All precautions for a future trip to Port Edward were wiped from Chess’ mind the moment he stepped outside the market building. In the short time, he'd discussed the situation with Chuck, the weather had changed dramatically. And not for the better. The Haida Gwaii archipelago in this part of the Northern Pacific typically received more rainfall than snow. Snow tended to favor the mainland of Canada. With its position so far north and the winds from the pole, it wasn’t hard to see how the weather could change so suddenly. In the short time the survivors had been here, they’d already noticed direct sunlight never lasted more than around four per day. There had been some good snowfall at night, but a lot of it was frost, too. However, dark rain clouds persisted daily, even if precipitation didn’t occur.
“Looks like we’re in for a storm,” one of the ex-Special Forces men gathered around the open fire yelled to Chess.
“It sure does.” Chess hollered back without attempting to name his weather reporter. With everyone rugged up in camouflage jackets, pants, dark woolen beanies, or ski masks—along with the ubiquitous beards—it was impossible to tell one from another. Especially at a distance.
The sound of the wind roaring through the tall trees on the hills of Moresby Island was like a freight train as it passed through small country town at midnight. Lonely, scary, and dangerous. The dark gray clouds cast a giant shadow across all the observable islands, and the sea that could be seen from Sandspit was now a dirty green dotted with angry white caps.
There won’t be any hothouses built today, Chess had thought before he spoke.
“Better grab the coffee and chow and take ’em inside. And I hope you guys got some good tales to tell,” Chess added, with a laugh “because that’s gonna be our only entertainment for a while.”
The group started to laugh along when one stepped forward and pointed out to the harbor.
“What about the catamaran. Do you think it will hold?”
Damn. Chess hadn’t thought of that, he wasn’t expecting a storm. “I don’t know, but we’ll have to check on it. If we lose that boat…”
It went without saying that if the catamaran were washed out to sea or sunk, then access to the mainland would go with it.
“All right, you three come with me.” Chess chose the nearest men to him. He didn’t know their names, faces covered with beards and beanies and had on a full ski mask. But before the hour was out, he’d wish he took the time to find out. “It’s pretty choppy out there, so I don’t want to risk any more than four of us in the dinghy, okay?”
The three agreed and followed Chess at double-time down to the dock. “Hopefully when can get this done before the weather gets worse!”
“Or we get too wet!” The man in the ski-mask said. Chess was already too far in front, and—with the wind and the choppy waves—didn’t hear him.
It would remain the one thing Chess wished he had heard—for the rest of his days.
Elliot 6
The sun hadn’t quite risen in Vale, Oregon, but the early morning light filtered through the skylights of the windowless maintenance shed. Out of the confines of the chopper and inside a locked shed, the crew slept soundly for the first time in days—weeks, maybe.
“I didn’t hear a sound last night. You?” Richard turned and asked his co-pilot.
“Not me, slept like a log. How about you, Elliot?”
Elliot wriggled clear from his sleeping bag before he answered. “Not a sound, Ted. Not a sound.”
“All right, let's get some coffee made to wash down those granola bars!” Tristan joked as he pulled the fold-up emergency camp stove and fuel tablets from the duffel bag. It wasn’t a complete joke, those granola bars had zip flavor. But Tristan’s new attitude and energy had everyone exchanging raised eyebrows.
Marvelous what a good sleep could do.
“While we wait for the water to boil, I think we should check on the chopper, eh?” Elliot suggested while he rubbed the sticky residue from his eyes, courtesy of the Sandman’s visit.
The sun had barely risen in the eastern sky as they stepped out from the maintenance shed. Looking down upon the Earth, the fiery star was oblivious to the possible extinction of what was once considered the most intelligent form of life—by some, anyway.
“There she is,” Ted said of the helicopter on the tarmac.
