The Beginning of the End (Book 2): Toward the Brink II (12 page)

“It’s only about twenty miles to the next town and we have enough gas, but it doesn’t hurt to check.” The real reason for the stop, as everyone knew, was to take a breather and take the edge off—if that was at all possible.

“Marine One is standing by to take us to Baltimore–Washington International, and from there …”

“Wait, wait, I can’t do this without my family, Tom, I just can’t!”

“Sir, your wife and two children are being picked up as we speak and will be flown to BWI along with my family. There will be the pilots from Marine One and four Secret Service agents with us. I selected the four based on marital status.”

“Maybe you should have been the director of the CIA instead of chief of staff.”

“We have to leave right away, sir.”

“I understand, Tom, but permit me one last action as president, if you will.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Tom watched the president as he rose. He didn’t question his business—not this time.

The president, accompanied by a sole Secret Service agent, went straight to the Situation Room. If the United States was to become an ungovernable wasteland of foamers and gun-toting crazies, he had one task left before leaving the White House.

Milton Etheridge.

“What the fuck is going on? Where’s Etheridge?” the president asked, challenging the agent who had been left to guard the Chamber leader.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The agent pulled a gun as the president got to the middle of the room. “You see, Mr. Etheridge explained the situation, and … well, I have a ten-month-old daughter, and …”

“He promised to take you and your family to one of their sanctuaries, correct?”

The agent raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to one side in a gesture of acknowledgment.

“You won’t see any sanctuary or your ten-month-old again, agent.” Tom Transky had followed the president to the Situation Room and entered with another Secret Service agent, who now trained his gun on the traitor.

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll shoot the president!”

“I’m not the president anymore, son.”

The traitorous agent aimed his gun at his commander–in–chief, but the confidence he displayed a moment ago had vanished. The thought of never seeing his baby girl again played on his mind.

“What … what are you talking about?” He lowered his gun about one foot. That was all it took.

The president picked himself up from the floor, where he had dove the instant the shot rang out. He gave a cursory glance at the agent who had held a gun on him then held a hand out to Tom and the agent with him. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said with all the composure expected of an elder statesman. “Shall we get out of here?”

Three-quarters of an hour later, the president, Tom Transky, two chopper pilots, and four Secret Service agents exited Marine One at BWI. Like all airports across the North American continent, big or small, all flights had been canceled, and the airport was closed. Unless it was a government, military, or medical emergency, nothing—not even a hang glider from the top of the control tower—took off. On the runway was a Bombardier Global Express 5000, which normally carried nineteen passengers but could squeeze in thirty if necessary. Four large black SUVs sat fifty yards away. The drivers stood huddled in a group by the vehicles while another group of four armed with 9mm Uzis stood in a semicircle at the bottom of the plane’s staircase.

“They’re all here,” Tom told the president and nodded toward the vehicles.

Flanked by two agents, the president made his way to the plane while Tom and the pilots of Marine One ran ahead to address the drivers of the vehicles and the Uzi-wielding agents.

“I can’t thank you enough, gentlemen,” Tom said when all had gathered. “As the president himself said, these are extraordinary times, and you have performed admirably. Here are the signed orders, as promised. These pilots will take you and your families to the designated area. We hope to see you there safe and sound, gentlemen.”

Tom hoped they would all make it as he dashed to the Global Express, but he couldn’t concern himself—he had more than his share of worries. At the top of the stairs, he turned and took a last look back at what he knew was no longer the world he had grown up and prospered in.

“Five minutes. Five minutes, okay?” the Tall Man yelled.

There were a few hours of sunlight left, but with the fires all around them, it was time to move. There was no telling what could be driven their way by the burning ring of death. Only a severe rain or snowstorm would prevent the fires from joining into one big firestorm in the dense forests of Wyoming, Montana, and Canada. The Tall Man surveyed the area around them. Perhaps they could outrun or outshoot the foamers and the mutants, and he wasn’t concerned with the looters, but fire? He knew you couldn’t outrun a fire.

Hell on earth, baby, it’ll be hell on earth!

