Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Read online

  Peter’s arms pumped like pistons as he pulled the buoy in by the attached rope. “Hang on, Allan, just hang on.”

  “Shit, hurry! He’s struggling!” A frenzied Chess yelled above the sound of the storm.

  Peter tossed the life preserver as far as he could, landing it a few feet from Allan, who treaded water. But the moment he reached for the “ring of life,” he went under.

  “ALLAN, ALLAN! FOR FUCK’S SAKE, ALLAAAAAN!” Chess roared to be heard as thunder echoed in the sky above. “Jesus Christ, I have to go, I have to—”

  “Wait, look.” Peter pointed to the water.

  Allan reached out with one last, desperate lunge and grabbed the lifesaver.

  “Pull, pull him in.” Chess grabbed part of the rope and together, he and Simsy reeled in their catch. The other member of the team got in position to help lift the drowning youngster back aboard.

  Allan’s arm was looped through the lifesaver; he held on with all his remaining strength. That sight alone pleased Chess. He must have some strength left to do that.

  “Okay, a bit more, a bit more. I’ve nearly got him.” The fourth team—member leaned precariously over the side as he stuck his hand out. “GOT HIM!”

  Simsy let go of the rope and came alongside to help pull Allan up on the deck proper.

  “Fuck. He’s not breathing!” Chess panicked.

  He would be held responsible, he was aware of that. He had worked hard to prove himself a genuine member of the group after noticing the suspicious looks and the few whispers he overheard. The loss of one of the most-loved members of the group—albeit accidental—wouldn’t do him any favors.

  At this point, though, he cared little of perceptions and more for Allan’s life.

  “COME ON, ALLAN, COME ON!” Chess shook him by the shoulders.

  “Quickly! Clear his throat, clear his throat!” Simsy yelled, placing himself alongside Allan’s immobile body.

  Chess knew the drill—he checked and cleared Allan’s throat, then tilted his head back slightly.

  “Ready…?” Simsy waited for Chess’ acknowledgment, then said, “Go!”

  Chess pinched Allan’s nose and blew five evenly spaced breaths into the younger man’s mouth. On the last breath of oxygen exchange, Simsy took over with rhythmic compressions on the young man’s chest, while Chess repeated, “Come on, Allan, come on,” like chanting a mantra.

  After fifteen repetitions, Chess blew two more breaths into Allan. His chest rose on both occasions and Simsy started the process over once again.

  Lightning flashed nearby, reflecting eerily off the wet surfaces of the predominantly white catamaran. The wind had picked up, thunder echoed across the dark sky, and the rain was hard. Cold, hard, arctic rain. Another, flash of lightning illuminated Allan’s face. His face was pallid and stiff, and his lips were blue.

  “Come on, Allan! Breathe, fuckin’ breathe!”

  Sandspit 17

  A shocked silence prevailed throughout the fish market’s commerce floor. Thanks to the storm, it was as dark inside as outside. On one of the countertops once used by the local fishermen to sell their catch, Allan’s body lay beneath a gray woolen blanket. Everyone that belonged to the Sandspit enclave was present, except for Chuck and Kath. The latter, at this moment, explained to the Tall Man of the tragedy that had befallen Sandspit—she knew how much Chuck liked Allan.

  Outside, the rain pelted on the metal roof, and the wind roared across the island.

  “Just what in God’s name…” Riley started, his voice angry and disgusted—a man who didn’t want to accept what had occurred, “were you thinking, Chess.”

  Chess wasn’t on trial, but his reputation within the group was.

  “I wanted to save the damn boat from drifting off in the wind, or worse. I—”

  “And you took Allan with you. He’s just a teenager, for Christ’s sakes!” Riley lifted his head up and turned to the blanket-covered counter. From the start, he stared down at the dark gray concrete floor. “Well…he was.”

  “I didn’t know it was him until we were on the boat. That damn ski mask covered his face, it could have been any one of us.”

  “Dammit, Chess, look at the size of him!”

  “I couldn’t see any difference, not with that heavy jacket on!”

