Jerkoff!
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Understand?” Red Beret finished. “That makes two of us, mister. Do you know how many people like to give a cock and bull story of working with the CIA?”
Holmes kept silent; it would be best to listen at this point. The three who had brought him in, plus another three, were in the room, and all made themselves comfortable for the show.
“I mean, is there any possible explanation you could give as to why a CIA officer would be out here in the middle of British Columbia? Did you just decide to leave Langley, jump on a plane, and say, ‘Oh, I think Terrace looks like a good place to avoid the zombies?’ Is that how it was?”
There was some suppressed laughter behind Holmes as the others in the room enjoyed the commander’s sarcasm.
They couldn’t imagine anyone with the temerity to claim employment with the CIA, but then again, they thought Americans had more cheek than the combined population of the world—and then some.
“Well, can you give me an explanation for that?” Red Beret no longer asked, but demanded. He had decided to be officious. Holmes had to act.
“I can understand your doubts, most certainly, but it really doesn’t matter whether I was with the CIA, the FBI, or the Boy Scouts of America.” This brought a few more laughs. No one had spoked to the commander like this in some time.
“What I have to say concerns one thing. Survival. If you’re interested in a foamer-free life, you’ll listen to what I’ve got to say. It will benefit us all, believe me.” Holmes looked at Red Beret and the others and grinned when he saw enthusiastic looks on their faces—all except Red Beret.
“Free from foamers?” the commander countered. “Of course we want to be free of those demonic bastards, but what do you have to offer? Has the CIA got an assassination program planned?”
“Not quite, but this is what I can offer.” Holmes made a good impression among the others in the room. He didn’t flinch or give any ground. They were prepared to listen to him; even Red Beret reluctantly gave credit where it was due. He sat back down, removed his beret, and gave the floor to Richard Holmes.
“Okay, tell us what you’ve got. We’re all ears.”
* * *
“So you see,” Holmes said when he’d completed his proposal, his recruitment drive, “unless you killed all of the foamers in the last battle you had—yes, I managed to see part of it—then you really have no choice. Do you want to wake each day and wonder if this might be your last, or do you want a chance to live?”
The looks on the faces of the other six men in what once was the UPS storage room said, “When can we go?” The look on Red Beret’s face, however, was more ambiguous. Like the others, he wanted safety, but he also saw this would lead to him losing his position in charge. Or maybe it already had. He wasn’t afraid of a stand-up fight to retake control of the island from a handful of soldiers and a few Secret Service agents; he preferred that to a fight with more foamers. He was smart enough to know that if he opposed the proposition brought to them by the “CIA man,” his grip on control would be terminated—with a bullet. Better to be a live subordinate than a dead leader. He could suck in his pride and do that.
For now.
13
What the new arrivals to Sandspit had thought was a community center turned out to be the Sandspit wholesale fish market. It was constructed of corrugated iron on the outside, and the floor of the main area was solid concrete. The smell inside was bearable only because the place had been hosed out before the town’s population evacuated—or died.
The concrete floor meant it would be impossible to stay here at night. With temperatures in the mid to high teens, a person would freeze to death. There were some offices in the rear where administrative duties were carried out; they had carpeted floors and were obviously added on sometime after the main part of the market was built.
Darkness wasn’t far away, and though the Tall Man, Tom, and a few others were almost convinced the cold weather meant they had seen the last of the foamers, they didn’t want to be forced to look for another place to spend the night. Compared to the putrid stench of the foamers, the fishy smell was a walk through a rose garden.
“All right, looks like we can bed down here,” the Tall Man announced when he opened one of the office rooms. “Spread our blankets and stuff on the floor, and we should be good. Tomorrow we’ll find more permanent lodgings.”
Flashlights held by several of the group danced around the office into every corner and behind every piece of furniture. It wasn’t quite dark outside; the sun had just gone down. Inside, it was different.
They were so sure that no foamers or militia types were present that they disregarded their usual security drill of making sure the building was clear before they entered. Now that they were inside, Chess took a handful of his men and did a quick search of the other offices and checked the windows and all side and back doors.
“All doors are locked, Chuck.”
“Huh? What d— Oh. Yeah … Right. Good job.” The Tall Man was half frozen—he was more affected by the cold weather than he had disclosed. The cold, damp air was preferable to staying in an area overrun with foamers—even if it was dry and warm.
“The tower, Elliot, the tower,” Sam said from behind him. When Elliot turned, the man with the Bogey accent had drifted away.
The tower is the goal, and the goal is to survive, and we won’t survive unless we have a leader—a designated leader. And that’s what he’s pointing out, because I’m the one who has to lead! Elliot told himself. No longer can I be afraid of stepping on someone’s shoes. It’s time.
“After that trip, we all need some sleep, but we also need four people for guard duty.” Elliot paused to look around in the twilight. “Anyone got the time?”
