The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 21

The shoulder tapered as it b.u.t.ted up against steep rocky slopes, eventually becoming too narrow for the truck to pa.s.s. He steered through a gap in the stalled traffic, crossing over onto the gra.s.sy median. The steep incline caused Connie to lean against him, and Bowie slid across the bed of the truck.

"We're not going to make it much further," he said.

"Just a few hundred more feet," she said, pointing ahead. "Exit on Lake Bonita Road. It's less crowded and will bring us over to Rockdale. From there we can come in from the west on Highway 60."

"Is that how you came down to Boone?"

"That's right. My place in Ironville isn't far from where we're going."

"And where exactly is that?"

"To the Paramount Arts Center in downtown Ashland, right next to the Ohio River."

Mason remembered hearing of the arts center, a place that drew top musical talent from around the country. It had been built to be a high-end theater, but its completion had coincided with the arrival of the Great Depression, leaving its financial future in doubt. Originally designed to show silent films, the theater finally found success by adapting to play "talkies." For the past several decades, great efforts had been made to restore and remodel the historic landmark into a versatile performing arts center, able to seat fourteen hundred people.

"What are they doing at the Paramount?"

"I think the Wards like to pretend they're living in the past. The Paramount is their playground. When you meet them, you'll understand."

"What does that mean?"

"Last time I saw them, they were all decked out like gunslingers from old westerns-big black hats, long trench coats. It was all quite ridiculous."

"People have accused me of playing cowboy a time or two."

"Maybe so, but the difference is that these men wouldn't know a real lawman if he bit them on the b.a.l.l.s. You would." She threw him a sidelong glance. "At least, I think you would."

"I would, believe me," he said, grinning.

She laughed. After a few seconds, the smile faded away.

"Marshal, despite their over-the-top-dress and distorted sense of justice, please don't underestimate these men."

"I won't."

"Joe, the father, is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d through and through. From what I've heard, he used to be the sheriff of Portsmouth ten years back. Rumor has it that he was forcibly retired for beating up some kid who mouthed off to him."

"A man with a temper."

"That's an understatement. And from what I could tell, he raised his kids with that same tough love. They've been taught that the best way to resolve a disagreement is to get a bat and beat the other person until they stop causing trouble."

"That can be effective."

"Maybe so, but I think they've come to enjoy it."

He nodded. "What do you know about his boys?"

"Three sons, Karl, Max, and Frank. Karl's big and mean, and looks and acts like every other bully. Max is small and wiry, not intelligent exactly but sort of street smart. The youngest, Frank, seems weak, like he's still trying to come into his own. Unfortunately, that means he's willing to do whatever he's told, no matter who it hurts." Her voice faded away.

"He's the one who branded you?"

"They were all involved, but yes, Frank's the one who actually held the hot poker to my skin. I think he saw it as some kind of initiation into manhood."

"Of the group, who do you think is likely to be the most trouble?"

"Hard to say. Being family, I think they'll either all walk away, or they'll all fight. There won't be any middle ground."

"It's just as well that way."

Mason turned onto Lake Bonita Road, and found that Connie had been right. It was much more pa.s.sable with a single lane weaving its way through the stalled traffic. They drove for another ten miles through rolling hills, thick forests, and the occasional farmhouse. A few people were outside their homes, working small plots of land. No one waved.

As they reached Rockdale and turned east on Highway 60, Mason made a decision-one that he knew Connie wouldn't like.

"How much further?" he asked.

"Not far. Maybe five miles. We'll head straight down Highway 60 and then turn right on Winchester Avenue."

"There won't be a we in this, Connie."

She turned to him, a confused look on her face.

"What are you talking about?"

"You asked me to go and deal with these men, and I'll do that. But I need to do it alone."

"No," she said in a firm voice. "I'm coming with you."

He shook his head.

"You know I need this," she pleaded. "Please."

"I'm sorry."

She grabbed his arm. "Why?"

"Because if you come along, I'll have to constantly look over my shoulder to make sure you're okay, just like at the carnival. And my worrying might get us all killed."

"But if I don't come, how will I even know it's over?"

"I'm not abandoning you, Connie," he said, giving her a rea.s.suring smile. "I'll come back to find you. Trust me."

"And if you don't return?"

"Then you can safely a.s.sume I'm dead."

She sat quietly for more than a minute.

