Back from the Brink_Toward the Brink V

by Craig McDonough

  Bob understood what the Russian captain said only too well, he detected a strong emotive tone in the voice of the normally boisterous Russian.

  Was it the voice of personal experience? Bob wondered for a moment, but in the end thought no more of it. They were heading back to Sandspit to get the others' and take them back—save them once and for all.

  If the Russian’s did have ulterior motives—Bob couldn’t see any—the captain appeared to be genuinely concerned over the welfare of the others' left stranded on the island.

  For the moment, that motivation was all that Bob cared for.

  “How long do you think it will be, captain?” Mitch asked after taking a good drink from the flask.

  “As long as we don’t run into any foul weather we should arrive in two days, but.” Gretchko held up an index finger toward the former Secret Service agent then creased his thick brows. “With all that has transpired in the world, I am no longer a captain—my name is Boris.”

  Bob smiled wide when he saw this byplay between his man and the Russian and shot his right and tapped the captain on the shoulder. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Boris. I only wish it could have been under better circumstances for all of us.”

  “And me as well, Bob.” Boris said, taking the hand of the former American president in a grip that would have crushed the hand of the Terminator.

  If only, Bob thought, if only people of the world had shown trust and openly discussed matters years back, perhaps the apocalypse and the collapse of the world wouldn’t have occurred.

  “It appears the wind has picked up and I think it’s not good for the young woman to be out here in the elements.” Boris stood aside and gestured toward the open hatch for Cindy.

  “I won’t argue with that. I’d love a hot coffee anyway.” Cindy said then scooted down the metal ladder without any discomfort.

  Bob knew only too well, she would soon struggle with such moves. He only hoped they’d be settled by then—long settled.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Twenty-Nine

  The single engine of the Cessna went into high pitched whine as it banked hard.

  “What’s going on?” Riley asked.

  “Damn, they’re coming around. Looks like they’re lining up with the runway!” Chess stood openly at the window, unconcerned that he might be seen by foamers.

  “What?” Riley rushed alongside him. “Are they mad? The foamers will tear them to shreds!”

  It appeared to those below that the plane was attempting to land, but it wasn’t until the small plane leveled off that Chess understood it wasn’t. “No, it doesn’t look like it, but he’s low, real low, like for a, a—”

  “Strafing run.”

  “Exactly Riley, you got it.”

  Cleavon and Sam pushed closer to the window for a look.

  “Do you think they got the ammunition for it?” Sam asked as he crouched for a better look at the runway.

  “I doubt it. They didn’t take that much with ‘em. Certainly not enough to take out all those foamers—even if they did find any of the others' alive.” Cleavon told Sam.

  “They must be low on fuel and need to land but between them and us, we couldn’t kill all those foamers—no way.” Chess stared out at the runway while he rubbed a hand across his brow.

  “This doesn’t look good, not good at all.” Chess said to anyone close enough to hear.

  “All right get ready!” Chuck yelled as he leveled off and came in low directly over the center of the runway. “The first groups you come across open fire, okay?”

  The Cessna was less then fifty feet above the ground, the foamers by now were fixated with the plane’s presence.

  “Here we go!” Elliot pushed open the cabin door and opened fire first with his M4 on a group of six just below to his left.

  Tristan squatted low on the floor of the cabin so he could target a much larger group. He set his M4 to “burst” and pulled the trigger four times, twelve deadly hot, lead projectiles slammed into the unaware zombies.

  Finally Tom joined in as Tristan rolled to one side, giving his buddy a clear field of fire, and opened up with sustained semi-auto fire from the AR-15 he carried.

  Chuck kept the Cessna straight, which wasn’t easy given all the empty brass casings flying around inside the cabin flew.

  “Whoo-hoo!” Chuck shouted as he brought the nose up. “Good shootin’ guys, damn good!”

  “Yeah, I reckon we got quite a few.” Elliot was elated at the effort.

  “From what I can see those we didn’t kill are now being torn apart in the frenzy.” Tristan kept an eye on the proceedings below as the plane banked.

  “We’ll do one more pass, then I’ll come in and land then we can see how many of these bastards we can chop up.” Chuck said then added. “Now would be a good time to change mags if you haven’t.”

  The metallic clicks from the rear of the plane indicated that was exactly what Tristan and Tom were doing.

  “Okay, we ready?”

  “You bet, Chuck!” Tom replied.

  The plane came down in a dive, just over the tops of the large hangar, while some foamers lunged fruitlessly into the air, most busied themselves by feasting on the bones of the less than fortunate undead. With a fresh clip in each rifle, the plane gunners readied themselves for the next pass.

  “Damn look at that!” Elliot yelled as he fired a burst of semi-auto fire into a mob of frenzied ghouls. “They’re actually eating each other.”

  Chuck kept the plane level and straight over the runway while he did his best to avoid the spent cartridges that flew all over the cockpit. “Yeah, we seen evidence of that before but it looks so grisly when there’s so many!” He yelled.

  It was hairy stuff, dangerous and the Tall Man’s adrenalin pumped so hard his hands trembled.

  He loved every minute of it.

