Toward the Brink (Book 3)

by McDonough, Craig A.

  “That’s who I used to drive for—back in the states, of course.” David spoke up. He’d been brought along because he had once driven the interstate coaches. Margaret wasn’t too pleased that her husband of nearly thirty years was about to put himself in harm’s way. He was a good man and she knew it, but he was no Charles Black—and she’d told him that before she had hugged and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. Deep down, Margaret—like the other women—understood that this might very well be the case.

  Mulhaven picked out a bus at the rear of the parking lot. The ones closer to the entrance had suffered damage from vandalism or foamer attacks, and a few had even been rolled. Mulhaven didn’t like the looks of these buses with the dark tinted windows; he thought about the foamers and their dislike for daylight. They had to hole up somewhere to wait it out—maybe the inside of a bus.

  Mulhaven had this thought on his mind as Chess stopped next to the Greyhound—too close.

  “Stay in the truck, Dave, just stay in the truck. Back it up a little, Chess.”

  “What? What’s wrong for—”

  “We’re too damn close, and if we have to make a fast turn, we can’t.”

  Chess didn’t like to be told what to do by anyone, but after the slaughter at the airport less than twelve hours ago, he appreciated Mulhaven’s position. He didn’t want to become foamer takeout, either.

  He spun the wheels in a haze of blue smoke. Whether he was trying to impress someone or just didn’t think foamers would use the inside of the Greyhound bus for shelter, it didn’t matter. Mulhaven lifted his head and rolled his eyes, but didn’t say a word—there was no point.

  “All right, Chess, you and your men come with me. David, turn this thing around and keep the engine running, okay?”

  Mulhaven and Chess slipped out the front and the others eased out the back while David scooted behind the wheel.

  “The rear’s yours, Johnny,” Chess said in a low, subdued tone to one of the soldiers who accompanied them. Mulhaven was pleased, and he also noted how the other men scanned their flanks. Good. They knew their job.

  “Keep a watch on those buses over there.” Mulhaven indicated to his left while they crept up to the bus door.

  “How do we open this?” Chess referred to the pneumatic doors of the bus.

  Mulhaven stood erect and relaxed visibly.

  The doors, the damn doors, of course! Foamers can’t—

  A hiss of compressed air interrupted Mulhaven’s thoughts. The Greyhound’s door sprang open and a pair of heavy feet clomped down the metal steps.

  Chess raised his M4, flicked the selector to burst, and eased his finger onto the trigger.

  “Where the hell did you people—”

  “Hold your fire!” Mulhaven forced the muzzle of Chess’s carbine away, but he wasn’t able to prevent him from firing.

  “Holy shit! Are you fuckin’ crazy?” the occupant of the Greyhound called.

  Chess swiveled his head toward Mulhaven. If looks could kill, Mulhaven would have been a dead man.

  “Easy soldier, easy!” Mulhaven yelled. “Foamers don’t talk—he’s alive. Look!”

  Chess glared at Mulhaven a moment before he shifted his gaze to the man in the doorway of the bus. Three bullet holes in the roof above him showed how close he’d come to meeting his maker.

  “Sorry, mister, please forgive my friend here. We had a close call with the foamers last night, and we’re all a bit jumpy,” Mulhaven said. The truth was, Chess was trigger happy. The other men were edgy, but until they were sure of the target, they didn’t fire. Mulhaven thought this was how Chess had gotten to be the one in charge of the group—or at least their mouthpiece. Shoot first and ask questions later was his axiom. The other soldiers followed or avoided argument, lest they catch one of his bullets in the back.

  The man in the Greyhound descended the steps almost casually. Now that he was certain he wasn’t about to be shot, he began to swagger.

  “Keep a watch behind us,” Mulhaven said before he introduced himself. “I’m Mulhaven. Riley Mulhaven. And the man with the itchy finger is Chess.”

  “Call me Sam,” the man said, though it sounded like Sham. “And you need to scratch your finger elsewhere, cowboy. I see you got yourself a vehicle. Good, that’s what we need.” Sam didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He headed straight to the Hummer.

