Back from the Brink_Toward the Brink V

by Craig McDonough

  “When we left, our flight plan was based on small towns with an airport. We flew from town to town with little incident until Mountain Home—”

  “Mountain Home?” Cindy pulled back to look Elliot in the eye. “That’s practically back to Twin Falls, we all this started—well, for us anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. We were greeted by an air-force jet which demanded we land. We complied of course, it was armed. The commander of the base was a bona fide moron with serious mental disorders, anyway, to cut a long story short… foamers attacked the base by the thousands in broad daylight and overran us. We escaped in our chopper but the nutcase commander detonated a tactical nuclear warhead—”

  “Oh my, God…” Cindy put a hand over her mouth.

  “I looked in the direction of the explosion and saw the flash,” Elliot pointed to the patch on his face. “Worst of all Tom, Tristan and the others' were flung clear of the chopper. Jerry—he’s the one back at the motel in Sandspit—found and nursed me back to health. Together we made it back to Sandspit.”

  “But what about Tom and Tristan? They’re here with us now, how—”

  “Chuck and I went back for them.” Elliot looked over his shoulder, to where Tom and Tristan conversed with the others'—no doubt reliving their ordeal. “And we found them. The others'’ didn’t make it, but we got them back.”

  “Oh, Elliot, I’m so sorry,” Cindy pulled him close, the tears flowed once more. “This has been a nightmare, an absolute nightmare.”

  “You men, you next!” The booming voice of a Russian sailor called for the next group to come forward, before he moved over toward Cindy. “‘Scusing me, Miss Cindy, we will allow you to be last, after all the men have finished.”

  “Oh, okay, thank you.” She didn’t try to hide her tears, there was no point. No one would blame her for it, not under these circumstances. Besides, the Russian’s had shown nothing but manners and decency toward her—prying into the affairs of others', wasn’t a Russian concern.

  An hour later the submarine sat on the surface of the water, outside of the Sandspit harbor. The survivors, along with half of the crew, had tucked into a hearty meal of Solyanka and warmed black bread.

  Boris invited the former US president, Bob, Chuck, Chess, Riley and of course Cindy and her young man Elliot, to eat with him in the captains quarters. It was a tight squeeze with the two most senior officers of the Dimitry Donskoy there as well.

  “I recommend six men go with me,” Chuck addressed everyone at the table as they discussed how best to extract Jerry.

  “Sure, tovarish. But if you want more, I can have another inflatable boat—”

  “Six will be fine. We get in, get out.”

  Boris tore off a chunk of bread, dunked it into his soup then stuck it in his mouth, the hot liquid ran down his chin. “You want to lead this rescue then?”

  This officer knows how to win the confidence of others'. Chuck noted.

  “Yes, and I’ll take you with me, Chess.”

  Chess agreed with a nod.

  “I’m going along—”

  “Don’t you even think about it, Elliot Goodwin!”

  Elliot went bright red as the rest smirked at Cindy’s outburst.

  “I think your days of adventure have come to an end, young man.” Boris reached across the table and placed a hand on Elliot’s forearm. “Believe me, tovarish, you will come to understand the lady of the house, is also the boss—and you will welcome it.”

  Changing the subject, Chuck returned to operational details. He was still concerned with the foamers which he knew there to be plenty of. “Do you have special forces trained men, Boris?”

  “Dah!” Boris’ eyes lit up. “We have a unit of the Spetsnaz Navy Reconnaissance aboard, will that be of any use to you?”

  Chuck could see the captain baited him—and enjoyed it.

  Spetsnaz is generally regarded to be the equivalent of the US Special Forces. Usually by military commentators, journalists and politicians—those that had little idea of how things were in the real world.

  Chuck knew different. Spetsnaz was a different ball game. Not as precise or as surgical as British or Australian SAS teams but their efficiency and determination was unequaled. In the opinion of many who knew of how they operated they were in a league of their own.

