Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 18

  “These will make out job easier.” Sam said with a grin.

  “Let’s hope they still start.” Ric added.

  “They should. It’s only been a few weeks, and all three were gassed up pretty good,” Chuck answered in an instant. He way of dealt with negative remarks by replacing them with a positive one. He learned that early on when, way back in one of his other lifetimes.

  Prince Rupert was only a few hours’ from Sandspit, but the temperature appeared a few degrees warmer. It was most-likely due to Digby Island to the east and part of the mainland to the northeast, which protected the coastal town from the harsh winds of the Northern Pacific. Still, the comfort of a vehicle wasn’t to be overlooked, even though all eight men in team were well covered against the elements.

  “I think it’s best if we split up between the Dodge and the Hummer.”

  “I agree with you on that, Chuck, especially with all this hardware we’re carrying.” Don raised his M249 for emphasis.

  “All right then, let’s get these vehicles started and get on our way!”

  Sam took the 3500—and Chuck could see he was a clued-on guy. With Sam driving, it allowed the others to stay prepared.

  “You okay to drive the Hummer, Chuck?” Rob asked.

  “I think so, unless you—”

  “No, no, no. It’s all yours, just checking.”

  The two vehicles started up without hesitation. With four men to assigned each, the drive to from the bed and breakfast to the Walmart store was barely two minutes. Marvelous how quick you could get from A to B when there’s no traffic—the only known benefit of an apocalypse. Apart from the odd few vehicles and several dozen market trolleys, the parking lot was as empty as the town itself. They drove right up to the main doors of the store.

  As expected, the automatic doors didn’t operate and it was decided not to shoot the glass for two reasons. One—it might draw unwanted attention, even though Prince Rupert appeared deserted. And two—they didn’t want to waste the ammunition.

  “Sam, jump in the Hummer and—”

  “Already one step ahead of you, big guy.” Sam gave a wink just like Bogey would have done with Bacall, and dashed back to the Dodge 3500.

  The impact-resistant glass used on department stores could withstand quite a thump, but not the force of a three-and-a-half-ton pickup at thirty-five mph.

  Sam backed the 3500 Ram up to get a good run at the front doors as the others moved to a position a good twenty yards away—flying shards of glass could travel far with such an impact. The Dodge bounce and reared as it smashed through the doors. Shattered pebbles of glass flew, and parts of the internal metal frame came down with a crash as Sam and the Dodge took out the inner door. He applied the brakes on the polished, reddish-brown Walmart floor, but not in time to stop from skidding into the blue wastebasket.

  “Shit and hot damn!” Brad stood up in awe at the carnage of broken glass and steel.

  An unmistakable whistling sound of air as escaping from the tires could be heard once the noise from the fallen framework and broken glass had ceased and Sam turned the off the engine.

  “Don’t look like we’ll be going any place soon in this thing.” Sam opened the door and peeked at the tires. “Looks like at least two so far.”

  “No drama. We can drive back and pick up the motor home—won’t take us but a minute.” Chuck had it all figured it out.

  “Wow! have a look at this place,” Rob exclaimed as he stepped through the remains of the doorway.

  The store looked fully stocked. There were a few trolleys scattered about the aisles, the check-out counters. The trolley bay off to the right of the main entrance, was almost full. A musty sweet-and-sour smell saturated the stuffy air. No wonder after a few weeks of being closed.

  “Whatever that is it stinks!” Cleavon was the first to voice displeasure at the smell.

  “Fruits and vegetables, no doubt. Look,” Ric answered by pointing to the produce section to their left.

  “Well, we won’t be on a fresh vegan diet by the looks!” Chuck said jovially. “Anyway, let’s head over to canned goods and see what we can get. Sam, Brad, grab a trolley each.”

  Chuck and Don led the way while Sam and Brad each commanded trolleys’ that refused to go in a straight line. Rob and Cleavon were on either side of them, while Ric and Smithie brought up the rear. No one wanted to mention that the large hole they made to gain entry would also provide access to the foamers.

