Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Within ten minutes and Chess, Riley and the others' had all supplies moved to the second floor. The small amount of canned goods would last them two days at best, the jerky a little more and the bottled water about the same—as long as they didn’t over do it. The house, though, did have a five thousand gallon water tank and even with the electric pump out, there was enough of a trickle to supply all of them with water should they need it.
And as long as they can stay alive.
There was only one door to their left—as they looked back toward the airport—and that led to the separate garage. A dormer window overlooked that door and James Goodwin took up position there.
His orders: not to let any foamer get between the garage and the house. He had an AR-15 and four loaded magazines to enforce that order.
Chess and Cleavon took up positions at the windows of the two upstairs bedrooms. Both men were the best with the crossbows and could utilize the weapon to optimal advantage from this vantage point. A walkthrough bathroom divided the two rooms.
Riley took the Master bedroom at the rear of the upstairs rooms and to the corner. He’d also have to keep watch through an upstairs recreation room, across the hallway.
Morris and Sam guarded the top of the stairs—they were shit out of luck when it came to another man, as Sam previously suggested.
Riley decided this would have to do, until the foamers broke through the doors or the windows on the first floor. Once that happened, the more experienced combat vets would take positions at the top of the stairs and begin their counter-assault.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Cleavon called from the right hand side bedroom.
“What is it, what’ve ya got?” Chess ran through the bathroom then answered.
“I think our friends have sensed our position,”
Chess moved to the window next to the man he’d served with for many years. From window on this side, you could see the main throng of foamers come parallel with the street, their all-white, ghostly eyes reflected the sunlight as they fixed their gaze on the house.
“Whats up?” Riley next burst into the room. No one wanted to call out, lest they give away their position, but that no longer appeared to be a case worth arguing.
“All right. Get ready they’re coming!” Chess yelled loud enough for everyone in the house to hear—along with some nearby foamers.
“Take your position, Riley. It’s game time.” Chess said to his buddy, albeit in a much lower volume.
Chess went back to his post and picked up the compound crossbow, cocked it and loaded a deadly triple-blade bodkin bolt into it. Through the open window he took aim.
The plan was that any zombie bastard that makes it to the white picket-fence out front, he and Cleavon were to take out with the crossbow. Chess believed that once that happened, a feeding frenzy would start and there wouldn’t be enough time to reload the crossbow as the horde of undead rushed the front of the house, after which they’d switch to their M4’s with semi-auto selected, and take out the nearest targets.
Using the Tall Man’s axiom of, “One bullet one kill.” They intended to make doubly sure of that, and save ammunition at the same time, by not targeting any foamer beyond fifty yards.
“You ready, Cleav?” Chess yelled as the first of the foamers approached the front gate.
“I got the one right of the mailbox.”
“Roger that, I’ll take his pal on his left. On three—one, two…” both men kneeled at the open side of the large bedroom windows and took in a breath as they aimed their crossbows. “Three!”
The metallic click and heavy twang signaled the two bolts were launched into the air. The distance from the upstairs bedroom windows and the front fence was about fifteen yards at most. With little wind this morning, the bolts flew toward their targets without deviation. The impact of the bolts to the heads of the foamers was like the sound of a baseball when it was hit for a home run. CRACK!
The instant Chess determined the shot hit home, he switched his attention to loading the next bolt into the crossbow, rather than watch the results of his accuracy.
Below, two foamers staggered in disoriented circles, their legs wide apart. Both held a hand to the bolts that protruded at an angle from their heads. A green bile oozed from the wound and foamed down their face, after a few seconds exposure to the air.
“Ready?” Chess called to his partner in the next room.
“You bet!” Was the reply.
Chess propped his crossbow onto the window sill and started to take aim, when the sight below was so shocking, it affected his ability to follow through.
As the two wounded foamers lurched about in their final throes of their existence, other foamers rushed them. Chess’ previous thoughts of a feeding frenzy were correct but not the direction it took. Chess expected a rush toward the house but it was actually on the two foamers he and Cleavon had shot.
The foamers hooted and hollered as they took the injured foamers down and within moments had ripped the disheveled flesh from the bones of the injured and devoured it on the spot. More sickening was the sight of other foamers on their hands and knees, licking the residue left by the foamers on the stone pavement of the walkway.
“Can you see this?” Cleavon called.
“Yeah… yeah, I can.” Chess answered. His voice not that of a highly trained and confidant Special Forces soldier.
“What do you wanna do?” Cleavon asked. “Chess, Chess can you hear me?”
“Err… yeah, yeah.” Chess shook his head from side to side. “Right! Let’s hit ‘em with the M4 while they’re all bunched.” He said once he freed his mind of the images below.
Both men in each room, exchanged their crossbows for an M4. With meticulous aim they were able to put sixty foamers to rest—permanently—in under a minute. That was one magazine used each.
“Sam!” Chess called.
“Whatcha want?”
“I got an empty mag and so does Cleav, mind reloading it with the extra ammo?”
“Not a problem.” Sam moved to the window to take the magazine. “Holy shit! You get all of them?”
