Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  “Get a hold of yourself, man!” Tom grabbed Richard’s arm. “No one is letting this happen. Now, we’re alive and if you want to stay that way, pull it together okay?”

  Tom rarely raised his voice, but when he did, he did so with authority. No one—not even a veteran Marine—would be game enough to challenge him.

  Elliot brought the conversation back to their immediate survival. “We have to get out. Tristan suggested we make a run for the chopper and just fuck off outta here.”

  “I don’t disagree with that plan,” Tom said straight out. “We don’t owe these people any loyalty. Hell, they practically arrested us when we—”

  “FOAMERS!” The guard who accompanied Tristan screamed as the undead approached.

  Captain Ricardo, and his men replenished their ammunition stocks and looked for any available cover. There wasn’t any.

  “On me, on me!” he yelled to his fellow blue berets.

  The broken door swung open, and three or four foamers rushed through—excited by the prospect of food. Fresh food. The bizarre creatures’ skin peeled and hung loose, like strips of old fabric. Blood dropped from exposed organs. And those horrific, egg-white eyes stared blankly.

  “Fire, fire! Fucking fire!” Ricardo implored his men as they brushed past Elliot and his conspiratorial gathering.

  Full automatic weapons-fire began. The foamers still pushed forward into the gunfire, but their bodies staggered, shuddered, and fell as dozens of rounds peppered their bodies.

  “The head, in the head. One shot, one kill!” Elliot echoed Chuck’s instructions to the letter.

  Ricardo and his men—except the controllers who moved back—took kneeling positions along the walls to steady their aim. Elliot’s advice was followed, and semi—auto was selected. Single shots to the head had foamers now falling to the ground, where they would writhe in agony—or possibly relief from the abomination of being living-dead. More foamers came through the door, pinned open by the bodies on the floor. Further head shots dispatched them to the world of the permanently dead before a lull followed.

  “Stay frosty, cowboys, stay frosty,” Ricardo said, barely above a whisper.

  Heavy thuds were heard against the walls and doors of the hallway the foamers came from.

  “What the hell is goin’ on back there?”

  “They’re ransacking the place, Captain.” It was Elliot’s turn to show his knowledge. He had more experience with foamers than anyone present.

  “Captain Ricardo, Captain Ricardo,” an urgent voice called, “you have to come with me sir, it’s Colonel Hakola. He demands to see you.”

  Since the gathering of the foamers outside the fence, Hakola had pretty much been forgotten about.

  “What? He wants to see me—”

  “Captain, he has a tactical nuke, the outer casing off, some wires are exposed. He says he can detonate it and if—”

  “You’d better do as he asks, I’ll come along, if you—”

  “No. He specifically only asked for Captain Ricardo. Sir, we’re wasting time.”

  Ricardo looked for encouragement from Tom, then Elliot. He received a slight nod from both. This wasn’t his first battle against foamers, but that was conducted outside the fence, and the F-16s took care of it. Now he had foamers inside the base and in the bunker. To top that off, he had a drunk base commander with a nuke in his possession.

  “All right, Captain, you go see what he wants. We’ll keep the foamers back, don’t worry.” Elliot pulled his Dan Wesson .357 Magnum from where it rested against his leg. A glint appeared in his eye and Ricardo practically heard the words, “go ahead, make my day” in his head.

  The appearance of the tactical nuke in the mix changed everything.

  Mountain View 10

  “A tactical nuke. I don’t know its radius, but we have to get out of here—like yesterday!” Tom said to the others.

  “The distance we need to be depends on the size of the warhead. It could be as low as half a kiloton or as high as a hundred,” Tristan replied.

  “A hundred! That’s like five times the strength of the Hiroshima bomb.” Elliot knew that much about nukes.

  “That's right. We’d have to be at least twenty miles from here to beat the effect of the blast and the ionized atmosphere.”

  “What does that mean, precisely?” Tom asked.

  “Basically, it means the air is charged with an electromagnetic pulse—a thrust of enormous power, if you will. It’ll fry the electric circuits of everything within its range. Which means helicopters.”

