The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II (6 page)

“It makes sense to avoid cities and towns—anywhere there’s a population, there’s trouble,” the Tall Man said.

“We should get some more clothes, warmer clothes. We’ll probably need them,” Elliot mentioned. He felt a slight chill.

“We’ll do that, but right now, I think you need some beauty sleep, son. Well … just make it plain ol’ sleep!” Mulhaven made a joke of it but was concerned over Elliot’s lack of sleep in the past twenty—four hours.

They all laughed. It felt good to laugh, and they knew it wouldn’t last, but it was the best medicine they had.

Elliot bid everyone a good morning and headed off to one of the beds for a few hours.

The convoy started up for the long day’s drive, all of them knowing they would need to stop in Missoula for gas and warm clothes. No one said anything, but each hoped they could get in and out of Missoula without incident.

Milton Etheridge sat in his limousine in an open parking lot in Washington, DC. His driver and an extra bodyguard stood on either side of the car and faced away from it. Each held a portable CD player that boomed out a sound described in some quarters as music. It was near dark, but in this neighborhood, noise was common. Etheridge wasn’t trying to fit in. It was to mask the conversation inside from any long-range listening devices. Etheridge picked up the encrypted satellite phone and made the call to a colleague of the Chamber.

“Yuri, it’s me, Milton,” he said when the call was eventually answered.

“But of course it is. Who else would call on this phone?”

Etheridge grinned, though he never considered security a joke. Yuri Anteleski’s manner always seemed to coax a smile from him, no matter the circumstance. “Are we free to talk, Yuri?”

“Yes, of course, tovarish!”

“Let me get straight to the point.”

“Go on, I am listening.”

“I’m sure you’re aware of the emergency in Idaho.”

“Yes, not of the extent or the cause, but it has raised some concerns, particularly among our health officials.”

“As it should, Yuri, as it should. What you don’t know is that the president’s powers—his executive powers have been wrested from him.”

“What, removed? How could such a thing happen? He’s the president!”

“Shaun Hadlee, the secretary of homeland security.”

“How was he able to get control of these powers?” Yuri paused as a more serious question entered his thoughts. “Does this mean he has access to your nuclear arsenal?”

“Yes, and that’s what I want to warn you about.”

“What do you mean warn, tovarish?”

Etheridge informed his Russian counterpart of Hadlee’s right-wing attitudes and his militaristic nature. “And he is backed by the chairman of the joint chiefs, Yuri.”

This news worried Anteleski, but not nearly as much as when Etheridge told him of Hadlee’s plan to use nuclear weapons within his own country.

“My God … what kind of madman is he?” Yuri asked. He wasn’t concerned at all with the mental state of Shaun Hadlee. He considered all Americans to be mad, but if this one was prepared to nuke his own country, then what would prevent him from doing the same to others—to Russia?

“I wanted to warn you, Yuri, but also ask your discretion for the moment. I have a man keeping a watch on Hadlee, so don’t say or do anything until I exhaust all my options.”

“If you wish, but I cannot wait for long, not when we are dealing with nuclear weapons … thirty—six hours, tovarish , thirty—six.”

Etheridge thanked Anteleski for his trust and ended the call. He was about to tell his men to turn off the blasted racket outside his car when the phone rang.

“Etheridge,” he answered without hesitation. He thought it might have been Yuri calling back. “Ahh, Mr. Holmes, I was just thinking of you. What news do you have?”

By midafternoon, the trio of vehicles edged to the outskirts of Missoula. The nerves of the occupants began to jump. The population of Missoula was too high for the Twin Falls group to risk a direct route through it. No doubt many had fallen to the “green meanie” disease, but with such a population, it would be a safe bet some had survived—at least the initial outbreak. Some would be in the early stages of human-to-foamer transition—if, indeed, that was how it worked. Others would be as healthy as they were before it all started but as deadly as any foamer. If they intended to survive, they’d have to be. No one in Missoula would be holding out the welcome mat for a bunch of strangers from Idaho. If they could get through Missoula, they’d have a good run at it, with no large, populated areas ahead.

“Do you think we should wake Elliot?” Allan asked.

“Not yet. Let’s just see if we can get through this,” Mulhaven said.