“Yeah, now get to it, Sam.”
As Sam went to get the other magazine Chess looked back at the mayhem out front. The foamers that fed on the first two were now being fed upon. A pack of hundreds, swarmed around the fallen. Green ooze sprayed in all directions, foamers not hit in the fusillade, were nonetheless, covered in foam and goo and to the other foamers—who evidently couldn’t tell the difference—they had become a meal.
“The bastards are killing each other. That’ll save some ammo!”
“You’re right Chess, you’re damn right!” Riley came back into the room and saddled up alongside Chess at the window. “There’s still a lot more but that eases it some and it takes the attention off us.”
“For the moment, Chess,” Riley said.
As Chess and Riley kept watch on the frenzy outside, the others' took turns to use the bathroom or take sustenance in the form of water, jerky or survival food bars.
“How long we been at this, you think?” Sam poked his head into the room where Chess and Riley were.
“What?” Chess turned and asked. He was totally at a loss as to what Sam meant.
“Since we left the motel until now. How long do you think it’s been?”
Chess looked to Riley first, then back out the window as an increase in guttural noises occurred before he answered Sam’s question. “I don’t know… a bit over an hour.”
“How about a lot, over three hours.”
Chess lowered his M4 and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his free hand. “Are you serious?”
“Damn right I am,” Sam raised his left arm, he pulled the sleeve of his dark green military style jacket up. “This keeps good time.” He tapped the polished chrome watch on his wrist.
“How time flies when you’re—”
“Hey!” Riley interrupted
, grabbing Chess by the arm. “Do you hear that?”
“Only them zombies out there.” Sam replied, while Chess just shrugged.
“Listen!” Riley moved closer to the open window.
Sam and Chess moved in as well, leaned forward and turned an ear to the outside world.
“That, that sounds like a plane. A fuckin’ plane!” Chess stood up and stared back at Riley.
“Damn straight it does. Holy shit!” Sam joined him with an equal display of exuberance. “You suppose Elliot and the big guy—”
“Who the hell else do we know that’s flying around in a plane, Sam?” Chess stated the obvious.
Sam shrugged and rubbed a hand across his head. More white hair had started to show of late—as was the case for all of them.
“Jesus, if they’re gonna land here they’ll be in a sea of foamers!” Chess realized.
“There’s not a whole lot we can do to help them either, I’m afraid.” Riley got down on his knees at the window sill to survey the sky for the incoming plane.
“We have to let them know where we are!”
“We will, Chess, we’ll fire off a few shots after they land. But that won’t mean they’ll be able to get reach us.”
“Okay. The foamers have stopped attacking each other. They’ve heard the plane.” Sam in informed the other two.
Sam bent over for a clearer look outside. The sound of the single engined plane had become apparent to everyone—alive, and the not quite alive.
“I’m sure they’ll see the foamers out there,” Sam spoke out loud but not to anyone in particular. “It’d be impossible to miss.”
Cleavon entered a moment later from the adjacent room. “Can you guys hear that?”
“Sure we can. Seems like Elliot and the big guy have made it back.” Sam told him.
“Well, I wouldn’t wish that welcoming committee on anyone.” Cleavon gestured to the window and the horde of foamers.
“Here it comes!” Riley pointed to the sky.
There was little excitement detected in Riley’s voice and Chess understood why. Elliot and Chuck were about to fly into a disaster zone—and possibly their own deaths.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Eight
The single engine Cessna, taken from the hangar at Port Hardy, had made better than good time. Thanks to a clear sky and early morning sun, the island of Haida Gwaii was visible to all on board from many miles out, a small amount of comfort was felt by that sight.
Home sweet—
Sentiments changed the instant the airport came into view.
“Is that, I mean… can you see that, Chuck?” Elliot asked.
“Yeah, we got problems.”
“I knew there was something wrong, I knew!” Elliot threw his head back in despair.
“What do you mean you knew?” Tristan asked from the back of the cabin. He stared down at the thousands of foamers running wild across the field and the parking lot of the Sandspit airport.
“The foamers appear to be heading to that line of houses opposite the airport entrance.” Tom added.
“Where did they come from? We killed all the foamers the first night we arrived.”
“I know Elliot, but as we all have witnessed these fucker’s are nothing if not adaptable and—”
“And what, Chuck? You think they grew wings and flew here?” Elliot was so incensed and confused he questioned Chuck in a none to respectful manner.
Chuck understood how Elliot felt. “I know how you feel Elliot, really I do, but taking your frustration out on me won’t help.”
“You’re right,” Elliot placed a hand on the Tall Man’s shoulder. “Sorry, Chuck.”
“With all these foamers about do you think—”
“I’m trying not to think about it actually, Tom,” Chuck turned in his seat to answer the former White House staffer, who Chuck believed was about to ask of the fate of their fellow survivors. “But one thing we all have to think about is this,” Chuck paused to check on the instruments. “We don’t have much juice left in this bird and we’re low on ammo.”
Chuck didn’t say anymore—he didn’t have to. They had to land, this was the only runway available and it was overrun with thousands of undead.
