“Let me give you a hand,” James helped with the boxes they were in.
Chuck reiterated the tasks at hand. They would expose themselves outside and the potential for disaster was real. The moment Elliot and Morris returned from the first log cabin with a bed sheet rolled under an arm each, the operation began.
While strips of material were torn, Chess and Cleavon went outside and siphoned gas from the Impala. One operated the hose, while the other kept watch. Riley kept a steady flow of bottles to the end of the hose where the gas flowed. When about three-quarters full he’d put his thumb over the end, as James passed another bottle along.
Twenty-four bottles didn’t take long to fill but the cold air—despite the sun—didn’t make it easy.
“Okey that’s it,” Riley said. “Let’s get inside.”
Riley let Cleavon and James carry the boxes. The thumb on his hand had gone numb from spilled gasoline. And he didn’t want to be responsible for dropping them. Chess kept a keen eye down the road, where the foamer was observed earlier, all the while spitting constantly.
James went up the stairs first. “Looks like we made it unseen.”
“Yeah, but let’s get inside.” Riley answered him. He was more aware of how the situation could change at a moments notice.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
“Is there any gas left?” Chuck asked.
“It ran freely from the tank, so I would think so,” Chess answered. “What’s on your mind?”
“We lure them into the building and set it on fire, we kill a lot more that way and save on ammo.”
“Yeah and this is all wood, if we soak it in gas—”
“The whole place will go up like a fuckin’ bonfire!” Elliot couldn’t contain his excitement. Chuck saw Riley raise a hand to his chin and scratch at the several days worth of growth on his face. A sure sign, if ever there was one, that Riley had an issue with the plan.
“What’s on your mind, Riley?”
Riley walked over to the window and looked out. “You want to lure the foamers up here, which means up the stairs, right?”
Chuck nodded but kept his eye on the former Twin Falls police sergeant—he was waiting for it.
“There’s no escape out the back or from the veranda. To get the foamers up here we have to make them believe we—us humans—are here. The plan is a good one, except for the small detail of getting out.”
Before Chuck replied Elliot went into the managers office then returned a moment later. “This should do the job.” He held up a large glass coffee pot.
Chess took the pot. “All right Elliot, give it here, I’ll get the rest of the gas.”
“Cover him, Cleav.” Chuck added before he addressed Riley’s concerns.
Chuck had worked it all out—or thought he did. He’d take up position and the veranda, open fire into the tree line where the foamer was seen, wait fire again. The report of the Weatherby alone should be enough to bring all of hell’s demons.
The foamers would descend on the Skidegate Lodge up the stairs, into the reception area and—
He hadn’t thought about how they all were to get away. He could jump over the railing. A ten foot drop to the ground didn’t faze him, but some of the others' may not fare so well.
“How about we take cover in one of the cabins out back, we can keep the Bronco nearby with the engine running. When the foamers cram inside, we toss the Molotov's through the windows and make our escape?” Sam sauntered over and made suggested.
Chuck looked from side to side for a moment, not sure what if he heard correct. Sam wasn’t supposed to be a military guy, but his ambush plan was worthy of any guerrilla or unconventional force.
“Sounds like a plan, Sam.” Chuck didn’t question any further. “Who want’s to stay up on the veranda with me and cover my ass?”
“I will, Chuck.”
“All right, Elliot, hope you can handle the jump. Make sure you got two spare magazines with you, okay?”
In another five minutes, the escape plan was ready for execution. Chuck and Elliot positioned themselves on the veranda, facing the western end of the road that led into Skidegate. All the others' had gone down the front stairs and around to the first cabin, except for Tristan who brought the Ford Bronco up as close as he could. The doors were left open and the engine running. They’d get four of five inside the cabin in a hurry and the rest—including Chuck and Elliot would have to pile into the tray.
It would be a bumpy take-off but they were pointed in the right way. In the mayhem caused by the inferno, it was hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.
“Okay that’s all the gas,” Chess poked his head out into the veranda, through the double doors and told Chuck before he took his place below. “I’ll lock this door from the inside and push the book cabinet over it, should give you enough time.”
“Roger Chess, good luck.” Chuck said and gave a thumbs up.
This was no time for heroics, they were inviting the foamers to come and get them. If their calculations were wrong or the foamers smelled—or sensed—the others' in the cabin, their chances of survival would be less than the chicken’s in a coop after the fox had entered.
They gave Chess a good few minutes to lock up, get down the stairs and to the cabin. A few clouds crossed over the face of the sun sending shadows across the landscape while a light, crisp breeze drifted into Chuck’s face.
“Ready?”
“As always.” Elliot replied.
Chuck took a prone position on the wooden veranda and poked the barrel of the Weatherby through the pickets surrounding the rail. Through the scope he picked out the trunk of a large pine to one side of the bend in the road. He eased the safety off and squeezed the trigger. Slowly, ever so… BHAM!
The report of the .340 Magnum echoed through the hills and valleys of the deserted island like a cannon.
Chuck waited and counted to thirty before he fire again. “Our friend’s should have heard that I should imagine.”
