“Sounds to me like this is one cutthroat bunch. You were lucky to escape.” Red Beret was starting to find respect for Holmes—though he still wasn’t sure about the CIA thing.
“Tell me about it. I can tell you stories of the president ordering executions like you ordered burgers.”
“I’d like to hear that someday.”
Holmes patted Red Beret on the shoulder. “Sure, sure. Once we get settled in, you’ll do just that!”
He had as much intention of telling stories with the commander of this force as he had of allowing their wives and children to take residence on the island. He had to make sure the resources weren’t spread too far. Besides, the woman who owned the farmhouse back in Prince George would more than satisfy his desires—whether she wanted to or not—once he took control. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all. He smiled at Red Beret, who smiled back. The commander’s guard was down. He accepted Holmes now, and wouldn’t be suspicious—not even at the very end.
“Anyway, I’m not sure what we can do about a boat.”
“Port Edward is bigger than Rupert. We can look there. Used to be some fast cruiser type boats at Edward. If there are, we can get to Graham before dawn, I imagine. Do we know exactly where this group went?”
“Of that I’m not so sure.” They were among the few words of truth to come out of Holmes’s mouth since his return to Terrace.
“Well, Sandspit has a harbor of sorts, I think. We’ll need at least three boats, and we don’t want to be wading ashore like the fuckin’ U.S. Marines. I want to keep my boots dry!”
The commander who loved his Red Beret laughed at his own humor; Holmes joined in. He even made it sound natural. Whatever it took to keep him onside—for now.
* * *
“No sound, not a sound,” the Tall Man whispered. He wanted everyone in the room to hear him, but he didn’t want to be heard outside of the building. He didn’t know if the foamers could hear or just sensed things, but now wasn’t the time to find out.
“Tristan, go into the other room and tell the rest we’ve got company and to keep silent.”
“Roger,” he replied in a hushed tone. One room wasn’t big enough for all of them, so they had split into two adjoining offices.
“Tristan … no lights, okay?” Chess reminded him.
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
Everyone was now wide awake, not that anyone had been in a deep sleep. The fish market was better than outside, but it was far from comfortable. The realization hit hard: They had traveled from Twin Falls and Washington to get to Prince George, Canada, and from there to an island off the coast of Vancouver for the promise of a foamer-free and self-sufficient life. Now those hopes had been dashed. No one needed to be told to keep the noise down lest it should attract the foamers, but soon the whispers built into a murmur, and the murmur became a racket.
“Shh! For God’s sake!” The last thing the Tall Man wanted was a confrontation with foamers here. This was far different than their first encounter in Twin Falls, which now seemed like years past. There, they’d had power and lighting, and they knew the area. The same couldn’t be said of their situation now. There had been no power for days, no one in the group had ever been to Sandspit, and as the Tall Man noted, there was only one road in or out, and behind them was the Pacific Ocean. Not good odds for a stand-up firefight. Their only choice was to wait for daylight, when the foamers would retreat from the rays of the sun. But to achieve that, they needed absolute silence until dawn. They would be safe when dawn arrived.
“We have to remain totally silent until sunrise. We’ll be okay then, so keep quiet until dawn!” The Tall Man pulled off his glove and checked his luminous dial watch.
Four hours. About four hours to dawn. He knew it would be a long four hours, and if the foamers stumbled upon them beforehand, it could spell the end.
“Dawn,” he whispered into Kath’s ear. She had joined him by his side. “We’ll be safe at dawn.”
* * *
At Port Edward, Holmes and his new army found better results. Like other towns nearby, it was deserted, but it didn’t appear as if any struggle had taken place. More importantly, there were more than a dozen boats tied up at the marina. Most were gassed up as well, and jump-starting them presented no trouble.
The Port Edward harbor building was two stories high, and this provided adequate security for the families of the armed group from Terrace. A six-man security detail, mainly younger, less experienced troops, was left behind.
Holmes, with Red Beret at his side, looked over the force, which numbered twenty-one when he was counted with them. The group that included the former president wouldn’t be expecting anyone, much less an armed assault. With the benefit of surprise, they shouldn’t have any trouble, Holmes assured himself; Red Beret had told him as much, but Holmes thought of him as a comic book soldier. The confidence he showed in himself and his force would disappear the moment someone fired back.
“Sir.” A trooper approached the commander and snapped a salute. “Craft all fueled and ready, sir!”
“Good, good. Thank you, soldier.” He returned the salute then turned to Holmes. They were less cautious of the foamers here, and they had battery powered lamps running. “What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”
“I think we look like a damn bunch of motherfuckers you don’t wanna mess with. That’s what I think!”
That kind of tough war hero talk got Red Beret all fired up, even if the actual action didn’t. Holmes saw his face shudder in the lamplight and wondered for a moment whether the commander was about to have a seizure or an ejaculation, which, Holmes thought, probably amounted to the same thing for this veteran of war movies.
“Commander, commander?”
“Oh, huh … right, right with you.” Red Beret coughed and regained his composure, or part of it.
“All right, you lot, let’s get aboard. We want to get there by dawn, so let’s get to it!”
