Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  “JESUS CHRIST!” Elliot shouted and shifted into reverse and slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

  Against All Odds 17

  Elliot burned rubber in the sheriff’s SUV in a frantic attempt to put some distance between himself and the undead abomination. The SUV bounced over the curb, then stopped in the street as Elliot shifted to drive. This was the foamer’s chance.

  The abominable lawman dove through the air and landed on the hood of the county sheriff’s vehicle.

  “Holy shit!” Elliot put his foot down and drove on, swerving from side to side, but the foamer held on to the wiper mounts.

  “Get off, you fucker, get off!”

  Elliot headed straight line back to where Jerry was, building up speed as he went. Just before he reached Jerry’s location, he hit the brakes. The SUV skidded to a halt and the former law officer was thrown clear across the hood and landed heavily on the asphalt road—not that it did any damage.

  “I got you now, you dead…shit!” Elliot wailed at the animated cadaver and put the SUV into reverse.

  In the time it took for the foamer to get to his feet, Elliot had reversed a good fifty yards. The undead creature turned to look at the bright headlights of the vehicle and Elliot shifted into drive, putting the pedal to the metal.

  Elliot leaned forward in his seat with determination as tires spun and the engine seethed. The foamer obviously had no fear and started to run toward the oncoming vehicle.

  “That’s it, you fucker. Keep coming, just keep coming!”

  The grill of the Ford Explorer hit the foamer in the chest, knocking him to the road. Elliot felt the vehicle lurch as he bounced over the body, he didn’t count on one little hit to do the job. Elliot stopped the SUV, turned in his seat, and looked behind. Sure enough, in the eerie, red glow of the tail-lights, he watched as the foamer struggled to his feet. He was about to shift to reverse for another run at the foamer, but then changed plans.

  “Fuck it!” he jumped out of the SUV, reached over, and grabbed the rifle, checked to see loaded round was in the chamber, and placed the butt firmly into his shoulder.

  “You won’t be makin’ your arrest quota this week, deputy!”

  Elliot eased his finger over the trigger, took a deep breath and—

  Elliot jumped at the noise of a small cannon from his side and slightly behind. He turned to see a bent-over Jerry with the Dan Wesson revolver in his hand. He’d heard the commotion and forced himself to assist Elliot. The former officer from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department now lay motionless, sprawled out on the road.

  “Thanks, Jerry. Damn good shot, too.” Even though Elliot had the situation under control, the effort Jerry made was impressive, and Elliot was determined to let him know that. The teenager from Twin Falls understood this guy was a fighter to the end—even if he was a bit squeamish about boats and water.

  In five minutes, Elliot helped his wounded partner into the SUV, then packed their belongings and were on the road to Astoria. Or more specifically, the airport. Elliot had figured it would be a three-hour drive at the most, but with clear roads in front of him, it shouldn’t be more than two and a bit. The SUV had enough gas for the trip. The only thing that could stop them now would be another attack.

  Foamer, mutant, or human.

  Against All Odds 18

  The dashboard clock in the white Lincoln County Sheriff’s SUV indicated that two hours and ten minutes had passed until they drove through the open chain-link gate into the Astoria airport. It was also just after midnight according to the clock. Elliot and Jerry agreed it would be best if they could find a fully fueled plane to take. Elliot told Jerry of the two Cessna’s he saw on the runway when he first came through here in the helicopter, just a couple of weeks back.

  “Did you check any of them for fuel?”

  “No, no time. Just fueled up the chopper, that was all.”

  “We’ll check ’em out. If we can find them in the dark.”

  Clouds still covered the night sky, but for the moment the rain held off.

  “I think it was up that way.” Elliot made a turn at the hangars.

  “I’m getting your juice, I think.”

  “Eh?”

  “I feel like we have to leave and fast, y’know.”

  “Yeah, I know. I feel like we’re being watched right now.”

