Toward the Brink (Book 3)

by McDonough, Craig A.

  “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?”

  * * *

  Less 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.

  If only those damn soldiers hadn’t stayed with those … “Damn, that’s it!” He sputtered crumbs from his mouth. “Soldiers. The armed force back at Terrace. They could help me, but—”

  Holmes stopped to think this through. The armed group at Terrace had some organization about them and would hardly buy just any story from one man who turned up out of the blue. A lot would depend on whether they were still operative. The last Holmes saw, they were in a fierce battle with foamers.

  But if some of them made it, they’d want to escape the presence of foamers, would they not? If I could convince them they have a chance to live without the fear of foamers, then I would be able to gain a few recruits.

  Holmes paused to look down at his half-eaten cookie. “Better get back to that car and find some gas—I’ve got some driving to do!”

  * * *

  Despite the lack of wind, rain, or snow out on the sea, everyone was inside where the tourists once sat out their voyages. In summer months, when the weather was warmer, the tourists had gathered on the deck and watched the islands as they passed, doing all the things that tourist do. Once the summer said its farewell, the time to remain on deck was over. The air was so fresh from the forward movement of the catamaran and the occasional splash of sea water that standing outside was like being dropped in a pool of ice water.

  “There it is, Elliot.” The Tall Man pointed ahead. He’d stayed on the bridge with Chess the whole journey. Chess had made claims earlier that he knew boats—well, ferries were a different story. Together, the two had worked it out and set about getting to Graham Island before it got dark. Chess had thought it would take four hours at best to get to Sandspit. He judged his time by the speed of the cat and the distance to be traveled, but he didn’t take into account such variables as the condition of the sea and the current. They had lucked out with the weather, and though they could see the island, it was still another hour or so of travel away.

  “Let’s hope none of our friends await us.” Elliot looked out at the heavily forested island of two and a half thousand square miles. It contained hills, wildlife, and fresh water, and promised a supply of fish for the group.

  “Well, to be honest, Elliot, I haven’t thought about foamers as much as I’ve thought about other people who may have escaped the mainland. That’s my main concern.”

  “I’m in agreement with Chuck on that,” Chess added but kept both hands on the wheel.

  Elliot, who had joined them after checking on Mulhaven, turned around. “You think Mr. Transky was correct with his suggestion that the foamers couldn’t stave off the cold weather?”

  “Yep, I do.” The Tall Man didn’t hesitate. “And I think what we saw—or didn’t see—back at Rupert supports it.”

  Elliot couldn’t argue with that. He’d been able to sleep on a bed, albeit plagued by nightmares about this very boat trip, cuddled close to Cindy. There was not a sight of foamers, but the emptiness of the town had unnerved him. He hadn’t told anyone, but the city’s ghost town appearance had seemed like an ominous portent.

  Elliot zipped his jacket and pulled his ski mask down over his face. “I’m gonna check on Riley again, okay?”

  “Roger that,” the Tall Man answered.

  Chess took a hand from the wheel and gave Elliot a thumbs-up.

  Elliot did intend to check on Mulhaven, but first he wanted to take a look from the bow. The nightmare played on his mind; he knew it had to mean something, but he would have to search for what that might be.

  12

  “… eye on the tower, Elliot, keep your eye on the tower!” Elliot heard Humphrey Bogart’s (or Sam’s) voice as he looked across the sea. The wind had increased in strength and a few whitecaps now appeared. They’d picked a good time to leave; if they had waited any longer, they might be plowing through four- or five-foot choppy waves. Not what Elliot looked forward to, not at all. His boating experience was a bit of water skiing on freshwater lakes that were as smooth as glass.

  A
s they moved closer to Sandspit, Elliot could see there wasn’t a tower of any description in sight. He also noticed with more than a little relief that the smoke from the forest fires had moderated. There remained a sickly gray swath across the sky, but there didn’t appear to be as much smoke rising from the ground. It would be one less worry, and each time one problem—no matter how small or insignificant—was eliminated, it made for a better future. It had to.

  What the hell did he mean by that? Elliot’s mind went back to his surreal conversation with Sam.

  “Choices. Choices, that’s what Sam said!” Elliot answered himself. He was at the bow of the cat and didn’t need to worry about being overheard.

