Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate

by Browning, Walt

  He tiptoed to the bedroom door and slipped quietly out of the room. The living room’s air hung thickly around him, and, with no fan, it was even more oppressive than the bedroom.

  The clicking of nails on the hardwood floor announced Shrek’s arrival. The faithful dog had been standing guard at the bedroom door ever since the arrival of Carver and Hope’s son a few months prior. Last night was no exception.

  The two warriors quietly left the house and found their usual spot on the porch. Carver threw an old sheet over the plastic couch and lay down. The breeze was cool and moist. It wasn’t unusual to have precipitation in the California high desert this time of year, and last night’s rain shower brought a cold blanket to the land. Regardless of the chill, he was grateful that some water would be added to their community’s small lake.

  Carver pulled a nearby blanket across his chest and closed his eyes. Silence. It was a wonderful sound.

  The SEAL’s mind began to drift, and he soon found himself thinking of the last eight months. It was winter in the mountains, and he was now a husband and a father to an adopted teenager, as well as a new infant boy.

  When J.K. was born, he couldn’t have been happier. Oh, the joy of ignorance and the long-lost memories of a good night’s sleep. Carver sighed a deep breath then drank in the night’s silence. He and Hope had fallen asleep early last evening after she’d breastfed their son. They’d been awakened a few hours ago by the needy infant, eager for yet another meal. J.K. was feeding eight times a day, and Hope’s body was having problems keeping up with his appetite. She never seemed to be able to make enough milk.

  Carver wanted to make light of the situation with a joke about J.K. being a “breast man,” just like his father. He wisely held his tongue. There was no way she’d appreciate his dark humor. The line did earn a chuckle from Gonzalez and Lazzaro. Even Kinney, who’d moved into the camp’s common barracks after J.K.’s birth, cracked a smile.

  Poor Kinney. This had once been his house. Now, it was a place of never-ending chaos that quickly drove the retired Marine into the converted maintenance garage.

  Carver dropped his hand from the couch and found Shrek lying on the floor at his side. He absently rubbed his dog’s neck and was reminded of Gonzalez and Keele’s attempt to prank him while he’d slept on this same couch earlier in the year.

  Poor Keele had been killed when a Variant snatched him from a parking lot stairwell at a hospital just north of San Diego. He still missed the man, especially the way he had interacted with Gonzalez. The two Marines used to have a joyful bond that lightened the mood for everyone around them. Now that Keele was gone, Gonzalez and Lazzaro had become closer. It was a cordial enough relationship, but nothing like the friendship Keele and G-man had developed.

  When J.K. was born, it only seemed fitting that he and Hope make Gonzalez their son’s godfather. It was even more special when they announced that the boy’s name would be John Keele Carver. It had been Hope’s idea to use the fallen Marine’s last name, and he couldn’t have thought of a better tribute to their lost friend.

  Carver’s thoughts drifted back to the day J.K. was born. Dr. Chloe Maxwell had flown in from Catalina Island to deliver the little guy. She and Carver’s best friend, Porky Shader, had stayed for nearly a week. That was two months ago and was the last time Carver had seen either one.

  Since their departure, he and Porky had spoken a few times over the camp’s shortwave radio. Hearing about Catalina Island’s progress only made Carver miss his friend more. They should be rebuilding their lives together, not separated by eighty miles of land and ocean.

  But Hope’s heart was here at the camp. She had too many friends that she’d have to leave if they moved to Catalina. It had become her home, so Carver did what any good husband would do; he shut up and smiled when Hope decided she wanted to stay at Lost Valley.

  Carver rubbed his temples. The Valley’s population had doubled over the last half year with survivors popping up on just about every supply run. The large number of people had finally necessitated the formation of a rudimentary government. Elections had taken place last week, and in about twelve hours, they’d have their first formal town council meeting. The small community’s future would be defined by the decisions that would be made later that day.

