The Survivalist (Book 12): Road Home by Arthur T. Bradley

Author:Arthur T. Bradley
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Infected
Published: 2020-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

“What do ya want?” she demanded.

“I need medical attention.”

“Does this look like a hospital?” She squinted. “Wait a minute. Don’t I know you?”

“We met earlier at the lake.”

“You’re that fella with the gold.”

“That’s right.”

She glanced down at his blood-stained trousers.

“You ain’t gonna die on me, are you? Cause, I ain’t got no way of buryin’ a man your size.”

“I assure you I have no plans of dying tonight.”

“I s’ppose you ain’t got no more of that gold neither.”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“I warned ya, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

She leaned around and looked past him into the night.

“That pretty lady ain’t with ya no more?”

“No.”

“What about your dog?”

“I believe the people who shot me took him.”

“Well,” she said, her brow furrowing, “you’ve had yourself a real shitty night, hadn’t ya?”

Mason sighed. “I believe that’s a fair assessment.”

Ira swung open the door, shooing back several cats with her foot.

“Well come on. I ain’t got all night.”

Mason tossed aside the walking stick and hobbled inside.

The interior of the church had been gutted front to back. There remained only a single set of pews, and those had been pushed against the far wall with perhaps thirty cats lying sprawled across their seats. The remainder of the church space had been converted into an apartment of sorts, with a kitchen table and chairs, a recliner, and a king-sized mattress placed on the floor. Clothes lay scattered about, many of which had cats napping upon them.

Ira helped him over to the table.

“Take off your shirt and pants and get up on the table so I can have me a look.”

Mason did as she instructed.

Ira put on a pair of reading glasses and leaned in close to study the bullet hole.

“Ya got shot, all right.”

“You don’t say.”

“Who done it?”

“That part’s still to be determined.”

She leaned him one way and then the other to better see the entrance and exit wounds.

“It went all the way through. That’s good ’cause there ain’t no way I’m fishin’ out a bullet.” She bent down and lined her eyes up with the bullet’s trajectory. “It looks like it missed the bone too. That’s good, real good.” A cat hopped onto the table, and Ira shooed him off, saying, “Get now.”

“Do you think you can clean the wounds and stitch me up?”

“What kinda question is that? ’Course I can. Just got to find a needle and thread.” She stood up and placed a hand on his back. “Don’t go nowhere.”

Ira disappeared into the back room of the church, leaving Mason alone with cats mewing at him from every direction. When she finally returned, she was holding a needle and thread, a white rag, and a bottle of Fireball Cinnamon Whisky.

“You like cats?” she said, setting the items atop the table.

Mason thought of Gunsmoke, the kitten he had rescued from a brutal gunfighting competition.

“Sure, cats are fine.”

“But you’re more of a dog person, ain’t ya?” she said, removing the cap from the whiskey and taking a short swig.

“I have a dog, if that’s what you mean.

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