“Dead is dead, no matter what the reason,” Carver muttered.
“What?” Keele asked.
“Nothing, Keele.” Carver checked his watch. “I’ll take over. It’ll be light in an hour. Go get some rest, and we’ll reassess the situation then.”
“Thanks.”
Carver laid his rifle on the metal counter. He picked up his assault pack and put the bite valve of his CamelBak in his mouth and took a long drag of water. The room-temperature liquid seemed to evaporate in his throat as he swallowed. He cursed himself for not staying hydrated. He forced himself to take a few more gulps.
He grabbed a water bottle from the pack and poured some in his cupped hand. Shrek lapped it up. He searched a nearby shelf and found a bowl-shaped engine component and used it as a water dish for the dog. Shrek drank most of the remaining liquid.
The war dog team went to the window and, after Shrek jumped up onto the metal counter, they both continued to watch the infected go about their business.
More movement came from where the Alpha had come earlier that night. Another party of Variants showed up, but this one had no human captives with them. Carver counted nearly sixty of the creatures, all of them healthy and well-fed.
Carver decided to pay more attention to the differences between the Variants.
The Alpha had disappeared, possibly to tend to his wound or just to rest. He was one of a kind in this group. He appeared to be the king of the tribe.
A second group of Variants looked to be their warrior class. They showed signs of eating regular meals. They were the healthiest of the tribe and were tasked with hunting food as well as sentry duty. Those assigned to guard the camp stayed close to their assigned position. When they moved, they were replaced by another strong and healthy warrior.
The rest of the creatures seemed to be the worst off in the group. These infected moved aimlessly and once gone from sight, rarely reappeared. They had gaunt features and moved with a slow gait. They were the peasants, the unclean of the tribe and were the last to be fed. For all Carver knew, they were the clan’s emergency food source. Cattle being stored for later use.
With dawn approaching, Carver woke Shader and Keele.
“Another hunting party returned. Looked like they didn’t have any luck. Sun’s up in fifteen. Make sure you hydrate,” he whispered.
Five minutes later, Shader joined his friend at the side window. “How many more joined the party?”
“I counted sixty healthy ones.”
Shader shook his head and sighed. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, but at least they didn’t get any more people.”
“There’s that. I guess it won’t matter one way or the other. Sixty more isn’t making our odds any better. We still don’t have a way out of here.”
“It’ll happen. Always does,” Carver murmured.
“PMA. Positive Mental Attitude. That’s why I like you.”
Carver grinned. “I thought it was for my dog.”
“That too,” he said before continuing. “There’s a head in the back. Better hit it before Keele does. His morning routine includes some serious rectal biological warfare.”
Carver rushed past a still-waking Keele to use the head but staggered back at the smell Shader had left. Carver could hear the crusty SEAL chuckling from up front. Carver dove into the stench and relieved himself, vowing that he’d somehow get his friend back.
“Good God,” Carver said when he rejoined Shader. “What the hell died inside of you?”
Shader just nodded and smiled as they both heard Keele suppress a wretch.
“Sounds like our Marine is using the toilet,” Shader said contentedly.
“Same old Shader.” Carver smirked as they continued to watch the morning push away the night.
The Variants were becoming agitated as the light began to blanket the airfield. The sentinels stood their ground, but were shifting their feet back and forth in anticipation of the coming dawn.
“They’re not leaving, are they?” Keele asked after gearing back up.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Shader replied. “At least the rest of them are taking shelter in the hangars.”
Ten minutes later, the Variants had all disappeared, except for several of the nest’s guards. They were hovering uncomfortably in any shadows they could find.
“Looks like their sentries are staying put,” Shader remarked.
“Yeah, but they don’t look happy about it,” Keele added. “Look at them struggle with the light.”
The two guards they could see had their hands cupped over their faces. They’d keep their eyes covered as much as possible, then would occasionally peek out between spread fingers.
“It’s just those two now, but we’ll still be seen if we try and leave,” Carver said. “Any suggestions?”
“If we can’t do this ourselves, then we need some help,” Shader said. “Let’s make a call.”
Shader spent a few minutes conferring with the Freedom.
“They’ll be here soon,” Shader said after terminating the broadcast. “I hope this works.”
***
“Red Team. This is Seahawk One. Over.”
“Seahawk One. This is Red One actual. Over,” Carver replied, using his Red Team designation.
“Red One actual. We’re five mikes out. Are you ready? Over.”
“Make it happen, Seahawk One. We’ll be ready. Hope your aim is good. Over.”
“Red One actual, I could put a missile up a gnat’s ass. Just mark your location. We have Osprey One on station waiting to recover. Over.”
Donaldson had followed the Seahawk and was in a holding pattern off the coast. She’d be the backup if the team couldn’t get to Gonzalez at the RIB. The Seahawk was scheduled to pick them all up from the beach.
“Good hunting, Seahawk One. Red One actual. Out.”
Four minutes later, Keele cracked the building’s door and leaned out. He tossed three helmet IR strobes onto the metal roof. They had the door closed by the time three loud thuds echoed from on top of the building.
