No one could survive for long in the Canadian winter without shelter.
And it was winter now, maybe a little early, but it had arrived.
“Hope the runway isn’t covered in snow.” Elliot mentioned as he looked down upon the white capped pines below.
“Gee, thanks for the reminder Elliot, thanks a bunch!”
Elliot took a deep breath and gritted his teeth. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say to someone who hadn’t flown a plane in many years.
“So, err, after we refuel here where should we head to?” Elliot changed topic—fast.
“You got the maps, you tell me.”
Small talk, light chatter, it passed the time.
“How long had you worked for this Phillip Baer, before the shit hit the fan?” Elliot asked after they refueled and took to the sky again. Fuel wasn’t difficult to find—now due to the fact all they needed was unleaded gas—there’d been no incident or even a hint of danger when on the ground but they were happy to take to the air again. The airport itself was as lifeless and cold as the surrounding wilderness.
“You have a good memory for names,” Chuck acknowledged before he continued. “I was there for a few years but in fact worked for a man named Langley. He was Baer’s right hand. I met Baer a few times and that was very brief.”
“How did you get the job? I mean, was it advertised in the paper or something and you were the lucky applicant?”
“No nothing like that, not at all. It wasn’t your normal security job.”
Chuck then began a brief history of his past.
Elliot listened to every word—not that there were many. The Tall Man was still somewhat guarded. Nonetheless, the story this man told, was amazing.
“So there’s the basics,” Chuck said after he gave the “Readers Digest” version of his life. “After the Foreign Legion I came back to the US with a new name and a contact to look up—I was given this info in the legion—and found work as a security specialist in the Baer organization. Had I known what they were up to and the goals, I’d have killed them both way back then.”
Elliot was more than impressed with the story of his friends past but felt Chuck left quite a deal out. Well, it was his story and Elliot felt privileged to get as much as he did.
“I always figured, because how you carried yourself, that you were former CIA but Foreign Legion is pretty damn impressive!”
Chuck burst into laughter the very instant.
“Whats up? Did I say something funny?”
“I thought you of all people would have given me more credit than a CIA operative!” Chuck burst into laughter again, then added. “Surely, I’m smarter than that?”
Elliot saw the humor and joined in the laughter. After the jovial moment died down Chuck elaborated on his role as a double-agent within Baer’s company. “It’s funny you mention that, that you thought I was a spy. Not long after I started working for Baer, a man contacted me, said he represented national security and asked for a private meeting. Intrigued as to why national security would have any interest in a fertilizer and pesticide company I agreed—I also wanted to see if I might have been the one this man was interested in.”
“What for?”
“Because of my Foreign Legion service. It’s not altogether welcomed by the US government. Anyway, he offered me good money—real good money—to keep watch on the company’s activities, in particular the vegetable enrichers as he termed it.”
“I gather that man was, Holmes?”
“Correct.”
“You didn’t elaborate that much on him, was that because you worked for him?”
“I had no idea what keeping an eye on Baer’s developments meant or what it was for, but Holmes said it was a matter of national security. I suspected it had to do with illicit drugs and maybe international terrorism. You know drugs for weapons or vice versa type trade.”
Elliot took in all this information, grateful for Chuck’s candor. “But it wasn’t, right?”
“Far from it. When I couldn’t find any evidence of any wrong doing and just reported usual day to day activities, I became suspicious of Holmes’ motives and started to keep an eye on him.”
“And that led you to the other man that was with him on the plane?”
“Eventually, yes. When I found out who he was and how powerful he was, I knew the national security claim was a just a cover. I had to be careful but and thought I was close to the truth when…”
“When what?” Elliot didn’t see the connection.
“All hell broke loose and people turned into the walking dead—damn good name for a television show if you ask me.” Chuck turned and gave Elliot a wink.
Elliot understood now. Chuck didn’t get to discover how close Holmes and Etheridge were before the foamer breakout.
“But you believed it had to do with the outbreak.”
“Yes, I do. From the little I learned about the Chamber—which is the organization Etheridge represented—world domination wasn’t all that they desired. Once reached, severe population reduction was their goal.”
Elliot swallowed hard, the taste was bitter. “Looks to me like they achieved that, wouldn’t you say?”
Chapter Six
Six
The bullet riddled body of the mutant jumped to life from the floor of the Farm Fresh Market and launched itself straight at Tristan. A high pitched squeal radiated from the mouth of the creature as it attacked.
“MOVE TRISTAN, MOVE!” Tom continued to yell, but couldn’t fire—Tristan was in his direct line of sight.
The swift moving mutant, however, had lost its zip. A shit-load of lead does that to a person—and mutant creatures as well. This gave Tristan enough time to dive froward and to the side. He rolled as it the floor but stayed down.
He knew what was coming.
Full automatic fire from Tom’s M4 echoed through the store, Tom’s scream of anger (and perhaps a little fear) were also evident. Tristan looked up, halfway through the fusillade, and watched the mutant stagger backward under the constant fire. Bullet’s from the M4 tore chunks of flesh from its body and splattered against the white walls of the market behind, then slipped to the floor. Streaks of bloody residue left on the wall as a result.
