Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate

by Browning, Walt

  Carlos moved toward the garage door, trying to exit the building, when his car shook violently then dropped front first into a circular hole that formed directly beneath it.

  The shaking suddenly stopped, and Carlos rushed over to his poor Cutlass and stared down into the dark opening.

  Something was moving under the front grill of the vehicle.

  Carlos grabbed a flashlight and shone it into the hole.

  At first, the shape that was trapped under the car didn’t make sense. Sure, there were arms and a head sticking out from under the right bumper, but they didn’t register as human. Then the creature turned its head and stared up.

  The thing’s ape-looking face grimaced as it struggled to push out from under the front grill. Its overall appearance was angular and severe. Its giant lips snarled as it pushed on the car’s steel frame, revealing oversized, curved fangs.

  That’s when Carlos noticed that it didn’t have an iris or pupil, but rather milky white orbs that failed to focus or respond to the blinding beam he was shining at it. Not unlike the sightless eyes of a blind man.

  It hissed and let out a series of chirps and clicks that were answered from further down the hole. He shone the light towards the sounds and saw a tunnel opening that extended horizontally out from under the shop. Shadows were bounding up its inclined floor.

  Carlos panicked. He had no weapon. He searched the nearby countertop and saw a gallon bottle of solvent. He grabbed the flammable liquid and hurled it into the cavity. It shattered and sprayed across the trapped beast and the tunnel floor beyond.

  He saw another monster emerge from the opening and start to crawl around the trapped monster. Its body shimmered with an oily sheen that seemed to lubricate it, making it easier to pass through the tight space. Its gnarled hand grabbed the hood of the car, and talons over six inches long pierced the engine cowling’s steel skin.

  Carlos hurled a diesel container at the beast. It bounced off, spilling more fuel into the hole while coating the monster with the biodiesel.

  The thing kept coming. It clicked and chirped as it pressed its body past the trapped car. It reached out and emitted a series of high-pitched sounds then lunged at the frightened man. Its long nails swept the air just inches from his face.

  Carlos stumbled back and toppled over his welding tanks. Both the oxygen and acetylene cylinders fell to the ground, tipping the workbench over and onto its side. Tackle boxes full of hand tools and large plastic bins of hardware crashed down. The cacophony startled the beast. It pressed its claws to its pointed, bat-like ears and screeched.

  Carlos started to backpedal then fell on his back. His hand landed on his acetylene torch.

  The monster recovered and began scanning its surroundings. It quickly became evident that it was blind. It emitted more chirps, followed immediately with a twist of its head. It was using sound to “see,” just like a bat.

  The brown monster turned away, revealing red, ropy tendrils that seemed to be both attached to its skin and yet loosely bound to its body. With its back turned, Carlos tossed a hammer into the far corner. The monster croaked and lunged after it.

  The frightened young man reached over to the tanks and spun both cylinder valves. The movement brought the beast’s attention. It turned back toward him.

  Carlos froze. The pile of fallen boxes and equipment temporarily hid him from the blind beast’s radar. The closer it got, the more likely it was that he’d be found, even amongst the piles of automotive gear that lay clustered on the floor.

  He could hear the sound of more abominations crawling out from the ground. He remained absolutely still, except for his eyes, which moved back and forth, searching for the torch’s flint igniter. He found it within arm’s reach.

  Carlos slowly leaned out with his left hand, attempting to get hold of the ignition device, while his right gripped the mixture knob on the torch’s stem. He slowly spun the valve open, releasing a combination of oxygen and acetylene through its tip.

  The smell of unburned fuel agitated the monster, just as two more of the beasts began emerging from the hole. They started to crawl out of the far side of the opening, while even more chirps came within the tunnel.

  Carlos grabbed the igniter. The creature sensed his movement and crouched to pounce.

  He brought the torch’s tip up to the flint and squeezed the igniter’s flexible handles. Sparks flew, setting off a thin flame. It shot almost two feet out of the welder’s tip, just as the beast landed at Carlos’s feet.

  It wasn’t the best mixture of oxygen and acetylene, and the torch’s flame wasn’t nearly hot enough to use for welding. But it was effective enough to ignite the automotive fuel that coated the creature. Fire lapped ten feet in the air as the biodiesel and solvent, which had combined into a napalm-like mixture, burned the creature’s face and upper torso.

  It staggered back into the other two that were nearly out of the hole. They all fell back. The burning monster lit the remaining flammable chemicals that he’d already thrown into the cavity. The hole erupted and the screams of the creatures caught in the tunnel echoed out.

  The flames kept the creatures from escaping, but Carlos needed to block the hole. There were other cars in the bay, and he pushed one of them into the opening. It became engulfed in flames as well and effectively sealed off the opening.

  Carlos didn’t waste time watching the fires. He had to warn the others. He ran from the building and down the street toward the bonfire that the community had gathered around.

  As he ran by the community’s old gas station, he began to hear gunfire. He stopped and looked at the small cluster of houses where the workers had made their homes. Several structures were already on fire.

