Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Read online

  The battle of Sandspit had taken quite a toll—mentally and physically. Elliot, more than anyone aboard, had yet to fully absorb it all. Then the news of the nuclear missile threat and—as if he needed more—Cindy’s pregnancy. For now, though, they would concern themselves with fuel and provisions. If they could get what they needed here, all the better. If not, they would have enough to continue. The next destination would see them head inland.

  Sandspit 11

  Chess and his team reached the first of the Sandspit stores in good time. A sheet of speckled white lay before them from the snow.

  “That looks like them up ahead!” Chess was excited to see a line of men coming his way. As they got closer, however, he braced up. The first in the line were dressed in Canadian uniforms, same as those that had ambushed him less than an hour ago. But on closer inspection, he saw they were unarmed and Riley’s team was right behind keeping guard. These were the men that surrendered.

  “Hey, Chess. We got the meds!” Mitch called.

  Chess was pleased to hear that, given the weather. “Great, then let's get back before we’re buried by this snow.”

  “Hope we got dry socks and a change of pants down there,” Riley added.

  “We brought most of the supplies from the catamaran earlier, so we should have. How are you doing anyway?”

  “I’m good. But I’d rather be inside and dry.”

  “What did I tell ya?” Chess turned and gave Allan a wink. Allan chuckled.

  “What did you say?” Riley eyed Chess suspiciously.

  Allan came to the rescue, saving Chess from an awkward moment. “He said I should lead the way back, Riley.”

  Riley looked at Chess, then over at Allan. Flakes of snow had settled into his beard and on his beanie. If they stayed out much longer, they’d be wet all through. “Then don’t just stand there. Lead!”

  Within forty minutes, Allan led them all safely back inside the relative warmth of the fish market where dry clothes and a cup of hot noodles awaited. Prescription-only painkillers and some basic surgical instruments had been gathered from the doctor's office and given to Sergeant Morris the moment they arrived. He was now officially the doctor for the new colony of survivors. Perhaps the only colony of humanity left.

  While Morris treated Chuck and Kath kept a watchful eye, Chess, Bob, and Riley worked out a guard roster for the night. No matter what, no one was to leave the protection of the market, regardless of what was heard outside. Lights—if they had to be used—would be kept to several small, pocket flashlights. No one complained of the early night—with worries over Chuck and the attack of the night before, sleep was a visitor welcomed by all.

  Sandspit 12

  Riley was first awake and met Kath early the next morning as the two got their coffee.

  “How’s the patient?” Riley asked. The sun hadn’t quite poked its head above the horizon, but they were early risers.

  “He’s good, thank you. Sergeant Morris told me his wounds hadn’t reopened. It was the activity—most likely the driving—which weakened him. Those painkillers you found did the trick. He slept like a baby.”

  “When this snow melts, we’ll go back to the doctor's office and grab whatever supplies remain. I took what I thought would be needed right away.”

  “You thought right. Thank you, Riley.” Kath put her cup down on the white tiled bench of the office, leaned forward, and gave Riley a peck on the cheek and squeezed his hand.

  “You’re more than welcome. You know that.”

  Riley took his coffee back to the main office room where some of the others had gathered.

  “…Last night was quiet, and with the snowfall, I’ll take a team out and scout around for any fresh footprints,” Riley heard Chess say.

  “I think we should just stay close by today, bring the generator and the windmill equipment ashore.”

  Reluctantly, Chess agreed with Riley, but like a soldier he was eager for action. He wanted to find the rest of the foamers—if there were any.

  Bob came forward. “There is the question of the family members of the Terrace people. I know you’re aware of this situation, Riley.”

  “We can mount a rescue for sure. I don’t want to leave women and children on their own—not in these times. But perhaps tomorrow. I’d rather we all stay close today.” Riley didn’t expand on his reasons, but he saw fear in the eyes of Kath Goodwin this morning. If she showed signs of discomfort, then there would be others feeling that way—and not only the female members of the group.

  “Mitch spoke in detail with the men who surrendered. It appears there are women and a few children there, and we can’t turn our back on them. But they do have enough food and water for a few days, and they're in a relatively safe spot.”

  No one gave a moment's thought about the burden of feeding more people—almost thirty more altogether. They had no idea that burden had been eliminated.

  “There is one more matter we need to discuss,” Chess said in a solemn tone. “The five that surrendered did take part in the ambush. For all we know, any one of these five could be responsible for Terry’s death. If they’d been successful, they wouldn’t be here—unarmed—and asking for us to rescue their families. My team and I would be dead, and that bastard Holmes would be running the show. You realize that, don’t you?” Chess cast his eyes over everyone in the room for a reaction. If anyone recognized what Chess was leading to, then—like master poker players—they kept their cards very close to their chest.

  “Yeah, we all would have bought the farm, that's for certain,” Mitch added.

  “So, what is it you’re saying, Chess?” Bob finally asked.

  “We are the law and order on this island now. If nothing else, the charge would be attempted murder—”

  “Attempted murder?” David broke in. “Surely, as they’re soldiers, it was an act of war?”