  The problem was, with Jerry’s injury, they couldn’t be fast. There was no way to check the fuel on a plane without starting it up—just like a car. Elliot would have to jump in the cockpit while Jerry instructed him on the startup procedures. If the foamers—or worse, the mutants—attacked, their days would be over. Jerry wouldn’t be able react fast enough. They also needed a plane that didn’t have propeller locks on. If that was the case, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. At least, not by air.

  “Did you check any hangars last time?”

  “No. We found fuel in the first one, so there was no need to keep looking.”

  “I gather there weren’t any planes inside?”

  “None.”

  They drove onto the runway, now just the running lights on, and stopped short of the two planes Elliot spoke of. They faced the front propeller-end of both.

  “Damn. They have propeller chain locks on.”

  “Both?”

  “Yeah, see that cable-like thing, wrapped around one prop blade and extended to the other?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, we won’t be getting those off anytime soon, for sure. We’re gonna have to search the hangars. And if you have any secret contacts in the spirit world that owe you a favor, now’s the time to ask.”

  As Elliot drove back to the hangars, he thought of Sam. Sam who talked like Humphrey Bogart and had the swagger of John Wayne—who had come to Elliot in a vision and warned him.

  There was something about Sam—and it wasn’t just his Bogey impersonation. As he closed on the hangars, Elliot heard voices.

  Elliot, listen to me and listen good. You must move now. Lickety-split. See what I’m sayin’? It was Sam. Sam spoke to him now. Not the normal ones. The ones used by the coast. The coast, Elliot. See what I’m sayin’? Be quick, lickety split—coz they’re comin’!

  “What coast? What coast?”

  “Sorry, Elliot. Are you talking to me?”

  “Oh, uh…sorry was just…err, thinking out, loud I guess. Anyway, we’ve got to hurry!”

  “There’s the hangars,” Jerry said. “Elliot, what the hell’s up? You drove straight past the—”

  “I know what I’m doing.” Elliot was determined now. Sam had told him.

  He was on the tarmac, past the first hangars, and then came to an open area which led to another hangar he didn’t see the first time around. He drove up to the sign for a closer look.

  “What’s it say?” Jerry asked as Elliot shined the flashlight over the sign.

  “You got two eyes, maybe you should tell me.”

  “US Coast Guard Air Station Astoria. Is that what you wanted?”

  “You bet it is. Thank you, Sam!” Elliot pumped his right fist by his chest.

  “Err, are you talking with your imaginary friend again?”

  “Never mind, I’ll tell you later. Right now, we got a plane to catch.”

  Elliot pulled the SUV over to one side, then grabbed the shotgun and ran over to the side door of the Coast Guard hangar. Two blasts of the 12-gauge followed, then moments later the, hangar doors opened. Bright light from inside illuminated the entire area. The stealthy approach had been shelved.

  Elliot ran back to the SUV. “All right, there are no locks on this one. I’m gonna try to hotwire it now. I keep the chocks on the wheels, right?”

  “Yes, but it probably has brakes on as well. Just get it started and don’t touch the throttle—that’s the main thing for now.”

  Elliot handed the shotgun back to Jerry and drove the sheriff’s SUV as close to the plane as he could. He took his revolver back and raced into the hangar. This was the vuln
erable moment. Should an attack happen now…

  From where Jerry sat inside the Ford Explorer, the open hangar reminded him of the bright light that escaped from the giant UFO in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He was sure this light could be seen for miles. He hoped they could get through this smoothly.

  “Okay Jerry what do I do?”

  “Open the throttle about a quarter of the way,” Jerry then hoped his partner knew what the throttle looked like.

  After some delay, as Elliot searched inside the cabin he received his reply. “Got it. What next?”

  “Did you clear the prop?”

  After Elliot confirmed he had, Jerry went ahead with the rest of the instructions. Painful on his chest as it was, he was able to relax when he heard the sound of the engine fire-up.

  Elliot jumped from the plane and came out through the side door of the hangar to avoid crossing in front of the propellers. Normally the plane wouldn’t have been started inside the hangar, but they didn’t have time for safety precautions.

