Toward the Brink (Book 3) (2 page)

“And why would we have to do that, Holmes, hmm? We’ve landed, haven’t we? Or is there something you’ve not told me?”

For a man who’d gulped the equivalent of a bottle, Etheridge spoke remarkably well.

Holmes hesitated before he informed his mentor of the foamers, which now surrounded the transport plane. The longer he thought of it, the more he wondered why he cared; it wasn’t like Etheridge would be able to use his wealth to push people around at will anymore. No, wealth no longer meant cash, land, possessions—anything. Some of the world’s laziest but wealthiest had survived, Holmes contemplated—one of the bastards sat right here next to him and guzzled whiskey like water—but many hadn’t. Their wealth meant as little as a drop of bird shit on your head. Many were dead now, or would be dying, or had become foamers themselves. The corners of Holmes’s mouth turned up a smidgen when he thought of how ironic that was.

“We’re ready, sir.” Rummett rushed over toward Holmes.

“How many men did you send outside?”

“Twenty-four, sir.”

“Do you think you have enough ammo?”

Holmes and Rummett both spoke as if Etheridge weren’t present. His life was no longer their prime concern.

“Outside? Ammo? Twenty-four? What the
blazes
are you two on about?”

“I think we do, sir.” Rummett ignored Etheridge and answered Holmes. “We have more on the plane if needed.”

“Right. Good luck, Colonel.”

The colonel didn’t salute Holmes but gave him a sharp nod. Before he turned away, he said, “There will be ten men positioned inside the craft at all times.”

This time, Holmes returned his nod.

“Dammit, Holmes! Will you tell me what in the
fuck
is going on?”

“Of course … sir,” Holmes began, a sharp edge of contempt in his voice as the whine of the Pratt & Whitney engines died. “You remember those undead creatures you and your cohorts—and, yes, that includes me—unleashed upon the world? Foamers, they’ve been called. Well, our plane, which is now inoperable, is surrounded by about ten thousand of them right now, and they’re not here to thank you.” Holmes stared at the man he’d once looked up to. The sight of Etheridge’s bottom lip and hands trembling gave him some pleasure.

For the last decade or so, Holmes had been in high positions in his country’s intelligence services. He’d made many friends, contacts, and acquaintances. He had groomed those whom he believed would be beneficial later on for the plans not of his country, but of those he served—the Chamber. But with the pure evil of its leaders, which was openly displayed to him once he was accepted into the ranks of the global empire, he understood the full meaning of “shaking hands with the devil.”

“F-F-Fo—”

“Yes, foamers. Your creations, Dr. Frankenstein. Would you like to meet some?”

Scared and intoxicated as he was, Etheridge nonetheless recognized Holmes’s insubordination … and his allegory.

“How dare you speak to me like that!”

“I have no time to argue with you, Etheridge. With the plane down like it is, these fiends won’t have any problems with access to the cabin doors.”

“What? Where are the soldiers? What are they—”

Holmes reached over and put a hand on his former mentor’s shoulder and forced him back into his seat.

“I’ve got it all under control. We’re about to launch a counterstrike against them, and you need to stay in your seat. It’s about to get hectic.”

The ten soldiers Rummett had placed inside the cabin positioned themselves in a semicircle around Holmes and Etheridge. The other twenty-plus members of the Chamber went forward and huddled together. Etheridge eyed the armed group with suspicion. He felt like he was their prisoner.

“Holmes, when this is o—”

The aircraft shook as the rear door opened and shuddered its way into position. The smell of gasoline-fueled fire from the side of the runway filled the cabin along with a clamor of M-4 bolts as they slammed the first rounds home.

“
G
o
, go, go!” Sergeant Wright yelled from just inside the transport.

The soldiers ran down the ramp and took up positions in an inverted U shape around the end of the plane. The soldiers were, to a man, veterans of recent overseas operations. This was not, however, a search for insurgents in the poorer areas of Baghdad or a jaunt through the dusty streets of Kabul in the back of a Humvee. This was Canada, just a hundred-plus miles from the U.S. border, and the enemy here didn’t wield AK-47s or RPGs, nor did they plant IEDs on the side of the road. That shit was for humans.

