Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Read online

Chuck wondered if that's how leaders or kings were made back in prehistoric days. Made sense—whoever was in the best position to look after the interests of the tribe or the clan would be made chief, not who was the most popular.

  “When will you go?” Kath asked.

  “On a day when the sea is calm.”

  “Okay, who are you gonna take?”

  “Sam to pilot the boat, for sure. Four guys from either Special Forces or Secret Service, and maybe two of the guys from Terrace.”

  Riley looked across at Kath, who stared back. “Do you think that's a wise move? I mean—”

  “They followed orders from a man who believed to be in the right—at the time. They had no emotional involvement invested in the firefight, so I’m more than happy to take them along—fully armed.”

  “Okay…” Riley conceded.

  “Well, onto a different subject.” Kath said. “The final connections to the generator should be done today, namely the hot water service. This will give us hot showers, if we’re careful with the time, and we can theoretically wash clothes and dishes.”

  “Why do you say theoretically, Kath?”

  “Chess told me it would be safer if we continued to wash clothes and dishes by hand. If we overload the system and the pump, or the generator burns out, we won’t be calling a serviceman—not out here.”

  “Everything’s coming along. All we need now is to get the hothouse up and running, then make sure it doesn’t freeze over. Get some canned goods to hold us over until the first crops, and we should be good, right?”

  Silence greeted Chuck’s enthusiastic proclamation before Kath finally responded. “And get Elliot back in one piece.”

  Chuck nodded slowly. He reached a hand along the length of the table and took hold of hers.

  It wasn’t the same without Elliot. As the two held hands, Kath looked across the room to the front window, where Cindy sat alone at a table. Chuck followed her gaze, he knew of Kath’s concern over Cindy’s recent withdrawal—a concern he shared. She had a lot on her mind for her age and it had become worse since Allan’s passing.

  “I’ll check on the weapons and ammo, some rations and make sure the catamaran is fueled. I’ll have it all ready before you go, okay. And one more thing,” Riley stood and pointed a finger at the Tall Man.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t call me Kojak ever again.”

  Chuck was more than taken aback by Riley’s reprimand.

  “I don’t look a bit like him, the complexion is all wrong. I think I got more of an Isaac Hayes thing going on, myself.” Riley made a tough-guy face by pursing his lips and creasing his right eyebrow down.

  It took a moment before Chuck picked up on his buddy’s wisecrack. Finally, he burst into laughter.

  Kath put her coffee down and joined in. The laughter was contagious and acted as a cleansing release from the tragic events.

  She cast an eye over at Cindy still alone and completely oblivious to their expressions of happiness.

  Chuck saw Kath look over toward Cindy again, who was totally oblivious to the merriment on display. She wanted to talk with Cindy he could see that, but pleased him no end to see her and Riley laughing again.

  Against All Odds 2

  Almost back where it had all started, Elliot sat, unaware of his surroundings. The room he was in may have been as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard or decorated with the finery of an extravagant millionaire. He had no idea. Smell was his only guide, and the strongest scent was Jerry’s body odor. Sweat, clothes that hadn’t been washed for days, grease, and a faint hint of dirt. Elliot assumed he smelled just as bad before the shower and change of clothes at the base.

  “Here, Elliot, I think you should eat something.”

  Eliot heard a plate or bowl and what sounded like silverware placed on the table in front of him.

  “Yeah, thanks, I am kind of hungry.”

  “Eat up, and then we’ll see about removing those bandages, eh?”

  “That would be good. What have we got here anyway?”

  “Baked beans my friend, cold. I’m short on firewood at the moment.”

  Elliot reached forward tentatively until he found the bowl, then the fork next to it. He pulled the chair in closer until his knees touched the edge of the table.

  “Hot or cold it, doesn't matter. But where did you manage to get hold of the beans?”

  “I scavenge. Did likewise in Boise before it became too dangerous. That's what I was doing when the flash occurred. Luckily, I was inside at the time, but it was so intense, I knew what it was. Then I heard the roar, and not long after, the sound of your chopper in its death throes.”

