Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  So, when the previously fictional nonsense of a zombie apocalypse became a reality, most took the opportunity to loot “free shit, man!” or drink themselves into a bigger stupor than normal “I don’t have to work tomorrow, I’ll drink all I want!”, safe with the knowledge that their government would take care of it sooner or later—just like they did with them “damn commies!”

  Only this time, corporations with government ties and government departments and officials—all charged with the responsibility of serving the public to the best of their ability—knowingly and willfully created the apocalyptic event they faced and the annihilation of eighty percent of the human population. Perhaps more.

  There would be no heroes this time. Johnny wouldn’t come marching home again, hoo-rah, hoo-rah.

  “Y’know, Elliot, I can see how a submarine would be beneficial, but it’s not like we can just call one up or send smoke signals and I just can’t think of any other possible way to get their attention. Providing they’re still operational.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  Jerry adjusted the straps on his pack and avoided a direct answer. “Hope the Ponti starts because I’m already sick of lugging this thing around.”

  “I’ll see if it’s open,” Elliot told Jerry and grabbed the door handle of the red, late eighties-model car.

  “Holy shit!” Elliot jumped back a good four feet. Blood rushed to his ears and his pulse raced. With the extra fifty pounds or so on his back it was quite an impressive move.

  “What is it?” Jerry brought his Remington into a ready position.

  “In the car. There’s someone in the car!” Elliot pointed at the Pontiac and said between heavy breaths. He dropped his pack and Dragunov rifle to the ground. Elliot pulled his Dan Wesson revolver from the holster on his hip and—in a double-handed grip—aimed at the car.

  “Are they—”

  “I don’t know. You got me covered?” Elliot called without taking his eyes from the car.

  “Gotcha. Open the door and move back, but fast!”

  Elliot stretched forward and grabbed the door handle and gave it an almighty yank. The door flew open while Elliot jumped further back. The putrid fumes of rotting flesh leaped from the inside of the car and stole their way into the nasal cavities of both men. An emaciated person with long, white hair—possibly female, it was hard to tell at this stage—sat in the driver’s seat, but slumped over sideways into the passenger side.

  “What else can you see, Jerry?” Elliot’s vision was partially blocked by the open door—and his covered left eye.

  “Not sure, but judging by the condition and the smell, I think we got a runner who tried to get out but perished.” Jerry had yet to see any foamers in daylight and didn’t entertain the thought at all.

  Elliot eased around the car door for a closer look and took a step closer.

  “Easy, Elliot, eas—”

  The putrid smelling platinum-blond jumped up from her position and lurched forward. Her face nothing but bone and sinew, as were the fingers that reached out for Elliot. There were two small mounds on her chest underneath her tattered light brown jacket—identifying this foamer as a female. Or that she once was.

  “Get out the way, Elliot, get out!”

  Elliot avoided her skeletal hand as it snatched like sharp daggers through the air with a quick, backward jump. But now he’d placed himself in a direct line between Jerry and the foamer. He paid little attention to Jerry, steadying his sights on the forehead of the undead curse. The creature raised its head further and the whites of her eyes shone like beacons in the now-overcast day.

  A single, powerful roar from the Magnum saw the handgun buck in Elliot’s hand followed by the thrashing of arms and feet inside the car sounded. The foamer played an out of time drum beat in her final death throes, as she twisted and turned like a decapitated snake.

  “Shit a damn brick!” Jerry eased up to Elliot’s side.

  “Shit two damn bricks!” Elliot placed his revolver back in the holster, satisfied the foamer was no longer a threat. “I don’t think we’ll bother with this car.”

  “No, not my style.”

  The front seats of the car and dashboard were covered in a green foam and a sickly pink color—presumably the remnants of human blood still in her in the system. No amount of cleaning could remove the stench of death.

  “You’re pretty handy with that canon,” Jerry complimented as grabbed their backpacks and continued. “The patch didn’t bother your aim?”

  “Didn’t even think about it, to be honest. And I’ve had my share of practice, as I’m sure you have.”

