The Survivalist (Solemn Duty) Page 3

  “And the rice? What’s that for?”

  “Keeps the seeds dry.”

  “Ah, so they won’t sprout.”

  “Exactly.”

  Once again, she shined her flashlight around the room.

  “There must be five hundred cans down here.”

  “Yep. It’s a seed vault.”

  “Is that like a bank vault, only for seeds?”

  “More or less.”

  “Okay,” she said, rubbing her chin, “but why’s it here, in a library?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe some kind of arrangement with the local co-op. Or maybe one of the librarians was an amateur seed harvester.”

  Samantha lifted out one of the packets of corn and gave it a little shake.

  “Do you think they’re still good?”

  “Don’t see why not. The germination rate might be a little lower than fresh, but it’s dark and cool down here. Plus they were stored in airtight cans with a desiccant. Couldn’t ask for much better.”

  “Should we, you know, take some with us?”

  “Absolutely. To the right people, this stuff’s as valuable as gold.”

  “Really? Do you think Mother would—”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t let me finish my question.”

  “You were going to ask if Mother would take seeds in place of the gold.”

  “Well, she might.”

  Tanner shook his head. “Seeds are valuable to people who are hungry, not people who are hunted for how they look. Mother needs something that gives her power over armed men.”

  “Even so, I bet the folks of Boone would like,” she picked up a can and read the label, “Armenian Cucumber.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Let’s finish stuffing your pack with as many seeds as we can fit.”

  “Okay, but how do we decide what to take?”

  Tanner pointed to a small red word in the upper right corner of one of the cans, Heirloom.

  “Look for cans that have that marking.”

  “Why? Does it mean they’re more valuable?”

  “It means the type of plant dates back to a long time ago.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Heirlooms taste better, plus they don’t all ripen at once, which makes them great for minimizing waste. Also, they’re open pollinated, meaning you can dry their seeds and use them to grow next year’s batch.”

  “If they’re so good, why would anyone grow anything else?”

  “Hybrids were created to be more resistant to disease, bugs, and that sort of thing. Plus, they’re often prettier and more uniform, which made them easier to sell in the store.”

  “Makes sense,” Samantha said, drawing her knife and prying the top off a can that read, “Dixie Queen Watermelon.” She sniffed the inside, hoping to detect the sweet aroma of the fruit.

  No luck. The only odor was that of dried rice.

  She plucked out one of the small seed packets and moved on to the next can.

  Over the course of the next thirty minutes, they managed to gather several dozen varieties of fruits and vegetables, with Samantha’s personal favorite being the “Dinosaur Gourd.”

  “That’s a pretty good haul,” said Tanner. “Let’s get moving.”

  After heading back up the dark staircase, Samantha reluctantly pulled the door closed behind them.

  “It seems like such a waste, leaving behind so many seeds.”

  “Think of them as a savings account we can draw on in the future.”

  “You really think we’ll come back one day?”

  “Could be.”

  Samantha looked out at the seemingly endless shelves of books.

  “If we do, I want to bring a truck, a big truck.”

  He smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

  They stepped around the library counter and headed for the exit. As they approached the front doors, they were surprised to see two men standing next to Major. One was petting the horse while the other worked his reins free from the branch. Both were Hispanic. The first was short and stout, and resembled actor Luis Guzmán. The other could have passed for a young Antonio Banderas, with smooth shoulder-length hair and a chiseled face. Guzmán had a machete hanging across his back, and Banderas sported a shiny revolver tucked into the front of his waistband. Parked nearby was a pickup truck stacked full of oddities, everything from toilet paper to jugs of kerosene.

  “Uh-oh,” muttered Samantha. “Junkers.”

  Tanner shoved the door open, and both men swung about to face him.

  Banderas had his revolver in hand in the blink of an eye. A hip shot at twenty yards was certainly possible, but only for those who had spent a lot of time shooting cans off fence posts.

