Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  Elliot, Tom, and the others from Sandspit allowed the two controllers to follow Ricardo and the guards down the stairs before following.

  “Captain, we’ll need to get to our helicopter and retrieve our weapons,” Richard hollered halfway down the steps.

  “They’ve been brought to the bunker, you can pick ‘em up there. Now let’s ride!” Ricardo answered at the bottom of the stairs after taking a peak in the direction of the collapsed chain-link fences.

  As they rode in the back of the truck to the closest bunker entrance—the one they’d come from earlier—Ricardo told them there was at least a six months’ supply of food and water in the bunkers, plus running water and power provided by solar energy. When they alighted from the truck, their optimism dropped faster than the base’s only jet fighter.

  Three guards in blue berets stood inside the metal railing that surrounded the hatch that led to the bunkers below.

  “What is it, what's wrong?” Ricardo called before reaching them.

  “Sir, it's Colonel Hakola. He’s retreated to the bunker. He’s locked the manhole cover, sir!”

  “What?”

  “What the fuck.”

  “Does this mean we’re stuck out here?”

  Questions flew from the Sandspit crew.

  “No. No, don’t panic, there are other entrances. In his condition, I doubt he could remember to lock them all. But we best be on guard when we enter.” Ricardo then turned to one of the guards. “Jackson, procure five M4s for these men. Now!”

  Jackson ran to the nearby Humvee, while Ricardo told everyone to get back into the truck and for the other guards at the bunker entrance to follow in the Humvee.

  The truck driver revved the engine as Jackson ran to the rear of the vehicle. “You have just the one mag, it’s fully loaded,” he yelled as he passed the weapons.

  When done, Tristan offered a hand out to help him aboard.

  “No, no, I’ll be okay I’ll take the hummer!” Jackson pointed behind him.

  Captain Ricardo jumped into the passenger side this time. He told the driver to head toward the other end of the hangars where there was another entrance.

  “No, wait,” he threw a hand out a grabbed the driver's arm, “Hakola will probably think of that one, and he could just make it in time, even on his hands and knees. Try the one behind the guards’ barracks—that's too far for him in his condition.”

  The truck skidded to a halt right next to the guard rails over the bunker entrance, less than a minute later, the Hummer pulling up right next to it. Guards piled from both vehicles and ran over—M4s at the ready—and tried the manhole.

  “It’s open, Captain, it’s—” Jackson started to shout when a pistol shot rang out from below. The full metal jacket bullet, caught the guard underneath the chin, went through the roof of his mouth, and popped out the top of his skull. His blue beret lifted from his head and for a moment, sailed through the air like a blue Frisbee with a gooey-red center.

  Elliot and the others from Sandspit jumped from the truck, and took cover behind it.

  “Oh, my God!” Tristan realized the guard shot was the man he’d only just spoken with. “What the fuck happened?”

  Another guard, who was near Jackson when he was shot, answered. “Hakola must have shot him as he opened the manhole. Bastard, fucking bastard.”

  “He could hardly walk last we saw, Captain. I doubt he could shoot that well,” Tom said.

  “Are you suggesting he has others with him?” Ricardo moved behind the truck with the others.

  “He does have a pretty damn good bargaining chip.”

  The sharp screech of rubber sounded as another Humvee rounded the near hangar, then skidded to a halt next to the M-35 truck.

  “What’s happening, Captain Ricardo? We heard the shots and—” another guard started to say before ducking behind the open door of the Hummer as two more rounds were fired. The shots weren’t aimed at anyone—they were intended as suppressive bursts.

  “That's our problem right there. We can’t access the bunker, and they’re gonna close it if we don’t think of something.”

  “Right, we can’t have that now, can we,” the guard answered—sounding very British suddenly—then reached inside the Humvee. “This’ll fix the bastards!”

  “Wait, what the—”

  It was too late. The guard moved in a crouch toward the manhole, a baseball-sized object in each hand. He hunkered down further a few feet from the open hatch and then with an easy-does-it underarm throw, tossed two hand grenades into the opening.

