“Duct tape?” Gonzalez said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You have a better idea?” Carver asked.
Gonzalez remained quiet. The handheld device was too large to implant under the animal’s skin, and its antenna needed to be deployed for them to track the bison, or its carcass, properly.
Carver began to wrap the grey tape around the sedated animal’s horns with the walkie-talkie device strapped in between.
“If these things are cutting them up in chunks, I don’t want to attach the transmitter anywhere they may slice,” Carver said as he finished the job.
The second animal was still moving, despite Dr. Maxwell’s tranquilizer. Carver repeated the process just as it began to come out of the anesthesia. Both men sprinted away, avoiding a very angry, thousand-pound, killing machine. Each bison was chained to a tree about a mile from the ranch’s main house.
The two bulls felt the added weight on their heads and rolled in the dirt, trying to dislodge them. They were unsuccessful.
“That’s a lot of meat to give up,” Gonzalez remarked.
“Yeah. But better the bigger males than the smaller females,” Carver replied. “Boys can’t have babies. You only need one male to keep things going.”
“Lucky guy,” Gonzalez said, smiling.
“We have plenty of bulls,” Maxwell said as she approached the two. “These are the smallest males in the herd, and they haven’t mated because the larger males have taken all the available females.”
“Wow. That sucks. Dying without having…” Gonzalez said.
“Yeah. Life’s a bitch,” Maxwell interrupted. “But the strong will pass on their genes and the weaker won’t. In the long run, the herd benefits. These two were destined to die, either by the bigger bulls or in my slaughterhouse. At least they’ll go out with a higher purpose.”
Carver pointed to a hillside a quarter mile away. “Our observation post is over there.” He turned to Gonzalez. “Go see how they’re doing.”
“Aye, aye,” the Marine said, before jogging off.
A dozen sailors were digging a hole in the side of the mountain, and a growing pile of cut ironwood and palm trees lay nearby. They would be used to cover the top of the hole and create a palisade of protection for the four men who were going to occupy it.
Maxwell sighed. “If the Catalina Island Conservancy could see what we’ve done to those trees, we’d be in jail.”
“Things are different now,” Carver replied. “They’ll grow back. With such a small human footprint, the island will be able to recover in no time.”
“John, you’re an optimist!”
“Why are you so surprised?”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with your fellow SEAL…” Maxwell began.
Carver held up his hands in defeat and smiled. “No need to go any further,” he said, laughing. “Shader can be grumpy as well as a bit rough around the edges.”
Maxwell crossed her arms over her chest and looked off at the distant ocean. Sitting high above the water, the panoramic view made her feel small. The water’s surface was spackled with whitecaps, giving the cold water a grey tint as the light-colored foam and dark, primordial ocean blended together.
She sighed again. This time it was a deep and exhausted sound. She and Carver stood next to each other, each lost in their own thoughts.
“How do you do it?” Maxwell asked, breaking the silence. She turned to Carver with weary eyes. “Make me feel better… I just don’t see the future.”
“You mean Porky doesn’t inspire you?” Carver said with a grin.
“No. I like the guy. Even if it wasn’t the apocalypse, I’d have taken a chance on him.”
She stared off in the distance. Carver could see her brain working in the twitches at the corner of her eyes, and the way she worked her jaw muscles. He’d recognized the same thing in Hope’s demeanor when she worried about their situation. Dr. Maxwell was trying to predict the future. As far as he was concerned, it was a fool’s errand.
“Trying to control what you can’t only leads to misery,” Carver said.
Maxwell seemed surprised. “That’s remarkably deep.”
“We aren’t all Neanderthals. Both Shader and I have a master’s degree. Many of the tier-one operators do. We spend as much time reading books as we do practicing our craft.”
“I didn’t mean to say you were stupid.”
“I know. But most people don’t know how much we do.”Carver turned back to the horizon and continued. “But my words are true. If you try to predict what can’t be predicted, you’ll just go crazy.”
They stood quietly again as Maxwell digested his words.
“How do you not go crazy?” she finally asked.
“Pick a goal, a destination that’s achievable, and move toward it, one step at a time.” He turned back to the construction. “That,” he said, sweeping his hand at the men working in the distance. “That’s attainable. That step will move us toward our goal.”
“And what is your dream, Chief Carver? What is the goal that makes you get up every morning, put on your boots, and go do battle?”
“My wife and our child,” Carver quickly replied, then he grinned. “Salvation for humanity.”
“You want to save the human race.” Maxwell snorted. “That’s no small goal.”
“I think big and act small,” Carver replied. Then, in a somber tone he added, “In the end, it needs to be something more than just me.”
“You have that with your family,” Maxwell replied.
“You can have that with Shader, too.”
“I could see us growing old together.” Her tone wasn’t convincing.
“But…” Carver added, sensing her hesitance.
“I think I want more.”
Carver knew the direction she was heading. “You’re still young. You could have a kid or two of your own.”
“And bring them into this world?”
“Ah. There’s the rub. This world isn’t worth inflicting on anyone else, especially your children.”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she said. “What can this world offer, other than pain and death?”