“Okay Tom, okay!” Tristan shouted after the body of the five foot wretch hit the floor with a squishy thud, and twitched away in a pool of its own juices. “Its dead. Believe me, it’s dead!”
Tom stopped firing, not because Tristan got through to him, but because he had no bullet’s left in the magazine.
“No doubt about you Tom, you don’t do things by halves eh?” Tristan got to his feet, went over and slapped the former career White House staffer on the back. “Good job, buddy. Damn good job, but I think we better make ourselves scarce, I’m sure all those shots attracted others' mutants.”
“Yep, fine with me.”
Tom appeared shocked, as he recovered from a major scare. Tristan knew how he felt and gave him some room. But they had to get back to the others'.
“You got another magazine?” When there was no reply Tristan asked again. “Tom, you got another magazine?”
“Yeah, yeah sure.” Tom fumbled around the assault vest he now wore for another clip but it was obvious his hands were to shaky.
“Here let me,” Tristan reached forward, grabbed a clip from the pouch and inserted it into the magazine well of the M4.
“There ya go, I’ll let you cock it though okay?” Tristan then winked at Tom and placed the empty magazine in his friend’s assault vest.
“Sure, I can do that but let me grab that basket of food.”
Well, he can’t be in too much shock, Tristan thought, if he can still think of the food after all that.
“Okay, but let’s get a move on.”
* * *
Lightning, thunder, heavy rain and wind squalls, shook the windows of the motel office and the walls as well. That was the order of the day for those that stayed behind at Sandspit.
&n
bsp; “Man, the windmill will get blown away for sure!”
“Why are you so worried about that fucking windmill thing, Chess?” Riley turned to him. “If this storm gets any worse we’ll all be blown away!”
Everyone, except Chess, responded to Riley’s tongue-in-cheek criticism with laughter.
“You always free to go out and hold it down,” Morris taunted.
“Yeah, yeah. Very funny.”
“Take it easy man, and have a cup of joe. It’s all we can do,” Riley handed the former Special Forces soldier a hot brew. “I put a drop of whiskey in there to keep the cold out.” Riley winked as he passed the cup over.
“Thank’s Riley, I could use it.”
“Yeah this storm is the worst we’ve had in our short time here, but we’ll get through it. Shit, if we can get through hundreds of frothing demon eyed ghouls, mutant pygmies and attacks from armed loonies, I think we can ride out a pissy little storm don’t you?”
Chess took the cup and nodded his appreciation.
“There’s not much to be done now so we might as well—”
A bolt of lightning flashed by the windows outside—or appeared to—the lights in the office went out instantly. The generator couldn’t stand against mother nature.
“Well, as I was about to say,” Riley continued, in the dark. “There’s not much to do, so we might as well finish our coffee and sack out for the night. The decision it seems, has been made for us.”
“Yeah, you’re right there.” Morris found a flashlight and scanned the room. “I need to check on Jerry.”
Other flashlights came on as each man searched for his sleeping bag.
The storm, the worry over Elliot and Chuck would make it a long night—which was no different from most nights since the start of the foamer outbreak.
Well, Riley said to himself as he unzipped his bag and squeezed in, at least it could’t get any worse.
As he lay his head down, thoughts of a foamer attack crept into his mind. Or could it?
* * *
After another stint of four flying hours, the plane was due for refuel as Chuck and Elliot were due for some rest. They had managed to get as far as Richland Airport just north of the town proper and a few miles from Kennewick, Washington.
Like another Chuck, (Berry), they were back in the USA.
“Good thing you discovered the engine had been converted. Makes it a lot easier to find fuel,” Elliot pointed to the abandoned line of cars in the parked nearby. The parking lot was on the other side of a chain link fence but a side gate was left open in the panic, and a small maintenance garage was on their side.
“If you grab the siphon pump, I’ll go see if there’s a drum or gas can in there we can use.” Elliot pointed to the garage.
“That loaded?” Chuck indicated with a nod toward Elliot’s long barreled Dan Wesson in his holster.
“You bet and I got three speed loaders with me as well.”
“Okay, but stay sharp.” Chuck was impressed to see Elliot now carried a .357 Magnum when he returned with Jerry. It had always been Chuck’s first choice and now the two could share the same ammunition. They wouldn’t have to lug two types of pistol ammunition now—every little bit helped. “Check to see if there’s any water while you’re there.” They had more than enough with them but when it came to water, Chuck reasoned, it never hurt to take whatever was available.
You never know—you just never know.
The closer they were to Hammett—and with no sign of foamer activity—the less alert they’d became. Chuck more than the others'. Complacency had set in. Never at any time previously, would Chuck have allowed Elliot to wander off to an unsecured building. Never.
Chuck tore open a bag of jerky, grabbed a slice and put one end into his mouth. The saltiness and the rough texture felt good—the simple pleasures of life that were no longer. He then grabbed a bottle of water and relaxed, without a concern as he rummaged around for the gas siphon with his free hand.
