Satan's Gate

by Walt Browning

  “John, I can’t make an argument that logically makes sense.”

  “Should I agree with you?” John hesitantly asked, hoping that she’d take the question as a humorous, but accurate, reply.

  Hope smiled and clasped his hand in hers. “I love you, John Carver. I’m sorry I didn’t let ‘us’ happen before now.”

  Carver was about to respond, but Hope’s eyes told him not to. Maybe it was his training with Shrek that heightened his emotional awareness, but he wisely stayed quiet.

  “But if you’re going to love me back, you need to respect my feelings. I know that every reason I can come up with to find Randy has an equal or greater counterargument. But, there’s one thing I can say that you have no rebuttal for.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It’s the right thing to do.”

  Compassion. You couldn’t argue with that.

  “You talk about the needs of the many. That sounds like something a Communist would say. That’s not who we are,” she said, spinning her pointed finger in a circle above her head. “If Randy isn’t as important as all of us, then who are we? Are we just a mindless mob, like the infected?”

  “I don’t know,” Carver replied. “I’m just trying to keep us safe.”

  “I know. But if we don’t try to help him, then we aren’t any better than those things out there. They do everything for themselves. They don’t do anything for each other. That’s what makes us human. We take care of each other. That, John Eric Carver, is why we need to try and help Randy. Because it is the right thing to do. It’s the human thing to do.”

  Carver knew he couldn’t win that line of reasoning, even if it was emotional and not logical.

  “We need to run it by the group,” he finally replied. “They have to approve it because it will affect us all. We can bring it up at dinner.”

  “That’s all I could ask,” Hope said, her eyes popping back to life. “Thank you.”

  Hope slid her chair next to his and leaned over, giving him a deep and passionate kiss.

  “Wow,” John said, catching his breath. “That was unexpected. Do I get one every time I agree with you?”

  “No,” she said as she stood. “You can get one of those anytime.”

  She tugged on him, pulling him from the chair.

  “What are you doing?” he said smiling at her playfulness.

  She just grinned and led him to a back room.

  “I told you,” she purred, “that I’d feed you later.”

  She closed and quietly locked the office door.

  — 18 —

  Jennifer Blevins

  Director, Schoepe Boy Scout Camp

  San Diego Naval Base

  The next morning, Jennifer woke with a start. The makeshift shades of their converted office glowed dimly around its edges. Jennifer glanced over her sleeping boyfriend at the bedside clock. It was a little after five.

  Garrett Jacobs lay quietly at her side. She’d twice put her arm around her fiancé that night, his restless sleep interspersed with nightmares unknown.

  He’d arrived back at their building after midnight with tales of thousands of Variants staring back at them as he and his friends gazed across San Diego Bay. His normal joy at coming home after a long night on patrol never materialized. His restless night only cemented her fears that their time on Coronado Island would soon come to an abrupt end.

  Jennifer rolled onto her back and stared at the acoustic tiles above her. She reflected on the circumstances that had brought her to this bed, on this island, and at this time.

  She absently twirled the engagement ring that hung around her neck, a gift from Garrett on the night the infection started. Called back to the base when the virus had become an emergency, he had run out of the restaurant before she could give him an answer to his proposal. She’d finally said “yes” after several days of hiding in the Manchester Hyatt, followed by her rescue by Garrett and his Shore Patrol friends.

  Unfortunately, the offer to wed had been a surprise, and the big dunce didn’t get the ring sized correctly. It was too big. It now hung around her neck until they could find a jeweler to size it properly. When that would happen was anyone’s guess.

  Commotion from the large common area outside startled Jennifer. Garrett woke as well. Throwing the covers off, he dropped into his boots and stomped out the door. He had been sleeping in a clean pair of Navy working uniform pants. The blue-and-grey patterned khakis were anything but comfortable, and she had wondered why he’d been doing that. Now she knew.

  Jennifer slept in one of Garrett’s long t-shirts. She began to put on a pair of shorts when several women cried out in anguish. She rushed to the room, where the rest of the people bunking in the converted office stood in shock.

  “What is it?” Jennifer asked as she slid up to Garrett’s side.

  “The Marines,” he said quietly. “The entire 11th MEU was destroyed last night.”

  “What?” Jennifer hissed. “Everyone?”

  “Less than a hundred survivors. The rest were overrun by Variants.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Jennifer said. It was all too overwhelming.

  The sun hadn’t risen, and they had been torn from their sleep to the news that the fleet had just lost most of its warriors.

  Garrett led her back to the room and closed the door.

  “All I know is that they were in Los Angeles and were overrun on some operation sanctioned by the Joint Chiefs,” Garrett said. “As to why and how? I haven’t a clue.”

  He began to dress, putting his gear back on as Jennifer sat in silence on the bed. Their protectors had been wiped out in just one night.

  “Garrett,” she suddenly said. “All those creatures you saw last night.”

  Garrett recognized the panic in her voice. He felt the same way. But his job denied him the chance to let it out. He had already pushed his fears down and put them into a box in the back of his head. Now was not the time to open that container.