  He tried to recall as much as he could of the nightmare—though it was a bit fuzzy by now. But he did remember what Sam had told him, the part about choices.

  Stand and die or lead … Elliot heard Sam’s words in his head again.

  “Well, I know what that means, or I think I do, but I’m not sure how it applies.”

  Elliot looked at the rugged outline of the smaller islands and at the tiny village of Sandspit. When he shifted his gaze to the cold water of the Pacific Ocean, an instant chill ran the length of his backbone. It wasn’t the weather that affected him; it was the memory of thousands of foamers swimming out to the ship in his nightmare.

  He didn’t have a good feeling, and like Mulhaven, he didn’t know why.

  “Think I’ll check on Riley then get a hug or two from Cindy—I need it.” The cat started to rock from side to side as the sea became rough. Their progress had been slowed by the choppy waves, but they didn’t have far to travel now. Elliot, for one, would be glad of it. Between the confusion of his nightmare and the unsettled sea, he wasn’t in tip-top shape.

  * * *

  As the survivors from Twin Falls and the nation’s capital (and quite a few other locales) descended upon Sandspit, the nemesis of the group, Richard Holmes, floundered back into Terrace. He’d found enough gasoline in some abandoned cars in the streets around Prince Rupert to fill his car, but the quality of the gas wasn’t good. The car coughed and sputtered the whole journey and emitted more smoke than the fires that raged in the northwest border region between the United States and Canada.

  “Not exactly a stealthy approach, Holmes, old boy.” This time he did take note of his mannerisms.

  “Damn, I sound more like that old coot than he did!”

  He wasn’t concerned with it; he had more important things to concern himself with. Like remaining alive, for one. Not that his car would go fast if he wanted it to, but Holmes slowed down as he entered the main part of Terrace on the Yellowhead Highway. Once past the inn on his left, the devastation of the battle against the foamers less than forty-eight hours ago was in full view.

  “Jesus, I might have come all this way for no reward.” Holmes questioned whether there were any survivors—human survivors, that was.

  The highway was blocked by the carnage ahead, and he turned left about a mile or so from the bridge over the railway tracks. He then had to make another turn to avoid the vehicles piled in the center of the street. He was halfway through his turn when he saw that the street in front of him was also blocked.

  “A trap, it’s a fucking trap!” He slammed his foot down and shoved the car into reverse.

  It was too late; a Humvee screeched to a halt right behind him. He looked into his rear view mirror and saw three camouflaged and armed men approach with their rifles in firing position.

  “Outta the car, outta the car,” the closest to Holmes bellowed. “And keep your hands where I can see ‘em!”

  Holmes knew the drill and exited the car with all the care of a cat burglar in a heavily alarmed building.

  “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”

  That he was asked these questions gave Holmes some relief. They weren’t trigger-happy looters or panic-stricken gun crazies. These three had some discipline. He could also tell by the way they moved and held their weapons. If he made one wrong move; it would be his last.

  * * *

  It was all hands on deck—well, for the armed members of the group, anyway. As the vessel approached Sandspit Harbor, they got the impression it was a ghost town. A few boats were tied up in the small harbor, which could hold about forty. Above, just past the parking lot, was a sign that said “Welcome to Sandspit Harbor.” It would have been appropriate at one time.

  “Looks quiet,” one of the soldiers who accompanied Chess said, his beady eyes scouring the trees, the road, and the beach ahead.

  “Well, looks can be deceiving, as you know.” Tristan reminded the soldier of a calm, peaceful road they had traveled together on the outskirts of Baghdad a few years back. They were last in a line of Humvees—which saved their lives—when a vegetable cart on the side of the road erupted. Seven dead and many wounded, but yeah, it looked quiet.

  “That building up the rise there, looks like a hall or community center. Let’s make that our home, at least for the night. It will be dark soon, and that place doesn’t seem to have a lot of windows.”

  “What’s the significance of windows?” David Goodwin asked the Tall Man.

  “Fewer windows means less of an area where the foamers could break in. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Ah, of course. I should have—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The Tall Man slapped David on the back. “We’re almost there. We’ll set up in the morning and—”

  “We have to make sure there are no foamers around, Chuck. We can’t set up beforehand.” Elliot stepped forward and told them how it had to be. “We have to do a house-by-house search until we are absolutely positive there are no foamers.”

