The Tall Man grabbed Elliot by the arm and held on. He’d heard the growl of engines behind and looked into the rear view mirror to see several Jeep Cherokees and, most frightening of all, a Canadian Army Coyote Reconnaissance Vehicle. The Tall Man knew the two 7.62mm machine guns mounted on this RV, on their own, would grind them into burger mince at this range. But the 25mm chain gun, well, that was a game changer. It would be all over in a single burst.
It was bound to happen sooner or later. He knew it and had said it, albeit to himself, many times.
“Okay, drop all your weapons and—”
“Drop our weapons? Are you—”
“Look behind you, Chess, and you tell me you’re good enough with just a rifle to go up against that.”
Chess turned in his seat. The loss of color in his face indicated he fully understood the consequences.
“Oh, shit.” There was dread in Chess’s voice.
“Exactly. Now, lose those weapons.”
Chess didn’t protest this time. Elliot had already followed the Tall Man’s direction without question, as had Johnny.
“They just asked for the driver to step out, Elliot, so you do it nice and easy, huh?”
Elliot looked at the Tall Man, nodded once, swallowed twice, and then pulled on the door handle.
Elliot will be all right, thought the Tall Man. I hope no one in the other vehicles wants to play hero.
* * *
Holmes couldn’t make out any of the words that were broadcast over the loudspeaker. They didn’t sound all that friendly—that much he could tell. He wasn’t about to put himself in jeopardy by driving closer or—God forbid—getting out of the car. From his vantage point, he saw this group was well armed and appeared disciplined. But no matter how well trained or led they might be, sudden movement in a tense standoff could cause panic. More so when you had foamers around.
No, it would be prudent to wait this out.
He huddled in his car, lowered a window to listen to the activities on the bridge, and looked around for a safe place to secure himself for the night. He doubted that whatever was taking place down on the bridge would be over within an hour or so. This had the makings of an all-night or even several-day affair—and it might not turn out all that rosy for any of them. Not in these days and times. There was little concern for a future. It might be that these disciplined, controlled troops had a public arena where they would sacrifice the travelers for entertainment.
Real life Mad Max “Beyond Thunderdome” shit, Holmes reflected.
And if that was the case, then his plans too, would come undone. He had overheard a discussion at the farmhouse outside of Prince George while he was held captive in the basement. He had heard that fool Transky tell everyone about driving to an island off the coast of Vancouver to wait out the fires, the looters, and most of all, the foamers. It made sense to him too, better than the underground base of the Chamber in God knows where. They would have real protection on an island, where they could keep watch for miles around them. Foamers didn’t swim or know how to use a boat. With the knowledge this group had regarding food, power, and survival, it was a wise move indeed to grab hold of their shirttails and hitch a ride.
The best part was—and he had thought of this quite a bit as he followed them along the Yellowhead Highway—he could catch up with that troublesome chief of staff, Transky, fix the (former) president, and pay back Mr. Black for his treasonous behavior.
“All in one fell swoop!” Holmes muttered then chuckled to himself.
Yes, vengeance was a dish best served cold, but with the cold weather on the way, Holmes wouldn’t mind if it was steaming hot. Wouldn’t mind at all.
* * *
Elliot cautiously moved out of the Hummer and raised his arms. He watched David ahead in the bus do the same, and a moment later, Mulhaven exited from the motor home, hands held at shoulder level. He didn’t look behind but assumed Tristan in the Dodge had followed suit.
Elliot had been in some tight spots since the day of the foamer outbreak in Twin Falls. The day he got back together with Cindy and met the man with the biggest heart in the world, Riley Mulhaven—who really did look like Morgan Freeman. It should have been a great day, but those fucking foamers—
Today, in the town of Terrace (a town he’d never heard of, but wouldn’t forget in a hurry), on a bridge sandwiched between heavily armed men, Elliot had never felt more vulnerable.
“Slowly move toward me,” the one with the bullhorn said from the open top of a National Guard Humvee.
Elliot turned and looked back into the Hummer before he moved off. He’d gotten only a few feet when a noticeable weather change occurred. Thick storm clouds from the north, which had been pressing all day, finally won the battle against the blue in the sky above. The effect was dramatic. Ambient light dropped more than half, and the change in attitude from the troops was noticeable. It appeared to Elliot they no longer had any interest in him or the people on the bridge.
“Contact! We got contact!!” a Terrace trooper yelled from one side of the loudspeaker operator.
Elliot couldn’t see what it was that had raised concerns, but he didn’t need to—he felt it. He looked back to the Hummer, to the Tall Man, who was getting out of the passenger seat. He felt it as well.
“Back in the Hummer, Elliot, get back in!”
Elliot looked once more at the troops ahead, who were now moving frantically. Vehicle doors were slammed and hatches shut as rifle muzzles were shoved out of every available aperture. The Coyote Recon Vehicle started and moved back onto the highway behind, its turret rotating. David was back inside the bus and had it started before Elliot got back into the Hummer.
“Foamers?” Elliot asked the Tall Man as he slid behind the wheel.
“What do you think?”
“Looks like we’ll have to run the gauntlet,” Chess said. “Maybe I should take the bus then?”
