Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate

by Browning, Walt

  “Sure,” he replied absently.

  Carver shifted on the couch and stared at the porch’s overhead ceiling. He dropped his hand to the side, looking for Shrek. The Mal wasn’t there. He was sleeping in their bedroom, an ice pack wrapped around his hip.

  His mind began to race. The run-in with the Variants meant the creatures were finally leaving the cities. Their food supplies must be running very low for them to come this far.

  The camp had already eliminated all the local Variants when they sealed the creatures in the cave at Satan’s Gate. Miles of desert and grasslands stood between the camp and the nearest large city, and there was nothing in between that might lure the Variants toward them. There was little food and almost no shelter to hide from the daytime sun. Carver had counted on this to buffer the settlement from any future attacks. He was wrong.

  Having this large of a group assault their camp meant the Variants were getting desperate. Desperate creatures do desperate things, and the likelihood that there were other hordes roaming the countryside was a distinct possibility.

  There was so much to think about. Would they be better off on Catalina Island and join the seemingly safe settlement that his friend and fellow SEAL Porky Shader had helped create? Could they protect themselves here if they had more resources? What was the likelihood of another attack? So many questions and no answers.

  He needed more intel and was struck by the realization that hiding in these mountains had left him blind to his surrounding area of operation. He’d forgotten one of the most important rules that had been drilled into him as a military squad leader. The best way to keep a patrol base safe was to patrol. They should have had ears and eyes out on their periphery, and this lack of forethought had nearly cost them all their lives.

  A squeal from inside the house caught his attention. J.K. was awake.

  He jumped up from the couch, pushing his thoughts aside, and entered the kitchen. Hope had put his baby basket on the room’s table with J.K. swaddled inside. He was cooing at the mobile she had placed above him. When Carver’s face appeared next to the hanging furry animals, the little man’s face lit up with a wide smile.

  “Hey, big guy,” Carver whispered. He lifted the boy’s legs and bent over to take a whiff. No smell of pee or poop. “Atta boy. Save it for Mom.”

  He picked up the baby and held him against his chest. The boy was almost four months old and had already developed his muscles. J.K. lifted his head off of Carver’s shoulder and stared up at his father. The little guy beamed with joy and pride at the accomplishment.

  “Whatever I need to do, I’ll protect you,” Carver whispered.

  He gave his son a kiss on the top of his head. He put J.K. back in his plastic seat then grabbed the handle and nearby diaper bag and walked to Beckham Hall. He felt better now. He knew what he had to do to protect the camp and, more importantly, his family. They needed to strike out and find out what was going on in the outside world.

  Beckham Hall

  The low murmur of several conversations drifted from the building. With the midday sun finally heating up the plateau, several of the hall’s shuttered windows were open. Carver glanced at the thermometer that was attached to the doorframe. It was over 60° in the shade while the overhead sun had already cooked off the morning’s dew that had been deposited the night before on the building’s roof.

  The screen door slapped against the frame, earning several glances by some of the more alert members of the group. Two of them reached for their sidearms and one for his nearby battle rifle. He couldn’t fault them for their intensity. They’d nearly been overrun.

  Hope raised her hand and waved him over. Five of the room’s tables had been pulled together into a cluster. Hope sat with the new arrivals, who were rabidly eating their lunch.

  “This is our military leader, John Carver,” Jennifer Blevins said as John approached the group. All looked up and smiled.

  “You’re who we have to thank?” a middle-aged man asked.

  He was definitely Native American. Carver nodded, then deferred to Jennifer.

  “Actually, I had a lot of help. Everly over there and Jen took care of over half the creatures. They deserve the credit.”

  Everly had joined the conversation, along with his girlfriend, Erin Donaldson.

  “Yes,” the Native American said. “I saw their bravery. We’d all be dead if it hadn’t been for you. Thank you!”

  He spoke loudly enough for all to hear. Most simply nodded and returned to their meals. The rest just kept feeding their faces.

