“We’ll have to find a bigger plane if that's the case but, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?”
“Yeah, the thing is to get there as fast as we can,” Elliot agreed.
“Okay, Cleav, and I will get extra ammo and rifles for you.” Chess said and headed into the motel office without waiting for a response.
“Too fast, it’s just too damn fast,” Riley said as he drove the old Jeep to Sandspit Airport.
“Don’t you think I know that? But what choice is there?” Chuck looked across his shoulder from the passenger seat, then added. “Elliot’s right, if there's a chance that any of the others’ could be alive then we have to act fast.”
“Then let’s get this bird checked out and ready to fly.” Riley skidded to a stop next to the Cessna that sat on the runway.
Before he got out, Riley turned and addressed one last question to his passengers. “You’re sure about this, I mean absolutely sure?”
Chuck and Elliot exchanged a glance then answered as one. “You bet!”
With the decision now final, Riley was as determined as anyone to see it done right and barked orders left and right. Before Chuck commenced his pre-flight check, he lifted the engine panel for a quick look. “Did you or Jerry know this plane has the fuel modification that allows it to run on ordinary car gas?” He asked Elliot.
“No, I didn’t know it even existed. Is there a problem with it modded like that?”
“Not at all, if anything it’s a bonus for us. There’s more abandoned cars than planes, and Avgas at airports isn’t always easy to obtain.”
While the supplies of water and food rations plus weapons and ammunition were loaded into the Cessna, Chess fueled it up now with premium unleaded. “Good you checked that, Chuck otherwise we’d have filled it with Avgas. What made you look?”
“Premonitions,” he told Chess then pointed to Elliot. “I picked it up from him.” And gave a wink.
It was all systems go and in just a little under two hours from the time Elliot ran into the motel office.
Goodbyes were kept simple, they would be back and in a few days time. There was an exact—or close enough to it—destination and the plane could be expected to travel eight hundred miles before in six hours before it needed refueling. The distance to Hammett, where Elliot’s chopper went down, was about two and a half thousand miles, so about twenty hours of flying time.
James worked out these calculations as the plane was fueled and supplies loaded. He passed these on to his son as he hugged him one more time, then wished him and Chuck a successful and above all, safe, journey.
After a few nervous jitters, Chuck at last got the plane started and onto the runway proper while the remainder of the Sandspit Caretakers watched on anxiously. The plane wobbled its way into the blue sky of the East, leaving Sandspit and the approaching storm behind.
Were Chuck and Elliot heading into a bigger storm?
That was the question on everyone’s mind as they watched the plane ascend.
Chapter Three
Three
A lone individual stuck to the shadows of the buildings as he made his way along the streets of Hammett. He chose the exact moment when to move, not quite like the ferocious predator sneaking up on its prey, but more a timid mouse wary of the hungry cat. No more than four or five feet at a time did he move then stop, peer around then repeat the same action once more. Conservation of time and energy it wasn’t, but if there were any hostiles about, or worse—foamers—he was damn sure not to make himself conspicuous.
It wasn’t easy as he struggled with an injured leg and the military-style rifle he clutched was awkward in his hands—it didn’t appear as if the use of firearms was natural to him—also hindered his movement.
But in the streets of Hammett—under an hours drive from Twin Falls—it would be less than wise to move about without a weapon. Day or night. When he came to the end of a laundromat, he crouched low, turned around and waved—slow but steady.
Another man crept out from the shadows, also armed like the first, and also moved in a stealthy motion. He also appeared unsteady on his feet, he stopped just short of the first man.
“What is it?” The second man said, his voice hushed, anxious. “What do you see, Tom?”
“There’s a Farm Fresh Market across the road. All the windows are broken, so I assume it’s been looted, but there might be some leftovers,” Tom took his hand from the pistol-grip of his weapon and wiped his brow. “But there might also be unfriendlies.”
“What choice do we have? We haven’t eaten in days.”
Tristan was right. What food they’d salvaged from the chopper didn’t last long, and water was their most treasured item. Shelter, was their first priority after they each gathered their senses. But all were injured in one manner or another and the two servicemen from Mountain Home were unaccounted for and Elliot of course.
Elliot was nowhere to be seen.
They did a mammoth job, Tom and Tristan. Between them they carried the injured, found suitable shelter—and fast—before the wind changed and the radiation got to them, or the foamers, or another rogue force, or… or…
The possibilities of how your days could end were limitless.
There was precious little in the way of sustenance and starvation was also a major factor.
To go through all they had, faced hordes of undead, rogue gunmen, a dangerous journey of thousands of miles, fire, radiation and the foamer plague itself and to just die by starvation? No, that wasn’t in Tom’s plans. He wasn’t a fighter, a military person, or even a man of action—but he wasn’t a coward either. If there was one thing young Elliot Goodwin taught him in the short time they got to know one another, is the apocalypse had to be met head-on.
So the choice was simple, take the risk and enter the supermarket or slink off and wait until an easier target is discovered.