  “Don’t do it,” Tanner said, leveling the Mare’s Leg.

  “Says who?”

  “Says the man whose horse you’re stealing.”

  “Stealing?” Banderas offered a toothy smile as he pushed the pistol back into his waistband. “You got it all wrong. We didn’t know he belonged to anyone. We thought maybe he’d gotten his leash tangled in the tree.”

  “Well, he’s ours. So, beat it.”

  “How do we know he’s yours?” Guzmán countered in a scraggly voice. “I don’t see no name tags.”

  Tanner pointed to their bedrolls hanging from the saddle.

  “Two rolls, two riders. You do the math.”

  He shrugged. “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Believe what you want. All I know is we’ll be leaving with our horse.” He lined up the Mare’s Leg with Guzmán’s belly.

  Banderas inched closer to Major and slid his hand over the horse’s rump.

  “A beast like this could feed a small community. To the right folks, it’d be worth a pretty penny. Maybe we could work something out.” He gestured toward the truck. “We got all kinds of stuff that might come in handy. Food, water, ammunition, medicine. You name it.”

  Before Tanner could reply, Samantha stepped forward with her jaw set.

  “You’re not going to eat our horse.”

  Banderas’s eyes slowly settled over her.

  “Well now, who’s the lovely young lady?”

  “I’m Samantha,” she said, tipping her chin up defiantly.

  He offered a short bow. “Very nice to meet you, Miss Samantha.”

  The gesture caught her off guard, and she awkwardly replied, “Uh, yeah, you too.”

  Banderas turned back to Tanner. “So, what do you say? Are you up for a little horse trading, as it were?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Can’t afford to lose our transportation.”

  Guzmán seemed to be tiring of the chit-chat, and he bumped Banderas with his shoulder.

  “Come on. A horse ain’t worth dying over, and he obviously ain’t gonna let it go for a few cans of beans.”

  Banderas held up a calming hand. “Perhaps we just have a skilled negotiator.” Still facing Tanner, he said, “What if I could get you a car and a whole tank full of gas? That would surely be a fair trade, yes?”

  Tanner considered the offer. A car would allow them to move many times faster, even if it did mean that Major would end up on someone’s dinner plate.

  Samantha clutched his arm. “You’re not actually considering this. They’re going to eat him!”

  “Darlin’, if we get hungry enough, we’re gonna eat him.”

  “We most certainly are not!”

  Tanner’s eyes cut back to Banderas.

  “Where’s the car?”

  “We’ll take you to it.”

  Following a couple of armed strangers off to who knows where didn’t strike Tanner as the brightest of ideas.

  “You two bring it here, and then we’ll talk.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Guzmán. “My bet is you’ll be long gone before we get back.” He turned to Banderas. “I’m telling you they’re not going to part with the horse.”

  “You’re such a skeptic,” he countered. “How about I go and get the car
, and the three of you wait here?” He eyed the group. “Sound reasonable?”

  Tanner shrugged. “As long as you hurry.”

  Guzmán let out a frustrated growl, saying, “Waste of time.”

  Banderas turned with a flourish and hurried over to his truck. A few seconds later, he was speeding out of the parking lot and turning south on Dixie Highway.

  Guzmán eyed Tanner. “You’re not going to wait for him to come back, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  Samantha seemed surprised. “Really? You’re not?”

  “Major’s doing a fine job following the tracks. No reason to turn him into dog food just yet.”

  “Then why’d you tell them you would?”

  “To split us up and get rid of the guy with the gun,” answered Guzmán. He eyed Tanner. “Sound about right?”

  “Clearly, you’re the brighter of the two.”

  “I suppose if I don’t give you the horse, you’re going to shoot me.”

  Tanner smiled. “I swear, it’s almost like you’re psychic.”

  Guzmán weighed his options. There really wasn’t much to weigh. Give up a horse that wasn’t his, or take a bullet to the gut and then have it taken from him.

  He stepped away, letting Major’s reins fall to the ground.

