Satan's Gate

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Satan's Gate Page 17

by Walt Browning


  He watched the horde as his body responded. He was mentally detached, floating above the morass, an observer of his own deadly actions.

  He saw his rifle spit bullets at the oncoming rush. His uncovered, right eye was blinded by the muzzle flashes, but his left eye, covered by the monocular, was unaffected. The green image created by his night vision remained strong, giving him a clear picture of the advancing monsters.

  The laser attached to the rail of his rifle created a green line that he used to aim the weapon. He squeezed the trigger every time the emerald beam touched a target. With Kinney adding his rounds to the fray, there were dozens of lead pills pouring out at the infected creatures.

  “MAGAZINE!” Kinney cried out, letting Carver know his friend had run dry and was inserting a fresh mag into his rifle.

  Carver slowed down his rate of fire. The last thing they needed was for both of them to run dry at the same time, allowing the creatures to advance without consequence.

  Shrek barked. Carver knew his dog didn’t break silence if it wasn’t for a good reason. Carver looked down at Shrek, who was looking to their right.

  The SEAL heard Kinney’s rifle once again join the battle. He took the opportunity to look where Shrek was staring. He didn’t see a thing, but Shrek barked again.

  Before he could register what the dog was looking at, Shrek bounded forward and jumped. An infected had scaled the ceiling and was leaping right at him.

  Carver brought his rifle up, holding the plastic-and-metal firearm out and across his body.

  A piercing scream shook Carver’s soul. All he could see was a maw of razors rushing at him, just inches from his own face. He felt the infected man hit his rifle, sending them both to the ground. The last thing Carver remembered before his back slammed into the tile was the stench of the thing’s breath. It was acid and rotting flesh, all rolled into a putrid wave of hot air.

  It’s the smell of death, Carver thought as his head smashed into the unforgiving floor.

  Kinney

  Kinney continued to fire at the oncoming creatures. A prep table stood between him and the infected. Open metal shelves, which used to hold finished plates for the waitstaff to grab, made accurate shots impossible. One of the monsters lurched into the table, sending it crashing to the floor. Kinney put his laser on its head and let loose a round. The bullet exploded in its skull, ending its miserable life. Pots still hung above the downed table, swinging about as either a bullet or an infected creature hit them. It was surreal as he took shot after shot at the advancing horde.

  Kinney heard a crash to his right. He took his eyes off the front for a moment, spinning to find Carver. Kinney was surprised to see his friend on his back, lying at the retired Marine’s feet. Even more startling was what was on the floor, just beyond the downed SEAL. It was an infected, and it was battling Shrek.

  Shrek

  Carver doesn’t see it. The asp is crawling at us, up on the ceiling. It is quick, but I am quicker. It is getting ready to spring at us, and I must take it out.

  The asp jumps at Carver the same time I leap, and the three of us collide.

  I am the fastest of the three. I latch onto the infected man’s shoulder, pulling it away from Carver.

  The asp howls. It spins, grasping at me. It can’t reach me as I bend it down to the ground. It lets out a primal scream, a cry of anger and frustration. I keep my grip on the angry asp, hanging from its back like a giant leech, refusing to let go.

  Bending back to try to grab me, it forgets about Carver. But my master doesn’t forget about me. Carver brings his rifle and shoots it in the face, sending us both to the ground.

  I jump back, keeping myself from being trapped under its caustic, infected body. But I don’t let go of its tattered shirt. It is dead, but it still reeks of acid and infection. I drag it back a few feet further, pulling it away from my master.

  Kinney

  Harold Kinney had never seen Shrek in action before—at least, not in battle. Sure, he’d seen the dog follow a scent, its strides quick and sure. But he’d never seen it attack a foe. He’d never witnessed such unrestrained, raw power. It was stunning.

  The clattering of metal on tile reminded him there were more infected to deal with. He turned to face the back of the kitchen, where three of the creatures remained. Each had been wounded in some way. There were over a dozen infected down on the ground, their diseased blood pooling on the slick floor. The remaining three were slipping and fumbling forward, either from the goo at their feet or from non-fatal wounds.