  “Fire in the fucking hole!” he yelled, rushing back to the truck.

  Muffled explosions followed, a cloud of smoke rose and the ground vibrated.

  “Well, that should have solved that problem,” the grenade-tossing guard said.

  “From the tone of your voice, I assume there’s another?”

  The guard turned and eyed Tom up and down before he answered. “Yes, sir. The dead fuckers. They’ve flooded through the fence like it was a Black Friday shopping sale. We have about ten minutes.”

  Mountain View 7

  The Air Force guards and the Sandspit crew ran for the opening of the bunker.

  “Have we got everyone?” Elliot’s concern for others continued to show.

  “Everyone as far as I’m interested in, Captain,” Grenade-Tosser answered him curtly. “If there were any other personnel scattered throughout the base, they’d have to deal with it.”

  “Okay, let's get down there—”

  “Wait a sec! Just wait!” Tristan held an open palm out as they neared the opening.

  “What are you—”

  Tristan thrust his hand sharply at Captain Ricardo, demanding silence. He then bent over and scooped up the blue beret that had belonged to Jackson with the muzzle of his borrowed M4. Just like the movies, Tristan inched forward to the round, concrete hole in the ground—the metal hatch hung limply to one side. He poked the beret-attached M4 out over the hole—if anyone was still below and armed…

  Not a sound was heard below. More importantly, no shots were fired. Tristan pulled his weapon back, allowing the beret to fall to the ground, then peered over the edge. Two bodies lay sprawled at the bottom of the spiral staircase.

  “All clear, it’s all clear.”

  Ricardo told the others to make their way down, he would get the hatch. “And you two, cover the doorway!” he hollered to the first two guards.

  At the bottom of the staircase, before the entrance to the concrete corridors, the guards took position on either side of the metal door. A quick look at the bodies confirmed neither was Colonel Hakola.

  “Jesus. Damn, Jesus!” Ricardo’s frustration was easily heard.

  “Get the damn hatch closed and get down here, Captain!”

  The others couldn’t see Ricardo struggle with the manhole cover from their position. “I’m trying, I’m trying, but the grenade damaged the hatch—it won’t close!”

  The guard who had saved the day may also have fucked it as well.

  “Oh shit, shit, shit!” Ricardo cried and scurried down the stairs. An explanation wasn’t called for. When he got to the door below, he quickly punched the buttons on the keypad to the side, but just as quickly realized something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  “What? What is it?” Tom saw the color drain from Ricardo’s face.

  Ricardo just turned, his bottom lip already trembling. With the index finger of his left hand, he gently pushed the door. A groan echoed in the vacuum of the hallway. “I should have realized when the alarms had stopped and the lights weren’t flashing.”

  “Realized what? What are you saying, Ricardo? You’re not making sense.” Tom dropped the “Captain” bullshit—there was no need to shine him on anymore.

  “When the fence was blown apart the force of the explosion caused a short-circuit. Emergency lights were on in the hallways and the rooms, but alarms, flashing lights, and door locks were no longer operating.” Ricardo paused to
look back at the stairs.

  “We’re underground with thousands of foamers after us, and we can’t lock the doors. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “You mean—”

  “Short-circuit.” Ricardo cut Tom off. He had the look of a man in Las Vegas who bet his life savings on a full house, only to be beaten by a royal flush.

  “What about the manhole? That's not electric. If we get it closed, it should hold them back, right?” Elliot tried to think of the positive—of a plan of action. Something—anything—other than wallowing in the shit-pile they were now faced with.

  “You’re right. Ted, gimme a hand.” Tristan started up the staircase with the Marine chopper pilot in tow. Those two were probably the largest physically, and if they couldn’t manhandle the hatch back in place, then it probably couldn’t be done.

  “We need to check all the other manholes and make sure they’re locked. You know them by heart, Captain Ricardo—lead the way.” Instead of going to pieces, Elliot got busy.

  One guard remained behind to support Tristan and Ted, the others scampered down the corridor, while the lights above flickered. It wouldn’t be the best of times for the emergency power to fail—not in the middle of a foamer frenzy.

