The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II

by Craig A. McDonough

  He’d turned off the main highway several miles before Prince George. The damage, however, could be seen from a long way back. Plumes of dark grey and black smoke rose above the township in British Columbia. Surrounded by trees, with fires rushing up from the south, it was just a matter of time. Darkness hadn’t quite arrived, but at road level with all the tall pines around, it was as good a facsimile as you’d get.

  Elliot noticed the white horizontal boards of the fence that stretched for about a hundred yards along the road. The fence pulled back in the middle, where a dirt road led up to the house. His aunt Kath’s house.

  He pumped the brakes three times then stopped outside the entrance. There was no gate on the fence. Not a good sign. The adrenaline surged and his heart skipped a beat when he looked up the driveway lined by tall blue spruce trees on each side.

  There was a tap on his window, and he saw the Tall Man and Mulhaven next to him.

  He opened the door and told them, “Pretty sure this is it.”

  “We’ll need to proceed with care. Lights on. They don’t know we are coming,” Mulhaven said.

  “Let me walk ahead in the headlights so they can see who it is.”

  “Good idea, Elliot. It hasn’t been that long since your father saw you last. Just lose the camo jacket. It’s quite dark between all those trees. With that jacket and the scruff on your face they might mistake you for a foamer. Make sure you call out when you get up there, okay?”

  Elliot nodded to Mulhaven then stripped off the camouflage jacket he’d worn since their escape from Twin Falls. The only thing that smelled stronger, or worse, than his jacket was the foamers.

  “Let’s keep the van and the motor home out on the road to be on the safe side. I’ll hang out the window here. You drive, Riley,” the Tall Man added.

  “And, Allan,” he said, “if you don’t hear three blasts of the horn from us, you get in the van and get the fuck out of here, okay?”

  “Yeah, Chuck, but …”

  The Tall Man took a step toward Allan. “Allan, you take off, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Allan didn’t hesitate this time. The Tall Man wasn’t to be trifled with under any circumstance, but especially when it was life or death. For Elliot, Mulhaven, and Allan, they were thankful the Tall Man was with them, and not against them.

  Forty-Two

  The first lady waited patiently, as always. She’d been perfect for the president in all his public life, from his first attempt in local politics, to the state legislature, and on to the top appointment in the country. She never said the wrong thing in public nor embarrassed him or the party. Most importantly, she never tried to circumvent policy with unqualified statements on the sugarcoated ass-kiss fests of American TV talk shows. If she made an appearance, she spoke about her role as the wife of the president and as a mother, but she wasn’t the one who was elected. If they wanted to know more about a specific policy, she would state loud and clear, “Perhaps you should have invited my husband onto the show, not me.” She always received strong applause for this comment, and it didn’t harm the president’s popularity, either.

  She watched Tom go forward, then went aft of the aircraft to speak with her husband. “Honey, what is it? Are we at war, is that it?”

  He took her hand in both of his and felt the soft warmth of her touch. She’d been his number one supporter and adviser all these years and deserved to know.

  “No, not war, at least not in the way you mean.”

  “It’s the foamer plague, then, isn’t it?”

  She had found out about the foamers like everyone else: from television. Regular programs had been suspended, and it was on every channel, every network. “The station I watched showed the anchor commenting on the situation, but then he started to cough. He excused himself, but it got worse. It was terrible, I thought I would be sick too. He grabbed his stomach then bent over … It was horrible, they left the camera on him too long. A moment before they went to the break, he vomited all over the desk and his eyes … they turned red. It’s about them, right?”

  He nodded, raised her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. “Yes, it’s out of our control. I sent for you and the kids, as Tom did with his family. It’s our only chance.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw the sadness, then saw the smoke through the window over his shoulder as it billowed skyward.

  “What about all the others? My family, your family, our friends. What …?”

  “There is nothing that can be done to save them all. Nothing I can do that would help.”

  She now clasped his hands with both of hers as tears flowed down her cheeks. “But, you’re the president.”

  “Not anymore.”

  * * *

  Tom rapped on the door to the cockpit twice before it was opened by the copilot.

  “Mr. Transky, come in, sir.”

  “You wanted to see me?” Tom said to the pilot after a short nod to the copilot.

  The pilot turned as best he could to face Tom, who was shown a seat. Tom assumed the seat was the navigator’s. He wasn’t present on this flight.

  “Yes, I did. If you take a look ahead and to the left you can see the devastation caused by the countermeasures you spoke of.”

  “My God … would you look at that.” Tom leaned forward to get a better view of the trail of thick black smoke, clearly visible against the dark background of the sky. Almost the length of the horizon over the Idaho-Montana-Canada border area, it was further validation the apocalypse was upon them.

  “Yes, millions, Mr. Transky, millions of square miles all up in smoke.” He checked his dials and instruments then turned back to Tom. “But that’s not why I called you here, sir.”

  “It’s not?” Tom saw that the pilot and copilot were both locked onto him, concern etched on their faces. He looked at the controls of the plane. It was a little scary to be this high in the air with all these people aboard and see the plane busy steering itself.

