“Pito! Good morning.”
He turned at the sound of the friendly old man. Dr. Linus Rath stood in the doorway, smiling. His disheveled, thin hairline and off-kilter glasses were complemented by the coffee stains that dotted his lab jacket. He hadn’t shaved in days. He looked like he always did, which gave the young man some comfort that some things hadn’t changed.
“Dr. Rath. What’s going on?”
“Oh, it’s all very exciting. We’ve confirmed that our transmitting diffractive-refractive lens project achieved a .4 micro arc second resolution.”
“Really?” Pito replied. “That’s amazing. How did they overcome the layer boundary problems?”
The Caltech scientists were working with NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory to create an X-ray telescope that could scan the event horizon of super black holes. It was a potential glimpse into the physics of these gravitational monsters and possibly a hint at parallel universes. Pito didn’t even begin to understand the mathematics, but he had a quick mind and Rath, for all his difficult social skills, could explain his research so that Pito could appreciate what was being accomplished.
After a few minutes of a mostly comprehensible explanation, Dr. Rath finished.
“It was as simple as using a different titanium alloy,” he gleamed. “There’s no reason we can’t improve to .1 mm or smaller. It’s all so exciting.”
“Is that why the Army is here?” Pito asked.
“Why boy, what Army?”
Pito grinned at the man’s total lack of awareness. He didn’t even know that the military had set up shop.
“Where’s Dr. Patel?” Pito asked, recognizing that Rath could offer nothing about the Army’s presence.
“How should I know? I’ve been video conferencing with the main lab at JPL all night. I just came in here for some coffee.”
“I’ll find her, and congrats. Sounds exciting.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Rath said as he moved to the room’s coffee maker.
The doddering scientist continued to talk as Pito left the room in search of someone who could tell him what was going on.
Dr. Aditti Patel’s office door was closed. That wasn’t normal. Pito pressed his ear near the metal panel but could hear nothing. The handle was unlocked, so he turned it and stepped in.
The small reception room was normally occupied by an administrative assistant. Instead, an armed soldier stood in front of Patel’s private office door.
“Can I help you, sir?” he barked.
“Uh. I’m here to see Dr. Patel,” Pito hesitantly replied.
“Your name?”
The man had Pito step back into the hallway while he checked with Patel. A moment later, he was being led into her office, where she sat facing an Army officer.
“Pito!” she said. “They called me from the front gate. I was so happy that you’d made it.”
“Is this the young man you were talking about?” the officer asked. He was sitting at a chair in front of Dr. Patel. Pito recognized the silver double bars of a captain pinned to his outfit.
“Yes. If anyone can help us, he can.”
The man rose and extended his hand. “I’m Captain Elliot. I hear you may be able to help us.”
After a moment of thought, Pito took the man’s hand. “How can I help you?”
“Dr. Patel tells me you’re her dog robber.”
“Say what?”
“You’re her scrounger. You find her hard-to-get stuff.”
“Well, yeah,” he replied hesitantly. “That’s not illegal.”
“No. No,” Elliot said, chuckling. “In fact, it’s a gift we need to use. I’d like you to pick up some things for us. Nothing illegal, just some supplies. Can you do that for me?”
Pito glanced at Dr. Patel, who sat smiling behind her desk. There was a hard edge to her demeanor. Something was happening and she was holding back.
“I don’t think I can help,” Pito finally replied. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t want any part of it until I know the whole story.”
“Huh,” Elliot grunted. “You’re right. He’s sharp.”
“Told you,” Patel replied. “Now can I fill him in?”
Elliot stared at Pito as if assessing a potential foe. After a few moments, he nodded for Dr. Patel to explain.
“Pito, we need you to go get as much food as you can. Make sure everything is either canned or packaged and will last for at least a year, if not longer.”
“Sure, Doc. I’ll take care of it early tomorrow. I can access my contacts and get you what you need. But why all the armed guards? Why is the Army here?”
“We need it now, not tomorrow,” Elliot said. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Captain, please. Tell the boy the whole story.”
“It’s classified.”
“Captain Elliot. If my scientists are right, there won’t be anyone to tell by next week.”
What does that mean? Pito’s stomach twisted.
Elliot stared for a moment, then nodded once again.
“The virus,” Patel began. “It’s going to be bad. Really bad.”
“How bad?”
“An extinction-level event,” Elliot chimed in. “This will be the end unless we can somehow stop its spread.”
“We’ve brought as many of the Caltech scientists here that we could find; that’s a lot of mouths to feed,” Patel said.
Elliot slapped his hands on the desk in frustration then shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t think of everything. They just gave me the order yesterday. I was lucky to get the soldiers and equipment that I got. How was I supposed to get food as well?”
He started to pace, his face contorting between anger and the pain of failure. “This is as safe a place that we could find to try and ride out this viral infection. But I need food. Enough for a hundred-plus people.”
“For how long?” Pito asked.
“As long as you can. At least a year, if not more.”
Pito did a quick calculation. At two thousand calories per day times a hundred people times three hundred…
“Holy crap,” he murmured. “That’s not going to fit in my van.”
