“Any idea when we’re leaving this place?” Roy asked.
“When it’s time,” Brett said as he continued staring out of the dirt-crusted window. “We still have a few more people out there. When they get back, we’ll leave.”
Roy continued to ask questions, becoming more insistent on getting answers, but Brett refused to divulge any details that would hint at Lost Valley’s location. Carver had drilled OPSEC, or operational security, into all of the residents of their camp. No one from outside was to know where Lost Valley was located. That level of secrecy had kept them safe, so far.
They were using a former high school as an FOB. The modern multi-story brick building had been constructed with a rounded façade, rather than square lines. It blended in with the San Gabriel Mountains that rose in the distance.
St. Lucy had been a private all-girls high school. In his quiet moments since setting up the base, Brett had thought about the young women who used to roam the hallways. His twentieth birthday was just a few days away, and so far, there had been few girls his age to join the group. The ones who had joined the camp had failed to catch his eye or had paired off with one of the other surviving scouts.
“I’m going to hit the head. I’ll be right back,” he said to Roy.
Leaving Roy in the front atrium, Brett pushed through double swinging doors that led into a darkened hallway. Filtered sunlight trickled in from open classroom doors to his left, resulting in patches of light on the moldy carpet, marking his path to the first-floor staff bathrooms.
Brett went into the men’s room and relieved himself in the urinal. He dumped water into the ceramic cistern from a bucket, causing it to drain.
At least the sewers are still functioning, he thought.
He left the bathroom and continued down the hall. He rounded a corner and came to his real destination. It was a framed picture of the graduating class from the year the infection started. There were over one hundred fifty photographs within the frame, lined up in alphabetic order.
Brett turned on his flashlight and gazed at the collage. All of the faces stared back at him, their smiles blissfully unaware of the events that would eventually kill them all.
He liked to read their names and come up with a story for each one. The first girl in the top row looked bird-like. With well-defined cheekbones and a crooked smile, she would have been considered plain in appearance in the pre-infection world.
But the new reality brought a different set of values. Superficial, transient assets like looks were disregarded for more practical abilities like strength, endurance, and attitude. Pretty things were a luxury to be placed on a wall or set on a nightstand. Practical things kept you alive. He was far more interested in a girl who could have his back, over one that was pretty but needed his protection.
Brett’s eyes scanned the photographs, finally settling on one girl in particular. Hanna Hill. The girl’s thin, straw-colored hair had been pulled back behind her ears. She wore a minimum of makeup, making her look plain compared to the others who surrounded her.
Brett reached into an adjoining room where he’d stashed a yearbook he’d found when they first arrived. It was here he’d seen that Hanna had been captain of the field hockey team. Her action pictures showed a girl who would have been described as sturdy just four years ago. There was little about her physique that would have been considered petite. Just the type of person to survive Armageddon. Her photo appeared in other places within the yearbook. She was a well-rounded student both athletically and academically.
He sighed and put the book back on the floor of the classroom, just inside the door. He thought about taking it with him when they eventually abandoned the building, but he was leaning toward leaving it. He was smart enough not to invest his time dreaming about a girl who was dead or would eat his liver if she was still walking about. Maybe in the early days of the infection, he would have allowed himself to fantasize about Hanna. After all, he had been barely sixteen when everything went to hell. Now, he was mature beyond his years. He carried himself like a man twice his age. An apocalypse tended to do that to you.
Brett’s radio squawked.
“Regent. This is Tomahawk. Do you copy? Over.”
“This is Regent One actual. I copy. Over.”
“We’re five minutes out. Vectoring in from the west. Over.”
“We’ve been quiet, Tomahawk. Come on home. Over.”
“See you in five. Tomahawk, out.”
Brett jogged back to the front atrium. Roy was sitting quietly on a bench, eyes closed. He was propped up against the wall behind him.
“Thought I lost you,” he murmured without raising his eyelids.
Brett ignored the comment and scanned the street out front. “Hear anything while I was gone?” Brett asked.
“Nothing. Ain’t heard a thing.”
“We have incoming. One of the fireteams is returning.”
“Then we’ll leave for wherever you are taking me?”
“No. One more team out there. Then one of the fireteams is rotating back to camp. They’ll take you along with them.”
“I’d love to know where I’m going.”
“It’s safe. Don’t worry about it.”
Roy sat back, frustrated with the lack of information. “Hey, boy. This isn’t fair. I have a right to know where I’m going.”
“I’m sorry, Roy. But we like to keep our home a secret. I promise you that it’ll be a heck of a lot better than what you’ve been living through up until now.”
Roy grumbled something under his breath, but the conversation ended when the four-man fireteam entered the room.
“Hey D-man!” a friendly voice called out.
“Tim! I thought I smelled you,” Brett replied, smiling at the filthy man striding ahead of the other three. The two embraced.
Timothy Reedy was one of the original scouts to shelter at Lost Valley when the virus first broke out. His dad was the camp’s de facto doctor, having worked as an EMT/paramedic for San Diego County for nearly two decades. His mother was the camp’s police officer. She had spent fifteen years with the San Diego Police Department.
