“Probably about twenty billion kilometers,” Pito said. “I remember the guys at Palomar saying they were still able to communicate with it, almost forty years since it was launched.”
“Is that the data we’re retrieving?”
“I don’t know. They just told me where to go and what computer drive to retrieve.”
Carver snorted. That statement really made him feel like an errand boy.
“Why aren’t there any bodies?” someone asked.
The lack of human remains was unusual. Five years wasn’t long enough to erase all traces of a corpse.
“JPL is part of Caltech,” Pito replied. “They were warned about the virus, just like we were at Palomar. The facility was abandoned before the virus came through.”
They arrived at a room filled with large workstations. The squad set up a defensive perimeter while Pito stashed several hard drives in a backpack.
“Next stop, Climate Science Building.”
The team moved outside and into a large, green space. The outdoor plaza was littered with overturned chairs and tables, all knocked about by the years of wind and rain they’d endured.
Pito stopped and looked around. “This is the Mall,” he said as he walked to a large, glass-encased case.
Inside the display, there were faded posters of the missions that were on-going when the virus took hold. There were over a dozen spacecraft operations listed. Everything from satellites that monitored the earth’s carbon dioxide levels to extraterrestrial missions to Jupiter and Mars. The recognition of how much humanity had lost caused Carver to pause.
The rest of the morning went by slowly, as Pito had to be prompted to keep moving every time he came to yet another scientific marvel.
The squad eventually entered the Spacecraft Assembly Building. The large, multistory clean room looked remarkably untouched from the second floor through the visitors’ viewing room. Tourists used to be able to watch the scientists working in the clean environment. With the doors sealed shut, the dustless space was still in pristine condition.
The full extent and size of the voluminous room couldn’t be appreciated, given the lack of electricity. The mounted flashlight on Carver’s weapon could just reach the far wall, but the beam disappeared as he raised it to the roof.
“That’s one big room,” one of the men commented.
“I’m just interested in that,” Pito said, pointing his LED tactical light at an assembly workstation on the floor below. “It’s my last stop.”
“What are you supposed to bring back?” someone else asked, all the while marveling at the giant space.
“An optical tracking device. It’s some kind of aiming mechanism they were putting on a telescope,” Pito replied.
“For?” Carver asked.
“Beats me. I just do what I’m told.”
With the dog in the lead, they made it to the clean room, where workers gowned and masked before entering the sanitized assembly room.
“This feels almost sacrilegious,” Pito murmured as they passed through the room without gloving or gowning. They unsealed the door and went inside.
“Are you kidding?” Carver murmured.
The tracking mechanism was the size of a small washing machine. It had a film covering a giant glass lens and was mounted on a swiveled base. The entire mechanism was covered in thick plastic wrap. Carver tried to move it but was unsuccessful.
“Damn. This thing weighs a ton.”
Pito had already moved away from the group. His flashlight’s beam bounced up and down as he jogged to another part of the assembly space. A moment later, the beam began to return. The squeaking of rolling wheels approached.
“We can use this,” he said, hauling a four-wheeled dolly from the wall.
Eventually, they had to pull one of the HUMVEEs over to the assembly building’s loading docks and heft the tracking device into its rear cargo area.
“Did you get everything?” Carver asked after the heavy optic had been strapped down and covered with a tarp. “I mean, there are several rocket engines we can bring back as well.”
“I think we’re good,” Pito replied, ignoring the sarcasm. “Let’s head home.”
— 17 —
If you are not prepared to use force to defend civilization, then be prepared to accept barbarism.
— Thomas Sowell
Hemet, CA
Route 79 and Gilman Springs Road
November
“Pull off,” Kinney said, pointing to the right. “We’ll set up over there.”
The HUMVEE rumbled down the off-ramp and pulled onto the deteriorating road. Brown grass swayed across the arid countryside. The vast fields of grass that had once been farmland now stood fallow, waiting for farmers who would never return.
The driver drove down Gilman Springs Road about a quarter of a mile before coming to a stop. Both the driver and Kinney jumped out of the armored vehicle and went to the back of the transport.
“This is the last one,” the driver said as the two men detached the tow-behind fuel trailer.
Five other vehicles were idling behind them. The convoy had set up multiple fuel sites along the northern corridor of the Los Angeles to San Diego megalopolis.
The driver taped a printed sign on the side of the 500-gallon, self-contained diesel dispenser. It gave directions regarding the type of fuel inside, along with instructions on how to start the attached generator and dispense it.
As far as the citizens of Lost Valley were aware, these stations served two purposes. The first was obvious. To refuel vehicles that were using the roads as they traveled between the small number of farms and communities that had sprung up.
The second was to leave a marker for any other survivors. The fuel and instructions were a beacon of hope, telling anyone still out there that there were still uninfected humans who were fighting back. Along with instructions on the pump’s operation, there was an invitation to leave a message if that person wanted to make contact.
After the encounter with the Gold Creek Center six months prior, two other large groups had been found using this method. All of them had taken refuge in isolated locations north and east of Los Angeles. A trade route had been established, allowing for an exchange of goods between them.