“Yeah, normally I say that was enough noise to wake the dead but they’re—”
“Seriously Elliot, your jokes are sounding far too much like Riley’s, you need to work on that.”
The two traded barbs in a good natured fashion but their eyes remained on the bend of the road. Chuck readied himself to fire another round when Elliot called his attention.
“You feel that, can you?”
Chuck leaned up on his elbows further to get a better view of their surrounds. “I don’t know, what is it you feel?”
“Its like… like a change in the air or something,”
“Like a static electricity type thing?”
“Yeah, Chuck, you got it!”
“Then, I do feel it. I’d say we’re about to have some company.”
The cool breeze that blew into Chucks face now brought a rancid odor. Open sewer, carrion, the town dump after a heavy rain. “They’re here.”
Chuck moved his position to the front of the veranda, near the stairs. He needed to keep the foamers coming down the road and to the front of the Skidegate Lodge and away from the rear of the building.
“Stay with me, Elliot.” Chuck yelled, he didn’t care if foamers heard. “When I tell you, we make a dash for the back and hope Chess doesn’t panic.”
Elliot kneeled beside the Tall Man. “Doubt it, Chuck. He’s like you, he doesn’t panic.”
Chuck didn’t respond as a mob of foamers came around the bend in the road. “I count about twenty.” Elliot said.
“Looks about right,” Chuck added two rounds into the Weatherby’s magazine, “let’s get a few while we can, piss ‘em off some more.”
Chuck aimed and carefully fired. With each successive head-shot a foamer fell to the ground—minus his or her head, such was the power of the Weatherby.
“Damn, that’s good shooting Chuck!” Elliot said. Five shots and five foamers down—couldn’t ask for much more.
A frenzy erupted among the active foam
ers as Chuck anticipated.
“Stand up and fire a burst at them!”
“I can’t hit them from this range, Chuck.”
“That’s not the point.”
Elliot aimed his M4 into the center of one of the pack that had formed and fired several bursts. Foamers on the ground were too busy stripping their undead brethren of flesh and bone and paid no attention, but those nearby did.
“That did it Chuck, they’re on their way.”
“All right, stay put until they get close. Then we can slip around the other side and over the back rail.” Chuck considered the foamers once more then turned to Elliot. “Open the front doors, let’s hope their dumb enough to think we went that way.”
More foamers joined and soon hundreds scuttled down the road toward the Lodge.
The horrid odor intensified and throaty growls radiated from the undead horde.
“Get ready Elliot, get ready…” Chuck stood and took a few steps backward. “Go!”
Together the two ran past the front doors, to the other side of the veranda, than ran down to the back.
“Jump Elliot, jump!”
Elliot slung the strap of the M4 over his shoulder, threw one leg over the wood rail then the other. He paused for a second to look at the ground below then jumped.
Chuck looked back one last time. Foamers by the dozen rushed up the stairs—just what the doctor ordered—and would soon run into the reception area of the Lodge. Chuck kept the rifle in his hands as he sat on top of the rail then swung his legs around as one. In the same motion he leaped forward and to the ground below.
“You all right?” he asked Elliot who struggled to his feet.
“Yeah, just hit harder than I thought that’s all.”
“Okay let’s get Chess and the others' out here we haven’t much time.”
Chess beat them to it, he’d observed it all through an open door, and ran forward. “We set?” He asked.
The moment Chuck nodded, Chess thumbed the side of his disposable lighter and put the flame to the rag that hung from the top of the beer bottle. Cleavon, Tristan and Riley had joined him and did the same with the bottles they carried.
“Through the windows let’s go!” Chess rallied.
All four let their firebombs go at once. The bottles and the flaming rag sailed through the air, and smashed the window. In less than a second an audible, whoosh, occurred as the gasoline soaked building ignited. Howls and groans and God know’s what followed, foamers covered in flames burst through the windows in a frenetic effort to escape the inferno.
Without any scientific experimentation, or months or painstaking laboratory work, it had been discovered that foamers, do feel pain.
“In the truck, get in the truck!” Sam yelled, he stood next to the drivers seat. The non military trained members of the group—except for Elliot—jumped inside the Bronco, while the experienced ones jumped into the tray of the old Ford.
Chess pounded on the roof. “Let’s go Sam, let’s fucking go!”
Sam put the truck into gear the men in the tray grabbed more firebombs from the box left in the back—another of Sam’s idea’s.
Chess made a mental note to ask the Humphrey Bogart imitator where he picked up this knowledge—that’s as long as they get out of here alive.
The Bronco bounced along the side of the road, where it had been cleared, thank goodness there hadn’t been any heavy rain for days or they wouldn’t have gone anywhere.
“On the road Chuck, on the road!” Chess called out the target. Elliot now took over the job of the “fuse-lighter” after Chess handed him his Bic. Elliot on his knees lit the rag, the thrower tossed the bottle, then Elliot would move on to light the next. One after the other until all bottles were gone.
“Damn would you look at that!” Riley said as the bronco sped away, now on the road proper. A huge fireball left on the road behind and the Skidegate Lodge totally consumed. Foamers darted out in all directions, covered from head to toe in flames, they’d manage to run a few yards before succumbing. Some ran into the other foamers on the road, igniting their clothes and increasing the incineration. The plan worked, and their escape a success.