“Right there, Chuck,” Allan called back. He and Roger scouted two buildings beyond the checkpoint ahead of them, looking for more gas to siphon.

“Hey, what’s that? Did you see it?” Roger brought the shotgun to his shoulder.

“I didn’t see anything,” replied Allan, already nervous.

Roger moved forward and to the side so he could cut the angle of the building. The closer he got to the corner, the more precise his movements were. Barely able to draw a breath, Allan stayed behind. He wanted to call Elliot, but if there was a foamer around the corner, he didn’t want to alert it and endanger Roger.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea, Roger, let’s call …”

“Jesus, it’s a dog, a fucking dog!” Roger called back to Allan, who relaxed for a moment—but only a moment.

“Hey boy, come here, come on boy,” Roger called.

Roger was over to one side and couldn’t see the dog with any clarity, but Allan could. As he moved toward Roger he saw the dog’s face in the sunlight—or what was left of it. The skin of the dog and the black nose were gone, replaced by bloodied pink gums and bone. Strips of flesh dangled from the sides of its head, a foamy green substance dripped from its menacing fangs while the red eyes of death searched for more prey.

“Roger, get back, get back!” he cried out in a panic.

“It’s just a dog, Allan, it …”

A vicious snarl chilled the air and rooted Roger to the spot. He turned back in time to see the mongrel from hell launch itself at him. Green slime flew through the air from razor-sharp fangs.

“ROGER, OH MY GOD, ROGER!” Allan screamed. “CHUCK! CHUCK!”

The bone—faced dog with glowing red eyes leapt onto Roger’s torso and lashed forward, tearing a chunk of flesh from his neck.

“Shoot it, fucking shoot, shoo …” he tried to yell over the growling, the ripping, and the blood.

The Tall Man and Elliot heard Allan’s cry for help and came to his aid as quickly as they could, weapons drawn.

Allan raised his Colt Delta and pointed it in the general direction of the dog, but his hands were far from steady, and tears blurred his vision. “Oh God, Roger, no, no …”

The characteristic blast of a .357 Magnum rang out from behind Allan. The dog uttered a howl from the pits of hell before it thudded to the ground, green foam spurting from the hole in its skull. Roger stumbled around in a circular motion, one hand pressed tight on his open neck wound, the other still clutching the SPAS-12 shotgun.

“Get back, Allan!” the Tall Man ordered when the youngest of the group moved toward Roger.

Roger turned and looked at his friends then at his Aunt Margaret and Uncle David, who had caught up with Elliot and the Tall Man. The front of his jacket was wet with blood.

“I love you … I LOVE YOU!” Tears rolled from his eyes, now red from infection.

“No, Roger, no!” Margaret pleaded.

It was too late. David grabbed her shoulder and pulled her around the moment Roger placed the muzzle of the SPAS-12 into his mouth. The single muffled discharge was heard an instant later.

“Oh my God, no!” Margaret screamed. David held her as Cindy and Sam—also crying—came up to her side.

Elliot led Allan away while the Tall Man and Mulhaven stared. The men weren’t strangers to courageous actions, but neither had seen anything comparable to Roger’s example. With just minutes before he turned into a foamer himself,and knowing he’d endanger the lives of his friends and family, he did the only thing he could—while he could.

“Damn …”

“Yeah,” Mulhaven muttered. “Yeah.”

“Get everyone back into the motor home, Elliot. We’ll … umm, clean up.”

Elliot looked back at the body of his high school buddy, nodded to the Tall Man, and pressed forward. He didn’t want the man he admired to see him cry. If he’d remained a moment longer, he would have seen that the Tall Man had also shed a tear.

We all deal with tragedy in different ways, the Tall Man reminded himself. He and Mulhaven had broken down the door of a tool shed. He swung the pick and Mulhaven shoveled. It didn’t take long to bury Roger. In the time-honored tradition of soldiers lost on the battlefield, they pushed Roger’s SPAS-12 shotgun barrel-first into the ground as his marker. The Tall Man pulled his Tanto from its sheath and inscribed Roger’s name on the butt as quickly as he could. The wind had picked up. With the fires, it wasn’t wise to linger among these forests.

