“Sure seems that way, who was the great—”
“President Elias Charles.”
Chuck smiled then said. “I might have known.”
“Anyway, I didn’t know small planes could take normal gas.” Tom said to Chuck as they watched Elliot and Tristan complete the fueling.
“Only if they’ve been converted. It’s a break for us, we can find fuel much easier.”
“Listen, Chuck I’m really sorry about before. I should have been more tactful. I know it was hard for you to do—”
“Apology accepted Tom, but all of us—and I do mean all—have done things we wished we hadn’t, but we’ve made it this far because we did. Now let’s focus on the road ahead, not what’s behind, deal?”
“You got it, big guy.”
Chuck slapped the former White House man on the shoulder and walked over to the other two.
“We done yet?” He asked of the refueling process.
Chuck climbed into the pilot’s seat for the long flight home. They hadn’t been settled at Sandspit all that long, but the comfort of a protective sea provided—against armed marauders as well as foamers—made it feel like a home. It did to Chuck and he couldn’t wait to get back.
The only supplies they bothered to take with them was some extra bottled water, some beans, snack bars and blankets. Tom and Tristan took their M-4’s and what ammo they had. The Tall Man wasn’t overly concerned with the lack of firepower, he didn’t plan to stop any longer than to fill up, then take off again. Whatever rest he would get, would be while the auto pilot was engaged.
He wanted to get back as fast as possible.
Chapter Twelve
Twelve
An hour after breakfast was over Sam rushed into the motel reception office.
“You guys had better come see this.”
Everyone jumped up at once and followed Sam out the door.
“What is it Sam, is it the sub?” Morris asked.
“I was down at the harbor, takin’ a look at the damage when I noticed it. The storm must be responsible.”
“Noticed what?”
“Wait to you get to the old market, you’ll see.” Less than a minute later, Sam and the others' arrived at the harbor.
“What the hell is that?” Riley asked aloud.
“Looks like bags of garbage floating on the water, pushed in by the tide.” James said.
“And who in the hell has recently bothered to throw any garbage out?” Sam pointed out the obvious.
“Chess, Morris and Cleavon get back to the motel and grab some weapons.”
“But it’s only garb—”
“Now, Chess!” Riley rarely raised his voice in anger, so that when he did the importance of the matter was understood.
“All right you heard the man, let’s go!” Chess said then hauled it back to the motel, Morris and Cleavon right behind.
“What are you thinking, Riley?” James Goodwin asked.
“Something’s not right, we’ve had storms before and nothing washed up around here as Sam said, it’s not like there’s a whole lot of people left to throw garbage out,” Riley turned to James, then glanced up the hill to the three men on the weapons run.
“I can’t explain it but I’ll feel better when we’re armed.”
The “garbage bags” where more than a mile from shore and at the rate they moved, would reach the beachfront soon.
“And where do you think you’re headed?” Riley asked when he saw Sam wander past. The boat ramp was now a twisted pile of splintered wood and most of the boardwalk had floated out to sea.
“Just gonna check,” Sam picked a handful of weeds from the beach and threw them into the water.
Riley and the others' watched with curiosity before Sam returned to their position near the damaged fish market.
“As I suspected. The tide is going out.”
“What do you know about tides?” Riley asked.
“I know when its goin’ out or comin’ in. If you don’t believe me, check it yerself.”
Riley nodded. He didn’t doubt Sam, just wanted to double-check.
“So how can this garbage come in if the tides is going out?” James chimed in with the obvious question.
“Now you see why we need to be armed.”
“Yeah, but what the hell could it be, sea-monsters?”
Any other time such a remark would be looked upon as foolishness and the proponent as irrational, but not since the outbreak of the foamers and the mutants. They all knew—to a man— that monsters are real, they’d seen them.
“No idea, James but at least we’ll be in a better position to face it,” Riley turned at the sound of running behind him. “And here we are, right on time.”
Chess grabbed M-4’s and a couple of shotguns, loaded them into a wheelbarrow discovered in the maintenance room of the motel. Cleavon and Morris each brought a bag of magazines and shotgun bandoliers.
“You guys haven’t lost your fitness it seems.” Riley remarked on the efficiency.
“Yeah the morning calisthenics help. Anyway you wanna tell us why we need the weapons?” Chess said.
“I think it might be more than garbage bags, and Sam agrees.” Riley updated the weapons team, then saw Sam and Chess exchange glances from the corner of his eye. “Anyway, someone has to go up to the motel and stay with Jerry. We can’t leave him alone. Your first-aid knowledge means you get that job, Sergeant Morris.”
“You mean I have to run back up that hill?”
“No, you can walk this time. Unless you hear any fire, but don’t tell Jerry what’s going on. Let him rest, God knows he needs it.”
“Right away,” Morris grabbed an M4, several magazines and trudged off in the direction of the motel. The headquarters of the Sandspit group.
“Hey I just thought of something. What if its garbage from the submarine, and the laundry and all that?”
“Not sure I understand you, James?” Riley said.
