Toward the Brink (Book 3) (9 page)

The Tall Man nodded to Elliot, who didn’t take his eyes off the road.

“How long before we hit the next town, then?” Johnny asked from the rear seat.

“The map says we got a couple of places ahead of us, but Kath’s notes say they’re just names for road or train crossings. The next town is about …” The Tall Man trailed off as he did some quick addition in his head. He took a look at the speedometer on the dash before he answered, “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, but the population is only around a thousand. Given those numbers, we should be okay.”

In fact, they were more than okay. The small convoy of four vehicles traveled uninterrupted for approximately five hours. They passed through several small townships, truck stops, and cafes in that time, and most were mere names on a map and not much else. So desolate were these areas that it would be hard to tell the difference between before and after the plague. They stopped once to change drivers and to give those in the Hummer some relaxation in the motor home. The Tall Man allowed Chess to take the lead in the Hummer. If he had a mind to subvert the order of this group, it wouldn’t be while they journeyed to Prince Rupert. His survival was tied to that of the group, the Tall Man reckoned, and he wouldn’t risk it at the moment.

The travelers made small talk, particularly in the bus. Most of it was of the getting-to-know-you type; it was all they had to keep their minds off the horrors of the situation. The women shared their interests, while the men talked fishing. Graham Island offered freshwater and saltwater activities for the angler—another reason Tom Transky had sought sanctuary on Graham Island. He’d read about the fishing there on the Internet in his search for a sustainable environment.

Five minutes out of Terrace, they pulled over on the highway. This town was more than twice the size of Vanderhoof, and the possibility of armed survivors was very real. The Hummer, the motor home, and the Ram 3500 parked at an angle on the asphalt, and the bus slid in behind. Another session of the Security Council was called.

“This place is a little more spread out than Vanderhoof,” Kath explained. “There’s two bridges to cross over the Skeena River, then another bridge over the railroad tracks. It has a right, then a left ninety-degree turn practically in the center of the town, and that will slow our progress. There’s one more bridge to cross over the Kitsumkalum River, which flows into the Skeena. From there it should be smooth sailing to Prince Rupert.”

The Tall Man eyed Kath pensively. A practical-minded person, he wasn’t the type to express optimism too often.

“How about we send the motor home first and then the bus? Might look like less of a threat than the Hummer and the dually,” Chess suggested. The bus contained most of the personnel, and because of that, it was difficult to secure; waving weapons around in a tight spot crowded with people didn’t make for a good defense. Having the bus in front would make it difficult if they got caught in a roadblock; it wouldn’t be able to reverse, and it wouldn’t be making any U-turns in these streets. No matter which way they looked at it, it was a gamble, but so was life.

“Might be worth a try.” The Tall Man had become impressed with Chess, or at least with the interest he showed. Chuck still hadn’t lost sight of the possibility that Chess, like a fly fisherman, may be playing them.

“Do you fish, Chess?”

“No, never had the chance to.”

“Well, that will change when we get to this island, I’m sure.” The Tall Man hoped, as he moved toward the Hummer, that Chess would become a team player.

He wasn’t under the illusion that their chances of survival would be any better once they got past the foamer plague. Shelter wouldn’t be a problem, but water and food
would
be; if either became scarce or unsafe for consumption, they would be in trouble. The elements, too, on Graham Island would be of concern, but with the tenacity and enthusiasm of Elliot, Cindy, and the other younger members of the group, and with Kath’s wind power turbine contraption, they should be able to persevere.

What concerned the Tall Man most was security. The island itself would offer a natural barrier once cleared of any rogue elements or foamers, but to assume there would never be any visits in the future would be absurd. The Tall Man was also of the opinion, reinforced by the arrival of the others, that there were other survivors out there, some of whom might be well organized and potentially dangerous. He and Mulhaven wouldn’t be around forever to protect or guide the group, and soldiers like Tristan and Chess were obvious choices to assume that responsibility.