The Tall Man looked at Chess then watched as Mulhaven boarded the motor home; the troops’ actions had become frenzied.
The first group of troops headed left from their previous positions, and the second circled behind as backup in a classic pincer movement.
“Okay, but let David drive. You’re better with a weapon, and that’s what will count—smash a window if you need to.” The Tall Man didn’t know which he preferred: to be surrounded by a heavily armed militia, or to be attacked—during daylight no less—by foamers. At least the foamers didn’t have armored cars with mounted miniguns.
“Elliot, stop in front of the bus and let Chess out.”
The Hummer burned rubber as Elliot raced ahead of the bus. Chess jumped out and ran to the bus. The situation had changed as suddenly as the weather. Tristan and the Secret Service agents who rode with him drove to the side of the bus, ready to provide cover if needed.
9
Further back on the highway, Richard Holmes watched the activity on the bridge with a marked rise in interest. The chatter of the loudspeaker died while the engines of the vehicles roared to life. Holmes noted the eerie twilight that blanketed the town when the clouds rolled over. He immediately thought of wind, rain, and snow, the things most people thought of when storm clouds appeared. At least in normal times. It didn’t take long for Holmes to realize the urgent movement of this group of armed men wasn’t for fear of getting caught in bad weather. It reminded Holmes of cops as they raced from one place to another after they learned of a suspect’s possible location. The suspects, in this case, were foamers.
He recalled the sleepless night he spent huddled inside the bell tower in Prince George. The moans and growls from the street below brought him into contact, for the first time in person, with the monstrosity he had a hand in creating. As he watched the last of the four-wheel-drive Jeeps follow the RV in the opposite direction, he knew he couldn’t wait here. Not on his own, not while the light faded, and not with foamers about.
He had to make the decision: Stay out of sight and hope he wasn’t seen by the
survivors he planned to follow to Graham Island, or follow close behind whether they saw him or not. After the sounds and sights that night in the bell tower, that question was a no-brainer.
He started the car and headed toward the bridge.
* * *
Chess vaulted through the open door of the bus.
“What’s the news, Chess, what the hell is—”
“We continue on but drive hard. No stops, David, okay?”
David Grigsby nodded, pulled the lever to close the door, and put his foot down on the accelerator. Like all the others, he didn’t need to be asked twice if he’d like to leave. Also like the others, he was sick of the armed groups, disciplined or not, and the foamers. Especially the foamers.
Chess continued down the aisle of the bus and spoke quietly to those aboard. Like the Tall Man, he understood the benefit in times like these of avoiding panic. He told everyone the truth. It had looked as if they were about to become captives, when the appearance of foamers—apparently, for no one had seen any at this stage—interjected.
Saved by foamers—a novel idea. The thought occurred to more than one on the bus.
“If any foamers get in the way, just plow through ‘em, all right?” Chess tapped David on the shoulder. “Elliot and Chuck are right behind us in the Hummer, then Riley, with Tristan in back. We’ll head straight through to Rupert, and put the headlights on, we need ‘em!”
Everyone in the first half of the bus heard Chess, despite the whine of the engine, as David put his foot to the accelerator.
“Why the change in plan? I thought we decided against that because of the night?” The former president wanted to know why they were going straight through to Rupert.
“Well, Bob, Chuck believes the situation with foamers and the former military personnel, as the case may be, is out of hand. He told me just moments ago, ‘We have no idea what’s around the next corner.’ And he’s right. You’ve had a hard time with this crisis, while the men with me and I have had it relatively easy. Chuck, Elliot, Riley, and the others here have been on the run from these foamers and gun-wielding crazies since day one of this outbreak. They’re tired of it, and I don’t blame them. I think he’d rather make a dash for safety now and fight off the foamers in the dark if we have to, as long as we get to that island and the security it offers. Foamers don’t have guns, and that’s what has influenced his decision.”
Elias Robert Charles, former president and probably the last person to hold the office, thought about it for a moment. It hadn’t hit him like that. For all he had seen or been informed of, his first encounter with the foamers was at the airport, in the dark, and from some distance. For Elliot and company, it was almost an everyday experience. More than once, one or another had come close to losing their life at the hands of one of these undead horrors.
“Walk a mile in their shoes,” Bob mumbled under his breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“Walk a mile in their shoes,” he answered the former soldier. “My father used to tell me, ‘If you ever want to know how another person feels, just walk a mile in their shoes.’ He was right, too—my father was always right.”
The sound of rifle fire from the left of the bus alerted the occupants that the battle of Terrace had begun.
Sharp three-shot bursts accompanied the boom of shotguns, then the rapid-fire electric drill sound of the minigun. As the bus dashed through the intersection, Chess saw a dozen or more foamers shredded on the spot from a single burst of the minigun. With that kind of firepower, Chess figured they should have this situation under control in no time. The military personnel inside the bus believed this group from Terrace were trained professionals, and this fact alone had kept them alive.
So far, at least.