  Mulhaven and Chess were stunned. “Do you think he really speaks that way or has he seen too many Humphrey Bogart movies?” Chess asked.

  Mulhaven raised a smile. He was impressed that Chess knew who Bogart was. “I’m not sure, but he’s a hoot, ain’t he?”

  Sam was in his late forties, average height, with dark, wiry hair. He sported thick five-day growth on his face as well as a healthy midsection. He’d kept himself well fed. For the weather, his clothes were on the thin side, and that was probably why he had remained inside the bus—and to keep away from the foamers, Mulhaven reasoned.

  “Err, Sam, any reason why you commented about having a good vehicle?”

  Sam looked to his left, then to his right, then back at Mulhaven, one eyebrow creased upward, one down. He tilted his chin into his chest—head at an angle—hitched up his dark brown canvas pants, and walked back to Mulhaven. His gait was slow and steady, if somewhat awkward.

  “We’ll go secure the exit route.” Johnny excused himself then motioned for the two other soldiers to follow. They left the congregation in front of the bus before they were overcome with laughter. Chess looked at Mulhaven like a young boy seeking permission from his dad to go along. None was given.

  “You just mentioned the foamers, right? Is that not reason enough to get out of here? Or perhaps you and Itchy here want to wipe them out single-handedly?”

  “Well, that’s why we came in search of a bus.”

  “A bus? You don’t make any sense, soldier. Perhaps you should just shhpit it out.”

  Mulhaven shut his eyes, counted to ten, and after a deep breath, informed Sam of the total number of people to transport, explaining why they’d come in search of larger transportation.

  “Why haven’t you taken the bus out of here?” Chess asked the obvious.

  “Because I don’t drive a bus.” Sam was short with his answer. “Besides, where the hell would I go?”

  Chess didn’t have an answer.

  “So you hid in this bus all through the night with all these foamers outside?”

  “All right, let me tell you. You see that tower over yonder?” Sam pointed to the clock tower of the Prince George court building. Only after Mulhaven acknowledged that he saw it did Sam continue. “My daddy always told me to keep my eye on the tower, see. As long as I did, then I wasn’t far from home. See what I’m saying?”

  Mulhaven gave an exuberant nod, his eyes full of interest. The reality was, he didn’t have a clue what Sam was saying, but it was the best live show he’d seen in years—and free, too!

  “Now, the reason he told me to keep my eye on that tower was, if I should ever get lost in town, I should make my way to the tower. My daddy would come and find me.”

  And we needed to know this because?

  “Now, when people got sick and started to change before my eyes, I remembered the tower. If it was good for safety then, it was good enough now. So I made my way to the top and bolted the door. Those things can’t climb, or maybe they didn’t know I was there. Either way, I’ve survived so far. During the day I’d forage for food in the stores then hide out in the bus—catch some shuteye.”

  Mulhaven told Sam he and the others were headed to an island off the coast where the foamers could be kept at bay. “You wanna join us?”

  “Y’think I wanna stay here?”

  It was a stupid question, Mulhaven admitted to himself.

  “How’s the gas on this bus?”

  “I have no idea, but there are diesel pumps at the rear of the depot building there.” Sam pointed.

  “Let me check.” Chess jumped up the steps and into the bus. />
  “There ain’t no keys for it,” Sam called.

  “That won’t matter,” Mulhaven answered, confident Chess could hot-wire it.

  A minute or so later, the starter motor gave a screech as it resisted Chess’s attempts to kick the engine over. Chess wasn’t about to surrender and tried twice more.

  “Well, ain’t that just swell?” Sam turned and smiled when the bus coughed to life. “Guess I might just get out of here alive after all.”

  As Chess hollered from the driver’s seat that there was almost half a tank of gas, Mulhaven couldn’t help but consider what Sam had said. All of them, here and at Kath’s, were far from “out of here.” They still had to get out of Prince George, and then there were the dangers of the open road. Mulhaven didn’t know what to expect on this journey, but the cold ache in the pit of his stomach told him it wouldn’t be a joyous one. The island was their best bet for salvation—he could clearly see that—but he didn’t think everyone would make it.

