* * *
While Cindy slept, Bob and Mitch took the opportunity for some straight talk with the captain back in his private quarters.
“I know too well the circumstances which has caused you and your crew to be out here in the Pacific searching for a safe haven,” Bob began while Boris procured three glasses and a bottle of vodka. “But I have to be honest with you, I don’t know why you’re so eager to help rescue my fellow countrymen at Sandspit.”
Boris filled the glasses put them down on the small table then sat. He took his glass and a sip from the vodka, itself unusual as the captain always threw back the contents like water. He waited until Bob and Mitch took their seat before he began. “Tovarish, not long after I had been accepted into the academy a terrible winter occurred around Veronezh, my family lived some miles from there in a small community. When temperatures hit ten below—and looked to get worse—the authorities in the city issued a statement, they would begin evacuations to Veronezh immediately.” This time Boris threw the contents of his glass back and swallowed it in a single swallow. “They, the rescuers, never arrived at the house of my family, tovarish. My parents, grandparents, an uncle, two brothers' and a sister all perished. So, I know what it is like to lose close ones for no other reason than the promised rescue never occurred.”
Now, Bob understood and his already high estimation of Boris Gretchko grew further. It was no longer about national interests or country rivalries but about humanism, doing what you could for other people for no other reason than you could.
And wasn’t that the way it was meant to be? Bob asked himself. Bob knew the answer. Perhaps way back with so-called primitive tribes of North and South America, Africa, the South Pacific—hell, all over the world—this knowledge was paramount but with the advent of currency and trade, greed took over and like a cancer infiltrated every corner of the world. War’s proliferated to keep the currency flowing and guaranteed the monopoly of these interests in the hands of a select few.
These select few, Bob came to understand, all belonged to the Chamber and those individuals or companies that didn’t, fell under the collective control of the Chamber. Bob hadn’t the time to do much soul searching since his less than heroic escape from the capitol, but the submarine voyage had given him time to reflect. In particular he deliberated over the old black and white film of President Dwight Eisenhower’s, farewell to the nation in January, 1961, warned of the military-industrial complex.
Could Eisenhower have warned against the influence of the Chamber that far back? Could the world have been saved from this apocalyptic holocaust? Bob asked the question over and over but knew no answer would be sufficient.
Bob and Mitch shared three glasses of vodka with Boris, before they excused themselves and went to their quarters for sleep. Like Cindy, a private room was provided to each. Bob found sleep helpful too. The idea they were underwater, inside a giant steel tube didn’t impress him all that much either. Mitch, younger than Bob didn’t appear fazed by it. After three vodka’s Bob thought he should sleep well, underwater or not. As he closed his eyes he thought of Riley and the others' at the motel in Sandspit, with the generator all rigged up they’d be warm and comfortable. “Yep, they’re all sleeping better than I am.” He whispered before switching the overhead lamp off.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thirty-Four
Ten fathoms below the surface, The Dimitry Donskoy, powered through the Pacific Ocean as Cindy, Bob and Mitch slept sound in their quarters. Further north—toward the direction of the sub’s travel—the remaining Sandspit survivors settled in.
The Skidegate Lodge, log-cabin rentals for tourists, was less than half a mile from the Haida Gwaii co-op and afforded the protection, if not the comfort, they sought. The front and back doors were on the second floor, accessible by the front stairs only. Everyone agreed it would be the best shelter they could find in such short time.
The inside of the Lodge was almost as bare as the Co-op, some chairs, two couches a reception counter. There was a spiral rack in the center of the room for pamphlet’s on Haida Gwaii activities.
There were no pamphlet’s on running from zombies.
Chuck took several of the bottles gathered at the co-op and some string he found inside the lodge. He tied one end to a rail at the bottom of the stairs, pulled it across the second step—at about knee height—then looped it around the opposite rail before taking it to the top of the second floor landing, and attached it to some empty bottles.
Not exactly a sophisticated alarm but if anything started up the stairs, the bottles would come down with such a noise everyone inside the building would wake. Not that Chuck thought anyone would sleep too heavy. He posted a pair of guards who rotated every two hours. No flashlights were to be used at all and communication kept to a whisper. With the remainder of the string, Chuck tied one end to an old chair then strung it to the bathroom door. Everyone had at least one bottle of water and what jerky strips were available had been distributed equally. Canned food, survival bars and other, heavier items, didn’t make the journey, when they fled from the house near the airport.
The food situation would be another consideration.
That would be just great, wouldn’t it? Chuck pondered. After fighting through all levels of hell, and to die from starvation.
“Great, just fuckin’ great.”
“What’s great, Chuck?” Elliot overheard.
“Oh, uh… the dark. It’s getting dark already.” Chuck reacted quickly and gestured out the window. “Tell the others' to use the bathroom now while we still have light, okay?”