  Carlos was confused; he’d blocked the devils from leaving their lair. He ran toward his own house where he’d left his battle rifle. For a long time, his AR-15 had never left his side. The last two years had been free of the infected. Many of his neighbors, like him, had forgotten about the Variant risk. Their rifles were in a closet or hanging on a wall, rather than slung over their shoulders. They’d become complacent, and it was costing them their lives.

  Carlos got to his house and pushed through the front door.

  “Mama!” he screamed. There was no answer.

  Racing through the living room then down the hallway, he grabbed his rifle from the hall closet and ran to the kitchen. He panicked when gunfire popped from the house next door. Then he heard a scream from the backyard, and he ran outside.

  One of the massive creatures had his mother slung over its shoulder. Carlos went crazy and leapt at it, tearing at his mother’s limp form, trying to take it away. Moments later, he felt a blow to his back, followed by a sharp pain that raced through his neck. He staggered against the yard’s fence and landed on his back. He looked up and saw that a second Variant had landed behind him, knocking him to the ground. Its blind eyes glowed with a dim iridescence as the firelight from the burning houses reflected off their milky surface.

  The first monster gathered his mother’s corpse and ran into the neighbor’s house, which was engulfed in flames. Carlos screamed and sprayed the second monster with his AR-15. Bullets tore through its torso, and it staggered back from the impacts. Carlos steadied his aim and put a shot in its forehead. It dropped dead to the ground.

  The young man struggled to his feet and followed the first monster into the burning building. Through the open front door, he could see the Variant rushing off to the distant field. Carlos was within a few strides of making it out of the house when the ceiling of the wooden-framed structure collapsed. Newspapers, once used as insulation in the old builds, flared as wood framing dropped on him. He struggled to pull himself from the burning debris. Pain in his lungs from soot and heat caused him to become disoriented.

  Somehow, he made it out of the house before it was consumed by the flames. He dropped into a nearby thicket of grass and shrubs then passed out just as the Variant reached the potato field and vanished with his
mother into a black hole in the ground.

  It took less than fifteen minutes for over four hundred souls to be stolen from their town and carried away into the depths of a new and unthinkable Variant hell.

  Carlos woke to excruciating pain in his arm. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious and began staggering about, searching for other survivors. There were none.

  The town was destroyed and all his neighbors missing. Burned and dazed, he grabbed a bicycle and began pedaling east. There was a group of people living by the lake in the nearby mountains. They were his only hope.

  As dawn broke over the eastern horizon, the sun shone down on a devastated land. Every human had been harvested and carried into the underground passageway. All, except a young couple who swam to safety in the adjacent aqueduct canal and a man who had escaped a burning building and pedaled away on a bicycle toward the nearby mountain range.

  — 19 —

  War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.

  — William Tecumseh Sherman

  Union General

  Lost Valley

  Carver struggled with the decision. It had taken him many long days of discussion with just about every person in camp. He’d even sought the council of Father Walsh. The priest was the head of their closest colony, and what Carver had planned would affect them all.

  The loss of the farm up north had shaken the remaining settlements. There was so much that it affected. Besides forcing everyone else to pick up the considerable slack in food production, it reminded everyone how tenuous their existence was. As long as the Variants lived, they would be in danger of being overwhelmed. Just like the colony in Mettler.

  What had sealed his decision was the stealth and speed exhibited by the Variants in taking out the town. Without leaving a trace, the creatures had managed to move through the mountain ranges, capture or kill all of the small town’s residents and return to Los Angeles. It was a first for Carver to see such efficiency from the normally unwitting creatures.

  Carver would have bet the farm that the Variants were incapable of such a feat. But with a lack of any other explanation, he had to assume that the Southern California horde was responsible. If the infected could make four hundred people disappear overnight, they needed to be stopped now.

  Schoepe Scouting Reservation Trading Post

  Six Weeks Later

  Author’s Note: This section of the chapter describes the manufacturing of napalm and Molotov cocktails. The instructions are readily available on social media platforms like YouTube and through any public Google search. The author does not intend for this to be a manual to produce this extremely dangerous substance.

  “Keep adding the Styrofoam,” Carver said. “It needs to be like a gel when you’re done.”

  The young men had five-gallon pails half full of a combination alcohol, which had been produced by the camp’s still, and biodiesel. They added small pieces of Styrofoam to the mixture and pressed them into the flammable liquid, thickening the blend.

  When he was a SEAL, Carver had always been provided the best equipment. He had his pick of any weapon he wanted. No expense was spared. Despite all of the money and technology the American military had at its disposal, they were often drawn into a stalemate by indigenous people who had nothing more than unwavering loyalty to their tribe and religion. Regardless of the way he felt about the Taliban, he begrudgingly admired their ingenuity on the battlefield.

  Improvised explosive devices (IEDs) were often fabricated from wood, fertilizer, and old wires, effectively creating bombs with supplies you could gather from a junkyard. Now Carver was using some of that learned knowledge to help them survive.

