“God. This place stinks!” The ex-SEAL continued his verbal tirade as they moved further inside.
When the Blue Team confirmed the building was safe, Carver was finally able to relax.
Shader came back out with a set of heavy bolt-cutters. He cut the chains locking the garage doors and pushed both doors open. The smell was horrific, with piles of feces and bloody vomit dotting the cement floor. Several skeletons were scattered among the detritus. All were Variants, identified by their mutated teeth and deformed joints.
“Christ. They were eating each other to stay alive,” Lazzaro said, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve.
Carver re-wrapped his shemagh around his nose and entered the building. Even without power, the light from the windows and open doors bathed the room, revealing the mess. The corners were filled with most of the excrement, as the Variants had sought the comfort of the shadows during the day. They must have defecated where they stood. It was amazing to him that these creatures, a bastardization of his own human species, could devolve so far.
“Mierda!” Gonzalez muttered. “There are dead flies everywhere.”
Carver looked more closely at the floor. Sure enough, the concrete was covered with dead insects. It just reinforced the need to stay away from any of the Variants’ bodily secretions.
“How are we going to clean this up?” Shader asked.
“Easy enough outside the building. We burn the bodies,” Carver replied. “But in here? I don’t have a clue. This place may be a loss.”
Carver spent the next few minutes evaluating the garage. There were some salvageable pieces of equipment, but in the end, it wasn’t worth the risk.
“Burn it,” Carver finally said. “Burn the whole thing.”
After depositing the bladder of Avgas, Donaldson returned a few hours later with several drums of diesel. By mid-afternoon, they had a massive fire consuming the bodies and building. A pillar of smoke wafted into the sky, its black tendrils rising slowly into the still, afternoon air.
“What about the terminal?” Shader asked. “Lots of old blood in there.”
“The north wing and the tower seem clean,” Carver replied. “Let’s isolate those areas and stay out of the rest of the building.
“Contact!” blared a voice over the radio.
One of the fireteams was in the tower, watching over the land around them.
“Tower, this is Red One actual. Direction and strength? Over.”
Carver heard nothing back for several seconds. He was about to rebroadcast when the fireteam replied.
“We have one HUMVEE coming up the access road. No infected. No other vehicles. Over.”
“Well. We may have found our survivors,” Shader said.
“Maybe. Let’s find out.”
The teams worked back through the terminal, just as an old Hummer pulled onto the circular drive. It stopped and idled. Large lettering painted on the side read Bison Tours while printed underneath was Avalon, CA and the phone number.
Carver and Shrek slowly walked out of the shattered doors, leaving the rest of the team in the building. They strode down the sidewalk and stood at the luggage drop-off point.
The Hummer accelerated and stopped in front of the war dog team. A woman jumped out of the driver’s side and stared at Carver. After a few moments, both man and dog walked forward.
“Chief John Carver,” he said, extending his hand to the shocked woman.
“You’re real,” she stuttered. “You’re really here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Carver reached out and took the woman’s hand, gently shaking her limp arm.
“Oh my God!” she said. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
Tears welled up, and she flung herself around Carver’s neck. She began to cry, choking back sobs as her tears drizzled down both cheeks.
Carver gave her a few moments, then gently pushed her back. She wiped the tears from her face and looked around.
“Are you by yourself?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. We have a few more here.”
“This is Red One actual,” he said, pushing his mic’s PTT button. “Come on out.”
The remaining warriors filed out of the building, fanning out on the front sidewalk.
She began to cry again, speaking between sobs. “I thought we were the only ones alive.”
“We?”
“Yeah. There are six of us back at the ranch. Everyone else has become…”
Carver put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not alone,” he reassured her.
“I’m sorry, Chief Carver,” she finally said. “Forgive me for being rude. My name is Chloe Maxwell.”
“Well, Chloe. Why don’t we go inside? We can talk in there.”
After clearing the airport’s diner and setting up a defensive perimeter, they sat down at one of the four-top tables. Most of the rest of the teams found seats nearby.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Chloe said, looking at Daphne. “I’m not the only woman left.”
That earned a few chuckles from the teams.
“No. We’re pretty well represented,” Daphne replied. “A third of the ship is women and half of the camp.”
“Ship?”
Carver and the team filled the woman in on the prior six months. The island received little information before the fall.
“We heard it was a biological attack from China or Russia,” Chloe said. “No one had a clue what happened. Then the island was overrun. It was over in days.”
She paused for a moment, then looked at Shrek. “A Malinois. I’ve taken care of one or two of these.”
“Are you a breeder?” Carver asked.
“I’m a veterinarian. I’m part of the Catalina Island Conservancy. I monitor the animal population on the island.”
She leaned over and looked at Shrek, then rubbed his neck and ears.
“We had the Marines and Navy come to the island for training. I got to take care of their dogs.” After a few moments, she sat back. “I drove here thinking those creatures had somehow started a fire. I’m glad it was you.”
The sound of the Osprey reverberated in the room.