  “You’ll be all right,” he said more stridently than he felt. “I’m going to get Gardner. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

  Jennifer knew he was placating her. But he said it so confidently that she almost believed him. Looking into his eyes, she saw that he needed her to trust what he’d just said.

  She faked confidence as best she could. “I know. Let me know what to do.”

  Garrett hugged her and gave her a kiss.

  “I love you, future wife.”

  “I love you too, future husband. See you soon.”

  Garrett smiled and left. As she looked around, the room suddenly felt small and insignificant. If the creatures got into the building, they wouldn’t last for long. She remembered when she was trapped in the hotel. Those doors were more substantial than the thinner, government-approved piece of hollow wood that separated her from the rest of the office.

  She shook those thoughts from her mind and began to clean their bedroom. When that was done, she decided to organize and fill the backpacks Garrett had procured for them a while ago.

  “Just a precaution,” she said herself, as most of her clothing went into a camo-patterned assault pack.

  Soon after that, she had Garrett’s things put away in his own ruck. She stacked both packs against the far wall and sat down. With nothing to do but think, she lay back on the perfectly made bunk. The world pressed heavily on her soul and she began to quietly sob.

  Garrett Jacobs got to the armory a few minutes after the LT had begun his impromptu brief. By the end of the hour-long session, he’d learned two things.

  First, the Variants were in far greater in numbers than the intel community had estimated. He laughed out loud when the lieutenant made that statement, earning him a stern look. Garrett had seen the increasing threat firsthand on his evening patrols. He watched the Variant population grow each night, their eyes blazing back at him in ever increasing numbers, every time he glassed across San Diego Bay. Garrett had reported this to their CO, but i
t obviously never made it to the people in intelligence. Naval intel personnel, or N2, were often called “deuces.” After hearing the implied surprise in their report, Garrett thought that the two must represent their I.Q. as well.

  The second thing he’d learned was that the entire island was to be evacuated. They were sending one of the Marines’ Amphibious Assault ships, the USS Boxer, to pull them all out as quickly as possible.

  The Boxer was a massive troop transport. It was a combination aircraft carrier and boat garage. It had a giant door on its tail that dropped open, releasing its three air-cushioned hovercraft. Each LCAC (Landing Craft, Air Cushion) could hold almost two hundred people.

  On top of the Boxer was a big, flat top that could launch the transport ship’s two dozen or so Osprey aircraft. Between the hovercrafts and Ospreys, they’d hoped to have everyone off the island within the next twenty-four hours.

  Garrett lingered after the brief had ended to meet up with John Gardner and Manny Polodare. Both were master-at-arms that he called his friends. They huddled together at the back of the room as the rest of the personnel funneled past them.

  “Just one more night,” Garrett said quietly, as if saying it loudly would curse them all. “We can do this.”

  Polodare began to say something, when Gardner stopped him. “Stow it. We all know what you think.”

  Manny was a confirmed pessimist. The other two could tell he was just dying to get it out. He tried to speak up once again, and both Garrett and Gardner cut him off.

  “NO!” they said in unison.

  “Just saying,” Manny griped, knowing his friends were aware of his dire predictions.

  Everything he’d said so far about the Variants and their odds of winning the war against these creatures had come true. It seemed that pessimism was the new realism and, practically speaking, if anything could get worse, it did. Who could have predicted that the Marines would be wiped out in just one night? Why Manny, of course. He’d made that call over a week ago. He had been eerily correct so far and neither of the other two wanted to get his take on their chances of getting off the island alive.

  “I missed the first part,” Garrett said.

  “LT says we’re here till the end,” Gardner said. “Pack your shit up and get it back here by 1500. They’ll haul all our gear on one of the landing craft, and we can pick it up when we get to the Boxer.”

  “LT said to make sure you put a nametag on your bags,” Polodare added.

  Being master-at-arms meant they were the Navy’s on-shore police force. The evacuation was expected to take most of the night and the Boxer wasn’t going to be off-shore until evening.

  “I’m going back to my room to get Jen. I want her on the first transport out of here,” Garrett said.

  “Yeah. Well, I want a back massage from Ariana Grande. Don’t mean I’m gonna get it,” Manny shot back. “You ain’t gettin’ her on anything till the officers and their families are off this rock.”

  Garrett knew his buddy was correct. There was a definite pecking order in the military, and Garrett and Jen were not at the top. She’d have to go to the island’s naval air base where the families were to gather. She’d be assigned a number, just like the others, that would determine her place in line.

  “We better get going,” Garrett said. “I’ve got to pack my shit.”

  “I’m already done,” Manny said. “I knew we’d have to do this.”

  “Bullshit,” Gardner replied. “You’re just too damn lazy to unpack. I know your ass. You’ve been wearing the same two pair of NWUs since we’ve been here.”

  Manny was about to reply, then thought better of it. He smiled and nodded. Gardner was correct. He hated to unpack. But it wasn’t because he was lazy. He didn’t unpack because he didn’t have anything in his duffel bag that he needed, other than a change of clothing.

  Manny shrugged. “I like to do laundry.”

  “Yeah, right,” Gardner sarcastically replied.