"I don't suppose this is open for negotiation."

He turned to face her.

"You should know by now that I'm not a man who negotiates about much of anything."

She shook her head, not at all happy with his decision.

"Fine," she sniffed. "You can drop me at my home in Ironville."

Mason rested his hand on Bowie. The dog whined and laid his head on the seat.

"Yeah, yeah, I hear you. But with what we're walking into, we're better off without her."

Connie had parted with the slam of the door, obviously upset about not being able to see the Wards get their just rewards. Mason understood her desire for revenge, but what he had said was true. She would only endanger them by coming along. He would see that justice was served, and that would have to be enough. Perhaps one day she might even thank him for sparing her from witnessing the violence.

Then again, maybe not. Mason suspected that Connie's revenge was not driven by pain, but rather by shame. The Wards had dehumanized her in a way that wasn't so different from her mother's rape. And like her mother, Connie could not tolerate such shame without setting things right.

Mason turned his attention back to the road. Before the pandemic, the city of Ashland had about twenty thousand residents. Based on the few people he had seen out gathering food and supplies, he guessed that number was now closer to two thousand. Still, it was enough to survive if they organized, especially if they combined resources with folks in the adjacent communities of Huntington and across the river in Ironton. If they didn't, most would probably be dead by the same time next year.

Following Connie's instructions, he proceeded straight down Highway 60, which turned into 13th Street closer into town. The route took him past a cemetery with a large columbarium filled with cinerary urns. Someone had used red spray paint to write "Superpox-99 Was No Accident" across the face of the white brick walls. Beyond the cemetery was a gas station, vacant except for two armed men who stood guard over the pumps. Neither made any kind of threatening move as he pa.s.sed.

On the opposite side of the street was a small market, advertising homemade b.u.t.ter, cheese, and pies. Beyond that was a church with several white crosses made from PVC pipe. The words "G.o.d Didn't Do This" were spray painted across the front of the church. For the next few miles, there was more of the same: gas stations, takeout restaurants, churches, and the occasional house, many of them vandalized with similar graffiti.

As they pa.s.sed an animal hospital, Bowie leaned his head out the pa.s.senger window and began barking. A group of cats had collected under the awning and were watching him warily. Perhaps they had been freed weeks earlier and considered it their home, or maybe it offered shelter from the occasional storm. Either way, Bowie was far more eager to introduce himself than they were to have his company.

"Not today," Mason said, speeding up a little to further dissuade him.

As they got closer to the river, the road became crowded again with abandoned cars and trucks. Mason found himself driving over sidewalks and across lawns. After a few more blocks, he saw the distinctive two-story, rust-colored metal framing that supported the arts center's stage house. Beside it sat a large white stone pillar with the word "Paramount" written down the side.

He stopped in front of a store that sold exercise apparel and shut off the truck.

Bowie stood up on the seat and stared at him intently.

"Don't worry, I'm not leaving you."

Mason stepped from the truck and took a moment to work the kinks out of his back. He didn't know what he might be walking into, but going in with one leg half-asleep was never a good idea.

Bowie hopped down beside him and began studying their surroundings. The street was quiet except for the faint banging of metal coming from the direction of the river.

Mason double-checked his Supergrade. There were eight rounds in the magazine and one in the pipe. That, along with two spare magazines in a pouch at his left side, should be enough if it came to that. He considered taking the Aug. It would give him more firepower, but it would also all but ensure a fight. If possible, he preferred to meet the Ward family and hear their side of things before any shooting started.

He dug through the bed of the truck and retrieved a flashlight. With an output of five hundred lumens, it could illuminate the goal posts at the opposite end of a football field or blind an a.s.sailant for several minutes. Because it relied on light-emitting diodes, it would also never suffer a blown bulb, and the batteries would last twice as long as a comparable incandescent model.

Bowie looked up at him, obviously ready to get underway.

"All right," he said. "Don't rush me."

When Mason was ready, they walked toward a small fire exit at the side of the ma.s.sive theater. He tried the k.n.o.b.

Locked.

He tapped lightly against the door with the back of his hand-metal and heavy by the sound of it. The hinges were on the inside, making it nearly impossible to get inside without a battering ram or a giant can opener. Okay, he thought, so much for sneaking in through the side door.