  “Yeah,” Jerry paused before completing his answer. “I’d only practiced out on the range with the other preppers. I never hunted or anything like that, but I was more than an average shot. When the foamer breakout happened, I had the opportunity to put my range skills to the test.”

  “The fact you’re here now tells me you passed with flying colors.”

  “At first it was difficult to pull the trigger, before the foamers began to physically deteriorate. I’m sure you know what I mean?”

  “I Sure do.”

  “When they did start to degenerate, I figured they’d perish before long. But that hasn’t been the case. And now that they’ve adapted…”

  “We’re going to have to be more careful with our movements,” Elliot said.

  “Like the French Resistance during World War II, my friend.”

  Elliot thought about that reference for a moment. They would indeed be like the resistance in WWII, and like them, they would have to take extreme precautions—the consequences could be far worse. Death is death, Elliot rationalized, but coming back as a foamer had to be worse—much, much worse. They’d have to lie low for days on end, take back roads even further out from even the smallest town. Scavenge food and water and hope they could siphon enough gas. It might take longer than first anticipated to get to Portland, let alone back to Sandspit.

  Elliot and Jerry were looking at weeks, even months—if they survived. With just the two of them and a limited supply of ammunition, the odds weren’t good.

  “Come on, let’s find us a car of some sort before dark.” The need to get ahold of a vehicle before dark suddenly became urgent in Elliot’s mind.

  Chapter Six

  Port Edward 6

  Sam packed the last case of Spam on the trolley then turned to Chuck. “Looks like we got a pretty good load. Chuck, what d’you think?”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. We’ll take these two trolleys out front, then get on our way.”

  Sam started to push the trolley when he turned and motioned for Don to come forward. “Hey Don, you mind pushing this for a moment? My wrist has locked up on me—it’s an old skiing injury.” Sam had never been near the slopes in his life let alone done any skiing. He wanted to speak with Chuck—alone.

  “Hey Chuck, you got a minute?”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  Sam waited until he was sure the others were out of earshot, the last thing he wanted was to cause panic. “I think we need to make as fast a getaway as we can. I don’t have a good feeling about this place, y’know?”

  Chuck grabbed his cammie jacket, that he’d thrown onto one of the shelves when he began stacking the trolleys.

  “What do you mean you don’t have a ‘good feeling’?”

  “It just doesn’t feel right and I’m sure you know what I mean. Like when-”

  “Contact! We got contact. Front and center!” One of the others yelled from the front of the store.

  Chuck dropped his jacket to the floor and raised the AR-15.

  “Stay here, Sam. Just stay here.

  “What have we got?” Chuck asked as he ran in a low crouch to the others. Expecting armed looters, the answer he received was far worse.

  “I don’t know, Chuck. They look like fuckin’ kids!” Cleavon kept his voice low, but his anxiety was obvious by the sweat that ran down his face.

/>   Like a cold blade those words sent a dread chill down Chuck’s back.

  He took cover behind the Dodge 3500 at the foyer where it had been left. “How many and have they seen us?”

  “Enough to fill half the parking lot and the street beyond. Judging by their actions, I don’t think they’ve seen us—yet,” Ric said.

  Chuck popped his head around the tailgate for a better look-he hoped Ric’s estimation of the numbers was wrong. They were the same mutant children—or whatever they were—he’d run into on the US-Canadian border. It wasn’t all that long ago, but with all that had transpired since, it seemed like years.

  “Are these foamers? Chuck, you seen ’em before?” Cleavon asked. His voice also betrayed a lack of confidence.

  “I have, and they’re not foamers. Mutations of some sort. Totally fearless, and they seem to pick up on our—” Chuck saw the heads of many mutants’ swivel as one toward the entrance of the store.

  “Pick up on our what?” Cleavon pressed.

  “Smell.”

  A high-pitched shriek, a war cry of sorts, shattered the quiet of the Walmart parking lot. Similar cries followed. There was no time to think, just act.