  Kinney took his time and placed three pills into their brain boxes. They dropped motionless to the floor. The silence was complete.

  Carver

  Carver rushed to Shrek’s side. The war dog continued to hold onto his prize, like he’d been trained to do, refusing to let go of the dead creature.

  “Los!” Carver barked, commanding the dog to release the creature.

  Shrek refused, even pulling the body further away from his master.

  “LOS LOSLOTEN!” he yelled.

  Shrek finally let go.

  Carver scanned the room, including the ceiling. The threat had been neutralized. There was nothing left moving except the three of them.

  “Flashlights!” Carver commanded.

  Both he and Kinney produced their SureFire tactical lights and lifted the night vision monoculars up on their hinges. Then, once the intensifier tubes had shut down, they turned on their bright tactical lights.

  Carver inspected his dog. He opened its mouth and looked closely for blood or sputum. He checked for cuts and abrasions. He inspected its ears and eyes, making sure no diseased liquid had entered Shrek’s body. The dog appeared clean.

  “God, that was close,” Carver finally sighed as he stroked his faithful dog’s coat.

  Shrek simply let his tongue loll out of his mouth and sat motionless, letting Carver praise him for another job done well.

  Shrek deserved Carver’s attention, so Kinney let them bond. He would take the time later to treat the Malinois to some jerky he’d saved. The damn animal was smart and had saved their lives once again.

  A faint cry came from the back of the room. “Hello?”

  Both Carver and Kinney stared at each other. The rush of the battle had made them forget about their mission.

  “Is anybody out there?”

  “Jesus, he’s alive!” Kinney blurted.

  Carver smiled. Despite his misgivings and the way everything had gone sideways, the mission had turned out well after all.

  “Hello!” Carver yelled. “Stay there. We’re coming to you!”

  Carver looked down at Shrek and pointed his finger. “Blijf!” he said, which meant “stay” in Dutch.

  Shrek froze, telling Carver the animal understood. He didn’t want Shrek exposed to all the blood and gore between them and the back of the kitchen.

  Carver and Kinney picked their way through the mess. Using their flashlights, they were able to weave their way around most of the black-speckled goo and get to the back of the room.

  “Hello!” Carver called.

  “Oh, God. Are you human?”

  Kinney chuckled. He looked at Carver, who had a grin of his own. It wasn’t often that they were able to do something positive since the infection took hold.

  “Yeah. We’re human. Is that you, Randy?”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  The snap of a lock and the sound of a bolt being retracted announced the opening of a metal door that sat at the end of the short hallway. It cracked open, revealing a very tired, dirty and grateful man.

  “Ouch!” Randy said. “I haven’t seen light in weeks.”

  “Sorry,” they both replied.

  Kinney shut his light off, while Carver put his flush to his vest, dimming it significantly.

  Randy pulled the door back and stepped into the hall. He stared around like a child who had just been woken early from his afternoon nap. His hair was greasy and matted. His face carried a light beard
from weeks of inattention. His clothing was filthy and disheveled. But he was smiling from ear to ear. The biggest grin either man had ever seen.

  “Is that you, Carver? It is you. I knew you wouldn’t leave me! I knew it! I told Hope you were a real man! I told her you would never leave her. Now, you came for me!”

  “Hold on there, cowboy,” Kinney said. “Let’s have our reunion back at the camp. We need to get out of here.”

  “Oh!” Randy said. “You’re right! What am I thinking?”

  He turned and went back into the room.

  “Come on!” Kinney barked. “We don’t have time for this.”

  “No, please. Come in here. I need some light.”

  Kinney strode angrily into the room and was hit with the stench of a room continually occupied for many weeks. It was stale and musty, like a locker room after a full day of summer football practice. A slightly fouler odor came from an attached bathroom.

  “What are you looking for?” Kinney complained as Randy pushed clutter aside.

  “There!” Randy exclaimed, picking up a religious necklace that lay in the corner of the room. “I lost this over a week ago. I figured that meant I was done for. I guess I was wrong.”

  Randy clutched the silver chain, a cross dangling down.

  “Thank you!” he said quietly.

