Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  Everyone on the catamaran was on the deck looking out to sea. Chuck had a hollow feeling in his gut, fearing he would see the worst—the mutants swimming out after them.

  “Look!” Sam pointed out to sea when Chuck and the other two arrived.

  Rob helped him to the guard rail where they both stared in disbelief. A US Ohio-class submarine had risen from the depths of the North Pacific and now sat in the relatively calm waters, a mile or so from their position.

  “Is that for fuckin’ real?” Rob said.

  “It looks like it to me,” Chuck answered. “How long has it been there?”

  “Sam noticed it just a moment before I came to get you. I mean, the size of that thing…we couldn’t help but notice it, y’know? By the way, glad to see you’re okay, Chuck.”

  “Thanks, Ric. Yeah, it’s a big one, all right—an Ohio class.” Chuck had showed his knowledge on all things great and small once again. “You know, I’d never given any thought to our sub fleet.”

  “Care to elaborate, Chuck?”

  “What I mean,” he explained, his eyes fixed on the sub and the new hope that came with it, “submarines can stay under the sea for months without having to surface. That could mean the crew—at least for this one—haven’t suffered any ill effects and maybe don’t even know what’s taken place.”

  “How could they not? Wouldn’t they have had communications?”

  “Yes, but like everywhere else, communications broke down when the infection spread. There may have been—and still may be—underground bases that could have provided comms. But unlike subs, they had to bring in food and water daily, so their chances of remaining unaffected were slim at best.”

  “Do you think they know we’re here?” Smithie asked.

  “I’d say so, that’s probably why they surfaced. Their onboard equipment—radar and such—probably still works.”

  “All right! I’ll steer on over there.” Sam, excitedly, said.

  “Let’s just wait for a moment, give them time to assess the situation and make the first move. Remember, subs have some powerful weapons. They could blow us clear out of the water. Just wave real friendly like.”

  They all followed the suggestion and waved while trying not to appear too anxious. Chuck, admired their restraint because he knew they would be bursting at the seams with excitement—just as he was.

  While Chuck knew this would be a game-changer, he wasn’t exactly sure how. Of course, the proviso would be everything worked to their interests.

  After a few minutes of inactivity where the two vessels looked like they were squaring off against one another, like sailing ships from another era, several figures appeared atop the conning tower.

  “Ahoy there. Aboard the catamaran.” A crackled, electrified voice traveled across the waves. “Approach the submarine. Repeat, approach the submarine.”

  It took Sam approximately five minutes to steer the catamaran within twenty yards of the sub, which looked like a giant, prehistoric monster floating on top of the sea. The cat then drifted toward the sub, where several crew members—on the deck of the sub—awaited. Ropes from the cat were thrown to them and then secured. They helped the crew from the catamaran onto the deck of the sub.

  Chuck and his team were then escorted to the deck hatch behind the conning tower. From there to the officer’s study in the forward compartment, where they were greeted by the captain and his senior officers.

  “Welcome aboard the USS Louisiana, gentleman. I’m Captain Mayer, the commanding officer. This is my Executive Lieutenant Jones, Navigator Lieutenant Goodes, and my weapons officer, Commander Sandis. First off, I must say how surprised—well, shocked to say the least—we are to have discovered you out here.”

  “We’re all in the same boat then Captain—literally and figuratively. We thought you were an apparition when we saw the sub rise from to the surface,” Chuck explained.

  “Tell me, are you men hungry? You look like you’ve been through the wars, so to speak.”

  Chuck had insisted on leaving the rifles aboard the catamaran, but carried his Desert Eagle with him onto the sub. With all of them covered in grime, dressed in some form of military gear, smelling of gasoline and an acrid stench of gunpowder, the captain’s assumption was a darn good one.

  “Well, I’d love a damn-good coffee, I know that!” Sam didn’t hesitate.

  “Coming right up. What about you, Mr…?”

