Neanderthals,” added Colton. “Big, stupid beasts that only want to tear you apart.”
“Did they try to kill you too?” asked Mason.
“No,” the judge said, shaking his head. “Even though we didn’t change like they did, they never held that against us.”
“Not yet, anyway,” added Dean.
“Then why did you come out here and set up this camp?”
The judge looked over his shoulder at the long row of tents and RVs.
“That’s a fair question. The truth is we couldn’t stand to watch their brutality any longer. It was horrifying to witness. We weren’t strong enough to stop them, so we did the only thing we could—we left.”
Mason nodded. What they told him seemed to reconcile with his experience with Erik, the infected man who had come to his aid in Boone, and the stories that others had told him about the berserker violence they had witnessed.
Judge Sterling’s face grew long and serious.
“Please, Marshal, listen to us about this. Steer clear of Richmond Hill.”
Mason met the man’s eyes but said nothing.
The judge frowned. “You’re going there anyway, aren’t you?”
Mason nodded. “Richmond Hill is my best chance. If I don’t stop them there, I’m not sure which direction they’ll turn. So, yes, that’s where I’ll make my stand.”
Judge Sterling sighed. “Okay, but for God’s sake, get out before dark.”
“I’ll try.” Mason nodded to each man. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Before you hurry off,” said Dean, “let me get your dog a treat.” He wheeled around and hurried back to one of the tents. When he returned, he was carrying a large bone. There was still plenty of bloody meat attached to it, as well as a little fur.
Bowie’s eyes grew wide, and he gave a little bark. Dean held out the bone, but before taking it, Bowie looked up at Mason. He nodded, and the big dog leaped forward, snatching the bone from Dean’s hand.
“You got yourself a fine animal there,” said Judge Sterling.
Mason patted Bowie on the side as the dog began tearing off snippets of flesh from the bone.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Mason found the outskirts of Richmond Hill to be as deserted as nearly every other small town in America. There was an outdoor shopping center to his left that had its windows smashed, and a mom-and-pop store on his right that advertised the best boiled peanuts in all of Georgia. Up ahead was a sign for a Motel 6 and, beyond that, a Burger King. Contrary to Judge Sterling’s warning, he saw no signs of murderous crazies roaming the streets.
He pulled over and stopped at the on-ramp to I-95. Almost directly above him were two three-lane overpasses, one traveling south, the other north. He smiled. The overpasses presented an opportunity to disrupt Nakai’s plans.
He climbed out and dug through the supplies in the bed of his truck, finally finding a box of ten-penny nails. The three-inch nails were the perfect size for what he had in mind, long enough to get the job done and still easy enough to be worked with pliers. He knelt down and dumped a small pile of the nails on the concrete beside his truck. Bowie sniffed them and then looked up at him.
“Just watch.”
Using a pair of heavy pliers, he bent two nails, each into ninety-degree angles. Overlapping them, he twisted the nails around one other until the four tips pointed off at orthogonal angles. Then he clipped the head of each nail. He picked up the four-pronged spike and touched the tips with his finger. Not perfect, but sharp enough.
Working as fast as he could, he repeated the process a couple dozen more times. When he had finished, he tossed the pliers into the back of the truck and scooped up a large handful of the improvised caltrops.
“Come on,” he said, turning and running up the on-ramp.
Bowie tore after him, barking as he ran.
When he got to the top of the ramp, Mason saw that a Greyhound bus had jackknifed and tipped over, and was now leaning on the edge of the
“Did they try to kill you too?” asked Mason.
“No,” the judge said, shaking his head. “Even though we didn’t change like they did, they never held that against us.”
“Not yet, anyway,” added Dean.
“Then why did you come out here and set up this camp?”
The judge looked over his shoulder at the long row of tents and RVs.
“That’s a fair question. The truth is we couldn’t stand to watch their brutality any longer. It was horrifying to witness. We weren’t strong enough to stop them, so we did the only thing we could—we left.”
Mason nodded. What they told him seemed to reconcile with his experience with Erik, the infected man who had come to his aid in Boone, and the stories that others had told him about the berserker violence they had witnessed.
Judge Sterling’s face grew long and serious.
“Please, Marshal, listen to us about this. Steer clear of Richmond Hill.”
Mason met the man’s eyes but said nothing.
The judge frowned. “You’re going there anyway, aren’t you?”
Mason nodded. “Richmond Hill is my best chance. If I don’t stop them there, I’m not sure which direction they’ll turn. So, yes, that’s where I’ll make my stand.”
Judge Sterling sighed. “Okay, but for God’s sake, get out before dark.”
“I’ll try.” Mason nodded to each man. “I’d best be on my way.”
“Before you hurry off,” said Dean, “let me get your dog a treat.” He wheeled around and hurried back to one of the tents. When he returned, he was carrying a large bone. There was still plenty of bloody meat attached to it, as well as a little fur.
Bowie’s eyes grew wide, and he gave a little bark. Dean held out the bone, but before taking it, Bowie looked up at Mason. He nodded, and the big dog leaped forward, snatching the bone from Dean’s hand.
“You got yourself a fine animal there,” said Judge Sterling.
Mason patted Bowie on the side as the dog began tearing off snippets of flesh from the bone.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Mason found the outskirts of Richmond Hill to be as deserted as nearly every other small town in America. There was an outdoor shopping center to his left that had its windows smashed, and a mom-and-pop store on his right that advertised the best boiled peanuts in all of Georgia. Up ahead was a sign for a Motel 6 and, beyond that, a Burger King. Contrary to Judge Sterling’s warning, he saw no signs of murderous crazies roaming the streets.
He pulled over and stopped at the on-ramp to I-95. Almost directly above him were two three-lane overpasses, one traveling south, the other north. He smiled. The overpasses presented an opportunity to disrupt Nakai’s plans.
He climbed out and dug through the supplies in the bed of his truck, finally finding a box of ten-penny nails. The three-inch nails were the perfect size for what he had in mind, long enough to get the job done and still easy enough to be worked with pliers. He knelt down and dumped a small pile of the nails on the concrete beside his truck. Bowie sniffed them and then looked up at him.
“Just watch.”
Using a pair of heavy pliers, he bent two nails, each into ninety-degree angles. Overlapping them, he twisted the nails around one other until the four tips pointed off at orthogonal angles. Then he clipped the head of each nail. He picked up the four-pronged spike and touched the tips with his finger. Not perfect, but sharp enough.
Working as fast as he could, he repeated the process a couple dozen more times. When he had finished, he tossed the pliers into the back of the truck and scooped up a large handful of the improvised caltrops.
“Come on,” he said, turning and running up the on-ramp.
Bowie tore after him, barking as he ran.
When he got to the top of the ramp, Mason saw that a Greyhound bus had jackknifed and tipped over, and was now leaning on the edge of the
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