The three of them were up front in the Hummer. The van was next, and the motor home brought up the rear.

“What if we turn left on the 93 and avoid the center of town?”

“Huh? This is the 93,” Mulhaven replied.

“Yeah, but it becomes the 12 if we stay on it and goes right through the center of town. We should avoid that, shouldn’t we? I mean, you said …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what I said. Let me see the map.” Mulhaven stopped the Hummer. “Okay, let me see … Hmm, Reserve Street is the 93 and leads directly back out to where we want to go. Damn if you’re not a good navigator!”

Allan smiled as Mulhaven selected drive and took off.

“We’re going to take a left up ahead and avoid the center of town,” Allan said into the walkie-talkie.

“Roger that,” the Tall Man replied from the van.

“Roger dodger!” replied Cindy, in the motor home.

They moved north on the 93, keeping a constant eye open for any sudden movement. Foamers weren’t the concern at this stage. Looters, however, were another story.

“Look there, a trailer park,” Allan pointed out. “There’s plenty of cars, we should be able to get enough gas to fill up.”

“Yeah, we should be…. Tell the others,” Mulhaven said.

They drove through the front gates of the trailer park and stopped well inside. They were under no misconception about the possibility of foamers inside the trailers, but it was still safer than the middle of town.

“What are we doing here in a trailer park?” Elliot woke when the motor home stopped.

“Heya’ Elliot,” Allan greeted him. “We stopped off to fill up here instead of going through town.”

They pulled over by a garden area that surrounded a dining hall, where there were more vehicles in a confined area.

“You guys get to bust open the tanks on the cars.” The Tall Man handed Allan and Elliot a crowbar and a tire iron, then called Cindy on the walkie-talkie. “Cindy, drive up next to these cars over here.”

While Cindy drove the motor home up, Roger came forward with the siphon pump.

“Good man. You know how to use it?” the Tall Man asked.

“Yes, sir, sure do.”

“Good,” the Tall Man said. “Cindy’s bringing the motor home. When it’s full, we’ll do the Hummer and then the van, okay?”

“Got it.” Roger watched as the Tall Man waited for the motor home to pull up before he went inside. He stepped out again less than half a minute later with an AR-15. David Grigsby followed with two more AR-15s.

“Here ya go, Riley.” David handed Mulhaven one of the rifles and three extra magazines. “You wanna take point or the rear?”

“I’ll take point, remind me of my old days.” Mulhaven winked as he grabbed the rifle and took up a position just in front of the Hummer.

“Okay, David, you get to keep an eye on the motor home, I’ll take the rear.” The Tall Man then called out, “Cindy, stay alert, and keep the pistol handy.”

“Sure thing, Chuck … anything you say.” Like Elliot, Cindy looked up to the Tall Man—figuratively as well as literally.

The Tall Man doubted any trouble would come from inside the trailers. He was of the same opinion as Elliot that foamers only ventured out at night. No, if trouble was to come, it would be from outside the front gate … the direction in which he faced.

Etheridge listened with interest to Holmes’s exciting news.

“That is indeed good news, my boy, delightful, in fact. You’re quite the asset, Mr. Holmes, quite the asset.”

Richard Holmes had felt uncomfortable in the Situation Room when the vote came around. He didn’t want to show his hand but had to do what he could to put an end to Hadlee’s ambitions. Although, at the time, he remembered thinking that the ambitions of the people he’d pledged undying loyalty to weren’t exactly in the best interests of humanity.

“Thank you, Mr. Etheridge, sir, but that’s not the only good news I have.”

“Now you’re the one being mysterious. Please, do tell.”

“I was summoned to a private meeting with the president.” Holmes paused. He half expected a comment from his mentor but plowed on when none came. “Sir, it was at this meeting I learned of Hadlee’s downfall, but, and you’ll find this to be of greater interest I’m sure, the president ordered that our friend Hadlee be …”

“Holmes, get to it, man!” Etheridge didn’t have time for games.

“Removed, sir, he ordered Hadlee be removed … for good.”