  Kinney simply nodded and turned to leave. His light flashed over some blue boxes with black lettering. He suddenly stopped and shone his light on the chest-high stack.

  He smiled.

  Carver stood in the kitchen. Kinney had gone to retrieve Hope’s friend. He heard them talking and knew Randy had found something he lost. But that had been almost two minutes ago. Since then, he’d heard some mumbling and the scrape of boxes being moved about.

  He was about to go retrieve the two men, when the door to the supply room opened and Randy stepped out, pushing a dolly stacked high with cases of Modelo beer.

  “Are you shitting me?” Carver asked as Randy stopped in front of him. Kinney trailed behind, holding a long-handled broom. Each wore a large smile.

  “Hi, Sailor,” Kinney joked. “Wanna have a good time?”

  Carver shook his head at the Marine who would risk their lives for a few cases of beer. “I should shoot you now.”

  “Why not?” Kinney asked. “With that dolly, we’re just as mobile as before, and we might be able to salvage twelve cases of this liquid Mexican happiness.”

  “I can do this!” Randy added. “It’s the least I can do for you two. You saved my life!”

  “If we get into trouble…” Carver said.

  “I know. Mr. Kinney said I was to dump the beer and stay with you. He told me.”

  “It had better be a real emergency,” Kinney said, half-serious.

  “I’m a wiz with the dolly. I’ve been doing this for a decade.”

  “I’ve got a broom,” Kinney added. “Let me push the bodies out of the way.”

  “Like I have a choice,” Carver complained. Although, looking at the stack of beer tempered a lot of the anger.

  Kinney bolted forward and shoved infected carcasses and fluid aside, creating a fairly clear path out of the kitchen. Randy pushed the two-wheeled buggy through the mess and stopped by the broken swinging doors.

  Carver went to Shrek and led him to the door. They stood silently, listening for any sound of the infected. They heard nothing.

  “Voruit!” Carver commanded, which sounded like he was saying “Fore At,” sending Shrek out into the hallway.

  The Malinois shot forward, retracing their steps. Carver followed close behind while Randy kept pace. Kinney followed in back, guarding the rear and making sure Randy kept up. The man was remarkably adept with the two-wheeler. He took the corners without slowing down and didn’t hit the walls once. Within a minute, they were outside and in the fresh air.

  Shrek stopped and sat down. The area was secure.

  Loading the beer into the delivery van went smoothly, other than having to remove the bottom case from its cardboard tray. Being closest to the ground, the tray had infected blood on it from when they moved out of the kitchen.

  Both vehicles fired right up, and within five minutes, they were back at Carver’s pickup.

  Twenty minutes after that, they were driving the F-150 back to the camp. Randy sat in the passenger’s side seat, while Kinney and Shrek sat in the truck’s bed. They put the cases of beer, along with some communications equipment they’d salvaged from the research facility, in the bed as well. Carver smiled when Kinney had volunteered to sit in the back. He really loved his Modelo.

  — 29 —

  SCPO Porky Shader

  Raven 14

  V-22 Osprey

  Off the California Coast

  “A leader is a man who can adapt principles to circumstances.”

  –GENERAL GEORGE PATTON

  Shader sat in the Osprey, hating every minute of the ride. They’d been ferrying survivors from the San Diego Naval Air Base all afternoon, dropping them off on the Theodore Roosevelt or the Boxer. It was nearly night, and the flow of air traffic had been, so far, steady and amazingly smooth. He’d moved four flights of people, getting over a hundred souls from the mainland. It was a miracle that Coronado hadn’t been overrun by now. Those Variants must be terrified of the water, given their insatiable appetite and just half a mile of water between them and a zombie gourmet feast.

  They were returning to the island for their fifth extraction, when his headset crackled to life.

  “This is First Lieutenant Erin Donaldson,” the Osprey’s pilot announced. “We just got word that the naval base is under attack. Our mission has been aborted. We are to pause for further orders.”

  Not good, Shader thought. He looked up at Sergeant Potoski and received a knowing glance. They both had enough experience to know the LZ must have been overrun for the Navy to abandon the remaining sailors and their families.