He turned left and headed around to the front of the building. Bowie took a moment to sniff a dark stain near the door and then hurried after him.

As Mason turned the corner of Winchester and 13th Street, the front entrance to the Paramount came into full view. The majestic green and yellow sign hung above the ticket booth, stirring a sense of nostalgia that could only be found at old-fas.h.i.+oned movie theaters. He could almost see people from the 1930s dressed in double-breasted suits and flashy dresses, lined up to see King Kong or Gone with the Wind.

Mason approached a set of ornate wooden doors. One of them had been propped open a few inches with a pair of old cowboy boots. He swung the door all the way open, sliding the boots over to hold it in place. A steady draft of cool air flowed from the dark lobby.

Bowie immediately slipped in and began sniffing around. Mason followed behind him, studying the room. Posters lined the walls, and a thick gold and burgundy carpet adorned the floor. At the front of the lobby was a concession stand, now dark and empty. On either side of the gla.s.s counter were two sets of double doors that led into the theater.

He walked slowly around the lobby, taking a moment to look at the old movie posters. Mason had always harbored a fondness for movies, especially westerns that reminded viewers that sometimes all that stood in the way of evil were a few brave men. Some of his favorite cla.s.sics were The Magnificent Seven, Rio Bravo, and The Outlaw Josey Wales.

He stepped over to one of the theater doors and pulled it open. It was incredibly dark inside. Only the back few rows of seats were visible in the light spilling from the lobby.

Bowie stood close beside him, not entirely sure a dog should be alone in such a strange and dark place.

One by one, Mason propped open the remaining theater doors. Even with all eight open, much of the room was still blanketed in darkness. He clicked on his flashlight and swept it from side to side to get the general layout of the room. In all his years, he had never seen a theater quite like the Paramount. It was as if he had traveled back in time to witness the birth of American movies. Long rows of burgundy seats stretched in every direction. The walls were painted gold and lined with colorful murals of famous Italian characters, including Harlequin, Pierrot, and Pieroette.

He stepped in, crossing a threshold that seemed to span both s.p.a.ce and time. The aged floor was springy and covered in the same thick carpet as the lobby. He turned his flashlight toward the front of the theater, barely able to make out the huge stage framed with an ornate black and gold proscenium.

"h.e.l.lo!" he shouted, his voice echoing like he was standing at the mouth of an underground cavern. "Anyone here?"

There was no answer.

Mason stood for a moment and listened.

Nothing.

If the Wards were in the building, they were either asleep or ninjas hiding in the rafters. He s.h.i.+ned his light up to study the metal framework above him. Nope, no ninjas.

He walked down the center aisle toward the front of the theater. Bowie stayed close by his side. Mason found it amusing that a dog that wouldn't hesitate to stare down a rhinoceros could be as timid as s...o...b.. Doo in the dark.

A short set of steps led up onto the stage. He sent Bowie up first, figuring it might be good for his confidence. The dog crept up the stairs, his nose glued to the stage floor as he tried to discern the sweat from a hundred famous performers. After circling the stage, he returned to the top of the stairs and looked down at Mason.

"Well, where are they?"

Bowie stared at him.

Mason walked up the stairs and across the empty stage. If the Wards were in the building, they had to be in the stage house. He hoped that he hadn't come all the way to Ashland for nothing. If they had moved on, it would be all but impossible to find them in a world where most information was now pa.s.sed by word of mouth.

With Bowie at his side, he walked to the back of the stage and pushed through a set of heavy velour curtains. Beyond the stage prep area was a hallway with three identical sets of stairs leading up. None looked any more promising than the others.

He slowly climbed the first set of stairs, walking as quietly as his boots allowed. At the top were two dressing rooms, both empty except for a few pieces of furniture. The rooms had a musky odor of perspiration, gin, and cigarette smoke all rolled into one.

Mason returned to the main floor and tried the second set of stairs. They led to a rehearsal room with its door sitting wide open. Two large windows graced the back wall, their blinds pulled up to allow the sunlight to enter. A baby grand piano was on the right side of the room, and on the left sat two antique armchairs, a coat rack, and a couch. A man was asleep on the couch, snoring loudly.

Bowie looked up at Mason.

Mason motioned for him to stay put while he scanned the room for weapons. He spotted a shotgun resting on top of the piano and a holster hanging on the coat rack. Both of them would take too long to get to.