Gonzalez finally release the pin and tossed the first grenade into the opening.
WHUMP.
He followed with a second and was rewarded with another explosion.
The ground ahead sank slightly as the tunnel collapsed. Dirt billowed out of the cave opening, followed by a rush of sand and rock.
The cave was sealed.
Carver put his arm around Hope. Kyle was on her other side. She staggered ahead with them holding her up, her legs weak from the fear and adrenaline dump she’d experienced.
Laura Reedy would do a full body inspection and verify she was clean. Carver didn’t want to even think about that. He pretended everything was all right.
Shrek would be chained up to Kinney’s porch once again. He would be cleared by tomorrow morning.
The Osprey’s ramp closed, and they all sat back for a short ride home. The Seahawk helicopter rode shotgun on their right, the door gunner searching for any Variants that may have escaped. There were none.
When they landed, the rest of the camp gave them all a hearty welcome.
Carver’s group had a full body inspection since they’d had close encounters with the Variants. All checked out.
Hope was cleared by Laura and joined them for dinner at Beckham. Carver came in late, having spent time with Shrek back at Kinney’s place. He didn’t want to leave his friend, but the Mal fell asleep while Carver was brushing the dirt out of his coat. The poor dog was exhausted. He’d defeated his nemesis and deserved the break. Carver left a bowl of food by his side, then joined the others.
It was a good night. They met the pilots of the Seahawk and listened to them describe their adventure. The abandoned airfield was a good find for them. There were tanker trucks that could be filled with aviation fuel and hoisted back to camp by the Osprey. They’d have air cover for almost a year before the fuel went bad. After that, it would be diesel. But that would eventually go bad as well.
They’d have to make some biofuel to run their vehicles, but all of that was for another day. Now was the time to celebrate. It was important to enjoy the victories because, Lord knows, the bad times were just as plentiful, if not more.
Kyle moved in with Brett Darden. He was happy to have the company. He had never slept alone and with his twin dead, now was not the time to push that issue.
Carver lay back in his bed. Kinney was pulling first shift, guarding the northern side of camp. They were alone.
Hope slipped out of her clothes. The shower felt wonderful and the sheets were fresh. Dinner had been a miracle of tastes and textures. Mr. Morales was a man of many gifts and had created a mole sauce and enchiladas from their long-term food supplies.
She looked at John. His stomach muscles rippled as he lay back against the pillow. Damn, but he looked good. He’d saved her. No one else could have done that.
She found herself needing him. She slid under the sheets and put her arm over his chest. She bent up to him and kissed his neck.
He snored.
Hope lay back and began to chuckle. She rolled over and sighed. She closed her eyes and was asleep in seconds. For the first time in many months, the camp slept soundly. They were safe at last.
For now.
— 42 —
Behind Satan’s Gate
Charlie
“You speak my name, I do not mind
To give me credit is so kind
I’m flattered that I have your fear
You wake the sleeping demon here.”
DANZIG
“White Devil Rise”
The dirt begins to rise. A hand shoots out of the ground, grasping at the air. Slowly, a deformed figure pulls itself from the soil. First, its head. Then, its torso. Its single arm pulls and tugs at the dirt, bringing the apparition into the moonlit night.
It tries to scream out, but its throat is coated with rock and sand. It staggers to the base of the hill. It stumbles over a corpse and recognizes the one-eyed creature. A human weapon sticks out from its head. His anger bubbles up, and he tries to scream again. Nothing comes out as its vocal cords are caked with debris.
He hobbles down the slope. It is the path of least resistance. His anger for revenge is muted by his need to feed. He heads for the desert floor, all the while searching for something to consume. Flesh with its wonderful blood. He is possessed.
The thing stumbles and staggers forward. Always down, for that is where it is being pulled. Then onto the desert floor.
The night sky is clear, and it can see many miles away. There is nothing out there. No heat source, no movement. Just sand. Lots and lots of sand. It takes step after step because that is all it knows to do other than consume flesh. Soon, it has gone far away from the mountain, searching for a place to eat and heal. Someday it may be back. But for now, it keeps moving because that’s what its brain tells it to do. That is what it does.
Epilogue
Lost Valley
“I will prepare and someday my chance will come.”
ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Several weeks had gone by, and life in the Valley developed its own rhythm. Hope and one of the Forum survivors named Claire set up a school for the kids. Of course, the scouts didn’t want anything to do with school. In the end, Carver bribed them by including shop classes with Mr. Morales, along with range time and tactical training. It was a fair trade.
Hope moved in with Carver while Kyle stayed with the other boys at the admin building. Work was in progress to change the maintenance garage into a dorm. There were two construction teams operating, now that there were enough bodies to spread the work around. One group was making an open pavilion for the soon-to-be-moved mechanical gear, while the other was modifying the metal garage to handle the many people who needed their own bed. It had been working out well. With plumbing and electricity already being fed to the maintenance building, it was just a matter of putting up walls and redirecting some conduit and four-inch pipes.
