The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 20

"I'm sorry, Mister. This sucks." He held out a stubby screwdriver, the flat blade no more than two inches in length.

"What's that?"

"It's your weapon."

Tanner looked across the arena. The Russian was hefting a large wood axe onto his shoulder.

"Like I said," repeated Snaps, "you're screwed."

Tanner reached out and took the screwdriver. He looked around the arena and saw people pointing and laughing. The joke was on him. Ha, ha, very funny.

The Russian pumped the axe up into the air with his right hand and raised the other to energize the crowd. They roared with excitement. He was their finisher, the man who would set things right by killing the outsider.

Rather than meet the Russian in the middle of the arena, Tanner began circling along the outer edge. If Snaps was right, the Russian couldn't see well out of his left eye. Tanner figured that as long as he kept moving in that direction, he could stay in the man's blind spot.

He stepped around large metal wheels and hopped over an axle as he worked to make the fight less one-sided. A man with an axe needed distance with which to swing it. That meant good footing and open s.p.a.ce. Trip him up on a few old train parts, and that axe might prove more dangerous to the lumberjack than the intended victim. And despite its fearsome appearance, Tanner knew that a full-sized axe was not the ideal weapon for hand-to-hand combat. Its length was fixed, and it was heavily weighted at one end, making it difficult to swing quickly. He guessed that nine times out of ten, a right-handed person would swing the weapon from right to left, usually downward at roughly a forty-five-degree angle. All he had to do was make sure he wasn't in the way when it came down.

Surrounded by old train parts, Tanner motioned for the Russian to come and get him. He was, after all, the guy holding the axe.

The Russian spread his feet apart and slowly advanced.

Tanner waited, moving only enough to keep the Russian from getting a firm bead on him.

When the Russian closed to within about ten feet, he tossed the axe from his right hand to his left and then back again. He choked up on the handle and swung the blade in a lazy figure eight.

Tanner kept moving in a large circle to his right, waiting for the Russian to make a mistake. Not able to fully watch the minefield he was traversing, Tanner tripped over a large metal rod poking up through the dirt. And when he did, the Russian made his move, forward and swinging the axe down from right to left.

Tanner spun away, and the axe came down into the dirt, barely missing his thigh. He started to lunge toward the Russian, but the man immediately jerked the axe up between them. Tanner stepped back and looked around for options. The train debris was only delaying the inevitable. Eventually, the heavy blade would find muscle, and that would be that.

The only way to have a fighting chance was to get in close. The best way to do that, he decided, was with a sudden redirection of energy. It was a simple principle of Judo. First, convince the opponent of movement in one direction. And then, when he was most vulnerable, move in the opposite direction. It relied on the fact that it took time for the brain to process changes as well as for the body to overcome momentum.

Tanner retreated toward the antique steam engine, pretending to glance over his shoulder as if to make sure of where he was headed. The Russian picked up the pace, trying to get to him before he could find cover. Tanner allowed him to get closer, confident that the man wouldn't swing the axe while on the move. Then, as the Russian leaned forward, taking longer and longer steps, Tanner did the unexpected. He changed direction, leaped over the debris, and charged his enemy.

The Russian stopped and instinctively brought the axe back to chop. But there just wasn't time for him to make the decision, plant his feet, and ready the axe before Tanner was on him. He hit the Russian with his full body weight, barreling the man back and robbing him of the footing necessary to swing the axe. Tanner continued to drive forward, never allowing a gap to open between them.

The Russian stumbled over a large spring and fell onto his back. Tanner followed him to the ground, stabbing the screwdriver into the side of the big man's neck. The blow was solid, and the two-inch tip went all the way in. Unfortunately, it missed the carotid artery as well as the windpipe, instead punching a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the thick meat of his neck.

The Russian immediately shoved the axe up between them, hoping to use the blade as a mini guillotine. Tanner released the screwdriver, which remained firmly planted in the man's neck, and grabbed the handle of the axe. As strong as Tanner was, he was no match for the Russian. He watched as the heavy blade slowly inched toward his face.

If Tanner released the handle, he was dead. He knew that. He also had no way to head b.u.t.t or otherwise injure the man below him. A memory of a similar struggle came to him. It was during a high school wrestling match, some forty years earlier. He had been disqualified for his action, but it had worked nonetheless.

Tanner coughed up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it into the Russian's face.

The man's reaction was much the same as the high school wrestler's had been, pulling one arm back to wipe the disgusting mess from his face. And when he did, Tanner jerked the axe away and jumped to his feet.

The Russian immediately rolled onto his stomach and scrambled to put distance between them. Tanner raised the heavy blade high into the air and swung it down with all his might. The axe caught the Russian directly between his shoulder blades with a wet thunk. He screamed, pushed up a few inches, and then collapsed, nose first, into the dirt.

Tanner put one foot on the Russian's body and worked the b.l.o.o.d.y axe free. He held it ready, looking down at the Russian like Paul Bunyan inspecting a felled tree. Blood and chips of bone spilled out from the deep wound in the man's back. Tanner couldn't tell if he was alive or dead, but it didn't really matter. He sure as h.e.l.l wasn't getting back up.

