About halfway through the night and a couple of discussions down, he was on the phone with one of the groups for whom he had developed a certain fondness. His main contact, Allan, was quite a talker and Godfrey enjoyed hearing stories from the young man’s experiences and the sheltered little community the leaders had formed in a high school, of all places. The Bear River survivor was expanding on a tale of excitement and adventure featuring someone he referred to as Sarge, when the chemist noted some unusual noises coming from the hallway. He excused himself from the radio and the action of the story long enough to see what the commotion was. He could hear footsteps rapidly moving through the narrow passageways, quickly followed by screams, and finally gunfire. Godfrey secured the door before moving quickly back to the radio. As he talked rapidly into the mouthpiece, he felt for the handgun he knew should be in the drawer just to the right of the desk but it was gone. He’d seen it numerous times and had dismissed it as a non-essential but now, the one time in years when it would come in handy, it could not be seen.
His mind raced, What to do? The battle raging for BioChem was escalating, as more and more blasts could be heard, some much louder than others. Having worked in a safe laboratory environment his entire life, he had never been exposed to violence beyond what he had seen on television. Some of the shouting he recognized as coming from co-workers and security personnel, but the more vulgar and inflammatory remarks and directions were coming from a source he did not recognize. Perhaps the leather clad lot, he thought. Allan had been caught off guard just as he had, with little to offer in the way of help or instruction, but then it dawned on Godfrey what he must do. He’d seen the plane being fueled earlier in the day and loaded with two small, but well-packaged crates of the valuable ampoules. If I could just manage to make it down the hallway that leads to the hangar . . . As the thought crossed his mind, a shadow suddenly appeared in the small window cut high into the room’s door.
Surprisingly a bearded face appeared in the rectangle of the hardened glass. The brute was too big, and the window too narrow, to see the entire head but it was obvious to Godfrey that it was one of the four men he’d seen earlier in the night. The latch jiggled violently up and down but did not give way. As quickly as the door handle was released there was a thumping on the door itself. Godfrey imagined the brute slamming his shoulder into the door in an effort to extract the petrified lab worker. The chemist screamed his intentions, hoping the microphone would relay the message to Allan hundreds of miles away. He frantically pulled drawers from their slots and threw unwanted items to the floor in an effort to find the pistol he so desperately needed.
Blam! Followed by a short pause, was quickly followed by three more blasts. The sound of high impact rounds ripping into the handle, lock and wood of the door, intensified the Englishman’s search. For a moment things were suddenly quiet, besides the distant sounds of guns and chaos, but the immediate noise just outside his room had stopped. He looked over his shoulder to see what had changed and there, framed in the window, was a smile missing numerous front teeth. The attacker was teasing him, licking his lips and kissing the glass separating the two. A black, short-barreled weapon took the place of the scumbag’s face. He rapped the butt of the gun on the glass in an effort to break through but the barrier held firm.
Godfrey confirmed his situation with Allan before saying a final farewell to the young friend he’d made a connection with. “Everybody in this nation bloody well has a gun, but me!” he yelled, as he continued his frenzied search. Two more shots were fired into the door, this time striking the glass, sending small shards onto the floor near Godfrey, but he was unharmed. Confident the weapon was no longer in or near the desk, he turned away to look about the room. There were a few tables with scattered papers and file folders but no apparent handgun and virtually nowhere else in the room where a gun would be placed.
The hammering on the door renewed itself, causing the unraveled chemist to look back at the only thing separating him from capture, or worse. It was then that he noted something unusual hanging from the coat rack situated very close to the entry door. A long, white lab coat was hung from one of the hooks but it was the item underneath the coat that garnered his attention. Each time the Neanderthal on the opposite side of the barrier leveraged his weight against the door, a micro-earthquake would disrupt the items in the room, shifting them slightly. The effect had revealed something, driving Godfrey to the most impulsive act of his life. He leapt for the rack, just as he could see the now shot-up lock giving way. Sliding across the floor, the awkward man careened into the stand, tackling it and sending him, the lab coat and coat rack to the floor in a tangled-up mess.