Before finding these other enclaves, Lost Valley had to produce everything they’d needed to survive. Raising livestock and planting crops used a lot of water. Now that other communities could provide these things, the camp switched over to crops of mustard seed and Jatropha plants. Neither plant required a lot of attention once they got started. They were used to create the valuable biodiesel that formed the backbone of the camp’s growing economy.
There was a third function of these fuel dumps, but that was known only to a few. Kinney wasn’t one of them.
A squawking noise came from the HUMVEE. The driver jogged over and sat inside.
“We got a call from Freedom,” the driver yelled to Kinney.
The USS Freedom still sat in Avalon Harbor, providing electricity for the growing community. Other than powering the town, its next greatest asset was its drone. Its infrared camera could track a single Variant, both day and night, and the soldiers relied on its gathered intelligence.
The unmanned aircraft was using a biokerosene blend developed by the scientists on the island. They’d had some problems with the mixture in the early stages, twice crash-landing the drone because of a loss of engine power. The last few months had been spent refining the manufacturing process, and the unmanned aircraft had been running smoothly. It provided valuable aerial coverage over the southern part of the state. Needless to say, both Everly and Donaldson were chomping at the bit to try the blend in their aircraft. Neither the Osprey nor the SuperCobra had been aloft in years due to the degradation of their supply of avgas.
Kinney grabbed the sat phone’s handpiece. “Kinney here. What’s going on?”
The conversation was short and brutal. The drone’s IR camera picked up unusual heat
signatures from one of the other human colonies. A flyover confirmed that it had been overrun by Variants. Fires were consuming a number of buildings, and there were no heat signatures visible. Nearly four hundred people had been living there.
Kinney radioed back to Lost Valley for instructions. They were ordered to hold their position, and a QRF would be sent to join them at their location. After that, they were to go to the colony and search for survivors.
Kinney gave the men in the convoy the bad news. Their assignment had just changed. The camp had called it a rescue mission, but Kinney knew better. For a colony that size to be overrun, the horde must have been enormous. There would likely be no one left alive. They’d be on a recovery mission to retrieve dead bodies, assuming there were any corpses left that hadn’t been carried off or consumed.
Gold Creek Center
San Fernando, CA
Quick Reaction Force
“They look like they’re doing all right,” Carver said.
They pulled up to the Gold Creek Center. The mountain retreat was bustling with activity. Lost Valley had called ahead and warned them that the QRF would be spending the night, and several of the facility’s women were directing the vehicles, showing them where to park.
Kinney had five up-armored HUMVEEs in his original group. The QRF added six more light-armored platforms, including several MRAPs and a Stryker. All were armed with a machine gun. One of the MRAPs had a grenade launcher topping its frame.
By the time the QRF made it to Kinney, it was late afternoon. Rule number one when dealing with the Variants was to never travel at night if it could be helped. Gold Center was within driving distance before the sun set. It would be a good place to spend the night before the long journey to Mettler, which was a few dozen miles south of Bakersfield. That was where the settlement had gone dark. The seventy-plus-mile journey from the center to the farming community would take most of the following morning. Even with the drone flying overhead, it would be a dangerous trip.
“Mr. Carver,” Father Walsh said with a smile. “How’s the family?”
Carver’s HUMVEE had pulled up to the center’s main building. He jumped out of the passenger side as the priest approached.
“Fine, Padre. How’s the flock?”
The two men gave each other a firm handshake as Kinney joined them.
“The Lord provides,” he replied. “We’re all good here, but it is concerning that we’ve lost touch with Mettler.”
Carver hadn’t filled the priest in completely on the situation. The billowing smoke coming from the small town’s homes and the lack of communication told him all he needed to know about the odds of finding anyone alive. He and Kinney were the only two in the group who knew this information.
“About that, Father. Can my friend and I talk with you somewhere?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
The three men strode up a path and entered one of the center’s large buildings. Dim LED bulbs were strung along the ceiling, providing enough light to navigate the hallway. The solar array at the center wasn’t nearly as powerful as Lost Valley’s panels, so conservation was critical.
The priest turned into an office with the two soldiers in tow. “Please, take a seat,” Walsh said, waving at a well-worn leather couch.
A few moments later, three tumblers of an amber liquid were set on a mahogany table in front of the sofa.
“It’s Jameson. Ireland’s finest.”
Kinney’s eyes lit up. Mexican beer was his passion, but a good Irish whiskey was appreciated just as much.
“Father, you shouldn’t have,” Kinney said slyly.
“Please. I’m from Ireland, even though I do have a fondness for a good Kentucky bourbon.”
The priest raised his glass and the three took a sip.
“Ah,” Kinney sighed. “The only thing better than a shot of Irish whiskey is the next one.” He drained what was left of the original three-finger pour.
Walsh smiled. “You would have made a good priest,” he joked.
“Not me, Father. I was barely able to stay in the Marines.”