  Carver had been nominated for the council, but he quickly declined the offer. He was a warrior and wanted nothing to do with the political infighting that would eventually come with the formation of the government. He preferred to be pointed in the direction of the enemy and given the order to destroy them. Making the big decisions would be up to someone else.

  Carver closed his eyes. The buzz of insects in the nearby high grass serenaded him to sleep.

  Carver woke when he heard the screen door gently slap against its frame. He rolled up and saw Hope walking toward him with their baby swaddled in a receiving blanket and a cup of coffee in her hand.

  Carver gratefully accepted the mug as Hope sat next to him. She pulled the blanket from J.K.’s face, revealing a smiling, sleeping infant.

  Carver’s heart melted. Nothing could have prepared him for the feeling he got looking at his newborn son. His exhaustion from a lack of sleep and the daily stress of trying to survive faded away.

  “Thanks. Do you need any help?” Carver whispered.

  “Nope. He’s already fed and burped. Poor guy fell asleep while I was changing his diaper.”

  Hope looked radiant. Her thick, Turkish cotton robe tightly surrounded her body and enhanced the swell of her breasts. Hope caught him staring at her chest and blushed.

  “Those are for your son,” she said.

  “It’s been eight weeks,” Carver said slyly. “Doc said we only needed to wait six.”

  “Behave,” Hope said, smiling. “You’ll get your chance. I want to get back into some rhythm so we don’t get surprised by another little Carver.”

  Carver’s budding hormones immediately crashed at the thought of a second baby. Hope was right to wait, even though the risk of a pregnancy was still low.

  Both sat silently, enjoying the brief respite from their daily chaotic life. The brightening sky, combined with the sounds of nature gradually awakening to another summer day, serenaded the two tired parents.

  Carver closed his eyes and made believe that normal life had returned. Birds still sang their morning song, while insects flitted amongst the tall grass. The rest of the camp had yet to awaken and the world seemed right. Even if it was just for a few, sacred moments.

  The distinct sound of a bowel movement from under the swaddling was quickly followed by squirming and the uncomfortable cry of their son. Carver looked at Hope and both smiled. It had been good while it lasted.

  “You may have to go out for some more diapers,” Hope said sarcastically.

  “Ha.” Carver grunted at her joke. They’d hit a grocery store several weeks before and brought back enough disposable diapers for ten infants.

  “You need some help?” he asked.

  “No. Stay here. I’ll just be a minute. One of us may as well enjoy the quiet.”

  “Thanks. I’ll…”

  Carver’s radio squawked three times.

  “Contact!” the voice hissed. “This is tower one. I have movement on the camp road. Multiple contacts.”

  Carver jumped up and ran into the house. Seconds later, he was sprinting toward the water tower, pulling his chest rig around his body while struggling to hold onto his battle rifle. Shrek was next to him, ears up and eyes darting back and forth.

  “On your six,” Carver heard.

  A quick glance showed Kinney running a few yards behind. Further back, over a dozen men poured out of the old maintenance garage and were moving to their pre-planned positions.

  The camp had finally been found. This was the first contact they’d had since the Variant horde from Satan’s Gate had attacked them. The ensuing months of inactivity had given birth to a dangerous complacency. Carver constantly reminded everyone of the need
to prepare, but his admonitions had recently been falling on more and more deaf ears.

  Carver continued to run, never looking back, hoping that the civilians he’d been training would remember what to do.

  He hit the ladder and was up on the platform in seconds. Shrek took a defensive posture on the ground below.

  “Sit-rep,” Carver said as he grabbed the binoculars from the sentry and began scanning the distant fields and weed-infested dirt road.

  “Three hundred meters down. I saw at least half a dozen contacts moving north to south.”

  Looking through the magnified glass, Carver began to search the left side of the dirt lane. The sun hadn’t risen enough to crest the mountain to his back, so the landscape was sparsely illuminated with a dusky, grey-hued light. Long patches of grass and creosote brush were blanketed in dark shades, making it difficult to pick out details.

  “There!” Carver murmured.