“Straight through, Elliot, straight through to your aunt’s, okay?”

Elliot waved, nodded, and started the Hummer. “Yep, you got it, Chuck.”

Turning his attention to Mulhaven, the Tall Man said, “I’ll take the van, you grab some rest in the back of the home, okay?”

“Sure … but what about you?” Mulhaven asked the Tall Man.

“I’ll grab a nap in the van.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He rubbed his hands through the scruff of his beard then nodded to Mulhaven. “Yeah, I’ll be okay … and thanks, Riley.” He squeezed his buddy’s shoulder before he turned toward the motor home. He looked once more at the black smoke that encircled the horizon. With the wind and no rain in sight, he wondered if Prince George and its surroundings of large pine trees would be far enough.

“Green-spewing zombies, gun-crazy looters, mutant pygmies, and now a massive firestorm. What next? What the fuck next?” Mulhaven said before he climbed into the back of the home.

“We’re headed west?”

“Yes, sir, we are,” Tom answered the president, who continued to stare out the window.

The president had recognized landmarks below that confirmed their direction of travel.

“Where are we off to, Tom?”

“For the moment, sir, we’re headed straight to Vancouver, British Columbia. From there, I hope, Graham Island.”

The president ceased gazing out the window and turned to face Tom. “The Canadian government is aware of this?”

“Sir, there’s been no response from Ottawa for several hours now.”

The president turned his head and resumed his observation out the window. He questioned his judgment of leaving Washington in the mess that was to unravel. He had told the vice president to take charge or “get the hell out!” It was his call.

Stodge was given full military command, as he’d wanted when the president had declared, as his last official act, martial law across the entire United States. The gleam in Stodge’s eyes was more than evident when the president had bestowed this power.

The president knew the general’s dreams of conquest, like Hadlee’s, would crash and burn when no military, National Guard, or police units could be raised.

Congressmen, senators, state governors, and, hell, just about everybody would be looking for guidance from somebody, anybody. The UN would demand answers, as other countries would—if they could. He still couldn’t shake that vision of a captain abandoning his ship with its passengers left to die or, worse, become foamers.

“Honey, are you okay?” It was his wife’s voice. He had to hand it to Tom, who knew he doubted himself for what he perceived to be cowardly actions. Tom had called for the first lady and asked her to check on her husband. It reaffirmed that the president’s decision was for her and the two kids. Tom was right … again.

The president took her hand and addressed her fears before asking her to go back to the front of the plane. He had a few points to discuss with Tom.

“You are a crafty one, Tom, I’ll hand that to you.”

“Well, sir,” Tom said with a wry smile, “I sensed you needed some reassurance.”

“I did, thank you. Now, tell me why Canada and this island you mentioned.”

Winter was approaching, Tom explained. He believed the winter months in Canada would be far too harsh an environment for the foamers and mutants to exist, let alone thrive. The ocean would provide another barrier against the beasts, and the more barriers, the better, just in case.

“This might be nature’s way of telling us we’ve fucked around with the order of the planet once too often. It’ll be a massive experience to go through, sir, a pestilence sure to wipe out billions, but those of us who survive will be given a chance to start again and do it right this time … as long as we’ve learned from our mistakes.”

Elliot drove in silence as he led the team on the final—they hoped—leg of their journey. He knew, or thought he knew, the way to his aunt’s house outside of Prince George. He had the directions locked away in his head. His dad had given them to him over the phone when they last spoke. After all they’d gone through, it seemed like years since he’d talked with his dad, not just a few days. He didn’t know if his father or aunt were still alive or not.

What if they’d become…

He put the window down to let in some fresh air.

“You all right, Elliot?” Allan asked. He knew what Elliot was going through. He felt it, too.

Elliot nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay, Allan, just need some fresh air is all.”

The wind cutting through the large pine trees carried with it the smell of smoke. From their point of view, it appeared as though half the countryside was ablaze.

They couldn’t see it, but Air Force jets and helicopters continued with the napalm bombing of the forest around the originally affected states. Now, with further flare-ups reported across the nation, there no longer existed a clearly defined containment zone, and as the crisis worsened, the natural fight-or-flight response increased.