“Damn, why does this always happen?” Elliot slammed a fist into the door on his left.
Chuck sympathized with his younger companion and looked over at him for a moment before asking. “Care to explain? I mean, before you knock the door off the plane open.”
“Every time we look to make progress in the right direction, we face a setback. One after the fucking other.” Elliot turned to the other two in the back, before continuing. “It’s almost like it was scheduled or something.”
“I know how you feel, Elliot, I do.” Tristan leaned forward and placed a hand on Elliot’s shoulder.
“I guess if it all went smoothly we would never have found ourselves in this position—”
“No offense Tom but that doesn’t really help.”
“I know Elliot, I’m sorry.”
While the other three conversed about everything going wrong, just as a little sunshine appeared on the horizon, Chuck was busy with his plans. He hadn’t given up hope yet.
“All right listen up! This is what we are gonna do.” Chuck raised his voice well above the drone of the Cessna’s single engine and made sure he was heard—he had no intentions nor did he have time to repeat himself.
“I’m gonna make a low run along the runway. You guys open your windows and shoot as many of the foamers as you can.”
“Okay Chuck, but we won’t get that many not with the—”
“Not the point. It will bring the surrounding foamers to the runway. Then I’ll land and use the propeller as one giant slasher.” Chuck scrutinized the expressions on the other three. He didn’t think they looked all that convinced.
“Err, you sure about this, Chuck?” Tristan sounded less than confident.
“As sure as shit sticks to your shoes when you step in it.”
“We don’t have much of a choice as far as landing goes, but how does that help us get away?” Tom asked.
“Good question, Tom. Provided I can keep up enough momentum, I’ll turn around at the end of the runway and cut through them again. When we get to the top of the runway—and hopefully those zombie bastard’s will be too busy chewing on each other—from what we’ve seen before—we’ll use that as a diversion and make a run for it.”
Elliot nodded, then put a hand to the patch over his eye, it itched on he’s skin occasionally, and adjusted it. “Okay, but where to?”
“Say what?”
“Where do we run to?”
“I have a feeling the foamers weren’t advancing on those houses because they were in the market for new lodgings.”
“You think there are people there?” Tom asked.
“Not just people Tom, our people.” Chuck replied.
It was the another thing that had occupied Chuck’s mind. He questioned why the foamers headed for a specific set of buildings. The answer was, they wouldn’t—unless there were human’s present.
The only life on these islands were the friends Chuck and Elliot had left behind.
Interlude 2: We Are Sailing…
The Dimitry Donskoy sat atop the water and plowed through the waves of the Pacific Ocean like the veritable hot knife through butter. Now on the northern side of the equator the Russian sub was fortunate with good weather and no current to push against.
They made better than even time.
Captain Gretchko, like his American counterpart, was aware the landlubbers were not cut out for prolonged underwater travel. Though there were only three aboard his sub, Bob, Mitch and Cindy, he nonetheless did his best to prevent seasickness and claustrophobia and sailed above the surface as where possible.
“You are very brave young woman,” Gretchko said as he stood at the top of the conning tower. Senior Lieutenant Menchev, Mitch on his left while Bob and Cindy were
to his right. “Not many even go in boat this far out let alone submarine.”
“Thank you, Captain. But I assure you, it’s the circumstances of our situation which has created the necessary actions to be performed in order to survive, though it may resemble courage.”
“Ah-haha,” Gretchko rocked back with laughter, his hand across his considerable belly. “You have Russian in you young lady?”
“No, Captain I don’t—well, not the I’m aware of. Why do you ask?”
“Your philosophical view. Usually only Russian women have such an outlook.” The Russian captain then looked at the former US president and winked. “American women is about cosmetics and beauty salons and cell phones, is it not Bob?”
“Yes, she is a brave girl all right and philosophically, she is up there with the greats—like a lot of Americans.” Bob fired back, topping it off with a wink of his own.
“Ahh, tovarish, it is good to have the three of you along for the ride. I enjoy your company—even the quiet one!” Gretchko gestured toward Mitch who simply smiled. The Russian captain then took a silver flask from inside his dark weather-proof jacket, twisted the top and took a single gulp then offered Bob a drink.
Bob didn’t hesitate and took a swig of the vodka which immediately warmed the inside of his body in the chill winds of the Northern Pacific.
“I would offer you a drink young lady but as you are with child, well… I think maybe another time perhaps.”
Cindy simply smiled by way of a reply, as Bob handed back the flask to Gretchko who passed it on to Mitch.
“You never did tell me captain, why you were so quick with your offer to take us back to pick up our friends?”
Gretchko moved closer to the former commander in chief of the US. “In my country there are many harsh features, the cold and the ice. Many people have died because those that promised to come back and get them never did or were too late, if they did. It is not anything you would wish upon your worst enemy, tovarish—death by exposure to the elements,” Gretchko turned at the waist to consider Cindy for a moment, “and this young lady deserves to be with the man who fathered her child—not sailing the seas with Russian and American submariners.”
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