There was a moment of silence as the Tall Man contemplated the last statement..
“What I’m telling you, Mr. Black, is that your employment with Langlie is over. You need to get out of Idaho before it’s too late. I’m already on my way to the capital and will be there in a few hours. You’ll be met at the airport. They’re expecting you.”
The Tall Man paused for a moment of reflection after the phone conversation had ended then turned in his seat to speak with the unconscious Mrs. Dennard.
“‘They’re expecting you.’ I don’t like the sound of that. Who the fuck are ‘they’ anyway?”
# # #
The white Mazda van carrying Phillip Baer, five top executives, and of course Langlie, was just south of Baker City, Idaho on the 84. They were to board a small, twin-engine Cessna that would take them into Canada.
“So you are sure Dennard knows how to get there?” Baer asked.
“Yes, Mr. Baer. I gave him detailed plans on how to get there.” Langlie wondered how many more times he would have to respond to the same question. If he kept it up on the flight out of Canada, he’d probably end up killing the son of a bitch.
Not before I get what’s mine. Not before I get what’s mine!
# # #
The Tall Man slowed down, easing over to the side of the road. The Twin Falls airport was up ahead where a private plane waited to spirit him and the unfortunate Mrs. Dennard away—or did it? The Tall Man didn’t like the change in attitude of the Hidden One or the hints of total chaos. It had been less than an hour since he’d spoken with the man of mystery, and Mrs. Dennard had offered no resistance when he called on her. He’d had no idea of the impending catastrophe, nor did he understand the sudden disinterest in where Baer and company where headed, but it left him with a feeling that this plane trip would be his last.
Searching his mind for options—one doesn’t just walk away from these people—his train of thought was lost when a mass of green mucus splashed against the passenger side window.
“Holy shit!” he yelled.
The wrinkled, chalky-gray skin of Mrs. Dennard’s face came into view in the SUV’s interior mirror. The same green ooze dripped from her black, thin lips, and her eyes were all red, embers from the fires of hell. When the Tall Man heard gurgling sounds coming from her throat, he wasted no time in throwing the door open. He flung himself onto the ground and rolled as he had been trained many years ago. A spray of green drenched the driver’s seat where he had sat a mere second before.
“Jesus Christ, but you got ugly!”
He stripped a .357 Desert Eagle from a shoulder holster as he got to his feet. He took several steps back as he stared at the abomination in the back of the car. The back door creaked open, and the Tall Man watched as first one foot then the other was planted into the gravel by the roadside. A moment later, the former Mrs. Dennard staggered from the vehicle.
“Fuck me!”
The echo of the .357 Magnum was most likely heard by the inhabitants of the few farm houses that surrounded the airport, if there were any alive, but the Tall Man wasn’t concerned. He thought gunshots would be common out this way.
“So how do I get out of here now?” the Tall Man asked aloud, looking at the green spew that covered the SUV. “I’m not getting in there!”
# # #
The rumble of National Guard trucks and Hummers was heard before they were seen. The convoy approached from the east side of Filer Avenue, pausing at each intersection to let a squad of troops out. The evacuation had been given top priority, and it wasn’t “go home, get your belongings, and then leave the city.” It was a simple “leave now and don’t ask questions in the process.” Other vehicles had come from the west side of Filer, and other units, augmented by police and sheriff’s deputies, pressed from the north and the south respectively. The medical center was to be surrounded.
“Cindy?” Elliot called out after ending his conversation with his dad. “Cindy, where are you?”
A muffled screech came from inside Captain Brandt’s SUV.
“What the fuck?” Elliot rushed to the vehicle and swung the door to the back seat open. Brandt was on top of Cindy, pulling at her blouse and her pants with one hand while clasping the other over her mouth.
“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” Elliot seethed with anger. Only eighteen and unarmed, he wanted to kill the thirty-something cop with enough firepower to start a revolution—or finish one.
“Elliot! Elliot!” Cindy screamed. “Get this bastard off me!”
