A few abandoned vehicles could be seen on the highway running through the center of the town, and what might have been a body or just some old clothes blown onto the side of the street. At any rate, they weren’t about to stop and look.
“Man, if only one of us knew how to fly.” Elliot nodded toward the three single-engine planes on the tarmac.
“Yeah, it would be a damn-sight safer, too!”
According to the map—which was a few years old— once they passed McDermitt, there should only be a few buildings along the 95 here and there. It would stay like that all the way to the Burns junction where the highway would fork. The 95 would continue right, but they would take Steens Highway—the 78—to the town of Burns.
As they drove, Elliot related the story of how he and Cindy met Riley—then a cop—on the day of what they still colloquially referred to as “Breakout Day.” And how the man they knew as Charles Black came into the picture.
Jerry told how he, like most Americans, became aware of the of the purported link between the consumption of French fries and potato products in general and the epidemic that forced thousands to their nearest hospitals and clinics in Idaho. This knowledge came about in the last days in which communication remained. The Internet—at least for some—still ran a few days longer and more information could be discovered there. If you knew where to look.
Jerry Reihne did.
He discovered something interesting on one website only moments before losing electrical power. Phillip Bayer, the CEO of a large fertilizer and pesticide company in Twin Falls, had used untested chemicals in the creation of his “super potato” as it referred to. He’d filled orders from all the giant fast food chains as fast as they were received. With all that money, he made he bought shares in those companies, becoming the main shareholder and, as was intimated on the website, wasn’t against the use of blackmail to achieve his goal of control.
“I had no one—I panicked—but I did have some preparation and training to fall back on. But you, Elliot, you were lucky with the people you connected with.”
“Yes, I’ don’t think I would have made it this far had I not.”
What Jerry found almost unbelievable was that Charles Black, Elliot’s friend, worked for the number two man in Bayer’s organization and was responsible for security matters.
“That’s like, I mean, what would the odds of that be?”
Elliot agreed. He didn’t, however, tell Jerry that his friend worked undercover for a highly placed government intelligence operative who was in league with a sinister group involved in world domination and were the real entity behind the outbreak of foamers. Also, Elliot didn’t mention that the last president of the United States of America was now just another survivor named Bob who, with his family, lived in Sandspit.
That would mean too many questions, which would lead to distractions, which they didn’t need. Elliot remembered that line from Chuck. Repeated many times in a variety of forms, but the essence always remained.
Still, with the long journey ahead and the relative safety afforded by the sparse desert, Jerry had more than enough questions to keep them occupied.
“We had riots around the hospitals. Once the news reported that the rioters suffered from a viral fever, the panic in Boise was immediate. Just before that, a call went out for all doctors to report to the nearest hospital.”
“And did you?”
“I couldn’t. My own clinic overflowed with sick patients. How could I leave to attend to patients suffering from the same disease at a hospital?”
Elliot shrugged his shoulders but he now understood the doctor was also in a proximity when the outbreak happened.
“Did any die and then…well, you know?”
“I ran my clinic with a partner, Dr. Jenns. While I attended to a patient, I heard these God-awful screams from his consultation room. I instantly ran in there and when I opened the door, a patient stood over Dr. Jenns. The patient’s skin had a deathly pallor to it. He turned and looked at me. That was when I saw the eyes for the first time. Bright red, like hot coals that filled the entire eye socket. This thing—it was no longer human—just stared at me. A green froth dripped from its mouth. I looked over at Jenns and half his face had been torn off. Strips of skin hung limply to the sides. A great pool of blood covered his once-white medical coat. He was dead, or close to it.
“Right away, I realized these people weren’t affected by a stomach virus. There were hundreds in my clinic alone and thousands in the hospitals. If this was the result, then there would be absolute mayhem and then some. The end of the world and collapse of civilization—as my survivalist groups used to talk about—was upon us. But not like what they thought. Sure, there were a few who watched the TV show and the zombie movies, but they were mainly wishful thinkers who wanted an excuse to shoot people. I left the clinic right away and headed straight home and grabbed my rifles, ammunition, my survivor pack, and got the hell out of Boise as fast as I could. Hammett was as far as I got. Been there the entire time. Until I met you… Snake.” Jerry turned and winked at Elliot then smiled. It was obvious he meant it in good spirits.
I don’t know how, but I’ll have to get a hold of that movie, Elliot told himself.
“Now, with this friend of yours, Chuck, being close to the manufacturer as he was, did he tell you if he knew how this all came about? I mean we, know it’s happening, we know it’s real, but it defies logic and all medical science.”
“We’ve basically concluded the chemicals used in the creation of this super potato, as the media called it, were either untested or were of such a high potency that when mixed with other chemicals, became unstable and produced this reaction.”
“That is about my thoughts, too. But it doesn’t explain how dead people get up and walk.”
“An anomaly of nature or maybe even a revenge of nature?”
“Now you’re talking metaphysics, Elliot.” Jerry then added, “Hmm, metaphysics and the undead. Sounds like the title of one of those two-dollar Zompoc ebooks or something.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, never got time to check on any.”