He turned back to the crowd, which had fallen silent. Their finisher was finished. Tanner held the axe at the ready. If anyone should decide to take the matter into their own hands, he had an answer for them.

None did. Instead a few people started clapping, and it quickly grew into thunderous shouts. Tanner! Tanner! Tanner!

Tanner dropped the axe and walked over to Commando.

The guard said nothing, offering only the faintest nod of approval.

The elderly doctor stepped from the small bedroom and quietly closed the door behind him.

"Well?" asked Tanner, his heart pounding.

"She's got a serious streptococcal infection."

"In English, Doc."

"She has strep throat."

"Strep throat? You sure? She didn't say anything about her throat hurting."

The doctor shrugged. "It can hit people differently. I gave her a penicillin shot. That should take care of it, but take these with you just in case." He handed Tanner a bottle of large pills. "If the fever comes back, give her two a day for ten days. Don't skip a dose, and don't stop early."

Tanner nodded. He had heard the same instructions a dozen times, but this was the first time he intended to follow through with them.

"A few months ago," said the doctor, "sicknesses like these were little more than an inconvenience. Now, with the lack of antibiotics, they can be life threatening. It's a good thing you were able to negotiate my services."

Tanner reached out and shook the man's hand.

"I appreciate you helping my daughter."

The doctor started to say something and then stopped himself.

"What?"

He looked left and right, as if making sure no one was within earshot.

"You needn't pretend. I know who she is."

Tanner met the man's stare.

"And?"

The doctor shrugged. "And nothing. I'm glad she's safe. You obviously love her, and that's what any orphan needs."

"Orphan? What are you talking about?"

The doctor stepped closer and lowered his voice.

"President Gla.s.s died more than a week ago. You didn't know?"

Tanner shook his head, his mind racing with what the news meant.

"The way I heard it, she was murdered by one of her closest advisors. A terrible loss if you ask me."

"Did you tell Samantha?"

"No, of course not. But she'll find out eventually. Once she's recovered a little, you should break the news." The doctor patted him on the arm and turned to leave. "I guess you really are her father now."

After the doctor was gone, Tanner went in to check on Samantha. She was awake but still weak and feverish.

"Am I going to make it?" she asked with a small smile.

"The old coot said you should be feeling better by morning. Gave me some horse pills in case you're not." He held up the bottle and rattled the pills around.

"Why would he give you horse pills? Oh no, not another veterinarian."

He chuckled. "It's just an expression. It means the pills are big."

"Because horses have big mouths?"

"I guess so."

She rubbed her fingers across her mouth.

"Do I have a big mouth?"

Tanner bit his lip. "Not at all."

"Did you have any trouble finding the doctor?"

"Nah, no problems at all."

She looked at the bruise on his face and the blood covering his s.h.i.+rt.

"Just another day, right?"

He smiled. "Just another day."

"It's a good thing you're unkillable."

"It is, isn't it?"

She reached over and laid her hand on his.

"Seriously, I'm glad you're okay."

"I almost forgot," he said, reaching behind his back. "I got something for you." He brought forward a small bottle of chocolate drink.

Samantha struggled to sit up, disbelief in her eyes.

"Happy Birthday, Sam," he said, handing her the bottle of Yoo-hoo.

She felt of the gla.s.s bottle, shaking her head in amazement.

"How?"

"Ah, it wasn't so hard. I traded with a nice fella who happened to have a bottle."

She unscrewed the top and took a drink.

"Oh, that's so good. You try." She held it out to him, and he took a small sip. It tasted like chocolate milk with a cup of sugar stirred in for good measure.

"Good, right?"

"The best," he said, wondering how quickly he could get to the bottle of lager he had stowed in his pack.

She took another sip and closed her eyes to savor the flavor.

"I think this is the best birthday present I've ever gotten in my whole life."

"It's a bottle of Yoo-hoo."

"No," she said. "This is perhaps the last bottle of Yoo-hoo in the entire world. And you went and got it for me."

"It was the least I could do. You only turn nine once."

She started to correct him and then smiled when she realized he was joking.

"Wow," she said, taking another sip, "this is so good."

CHAPTER.

14.

Early the next morning, Mason and Connie followed Highway 23 northeast, skirting the Kentucky and West Virginia state lines. The four-lane road, dubbed the Country Music Highway, was famous for pa.s.sing through the hometowns of renowned country music stars, including Billy Ray Cyrus, Ricky Skaggs, Dwight Yoakam, and Loretta Lynn. Skirting smaller towns like Paintsville and Louisa proved easy enough, but as they got closer to Ashland, the roadways became more congested.

Huge oil storage tanks and industrial smokestacks towered off to their right as part of the six-hundred-and-fifty-acre Catlettsburg Refinery. Mason couldn't help but wonder what was going to happen to the world as gasoline became less and less usable, slowly degrading to where it would eventually turn into a gummy varnish. As bad as things were now, they were only going to get worse.