“You saved lives, I saved souls. You served your country, while my superior was a bit higher up the ladder.”
“If you gave me a wee bit more of that liquid Irish gold, I’d toast to that as well,” Kinney replied.
“Maybe later,” Carver interjected. “Right now, we need to talk.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Carver. I’m all ears.”
“It’s about Mettler. I’m afraid I didn’t tell you the whole story.”
Walsh sat back and sighed. “I was afraid of that. When I heard you were going out there, I assumed the worst.”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I have little doubt that we lost them all.”
Walsh’s face went slack. The jovial smile and twinkle in his eyes disappeared. “Satan is marching, isn’t he?”
“Probably. I won’t really know until we get there tomorrow. Our drone did a flyover while we were driving here. There’s no one left.”
Walsh sat stoically for a moment, the pain and anger were palpable in his face and clenched hands.
“I pray every day,” he began. “I ask the Lord why we were beset by this plague. What did we do to deserve this? Sure, there were many that deserved His justice. But not all of us. There were so many good people that He took. So much pain. So much sorrow.”
“We did it to ourselves,” Carver whispered.
“Not all of us. Like these poor girls. They were just children, not even out of high school when it happened. They didn’t deserve to lose their families and friends.”
“Not that, Father. We did this to ourselves. We created the virus.”
The priest and most everyone outside of Lost Valley hadn’t been told of the origins of the virus. For Father Walsh, it was a gut punch to hear that the Army had likely created mankind’s own destruction.
“Pride.” The priest sighed. “We think we can do what God does. The first of the seven deadly sins. When will we learn?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that. I thought that the origin of the disease was irrelevant. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize that we need to know how we killed ourselves and never allow humanity to become this vain again,” Carver concluded.
Pyramid Lake
Interstate 5
North Santa Clarita
The eleven-vehicle convoy moved smoothly up I-5. The establishment of a trade route had forced the various colonies to clear roadways. “The 5,” as locals had called it, was an eight-lane concrete highway as it ran through Santa Clarita.
Two of the lanes were open, but the concrete artery was still cluttered with abandoned civilian vehicles. Even though they were driving during the day, the sheer number of abandoned trucks and cars kept the soldiers manning their machine guns on constant alert. There was an off chance that Variants were taking refuge in one of the larger vehicles, but their biggest risk was from highwaymen and marauders. Several trucks had been ambushed by human thugs who had decided to survive by theft, rather than work for their food. Their numbers were unknown, but their presence had been felt on more than one occasion.
“Hey, Gonzalez,” Kinney yelled up into the gun turret. “I’ll take over.”
“I’m solid. We’ve only got another hour or two before we get there!” he yelled back.
Kinney just shook his head. Driving in the first position of a convoy was especially stressful, and being behind the lead vehicle’s main battle weapon took an additional toll. Yet, he still had a hard time pulling the diminutive Marine from behind the Ma Deuce, probably a remnant of his hatred for the Variants that had killed his friend. John Keele, a fellow Marine, had died while Gonzalez was just a flight of stairs above him. It was a painful memory that the young man would carry to his grave, and Gonzalez took every opportunity to be in a place where he could mete out the maximum amount of hurt on the creatures.
“Hey. Check it out,” the driver said, pointing off
to the west. The rollercoasters and towers of Six Flags sat in the distance. The complex’s many rides had survived for all these years with little damage evident from convoy’s vantage point. Somehow, several pendants still flew over the park. Watching their colors flutter in the far-off breeze was comforting.
The path that had been cleared through the northbound four-lane road wasn’t a straight line, and the four lanes on the southbound side of the expressway remained blocked. With few vehicles on the road, the narrow pathway served both directions.
The open roadway swerved around large tractor-trailers and, in several spots, multiple vehicle accidents. In some areas, all four lanes were open.
As they approached the ramp that led to the theme park, the traffic had become particularly cluttered, which was common at any major intersection. Kinney’s HUMVEE was slowly picking its way around several swerves that had to bypass a burned-out eighteen-wheeler to the left then a four-car pileup to the right. All the time, the driver had them looking to the right, where a private golf course had been the sight of his brother’s wedding reception. He’d also been the best man.
“So, we’re at the reception and I start the speech off talking about what a wonderful guy my brother is. I’m reading this shit off the page, telling everyone he’s handsome and smart and funny. Then, I squint and say, ‘Hey bro, I can’t read your writing.’ The crowd lost it. Of course, we were all tanked.”
Even Kinney had to chuckle, at least until the HUMVEE turned a tight corner.
“STOP!” Kinney yelled.
The driver slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid crushing a man who was lying on the road.
Kinney jumped out and rushed around the front.
“Medic!” he screamed back at the convoy while walking back and waving his hands.
Carver was at his friend’s side along with the convoy’s designated medic. They rushed back to the front of the vehicle and stood over the man. It wasn’t good.
On the concrete was a toppled bicycle lying next to a partially clothed male. Nearly half of his body was burned black. His breathing was quick and labored.
Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate Page 18