Chloe smiled widely. “We thought we heard an airplane, but we never saw it.”
“We’ve flown around the island a few times, looking for any signs of life,” Carver said. “But we mostly stayed near the ocean.”
Chloe became somber. “I’ve spent the last four months looking for other survivors. No one is left. A few from our group drove to Avalon about five months ago. They never came back.” She glanced at her watch, then stood up. “I need to get back to the ranch. The others will be worried.”
Carver stood, as well. “Where are you located?”
He produced his map, and Chloe pointed to a spot down the mountain from the airport.
“We’ll be here all afternoon setting up a fueling station. We’ll drop by later this evening.”
Chloe’s face became dark again. “Be careful. Something bad comes out at night.”
“You mean the infected? The Variants?” Shader asked.
“We don’t know. But I’ve lost over a dozen bison in the last few weeks.”
“We can handle them,” Shader replied. “Just show us a carcass, and we’ll track them back to their lair.”
“That’s just it. There are no carcasses. They just disappear right out of the pen. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“How long has this been happening?” Carver said.
“Within the last month, we rounded up the remaining bison and put them in our field. About three weeks ago, we noticed two of them were missing. We checked the fence for any breaks. There were none. The rest of the herd acted normally, and we thought the two had somehow gotten free. But then a few days after that, we lost three more.”
“Could there be some other survivors poaching on your property?”
“I don’t see how. We searched the area for any signs. There were none. No footprints or hoof
marks. No tire tracks. Nothing that would show how five half-ton animals escaped from the pen.”
“Someone has to be stealing them. Variants would eat something that size where they killed it. I don’t think they would carry them away, unless it was in pieces. That would definitely leave a sign they’d been there,” Shader said.
“Not only that, but they’d knock down a fence, or at least leave tracks,” Carver added.
“We need to find them,” Chloe said. “We’ve lost almost a quarter of the herd in the last two weeks. At this rate, they’ll all be gone inside of two months.”
“We can help,” Carver said. “This changes our plans a bit, considering there may be thieves on the island. We’ll have to make the airport more secure. Give us a day, and we’ll drive down to your place tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Now, I have to go. But please, be careful.”
“Always,” Carver replied.
— 21 —
USS Hampton
Los Angeles Class Submarine (SSN 767)
Naval Base Point Loma
Six Months Prior
Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?
Frankenstein
— Mary Shelley
“Davis. What’s our status?” Commander Theodore Sylvia barked.
The boat’s COB (Chief of Boat) grunted. It was the fourth time the commander had requested a status report on their shore party in the last fifteen minutes.
The ship was moored at one of Point Loma’s docks. A long, concrete runway extended from the shore, with multiple fingers projecting on either side, each providing long slips for ships to berth. The Hampton was the only vessel docked.
The infection spread quickly. It had been just a few days since the virus claimed its first victim, and the country was already close to falling. Sylvia had ordered his submarine back to base once they received health warnings from the Navy and Marine Corps Public Health Center along with the subsequent retreat from the mainland of the Pacific Command. Commander Sylvia was determined to save as many of their dependents as possible. Several groups had been dispatched to find and retrieve them.
“Sir. The first group will be back in fifteen minutes,” the COB replied.
Inside, Phillip Davis was chiding his captain. The old man had nothing to do other than worry. As Chief of Boat, Davis ran the guts of the ship. His thick forearms were crossed as he gave orders to the rest of the crew. With so many of the Hampton’s bubbleheads on shore, his orders occasionally lacked follow-through. It was the loss of the pieces in the chain of command that had him fit to be tied. Because so many sailors were on shore, he had to personally follow up on each significant command. With the country falling apart, every order was important. Davis was a busy man. Catering to the boat commander’s inability to keep track of time was only adding to his stress.
“Sir, I’ve got Team Alpha. They’re returning with twelve dependents,” the ship’s radio operator reported.
“Very good. What’s their pause?”
“They’re two miles out.”
Davis did some quick math in his head then checked his watch. The first of the four teams would be back in less than ten minutes.
“Contact the other three teams. Let them know the status of Alpha and that they have half an hour to return.”
“Aye aye.”
Most people would be overwhelmed by his responsibilities. Davis thrived in it. He was juggling three or four things at one time, and even though he was frustrated at the situation, no man was better suited for it.
The first problem to solve was making space for the survivors. They had no idea how many would be coming back and with a crew of over a hundred, the Los Angeles class submarine was already crowded. If just one dependent per sailor was saved, the doubling of the underwater tube’s population would be an extreme hardship. People would be sleeping on the deck, and the air and water filtration system would be overwhelmed. It would be an impossible situation, but there was little choice in the matter. They couldn’t leave their loved ones behind.
Davis instinctively patted his front shirt pocket, searching for a cigar. It was a habit he’d picked up years ago whenever he became stressed. There was no smoking while on board, but back in his wardroom, there was one remaining box of Cuban Montecristos in his cabinet. They might be the last ones on the planet, and he vowed not to smoke them until the submarine found safe haven. Where and when that was going to happen was up to the captain. So far, Sylvia hadn’t given anyone an indication of his thoughts.
