Satan's Gate

by Walt Browning

  “You did right, Chief. Now, what is it that’s so important?”

  “It’s about the Variants, sir. I can explain why there are so many of them.”

  “This should be interesting,” Jack said. “Go ahead, Chief. I’m all ears.”

  After five minutes of a non-stop narrative that included the mating pair and the farming of the civilians, Shader finished with his estimate of enemy forces.

  “You’re sure about all of this?”

  “One hundred percent, Major. They’re not dying off like the deuces say they are. And they don’t need any more humans, other than for food. They’re self-sustaining, and they’re everywhere.”

  Jack’s face became pale. The implications were enormous. He had to run this up the ladder to the top.

  “Well done, Chief. I want you to escort your civilians back to the fleet.”

  “Sir. I’d like to stay here, if that is possible.”

  “You’ll get your turn, Chief. Don’t worry about getting some payback. You’ll get your chance.”

  Jack started barking out orders, and Shader felt his time had come and gone. The press of the officers around him soon had him one or two layers back from the commander, so he spun around to return to the civilians. That’s when he came face-to-face with Lieutenant Landry.

  “You fucking bastard,” Landry hissed. “Your ass is done.”

  Shader was taken aback by Landry’s sudden appearance, but his red face and meaningless tirade brought a smirk to his face.

  “Sure, LT. Whatever you say. I’ll see you later and we can discuss the matter.”

  Shader tried to move around Landry, but the lieutenant stepped in front and put his hand on Shader’s chest.

  “You’re not going anywhere!” he screeched.

  “You’re going to stop me?” Shader loudly flared. “Get your hands off me before I remove them. Sir!”

  “Stop!” Jack yelled.

  The major strode around the table and stood toe-to-toe with them both.

  “Disabling the lieutenant would be a real bad idea, Chief.”

  Then he looked at Landry. “Are you serious, Lieutenant? You’re going to take on a senior petty officer? A SEAL? I should let him break you in half. Maybe that would put some sense into your shit-for-brains skull.”

  Major Jack started to leave, then went back for one more beatdown.

  “Lieutenant, I’ve never seen such stupidity. You failed to listen to your men to begin with, then you want to punish him for being right? Jesus, Landry. What did they teach you in OCS?”

  Major Jack turned to Shader. “Chief, return to your men. And if I ever see you disrespect any of your superiors, I’ll personally break your ass in half. Do you understand me?”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Shader replied, bringing his large frame to attention.

  “Dismissed, Chief. Tell your squad leaders that a new commanding officer will be coming your way soon.”

  Shader nodded and spun on his heels. The crowd around him parted, and he walked briskly away.

  Russ should be happy to hear this, he thought as he strode past the machine gun emplacements and firing positions. His steps quickened, and his gear seemed a little lighter. Strange how sometimes bad shit turns out good.

  “Get Sequoia for me,” Jack said to his radio operator.

  Sequoia One, or Admiral Abernathy, needed to know this information.

  “Sir, I have Sequoia One actual.”

  Jack took the radio phone and reported. What he heard back in reply shook him to his bones. He returned the phone to the R.O. and walked back to the table. Dozens of eyes watched as he composed his next words.

  “All right, everyone. We’re being extracted. Redwood is gone. The enemy overran them less than five minutes ago.”

  Before the officers could react, Major Jack began planning a protected LZ for the incoming Osprey. The problem of the Forum would have to wait, at least until his men had been removed. Then they could do with the building whatever they wanted. That was up to people breathing a far higher atmosphere than him.

  Their call sign was Sycamore, a stately tree found throughout central California. Their original mission called for them to be the anchor of the operation. Now, like their dendritic namesake, they were shedding their skin and leaving the city behind. The Sycamore survived by dumping its bark as it grew, and so too would the Marines. They’d lost a few men but hopefully became stronger because of it.

  — 15 —

  Archangel Three

  SuperCobra Attack Helicopter

  Just South of Downtown Los Angeles

  Captain H. F. Everly

  “Once we have a war there is only one thing to do. It must be won. For defeat brings worse things than any that can ever happen in war.”

