Satan's Gate

by Walt Browning

  Morales had estimated it was about a hundred yards before he’d hit a turnoff in the duct. Shader could have sworn he had to have passed it by now, but his NV monocular was working, and the IR flashlight shone brightly. Regardless of how it felt, he still hadn’t made it to the branch off.

  The sounds of the Variants were becoming more distinct with each passing stride. Shader knew how to count steps. Every SF operator had a set of Ranger beads they could use to estimate distances, but that didn’t work when you were squatting and walking rather than taking normal paces.

  Shader wanted to curse, but he couldn’t afford the noise. So, he did what he had been trained to do; he pushed on.

  Twenty more steps ahead and the branch off came into view. The duct sloped upward at a slight angle but not so bad that the SEAL couldn’t get traction and continue. This was the way Morales had come when he had rescued the young girl. The tunnel would take him up to a higher level, where he could get a better view of the main floor.

  By Shader’s estimate, he still had an hour before dusk. Morales told him about several holes in the roof where bomb fragments had penetrated the dome. It allowed the sun into the building, and Shader wanted to get a look before he lost what light there was.

  As expected, the return duct began to narrow, forcing Shader to crawl on his knees. Up ahead and to his left was the heavy metal grate that sat halfway up the Forum’s stadium seating. The same one that Morales had quietly unbolted to get to the entrapped little girl.

  Shader slowed down and caught his breath. Stealth was his friend, and he needed to be under control. After thirty seconds, he slid quietly to the grate and gazed out.

  The light was minimal, but it gave his intensifiers plenty to work with.

  There were literally thousands them. The main floor was packed with Variants, many standing and swaying like they were in a trance. Some moved around, almost acting like sentries. The seating area was mostly filled as well, with the creatures clustered in groups of varying numbers. Each small faction seemed to have a leader that was treated almost like a rock star. Some of their clan groomed the chosen one, while others stayed on the perimeter and stood watch.

  Shader took his eyes off of the Variants and scanned the walls. Dozens and dozens of cocoon-like patches clung to just about any open space you could find. Some were broken open with pieces of crystalized glue sitting under the open cavity. Others were full. It was these that Shader had the most difficult time with. He could see that people were encased by the crusty secretion. Most of the humans looked dead or unconscious, with their heads exposed and the rest of their bodies trapped in the hardened slime. Some weren’t so fortunate. Moans and the occasional whimper drifted into the grate. It took all of Shader’s will power to not tear open the metal cover and begin shooting every Variant he saw.

  After steeling himself, he began to count, estimating the enemy’s numbers.

  Almost six thousand Variants! And that didn’t include the ones that were still at the utility room door.

  Shader was about to turn and leave, when he noticed the monsters becoming restless. A high-pitched whine could be heard from outside. The creatures began to huddle together, their chirping and barking transforming into a low-pitched growl.

  It was incoming ordinance. One or more of the destroyers were sending shells into the city, with the explosions landing a short distance away. The Variants looked skyward, staring out of the cracks and holes left by the prior bombardment. A few minutes later, F-18 Hornets shrieked overhead, their supersonic boom rattling the rafters of the building. The rumble of several more explosions shook the floor, eliciting panicked grunts from the assembled creatures.

  Shader had to respect these things. With many days of death raining down around them, they’d learned to hide from the bombing runs of the Navy jets. That explained why they hadn’t left the building with the Marines right outside. It wasn’t fun being at the working end of an artillery barrage, and they’d adapted to that reality.

  Shader turned and silently slid down the duct and made his way back to the utility room. The entrance to the duct was on the floor of the utility room, and Morales helped him crawl up and out of the access opening. The maintenance chief then dropped a metal hatch down and locked it in place. Then they rolled a golf cart on top it to keep any Variants from following.

  “Where’s Gonzalez?” Shader asked, as he brushed off the dust and hairballs that were clinging to his clothing.