“That got their attention,” Carver said.
Both sentries rose from their position and began to search for the source of the sound. Carver held his breath, praying they hadn’t been seen. The building would hold up for quite a while if they were attacked, but that wasn’t in the plans.
“They see me?” Keele asked.
“No, but they sure heard the strobes hit the roof.”
The seconds dragged by as several more Variants struggled out of the hangar and joined the agitated sentries.
“They’re getting pissed,” Keele said.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Carver replied. “Can’t you hear it?”
The team went silent and then moments later, the steel walls began to vibrate from the heavy staccato of helicopter blades slicing through the air. Its deep thumps brought a strange calmness to them all. It was a technology that had saved their lives on any number of occasions. If all went as planned, it was about to add one more check-mark to that list. However, going as planned rarely happened. They had prepared for that as well.
“Get ready. We’ll need to move quickly,” Carver said.
The four gathered at the side window, wanting a ringside seat to watch the coming firestorm.
“Now these bastards are going to pay for their sins!” Keele said between clenched teeth.
It didn’t take long for the retribution to begin.
— 7 —
Seahawk One
Over North Island NAS
San Diego
“I’m a fan of all seven (sins). But right now, I’m going to have to go with wrath.”
― Captain Malcolm Reynolds
Serenity
Everly sat strapped into the back of the Seahawk as the pilot and his Airborne Tactical Officer began their attack run. Two other sailors sat on the bench seats nearby, their M4s held tightly to their chests. A door gunner was manning the craft’s M240B belt-fed machin
e gun. They banked over the beach and moved to the base. The salt air rushed by them as the craft tilted, giving them a panoramic view of the massive concrete base. One sight caught Everly’s attention. A couple SuperCobra helicopters sat next to several logistics vehicles. One was a utility cart that was pulling a supply container. The other was a fuel truck. The Marine attack helicopter was what he’d flown for over a decade before the infection destroyed the world.
Maybe someday I’ll fly one of them again, he thought.
The pilot’s voice snapped him back to the present. “I’ve got a location on Red Team.”
Looking through his FLIR (forward looking infrared) scope, the Red Team’s strobes popped like paparazzi flashbulbs on the roof of the metal building.
“Red Team. This is Seahawk One. Do you copy? Over.”
“This is Red One actual. Over.”
“We’ve got your location. Keep your heads down. Over.”
“Kick ass, Seahawk One. Red One actual. Out,” Carver replied.
“Let’s get their attention,” the pilot barked to his crew.
The Seahawk skimmed the rooftops, banking hard over the nearby hotels. He stopped and hovered just above the two hangars identified by Carver and his fireteam.
A full minute went by with no response.
“Any contacts?” the pilot asked his crew.
“Negative,” Everly said as he leaned out of the open cargo door.
“Looks like these ones are smart,” the pilot said. “Let’s invite them out to play.”
The Seahawk rose and banked again, giving the door gunner a full view of the top of the two hangars. He slowed and hovered above the strobe-marked building.
“You’re clear to engage the south hangar. Friendlies are in the building below us.”
The door gunner pulled the machine gun’s charging handle and let it slam forward, carrying the first of the belt’s 7.62 x 51 rounds into its barrel. He braced his arms and depressed the trigger.
Every fifth round of the belt had been loaded with an orange-tipped, red tracer bullet. During night shoots, the strontium-laced shells would form an almost continuous red streak, marking the path of the fired rounds. During the day, the tracer sometimes appeared more like the E-11 blaster from Star Wars. Red streaks would suddenly pop up halfway to the target, making it look like they appeared magically from thin air. It was the second type of streak that Everly saw as the gunner opened fire onto the rooftop of the building on the left. The results were instantaneous.
Scores of Variants flooded out of both hangars. They scattered like cockroaches, spreading out in a three-hundred-sixty-degree pattern.
The pilot lifted higher and chose his first target. A massive group of the monsters had funneled along the fence line and were clustered at a bend in the barrier. As the ones in front began to scale the galvanized steel, the ones behind fought each other to be next.
“Fox three!” the pilot roared.
A Hellfire missile exploded from the left side missile pod, leaving the airborne platform with a distinct jolt. The warhead, designed to penetrate buildings and enemy armor, immediately activated. It exploded in the middle of the Variant mob, sending a shockwave back at the Seahawk, which was already banking away to find its next target. By the time the dust and black smoke cleared, dozens of the infected had literally been torn apart.
The pilot selected his next group and repeated the process, incinerating and rending another large group.
The Seahawk began a racetrack pattern around the western tarmac and runway. The third of their eight Hellfires flew from the rack, exploding among another large group. All the while, the door gunner continued his onslaught, raking 150-grain ball ammunition across smaller groups of Variants.
“Anyone seen the big one yet?” the pilot asked.
Shader had described the alpha male and its children when coordinating the attack. None of the crew had seen it make an escape.
“Not many large groups left,” the pilot said as he continued to fly near small clusters or individuals, all running away from the carnage. These stragglers were being picked off by one of their crew’s M4s or raked by the craft’s machine gun.