Patel laughed. “No, it won’t.”
“You’ll have supply transports available, courtesy of the California National Guard. I have some five-ton trucks you can take.”
Pito’s brain began to churn. He’d make a call to one of cousins, who worked the Costco warehouse. He’d contact the Mormon Bishop’s Storehouse in Temecula to get their help. They’d donated food to the tribes in the past. Within a few moments, he had a plan.
“I’ve got to make a few calls first.”
“No one is to be warned,” Elliot replied. “Who do you need to call?”
“My contacts.”
“Who are these contacts?”
“Cousins,” Pito replied cryptically.
The three stared at each other. Elliot’s silent demand for more information remained unanswered, and Pito wasn’t about to let his tribal brothers go unwarned. In the end, Pito held the upper hand, and they all knew it.
“You win,” Elliot finally said. “Make your calls, but please, try not to alert the whole state.”
“I won’t,” Pito replied before moving to the door to place his calls. “And I do have cousins that will get you what you need.”
“See. I told you; he’s a scrounger,” Patel said with a wry smile. “Hold on, Pito.” She went to a locked cabinet and retrieved a three-ring binder. “Here, use this.”
She tore off and signed a check from Palomar Observatory.
“No need,” Pito said, pulling out his wallet and showing off a Platinum card. “You can reimburse me. I get points.”
Elliot was the one to smile. “Jeez, kid. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“How the hell did you get a Platinum card?”
“I got contacts.”
Both Elliot and Patel looked at each other and shared a genu
ine laugh.
“Go ahead, kid. I’ll tell my men to meet you at the employee’s entrance.”
“Just be quick about it,” Patel added. “We don’t have much time.”
San Marcos Costco
The five-ton vehicles were parked at the building’s delivery entrance. A forklift was placing the last of the pallets onto the back of the trucks. They’d emptied out the back of the warehouse of every case of rice, pasta, beans, and canned meats.
“Hey, bro. Thanks for the heads up. And thanks for the goodies.” Pito’s cousin watched as the Guardsmen filled the back of his personal pickup truck with supplies.
Pito had put this on his card, as well. If Dr. Patel was right, and it was the end of the world, he wasn’t going to have to pay for all this stuff. If she was wrong, the observatory would reimburse him. With everything he’d bought, he would have enough points on his credit card to fly to Hawaii and spend a week on the beach. It was a win/win situation.
“All done,” the Guardsman said. “We still have room for more supplies. Anywhere else we can go?”
“How’s your fuel?” Pito asked.
“Not a concern. We’ve got several hundred miles left.”
“Then let’s go north on Highway 15. There’s another Costco in that direction.”
The drive was uneventful, other than heavier-than-normal traffic. It was mid-afternoon on a Sunday, and a lot of city people got out of town to spend the weekend by the ocean or at one of the state’s many recreational areas. It was still a little cool for the beach, so the parks in this part of the state were thick with weekend warriors.
With all the military bases in the area, the convoy didn’t get much attention as it rolled up the interstate. They arrived at the next Costco outside of Temecula without incident. The activity around the large warehouse store was almost frantic. Word had gotten out that something bad was brewing, and people were starting to panic.
Pito had them drive to the loading dock, but when his “contact” came out, he was told that they’d sold out of nearly everything.
“What happened, bro?” Pito asked the man.
“Don’t know. Started about three hours ago. Every homey and his sister has been in here buying us out. Heard they were gonna close the airports from one of the managers. All we got is on the floor, and I don’t think you want to take it. They’ll riot.”
Pito and a couple of armed Guardsmen marched into the store. They stopped when they saw the mobs fighting over just about anything that could be eaten. It was as bad as the employee had said.
“Come on. I called the Bishop’s Pantry. They’ve got a lot of long-term storage food.”
The Mormon’s Bishop Storehouse was located in a light industrial area further north and was open to the public. They normally weren’t open on a Sunday, and it required a call before showing up. The storehouse was an amenity the Latter-day Saints church provided to their members. It was also part of their outreach to the community and a service to the poor. Preparedness was fundamental to their ethos, and some of the churches provided a large kitchen with canning equipment for their members. In many respects, they were the country’s first true preppers.
“Hi,” Pito said to the man answering the buzzer.
“Pito. How wonderful to see you! How’s your family?”
“Good, Elder Davis. Thank you for letting us shop on a Sunday.”
“Bad things are happening out there,” he said cryptically.
“How do you know that?” the Guard officer asked.
“Sir, we have churches everywhere, including Chicago. We’ve been warned about the plague coming our way. My people have left the area and gone to safe ground.”
“Elder, do you have food we can purchase?” Pito asked.
“Of course. I’m the last to leave. Take as much as you want. When you’re finished, I’ll be on my way.” The elder nodded to his large SUV sitting in the parking lot. It was full of cardboard boxes filled with #10 cans of food. He propped open the double-glass door entrance. “Come in, gentlemen. We don’t have much time.”
A half-dozen Guardsmen followed Pito into the building. They found a large room with boxes of vacuum-sealed, long-term food items. Beans, rice, dehydrated vegetables, and flours. A large flatbed was wheeled down the aisle and every cardboard box was hauled to the waiting trucks.