  “Coming, Chief,” Gonzalez said as he scampered from the back room. “Hey, you look like a feather duster,” he added while watching Shader picking debris out of his tight beard.

  “I’m going to enjoy this. You think I’m covered in crap? Just wait,” Shader replied as he finished grooming himself. “Have you memorized the schematics?”

  “Aye. It’s not too hard. Just one turn. But Shader, I don’t think I’ll be able to get through the choke point. It’s damn tight.”

  “That’s why we’re coating you with shortening.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard me. You’re going in with nothing but skivvies and a pistol. We’re going to paint your ass with as much shortening as we can.”

  “Fuck, Shader. You ain’t kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. Now let’s get going. It’s almost dark, and I don’t want you taken out by friendly fire because your jarhead brothers think they saw a ghost.”

  — 8 —

  Van Ness Avenue

  South of FOB Hawthorne

  Lieutenant Tyrell Jack

  “If you can fill the unforgiving minute

  With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

  Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

  And – which is more – you’ll be a man, my son!”

  RUDYARD KIPLING

  “If: A Father’s Advice to His Son”

  The point vehicle ripped off a burst from its mounted Ma Deuce. The fifty-caliber machine gun tore through yet another Variant that had sprinted at them from one of the houses they were passing.

  Sergeant Braddock gripped the wheel of the HUMVEE he was driving as the fuel hauler to his front bounced over the freshly killed creature, sending pieces of rendered flesh flying to the curb.

  “Nice,” Lieutenant Tyrell Jack said. “Like having a snowplow clear the way for us.”

  “I’d feel better if we didn’t need to clear the road,” Braddock replied. “We’re not even halfway to the airport, and that’s the ninth Variant we’ve taken out.”

  “Yeah. I noticed,” Lt. Jack said, staring out the window. “Not as quiet as I would have thought.”

  Braddock saw that they were, appropriately enough, approaching Marine Avenue. That was the road where their sniper had taken out a half dozen Variants. It was also the avenue that went to the local hospital.

  “What’s up?” Lt. Jack asked as Braddock pulled out of the convoy.

  “I want to put eyes up the road, make sure we don’t have any Tangos coming our way.”

  The vehicle behind them began to slow down, but Braddock jumped out of the driver’s side and waved him on. The sergeant jumped up onto the back of their HUMVEE and stood on the roof. Bringing his binoculars up, he looked east.

  The street was lined with older single-story businesses and strip malls. The road was void of vehicles, but in the distance, Braddock could just make out the outline of the community hospital. Everything was clear, other than a shimmering mass out in front of the building.

  “Hey sir, take a look at this.”

  Jack stepped onto the back of the vehicle and glassed to the east. Both Marines stared at the distant building. There was something peculiar about it that neither could quite grasp.

  “Able One, this is Panther Thirty,” Corporal Franks, their designated marksman said over their squad radio. “I’ve got Ladder Three on their squad radio.”

  Whoever had programed their handhelds had screwed up with the main battle net frequency. But as the convoy approached th
e airport, they were able to get FOB Hawthorne on their local channel.

  “This is Able One actual,” Jack replied. “What’s your pause?”

  “We just rolled past 135th Street, coming up on Rowley Park.”

  “Any activity around you?”

  “Negative, Able One.”

  “Wait one. I may need you to relay messages for me.”

  “Solid copy that, Able One. Over,” Franks replied as he pulled his MRAP off to the side of the road to await further orders.

  The lieutenant turned to SSgt. Braddock and continued. “I don’t like what I’m seeing down there. I want to put eyes on that hospital.”

  Braddock nodded his approval. “Good idea, sir. Maybe Panther Thirty can relay our situation and we can get a drone to take a look.”

  The rest of the vehicles finished passing them by, and soon the convoy became a low-pitched rumble in the distance.

  “Shit, Sergeant. Take a look!”

  Braddock glassed east once again. The blurry image that had been clustered near the hospital suddenly became clear.

  “Holy mother of God,” Braddock whispered. “It looks like the whole city is out there.”