Whitcomb heard the latch finally give way and a stream of light from the hallway widened as the door was opened and the burly biker stepped into the room. He stood with his shoulder holding the door open and the angry looking pistol pointed at the heap on the floor.
“Well, what we got ourselves here?” He could just see the upper portion of Godfrey’s head, his glasses and his legs extending out to either side of the lab coat. “Looks like I found myself a pet lab rat.”
“I should say not, sir! What is the meaning of this? You should be horsewhipped for the damage you’ve done to this remarkable facility.”
“You talk right purty - love the accent,” he said, waving the pistol in Godfrey’s direction. “Come on, get yourself out of there, or if you want, I can just leave you here. Doesn’t really make no never mind to me. Which is it going to be? You coming with me hot or staying here cold?” He laughed to himself, looking over his shoulder to see if any of his buddies had seen how clever he’d been.
“I believe I will be leaving but not with you,” the Englishman said.
The intruder could see a sudden movement, from within the confines of the lab coat, as his prey thrust something at him. Godfrey noted a sudden confusion cross the eyes of his intended victim, who did not have time to respond before Godfrey was able to solve the problem. The chemist quickly drew back the hammer of the pistol and fired a .357 magnum slug through the draped coat and into the chest of the assailant. A look of utter astonishment animated the biker’s face briefly as he dropped to his knees and then bounced his head off the tiled floor, a sickening thud filling the void in the room.
Knowing that there was no time to lose, Godfrey scrambled out from underneath the rack. He held the handle of the gun with the barrel still stuffed into the holster, which dangled down around his knees. Smoke drifted upward from the newly punched hole in the end of the leather casing. Godfrey tried to wrap the contraption around his waist but soon gave up and pulled the six-shot pistol from the shoulder holster and threw, what he perceived as a useless device, to the floor. He moved to the dead man, pulled his body away from the door and pushed it closed, giving him a moment to collect his thoughts and search the bleeding corpse.
The sounds of fighting continued throughout the surrounding area but seemed to be moving away from him and thankfully away from the hangar. “Please let Kim be alive and still here,” he said, as he madly rummaged for items of use from the dead man’s attire. He found fully loaded clips in the man’s front pocket and a sheath, duct taped to his chest, which contained a bloodied knife. Godfrey filled his own pockets with the items, sliding the semi-automatic pistol, taken from the killer, into the waistband of his pants. He held the .357 revolver in his right hand, preparatory for his venture into the hallway and the unknown that lay between him and his escape.
A wave of nausea swept over the apprehensive chemist as he stared at the splintered door, his gun in hand and no idea how to proceed. His first thought was to crawl under a table and wait out the attack, confident that the lab’s security forces would prevail. Then he thought of the dead body partially blocking the door and the retribution the man’s buddies would take on the only living occupant of the room. Heroic, he was not, but stouthearted in times of stress was in his nature as it had been in all the Whitcomb men. Pensively he slowly opened
the door and peered into the hallway. The corridor to his right would lead to an adjacent series of offices and storage facilities, which, if carefully navigated, would eventually lead to the hangar and plane.
The four-inch barrel of the Colt Python led the way. The act of killing the first assailant should have bolstered his self-confidence but it had not. Rather it had sickened him as he realized what he was capable of and didn’t like the inner-self he had seen. Gunshots were still echoing off the walls and filtering down the empty spaces of the underground laboratory. He moved cautiously, but with a sense of urgency, understanding his chances were somewhere between slim and none. Passing through the medical services room, he noted two nurses: one male, with a knife still protruding from his chest and a female, with a wide, gaping slash across her throat and a pool of blood much larger than he would ever have imagined, surrounding the still body. He tiptoed through the blood, with no other way to bypass the dead, leaving a trail of his own footprints extending to the rear of the facility. Once there, he could no longer control his fear and retched uncontrollably, spilling the contents of his stomach on the blood stained floor.