In his rage, he was able to easily pull the captain from the back seat. Brandt cushioned his fall as he hit the road and rolled to one side under the car door. Elliot slammed the door shut to get to Brandt, who had now jumped to his feet.
“Careful now, little boy.” The hammer of the Ruger Redhawk made an audible click as it was drawn back.
Faced with the barrel of a .44 Magnum, which looked like a cannon at close range, Elliot’s desire to tear the cop to pieces abated somewhat.
“Tell you what. You grab your girl and get out of here, and I’ll forget this little incident, okay?”
“Okay, but don’t ever cross my path again, Brandt.” Elliot held his hands out, palms up.
“You’re not in the best position to make any threats.” Brandt eased the hammer down on the Redhawk.
“Neither are you, fuck-knuckle!” The barrel of a Sig Sauer P-226 pressed against Brandt’s temple.
“I’m glad to see you, Sarge. Wondered where you got to.”
Elliot eased the big Ruger out of the hands of the once overconfident Brandt, now a sailing ship without a wind in the middle of the ocean and at the mercy of the elements.
“You bastard!” Cindy yelled. Furious that she’d been attacked, she sought payback. She stormed from the other side of the police SUV and marched up behind Brandt. To Cindy, he was just a bastard that had come close to raping her. The riot gun she had taken from the front seat wasn’t seen—not until she raised it to the back of Brandt’s head.
# # #
First year rookie cop Rodney Tibbuts picked himself up from the road. He cautiously dusted the pebbles of broken windshield glass from his uniform.
“Are you all right, sir?” a concerned pedestrian asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just shaken a little. Can you check on the other driver?”
Tibbuts was more than shaken. He didn’t think he would be able to remain conscious much longer.
“Sure, I’ll do that … right away.”
The rookie noted the pause by the pedestrian as he stepped closer. It was the smell of the green puke that covered the back of his head and face.
“Just check on the driver, please. I’ll call in.”
He staggered back toward the Twin Falls police SUV. Apart from a dented grill and a smashed window, it didn’t appear like it was in bad shape. He saw all airbags that activated had deflated. He steadied himself by resting a guiding hand on the hood. When he got to the driver’s side door, he opened it; he had forgotten all about his passenger.
Long, pointed, nailed hands reached out from the front seat, clawing at Tibbuts. The nurse he was taking to the clinic had been hidden under the airbags.
“Damn you, you crazy …” He took a startled jump to one side and almost toppled over.
As the nurse pulled herself forward along the seat, the guttural sound of a mangy dog came from deep inside her.
“My God, what the fuck is that?” A motorist who had seen the commotion from a distance had come over with the intention of offering assistance until he saw the nurse, or what was once a nurse, crawl from the police vehicle.
“Those eyes … What happened to the eyes?”
“Stand back, sir,” Tibbuts said.
Too late. The nurse launched a spray of green foam that hit the motorist high on the chest, some of it splashing into his mouth. Tibbuts pulled his pistol as fast as his trembling hand would allow.
“I don’t know what you are, you bi
tch, but you ain’t human!”
Two 9mm slugs punched through the head of the nurse that, only minutes ago, he had been rushing to save. A green mist puffed from the exit wound in the back of the head. She schlopped like a wet blanket, dead on the road.
“Oh shit!”
Tibbuts turned to see the conscientious motorist throw up.
He doesn’t know how lucky he is to be able to spew normal, Tibbuts thought.
# # #
“Sir, a call for you. On line two.”
“Thank you.”
The silver-haired, sixtyish man took the phone from his young assistant. He waited until he was out of range before he answered.
“Yes?”
He looked out the small window of the private Lear jet while he listened. The sun shone in an almost cloudless sky, bathing the surrounding farms in a warm glow. If it wasn’t for the small issue that the very structure of society was about to collapse, it could be considered quite a pleasant day.
“Well, it matters not any longer. The CDC has updated its threat assessment and will present it within the hour to the President. There’s a good chance that martial law will be declared across the country as it has been here in Idaho. I’ve made that my recommendation too, along with the closure of all national and international airports. So you see, bringing Mr. Black in to tie up some loose threads is completely irrelevant when the whole gown is about to unravel.”