  “Sure Boris, they might come in handy,” Chuck smiled and winked at the captain. He could play the game too.

  Fifteen minutes later the rescue team consisting of Chuck, Chess, two men from medical bay—with collapsible gurney—and three Spetsnaz operative’s gathered on the forward deck of the submarine. A larger, twelve man inflatable craft was to be used for Jerry’s extraction.

  “Good luck to you, gentlemen and here take these,” Boris handed over a small hand-held two way radio with five kilometer radius and a flare gun. “The radio works with our on-board communications and we monitor all the time, okay?” He said to Chuck.

  The three Spetsnaz soldiers spoke understandable English, but the medics didn’t.

  It hardly mattered, Chuck didn’t intend to be there long enough to indulge in lengthy discourse.

  “I saw you talking with Riley a moment ago. By the look on your faces, I think you might have been discussing the possibility, Jerry may not be with us any longer, right?” Chess said before they departed.

  “It’s more than a possibility. After what you guys went through at the motel, the numbers of foamers on the island and his condition,” Chuck leaned forward so he wouldn’t be overheard, “we have to be prepared.”

  The small watercraft made the journey to the harbor in no time. A light breeze issued from the North, but nothing unpleasant, while the sun dipped to the western horizon. There were no waves or strong current to impede their progress.

  “Okay, we have to go two kilometers along this road to the motel.” Chuck told his Russian team members. He used kilometers instead of miles, for their benefit.

  One Spetsnaz soldier immediately informed the medico’s then turned back to Chuck. “Okay big man, you lead on!”

  Chuck nodded, but thought the reference to his size odd. At around six-five and built like a brick shithouse, if anyone deserved the term it was the Russian soldier.

  The seven man team double timed along the road to the town of Sandspit and to the motel.

  Chuck didn’t know and didn’t bother to ask if the Russian operatives had any experience with foamers. They were armed with the new ADS amphibious assault rifle in 5.45 x 39mm and were more than ready to use it. Hell, even the medics with their Bizon 9x18mm Makarov, submachine guns looked pretty damn formidable. Foamers, mutants or crazed militia groups, it wouldn’t matter—Chuck knew these Russians’ wouldn’t wilt under combat.

  “Okay it’s just up the top of the rise,” Chuck called fifteen minutes later.

  There was no movement on the way up.

  “Okay, Chess what room did you say he was in?” Chuck asked as they neared the front of the motel.

  “Room seventeen, way down back in the parking lot.”

  Chuck placed himself up against the edge of the reception office and peered down the driveway. Two Spetsnaz men took the same position at the first room opposite. There was no back way out of the parking lot, and he didn’t want to put the entire team in a potential encirclement.

  “Chess, take your guy,” Chuck meant the Russian alongside his fellow American, “and go check the room first.”

  Chess gave a thumbs up sign, then tapped the Russian with him on the shoulder.

  They were good to go.

  It made sense to check. If Jerry didn’t pull through or if the foamers got to him, it was better to find out first before committing the whole team.

  While Chess was gone Chuck took note of the Russians. The two from medical, stood by the gurney and kept their eyes on the elite soldiers with them, the two Spetsnaz men were constantly watching. Left, right, in front and behind. No one would sneak up on them.

  Still there was only seven o
f them. Each had one weapon and roughly a hundred rounds of ammunition—seven hundred in all. While it was a decent amount of firepower, it wouldn’t ad up to much should several thousand foamers wander through the tall pines of the hills in the distance. It was here—right now—in the center of this small town, where Chuck felt most vulnerable. The foamers could be gathering nearby, pressing forward.

  “Hurry up, Chess, hurry up!” He muttered under his breath.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Forty-Two

  Many of the survivors now waited on the fore-deck of the Russian submarine. If everything went as planned, Chuck and the team should be back in thirty minutes—forty-five, at he most.

  Heavy khaki, fur-lined jackets were handed out to everyone on the outside. As the afternoon stretched on, the temperature dropped. There was little warmth in the sun but its appearance provided comfort nonetheless.