Carver remained silent and stared off at the ocean once again. Maxwell joined him, waiting for a reply she wasn’t sure she’d get, or one she’d like.
“I used to think that, too,” he finally said. “I remember driving through the towns in the Afghan mountains. Sometimes they were nothing more than clay and rock hovels clustered around a common well. Kids would run out and beg for gifts. We’d hand out candy and energy bars, and I’d think about just what you said. Why have children when you live like that?”
“My point exactly.”
“But the kids were happy, even in the squalor. I remember giving the little girls candy, only to have the boys knock them down and steal the treat. I almost got out of our HUMVEE and smacked the little turds. But it was their culture. The men dominated the women, even though it made me sick to watch.”
“How did you deal with that?”
“It took a while. But afterwards, I’d see the girls together. They were laughing and seemed genuinely happy. It made the situation bearable.” Carver turned to Maxwell. “You find happiness where you can, no matter how much the world tries to knock you down. Look around you. You have people who love you. They depend on you. You have a purpose in life, a bigger one than ever before. You have a guy that, with all his faults, is mesmerized by you. You seem to care about him. You can have a future. Just take it one step at a time and enjoy the victories as they come.”
“A philosopher and warrior. You surprise me, John Carver.”
“Don’t be shocked. I am a ‘dog person’ after all.”
“Yes, you are. Speaking of which, where is he?”
“Last I saw, he was running with your shepherd and collie.”
“Uh, oh,” she said, suddenly serious. “Bessy’s in estrus.”
“Say what?”
“My shepherd. She’s
in heat,” Maxwell said.
“I’ll go find him.”
“Too late. Don’t worry about it.” There was little they could do about it now.
“Look on the bright side,” Carver said. “At least one of you is having kids.”
Maxwell slugged Carver in the arm, her knuckle hitting his nerve.
“Ouch!” he cried. “That hurt. How do you ladies know just where to hit?”
Maxwell turned and walked away. Yet another mystery about women that he’d never understand.
Later that Evening
“I’m freezing my ass off.” Gonzalez said.
Carver shook his head at the Marine’s griping. “I told you to bring your woobie.”
“Can I borrow…”
“Not a chance,” Carver quickly replied. “No one touches my woobie.”
Every Marine loved their woobie. The soft liner for their wet weather poncho was perhaps the most treasured item in their rucks. It kept them warm, its soft material comforting, even in the worst of situations.
The hole they dug had been comfortable for the first few hours. As the sun set over the horizon, the sky put on a kaleidoscopic display of colors that transfixed the four warriors who were manning the observation post. Once darkness had set in, however, the ground rapidly lost its warmth. The desert soil now sucked the heat from their bodies as they waited quietly for the flying Variants.
The two bison stood in the distance, still chained to a nearby ironwood tree. They shuffled back and forth, unsure of their situation. Perhaps it was the chains that held them or some primal knowledge of their impending death that kept them unsettled. Whatever the cause, the large mammals never calmed down.
Carver scoped the night sky, searching for the flying monsters. His NV monocular intensified the night’s lights. Thousands of stars now appeared where darkness had once been. Green dots bathed the sky, making his job much more difficult. It was as if someone had hit a switch, quadrupling the number of night objects that were now visible.
Carver used to stand in his backyard back at his ranch in the California desert. He’d give Kyle the NV goggle and watch his reaction as the Milky Way exploded above them, the intensifying tube creating an almost solid puddle of green light that stretched across the night sky and down to the horizon.
Now, all those new blips above cluttered his vision. Finding the enemy when they approached was almost an impossible task.
Carver checked his watch. It was nearly two in the morning. They’d been in the hole since four that afternoon. He stood to stretch when Gonzalez grabbed his sleeve.
“Carver. Coming up from the ocean. See them?”
Carver brought his monocular up and stared out above the distant sea. “I don’t see anything.”
Shrek, standing at his side, suddenly growled.
“Just above the tree line,” Gonzalez replied. “They’re coming in low and fast.”
Carver adjusted his line of vision and scanned the treetops.
There! Several large Variants were skimming the vegetation as they swooped toward the two bison. They were moving straight up the mountain from the ocean below.
“Jeez, they’re fast,” Gavin Gringleman said as the tight formation broke up, revealing five Variants in the raiding party.
Two dove straight for the bison, while the other three flew cover above.
Carver felt movement next to him. He looked down and saw Shrek shaking his head. The ex-SEAL scolded himself for not remembering how the Variants’ hypersonic calls affected his Mal. It must sound like a horrible dog whistle to the poor animal. He should have left the Mal back with the others. To his credit, Shrek didn’t let out a peep.
Carver looked out at the bison, just as the two Variants pounced.
It was both gruesome and impressive.
They landed on the backs of the large animals, their wings enveloping their preys’ heads. The Variants’ lower appendages struck down, like the violent thrust of a wasp. Their spade-like claws sliced through the bisons’ necks, instantly decapitating them. Their lifeless bodies dropped to the sand.
The three Variants continued to circle above as the two on the ground chopped the bodies in half. In a matter of seconds, the bison had been butchered into six manageable pieces.