From a tactical point of view, if they encountered foamers inside the market then there would be no chance to fight them off, not with two AR-15s and limited ammo. That would mean Richard, would starve to death. If they went for the latter option, there was no way to tell how long it would be (if ever) before they found a more comfortable target and they could all starve to death waiting.
How the hell would Chuck handle this? Tom asked himself, but he already knew the answer.
“Okay, let's do this but the first sound we hear we’re outta there, all right?” He looked Tristan square in the eyes.
“Got it!”
* * *
“And how long has it been since you piloted a plane?” Elliot asked over the drone of the single prop engine.
“I think we’d be better off if we discussed a different subject.” Chuck rubbed a hand over his bearded chin.
Elliot turned and faced the Tall Man, who had more sweat on his brow than ever. “So it’s that bad is it?” Elliot now understood the subject might raise more concerns that neither of them needed at this stage.
Not if they wanted to get the job done.
“So, about those calculations your father worked out, let me see them.”
“Sure,” Elliot noted that Chuck seemed calmer since they gained altitude and engaged the auto-pilot. He couldn’t fault him at all—not when he hadn’t flown for a long time—it’s just that this man didn’t flinch at all when faced with armed gangs of rogue militants and of course the legions of undead.
Flying a plane seemed to pale in comparison to whatever else this mystery man had done in his life, and not all of it good—Elliot was sure of that. Charles Black was no choir boy, but he had brought their small group to safety, and Elliot for one, would be grateful for all eternity.
“I just wanted to know how long you can go before you need a rest that’s all.”
“With the auto-pilot on, I can go as long as we need to and looking at these figures…” Chuck paused as he looked the handwritten notes over. “It looks like a bit over eighteen hours in the air. With landing and take off for con
sideration plus refueling, and we’re looking at twenty hours to get to Hammett. While the weather’s good I’d like to do twelve hours straight before I take a break, what do you say?”
“Then we could be there by tomorrow afternoon?”
“As long as there are no interruptions, but a shortstop for some sleep would be to our advantage.”
Elliot knew what his companion meant. Foamers, mutants or armed militant groups would provide the interruptions and sleep would guarantee they would be on top of their game when it came to their search for lost friends.
“Sounds good to me Chuck, real good.”
* * *
Tom took a deep breath, and he wasn’t cut out for this shit.
Macho man with a gun in his hand, pfff! He said to himself as he tried to steady his nerves.
“What are we waiting for?” Tristan leaned over and whispered.
“For you to stop asking questions is what!” Tom snapped. He was no soldier and never wanted to be, but he wasn’t intimidated by those that were either. Tom dealt with generals daily, and he never let them speak down to him.
He jutted out his jaw and shook his head slightly.
Soldier boys!
“Let's go.” Tom rushed through the automatic doors of the market that had remained open long after the power had—like Elvis—left the building. He then veered to his right while Tristan did likewise to the left. Pieces of glass on the floor crackled under their feet, that and the pulsating rush of blood in the ears was all they could hear.
Both leaned against the wall and waited, until their eyes adjusted to the relative dark inside.
The market looked like a bomb had hit it. Entire shelves had been pulled over and lay on the floor. Paper and plastic bags were strewn everywhere as where canned goods, coins, and even a few notes. Cash registers had been uprooted and smashed into the cream colored floor of the market. It was obvious it was done when looters thought cash was worth something. Tom wondered how long it would take before the looters realized money no longer had any value in this world.
“No matter, not my concern now.” He muttered under his breath then noticed Tristan wave him forward.
When it came to playing soldier (as he referred to it) and the use of firearms, he deferred all decisions to Tristan, but Tom had a more profound grasp of the situation they were in, than his partner. And if need be, he would have to step in and let Tristan know.
“Okay, let’s do a sweep up this aisle then down the next until we find something.”
Tom replied with a nod then picked up a plastic carry basket from the floor.
The first aisle yielded one box of broken dry crackers. The second was useless as it was all feminine hygiene products and bath soaps. Both knew they reeked like raw sewerage in the summer sun but water wasn’t plentiful. Tom found the third aisle of interest because it was empty. It contained or once did, dog and cat food but not a can was on the shelves nor any bags of dry food.
Tom didn’t believe for a moment that the fleeing and panicked population stopped to think of their pets. No, it was taken by people, desperate for food—any food—for themselves.
The fourth aisle was impassable, but the fifth was where they hit pay-dirt! Cans of sardines, tuna, and flaked chicken were found scattered across the floor. While Tristan kept a watch, Tom scooped up what he could fit into the basket.
“This’ll do, let's get—”
A chair or perhaps a table, scraped across the floor in the back storage room along and caught their instant attention. Someone or something else, was in the market with them.
Chapter Four
Four
Tristan raised a cautionary hand, then pressed a forefinger to his pursed lips. He took a deep breath and crouched as he placed one foot after the other, slowly, surely, as he made his way over to Tom.
“Sounds like one and in the back. We can handle this Tom, we can!” He whispered.
Tom considered the back of the market then turned to Tristan, a thick film of sweat had formed on his brow.