  “It’s like you said. He’s your horse.”

  Tanner made a little snick-snick sound, and Major wandered over to him.

  “Sam, take him over by the tracks. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  Without asking what he was planning to do, Samantha picked up the reins and led Major back to the railroad tracks.

  When she was safely out of the away, Tanner turned to Guzmán and said, “Toss the machete.”

  He slid the machete off his back and flung it away.

  “Satisfied?”

  “I am,” he said with a nod. “I should probably apologize for what comes next.”

  Guzmán’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Tanner turned and set the Mare’s Leg on the ground behind him.

  “I won’t leave you with anything that won’t heal. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “You sonofabitch! I did what you asked.”

  “True, but I can’t have you telling your compadre which way we went.”

  “This is bullshit,” he snarled.

  “It is what it is.” He waved him closer. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.”

  Guzmán’s chest swelled with righteous anger.

  “When I get done with you—”

  Tanner held up a hand to quiet him.

  “Don’t make it worse.”

  Taking a deep breath, Guzmán charged forward with his head tucked and arms outstretched. Tanner braced himself and brought a forearm down onto the man’s neck. The blow hit Guzmán like a cement block, sending him face down into the grass. As he pushed up, Tanner front kicked him in the ribs. Guzmán cried out, curling around Tanner’s foot as he tried to drag him to the ground. Rather than pulling free, Tanner dropped down with both knees onto his side. He landed hard, and they both heard one of Guzmán’s ribs snap.

  Guzmán rolled to his back, moaning as he clutched his side. Tanner dropped a punishing fist into the man’s face. Guzmán’s nose broke, and his eyes rolled back for a moment. As he debated whether or not to lose consciousness, Tanner hit him a second time, a quick pop to the chin. Guzmán’s head flopped back to the ground, eyes closed, bloody mouth hanging open.

  Tanner got back to his feet and looked down at the man.

  “I’m going to leave it there on account of you—”

  Guzmán let out a little moan, and his eyes flickered for a moment as if he might regain consciousness.

  Tanner snapped a short kick to the side of the man’s head, and he immediately quieted.

  “As I was saying, I’m going to leave it there on account of you being so cooperative.”

  Satisfied that Guzmán wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon, Tanner retrieved his Mare’s Leg and walked over to Samantha.

  “What was that all about?” she said, not sounding terribly concerned.

  “I didn’t want him knowing which way we went.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You do realize you could have just locked him in a room in the library.”

  Tanner pursed his lips. “Didn’t think of that.”

  “After all, they didn’t really do anything to us.”

  “Which is why I left him breathing.” He swung his leg up over Major, and Samantha carefully climbed up behind him.

  “Even so, what you did wasn’t very nice.”

  Tanner nudged Major to get a move on.

  “That’s the beauty of being me, darlin’. I don’t have to be nice.”

  Chapter 3

  Mason knew that the vast majority of gasoline sold in the United States had been blended with ethanol. While this had been great for reducing harmful emissions, it also had the unfortunate side effect of limiting shelf life to around six months. Ethanol caused fuel to absorb water, and once too much water was absorbed, phase separation occurred, leaving an upper layer of gasoline with reduced octane and a lower layer laced with water. Unfortunately, fuel additives wouldn’t prevent phase separation, nor could they recombine phase-separated fuel. When it went bad, it stayed bad. That meant he needed to find gasoline that was free of water, or risk trying to escape in a getaway car that was prone to sputter and cough.

  Fortunately, all Mason really needed was enough to get the Trans Am to the other side of Suffolk. Even with the car’s age and massive engine, he thought two or three gallons would do the trick. While that wouldn’t quite put them under the protective umbrella of the New Colony, it would all but ensure escape from their infected revenge seekers.

  Mason figured that his best bet was to siphon a few gallons from a gas station that had offered ethanol-free gasoline, or perhaps from a small service company that relied on its own fuel supply. It only made sense that such companies might have chosen to procure gasoline that didn’t degrade as quickly, since their usage was not always easy to predict.