  The necessity to get away just increased.

  “I got an idea.” Elliot motioned for Richard to come closer to the group. Stragglers wouldn’t help. “Hey, you guys. Do your weapons fire full-auto?”

  Two of the guards, including Grenade-Tosser, looked briefly at one another as if to say, “this boy don’t know squat about guns, does he?” but answered anyway.

  “Yeah, they all do, why?”

  “Our weapons fire semi-auto, so I thought it would be better if you take the front position. If there's too many, just go to full-auto and mow ’em down. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  From the broad smiles that appeared on the guards’ faces, it seemed Elliot had impressed them. His “kill ’em all, let God sort ’em out!” attitude may have just won him some new friends.

  “Yeah, sure do! We gonna shred the fuckers!” Grenade-Tosser’s buddy, apparently not the brightest light on the Christmas tree, gleefully answered.

  Tom grabbed Elliot’s arm and pulled him back as Richard moved in closer. “Elliot, are you willingly putting these people in the line of fire to facilitate our escape?”

  “Well, it’s—”

  Elliot placed his palm on Tristan’s upper arm, silencing him. Then answered Tom.

  “Yes, and if—”

  “You crafty, underhanded bastard!” Tom cut Elliot off but kept his voice to a whisper. “I never thought you had that kind of a streak in you—but can we be this callous?!”

  “You know as well as I we can’t take everyone with us,” Elliot said, his voice a touch louder.

  “His right Tom.” Tristan added. “We can show our solidarity and stay here, but of course we’ll perish, or we can think of our lives and our friends back at Sandspit. It’s a simple choice if you ask me.”

  “I agree with Elliot and Tristan confirms it. We have to leave and now!” Richard said.

  There was an anguished look on Tom's face, but as painful as it was, he understood. He reached out and grabbed Elliot by the shoulders and bear-hugged him. The younger man’s eyes too, moistened over—it wasn’t an easy decision.

  The two traffic controllers had moved further away from the fighting and toward Elliot and his group and noticed the conspiratorial gathering of the Sandspit people. “What’s with you lot?” One of them asked.

  “Nothing, man. Just wishing each other the best while we have the chance, y’know?” Elliot told the traffic controller, who was likely intelligent enough to see something was going on. Elliot could see the fear in the controller’s eyes; he wasn’t the only one on that account. Now a pilot short Elliot couldn’t help but wonder. “You know—”

  “Foamers, foamers!”

  The call went up just ahead. 5.56mm fire followed solid, semi-auto fire. This wasn’t a feint or a test of the battle preparedness, this was a full-out assault. It was Custer’s Last Stand, all within the dark confines of the man-made underground maze of concrete tunnels. The floodgates had opened.

  It was time for Elliot and his crew to get to their personal Ark.

  “Can either of you fly a chopper?” Elliot said to the controllers. He was taking a risk—his recruitment attempt could have been reported and their escape plans thwarted.

  “Yes, I can.” The taller of the two replied.

  “Then come with me if you want to live!”

  “But where, where do you—”

  “I don’t have time, just follow!” Elliot raised his voice t
o be heard above the carnage. “Richard, Tom. These two are coming with us, you four go on ahead. Tristan and I will be right behind you!”

  Shots continued to ring out, reverberating off the concrete walls that would soon become a mausoleum. Empty brass shells rang like chimes as they hit the concrete floor below.

  While Tom and Richard took their new companions, and ran for the corridor that would lead them to the bunker entrance nearer the chopper, Elliot addressed Tristan. “Okay, let’s add a little hot sauce to this dish then get the fuck outta Dodge—okay?”

  “No argument there!”

  They fired a full magazine on semi-auto—even though Tristan had an M4 capable of selective fire—into the foamers upper bodies. The plan was to add to the noise and confusion, not terminate the foamers.

  “Okay, go, go, go!”

  The firefight continued, as did the amount of foamers entering the hallway. Elliot and Tristan ran hard, unconcerned with the noise their boots made in the hallway. They could just see the others ahead of them. They rounded the corner, running towards stairs that would lead to the chopper.