Four Humvees with mounted M249s that had once belonged to the National Guard cruised the streets of Missoula. Behind them was a selection of civilian Hummers, pickup trucks, and sedans. All the vehicles had one thing in common. Each sported a roughly spray-painted skull and crossbones on their sides, hoods, and in some cases, rooftops. Some flew small Jolly Roger flags to match. The cloth unit patches on the uniforms of some suggested they were soldiers of the Idaho or Montana National Guard—or had been—but all were now full-time gun crazies gone into panic mode by the worsening events.

The closest thing to a manual on how to deal with this situation was TV’s, The Walking Dead, or perhaps the movie 28 Days Later, but they weren’t interested in a stand-up fight with the foamers. Their only interest was self—preservation. To succeed, they needed to secure as many supplies as they could. Their one goal was to survive. In short, if it wasn’t nailed down, they took it.

Alcohol played a large role in their less-than-intelligent decision-making process. Beer was taken from every liquor store and supermarket they passed. Anyone unfortunate enough to get in their way who wasn’t a former soldier or cop, or prepared to join them, was dealt with—no questions asked. The patrol stopped when they intersected with the 93. The self-appointed leader of this group of misfits got out and indicated one side of the road just up ahead.

“Let’s check on the trailer park. We haven’t looked there yet,” he called into the radio mic attached to his helmet.

“You hear that?” David asked the Tall Man.

“Yep, sure did. Sounds like we got visitors, and unless they learned to drive, it’s not foamers!”

The Tall Man closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Could it be the National Guard, maybe?” Cindy asked.

“I doubt it. If the guard were around in any official capacity we’d have come into contact by …” The Tall Man went silent.

“Take cover!” he ordered. A National Guard Humvee, now adorned with a skull and crossbones flag, came around the bend ahead.

Mulhaven, Elliot, Roger, David, and Allan took cover alongside the Tall Man against the side of the van while Cindy ducked back inside. The Tall Man gave an approving nod to them, but his brow furrowed when Cindy appeared from the motor home. “Get back inside the …”

“You’ll want this.” Cindy handed the Weatherby rifle and ammunition to the Tall Man then hurried back inside.

These kids are as brave as they come, he thought.

The Tall Man had been taught that a skilled hunter only needs one bullet to complete the job, not a hundred. Still, facing the enemies’ light machine guns with a bolt action rifle required more than just skill. Nerves of steel were also needed. The Tall Man had both these commodities in abundance.

The ragtag gang saw only the motor home and the Hummer ahead. There was nothing untoward to indicate danger of any sort.

“We’ll have to move those two vehicles, sir,” the driver of the first Humvee said over the radio.

The leader of this patrol of deserters-turned-thieves got out and ordered everyone to do the same. “Okay, let’s get that van out of the way, and don’t forget to check how much gas it …”

The lens of the telescopic sight on the Tall Man’s rifle glinted in the sun, giving away his position.

“CONTACT, WE GOT CONTACT!” The patrol leader indicated to his front. The actions of a variety of weapons were heard as each man cocked his weapon and released the safety.

“Time to get some …”

He never got to the last word. A 250 grain projectile hit the former National Guardsman in the center of his forehead. The effect of the .340 Magnum on a human head wasn’t dissimilar to a watermelon dropped from the back of a truck.

Dead on his feet, the former guardsman managed to stagger a further five yards before he collapsed to the ground.

“Just what the doctor ordered.” The Tall Man approved of his decision.

Instead of taking cover, the pirates stared in shock at their fallen leader, who now jiggled like a bowl of Jell-O on the asphalt. Their lack of experience proved to be their downfall. They watched the M249 gunners suffer the same fate one by one. Three more perfectly placed shots reduced their firepower considerably.

“Shit! Them foamers is
shootin’
at us,” cried one of the looters as they ran for cover, too late.

Men in camouflage and hunting gear darted every which way. Without any leadership, they summoned up the courage to mount a frontal assault. They expected a bunch of foamers, notwithstanding the daylight, perhaps one of them armed with a gun. That this one foamer with a gun fired with the expertise of a marksman never entered their minds.

“Take ’em out!” the Tall Man called as he swapped the Weatherby for an AR-15.

A barrage of controlled semiautomatic 5.56mm fire ensued, and looters began to fall where they stood or crouched. Aimed head shots did the damage. Maybe if they’d worn their helmets …