  “Yeah! Let’s show these fuckers who’s boss!” He yelled once more.

  More concentrated fire came from the plane, bullet’s flew and foamers fell, only to be pounced upon by their undead brethren. In two passes the occupants of the small plane had diverted the attention of the foamers from the line of houses—and their friends inside—and reduced the number of foamers on the runway with concentrated fire and the resultant cannibalization by their kin.

  “We might have a chance here,” Riley said after watching the effectiveness of the second pass by the small plane.

  “Yeah, the foamers sure as hell aren’t interested in this place anymore.” Chess said.

  Chuck and Elliot—they continued to assume it was them—didn’t shoot all the foamers but the manic attacks which followed, absorbed the attention of them abominations.

  “There’s so many damn bodies strewn across the runway, there’s no way they can land.” Sam pointed out the obvious dilemma that faced the pilot.

  “You know the ground is pretty level behind us. If we could signal them somehow, you know… tell them to land there, they might have a chance.”

  “You’re right Chess but how do we signal them?”

  “Get a man on the roof, with a mirror and signal with morse code, pointing them to the field behind.” Sam added.

  He’d probably seen that in a movie, Riley looked over at Sam, but hell it seemed like it could work.

  “All right how do we—”

  “From the dormer window in the attic, Riley.” James, who had been on watch in the attic, said.

  “That would work. Who has the steadiest feet, that roof has quite a slope on it and my legs are too old for that shit.” Riley asked for a volunteer.

  When the laughter died, Cleavon stepped forward. “I’ll do it. I’m taller than all of you and can lean into it better—besides I’m pretty up to date on my signals. too.” It was another sly stab at Riley’s age—but all in good humor.

  “Someone grab a mirror from the bathroom and get this done.”

  Chuck took a moment to consider the runway below. It didn’t look good. Large packs
of feeding foamers dotted the runway and the bare fields on either side. Without conscious thought he checked the fuel gauge.

  Yeah, maybe ten minutes left.

  He took a moment to consider the ocean to the side of them. No foamers were present out there and if he could hold it up…

  “Chuck, hey Chuck look,” Elliot pointed over to the houses, “what the hell is that?”

  A bright light flickered on and off in repeating flashes from the roof top of one of the two story houses.

  Chuck looked across his shoulder, then said. “Someone’s signaling to us, from the roof.”

  “It’s morse, they’re transmitting morse code.” Tristan observed from behind.

  “Can you read it—been a long time for me,”

  “I think so, Chuck. But that bright light makes it hard.” Tristan paused for a moment and muttered to himself as he read out the signal delivered from below.

  “Best I can make out is something to do with, land behind, then it repeats.”

  Chuck started to climb and bank toward the houses. “Land behind…” he muttered to himself, not understanding the communication.

  “There, I got it!” Chuck pointed. “The field behind the houses. It’s long enough and looks level—they want us to land there.”

  “Then that has to be Riley and the others',” Elliot said, “but why are they way out here, I don’t—”

  “With all those foamers about, they probably had to make a run for it I’m guessing.” Chuck answered, then went quiet. Taking off and landing on runways presented no problem even though he hadn’t flown in years—it was like riding a bike, like he said—but an open field, with long grass, ridges and potholes?

  “I see why, too.” Tom said. “All the foamer activity is on the runway now, and there looks to be a trail down to the beach and a small boat ramp.”

  “All right, this might get a little bumpy.” Chuck lined up the Cessna 172 and eased back on the throttle. “Finish your drinks and buckle your seat belts!”

  * * *

  “Looks like they’ve seen the signal, they’re coming in.” Morris announced from the rear bedroom window.

  “Okay, as soon as they land we—all of us—double time it to the plane, understood?” Riley ordered. “And someone let Chess know, he’s watching from the front window and get Cleavon back inside before a foamer see’s him.”

  Riley looked around him and did a quick count—he was one short. “Where the hell is—”

  A grinding from below, interrupted him.

  Riley ran for the top landing and to the stairs, he was met there by Chess who came from the other side of the landing.

  “You hear that?” Chess called.

  Together the two descended the stairs, two steps at a time. With weapons at the ready they headed to the back door—from where they had heard the noise.

  “My God, Sam. What the fuck are you doing?” Riley was relieved it wasn’t a foamer but angry at the same time.

  “Well, if’n you wanna be running out to the plane, I assume you wanna go out the door, right?” Sam gave an extra pull on the claw-hammer and popped out one of the nails he’d hammered in not that long ago. “It’d be pretty hard to do when its nailed shut.”

  “I just wish you would let us know before you go off on your own Sam, it would ease my stress levels.” Riley added, the last straw with Sam, was close to being drawn as far as he was concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry ‘bout that. Thought I could do it on the quiet, y’know.”

  “You also shouldn’t be down here on the first floor without any cover.” Chess shook his head from side to side.

  Chess turned and gave Riley a nod, who turned and walked back upstairs.

  “Okay, Sam, get on with it.” Chess grabbed a nearby stool and made himself comfortable while Sam finished his handy work.

  In a few minutes, Sam had pulled all the nails out.