Elliot was the future of the group, if not the leader right now. He had the quality of a leader. In the confrontations they’d faced, he had performed well. He had to—his life depended on it. But he was still young; too young. The Tall Man knew how Elliot thought—that problems (the problems he’d faced in life before the outbreak of foamers) could be reasoned through or dealt with on an intellectual basis. The Tall Man could see the disappointment on Elliot’s face after the armed confrontations. The Tall Man did not take any joy in the taking of a life, even the lives of a bunch of assholes, but it had to be done. Elliot had to learn this if he were to be considered a leader by the others—especially Chess and the other military guys. He would always have a say and be listened to, but it would be some time before he would be thought of as the outright leader of the group unless he showed some steel.

It would be nice if we all live that long.

Even if they rode the foamer menace out through the winter months, their chances wouldn’t improve all that much if they didn’t catch a few lucky breaks along the way.

“Ride with us in the Hummer, Chess.”

There was just a touch of despondency in the Tall Man’s voice, which Kath noted. She understood more than the others the burden he carried.

“Sure thing.” Chess followed right along. “Who’s driving?”

“I am,” Elliot said.

“It’s better if Elliot drives, Chess. I’ll be alongside in the front, you and Johnny in the back on each window, okay?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

At first, Terrace looked much the same as Vanderhoof. The streets were deserted, with few reminders that life ever existed here. The majority watched from the windows of the bus as they passed the houses and few stores on the outer edges of town. The stores looked as if they had only closed for the weekend. No cars, no trash, and no barking dogs.

Dogs. The thought of dogs brought horrific scenes to Allan’s mind as he recalled the last moments of his friend—everyone’s friend—Roger Grigsby. He got out of the seat next to David and went further back into the bus; some conversation with Samantha would do him a world of good. The others, too, engaged in conversation; anything to keep their minds occupied.

When they got closer to the center of town, things changed. The streets were bare save for a few cars, just like in Vanderhoof, but they had the look of being parked—not abandoned. The street itself, as Kath had said, wasn’t as wide. Elliot didn’t notice, as he was more concerned with any tight spots that might cause a jam. The others did. The soldiers and the Secret Service agents more than the rest. They were sure the others in the Hummer and motor home could see it as well.

“Shit. All the stores are boarded up or sealed. Do you think they did that to keep foamers out? Or looters, maybe?”

“Hard to say, Elliot, but there doesn’t seem to be the damage or carnage on the streets associated with foamers.”

“Whatever the reason for it, it appears organized, like store owners do when there’s a major riot.” Chess also felt the discomfort.

The Tall Man wanted to stop the motorcade and turn back, but it was too late now. The bus made a right turn on the highway that would take them onto the bridge over the train tracks, then it would be one more left turn and straight ahead—out of the city limits.

One more turn … just one more fucking turn!
The Tall Man clenched his jaw tight.

Elliot drove close behind the bus as it went over the bridge.

“Holy shit!” Elliot slammed his foot on the brake pedal as the motor home and the bus came to a sudden stop midway across the bridge.

The Tall Man swallowed hard and gripped the forearm stock of the AR-15 tighter as he heard the rear door of the H-3 Hummer begin to open.

“No, Chess, wait. Just wait.”

A
pproximately a mile
behind as the highway entered Terrace proper, Richard Holmes sat motionless inside his car. He could no longer see the bus or the other vehicles and wasn’t sure if he should proceed with the hope that those ahead of him had continued without mishap or wait a little longer. It wasn’t so late in the afternoon that he needed to concern himself with foamers—not just yet—but there was something that bothered him.

The spymaster himself felt spied on. He looked around in an attempt to figure out what unnerved him. That’s when he heard the loudspeaker.

O
n the bridge
over the train tracks—just before the left turn—a line of pickups, four-wheel drives and military Humvees swooped from all directions and blocked the passage ahead. They appeared so suddenly that David, in a knee jerk reaction, slammed his foot on the brakes to avoid hitting the motor home in front of him, even though he probably had enough room. The screech of the tires informed the others behind he wasn’t stopping for a piss.