  * * *

  Holmes’s escape took place while some were working outside and others were preparing meals or packing clothes. Holmes had manipulated the lock on the outside cellar doors, waited until the best time, and vanished without the others getting so much as a glimpse of him. Most surprising, or shocking, was the fate of Milton Etheridge. When his money had bought him everything he would ever need—and then some—Etheridge was a man in total control. In their bid to corner the world’s resources for themselves, he and his associates had opened a Pandora’s Box, created Frankenstein’s monster. Etheridge had believed, probably to the end that Holmes was his loyal servant. He was too old, too scared, and under the effects of too much scotch.

  Holmes had no use for Etheridge or his promises. His money and power had vanished and meant less to Holmes than a box of jerky, a freeze dried bag of fruit, and a few gallons of drinkable water. Like the Tall Man, whom Holmes had once regarded as one of his loyal employees, he was aware this was the new currency, and people—those who were left—would kill for it. Without Etheridge’s riches, few would stand for his abrasive manner and even fewer would stick their necks out for him. Etheridge would slow Holmes down even if Holmes had wanted to take him—which he didn’t. Before Holmes had made the decision to attempt an escape, he decided to end Etheridge’s existence right there in the cellar. Holmes may have been the spymaster, the one who pulled the strings, but in his earlier days he got his hands just as dirty as any mob hit man. He never forgot how, either, but Etheridge didn’t offer much resistance. As the old man dozed, Holmes came from behind, wrapped one forearm around the front of Etheridge’s neck, and placed the other hand at the back of his head. He jerked Etheridge backward while pushing his head forward to crush his windpipe. He held on for two minutes, which was all that was needed to extinguish Etheridge’s life.

  For one of the world’s richest and most powerful men, it wasn’t the end anyone would have expected: strangled in the cellar of an old farmhouse in Canada.

  “He’s on foot, so he couldn’t have gone far.”

  “I don’t care if the son of a bitch is just over those hills, we don’t have the time to waste on him. The others should be back soon, and we need to get some rest before our expedition,” the Tall Man replied to James as he looked at Milton Etheridge’s body.

  “Oh my God!” Kath screamed when she came into the cellar.

  “It’s okay, Kath, it’s okay. Nothing we can do now.” The Tall Man rushed over to comfort her. He gestured for James to take his sister back into the house as Elliot came in from outside.

  “Yeah, there’s some scuffed footprints that lead from here straight to the tree line. I assume he then made his way to the road.”

  “Did you check the motor home?”

  “First thing. I locked it before, but I double checked. It’s still locked.”

  The Tall Man’s concern was that Holmes would get hold of a weapon; he’d need some protection, and sooner rather than later. But in his urgency he probably hadn’t wanted to risk the time or the noise associated with breaking into the motor home.

  “I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be on my own without a weapon when night comes.” The Tall Man sat Etheridge’s body against the wall.

  Elliot stood and looked through the open door. Horrific images of the carnage at the airport filled his mind. “Yeah, I’d want a fuckin Minigun if I were on my own!”

  “After what we saw last night, do you think you could hold enough ammo?”

  Elliot acknowledged the Tall Man’s remark with a rise of his eyebrows and a nod. It would be impossible to carry that much ammunition.

  “How did he…”

  “Kill him?”

  “Yeah.” Strange as it was, Elliot found it difficult to ask even after all the death and destruction he’d witnessed.

  “Snapped his neck. Clean move, from behind,” the Tall Man explained in a clinical manner. “It’s a move that Holmes would be familiar with.”

  A strange, almost disappointed look came to Elliot’s face, and the Tall Man stared questioningly at him.

  “What’s wrong? What’s on your mind?”

  “You know,” Elliot began, “it’s pointless now, when our real concern is survival, but I wanted to see if he knew why or how the damn foamers are still, well, y’know.”

  “Yeah, moving.”

  “Exactly! I wanted to know. If they’re dead, why or how this is possible? And if they’re not dead, how much longer are they expected to remain in this condition before they succumb to it—if they ever will?”