  “Have you wondered,” Riley said to Bob, “how many submarines are out there?”

  Since hearing of Bob and Cindy’s adventures, interest in submarines increased.

  “Maybe I answer that for you, tovarish.” Boris appeared from the forward hatch before Bob could answer.

  “I believe there could be many more out there. Your submarine and the Dimitry Donskoy are sending out low frequency signals. If there are any others'’ out there in the Pacific, then they will receive these eventually.”

  “What do they say?” Bob referred to the signals.

  “They inform any surviving subs of our presence and to head to Austray’la, for sanctuary.” The captain’s accent prevented him from a proper pronunciation, but they understood.

  “Why a low frequency signal?” Riley asked.

  “A low frequency is slower but will penetrate further and with no land based relay station’s it’s really our only option and was how we learned that countries in the South Pacific may be free of this disease.”

  Riley nodded, it made sense. Perhaps the same could be done in the other great oceans, the Atlantic and the Indian. The idea began to take shape in Riley’s mind.

  Once they got to their destination, he would present it to the the relevant authorities.

  The chance to rescue others'’ like them the least that could be done.

  * * *

  Heavy leather boots pound on the asphalt of the motel parking lot, but of one person only.

  That could mean good or bad news, Chuck concluded. Either Jerry is alive and one man came back for the medical team, or only one managed to escape a foamer ambush.

  To Chuck’s relief, it was the former.

  “Good news, tovarish!” The returning Russian addressed the Tall Man. “Your friend is alive but the faster we get him back aboard ship the better.”

  The last piece of information indicated that Jerry may not be all that well. Remarkable that he was alive, the almost three full days on his own had taken its toll.

  “Good, lead the medics back in, okay?” Chuck said to the soldier.

  “Da, I do that.” The soldier turned and informed the two medics of the situation, who immediately shouldered their sub-machine guns and followed—pushing the gurney.

  The gurney’s wheels made a hell of a racket across the uneven parking lot, the teams tactical silence was lost.

  Can’t worry about that now, Chuck said to himself, but we’ll have to go hell for leather just in case.

  “What is the situation?” The large Russian asked. His voice normal—he was also aware there was no need for whispering now.

  “The man we’ve come for is alive, we take him out now.” Chuck clipped his English, to prevent misunderstandings.

  Chuck pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and checked his watch. They were on time. The inside of the parking lot was darker because of the overhead tarps and gave the illusion it was much later.

  The wheels on the collapsible stretcher rattled into life again and heavy boots of several men at once told Chuck the medics and the others' were on their way back.

  “Chuck, we’re back,” Chess said as he entered the drive through.

  “Great, let’s get—”

  “Well, he was left on his own for three days, Chuck.” Chess explained when his fellow warrior covered his nose and mouth.

  “Sorry, Chuck but in the end I didn’t have the strength to get to the bathroom and all that jerky, well…”

  “I understand, Jerry,” Chuck said between gasps, “I’m glad you’re okay, let’s get you cleaned up a bit before we move, okay?”

  “I’ll check inside inside to front office for any spare pants,” Chess moved off to his right.

  “Don’t just barge in there!” Chuck reminded.

  “What are you going to do?” Jerry looked up from the gurney.

  “I’m going to strip you, wipe you down and hopefully put clean pants on you.”

  “But you—”

  “Don’t worry, you don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

  Chess found a pair of camouflage pants, socks and undershirts in the office and took a few bottles of water. Chuck used the socks and undershirts to wipe Jerry down. It wasn’t pleasant, the task or the smell, but it had to be done. The fact that Jerry was alive confirmed to Chuck there weren’t any foamers near. With their ability to smell or sense humans, they would soon pick up Jerry’s odor before long.

  “I didn’t think anyone was coming back,” Jerry said as Chess slid the clean pants on him. “I thought the foamers might have got all of you. I was going fast, I could feel it, I kept the rifle close, real close so that, that…”

  “Is not necessary now, so let’s not even go there. The fact is you are alive and you’re coming with us.” Chess said.