  The camp had recovered all the Styrofoam that they could find. A dumpster full of old coolers, packing peanuts, and shipping insulation had been collected from the nearby towns, but as they put the mixture together, Carver worried that it might not be enough. As each piece dissolved, the mixture didn’t seem to thicken all that much.

  Classic napalm was ropy and would hold its form when spread out. Carver wanted it to spray when ignited. The thinner mixture would do just that.

  “How’s this?” Lucas Reedy asked.

  Carver took a stick and stirred the congealed diesel. “Yeah. That should be good enough.”

  “I need everybody’s attention,” he called out, holding the bucket up for the rest of the group to see. He swirled the stick inside and drew it out. The white goo dribbled off and dripped slowly back into the container. “That’s the consistency I want.”

  The rest of the scouts nodded and kept adding the Styrofoam chips with a renewed effort.

  Carver could tell there had been some doubt when he first explained how to make the concoction. It seemed too simple. Truth be told, there were any number of recipes one could easily find on the Internet before the world went sideways. While using Styrofoam was one of the most common, many other techniques used laundry detergent, tar, or sugar as thickening agents.

  Styrofoam was the most readily available additive within the camp’s immediate vicinity. It hadn’t deteriorated over time and created a very sticky substance that burned at an incredibly hot temperature.

  When they had all gotten the mixture to the proper consistency, Carver gave each scout several empty wine bottles that had been salvaged from Hawk Ridge Winery’s storage unit. They all carefully filled each one with the deadly mix then sealed the bottles with a cork or screw top, depending on the type of bottle they had been issued.

  “Take some duct tape and attach two storm matches to the bottles. Make sure you leave the heads exposed.”

  The storm matches would be ignited before the bottles were thrown. They were designed to stay lit in heavy winds and would survive the toss.

  Five minutes later, the camp had almost a hundred bottles of napalm-filled Molotov cocktails. Carver inspected each firebomb, checking the integrity of the seal while making sure the matches were secured properly. When he was satisfied, Carver led the young men into Beckham Hall for a final run-through of their assault on Los Angeles.

  Carver reviewed the plan. Each step of the assault was assigned a name from the television show The Big Bang Theory. Their first checkpoint was designated Raj. The next four corresponded to other characters from the television series, culminating in the final objective that was named Penny.

  Carver looked at the map. Hundreds of square miles of structures lay ahead of them. On the surface, it seemed to be an impossible task.

  Carver knew that wasn’t true. The drone had been flying over Southern California for the last month. Its infrared camera had been able to isolate the vast majority of the Variant activity. It was minimal and concentrated in downtown Los Angeles. Every night, fewer and fewer of the creatures were venturing out from their lair, and every morning, they always returned to the same spot.

  Their experiences the last year in San Diego, as they raided various military bases, reinforced the Freedom drone’s intelligence that the Variants were diminished and isolated to the Los Angeles area.

  Carver would never assume that they were all in that single location. Shader’s experience at the Battle of the Forum reinforced the fact that drones were never as good as eyes on the ground. That was why the first prong of the planned attack was designed to flush out any of the infected that were between the camp and Los Angeles.

  “I still don’t see how we’re going to clear out the entire city. We only have a few hundred soldiers,” one of the scouts complained.

  “Little bites,” Carver said to the audience. “You eat an elephant one bite at a time.”

  — 20 —

  Michael Sandor: “Then what happens to the bait?”

  Colonel Johnson: “Hard to say, but that’s the nature of being the bait.”

  Shooter

  Camp Pendleton

  Oceanside, CA

  Dusk

  Trips into San Diego had gone remarkably well over the last twe
lve months. They hadn’t seen a Variant during any of those supply runs other than an occasional creature that had died of starvation. With less food available, it was highly probable that the Variant problem was taking care of itself.

  Granted, they took the same roads every time and always during the day. Still, the city had been remarkably quiet. Over the last few months, they had even seen herds of deer roaming the green spaces near the Naval base’s entrance, a sure sign that the Variants had abandoned the area.

  “This is Red One actual. Passing Raj. Beginning run into Pendleton,” Carver reported over the radio.

  He had just entered the camp’s main gate, which was the first objective on their run up to Los Angeles.

  “I’ve got you,” Everly commented.

  “Nice to hear your voice again,” Carver replied.

  “You’ve no idea how good this feels, John.”

  “How’s your baby treating you?”

  “Like we’ve never been apart,” the pilot replied as he massaged the flight controls of his deadly aircraft.

  Everly soared above the base, his own infrared camera aimed down at the massive military installation. He had been doing test runs in his SuperCobra, using the camp’s newly produced biokerosene. The bird had been flying without a problem.

  The process of making the avgas had recently been perfected, allowing both the attack helicopter and the Osprey to get back into action. While Everly was providing overwatch, Donaldson was idling at a runway on Coronado with a QRF on board in case Carver got into trouble.

  With deteriorating parts and a lack of trained mechanics to repair the flying machines, the aircraft were treated with both respect and fear. Although the aviation fuel was working so far, a sudden mechanical issue was always a possibility. To reduce the risks, their pre-flight checklist had become more intense. They always flew over a major roadway and never above a thousand feet.