Both of the scouts looked nothing like their former selves. They’d grown taller, each well over six feet, and their bodies had filled out with the kind of muscle that young men finishing their final teenage years develop. They were fast and hard. Living on the edge had sharpened both into deadly warriors.
“You’ve got to clean up,” Brett said, breaking the hug. “You smell as bad as you look.”
Tim nodded and led the other three to the gym’s shower stall, where there were large bladders of sanitized water.
“That stench is horrible,” Roy said. “What the hell is it?”
“Just a concoction we made up. It seems to mask our odor from the Variants.”
“Well, count me out. That is some nasty cologne,” Roy said with a chuckle.
Brett didn’t reply. As far as he was concerned, it was a sign of stupidity to think like that. Who would turn down the chance to smell like rotting fruit if it kept you alive? Brett had his suspicions about the man, but he’d know soon enough if Roy was going to be an asset, or a liability.
It was nearly four hours later before the night arrived. As was their habit, the group set up camp next to their MRAP. They’d managed to open the school’s maintenance building, where a garage had been used to service the school’s busses. They’d backed the up-armored vehicle into the space and closed the garage door. The biodiesel that the Valley had been manufacturing gave the group the ability to run most of the US military’s light tactical vehicles. The only drawback to using this type of fuel was the occasional odor that it produced. This particular batch came from their newly planted industrial hemp farm. There were times that Brett felt like he was driving a stoner’s van.
Three of the five soldiers sat in a circle, quietly talking among themselves. The other two were on top of the building, manning their rooftop observation post, utilizing FLIR scopes that could pick o
ut any Variant within a half a mile. The Forward Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) optics had proven invaluable, keeping them well ahead of any Variants, whether they were the flying kind or the ones that moved on the ground. Their guest sat off to the side, quietly eating the MRE packs that they had brought along.
“Did you get your mission accomplished?” Brett asked quietly.
“Everything’s in place,” Tim replied in his softest voice.
From that point on, the three men spoke loud enough for their guest to hear, but with a demeanor of secrecy that caught Roy’s attention.
“I’ve spoken with Carver,” Brett said in a low voice. “He says we need to use the parking lot at the back of the Home Depot to get to the tunnels. There’s been Variant activity all over the western approach, and we need to hole up back home until things settle down.”
Brett pulled out a map of San Fernando. The Pacoima Wash was one of the many open canals that ran from the San Gabriel Mountains down to Santa Monica Bay. It carried rainwater through the city, dumping the untreated runoff directly into the Pacific Ocean.
“Here’s the Home Depot,” Brett said, pointing to the map. He circled it with a red wax pencil. “The rest of the group will be there by the time we get back home. There’s plenty of food and water to live for months.”
“I’d sure like to find another place for us to live,” Tim replied in a hushed voice. “I’m going to miss the sun for that long.”
“Hey, it’s served us so far. We’ve made it for four years now. Carver says we can use it for another four. By that time, the Variants should have starved to death, and we’ll be free to live above ground.”
Brett placed the map in a side pocket of his assault backpack and sat back to eat his MRE. He glanced at Roy out of the corner of his eye. The man feigned indifference, but Brett knew better. He’d heard their conversation. What he did now would determine his fate. Brett was betting that he’d betray them. They’d know by tomorrow night.
The next morning, Tim retrieved a green footlocker-sized Pelican case from the MRAP. After a few minutes of assembly and setup, a Raven UAV drone was thrown into the air. The handheld vehicle began its skyward journey with a dip toward the ground before soaring into the clear California sky. One of the other soldiers controlled the tiny air asset, sending it up five hundred feet and then off to the northwest. Its color video camera began documenting the city, all the way to San Fernando.
About twenty minutes later, the small aircraft buzzed back to their location and flopped to the ground, breaking into several pieces that could be reassembled for its next flight. The designed separation of the drone into parts bled off energy and helped the frail craft survive its landing.
The video capture collected by the Raven gave them an idea of the stalled traffic they’d be encountering. Brett mapped out their journey, spending as much time driving side roads as they would on the 210 Freeway.
They mounted the armored vehicle and drove toward San Fernando. Several times, a stray Variant charged their MRAP. The oversized, ten-person armored transport had a CROW II system mounted to the roof. The remote-controlled, .50-caliber machine gun made short work of the Variants.
Even with the overhead video images, driving the 210 often became a game of bumper cars. Portions of the trip required a turn around when their armored truck encountered too many obstacles to move or circumvent.
“It’s near dark,” Brett said. “We’re still a couple of hours from home. We need to lay up for the night. I don’t want to arrive after dark and show the Variants where we live.”
“Makes sense,” Tim replied. “Let’s take a left. The airport has some buildings we can spend the night in.”
Brett turned down Empire Road. Tim directed him to a building Southwest Airlines used to collect and redistribute cargo. One of the garage doors had been raised. When he turned into the opening, Brett saw that it was a pass-through, and another roll-up door was already up, directly to their front. He shut down the diesel engine, and they sat silently for several minutes.
“Looks like we’re alone,” Brett finally said. “Let’s get out and set up shop.”
