Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival

by Browning, Walt

  He ignored the pilot’s panicked radio call and strapped himself into the bulkhead jump seat. Shrek leapt into his lap and Carver hooked the dog onto his own tactical gear.

  “If we go, we go together,” Carver whispered to the Mal.

  He hugged the dog with his right arm and used the other to hold the doctor’s hand.

  The aircraft began to plummet. The pilot attempted to cushion the crash by disengaging the engine from the main blades. This allowed the rotors to begin to spin in the opposite direction as the air rushed past them on the craft’s descent. The blades began to bite into the air, and the autorotation maneuver slowed down the Seahawk. Unfortunately, the pilot didn’t have control of where they would come down. The tail rotor was offline, and steering was ineffective.

  Carver held the dog and buried his face in Shrek’s fur. He whispered a reassuring word or two as they spun out of the sky.

  He never felt the crash.

  — 13 —

  Hope

  Lost Valley Boy Scout Camp

  “Oh my God I can’t believe

  It’s happening again

  Your baby’s gone and you’re all alone

  And it looks like the end…”

  “Wasted Time”

  ― The Eagles

  “Miss Torrence. I’ve set up all the tables for breakfast. Can I go now?” Bella asked. The young girl had been rescued from the bowels of the Inglewood Forum by Shader and the Marines. Her contribution to the community was in the kitchen as Randy and Hope’s little helper.

  “Oh! Yes, Bella. I’ll see you at school,” Hope replied.

  The girl giggled. “Miss Torrence, today’s Saturday. We don’t have school.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “I’m not going to be here. We’re supposed to have a picnic. Remember?”

  “We know, sweetheart,” Randy answered. “We’ve got everything ready.”

  Bella smiled and skipped out of the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Randy asked. “You can’t remember anything.”

  “I know. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  Randy turned and opened the refrigerator unit, pulling out the ingredients they’d need to make Bella her surprise birthday cake. Hope continued to stare blankly at the wall while Randy prepped the workstation.

  “Earth to Hope,” he chided her. “I could use some help.”

  Hope turned and silently began to gather the pots and baking dishes they’d need. They had over fifty people to feed, and there had to be a cake big enough to handle all those hungry mouths.

  Randy stopped and gently grabbed his friend. “Girl, what’s wrong with you? You aren’t wearing any of the makeup we found. Your hair is a mess, and those clothes! Did you take some of John’s shirts? They fit like a tent.”

  Hope grinned and turned away. “I’m sorry. I just don’t like it when John goes on one of his missions.”

  “Well, get used to it. That’s his job.”

  “I get it. But knowing that and being happy about it are two different things.”

  “Is that why you’ve been such a zombie? You’re pouting about your man’s job?”

  Hope quietly nodded. “I just have a bad feeling about today,” she confided.

  “Heck. He’s been doing this for six months. You’ve been out of it for the last two weeks, not just today.”

  “I didn’t know. You should have told me.”

  He smirked. “At first, I just thought it was your monthly bill.”

  Hope caught her breath, but Laura Reedy and Jennifer Blevins pushed through the kitchen’s saloon doors, cutting short their conversation. Both Laura and Jennifer stopped once inside and froze in place. Neither wanted to move forward as each one looked at the other for the courage to press on.

  Randy and Hope watched the pair struggle.

  “What is it?” Randy asked, his voice betraying his fears.

  The look on their faces told Hope all she needed to know. “Noooo,” she sobbed before dropping to her knees. “No… No… No…”

  The two women rushed to her side as Randy dropped beside her, cradling his friend in his arms.

  “His helicopter crashed,” Laura said. “That’s all we know.”

  “Everly is flying cover, and Erin is getting a rescue team ready. They’ll be on the ground in less than thirty minutes,” Jennifer added.

  Hope fell into Randy and sobbed. He stroked her hair and held her tight.

  The two women felt helpless. Not only for their friend, but as members of the camp. John was their leader, and he was gone, probably dead along with their other top operators. It was a major, if not fatal blow to the community. They were literally, irreplaceable.