* * *
In the Hummer, right behind the bus, the Tall Man was on edge, and in combat situations that’s usually what kept you alive—or at least ready. That this military force had suddenly packed up and moved along told him how critical the situation was. No military or police force would drop an important procedure, such as the detention of possible looters, unless other circumstances proved more immediate. The Tall Man knew this would be their one and only chance to escape. When the shooting started, the sheer volume had him thinking of World War III. He hoped David in the bus wouldn’t lose his nerve, that there would be no roadblocks ahead, that there was no wall of foamers to break through, or …
When you stopped to think about it, a lot of shit could go wrong.
“You okay, Chuck?” From the corner of his eye, Elliot saw the Tall Man drop his head into his hands. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the road or the bus ahead of him.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The Tall Man looked back to his young friend. He saw the future with Elliot—perhaps the future of mankind itself—if he could only get everyone to safety. If only.
“Just catching up with me, Elliot.”
“What, what’s catching up?”
“Old age, my friend, old age.”
Elliot didn’t ask any more questions. The bus ahead of them picked up some speed. It had left the bridge and was back on the main part of the highway through the town. With no traffic directly ahead and no pedestrians (foamers didn’t count toward that), Elliot swept the Hummer to one side of the bus to get a better view of the way ahead.
“Good deal, Elliot,” Johnny said from the back seat. Now they could all see.
Back on a straight and uncluttered highway, they could see behind them as well as ahead.
“Looks like we have company, look about half a mile behind Tristan in the Ram.” Elliot looked at the rear view mirror.
The Tall Man had to turn in his seat to look through the rear window; the mirror on his side was blocked by the motor home.
“Just one person. Who in the hell would be crazy enough to drive around on their own?”
“Would you rather stay here on your own?” Johnny asked.
The Tall Man raised his thick eyebrows; it really was a stupid question.
“Maybe whoever it is saw us come through town and took the chance. They were probably like us, stuck between these military types and the foamers.”
“Could be, Elliot, could be. Wish we had the binoculars with us.” The Tall Man strained to get a better look, but the lone driver was too far off. “Well, if they want to keep up, that’s fine, but we won’t stop or risk ourselves for anyone, understood?”
The occupants inside the Hummer exchanged looks. The Tall Man was more than efficient—he was practically brutal in his pragmatism.
* * *
As the bus got to one of the main intersections of Terrace, the firing intensified. At the edges of the streets, foamers by the hundreds stalked openly, no longer encumbered by the sun’s rays. Jeeps and Humvees had parked in defensive positions further down, and men armed with an assortment of assault rifles and shotguns fired in a controlled manner. This wasn’t apparent to anyone in the bus, the Hummer, the Ram 3500, or the motor home as they flashed through the intersection. As callous as it was, they were glad for both sides to be engaged in battle while they hastened along.
“Fuck ‘em. We’re better off without them,” Chess told David.
David nodded then took a peek into his mirrors to check on the Hummer’s position.
“Holy shit!”
David turned back and instinctively slammed on the brakes.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, or we’ll be fucked for good!”
Two or three dozen foamers had wandered from a side street directly into the path of the bus. From David’s point of view as a driver, the first thought that came to mind was pedestrians, and he acted accordingly. Only after Chess admonished him did he recognize them as foamers and put his foot back down on the accelerator.
“You have to run through them, David, and make a path for the others. Their vehicles aren’t big enough to do it—got it?”
“You bet I do!” David’s answer was short. He manually brought the a
utomatic shift bus down to a lower gear to gain some momentum. As they were about to hit the first line of foamers, David yelled, “You might wanna take a seat!”
* * *
With the approach of winter, the Terrace force had secured themselves and their families in the Terrace Sports Arena, in relative safety from the roaming demons of the night. It had a ten foot high chain link fence with strong padlocked gates. They did not venture outside the fenced area. But now they were confronted during daylight hours by the foamers. Caught off guard, panic ensued.
Foamers didn’t think or act like trained military units. They didn’t appear to show any recognition of the dangers that modern weaponry provided. They simply recognized a food source and headed directly to it.
This day, as the clouds covered the sun, the Terrace militia was caught unprepared. Like the trained units they were, they responded by establishing a strong defensive position and fighting the invaders from there. Military tactics as old as man’s aggression, and they worked.
Usually.
When the enemy turned out to be undead green-bile-spewing monstrosities, it was a different story.
As Mulhaven drove the motor home across the intersection, he looked to one side, and a wild burst of fully automatic fire caught his attention. Troops faced all directions of the compass and fired, not in a controlled, disciplined manner, but in panic mode. Foamers poured from the buildings on either side of the street, and others came from right behind the troop’s position. The 25mm chain gun of the Coyote Recon Vehicle halted its steady stream of fire as foamers intermingled with the troops directly in their field of view. The commander of the Coyote jumped from the turret, pistol in hand. He was gonna fix ‘em singlehandedly, just as John Rambo would. The commander fired his 9mm pistol at targets in front of him, but was oblivious to the several foamers that had crept out of a manhole behind the Coyote. With a groan and a leap that would have made Superman proud, a foamer pounced on the ill-prepared commander. His body was dragged from the turret and shredded in minutes in the furious turmoil that followed. Other foamers jumped inside the RV and began to feast.
Toward the Brink (Book 3) Page 11