  “All right! Enough of this!” Cindy, her eyes red from tears, stepped between the two junkyard dogs. “It doesn’t matter how it happened, just that it did. We’ve already lost two—nearly three—since we’ve been here in this safe—haven, we can’t afford to be reckless.” She paused to look around the room, then added, “Not with lives on the line.”

  No one answered Cindy. Her words hit home. Some grief had been shown when Terry Ashwood was killed in the firefight with Holmes’ misguided team but he was known better by his Special Forces buddies than the others, and soldiers deal with loss differently than most—in public anyway. Fear of Chuck dying hung over the Sandspit community like a thick London fog. Allan was loved and respected and was part of the original survivors; his passing added extra weight.

  “And she’s damn-well right!” Kath emerged from the office area, Chuck by her side. Whispered comments made the rounds of the market building, but not what was said.

  All eyes followed the two as they made their way to the counter. They stood for a moment before Chuck reluctantly pulled back the blanket to look upon Allan’s face. He no longer resembled the young man he remembered.

  “We need to bury Allan right away, storm or no storm.” Chuck turned and addressed everyone but then looked directly at Chess. “But you dig the hole, okay.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it up for debate. The catamaran had been saved during all of this—the one saving grace. But Chuck wasn’t about to give any praise out—not today.

  “Sure, you got it, Chuck. I-I’m…really sorry, I—”

  Chuck cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Just see that it’s done, Chess.” He then nodded toward the direction of the offices and Kath took his arm.

  Had Chuck taken a turn for the worse, or was it from the grief that he needed support to move? No one knew the answer to that question, but an uncomfortable tension—like an uninvited spirit of unknown intention—resided within the confines of the fish market.

  “Damn, I hope Chuck’s all right,” Riley muttered under his breath, his vision fixed on the concrete floor a few feet in front of his toes.

  “We all do, Riley,” Bob said and slapped a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We all do.”

  Elliot 7

  “We’ll have to go south to bypass the Sawtooths,” Ted told the others as they followed the river. Blackened ghosts of former trees littered the banks, surrounded by the burnt-out farmland which still smoldered. He referred to the Sawtooth National Forest of Idaho, now a scorched alien landscape.

  “We can’t go too far south, Ted, we’ve wasted too much time already. We need to head east now.”

  “Tom, if we go east now, we’ll come on top of Caldwell, Nampa, and Boise itself.”

  Tom looked down at the cramped foot space of the helicopter, then at Elliot. It was no longer time to play safe.

  “Tom’s right. I mean, we have to avoid the mountains, but other than that, we need to make a straight run for Washington.”

  Ted looked over to his co-pilot, then nodded to himself. “All right. We head east, but stick to the outskirts, and we might take it up out of rifle range.”

  “That’d work,” Elliot answered positively. He didn’t want Ted or Richard thinking they’d been outranked. But it was imperative they get a move-on, and some risks had to be taken.

  “Hey, isn’t Mountain Home Air Force Base just a few miles south of Boise?”

  Richard had checked his map before Tristan had finished. “Yeah, it is. Just under fifty miles. What’s on your mind?”

  “Fuel, supplies, a change of clothes—something we could all use, I’m sure you’d agree. And there are underground bunkers at Mountain. If any of our boys are aliv
e, we might find them there.”

  “After all that's happened, I would think the likelihood of US military personnel being receptive to our visit somewhat unlikely.”

  Ted’s blunt but fair assessment of the situation were worth more than passing consideration, especially for Elliot, who remembered only too well the rogue cops and National Guard troops he’d faced since fleeing Twin Falls. He didn’t blame their actions—it was survival of the fittest and the rules of the jungle firmly applied.

  “Again, we don’t have the luxury of choice here, Ted,” Elliot reminded, though his voice didn’t sound so confident.

  With everyone in agreement—reluctantly or not—Richard took the chopper to a higher altitude and headed toward the outer residential areas of Caldwell.