  “Well, all I can tell you, Elliot, is that Holmes and his people probably didn’t know either. Their plan backfired, and—judging by the fact they fled as well—in a big way. Whatever pathogen they created must have mutated, or perhaps they weren’t fully cognizant of its potential. Who knows? I doubt we ever will. But let’s not put our energy into that. We’ve got some travel ahead of us, and that’s all we need to concern ourselves with.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Chuck. I just thought … well, yeah.” Elliot left it at that. Maybe later he could revisit the question, or even find an answer. But getting to a safe environment was, as the Tall Man had emphasized, the one and only priority right now.

  They had the rest of the day and one night to get through before they could leave. Surely that wouldn’t be too difficult.

  6

  Elliot and the Tall Man stood in front of the porch ready to greet Mulhaven and crew on their return. They had heard the sound of vehicles from inside the cellar and quickly organized themselves. The armed soldiers who had stayed behind hid behind some trees or the motor home, and the Secret Service agents were just inside the house armed with AR-15s. They watched as the Hummer and, of greater interest, the bus came up the road.

  Their arrival was expected, but the group at the house had no way of knowing whether armed looters had attacked Mulhaven and his team and forced them at gunpoint to drive back to Kath’s, or even if Holmes had gotten the jump on them. They weren’t sure until the Hummer passed the last of the pines that lined the driveway; once Mulhaven’s deadpan features were visible in the passenger seat next to Chess, they relaxed.

  “I see you caught yourself a Greyhound.” The Tall Man was pleased with the results, but more pleased to see Mulhaven and crew back in one piece.

  “Yep. We tried a few places but came up empty, until we found the Greyhound depot. Filled it with diesel, the Hummer with gas, and brought some extra back for the motor home.”

  “That’s great news, Riley. Looks a real beaut, too!” Elliot also was relieved to see everyone return.

  “If you think the bus is something special, just wait till you get a load of what came with it,” Chess announced when he got out of the Hummer.

  “Oh, yeah, he’s a real doozy all right,” Mulhaven said through a broad grin.

  The Tall Man and Elliot exchanged looks before they turned back to Mulhaven.

  “For a moment there we thought we were in The Maltese Falco
n,” added Chess, who was becoming a more interested individual by the moment. His ride with Mulhaven had convinced him he could plan a future with this group; he could see they were out to help one another. A new concept for him, but one he was growing to like.

  Could Riley have said something that set him straight? The Tall Man wondered.

  “What are you talking about, and what the hell does the—”

  “See for yourself.” Mulhaven stepped aside for the Tall Man as the bus doors hissed open. David came out first, followed by Sam.

  “Great. Just what we need, more people.” The tall Man wiped his hand across his mouth before he waved to the soldiers behind the trees and the motor home that all was okay.

  “You expected some trouble?” Chess asked.

  “Can’t be too sure—not after last night.”

  “I hear you on that.”

  Damn, he even sounds like a different person. I need to have a chat with that wily old cop.

  “Hi, I’m Elliot, and this is Chuck.” Elliot did the official greeting.

  “Pleashed to meet ya, they call me Sham.” He stuck his hand out. While Elliot shook hands with the new arrival, the Tall Man gave Mulhaven a look of recognition.

  “Glad we found you alive, Sam,” the Tall Man managed before he placed a hand over his mouth to conceal his smirk.

  “I’m kinda glad of that too, Chuck.”

  “David, why don’t you take Sam inside for a coffee? I’m sure he’d love one of our home brews.”

  David Grigsby had just spent the drive from Prince George back to Kath’s with Sam up front next to him. David had never been a big Bogey fan, and he’d had enough of Sam’s company for one day. It wasn’t that Sam was all that bad; it was just that the whole Humphrey Bogart thing was a bit too much.

  “Sure, Chuck, sure.” David pulled his woolen cap off and trudged into the house.

  “That sounds s-s-swell. Believe I would enjoy a cup at that,” Sam said to the Tall Man, then followed David.

  “Now do you understand the reference to The Maltese Falcon?”