  Hope slowed her tears and looked up. “He can’t be gone.”

  “We don’t know anything right now,” Jennifer replied. “The helicopter went through the top of a building just north of Mission Bay. Everly can’t see if anyone…” She caught herself before finishing the thought.

  “If anyone was hurt,” Laura said.

  They helped Hope to her feet. She shuffled out to the dining area and sat at a table. They were the only ones in the building.

  “I’m sure he’s going to be all right,” Randy said. “John’s a survivor. I can’t imagine losing him to a helicopter with all he’s been through!”

  Hope’s face began to blanch, and she grabbed her stomach. A few seconds later, she sprinted for the bathroom, Laura at her heels. The sound of her breakfast coming back up was a series of violent retches. Laura stood behind her, holding her hair while she emptied her stomach.

  “Thanks,” Hope muttered.

  Laura handed Hope some folded toilet paper. It was all she could do. Hope might have lost Carver, and all she could do was give her something to wipe the vomit from her face. She felt both sad for her loss, and inadequate as a friend.

  Hope returned to the table.

  Randy put a glass of water in front of her and stroked her hair. “Hope, if it’s bad, I’ll be there for you and Kyle.”

  “I know, Randy. I appreciate it.” Hope hesitated, then continued. “But he has to be alive. There is so much more for us.”

  She looked up at her friends, tears welling in both eyes. The sockets couldn’t keep the flood contained and rivulets streamed down both cheeks.

  “He must come home,” she muttered. “I need him more than ever.” She gasped her breaths, trying to get her words out as she fought stomach cramps and the utter anguish she felt. “John has to come back. He has to know. He has to know that…he’s going to be a father.”

  Hope wiped her eyes and caught her breath. Then she sighed. “I’m pregnant.”

  — 14 —

  Rady Hospital

  San Diego, California

  Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!

  — Bram Stoker

  Dracula

  Light danced across his eyelids. Drums pounded nearby, and somewhere a door alarm was screeching its high-pitched whine. Nothing made sense. Carver moved his arms. The resistance he initially felt quickly gave way, but both shoulders complained at the movement.

  The high-pitched siren slowly dissipated, and the drumming softened. Carver realized it was a ringing in his ears. He tried to lift his legs, but the weight was more than he expected. He quickly relented and stopped struggling.

  He forced his eyes to open, although they protested with each millimeter they lifted. Pain. He strained to focus. He was on his back, leaning against something horribly uncomfortable. It was his battle rifle, still slung on his back. He wiggled until it moved to the side.

  He stared at his legs. Pieces of metal and plastic lay across his lap. His mind grappled with his predicament. How did he get here? Slowly, he remembered. The cough of the engines. The rapid descent. Shrek on his lap, and then darkness.

  He took in a breath.

  Shrek!

  Where was he?

  Carver s
truggled with the weight covering his lower body. His arms complained as he hefted a large piece of the building off of his lap.

  He felt something soft and unmoving.

  Fur.

  He panicked and shot upright, sending searing, sharp pain down his legs. He ignored it and pushed the remaining debris off his legs and found his dog lying across his body. He rolled to the side, the Mal flopping onto the floor next to him. His bullet-proof vest was still attached to Carver’s own gear with a pair of slings.

  He felt the dog’s chest. It was rising and falling. Shrek’s eyes fluttered, and he slowly rolled his head and stared at Carver.

  John sighed. “You’re alive.”

  Shrek lay quietly while he received a full body assessment. Carver found a few minor cuts. Palpating the dog’s joints and frame failed to elicit a painful response.

  “You’ll be all right. Just stay there,” Carver said.

  Carver forced himself to stand, but slowly dropped down to his knees. His back spasmed, sending an electric shock into his legs. He took a couple deep breaths and slowly rose once again. Eventually, the pain subsided.

  He felt something bump his leg, and he looked down. Shrek stared back, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

  “All right, you can help,” he said. Then he took his first good look around. Where the hell was he?