  Elliot listened to Jerry’s stories of scavenging for food and other supplies while he ate his beans. It was a full-time occupation now. How ironic, Gerry told him, that mankind’s so—called technological advances had reduced the survivors of the world right back to where they began—back to hunter-gatherers. When Elliot brought up a hand to wipe his chin, he noticed a stubble of at least a few days.

  I had a shave at the base after my shower, and I don’t grow a beard that fast.

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Let me see…” Jerry paused for a moment. “This would be the fifth day since I found you.”

  “Five days?” Elliot slumped back in the chair, and rubbed a hand over his mouth.

  “It’s a shock, I know. But after your last reaction to bad news, I planned to ease into it, I hope you understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. I understand.” Elliot pushed the bowl back across the table. “Maybe I’ll eat the rest later,”

  “Sure thing. At least you don’t have to worry about them getting cold.” Jerry picked up the bowl and gave a slight chuckle.

  “Anyway, you said we could take the bandages off?”

  “Yes, I did, even if only to change them. But if your eyes don’t hurt and you can see okay, then we’ll leave them off. I’d recommend dark sunglasses for a while, though. Let me get some scissors and my kit.”

  Elliot ran his hand over his upper legs, arms, and chest as he waited. He had on long, thick pants, but the lack of thigh pockets indicated they were jeans not military pants. The shirt was also quite thick—felt like flannel. Underneath, he had a long-sleeved undershirt, which was warm, and most importantly, comfortable.

  “Okay Elliot, let’s see what we can do here.” Jerry cut the bandage first, then the surgical tape holding the wads of cotton over his eyes. “Keep your eyes closed while I take these away.”

  Elliot felt the pressure ease from around his forehead and cool air on his eyelids.

  “Okay, open them slowly.”

  Elliot opened his eyes as instructed. He could make out the shape of a man in front of him but no detail and beyond was discolored fuzz.

  “Blurry, very blurry.”

  “That's to be expected. Give it time.”

  Elliot felt the touch of a damp cloth as it was dabbed around the edges of his eyes. The vision in his right eye improved, but his left was like looking through frosted glass. His sight was good enough to notice the pair of blue denims and dark flannel shirt he wore, and a few minutes of acclimatization he saw Jerry for the first time. A heavy-set man of above average height in his late fifties, perhaps, with gray hair slicked back behind his ears, bushy eyebrows, and a thick handlebar mustache.

  “Hi, Jerry, pleased to meet you.” Elliot stuck out his right hand.

  “Nice to meet you too, Elliot!” Jerry heartily shook the offered hand. “Now tell me what you see.”

  “I can see you, and the door at the end of the room.” Elliot turned around. “I see the door over to the side. The room is small and has no windows—we’re in a basement, right?” Elliot’s sight cleared up fast—in his right eye.

  “Very astute. But you didn’t notice anything from the left side?”

  “Ah, no. It’s still blurry—like out of focus,”

  “Hmm.” Jerry rummaged through his kit,
contained inside a black, canvas sports bag. “Let's have a look.” Jerry held a pen light near Elliot’s left eye.

  “What can you see?”

  “Your eye is very cloudy. Almost like a cataract, if you know what that’s like?”

  “Yes, I do. But what does that mean?”

  “Well,” Jerry started but quickly checked the patient's right eye, “the right looks good—splendid, in fact—but we’re going to have to protect the left from any contact with the sun or bright light. Direct or indirect, you got me?”

  “Sure, but how do—”

  “A patch. You’ll have to wear a patch. Change the dressing underneath every second day and monitor your progress. That's all we can do, I’m afraid. There are no clinics to take you to.”

  Elliot backed up a little so he could see Jerry better. He cupped his left hand over his left eye. The vision was much clearer without the blur on one side. But a patch?

  “You mean like a pirate or something?”

  “I was thinking maybe a little more in the modern age, Elliot. With your hair the length it is and the stubble on your face, add a patch and you’d resemble a young Snake Plissken.”

