Satan's Gate

by Walt Browning

  “What about you?” Shader asked.

  “Maintenance. The ship needs me. I’m going to help keep the filtration system up and running.”

  Morales leaned into Shader and whispered. “Bella doesn’t have parents anymore. I need to watch out for her.”

  “You’re going to be a good father,” Shader replied.

  Morales beamed and nodded. “Come on, little one. You may not want to sit down again, but you need your rest.”

  “Okay, Mr. Morales,” Bella replied.

  The two of them shuffled away, Morales hovering over the child as they disappeared through the portal.

  Shader felt renewed. At least these two were worth fighting for. He patted his front pocket, feeling the identification cards.

  Shader resumed his mission to report the infraction.

  “Those two might be worth it, but those idiots down below need a reminder of just what the United States Navy is all about,” he said to no one in particular.

  Rules had a purpose. Breaking them wasn’t an option. The punishment might be mitigated given their circumstance, but the infraction needed to be addressed.

  Shader found the bridge and reported to the XO. It was now out of his hands, and he felt no guilt in identifying the culprits. Little things mattered. Little things often turned out to be the lynchpins of success or the reasons for failure.

  For the want of a horseshoe nail, the kingdom was lost.

  He left to find Gonzalez and Keele. They needed to check on their wounded battle buddy and make sure he was taken care of.

  Shader checked the two Marines’ assigned quarters, but it was empty. After failing to find them in the mess deck, Porky was directed to the carrier’s hangar bay. There, he found the two working out. Gonzalez, all one hundred twenty-four pounds of him, was bench-pressing his weight while Keele spotted him.

  Shader stayed back, leaving the grunts to continue as the two men switched spots. Keele left the weight the same but ran off more reps. Shader approved. By not adding more plates to his routine, Keele accomplished two things. First, it sped things up—there were other people standing in line, waiting for their turn to use the equipment. The second thing it did was keep the two of them on even terms. Keele could likely bench more than the more diminutive Gonzalez, but he didn’t shove it in the man’s face. They were battle buddies. They were equals.

  When the two surrendered the bench to the next pair, Shader made his presence known.

  “Hey, you two,” he said from behind.

  Gonzalez turned and smiled. “Hey Chief! Why’re you slumming down here? Need someone to spot for you?”

  “No. But maybe if both of you spotted for me, I’d be able to do my reps.”

  “Ha!” Keele snorted. “In your dreams, straphanger.”

  Shader let out a loud laugh. He hadn’t had a good chuckle in a long time. Straphanger was a pejorative for men who passed through special ops training but were of little value in combat. They held onto the other operators’ straps, being pulled along like dead weight.

  The three men smiled and Shader good naturedly slapped Gonzalez on the shoulder.

  “You two would have made good SEALs,” Shader said.

  “Aw Chief, now you’re just being mean,” he replied, earning another laugh.

  “I just wanted to know if you two wanted to go check on Lazzaro. I’m heading down to sickbay right now.”

  “Oh, Chief. They moved him to the Boxer. They medevaced him this morning.”

  “What happened?” Shader asked.

  “They were worried about infection, and the Boxer has a better facility to handle that. Plus, it was a deep cut, and they told him it needed internal sutures to close the wound properly.”

  “I did what I could,” Shader replied, feeling guilty that he’d done less than an adequate job on the injury.

  “No sweat, Chief. You stopped the bleed. Let the docs make it pretty. Right, Keele?”

  “Copy that. You got us out of there, Shader. We owe you.”

  Porky felt better. These two could run with him anytime.

  “You eat lunch yet?” Gonzalez asked. “We’re heading out to get some chow.”

  “I haven’t eaten yet,” Shader replied. “Sounds good.”

  “You think they’ll let a squid eat with us, G-man?” Keele asked with a smile.

  “Yeah. He’s earned it,” Gonzalez replied.