  “No, sir. We’ve repeatedly called Vancouver International without a response. But a few moments ago, we got a call from one of the fighter jocks out there.” The pilot pointed in the direction of the fires. “He recognized I was an American. Anyway, long story short, Vancouver International, and, it appears, the city itself, is a war zone.”

  Tom rubbed his hands together, a habit he exhibited when excited or nervous. In this case, it was the latter.

  “We can’t land there, sir, that’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Then where can we land?”

  “We got some information from the fighter pilot,” the pilot continued. “All the large cities within reach are in the same situation. The only place at hand that we have any chance of reaching is Prince George.”

  Tom noticed the two pilots’ reluctance. “What? What is it?”

  “Sir, it’s the runway. We don’t know if it’s clear or not,” the copilot informed him.

  Tom understood their reservation. He felt it too, but he had to know.

  “And if not?”

  “A highway and a prayer.”

  Forty-Three

  Etheridge pressed his lips together, hard. It wasn’t the news that America was a battlefield, with the haves and the have-nots in an open war and undead heathens stalking the streets at night preying on anything that moved, that bothered him. That was all part of the weeding-out process of population reduction. What had him depressed was the fact that less than twenty percent of Chamber personnel had followed a directive from above. This meant member’s key to the survival of the Chamber would not be present.

  “And what does this mean for us?” Etheridge asked Holmes as his eyes searched the inside of the chopper. Four dark-suited men with slicked-back dark hair and aviator style sunglasses sat motionless next to a six-man team in camouflage uniforms carrying M4 carbines.

  Etheridge looked the soldiers up and down. He didn’t know or care what part of the service they were from. Soldiers were soldiers as far as h
e was concerned … they carried guns, invaded other countries, killed, raped, and pillaged, all at the behest of their faceless masters. Etheridge was one such master who used men like these to do his dirty work, but never before had he experienced the displeasure of being so close to soldiers.

  There were also two flight crew members and two men manning the twin Browning .50 machine guns on either side of the chopper.

  That Holmes could produce a chopper and crew with armed guards and a fully equipped unit at a moment’s notice without any trouble was the reason his membership in the Chamber was valued so highly. With his security clearance, he could do what generals and presidents could do, but faster and without leaving a trace.

  “Our plans have been altered, no doubt, sir, but I have a contingency …”

  “You always do.”

  “The cities are going to be a breeding ground for these things. We need to get out of here. Let this mess sort itself out. This chopper is taking us to Capital City Airport, Harrisburg. The airport has been shut down, but the situation isn’t as bad there—yet. We’ll board a plane with a group of contractors who’ll provide us with the security we need.”

  “More soldiers, you mean?”

  “Yes, Mr. Etheridge … good ones out of Fort Bragg, but they work for us now. Always have, really. Anyway, we then fly on to Anchorage, where we have a base. It’s fully stocked and maintained, but of most importance, we have control of it.”

  Etheridge sat back in the harsh seat the chopper offered and contemplated his next journey in life. It wasn’t one he’d planned.

  Anchorage. He hated snow and cold, but compared to how life was here in the lower forty—eight states, he could learn to live with it.

  “Well, let’s make it happen then, Mr. Holmes.” He slapped Holmes on the knee in a jovial fashion. That he referred to Holmes as ‘Mr.’ once more didn’t escape the former spymaster. His mentor was pleased, and he felt good.

  Forty-Four

  Elliot walked twenty yards in front of the Hummer, down the old dirt road that led to his aunt’s house. He was glad for the headlights. Without them, the tall blue spruce trees along the side of her drive would have made it darker than an alleyway in New York City.

  “Dad, Aunt Kath, it’s me, Elliot. Are you there?” he called as he neared.

  If anyone was there they’d have heard, or at least seen the approaching lights by now.

  There were no lights on in the old off-white clapboard house ahead. Elliot tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, his guts hollow. Maybe they had left before it got too bad. It was a hope he clung to.

  He got to the big circular drive area in front of the porch. He noticed straight off there were no cars. He turned back toward the the Tall Man and Mulhaven and raised both arms to shoulder level, the look of frustration and despair clear in the headlights. His heart sank, and he felt a rise from his stomach.

  Oh no! Not now, not me, not after all…

  “Elliot, is that you?” a man called from the direction of the house.

  “Dad!” He beamed, the nausea subsided.

  “Elliot, who’s with you?”

  “They’re friends, Dad, friends.” He started to run toward the house. He still hadn’t seen his father, had just heard his voice.

  “Tell them to turn their goddamn headlights off and get your ass up here!” called Elliot’s Aunt Kath, never a shy one when it came to speaking her mind.

  “I’ve got some more friends back out on the road, and …”

  “Well, tell ’em to get here and get those goddamned lights out!”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll …” Mulhaven had the Hummer in reverse before Elliot turned. The Tall Man had heard every word.

  Elliot continued on to the house. Without the headlights, the dark was overwhelming. A flashlight, not ten yards away, came on.

  “Elliot, you m-made it … you damn well made it!” James Goodwin stuttered between sobs as he rushed out to see his boy again.

  Father and son practically knocked each other over as they embraced. Neither voiced their concern, but inside, the possibility that they would never see each other again had gnawed at their bones like a voracious rat.