  EARNEST HEMMINGWAY

  Captain Howard Everly had been given a helicopter ten years prior. When he’d graduated from flight school and was assigned to become a rotorhead, he felt like he’d been demoted. Every kid wants to be Top Gun and fly a fixed-wing fighter.

  But that changed the first time he flew his SuperCobra. The blend of foot and hand controls was as complex as any orchestral movement. All four limbs moved in concert as his eyes were fed a data stream through his head-up display (HUD) as complicated as any musical sheet from Bach, Beethoven, or Ravel. The feel of the craft jumping at every move of his arms or legs, no matter how minute, was addictive. Add the destructive power of the attack helicopter, and Everly justifiably felt like a god. He wielded death at 180 mph to man and machine alike.

  He had spun his props in Afghanistan, fighting the rarified atmosphere of the Hindu-Kush mountains while raining Hydra rockets and 20mm bullets onto the enemy. The fear and death he and his Apache helicopter brothers had created earned them the nickname “Monsters in the Air” from the Taliban. Now, he was using the infrared camera to scout out the Variants of Los Angeles.

  He spotted a few here and there as he began the evening run. The Variants were definitely not the living dead. According to the movies and TV shows he’d seen, zombies were the walking dead and assumed room temperature. They would have been indistinguishable from the background through his IR glasses. The Variants lit up like a flare in the night. They were hot and there was no doubt what he was looking at when they showed up on his HUD.

  When word came through that Operation Liberty had been cancelled, Everly had been running over the north side of the city. Once the Marines had been recalled, that part of town was no longer a concern. Now, he was to watch for Variants much closer to downtown and immediately report any large groups.

  He’d been flying for about half an hour, shooting above the skyscrapers. It was exhilarating, given this was restricted airspace when life had been normal.

  “Hey, Everly. Think you can spot the Nakatomi Building?” his front seat gunner, Lt. Mark Cowley, asked.

  “I’ve got it marked.”

  Fox Plaza was actually used as the iconic building in the first Die Hard movie. It was about four miles to the west of downtown, just north of Route 10. That was the road Big Pine was using to return to Santa Monica Airport.

  “Let’s head over there. I’ve always wanted to see that place.”

  “It ain’t Christmas until Hans Gruber falls from the Nakatomi building!” Everly deadpanned.

  “Yippee ki-yay, mother fucker.”

  With no designated flight plan now that the invasion had been scrubbed, Everly shot low above the downtown high-rise buildings. He continued south then began to bank west toward Big Pine. It would take them over Fox Plaza.

  “Hey, you want to go in close, just like the movie?” Everly asked.

  His gunner didn’t reply.

  “Hey! Cowley.”

  “Shit! Look left,” the gunner gasped.

  Everly swung his weapon’s camera west and looked out toward the Forum. Halfway between the FOB and their position was the Los Angeles Coliseum. They’d passed over that spot not fifteen minutes before. It had been dark. Now it was lit u
p like a shopping mall at Christmas.

  Everly banked and accelerated. A few seconds later, they hovered over the giant stadium. Inside, tiny points of fire ignited in their IR image. Thousands of them popped up, spreading out from the center of the field and into the surrounding seats.

  “Holy mother of God,” Everly said.

  The stadium was full. The Variants were appearing at a terrifying rate, their metabolism suddenly shifting into overdrive. The heat from this transformation glowed in the infrared lens.

  “We don’t have enough ordinance,” Everly whispered.

  “Sequoia, this is Archangel Three. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Archangel Three, this is Sequoia Two-niner. We copy you. Over.”

  The mass of Variants began pouring out of the Coliseum, rushing toward Inglewood.

  “Sequoia Two-Niner, I have a mass of Variants moving toward Sycamore One. Estimated strength in the tens of thousands. Do you copy? Over.”

  The band remained silent for a moment. Then a different voice came through the radio. “Archangel Three, this is Sequoia One actual. Do you copy? Over.”