  “I’m sorry. Did we do something to upset you all?” the man asked, dropping his voice so only those at the five tables could hear.

  “No,” Jen replied quickly. “It’s just that we’re all tired. We were kind of busy this morning.”

  She smiled at the attempted joke. It fell flat with the group.

  “Actually, they are upset,” Carver said.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You brought them here,” John replied. “You brought the Variants to our home.”

  The man’s face dropped, and the survivors went quiet. Whether from shame or out of fear that they’d be ostracized and kicked out of the settlement, their fear was palpable.

  “We’ll leave,” the man finally said.

  “No,” John said quietly. “They’ll get over it. We all will.”

  “I recognize bigotry when I see it,” he said softly. “We’ve lived with it for hundreds of years. We’ll finish our meal and be on our way.”

  Carver was about to reply, when the screen door slapped again. They turned and saw Kyle and Menily enter the hall. The young Cahuilla Indian girl, who had joined them before the battle of Satan’s Gate, had been responsible for saving Carver’s life. When he’d been trapped in Temecula’s hospital, Menily grabbed a nearby motorbike and drew the Variant horde away. That gave Kinney and his group of scouts the chance to go into the building and rescue him. Since then, she and Kyle had become a couple. They entered with hands held.

  “That’s my son, Kyle,” Carver said to the newcomers. “And that is Menily. She joined us from the Los Coyotes Reservation.”

  Menily saw the new survivors and froze. They were the first indigenous people she’d seen since she’d lost her father to the infection. She let go of Kyle’s hand and rushed over to the table, looking to see if any were from her tribe. Her face fell flat when all nine turned out to be strangers.

  One of the new women stood and approached Menily. “I’m Norma,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “I’m Menily.” She grasped the older woman’s hand. “Cahuilla tribe.”

  The man Carver had been speaking with rose and embraced the young girl. “I’m Ed Nelson, chairman of the Luiseño tribal council.” He held out his hand to Kyle, who grasped it firmly.

  “Kyle, sir. Nice to meet you.” The young man shook hands while looking Nelson in the eyes.

  Nelson seemed to soften with the encounter. The young couple’s entrance couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Ed turned to Carver and nodded. “Your son, huh?”

  “Yeah. Along with this little pooping machine in my arms.”

  Hope began to rise, when Carver waved her back. “He’s fine. Nothing to deal with.”

  “Give me my son,” Hope said with a smile.

  Carver handed the little boy over to her. She was immediately surrounded by the four women who had just arrived. The rest of the world disappeared for the five females as they hovered over the little boy, all making faces and cooing sounds. The rest of the table shook their heads at the display of maternal attention.

  “You look well,” Ed said to Menily.

  “They take care of me,” she said, glancing at Kyle. “They take care of everyone.”

  Carver looked at Nelson. “As I was trying to say, we don’t blame you specifically. It was inevitable that this was going to happen. Trouble was bound to find us sooner or later. That’s why everyone is so
down. We thought we could hide forever. It was a fool’s dream.”

  “We thought the same,” Ed replied. “We were far into the area of Palomar Mountain and had quarantined ourselves. We blocked off the access roads and had months of peace. Then, the los malvados came. We fought, but there were too few of us. We were lucky to come across you and your place. We didn’t mean to bring them here. I am sorry.”

  “Not like you had a choice. You had no idea we were here.”

  “We were looking for a cave or something defensible. We felt that God had touched us when your flare went up.”

  “In the long run, your appearance was a blessing for us as well. We needed this wake-up call. We’ve been hiding up here too long. We’ve got to be more proactive.”

  “So. Tell us what happened. How did you end up at Lost Valley?” Jen asked.

  “I’ll let Pito tell that story. It started with him.”

  The young man seemed uncomfortable, squirming in his chair when all eyes rested on him.