  “In the truck. Everyone, get in the truck. Sam,” Chuck yelled, not concerned if he was overheard by the mutants or not. He wasn’t planning on staying to find out. “Get over here now!”

  The Dodge was in a skewed position and covered in thousands of glass pebbles from the shattered window, along with the three flat tires. It wasn’t an ideal vehicle for the fast getaway Sam spoke of a moment ago. The Hummer wasn’t considered as it was in the parking lot surrounded by mutants.

  “Get in the back seat, Sam.” Chuck reached out and grabbed Sam by the upper arm as he went past. “Is this what you meant when you said—never mind, we’ll talk later.” Chuck said then quickly turned to Don.

  “Get in the back of the tray with the SAW,” Chuck referred to the M-249 “who wants to back him up?”

  “I will,” Smithie said.

  With two in the tray and the others all inside the 3500, Chuck jumped into the driver’s seat. He was determined to get this damn truck out, even if he had to drive through the wall.

  The instant he started the engine, the mutants went into a frenzy. They took to whooping and hollering like a troop of baboons. Chuck put the pickup in reverse and stomped on the gas. The tires couldn’t gain traction on the concrete floor thanks to the shattered pieces of glass and spun wildly. A gray cloud rose from the burning rubber at the rear of the truck.

  “Ease off the pedal, ease off! The tires won’t grip if you floor it!” Sam yelled from the rear seat.

  Chuck followed the urgently delivered instructions and eased his foot off the accelerator.

  “How am I doin’ back there?” Chuck asked if he had room.

  “You’re good, Chuck, you can go straight back,” a reply came from the back seat.

  As he inched back onto the walkway—large terracotta pots blocked the Dodge’s forward progress—a desperate pounding was heard on the roof of the pickup.

  “Hey, Chuck hold it—hold it.”

  “What the fuck?” From the corner of his eye, Chuck saw Smithie jump from the back of the truck, landing next to the stack of supplies they had spent so much time gathering. “We don’t have time for that! Get back in the truck!”

  With a quick heave-ho, Smithie threw two large boxes of canned goods into the back of the truck, then turned and repeated his effort. He then grabbed a carton of beans than a smaller box of jerky and jumped back into the truck.

  “You crazy fuck! You trying to give those things time to get to us?” Don gestured toward the mutants that infested the parking lot, who were still doing a lot of screeching. But strangely, hadn’t advanced on the store.

  As soon as Smithie was back aboard, Chuck put his foot down. Three out of the six tires were flat, preventing the truck from handling right which Chuck soon found that out.

  “Damn!” he slapped a fist on the steering wheel, as the back end spun out. “I won’t be able to go much faster than twenty and these fuckers can run that fast.”

  “Let me get up there with Don and Smithie. You guys get ready to pass up your clips to me okay?” Cleavon told the others.

  Chuck slowed allowing Cleavon out, then moved off to the left once he saw him climb aboard, away from the main area of the parking lot.

  “Here they come!” Don called.

  “Don’t waste ammo. Sam, tell them not to waste any ammo!” Chuck reiterated.

  The Ram 3500 plodded along at twenty miles per hour. The moment the speedometer ticked over that mark, Chuck felt the vehicle shudder and begin to fish—tail.

  “If we can just get back to the boat we’ll be okay!”

  “Chuck, gimme your eagle.” Rob said—it wasn’t a request.

  Chuck handed over his handgun, butt first, then raised a hand to his chest and— “Fuck!”

  “What, what is it?”

  “Spare magazines are in my jacket, I left it back inside the store.”

  “I’ll be careful, Chuck.” Rob raised his thumb.

  Hundreds of mutants were now so close to the truck, they could throw rocks at them. Bursts followed from the M249 and signaled the battle had begun.

  “Can’t we go any faster?” Brad yelled—panic in his voice.

  “Not unless you wanna get out and push!” Chuck understood the fear shown by men in battle, he’s witnessed it many times—but he had to do his best to keep a lid on it.

  “Don, you take the ones at fifty-plus, and we’ll take care of the ones that get through.”