  “How we going to play this, Chuck? Surely we’ll need more than two trolleys worth?” Sam asked.

  “Damn right we will, but I don’t think we can afford to have everyone pushing one. We’ll fill these two, take ’em out front, empty them at the entrance, come back. Rinse, repeat.”

  “When we’re done, we’ll go pick up the motorhome, load it up and head back to Sandspit, right?” Cleavon sounded anxious to be gone—like yesterday.

  “If we can find what we want here, then you bet.” Chuck, like everyone else, didn’t want to spend any more time here than was necessary.

  “Oh my…” Don began but fell silent with shock.

  The moment he and Chuck turned into the first aisle of the canned goods section, they realized they’d discovered a gold mine.

  “Looks like we’ll have more than enough.” Chuck grinned from ear to ear as he looked up and down the rows of canned goods. “What we want is canned vegetables and fruits, maybe some Spam, but no spaghetti, ravioli or beefaroni at all. That stuff is worse than foamer spew,” he looked at the others as a mischievous grin formed at the corners of his mouth, “just a different color, that's all!”

  Everyone enjoyed the mirth of the moment before they went to work. Chuck posted himself and Don at an end of the aisle each. While they kept a close eye out, the others gathered the supplies.

  When the trolley was full, Sam called out. “Okay Chuck, that's all the beans and carrots we can carry.”

  They exited the building in the same formation they entered the canned goods section. Naturally, though, their edge had worn off. They had been inside more than ten minutes, loading goods without a sign of trouble.

  They were doing all right.

  “How much will this motor home hold mister… err…” Brad forgot for a moment, “sorry, Chuck?”

  “We could comfortably get ten trolley-loads, and I think that will do us for a month or more. At least we now know this place has the goods. We might be able to come back again.”

  They filled and emptied their metal carts on the path out front several times and as nothing untoward had been detected, a calm sensation overcame the team. Food—and plenty of it was found—foamer attacks were soon relegated to the recess’ of the mind. The sun sat high in the sky, just past the perpendicular and radiated the last of its warmth down on them. They all felt comfortable.

  Except one.

  “Okay, we need to shake a leg. I’d like to get back before dark, and I don’t know ‘bout you, but I’d love good coffee.” Sam tried to encourage the others , but didn’t explain why. He hoped the promise of a coffee would be enough, and that no one wanted to be on the open sea in the dark.

  His reason was far more urgent, however.

  Against All Odds 4

  Elliot had mixed emotions, as he prepared for the long journey back to Sandspit. Excited to head back to the people that he’d begun this journey of survival with, sad at the loss of close friends and trepidation of the journey itself. Jerry appeared to be a straight up guy but with only the two of them the question was; could they handle what might be out there? It was because Jerry was a doctor with some survival skills, that he had lived this long. Elliot knew the doctor’s chances diminished every day he spent on his own; it would only be a matter of time.

  Elliot learned early that safety was to be found in numbers.

  “What was the route you took when you left Twin Falls?” Jerry packed a large blue camping backpack with some of the food items he’d scavenged recently. It wasn’t militar
y spec, but it sure carried a lot and was sturdy.

  “We went straight to Shoshone, stayed on the 93 to Missoula and kept on it into Canada to the 95. Took that right into Prince George—or nearby.”

  “That’s where your aunt lived.”

  “Mm-hmm, that’s right.” Elliot lifted the backpack he’d been given. Smaller and red in color, he was able to lift it despite some residual soreness.

  “Thanks again for the rifle and ammo.”

  “Think nothing of it. I can’t carry two rifles and they’re the best I have. Like your buddy told you, one shot and one kill. With these, you’re guaranteed that for sure.” Jerry referred to the Chinese-made NORINCO version of the Soviet sniper rifle, the Dragunov, in .308 Winchester and the rifle Jerry would take—a new Remington R-25 GII with synthetic camouflage stock, also in the same caliber.