  “I see your point, but I don’t recall when Canada declared war on the US—or made any declaration of war, for that matter. To further muddy the waters, they fought under the command of Richard Holmes, an American intelligence operative of high standing. So, they’re closer to mercenaries or terrorists. Take your pick.”

  “And you want to put them on trial?” Bob the calm statesman said.

  “One of the guys I flew in with is dead, another injured, and we all know about Chuck’s condition. So, you’re damn right I want to put them on trial.”

  It wasn’t what anyone expected, but no one could fault Chess’ position. Riley, a Gulf War vet, understood more than most. “Let's get all our necessities in order first before we concern ourselves with a trial. But I’m inclined to agree with you, Chess.”

  And no one wanted to broach the subject of what to do with any of the five men should they be found guilty.

  Not at that moment anyway.

  Elliot 3

  Save for two lonely Cessna’s parked at the end of the approach to the runway, the Astoria airport was deserted. After landing the chopper, all five aboard sat motionless while each concentrated on a sector for any signs of movement. They were on the far east end of the runway, with Youngs Bay estuary on one side. The small town of Warrenton was on their western side.

  “How far are we from Portland?” Elliot’s sector was the direction of the state’s largest city.

  “Nearly one hundred miles,” Richard said.

  The plumes of smoke that rose from the direction of the city brought with it memories of the horrific firestorm that raced throughout the northwest recently. Most likely, embers still smoldered dangerously in the underbrush, like a demon from the netherworld waiting to pounce.

  “I think we’re a bit close,”

  “I’m with Elliot, I don’t like the look of that smoke.”

  “I understand completely, but Portland is a good two hours away by car and—”

  “Richard, you know as well as I do when there’s a fire. Whatever’s in the path of that fire runs the opposite direction.” Elliot turned to the two pil
ots. “And that direction is here.”

  “If it's foamers you’re concerned about Elliot, its daylight. We have nothing to fear.”

  “It’s not just foamers I’m concerned about, there are other things we have to be aware of.”

  “Gentlemen. Let’s not worry about that, we’re wasting valuable time,” Tom interjected.

  They took one more scan of the western horizon—the bay on the eastern side didn’t present as much concern—before they made their decision.

  With no vehicle nearby, there would be no other choice but to move on foot to the hangars—time-consuming.

  Tristan stepped in. “Tom, you and Richard stay here with the chopper while the rest of us check out the hangar. If we find fuel, we’ll signal you so you can fly in. Keep the chopper running.”

  “That will work.” Elliot not only agreed, but saw the reasoning. Should anything go wrong while searching the hangar, the chopper, one pilot, and—more importantly—the one man who might be able to prevent the launch of the nuclear missiles would be able to escape.

  The completion of this mission was of the highest order.

  Elliot, Tristan, and Ted converged on the door of the first hanger ten minutes later. It was a good slog at a double-time pace along the length of the runway and through the lush, green grass between the two main strips.

  “We go in, check for chopper fuel. If there’s none, we move onto the next hangar, right?”

  There were only two hangars. Whether they found fuel or not, this wouldn’t take long. With no tankers or fuel pumps openly visible, they would have to look for stored drums of helicopter fuel. They didn’t know if any would be available inside the hangars, but that was the only place to look.

  The creak of the metal door echoed through the dark—and empty—hangar.

  “Elliot, did you bring a flashlight?” Tristan asked.

  “No, I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Don’t look at me!” Ted said when the two turned around.

  “All right, all right. Let's just wait here until our eyes adjust to the dark,” Tristan expressed in a hushed voice. The light from the open door only cast a few yards inside the hangar. Everywhere else was darker than a moonless night. With the dark came the unknown, and with the unknown…

  Fear.

  “Did you hear that?” Elliot asked the other two.

  “What, I didn’t—”

  “Shh. Listen!” Elliot said impatiently.

  Silence.

  Slowly, a low, stretched-out growl, sounded in the dark of the hangar. Inside, in here—with them.

  “A dog. There’s a dog in here.”

  “That's no fucking—”

  A heavy, metallic clang resonated throughout the hangar moments later and a series of vicious snarls erupted as the predators acquired the scent of their prey. Footsteps echoed through the steel and concrete building as they smacked and slapped against the hard floor of the hangar, getting louder as they got nearer.

  “FUCKING FOAMERS!” Elliot yelled.

  In an instant, Elliot, Tristan, and Ted were out the door and back into sunlight and safety. So they thought.

  Inside the hangar, foamers—dozens of them—were now closer to the open doorway.

  “Let's get back to the chopper. Just in case the fuckers forget they don’t like the sun.” Tristan cocked his AR-15, as did the others.

  “Let's just get back, period.”

  “I’m with you, Elliot,” Ted said.

  All three signaled with a wave to the chopper and when twenty or so yards from the hangar, they slowed to an even step.

  “We should be okay now—”

  A handful of foamers braved the daylight, then more followed. Daylight was no longer an ally to the living.