  It wasn’t until he saw the glint of the Nansemond River in the distance that a third option came to mind.

  Boats.

  Anyone who had ever owned a boat knew that seasonal storage required either draining the fuel system, using ethanol-free fuel to prevent it from becoming “sour,” or completely topping off the tank with the hopes that the larger volume of fuel wouldn’t absorb enough water to cause phase separation. If Mason could find a boat sitting in storage with fuel that hadn’t yet separated, he could drain a few gallons and be on his way.

  He turned in the direction of the river and whistled for Bowie to catch up. The wolfhound had fallen back to investigate an old tire swing left hanging in the trees. Bowie was in many ways as curious as a young child, and every new find left him sniffing around until he either found a suitable explanation or became distracted by something even more interesting.

  The hike took them east through a cluster of thick pines, eventually opening up to a dirt field. Sack Point Road bordered the far side, and a handful of houses lay spread out to the right. While none were directly on the Nansemond River, a few seemed close enough to warrant some type of water access.

  Mason quickened his pace, crossing the open field to approach the back of a massive brick home. Much of the yard had become a pit perhaps sixty feet across and covered with a moldy blue tarp, the remnant of an in-ground swimming pool that was never to be. He detoured around the home, admiring the quality of the construction. The fine brick work, Pella windows, and mahogany French doors were all testimonies not only to the builder’s attention to detail but also to the money that its owners had forked out in having it built. In front of the home lay a freshly-paved roundabout driveway. A black and white Land Rover sat cocked to one side, two of its wheels having been taken.

  Mason didn’t bother checking the vehicle for fuel. If someone had gone to the trouble to steal the wheels,
there was little chance they had left behind something as valuable as gasoline.

  Instead, he turned and faced east to study a long wooden pier leading out to the river. It stretched eight hundred feet over marshland before finally arriving at the water’s edge. Not quite waterfront property, but with a bit of a hike, one could still get their feet wet.

  Unfortunately, the slip lay empty with not so much as a jon boat tied off at its end.

  Mason turned northeast and trudged along the edge of the marsh. He passed three other riverfront homes without spotting a single boat. Apparently, his bright idea was one that others had thought of many months before. He was just about to give up and turn back inland in search of a gas station when he heard the whine of engines echoing from upriver. The noise was high pitched and surging, like speedboats running slaloms.

  He stood at a narrow bend in the river, with Dumpling Island located a few hundred yards off to his east. The swampy marsh leading up to the river had largely given way to solid ground. Rather than move to the river’s edge, however, he wheeled about and led Bowie into a small copse of trees.

  A moment after they ducked behind cover, an old green and white gillnetter appeared from around the bend. It was running flat out, which couldn’t have been more than about fifteen knots. Two jet skis circled it, the whining buzz of their engines echoing out in every direction. Each had two men riding atop it, one steering and the other firing a semi-automatic handgun at the boat. The agility of the jet skis allowed them to avoid colliding with the larger vessel while they took their time peppering it with bullets.

  The boat seemed to have but a single occupant, a middle-aged man with suntanned skin and wispy red hair as striking as that of actor David Caruso. He slumped over the controls, either injured or simply doing his best to avoid the onslaught of gunfire.

  Given their actions, Mason thought it a safe bet to assume that the men riding jet skis were pirates attempting to take what was not rightfully theirs. Unfortunately, even if the captain of the gillnetter could dodge the hail of bullets, things were going to come to an unpleasant end when he ran up on the dam separating the Nansemond River from Lake Cohoon, not more than six miles downriver.

  Resting on one knee, Mason brought up his M4 and pressed the handguard against the nearest tree. He waited until one of the jet skis came directly in his line of fire before spraying a three-round burst into the water beside it. The jet ski immediately veered off course as it took evasive maneuvers, the man riding on the back nearly falling off in the process.