  Mountain View 8

  Like a bee-swam, the foamers moved on the gap in the fence, or perhaps stumbled on it. It still wasn’t known if foamers—as individuals—could feel, think, or care. They did, however, know where the living were. Elliot was convinced it was smell or pheromones that permitted the foamers to distinguish between themselves and the living, but it could just as easily be a supernatural gift only the dead had. And like that swarm, they moved as a single mass through what was once the perimeter of the base, crossed the grass fields next to the runway, and toward the buildings. Where the food was.

  “Let me get out and push the hatch while you pull, okay?”

  “We can try it, but it doesn’t look promising.” Tristan said.

  Ted climbed out and got behind the four-foot-diameter circular hatch. He squatted down like he was in a rugby scrum and shoved his shoulder up against it. Tristan, below in the manhole itself, grabbed the two U-shaped handles.

  “Ready? One, two, threeeeee…”

  Both grunted and swore as they either pushed or pulled on the door. No luck. It wasn’t meant to be.

  “Well…” Ted swept the beanie off his head and scratched at the thick mane of hair underneath. Parris Island boot camp-cut, it wasn’t.

  “Well, what?” Tristan poked his head up from below.

  Ted looked around the apron, between the hangars and the maintenance buildings. None gave him the inspiration he searched for, but…

  “The Hummer! We could block the entrance to the manhole with the Hummer. We just drive right into the hatch and knock it over. Park the Hummer on top, there wouldn’t be enough room to open it. What d’you think?”

  “That would work, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Whoever drives the Hummer wouldn’t be able to get back in, either.”

  Ted hadn’t thought of that. He pulled his woolen beanie back on—the cold air of the afternoon had cooled him down enough. Before he thought of an answer, one was found for him.

  “Whatever we’re going to do, we better do it now!” Tristan pointed to the nearest hangars. Several foamers now rounded the corner between the metal structures. These few weren’t enough to threaten. But just like flies at a Barbeque—where there's one, there's a million.

  “Holy shit!” Ted ran for the nearest Hummer.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Too late for an answer, Ted jumped into the driver's seat.

  Tristan watched in shock as the Hummer spun its wheels and took off away from the bunker entrance.

  “The fucker’s leaving me here. Get back here, you cunt!” Tristan screamed, then turned to see the number of foamers had increased and were also aware of his position. He was about to head back down the stairs when the Hummer’s tires squealed like a stuck pig on a Mississippi hog farm.

  “Get down, get down!” Ted yelled from the open driver’s side window.

  Tristan watched as Ted turned around and came to the other side of the hatch, where the hinges joined to the concrete flange around the edge of the manhole. With seconds to spare, Tristan dropped the three steps below and avoided the Hummer. Dark twilight filled the stairwell the moment Ted parked the Hummer over it.

  “Gimme a hand, Tristan, gimme a hand!”

  Tristan raised from his crouch, poked his head up underneath the US military vehicle. The smell of oil and gasoline filled his nasal passage.

  “Here, take my hand,” He called to Ted, who crawled toward the opening under the Hummer.

  “Come on, come on, just a little bit—”

  Ted screamed. His eyes bulged as his head jolted upright, hitting the drive shaft. “ARRRGH!”

  “Take my hand. Ted, take my hand!”

  Foamers had taken Ted by the ankles and were pulling him out. He didn’t have the strength to fight against one foamer, let alone a dozen or more. With his last conscious decision, he grabbed hold of the edge of the vehicle and held himself for a moment, even as foamers sank their rotted teeth into his legs and began to chew.

  “Tristan I’m sorry, sorry—” he screamed, his face contorted in pain. “Promise me you’ll get out. You and the others, just promise…!” Ted screeched again as more foamers joined the feast.

  “Yeah, I promise. I-I-I—”

  “Now shoot me!”

  Tristan didn’t respond.

  “Shoot me—fuck you, shoot!”