The five warriors and their passenger got out of the truck. Tim and his fireteam swept the garage, as well as the business offices. Once cleared, a watch schedule was created, and dinner served.
“Get some sleep, Roy. We’ll be home by lunch tomorrow.”
“How far are we?” he asked.
Brett replied with the same answer he’d given the man every hour since they departed. “You’ll know when we get there.”
Brett brought out the map they’d marked the previous night. He checked it with Tim before shoving it back into his gear’s webbing. He put the assault pack on the ground next to the MRAP and propped his head on it, using it as a pillow.
“Get some rest. We’ll be leaving at first light.”
“I’ll wake you at midnight,” Tim said as he left the building to take first watch. The men all settled down to sleep.
1 a.m.
Hollywood-Burbank Airport Control Tower
“How’s our friend doing?” Tim asked.
Brett was standing in the airport’s control tower, staring out to the south. He was following the journey of their recently departed guest as he moved rapidly away from the airport. The infrared scope registered Roy’s temperature as he fled, creating a white-hot image against a grey-and-black background. The commanding view from the airport’s control tower let Brett follow Roy’s progress well into the city.
“He’s got my map?” Brett asked.
“Duh. Don’t you think that’s the first thing I’d have told you if he hadn’t?”
The distant blob appeared and disappeared as he moved through the neighborhood buildings. He was heading south down N. Hollywood Way.
“Your brother did his job, right?”
“No doubt. Even Shader said Lucas has a gift for blowing things up. We’re solid.”
Brett watched the white image get even brighter as Roy’s body temperature rose from the exertion of running. His progress was steady before he momentarily stopped, then continued his journey a few seconds later at a much higher speed.
“Looks like he found a bicycle,” Brett said as the distant blob turned left and disappeared to the east. “He’s heading to I-5. He may make it downtown sooner than we thought.”
“I’ll radio my brother and let him know that our friend is on the move.” Tim looked at his watch, then continued. “The show should start before dawn.”
“The way he’s moving, I’d have to agree. We need to leave,” Brett said.
“Looks like you were right,” Tim added. “He is a collaborator.”
“The signs were all there. He was well fed with no signs of stress or fear. You just don’t see that in any normal survivor.”
“Come on. Let’s watch the fireworks,” Tim remarked as he turned to the control tower’s stairs.
“I’m right behind you.” Brett tucked the infrared scope into the pouch that was attached to his battle belt.
The young men were soon back at the MRAP. The others had already packed their gear, and five minutes later, they were out of the building and on the road.
Brett was driving with his NODs (night optical device). The giant truck rumbled through the neighborhoods, following the path already blazed by Tim’s brother’s squad.
“You’d think having a garage door open and a clear building would have clued the guy into the fact that he was being set up,” Tim commented.
“No one said crooks had brains,” Brett said.
Tim was looking at his map. Using a low intensity, green flashlight, he directed them through the streets. They were going to meet up with his brother’s group.
The drive to their rally point went quickly. Lucas’s team had driven the way earlier in the week and cleared the streets of any debris or stalled cars. They eventually got to their turnoff and followed a winding road into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.
“The landfill is about a quarter mile on our right,” Tim said, pointing to a man-made mountain of dirt and trash. The Lopez Canyon Landfill sat high enough to give a sweeping view of the city to their south. Brett turned into the entrance and followed a winding road that led up the garbage heap.
Near the top, the MRAP made a 180° turn on the dump road’s man-made switchback and came face-to-face with an up-armored HUMVEE. Lucas Reedy sat on the hood, staring off to the south, where Brett’s map would hopefully lead the horde into the city’s storm drains. If all went as planned, they’d soon eliminate a shitload of Variants.
“Hey bro,” Tim said.
Lucas jumped down and gave his brother a man-hug, then greeted the rest of Brett’s team.
“I hope this works,” Tim said, staring down the mountain of trash where the Wilson Canyon Channel dumped into the above-ground Pacoima Wash. The underground tunnel traveled below the city for over a mile and a half, connecting the rainwater coming from Wilson Canyon with the rest of the city’s drainage.
With the collaborator stealing the map from Brett’s pack, it was a certainty that the horde would be alerted and a raiding party sent to wipe out the humans that they assumed were hiding in the Wilson Canyon Channel tunnel. The only question was when it would occur and how many of the infected monsters would show up.
“Relax,” Lucas said. “We could be here till tomorrow night.”
“I doubt it,” Brett replied. “Good old Roy wouldn’t want us to warn anyone that he’d stolen the map. I’d bet my bottom dollar that we’ll see some action before dawn.”
It had been almost ninety minutes since Roy had snuck away into the night. Brett checked his watch and estimated how quickly the collaborator would make it into the city. They knew that the alpha lived downtown in the tunnels near Grand Park and City Hall. It was a fifteen-mile bike ride. If Roy was dedicated, he might already be there. Their only option was to keep guards on their perimeter and wait to see if their enemy took the bait.
Tim jumped onto the top of their MRAP and pulled his brother up next to him. He put his arm around his younger sibling and gave him a squeeze. All in all, it had been a good night.
Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate Page 11