“What the…” one soldier said as he got into position on one knee.

A large mass of foamers surged along the runway toward the rear of the plane.

“Jesus, whatever the hell they are, we got ‘em on the sides, too!”

The residual light from the C-17 and the Global Express, plus the flames on the side of the runway, was enough for the soldiers to see they were outnumbered. As far as the light reflected, there were foamers. Swarms of them. Some ran, some scuttled, some danced, and some jiggled, but they all had one destination on their minds: the transport plane.

“What are you waiting for? Fire, damn you, FIRE!” Rummett yelled. He was on top of the ramp, his line of sight hidden by the underbelly of the huge transport.

“Sir!” Wright called. “We can’t fight them off! There’s too many!”

Rummett had seen the enemy from the window as they came in to land. The view from the window of a plane as it lands in the dark at over two hundred miles per hour is different than the view from a position on the ground as the enemy rushes toward you.

Rummett neither knew nor cared whether these foamers he’d been told about were armed. He was told by Holmes, his boss, to “get rid of them,” and that’s what he planned to do.

“What the hell do you mean—” He started down the ramp, but as soon as he caught sight of the inhuman wave descending upon the rear of the transport, he froze in mid-step.

Panic soon took over. The undead horde got closer, the burning red embers of their eyes piercing through the night, the sound of their feet a tumultuous thunder.

The soldiers opened up with their M4s on full auto. Flames burst from the muzzles as the weapons were waved in all directions. No aim, no control.

“Your fire, your fire. Watch your fuckin’ fire!” Wright screamed.

It was to no avail; he couldn’t be heard above the thousands of foamers, the panicked screams of soldiers, and the noise from the full-auto fire.

“Holmes, what … what’s happened?” Etheridge was now a man of frazzled nerves. Alcohol, a rough plane flight, age, and insubordination combined with a loss of his empire and a hundred-year-old plan that went belly-up. Yep, things could have been better for the one-time leader of the Chamber in North America—much better.

“Just stay put, all right?”

Holmes jumped up and ran to the edge of the ramp. He squatted as low as he could to get a view of the encounter at the bottom of the ramp.

“This doesn’t look good.” He made this understatement out loud, to no one in particular. He looked back inside the cabin at the ten soldiers who remained inside, the families of the Chamber, and Etheridge. As he contemplated his next move, he saw the forward side door and knew he was left with two choices: stay here and die, or make a run for it and hope the soldiers could keep the throng of undead busy long enough.

But how long would be long enough?

T
he occupants
of the Global Express watched the events as they unfolded. The women and the younger ones were kept from the windows—but they couldn’t be shielded from the sounds.

“There’s too many, they can’t fight them off, they can’t!” The president echoed everyone’s thoughts.

“We can’t do anything to help, I’m afraid. We have less firepower than they, and we can’t risk our position,” Tom Transky said. He sidled up next to the man he’d known as his boss for over a decade. “So that’s what the foamers look like, eh?”

The president nodded and pulled his charcoal-grey suit tighter around his chest. Power was being conserved inside the plane, which meant no heat, and they all felt the Canadian weather. “They’re more dreadful in person than their satellite pictures,” he said

“Look over there!” James Goodwin said excitedly.

James didn’t specify where to look, but after a moment, everyone at the windows saw the headlights of the Canadian Army truck bounce across the field, now beyond the range of the army of undead demons on the runway.

“It’s Elliot, my son has come back.”

“What? What did you say?” Cindy ran toward the windows and bumped her knee hard against the side of a row of seats in the dark. Far too excited by the return of the only one she’d ever been romantically involved with, she ignored the pain and hobbled to join the others to watch Elliot’s return.

“Are you sure it’s him? Are you?”

“Yes, Cindy, it’s Elliot, all right. That’s the truck he took. I can vouch for it.” The Tall Man did his best to ease her concerns before he moved back into the aisle and summoned Mulhaven and Tom Transky over.