Elliot nodded and went around the reception area of the lodge and informed everyone. Shortly, after the obligatory restroom stop, all the survivors settled down to the best sleeping spot they could find. A couch, a chair or the hardwood floor. That’s all there was but it was inside and out of the elements. Thankfully there was no wind that night, nor rain, which made for better listening if anything or anyone approached.
While the survivors of battles past slept an uneasy night in the Skidegate Lodge, just a few miles south, thousands of undead roamed the freezing night. The foamers had adapted, were no longer affected by the near zero temperatures as they were originally, when the survivors arrived on the island. They weren’t bothered by the lack of oxygen as the floated from the mainland to Haida Gwaii. But who needs to breathe when your dead? A Pulitzer Prize would be there for the taking for any researcher who could propose a theory of what caused the foamers to act collectively and plunge into the Pacific Ocean.
Did the foamers know of the island’s existence? Did they know humans were there? These and many other questions, would have been asked and addressed in the research. But the Pulitzer no longer existed, nor did any researchers worthy of the title.
The question of how the foamers managed to get to the islands was irrelevant. Especially so for the few survivors, their interest in the theoretical ended the moment they fought these abominations for a chance to live.
Some—good people, too—had failed in their attempt and most of the survivors knew others' from all corners of America—and the world—had tried and failed too.
Chuck recalled Elliot’s question, one of them anyway, from sometime back when he asked if they could be the last people on the planet. At the time they hadn’t made it to the Haida Gwaii Islands. Chuck wondered, as he closed his eyes and pulled his combat jacket tighter, if Elliot might be right, that they and the submarine personnel might be the only other people left in the entire world.
It’s certainly a possibility, Chuck realized, but that didn’t mean he would give up hope.
He—they—couldn’t afford to.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Thirty-Five
A harsh wind from the North woke most of the occupants of Skidegate Lodge. Sam and James—the last of the watch—greeted the others' as they rose.
“The wind looks pretty strong,”
“Sure does Sam, anything to repor
t?” Chuck asked after wiping a cupped hand of water over his face.
“The wind came up an hour ago, not log after we took over.” He gestured to James.
“Let’s all take a window and keep an eye out.” Chuck called. His voice not quite a whisper but he kept it low. The wind outside would keep him from being heard—but it would also prevent him from hearing the approach of any foamers.
“Yeah, and let’s not be too obvious.” Riley added.
“What are you thinking, Chuck?”
“Like you, Elliot, I think the foamers have some kind of ability to sense where we—or the living—are. Might not quite be smell but whatever it is, they have it.” Chuck took a mouthful of water, wished it was coffee, he could use one right about now.
Elliot brought up his pheromones theory again, which Chuck agreed with to an extent, but it didn’t explain the arrival of the foamers to the island. That was uncanny, supernatural even, but they were dealing with the undead—and how much more supernatural could you get?
“I didn’t hear a thing on watch last night, did you?” Elliot positioned himself on the left side the window, while Chuck took the right.
“No, we put a good bit of distance between us and them. Doesn’t seem like they picked up our scent,” Chuck peered around the edge of the window, “but that might not be the case today.”
“You mean with this wind?”
“Precisely. If we go outside today, then I’d bet my last worthless dollar those dead bastards would be onto us in a flash.”
“And if they do discover we’re here—”
“We’ll deal with that situation then. But for now we’re safe, dry, reasonably warm and we should take advantage of that.”
“What about Jerry back in Sandspit are we—”
Chuck held a hand up as he took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “All I can say is don’t get your hopes up, Elliot. I’m not trying to be heartless but you’re as aware of the circumstances as I am. As long as all the foamers followed Riley, Chess and the others', then your friend will have enough supplies to get him through for a few more days. We’ll do our best to make it back in time Elliot, no promises, but we’ll do our best okay?”
Elliot nodded then turned his attention to the road that lead away from the Skidegate Lodge—their temporary shelter. Chuck reached over and slapped his companion on the shoulder then also cast his eyes out to just beyond the road. There were tall pines, thick lush undergrowth and steep hills. A million foamers could be behind those trees, Chuck considered, and no one would be any the wiser.
“Whats our plan?” Riley came up behind them.
“We hold up here while this wind is so strong. We step outside and I think the foamers will pick up our scent right away.”
“Well,” Riley looked at both of them, “they’ll definitely smell the two of you after being stuck in that plane for so long.” He winked before he shuffled back to inform the others' of the plan.
“Riley’s been a great support hasn’t he?” Elliot made the observation to Chuck.
Chucked watched the former police sergeant a moment before answering. “Yes, he has. Along with you he’s been the glue that’s held us together, but he needs to work on his jokes!”
That was the last Chuck and Elliot said for at least an hour, as they kept watch out of the second floor window. When sure no foamers hid behind the trees, Chuck relaxed and rationed out the modest supplies. Water is crucial to any survival situation and Chuck laid done some strict rules on consumption. Solid food consisted of a few packages of jerky and emergency health bars.
There was no mistake they were all grateful for the food but a diet of water, jerky and health bars was a recipe for the shits—literally.
