The Survivalist: Madness Rules Part 31

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. Now, if you'll excuse me."

As the president turned to leave, the general offered a final warning.

"A day will come when you'll be held accountable, not only for the atrocity you are about to commit, but for what happened at Glynco as well."

Pike turned to him, making no attempt to hide the intense hatred in his eyes.

"There will be a day, General, when we all pay for what we've done. Count on it."

President Pike used his foot to push the chair away from his desk. Yumi rode sidesaddle on his lap with her arms wrapped around his neck.

"General Carr's going to be trouble," he said.

Yumi leaned down to kiss his eyebrows.

"So, kill him."

"It's not that easy. He's powerful. The military respects him."

"He killed me."

"I know that."

"So, I want my revenge." She traced his eyelid with her tongue.

"And I'll get it for you. I promise."

"You'd better."

"His resignation should make it easier. I'll have General Hood take care of him. They've had bad blood for years."

She giggled. "I so wish I could be there to see him choking on his own blood."

"No," he said, reaching up and grabbing her arms, "you have to stay with me. You promised, remember?"

She smiled. "I'm not leaving you, lover. But don't make me wait too long."

"I won't," he promised. "General Carr will die very soon."

"Okay, I believe you." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, smiling slightly as he closed his eyes. "I want a souvenir."

He flinched.

"Have them bring me his ear? Better yet, make it his tongue."

"I... I don't know. I'll try."

She stood up and leaned back against his desk, propping one of her legs on his chair so that he could see up her skirt.

"Carr knew you were up to something in Lexington. He could tell it was all a big fat lie."

"He couldn't know for sure. No one could. We burned the bodies."

"No one except for General Hood."

"Right, except for him."

"You'll have to get rid of him too eventually. You know that."

President Pike said nothing as he stared up her skirt.

She parted her legs slightly.

"You can't trust anyone but me. Not even your favorite general."

He swallowed. "Okay. But not yet. I still need him."

"No, lover, not yet. I'll let you know when it's time."

CHAPTER.

19.

Mason sang along with Bon Jovi as Wanted Dead or Alive filled the cab of his pickup. With the confrontations of Ashland behind him, he felt free and back on point to complete his own mission. Even Bowie seemed to be enjoying the raucous tune. Since leaving Prestonsburg two hours earlier, they had made pretty good time, traveling nearly sixty miles on Kentucky Route 402. The Daniel Boone National Forest was ten miles directly ahead, and beyond that came Winchester and then Lexington.

The sun was already getting low in the sky, and Mason had been keeping an eye out for a good place to stop for the evening. A small dirt driveway exited off to the right, and a cabin peeked out from behind the trees a little ways up the mountain. Figuring that it was better to be away from the main road, he turned off and slowly maneuvered around potholes to traverse the long, narrow drive.

As he got to the top of the dirt road, an old cabin came into full view. The roof was covered in a thick layer of pine straw, and the porch was sagging in on one side from decades of wood rot. A rusty Chevrolet pickup was parked out front with the tailgate down and a bed full of junk-spare tires, boxes of clothes, and even a toilet. A large group of children were outside, the older ones relaxing in rocking chairs on the porch and the younger ones playing tag in the knee-high weeds.

Finding a house in which people still lived was rather uncommon, not to mention dangerous, and Mason debated on whether he should turn back or stop in to say h.e.l.lo. The decision was made for him when an old man stepped out onto the porch with a double-barreled shotgun in hand. Turning around would put a gun at his back, and that was not something Mason was accustomed to doing. Instead, he pulled his truck into the small gravel drive and stepped out to stand behind the engine compartment. He raised one hand high into the air and offered a friendly wave.

The old man lowered the shotgun and nodded.

Bowie hopped down and studied the children, his tail wagging with excitement.

"First," said Mason, "we see if we're welcome."

They approached the cabin, and the old man stepped down off the porch to meet them. He wore denim coveralls and a sweat-stained straw hat. His face was weathered with deep creases, and he had a thick beard that was more gray than black.

"Good evening," offered Mason.

"Evenin'," he said, showing off crooked yellow front teeth.

Mason slid his jacket open to reveal his badge.

"I'm Deputy Marshal Mason Raines. I don't mean you or yours any harm."

The old man nodded and seemed to relax a little.

"I'm Mose. Sorry about ole Betsy," he said, patting the barrel of the shotgun. "Can't be too careful these days."

"Understood." Mason looked over at the children, many of whom were now watching him and Bowie. "Are all these kids yours?"

