a faint pet odor—cats probably, and dew had settled over the small coffee tables. Keeping an eye on the two doorways, he approached the receptionist counter. Other than a few pens, a broken lamp, and a map of Lexington, there wasn’t much to see. He slipped the map into his back pocket, figuring that even with the city destroyed, it might prove useful.

When he was satisfied there was nothing else to be found, he moved over to inspect the left hallway. It led to a long row of offices, at the end of which was an exit and a staircase leading up. Moving from office to office, he carefully cleared each room. All of them were empty, the desks covered in tidy stacks of papers, as if the occupants had expected to return at some later date. When he got to the end of the hallway, he cracked open the exit door and leaned out. It opened up into a courtyard that overlooked a weather radar dome and a cement building equipped with a high bay. The building, he thought, likely contained utility equipment. While it was certainly possible that Lenny’s brother could have holed up in one of the structures, the main building seemed a more likely retreat.

He returned to the reception area and circled around to the right hallway. It led to the station’s broadcast studios, now idle and dark. He clicked on his flashlight and shined it through the first of two heavy glass doors. Inside was a radio studio furnished with a variety of electronic equipment, including several computer workstations, an acoustic panel with sliding knobs, and numerous microphones extending down from the ceiling on telescoping arms. The second glass door led to an even more elaborate television studio. It had been divided roughly in half between a control room and a news set, complete with an anchorman desk and a large weather map.

Mason tried the doors and was not surprised to find them both locked. Getting into either studio wouldn’t have been particularly difficult, but doing so quietly would be all but impossible. Deciding that it was not worth the risk, he turned and discovered that the wall behind him was lined with framed photos of the station’s employees. One near the top had a small brass plate beneath it that read
William Bruce, Station Manager
. He studied the man’s face, not only to more easily recognize him but also on the hunch that Lenny would share similar features.

Satisfied that the lower floor was empty, Mason returned to the left hallway, rechecking the offices as he passed. Assume nothing, he reminded himself. When he came to the stairs, he stopped and listened.

It was quiet. No sounds of people talking. No footsteps. No cocking of machine guns.

He put one foot on the carpet runner and tested the stairs with his weight. There was no noticeable creak or moan. Stairwells were a death zone in urban combat, and he took every precaution, sweeping his pistol left and right as he crept up to the landing.

The second floor consisted of four rooms, the doors to two of which were already open. The first was a bathroom with small shards of glass covering the floor from a broken shower stall. The lid to the toilet was up, and the distinct smell of human waste wafted out. The second room was an electronics storage area filled with racks of old radio gear. The two doors that remained closed were on opposite sides of the hallway and offered no hints about their room’s contents.

Mason stepped up to the first door and gently placed his ear against it.

It was quiet inside.

He tried the knob, and it turned easily. Rather than burst in, he dropped to one knee and gently pushed the door inward. An ammonia-like stench stabbed at his eyes. He leaned back and took a breath, trying to clear the stink from his nostrils. It didn’t help. The room was a small home office, furnished with a couch, desk, and several sitting chairs. The dried remains of at least a dozen cats lay scattered about the room, fur sagging from their withered bodies. Food and water bowls had been left on the floor in front of the couch. The food bowls still had a few morsels, but the water bowls were bone dry.

Mason shook his head. The poor animals had almost certainly died from dehydration after being confined to the room for many weeks. Likely, their owners had believed it sufficient to leave food and water with the intention of returning for them later, a mistake made by pet owners, but one paid for by their pets.

He stood up and turned to face the final door, hoping that whatever was inside didn’t push him any closer to retching. If the motorcycles out front belonged to anyone, they either had to be inside the room or in one of the secondary buildings out back. Before Mason could decide what to do next, the door suddenly burst open. A thick-chested man with tattoos covering both forearms stood in the doorway looking out. He held a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol with both hands. His face and arms were burned so thoroughly that he looked like one of Barsoom’s Red Men.

“Who’s there?” he barked, waving the gun from side to side.

Mason stood in the doorway of the home office, not more than ten feet away, and yet the man seemed unable to see him.

“I said who’s there?” He turned his head sideways in an attempt to use his peripheral vision.

Mason remained absolutely still.

A second voice sounded from behind Red Man.