The Survivalist (Freedom Lost) by Arthur T. Bradley

Author:Arthur T. Bradley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: pandemic, survival, shtf, teotwawki, prepper
Publisher: Arthur T. Bradley

Mason sat on an old yellow sofa, staring out the clubhouse window at a tarp-covered swimming pool. Security officers stood to either side of him with shotguns in hand. He had asked Jessie and Bowie to wait outside because of her outrage at Jack’s treatment and the dog’s temperament toward men with guns. This was a time for diplomacy, not war.

The clubhouse consisted of a sitting room, a game area with billiard and foosball tables, and a large kitchen that no doubt had been used to host kids’ parties and homeowners’ association meetings. Several small hallways also led off to private offices. The announcer from the balcony appeared from one such hallway, his big white hat in hand.

As soon as he saw Mason, his face came alive.

“Mason Raines in the flesh. How about that!”

Mason stood up nice and slow so as not to startle the guards.

“Hello, Leroy.”

Leroy Tucker walked over and pulled him into a big hug.

“I swear to God, it feels like a long-lost brother’s come back from the grave.”

Mason patted him on the back. “You too, my old friend.”

Leroy leaned away to get a better look at him, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the Supergrade.

“I see you’ve still got my gun. I hope it’s served you well.”

“I couldn’t have asked for anything better.” Mason drew the weapon slowly and flipped it around so that the grip extended toward Leroy. “I’m sure it’ll tell you a few stories.”

Leroy gently pushed the pistol away. “I wouldn’t dream of taking it from you. A man doesn’t break a bond like that. Besides,” he said, resting his hand on his own firearm, “I’ve gone modern.”

The pistol at his side was an FN Five-seven. Chambered in 5.7x28 mm, the Five-seven was notoriously accurate with a trajectory kept to within a couple of inches all the way out to two hundred meters. It was also lightweight, had a twenty-round magazine, and with the right ammunition, could penetrate NATO’s CRISAT body armor.

Mason nodded his thanks and holstered the Supergrade. Even with the Five-seven’s obvious benefits, he would never have chosen one over a good 1911. Some things just felt right in his hand, and no amount of technological whiz bang could change that.

Leroy motioned for him to retake his seat as he settled into a chair, crossing his legs like a southern gentleman.

“You look good, Mason. You really do.”

“You look as ornery as ever, old timer.”

The nickname brought a smile to Leroy’s lips.

“God, that brings back memories. Do you remember that time we cornered those three hombres hoping to scoot across the border with that sweet little waitress?”

Mason pressed his lips together. “I remember.”

“The big one with the droopy eye thought he had it all figured out.” He cleared his throat, adopting a respectable Hispanic accent. “Go ahead, Marshal. Arrest us. It don’t matter none. In three months, we’ll be back in Mexico with a warm titty in one hand and a cold cerveza in the other. Who knows? Maybe next time we come over, we say hello to your madre.

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