  Shader didn’t say a word. Eating with Marines was always an adventure and one that, a few months ago, he’d have passed on. The Navy and Marines had a contentious relationship, one born of both disdain and respect.

  Shader used to scoff at the Pavlovian way the Marines were trained. If they were told to do something, it was a mindless response. They followed orders, regardless of the danger or likelihood of success.

  When SEALs were given an order, they spent days planning the operation, each person having near equal input into the final decision.

  But as Shader walked with the two jarheads, listening to them banter back and forth, he realized one important thing. They were incredibly loyal and devoted to both each other and their mission. It reminded him of a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt—both the wife of President Franklin D. Roosevelt and the niece of the ship’s namesake.

  “The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale, and the lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!” she had said.

  “Thank God for the Marines,” Shader mumbled to himself as Keele and Gonzalez shoved each other.

  “What was that?” Gonzalez asked as Keele pushed him playfully against the bulkhead.

  “No better friend and no worse enemy,” Shader said.

  “Oorah,” the two Marines chanted.

  “Oorah,” Shader replied as they entered the mess deck, joining the few remaining men of the 11th MEU. He was surrounded by Marines and Shader was happy to have them.

  — 22 —

  USS Boxer

  Marine Amphibious Assault Ship

  Off the California Coast

  Corporal Lazzaro

  “Beware of little expenses. A small leak will sink a great ship.”

  -BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  Lazzaro lay back on the medical cot. It was nice to finally relax after the prior day’s events.

  After his debrief on the T.R., the medical bay decided to helicopter him to the Boxer for further care. The sick bay on the aircraft carrier was swamped by civilians, and Lazzaro’s injury wasn’t enough of a concern to warrant bumping an emergency appendectomy or a compound fracture from the surgery schedule. With a supply run scheduled only thirty minutes after the debriefing had been completed, Lazzaro was ordered to hobble onto the craft and report to the Boxer’s sick bay.

  The sick bay was designed to handle mass casualties. It was, after all, a Marine assault ship. With multiple empty beds and a full complement of medical personnel, Lazzaro was feeling rather special. He was one of three Marines being taken care of. All had been injured during what was rapidly being called “The Battle of the Forum.”

  The other two Marines were bunked at the front of the room, while Lazzaro had been assigned a cot near the back. Why they hadn’t been put together was, like most rules in the corps, a mystery to be obeyed and not challenged.

  That was fine by him. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about the Forum. The debrief and the constant demands to tell his story to everyone he’d met since he’d arrived left him emotionally exhausted.

  Now he was recovering from a re-do of his sutured wound. Apparently, the surgery went well. The doc had taken a look at his chart and nodded in an approving, medical sort of way before he moved on to the other two Marines. Five minutes later, the three of them were alone.

  One of the other Marines was ambulatory and began to pace back and forth after the doc had left the room. His left arm was in a cast that went from his shoulder down to his wrist. He was not comfortable
and let everyone know it. He didn’t have an IV, and the oral meds he’d taken weren’t cutting it.

  “Come on!” he complained to a hospital corpsman who sat at a desk nearby. “My arm is killing me!”

  “Doc prescribed Tramadol,” the corpsman replied.

  “I need more.”

  “Not for another two hours.”

  The Marine’s buddy was asleep on his bed, an IV was attached to both arms. “Jesus. Lender’s got an IV. Why don’t I?”

  “Your buddy had shrapnel removed from his bowels. He’s had major surgery and has three drains pulling shit out of his gut. He needs it. You don’t.”

  “For fuck’s sake. Get the doc.”

  The corpsman shook his head and left the room. Lazzaro wasn’t sure if it was to get the doctor or get away from the complaining E-2.

  Having undergone general anesthesia seemed to put Lazzaro in the more critical category. He was hooked up to an IV bag with antibiotics and some kind of wonderful narcotic. His own pain was a distant background noise in the back of his brain. More than manageable with the drugs that were being pumped into his arm.

