The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)

Chapter 2

Deputy U.S. Marshal Mason Raines turned his black Ford F-150 truck up the long dirt driveway. The morning air was crisp, and fog steamed out from the thick green foliage like the breath of a sleeping dragon. He carefully navigated a full quarter mile up the drive, steering around deep ruts that had resulted from a year of unusually heavy rain. Arriving at a large metal gate, he stepped from the warmth of his truck and unlocked the chains holding it in place. A gentle push sent the heavy barrier swinging open. The simple action reminded him of the countless times he had sat in a truck very similar to his own, watching his father open the same gate. The nostalgia left Mason imagining his father there with him, as if time had folded over to allow the past and present to briefly coexist.

He pulled the truck forward a few paces and climbed out again to close the gate behind him. He wondered why he even bothered. The turn off to his property was difficult to see, and other than the occasional teenagers looking for a make-out spot, there was very little chance of anyone disturbing his remote getaway. Even if they did, what trouble could they cause? Vandalism perhaps, but that didn't seem likely. Most people were decent enough. More likely, they would simply let themselves into his cabin and enjoy a weekend in the mountains. For all he knew, the occasional unannounced visitor might even do the place a little good.

The cabin was distant enough from Mason's daily routine that he would have let the place go if circumstances had not dictated otherwise. With his father doing fifteen years in the Talladega Federal Correctional Institution for manslaughter and his mother living with her sister on an Amish farm in rural New York, the duty of maintaining the family's mountain retreat had fallen squarely on his shoulders.

More than just duty brought him to the cabin. Mason's job as a firearms instructor at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center (FLETC) in Glynco, Georgia was an endless routine of high-stress training, one that he gladly escaped when offered the chance to breathe the fresh mountain air and enjoy a little peace and quiet.

He drove the final hundred yards and parked on a small gravel lot directly in front of the cabin. Built in the truest tradition of log cabins, his father had constructed it from huge trees cut from the surrounding property. From the outside, it looked more like a small cavalry outpost hardened to protect against hostile Apaches than a weekend mountain getaway.

As Mason approached the cabin, he reached out and rubbed a wooden eagle that sat like a protective totem to one side of the porch. His mother had fancied herself a bit of an undiscovered artist, and the eagle was one of her many contributions to their family retreat. Like those who suffer from compulsive behavior disorders, Mason had an almost uncontrollable urge to touch the eagle each time he went into the home, especially when he had been away for some time. Perhaps it stemmed from a fond remembrance of his mother, or perhaps it was just a simple request for divine luck, similar to rubbing the belly of a Buddha statue.

The cabin's door was a massive slab of oak, one rivaling the castle drawbridges of medieval England. His mother had added a large metal knocker in the shape of a monkey's fist, saying that, without it, someone would have to bloody their knuckles for anyone inside to hear them. The point ultimately proved irrelevant since the cabin remained unknown to any but their immediate family. It was a small secret in a world where few secrets remained. As far as anyone from the nearby towns knew, the land was simply another tract of undeveloped property that one day might be cleared for trees or mined for ore.

Mason entered the cabin, and the familiar smell of wood and dust welcomed him like the scent of a mother's freshly baked cookies. It had been nearly six months since he had last stepped foot in the cabin, and as with all homes, time and nature were its worst enemies. A few small items had been knocked over, almost certainly by raccoons searching for food. Despite his many efforts to keep the structure well sealed and protected from the elements, raccoons and the occasional squirrel or bat invariably found their way in. He took down the heavy wooden shutters and opened a few windows. The temperatures in late March were still chilly in the morning, but the fresh air brought life back to the sleepy cabin.