  Sandspit 18

  Hours passed before the torrential rain eased off. The moment it did, Chess, Simsy, and Dave Kavella made a fast run to the Sandspit general store in the battered Wrangler. Each was armed with an AR-15, or a pump-action shotgun, and rugged up against the icy wind with thick jackets and liners, pants, gloves, and ski masks. A strong force had been left behind as protection at the market, as it had been decided the minimum size for any groups outside of the market area would be eight. For this excursion, however, a bare minimum was agreed on.

  “Let's make this as fast as possible.” Chess pulled down his dark green ski mask to speak through the mouth opening. “I want this over with.”

  The this he referred to was Allan’s burial. The young man died in an accident, there was no mistake, but that he was in Chess’ care at the time had left a bitter taste in the mouths of several of the group back at the fish market. No one, however, was angrier or sorrier than Chess himself. The thick green grass on the hill that sloped toward town was made treacherous by all the rain. The drainage channels on the sides of the gravel roads and the few asphalt ones were flooded with at least two feet of fast-running water. Light rain still fell and slowly penetrated their thick jackets. There would be dry clothes for them back at Sandspit—but only after the job was complete.

  An hour later, they returned to Sandspit with shovels, picks, hammers and nails, and a four-foot-long by twelve-inch-wide plank of wood—the grave marker.

  “Let's get busy,” Chess—sounding worn and tired—said.

  Simsy hacked away at the soil with the pick, near the front entrance of the market. While that went on, Sam Bogart—as some had begun to quietly call him —came outside and spoke to Chess. “I assume the board is the kid's marker?” Even in these sad moments, the Bogart mannerisms remained.

  Chess just nodded—he didn’t have time for conversation.

  “Give it to me. I’ll prepare it while you work on this.” Sam reached for the board, leaning against the table.

  “No! It’s my responsibility, I’ll handle—”

  “It's okay, Chess, I’m only here to help ya, son, here to help.” Sam put a hand on Chess’ forearm and looked the tough Special Forces vet in the eye. A kaleidoscope of light burst from Sam’s pupils and radiated outward, which only Chess could see.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. You take it. We—we’re very busy here.” Chess didn’t argue this time. His defenses down, he almost looked in a hurry to hand the plank of wood over.

  “Okay, Chess, your turn.” Simsy put an end to the otherworldly moment between Chess and Sam. He finished the first pass with the pick, the next few hours would be long and hard.

  Everyone from the Sandspit market now gathered in the gloom of the dark skies above. Chess, Simsy, and Dave took over three hours to dig the five-foot-deep grave. Saturated from rain and sweat, the three washed up inside with welcomed hot water. Riley, with the aid of others, found some plastic buckets inside and captured the rain. With six of the emergency camp stoves constantly boiling water in the canteen cups, there was enough for the gravediggers and the others who had stood watch in the drizzle and the freezing wind. When Chess and the others joined the mourners, the wind had subsided and there was but a trickle of mist left. The sun, however, did not bother to attend the ceremony.

  The sky threatened, and thunderclaps neared.

  Allan’s body was bound tight in blankets and brought out on the same stretcher used to transport Chuck from the car back to the sick-bed after his life-saving—act of heroics earlier. Riley, Bob, James Goodwin, and David Grigsby acted as pall-bearers. Everyone knew Chuck wanted to take part, but his condition wouldn’t allow it.

  “There are no words to convey the heartfelt loss or the grief we’re all currently experiencing,” Cindy said as Allan’s body was placed next to the open hole. “I knew Allan longer than anyone—with the exception for Elliot, but he’s not here. He was a fine, fine young man. Very smart and full of potential. Chuck saw the potential in him and guided him in that direction. Now, his life taken from him too soon, he won’t ever fulfill the promise he had.”

  Cindy noticed Chess’ head drop and his fists clench. She hadn’t set out to make him feel worse than he already did, but she wasn’t sorry either—not at this stage.

  “Allan was—”

  A bolt of lightning arced down from the dark sky, hitting a large spruce nearby. A sharp crack like that of rifle shots sounded as the trunk split in half; each side falling in a different direction. One half of the tree came down on the side of the building, narrowly missing the wall. The other half tilted toward the gathering…and Allan’s grave.