“You need to raise your prices,” Pito commented as cans of black beans were stacked on the dolly. Pito kept track of their purchases with a pencil, paper, and clipboard.
They cleaned the place out, filling the beds of their trucks and even a few of the floorboards of the vehicles’ cabins.
“Here,” Pito said, handing the credit card to the elder.
“Pito, this isn’t necessary. If things go the way I think they will, your money will be worthless.”
“At least take down the number,” Pito replied.
“I will settle with you after things calm down, son.” He took the ledger of items, folded it in half, and put it in a drawer. “I know you’re good for it,” he added.
“Thank you, sir,” the officer said. “The government owes you.”
The elder scoffed and smiled. “We don’t deal with governments, just people. I’m glad this food will be put to good use. Gentlemen, it’s time to go.”
The lights were flipped off and the double doors locked. The group gathered in the parking lot next to the large trucks.
“Thanks again, Elder,” Pito said, shaking the man’s hand.
“You’re welcome, Pito. You and your tribe take care. It’s going…”
Screams from the surrounding light industrial park echoed between the nearby metal buildings.
“It seems to be starting. Are you heading back to the reservation?” the elder asked.
“Palomar Mountain,” Pito replied.
“Ah. A great place to ride this out,” he said. After a moment of thought, he continued. “Are you traveling through Temecula?”
“Yes. We’re going to take Route 79 past the hospital and circle around to Palomar from there.”
“I’m meeting a few others from our congregation at our church there in town. It’s on 79, just past the interstate overpass. Might I join your convoy?”
“Absolutely,” the officer replied. “Just slide in behind that HUMVEE; it’s the lead vehicle.”
The convoy sorted itself out then began their journey. They turned out of the parking lot, snaking along the streets toward Temecula.
The traffic on Interstate 15 was already bumper-to-bumper. The lead HUMVEE stopped at the on-ramp to the interstate. The group’s officer stepped out of the vehicle and listened. The sounds of horns and the distinct crunch of bumpers meeting violently helped make the decision to stay on the local roads rather than the interstate.
They wound their way toward Temecula. Cars were beginning to pull out of side streets and clog the road, their roofs and trunk spaces filled with clothing and boxes of the things they thought were worth saving. The going was slow at first but sped up when they turned onto a road that paralleled the highway.
As they moved along next to the interstate, a drainage ditch system flanked them on their right. Occasional housing developments had sprung up on the far side of the rainwater canal and several columns of smoke rose from these massive clusters of homes. Violence was afoot in these communities. The virus had arrived.
They made it to the intersection of the 15 and SR 79. The junction was jammed up by an accident, and both drivers were wrestling on the asphalt. Bystanders stood in a circle, cheering them on while many were video recording the incident on their phones.
“Parker. Get on the deuce,” the officer barked.
One of the Guardsmen popped up through the roof portal and grabbed the .50-caliber weapon (called a Ma Deuce because of its military designation as the M2 machine gun.) He pulled and released the charging handle, sending a round into the chamber.
“I’m hot, L.T.,” he yelled down.
“Push through on my c
ommand,” the lieutenant told the driver. Then in a louder voice he continued. “If anyone tries to stop us, cut them down.”
“Copy that,” the gunner replied.
“Yes, sir,” the driver added.
The officer transmitted the same order over the squad radio. Within moments, each of the .50-cals were manned and ready to fire.
“Okay. Let’s move.”
The driver hit the horn button. The sound was almost comical with the nearly four-ton vehicle emitting a high-pitched beep, rather than a deep-throttled booming blast that it should have made.
The HUMVEE started to move around the cars. They rolled onto the sidewalk and then toward the center of the road, where the altercation was still playing out.
The HUMVEE driver pulled slowly up to the group of spectators, all the while hitting his horn. People turned to see what was making the noise. Several moved aside, but most ignored it.
“Damn it,” the officer said. Then he leaned back and shouted up to the gunner.
“Send a burst into the overpass berm to the right,” he yelled.
A moment later, the boom! of the .50-caliber bullets echoed off the overpass and its concrete pillars. The rounds ripped up the dirt and stone on the south side of the intersection.
That got their attention—at least, most of them.
Dozens fled, yelling at the soldiers, or just screaming out of fear. But the original two drivers continued to fight in the middle of the road.
“Damn idiots,” the officer said just as three people jumped onto the backs of some of the fleeing rioters.
“Shit, L.T.,” the driver said, “that son-of-a-bitch is biting that girl.”
“What the hell?” the officer replied. “Who does that?”
The woman was down on the ground, her attacker latched onto her back. The crowd around them was scattering, and the crew of the lead vehicle could only see glimpses of the attack between the running mob. An opening in the crowd finally gave them a clear view of the assault.
“Oh, my God,” Pito cried. “Look!”
The attacker was on the woman’s back and had ripped off a chunk of her flesh. Now he was chewing on the bloody meat. The woman lay in shock as the greyish-colored creature lifted its head back and swallowed huge pieces in large gulps.
Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate Page 6