  “Chuck. Just call me—”

  “Fuckin’ Chuck!” Rob, Cleavon, and Ric echoed.

  Captain Mayer’s eyes darted about, clearly puzzled at the outburst.

  “It’s okay, I’ll tell you about it later,” Chuck said. “But I wouldn’t mind a shot of something stronger, if you have it?” Chuck needed it for his sore head as much as to calm his nerves.

  “We can do that, gentlemen, but let’s do so in the officers’ mess. This room is reserved for officer meetings and such.”

  Commander Sandis opened the door and spoke to a seaman before leading the way to the mess. Mayer followed, then Chuck and his team, with the last two submariners bringing up the rear.

  Within seconds of their arrival at the officers’ mess—a room identical in styles and size as the previous one—coffee and cups were brought in and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label was also produced. As coffee and whiskey were poured and consumed, small talk went around the miniature table before more important questions were asked.

  Chuck told the story of the survivors in his group. He kept it short, only mentioning they left the mainland for the hoped-for sanctuary of Graham or Moresby Islands. He told the captain they were undecided as to which was best. The initial outbreak at Twin Falls and Chuck’s involvement with the company who caused all this to happen were left out—for now, anyway. As were mentions of the president, Richard Holmes, and the DTRA. There would be time for that later. What Chuck and his companions wanted to know was how did a sub happen to be out here where were they headed, were there anymore, and…

  One at a time, just one at a time, Chuck reminded himself.

  “The first information we received was of an outbreak of a cholera-like disease in the northwest of the country. While it was considered a very serious quarantine, actions were underway and should have prevented any further spread. That was, err…”

  “Over a month ago, sir,” Lt. Goodes answered smartly—as junior officers do.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. We also got a warning directly from the Center for Disease Control, which is more than unusual as they have no direct role with defense and definitely nothing to do with the submarine fleet.”

  “What did the CDC warn you of?”

  “They told us to be wary of anyone aboard who complained of severe stomach problems—like cramps—followed by vomiting a green substance, and—”

  “The CDC told you this that far back?” Chuck understood there were more people at high levels aware of the scourge that was about to ravish the Earth.

  “Yes, they did. Why? Is there something I need to know?”

  “I’ll fill you in, Captain. But for now, please continue.” Chuck sat comfortably now inside this small room. It was warm, the chairs were okay, but best of all—they were safe from those mutants. The second whiskey he was on also helped.

  “Within hours of that warning, several crew members reported to sick-bay with stomach cramps. We thought food poisoning at first, but as the entire crew had eaten much the same and we only got a few complaints, we discounted that theory.”

  “And what happened to these men, Captain?” Sam, also nursing a whiskey, asked.

  “They died,” Sandis replied. “Twice!”

  “I don’t get your meaning.”

  “I do, Sam.” Chuck looked over to the commander and gave him a nod of recognition. Been there, my friend.

  Captain Mayer expanded on the commander’s explanation—or lack of one. He told how after death was verified by the ship’s doctor, the dead rose one by one. “We had no choice. None.
We lost several others before the decision to shoot was made. You can’t go firing a weapon inside a submarine any time you like, y’know. It was horrific to witness. These were men I’d served with for years. I was best man at the wedding of one. Best man!”

  Chuck noticed one of the officers place a reassuring hand on the captain’s arm. Yeah, they had also had it tough, he understood that much.

  “What did you do with the bodies?” Chuck specifically wanted to know if the dead were still onboard, and the potential threat that might be.

  “We understood pretty damn quick what happened if you encountered the vomit. They became like them. They were fucking zombies—zombies! Anyway, we jettisoned the bodies in weighed-down body-bags and cleaned up the green spew.” Sandis appeared more forthcoming the more he conversed with Chuck. Veterans had a way of understanding.

