Carver thought for a moment, then decided their best course of action.
“We check the kitchen. If he’s not there, he’s dead. Either he ran out of water or he’s infected and roaming about Borrego Springs looking for his next meal.”
“Makes sense. But let’s see if we can start the van.”
“Good idea.”
Carver opened his driver’s side door and commanded Shrek. “Los!”
Shrek bolted out of the car and sat facing Carver. His eyes pled for an order.
Kinney pulled himself out of the other side and scanned their surroundings through his M4’s optics. Carver did as well and after a full minute, they retrieved their assault packs, one person at a time while the other stood watch.
The pair tactically advanced to the delivery vehicle. They paused at the back doors, allowing Shrek to assess the area. The dog remained stoic, his nape hair normal and eyes scanning the surrounding gardens.
They flung the rear doors open and found an empty vehicle.
Kinney slid the driver’s side door open and, after verifying it was safe, found the keys to the delivery truck still in the ignition.
“Go on,” Carver said, prodding the camp ranger into the driver’s side seat.
Kinney shook his head and moved past some black-speckled goo that was caking the floor of the truck. He turned the key and started the van on the second try.
All the while, Shrek and Carver maintained watch. After ten or fifteen seconds gently revving the motor, Kinney shut the vehicle down.
“It’s got over half a tank.”
“Perfect. Now, let’s get Randy and get the fuck out of here,” Carver replied.
They turned and made their way back to the open side entrance.
Shrek stayed on Carver’s right hip, never straying more than a few feet. His eyes darted back and forth, but it was his nose that warned him of the asps within. Shrek’s hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he froze. It was his “tell” that he’d smelled something wrong.
Carver took note as he looked into the blackened hallway. “Use your tubes once we’re inside.”
Both men reached around to the back of their packs and retrieved their ballistic helmets. There was a square plastic frame attached to the head protector’s front grill. They each snapped their night vision monocular onto the helmet using a retractable J-arm that clipped into the NV bracket. As long as they left the arm up, the monocular was inactive. Once the arm was swiveled down, it activated the intensifier tube, giving them a green-hued image. They donned their helmets and clipped the chin strap.
Carver stopped at the open door and listened. There was no sound.
“Revieren!” he commanded, telling Shrek to enter and search.
Shrek shot forward, moving quickly with a slight stoop. He smelled the asps, their odor like a flood pouring out of the dark hallway.
Shrek’s speed concerned Kinney. He didn’t understand how the dog could bypass so many rooms without stopping to check each one. But each door they passed revealed an empty room, providing more proof of the Malinois’s near-magical nose. The dog moved like a wire-guided torpedo, weaving around corners and bypassing rooms and hallways like it knew the way. He and John lost sight of Shrek at one turn, giving Kinney pause. But Carver didn’t seem to mind. He just kept moving at a fast walk.
At every corner, Kinney expected to see an infected waiting for them. Instead, they always found an empty hallway. Kinney finally realized that Carver didn’t even have his rifle up at low ready. He trusted Shrek completely, so Kinney decided to do the same. They moved rapidly, deep into the underside of the giant facility. By their fourth turn, Kinney had become comfortable. They were, as his Southern Marine brothers used to say, running knee deep in high cotton.
At the fifth turn, things changed.
Shrek froze. His body stiffened as he pointed to an open doorway where a pair of swinging doors had been torn from their hinges. Kinney struggled to hear, trying to glean any sound he could. He held his breath.
There! A shuffling sound trickled out from the black room.
Carver gave Shrek a hand signal. Shrek reluctantly sat down, his body still stiff and angry. The SEAL waved Kinney up to his side and, with hands and silent lip movement, directed Kinney to follow behind and break to the left.
Kinney nodded and put his hand on Carver’s left shoulder. Carver held up his left, reaction hand, and raised three fingers. Then he dropped his ring finger.
Two, Kinney said to himself as he tightened his hand on the rifle’s foregrip.
Carver dropped his middle finger, leaving the index up.
One.
A moment later, although it seemed much longer to Kinney, Carver brought his whole hand up and pointed it forward. They moved swiftly.
They were in.
— 27 —
Corporal Antonio Lazzaro
U.S.S. Boxer
Sick Bay
“Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Julius Caesar
Lazzaro woke cold and sore. It took him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He tried to move, but the pain from his leg seared his nerves, shooting into his spine. It was the kind of pain that made you want to stay unconscious.
He tried to move his head, but a cramp seized his neck.
Is this what it’s like to be a Variant?
He opened his eyes and looked at his hand. It was normal. No black lines tracing his blood vessels. He touched his mouth, expecting to feel razor-sharp teeth but found normal incisors instead. He scratched them and found that he’d taken off a thin, white layer of plaque. It was stuck under his fingernail. He remembered that he hadn’t brushed his teeth since before they entered the Forum. He was still human.
How long does it take to change?
He checked his watch. The analog dial showed that it was almost seven.
Seven at night, or seven in the morning? He had no clue.
The other man had been injured about the same time he had been, both of them hit by shrapnel. But how long ago was that?