Donaldson and Everly were finally able to be open about their relationship. They’d been discrete while serving on the Roosevelt, but now they just shared a bed. In some ways, the apocalypse had made their personal lives easier.
The Seahawk and Osprey flew daily, picking up supplies and finding a few more survivors.
The mechanically finicky Osprey and temperamental Seahawk had given them concern, but Morales proved his worth. He gathered maintenance books on one of their first trips out of the Valley and had gone back out to collect parts and equipment. Between Morales and the scouts, the birds continued to function. Eventually, the fuel would run out or spoil with age and both rotor aircraft would be grounded for good. Until then, they were work horses that gave the group some serious mobility and air hauling power. The group’s prioritized list of supplies was already half finished. Another month, and they could survive for the rest of their lives up there in the high mountain desert.
Food supplies would eventually run out. The group was gathering seeds and books on how to farm and become self-sustaining. Realizing the value of the bumble bee, several of the Forum survivors were in the process of making hives. The insects were a necessity to pollinate the crops. It would be a short life without them.
They already found some old farming equipment that ran on even the dirtiest of diesel fuel. If they planted the right crops, they could produce bio-diesel that would run the machines. It would make their agricultural work much easier.
Even medicinal plants were on the list, as Chris had begun to bone up on the value of herbs and roots. There was already planning to plant some weeping willows by the lake. The salicylates they could derive from the tree would provide blood thinners and aspirin. They even gave thought to planting poppies for narcotic medication, if any of those could be found.
Several marijuana plants were already growing behind the admin building. No one asked where the seeds came from. They would be used for medicinal purposes only. At least, that was the plan. And while no one had brought up a still yet, once the potatoes and honey s
tarted to be produced, it would become an issue. Carver was glad it would be at least a growing cycle away. He needed the peace and quiet right now.
Even little Bella was helping. At seven years old, she was already hard at work in the kitchen, helping Hope and Randy prepare the meals. After, of course, she finished her lessons.
All told, the Valley was supporting nearly fifty people now. There was even talk of setting up a government, or at least, an arbitration system. Nothing serious had come up yet, but it was only a matter of time. Carver thought it was a shame that the bad always came with the good. People were people, and they needed people things to do. That would eventually mean conflict and a loss of the innocence that survival had brought.
It was already a hot and rainless summer. It reminded Carver that on their next trip out of the Valley, they needed to bring back some direct current air conditioners from a camper supply store. That, along with more solar panels and batteries, would help meet the growing demands on the present electric system. The strain of so many people on their grid was already being felt.
Carver sighed and put his hat over his face. He lay back on Kinney’s plastic-covered porch couch and closed his eyes.
He smiled as he thought of his friend. Kinney may have owned this house before the apocalypse, but it was Hope’s house now. Kinney bitched about the feminine changes she’d made, like a new throw over his chair and some salvaged pictures on the wall. But he never complained about the clean floors and folded laundry. He was getting the benefits of a woman in the house and seemed to take it in stride, although he loved to complain about it to Carver when they were alone. It helped them bond as friends.
Many nights, the two of them still sat on the house’s veranda and talked about what ailed the world and the people in it. They had their opinions on what would make it better, and just as before the Variant virus took hold, it usually ended with boot camp at Parris Island and a good kick in the pants.
Carver reached down and found Shrek lying at his side. As always, the faithful animal was never more than a few feet away. He rubbed the dog’s nape then moved up and blindly rubbed him between the eyes. The Mal leaned into him, accepting his affection.
Then Carver drifted off to sleep. His life was as complete as it had ever been, and if the Variants stayed away, he wouldn’t complain.
Hope
“If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you.”
JOAN POWERS
Pooh’s Little Instruction Booklet
“Bella. Would you be a dear and take these cookies to Mr. Carver?” Randy asked.
“Yes, Mr. Thomas,” she replied.
“And you can have one too. There are plenty.”
The little girl’s eyes lit up as she stared down at the platter of sugar cookies. She carefully held the plate as she left to deliver the goodies.
“You know,” Hope said. “He’s probably taking a nap.”
“I’ve never met a man that would turn down cookies,” Randy replied. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”
Randy took a half dozen more and put them into a plastic bag. They went into his backpack.
“Stealing cookies now?” Hope chided as she finished drying the pots and pans from lunch. She knew they weren’t for him.
“Please. I would never risk this svelte figure on cookies.”
“I’ll bet your roommates will like them, huh?”
“They might!” he admitted. “Remember, I have four more mouths to keep happy.”
