Judgment Day -03 (19 page)

“What the hell, mister!” shouted Fabio.

“Hold it right there,” Mason said, sliding his jacket open and placing his hand on the butt of the Supergrade.

“What are you, some kind of undercover cop?”

“I’m Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. And you are?”

“I’m none of your goddamn business,” he said, forcing a confident smile. “And that’s my boyfriend, Jeremy.”

Jeremy’s face tightened. “Knock it off.”

Fabio reached over and pushed him.

“Or what?”

Jeremy looked to the ground.

“Just quit saying stuff like that. It ain’t nice.”

Fabio took a step toward Mason.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t nice,” he said. “It’s the marshal here going and honking at us like that. We’ll probably never catch up to that damn pony now.”

Mason tried to keep his temper in check. He reminded himself that they were killing animals, not people. It helped, but only a little.

“You got something against horses?”

“No,” Fabio said, making an exaggerated face. “How could I have anything but love for those giant sacks of shit?”

Mason shook his head, sensing that things were quickly heading toward violence.

“Let me ask you something, Marshal. You ever shoveled horse shit? No? Well, I have. Hundreds of pounds of that green stinky crap.”

“You sound like an expert.”

Fabio tipped his head forward as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Are you insulting me, Marshal?”

“Not at all. I’m glad that a fellow like you could find gainful employment.”

 Fabio’s eyes narrowed, and he gripped his rifle.

“The horses aren’t your property. We let them go from a riding school east of Hardeeville. I figure that, since we let them go, we can do damn well whatever we please to them.”

“Is that how you figure it?”

“You see it different?”

“I do.”

Sensing the growing tension, Bowie began to move sideways around the men, growling.

Jeremy stepped forward and pulled at Fabio’s arm.

“There ain’t no call for this,” he pleaded. “Shooting the horses was dumb if you really think about it.”

Fabio jerked his arm free.

“Get your hands off me.”

“You should listen to him,” Mason said in a firm voice.

“Or what?”

Mason didn’t answer.

“Maybe we should chase you down the highway a bit. See if you fare any better than the horses. I’ve never hunted a man before.”

Mason gave him a cold smile.

“I have. Plenty of times. And believe me, it’s a hell of a lot different than running down a horse.”

That seemed to give Fabio pause, but only for a moment.

“You don’t have any jurisdiction here.”

“Wrong. The Marshal Service is a federal law enforcement agency. And even if it wasn’t, common law allows any citizen to stop another from committing a violent crime.” He looked over at Jeremy. “You sure you want to be a part of this?”

“Not me, Marshal,” blurted Jeremy. “I’ve never been in trouble with the law. Not once.”

Fabio looked over at him and shook his head.

“You’ve got to be the biggest pussy to ever survive an apocalypse.”

Jeremy looked at the ground again and started to back away.

“Maybe so,” he said. “But my momma wouldn’t want me dying over some stupid horses.”

Bowie kept pace with Jeremy, advancing for every step he retreated.

Fabio looked at Mason and shrugged.

“I guess it’s just us men.”

Mason shook his head.

“Not hardly. Men don’t shoot defenseless animals for fun. You’re still a boy.”

“You think so?”

“I do. And for that reason, I’m going to cut you a break.”

“How’s that?” he sneered.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, Marshal,” he taunted.

Mason smiled. “I’m feeling generous on account of all the shit you’ve had to shovel.”

Fabio’s face burned a bright red.

“I’ll count to three,” he said. “Then we’ll see who’s the boy. How about that, Marshal?”

Mason took a deep breath and let it out. He could feel the beat of his heart slowly accelerating, providing extra oxygen.

“No need. I’ll shoot you when I’m ready.”

“You sure talk big for—”

Fabio never saw Mason pull the Supergrade, nor did he hear the crack of the firearm. He simply fell, clutching his side, overwhelmed by the pain of a hollow point bullet punching through his side. He screamed in agony, shoving his rifle away as if it had suddenly caught fire.

Bowie started to move on Jeremy, but the man immediately threw his hands up.

“Help, Marshal!” he shrieked.

“Bowie!”

The dog stopped and looked back at him, licking his lips.

Mason shook his head.

Bowie turned and eyed the man but didn’t advance any further.

“Get in your truck and go,” Mason said, pointing toward the Dodge.

Jeremy nodded and ran for the pickup. A few seconds later, he was speeding down the highway, dodging abandoned cars and other debris.

Mason stepped forward and kicked the rifle away from Fabio. The man was pressing his hand against the bullet hole, dark blood oozing from between his fingers. His entire body was covered in sweat.

“Jeezus,” he cried, “you shot me.”

Mason squatted down and studied the wound. It was a through and through, but there was the distinct smell of urine. That meant the bullet had punctured one of the man’s kidneys—painful, but not necessarily a death sentence.

“You gotta help me, Marshal.”

Mason ignored him. He had learned the hard way not to administer first aid to those he shot. The last man he gave bandages to later tried to kill him for a case of gold coins.

“Listen up,” he said. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

Sweat trickled down Fabio’s cheeks.

“Give me the good news.”

Mason nodded. “The good news is that the bullet didn’t hit anything you can’t live without.”

“Oh, thank God,” he groaned, sitting up and sliding over to prop himself against the tire of a nearby car.

Without saying anything more, Mason stood up and called for Bowie. The dog hurried over, sniffing Fabio as he passed. Together, they started back toward his truck.