  A low buzz suddenly grumbled from his computerized infusion pump and a warm glow began to creep over him. The synthetic opioid began to saturate his brain. With no rest over the last twenty-four hours, Lazzaro happily allowed himself to pass into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

  One of the side effects of the drug was active and vivid nightmares. Lazzaro was no exception. He was constantly jolted into semi-consciousness as images of the Variants consumed his dreams. One time, he was at the Forum, where he watched Gonzalez devoured by the creatures. He had another nightmare where Shader and Keele had been bitten. They turned on the survivors and slaughtered them all. The hours he spent in that drug-infused sleep brought little rest.

  So, when the sounds of a Variant screaming nearby assailed his ears, he simply rolled over and tried to ignore his overwrought imagination. But a second cry, this time from someone not infected, forced Lazzaro to turn and make sure he was truly dreaming.

  Lazzaro froze. It wasn’t possible. It had to be another dream. He slowly pinched himself, digging his fingernails into his thigh, just above his shrapnel injury. His wounded leg exploded with pain. He was awake!

  Lazzaro glanced up the room and saw the Marine who had been hooked up to the two IVs hovering near the corpsman’s desk. He was hunched over something on the floor. Lazzaro raised himself slightly to get a better look. What he saw froze him with fear. The first Marine, the one with the stomach wound, had turned. He was a Variant.

  The second Marine, the one with the broken arm, was lying akimbo across his bed. His neck had been ripped open, the blood spatter on the wall behind him leaving no doubt that he was dead. He’d nearly been decapitated.

  Grunting and slurping sounds came from the Variant. Lazzaro slowly lowered himself back down and rolled to the side of the bed. He pushed the IV line back and dropped down onto the ground.

  The sounds of the creature feeding continued. Lazzaro looked under the rows of bunks and saw the thing feasting on the body of the dead corpsman.

  As the minutes went by. Lazzaro could barely breathe. The Marine, now Variant, stopped his meal and stood up. Lazzaro could see his feet moving about the room. The creature was becoming agitated as it hobbled back and forth at the far end of the bay. Lazzaro pressed his eyes shut as the footfalls of the infected thing began to come closer. Creaking and popping from the Variant’s joints became louder. The creature howled. It flipped over a bunk in frustration. With the door to the room closed, Lazzaro knew it didn’t have the ability to manipulate the door handle and get out. Eventually, it would find him. With a splinted knee and an IV hooked into him, there wasn’t much hope of him fighting the creature off. He slid further under the bunk and began to say a silent prayer.

  The creature was getting closer. It sniffed at the air, becoming more and more agitated. The bed next to Lazzaro flew off the floor as the Variant searched for another victim to devour. It was the end, and Lazzaro knew it.

  At the far end of the room, the sick bay door opened just as the malformed feet of the creature came to his bunk. The Variant sprung away. Muted cries came from the end of the room, and the sound of both human and Variant screams echoed back to Lazzaro. A brief struggle ensued, and the Variant got out of sick bay and into the open passageway. The creature was loose, and Lazzaro felt a pang of guilt. He’d prayed for just such a miracle and it had come true. But now, the rest of the ship was at risk. Lazzaro began to regret his selfishness just as the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins began to make him shake. He began to hyperventilate and quiver. He couldn’t control his body. Lazzaro lay several minutes, listening to the newly wounded man whimper.

  The door to the sick bay opened.

  “Where is it?” a man screamed out.

  “I don’t know!” the injured sailor answered. “Just help me. Please.”

  Several sailors could be heard in the waiting room. They were searching for the creature, and the quicker it was found, the less chance there was that they would lose the ship.

  Lazzaro had begun to pull himself out from under the bunk, when the conversation in the adjoining room became more frantic. He froze and listened.

  “Damn it, sailor. Where did it go?”

  “Oh God. It bit me,” the injured man cried. “Just get the doc. Please help me.”

  “I will. Just tell me which way it went.”

  “It ran out and went to the left,” he cried.