  Admiral Abernathy. Everly was stunned. “Yes, Sequoia One. We copy. Over.”

  “Archangel Three. Are you sure about that number? Over.”

  Everly gave the admiral the bad news. Within minutes, FOB Forum would be overrun by the infected. “Sequoia One. If anything, I’m being overly cautious on that estimate. Over.”

  Everly received orders to dump his ordinance on the advancing horde then bug out north. The fast-movers would be on station in two minutes, followed by a naval bombardment. They needed to slow the Variants down to allow for an evacuation.

  Everly did as he was told. He made two runs, expending all of his rockets and Gatling gun rounds into the mass. It had no effect. Two minutes later, three flights of Hornets dropped their massive bombs on the front of the group. Then the naval barrage began. Explosions were happening almost every second. Everly and Cowley watched through the helicopter’s gun camera as each detonation whited out their screen, then as the image reconstituted, another wave of Variants flooded through the devastated spot. Hundreds of creatures were dying, but it didn’t slow them down as thousands more took their place.

  The fleet’s coms were thick with radio traffic, but Everly could pick enough information out of the cacophony to estimate the rescue crafts’ arrival time. The majority of the Ospreys and the few Sea Knight utility helicopters at their disposal were still three minutes out.

  Everly watched the flood of creatures glow brightly in his IR camera. Their amoeboid movement flowed like fast-moving batter. They oozed around craters and buildings, enveloping the land and consuming anything in their path. The horde was moving at an incredible rate.

  “Jesus!” Everly muttered as he watched the scene unfold before him.

  “I think Sycamore’s going to make it,” Cowley whispered hopefully into his mic.

  “No, they’re not,” Everly somberly replied. “We’re gonna lose them all.”

  — 16 —

  FOB Forum

  SCPO Shader

  Explosions erupted in the distance. The concussive blasts were beginning to be felt as the fleet walked their rounds onto the leading edge of an advancing enemy. The ground shook, and the air buffeted with bombs landing less than a mile away.

  Shader and Russ were guiding the survivors onto the first aircraft to arrive. This particular Osprey had been on station when the order to retreat had come. It was the same craft that Shader had ridden on that morning.

  “You know how to throw a party, don’t you?” Sergeant Potoski barked as Shader helped the civilians move up the rear ramp of the V-22.

  Shader strapped several of the weaker ones into their jump seats while Keele and Gonzalez carried Lazzaro and deposited him onto the craft.

  Sergeant Russ and one of his fireteams stood outside, forming a perimeter around the landing zone.

  “Come on,” Shader said to Gonzalez and Keele. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The three Marines lumbered out the back and came face-to-face with Lieutenant Jack.

  “You’re their escort,” Jack said, pointing back into the Osprey.

  “Sir, you need our rifles. They don’t need us now.”

  “Neither do we,” Jack replied somberly. “I’m ordering you to take your team and evac.”

  “But Lieutenant, we can’t—”

  “That’s an order, Chief.”

  Jack turned to Russ, who stood to the side. “Take your team as well.”

  The detonations of the five-inch shells were now erupting on the buildings that stood at the edge of the graveyard to their east. The Variants were close.

  “But, sir!” Russ screamed.

  “I don’t want any arguments. All of you. On board. NOW!”

  Shader grabbed Gonzalez, who stood defiantly in front of the officer, and shoved him back to the Osprey. Russ and his four men joined them and the V-22 slowly began to lift.

  Potoski rotated his SAW back in place and left the ramp down. He spoke into his mic, and the Osprey hovered in place, its rear ramp facing the graveyard. Potoski flipped his NVGs down and over his eye. Shader did the same, joining the big man at the back opening.

  Shader watched as hundreds, then thousands of creatures flowed out from the destruction. Potoski’s machine gun began to fire. Every fifth round was a bright streak, as the SAW’s feeding belt was peppered with tracer rounds.

