Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 8

  After relieving himself in the restroom inside the airport terminal, Elliot returned to the chopper where Ted and Richard were busy refueling.

  “Sure smells bad, don’t it?” Ted.

  “It looks bad!” Elliot interjected. “I have to wonder if anything could survive that fire.”

  There was no answer to Elliot’s rhetorical question, and neither Ted nor Richard attempted one. Once everyone finished their excursions to the bathroom, they took to the skies once more.

  The destination was Ontario, Oregon. Flying in a straight line, they had just enough fuel to get there, but would stop before that. Ted decided the town of Vale, twenty minutes or less from Ontario, would be the place to stop. The town was smaller, but with a good-sized airport to fuel up. Vale too was once surrounded by farmland, but quite a deal of desert with little vegetation was also present. The outskirts were as black as Condon, but the town appeared to be untouched by the fire.

  “Once we fuel up, and if the maintenance building over there is clear, we should spend the night.” Richard checked for a response to his idea as he brought the chopper in to land at the Miller Memorial Airpark just south of the town. The airport itself consisted of one asphalt runway and one shorter-length gravel runway. The farms themselves didn’t come close to the edges of town as they did in others. The consensus was this was the most likely reason the town was saved from the fire.

  “If it's warm enough, I’m okay with it,” Tom said, and pulled his woolen cap over his ears. “I doubt it would smell any worse!”

  “What do you say, Elliot?” Ted asked.

  The nearer they grew to the Idaho border; the quieter Elliot had become.

  “Yeah, sure. I could use the rest.”

  His less-than-energetic reply was noticed by everyone, but especially Tom.

  Richard brought the chopper to an even rest at the top of the runway. It was decided to move the chopper to about fifty yards from the fabricated steel maintenance building where they could keep a better eye on it. After the mandatory five-minute wait, Ted, Richard, and Tristan jumped out. Elliot was about to follow when Tom placed a hand on his arm.

  “Hold on a moment. Are you okay, you seem a bit distant?”

  “Oh…uh…just tired, Tom, just—”

  “Cut the bullshit, Elliot. It’s me you’re talking to, remember? I worked at the White House, where forty-eight hours straight wasn’t unheard of for the president or me. So, I know all about tired. Now, tell me what’s bothering you?”

  “Twin Falls.”

  Tom studied the young man’s expression. Pain hid behind his eyes and the lines. A young man his age shouldn’t look so weary. The brown growth on the lower half of his face and the beanie on top of his head failed to hide the look in his eyes. Tom knew Elliot was a native of Twin Falls and his journey into hell started there, but failed to see Elliot’s concern.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the significance of—”

  “It all started in Twin Falls. Well, it did for Cindy and me. My mother had warned me about the sickness—two, maybe three years before the foamer breakout. No one knew then it would lead to this, Tom. How could they?”

  Tom rubbed his own, darker, coarser facial growth as Elliot’s eyes moistened over in the dim light of the cabin. They’d made it to Vale before the sun had set, but now as heavy clouds formed, darkness wasn’t far away.

  “How did your mother know?”

  “She was a nurse in Twin Falls and Boise for many years. She witnessed hundreds, if not thousands come into the clinic and told me of the deformed children.”

  Tom had learned from Elliot’s father about his mother’s passing. But he’d never heard the story Elliot just told him. As he was about to question Elliot for more details, Tristan stuck his head in the cabin.

  “You two coming? We can’t do this alone, and it’s getting dark.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Elliot and I were just discussing the best way to get into the White House.” He lied, but with a lifelong career in politics it came naturally to Tom—and most importantly, it sounded that way.

  While Richard and Tom finished the refueling, the others checked on the maintenance building. There was a double-tilt door at the front and a personnel door to the side.

  Tristan made small talk along the way. “Why do they always paint these buildings white?”

  “So aircraft can spot them easier, especially in the dark,” Ted answered.

  “Yeah…that makes sense.”

  Ted was a Marine chopper pilot and his father had been an Air Force pilot, so this type of knowledge was natural to him. And Tristan was supposed to be Special Forces. He just shook his head slightly, but made no comment.

  “Okay, let's try the side door.” Elliot said as Ted and Tristan joined the others.

  “Locked.”

  “That's good news.”

  “How do you figure, Tristan?” Ted asked.

  “Foamers wouldn’t bother to lock doors, right? I mean, why would they? And if no one has come outside to see who we are by now, then we can assume it’s empty.”

  “You know the problem with assumptions, I’m sure.”

  “I do, but in this case…”

  “That leaves us with only one obstacle,” Elliot added to the conversation, “popping the lock.”

  “Shoot it with that cannon of yours, Elliot.”

  “That’d do the job for sure, but then we wouldn’t be able to lock the door. I can’t answer for the rest of you, but I’d prefer a locked door.” Ted said.