  “Your trip was long, and while I understand your reasons for taking that route, it would be better if we took a more coastal direction. Through Oregon, maybe even take a boat at Portland—”

  Elliot held up an open hand in Jerry’s direction. It was enough.

  “Foamers. I remember now, there were foamers. We were near Portland and… Dammit! There’s something else but I can’t remember… I just can’t—”

  “It’s, okay. We’ll be careful and avoid traveling at night, and if we can get a boat, we’ll be good. I’ve yet to see foamers swim—”

  “THAT’S IT!” Eliot snapped his fingers and spun on his heels with such precision, a Grenadier Guard would have been impressed.

  “Daylight. These fuckin foamers followed us into the daylight. And the ones that attacked the airbase—they attacked in broad daylight.”

  “Well, that does change things a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “And their eyes. No longer red, but all white like hard-boiled eggs stuck in their sockets.”

  “So they’ve adapted. I was afraid of that.”

  “You were? What do you mean, I don’t—”

  “Sit down. Let me tell you what I’ve observed, living in such proximity to the foamers.” Jerry sat in the old kitchen chair opposite and reached inside his nylon waterproof jacket to pull out a packet of Jack Link’s Beef Jerky. He tore off the top and offered Elliot a stick before taking one himself.

  Jerry recounted how he’d witnessed individual foamers roamed about aimlessly until they discovered their brethren and form into large hunting packs. How he watched—from a safe distance—as the foamers ventured out at night, then retire before sunrise. And he saw after some time, how the foamers switched their attacks to stray dogs, cats and other animals when human prey became scarce. Elliot leaned back in his chair and chewed thoughtfully on a second stick of jerky as Jerry added his final thoughts.

  “Traveling during the day and hiding at night won’t provide the protection I thought. Still, it’s not like we have much choice. Should the winds change, we’ll be under threat from the—then we won’t have to worry about foamers.”

  “Then the quicker we get started…”

  Following Elliot’s lead, Jerry hoisted his backpack, grabbed his rifle, and took the stairs to the first floor.

  “This store had been my home since I fled Boise,” Jerry looked around.

  “Can’t stay here forever, Jerry.”

  “It’s not such a bad day for us to travel. We got some cloud cover and a light wind and the occasional shower—all that helps keep the fallout down—so you mightn’t need your sunglasses after all. But,” Jerry took the advice and dealt with more immediate matters, “be careful on your left side. It’s going to take a while to judge things when you have a patch over one eye.”

  “Yeah, like those stairs, for one.” Elliot tapped his companion on the back and made light of his remark with a laugh. If it hadn’t been for the wall on one side, he doubted he’d have made it to the top.

  I bet Snake Plissken never had that problem!

  “Elliot, check your eyesight through the scope. That should give you a good estimation of how you are doing.”

  Elliot raised the Dragunov to his shoulder and brought the rubber eyepiece of the 4x26 scope closer to his eye until he had a clear view. He chose the wheel of an abandoned Pontiac a hundred yards to the top of the street.

  “Yeah, that’s nice and sharp, all right. If I can hit foamers at this distance, we’ll be better than okay! Elliot gave his new friend a thumbs-up, not just because he was excited but to show his appreciation for Jerry’s efforts.

  “Good to hear, now let’s get this show on the road!”

  Jerry continued to be impressed with Elliot’s recovery and just about everything else he did. That he survived so long was a miracle in itself—if you believed in those things—but also a testament to the character of this young man. Then, after all that had happened, to head back in the direction he came from with the notion he and his now-departed friends could prevent a nuclear missile launch… It was beyond any definition of bravery in any book.

  Yes, truly impressed.

  But that endeavor—and his recent brush with death—did pose another question.

  “I’m sure you’ve thought about this, and probably more than once,” Jerry said as they headed out into the main street of Hammett.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve said it all along. For as much desolation as there is, you keep running into other survivors. Almost everywhere you’ve gone, in fact.”

  “And your question?”