  “Who the fuck’s Snake Plissken?”

  “Don’t tell me you never saw Escape From New York? Kurt Russell. Manhattan Island turned into a high-security prison. Doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “Err, no, but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Don’t worry. Snake was one cool-looking dude you didn’t want to mess with. That's all you need to know. So, let’s just put some clean bandages back on and I’ll have that patch for you tomorrow. Finish up your beans, we need to get some strength back into you--you’re gonna need it!”

  Against All Odds 3

  Elliot was still in the dark as to the identity of Snake Plissken was or why he escaped from New York—as far as Elliot was concerned, what sane person would want to go there in the first place? It was funny, in an ironic way. When in high school, he and some of his friends, which included Roger and Allan, used to make jokes that New York City was just full of zombies—now the entire world was. He felt comfortable around Jerry—anyone that would take him in and care for him couldn’t present too much of a danger. If he hadn’t turned into a foamer by now, he probably wasn’t about to. It seemed Jerry had been a doctor with a thriving business in Boise when the foamer outbreak occurred. He was also a very active member of a local prepper group, but unlike his fellow members, he alone survived. As a doctor, who took an interest in his health, he knew only too well the dangers of eating fast food and had avoided them all his adult life. Long before untested growth hormones were used to produce bigger French fries.

  “Here we go!” Jerry came into the basement with a roughly cut black leather eye patch in hand. “This will do the job.”

  Elliot sat motionless while Jerry, first removed the bandage, then placed a cotton pad over his left eye before securing the patch.

  “Damn, Snake Plissken as I live and breathe!”

  “I can see I’m going to have to watch this damn movie and find out who this Snake guy is, or I’ll go nuts.”

  “It may be a long time before we’re able to watch films again.”

  Elliot nodded as he looked himself over in the oval hand mirror.

  “Yeah,” he said aloud, “I don’t look half-bad!”

  The two laughed while Jerry adjusted the knot at the back. The important thing was he could see, and see well, but that his left eye was protected from the elements.

  “You made the remark yesterday that I’d need my strength back. Apart from the obvious reasons, was there another?”

  “Yes, you’ll need it for traveling.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back to your friends in Sandspit.”

  Sandspit 23

  Two days after they discussed the need to venture to the mainland for more supplies, the weather gods came to the party, calming the winds and rough seas for the day—or at least the morning. The clouds were like masses of white, cotton wool in front of a blue background. They would darken later, if previous days were anything to go by, but the hope was that the mainland team would return before then.

  “Today’s the day. Let's load up fast and get this done!” Chuck bellowed as he munched down his breakfast of—more—fish.

  To accompany Sam and himself for the trip to the mainland, Chuck selected Rob, Cleavon, Don, and Ric from the Special Forces/Secret Service units, Smithie—as they came to call him—and Brad from the Terrace group. There wasn’t a lot to take with them—what you could carry and that was it. Riley handed Sam the Remington 1100 from Neddy’s gun store in Twin Falls another lifetime ago and a twenty-five-round leather cartridge belt. If Sam had experience with firearms he wasn’t forthcoming about it and no one asked. Riley figured he would leave him with the 1100 and in charge of the first aid kit. Sam’s priority in this mission was to steer the boat anyway. Chuck took his Desert Eagle and an AR-15—he was more comfortable with semi-auto as it suited his motto of “one shot, one kill” best. The others all took M4s with Rob Mitchell also taking a sidearm, a 9mm. Two canteens of water each, some survival bars, and some jerky, and they were ready to go.

  “Hey, one of you guys wanna take this?” Riley called as the team headed towards the Sandspit docks.

  “What you got there, Ri—holy shit!” Chuck’s took a couple of backward steps when he saw the M249 light machine gun in Riley’s hand.

  “We rescued two of these in the aftermath of the attack on our first night here. I salvaged enough ammo from both and a few extra rounds from M4s to get a full magazine. Who wants it?”