  Ted started to wonder if the strain was taking a toll on Tristan. His decision-making process was less than that of a check-out operator at Walmart, let alone a crack member of the US Special Forces. Could he be developing the sickness, the malady which affected everyone before they became foamers? He’d heard of it before—mainly through stories and gossip—but didn’t put much stock into it, preferring to believe the stomach flu stories. That was until he received a call to man the chopper which would ferry Richard Holmes and a man named Etheridge out of Washington, DC. No flight plan lodged and machine guns manned. He knew when he took the extra thousand bucks a week from Holmes, it wasn’t in recognition of his excellent service. Apart from Marine Corps aviation, the other thing he and Richard had in common was that both men were single and had no family at all to speak of. He now understood both had been chosen for that very fact alone. With no emotional ties, Holmes knew they would be willing to leave at a moment’s notice. Ted hoped a good night's rest was what they all needed, but he would keep an extra watchful eye on Mr. Tristan Robeson to be safe.

  As if there wasn’t enough to worry about.

  “Which brings us back to my question.”

  No sooner had Elliot spoken when Ted produced a small leather, purse-like object from his black nylon waist-pack.

  “Let me see here.” Ted fingered through the contents and brought out two lock—picking keys. “These should do the trick.”

  Elliot and Tristan kept watch on the treeless horizon while Ted worked on the lock. The sun had dipped below view now, but there was enough light to see out past the edge of the airport field.

  “Bingo!” Ted called victoriously, then pulled the door open with Elliot and Tristan training their weapons on the entrance. The door made a creak that would make old horror movie buffs jump in their seat and revealed a windowless black maintenance building.

  “Jesus, man, that's dark,” Tristan remarked while Elliot pulled his flashlight from the clip on his belt.

  The building was empty. A concrete floor where vehicles would be, and a few uniforms and coveralls hanging on the wall. There were some tools and a few oil drums, but that was about it. The best news was that in the corner they saw a small, prefab office room. With their sleeping bags from the helicopter, they should be all right.

  “Hey, Tom, Richard. Grab the sleeping bags and the spotlight. Let’s go!” Ted now saw himself taking command. As a captain in the Marines, he was used to that role,
but it was entirely unexpected. Elliot had withdrawn somewhat and Tristan… well, Tristan’s behavior had become a concern. A good night’s rest perhaps and all would be different in the morning.

  It might just be, but would it be for better or worse?

  Failure 1

  The catamaran carrying the failed rescuers returned to Sandspit Harbor in a short time. The journey back was restrained. For Chess and Smith, who smelled the decaying dead, and the others who saw the horrified looks on their faces, their only thought was to get back to Sandspit.

  Riley had waited over an hour on the harbor walk-way to greet Chess and his men; he felt more than relieved when he finally saw the catamaran come past the point.

  After what seemed an even longer wait, as the anchor was dropped, Chess and his team then took the dinghy to shore.

  “What happened? Couldn’t you find them?” Riley called out by way of greeting.

  “Dead, Riley. All dead.” Chess tossed him a line to secure the dinghy.

  The wind at this time of day—late afternoon—was like ice. Riley had rugged himself up against the elements with an extra pair of woodland-pattern cammie pants and a thick nylon parka with the hood pulled up over his head. He could see the distressed looks on the faces of the rescue team, particularly Chess. Now was probably not the right time. Later, perhaps later.

  “Let’s get you boys inside for a warm drink.” Riley sounded like his old concerned sergeant self. “I think we might get some snow tonight.”

  “We’re still in the market building, I see.” Chess pointed up the curved concrete path to the two guards who stood out front.

  “Yeah, we thought it best not to move to better lodgings until you returned so we’d have a better idea of how many more to cater for.”

  “We’re it, Riley.”

  “I see that.”

  He needed a hot drink, some relaxation on firm ground, and a good night’s sleep—hell, they all did. Tomorrow would be a better day, Riley was sure of that. Though he knew he should ask for details, and make sure nothing threatened the well-being of those on the island, the look on Chess’ face told him it could wait.

  Sandspit 15

  The next day, breakfast was a feast. A pot of water was on the boil for coffee and another full of baked beans sat next to it on an outdoor campfire prepared earlier on the lawn area at the front of the market. Inside, on small camp ovens, the last of the eggs from Kath’s farm were cooked with strips of spam.

  For survivors of an undead infestation, they did all right.

  Clear skies and sunshine greeted them this day, but it wasn’t exactly warm. The two fires, however, more than compensated. More than a few noticed the original food supplies brought with them had started to run low. There was enough to last a couple of weeks at least, now that there were no extra mouths to feed—though they did manage to pick up the other Terrace soldiers. Another run into Prince Rupert or Port Edward would be necessary, and maybe even further if supplies couldn't found there.

  Riley didn’t want to broach the subject of another trip to the mainland with Chess, not at that moment. But he needed to find out what happened before another excursion to Port Edward could be undertaken. Riley had debriefed soldiers from training to combat situations and knew it was better done sooner than later, while it remained fresh in mind.

  Most of the former Special Forces personnel loaded their plates with their allotted eggs and spam, then went outside for beans and coffee. Many of the others did the same and Riley spotted an opportunity when Kath came out for more coffee.

  “How’s our tall man this morning?” Riley, of course, asked about Chuck’s health.

  “He’s up and talking. The painkillers you brought from the doctor's office helped. It has helped him rest, which aids healing.”