  “Yeah… and they’re coming our way,” Jack said. The lieutenant jumped down, grabbed his map from the front seat, and laid it down on the hood of the HUMVEE.

  “Panther Thirty, this is Able One actual. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Send your traffic, Able One. Over.”

  “Adjust fire. Over.”

  “Solid copy, Able One. Adjust fire.”

  The coms went to static as Franks switched frequencies. He had to alert Hawthorne to contact fleet. Hawthorne would, in turn, call in an artillery strike from the battle group. There were several people relaying information, and Jack would have to take that delay into account. It took some time to coordinate it all.

  “How are we doing, Sergeant?”

  “Not good. Those things can really move.”

  Jack looked again through his binoculars and was shocked at the speed of the Variants. Hundreds of them were sprinting down the road, directly at the two Marines.

  Braddock raised his pistol and let off several shots.

  “What was that for?”

  “I saw some of them branching off. We need to keep them from splitting away from the group.”

  Jack nodded. The sergeant’s plan was working, but he didn’t like the idea of being the bait for a throng of hungry Variants.

  “Able One, this is Panther Thirty. Ready for coordinates.”

  “Panther Thirty, Grid 134235, altitude zero-five-zero, direction 8774 mils. Over.”

  “Solid copy, Able One. Adjust fire at grid 134235, altitude zero-five-zero, direction 8874 mils.”

  Several seconds passed. Jack had anticipated the delay and called a single strike a hundred meters west of the mob. Hopefully, he led them properly.

  The whine of an incoming round whistled through the air. The explosion was just short of the advancing creatures and almost fifty meters behind them.

  “Panther Thirty. Left two hundred mikes, add fifty mikes. Enemy in the open. VT in effect. Fire for effect.”

  “Copy that, Able One. Left two hundred, add fifty, VT in effect. Fire for effect.”

  Ten seconds later, it began. VT, or variable timing, meant that the warheads would explode above the target, sending shrapnel into the enemy. Round after round erupted just overhead of the advancing horde. With the five-inch shells falling every five seconds, the results were devastating. Several minutes of constant bombardment left each and every creature ripped apart. Nothing moved when the smoke finally drifted away.

  Braddock look on with satisfaction. The lieutenant may be green, but he called a perfect artillery strike. He couldn’t have done better himself.

  “Well, LT, looks like we stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “That we did. Now let’s get to the FOB and get the party started.”

  “Aye aye,” Braddock replied.

  — 9 —

  FOB Forum

  Sergeant Paul E. Russ

  “If ignorant both of your enemy and yourself,

  you are certain to be in peril.”

  SUN TZU

  The Art of War

  The setting sun was just beginning to touch the surrounding buildings. The QRF had been gone most of the afternoon, and there had been no radio contact with Shader since he and his men had entered the underground garage.

  When he reminded the lieutenant of the quick reaction force’s absence, the man didn’t seem to care one way or another.

  “He’s probably lost,” the LT said dismissively before Landry turned his attention back to the rifle company’s commanding officer.

  Over the last few hours, over a hundred more Marines had been inserted, bringing the Forum FOB up to rifle company strength. There was now a captain in charge as well as five lieutenants commanding their respective platoons. With four other officers vying for the captain’s attention, Landry was now busy sucking up to his CO. He couldn’t be bothered by the temporary absence of one of his squad leaders, especially one that wasn’t even a Marine.

  On the positive side of it all, as long as Landry was busy shoving his nose up the captain’s ass, he was staying away from the rest of his men. That allowed Russ to run his squad properly.

  But the absence of the QRF weighed heavily on Russ’s mind. He’d been monitoring the squad channel, even wandering over to the mouth of the service ramp and occasionally transmitting Shader’s call sign. He’d stopped doing that about an hour ago when the lieutenant dressed him down over the open channel. Every grunt and officer in the company heard the verbal beating.

  “Green One is a big boy. He can take care of himself. Now, clear the channel,” Lieutenant Landry barked.

