Toward the Brink (Book 3) by Craig A. McDonough Page B

Island.
    “It’s almost six hundred miles to Sandspit from here,” Ewan told those around the table. “That’s if we could fly there.”
    “Do you think we could use the Express?”
    “We could probably find enough fuel, but what if the airstrip is damaged or blocked? If we came across any of these problems, we’d be in the deep end then.”
    “Yes, our best bet is to go by road—as dangerous as that is—but we’ll still have the problem of getting from the mainland to the island.” The Tall Man was concerned over yet more road travel, but it would be preferable to being stuck in the air with no place to land.
    “Our only worry will be finding a boat then, as I see it. There may not be any left lying around, y’know? I can pilot an average-sized fishing boat, but that’s about it, I’m afraid.” Mulhaven knew his limitations and didn’t try to hide them.
    “I can help out there, don’t worry. I did some antiterrorist cross-training with the SEALs, and we learned how to pilot some pretty big vessels. As long as I can get some help with it, we might be able to manage.” Chess added some positive information.
    While he sat at the table, Chess not only offered his assistance, he also weighed each individual. Like the Tall Man, with whom he shared more than a few commonalities, he understood his chances of survival improved if he knew who he was dealing with, whether friend or foe. The sooner you discovered which they were, the better your chances were. This group could be what he and his small band needed to get by. No longer was he concerned with Holmes or Etheridge; their fates had been sealed. He’d never believed in the bullshit about underground bases with more than a year’s supply of food. But they’d had a plane, and at the time, that had been their ticket out. Like the soldiers with him, he was motivated by survival—in the short and long term. Now he had found people who displayed real common sense with solid plans for a future, and that was a goal he found to be of more interest now than wealth. Money no longer had any power or meaning. It had become as useful as tits on a boar—just like Etheridge.
    “We have a few things to discuss,” the Tall Man announced as he entered the house. “As it always is with plans, they’re subject to last-minute changes. And we have a few.”
    He grabbed the same chair as before and sat down at the table. His evacuation plans had started last night when he’d heard the plane circle overhead. The first plane. Like Elliot, he was also impressed with Kath’s setup and her knowledge of the necessities for survival. The main concern—outside of foamers and gun crazies—was food. A lot of preppers—or those who called themselves preppers—stocked up on guns, guns, and more guns, a truckload of beer, a few cases of jerky, and a jar of water purification tablets, and they thought they had it made. Not so. And the Tall Man knew this for a fact. Of course firearms would be needed, to defend your food, your shelter, and your loved ones. But if you had no food or shelter, you’d die anyway. A futile exercise in stupidity. The Tall Man considered this strange behavior when he’d occasionally run into a bona fide prepper at a gun store as he bought ammo for his Desert Eagle. He would see them stock up with six packets of 5.56mm ammo, a few packs of 12-gauge shotgun shells, or packs of gun store jerky. He didn’t have to look; he knew the back seats of their pickups would contain cases of beer.
    “For the collapse. It’s comin’, mister, it’s a comin’,” they would tell him as they scooped their ammunition and jerky from the counter. The Tall Man would nod and give a polite smile. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but these backward preppers would turn out to be right. They didn’t reckon on foamers as the cause for the collapse, however. Did anyone?
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    K ath Goodwin was the opposite . She prepared for food and power. The wind turbine generator on