  Dressing and cleaning Jerry wasn’t easy but he didn’t complain—not once, and Chuck knew it had to hurt. No, he was so glad to be alive and safe, the pain was inconsequential.

  Though Chuck wanted to move faster, Jerry’s condition prevented it. He took point, Chess behind him then the two medico’s on either side of the gurney, the three Spetsnaz men took the rear.

  “Should take us about ten minutes to get back to the harbor at this pace.” Chuck said.

  There was no question he’d relaxed—just a little—after discovering Jerry alive and… smelly and there was no evidence of foamers at all but there was a nagging at the back of his mind. When you had just returned from the store but were sure you forgot something.

  “Nezhit, nezhit!” The team was about half way down the incline of the road when one of the Russians issued his alarm.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Forty-Three

  The two well trained Americans—one of which learned his skills with the French Foreign Legion—turned as one.

  “What did he say?” Chess didn’t know any Russian, besides weapon models and designations.

  “Undead, we’ve got undead.” Chuck told him.

  Chuck and Chess swept the open ground around them. The muzzle of their rifles pointed followed the same path as their eyes. The medics in front impeded their view.

  “Where?” Chuck yelled.

  “To the right, tovarish!” A Spetsnaz soldier pointed.

  “Steady, stay steady…” Chuck then moved to better position.

  Foamers, a hundred or more, materialized from the dark shadows of tall pines, beyond the cleared field.

  “We fight them, da?”

  “We haven’t got time,” Chuck said to the smallest of the Spetsnaz guys, a man of only six feet, Chuck reckoned. “They’re half a mile away and…”

  The first of the foamers had stepped out of the shadows and it was there that Chuck noticed another change in their appearance. The foamers shuffled, almost slithered forward. Not that they ever looked robust or healthy, nonetheless, they were relentless and ferocious in their previous attacks. Now they moved like the local Senior Citizens club on a Sunday stroll in the park.

  “Damn, it’s as Elliot said.”

  “What is?” Chess moved up behind.

 
; “Huh? Oh, Elliot mentioned some of the foamers he and Jerry encountered had deteriorated to such an extent, they just collapsed.”

  “Jerry can you see this?” Chuck called.

  The medics pushed the injured Jerry closer to Chuck. “Oh, shit no. More foamers!”

  “Is this how they looked when you and Elliot witnessed them collapse?”

  Jerry raised himself up in the stretcher, before the medics grabbed him on each side and assisted.

  “Yeah it is. They gave me the impression of being hollow shells, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, well…” Chess moved for a better view, “at the pace they’re moving, they won’t bother us—even while pushing in a gurney!”

  * * *

  The Dimitry Donskoy was over a mile away from the team sent to rescue Jerry, but no one aboard the huge ship could see the situation on land. Below deck a crewman informed Elliot he will be up next for his “navy shower” and then it would be Cindy’s turn. As the tide changed, there came the slightest pitch, unnoticed by the crew. The new guests, however, were aware of it.

  “Now you know what I’ve been up to, perhaps you can tell me why you’re on this sub?” Elliot, though happy to see Cindy again, wanted to know why she didn’t continue with the rest.

  “Once the Russian captain heard of the others’ back here on the island he was determined to rescue them. Bob immediately told Boris he’d have a job convincing those on the island of his intentions. Bob said he could remove that problem by going along.” She told Elliot. “And I had to know whether you had made it back and demanded to go with him.”

  “And Bob let you?”

  “He couldn’t stop me if he tried, besides Boris weighed in—on my side. Boris said it wasn’t right to refuse a woman the opportunity to see the father of her child, even Bob couldn’t argue against that.” Cindy took a step closer. “Tell me Elliot, would you have refused me?”

  He took her hand as another tear ran from the corner of her eye. “No, I wouldn’t and I never will again.”