“You, the drivers of the vehicles,” a male voice called through a loudspeaker. “Come out with your arms raised—and no fast moves.”

The Tall Man grabbed Elliot by the arm and held on. He’d heard the growl of engines behind and looked into the rear view mirror to see several Jeep Cherokees and, most frightening of all, a Canadian Army Coyote Reconnaissance Vehicle. The Tall Man knew the two 7.62mm machine guns mounted on this RV, on their own, would grind them into burger mince at this range. But the 25mm chain gun, well, that was a game changer. It would be all over in a single burst.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. He knew it and had said it, albeit to himself, many times.

“Okay, drop all your weapons and—”

“Drop our weapons? Are you—”

“Look behind you, Chess, and you tell me you’re good enough with just a rifle to go up against that.”

Chess turned in his seat. The loss of color in his face indicated he fully understood the consequences.

“Oh, shit.” There was dread in Chess’s voice.

“Exactly. Now, lose those weapons.”

Chess didn’t protest this time. Elliot had already followed the Tall Man’s direction without question, as had Johnny.

“They just asked for the driver to step out, Elliot, so you do it nice and easy, huh?”

Elliot looked at the Tall Man, nodded once, swallowed twice, and then pulled on the door handle.

Elliot will be all right,
thought the Tall Man.
I hope no one in the other vehicles wants to play hero.

H
olmes couldn’t make
out any of the words that were broadcast over the loudspeaker. They didn’t sound all that friendly—that much he could tell. He wasn’t about to put himself in jeopardy by driving closer or—God forbid—getting out of the car. From his vantage point, he saw this group was well armed and appeared disciplined. But no matter how well trained or led they might be, sudden movement in a tense standoff could cause panic. More so when you had foamers around.

No, it would be prudent to wait this out.

He huddled in his car, lowered a window to listen to the activities on the bridge, and looked around for a safe place to secure himself for the night. He doubted that whatever was taking place down on the bridge would be over within an hour or so. This had the makings of an all-night or even several-day affair—and it might not turn out all that rosy for any of them. Not in these days and times. There was little concern for a future. It might be that these disciplined, controlled troops had a public arena where they would sacrifice the travelers for entertainment.

Real life
Mad Max “Beyond Thunderdome”
shit,
Holmes reflected.

And if that was the case, then his plans too, would come undone. He had overheard a discussion at the farmhouse outside of Prince George while he was held captive in the basement. He had heard that fool Transky tell everyone about driving to an island off the coast of Vancouver to wait out the fires, the looters, and most of all, the foamers. It made sense to him too, better than the underground base of the Chamber in God knows where. They would have
real
protection on an island, where they could keep watch for miles around them. Foamers didn’t swim or know how to use a boat. With the knowledge this group had regarding food, power, and survival, it was a wise move indeed to grab hold of their shirttails and hitch a ride.

The best part was—and he had thought of this quite a bit as he followed them along the Yellowhead Highway—he could catch up with that troublesome chief of staff, Transky, fix the (former) president, and pay back Mr. Black for his treasonous behavior.

“All in one fell swoop!” Holmes muttered then chuckled to himself.

Yes, vengeance was a dish best served cold, but with the cold weather on the way, Holmes wouldn’t mind if it was steaming hot. Wouldn’t mind at all.

E
lliot cautiously moved
out of the Hummer and raised his arms. He watched David ahead in the bus do the same, and a moment later, Mulhaven exited from the motor home, hands held at shoulder level. He didn’t look behind but assumed Tristan in the Dodge had followed suit.

Elliot had been in some tight spots since the day of the foamer outbreak in Twin Falls. The day he got back together with Cindy and met the man with the biggest heart in the world, Riley Mulhaven—who really did look like Morgan Freeman. It should have been a great day, but those
fucking
foamers—

Today, in the town of Terrace (a town he’d never heard of, but wouldn’t forget in a hurry), on a bridge sandwiched between heavily armed men, Elliot had never felt more vulnerable.