  Shader joined the fight, emptying his magazines on full-automatic. They were over a quarter mile away but aiming wasn’t needed because the infected bodies were so thick.

  In the end, it really didn’t help. Two more Ospreys had made an emergency landing and recovered as many Marines as those craft could hold. The rest of the rescue flight held back when Major Jack called them off, right before the FOB was overrun. The Marines’ final act of defiance was to detonate the gasoline fuel truck. It was a glorious death. Russ instantly knew who had done it. He only prayed that the lieutenant was with his father when it happened. It seemed only fitting.

  Watching the death of the 11th MEU through their NVGs from just over a mile away was a cold and humble experience. No one spoke a word as the Osprey lumbered back to the Roosevelt.

  In the end, nearly a thousand Marines had perished. They sacrificed their lives for a dozen civilians and less than a hundred of their brothers. And even though they likely killed tens of thousands of the creatures, they hadn’t made a dent in their massive population.

  There was now no doubt that the country had been lost. Their next move was beyond Shader’s exhausted brain. He fought back a tear and took a deep breath. Then he did the only thing he could do to keep from losing his mind. He closed his eyes and shut down his brain. The last thing he wanted to do was to think.

  Sitting next to the SEAL, Gonzalez was stunned when he turned to speak to his squad leader and found that the man was asleep.

  “Fucking SEALs. How do they do that?” he said to no one in particular.

  The drone of the twin propellers was the only answer he got back.

  — 17 —

  John Eric Carver

  Schoepe Boy Scout Camp

  Lost Valley

  A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.

  WALTER WINCHELL

  Carver’s nap on the veranda was interrupted by silence. The ex-SEAL was tuned into his surroundings at all times, especially when he was sleeping. It was both a curse and gift.

  Carver’s eyes fluttered open, and he dropped his hand down to his side, reaching for his faithful battle buddy. The Belgian Malinois had been on the wooden porch floor, gently snoring next to the patio couch. But Shrek wasn’t there. That’s when he realized the dog’s breath sounds were missing. That’s what woke him from his afternoon slumber.

  Carver was interested, more than concerned, in what or who drew his faithful friend away. He stretched and slid out of the old plastic sofa, his exposed skin peeling
off of the vinyl surface as he extracted himself.

  He wandered around the corner and found the offender. Kyle Torrence sat on the front steps, and the faithless dog sat in front of him, allowing the young teen to rub and scratch his head and neck.

  Carver wandered over to the pair and rubbed Shrek’s snout.

  “Traitor,” he said, smiling.

  “He likes to be rubbed,” Kyle said appreciatively.

  Shrek, for his part, continued to lean into the teen, letting the young man massage his upper body.

  “Hey, Mr. Carver. My mom wants to know if she can talk to you,” Kyle finally said.

  Shrek looked up at the boy with a chastising look, as if to reprimand the youth for losing his fur-rubbing concentration. He nudged Kyle’s hand, demanding that the young man continue to ply him with attention.

  “Sorry, boy,” Kyle dutifully responded and began to scratch the dog’s back.

  Carver shook his head. The kid had been co-opted into the dog’s personal massage therapist.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s at Beckham,” Kyle replied. Beckham Hall was one of three fixed structures at the camp. It was a gathering lodge and kitchen for the three-thousand-acre facility.

  “Thanks. I’ll head over after I take a shower.”

  Kyle absently continued his attention to Shrek while Carver gazed out over the massive camp property. The two-bedroom cottage was the home of the camp’s park ranger, Harold Kinney. He was a retired Marine and Carver’s best friend—at least of the ones he knew were still alive. They’d bonded over the last couple years when Carver had volunteered at the camp after retiring to a nearby forty-acre farm.

  Kyle and his single mother, Hope Torrence, occupied a house at the end of the dirt road that led to Carver’s place. After the viral outbreak, Carver had rescued Hope from her job at a resort an hour’s drive away and brought both mother and son to the Boy Scout facility.

  “Sir?” the boy asked, interrupting Carver’s quiet moment.