Holmes and Red Beret boarded the largest of the pleasure cruisers. Another member of the armed group was inside leaning over a map; he had a compass in one hand.
“Sir, it won’t be any trouble once we get through this channel. It’s basically a straight course to Sandspit. The sea has died down, and as long as we don’t get any wind, these boats will get us there at about sunrise.”
“Then get us under way, and good job.”
The trooper turned, started the boat, and eased it out of Port Edward Harbor. Two more sport/pleasure boats followed. Once they were clear of the harbor area, the big boats opened up to almost full speed.
Holmes checked his watch. In a few hours, it would be dawn, and he would be in Sandspit, coming face to face with the former president again. He was sure this would be the last time the two met.
* * *
A tense several hours followed. It wasn’t easy on anyone to sit in the dark and wait for the sunrise. At least no one among the party had small children; that would have been a nightmare. When someone needed a visit to the restroom, a soldier or even Elliot or the Tall Man accompanied them to the small bathroom. They waited outside while the visitor stumbled around inside. It was one such visit to the restroom that unleashed all hell just as the skies began to lighten in the east. The dawn was about to arrive.
The copilot of the Global Express tripped inside the restroom and reached out in the dark to grab hold of something—anything—to break his fall.
“What the hell is that?” the Tall Man swore under his breath when he heard a metallic clang as the paper towel dispenser was ripped from the wall.
“What the fuck happened?” He burst into the restroom.
“I tripped, and—”
“Yeah, I heard.” He hoped the foamers that lurked outside hadn’t. We don’t always get what we hope for in life, and he wouldn’t this time.
“Chuck, Chuck, come quick!” Elliot called from the office, no longer attempting to keep his voice low.
The shit had hit the fan!
* * *
The fish market resembled a sports or community hall. The largest building, the concrete-floored area where the fish trade was conducted, was more than two stories in height. A single row of windows stretched all the way around this part of the corrugated iron building, but the windows were too high for any foamers to reach. The metal-framed door of the trading floor was also too strong—they hoped—for foamers to get through. The office rooms were different. All were a single story, but the windows in each were high in a corner, which suggested the offices were added later as they became necessary. If the foamers were capable of basic thought and were aware of living beings inside, they would find a way to scale the outside wall and get to the windows. Hell, if there were enough foamers … well, no one wanted to think about it.
“What, what is it?” The Tall Man felt his way along the wall and back into the first office where Elliot was. He still kept his voice down.
“Foamers! They know we’re here.” Elliot’s voice wasn’t quite a whisper; it was more like a hiss. A desperate hiss.
The Tall Man stood on a chair and looked out the window. The light had improved enough that he could now see silhouettes as they moved down the road. Toward the fish market.
“Shit, there’s a hundred at least!”
“You think they know we’re here?”
It was irrelevant whether they did or didn’t. The foamers had heard a noise from this area—the fish market—and were coming to investigate.
“I don’t know if they’re aware of that fact or not.” The Tall Man answered the question but didn’t know who asked it. Hushed voices sounded different. “But do you think all of us can remain silent while they search around the building, pound on the walls, or start to push the door in?”
Whoever had asked the question didn’t respond this time. He could see the logic. The first foamer to thump on the wall or howl would cause a panic inside the market. The women might scream, others might run from one room to the next, and those with the weapons might begin firing. There was no optimistic view; not this time.
The Tall Man went into the other office. He kept one hand on the wall to prevent himself from falling in the dark. Elliot jumped onto the chair and watched for the foamers’ approach.
From the other room, the Tall Man could see the Sandspit marina. The catamaran they came in on had drifted out and was about twenty yards—the length of the line—away from the jetty. A small dinghy was nearby and would hold maybe eight people, but in this light you’d want to play it safe and go with six. The Tall Man did some fast calculations: It wouldn’t work. It would take too much time to load six into the boat and send them to the cat, then have one of them bring it back.
“No. Damn foamers would be on top of us by the time we got the second load in the dinghy—if not sooner.” He rubbed the thick growth on his face. The market, because of its shape and how it was situated, wasn’t the most desirable defensive position. In the Tall Man’s eyes, it was close to useless.
“There’s only the one entrance and one exit from the market, so that will be easy to defend.”
The Tall Man turned sharply when Chess spoke behind him. He, too, had given up whispering.
It was time to fight!
15
Holmes looked out through the windows of the small cabin. They’d made better time than they had expected.
“There it is, Mr. Holmes … Sandspit.” Red Beret handed over the night vision scope.
Holmes could see a large catamaran tied up near the harbor, and it occurred to him that’s what his friends had crossed the sea in.
“Impressive, mist—” Holmes almost gagged. “There’s movement, people moving about near that building!”
“Gimme a look.”
Holmes handed the scope back to the commander (Holmes still allowed him to think he was the commander) of their raiding party.
“They’re not people, Holmes. They’re foamers. About a hundred or more.”
“You can handle them, can’t you?”
“Of course. A hundred foamers is like a hundred unarmed gangbangers. Easy as pissing. They look like they’re headed to that building up from the harbor area.” He handed the scope back to Holmes.