  “We got almost a full tank of fuel on this one, we should be good to go!” Elliot called as he got close to the SUV. “I’ll put the pack and the weapons in first, then come back for you, okay?”

  Jerry gave a thumbs-up he was ready to get under way to.

  “After you me in get in the plane, you’ll have to stand outside on the apron and keep an eye on the wingtips as I leave the hangar,” Jerry said as he was helped from the sheriff’s vehicle.

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  With the hangar lights on, Elliot found a set of steps used by aircraft mechanics and positioned them underneath the wing next to the pilot-side door. The rails on the side of the steps helped Jerry get into the cockpit. But it still wasn’t an easy—or painless—undertaking.

  Elliot then headed out onto the apron and toward the taxiway. With a flashlight in each hand, he made an up-down motion, which Jerry could see easily. It was hard on Jerry’s upper body as he took the stick and eased the throttle forward. He taxied toward the waving lights ahead—he had to lean forward to see and occasionally stretch out to adjust the rudder on the Cessna’s small dashboard. He hoped he could remember his training—it had been some time since his last flight. When he got to the taxiway, Jerry came to a stop and waited for Elliot.

  There was an uncomfortable delay before Elliot opened the door.

  “Get to the fucking runway, now!” Elliot screamed into the cabin, then slammed the door shut before any questions could be asked.

  While Elliot watched the single-engine plane taxi to the runway, he suddenly became aware of a presence—and not friendly. This was their last chance, and he was determined not to let anything fuck it up now.

  Elliot heard—or thought he heard—a long, drawn-out groan from the northern end of the field, coming from the city of Astoria. But the city was over Youngs Bay, which run off the huge Columbia River. Surely no foamers…

  Movement. This time from the west, the Warrenton side. Shadows sluggishly made their way toward the runway. The light had drawn their attention, Elliot surmised, but it was too late to worry about that now. He had to stop them from preventing the plane’s takeoff. He checked his revolver—six rounds in the chamber, and two speed-loaders in his jacket. At least he could stop a few of them.

  The question was where they foamers or mutants?

  If the former, then it would be feasible for a small group to be out and roaming. But if it were the latter, there would be thousands. Eighteen rounds of ammunition wouldn’t put the slightest dent in their number. Elliot followed behind the Cessna on foot as it taxied to the runway, but with his eyes glued back toward the hangar and the area west of there. As the plane reached the runway, silhouettes standing five and half foot and more, staggered in front of the hangar lights. Foamers.

  “Come on, Elliot, get in!” Jerry opened his door and yelled as best he could.

  “Be right there!” Elliot sensed some foamers were close and swept his flashlight in front of him.

  Not twenty yards to the side of the main runway, a dozen foamers were illuminated by the beam.

  “Holy shit!” Elliot held the flashlight in a reverse-grip in his left hand, and laid his right hand—clutching his revolver—on top of his left wrist. The Harries technique.

  He waited. Another few yards, just a few yards—

  BAM! BAM! BAM! He fired when the foamers reached the distance. BAM! BAM! BAM!

  Smoothly, he swung the cylinder out and ejected the six cartridge shells, he pulled a speed-loader from his jacket, and inserted a new load. Elliot pushed the cylinder back in—rather than swing it, like in the movies—then put the empty speed-loader back in his pocket. The next lot of foamers were now within six or seven yards and he dropped them like bales of hay from a barn loft.

  Jerry heard the shots and reached for the double-barrel shotgun. Though he wanted to, he couldn’t join his younger friend—it would take too long. Suddenly, the passenger door of the cockpit opened and a rush of cold, night air entered the cabin. It brought a foul stench of death and decay with it.

  “JEEZUZ!”

  A foamer managed to get to the plane and even open the cabin door. The undead filth lunged at him, but came up short. However, for Jerry the pain in his chest from recoiling brought tears to his eyes. As the creature tried to lift himself in, Jerry aimed the shotgun and fired both barrels. The force of the blast blew the walking corpse out of the cabin.