Everly appreciated the pilot’s discipline. Sending one of their valuable and irreplaceable rockets to take out a couple of running Variants was overkill. There weren’t any more Hellfires being produced, and the future would likely throw more situations at them where they would be needed.
“Red Team, this is Seahawk One. We’ve cleared out the nest. Did you see your alpha male escape? Over.”
“Seahawk One. This is Red One actual. That’s a negative. No sign of the Alpha. Over.”
“Red One actual. We’ll continue overwatch and engage any tangos. You’re clear for evac. Do you copy? Over.”
“Seahawk One. This is Red One actual. That’s a hard copy. Seahawk One will continue overwatch and we are clear for evac. Over.”
“Good luck, Red One actual. Seahawk One. Out.”
The team gathered at the side door. The thumping of the helicopter rose and fell as it circled the large base, an occasional burst of automatic fire echoing in the distance. Carver followed the second hand on his watch and counted down.
“Fifteen seconds,” Carver said. “Break left out the door and double-time to the beach.”
A few moments later, Carver ordered them out.
Keele pushed through the door and held it open while Shader, Carver, and Shrek jogged out of the building. Shader moved left, his battle rifle up to his eyes, scanning the road and tree-lined street ahead.
Carver tried following Shader, but Shrek stopped and pulled him back. The Mal froze and stared at the northern hangar. They were within a pitching wedge golf shot of the massive steel structure.
“Hold, Red Team,” Carver said over the squad radio.
He leaned down to his dog and whispered. “What is it?”
Shrek looked back with his battle stare, and Carver immediately knew what the dog had sensed.
“Red Team. Our mission has changed,” Carver said before making a call to the Seahawk.
“Seahawk One. This is Red One actual. Change of plans. Over.”
“Red One actual. This is Seahawk One. What’s your pause? Over.”
“Seahawk One. Team is outside of north hangar. We’ve got survivors in there. Do you copy, Seahawk One? Over.”
“Survivors?” Keele asked. “How do you know?”
Carver glanced down at Shrek and nodded.
“I’ll bet that red-headed bastard is in there, too. Along with his roly-poly kids,” Carver said.
“Are you sure about this?” Shader asked.
“If Shrek says they’re there. I believe him,” Carver replied.
“And you?” Shader asked Keele.
“Like I said before, I go where the dog goes.”
“Red One actual. This is Seahawk One. Your AO is clear. Proceed with your new mission. Osprey One standing ready to retrieve. Advise when ready. Over.”
Carver acknowledged, and the three advanced to the corner of the northern hangar.
Looking across the tarmac, he could see the abandoned southern hangar. With its doors wide open, the entire interior was laid bare. Plenty of light was finding its way into the structure. It was empty.
Carver approached the partially-opened northern hangar door. The interior shone with a dim, tan glow as the filtered sunlight found its way past the grimy windows on the roof’s gable.
Carver began to “slice the pie” as he aimed through his ACOG scope into the massive space beyond. After clearing the far wall and most of the space on the west side, he sprinted across the gap and froze against the metal door.
Shrek stood at his side, his nape hair standing tall.
Carver hesitated for a moment. Because of the massive size of the building, there was no way to know how many Variants remained. He was having second thoughts about sending his faithful Mal into the unknown, when he heard a faint cry for help.
With
a new resolve, Carver looked down at Shrek. His steely gaze was met by an equally hardened and determined stare.
Carver nodded at Shrek and smiled slightly. “Let’s have some fun. What do you say?”
Shrek’s eyes pled for the command.
“Reveiren!” he commanded.
Shrek’s body exploded into the building. Keele and Shader, flanking the door on the other side of the opening, brought their M4s up to high-ready. Each man nodded as they stared through their rifle’s optics and down the barrel of their weapon.
After a few moments, they heard Shrek give one bark.
“Move,” Carver commanded.
The three-man team spun into the hangar. It took them just a moment to locate the dog. None of the three were prepared for what he had found.
Shrek
We are leaving the building. The asps are everywhere, but I hear the helicopter fly overhead. It is a familiar sound. It makes me calm. Warriors from above are here to kill the asps. We are no longer alone.
I hear the explosions. It is death raining down on the asps. I can hear their cries and fear. I am pleased. I want to join the fight. It is what I do. But Carver keeps us inside. So I wait patiently.
The noise is less now. We go to the door and rush outside. We start to turn away from the fight when I smell something. It is human fear. I smell the urine and sweat. I even hear a faint sound from the large building behind the fence. I stop.
Carver comes to me. We look at each other and he immediately knows what I have found.
We are going to the building. There are some asps in there. I can’t tell the number because so many had just been in there. Most have fled and been killed or escaped. But more remain. I can hear them inside. The big asp, the one Carver calls the Alpha, is still there. I can hear his large body shift and move. He is as loud as the humans. Then a human cry comes forth. Even Carver hears it.
Carver knows that they are there. He leans down and asks me if I am ready.
Of course, I am ready!
I am Shrek.
I am the ghost that kills in the night.
I always win.
Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival Page 6