  “So good to see you again, Elliot … so good. I thought …”

  The arrival of the other vehicles, with only their running lights on, brought the elder Goodwin back to an alert state.

  “Who are these friends you spoke of, Elliot?”

  “Yes, Elliot, and can they be trusted?” his aunt joined in.

  She was to one side. The flashlight didn’t illuminate all of her or the double-barreled shotgun she carried.

  “Yeah, they can be trusted, all right. Saved my life, they have. Without them I wouldn’t have made it here. And you’re gonna’ love Chuck. If anyone can get us out of this mess alive, it’s him and Riley.”

  The three vehicles of the Twin Falls group pulled to the side of the small clearing, away from the family reunion.

  “Let’s all get inside. We can make the introductions then,” Kath instructed.

  James shone the flashlight toward the outside cellar doors. Strong, heavy doors with large hinges set into concrete.

  “Over there, let’s go!”

  A hulking silhouette passed between Kath and the light. The Tall Man. She caught a glimpse of his features.

  If that’s the Chuck Elliot referred to, then perhaps I will love him.

  Thoughts like these hadn’t crossed her mind for some time, but she welcomed them now. With all the death and disaster, it made her feel human again. She watched as the tall shadow moved with precision to the cellar doors with the older man. The light from the cellar reflected on them. Like soldiers—they moved like soldiers.

  Oh, I hope they’re not soldier boys! Her grip on the shotgun intensified.

  “Come on, Kath!” James hurried her. It was time to get inside. Night had fallen.

  Forty-Five

  Like a cheap garment from Walmart, the composure of Milton Etheridge was about to unravel. From a seat on a flying eggbeater to an equally uncomfortable position on a C-17 Globemaster III, he’d begun to wonder if indeed this was how torture felt. Nevertheless, he was impressed once again with Holmes’s ability to acquire, at a moment’s notice, such a high-end piece of machinery as the C-17. Not that Etheridge knew what it was called, but he figured it wasn’t a piece of junk left at the end of a runway somewhere.

  “Where to now, Holmes?”

  “Sir, we are to pick up some of our people in Iowa City. There’s an airport we can get into, and we’ve made arrangements for them to be there. Then we will head to Canada to pick up a contingent there, sir.” Holmes yelled as the noise of the engines increased.

  Etheridge looked around the plane to see that rows of seats had been fitted into this cargo airlifter. The thirty or so men in camouflage battle dress, armed with M4 carbines, were the last to board. They took their places aft while Etheridge, Holmes, and their dark-suited bodyguards sat forward with the other twenty or so members of the Chamber who had decided to make the trip. Anywhere was better than in the midst of the apocalypse.

  “To Canada, you say?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Etheridge. It should be stable. Canada hasn’t been hit hard like the US,” Holmes lied. There hadn’t been any communication at all with Chamber people, nor with his contacts in the intelligence underworld, and nothing from government departments. The entire land mass of the north had gone as dark as the night … but not as quiet.

  “And from there, on to Anchorage, where I presume there will be plenty of heat for us.” He stared back at the uniformed men through a creased brow after he emphasized “us.”

  In a few hours they would land at Iowa City Municipal Airport. It was barely big enough for the C-17, but with the experience of the pilots aboard, it could be done. A dismal turnout of members would await them in Iowa. Nevertheless, they would pick them up then move to their next destination of Prince George, British Columbia.

  Etheridge and
Homes couldn’t possibly have any idea that the president and some staff were also headed to Prince George, nor of the irony the situation presented.

  “Well, I hope the natives aren’t restless, because I’m sure the ride in this bucket of bolts won’t encourage any sleep at all.”

  Holmes smiled at the elder statesman of the Chamber then helped to strap him into his seat. As he did, he wondered what it would be like should they survive and come out the other side of the apocalypse.

  Would it be worth going on?

  Forty-Six

  “Sir!” Tom Transky raced back to inform the president, who was still in conversation with the first lady. “We have a situation which will require a change of plans.”

  “What kind of a situation, Tom? What did the pilot tell you?”

  “Well, sir, I, err … “He looked at the first lady.

  “I think the time for correct protocol is behind us, don’t you, Tom?” The president pulled his tie from his collar and undid the top buttons.

  “Yes, sir, of course.” Tom took a seat on the other side of the president. “Sir, the pilot was able to establish radio contact with one of the fighter planes involved in General Stodge’s firebombing campaign. Sir, the runway at Vancouver is a disaster, according to the fighter pilot. How he knew this I don’t know, but we have no choice but to avoid it. Theoretically, we could make it to Graham Island, but the plane isn’t carrying a full load of fuel.”

  The president felt his wife’s hand tighten around his. “Why is that?”

  “Sir, with the closure of the airports, there hasn’t been a need to fuel any planes, and no deliveries were made either. We were lucky to get as much as we did.”

  The president took his hands from his wife’s grip and leaned toward Tom. “Has the pilot found another place to land?”

  “Yes, sir, but the problem is this plane might be too big for the runway, if it’s clear.”

  “If it’s clear?” The first lady pressed her fingers to her lips.