  Mayer explained that communications went dead soon after. They surfaced many times to try and establish contact on the many different frequencies out there—including satellite—but only managed to pick up a few scrambled calls. Due to the lack of security or department-specific protocols, none appeared to be military or government. They did pick up some traffic from other submarines nearby, including a Russian missile boat, and could glean enough information of the catastrophe the world now faced. But nothing of its origins.

  “How many other subs are out there?” Sam asked. It was the question of the moment.

  “I don’t know for sure, but there seems to be a few. We did receive news that some boats suffered as their crews succumbed to this disease. Maybe they didn’t deal with it as fast as we did, or maybe we just got lucky—I can’t say for sure.”

  Chuck looked at his companions, then to the officers. He knew “suffered” meant these subs sunk to the bottom of the ocean floor. Being ballistic or guided-missile subs, they could withstand the pressures surrounding the hull at great depths. But they wouldn’t be able to withstand the ferocity of the foamers locked inside their tin can with them. Members of the crew might have been able to get away from the reach of the foamers and lock themselves in a compartment where they could then look forward to dying from starvation. A slow, painful death or eaten by foamers—not a great choice.

  “And did these other subs mention what their plans were? I mean, you can’t stay out on the ocean forever. You have to come in sooner or later for supplies, right?”

  “They were headed to the South Pacific. Australia or New Zealand. Some had information that the plague wasn’t as drastic there and that there might even be a life close to normal and—”

  “You have to tell us,” Sandis interrupted the captain, “you’ve been on the mainland, you know. Is it as bad as those stories we were told, or…?”

  Chuck poured himself another whiskey. It relaxed him like hadn’t been in a long time, then pushed the bottle away. Three was enough. He then looked Sandis in the eye. “It’s worse, Commander. Much worse. Think of the worst-case nuclear attack scenario on a US city, add to that all cities in all states, Canada, and probably everywhere else. Just without the radioactivity or physical devastation. But this idea of Australia or New Zealand is intriguing. Did any of the subs tell you why these places would be exempt from the foamer plague?”

  “Sorry, the what?”

  “Foamers. It’s what they’ve been called. Named after the green foam they spew up,” Sam told him.

  “Aha. Well, it’s appropriate,” Mayer agreed. “Anyway, we didn’t get any explanation at length as to why. We’d been patrolling along the west coast here for signs of life or a signal of some kind in case there were survivors that needed help. This was our last run when we spotted you on radar.”

  Mayer explained they had enough supplies aboard the Louisiana for themselves and a few more to last the trip to the South Pacific. But he added that if things weren’t any better down there, he had no idea of what he would do next.

  There was no Plan B.

  “Well, you’ve found us and the question is, do you have room for all of us?” Sam proved to be worth more than just a boat pilot to the team. Not being a military type, he didn’t hold himself in reserve when it came to asking questions of a high-ranking officer.

  “How many more of you are there on this island?” Lieutenant Jones asked. It was the first question he’d proffered.

  “Hmm, let me see…” Chuck’s eyes wandered up to the low ceiling, one eyebrow creased as he mentally counted the personnel at Sandspit. “Counting us here, I guess we’d number close to thirty.” He added Elliot and the crew that had headed east in his calculations—he hadn’t forgotten them.

  Not for a moment had he forgotten them.

  Against All Odds 5

  A block away from their encounter with the foamer in the Pontiac, Elliot and Jerry discovered an older four-door Jeep Renegade. The door on the passenger’s side had been ripped off and the seat itself was no longer in place, but Elliot could start it without any problem—another thing he’d learned from Chuck. The Jeep had almost three-quarters of a tank of gas, a bonus.

  It was a start—a good start, and they needed one right about now. Jerry was still a bit jumpy from the previous close encounter and Elliot couldn’t keep the questions in his head at bay.

  How long did it take to get this far?

  What guarantee was there the missiles wouldn’t launch?

  Would the streets belong to the foamers night and day now?

  How long would it take to get back to Sandspit?

