Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate

by Browning, Walt

  Gonzalez turned as over a dozen creatures materialized from the woods to their left.

  “Contact right!” Kyle yelled.

  Another mass of infected boiled over the cliff, well to the west of where the main attack was coming from.

  Gonzalez did a quick calculation of the enemy’s strength. They numbered nearly a hundred, and that meant he and his men had little chance of keeping the Variants from overwhelming the camp.

  The Marine keyed his mic and relayed their situation.

  “Hold the line,” Carver said. “I’ll send help as soon as I can.”

  “Aye, aye.” He shook his head in frustration.

  He watched as the advancing creatures spread out over the field, making themselves more difficult to target.

  “Damn it!” he mumbled. “It’s like they know what they’re doing.”

  “What do you mean?” Kyle asked as he stared through his own scope.

  “They’re too spread out.”

  Shrek growled once again. Another small group of creatures had appeared from the edge of a cliff. These monsters rolled over the precipice and began running toward the camp.

  Before Kyle could stop him, Shrek bolted. The Mal raced forward through the field of tall, dried grass, his path marked by the compression of the ground cover as he plowed toward the Variant attack. Leaping up above the swaying canopy of field weeds and mountain sedge to get his bearings, he caught the attention of the creatures. Suddenly, the spread-out line of monsters began to coalesce as they turned from their initial charge and raced toward the war dog in one large mass.

  Shrek bounded forward and raced in front of the advancing horde. He turned them to the west, sending the line of creatures across the QRF’s field of fire.

  Gonzalez saw the monsters bunching up behind the Mal as the canine raced across the prairie. Even though they were still a few hundred yards out, the sudden tactical advantage was too good to pass up. Their enemy had just bunched themselves into a nice, tight target.

  “Fire!” he cried.

  Five weapons erupted at once, sending a hail of lead into the massed creatures that were chasing Shrek across the flatland.

  Carver

  From his vantage point on top of the water tower, Carver watched as the horde advanced up the meadow. He glassed the flags that had been placed many months before and called back to camp.

  “This is Red One actual. Send a round. One thousand meters.”

  A few seconds later, a muffled pop! was followed by a few seconds of apprehension. Carver smiled as the 60mm shell erupted on the leading edge of the Variant rush just as they got to the first of the flags. Two more shells followed, landing inside the Variants’ ranks. The high explosive (HE) rounds killed dozens of the monsters.

  “Fire for effect. Fire for effect,” he barked into the mic.

  Their three mortars began sending rounds downrange. Their HE charges ripped the creatures’ bodies into small pieces or tore limbs and heads from torsos. The bursts detonated haphazardly on the advancing line and many made it through the explosive gauntlet. The advancing horde had been thinned, but they continued to advance.

  “Adjust fire,” Carver said into the mic. “Left one hundred, drop three hundred.”

  A few moments went by before the onslaught resumed. With three teams sending their rounds downrange, the explosions were erupting at nearly one per second.

  “What the hell?” Carver said as a phosphorous smoke round landed amongst the infected. It was then followed by a continuous stream of HE explosions. The smoke round had obviously been a mistake.

  Carver continued to walk the rounds closer and closer to their position. With each adjustment, fewer of the creatures were making it through the rain of death.

  That’s when he noticed the burning Variants lurching about behind the dwindling horde. The dried grass had been set aflame, likely from the phosphorous smoke round. Dozens of burning monsters staggered about before collapsing. It planted a seed in the SEAL’s brain. An idea that he put away as he continued coordinating their defensive response.

  The final flag in the field had been set two hundred meters from their line. It was danger close. The explosions shook the ground and an occasional zing of shrapnel could be heard flying over their heads.

  Using the scope of his rifle, Carver scanned the remaining creatures as they staggered through the final detonations. They moved listlessly, the multiple rounds having concussed their addled brains.

  Carver called back to the mortar teams.

  “Cease fire. Cease fire. Cease fire. All three teams report to Gonzalez and support our flank.”

  The army of infected that had first been measured in the many hundreds had been whittled down to just a few dozen. The smoke from the burning grasses and expended TNT obscured Carver’s view. He held the defensive line’s fire until the wind carried the haze away.

  “Take them down,” he broadcast over the battle network after a gust of mountain air cleared their field of fire.

  Dozens of rifles barked, the popping of the .556 rounds ringing off like popcorn cooking in the microwave.

  The disoriented infected staggered about, their sense of smell and hearing having been obliterated by the blasts. It wasn’t until a bullet eventually found some critical body part that they’d drop heavily to the ground, almost as if relieved to be taken from the hell they’d just been through.

  Within a minute, the last of the Variants were dispatched. Not one had come within a football field of his men. Their preparations had worked perfectly.

  “Well done!” Kinney said, slapping the SEAL on the shoulder.

  Carver grinned and was about to reply when the crack of rifles reminded him that their flank was still under attack.

  Shrek

  Kyle leads me away from the battle. At first, I didn’t want to leave Carver’s side. He stands above all others, commanding the humans in our fight against the asp.