Hope smiled. It had to be a dream come true sharing a room with a SEAL and three Marines. The communal bedroom would soon be replaced by more private accommodations once the maintenance building was converted. Until then, Randy was being treated to all the testosterone he could handle.
“They’re good people, aren’t they?” Hope asked as she hung the final pan on the overhead rack.
“Yeah. They make me feel safe.”
“Isn’t that the truth.” Hope thought of Carver and how he made everything okay.
“Besides,” Randy said. “How can you not love a man named Porky?”
Hope laughed. She loved Randy for that. He had made her life bearable when she had worked at that horrible resort job. Now he was making the apocalypse fun for her, as well.
“I have a surprise!” Randy sang. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.”
He walked over to one of the storage cabinets and brought out a bottle of Tennessee whiskey.
“No!” Hope said. “You little sneak!”
“Just between you and me,” Randy replied.
He poured them each two fingers’ worth.
“What’s the special occasion?” Hope asked, as she took a sniff of the amber liquid.
“Why, darling. It’s Tuesday!”
She laughed again. They each raised their glass for a toast.
“To you and John!” Randy said. “May you live happy and long.”
“Thank you, Randy.”
“And, to Senior Chief Petty Officer Porky Shader,” Randy continued.
“Oh. You like him?” she teased.
“Yes,” Randy deadpanned. “But he hasn’t found me yet.”
“You never know,” Hope replied jokingly.
“He’s a SEAL, you know. Very serious individual. I’ve never seen him smile and, you know, I never see him in a pair of pants that fit!”
Hope laughed, nearly spilling her drink.
“Stop!” Randy said, giggling himself. “Don’t waste it.”
They drank the liquid gold and Hope gave him a hug.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” Randy replied. “Otherwise, who would tell you about your hair?”
Hope pulled back a loose strand that had fallen from her ponytail.
“Seriously, woman. We have to do something about that mop on your head!”
Shrek
“Why do you like them so much?
Because they stand upon a wall and say,
‘Nothing’s going to hurt you tonight, not on my watch.’”
A Few Good Men
I lie next to him. The low growl of Carver’s snore blends in with the insects in the nearby trees. I sit upright momentarily. I think I smelled something, but it quickly goes away. I never doubt my nose, and there is something out there that makes me uneasy.
I finally settle down and put my head between my outstretched paws. I give the world one last sniff, then drift off to sleep.
I dream of Cyclops and our epic fight. I feel the beast’s neck break under my bite. My mind wanders back to time in the Hindu-Kush mountains in Afghanistan, where the enemy would place bombs in the ground. I review all these things before I sleep soundly. At least, as well as a warrior can sleep with one ear on alert and one eye open just enough to be ready for a fight.
I am on always watch.
Because I am Shrek.
I am the ghost that kills in the night.
I always win.
It is who I am.
o — o — o
Thanks for reading!
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Acknowledgements
There are many reasons that a writer puts ink to paper. One may look for fame while another seeks fortune. Regardless of the motivation, good authors pour their souls into the story. What you read should reflect the author’s best effort.
But the one thing that surprises me is that writing is
not a one-man-sport.
“Team effort” is such a cliché, but it is absolutely true. The story you just read was created by a group of people that have taken the time and love to help shape it. With this in mind, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the following people.
My wife, Donna. Living with me when I sometimes grow dark and distant for no apparent reason, shows a patience that is beyond expectation. Many times, when a writer is not at the keyboard, their brains are still in the story. When a dark plotline is being created, it doesn’t just leave you when you walk away from the desk. It lingers, like a bad odor in the background of your thoughts. She tolerates that. I have to eternally thank her for staying married to me and understanding my multi-leveled brain. She is one of the rare few that can. I love you, Donna.
My editor, Sara. She adapts to my disjointed schedule and never complains. My windows of opportunity to write are sporadic and inconsistent, while deadlines for completion are not. She accommodates me. She backchecks my work and evens out the inconsistencies that occur when you continue a storyline after having left it for weeks. She smooths out the sharp edges of my prose and makes the story flow. Thank you, Sara.
My inspiration, Nicholas Smith. Without him, there is nothing. A good writer steps on the shoulders of past great authors. Exceptional writers blaze their own trail. Nick is a blazer. There are plenty of zombie books out there, all with the same basic story to tell. Nick twisted the genre. He created living zombies using real science. Then, he created a world of characters that brought humanity into that chaos. He is a rare author. I am honored to be chosen to join that world. Thank you, Nick.
My art editor, Tanja at Deranged Doctor Design. What is portrayed on the front of a novel often determines if someone will consider reading it. Covers are critical to success. It is thrilling to give someone a written concept of an idea and then get back an image file that flawlessly gives your words life. To finally see the email with the attached image, arrive in your mailbox, is like Christmas morning. You are a professional and dream maker. Thank you, Tanja.
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