“This is our opportunity. I know Elliot, he’s bright enough to drive around to the opposite side of our plane, where we can’t be seen by the foamers.” The Tall Man laid out his plan to the other two. “Unfortunately, the exit door is not on that side. We’ll have to be fast. Mr. Transky—”

“Just call me Tom, will you?”

“Okay, Tom, I want you to organize all your people on the plane and their belongings—but just one bag each, okay? Riley and I will do the same with ours.”

“Sure, you got it. But is there enough room for all of us and our gear in the truck?”

“We’ll make room, Tom, we’ll make room.” Mulahaven slapped the former White House chief of staff on the back.

Tom moved forward as quickly as he could in the dark, cramped cabin of the plane. He enlisted the aid of the Secret Service agents to help move cases and bags down toward the exit. He then informed the president, and together they explained the situation to their wives and families.

The Twin Falls Survival Group didn’t have any bags or cases—the few weapons on them, but that was it. What they had brought with them to the airfield was inside their truck, and that was a burned-out wreck. Most of their belongings were back at Kath’s house, and if they played their cards right, they could get out of this hell on earth as it erupted before them and make it back there.

As long as they weren’t seen.

“Oh, shit and Jesus… ” Allan sounded like he had just seen a ghost, but it was worse, much worse. He’d seen the living dead.

The Tall Man rushed back to the windows, Mulhaven behind him. Ahead on the runway, the rear of the C-17 Globemaster was encircled by foamers. There was a lull of about thirty seconds in the shooting before it started again, full auto as before. It stopped almost as soon as it had started.

Then the screaming began.

T
he firing became wild
—as if it wasn’t already. Soldiers aimed forward of their positions only to snap around to the side, then back to the other side. It wasn’t long before the first soldier had the back of his head blown off by one of his buddies.

“HAVE YOU GONE INSANE? YOU’RE SHOOTING EACH OTHER!” Rummett ran down the ramp, missed the last step, and dove forward onto the runway, where he landed on his face.

One soldier stopped firing at the wall of foamers to help the colonel to his feet.

“What the fuck? Never mind me, you dick brain, shoot those fuckers!” Rummett staggered to his feet, both hands over his bloodied nose.

“Err, yes sir … yes sir!” The soldier jumped back, spun in the direction of the foamers, and fired from the hip, John Wayne–style. He shot three of his fellow soldiers in the back before he realized what he’d done.

“You dumb, fucking, dimwitted, cocksucker of a turd!”

“Sir, I … I …”

“You are a fucking idiot and a simpleton. Do you hear me?”

The firing from what was left of the two dozen soldiers dissipated.

“Ammo, we need more ammo!” the besieged soldiers cried. But no one inside the transport volunteered for that job.

“Y-you c-can get fucked!” soldier John Wayne found the courage to say to Rummett.

Rummett wasn’t about to take this kind of insubordination, no sir. He cared little for the fact that he was a decorated vet, and he wasn’t concerned with the sea of undead manifestations that poured down on their position. He was a colonel, for fuck’s sake, and he had to make an example.

John Wayne saw the colonel make a move for his pearl-handled Colt. Rummett was in good shape, but in his late fifties, he’d lost his edge. The muzzle of the soldier’s M4 came up before Rummett’s fingers touched the grip of his pistol.

“Eat shit and
die
, motherfucker!” John Wayne bawled at the colonel.

The colonel staggered two yards backward before he, like the C-17 he came out of, crash-landed on the runway. A single 5.56mm projectile removed his frequent flier points …
and
half of his brain.

Rummett’s arms and legs flopped like fresh-caught fish. Few of the soldiers bothered to look, or even noticed what had transpired. They were too busy attempting to stay alive. When the soldiers heard the C-17’s rear door—the ramp—whir and clunk, they stopped firing.

“What the fuck?”

“Holy shit!”

“Get on board, go, go, go!” Sergeant Wright hollered.