“No, we don’t know how many there is, let’s just take what we have and get out.”
“There might be more supplies in the back.”
“It’s not worth the risk, Tristan it’s—”
The door to storage crashed open and confirmed that whatever it was, it was aware of Tom and Tristan’s presence. Tom, in his fear, had allowed his voice to increase and gave away their position.
“Put the basket down and get ready!” Tristan clicked off the safety on his M4 and leveled the muzzle toward the end of the aisle.
“JEEZUZ MAN!” Tristan jumped when Tom dropped the basket to the floor with a clang.
“Sorry, I’m… I’m s-sorry.” Tom stuttered as he fumbled with the safety switch.
Footsteps—light and fast—like that of a child were heard. Who—or what—searched for Tom and Tristan, one aisle at a time.
“Listen,” Tom grabbed his companions arm. “It sounds like, like bare feet slapping on the floor. Like a kid running around the poolside.”
Tristan nodded then checked the top of the shelves, he was prepared for an attack from all sides. “You keep watch on the front. I’ll watch the rear.”
“HOLY SHIT!” Tristan gave voice to his shock when he made visual contact with the intruder.
Neither one had the previous misfortune of a face to face with any of the mutants. Tom had seen some distant surveillance footage, taken from a drone—and that was in the comfort of the White House—back in the days before anyone realized the end of the world was but a few days away.
In person, the sight, sound, and the smell of the grotesquely deformed creature before them was the embodiment of fear itself.
The devil couldn’t be this frightening.
Tristan pulled himself together—his Ft. Bragg training and practical experience returned—took quick aim at the abomination, as saliva ran over its extended lower lip and down its chin.
Like a fire breathing dragon, Tristan’s M4 spewed a trail of 5.56mm rounds in the direction of the mutant. Every round made contact with the creature’s chest. The largest mass to aim for—and the only place—in low-light conditions.
A high pitched squeal erupted, not unlike children in the playground, followed before the mutant staggered then fell to the floor of the market.
“Wait, hold-on!” Tom, the voice of reason, called.
Tristan moved to the right of the aisle, a better vantage point, and looked through the sights of his weapon at the creature now squirming on the linoleum.
It wasn’t dead but it didn’t present a threat anymore,
Tristan was sure of that. “It’s okay Tom,” he turned to his companion. “It won’t bother us—”
“GET DOWN! TRISTAN, GET DOWN!” Tom screamed.
Chapter Five
Five
Hours after Chuck and Elliot departed Sandspit, the remainder of the group prepared for the approaching storm. The wind had picked up and the sun disappeared behind heavy, dark clouds. Bolts of jagged lightning flashed and thunder bellowed like cannons in the distance. A portent of the destructive forces about to be unleashed upon the Haida Gwaii Archipelago.
“Now that there’s not as many of us we can use the other rooms for storage,” Riley said to the others’ back at the motel. “Anything not bolted down can be put inside.”
“Would like to take the wind generator down, just in case,” Chess stated his desire.
Riley turned and looked to the back of the motel, then at the dark sky above. “I don’t think we have time for that, Chess.”
There wasn’t that much needed to be stored inside and Riley was thankful for that. They hadn’t the time or the inclination to accumulate many possessions.
“What about the cat?” Cleavon asked of the catamaran in the tiny harbor.
“We’ve got the heavy anchor dropped and that’s all we can do about it.” Riley shot a glance over at Chess. He hadn’t forgotten the accident that took Allan’s life when
the last storm hit. It was hard to forget that incident but he didn’t allow it to affect his relationship with Chess. He couldn’t. Chess was vital to the survival of the group and it wasn’t as if he allowed that tragedy to take place on purpose.
All the sleeping bags, water bottles, canned and dried foods, plus weapons and ammunition were brought into the office area where they would ride out the storm together.
“That’s darker than the pits of hell.” Sam commented on the clouds as he looked out the window.
“You been there?”
Sam looked back, confused, at the question.
“To hell.” Cleavon clarified.
Sam’s eyes wandered around the room for a moment, making brief contact with the others’ before he answered. “We all have my friend, we all have!”
* * *
“Did you come this way in the chopper?” Chuck asked as they flew over Vancouver Island.
“No, we went to another airport nearby, why?”
“We’ll need to land and fuel up soon, I hoped you knew where the airport was.”
Elliot—in the role of navigator—rummaged through the stack of road maps in the flap of the door. “Let’s see if I can find one, here we go. On the East coast of the island is the town of Campbell River—the airport is just a mile or so after.” The maps were old, Elliot knew, but they served Jerry and himself well in their journey and he hoped for the same again.
“All right then, I’ll just follow the coast line to the town. We’ve got good visibility so we should see the airport without any trouble.”
Off to their left, the rugged mountains of mainland Canada were in full view and all of the forrest was now white with snow on top of the trees. The devastating fires hadn’t reached this far. The cold had done its job, saving the trees and the countryside from burning but the people… the people had all but vanished. Victims to the foamers, the mutants, the gun crazies, to starvation and no doubt the elements.
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