“Chuck! Chuck!” Elliot’s intense calls changed that disposition.
Chuck found the door to the maintenance building open, but no sign of Elliot. With his Desert Eagle in hand as he burst into the darkness. “Elliot? Where the—”
“Over here Chuck, I’m over here.” Elliot sounded calm, composed. The very opposite of how you’d be if foamers were present.
Chuck took a deep breath and the putrid smell, like a smack to the face, hit him. He turned to the beam of the flashlight, now pointed a few yards in front of him, to where Elliot stood.
Chuck was confused, there was the odor of foamers but Elliot was calm and there was no gunfire—not what you’d expect if the bastards were about. He made sure the kept the Eagle trained on the flashlight beam—just in case.
The only light in the windowless maintenance shed was Elliot’s flashlight. When Chuck got closer he could see the outline of his young friend in the residual light.
“You all right Elliot? I thought you must have come across foamers or—”
“I did. Take a look!”
Chuck’s eyes followed the circle of light cast from the flashlight as Elliot moved it to the end of the shed.
A dozen or more foamers lay against the wall, their clothes torn, dirty and the bodies had a deflated appearance. Dark, sunken holes replaced the eyes and the skin dry and stiff. Several dead rats were also nearby, their feast didn’t turn out so good.
“Shit a damn brick. Would you look at that,” Chuck was more shocked by the sight than Elliot, who had witnessed the foamers collapse before his very eyes when he and Jerry made good their cross-country escape. “Kinda like what you and Jerry told us.”
“This means they could be dropping all across the country, there might be—” Elliot started.
“Let’s just deal with what we got here, Elliot, and not draw too long a bow, eh?” Chuck hosed the fire down.
“Yeah, you’re right but you can’t blame me for thinking that can you?”
“No of course not and I feel the same, but we need more evidence.”
Elliot shone the flashlight around the shed but there was very little of anything useful left.
“Grab that rope over there Elliot, it might come in handy.”
“Sure,” the length of rope was coiled up over by the corner, just a few feet from the foamer corpses. “Hey Chuck, how come these fuckers don’t smell as bad. Every time we’ve been near foamers, its like a hundreds of festering dead rats in a blocked up sewer.”
“Not real sure, but they’re so dried out maybe the stench dried up too. Anyway let’s be thankful for small mercies, in a small shed like this the odor would have killed us by now,” Chuck held the door open and let Elliot out then slammed it shut. There were no fuel drums in the maintenance shed.
“We’ll have to refuel the slow way.” Chuck pointed to the few cars he could see parked by the plane hangars. “Grab one of those cars and drive it up to the plane, we’ll siphon the gas and get out of here.”
The foamers in the shed posed no threat, but the fact that they were there, unnerved Chuck. He intended to rest his huge frame, but the possibility of more foamers about—active foamers—was too great. The Tall Man decided to fly on to the next airport or land on an open highway.
Chapter Seven
Seven
Hammet was a rural town. Plowed fields were more common than front lawns and when it hadn’t rained for a time the town would resemble a dust-bowl. Of more immediate concern was the fallout from the nuclear blast at Mountain Home AFB. What winds there’d been since that incident came directly from the North and the survivors of the helicopter crash could only hope that any fallout had been blown away.
At the East end of town, off Old US 30, was a two story farm house. Set back from the street and protected from prying eyes and the elements by tall pine trees, the house was selected by Tristan to be their safe house.
“We’ll have to have to move soon, there’s not much for us here.” Tom said between bites of hi
s sardines and crackers meal.
“If we’re to survive, I agree, but the logistics of how we’re to do it is still rather vague,” Richard said from the bunk he lay upon and had done so since dragged up to the second floor. “Even if we could find a chopper I’m in no condition to fly with my shoulder and ribs the way they are. And it’s one long-ass drive.”
“The alternative is we remain here and watch each other starve to death. We have to get a vehicle, a van so we can lay you down in the back, and drive non-stop to Prince Rupert. We make quick stops and look for water and whatever canned food we can find left over, some fuel cans and a length of hose—”
“Length of hose?”
“To siphon gas with. We got a few days of water and food left so let’s make it happen.”
Richard hadn’t the chance to get to know Tom in the short time since they were thrust together in this calamity. He knew who he was back in the real world—when it existed but he had noticed a change in Tom’s persona since the helicopter crash, the loss of Elliot and the on-going threat of nuclear fallout.
He went from a—very—reluctant hero, to a take charge type. Not quite Rambo but he’d definitely stepped up to the plate. He was concerned with their plight and would make plans without knowing how to complete them. He wasn’t in DC anymore, Richard wanted to tell him, it was no longer about proposals or compromise or enough votes to close a deal, it was about getting it done—yourself.
“There not a lot of vehicles left in this town and…” Tristan paused and held up an open hand.
“And what—”
“Shh, shh, shh!” Tristan shook his hand at Tom.
“You hear that?”
“Foamers?” Tom grabbed his M-4.
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