While Holmes watched through the scope, Red Beret told the other men aboard this, the command boat, that they were about to confront foamers once more. The dawn was just breaking.
* * *
“That’s it, old man, that’s where they are!” Holmes called.
“Did you call me?” Red Beret stuck his head back inside the cabin when he heard Holmes’s cry.
“The bastards I’ve been tracking and the prick responsible for all of this—they’re in that building!” Holmes turned to Red Beret, the gleam in his eye visible in the faint light. “Let’s get ‘em, cowboy!”
* * *
Now was not the time for the Tall Man to care about Chess’s motives, or anyone else’s, for that matter. They were in perhaps their worst predicament since the foamer outbreak, made worse by the added factors of unfamiliar terrain, a bad defensive position, almost nonexistent field of fire, and no escape route.
If the Tall Man, Mulhaven, Chess, or any of the military guys who had arrived in the C-17 had stopped to think about it, they probably would have considered suicide a viable option. Fortunately, they didn’t have the luxury to think about it; like all well-trained and disciplined military personnel, they acted.
The real driver of the group was, as always, Elliot. He was not military-trained and had never considered a career in the services. Defending an establishment that ultimately produced people like Etheridge, Holmes, and Hadlee—the fool who had tried to use his position as head of the Department of Homeland Security to usurp the power of the president—was not how he envisioned his life. He’d never seen himself having to flee across two countries to avoid undead creatures either, but hey… shit happens.
“Chess, get two guys, one with a rifle and one with a shotgun, to watch the front entrance. I’ll get two on the exit,” the Tall Man said.
“There’s more,” the agent at the window called.
“More? Let me—”
“Get on with what you’re doing, Chuck. I’ll handle this.” Elliot had heard the Tall Man tell Chess what was needed, and he didn’t want him sidetracked. “You can’t be everywhere!”
“Tristan, take another three into the room next to us, and place two at the window.”
Tristan didn’t waste time with replies; he called out to three others then disappeared. Only the sound of their boots were heard as they made their way into the adjacent office.
“Someone hand me a rifle,” Elliot called.
“No, Elliot. Not you, you’re needed here!” Cindy’s voice suggested she was not to be argued with even in a situation such as this.
“It’s okay, Elliot, we’ll man the window,” a soldier replied.
“Thank you, and be careful, okay?”
“You got it, boss!”
One corner of Elliot’s mouth rose slightly. Boss. He liked it.
“Shit,” came a voice from the window. “There’s thousands of the fuckers—oops, sorry, Miss Cindy, I didn’t mean to—”
“Never mind. Just make sure you get every fuckin’ one, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am!” came the quick reply. If not for the dark, Cindy would have seen—and appreciated—the salute given to her out of pure respect by the soldier.
Mulhaven and two Secret Service agents acted as roving guards and kept check on the other rooms of the administrative part of the building. The windows of these rooms didn’t face the direction the foamers came from, but in the heat of battle, they wouldn’t want them left unguarded.
“One shot, one kill,” the Tall Man reiterated. “One shot, one fucking kill. Got it?” He took an LED pen light and, cupping his hand over the lens, took stock of their response.
Another hundred armed men would be helpful, but it’s the best we can do.
He searched for the Weatherby Magnum the
n stopped when he realized that, along with most of their ammunition, it was on board the catamaran.
Fuck.
The Tall Man, in one giant stretch, hopped onto the chair next to the soldier for a final check. “Okay, open fire when they get to the edge of the parking lot.”
He eased himself down off the chair. He didn’t want to break an ankle in the dark. He made his way to the other room to inform the other soldiers when they could fire.
“Where do you want me, Elliot?”
There was just enough light for Elliot to make out the features of Bob Charles. Even if he hadn’t seen him, the deep baritone voice of the former president signaled his presence.
“Bob.” Elliot showed surprise. “I, err … well, we got all areas covered, I think.”
“Surely there must be something?”
Elliot didn’t want to tell the former supreme commander that he wasn’t wanted. Maybe he could help, maybe …
“Why don’t you and Mr.Transky help Mulhaven keep everyone calm? That will be a hard job when the shooting starts.”
“Sure, I’d be glad to.” Bob’s shoes made a shuffling sound in the carpet as he turned around. “And thanks, Elliot.”
Before Elliot replied, three shots in close succession rang out from the window above.
The battle had started.
Two more shots followed, then fire from the next office.
“Remember, one shot per foamer!” the Tall Man yelled.
If the foamers hadn’t heard the voices, they were aware of the shooting. Their lumbering gait picked up, their focus now directly on the market ahead.
Food.
* * *
Sharp whip-like cracks traversed the water to the three large pleasure cruisers, now within half a mile of the Sandspit Harbor.
“They’ve started shooting,” Red Beret announced.
A thin streak of uneven yellow appeared in the eastern sky—the sun had risen—but storm clouds were also present. The dark clouds mixed with the haze of the smoke that still lingered; it promised to be an overcast and bleak day.
Toward the Brink (Book 3) Page 16