  The second man began to bark out orders, sending the armed sailors to try to contain the emergency. Infection in these tight quarters meant certain death.

  “Get the doctor,” the injured man pled. “I need a doctor.”

  “He’s on his way. Do you know who it was? Who changed?”

  “It was the Marine. The one with the wound to the abdomen. He must have gotten infected by the shrapnel. It probably went through a Variant before it hit him. Please. Get the doc. I need help.”

  “Yes, son. You do need help but Doc’s dead. His body is in the passageway outside. That thing got him. There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

  “NO!”

  A single gunshot echoed.

  “That’s all the help I can give you,” the first man said soberly.

  Lazzaro remained frozen as he heard the sound of footsteps. He saw a pair of combat boots walking slowly toward him. He dared not even breathe.

  A yell came from the hall. “LT! It’s gotten into engineering!”

  The boots turned and sprinted away, leaving Lazzaro alive, but very much afraid.

  What if I’m infected then, as well? What if that shrapnel had passed through one of those creatures and put its blood inside me?

  Lazzaro crawled out from under the bed. Miraculously, the IV was still attached to him. He ripped the needle from his arm and was rewarded with a steady trickle of blood. He staunched the wound with a piece of 4x4 gauze that was on a nearby stand.

  Confused, he sat down on the bed and put his head down in his hands. What to do? Where to go? I can’t risk the others if I’m infected.

  Lazzaro was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. He didn’t want to report to his superiors and risk being summarily shot, but he also didn’t want to turn into another rampaging monster. He couldn’t do that to his brothers.

  He thought about committing suicide. He got up from the bed, convinced that this was his only option. He moved toward the door and saw the remains of the dead corpsman. The Variant had eaten away half his upper torso. The heart was missing, along with most of the lobes of his lungs. The liver was also partially devoured.

  Lazzaro staggered past. The next room wasn’t much better. The sailor who had been shot after being bitten lay back on the floor, a bullet between his eyes. Lazzaro stared at the corpse, knowing that this was his fate if he turned himself in.

  He spun around, looking for something to end his miserable life. He looked on the dea
d man’s waist. There was a holstered sidearm. He grabbed the M9 from the corpse and found the waiting room’s head. He staggered over to it, convinced that ending his own life was the only option.

  Lazzaro opened the bathroom door. It was a small, private head with a single sink and lone toilet. There was a small metal door in the wall. It was a pass-through for urine samples. Under it was a bank of shelves with towels and plastic cups.

  He bolted the door and sat on the floor then began to cry. He racked the M9’s slide, chambering a 9mm round. He clicked the safety to the fire position and rolled the pistol around with his hand. He mindlessly inspected the firearm, looking it over like he’d never seen one before. He was on autopilot. His brain couldn’t focus on a conscious level, so he stopped thinking and let his subconscious mind take over.

  He put the end of the barrel to his forehead and massaged the trigger guard. He kept attempting to put his thumb into the trigger well and press, but no matter how much he tried to end his life, he couldn’t do it.

  Lazzaro finally dropped his hand to his side and sobbed. He couldn’t kill himself. So, he did the next best thing. He got up, left the bathroom, and found a pen and some paper. He wrote a note and taped it to the bathroom door, then he went inside the head and locked himself in.

  If he couldn’t kill himself, then at least, he could warn others. He’d have to leave his death up to his brother Marines. He’d warned them, and that should be enough.

  Lazzaro lay down on the cold, white tile and closed his eyes. He was exhausted. He’d been awakened while his body still had opioids coursing through it. Now that the immediate threat was gone, the drugs began to take over. He grabbed some hand towels from the nearby shelf and lay his head on them, then passed out. He could only pray that he didn’t wake up as he turned. That would suck.

  Outside, as Lazzaro lay in a drug-induced sleep, the USS Boxer had a slow and horrible death. The infection spread and within hours, most of the sailors and Marines had either been infected or consumed. Meanwhile, Lazzaro slept behind a door that had a note taped to it.