  Movement was the only thing he could discern in the shadowy field. Only the shifting of the murky patterns enabled him to pinpoint the intruders’ location. He strained to make out more details, but it was nearly impossible to identify what he was looking at. One thing was certain, the group was moving fast. Whether they were hunters, or the hunted, wasn’t clear.

  Carver quickly looked behind. The last of his men were taking their places at their assigned defensive positions. Reinforced fighting positions had been created throughout the camp. Each location had been chosen to maximize their field of fire at four of the most likely avenues of attack. The camp’s road was easily the first on the list of these potential vectors.

  Satisfied that the men were all in place, he turned back and peered through the binoculars once again.

  “They’re coming up the hill,” Carver said. “Frontal assault.”

  He was about to announce this over the camp’s radio, when he noticed more movement behind the first group. He re-focused and scanned further back. The dark landscape hid the second group, but he could make out the shifting shadows that were blanketing the desert floor.

  “Second wave. A quarter of a mile behind the first group.”

  “That’s weird,” the sentry murmured. “You sure they’re not part of one larger force?”

  Carver had the same thought and peered intently at the sloping desert. There was definitely a gap between them. Could the first group be an advanced element of the larger second force? Were the Variants smart enough to have a scouting element leading the rest?

  The answer was likely no, but Carver couldn’t be sure how the Variants were acting. His experiences with the hordes at the helicopter crash site, and the encounter with the alpha Variant at the air station, let him know that some of the infected kept a modicum of intelligence. There might be a smart Variant leading this group, sending an advanced scouting party ahead to engage the camp before the bulk of the creatures got within weapons’ range. If that was the case, the chances of surviving were radically diminished.

  Any doubts were laid to rest a few moments later. Gunfire erupted from the first faction, sending tracer rounds back toward the second, larger group. The distinct roar of a horde of Variants echoed up the canyon. Humans were being pursued by an unknown number of the infected.

  Carver’s first instinct was to protect his family. He had warned himself of this likelihood and hesitated to take action. After all, hiding was a legitimate option.

  A few moments later, he forced himself to raise the tower’s flare gun and pull the trigger. Logically, there was no choice. If the humans below were overrun, the Variants would eventually stumble up the road, and the camp would be found. If the humans won the battle, what would be the cost? How many could have been saved by the dozen or so rifles that Lost Valley could bring to the fight?

  It was a lose/lose situation if he did nothing. It was a win/lose situation if he alerted the people below of their presence. In the end, the only possible positive outcome involved bringing the survivors into camp and help lay waste to the pursuing Variant horde.

  The red ball arced out and began to slowly settle to the ground. The additional light revealed the human group. There were nine people. They all looked up as one then turned up the hill. Within a few moments, they were out of the brush and on the road, running for their lives.

  Kinney joined Carver and the sentry on the water tower’s deck. He brought his bolt rifle up and looked through his magnified scope.

  “Jesus,” he almost whispered. “There’s a ton of them.”

  The flare had nearly settled to the desert floor, and the light cast was tightening into a smaller and smaller circle. Just at the edge of the illumination, Kinney could make out the distinct yellow glow of many dozens, if not hundreds, of Variant eyes.

  “We have at least a company-sized Variant horde,” Kinney said. “They’re about three hundred yards behind the first group.” A few moments later, he added, “I don’t think they’re going to make it; the Variants are closing the gap awfully fast.”

  Carver glassed the situation once again. He watched as the humans lumbered up the road, the steep grade slowing their advance. All the while, the Variants sped along, cutting into the human lead, eating the distance between the two groups. It took just a few moments to do the mental calculations. The humans wouldn’t make it. They’d be overrun well before they got within weapons’ range.

  “Viper One. This is Red One actual. Do you copy? Over,” Carver barked into his mic.

  “This is Viper One. Go Red One.”

  “What’s your status, Viper One?”

  “I’m five-by-five, Red One. Just give me the word. Over.”