There were a few individual foamers here and there as they headed back to the small runabout. Those foamers were dispatched by a carefully placed shot to the head by either Chuck or Chess. Very little ammunition was used in the escape, which was a bonus, they didn’t have much to use.
One bullet, one kill.
“You remember where the boat was?” Chess yelled above the noise. Fire, foamers and a noisy Ford Bronco the contributors. Though his eyes were on Chuck, he didn’t address him specifically.
“It’s just down there were the road jerks hard to the left.” Riley pointed along the road.
Chess reached over and slapped a hand on the shoulders or knees of Tom, Tristan, Elliot and Chuck, one at a time. It was the first time since they had arrived that Chess had a chance to welcome them.
“I’m so glad, so fucking glad, you guys made it back.”
“So are we Chess, so are we.” Chuck answered and took a hold of his buddy’s hand.
Another potential disaster was avoided and the survivors could now move on. But how many more close-calls could there be before they bought the farm?
So far, the Gods of Apocalyptic Survivors (and Fools) had watched over them, but surely they must take a day off sometime?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
The small runabout they used to reach this side of the Island, was right where they left it. The tide hadn’t taken it nor had the foamers thought to smash it—which would have ended the escape chances for the survivors.
“As we saw by the few foamers on the road, we didn’t get all of them in the fire.” Chuck addressed the group the moment they all got out of the Bronco.
“But there was hundreds of them, around the stairs and more inside,” James said to Chuck, “they were all caught when the flames erupted. As we drove away, you and Chess got hundreds more on the road.”
“Be that as it may,” Chuck spoke as he ushered everyone down to the beach, “thousands of foamers followed us here and we killed maybe one thousand—total.”
“Do you think some headed back to Sandspit?” Elliot asked. The concern evident in his features.
Chuck considered Elliot’s question for a moment. “Could be, it’s hard to tell,” he looked up and down the length of the beach and back to the road. “Let’s get out of here, it’ll be dark in an hour or so.”
Chess had gone ahead and, with Sam’s help, pushed the small boat back into the waters edge. “You want to steer it Sam or take a rest?”
“I’ll take a rest when we get away from all these zombie bastards, then and only then!”
Chess took note of Sam's voice, he was close to the brink—but he wasn’t exactly the Lone Ranger in that regard.
“I hear you on that my friend, and I’ll do the same, okay?”
Sam and Chess pushed the boat out until they were knee deep and then Sam jumped back in and started pulled the cord on the outboard motor.
It gave a murmur then cut out. “It’s just cold I’ll give it a bit of choke.” Sam said pulling the starter cord harder. Same result.
“Whats up?” Chuck came alongside the boat.
“Won’t start,” Chess told him.
“Have we got enough gas?”
“Yeah, I checked. This outboard doesn’t use much.” Sam answered the man who was still tall even in knee deep water.
“All right, keep working on it,” Chuck said then told the others' to climb aboard.
“Hey, look here,” Chess called. Underneath the permanent seats and, to one side of the boat, Chess discovered a set of oars.
“We gonna row all the way back to Sandspit?”
“Take it easy, Sam.” Chess moved quick to ease any concerns. “You work on the outboard, the rest of us will take turns on the oars, okay?”
Chess saw what could o
nly be described as pure relief come over Sam’s face.
“Okay, us two can start, Chuck!”
Sam pulled on the cord, took a break so as not to flood it, then repeated the process. Chess and Chuck waited until the others' were seated before they started rowing. The sea between the Moresby and Graham Islands’ could get rough—rough enough to capsize an already overloaded runabout—but today, Neptune watched over them with a sympathetic eye.
A half-hour later, Chess and Chuck gave up their post for another team to take over the rowing duties. At the rear Sam slumped in a heap—the unresponsive outboard had drained him.
Chess looked back to the enigmatic one, smiled and shook his head. And Sam thought he had the easier job!
“So far I don’t see foamers.” Chess reported, then took a mouthful of water from his his bottle.
“Might take them some time to regroup, but we haven’t we’ve seen the last of them, count on it.” Chuck said, then took the offered bottle.
“Thanks,” Chuck held the bottle of water up for a moment before passing it back. “There’s something else to consider.”
“The Water.”
Chess caught on quick, he was a Special Forces team leader, after all. Maybe were are alike, as Elliot said. Chuck remembered.
“Yep, we’ve only got these few bottles with us and—”
“There’s more back at the motel, at Sandspit.” Riley was quick to answer. “And now, with most of the foamers on Graham Island, we can head back for the remainder of our supplies.”
“And get Gerry!” Elliot added. The rescue of the man who saved his life had not left his mind or so it appeared to everyone onboard.
Chuck glanced over at Riley then back to Elliot. He didn’t want to say exactly what was on his mind. “We can at that, Elliot.”
Keep the spirits high, no matter what.
Halfway across the channel, the water around the boat became choppy.
“Wh-what the hell’s goin’ on?” Sam woke from his doze.
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