They didn’t need to be told twice and rushed the door of the transport, which was now a foot off the ground. In groups of two and three, they bounded aboard the plane. In the short period since the firing had ceased, the foamers had advanced markedly. The final four soldiers were about to jump onto the ramp when they were pulled back by the rabid mob.

Foamers threw themselves from all sides onto the rectangular ramp and scurried into the main cabin, green ooze dripping from their mouths. Fear and panic ensued, and soldiers fired wildly in the general direction of the rest of the transport plane. One burst of fire hit the operator of the rear door, who fell against the activation switch, setting the door back down again.

“
G
et up
, old man, get up!” Holmes grabbed Etheridge by the shoulder of his parka. “You lot, come with me.” He waved to the ten camouflaged men who had formed a protective circle around him and Etheridge.

“Where we headed, Holmes? What are you—?”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll leave you here!” Holmes pulled the man he had once admired by the scruff of his shirt collar. The soldiers didn’t argue. They had heard the battle outside: the firing, the screams, the dying. If this was a chance to get out, they weren’t about to jeopardize it.

“Take him.” Holmes pushed Etheridge to one of the soldiers. He knew the solider about as well as he knew the prime minister of Moldova.

Holmes moved toward the side exit door just behind the cockpit on the left side. He gave the twenty or so members of the once all-powerful Chamber a quick glance as they huddled together as far from the rear door as possible.

“Wait, you can’t leave us here,” one called when he saw Holmes’s intention.

“Cowards!” Holmes lambasted them. “You caused all of this, and now you can suffer the consequences.”

He moved toward the cabin door, stopped, and then turned back. He pointed to the rear of the plane. “But at least
you
won’t have to suffer long.”

Holmes turned to the soldiers. “As soon as we go out this door, we’re going to make a run for that other plane at the edge of the runway and—”

“P-Plane? What other plane?” An inebriated Etheridge interrupted Holmes.

“No stopping no matter what, okay?” Holmes ignored the interruption, but then stared Etheridge in the face. “And if you fall down, you’ll stay there, understand?”

Holmes reached inside his jacket, took out his pistol, and slipped the magazine out. It was full, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. He pulled the slide back and put a round into the chamber—God, how that word was no longer his favorite. If they didn’t make it to the other plane and there were too many foamers, then surely a bullet to the head would be preferable to death by foamer.

That was how Holmes had reasoned most of his life: what was preferable. And what once had been preferable might not be now.

“Yes indeed, the times they are a
changin
’,” he whispered as he grabbed the door lock.

R
ed-eyed
, disheveled beasts rushed up the ramp and into the belly of the C-17. Automatic gunfire mowed down the first bunch that made it inside the cabin proper. Green foam sprayed over the last of the armed men as they made their final stand. The goo reacted at once, and the soldiers coughed, gagged, and stumbled. When the last round had been fired, the feasting began.

“Don’t look back, don’t look back,” Holmes ordered. The sound alone from the rear of the plane was bad enough.

A blast of cold air came in the instant the side door of the C-17 was opened. Six armed bodyguards were sent through, dragging a barely upright Etheridge, and then Holmes halted the remainder.

“You have side arms on you?” he demanded. When two of men answered in the affirmative, Holmes instructed that they hand them over to the thirty or so members of the Chamber who cowered against the side of the fuselage near the cockpit. He had his doubts any would have what it took to put the barrel inside their mouth and pull the trigger. Even if the alternative was to be shredded by foamers, Holmes believed they would choose that over the gun. But at least
he
would know he gave them the choice.

“Let’s go!” Holmes hurried the two men after they dropped their pistols and extra magazines at the feet of the Chamber members. Holmes took one final look—he shouldn’t have—to the rear of the plane. The level of the screams started to die, along with the soldiers. In the distance, a million burning red dots danced like fireflies in the dark: the eyes of foamers. A sprawl of bodies, sounds of gnawing, tearing, and ripping. Muffled screams and cries, and the odd call for Mama. No matter how many battles, how many scars, soldiers still cried out for Mama.