“You know,” Jerry said in a matter-of-fact manner, “I have to wonder if it’s worth surviving.”
“I hear you. But the only alternative is to pull the trigger on ourselves.” Elliot looked across his shoulder at his companion and considered him for a long time. “I’m not ready to give up like that. Not just yet.”
“That’s not me neither, so we’re stuck with each other a while longer.”
“Looks that way,” Elliot said and grinned. Jerry was an easy-going type—quiet, and his medical background was priceless. He was a bit on the thin side but was as handy with a rifle as anyone Elliot had seen—and he’d witnessed quite a few lately.
“You didn’t mention a Mrs. Reihne?”
Dark lines formed on Jerry’s face among the gray stubble of beard. “Thankfully, my wife died many years ago. I say that because I would not have wanted her to experience this.”
“I’m sorry.” Elliot rubbed a hand on Jerry’s shoulder when he saw a trickle of a tear. “Maybe we should change drivers for a while?”
Jerry agreed straight away and brought the Camaro to stop. Elliot didn’t say anything but driving a car at seventy miles per hour with tear-filled eyes probably wasn’t all that safe.
“I’ll take it from here, why don’t you take a nap? We’re gonna need some sleep.”
Elliot didn’t say it, but the other thing both would need was luck.
Against All Odds 11
Elliot opened the map on top of the steering wheel, while Jerry slept. He folded it to their current position so the map was less cumbersome.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself—the roar of the Camaro’s engine much louder, “we should be coming to Burns Junction sometime soon.”
Per the map, the highway forked up ahead. The left became the 78 but if you took the right fork, you remained on the 95. This made for a neat, triangul
ar convergence of roads with the community of Burns Junction in the center, accessible via an off-ramp. Knowing he didn’t have to go through a town or take dirt back roads to avoid one, Elliot picked up the speed once more and plowed on. On each side, and as far as he could see, was flat, burnt-out, brush-covered desert. On his left and slightly ahead were some hills of the same dirty brown color. Further ahead was Elliot’s main concern—the first dark clouds of the night. He expected at least another three hours of daylight, but with the gray rain clouds in the west, darkness would fall sooner than expected.
Alone with only his thoughts and the sound of the Camaro’s engine to accompany him, Elliot soon thought about the others back at Sandspit. And he thought of Tom, Tristan, Richard, and Ted. What would he tell Tom’s wife, Janet? The other three weren’t married—not that he knew of, anyway. He would tell her what his father told him when his mother died, or what the Grigsby’s were told when Roger died or…
Dammit! There’s too many people dying! He slammed his fist on the steering wheel waking Jerry with a start.
“What, what is it?”
“Sorry man, it was just me.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No, not now, Jerry. But I will swap you for some naptime now that you’re awake.”
Elliot pulled up and let Jerry take the wheel after the latter asked about his eye. There had been no change. He figured he could get two hours sleep before they reached Burns, when both would need to be wide-awake and on guard.
Elliot sat in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. He wished he could close his mind as easily. He thought about everyone lost—his mother, those in Sandspit, and of Cindy and the child they expected. But most of all, he thought about the boat journey across the sea at night.
It’s just like driving a car, he reassured himself, just like driving a car.
Sandspit 28
A storm picked up late afternoon around the Haida Gwaii peninsula. At times the rain was horizontal, the force of the wind was so strong. All the survivors were either in their personal rooms or the office of the motel they now called home—but for how much longer?
“Looks like we’re in for quite a storm,” Riley called as he peered through the window.
“The temperatures dropped, too. Now I wish I’d found those damn batteries.” Chess referred to the batteries for the motel’s solar electricity system, which would have allowed them to store power. He had done a quick search of some stores nearby, but with the excitement and anticipation of leaving this cold, wind-swept island, his efforts were half-hearted at best. Besides, the weather didn’t look promising and he, along with the four men with him, returned to the motel.
“Well, we all got enough clothes on and there’s enough of us in here to keep us warm, so don’t fret it none.” Riley turned back from the window, a flash of lightning lit up the sky behind him.
“If the weather stays like this, you’ll have to postpone the time you want to leave, right?” a hopeful Cindy said to the captain of the USS Louisiana, Steve Mayer.
“No ma’am. The Louisiana is a submarine, it’s not affected by surface weather or turmoil—only currents.”
Cindy somehow expected an answer like that. She turned her back and went to the far end of the room to the vacant table where her coffee sat. No one sat with her and hadn’t for some time—lest they end up on the receiving end of Cindy Baker’s wrath.
Mayer had decided to stay here as the weather closed in. The sub could handle the choppy, three-foot waves just out from Sandspit Harbor, but the little dinghy he used to ferry himself and Lieutenant Goodes back and forth couldn’t.
“While we are here,” Mayer spoke up, “I’d like to run over a few things regarding the submarine.”
“Certainly. Please tell us what we must know.” Chuck stood up with his coffee and motioned for Mayer to go to the counter to address everyone present.
“Please pass on this information to the others not here, won’t you?” After Mayer received his reply he continued. “We are in extraordinary times and it appears drastic action is called for. Submarine training takes six months—and with the continuous refresher courses, never really ends. There is a lot of training before a sailor even sets foot into a sub, but you’re all headed straight on. No work is expected of you, just enjoy the ride and I can promise some sight-seeing.”