“What if the sub was on it’s way back and collided with rocks under the sea and broke apart. Then what we’d see garbage and stuff float to the top.”
Riley put a hand to his chin and rubbed the growth of several days as he considered James’ theory. It was plausible, but several things didn’t add up.
“That doesn’t explain that fact that, whatever it is, is moving against the tide. I also don’t see any oil slicks anywhere, so I’d rule that out, James.”
“Look over there to the point!” Cleavon interrupted.
Over toward the right by the rocky point, half a mile from the harbor, the first of the garbage reached the beach.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD!” Chess’ expression perfectly summed up the abominable sigh. The “garbage bags” flailed away in the shallows. Arms and legs thrashed and clawed, one by one, foamers pulled themselves to shore.
The safe-haven of the island was no longer.
“Did you grab the Weatherby by any chance?” Riley asked Chess.
“Chess! Did you get the fuckin’ Weatherby?” Riley raised his voice for the second time this morning as Chess stared out to sea his eyes wide in disbelief.
“Err, no. I can run back and get—”
“Forget it, we don’t have time. Sam get behind us and keep an eye on the road back to the motel. The moment you see any foamers from either side, let us know.”
“Where’s our best position?” James’ voice wavered as he called .
“Back up the road a bit near that wall.” Chess pointed.
Halfway between the old market and the center of Sandspit proper, a concrete wall of perhaps three feet run along one side of the road for approximately twenty yards. It was obviously a barrier against water run-off or perhaps snow build-up but now would be a defensive position against the foamers. As long as there weren’t too many, and if they only came from one direction, and if the ammo held out then, and if…
There were too many if’s.
Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
&nb
sp; The Cessna 172 wasn’t in the air long when Tom and Tristan sacked out in the back. Tight as it was, there was surprisingly little gear inside the cabin itself. The two had lived on edge for so long that their rescue was such a relief that all the built-up tension left their bodies the instant they took off and replaced with fatigue.
“I guess they can use the rest.” Elliot cast a watchful eye over the two in back.
“Yeah, been through hell and back, not knowing how they’d make it out or not. And then with Richard turning, that was, err…” Chuck breathed out heavily, he felt the muscles in his arms give out.
“It’s okay Chuck, I understand,”
I’m sure you do, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
Chuck didn’t have a second thought of killing someone who fired at him and even less when it came to foamers, well… not until now. Richard was the third person turned foamer, or was in the throes of becoming one, that he was forced to dispatch. He’d already eliminated the wife of the Baer chemist, Paul Dennard who was responsible for putting the growth hormone into the potatoes—she was an unfortunate result of her husbands evil activities and was the first foamer Chuck came across. Roger, Elliot’s school buddy, was next after bitten by a dog that had turned (a rarity as they’d discovered) and now chopper pilot, Richard. You can dress it up with names like mercy killing, but that didn’t make it any easier. It made him realize the hideous undead were all people once—normal people with jobs, families, mortgages, who loved, hoped, laughed and cried and had all had dreams of a future—once. But that had been taken away.
I’ll go nuts if I keep trying to analyze it this way.
“It’s what we have to do to survive. We’ll never get over it, nor forget it, but we will survive it Chuck—we will.” Elliot tried to comfort.
Damn, for a teenager this kid has the smarts. He can put it together in a way that makes sense, even out of a non-sensical situation.
“Thanks Elliot, I needed to hear that.” Chuck said to his younger companion. “Now let’s get on home.”
“Have you felt like there’s a pressing need to get back to Sandspit?” Elliot raised the question five minutes later.
“I have. But I don’t know if its because the others' are in danger or if we were in danger if we take too long. Either way I’m flying all the way through. We’ll stop only for gas.”
“I think that’s a good idea, we got more than enough supplies. Except for weather—and any other complications—we should only have to stop for gas like you said.”
Chuck knew what was meant by “complications” he didn’t need ask Elliot to elaborate.
“We got a couple of hours before we need to land. So, I’m going to get a little sack time myself. Wake me if you see anything unusual, okay?”
“You got it.”
With a full tank it was decided to fly past Boise and on to Emmett. The route was a little further north but would put them way clear of Mountain Home AFB, still affected with radiation. But all places north shouldn’t be, thanks to the direction of the winds.
Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
The foamers took some time to adjust once they were on land again—or that’s how it appeared. They resembled a group of teenagers at a drunken party as they staggered in all directions. It was evident to the observers behind their concrete embankment that floating across the ocean, wasn’t all that beneficial for the undead.
Not that Riley, Chess or anyone else for that matter, could give two knobs of goat shit about their plight.
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes or so after they left the water, that the foamers found their feet. They moved inland with more direction and determination. From the day of the outbreak—until this moment—no one was any the wiser as to how foamers were able to tell another of their kind from one of the living or when the living were within proximity. Suggestions of pheromones or similar theories had been put forward but the lack of any scientific data made it just another guessing game.