“Hey, Marshal,” shouted Fabio. “You never did tell me. What’s the bad news?”

Without turning around, Mason pointed off toward the tree line. There in the shadows stood four large German Shepherds.

CHAPTER

15

Tanner followed the North Scenic Highway out of Bland, thankful to see the town disappear in his rearview mirror. Samantha seemed to pick up on his train of thought and turned to look over her shoulder.

“Let’s not go there again,” she said. “Not ever.”

“Agreed.”

She turned back around and began searching the cab of the truck. It was empty except for a few registration papers in the glove box and a tire iron behind the seat.

Tanner dug something out of his pocket.

“Here,” he said, handing her a small box of ammunition.

She opened it up and carefully reloaded the Savage .22 rifle. As she put the rifle back on the floor, her stomach growled loudly.

“You hungry?” he said.

She nodded. “My mom always said it’s important to start the day with a healthy breakfast.”

“Like Froot Loops?”

“Exactly.”

He smiled and pointed up ahead to a house with a large detached garage.

“Want to see if there’s anything left in the cupboards?”

She looked back over her shoulder again, double-checking that Bland was indeed officially out of sight.

“Okay, but if there’s a snake on the door, we don’t stop.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

Tanner pulled up into the gravel driveway, grabbed his newfound shotgun from the bed, and stepped out. Samantha followed after him with her rifle in hand. They approached the house carefully, their eyes scanning from left to right, looking for anything that didn’t belong. The place looked abandoned. The front door was kicked in, and two large windows were smashed.

“I think we’re okay,” he said, stepping up onto the porch.

She moved up beside him and cautiously leaned her head inside the door.

“Anyone in there?” she hollered.

No one answered.

Tanner pushed what was left of the door out of the way, and they stepped inside. It opened up into a living room, with a hallway going off to the right and an eat-in kitchen to the left. It smelled damp and unlived in.

They quickly searched the entire house, making sure that it was indeed unoccupied. When they were satisfied, they returned to the kitchen and began rummaging through the cupboards. The entire place had been picked clean. The only thing that remained was a small bag of cat food.

“How hungry are you?” he asked, pointing to the bag.

She wrinkled her nose. “Not
that
hungry.”

“Come on then, let’s find another house down the road.”

They stepped back out onto the porch, empty-handed and twice as hungry as when they had gone in. Tanner glanced over at the detached garage. It looked like a workshop.

“Let’s check that out,” he said, heading down the porch steps.

She shrugged and followed along.

The building was locked up tight, the door deadbolted, and the garage secured with slide latches from the inside.

“It looks like we’ll have to—” she started.

Tanner gave the door a savage kick, and it tore free from the jamb, long wooden splinters splitting off the frame.

She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

The shop was cold and dark, and rank with the smell of grease and sweat. Tanner went over and slid the two garage doors up to let in some sunlight. Whoever had lived in the house had obviously done some auto mechanic work, either as a hobby or profession. A black ’67 Pontiac GTO sat surrounded by three rolling tool chests. The hood of the car stood open, and the engine was partially disassembled.

“Someone left their baby behind,” he said, looking inside the windows of the car.

“It’s pretty.”

“Bite your tongue, girl. A ’67 GTO isn’t pretty.”

“No?”

“This was a car built for manly men. And manly men don’t drive pretty cars.”

She rolled her eyes again.

“And what, may I ask, is a manly man?”

“A manly man…” He searched for the right words. “A manly man is someone who not only knows how to live, but also knows how to die.” He nodded, satisfied with his answer.

“And I suppose you’re one of these manly men?”

“Well, now that you bring it up... ”

She scoffed. “Seriously, give me an example of a manly man. Other than you, I mean.”

He thought about it a moment.

“All right, I got one. How about Kit Carson?”

She laughed. “That sounds like a candy bar.”

He shook his head.

“Go ahead,” she said, stifling another laugh. “Really, I want to know.”

“Kit Carson was a trapper and frontiersman, a real tough old bird. He lived with the Arapaho and Cheyenne tribes, and led a regiment during the Civil War. You know what his final words were?”

“I don’t know what any of his words were. I don’t even know who he was.”

Tanner ignored her. “The last thing old Kit ever said was, ‘I just wish I had time for one more bowl of chili.’ Now that, darlin’, is a manly man.”

She laughed. “That’s a good one all right. What are
your
last words going to be?”

“I’m going with, ‘Someone get me another beer.’”

She snickered. “I can see that.”

Tanner turned and began digging through one of the tool chests.

“What are you looking for?”

“This,” he said, lifting out a pipe cutter. He rummaged a little more and found a long metal file and a sheet of emery cloth. “And these.”

“What’s all that for?”

“You’ll see,” he said, carrying everything over to a large cast iron vise mounted to a workbench. He unloaded the shotgun and clamped it in place, using two pieces of wood to keep the vise from marring the weapon.

“You’re going to cut the barrel off, aren’t you?”

“I can’t very well carry this thing around.”

“It is awfully big.”

“It’s a friggin’ pole vaulting stick.”

He slipped the pipe cutter around the barrel and positioned it about two inches beyond the end of the magazine tube.

“Wow, that much?”

“I figure I’ll cut it down to about sixteen inches. Any shorter than that and it’ll kick like a donkey with a hard—.” He cleared his throat. “—a toothache.”