  “Hi. I’m Pito Tac,” he said quietly. “I suppose I should begin where things started to get weird. It all started when the Army showed up.”

  Isn’t that the truth? Carver thought. That’s never a good sign.

  — 4 —

  Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness, but it is greatness.

  — George Bernard Shaw

  “Pito” Tac

  Alberto’s Restaurant

  Second Day after the Outbreak

  Rincon, California

  Pito sat in his van, waiting for the owner of the local Mexican restaurant to arrive. His vehicle was full of supplies that he’d picked up in San Marcos. An early trip to the town’s Costco, along with a visit to a nearby Restaurant Depot, had filled the cargo area of his delivery van.

  “Come on, Alberto,” he griped to himself. “Where are you?”

  He checked his watch for the third time in five minutes. He should have been done with this delivery and on his way to Mother’s Kitchen, his final stop. After that, he had to be at his main job at the Palomar Observatory. It was nearly nine, and he hadn’t unloaded a single box yet. His shift at the observatory began at ten.

  He jumped out of the old Chevy and pounded on the restaurant’s back door. Just as before, there was no answer. Pito cursed. He vowed to get Alberto’s new cell phone number when he next saw him. The restaurant owner’s last phone had been turned off, and the old man swore it had been a mistake. But Pito knew better. The establishment was barely surviving.

  Alberto had been running the business as a one-man show for decades, and the place showed it. He hadn’t put a dime into upgrading the tables, and the walls probably hadn’t seen a coat of paint since Ronald Reagan had been president. Maybe even since he’d been governor in the seventies.

  Social media had been brutal to the business, giving his food good marks but destroying the location on ambiance and cleanliness. Pito knew the place was spotless. You could eat off the floor. But, when the tabletops are cracked and the walls faded, it gives the impression of a lack of attention. An average two-and-a-half-star review meant that only those desperate from hunger would stop and eat his wonderful tacos. Pito felt bad for the old man. He hadn’t adapted to the times and was destined for failure. He would miss the man’s cooking.

  A far-off rumble caught his attention. He moved to the front of the store and looked off to the west. It was a Sunday morning and trucks rarely used the two-lane state highway on the weekends. Vehicle noise usually came from groups of motorcycles cruising to the winding Palomar Mountain lanes or car clubs that roamed the high desert roads. This was different, and as the line of vehicles began to get closer, he noticed dark smoke billowing above and behind them.

  The restaurant sat at a rotary intersection where Highway 76 and Valley Center Road connected. There was a Harrah’s Casino and Resort south of them, about a mile down the road. Pito initially thought a large delivery was heading there.

  A minute later, the lead vehicle came into focus. It was an up-armored HUMVEE, and there was a soldier manning its .50-caliber machine gun. At one point, he aimed it right at Pito but swiveled away when he’d decided there was no threat.

  The HUMVEE was followed by a slew of wicked-looking military four- and six-wheeled vehicles. They all had mounted machine guns. Then came six white school busses, all bearing the logo of the California Institute of Technology. That caught Pito’s attention. Caltech ran the Palomar Observatory. Four military cargo haulers brought up the rear with a final, armed HUMVEE at the back.

  Sure enough, the convoy kept going east on Route 76, heading toward the observatory’s mountain road.

  Pito ran back to his van and followed the convoy. His other stop, Mother’s Kitchen, was on the road up that very mountain.

  He kept his distance, not wanting to provoke the men and their weapons. The convoy took a left off Route 76 and onto South Grade, the road to the observatory.

  The chain of large vehicles slowly wound their way up the curving, two-lane road. Palomar sat over a mile above sea level, and the whine and groans from the diesel engines shook the surrounding black oaks and pine trees. Their deep-throated rumble rolled up the mountainside, and Pito could feel it through the floorboard of his van.