“I think we should take a fast trip into this town and see what we can find that may be of use to us. We need to get eight full hours of flying time in today, so it's best we find what we can now. It’s only a five-minute walk,” Elliot sounded like his old self once again as he scanned the horizon on all sides, unconcerned with the chopper. His attention on what might be out there—watching, waiting. Apart from a few small hills along the horizon, Vale was flat and devoid of any thick vegetation and didn’t afford any place to hide—a bonus for the crew of the chopper. The town and its houses could be seen from the airport maintenance shed, barely half a mile away. There were no tall office buildings in this town, and aside from electricity towers, the tallest structure was probably the spire on the Catholic Church.
“Yeah…it might just be a five-minute walk, but we don’t know where anything is in this town. We could waste a lot of time just looking around.” Richard said.
“I agree, and the closer we get into the town, the more likely we are to find an operational vehicle of some sort. At least one that’ll last long enough to get us around the town.” Elliot also felt rejuvenated and eager after his sleep.
“All right, let's get that coffee and get moving!”
A canteen cup of coffee and two granola bars later, all five men marched north along Airport Road, which turned into Main Street and into the center of town. As they neared O’Dell’s Bed & Breakfast a block before Main, several cars and trucks could be seen parked in front of the front gates next to the large pavilion.
Richard motioned toward the vehicles. “We might get one of those to start up.”
“Let's hope it’s one of the sedans, because I don’t like the idea of trying to squeeze five guys into those old pickups,” Tom added.
“Don’t have time to be picky, you know that. You’ll just have to hop in the back!” Elliot said with a sizable grin on his face.
Everyone was upbeat, this would be a good day.
A twenty-year-old Chevy Impala was the first car Elliot set eyes on. The car’s engine started up like a champion after he hotwired it—a trick Chuck had taught him—and they all piled in. The town wasn’t very big, so it only took a few minutes before they pulled up in front of a general store on Main.
“Look for unopened bottled water and canned foods,” Elliot reminded the others as he stepped from the car. He was about to follow when he saw the Vale Feed Supplies & Gun Store on the opposite side. Ammunition for his Ruger Redhawk was running low.
I wonder…
“Tom!” Elliot called. “Come with me.”
“What’s up?” Tom asked when he came alongside.
“We’re gonna check out the feed store.”
“The feed store?” Tom stopped in the middle of the street and stared. “What on Earth do you—”
“It’s also the gun store,” Elliot said with a wink.
“A-ha, I see. Do you think it’s wise to split up?”
“They’re Marines and Special Forces. The two of us won’t make much difference.”
“It’s not those three I’m concerned about.”
Like the supermarket, the feed store was open. There were a few cars parked out front and a van in the service lane that ran alongside. Though the store had large windows all around, it was still quite dim inside. The windows around the inside of the store were blocked by feedbags stacked on the shelves, keeping any light from entering.
“Damn, sure smells like shit in here.”
“I doubt this place has had any fresh air since…well, y’know.” Tom didn’t elaborate, there was no need.
Together they walked through the aisles of the well-stocked store. Elliot
pointed the muzzle of the AR-15 he carried forward, finger poised on the outside of the trigger guard. Tom, wasn’t armed. He told Elliot it would be far safer for everyone that he not have a firearm of any description. Bags of feed for horses, chickens, dogs, cats, and birds of all descriptions took up at least half the front part of the store while the other half had saddles, ropes, halters, and the like. In one corner, Tom spotted a glass counter perhaps eight feet long with a wall-mounted vertical gun rack behind.
“Over here, I found it.”
Surprisingly, all the weapons—which wasn’t many—seemed to be in place.
Didn’t the townspeople grab what guns and rifles there were to, to… To what? Elliot asked himself when he saw the firearms and ammunition. No evidence existed to indicate any confrontations with foamers, and though the massive blaze came close to the town, not a single structure had burned down.
“What do we have here?” Tom knew as much about guns as he did knitting.