He remembered that a corpsman had mentioned the time when his hospital records were being updated. The man entered his blood pressure, oxygen saturation, and heart rate into the bedside computer. That was just before the Variant mutation took hold of his fellow Marine. That was at 1530. If it was 1900 hours now, then he’d been out for over three hours.
Three hours, and he hadn’t turned. Maybe he hadn’t become infected. If that was the case, then he needed to get help. He had to move.
Lazzaro struggled to his feet, but the pain in his leg exploded. He doubled over and caught himself on the room’s sink. After a few seconds, the pain subsided to a dull throb. He pulled back his gown to check the bandaging. There was no leakage from the wounded leg. He needed a splint, or at least some crutches, to assist him. Until then, he’d need to keep his right knee straight to avoid tugging on the sutures.
Lazzaro hobbled to the door and turned off the overhead fluorescent lights, casting the room into an inky darkness. He slowly unbolted the door and eased it back. The waiting room was empty, and the door out to the main passageway was closed.
He moved slowly back to the treatment area, dragging his leg behind him. He searched the drawers and cabinets for anything that could help him walk. Minutes went by as his leg became more and more painful. He quickly realized that he wasn’t going to be able to walk if this continued.
Lazzaro gave up finding crutches. He sat down heavily on one of the beds and sank into a deep depression. He was of no use here while the rest of the ship was fighting for its life.
He had to do something. He stood then buckled over. It felt like a knife had been shoved into his thigh. It reminded him of when he had developed an abscess around an impacted third molar. The shooting pain from that oral infection went back toward his ear and was the closest thing he could compare this to.
Th
at gave him an idea. Lazzaro limped to the medical supply bay. He checked the door but found it locked. He limped back to the desk where the corpsman lay. He steeled himself and bent down, searching the eviscerated body for keys that might open the supply room’s door.
“Bingo!” he exclaimed, pulling out a set of keys that were all hooked onto a carabiner. There was also a ring with a magnetic plastic card attached. Lazzaro limped back to the door and scanned the card. He was rewarded with the click of an opening lock. A minute later, he came out of the room with a bottle of naproxen and a syringe. He carried a vial of lidocaine and iodine wipes, as well.
The pain was becoming unbearable, affecting his ability to think logically. He chewed two of the giant blue pills, putting the medicine into his system as quickly as possible. He then pushed the needle of the syringe through the vial’s rubber stopper. He sat down and wiped his thigh with the iodine pads, just above the sterile bandage that covered his fresh wound.
Jabbing himself with the needle was something he thought he would never be able to do. But the burning and pain, combined with the need to escape, overrode his natural fears. After drawing four milliliters of lidocaine into the syringe, he slowly pushed the needle into his thigh. His eyes exploded with an intense flash of light, and he lost his breath. He let go of the needle and continued to bounce around inside his flesh. After a minute, he was finally able to take hold of the syringe.
The needle was about an inch into his thigh when he slowly pushed the clear liquid into the muscle. The numbness started to spread but soon stopped, leaving the bottom half of his wound in continued pain. The tissue was too thick to allow the medicine to spread properly. He would have to do another injection.
Five minutes later, he was numb. The top of his leg no longer hurt, but he was physically and mentally exhausted by the effort. He had no idea how long the numbness would last, but for now, he could move freely.
Amazingly, his wound had yet to start bleeding again. Lazzaro grabbed an ace bandage and firmly wrapped his upper thigh. He drew another four milliliters of lidocaine into the syringe and put the cap back on. He stuck it in his pocket, knowing he would likely have to use it again before the night was done.
Lazzaro found his dirty BDUs and boots. They were intact, other than the tear that Shader had made in the pants to access his wound. He used some sutures to stitch the slit closed then stood, feeling good once again. Having his camo back on was empowering, but he needed more.
Lazzaro went to the waiting room and retrieved the corpsman’s belt, which had a thigh rig holster with two spare magazines attached to it. Lazzaro put the belt around his waist and holstered his weapon. He bounced up and down on his toes, confirming that the throbbing was gone and his mobility had not been impaired. Satisfied he would be able to move without pain, Lazzaro walked to the door that led to the outside passageway. He slowly opened it.
The hallway outside reflected the chaos brought by the infection. What usually was a clean and well-maintained space was covered by splotches of blood and human detritus. Far off, Lazzaro could hear the cries and screeches of the infected. He shuddered, remembering the horrific night he had spent in the bowels of the Forum.
He had no idea where he was on the large craft.
He returned to the room and found a phone. He dug through the desk, looking for a directory that would tell him what extensions to punch. He couldn’t find one, so he hit the “0” button and listened. No one picked up.
With nothing to lose, he began to punch in numbers, hoping to connect with anyone who could help. On the third try, he got through to someone, somewhere on the ship.
“Where are my reinforcements?” a man screamed in the phone.
“Who is this?” Lazzaro replied. In the background, he heard sporadic gunfire and confused calls for help.
“It’s Lieutenant Raymond. We called for you guys an hour ago! Where the hell are you?”