  But when he commanded me to go out with Kyle, I obeyed. I am a soldier. I am a fighter. It is what I do.

  We find Gonzalez. His scent is strong with sweat. He is anxious for the battle.

  I stand next to them, waiting for the enemy.

  At first, I was angry that we were not with Carver because that is where the fighting will be. I should be there to protect him. I want to kill the asp.

  But I hear the infected creatures in the distance. They are coming at us. Another group of the foul-smelling monsters is just over the hill.

  Then, I see them. The hair on my neck stands up. I feel the battle blood coursing through my body. I quiver, waiting to be released to fight.

  There are many asps, and I growl to them, warning of the mass of creatures moving our way.

  Another group of them pops up, and a soldier sees them.

  “Contact left!” I hear.

  He was late recognizing them. I heard them already and knew where they would be coming from.

  But I’m not surprised.

  I am always first to smell.

  I am always the first to hear.

  I am always the first to know.

  Because I am Shrek.

  I always win.

  I am the best.

  It is just who I am.

  The asps run towards us, and the soldiers aim their weapons at them. Suddenly, a group appears to our right and begins to run toward Carver. I can’t let that happen! I must guard Carver.

  I yell out, warning my brother soldiers of the new group.

  I do not wait for orders. I know what I have to do.

  I leap away from my mates and run at the new group. I must make them stop. I must keep them from Carver.

  The grass is tall enough to block my view of the enemy. I have to leap as I run to make sure I see where the asps are going. They are strong and run well. I am better. I catch up to them and bark. They stop and turn to me. It is what I want.

  I run back the way they came. They follow me. I bound up and down as I run, giving them a glimpse of me
as I lead them away.

  More join them and soon, the entire pack of asps is following me.

  It is almost a game; the creatures are so stupid.

  I am proud to be Shrek as I run. They will never catch me. I will lead them back to Gonzalez and Kyle and their rifles.

  I leap up and turn my head to see how far back the asps are.

  That’s when I almost die.

  My back paw lands in a hole. A deep hole made by creatures the humans call ground squirrels.

  I twist my leg. A pain shoots up my back. My back legs go numb and I fall.

  Within moments, the tingling in my body begins to go away. I have to get back on my feet and run.

  The pain in my back takes my breath. I fight through it. I move as fast as I can.

  An asp appears. It lunges at me. I smell its foul odor and dodge its grasp.

  The pain in my body returns. I move anyway. I keep going. I keep running, but my legs aren’t working like they should.

  It used to be a small pain I’ve lived with for a long time. Now it makes my breath go away.

  The monsters keep chasing me. I dodge around them and run back to where they came into the field. They follow.

  I hear the guns now. I lead the asps back toward them. I hear their cries when they are put down.

  I turn to look once again. There are a few remaining. I bark and limp on. The asps run at me once again. I can’t move like I should, and a large male closes in. It snarls and leaps at me. I won’t be able to move in time.

  I stop and turn.

  I will fight to the very end.

  I try to dodge its grasp, but my body won’t respond.

  The asp rises to strike.

  It screams.

  I am ready to kill it or die trying.

  Then suddenly, an explosion erupts nearby, and its head disappears.

  It falls to the ground.

  I stand quivering.

  I am angry at my body. It failed me.

  Then he appears.

  He bends down and touches my face.

  I lean into his hands.

  I should have known he’d be here for me.

  We protect each other.

  My friend and partner saved my life.

  I smile at Carver.

  We are a team.

  Carver

  When the distant gunshots echoed from their flank, Carver could only think of one thing. Half his family was over there, and he had to get to them.

  He leapt from the platform and rolled out the momentum of his jump. He sprinted toward the sound of the battle, outpacing every other soldier out there.

  As he approached the defensive line, he was stunned to watch Shrek running across the grassy field with over a dozen Variants close behind. It took him less than a minute to make it next to Gonzalez. The Marine was in a tucked, sitting position, methodically picking off the Variants that were chasing his dog.

  It only took a moment to see that Shrek was in trouble. The faithful canine was not running normally. There was a limp in its gait and several of the Variants were rapidly gaining ground.

  Carver skirted behind the men firing and ran up the left flank. While running, he swung his 300 Blackout rifle off his shoulder and sprayed bullets at the three creatures that were closest to Shrek. He emptied his magazine with a full auto dump. Several of the 205-grain bullets found their marks, shattering the skulls of two of the three Variants.

  His bolt held back, revealing an empty chamber. He was less than ten yards away from his dog when the last Variant coiled to strike. Poor Shrek was obviously hobbled by an injury, his hind legs failing to respond as the dog tried to run.

  Carver had a decision to make. One that would determine his faithful companion’s future. Reload his rifle, pull out his handgun, or swing his shotgun from its sheath across Variant’s back.

  Fortunately, Carver chose wisely.

  The double-aught pellets from his Mossberg decapitated the creature, just as it was about to strike. He stopped running when the final Variant fell then he replaced his pistol-gripped blaster back into its scabbard.

  He walked over to Shrek, fearful that he’d find a wound or bite. A quick assessment found the dog whole, other than a painful response when he squeezed its joints.