  The real reason Manny left his possessions packed away was, like most truths, more complicated than a simple answer could provide.

  Manny didn’t have much of a history outside the Navy. He was raised by an aunt who didn’t want him there. His mother had abandoned him with her as a baby, turning her attention to drugs instead. Ultimately, like most poor life decisions, it led to pain and eventually, her death.

  Manny found structure and acceptance at his high school where the Navy had set up a junior ROTC program. He had already chosen his NEC (Naval Enlisted Code) six months prior to graduation. Manny wanted to be a cop, and the MA (master-at-arms) would pay him and train him to be a naval security specialist. He’d have been out of the Navy six months from now, having his pick from most any police department in the country, if it hadn’t been for the apocalypse.

  The second reason was that, at least while they were on shore, he did enjoy doing his laundry. The thumping of the washing machines and hum of the driers were strangely soothing. He would bring a book or iPad and sit near the bank of machines, watching the other sailors launder their dirty clothes. The guys would dump everything into a machine, turn it on, then disappear. The women lingered. It was a good way to meet girls without being creepy.

  “You guys wanna meet up for breakfast?” Manny asked as they made their way out of the armory. “Might be the last hot meal for a while.”

  “Give me a bit,” Gardner said. “What do you say we meet at 0830?”

  “Solid copy on that,” Manny said. “Give me a chance to do one more load.”

  Polodare smiled and left quickly, leaving the other two to decide if he was yanking their chain. In the end, it really didn’t matter his reasons. The man liked to do his laundry. It might be the last time he’d have a chance to do this on land, possibly for the rest of his life.

  “See you at 0830,” Garrett said.

  He left the armory as well. Only this time, he was toting his M4 battle rifle and a full loadout of nine 30-round magazines. Normal protocol was for their firearms to be returned after each patrol. But they’d all been issued their weapons and ammunition before the meeting had adjourned. It was an ominous sign of things to come.

  A few minutes later, Garrett silently entered their room. The common area was eerily quiet. The gravity of the threat had hit home.

  Jennifer lay on their bed, her arm folded over her face. Her rhythmic breathing let Garrett know that she was asleep. Her lips were downturned into a pouty frown. Streaks of dried tears lined her cheek.

  He set his rifle and loadout onto a nearby table and quietly rolled into bed next to his fiancé. Jen’s eyes fluttered and she turned to Garrett, then smiled weakly.

  “Back already?”

  “It’s been over an hour.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know it’s been that long.”

  “That’s all right. We just need to pack up.”

  “Already done,” she said. “First thing I did when you left.”

  Garrett loved that about her. She always seemed to know how to help without being prompted. She just went about her life and brought stability and happiness wherever she went.

  “We’re meeting the guys in about an hour,” he said in a whisper. “Anything you want to do before then?”

  Jen looked back at him. He made her feel safe.

  “I don’t know. What’s the plan after we get off the island?”

  “No idea. Probably sail somewhere secure and start over.”

  “We’re going to be on the ship for a while, aren’t we?”

  “Yeah, and no one has any idea of how long it’ll take to find a safe place.”

  Jen smiled and pulled him to her bosom. He lay against her chest and listened to her heart beat. She pushed him back and grinned.

  “An hour. That’s plenty of time.”

  She pulled his face to hers. They gently kissed. It soon turned more passionate as his hands began to wander. She struggled to grab his belt. The damn NWUs were buttoned in front instead of having snaps and zippers.


  “I hate those things,” she said, after unsuccessfully trying to loosen his pants.

  He laughed. “How do you think guys feel about bra straps?”

  They both disrobed and slid back into bed.

  It was their last day on dry land. They had no idea how long they’d be on the ship, crammed into spaces shared by many.

  They lost themselves in each other, neither of them worried that their cries and moans could be heard by their neighbors. Once they left the island, they might not have a room to themselves for many months to come.

  — 19 —

  SCHOEPE BOY SCOUT CAMP

  BECKHAM HALL

  SHREK

  “To his dog, every man is Napoleon.”

  ALDOUS HUXLEY

  I can smell the humans’ fear. They talk to Carver like they’re strong, but they aren’t. They lack the warrior mentality. Carver has that fighter attitude, and so do I. The only other one to come close to us is Kinney. He was a Marine and still caries that swagger.

  The rest of them are all weak, but I am proud that they still prepare to fight. They’ve been strengthening their buildings with bars of steel and heavy wood bolted over the windows.

  The asps are still out there. I pick up their acidic scent every once in a while. My ears lay back on my head and my neck hair stands high. But then, the scent disappears, and I know I’ve scared them away once again. I am Shrek, the ghost in the night. I will kill any of them that get in my way.

  Carver is planning to go to the mansion with the giant driveway and all the lights. It’s where we rescued Hope. They want to find another human that they left behind. Whoever it is, is probably dead, but they want to try.

  Normally, I can tell the direction and number of any creature just by the intensity of their scent and which nostril it smells strongest in. But when we were at the place where Hope worked, there were so many asps that my nose was overwhelmed. This is not a good idea to go retrieve the human, but I understand loyalty. It is the driving force in my life.