“Hey, James,” Chess called, after the amount of rations per person had been detailed, “check on the bathroom closet for toilet tissue.”
“What?”
“Yeah, toilet tissue.” Chess repeated. “Believe me, you’ll want it—unless you plan on wiping your ass with your hand?”
A rumble of laughter broke out, but most understood the importance.
Less than another hour had passed when the wind dropped to less then a breeze.
“Movement!” Cleavon called. He was on watch at the westside window, as others' took a break. “Just down the road, pass the bend.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
The decision to move from the lodge was made for them with the appearance of foamers. The survivors had to make the choice of where to go—and fast.
“You think they know we’re here?” Tom asked.
The movement spotted earlier hadn’t been followed up with anything more substantial, but the consensus was—it was foamers.
“Don’t think so. If they did, they’d rush us and Cleav only saw the one movement by the bend. There are so many around some were bound to wander this way.” Chuck watched from the westside window in a crouched position. Chess and Riley covered the front—the most vulnerable area—the others' watched the back.
“Can let them pass and wait it out?” Elliot asked in a hoarse whisper. He sat on the hard wood floor behind Chuck, closer to the center of the room.
“No, this lodge will afford a hold out for a short time against low numbers, but we can’t take that chance—we haven’t the firepower.”
Chuck grabbed his weapon and moved over toward the front and motioned for Elliot to come with him as he did.
“Whats our options’ gentlemen?”
“The only other town near is Queen Charlotte and that’s back the way we came,” Riley replied.
Everyone went quiet for a moment as they searched their thoughts. Chuck was right about there being no choices but they couldn’t afford a haphazard escape—that would be just as dangerous.
“Listen to this,” Chess started, “by coming over from the other island we bought ourselves nearly a full day. What if we head back to Sandspit, might we be able to do the same again?”
“He’s got a point there,” Riley conceded.
Chuck thought for a moment before answering. “I tend to agree but,” he paused to look each of the three in the eye, “the boat we came across in is behind us and—”
“Stick to the plan of burning them. We take the gas from the Impala, fill these bottles, draw the foamers to us and set them on fire!” Chess explained his updated plan. “In the mayhem, we’ll squeeze into the Bronco and head for the boat.”
Chuck and Riley—the two with the most combat experience—exchanged a long hard look.
“I like it!” Elliot broke the silence. “It’ll give us more than just a chance of escaping—we can take a lot of them and that has to be a good option right?”
Elliot was right, Chuck understood that much. It wasn’t just about their escape but if they could slow the ability of their enemy to pursue—then that was without question the action to take.
“Okay, Chess, you and Cleavon go milk that Impala for every drop of gas you can, then fill up as many bottles as you can. But don’t draw any foamers to you. Riley you help with that, and Elliot, you need to find some material, old clothes or something, we can use as fuses, okay?” Chuck said to them.
“Sure,” Riley said, “but what are you going to be doing?”
“I’ll set myself up on the veranda here with the Weatherby and once you guys are ready, I’ll draw them to us.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chess said as he stood but then quickly turned to the others, his face white and his eyes wide. “We don’t have the siphon tool with us.”
Without the siphon/hand-pump, their plans were thrown into chaos.
“Has anyone checked below?” Chuck asked about the first level which was only accessible by stairs through the managers office.
“No, I just checked that the door to the stairs was locked.” Elliot answered. “I can go look now, what do you want?”
“A hose, a length of hose is all we need to suck gas out of that car.”
“O
n it!” Elliot said and made his way past the reception counter and into the office where he could access to the stairs the bottom level.
The first floor couldn’t have been accommodations, Elliot thought but didn’t know what it could be. He’d looked out the back window when they arrived only to see the dozen or so log cabins that were for rent, but no maintenance or tool shed. Elliot was glad for his flashlight as he descended the stairs, with no power it was as dark as a moonless night. A shaft of sunlight came in from the small side windows once he left the stairwell which improved things somewhat.
To one side there was a wall with mounted tools and a work bench. At the end of the wall, on a hook, was a garden hose.
“Bingo!” Elliot said as he pulled it down.
Next he rummaged through a red tool-box on the bench and found a retractable box-cutter and cut a five feet length of hose off. He slid the knife into the buttoned pockets of his pants, grabbed the hose and the tool box—there could be other items of use inside he reasoned but didn’t have time to search.
“Hey, I found this!” He held up the hose and announced when he rejoined the others', minutes later.
“That will do it.” Chess said.
“Okay then you guys siphon the gas out of the car,” Chuck said then turned to Elliot. “Were there any rags down there?”
Elliot shook his head. “It was pretty dark down there, I’ll try one of the cabins outside. They should have beds and—”
“And bedsheets! Good thinking, take Morris with you and make it quick.” Chuck then told Tristan to cover them from the veranda. “Only shoot if you absolutely have to Tristan, okay?”
Riley gathered the empty bottles of various shapes and sizes they’d taken from the market. There was about two dozen in all of various shapes and sizes.
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