  “Shit!” Kinney huffed as he finally made it to the battleground. “I’ve never seen you run that fast before.”

  Carver just smiled as he continued to do an assessment of the dog.

  “What’s wrong?” Kinney asked.

  The retired Marine walked over to the two and watched Shrek hold back a whimper when Carver touched it in the wrong place.

  “I think he injured his hip joint,” Carver concluded.

  “Let’s get him back to camp. Let doc take a look at him,” Kinney replied with concern. “Maybe we can ice him down or something.”

  Everly

  Thirty minutes after the Variants initiated their attack, Everly finished off the last of the creatures that had followed Blevins in Carver’s pickup truck. They’d chased Jennifer all the way down to the bottom of the mountainous road, where he put the last of them into the ground with one final, deadly burst from his cannon. The threat had been eliminated.

  Everly radioed Jennifer that she was in the clear, and she pulled the pickup into the parking lot of Hawk Ridge Winery.

  “I’m going to take a break,” she announced over the radio.

  “I’ve got your back,” Everly replied. “Take your time.”

  He ran a tight racetrack pattern over the area, searching the desert for any monsters that may have eluded him. There were none.

  Jennifer lingered at the winery for nearly twenty minutes before she began a slow return up the road. When she finally arrived back at camp, it was with several more cases of wine.

  Stepping out of the cab, she thanked the scouts who began unloading the boxes from the bed of the truck. Then, with a grin, she added, “The Chardonnay is mine.”

  Carver

  Carver called for a vehicle rather than make the dog walk back to camp. They drove Shrek back to the infirmary, where Chris Reedy evaluated the Mal.

  “I’m not sure if there isn’t more going on, other than a sprain,” he said after his examination. “I’m pretty sure Shrek jammed his right rear joint, and that should heal on its own. But he’s definitely got other issues.”

  Chris got some ibuprofen and crushed it before adding it to a spoon of food. Shrek eagerly gulped the offering down.

  “Keep him as still as you can,” Reedy recommended. “I’d also let Doc Maxwell know about his injuries before they arrive next month.”

  Carver’s friend Porky Shader and his wife, Chloe Maxwell, were due to make a visit. They were hitching a ride on one of the boats from Catalina Island. It was a quarterly caravan of boats, where goods and news were freely traded. Chloe was an actual veterinarian, unlike Chris Reedy, who was a former San Diego paramedic.

  “Good idea,” Carver said with hope. “She’ll fix him.”

  — 3 —

  Be the hunter, not the hunted:

  Never allow your unit to be caught with its guard down.

  — General James Mattis

  Lost Valley

  Later that day, the camp sent patrols back to the plateau. Carver led his own squad out into the battlefield to assess the damage. While many of the monsters had died farther down the hill in their pursuit of Blevins, Everly’s first attack run had obliterated hundreds at the far end of the field. Hundreds more were rended by the mortars, and dozens were killed by the camp’s rifles.

  Most of the downed Variants lay lifeless in the gore-saturated grass, but some still lived. Each body was addressed with a security shot to the head, ensuring that their enemy wouldn’t rise back up.

  Carver finally returned to the camp after several hours of this messy but necessary work. Hope was waiting on the porch of their home, a cold glass of domestic beer in her hand for both him and Kinney.

  “J.K. is sleeping,” she sa
id. “You two look a mess.”

  “I need a shower,” Kinney said, tipping the bottle toward her before taking a long draw. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  The old Marine slowly moved off to his place. His tired and painful gait reflected the mood they all felt.

  Part of Carver and Kinney’s depression was the injury to Shrek. But as to the rest of the camp, a lot of their sadness was the knowledge that their camp had finally been found, destroying the illusion that they were forever safe in their high desert retreat. A blanket of malaise seemed to settle over the community.

  Carver watched his friend leave, then stripped down and put his filthy clothing into a metal garbage can before going inside to get cleaned up. Hope put a lid on the container. She’d wash the gear later, making sure to avoid contamination from any possible spatters of blood or sputum her husband may have picked up during and after the battle.

  Carver finally came back out onto the porch after a long, hot shower and lay down on the plastic-covered couch.

  “You want some breakfast?” Hope asked, before sitting on an adjacent chair. “Randy’s feeding the new arrivals right now.”

  “No. Not right now. I’ll wait for lunch,” he said absently.

  “We didn’t lose anyone, did we?” she asked, reminding her husband that the mission had been a complete success.

  “No. It’s all good.”

  Hope sat quietly. She knew that Shrek’s injuries were a concern, but something else was bothering him. She could take an educated guess as to what was causing his foul mood. There were dozens of reasons for being depressed. But until now, he never showed any emotion other than optimism. This dark state was uncharacteristic of the man she’d fallen in love with. It was concerning to her, both as a member of a community who relied on him for protection, and as his wife.

  She suppressed her urge to confront him and instead, sat quietly as he grappled with whatever was keeping him down.

  After a few minutes of silence, she rose from the chair. “I’m hungry. Would you watch J.K. while I go to Beckham Hall to eat?”