Read Online The Survivalist - 02 by Arthur Bradley - Free Book Online

pocketful of bullets.
    “It’s a fine rifle,” he said.
    Samantha watched him load the rifle and frowned.
    “Are those even real bullets?”
    “Don’t insult our rifle. It will most likely save our lives.”
    “Most likely?”
    “Too optimistic?”
    She sighed and shook her head.
    They spent the next few minutes making sure they hadn’t left behind anything that could prove useful. Then they carried their packs to the front of the store and peered out into the street. The soldiers were nowhere in sight.
    “Where to now?” she asked.
    “We need to get water and ammunition from the Jeep.”
    She took a step toward the door, but he reached across and blocked her path.
    “Agent Sparks is probably still too close for us to be out in the open. Let’s wait until dark.”
    “Oh, great,” she murmured.
    “What? Now you’re afraid of the dark?”
    “Of course not.”
    “What then?”
    “I’m afraid of what comes out in the dark.”

CHAPTER
    9
    Mason was getting tired. Traveling across a wasteland filled with abandoned cars and rotting corpses forever kept him on edge. Mix in the needy travelers, violent convicts, and a box of gold coins, and it had been nothing short of an exhausting day. He had moved Bowie up front, hoping that a little companionship might help to keep him alert. Unfortunately, after only a few minutes, the dog had flopped down on the seat and was now curled into a ball, snoring like he had taken a double dose of Ambien.
    They were approaching the outskirts of York, South Carolina, from the north, along Highway 161. According to the map, the town was very small, perhaps only a mile or two across. With nightfall only a few hours away, it looked like as good a place as any to rest for the evening.
    As he came around a sharp bend, Mason saw a large dump truck parked sideways across both lanes. On the side of the truck, the word “Stop!” was scrawled in red spray paint. Four men armed with identical Bushmaster AR-15 semi-automatic rifles stood in front of the dump truck. By the time Mason saw the roadblock, he was too close to reverse or turn around without becoming target practice for wannabe Marines.
    The only thing he could think to do was ease off the gas and coast up to the barricade as peacefully as possible. He rolled down both windows as he came to a full stop. Then he placed both hands on top of the steering wheel where they could easily be seen.
    Two men stepped in front of the truck while the other two split and came up along each side.
    “Out of the truck!” commanded a burly man, wearing dirty denim coveralls.
    Bowie sat up and growled.
    “Easy, boy,” Mason said, patting him on his side. “Stay in the truck.”
    Bowie whined and pressed his head to the windshield as Mason stepped from the vehicle with his hands raised.
    Coveralls spun Mason around and searched him. He pulled the Supergrade from its holster and stuck it in the front of his own waistband. Then he slipped the hunting knife out of its sheath and tossed the heavy blade into the bed of Mason’s truck. When he came across his Marshal’s badge, he seemed to lose a little of his unabashed confidence.
    “You’re a lawman?”
    Mason nodded. “Deputy US Marshal.”
    He thought about it a few seconds.
    “Well, not around here, you’re not. We’re the law.”
    “Okay. And who are you exactly?”
    “We’re members of the Free Militia,” the man said with an air of pride.
    Mason kept his tone calm and friendly. He considered Coveralls and his men to be extremely dangerous. After having stood for days on end on a deserted county road, they were undoubtedly looking for any excuse to try out their new Bushmaster toys. He had seen similar aggression in young soldiers who found themselves bored and looking for a little excitement to test their training. The best thing he could do was to try to appear nonthreatening without being so weak that it invited sadistic brutality.
    “Do you men have a leader?”
    “He’s