  “Five minutes, five minutes is all we need!”

  “What did you say?” Tristan couldn’t hear for the racket.

  “I said move your ass soldier!”

  It wasn’t the case, but Tristan did pick it up a notch. With a foamer attack in full-swing, a drunk and possibly mentally unstable base commander in possession of a tactical nuke, getting to the helicopter and out became the number one priority.

  Through the last of the reinforced doors and up the spiral staircase they went—no looking back. As Elliot and Tristan neared the top of the spiral staircase, the most gratifying sound they’d heard in a long time reached their ears—a song of joy to the desperate. It was the chopper’s engines starting.

  “Come on, come on,” one of the traffic controllers called from above. “There’s no foamers. We got a clear run.”

  Together, the two leaped from the staircase and back outside. Both shielded their eyes. The sun was behind the thick, gray clouds of the approaching storm, but it was still brighter than the tunnels below.

  “Richard and Tom went ahead to the chopper. Stephen went with them.”

  “Stephen?” Tristan questioned as his head swiveled almost three-sixty degrees around the airbase, the hangars, and the buildings.

  “Stephen is the controller who can fly a chopper. I’m Edwin, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, now let's make sure it's a long-term friendship and get to the chopper!” Elliot slammed the hatch down and hurried them along.

  “The gunfight below will keep them occupied, and I assume they haven’t heard the chopper.” Tristan called.

  “We need five minutes to warm the engines up, and those fuckers can travel a long way in five minutes,” Elliot warned as the three sprinted to the chopper.

  Elliot was surprised to see Tom standing outside the chopper with an AR-15 in hand. Stephen, the traffic controller, was similarly armed.

  “Someone has to stand guard while the engines warm up,” Tom said, pre-empting any questions that may arise.

  “All right, then. Let's stow these rifles and get on our way. I think we’ll be okay.” Elliot looked at Tristan for confirmation and received a nod.

  The chopper had a speed of over 200 knots per hour and theoretically could travel twenty miles in five minutes at full-speed.

  “Let’s get out of here before that madman detonates that bomb!” Richard took a quick look to see everyone was onboard.

  “Do we have enough fuel, Rich?” Elliot asked.

  “About thirty minutes’ worth. We’ll have to make that do.”

  “Okay, get us out of here when you’re ready, if not sooner!”

  Richard acknowledged Elliot with a wave then settled into the pilot's seat. He gave one look to his right where Ted would have sat, took a breath, then increased the revs. The engines still needed a few minutes, but those minutes could be the difference between life and death, and, if he had to. Richard would coerce, cajole, and sweet talk the damn chopper into flying.

  Chapter Four

  Weapons of Mass Destruction 1

  Ricardo poked his head around the open door. Despite the mayhem, he didn’t want to burst in on a man with a nuclear warhead in his possession, and possibly the ability to detonate it.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “You know I damn-well did. Now close the door, I can’t hear with all that noise!” Hakola referred to was the constant firing in the corridors as base personnel tried to force the foamers back. “And take a seat.”

  Ricardo took one of the plain metal chairs in the room that served as Hakola’s study. At least that's what he called it. On the table in front of Hakola sat the warhead—and a bottle of whiskey. The outer cover had been removed and a circuit board was visible as were several wires. Some had been cut, and twisted at the end to make a connection.

  “Yes, Ricardo, in case you’re wondering. All I have to do is touch this red wire with the green one and…”

  “Sir, why would—”

  “Why? F-F-Fucking why? We’re being overrun by foamers, or haven’t you noticed?” Hakola dribbled spit all down his unbuttoned uniform. His eyes were glazed, and his hair looked to have more gray in it than a few hours ago. The colonel’s hat also lay discarded on the floor. Ricardo was quite surprised the camp commander was still able to function. With all the drink in him, he should be passed out long ago.