  “All right, Jerry!” Elliot’s cheered from outside. “I’m coming in—don’t shoot.”

  More foamers had arrived and Elliot was down to six rounds—it was time to go.

  “Are we ready?” Elliot asked as he climbed into the cockpit.

  Jerry hit the lights and turned onto the runway. “As ready as we’ll ever—”

  The headlights of the Cessna picked up a wall of foamers—six or seven deep—spread across the runway.

  “Can we go through them?”

  “Not without permanently damaging the aircraft.”

  Elliot looked to the sides and behind, but couldn’t see much. “Maybe we can try the other runway—”

  “We don’t know where they are—they could attack us from the sides and stall the plane.”

  “What the fuck do we do then?”

  Jerry stared out at the wall of undead and tried to think of an answer. “You could stand on the wing strut and fire on them and—”

  “What the hell would I hold onto?” Elliot looked over at his partner, his eyes as big as saucers. “Besides, I couldn’t shoot all of them even if we had enough ammo—which we don’t.”

  “All right, let me swing around and try for the other runway. It’s the—”

  “Hold it Jerry—look!” Elliot grabbed Jerry’s arm lightly.

  “What the…”

  The attacking foamers had all moved at just over a snail’s pace from the moment Elliot first spotted the shadowy figures near the Coast Guard hangar. More concerned with their escape plan not being hindered, he hadn’t paid much attention to the physical state of the foamers—other than noting they had started to resemble the rotting corpses of the Romero movies.

  “They’re collapsing!” Jerry thrust himself forward in the pilot seat. “Argh, fuck!”

  “Easy man, you have to remember you’re hurt.” Elliot helped to ease him back, then turned to watch the strange sight before his eyes. One at a time, the wall of foamers took a few steps forward, then fell to the runway. First to their knees, then slumped face-forward on the ground. A few made cursory struggles to crawl or get back up, but would suddenly stop, go into a violent seizure, and fall like a wet burlap sack.

  “What the hell is happening Jerry?”

  “They’re dying. Dying out, once and for all. I wondered how long the dead could survive. I mean…wow, there’s more questions than we have time for but…” Jerry turned to his younger companion, “this by no means will be the case for all of them. And there’s still those mutant things.”

  El
liot wished he hadn’t mentioned them. But he was right—it was way too early for any evaluation.

  “Look, we can get around them, and the rest of the runway is clear.” Jerry pointed to the runway beyond. There were no more foamers lurking in the shadows.

  They waited a full ten minutes for the last foamer to fall and finish its death throes—or would it be life throes, Elliot asked himself. The sight was horrifying no doubt but he also felt elated at the turn of events. Could the foamers be dying off after all this, or was it only these few?

  Maybe they got into the aviation gas at the airport?

  The plane taxied around the edge of the foamers. Elliot had the sawed-off shotgun in one hand and his Magnum revolver in the other, just in case the foamers jumped back up and swarmed the plane—which wasn’t unexpected. They got around without any incident.

  Jerry looked over at his partner. “Let’s do it!”

  “It’s a bit late to ask, but how are those pills affecting you?”

  “I’m okay to get us in the air. Once we get to altitude, I’ll engage the auto-pilot.”

  “Then will it be safe for you to take another pain pill?”

  “I should be okay with one. We make a good pair, don’t we? You with only one good eye, and me with a cracked chest—bone?”

  The engine of the Cessna picked up speed, then headed down the runway. Slowly—and with more than a few wobbles—it climbed into the sky. The destination was Sandspit, which Jerry had said would take them all of five hours to get there and their fuel capacity would probably last for four and a half. Jerry said that in the last lesson he took, he learned how to stretch your fuel—intermittently switch off the engine and glide for a while. The only downfall to this fuel efficiency was if you couldn’t get the plane’s engine to start up again.

  Both agreed they couldn’t worry about that—not now. They were free from the foamer and mutant-infested wastelands of the North American continent, and risks had to be taken to achieve that. Hell, it had been one big risk from the start. But wasn’t life always that way?