  Russ was furious. The kid had a hard-on and didn’t listen to a thing his NCOs told him. The two staff sergeants and SEAL who were directly under him had over fifty years of combined experience. The LT had zero. Maybe the brass on his collar made his brain malfunction.

  “Fuck him,” Russ said under his breath. “I’m doing what’s right.”

  Russ had repositioned one of the fireteams close to the ramp in case Shader needed help. Even more frustrating was that Landry was clueless about how to set up a defensive fighting position. Russ wasn’t going to let the young LT screw up their lanes of fire because he wanted the defensive positions looking symmetric on a map.

  Russ checked his men, making sure they stayed hydrated and alert. He casually strolled over to the ramp and stared into the black abyss, shuddering at the thought that four of their own had voluntarily entered that nightmare.

  SSgt. Russ pulled out his tin of Skoal and took a healthy pinch, placing it in the fold of his cheek next to his remaining left lower molar. The nicotine rush hit him instantly, calming his nerves. He’d sure miss the tobacco when he ran out.

  POP! Russ heard from the tunnel.

  It was an M9. The Marine sidearm’s sound was so familiar that he dreamed about it during his many restless nightmares.

  Russ brought his M4 up and began to tactically walk down the ramp. He switched his mounted flashlight on and pressed his PTT button.

  “Red One, this is Blue One actual. Contact in the garage.” Russ ignored the lack of reply from his lieutenant and could only hope that the rest of the company had been alerted. Instead, he ran into the inky darkness.

  POP! POP! POP!

  The blasts from the handgun exploded from the far end of the garage, but Russ’s flashlight couldn’t penetrate the distance. Without NVGs, his world was limited to the reach of his rail-mounted flashlight. He fast-walked toward the bursts of light. Gone were his fears of the unknown. Variants be damned, at least one of his brothers was in trouble.

  The size of the space was unexpected, and the sergeant became disoriented as he moved past several vehicles and concrete support pillars. After a frantic minute, Russ stopped his forward motion, realizing he had pushed himself too qui
ckly. He turned to try to find the ramp but was met with only blackness. How had he lost the light? He began to feel panic welling up within.

  A sound broke the stillness. The padding of bare feet slapping on concrete.

  “Fuck me sideways!” Russ hissed.

  With less than a hundred feet of visibility, he began to spin, shining his light around in search of the creature bearing down on him.

  A flash of white briefly popped into view, and Russ let off a burst at the apparition.

  “FRIENDLY! FRIENDLY!” came a scream from the blackness.

  “Identify yourself!” Russ shouted, aiming through his ACOG.

  “Blue Two, Blue Two! It’s Gonzales!”

  Russ dropped his rifle to low ready and stared into the dark. After ten seconds, he shouted out.

  “God damn it, Gonzalez. Get your ass out here.”

  Russ saw movement from behind a pillar, but instead of seeing a Marine in full battle rattle striding up to him, he watched in amazement as a white ghost appeared.

  “What the fuck!” Russ yelled as he brought his rifle up and drew down on the young Marine.

  “Stop!” Gonzalez said as he continued to walk forward, hands raised. “It’s me.”

  The kid had stripped down to his underwear and was coated in something white and pasty.

  “Where is your gear and what the hell is that shit on you?” Russ said.

  Gonzalez, holding an M9 and wearing nothing but his skivvies and an NVG on his head, stepped up and held his arms out as if saying Look at me!

  “It was Shader’s idea, but he was right about the Crisco.”

  “Tell me about it later,” Russ said. “I heard four shots. Any more of those things I need to worry about?” Russ asked.

  “You’ve got no idea, Sarge,” Gonzalez replied. “I need to report to the LT.”

  “We’ve got a captain now. We’re saved,” Russ deadpanned. “Just answer me, are there any more in this garage?”

  “No, Sarge, but we better move. I blocked the door with a delivery car. It should hold, but there’s a shitload of those things in the Forum.”