The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

Chapter 16

Mason decided to stay in Boone for the night. Not only would it save him the long, slow drive back to the cabin, but it would also allow him to check out the town after dark. At Father Paul's insistence, he agreed to sleep in one of the Church's small dorm rooms once reserved for nuns.

A few hours past nightfall, Mason and Bowie went for a walk around town. Mason carried a small flashlight but kept it off except when navigating particularly congested areas. Bowie stayed close by his side, and Mason wasn't sure if that was because he was being protective, or simply afraid of exploring a town that was creepier than the Byberry Mental Asylum.

They walked down King Street for the better part of a mile before coming upon a group of men carefully making their way along the sidewalk. Several of them carried pillowcases with goods stuffed inside; others were pushing shopping carts. They stayed close to one another and continually surveyed the street. When they saw Mason and Bowie, they came to a complete stop.

Mason clicked on his flashlight and pointed it at the men's feet so as not to blind them.

"Good evening," he said.

After a brief pause, one of the men said, "Evening, Marshal. We're glad to have you out here."

The men hustled past, obviously unsure that his presence in any way guaranteed their safety. Bowie sniffed them as they passed but gave only a soft growl.

Mason continued on. The night was cool and extremely quiet. The nearly impenetrable darkness was only broken by flickers of flashlights, candles, and lanterns as people made preparations for the night.

After another few blocks, Bowie cut in front of Mason and stopped, his nose lifted high in the air.

"What is it, boy?"

Bowie looked left and right, taking short sniffs of the cold night air.

Suddenly, there was movement from across the street. Mason instinctively drew his pistol with one hand and flicked on his flashlight with the other. Bringing them together, he scanned left and right, the white light forcing its way through the darkness like a train through fog.

A hunched figure stumbled out of a car and fell to the ground. Bowie leaped forward and let out a tremendous bark. Mason moved a few steps closer, keeping both his light and Supergrade pointed at the man. The figure scrambled to his feet, standing bent over and shielding his eyes from the blinding light.

"No, no, no," he mumbled.

As Mason got closer, he saw that the stranger was cloaked in a white blanket, resembling something that might be worn by ancient Arthurian druids. The man held his hands up in an attempt to shield himself from view, but in doing so, revealed skin covered in a thick layer of scabs.

"Don't kill me, Marshal," he begged. His voice was garbled and hard to understand as if he was chewing a mouthful of worms.

"Why would I kill you?"

"I'm an abomination," he whined.

"You survived the pox?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Let me see you."

"Only if you promise not to kill me."

"I'm no murderer."

"Not even a mercy killing. Promise me."

It pained Mason to hear the terrible anguish in the man's voice.

"I promise."

The man stood and pulled the blanket down to his shoulders. What Mason saw was nearly indescribable. Every square inch of the man's flesh was covered with layers of festering sores, blisters upon blisters that had ruptured, only to reform again. His eyes were opaque and milky, his hands twisted from advanced rheumatoid arthritis.