The five all swarmed the corpses, each flying monster taking one of the body pieces while the last one grabbed both heads. In less than a minute, they were soaring back toward the ocean, carrying over two thousand pounds of meat under their wings.
Carver contacted the Freedom and informed them of the situation. A minute later, the ship confirmed they were tracking the creatures as they flew south. Five minutes after that, the ship told Carver they had left the island and were continuing their southern flight.
“Wow. Just, wow,” Gonzalez whispered.
“Yeah. Now let’s get back to the others and see where those things went.”
— 27 —
Over the Pacific Ocean
Cobra One
Life is a hard fight, a struggle, a wrestling with the principle of evil, hand to hand, foot to foot. Every inch of the way is disputed.
— Florence Nightingale
The GPS coordinates were clear. The Variants had taken the carcasses to a spot on the southwestern end of San Clemente island. The desolate land mass had a military landing strip along with a radar installation. As far as anyone knew, there was no nuclear fuel on the island.
Speculation surrounded the accuracy of the coordinates. Perhaps the devices had been discarded or maybe they had been damaged. But both signals came to rest on the southern island’s shore, and it was up to Everly to find out what was out there.
Today, he flew alone.
The risk to the other aircraft from the flying monsters was too great. Everly’s gunship could easily outrun the Variants, and his weapons were far superior to the single machine gun found on either the Freedom’s Seahawk or Donaldson’s Osprey.
Everly was the most effective weapon against the mutated Variants.
It was mid-day as he approached the brown land mass. San Clemente was only twenty miles below Catalina’s southern tip.
The island’s concrete airstrip ran east to west across its northern shore. The light-brown color of several compacted dirt roads crisscrossed the darker sandy soil further south. The patchwork of soil compressed trails connected several small military installations that dotted the island. Multiple buildings were clustered in these locations and all had enough structures to hide the flying creatures.
There had been upward of three hundred souls stationed at the island when the outbreak began. How many of those had been infected was still a mystery. For now, he was just looking for the spot where the GPS signals had come to rest.
Everly found the scuttled submarine along the island’s southwest shore. The black tube sat against the rocky surf line, the ocean waves lapping on its hull.
Everly cautiously approached the wreck. He circled at a distance, searching the skies for signs of the flying monsters. With the sun directly overhead, the air was empty of the creatures. They were hidden within their lair. The question was whether they were in the submarine or had taken refuge in some cave or building further ashore. It was possible that both scenarios were possible.
Everly shot over the island’s five-hundred-foot-high spine and moved slowly up its eastern shore. He noted a fuel tank sitting near a shallow harbor not far from the airport. No boats were present. This might be another source of gas for the Freedom. If so, there was much they could salvage.
“Freedom. This is Cobra One. Over.”
“Go ahead, Cobra One. Over.”
“I found the source of radiation. A Los Angeles class submarine is scuttled on the island’s western shore. There is no sign of the enemy. The military installations appear to be intact. There are multiple locations where the Variants could be nesting. Over.”
“That’s a hard copy, Cobra One. Return to base for debrief. Over.”
“Copy that, Fr
eedom. Cobra One returning to base. Out.”
Everly gulped down the rest of his mug, then refilled it from the container of lukewarm coffee. A couple spoonfuls of sugar went into the black liquid. The powdered creamer had run out months ago, but he needed the caffeine hit. In a few hours, he would be back at the submarine and he needed to be sharp.
“You might want to make another pot,” he said.
He drained half the refreshed cup and grimaced. He’d never liked coffee that much, and it was quite bitter without any dairy additives. As Donaldson would happily tell anyone who asked, he added coffee to his cream and sugar, not the other way around. But he’d become accustomed to the effects of the black liquid. The caffeine coursing through his brain calmed him down when the stress levels rose.
He rejoined the others at the ranch’s dining room table and sat next to Donaldson. She was in deep conversation with Carver over her role in their next mission.
“I’m a glorified bus driver,” she said. “I understand it, but I don’t like it.”
“Try being the bait,” the Seahawk pilot replied. “I’m up close and personal with those things.”
“Like I said, they may not react to you at all,” Carver said to the Seahawk pilot. “These things seem to avoid confrontation with our aircraft.”
The Seahawk was going to be used as bait. He’d buzz the submarine in the hopes of getting a reaction. Anything that appeared would be cut down by Everly and his 20mm cannon.
Donaldson gave Everly a look. She wasn’t happy about hauling troops to the island while Everly got to have all the fun. He’d be shooting any creatures that reacted to the Seahawk’s provocation. She couldn’t even open the rear ramp to let Potoski take some shots since the open bay could be overwhelmed within seconds by the fast-flying monsters.
“Everly. Make sure your rounds don’t hit the submarine. We can’t risk…”
“I know. I know. We can’t risk spreading the radiation.”
The idea of blowing up the submarine was discarded as soon as it had been proposed. The Los Angeles class vessel carried enough nuclear fuel to contaminate the oceans for miles. With the Pacific current flowing north, Catalina would be the radiation’s first stop.
Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival Page 25
