thought was that John and Jules might have retreated to the drug store, but he quickly discounted the idea. They had surely been in enough scrapes to know that the large store would be impossible for two people to defend.
On the other side of the street was a historic church. Bodies lay out front, and the building itself looked completely gutted, its doors ripped off and windows smashed. Perhaps God’s followers had grown impatient waiting for their salvation, or more likely, the infected had simply overrun the town’s survivors in a conflict not so different than the one Mason had faced in Boone. And while Jules and John might have been tempted to seek shelter in a house of the Lord, he doubted they would have been comfortable hiding in a building that was nearly falling in on itself.
A couple of hundred feet down the road was a sanitation company. Directly across from it was an antique gas station that now sold homemade jewelry, decorative tractor parts, and other small-town memorabilia. A little further up was an auto salvage yard and, across from it, a mobile home sales and service center. In the opposite direction were a U-HAUL store and a large roadside motel. There were other businesses past those, but with at least one of them injured, Mason doubted that John and Jules would have ventured much further. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun. He had half an hour to find them and get out of town—not nearly enough time to search all the possibilities.
He climbed down and did a quick walk around the RV. Bowie had crawled back out the window and was busy sniffing a puddle of something that looked like a mix of motor oil and blood. That gave Mason an idea. He hurried back around to the cab, carefully leaned in through the broken windshield, and pulled out the bloody jacket. Based on the size, it had to be John’s.
“Bowie!” he called.
Bowie hurried toward him, his claws skittering across the pavement as he rounded the corner. He stared at Mason with a confused look and then sat back on his haunches, waiting.
The idea was a long shot to be sure. Mason had no reason to believe that Bowie could track a person by their scent. Then again, he had no reason to believe that he couldn’t. Given Bowie’s level of understanding of human speech, he had obviously received professional training, likely in either the military or law enforcement. It was definitely worth a try.
Mason bent over and held the jacket up to Bowie’s nose.
“Go find John,” he said, standing up and waving the jacket around.
Bowie looked at him and yawned.
Mason squatted down and got nose to nose with the big dog. He held the jacket up between them and sniffed it a few times.
“Let’s go get him!”
Bowie’s eyes came alive with fresh excitement. He jumped to his feet and began circling the motorhome, his nose glued to the asphalt. Mason slung John’s jacket over his shoulder and hurried after the dog.
The hunt was on.
If it hadn’t been for the occasional drop of blood on the pavement, Mason might have discounted Bowie’s almost supernatural ability to follow the invisible trail left behind by John and Jules. The dog was certainly not above leading them to a discarded rotisserie chicken if his stomach told him it was time to eat.
Bowie led them north, away from the drug store and past the gas station. He turned in at the auto salvage yard, a huge outdoor facility filled with thousands of wrecked cars and trucks. The left side of the yard contained vehicles deemed worthy of parts and looked very much like a low-budget used car lot. The right half was a graveyard filled with towering piles of crushed cars, stacked twenty feet high in tight rows.
Bowie paused for a moment and then turned right into the giant stacks of crumpled metal and broken glass. Mason hurried after him, wondering how the dog could track such a faint odor when surrounded by the pungent smell of oil, paint, and steel. After another few hundred feet,
On the other side of the street was a historic church. Bodies lay out front, and the building itself looked completely gutted, its doors ripped off and windows smashed. Perhaps God’s followers had grown impatient waiting for their salvation, or more likely, the infected had simply overrun the town’s survivors in a conflict not so different than the one Mason had faced in Boone. And while Jules and John might have been tempted to seek shelter in a house of the Lord, he doubted they would have been comfortable hiding in a building that was nearly falling in on itself.
A couple of hundred feet down the road was a sanitation company. Directly across from it was an antique gas station that now sold homemade jewelry, decorative tractor parts, and other small-town memorabilia. A little further up was an auto salvage yard and, across from it, a mobile home sales and service center. In the opposite direction were a U-HAUL store and a large roadside motel. There were other businesses past those, but with at least one of them injured, Mason doubted that John and Jules would have ventured much further. He glanced over his shoulder at the sun. He had half an hour to find them and get out of town—not nearly enough time to search all the possibilities.
He climbed down and did a quick walk around the RV. Bowie had crawled back out the window and was busy sniffing a puddle of something that looked like a mix of motor oil and blood. That gave Mason an idea. He hurried back around to the cab, carefully leaned in through the broken windshield, and pulled out the bloody jacket. Based on the size, it had to be John’s.
“Bowie!” he called.
Bowie hurried toward him, his claws skittering across the pavement as he rounded the corner. He stared at Mason with a confused look and then sat back on his haunches, waiting.
The idea was a long shot to be sure. Mason had no reason to believe that Bowie could track a person by their scent. Then again, he had no reason to believe that he couldn’t. Given Bowie’s level of understanding of human speech, he had obviously received professional training, likely in either the military or law enforcement. It was definitely worth a try.
Mason bent over and held the jacket up to Bowie’s nose.
“Go find John,” he said, standing up and waving the jacket around.
Bowie looked at him and yawned.
Mason squatted down and got nose to nose with the big dog. He held the jacket up between them and sniffed it a few times.
“Let’s go get him!”
Bowie’s eyes came alive with fresh excitement. He jumped to his feet and began circling the motorhome, his nose glued to the asphalt. Mason slung John’s jacket over his shoulder and hurried after the dog.
The hunt was on.
If it hadn’t been for the occasional drop of blood on the pavement, Mason might have discounted Bowie’s almost supernatural ability to follow the invisible trail left behind by John and Jules. The dog was certainly not above leading them to a discarded rotisserie chicken if his stomach told him it was time to eat.
Bowie led them north, away from the drug store and past the gas station. He turned in at the auto salvage yard, a huge outdoor facility filled with thousands of wrecked cars and trucks. The left side of the yard contained vehicles deemed worthy of parts and looked very much like a low-budget used car lot. The right half was a graveyard filled with towering piles of crushed cars, stacked twenty feet high in tight rows.
Bowie paused for a moment and then turned right into the giant stacks of crumpled metal and broken glass. Mason hurried after him, wondering how the dog could track such a faint odor when surrounded by the pungent smell of oil, paint, and steel. After another few hundred feet,
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