  Other than the convoy moving ahead of him, everything else seemed normal. They’d gotten to Mother’s, a vegetarian restaurant, where a group of Corvette owners had gathered for their meatless breakfast. The car club members would be terrorizing the winding roads later that morning, and Pito was grateful that he’d be at work and not risking life and limb driving the narrow, two-lane byways. Pito turned into the restaurant’s parking lot and drove around back while the military convoy continued up the mountain.

  It took about fifteen minutes to take out Alberto’s delivery, put it to the side, and deliver Mother’s order. He repacked the van and closed the vehicle’s doors just as the manager returned with his check. Five minutes later, he was on the road to Palomar Observatory. He’d have to drop off the supplies to Alberto after work. Nothing remaining in his van was perishable, so the old man would just have to wait. It wasn’t his fault that Alberto hadn’t made it to the store on time.

  The air was becoming cooler as he drove up the mountain. It was mid-April, and the temperature had dropped into the upper 30s the night before. Frost clung to rocks that were still shaded by trees, while the forecast for the mountain said they might hit fifty degrees by midday. He’d dressed appropriately. Pito was a tour guide and would be walking his groups around the public areas of the campus. That included some outdoor time, which he loved.

  His first hint that something was terribly wrong came as he drove the final mile to the observatory’s entrance. There was a swing gate at the public parking lot that was closed at night. It was designed to dissuade after-hours visitors and wasn’t much more than a pipe bent back on itself, attached to a buried pole with large hinges. Not today.

  Two military vehicles blocked the entrance and armed soldiers stood sentinel. As Pito approached the blockade, he was flagged down. A loudspeaker blared orders to stop the van and turn off his engine.

  “Both hands on the steering wheel!” the soldier’s amplified voice commanded.

  He did as he was told.

  Two of the soldiers came out to him. One had his rifle pointed in his general direction while the other approached with his hand on his sidearm.

  “This area is restricted,” the soldier said.

  “I work here,” Pito replied. “My shift starts at ten.”

  “The observatory is closed. You need to turn around and return down the mountain.”

  “Hey, I need to clock in. I can’t afford to lose my job,” Pito said while tapping the observatory’s employee sticker on his windshield.

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re not authorized to enter.”

  “How am I not authorized?” Pito shot back. “I’ve worked here for years. Am I on some kind of do-not-enter list? Why can’t I get to my job?”<
br />
  Pito cringed inside when he said that. He’d been hired right out of high school, less than three years ago. Hopefully, the soldiers in front of him wouldn’t see that he was barely out of his teens, meaning his work history couldn’t have been that long.

  He was in luck. The two soldiers were young and looked just as uncertain as Pito felt. The Army wasn’t here when he left work yesterday afternoon. All this had taken place in the last twelve hours.

  The soldier who had approached him began to speak into his radio. His conversation with whomever was in charge was short, and Pito was waved through the checkpoint.

  He was surprised when he saw more military vehicles in the public lot. There wasn’t a car to be seen, and every truck or HUMVEE had a machine gun mounted on it. Pito began to worry.

  Was it the flu that was being hyped on the news channels last night? Chicago had been the focus of all the reports. Nothing yet in California. It couldn’t be that, he thought.

  Maybe the scientists found extraterrestrial life! The Caltech folks were always listening to the stars. Maybe they heard something that had them all afraid. That made the most sense.

  He drove to the employee parking lot and saw the white busses that he’d been following. They were parked by the facility’s on-sight dorm. Called the Monastery, it was used for observers and scientists who were spending more than one day with them. He stopped and watched as they emptied. Almost sixty passengers in total disembarked.

  Pito parked his van in a space close to the employee entrance of the facility’s administration building. He punched a code at the door and entered an empty hallway. No surprise given the lack of cars outside. He went into the break room to log into the computer. It was tied into Caltech’s mainframe and was where the virtual employee timecard program was located. He’d normally just log into the system and click on a button to clock in, rather than punch a paper card. Instead of the normal start screen, he saw a warning page about the spreading viral infection. Because of this, the university system was closed down. His concern turned into fear.