"Them's my grandkids. Eleven of em, all told. Their pa's inside... restin'."

There was something about the way he said "resting" that seemed to suggest there was more to it than that, but Mason let it go. It wasn't his business.

Bowie whined and danced around, looking at the children running and playing in the yard. The old man leaned down and scratched his neck affectionately.

"Well, go on then."

Bowie looked up at Mason for his approval.

He nodded and the dog took off to join in the festivities. The children shrieked and laughed, marveling at his size. They didn't, however, seem the slightest bit afraid of Bowie. Undoubtedly, they had been around animals their entire life.

"You thirsty?"

"I could use a little water if you have some."

"Course we got water," he laughed. "But I think we can do a little better than that. Follow me."

Mose led Mason around the cabin and down to a small creek. Three huge metal canisters, all plumbed together with copper piping, sat at the water's edge. An old chair, cut firewood, and a diesel generator sat next to them. The entire setup was shaded by a large tarp hung from branches overhead.

"You built a moons.h.i.+ne still," Mason said, not at all surprised.

Mose gave him a crooked smile.

"You gonna arrest me, Marshal?"

"Not hardly. But I might take a sip, if you'd be so obliged."

Mose leaned over and put his nose under a cloth covering what looked like a giant metal milk jug. A blackened fire pit sat beneath it.

"Whoo-hoo, that's about ripe, all right," he said. "Go on, give it a whiff."

Mason moved up and took a quick sniff. The odor was sour and fermented.

"Wow," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"Good, right?"

He straightened up and stepped back, wiping at his eyes.

"Oh yeah."

"Good s.h.i.+ne takes a lot a work and a li'l bit a love. This particular mix is called Kentucky Rodent, on account of the occasional squirrel or rat fallin' in. But don't worry, I always pull 'em back out."

Mason shook his head, smiling. Mose was like every other Kentucky moons.h.i.+ner he had ever met, an artist who loved to show off his handiwork.

"You ever made any s.h.i.+ne, Marshal?"

"Can't say that I have."

"You interested in learnin' how?"

"Sure." In a world where everything had to be handmade, understanding how to mix up a little hard liquor seemed like knowledge worth having.

"Come on then, let ole Mose 'splain how it's done." He pointed to the container they had sniffed. "You start by addin' twenty gallons of boilin' water to five pounds of cornmeal. Nothin' special about either one of 'em. Let that cool enough that you can stick your p.e.c.k.e.r in without burnin' it off. That there gives you your basic mash. Next, you add twenty pounds of sugar and an ounce of yeast. That'll get to foamin' up for a few days as the yeast does its business. Once it stops bubblin', you got your sour mash."

"It was sour, all right."

"At that point, it's ready for some heat and pressure. The magic temperature is one-seventy-three. Any hotter'n that, and it'll turn to poison. Make you go blind and grow hair on your palms," he said, chuckling.

"A hundred and seventy-three degrees. Got it."

"The steam'll flow out the copper worm and travel over to the cooling pot. I use water from the crick for that. Once it condenses, the s.h.i.+ne'll drip right out the other end of the tube." He motioned toward the end of the copper tubing, which was positioned directly over a wooden bucket. "It's d.a.m.n near like magic."

"That doesn't sound so hard."

"Oh, it's hard all right. About a hundred and ninety proof hard!" he cackled.

Mason chuckled. The old man seemed harmless enough and quite a card to boot.

Mose looked up at the sky, which was growing darker by the minute.

"We'd best be gettin' back now. I'll work this batch tomorrow, but don't you worry none. I got plenty of s.h.i.+ne up at the house."

The sound of crickets, frogs, and owls filled the night like a symphony reaching its crescendo. Mason, Mose, and Carolyn, the oldest of the eleven children, sat on the porch, rocking in rickety old chairs. Mose sucked on a pipe, and Carolyn was busy sewing up a s.h.i.+rt for one of her brothers. Bowie lay at Carolyn's feet, exhausted from an evening of playing chase with the kids.

Mason took another small sip from a gla.s.s jar. The moons.h.i.+ne burned his throat, but he offered nothing but a polite nod to Mose.

"You folks lived here a long time?"

"Since way back when. My great granpappy settled this land back when Indians were still runnin' around."

Despite having known Mose and his extended family for only a couple of hours, Mason felt relaxed and at peace. He had always identified with people who lived in the country, whether they were farmers, miners, or ranchers. There was something wholesome about people who were willing to get their hands dirty.