He ended the call and threw the cell phone on the empty seat next to him. It was time to get airborne.
# # #
Captain Brandt had planned his attack carefully, or so he’d thought. While Elliot was on the phone with his father, he’d presented himself to Cindy as a concerned individual and not a police captain. He offered her the use of his cell phone and a private area where she could talk to her parents. He explained that the phone was in his SUV, that he would escort her to it and keep a watch over her. The captain had made sure his SUV was situated away from the other vehicles, and if he acted fast no one would hear.
Now with a 9mm pressed against his head, he wished he had kept a few of his men nearby. They weren’t on Filer Avenue proper, so there was no chance of the Guard helping him out.
“Cindy?” Elliot started, apprehension in his voice. He saw the anger in Cindy’s eyes, and he knew she was no stranger to using a pump-action shotgun.
“Get out of the way, Elliot. I don’t want the brains of this scum splattering all over you … if he has any!”
“Young lady, I wouldn’t …”
Cindy wasn’t about to listen to either of them. “If he did to you what he tried on me, you’d have shot him already, Mulhaven. Now back off!”
Brandt had raised his arms without being asked. If fear could be smelled as easily as a homemade pizza in the oven, this one was burning.
Cindy pumped the action on the Remington 870 and brought the barrel level with Brandt’s head. Mulhaven took a giant step backwards.
“Cindy, no!” Elliot shouted.
The twelve gauge roared, Cindy staggered, Brandt’s head shattered, and his body fell limp to the ground. Elliot ducked as best he could, but a portion of Brandt’s head tissue still splatted on top of him.
“Ah Jesus, what the …”
“I told you to get out of the way, didn’t I?” she said.
Elliot wiped blood, bone, and brains from his shoulders, all the time noting the steely resolve she had; Cindy wasn’t to be taken for a fool. Several officers appeared from the doorways of nearby buildings.
“Hold it right there!” and, “Drop the weapon!” they called.
Four officers had their service pistols trained on Cindy, and each one looked as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night.
# # #
The Tall Man looked about him and saw nothing but farmland. There were a few houses and barns that had cars parked out front, and he knew he’d have to walk up the driveway if he wanted to take one. After the attack he’d just escaped, stealing a car from someone’s front yard was child’s play.
“What the fuck was that thing?” he asked as he trudged up the slight incline of the driveway. “That was the ugliest fucker I’d ever seen in my life. Those red eyes … like the eyes of a demon, and … and …” His voice trailed off.
A white Saturn, probably a late nineties model, sat by itself in front of the family home. It wasn’t his first choice of car by any means, but he didn’t want to walk the half-mile or so to the next farm house. He took out his Desert Eagle and checked that there was a round in the chamber. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, but most of these farm people owned weapons themselves, and if they were aware of him, he might find himself looking at a double-barrel shotgun from the wrong end.
“Fuck it!”
The Saturn was locked; he’d have to break the window. Looking around the yard, he saw no tools available. He’d have to use his hand or the butt of his gun.
Smashing the window is a sure way of bringing attention to myself, the Tall Man reasoned. Still, it had to be done. He grabbed the Desert Eagle and pulled the sleeve of his jacket down over his hand. It took two swipes to shatter the driver’s side window. He grabbed the lock button and pulled it up, opening the door, and went into a crouch behind the car. The Desert Eagle was at the ready and aimed at the front door of the residence should anyone alerted to the sound of breaking glass come out. When a minute had passed and no one had come outside to confront him, the Tall Man became suspicious. Had what affected Mrs. Dennard affected the inhabitants of this house? Curiosity killed the cat, they say, and it also seemed to be winning against professional killers. He had to check it out; he just had to. He climbed the two steps of the veranda of the house and moved cautiously toward the front door. Then the smell hit him. He had smelled it on many occasions himself and knew exactly what it was: death.
