Toward the Brink (Book 3) (12 page)

“
T
here are
enough rooms here for husbands and wives to spend some time together.” The Tall Man addressed the group of survivors in the TV lounge. With everyone gathered in one room, it hit home how many of them there now were. “The rest, and I suggest this for warmth, can stay here in this room. We have extra sleeping bags, and there are blankets here.”

There was a murmur among the group as they talked of how they’d enjoy a good sleep.

“We don’t expect any trouble at all, so you can rest easy,” Elliot added.

Margaret Grigsby came forward to thank him. “That would be so good, Elliot.”

It wasn’t the sleep she was grateful for, but a chance to spend a worry-free night.

E
lliot was alone
. He didn’t understand how or why, he just was. He wandered the deck of a ferry—at least, that’s what he assumed it to be. He could see the great land mass behind him—Canada—and ahead, the outline of an island. No one steered the boat, and he heard no engine, or even waves, but it powered its way in the direction of what he assumed was Graham Island—their destination. Only there was no “they.”

Where the fuck is everyone?

Dark skies hung low overhead, so low, in fact, Elliot thought he could touch them. The sea was remarkably calm, and no mist clung to the water as he would expect with low cloud cover. As the boat moved through this part of the northern Pacific Ocean, he noticed the island ahead wasn’t getting any closer, and the land behind wasn’t any further away. It was as if the boat were treading water.

Red. Tiny spots of red began to fall from the dark clouds. Snow—red snow, blood-red snow. He ran to the bow of the ship for a better look, then ran back. He looked for the Tall Man, for Cindy, for anyone …

Where the fuck is everyone?

Drenched in blood-red snow, he heard splashing in the water around the boat.

“Oh, shit!” he screamed. “Foamers!” Thousands and thousands of foamers were in the water, swimming toward the boat. Covered in red, he pulled his Redhawk from its holster. He had no choice—no choice at all.

He stuck a hand inside his jacket for the single .44 Magnum round inside his shirt breast pocket. Yes, it was there, just as the Tall Man had told him. “Keep one round aside, one round aside.”

Now that he was surrounded by foamers—who weren’t supposed to be able to swim, Tom Transky had said that—he knew why he was to keep one aside.

For himself.

From both sides of the boat, the foamers climbed aboard. Decayed beyond recognition, the monstrosities lurched after Elliot. He fired and kept firing; head shots, clean head shots. The portable cannon that was the Ruger Super Redhawk disintegrated the skulls of foamers, one after the other. He would keep shooting until he got to the one last bullet.

The bullet with his name on it.

He didn’t notice that he’d disposed of twelve, fifteen, or maybe it was twenty foamers and hadn’t stopped to reload once. His Redhawk was no longer a six-shooter but an endless dispenser of foamer death. As foamers neared, Elliot backed away to the rear of the boat. More foamers climbed aboard from the sides and bow. He looked behind him, and to his surprise, he saw there were no foamers in the waters behind him. In the distance he could see land—Graham Island. On the beach, people called to him.

“Jump, Elliot, you can make it, jump!”

He stopped shooting and brought up his binoculars—the ones he hadn’t had a moment ago—and looked toward the people on the beach.

“Chuck, is that you? Cindy, Aunt Kath … what … How did you all get there?”

They didn’t answer him, but his voice echoed as if it bounced off the wall of a cave.

“The tower, Elliot, the tower.” A voice called to him from above. It was Sam, the guy who spoke like Humphrey Bogart; he stood on top of the bridge and pointed to the stern.

“Tower? What are you talking about, Sam? There’s no tower out here.” Elliot turned back and shot three or four foamers. Like the boat that went nowhere, the foamers seemed unable to cross the final few yards to attack Elliot.

“The tower is your choice, Elliot, and you
do
have a choice. Stand and die or make the decision to lead and always,
always
keep your eye on the tower.”