“It’s just after six, Elliot.” Mulhaven sounded more like his old self.
“We’ll change over at ten, then again at two, okay?”
“Are you volunteering?” a tired Chess asked.
Elliot was well aware Chess had done more than his fair share. Since his unsteady start with the group, he had improved in his manner and showed a genuine desire to be a part of this group. Elliot even saw his buddy Chuck pay Chess some respect, but now it was Elliot’s turn to lay down the law. Shit, he was still a teenager, but if he didn’t lay it down now, he would never be taken seriously.
“No. You are. Grab three others and stay sharp.”
Elliot walked away without waiting for a reply. Cindy had laid out some blankets on the floor for them, but she stared openmouthed at Elliot. She wasn’t alone in wondering what would happen next. Chess stood for a moment, then called three other soldiers. “Let’s go,” he said. “Seems we get to sleep later.”
Cindy didn’t say a word but gave Elliot a big hug and a kiss then bedded down. A hand slapped him on the back, and by the size of the hand and the great height from which it came, Elliot knew it could only be the Tall Man. As Elliot sat on an office chair to take off his heavy boots—everyone slept in their clothes, but not in their boots—he heard a whisper from one side: “You’ve got the tower in sight. Keep it there!”
Elliot knew it was Sam, but when he turned, Sam could no longer be seen.
Elliot was proud of himself, too, but was glad for the dark in the room. No one could see his hands shake.
* * *
Red Beret wasted little time once he made the decision to join Holmes’s crusade. Another night in Terrace, after the last battle, would be the last straw for him. He, and what was left of the Free Terrace Forces, as they called themselves, had rushed to this UPS depot on the outskirts of the city. This was a secondary command post and had been a fallback position should they need it—and they had needed it.
After they had caught the Prince George group on the bridge, they had relaxed. The force had covered the new arrivals with an armored vehicle that sported a 25mm chain gun. No need to be concerned; no one would argue against those odds. Sund
own was still a few hours off, and as foamers only came out when it was dark, there was little to worry about on that front. The dark storm clouds that rolled in had changed that, however. With the sun hidden behind a thick layer, the foamers had ventured outside and caught the force off guard. When the armored car was taken by surprise, their advantage was lost. All they could do to save themselves was retreat. There were barely two dozen armed men left. But that was more than Holmes needed.
It was practically dark and the foamers would be out, but Red Beret and the others didn’t want to remain any longer. Within the hour, a motorcade pulled up outside the UPS depot, and when Holmes stepped outside, he stared at the number of vehicles in shock.
“What’s the matter, company man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Red Beret took the extra time to dig at his so-called credentials.
“I, err … didn’t expect so many trucks and—”
“What did you think, we all lived here by ourselves?” The commander rubbed his beret (he clearly was very attached to it) then indicated the long line of Humvees, pickups, station wagons, camper vans, and bumper-pull trailers.
“Most of us have families here, and some of them with us now are the wives and children of those who didn’t make it. I promised them that I would see them through this and get them to safety. I even promised the children that I would take them to a place where Santa could find them. Do you know what it means to promise children that, Mr. Holmes?”
“No. No, I don’t.” He was honest. “But let me tell you this. Where we are going, you’ll be able to give these kids a Christmas once more—and that’s my promise to you.”
Holmes lied, as he always did to get what he needed, but Red Beret wasn’t to know. In his late thirties, he didn’t have the experience of a man like Holmes.
“Thank you. I hope you’re right on that. We can’t come back, you know that, right?”
Holmes nodded then looked down the dark street at the twenty-plus vehicles.
We leave the women and kids back in Prince Rupert while the soldier boys retake the island, then when we send for them to come over, there could be an accident on the high seas.
“Yes, that would work nicely,” Holmes muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I just mentioned that all these people coming along will work out nicely—it will be like starting our own community once again. Don’t you think?”
The old weasel had a way with words, and the more Red Beret listened, the more he trusted him. Even before the outbreak of the foamer plague, there had been very few people who trusted Richard Holmes still alive.
* * *
The motorcade traveled through the night with their headlights on, making no attempt to avoid detection. Foamers didn’t roam the highways this far out, and once they were out of Terrace it was nothing but pine trees, pine trees, and more pine trees scattered across the countryside.
Holmes agreed with Red Beret that a surprise attack before sunrise was their best bet. It meant some hard travel. Some of the camper vans and bumper pulls were driven by the wives, and they weren’t great at driving on the Yellowhead Highway. At the speed they were driving, the ice that had formed on the surface made for some dangerous moments. They couldn’t stop; there was no time. Just keep going, that’s all they could do. Besides, Holmes thought one or two of them might miss a turn and sail right over the edge of the road, and that would be fewer people to worry over.
Holmes went over a target list with Red Beret in the lead Humvee.
“Don’t kill the tall one. You can wound him, but leave his demise to me.”
