Toward the Brink (Book 3) (10 page)

“Slowly move toward me,” the one with the bullhorn said from the open top of a National Guard Humvee.

Elliot turned and looked back into the Hummer before he moved off. He’d gotten only a few feet when a noticeable weather change occurred. Thick storm clouds from the north, which had been pressing all day, finally won the battle against the blue in the sky above. The effect was dramatic. Ambient light dropped more than half, and the change in attitude from the troops was noticeable. It appeared to Elliot they no longer had any interest in him or the people on the bridge.

“Contact! We got contact!!” a Terrace trooper yelled from one side of the loudspeaker operator.

Elliot couldn’t see what it was that had raised concerns, but he didn’t need to—he felt it. He looked back to the Hummer, to the Tall Man, who was getting out of the passenger seat. He felt it as well.

“Back in the Hummer, Elliot, get back
in!”

Elliot looked once more at the troops ahead, who were now moving frantically. Vehicle doors were slammed and hatches shut as rifle muzzles were shoved out of every available aperture. The Coyote Recon Vehicle started and moved back onto the highway behind, its turret rotating. David was back inside the bus and had it started before Elliot got back into the Hummer.

“Foamers?” Elliot asked the Tall Man as he slid behind the wheel.

“What do you think?”

“Looks like we’ll have to run the gauntlet,” Chess said. “Maybe I should take the bus then?”

The Tall Man looked at Chess then watched as Mulhaven boarded the motor home; the troops’ actions had become frenzied.

The first group of troops headed left from their previous positions, and the second circled behind as backup in a classic pincer movement.

“Okay, but let David drive. You’re better with a weapon, and that’s what will count—smash a window if you need to.” The Tall Man didn’t know which he preferred: to be surrounded by a heavily armed militia, or to be attacked—during daylight no less—by foamers. At least the foamers didn’t have armored cars with mounted miniguns.

“Elliot, stop in front of the bus and let Chess out.”

The Hummer burned rubber as Elliot raced ahead of the bus. Chess jumped out and ran to the bus. The situation had changed as suddenly as the weather. Tristan and the Secret Service agents who rode with him drove to the side of the bus, ready to provide cover if needed.

F
urther back on the highway
, Richard Holmes watched the activity on the bridge with a marked rise in interest. The chatter of the loudspeaker died while the engines of the vehicles roared to life. Holmes noted the eerie twilight that blanketed the town when the clouds rolled over. He immediately thought of wind, rain, and snow, the things most people thought of when storm clouds appeared. At least in
normal
times. It didn’t take long for Holmes to realize the urgent movement of this group of armed men wasn’t for fear of getting caught in bad weather. It reminded Holmes of cops as they raced from one place to another after they learned of a suspect’s possible location. The suspects, in this case, were foamers.

He recalled the sleepless night he spent huddled inside the bell tower in Prince George. The moans and growls from the street below brought him into contact, for the first time in person, with the monstrosity he had a hand in creating. As he watched the last of the four-wheel-drive Jeeps follow the RV in the opposite direction, he knew he couldn’t wait here. Not on his own, not while the light faded, and not with foamers about.

He had to make the decision: Stay out of sight and hope he wasn’t seen by the survivors he planned to follow to Graham Island, or follow close behind whether they saw him or not. After the sounds and sights that night in the bell tower, that question was a no-brainer.

He started the car and headed toward the bridge.

C
hess vaulted
through the open door of the bus.

“What’s the news, Chess, what the hell is—”

“We continue on but drive hard. No stops, David, okay?”

David Grigsby nodded, pulled the lever to close the door, and put his foot down on the accelerator. Like all the others, he didn’t need to be asked twice if he’d like to leave. Also like the others, he was sick of the armed groups, disciplined or not, and the foamers. Especially the foamers.

Chess continued down the aisle of the bus and spoke quietly to those aboard. Like the Tall Man, he understood the benefit in times like these of avoiding panic. He told everyone the truth. It had looked as if they were about to become captives, when the appearance of foamers—apparently, for no one had seen any at this stage—interjected.

Saved by foamers—a novel idea.
The thought occurred to more than one on the bus.

“If any foamers get in the way, just plow through ‘em, all right?” Chess tapped David on the shoulder. “Elliot and Chuck are right behind us in the Hummer, then Riley, with Tristan in back. We’ll head straight through to Rupert, and put the headlights on, we need ‘em!”

Everyone in the first half of the bus heard Chess, despite the whine of the engine, as David put his foot to the accelerator.

“Why the change in plan? I thought we decided against that because of the night?” The former president wanted to know why they were going straight through to Rupert.