  When some of the others—Kath, Margaret, Samantha, and Kamira and Janet, along with their husbands—muttered words of support for Elliot’s suggestion, the Tall Man understood he was getting ahead of himself. They were so close to putting an end to all of this—for a short time, anyway—that he had taken his eye off the tower, as Sam would tell him.

  “Sure, sure, we can do that.” The Tall Man was pleased to see Elliot assume the responsibility. He didn’t mind a rebuke if it helped Elliot become more recognized as the leader of the group; that’s what he wanted, after all.

  “Why don’t we tie a long line to the cat and let it sit out in the water a bit just in case there are foamers? No one seems to think they can swim, so we can leave most of our gear aboard and just take essentials with us.”

  No one disagreed with that plan, either; Elliot was on a roll.

  “Yes, sir. You just keep your eye on the tower, young man, and you’ll be fine.”

  Elliot jumped and turned around to see Sam behind him, a grin on his face. “Know what I’m sayin’?” He gave Elliot a wink and walked off.

  “H-h-how in the fuck did he know?”

  “What did you say, honey?” Cindy had overheard Elliot’s remark.

  “Uh, err, just grumbling about the cold.”

  “It’s not that bad, Elliot. The wind has picked up, but not that bad. Of course, I doubt it will stay like this for much longer, but—”

  “Okay, get ready!” the Tall Man called. They were about to dock.

  If there were any armed civilians or militia types, they would have been on the dock before the cat got this close. And foamers, well, the sun was out today, and there was still more than an hour left.

  They were in good shape, the Tall Man believed, or allowed himself to believe. It had been a long, tiresome journey; the pressure on the Tall Man from all directions had been immense, and it had taken its toll. He had lost his edge. And you never knew you’d lost it until it was too late.

  * * *

  The hatless man in military fatigues sat at the end of a large table and listened intently to one of the armed men who had brought Richard Holmes in. A captured, live human was a prize trophy. Holmes had been placed into the rear of the Humvee and was driven a short distance. His three captors hadn’t
spoken other than to tell him that if he did as he was told, he would be fine. “We don’t kill people,” they had reassured him.

  As they had helped him from the Humvee, he saw they were inside a UPS depot on the edge of Terrace. The ten-foot-high chain link fence and armed patrols were enough to tell him why this had been chosen for their command post.

  “So, Richard Holmes,” the man—obviously the one in charge—behind the desk said. “Central Intelligence Agency, eh?”

  Holmes knew his story was under scrutiny. He’d told the three who had brought him in who he was and for whom he worked. He’d lied on that front. He had once held a deputy director position in one department with Central Intelligence, but that was some time ago. He had been with the Defense Threat Reduction Agency for some time, but the DTRA was little-known, and if you wanted to impress a bunch of soldier boys—real ones or the pretend kind—it was best to use the CIA as the preferred spook agency. He’d left all documentation behind when he’d fled Washington and didn’t care if they searched his car—which he was sure they would—the small bag he had, or his person. There was no incriminating evidence to show he wasn’t with the CIA.

  “Yes. I’ve been with them for many years. I held positions with our embassies in some volatile places overseas.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The man behind the table stood and took a red beret from the back pocket of his Canadian Disruptive Pattern fatigues. As soon as he saw the American 82nd Airborne patch attached to the beret, Holmes knew the commander here was a pretend soldier. He may very well have been in the regular Canadian forces, but he was just another dreamer who fantasized about war and combat while he polished his guns and switched on the next DVD “war” to watch. Like others of his kind, he’d seen too many Rambo or Expendables movies and sat glued to the TV when The Walking Dead was on. Now he played a lead role in the show—except this was real, and if you fucked up here, you were dead. Holmes doubted this guy had ever been in any combat or come under fire, and no self-respecting vet would wear the insignia of another unit—ever. For all intents and purposes, he was a real “in the rear with the beer” leader. Holmes speculated that this beret-wearing Canuck probably hadn’t actually faced the wrath of the foamers; no, that would be too much like a real soldier—he would have stayed behind and directed the troops to victory. At least, that’s what he would have told the troops—and himself.