From the vomit-showered floor to the hangar’s entrance was a straight shot of 50 yards, with only one possible place where trouble could be lurking. A closet used for the storage of flight gear and safety equipment, large enough to step inside, was across the hall from the hangar. Godfrey sprang forward, his legs churning but feet slipping in the bodily fluids left behind. Once he’d regained his traction, the yards flashed beneath him, as he kept his eyes focused on the closet door, which was slightly ajar. Just as his long legs were to carry him past the source of his anxiety, a war-cry screaming maniac burst forth from the narrow opening, a large wrench swinging wildly at Godfrey’s head. The Englishman’s natural instinct of self-preservation forced his right arm up, the pressure on the trigger tightening as the barrel reached the attacker’s head. In the very instant that Godfrey recognized the pilot, the pistol discharged, sending a large caliber ballistic at the only person capable of taking him to safety. The slug clipped the rapidly descending wrench, yanking it from the pilot’s hand. The wrench deflected the bullet enough to miss the unintended target and lodge in the wall, however, the wrench spun 360 degrees, striking its owner squarely between the eyes, knocking him to the ground.
“What have I done?” Godfrey cried, assuming he had killed the pilot with his knee-jerk response. He knelt over him and was reaching to feel for a pulse when he saw the man’s chest rise and dip, in repeated succession. “Thank you, God!” Not knowing quite what to do, Godfrey cradled the man’s head, inspected the wound and promptly slapped the injured pilot not once, but twice, sharply across both cheeks. A soft moan slipped from his lips. “Kim, Kim -- we’ve got to get going! Come on, snap out of it! I’m so sorry for almost killing you but there’s no time to waste!”
Kim Jenkins gradually, and with tremendous effort, opened his eyes. The images before him were very blurred and confusing. A man knelt beside him speaking, but totally incoherent, as his eyes drifted from a single image, to double, and then back again.
“Are you going to be able to fly?” an overwrought Godfrey asked.
“Fly? Fly what? Where am I? What happened? Why did you hit me?”
“Sorry about that, Mate. Didn’t know it was you in the closet but can you fly us out of here?”
“I’m seeing two of you . . . No, wait - now just one. What hit me? Did you shoot me, man?” Kim managed to put a few pieces of the puzzle together as his brain worked through the confusion.
“Well, luckily I hit the spanner you were swinging at me, which then hit you. Worked out rather nicely for both of us, considering what the alternative could have been.”
“I see,” the pilot said, sitting up and reaching to the spot of intense pain at the bridge of his nose.
“Can we fly that plane out of here? I mean right now!” Godfrey stressed the urgency of his request by pointing at the hangar and what he hoped would be a prepared aircraft.
“But what about everybody else? Shouldn’t we stay and see what we can do? I heard so much shooting. What if our guys have won?” Kim added.
“Once we’re airborne, we can do a flyby and take a look. We can also set it down, if everything is clear. If not, we head to our friends in Bear River, 800 miles northwest of here. If BioChem has been overrun there will be little we can do about it, but we may be able to do something with some help from a willing outside source, like the group I just mentioned.” He was trying just as hard to convince himself, as he was Kim.
“Okay, help me up. Let me see how stable I am. Wish my eyes would quit playing tricks on me,” he said, staggering to his feet with Godfrey’s help, before he tipped to his right and fell against the wall. “I’m so dizzy, so lightheaded. You sure the only thing that hit me was the wrench?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Here, let’s get you into the hangar. What can I do to help get the plane in the air?”
“Nothing, just get me in the cockpit and remove the blocks from the wheels. I’ll be okay once I get situated and the stick in my hands. When I motion to you . . . oh, oh, I’m gonna be sick!” Kim dropped to his right knee and emitted a steady stream of yellow, chunky fluid from his mouth and nose.
“Kim, you okay? I’m so sorry, but there’s no time to waste. Come on, I’ll get you into the plane.” Godfrey hefted the man and steadied him, as they made their way to the hangar, and the waiting plane. The security of the hangar had not been breached and everything was just as he’d seen it earlier in the day. He dragged Kim into position, taking a rag from a nearby table to wipe his mouth and nose, before looking into the backseat of the aircraft to confirm the existence of the packaged ampoules.