  A few minutes dragged by while the craft flew slow loops, several thousand feet above the ocean.

  “Shader. Get over here,” Potoski said.

  Porky stood and moved to the back. The rear ramp was down, and the big New Yorker stared out the window.

  “Look at that!” Potoski said.

  Shader leaned out and looked at the surrounding air. The sky was lit up with dozens of aircraft. Osprey, SuperCobra helicopters, and a few legacy C2A Greyhound twin-prop airplanes were in holding patterns. They all were turning slowly, their green and red flashing lights dancing around them. Shader hadn’t seen so many aircraft in such close quarters before. The night sky took on an almost festive feel.

  Shader was mesmerized. With all the shit things that had happened over the last two days, seeing the light show created by the military aircraft gave him some measure of peace. Both Potoski and Shader let the drone of the Osprey’s engines lull them into a quiet place.

  The pilot’s voice shook them both from their mental slumber. “This is First Lieutenant Erin Donaldson. We’ve been given search and rescue orders. Coronado has been ordered to abandon the island by any means necessary. We are to search for survivors and bring them home. Donaldson, out.”

  “Here we go again,” Potoski said with a grunt.

  Shader returned to his seat as the V-22 banked slightly and headed straight toward the island. Potoski held onto his SAW, swinging on his feet with every dip and lunge the aircraft made. He was dancing with the Osprey, his knees bending and swaying with every turn.

  “Big guy’s got game,” Shader said softly as he watched the Marine move with the aircraft. Since he was the only other person in the hold, no one heard his remarks.

  Just as well, he thought. No one would guess that a man Potoski’s size could move like that. It would remain a secret for as long as both of them lived. However long that would be.

  Shader quickly lost track of their direction and became hopelessly lost as the pilot weaved back and forth. With nothing to look out toward, no horizon to give his brain a frame of reference, he
was becoming nauseated.

  With about two seconds to go before he lost his dinner, the craft leveled off.

  “This is Donaldson. Variants moving in from the south. You are clear to engage.”

  Shader repeated their actions at the Forum. He unbuckled himself from the hull and moved to the open backdoor.

  Potoski pulled on the SAW’s charging handle, sending a round into the machine gun’s chamber.

  “Grab the spare ammo,” Potoski said.

  Shader got a second box of belt-fed ammunition and set it down at the big grunt’s side. The Osprey was hovering a few hundred feet above the surf. The pilot knew her aircraft and had provided them with a level platform to shoot from.

  Shader knelt and turned on an NV scope he’d attached to his rifle. It was sitting in front of his ACOG. It gave him a magnified green image through his battle rifle’s optics. He held it up to his right eye and scanned the island out to the south. His four-power Trijicon danced as the Osprey tried to maintain a steady altitude. The magnification of his optic exaggerated the motion of the craft. His emerald-colored image slowly moved up and down as the rotorcraft pitched. The mass of creatures was advancing less than a mile away, yet the slight pitch of the Osprey made them disappear in the 4x scope.

  The SAW began to bark. Potoski was using his own Trijicon ACOG and was timing the shots as the craft rose and dropped. The movement of the V-22 was constant, and soon, they had coordinated fire on the thousands of Variants that were moving up the Coronado isthmus.

  “Hold on!” the pilot suddenly shouted.

  The Osprey banked hard to port. The sudden move slammed Shader against the starboard hull. He saw stars, followed by a throbbing pain in his left temple.

  He was about to berate the pilot over the craft’s radio, when three Super Hornets blasted by, not fifty yards from where they had been hovering. If Lieutenant Donaldson hadn’t moved them, they’d be dead from a very massive and fatal collision with one or more of the jets.

  Multiple explosions erupted at the head of the advancing Variants. The concussion from almost ten tons of bombs destroyed the Variants’ front line and sent the surviving leading edge of the advancing creatures scurrying back where they’d come from. Shader almost believed they had stopped the creatures, but moments later, the Variants that were retreating ran into the unaffected ones moving north. Like a ripple being crushed by a wave, the flight of those from the front was washed away by the larger advancing group. In the end, they’d bought the people on the ground just a little more time.

 

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