  The room had been destroyed. The ceiling was gone as was the roof above that. He’d dropped through one floor and ended up on the next one below.

  Carver pressed his PTT button on his neck mic and tried to broadcast. “Red Team. Report.”

  Nothing. His radio was shot.

  “Red Team. Report!”

  “Red Three. Here!” Carver heard Gonzalez from the room above.

  “I’m alive,” Shader croaked from above, somewhere near the little Marine.

  “Red Four here. I’m…somewhere.”

  Carver spun around at the nearby voice. It was Keele.

  “I could use a little help,” Keele’s muffled voice called out.

  Particle board and pine framing were piled in the corner of the room. Carver could see the mound lifting and falling as the Marine struggled to free himself.

  Carver limped over and tore at the pile, flinging chunks of the building and pieces of the helicopter off his companion. A bloody and bruised hand shot out of the heap.

  Carver hefted a chunk of wall to the side, exposing Keele. One of the helicopter’s rotors had pinned the young man. Its edge had sliced into a support beam in the wall, and Keele’s skull lay a few inches below it. He’d come within a hair of being decapitated.

  “I’m stuck,” he said, giggling.

  “What the hell are you laughing at?” Carver barked while he pulled Keele out from the side.

  “I can’t believe we made it… Ouch! My foot.”

  Carver stopped pulling and hunched over Keele’s right leg. The helicopter’s blade had sliced through the top of his boot and left a long gash across the front of his ankle and a few inches up his leg. The white, tendon-like periosteum over his fibula was exposed. It oozed blood, but the edges were already beginning to clot.

  “Let’s get you out of this mess.” Carver pulled Keele to the side and removed the med kit from his pack. “How are you two?” he called to his teammates on the floor above.

  “Just peachy, asshole! How do you think we are?” Shader yelled. “Ouch! Watch what you’re doing! You’re not dressing a goddam turkey!”

  “Sorry,” Gonzalez said. “I haven’t stitched up anyone in a while.”

  He didn’t sound too sincere.

  Carver had to smile.

  “You need a few stitches yourself,” he said to Keele.

  “I ain’t complaining, if that’s all that comes out of this.”

  “Hey!” Carver yelled, suddenly remembering they weren’t the only ones on the helicopter. “Anyone seen Potoski and the flight team?”

  Carver looked around the room. There were no debris piles big enough to hide a body.

  “Up here!” Gonzalez yelled. “We got them.”

  “Hey, Carver. What about the doc?” Shader added.

  “Geez. I forgot about him,” he muttered.

  Carver held a compression bandage over Keele’s wound.

  “Here. Put pressure on it till I get back.”

  It only took a few seconds to find the body. Doc Miller’s head lay at an impossible angle, his legs akimbo, and eyes staring blankly at the wall.

  “Doc’s gone!” Carver shouted. He returned to Keele and pulled out his suture kit.

  “All this shit for nothing,” Keele griped.

  Carver felt the same way. He brought out a syringe and bottle of lidocaine.

  Keele shook his head. “Screw the Novocain. That hurts more than the stitches.”

  “You need at least five or six sutures.”

  “Just do it. I want to get the hell out of here.”

  Carver had to give the Marine credit; the young man kept his leg still throughout the five-minute ordeal. He finished dressing the wound with some antibiotic cream and wrapped it with the compression bandage and some gauze.

  “I think I can stand,” Keele said.

  He rose with help and tested the leg, twisting his foot and bouncing up and down.

  “Not a bad job…for a squid,” Keele said.

  “I should have signed my name,” Carver replied sarcastically.

  He repacked his med kit and helped Keele find his M4. They checked each other’s load out and moved to the hole in their ceiling.

  “How are you doing up there?” Carver called out.

  Neither Shader nor Gonzalez responded.

  “Come on. We need to get up there,” Carver said.

  The two men and the Mal lined up at the room’s only door. Carver pulled it open and leaned into the corridor. The far wall was tempered glass from floor to ceiling. The morning light bathed the hallway. He looked out the window and saw they were on the third level of a four-floor building. An exit sign hung above a fire door about a hundred feet to the left.