  “Well more like an observation, to tell you the truth. If the commander—or whatever he was—at the airbase had a working nuclear device, what’s to say there aren’t more? Armed with an improvised ICBM, maybe? I mean it’s possible, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. There could be missile bases out there with survivors, all at the ready.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know anything of this doomsday system you spoke of. This commander eased your worries about it, but how do we know for sure? It may have been delayed or there might be other issues, but any event could set it off.”

  “If you’re trying to fill me with joy and optimism, you’re not succeeding.”

  “Sorry, but we have to talk about it. Then there’s the question of the nuclear submarines—which we and a few other countries have. All those missiles, just lying at the bottom of the sea?” Jerry kept on walking ahead but pulled up the moment he realized Elliot was no longer alongside.

  He turned awkwardly back to Elliot, grateful he was on level ground. “What is it, is your eye troubling you?”

  Elliot stared back with his one good eye. “Submarines. Fucking submarines!”

  Jerry inched toward Elliot, aware something had ticked over in his young friend’s mind. “I’m not with you.”

  “Submarines—especially the nuclear ones—they can stay underwater for six months or more, can’t they? I’m not exactly sure, but it’s a long time. Anyway, they stock up with supplies to last them for the length of their mission—before they leave.”

  “Aha, I know all about that. I’ve had a few patients in my time who were submariners with the Navy, but I’m not sure of the significance.”

  Elliot eased the pack from his shoulder and sat it on the road.

  “Don’t you see? There’s probably dozens of subs out there that were underwater when this outbreak occurred. I’m sure that by now, they know something transpired, though probably not what. But there are navy personnel out there, possibly alive and well, with the means for large-scale transportation. If we could contact them, we—”

  “How in the hell do we contact a submarine when we can’t even order take-out?”

  “I don’t have the faintest. But I’ll let you know when I do.” Elliot picked up his pack and slung it over his back. His tone suggested he wasn’t pleased with Jerry’s lack of enthusiasm.

  They marched the rest of the distance to the Pontiac he tested his eyesight on. It was the nearest vehicle, and they would need one soon if they didn’t want to walk to Portland. Most of the stores—and t
here weren’t that many—were damaged. The bare minimum damage was smashed windows—others had their doors ripped from their frames and their goods strewn about on the streets outside. Electrical and liquor stores bore the brunt of the damage. When the shit hit the fan and communications had all but ceased, the first thing people did was loot stores for TVs and microwaves and computers, then hit the liquor store for a few cases of booze and cigarettes. Neither Elliot nor Jerry understood why. It didn’t make any sense, but nothing much did anymore.

  Most of America—and the world, for that matter—had long ago put total trust in its government. Not only to tell them the truth, but to keep them safe. Safe from those terrible Nazis, those nasty commies, and terrible diseases. Safe from a system that could provide affordable education and health care, it would instead, plunge its citizens into years of debt while a select few at the top made billions. But this was how the conditioning process and the propaganda machine worked over time to ensure acceptance and even Elliot, at his young age was aware of it. Early in his teenage years, his mother demanded that he read, history, economics and political science rather than become distracted by television and video games. The lie was set in stone early on—where the college student would have to take large loans for their tuition, then spend half a lifetime to paying it back. But the idea behind the charade was, you too could make it big in America. And there were always examples of people making it big, all well-represented in newspapers, TV, and later, the Internet. Self-made millionaires/billionaires. But reports would conveniently leave out such details of inherited money or that they received the backing of several million dollars to kick-start their companies—as long as the backers got a large piece of the pie. Hardly a tale of going from zero to millions overnight. For everyone who made a decent income, the thousands who struggled with less-than-poverty wages were ignored.

  The government did what its puppet masters—the billionaire club—decided and the media in turn, like a good dog, didn’t dare bite the hand that fed it—reporting only what the government wanted.

  So it came as no surprise in the age of computers that when trouble surfaced—real, manufactured, or imaginary—the population allowed the government and its forces to respond however they saw fit, and gave them their full support without knowing any of the finer details—or caring.