Bowie stopped and began barking at the back of a faded blue Chevrolet Impala that rested beneath five other vehicles. He hopped up and began scratching at its trunk, which was tied shut from the outside with a length of electrical wire.
Mason called out, “John! Jules! Where are you?”
Almost immediately, a voice called down from above.
“Marshal, up here!”
He looked up and saw a lean, middle-aged woman standing on top of the pile of cars. It took Mason a moment to realize that it was Jules. The last time he had seen her, she seemed frightened and overwhelmed by the horrific events. But standing there with a pump shotgun in one hand and waving with the other, it was clear that she had made the necessary adjustments to survive.
“Where’s John?” he asked, fearing the worst.
She managed a small grin and pointed down at the Impala.
“I hid him in the trunk.”
“You did what?”
She started to make her way down the mound of wreckage.
“He’s hurt. Darn fool shot himself in the leg.”
Mason stepped up to the Impala, untwisted the wire, and opened the trunk. John lay inside, conscious and alert, a thin smile on his face. He cupped a Colt Commander .45 pistol with both hands.
“Marshal Raines, sir, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
Bowie propped up on the bumper and began sniffing John as if to confirm his find. When he was sure, he looked back at Mason and barked enthusiastically.
Mason leaned over and patted the dog on its side.
“You found him all right.”
Bowie wagged his tail with excitement.
“Anyone ever tell you that you got a good dog there, Marshal?”
“A time or two,” he said, extending his hand.
John stuffed the Commander into his waistband and grabbed Mason’s hand. Jules dropped to the ground a few feet away and rushed over to help. When they finally got John out, Mason took a quick look at his wound. The bullet had passed through the upper thigh. There was still a little blood oozing out, but it hadn’t nicked the femoral artery or splintered any bone—a through and through as people were apt to call it.
“Not my finest moment,” said John.
“It happens. Can you put weight on it?”
He stood up straight, wincing slightly from the pain.
“I won’t win any races, but I can walk.”
Mason did a quick assessment. Night was nearly upon them. The chances that John could hobble his way back to Mason’s truck before the town’s bloodthirsty residents came calling seemed slim.
“We’re going to have to make a hard choice here.”
Jules stepped over to her husband, and he draped his arm across her shoulders for support.
“We’re not leaving John, even if I have to carry him the whole way,” she said.
“Understood. So, either we all try to make it or Bowie and I run for the truck.” He didn’t have to tell them that neither option was without risk.
John and Jules looked to one another and, without saying a word, seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.
“We’ll only slow you down, Marshal,” she said. “You go, and we’ll hold out here until you get back. We made it last night by hiding John in the car and my going up top. They did their awful best to get to me, but apparently they’re not the best climbers.”
He nodded. “If it worked last night, it should work for at least the next few minutes. Just keep quiet and try not to draw any undue attention.”
“Does that mean I have to get back in the trunk?” John asked, looking at the oil-stained carpet and rusty tools lining the floorboard.
Jules stared up at the tower of crushed cars.
“Are you strong enough to climb?”
He sighed. “No.”
She placed her hand on the lid of the trunk.
“Then you’ve got your answer.”
CHAPTER
5
After driving the flatbed truck a mile down Wilcox Road, Tanner and Samantha came across a small auto service center with two gas pumps out front. The hose and handle from one of the pumps had been torn away and was lying on the asphalt nearby. The other pump,
Mason called out, “John! Jules! Where are you?”
Almost immediately, a voice called down from above.
“Marshal, up here!”
He looked up and saw a lean, middle-aged woman standing on top of the pile of cars. It took Mason a moment to realize that it was Jules. The last time he had seen her, she seemed frightened and overwhelmed by the horrific events. But standing there with a pump shotgun in one hand and waving with the other, it was clear that she had made the necessary adjustments to survive.
“Where’s John?” he asked, fearing the worst.
She managed a small grin and pointed down at the Impala.
“I hid him in the trunk.”
“You did what?”
She started to make her way down the mound of wreckage.
“He’s hurt. Darn fool shot himself in the leg.”
Mason stepped up to the Impala, untwisted the wire, and opened the trunk. John lay inside, conscious and alert, a thin smile on his face. He cupped a Colt Commander .45 pistol with both hands.
“Marshal Raines, sir, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
Bowie propped up on the bumper and began sniffing John as if to confirm his find. When he was sure, he looked back at Mason and barked enthusiastically.
Mason leaned over and patted the dog on its side.
“You found him all right.”
Bowie wagged his tail with excitement.
“Anyone ever tell you that you got a good dog there, Marshal?”
“A time or two,” he said, extending his hand.
John stuffed the Commander into his waistband and grabbed Mason’s hand. Jules dropped to the ground a few feet away and rushed over to help. When they finally got John out, Mason took a quick look at his wound. The bullet had passed through the upper thigh. There was still a little blood oozing out, but it hadn’t nicked the femoral artery or splintered any bone—a through and through as people were apt to call it.
“Not my finest moment,” said John.
“It happens. Can you put weight on it?”
He stood up straight, wincing slightly from the pain.
“I won’t win any races, but I can walk.”
Mason did a quick assessment. Night was nearly upon them. The chances that John could hobble his way back to Mason’s truck before the town’s bloodthirsty residents came calling seemed slim.
“We’re going to have to make a hard choice here.”
Jules stepped over to her husband, and he draped his arm across her shoulders for support.
“We’re not leaving John, even if I have to carry him the whole way,” she said.
“Understood. So, either we all try to make it or Bowie and I run for the truck.” He didn’t have to tell them that neither option was without risk.
John and Jules looked to one another and, without saying a word, seemed to arrive at the same conclusion.
“We’ll only slow you down, Marshal,” she said. “You go, and we’ll hold out here until you get back. We made it last night by hiding John in the car and my going up top. They did their awful best to get to me, but apparently they’re not the best climbers.”
He nodded. “If it worked last night, it should work for at least the next few minutes. Just keep quiet and try not to draw any undue attention.”
“Does that mean I have to get back in the trunk?” John asked, looking at the oil-stained carpet and rusty tools lining the floorboard.
Jules stared up at the tower of crushed cars.
“Are you strong enough to climb?”
He sighed. “No.”
She placed her hand on the lid of the trunk.
“Then you’ve got your answer.”
CHAPTER
5
After driving the flatbed truck a mile down Wilcox Road, Tanner and Samantha came across a small auto service center with two gas pumps out front. The hose and handle from one of the pumps had been torn away and was lying on the asphalt nearby. The other pump,
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