“Well, Bob, Chuck believes the situation with foamers and the former military personnel, as the case may be, is out of hand. He told me just moments ago, ‘We have no idea what’s around the next corner.’ And he’s right. You’ve had a hard time with this crisis, while the men with me and I have had it relatively easy. Chuck, Elliot, Riley, and the others here have been on the run from these foamers and gun-wielding crazies since day one of this outbreak. They’re tired of it, and I don’t blame them. I think he’d rather make a dash for safety now and fight off the foamers in the dark if we have to, as long as we get to that island and the security it offers. Foamers don’t have guns, and that’s what has influenced his decision.”

Elias Robert Charles, former president and probably the last person to hold the office, thought about it for a moment. It hadn’t hit him like that. For all he had seen or been informed of, his first encounter with the foamers was at the airport, in the dark, and from some distance. For Elliot and company, it was almost an everyday experience. More than once, one or another had come close to losing their life at the hands of one of these undead horrors.

“Walk a mile in their shoes,” Bob mumbled under his breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“Walk a mile in their shoes,” he answered the former soldier. “My father used to tell me, ‘If you ever want to know how another person feels, just walk a mile in their shoes.’ He was right, too—my father was
always
right.”

The sound of rifle fire from the left of the bus alerted the occupants that the battle of Terrace had begun.

Sharp three-shot bursts accompanied the boom of shotguns, then the rapid-fire electric drill sound of the minigun. As the bus dashed through the intersection, Chess saw a dozen or more foamers shredded on the spot from a single burst of the minigun. With that kind of firepower, Chess figured they should have this situation under control in no time. The military personnel inside the bus believed this group from Terrace were trained professionals, and this fact alone had kept them alive.

So far, at least.

I
n the Hummer
, right behind the bus, the Tall Man was on edge, and in combat situations that’s usually what kept you alive—or at least ready. That this military force had suddenly packed up and moved along told him how critical the situation was. No military or police force would drop an important procedure, such as the detention of possible looters, unless other circumstances proved more immediate. The Tall Man knew this would be their one and only chance to escape. When the shooting started, the sheer volume had him thinking of World War III. He hoped David in the bus wouldn’t lose his nerve, that there would be no roadblocks ahead, that there was no wall of foamers to break through, or …

When you stopped to think about it, a lot of shit could go wrong.

“You okay, Chuck?” From the corner of his eye, Elliot saw the Tall Man drop his head into his hands. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the road or the bus ahead of him.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” The Tall Man looked back to his young friend. He saw the future with Elliot—perhaps the future of mankind itself—if he could only get everyone to safety. If only.

“Just catching up with me, Elliot.”

“What, what’s catching up?”

“Old age, my friend, old age.”

Elliot didn’t ask any more questions. The bus ahead of them picked up some speed. It had left the bridge and was back on the main part of the highway through the town. With no traffic directly ahead and no pedestrians (foamers didn’t count toward that), Elliot swept the Hummer to one side of the bus to get a better view of the way ahead.

“Good deal, Elliot,” Johnny said from the back seat. Now they could all see.

Back on a straight and uncluttered highway, they could see behind them as well as ahead.

“Looks like we have company, look about half a mile behind Tristan in the Ram.” Elliot looked at the rear view mirror.

The Tall Man had to turn in his seat to look through the rear window; the mirror on his side was blocked by the motor home.

“Just one person. Who in the hell would be crazy enough to drive around on their own?”

“Would you rather stay here on your own?” Johnny asked.

The Tall Man raised his thick eyebrows; it really was a stupid question.

“Maybe whoever it is saw us come through town and took the chance. They were probably like us, stuck between these military types and the foamers.”

“Could be, Elliot, could be. Wish we had the binoculars with us.” The Tall Man strained to get a better look, but the lone driver was too far off. “Well, if they want to keep up, that’s fine, but we won’t stop or risk ourselves for
anyone
, understood?”

The occupants inside the Hummer exchanged looks. The Tall Man was more than efficient—he was practically brutal in his pragmatism.

A
s the bus
got to one of the main intersections of Terrace, the firing intensified. At the edges of the streets, foamers by the hundreds stalked openly, no longer encumbered by the sun’s rays. Jeeps and Humvees had parked in defensive positions further down, and men armed with an assortment of assault rifles and shotguns fired in a controlled manner. This wasn’t apparent to anyone in the bus, the Hummer, the Ram 3500, or the motor home as they flashed through the intersection. As callous as it was, they were glad for both sides to be engaged in battle while they hastened along.

“Fuck ‘em. We’re better off without them,” Chess told David.

David nodded then took a peek into his mirrors to check on the Hummer’s position.

“Holy shit!”

David turned back and instinctively slammed on the brakes.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, or we’ll be fucked for good!”