“Okay man, move the blocks. I’ll get ‘er started and when I give you thumbs up, hit the door opener and get your butt back here and in the seat next to me. Once that door opens we’re going at full bore, even if we got company out there, I’m going to give this baby all she’s got so we can get out of here. You good?” Kim shouted, above the sound of the single engine starting.
“Yeah, I’m good!” Godfrey Whitcomb stood near the front of the hangar, his finger on the electronic opening switch for the hangar’s door. His feet were positioned as if he were getting ready to steal second base, once the button was pressed. A few seconds later, he noted the thumbs up from Kim, mashed the button and bolted for the vacant co-pilot seat.
The door cranked open, sliding slowly up, revealing nothing but dry pavement and an empty runway. Kim pushed the throttle fully open, propelling the little aircraft forward like a shot. Both men were pushed back into their seats, their heads bouncing off the rests behind them. The engine hummed, as the tires rolled down the straightaway before reaching liftoff speed and skipping into the air. The pilot climbed as quickly as he was able without stalling the engine, which would send them crashing back to earth. Slowly, they circled the facility, the engine drawing attention from a host of gun-toting raiders who, without warning, pointed their weapons into the air and began shooting at the unidentified aircraft.
Kim quickly made adjustments, bringing the plane out of harm’s way and setting them on a course away from the facility, their friends, and the only life they’d known for the past four years.
“Where did you say we were going?” the still somewhat fuzzyheaded pilot asked.
“Bear River - Bear River, Utah. We just got to get over this mountain range and head north. I hope they’re expecting us. I know they need what we’re packing,” he yelled, above the sound of the ramped up engine, as he pointed over his shoulder to the crates in the backseat.
“Bear River? Sounds like a nice place. Hope it’s friendlier than what we just left behind!”
“I’m sure it is,” Godfrey replied, crossing his fingers out of the sight of his light-headed friend.
Chapter 18
Understanding the magnitude of the day before them, the people of the Bear River Community re-doubled their efforts t
o prepare. The frantic communication from BioChem and the desperate nature of their situation was unnerving to the group. They hoped to welcome Godfrey, and whoever else could get out alive, but without anyone having the courage to say it, they were more interested in the cargo the little plane might deliver. Spotters had been assigned to the top of the old school, with teams of intercepting rescuers positioned around the perimeter. Allan would coordinate efforts from the roof, while Farrell led the mobile units. The hours ‘til morning passed quickly, the information from the besieged lab prompting a hive of activity; weapons were issued, plans prepared, and safety concerns reinforced.
The rescue units were made up of three volunteers, which had to be weeded down from the thirty people who had wanted to help out. Farrell had tried his best to balance the teams, with combat or military experience, maturity and shooting ability. Elva, after much persuasion, had agreed to stay back at the school and coordinate the day’s events as Gary’s assistant. Allison had been less easily swayed and now sat next to Rod in the quad cab truck, which would speed them into action in the event that they were needed. Cory and Clayton occupied the two front seats of the only jeep that was functional at the present time. Others had been stripped down; the work of rebuilding them was a never-ending project but one that Gary and Farrell thought would be important, especially if the group had to relocate and do so quickly. The jeeps provided a speed and mobility that none of the other vehicles could offer in a pinch.
Dallas stood in the back of the lone jeep, a safety harness specifically designed to hold a standing fighter wrapped around his torso, giving him flexibility and support. A Browning .30 caliber machine gun, that Farrell had commandeered from a museum, was angled upward, the barrel aimed away from the passengers. They had very little ammunition; only firing the gun to make sure it was operational. The heavy weapon could easily pivot within the custom made cradle Farrell had designed, welding it to the cross beam that acted as the jeep’s roll bar. Dallas was poised and ready, with goggles pressed close to his eyes and a bandolier of ammo wrapped tightly around his chest. With a cowboy hat on and a tanned, rough face he looked a bit like Poncho Villa of Mexican Revolution fame. Cory had been sure that everyone was aware of the slight resemblance, opting to speak to his older friend in a Spanish dialect.
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