  “I wonder…” Riley began, then placed a hand on his thick, matted beard in contemplation.

  “Yes, go on, Riley.”

  “We know Chess didn’t bring anyone back yesterday as planned. He said they were all dead, but hasn’t elaborated any further, and—”

  “If you have a point to make, please get on with it before this coffee gets cold.” Kath had never been slow in coming forward but became very short now with Chuck laid up in bed.

  “Chess looks up to Chuck—as we all do—but if Chuck’s up to it, I’m sure Chess would be more willing to explain what happened without feeling like anyone is questioning his decisions.”

  “Why would he feel like that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it's because I’m an ex-sergeant—or an ex—cop, whatever—and I've been around men like him all my life. But he and the others have been reluctant to talk about it since they returned. Whatever happened put the fear of God into Chess—and he’s not easily scared.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure—”

  “Chuck just has to ask, ‘how did it go in town?’ You and I will be in the room and can keep an eye on him. But we need to know before we send another man to the mainland. Our survival could depend on it, Kath.”

  Kath looked down at the coffee in her hand, then up at Riley. “All right, when you put it that way… But let me get this to him first, okay?”

  “You got it, ’bout ten minutes?”

  Kath nodded, turned and walked toward the offices where Chuck convalesced.

  “Thanks,” Riley called to her.

  Fifteen minutes later, after Chuck had finished his beans, eggs, and spam, and enjoyed his second coffee, Chess entered the last office room that had become the official sick-bay.

  “Hi there, big guy. I got told you wanted to see me?” Chess then smiled at Kath and Riley, who were also present.

  “Yeah, I did. How are you doing, buddy?” Chuck sat up in bed, his back against makeshift pillows. Even with his bandages, his ruffled hair, and thick beard, he looked a million dollars compared to when last Chess saw him.

  “You had already left on your mission to Port Edward when Kath informed me. It was a courageous decision to take, on everyone's part, but I got told things didn’t go as planned?”

  Chess took his woolen beanie off and his jacket. The offices of the market were well-insulated. He wore his cammie pants and an olive-green Australian Army jumper. It was a prized possession of his, having purchased it for US$200 from an Australian SAS trooper during one of his tours in the Middle East. He knew the Aussie soldier took him to the cleaners over the price, but he just had to have it.

  “You could say that.” Chess grabbed the gray vinyl-covered swivel chair at the foot of the bed. He knew Riley set this up and it was okay. He understood Riley was giving him some room, but as the professional he was, he was also aware of the need to know.

  “Smith, he’s one of the guys from Holmes’ team,” Chess explained, “said they were in a building less than a ten-minute walk from where we docked—great, big dock for the catamaran at Edward, too. We took precautions before we moved out and were cautious. Even so, it didn’t take us long. Smith and I went to up to the top floor where…ahh…” Chess took a deep breath and pursed his lips hard as the memories and that smell came back.

  Chuck nodded thoughtfully, then asked. “What happened next?”

  “We called out and when there was no reaction from anyone inside, I positioned myself at the ready with my M4 while Smith pulled the door open. But the smell… The damn smell… I doubled over and dry-retched instantly. Chuck, I…” Chess looked Chuck square in the eye, as only a man telling the truth would, “I’ve cleared bombed buildings with lots of bodies, some that had been there for days. But I’ve never smelled anything like that. Never.”

  Chuck kept an eye on Chess while he took a mouthful of his coffee. Kath and Riley exchanged uncomfortable looks.

  Chess then added, “Those people had been there for just a few days, but the smell was like a hundred dead cows left in the hot Arizona sun for a week.”

  “As we’ve always assumed—and supported by what little research Bob has informed us of—the foamers feed on the livin
g,” Chuck explained methodically. “However, the odor you describe could only come from a helluva lot of bodies or body parts. Foamers, from what we've seen, wouldn’t have left anything but scraps.”

  “What else besides foamers could it be?” As soon as Chess asked the question, he saw the faces of all three ashen over. Looks of concern or dread? He had no way of knowing.

  Riley provided the answer. “Them mutant things, that's what it could be. Pygmies or children or whatever the hell they were.”

  “We came across them as near the US-Canadian border,” Chuck elaborated. “Thousands of them. Four feet tall at best, naked save for a pair of boxer shorts, and hostile. No fear of death, they just wanted at you, know what I mean? And they’re active in daylight.”

  Chess remained quiet for a moment as he took this new information in—it was the first time he heard about it. From the looks on the faces of his friends, these mutants created more fear than foamers or the rogue paramilitary groups. If Riley and Chuck were this concerned, then they had to be imposing creatures indeed. As absurd a thought as it was, given the distances involved, Chess hoped these mutant things couldn’t swim.

  Riley now understood the look of fear on the faces of Chess and his team when they returned from Port Edward, and why they weren't in a hurry to discuss it. He couldn't blame him for one moment. Chuck and Riley expanded some more about their encounter with the mutants in boxer shorts, but the more they talked, the more uncomfortable they appeared. As long as they were in Sandspit, they were safe from the mutants. But another trip to the mainland for supplies would be necessary, and precautions would now have to be taken against this embodiment of pure evil.