“Bolt-action rifles, levers, a few shotguns, and…let me see…” Elliot bent over to look inside the counter. The dust and dim light made it difficult to see. “Looks like we got a few revolvers here, too. Damn, cowboy guns like that Colt of David’s and…hmm, what have we here?”
As Elliot lifted a metal case from the lower shelf, Tom's eyes darted back toward the front door—he didn’t feel all that secure in a dimly lit, cramped country store. No sir, not with the possibility of foamers…
The rattle of a small padlock saved him from the horrors of his thoughts, and turned to see Elliot place the case on the counter.
“My mother always kept the good stuff under lock,” Tom managed after a deep breath.
“My thoughts too, Tom.”
Elliot grabbed a KA-BAR from a line of knives on the first shelf under the glass top and stuck the point into the latch on the strong box. While Elliot tugged and wrestled with the lock, Tom walked over to the cash register and pushed the “Enter” key. The cash drawer slid out at once.
A quick rifle through the useless cash register later, Tom held up a set of keys attached to a bullet key-ring. “Do you think these might help?”
“Err, yeah! I’m sure they will. Thanks, Tom.” Elliot took the keys, shoved one in the padlock, and turned. It worked.
“All right! We hit the motherload!” Elliot was excited when he opened the top of the box. He lifted a mint-condition Dan Wesson .357 Magnum revolver with a ten-inch barrel.
“Damn, just the look of that thing alone could kill,” Tom commented.
“You're right on that. Help me find some cartridges.”
“Elliot. Hey, Elliot,” Ted called from the street. “Hey, we started to get a little worried.”
“Sorry guys, just checked to see if there was any ammo we could use.”
“And?” Tristan appeared alongside Ted.
“Got some shot-shells and found me a new revolver.” Elliot held the Dan Wesson up like a proud father with his first-born child.
“I see that. What are you going to do with the Redhawk then?”
“Well, ammunition for .44 Magnums is short and there were several packets of .357 in the store, so it made sense to swap. If anyone wants the Redhawk, be my guest.”
Ted rubbed the half-inch long growth on his chin. “How many rounds for the Redhawk do you have left?”
“I have three speed-loaders and two full boxes, why?”
“It would make an excellent short-range cannon to keep upfront in the chopper for us to use in case we have some close targets.”
“Great it’s settled—up front in the chopper it goes. But I’ll keep the speed-loaders.”
“More importantly, how did your expedition go?” Tom asked as they headed back to the Impala; enough time had been spent on their excursion.
“We found two cases of bottled water still sealed in plastic wrap, scrounged six cans of chili and beans, and a carton of spam. We also got some crackers here sealed in foil—so they should be okay. Seems the townsfolk had the time to strip the food closet bare before they left.”
“The feed store looks just like it did on the last day of business. Understandable, I guess. After that fire, there’d be no cattle or such to feed. But why leave the guns? I don’t get it, did they not know about the foamers?”
“Maybe they took so much time with the food and water, they didn’t have time for the guns. A choice between guns or food, perhaps.”
“And then go where, exactly?”
Tristan didn’t answer Elliot—he didn’t have one to give.
Elliot, Tristan, and Tom loaded the sleeping bags and the newly acquired supplies into the chopper while Tom and Richard ran through their much-abbreviated preflight check. With the thumbs-up given, they climbed aboard.
“Decided on a destination yet?” An impatience had crept into Tom’s voice. Highly unusual, but… these were extraordinary circumstances.
“We checked the map for the best location. It’s better if we follow Snake River south before we hit the border with Ontario. We’re getting close to populated areas—well, they were once. If there are any survivors, we don’t want to be seen for obvious reasons. We need to look for a place with an airport. As soon as we have a possible candidate, we’ll let you know, okay?” Ted told the others.
Elliot sat next to the former White House staffer and noticed his furrowed eyebrows and stiffened lips. “What’s bothering you?”