Elliot looked beyond the stern. The way to the island was clear. “I can swim that,” he said. “Anyway, what do you mean?” Sam was no longer there. Had he ever been?

“Come on, Elliot, come on. You don’t want to miss the birth of your son, do you?” Cindy yelled.

Son? I have a son on the way?

He studied the distance. He was sure he could make it, and he was readying himself for a leap from the deck when a bloodied, decayed hand slapped onto his shoulder. Elliot jumped back, startled. He staggered and fell over. “Back, you fuckers, get back!” he screamed as he raised his Redhawk.

His ammo had run out.

“Back, get back, get
fuckin
’ back!” he yelled as he pulled the trigger rapidly, to no avail. The mass of foamers swarmed over him—flies to a carcass—the island drifted farther away, and the figures on the beach waved goodbye as darkness enveloped him. He could faintly hear Cindy.

“Our son, Elliot, our son …” He heard Cindy’s faint, lamenting cry.

“Elliot, Elliot!” He heard Cindy call his name again, only louder, more firmly. The sensation of rocking back and forth accompanied her call. “Elliot, wake up, you’re having a nightmare.”

Finally, he realized it was Cindy who was calling to him. The two had bedded down here for the night, and Elliot had looked forward to a good night’s sleep. Cindy pushed the top of his shoulders in an effort to rouse him. He opened his blurry eyes in the dim early light and stared at the wall of the unfamiliar room. The rocking motion from Cindy’s shoves brought back the memories of the boat—and the foamers. He sat straight up and stared through Cindy as if she weren’t there.

“Foamers, fucking foamers! They were all around me, I … I … I tried to shoot, but my gun wouldn’t fire, and—”

“It’s all
right,
honey, it’s all right.” Cindy put her arms around him and drew him closer. “It was just a nightmare, a bad nightmare. Not that any are good ones, I guess.”

He told her of being aboard the boat alone and that he could see her and the others on the shore. He didn’t mention the baby she’d told him about in his nightmare; it wasn’t the right time to broach such a subject.

“Well, it’s over now, Elliot, don’t you think any more of it.”

They heard three light taps at their door. “You two kids decent?”

Elliot and Cindy shared a look. Was he kidding? With the snow outside and no heater inside, both of them had slept with most of their clothes on.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Come on in, Chuck.”

“The sun is just about to rise. Time we got a move on.” The Tall Man popped his head inside the door. He was eager to get going.

“Okay, we’ll be right out, Chuck.”

Elliot was still unnerved by his nightmare, but then he remembered Sam, who had told him to “keep your eye on the tower, keep your eye on the tower.”

“Yeah, that’s what I have to do.” He wasn’t sure of the symbolism in the nightmare, but he believed that would come to him. “Just keep my eyes peeled.”

“What’s that about a tower?”

“Oh, ah … no. I said it will be nice if we can get power, y’know, where we’re headed.”

Elliot didn’t know if Cindy believed him. She said nothing. They put on their jackets, grabbed their belongings, and went out to join the Tall Man for the last trek of their journey to find refuge.

Would they find what they were looking for, or could they at least make it into a home and survive the winter? There were still many questions, and none would be answered for some time.

Elliot hoped he and Cindy would have a good deal of that together: time.

T
he sun hadn’t
as yet stuck its nose up for a look at the world, but its effects in the eastern sky were visible.

“Looks like the storm passed over,” the Tall Man said to Elliot when he joined the Tall Man and some of the others by the vehicles.

There was perhaps six inches of snow on the ground. Too much for driving on a six-lane freeway in heavy traffic, but traveling the half a mile or so down to the water’s edge in a small town like Prince Rupert wasn’t a concern. And there was no traffic to be wary of; not any more.