  “I’ll take it,” Don volunteered, “the M249 was one of my specialties.”

  “Here you go, then.” Riley handed the weapon to him, then turned to Chuck. “It doesn’t need to be said, but y’all be damn careful. There won’t be any rescue teams coming if you get in the shit, know what I’m saying?”

  “We got ya, Riley. Should things go south, we’ll head back as fast as we can. You have my word on that.”

  Riley reached out and took Chuck’s hand in a firm grip. “A man’s word these days don’t mean squat, but coming from you, I know it’s worth more than all the gold in the world. I’ll see you soon, big guy!”

  Riley then stepped aside and watched the eight men move onto the dinghy—four at a time. It was a formidable group for sure, Riley contemplated. But how much longer could their luck hold out? With the losses were taken into consideration, had it ever?

  Port Edward 5

  Sam steered the catamaran through the channel separating Digby Island and Kaien Island, then docked at the ferry area of Prince Rupert’s port. Smithie and Brad jumped from the deck and secured the cat to the dock.

  “We’ll search Rupert first. If we don’t find anything, we’ll grab a truck and drive down to Port Edward. But let’s get one thing straight—we all stick together, we all go home together. Understood?” Chuck looked each in the eye, one after the other.

  “Damn right we’re all goin’ home, big guy. We got power, good rooms, some good coffee and a great bunch o’ people. I believe we got the other big guy lookin’ over us, too.”

  “Thanks, Sam, and yeah, I know.” Chuck wanted to add if this other “big guy” was looking over us, how come he didn’t prevent Allan’s death or the attack on the fish market or even his own injuries. But Sam meant well, that he knew, and rocking the boat wasn’t in anyone's interests at this or any stage.

  “Where to first then, Mr. Black?” Smithie appreciated the trust shown in Brad and himself and was more than polite toward Chuck.

  “Chuck. Just call me fuckin’ Chuck, okay?”

  “You got it, mister… err, sorry, Chuck!”

  “We came through on the Yellowhead highway. The main stores all appeared to be along this route, and I recall a Walmart back there.” Chuck pointed northeast from their position at the port. “It’s as good a place as any to start, but be on your toes. Bigger stores
and buildings afford more places to hide and have storerooms and basements. That means no windows and no light. Which, as we know, our foamer friends just love.”

  “I don’t want to complain but are we goin’ all that way on foot?” Sam asked.

  “Until we can find a vehicle, yes. Problem?” Chuck said.

  “No sir, not from me.” Sam’s tone however, told otherwise.

  Chuck led the way with Don, armed with the M249, by his side. Directly behind were Ric and Sam. Fanning out on either side were Rob and Cleavon on the right, with Smithie and Brad on the left. Prince Rupert was just as they left it a few weeks before—deserted. Still, the eeriness came from the lack of damage—no telltale attacks by foamers or broken windows from gunfights. There were a few abandoned cars—old jalopies that wouldn’t start, some overturned trash containers, and bodies of a few dead dogs and cats.

  They stretched across the highway as they headed for the center of Prince Rupert when Sam had a light bulb moment. “The truck and the hummer we drove down in, they should still be there, right?”

  “Damn, I’ve been so concerned about getting in and out without a scratch that I hadn’t even thought of them. Good job, Sam, good job!” Chuck said, then wondered if his concentration issues came about because he hadn’t fully recovered.

  Too late to worry about that now, he told himself.

  When Chuck led the journey from Prince George, they spent the night at a bed and breakfast before continuing on foot to the port, and then via the catamaran to Sandspit.

  “Okay, let's pick it up!” The bed and breakfast was a half-mile away, and Chuck felt eager to check on the vehicles.

  The pace was a quick walk—Chuck didn’t want to push himself too hard. The half mile distance was covered in no time and they came upon the bed and breakfast with their former vehicles, right where they left them.

  “There they are!” He pointed to the vehicles. “The townsfolk were pretty trusting, eh?” He then chuckled, trying to keep the situation light, as was his way.

  It was far better than dwelling on the potential misery.