This time however Riley, Chess and company were able to see it first hand. As the mid-morning sun warmed up the soggy ground, the more animated foamers suddenly turned and stared directly up the hill and at the group of men half hidden behind a concrete wall.
“They’ve spotted us!” Chess announced.
“Yeah, look at those eyes on them. Like fuckin’ hard-boiled eggs.” Cleavon’s view was aided with the luxury of a pair of 8x30 binoculars.
“Lock and load people they’re on their way.” Riley ordered. There was no need to conceal their presence any longer.
“Let’s not waste a single round, make every shot count.”
The foamers came from below the market area at right angles to the road, had a field of thick grass and shrubs to cover, plus it was uphill.
“They’re all spread out so we shouldn’t be overwhelmed. Keep your head and make sure you takes theirs!”
“You’re quite a card under pressure, Riley.” Chess remarked.
“Oh, just keep you damn eyes on the foamers!”
“Fifty yards!” Cleavon kept his binoculars on the approaching dead.
“We should have brought water.” Chess said as he realized they could be here for some time.
“We’ll have to thin them out before we can make a run back to the motel for refreshments, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan Riley, but we might be here a long time before we can do that.” Cleavon passed over the 8x30’s and pointed beyond the harbor.
“Oh, shit!” Riley said the instant he put the binoculars to his eyes.
In the water and drifting to shore were more “garbage” bags—thousand’s more.
If anyone cared to, they also could have answered a question posed by Elliot earlier on: “Did foamers breathe?” That they were in the water, and for so long, doubled over with their heads down was a definite no.
At this moment however, no one gave much of a shit about Elliot's questions.
“We don’t have enough ammo people—not here at any rate,” Riley said, then handed the binoculars back to Cleavon. “Take out the first lot with sustained fire then make a run for it back to the motel. We’ll hold out there.”
“You think that’s wise, we’ll be enclosed. Vision will be restricted, our line of fire will be reduced. It’s not the best defensive position.”
“I know but it’s where the ammo, water and food is. We can’t be away from that, if we get cut off… we’re fucked.”
Chess couldn’t argue against that.
“Forty yards!” Cleavon shouted.
It was time for the shooting match to begin.
Though it seemed impossible the foamers were even more horrid to look at. The bright sun of the Northern Hemisphere highlighted the features of the undead as never before. The egg-white eyes, the gray decayed skin, the white, frizzed hair. In the dark much of their horror was lost, except for those red eyes—which was apparently a thing of the past—they more resembled animated cadavers.
Regardless of their manifestation, they were still just as deadly.
The first group of seven or eight foamers increased their step the closer they were to the humans above. Whether foamers dreamed of the delights of the living flesh, their ferocity increased along with their pace—they were almost running now. The first salvo of fire ended their advance. Single head shots dropped them to the ground where they shuddered their last tormented moments for all but one foamer, who continued to walk on for several feet, minus the top of his skull, before he collapsed.
“Holy damn, shit! Did you see that?” Cleavon shouted.
“All right, get ready for the next wave.” Riley didn’t address the question, or the headless zombie. He understood it was a part of the nerves and the excitement that came with combat. He felt it, everyone did—though he sometimes wondered about Chuck—and just knew the best way not to let anyone see the anxiety that often went with battle, was to keep ones comments to yourself.
“On your left, your left!” Sam y
elled from behind.
“Oh, shit!” Chess turned just as a foamer darted from behind a thick shrub at the side of the road.
In his rush to deal with the unexpected creature Chess fired three shots from his M4 into the head of the beast. Without its cranium the foamer staggered, spun around a time or two, then toppled to the ground.
“One shot Chess, one fucking shot!” Riley reprimanded.
“I know, I know—”
“We won’t be able to conserve ammo if we keep that up.”
“More on the way.” Cleavon yelled. He kept his eyes on the distances and approaches of the undead in front of them.
Sam had the rear and sides.
It was evident in the few minutes since they took their defensive position, the foamer numbers had increased rapidly.
“I think we need to beat a fighting retreat, Riley.” Chess suggested.
“Agreed. Cleavon you stick with Chess and me, James, you support Sam,” Riley barked out the orders. “Ready?”
A chorus of “Fuckin A!” told Riley they were more than ready.
The five of them moved in a tight circle taking extreme care of where their weapons pointed. The last thing they would need is an accidental shooting.
And that happened more often in combat situations than official reports suggest.
“How far, James?” Riley called without taking his eyes from below.
“Not far, maybe a football field.”
“All right. Keep your eyes open.”
Riley, Chess and Cleavon moved slower as they walked backwards back up the road. Every few feet or so, one would stop, take aim, and let loose a single round, the result would be a foamer would fall—his torment as one of the walking dead had come to an end.
“Twenty yards now Riley,” Sam called.
“Okay, you two run ahead and check the motel make sure it’s okay. And don’t just rush in the door, Morris will most likely shoot you.”
“Roger that, boss.”
This time Riley took the time to turn around. Sam would say the strangest things at times and it wasn’t just the Bogey voice either.
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