“We got through the night without a murmur.” Tom Transky was delighted; his theory showed promise. Since he had joined the Twin Fall Survival Group, as Elliot had referred to it on more than one occasion, Tom realized his escape plan was for the best, though he was naive and hasty in the preparation. He hadn’t thought about water, food, medical or power supplies at the time—hell, it was more than enough to get out alive. Elliot and his group, particularly Mr. Black, Mulhaven, and Elliot’s aunt, were blessed with this forethought and understood how to plan for a future. Tom, the president, and their families would owe their existence to these people from Idaho and British Columbia, of that he was certain.

“Yes, it seems you were right once again, Tom,” Bob Charles teased. Throughout his presidency, he had relied on Tom Transky being right. Always.

Breakfast consisted of survival snack bars, and they had known there wouldn’t be any time to wait for people to get dressed, so everyone had slept clothed.

“Okay, let’s get your gear packed away so we can move out!” Mulhaven sounded like a drill instructor at boot camp.

No one mentioned the tension in the air. It had started to become common, like an old friend or a trusted dog. Most of the senior-ranked members of the group—which now included Bob, Tom, Chess, Tristan, and the pilots as well as the Tall Man and Mulhaven—were well aware that a journey, a plan, a proposition, or an action could be thwarted in its last stage. Defeated at the eleventh hour, fallen at the last hurdle.

Chess and the soldiers who came in on the big transport plane helped stow the gear into the bus while the rest climbed on. The sun was out now, and there was no wind, rain, or snow. How long this opportunity would last, no one knew, but they weren’t about to let this one slip away.

They had to leave, and now!

R
ichard Holmes sat half frozen
in his car, out of sight from the group packing bags into the bus below. He had managed to find a few cans of baked beans and bags of jerky in a store before he left Prince George; it was far from what he was used to, but it would suffice. The car he sat in had stopped running a few hours ago, and with it, the heater.

His upper body, including his head, was fine. The fleece-lined jacket and hood did the job. His legs weren’t as warm, but it was his feet that suffered most. The thick socks he had were mostly nylon and provided zero warmth, and the boots were constructed of vinyl, which also didn’t help. He would need to get out of the car and move around to get the circulation flowing if he were to prevent frostbite.

What he needed to do and what he could do were two different things, however. If he stepped out of the car, he would be seen and possibly recognized, and it would be all over. He would have to wait until the group left the B&B before he could get out. He would have to walk to the jetty or wherever boats were kept—if indeed there were any left—but it wasn’t far, and he needed the exercise.

“
K
ath
, do you know where the boats are moored?”

“I’ve never been here, Chuck, but my guess would be somewhere down along the water.”

“You’re getting a bit too cocky.” The Tall Man shook a finger at her playfully.

“I am not!” she shot back, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “And I didn’t get
any
cocky last night!” She burst out in a giggle. Injecting humor into an otherwise dire situation was her way of coping.

The Tall Man went white with shock. Quickly he looked around at the others exiting from the bus or the motor home, and he hoped no one else had heard.

“Shh, are you
crazy
?”

“Oh, lighten up,
Chuck
. It’s not the end of the world, you know, I’m only… ”

Kath pulled herself up abruptly as she realized it actually was the end of the world, at least, as they once knew it.

“I’m sorry.” She began to cry.

“It’s all right, it’s all right. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” The Tall Man took her into his arms. “Let’s not think too heavily on it, we’ve got a long way to go.”

She looked up and nodded while he wiped the tears away with a gloved finger.

“Why don’t you go in the motor home and make a hot coffee or tea and relax some?

“Okay, I think I will,” she said, then kissed him.

“All right, you two lovebirds, why—” Mulhaven started to say, then clutched at his throat. He gasped for air as he collapsed.

“Riley, Riley… ” the others cried as he slumped to the snow.

R
ichard Holmes jumped forward
in his car. He saw the frantic commotion in front of the Greyhound bus below him but was unable to ascertain the cause. He could see the man he knew as Charles Black, the soldiers who had accompanied him on the Globemaster, and of course, the former president along with that meddling bastard Tom Transky. He was at a loss as to what the flurry of activity was about; could there have been a disagreement that led to a fight? Was there an accidental discharge of a weapon—though he’d heard no shot fired—or could it be one of the party had succumbed to the effects of the potato growth hormone and had to be dealt with? The possibilities went through Holmes’s mind, but it was the last thought that gave him some angst.