Two or three dozen foamers had wandered from a side street directly into the path of the bus. From David’s point of view as a driver, the first thought that came to mind was
pedestrians,
and he acted accordingly. Only after Chess admonished him did he recognize them as foamers and put his foot back down on the accelerator.

“You have to run through them, David, and make a path for the others. Their vehicles aren’t big enough to do it—got it?”

“You bet I
do!
” David’s answer was short. He manually brought the automatic shift bus down to a lower gear to gain some momentum. As they were about to hit the first line of foamers, David yelled, “You might wanna take a seat!”

W
ith the approach of winter
, the Terrace force had secured themselves and their families in the Terrace Sports Arena, in relative safety from the roaming demons of the night. It had a ten foot high chain link fence with strong padlocked gates. They did not venture outside the fenced area. But now they were confronted during daylight hours by the foamers. Caught off guard, panic ensued.

Foamers didn’t think or act like trained military units. They didn’t appear to show any recognition of the dangers that modern weaponry provided. They simply recognized a food source and headed directly to it.

This day, as the clouds covered the sun, the Terrace militia was caught unprepared. Like the trained units they were, they responded by establishing a strong defensive position and fighting the invaders from there. Military tactics as old as man’s aggression, and they worked.

Usually.

When the enemy turned out to be undead green-bile-spewing monstrosities, it was a different story.

As Mulhaven drove the motor home across the intersection, he looked to one side, and a wild burst of fully automatic fire caught his attention. Troops faced all directions of the compass and fired, not in a controlled, disciplined manner, but in panic mode. Foamers poured from the buildings on either side of the street, and others came from right behind the troop’s position. The 25mm chain gun of the Coyote Recon Vehicle halted its steady stream of fire as foamers intermingled with the troops directly in their field of view. The commander of the Coyote jumped from the turret, pistol in hand. He was gonna fix ‘em singlehandedly, just as John Rambo would. The commander fired his 9mm pistol at targets in front of him, but was oblivious to the several foamers that had crept out of a manhole behind the Coyote. With a groan and a leap that would have made Superman proud, a foamer pounced on the ill-prepared commander. His body was dragged from the turret and shredded in minutes in the furious turmoil that followed. Other foamers jumped inside the RV and began to feast.

Surrounded by foamers and with the minigun out of action, the troops panicked and discipline broke down.

Mulhaven didn’t witness all of this—he didn’t need to. The troops firing wildly in all directions was more than enough to convince him that remaining in this town was not an option.

T
he first foamer
thudded into the grill of the bus and another bounced into the air before it squished into the windscreen with the bus’s forward motion. One thud after another was followed by the rise of the wheels on both sides as they ran over foamers. No one knew, nor cared, if they’d killed them (they still thought in terms of killing, even though the foamers were dead). Not as long as they kept going.

“Faster, David, move faster!”

“It’s not that easy when you’re runnin’ over the top of bodies,” David yelled back to Chess.

They were both right. Chess didn’t want to lose momentum, and David couldn’t get traction as the bus bounced over the foamers. Rubber squealed behind the bus as Elliot did his best dodgem car impression and Mulhaven kept the motor home as far to the edge of the road as he could. Tristan, in the rear, had no chance of seeing any of this and plowed over the mangled bodies of foamers who had come off second best against the bus. The Dodge Ram 3500 was more than a match for the bumpy encounter.

“What’s happened with those soldiers?” Bob Charles called.

“We won’t have to worry about them, Mr.—err, Bob. Once we get past these foamers, we should have a clear stretch,” David answered.

The former president was concerned about their sudden departure. He’d heard the gun battle but didn’t know the details.

“Last one!” David informed him.

“Great, then it’s full steam ahead!” Chess patted David on the back as the bus slammed into the last foamer on the highway. Chess ran to the back of the bus and looked back. It wasn’t exactly the yellow brick road they’d left behind—more like the green bile highway.

“
N
ow that we
’ve got past the foamers, drop back next to the motor home, Elliot,” the Tall Man said after he checked once more that there were no more foamers ahead.

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

“Binoculars. Someone in the home could pass them over if we get alongside.”

Elliot eased his speed down until the Hummer and the motor home were even.

“Riley, pass over the binoculars,” the Tall Man yelled.

Mulhaven just stared back, bewilderment on his face, before he understood.

“What? Oh, okay, one moment.”

Elliot slowed once more, allowed the motor home to get ahead of him, then put his foot down and came alongside the motor home on the passenger side. The Tall Man, with more than just a touch of concern, watched Kath stretch her arm out of the side window. The Tall Man leaned out of the cabin of the Hummer and grabbed the binoculars from the woman who had given him a reason to survive.