  “Holy shit. They’re coming outside!” Ted raised his weapon.

  “Never mind that, we don’t have time, just haul ass. Go, go, fucking go!” Elliot grabbed Ted by the arm and tugged.

  “Shit! There’s more of ’em. I didn’t think they came out in the daylight?” Tristan’s main experience with foamers was the night he landed in Prince George on the C-17 and the attack at Sandspit. Both nighttime affairs. Ted had come in with Tristan.

  Elliot had the most experience. He was there from the start and apart from a few that appeared in daylight hours on that first day, all foamer activity had been confined to after the sun had gone down. Elliot held an idea—which he had yet to express—that it had something to do with their red eyes. He believed the sunshine impaired their vision.

  But now these foamers—just like the foamers which attacked at Sandspit—had whites, where previously it had been all red.

  Did this allow them to come out in daylight? Could they now see, or were they different foamers?

  Elliot had no answer to his own questions, which wasn’t unusual—did anyone?

  “Get to the chopper, get to the chopper!” Elliot saw the rotors slowly spinning a thousand yards ahead. They were on the runway proper, their heavy boots thudding with each step as they ran for their lives. Behind, two dozen or more foamers slapped barefoot or shuffled in better-than-even time, unaffected by the sun. Mealtime was in front of them—and they were hungry.

  Ted took a quick look behind before pointing out the grim news. “Elliot, we’re not going to make it.”

  The three were still five hundred yards short of the chopper.

  “On my call, we turn and fire three bursts at these fuckers, okay?” Elliot yelled.

  As they continued, Elliot started the count. “One.” He took a breath. “Two.” Another breath. “Threeee!”

  Elliot, Tristan, and Ted moved as one and came to a halt, turned, dropped to one knee, and opened fire. The first burst took out the closest foamers, just over fifty yards away. The second took most of those behind them, and the third finished them off. There was still another dozen or more foamers behind the fallen, but they were so close to the chopper now, they were sure they would make it.

  “Go, go, go!” Elliot roared and all three bounced to their feet.

  Ahead, Tom stood outside the Bell 206 and, keeping his head low, beckoned with a horizontal sweep of his arm to the three returning men. He wasn’t armed, but he held the door open for a quick entrance.

  “Get in, get in!” he tried to yell above the sound of the chopper.

  “It’s okay, I’ll take it!” Tristan said to Tom and raised his AR-15 and tapped it a couple of times. Tom jumped back in, followed by Elliot and Ted. Tristan looked back at the foamers—now close enough to throw a rock at—and emptied the rest of his clip.

  “I’m in, I’m in. Let's go!” Tristan yelled and slammed the chopper door.

  When the chopper lifted off, there remained only six foamers that made it all the way. One foamer jumped and latched onto the landing skids.

  “Damn it, we got a foamer on the skids!” Richard cried. “Get up here and help me out, Ted.”

  The extra weight on one side made the aircraft unsteady.

  The foamer hung on and even tried to reach up to the door as Richard took the bird out over the water of Youngs Bay. Once in the middle, he started to swing the chopper back and forth until the foamer could no longer hold on.

  “There he goes!” Ted relayed the information as the helicopter lifted with a jerk once the extra weight came off. Richard swung the chopper around and dipped the nose. Everyone onboard got a bird’s eye view as the foamer plunged into the icy water of Youngs Bay.

  “Let's get out of here, shall we?”

  “Was thinking the very same, Richard,” Elliot responded.

  The chopper headed on a parallel course with the Oregon coastline, while inside all the occupants were quiet as they came to terms with their discovery. Two important questions were answered in their brief stop in Astoria.

  One: the foamers were still active.

  Two: daylight no longer hindered their movement.

  The rules of the game changed once more.

  Elliot 4
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  It took only seconds to get the Bell 206 airborne and out of harm’s way, but more than an hour to get the heart rate of the crew anywhere close to normal. The plan to turn inland and head east without the extra fuel would be a risk. They wouldn’t be able to move too far from the coastal communities for the present time.

  “We’ll have to put down soon and find some fuel,” Richard yelled for everyone’s benefit.

  “Okay. You’re the pilot, you pick the best place,” Elliot said.

  They had hoped to fly for a minimum of eight hours today. That would require two stoppages for fuel, but they’d still get close to a thousand miles—almost half the required distance.

  “We’ve got just over a hundred miles of fuel left. If we can land and find some, we can be on our way again.”

  “And if not?” Tom asked.

  “Hey. Here’s a place. Pacific City, has a single runway. Nearest I can find,” Ted, who studied the map, nullified the need to answer Tom’s question.

  “Great, how far?”

  “Should almost be able to see the runway in that direction.” Ted pointed to his left for the pilot to see.

  No control towers were operational, no radar, no radio—nothing. Ted and Richard could read maps and determine compass references. The maps in the helicopter may have been old and worn, but the towns and cities marked within hadn’t got up and left, and that’s all they needed.