  Carver stared at the microphone, refusing to key the radio and send his friend out to do battle. The fuel for Everly’s Viper attack helicopter had degenerated since the infection had spread. His last mission almost a month ago had nearly resulted in the loss of the craft. Everly had barely made it back to camp, the engine struggling to keep the bird aloft as his A-1 jet fuel had deteriorated into a less-than-effective fuel. After that, they’d put some additives into their remaining supply, and Everly had successfully taken the helicopter off the ground for a few moments before settling back down. But that was a while ago, and he’d had no sustained flight since then. They’d even grounded Donaldson’s Osprey, fearing the degradation of the av-fuel. Sending Everly out now could be a death sentence. Finally, Carver made a choice. He keyed the mic.

  “Viper One. If everything is nominal, you’re good to go. Enemy formation advancing up the camp road. Fifteen hundred meters west of the entrance, moving to the east in pursuit of an uninfected group. You have about two hundred meters separation, but the gap is closing fast.”

  “Copy that, Red One. Viper One going on station. I’ll be there in under one mike.”

  “Good hunting, Viper One. Red One actual, out.”

  Carver nodded at Kinney. Both men knew the risks. Just as importantly, so did Everly. They could hear the whine of the jet engines as Everly spun up his craft. Soon, the deep, guttural thumping of his quad-bladed main rotors echoed down the mountain. In seconds, the deadly craft rushed overhead. Its downwash blasting the desert floor.

  “Godspeed,” Kinney whispered as tornadic winds whipped around the tower. Within moments, Everly disappeared over the crest of the plateau, a trail of dust and debris in his wake.

  Howard Everly

  Commander, Viper One

  Marine Attack Helicopter

  Lost Valley

  The damn Variants were about to meet their end—that is, if Everly could keep his bird in the air long enough to remind them of the devastation humans could bring.

  This was his baby. He loved this craft as much as any man could feel for a collection of metal and electronics. She obeyed his every wish. With a twist of his wrist or gentle roll of his foot, his Viper would respond. She’d gracefully soar through the air, responding like a lover to his expert touch.

  When the fuel began to deteriorate and the Viper’s engines fluttered, he felt as
if he had betrayed his best friend. She fed on av-fuel, living and breathing the kerosene mixture. It was her lifeblood, and Everly couldn’t prevent it from degenerating. He couldn’t provide her with the fuel she needed to stay alive.

  He ran to the Viper when the call came over the radio. His abbreviated, emergency start-up checklist amounted to firing up the jet engines, making sure the ammunition rack was full, and checking the HUD slaved gun’s function. As his rotors spun up, he put on his helmet and verified the function of the 20mm cannon. One of the ground crew stood outside and watched as he moved his head left to right, then up to down, verifying that the muzzle of the deadly weapon mirrored his movement. He got a “thumbs up” from the ground crew right as Carver called him, asking about his status.

  The whine of the engines sounded normal. His external weapon’s rack had a full complement of Hellfire missiles, eight on each wing. His internal 20mm rack was filled with cannon rounds. This would likely be his last mission, and he caught himself hoping there would be enough of the enemy out there to justify expending all of his ordnance. He smiled at the thought and berated himself for even entertaining the notion.

  As he gently pulled back on the collective, the angle of the rotor’s blades shifted, and the Viper quickly lifted into the sky. His feet and hands began their instinctive ballet, sending the machine racing downhill.

  He activated his infrared sensors and quickly identified the two groups. The much smaller group of humans was moving up the camp’s road about a kilometer from the entrance. Behind them, a mass of creatures appeared. There were over a thousand Variants spread out on the cool desert floor, rapidly closing the gap between the two groups.

  Everly hovered over the humans and looked at the advancing horde. As they sped up the mountain, he noticed a pack of creatures break off from the main group.

  “Red One. This is Viper One. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Go ahead, Viper,” Carver immediately replied.

  “The horde is continuing straight at you,” he began, “but a group has broken off and is continuing up the wadi. Estimate about fifty Tangos. They’ll be coming up the slope to the south. Do you copy? Over.”