  “Roger, that.” Don took his left hand from the M249 and gave thumbs-up.

  With well-aimed precise semi-automatic fire, Cleavon and Smithie took care of the mutants that got closer than the fifty-yards. But it became obvious that if they didn’t get to the port area soon, they’d be overrun.

  They headed out of the parking lot and back down the Yellowhead highway, with thousands of semi-naked mutants in tow. The scene was not unlike an old cartoon where the meat truck’s back door was left ajar and all the neighborhood’s stray dogs followed. But these were not dogs.

  Only Chuck had dealt with the mutant children before, and nothing had ever put fear in him like the onslaught of thousands of these deformed creatures—nothing.

  “You’re gonna have to stop the bursts, Don—you’ll run out of ammo. Just go for one-shot kills—”

  “LOOK OUT!” Don turned back to answer Cleavon when a mutant got through unseen on the opposite side of the attack and slapped a three-fingered claw, over the side—panel.

  Cleavon hit the deck when he saw Don swivel the muzzle in his direction. A two-second burst from the ’49 released far more rounds than was necessary, but Don obviously wanted to make certain. The mutant running alongside was instantly decapitated by the burst, falling back onto the road where the body bounced and rolled into the oncoming horde.

  “Holy shit! Did you see the face on that thing?” Don stared back at the corpse as it rolled down the street.

  “No, I was too busy getting my head out of the way.”

  “I did. It’s like nothing I ever saw before—or would like to again,” Smithie said.

  “We need grenades or some explosives!” Don fired another burst.

  “More mags, we need more mags!” Cleavon leaned over toward the open window of the back seat.

  “Coming up.” Sam handed three fresh magazines for the M4s.

  Don fired a burst while Smithie and Cleavon changed clips.

  “Okay, ready?” Cleavon looked to his comrades.

  Smithie nodded, his eyes as wide as plates. “These fuckers keep coming, they just keep coming!”

  “I know, but we’re holding. It ain’t far now.”

  A group of five or six mutants came running fast toward the tailgate of the 3500. Don let loose two bursts of fire, but on the second came the telltale metal click of the firing pin landing on an empty chamber.
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  “Sam, pass up a rifle. I’m out of ammo.” He yelled as Smithie and Cleavon took over the firing duties.

  The M249 made a clang on the bottom of the tray where Don dropped it, then waddled over to the cabin to grab the rifle Sam held through the open window—muzzle-up. Even at twenty miles per hour with flat tires, it wasn’t easy to hold your balance.

  “Great, Sam I—”

  Don jerked the weapon, the pistol grip slammed against the inside of the truck, the handle of the door catching inside the trigger—guard, a round was fired. The 5.56mm projectile caught Don underneath his chin, went through his brain and exited through the top of his head. The force took his black woolen cap and flung it into the air. Don stumbled two steps backward before he toppled over the tailgate of the truck.

  “Don, Don! Wait, Don fell overboard!” Cleavon screamed.

  “He didn’t fall, he grabbed the rifle and it went off when. I’m sorry.”

  Cleavon hadn’t seen what transpired and another gunshot wasn’t something out of the ordinary—he kept his eyes on the advancing hordes while he and Smithie kept firing.

  “But we got to get his body, we—”

  “Are you serious? Look!” Smithie pointed to where Don’s body fell.

  The first mutants to reach Don pounced. Sharks in a feeding frenzy. His camouflage tunic and pants were shredded like tissue paper. Claws and teeth tore into him as more mutants joined the feast. It was food. Warm flesh to gorge themselves upon.

  Don’s death—as unfortunate as it was—gave the others the chance they needed to put some needed distance between themselves and their pursuers. While the mutants feasted on Don’s body, Chuck saw this as their opportunity to escape.

  All of this meant little to Sam, who now sat in shock in the back seat of the pickup.

  “Sam, you okay? Sam, answer me!” Chuck turned around and saw the blank stare in Sam’s eyes.

  “Oh, uh, yeah…yeah, I’m—”