  “Good, now let’s get back upstairs shall we?” Chess said to him. As they started back up to the second floor Chess turned and asked the enigmatic one about his fitness. “The plane could be as far as a thousand yards away by the time it stops, Sam. How good are you at running that distance?”

  “To be honest with you the only running I’ve done recently is since I’ve met up with you guys.”

  Oh, great. Just fucking great. Chess didn’t let his true feelings be known, but he was sure that Sam had probably picked up on that anyway.

  “But don’t worry Chess, I won’t drag the rest of you down and I sure as hell won’t be taking my time with all them foamers behind me. One way or another I’ll make it.”

  “I’m sure you will, Sam, I’m sure you will.” Chess turned and smiled at his sometimes strange, sometimes puzzling, sometimes mysterious, but always amusing friend and slapped him on the shoulder.

  Chess felt somewhat easier now that he didn’t have to worry about Sam. It wasn’t just the word of the man who spoke like Humphrey Bogart, but something more esoteric, an understanding had passed between the two.

  No, he wouldn’t worry about Sam’s ability to make the dash to the plane or beyond. The concern is for the foamers, but that concern was felt by everyone—not just himself.

  Chapter Thirty

  Thirty

  The plane hit the level but rugged field and bounced back in the air, Chuck had brought the speed down to as low as he could go without stalling. The next time the plane wheels touched down, it stayed down, then rumbled along for several hundred yards.

  The plane slowed just before a line of pine trees and made a slow turn then taxied back toward the houses.

  “Man that was some landing, Chuck. But you got us there!” Tristan reached forward and squeezed the Tall Man’s shoulder.

  “You bet, damn good job—” Tom started to say when Elliot jumped in.

  “Oh, shit! Here they come, look!” Elliot pointed across the field to the houses as six men in various shades of camouflage clothing ran out.

  “Y’think there’s foamers after them?” Elliot asked.

  “Don’t know, but we should always assume that.”

  “Can you make out who it is?” Tom asked from the back of the cabin.

  “Well, those two have to be Riley and Cleavon,” Elliot referred to the only people of color left, now that Bob and his family had gone. “I can’t make out the others' from here, though. Tom, can you find the binoculars back there?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Chuck interceded. “By the time you find them they’ll all be here, and by the way,” he turned to Elliot, “the tall one on the left is Chess.”

  “We can’t fit all of them in the plane,”

  “We won’t be going anywhere in this Elliot, just grab our gear from the back—weapons and ammo only.” Chuck announced.

  By the time the plane came to a stop all the occupants were ready to go.

  “Riley, Chess!” Elliot yelled the moment he stepped out.

  “Get a move on, there’s thousands of foamers behind us!” Riley wasn’t in the mood for a joyous reunion at this stage.

  There was no time for any details, not right now, as those that had escaped from the house met up with the group that rescued Tom and Tristan—but there were some astonished cries.

  “Tom! Tristan! I can’t—” Chess called, the loudest of all. “They found you, damn!”

  “Sure did buddy, but looks like we went from the frying pan into the fire.” Tristan said as he grabbed a small sports bag of bottled water from the storage compartment.

  “Good to see you made it Chuck,” Chess locked hands with his fellow warrior, “and Tristan’s right, the town’s compromised, foamers all over the place.”

  Chuck and Riley then shook hands, while others' did the same, hugged or slapped backs. “As I came in to land I saw a small trail, went down to the beach to a boat ramp, there maybe a—”

  “Here they come!” Sam yelled and pointed to the houses.

  Hundreds of foamers poured through the gaps between the houses
and ran toward the open field. The feeding frenzy was probably over or this lot hadn’t been able to get a fair share—not even a tossed bone—and it was only a matter of time before the sound of the plane landing, caught their attention.

  “Shit, they can damn well move!” Tristan commented on the momentum of the foamers.

  “There better be a boat down there because I don’t see us outrunning that lot and we sure as shit can’t swim in that water—we’ll freeze to death.” Riley was quick to add.

  It took almost two full minutes before Elliot realized Jerry wasn’t with them. “Where’s Jerry, what—”

  “We had to leave him back at the motel, Elliot. He couldn’t walk… we had no choice.” Riley didn’t attempt to hide the decision.

  “You what? You just left him?” Elliot felt the edges of his eye-patch dig into his cheek as he gritted his teeth. “That man saved my life and this is how you repay him?”

  The urgent escape had been put on hold: Elliot demanded an answer, foamers or not.

  “We left him a weapon and food, then we drew the foamers away from town—that’s the reason we’re out here—we gave him a chance, Elliot.” Chess explained.

  “Well, we won’t have any chance at all if we don’t get moving.” Riley continued to show his pragmatism.

  Chess came up to Elliot and grabbed him by the upper arm. He didn’t say a word just nodded. Elliot saw the expression and understood. They had to move out.

  “All right, head through that track between the tall grass.” Chuck pointed.

  As they moved off in single file, Chess stopping short of where the trail started. “Here, you might want this,” he handed the Weatherby .340 Magnum hunting rifle to Chuck.