“Where are you?” Lazzaro asked back.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘where are you’! You don’t know? Jesus. You fucking Marines are as dumb as bricks. We’re in Primary Flight Control. We need help, now!”
“I’m not the reinforcements,” Lazzaro admitted. “I’m in sick bay. I just need to know what’s happening.”
“Get off the fucking line.”
The phone disconnected.
Jesus, Lazzaro thought, it’s already spread. He couldn’t believe it had only taken a few hours to get that far. Primary Flight Deck was above the bridge at the top of the Boxer’s superstructure. If the Variants were outside that station, they had overrun the brains of the ship.
With the Boxer seemingly lost and the pain in his leg temporarily under control, he knew he had to do something to get off the ship while he still could.
Lazzaro began punching more numbers but nothing connected. Either he had been unlucky at his number combination, or there was no one left to answer.
He decided to contact the PFD one more time. He connected.
“It’s you.”
Lazzaro recognized Lt. Raymond’s voice. He was remarkably calm.
“Yeah. I’m Corporal Lazzaro. I just want to know what’s happening.”
“How can you not know what’s happening?” Raymond asked suspiciously.
“I’ve been out. I had surgery this morning. The drugs have finally worn off.”
“Christ. You really are out of the loop.”
“I saw how it started,” he quietly replied. “It was a fellow Marine. He was wounded at the Forum. He took some shrapnel that had Variant blood on it. He turned and got out of the sick bay. That was about three hours ago.”
“Hold your position. That’s all I can recommend. We’ve sealed ourselves up. I’ve called for help.”
“Where am I on the ship? I need to know how to get to the flight deck.”
“You’re on the main deck, forward of the hangar bay,” Raymond said. “Just hold your position for now. I don’t know how long it will take for your brothers to get here. But let me give you directions, just in case.”
Lazzaro listened, memorizing the path up to the Boxer’s main flight deck. He’d have to move quickly and without a misstep if he wanted to get out of there in one piece. He unconsciously rubbed his right leg above the wounded thigh. He knew his injury could hinder him when the lidocaine wore off. Until then, he’d wait patiently for the lieutenant to call, informing him of the evac plan.
After he hung up, Lazzaro realized he was going to have to make a major decision. The Variants were strong. He had doubts that a counterattack would work. He’d either have to stay in sick bay and wait for rescue or leave the compartment and rescue himself.
Either way, he would be ready.
— 28 —
Borrego Springs Spa, Golf Resort, and Country Club
Shrek
“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.”
BERTRAND RUSSEL
The smell of asp is strong. The rancid breeze coming from the dark building is thick with their scent. To me, it is as obvious as a flare in the night. But the humans don’t have my nose. To them, the smell is just a background noise like the drone of insects or the cries of the birds in the nearby trees. They know it is there, but it means nothing to them, other than the knowledge that a bird or insect is nearby. To me, it is a roadmap, as reliable and accurate as anything the humans could use.
My eyes see in the dark. And when they fail to detect something, my nose fills in the gaps. They work with my feet without conscious thought. I only need to concentrate on what I will do when I find the infected creatures. I know that my master won’t want me to attack. He fears I will become sick if I latch onto them. Their skin crawls with the acid of their blood. But I am Shrek. I am the ghost that rules the night, and I am now in the darkness that makes me so feared. I am the hunter of the asp. I will kill them all.
Carver
Shrek was on a mission. Carver could sense when his battle buddy had gone into “wild mod
e,” a term he had coined when describing the Malinois’s attitude after acquiring the scent of its prey.
Turn after turn flew by. The dog seemed especially focused. By the fourth turn, Shrek was so far ahead of Carver that he disappeared around the bend. Carver pushed down a moment of panic, worried the dog would attack without command. But as the SEAL took the bend, he was gratified to see his war dog companion standing motionless.
Carver slowed down and brought his rifle up to low ready. Shrek stayed frozen, staring up to the next hallway. Carver felt Kinney’s hand on his shoulder, letting him know that his friend was there. They advanced slowly and turned. The hallway was empty.
A set of swinging doors stood open, their hinges bent, the panels canted back into the room beyond. The men moved forward and stood in the hallway, just outside the room where Shrek had pointed them to.
Carver gestured with his hands, positioning Kinney on his left side. They lined themselves in front of the door. Carver clicked on his infrared intensifier that was attached to the NV monocular. After a moment, Kinney did the same. Their beams cut into the room beyond, revealing an industrial kitchen. There was no movement.
Carver held up his hand and counted down from three. At zero, he aimed his open hand forward into the room and moved. They were in.
Carver swept right, while Kinney went left. The room was in shambles. Cast-iron pans and pots were strewn across the floor while cutlery was scattered across the room from overturned tables. Three steps in and Carver accidentally kicked a pot or pan, sending it clattering across the tile. Screams erupted from the back of the room. A lot of screams.
Carver’s brain went into combat mode. Time slowed as his hands and feet instinctively reacted to the threat. The infected began to stream at them, their clicking joints and snapping teeth creating a cacophony of cracks and pops.
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