  “Vooruit,” he commanded, sending the dog out and down the hallway.

  Shrek stopped for a moment and inspected his surroundings. He moved out quickly just a moment later, scanning and moving toward the stairwell.

  Carver took a good look at the undamaged hallway of the building they were in. It was quickly evident that they were in a hospital. Placards hung from the ceiling and on the walls with directions to various medical specialties.

  “Christ. Another freakin’ hospital,” Carver complained.

  “At least you’re not in Temecula,” Keele replied, commiserating with Carver’s last hospital experience. That time, the SEAL had almost lost his life to a horde of Variants.

  Carver stopped at the fire door and cracked it open. Shrek entered and stopped. The hair briefly stood up on the nape of his neck, then he relaxed.

  Carver gave Keele a knowing look. The Mal had sensed something bad down below. They moved into the staircase. Shrek momentarily stared down the shaft before Carver directed him to the floor above. They were at the upstairs crash site within moments.

  Shader and Gonzalez were doing CPR on the airborne tactical officer/co-pilot while Potoski and the pilot lay against an undamaged wall.

  Carver sprinted over to help with the ATO, but he stopped when he saw the extent of the man’s injuries.

  “Hey. It’s over,” he said, shaking Shader on the shoulder.

  “Not yet,” the big SEAL said, shrugging off John’s hand.

  Carver knew Shader and the copilot had become drinking buddies. They were as close as you could get without causing rumors about the relationship. Shader needed to finish this on his own terms.

  “Gonzalez. Go check on the other two. I’ll take over.”

  They were doing the old buddy system, with Gonzalez pushing in breaths between Shader’s chest compressions. Carver switched with the young Marine. He sat back on his heels while Shader pushed on the man’
s sternum. After thirty compressions, Carver breathed two puffs of air into the man’s lungs and the process started all over again.

  The ATO had an abdominal wound. Either Shader or Gonzalez had draped a large trauma pad over it. With each compression, Carver watched a bloody stain expand on the dressing. He couldn’t see how extensive the hole in the man’s gut was, but it had to be huge. At least a pint of blood was puddled on the floor next to them. But Carver said nothing. The call to stop their efforts was all on Shader.

  Minutes later, Shader slumped back in defeat. The man was gone.

  “Sorry, bro,” Carver said.

  Shader just quietly nodded.

  Carver took another look at the destruction around them. The ceiling had collapsed from the crash, revealing the cloudy sky above. The sound of the Viper thumped in the distance.

  “Hey. I’ve got Everly on my radio,” Gonzalez said. “The Osprey’s on its way.”

  “How are the other two?”

  “Beat up. Lots of bruises. Potoski got brained pretty good, and the pilot has a busted wrist.”

  “Can they move?” Carver asked.

  “They’re both mobile.”

  “My radio’s down. You’re my ears. Find out where we need to go for extraction.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Carver checked on the pilot and Potoski. They both stood and nodded when asked if they were good to go. Potoski had a bandage on the back of his head, held in place by a gauze wrap. It reminded Carver of the old paintings of the Minutemen marching with drum and fife, and he held back a grin. The pilot was stable, with a SAM foam and aluminum splint wrapped around his wrist.

  “Got it. Red Three actual, out.” Gonzalez released the PTT button on his mic. “There’s a parking lot just south of the building across Birmingham Street. Osprey One will be on station in fifteen mikes.”

  “Come on, team. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Carver said.

  “One second,” Potoski said as he lumbered over to the wreckage.

  He dug through some debris and struggled to pull out something stuck inside the helicopter’s bent metal frame. Carver walked over to help, just as the big New Yorker dragged out the ship’s M240 machine gun. He retrieved a strap and slung it over his shoulder. He then waved the pilot over and gave him a box of ammunition after extracting a long belt of the heavy-hitting bullets and snapping them into the feeding chamber.