“Okay … wound tall one only.” Red Beret wrote these instructions down.
“Don’t kill any of the women, I—”
“How can you even think we would kill women? What kind of trash do you think we are, company man?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you would, but accidents do happen, my friend,” Holmes reassured the commander. And Holmes did think they were all trash, but didn’t say that.
“Also, the president is with them, and—”
“President? You mean the president of the United States?”
“Yes indeed, my good friend, and as I was saying, please don’t kill him or his aide. A short guy with a rather large forehead, nerdy type. Leave them for me.”
“You plan to kill the president?”
“He’s just a regular Joe now, and he is the cause of all this mayhem. He doesn’t deserve the chance to live after he’s caused so much devastation!”
Holmes gave Red Beret a quick, ten-minute history of how the president had ordered the creation of the deadly plague, disguised it as a vegetable growth hormone, and permitted it to be used on the American people by injecting it into potatoes in Idaho. The man-made agent had mutated out of control, resulting in the foamers.
“The president did that? I’ll be—”
“Yes, exactly. We’ve all been bent over and fucked. Well and truly!”
“Most people here in Canada like your president, but I, for one, never trusted him. There was something about him, y’know?”
Holmes did know. The president was as honest as the day was long, a rarity in politics and especially for U.S. presidents, but he didn’t want Red Beret and his cohorts thinking that. He wanted them ready, willing and able to do his dirty work, and he had plenty of it.
He soon started to plan how it would be once he had taken control, and he thought of the woman whose house it was back in Prince George. He’d only had a few glimpses of her, but he liked what he saw. He had also overheard the way she spoke with that man Black. It appeared obvious they were an item, or were in the first stages of becoming one.
Well, with that big shit out of the way, she’ll make pleasant company indeed, whether she wants to or not. He smiled as he closed his eyes for a bit of a nap. They had a few hours of travel yet. The smile remained on his face as he thought of enjoying a woman’s company again.
* * *
Elliot crawled back into his makeshift bed next to Cindy after he completed the second guard shift. He still had his jacket and fatigues on, but he was cold, and Cindy was warm under the blankets. How nice it would be to move into their own little cottage out here, maybe with a wood burning stove—
“Hey, we got movement out here,” one of the Secret Service agents, who stood on a chair to see through the high window, called.
“Where? What type of movement?” Mulhaven asked from somewhere in the darkened room.
Elliot didn’t bother with questions. He got out of his bed in a flash. He hadn’t even gotten to lie down fully. “Stay here,” he whispered to Cindy and kissed her. His lips were frozen, but she didn’t mind. Love doesn’t care about the cold.
He rushed over to the window as best he could while he pulled at the tops of his boots. The Tall Man was right behind him, then Chess and Tristan.
“You sure?” the Tall Man asked. He kept his voice low. He wasn’t concerned with waking anyone, but if there was movement outside, then it probably wasn’t friendly, and he didn’t want to alert whoever it was—or whatever it was—to their presence.
“Yeah, I’m positive,” the agent responded in the same hushed tone. “Up the top of the rise there, near the house on the left. Do you see it? There’s a patch of snow on the ground. I saw a dark figure move across it.”
“That’s it? That’s all you saw? Hell, it was probably a dog.”
“How many dogs you seen since you joined us, Chess?” The Tall Man knew that Chess and the others hadn’t done much sightseeing since their arrival, but in their travels through Prince George, Terrace, Prince Rupert, and now Sandspit, nary a dog or a cat had been seen. Only when they neared the coast had they seen birds again; it came as a relief, too.
“Exactly!” The Tall Man drove the point home when Chess didn’t answer.
Enough light from the stars and the half-moon came through the window for them to see each other’s outlines. Facial expressions were out o
f the question, though.
“That was my first thought, to be honest,” the agent continued, “but then I saw another shadow pass in front of the snow.”
“Chuck, get over here and take a look.” Elliot got off the chair on the other side of the window and passed the binoculars to the Tall Man.
The Tall Man noticed a change in the way Elliot seemed to be coping and was impressed.
The Tall Man stood on the chair pushed against the wall and peered out into the cold Sandspit night. Even for him, the windows were just a touch too high. He could see light snowfall through the powerful binoculars. Patches had built up here and there, but it wasn’t the worst situation. He looked along the road that led from the fish market to the top of the rise, where movement had been spotted.
“I can’t see any—” The sudden midsentence halt told everyone just what they didn’t want to hear.
Foamers!
14
With his new group of followers, Holmes motored along the Yellowhead Highway. At this rate, they would arrive long before dawn. The question on his mind was where they could obtain decent watercraft to get to Graham Island.
“You say there were no boats of any sort in Rupert?”
“I assume the others took the last one. Hell, maybe they sank what boats were left so no one could follow.” Holmes did an exceptional job of presenting the group from Prince George as dangerous adversaries.
Toward the Brink (Book 3) Page 15