  “Yes, I do know, sir, but we can contain them. We have enough men and ammunition and—”

  “You’re crazier than me if you believe that. How long before the foamers find another hallway and come f-f-from that direction hmm?” Hakola slurred. The more excited he got, the more spittle ran from his mouth and dripped from his chin like a leaky shower head.

  “But we have to—”

  The firing stopped. A distant scream, then silence.

  “Still think there's a chance now, Captain Ricardo?”

  Hakola—for once—was right. The end had come. Despite his inept ways, his smug attitude, and his drunken state, he knew what measures had to be taken.

  “We can’t let them thrive, Ricardo, we can’t. I’m sure there’s others out there and the less of these vermin they must deal with, the better chance they’ll have at surviving. Agree?”

  Echoing sounds of running, stomping feet could be heard as the foamers, now in full control, invaded the corridors in search of sustenance.

  “Yes, Colonel, I agree!”

  Hakola picked up the bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and held it out to Ricardo. “We don’t have much time, boy. Drink!”

  Ricardo took two mouthfuls, gagged, wiped his mouth, then handed it back to Hakola. The colonel took three long pulls from the bottle, threw it against the wall, and picked up the two exposed wires.

  “See you in the next world, Ricardo.”

  Colonel Hakola didn’t wait for a response, nor did he hesitate—he brought the red and the blue wires together.

  Barely a nanosecond elapsed as the space-time continuum distorted with the eruption of a man-made sun—bright, blinding, deadly…

  The fireball engulfed Mountain Home AFB and everything else within a two-mile radius. The foamer threat no longer existed, and neither did the base.

  Mountain View 11

  While Hakola and Ricardo made their last decision, the chopper was ready to take—off.

  “I’m not waiting any longer,” Richard told everyone. “We’re good enough for taking off—a bit sluggish, but good enough.”

  The helicopter’s takeoff wasn’t by-the-book perfect, and the aircraft protested with a lurch to one side. Richard, more than a competent pilot, handled the situation. But not without a heart flutter or two.

  Once steadied, he moved the chopper forward in an easterly direction—where the helicopter faced. He didn’t want to waste any time by turning. By the time they were level with the end of the runway, the Bell 206
L-4 was ready to open up. The overcast skies were a harbinger of impending doom.

  “If that wasn’t the scariest episode of my life, I don’t know what would be,” Edwin muttered from the rear of the chopper.

  “Let me be honest with you, Edwin.” Elliot emphasized his name. “Your life’s not over with, and neither are we free of the foamers. Just be thankful you can look forward to more scares.” Elliot looked the man he’d rescued directly in the eye as he gave his advice.

  They were approximately five miles from the base.

  Then it happened.

  An intense, bright light flashed inside the cabin. An intense white—out where nothing could be seen. Elliot’s sub-conscious was nonetheless sure it observed skeletal images of the five others inside—like an x-ray.

  “HOLD ON, HOLD ON!” Richard screamed as he wrestled with the controls.

  Elliot’s head fell. The bright flash was the last thing he saw, he kept his eyes shut tight and his hands over them. They felt like they were on fire. Elliot’s brain was still searching for an answer when the chopper shuddered as they were hit by the shockwave.

  “Elliot, are you all right?” Richard saw the distress his companion was in. “Talk to me, damn you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. A bit dazed—like when someone shines a bright light in your eyes.”

  A violent jolt followed. Like a giant hand had taken hold of the tail and shaken the chopper with all its might. The rear rotor lifted, twisted, and skewed sideways before bending inwards from the force. Alarms activated in the cockpit and lights flashed on the control panel, but Richard battled on to hold the aircraft steady. With a broken tail-rotor, that mission was now impossible.

  “You should be okay, the chopper would have shielded you from most of the flash. Just keep them closed, keep ’em closed, okay?” Richard yelled almost on automatic. At the rate of their descent, flash-blindness wasn’t the primary concern.

  If Richard can get the chopper down before it starts spinning, we might make it. Elliot thought.

  They were still thousands of feet in the air when the chopper started to spin. The chopper rotated one way, the rotor the other. Richard tried hard to keep some lift in the craft to soften the impact.