“We’re taking too long to get there. Even with eight hours of flying, we’ll still be another two, maybe three days away. You must understand, I have no knowledge of when this system could become operational. The countdown might have already started, and—”
Tristan overheard the conversation, not that Elliot and Tom tried to keep the discussion private. “And if it has, where the hell does that leave us?”
“You can’t turn the clock back, Tristan. You can’t,” was all Tom had to say.
Travel back in time. A concept that everyone in the chopper—and back at Sandspit—had thought of and wished for on more than one occasion.
Sandspit 16
Chess led the other three to the dinghy tied up at the end of the boat dock. “We have to hurry. If this wind gets any stronger, we won’t be able to paddle out there.”
Chess untied the ropes, then jumped into the dinghy while the others grabbed the oars. It was just over fifty yards to the catamaran, but the water between them and the craft proved less than cooperative.
“Paddle, paddle!” Chess yelled, his voice barely audible against the wind and the rolling sea.
When after what seemed an eternity, the dinghy pulled up next to the bow of the catamaran and Chess managed to secure the rope after heaving himself up—and receiving a push—to the deck. He took a deep breath before he stuck a hand down to help the others aboard.
“Thanks, Chess,” the one with the full ski mask—and last to board—said.
“Allan?” Chess was close enough to recognize the voice this time.
“Yeah, who did you think it was?”
“How the hell would I know, you have a mask on!” Chess’ voice was sharp, full of anger.
“Oh, oh yeah, I forgot about that. I—”
“Never mind. You shouldn’t be out here!”
“Why? I’m just as much a part of this group as you. As a matter of fact, I was with Elliot and Chuck when we left Twin Falls, so I’m even more a part of this group than you.” Allan was pissed and he let the Special Forces man know it.
“This is dangerous—”
“Fuck dangerous. I’ve been chased by zombies, mutant pygmies, and crazed looters since we left Twin Falls. I was a just a kid before all this started, a computer geek, but now I’ve killed several men, dozens of foamers, and been under fire. So, you still want to tell me about dangerous just because you’re some sort of fancy soldier boy?”
Allan was now close to offending Chess, who used all the discipline he could muster not to knock the feisty teen on his ass.
“All right,
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Let’s not argue about it and get this done so we can get back, okay?”
Before Allan could respond, one of the others joined in. “Chess, it looks like we only deployed the light anchor, we need to drop the heavy one. I think the we’ll be okay then.”
“Right, let's do it…err…” Chess had no idea who he was speaking to.
“Simsy.” He said pulling the beanie back to reveal more of his features.
A wall of seawater came up over the side as a larger swell hit the catamaran. The vessel rocked back and forth, causing everyone to lose their footing on the wet deck.
Chess and Peter caught the rail on the side and held on as the ocean-going catamaran heaved violently. Allan attempted to do the same, but at his age, he didn’t have the strength to hold on.
“ALLAN, ALLAN!” Chess screamed when he saw the young man tossed over the rail, where he held on tenaciously until he slammed into the side of the craft. His head made a thud, easily heard above the wind and the sea, after which he let go of the rail and dropped into the dark water below.
Chess immediately pulled at his boot laces, his intentions obvious.
“No, Chess, no.” Simsy grabbed his arm and held firm.
“But we’ve got to save him, we have to!”
“We don’t know how deep it is and in this weather, you’ll only jeopardize yourself,” the fourth member of the team yelled as he threw a lifesaving ring into the water.
“We can’t just stand here, we have to do something!” Chess pulled free of Simsy’s grip. Physically, he was more imposing than any of the others and looked prepared to go to blows.
“Help—help me…!” Allan’s head bobbed above the thrashing waves.
“Allan!” Chess rushed to the rail. The catamaran rocked from side to side. “Grab the life buoy, grab it!”
Allan was too far in the choppy water to get to the life preserver. He didn’t have the strength or ability in such conditions, and the current pushed him in the opposite direction.
“Pull the buoy in and throw it on top of him, he can’t make it!” Chess ordered.
Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 9