  Tristan swallowed hard. He could see his friend of the last few weeks and fellow survivor was being eaten alive by the foamers. He understood, he would’ve asked him to do the same.

  “Bye, Ted. Goodbye…” Tristan said as tears ran down his cheek.

  A single shot from the M4 rang out, catching Ted in the forehead just above his eyebrows. Tristan didn’t look. He didn’t need to—the job was done. Ted would be foamer food, but he couldn’t think of that, not if he wanted to live and retain some degree of sanity.

  The Hummer might slow them down for a while, Tristan thought as he stumbled down the stairs and into the corridor. Eventually, though, weight of numbers would force the vehicle from the manhole and they’d pour in. With no locks, it would be an uncontrollable flood of undead.

  The base could not be defended. They had to get out.

  Mountain View 9

  Tristan halted where the hallway intersected with another.

  Which way? He looked left then right, then…

  “This way, soldier, over here!”

  In the distance of the hallway to his left, he made out the blue beret of a lone guard in the dim light.

  “We have to move! They’ve breached the entrance!” Tristan yelled.

  “Okay, sir, it's this way.” The guard pointed toward the next doorway ahead, then stopped and stared back at the sound of an approaching rumble.

  “My God. We’re fucked, aren’t we?” he said in a melancholic tone.

  Tristan was aware of that answer. He’d witnessed up close the ferocity of a foamer mob, and with such a small force in confined spaces, there would be no chance at all.

  “Not if we act fast, soldier, now let’s move!” Tristan also knew that no matter how well-trained you are, if you don’t think there's any hope, then you're not likely to perform at your best. Encouragement was the key.

  When the French were surrounded and outnumbered by the Viet Minh in 1954, didn’t give up. They fought on, encouraged all the way. Tristan knew this from his military history, but then remembered, France lost. France surrendered, not only its hold on Vietnam but all French colonial holdings in Indo-China. The surrendered warriors were force-marched thousands of miles, where many died. Of the almost 12,000 prisoners taken by the Viet Minh, only 3,300 were repatriated. The only difference here, would be—the foamers won’t be repatriating anyone.

&
nbsp; Together, they ran down the hallways, the sound of their heavy boots bouncing off the concrete walls.

  “Through that door. The others are through that door,” The guard pointed.

  Tristan pushed through the unlocked door as easy as the swinging door on a wild west bar.

  “Tristan!” Elliot called. He was pleased to see his companion from Sandspit—until he noticed the look on his face. “What is it?” Though he knew what the answer would be, he asked anyway.

  “Foamers. They’ve made it inside. Right—” he paused for breath, “—behind us.”

  “Okay, we’ve closed one entrance, we’ve got another to check further away, and the one nearer our chopper is just over there.” Elliot pointed down a corridor near him. “Where’s…”

  Tristan hung his head and shook it slowly. Elliot understood.

  “Shit!”

  Elliot watched as Tristan searched out the guards—Ricardo, in particular. He didn’t want too many to hear of his plan. Satisfied, they couldn’t hear him. He added, “We have to get out. Take the chopper and bug out.”

  “But we—”

  “We’ll be foamer stew if we don’t.”

  “Okay grab a weapon over there,” Elliot pointed to the two M4s leaning against the wall and extra magazines. They’d been brought up and were carried by the others until they got back. Tristan still wore his tactical vest and stuffed the mags inside the outer pockets. He slipped the borrowed M4 over one shoulder, and Ted’s over the other.

  “I don’t know how we’re gonna do this, Elliot, but we have to get to the chopper—just us.”

  Out of corner of his eye, Elliot could see Tom watching his conversation with Tristan. The way Tom narrowed his eyes as he stared intently at them indicated suspicion. Elliot realized he would soon find out once Tom approached them.

  “What’s this about?” Tom asked. “The foamers, they’re inside the corridors behind us and,”

  “And they got Ted?” Tom said.

  Tristan acknowledged as much with a nod.

  “What, how, where?” Richard yelled.

  “We don’t have time, Rich, we don’t—”

  “How could you let this happen? How—” Richard questioned, his tone growing fierce.