Not knowing what to expect, he kicked the front door of the farmhouse in. The stench was overpowering. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face as he burst through the door into the kitchen. A few knocked over chairs, some pans and silverware were in view, but nothing out of the ordinary except for the unmistakable sound of flies coming from the hallway. He eased his tall frame to the hallway entrance and took a peek. The double-action Desert Eagle was in his hand with the safety off. Three bodies lay sprawled on the floor. The blood was so thick it had formed into sticky, wet pools. Smears of blood on the wall next to blast holes from a shotgun told part of the tale. Flies swarmed over the open wounds of the dead and swam in the pools of red. The nearest body appeared to be a man. It was difficult to be certain with the head no longer present. He loosely held a double-barrel shotgun in one hand, the muzzle pointed to where the head once was. The Tall Man figured it was a murder-suicide, and from the fact that all the bodies had their heads blown off, he assumed that at least two of them had suffered from the same scourge that affected Mrs. Dennard.
The one with the shotgun obviously killed them then turned the gun on himself. It would never be known if he killed himself from sorrow or if he’d wanted to make sure he didn’t turn into one of those hideous creatures. The Tall Man understood, whatever the reason.
The flies were getting thicker, and the smell couldn’t get any worse. He was out of there. He thought about the shotgun for a moment; the smeared blood and green puke had him thinking again, however. Heading straight for the front door, he passed a key rack that had four hooks. Above were the words Ford, Truck, Post Office, and Saturn.
“Saves hotwiring it.”
He holstered his weapon, grabbed the keys and went out the front door, handkerchief still firmly held to his face.
“Jesus, that smells worse than an open …”
Two red-eyed beings lashed out at the Tall Man from the side. One knocked his arm. The ‘kerchief floated to the wooden floorboards of the veranda. The smell of death and rotting flesh hit him like a slap in the face. It was different than the odor inside, and worse.
“What the fuck are you, an
yway?” he yelled at his two attackers. That’s when he noticed half the skin on the face of one was missing. He took a couple of steps backwards and steadied himself, pulling the Desert Eagle from its holster as he did.
“I’m betting,” he levelled the Eagle, “that all the local girls just call you Smiley, right?”
The .357 Magnum bucked in his hand, and Smiley staggered back out of control for a second before he fell over. The Tall Man aimed the handheld cannon at the other one, who had taken no notice that the brains of his companion had sloshed all over him.
“And you’re the quiet, unassuming type I gather.”
The Desert Eagle bucked a second time. Another head exploded.
“This isn’t some isolated incident. Time to get out of the country.”
# # #
When Tibbuts was sure his stomach was going to hold, he stepped over the remains of what was once a nurse. Streams of green goo ran from the back of her head. Before grabbing the handset of the radio, he paused, curious that the goo started to foam after a few seconds of exposure to the air.
Tibbuts wondered if perhaps the damage was worse that he first thought. The radio appeared to be fine. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t getting a response, especially when he was calling in a Code 3.
A crowd of rubbernecks had gathered on the sidewalk. Everyone loves a car wreck, but when it involves a cop who shoots a woman in the head, it becomes a major attraction. Pictures were being taken by cell phones while others tried to call friends and tell them what happened. Luckily, most people couldn’t get through on the phone, or there’d be a lot more. Tibbuts next tried his cell phone. When that too yielded no result, he decided he would race back to Mulhaven. He jumped into the panda and started it up. The crowd began jeering and accused him of leaving the scene of an accident and murder. They moved in on the black and white, encircling it. Tibbuts was feeling uncomfortable as they moved in, but then he heard a scream, and in the rearview mirror he saw some members of the crowd hunched over, belching green fluid all over those nearby. People started running, opening a gap for him to drive through. Disoriented, eyes blurred from pain, he went through that gap and on to safety and in the wrong direction! He swerved his way through the light traffic—people that had heeded the call to evacuate—and turned this way then that way before looping around again, eventually getting onto Addison Avenue.
The Beginning of the End (Book 1): Toward the Brink Page 6