“That would mean the plague is still active.” He felt a rise of adrenaline in his chest. The thought that, after all this time, you could still turn into a foamer unsettled him. “What would be the point of it all?”

W
hile Holmes pondered
his own survival, Mulhaven woke a short time later unaware of how long he’d been unconscious. He stared, blurry-eyed, at the unfamiliar surroundings. He lay on a small bed of some description and felt a rhythmic up-down motion from below, and then, as his senses slowly improved, he smelled salt water.

Salt water, a rocking motion? I’m at sea on a boat
.

He tried to turn to his side for a better view, but a pile of blankets and parkas prevented him.

“Riley! Hey, Riley, you’re awake,” Elliot called from behind him. “You gave us all quite a scare.”

“Yeah … well, I’m, err, not too sure what’s happened.” Mulhaven leaned on his elbows to look at Elliot.

“Here ya go.” Elliot passed a bottle of water over when he saw Mulhaven lick his lips several times.

Mulhaven drank steadily—not fast, but steadily. His mouth was as devoid of moisture as a Baptist Bible group was of humor.

“Ah, thanks. Needed that.” Mulhaven handed the almost empty bottle back. “So, where are we?”

“We’re on our way to Graham Island,” Elliot announced like a proud tour guide. “After you passed out, we got you on the bed in the motor home, and Chuck didn’t want to waste any time. The weather was good, and he wanted to take advantage of that.”

“And this boat?”

“Catamaran,” Elliot pointed out. “This cat runs daily between the islands, including Graham, and …” He paused as he thought of his last words. “Well, it used to run daily, put it that way. Anyway, it’s a big fucker, Riley. We could’ve fit twice as many and still had room, and get this—it was the only boat of any kind that was serviceable. The others had been partially or completely sunk, the engines damaged, and a there were a lot of vacant mooring spots. Chuck was cautious, but he’s like that anyway. He thought it might mean the locals, or others, had escaped and gone to the islands, too. As he said, we’d end up fighting each other for whatever resources and shelter there is.”

Mulhaven raised his head to look out the porthole of the cabin. The sea looked calm, as calm as it probably got out here, and it made perfect sense to take the opportunity to reach the island now rather than later. With only the one vessel available, some would say it was good fortune and others would say the Gods or spirits had watched over them. Mulhaven was too practical to consider either, but he was glad for the boat nonetheless.

“Anyway, that’s enough about where
we
are. The question is, how are
you?
”

“Well, I feel okay, Elliot. Not as spritely as you’d expect, but okay. Who’s driving this truck, anyway?”

“Chess is. Doing a good job, too.” Elliot then leaned in closer. “Do you remember what happened before you passed out?”

Mulhaven rubbed the growth on his face, which he was grateful to have—along with the wool beanie, it kept him warm—and thought for a few seconds before answering.

“Mm, it was when I saw Chuck and Kath kiss—I remember
that!
I was about to tell them to get a move on, when…”

Elliot didn’t push. He understood Mulhaven was dazed and his memory wasn’t so sharp.

“Argh, before we left Prince George, I think it was, a feeling came over me that one of us wouldn’t survive the journey, and when I saw Chuck and Kath, it came back but stronger, real strong. I couldn’t breathe, my throat was constricted, I … I don’t know.”

“It’s okay, Riley, we’re all here now.”

“The journey is far from over, Elliot, but don’t ask me what it all means, because I don’t know. And you know I’m not the type to believe in premonitions and such.”

Elliot left the sick bay cabin on the second deck, behind the bridge. He’d told Mulhaven to rest up for the remainder of the day and not to worry too much. He had also promised the former Twin Falls cop he wouldn’t say anything. That was easy to do. Who would he inform, Chuck and Kath? What would he say to them? Riley thinks one of you might die?