  “Get back, get back inside!” Chess yelled above the screams and the fury of the storm, rushing to the open grave.

  “Chess, what are you doing?” Riley called to him.

  “We have to bury Allan before the tree comes down.”

  Riley saw, the final moments of the tree’s collapse.

  “NO, CHESS, NO!”

  Like canon’s in the sky, thunder boomed overhead, preventing Chess from hearing. It wouldn’t have mattered, not in his current frame of mind.

  Chess ran to the body of Allan as pelting rain fell. Tears streamed from his eyes as he picked up the wet, blanket-covered form.

  “Sorry, Allan, I’m so sorry…”

  “CHESS, LOOK OUT!” Chuck yelled. Despite his injuries, he now joined Riley outside along with half a dozen of the others.

  Chess heard the warning, if not what was said, and turned to see the tree tumble towards him.

  A streak of lightning, a heavy clap of thunder, and a terrible scream followed. The tree landed with a thud on top of Allan’s grave. The last sight was of Chess as he cradled Allan’s body in one hand and shielded his face with the other.

  “C’mon, c'mon, we got to get that tree offa him!” It was Riley who gave the orders. Riley was probably the most disappointed with Chess, but now he led the charge in the rain and lightning to save him.

  Elliot 8

  The thought of military personnel alive and still in control of Mountain View Air Force Base occupied the minds of the helicopter crew.

  “Do you think there’s a possibility of some servicemen still alive at this airbase?” Tom asked.

  “I was on a training exercise once, and we stopped here at Mountain Home. I saw the underground facilities, designed to withstand a nuke—well unless it was a direct hit, of course.”

  Elliot could see, or perhaps feel, the gears turn in Tom’s mind, and Tristan’s excitement was evident by his reply to the former White House staffer. Elliot himself had mixed feelings. Regular military personnel could perhaps be of assistance, but how many would there be? A tough question had plagued Elliot for some time; if they did come across other survivors would they, should they share details of their sanctuary? These possibilities, Elliot believed, outweighed any benefits. But, he’d said before, they “didn’t have time for choices.”

  The chopper moved east, and they used Interstate 84 as a guide. The sight of the burnt-out Sawtooth National Forest to their left and the Morley Nelson National Forest to their right resembled an alien landscape. The lower ground around the highway was like a carpet of black chimney soot. Smo
ke still rose from some high-rise buildings and houses Caldwell and Boise. The smoke wasn’t as thick as it had once been, but it still signaled possible danger.

  Tom nodded his thanks, but his eyes showed his mind occupied with thought.

  “There it is!” Ted called from the cockpit.

  Several miles ahead, on a leveled-out field with few trees, the main runway stretched out in full view. Two smaller runways jutted out from one side and formed up at their ends to make a triangle. On the opposite side, the plane hangars, traffic control tower, and administration buildings could just be made out. Pilots Ted and Richard put the shades back on as a steady, bright glare emanated from roughly the center of the airbase.

  “What do you think that is?” Elliot asked the pilots, who were in a better position to see.

  Richard tilted his head to one side and answered, “Glare. I think it's glare from the sun.”

  The further they traveled south then east, the clearer the skies were. It was even quite warm at this altitude in the chopper, and the odor inside didn’t help matters.

  Tristan leaned forward so the pilots could hear. “Good. Even if no one’s left, I hope there are some clean uniforms and fresh water because I think we could all use a change in what we’re wearing.”

  “No argument from this Marine on that,” Richard added.

  “That’ll be a first!” Tristan slumped back in his seat and chuckled. The two Marine pilots look back at the former Special Forces soldier, then laughed along with him. The Army/Marine rivalry was still alive and well, but thankfully it was good-natured.

  “You guys, you should—” Elliot started to join in the banter when movement on the runway caught his eye. “Holy shit, what’s that?”

  “Fighter. It's a jet fighter,” Richard announced.

  “That answers our questions about the base, wouldn't you say?”

  “In a big way, Tom—in a big way!” Elliot said.

  Everyone stared in shock at the sight of the fighter plane taking off. The only other aircraft they’d seen so far in their journey sat gathering dust on runways.