  And who the hell—

  Argh! The questions just went on and on and on! Now they had wheels, perhaps and he would see progress toward their goal. Perhaps the chatter in his head would subside.

  “Were to first?” Elliot asked as he jumped behind the wheel.

  Jerry stowed their backpacks in the rear compartment then jumped into the backseat. “With the light fading, I think we need to find a safe place for the night.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Elliot drove off, away from the housing and commercial areas of the area. The wind still blew from a north-west direction as he headed toward Snake River and the nearby farms, which weren’t that far. He thought of the name Snake River and of Snake Plissken, the movie character Jerry said he now patch resembled because of the eyepatch.

  A movie character called Snake, a river called Snake—seems to be snakes everywhere.

  The thought brought a smile to his face and that felt good—there hadn’t been much to smile about lately. In retrospect, the whole trip—or planned trip—back to Washington was a disaster from the beginning. But how were they to know? Tom could have been correct—and might still be—but there was little that could be done now. Elliot resigned himself to believing—or hoping—that fool base commander at Mountain Home was right and the Dooms Day system was no longer operational.

  It was all he could do.

  “Tell me,” Elliot started up a conversation to keep their minds occupied, “have you seen any animals about? Like dogs, cats, or birds?”

  “No, not a lot. Not after the foamers started taking them for sustenance. One dog maybe, from a distance. And a few cats. But I haven’t seen a few birds flying about. What makes you ask?”

  “I’ve wondered why the animals haven’t been infected on the same level as humans, that’s all. A way’s back, I saw an infected dog, and in daylight, too. Different eyesight, I guess.”

  “I wonder also if people—survivors—may have resorted to using dogs and cats for food—and some say that all birds taste like Chicken to a lesser degree. With the stores stripped bare once the news of the outbreak spread. In big cities, there’d be precious few choices for those trying to survive.”

  “You survived in the city and you didn’t eat dogs or cats.”

  “No, I didn’t. But I also had a lot of freeze-dried foods and scavenged canned goods. And I’m only one person, I knew that once the city had been deserted, there would be leftover goods. Not a lot, mind you, but enough to keep me going—for a time anywa
y.”

  The Jeep headed north on the Clear Lakes Road toward Snake River, the farms on either side a mixture of green, brown, and burnt-out black. But the damage from the fire wasn’t as great as other areas.

  “Over there.” Jerry pointed to a small farm house and garage a mile or so back from the road and partially hidden by two large trees—also untouched by the fire.

  Elliot pulled off Clear Lakes and onto the dirt driveway, stopping just short of the chain-link gate.

  “Now that’s a good sign.” Jerry pointed to the gate.

  “What, what is?”

  “The chain on the gate is still attached to the post. If any foamers had gone through here, I doubt they’d have put the chain back on.” He looked at Elliot and winked before he jumped out of the back to get the gate. He left the back-door open. “If anyone starts shooting, get out fast!”

  “If anyone’s gonna start shooting, they’ll probably wait until we’re halfway up the drive before they do.” Elliot yelled back.

  “My thoughts, too, and it would make sense. We’d have no way of escaping if they did.” Jerry called as he opened the gate.

  Elliot slowly drove forward after his companion returned to the car, though it wouldn’t have mattered if they came screaming up at full speed. If there were any armed occupants inside, Elliot and Jerry’s days would be over. They drove around the once well-kept yard that surrounded the farm house. The sun had gone behind the hills in the west and the dark was upon them. No lights shone from inside the house.

  “Let’s leave the car here and have ourselves a look, eh?”

  Elliot agreed it would be better to leave the car behind the house—just in case—and pulled up near the back door. Elliot got out first and stepped onto the porch, and grabbed the handle of the door, while Jerry covered with his semi—auto Remington. He had ample room to jump aside should Jerry have to start firing.

  “Hope this place is empty,” He whispered, he’d had just about enough of the cold air that whistled through the old Jeep.

  Jerry checked his weapon in the near dark then gave a sharp nod.