Mayer looked around the room at the faces. He had a big smile on his face as did Lieutenant Goodes.
“Guess most of you don’t appreciate Navy humor. It’s a submarine, there are no windows, you see?”
Mayer’s joke was received about as well as a fart in an elevator, but nevertheless, he continued. He told everyone that there were certain areas aboard the sub they would not be permitted to go, and everyone must be accompanied by a sailor wherever they go. He warned them about the cramped conditions, which they wouldn’t be used to, but if they just thought of themselves in a room with a lot of electrical equipment, and not hundreds of feet below the surface of the ocean, they would do all right. He added, “We will rise from time to time to get some fresh air, as I know that will be important to you.”
Mealtimes, he said, would be allocated once they got underway. And, Mayer stressed, whenever it was your time to shower to always do so—personal hygiene was very important in the confined space of a submarine.
“If you feel ill at any time or if the confined space or noise of the sub gets to you, contact a seaman at once. We have a great medico and he will be able to get you through it, I’m sure. I won’t lie to you though, it’s a long journey—subs aren’t all that fast. At least not what you people think is fast. But I think if we all pull together, we can get through this… Hell, I know you people can get through this. After what you’ve gone through, this should be a walk in the park!”
“Yeah, I think we’re a pretty sturdy group of individuals, Captain Mayer,” Chuck added.
“What do we take with us, Steve, just to be sure?” Bob asked.
“Thank you for the question, err… Bob.” He still wasn’t comfortable calling the former president by his first name—and it showed. “Whatever weapons you have and whatever ammunition you can carry. A change of undershirt, underwear, and socks, the clothes and jackets you have on at the time we leave—we will have enough extra—and whatever personal toiletries you may have. Do not,” Mayer raised his voice a notch, “I repeat, do not bring any food or water, medicine, tools, or any equipment. None. Basically, what I’m saying is bring yourself, because we don’t have room for much else.”
Once Mayer had finished, Bob said a few encouraging words for everybody present. However, his voice was far from uplifting. The weight of leaving when the fate of several of their own people was still unknown had taken its toll. The decision had been made and they could no longer wait around in an uncertain future. If there was still a chance, they had to take it.
At least that’s what they told themselves and each other.
Against All Odds 12
When they were less than thirty minutes from Burns—after almost two-hours of steady driving—Jerry stopped the car on the highway and roused Elliot from his nap. Clouds blanketed most of the sky, and though sunset officially wasn’t for another hour at least, Jerry was forced to put the headlights on fifteen minutes’ prior to stopping. At the speed he drove, it was necessary.
“Have a drink of water, Elliot, splash some on your face. We’ll be coming up on Burns soon enough and you need to be awake.”
Elliot got out of the car and shook his head vigorously before stretching his arms. He took the bottle of water from Jerry and poured some into a cupped hand, then splashed it on his face. Cold, damn cold, but it had the desired effect. “All right, let’s have a look here.” Elliot picked up the map and wiped the excess water from his chin on his flannel shirt when he jumped back inside. “Yeah, no problems, we can avoid the town altogether. We take a left just before on Railroad Avenue, then a right on West Pierce, and that will bring us out
on the Central Oregon Highway. How are we with the water anyway?” Elliot took another mouthful.
“Enough to last another few days.”
The stretch and the cold water had Elliot awake again and focused on the task ahead. “I gather you made it through the other small towns without incident?”
“Yeah, just a few old buildings off from the highway itself. If you blinked, you would have missed them.”
“I have no idea what the population of this town is, so keep an eye out for the sign that says, Welcome to Burns, or some such thing okay?”
Elliot waited for an answer, but none came.
“Jerry? What is it?” he asked his companion who stared down at a bright red dashboard light.
“Overheating. We forgot to check on the radiator. We’ve been good on juice and oil.”
“We need to find a gas station for some coolant.” Elliot was so focused on the destination he hadn’t taken much notice.
“I don’t like the idea of wasting time to find coolant or for the engine to cool down. We’ll be better off getting another car.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Elliot had become fond of the Camaro, and the fact they’d made up a lot of ground in it made him more reluctant to surrender it.
They passed a few vehicles on the highway and most were either damaged, in the ditch on the side of the road, or had rolled over several times into the desert beyond the asphalt. As they neared Burns, more abandoned vehicles presented themselves.
“If we’re just gonna dump this,” Elliot tapped the dash, “how much longer can we run it before it gives out?”
“Maybe ten minutes or so.”
“So anywhere from here on in, if we see a likely candidate, we’ll grab it.”
That likely candidate showed up just a few hundred yards after they turned off Highway 78 and onto South Railroad Avenue. Like other towns they’d been through—especially Elliot—the windows of most stores were smashed and doors ripped from their frames. Cardboard boxes, paper, and tin cans littered Railroad Avenue Cars and even a bus had been looted and trashed. Jerry slowed the Camaro down further to avoid the clutter, which allowed Elliot time to look down the service lanes between some of the stores.
Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV Page 26