Five minutes later, Bravo and Delta checked in. Each group would be back with plenty of time remaining before their scheduled departure. All told, the three groups had close to fifty survivors with them.
“Any word from Charlie Team?” Davis asked.
“Negative, sir. I’ve tried four times to raise them. No reply.”
“Shit,” Davis replied.
“Let me know when the Alpha, Bravo, and Delta are on board,” Commander Sylvia replied calmly.
“Aye aye, sir.”
Davis stood silently. Sylvia had been remarkably stoic at the news. Charlie team had been sent out specifically to find and return the officers’ families. Sylvia’s wife was one of those they were looking for.
A few minutes later, three of the four teams had been brought on board. Fifty-four survivors were now crammed into the submarine, along with one hundred and two of the submarine’s crew and officers. The nine members of Charlie team were still out in the city and hadn’t been heard from in nearly thirty minutes.
“Davis, prepare to cast off,” Sylvia barked.
Both men were standing on the elevated conn. The bridge had a full complement of sailors, while the rest of the craft was sufficiently manned to leave port. Charlie Team could be left behind without compromising their effectiveness.
Executive Officer Russell Massey stood outside on the deck of the sub, supervising the return of the sailors. As the executive officer and second in command of the Hampton, he often was given the dirty jobs to complete. In this case, Sylvia had tasked him to form the four rescue teams and assign them the locations to be searched. Massey was the man who determined who would be saved, and who would be sacrificed.
The first lieutenant watched as the last of the three teams and recovered survivors descended into the bowels of the sub. He was now alone, along with two armed sailors who stood guard at the ramp to the dock. He glassed back to shore, searching for Charlie team. The shore and naval facility were quiet.
Massey was about to report the successful return of the three teams, when the pop of gunfire echoed out from the buildings of the vast naval station.
Six military trucks that had been recovered from the base were parked nearby. Each team had been given a pair to complete their mission. Massey searched the distance for the last two as he heard the high-pitched pop of M4 rifles. The sounds were drawing near.
“Bridge, Charlie Team is returning hot.”
“Sending more bodies,” Davis replied before ordering a half-dozen armed men to return to the deck.
Massey heard the rifle reports change from single shots to the rapid beat of automatic gunfire. The sight of four pickup trucks speeding up the road momentarily confused the XO, but several sailors could be seen in the beds of the trucks, shooting behind them.
A few moments later, a tidal wave of Variants careened out from the narrow street. The trucks had a few seconds’ lead on the first of the monsters. Massey calculated the vehicles’ speed and determined they’d arrive ahead of the infected herd. Would there be time to get their crew and the survivors into the vessel before they were overwhelmed? It was going to be close.
It was the first time Massey had seen the Variants. They were both horrific to watch and fascinating to behold. Their disjointed, loping gait was almost painful to watch but was amazingly effective. The trucks had to be doing over twenty miles an hour, and the lead creatures were keeping pace. Impressive.
The squad of armed sailors joined the other two on deck and formed a firing line facing back to shore.
“Prepare to cast off,” Massey commanded.
Several sailors began tossing the dock line back onto shore. The ramp was the only thing holding them in place. As the pickup trucks raced onto the wide dock, they were forced to slow down. That’s when the last truck was overwhelmed.
Massey watched as a few of the beasts managed to land in the vehicle’s bed. The armed sailors were quickly torn apart and tossed back into the swelling army of infected. Massey wanted to turn away as a pile of monsters formed over the remains of the dead sailors, fighting over the fresh meat and momentarily distracting them. It gave the rest of the survivors time to escape.
A large and amazingly fast Variant broke from the crowd and leapt onto the next truck. It disappeared from view but was quickly flung out of the bed with multiple eruptions blooming from its chest. A sailor with an M4 appeared and emptied his magazine at the dying creature.
The final three trucks careened up the dock and skidded to a stop. Variants were loping and growling, just seconds behind them.
“Fire!” Massey yelled.
The six sailors lit up the leading edge of the mass of the infected. With so many Variants swelling the dock, they rarely missed.
Massey hustled the first of the survivors into the sub. Just as the final pickup truck’s passengers were starting up the ramp, a single Variant sprang forward, leaping at the last of the rescued. The six riflemen failed to notice the lone creature break away. Their attention was focused on stopping the hundreds of snapping, mutated monsters that were rapidly approaching.
The XO sprinted down the ramp and pulled out his sidearm. A startled sailor who was pulling a middle-aged woman along with him stopped at the sight of the XO’s pistol.
“Drop down!” Massey yelled.
Both hit face down onto the ramp as the beast landed just behind the woman. Massey instinctively lined up his front sight onto the face of the deformed creature. Its glowing yellow eyes seethed with venomous hatred and hunger. It snarled and coiled to attack. Massey shot it through the bridge of its nose.
Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival Page 19