That wouldn’t be a good idea, but Elliot vowed to keep an eye on both, especially his aunt. It was close to impossible for Elliot to think that the Tall Man would be the one in danger.

“I’d better keep a close eye on Aunt Kath,” he swore to himself before he joined the others. He had maintained a positive outlook in front of Mulhaven, but could not hide his concern from himself.

“Will we ever find safety?”

“What’s, that Elliot?”

Kath came from behind him the moment he entered the bridge, where Chuck and Chess piloted the Catamaran.

“Oh, I, err, just said that I’m grateful we found a safe boat.” He hoped his aunt hadn’t heard him too clearly.

“Yes it is, and we should be there soon. Now, how’s Riley?”

L
ess than thirty
seconds after the last of the four vehicles pulled away from the B&B, Holmes got out of his car and followed on foot. He wouldn’t have far to travel and needed the warmth the exercise would provide. The snow didn’t crunch under his vinyl-soled boots; it made more of a soft
moosh
sound. His feet were so cold he hardly felt any sensation as he walked on a firm surface. He would need to tread carefully to avoid a fall; a sprained ankle now would spell doom, and there would be no paramedics to come to his aid. Even if foamers were no longer present (and this appeared to be the case), he’d die from exposure on the road where he fell. Holmes had no intention of going through all he’d endured so far just to perish without so much as a peep. No, he would continue to kick and scream for some time yet.

It took Holmes a little over half an hour to catch up to where the four vehicles had been left. The vehicles had been parked on the road by a sign next to the Prince Rupert Ferry Dock. The sign simply said, “Island Ferry and Catamaran.” Holmes put two and two together and figured the group had left on the ferry before he arrived. That he could put two and two together without using his fingers, pencil and paper, or a calculator was one of the reasons he did so well in government; he might even have been presidential material, some said.

“Well, what do you plan to do now, Holmes old boy?” he asked himself in a very Etheridge-type phrase, a fact he didn’t notice.

There was no boat of any description at the dock, but Holmes noticed a gangway had been tossed to one side. The freshly churned-up sand nearby meant it had seen recent use. Holmes couldn’t see anything out to sea. All he could see from his position was Digby Island, less than half a mile straight across from him. The island blocked any view of the open waters to Graham Island.

“Damn!” He realized there weren’t any other seaworthy vessels about.

There was a general store half a block back from the dock. He needed a map of the local area; with a map he could plan, and with a plan …

The general store was in almost as much disarray as the Prince Rupert dock. Shelves were mostly bare, and many of the products it carried were strewn over floors stained with blood. Holmes hypothesized that the population of this seaside hamlet had—on learning of the outbreak of undead—panicked and engaged in a deadly battle long before the first foamer appeared. That would account for the ravaged look of the buildings, the sunken boats, and the damaged cars in the street—what few of them there were. Holmes knew there had to be more vehicles and boats around, but where? Had the survivors of this battle all fled, and if so, to where? It was obvious the missing watercraft meant travel had been undertaken across the sea.

Maybe my friends from Prince George are in for a surprise
.

Holmes saw a stand with tourist brochures buckled on the floor near the checkout counter. He rummaged around on the floor and found a map of the area.

It didn’t help him.

The map certainly showed where the docks, jetties, and boat ramps were, but all were too far for him on foot, and he was certain none of the cars outside would start. While Holmes reflected on the circumstances he faced, he noticed several undamaged packets of cookies on the shelf in one of the aisles, and he was half starved. As he chomped down on a cookie, he tried to think of how he could get out of this. He’d had no problem with espionage, computer hacking, blackmail, and employing mercenaries to run terror operations in the name of one group or another, so the US could then retaliate against them. But survival, finding shelter, and fending for himself were as distant to him as the right to self-determination of a sovereign country.