Kneeling next to the man, the medic dug an IV bag out of his pack. Carver gripped his shoulder and shook his head. With this much damage, there was no chance of recovery. He nudged the medic to the side and bent over the burn victim.
“Can you hear me?”
The man’s eyes opened, and his lips moved. “Por favor, ayúdame,” the man muttered with a Central American accent; he was asking for help.
“¿De donde eres?” Carver asked.
“Vengo de Mettler,” he replied in a cracked voice, confirming that he’d been in Mettler.
“¿Tiene dolor?” Carver asked.
The man raised his right arm, which had a less severe injury. Several boils had developed, but no skin necrosis.
“He said his right arm hurts,” Carver said to the medic.
“I know Spanish. His arm hurts there because the nerves haven’t been burned away. You want me to give him something?”
The camp had a supply of morphine pills that were just a couple years past their shelf life. The medic held up a prescription bottle of the capsules and looked at Carver.
After a moment, the SEAL shook his head. The pain meds were too valuable to waste on someone who wasn’t going to live much longer. The man’s breathing was labored as his body struggled to save the fluids that were rapidly evaporating out of his burns. The medic checked the man’s pulse and reported that it was over 120. His heart was beating faster to make up for the lower blood volume. Even if the world hadn’t changed, and there was a level-one trauma center nearby, the odds of saving the man were poor. With nothing but bandages and prayers in the new reality, he didn’t have long to live.
“Ask him what happened,” Carver told the medic.
“¿Que pasó?”
He tried to answer but had trouble forming words. The medic grabbed a water bottle from his pack and poured a little onto the man’s cracked lips. The poor soul greedily slurped the liquid and nodded his appreciation.
“Quien te hizo esto?” the medic asked. “Who did this to you?”
The man’s eyes opened wide; fear gripped his face. He clutched the medic with his right hand and pulled him closer. He struggled for words, his terrified eyes searching the medic’s eyes. Finally, he pushed out enough of his remaining breath to blurt out an answer.
“El diablo! El diablo salió del infierno arrastrándose.”
He slumped to the concrete, turned his head to the side, and gasped his last breath.
“The devil came from hell,” Carver repeated in English.
“No. He said the devil crawled out of hell.”
“Same thing.”
The medic didn’t reply.
A half dozen soldiers clustered next to Kinney’s HUMVEE. They heard the translation and began whispering to each other.
“What does it mean?” one of the men asked.
“Nothing, other than it was an attack by Variants and not marauders,” Carver replied. “Let’s get the body out of the street. We need to get to Mettler. There might be more survivors.”
They had to be careful moving the corpse. Wherever they grabbed the man’s charred flesh, it peeled off like the burnt skin of a roasted pepper, leaving nothing behind but the underlying muscle.
The medic noticed a crucifix hanging around the man’s neck and said a word over the body. A minute later, the convoy was moving once again. This time, there were no jokes—just the somber realization they were about to enter land that, according to the dead man they’d just left behind, had been reclaimed by Satan himself.
The convoy continued north, soon entering the eastern San Emigdio Mountains. They ran into far less traffic the further they drove. The vistas revealed with each upward bend went unnoticed. The dead man’s final words haunted them all.
They drove by Pyramid Lake, which had been the source of some of the fish they’d been trading for. Carver ordered the convoy to slow to a crawl. The encampment sitting on the edge of the man-made body of water stood empty. After a minute scanning the collection of makeshift sheds, Carver ordered the convoy to speed back up and continue to Mettler. Not a soul was in sight.
The road began to descend. The peaks of the mountains shrank and leveled off. Massive powerlines were strung along and above the freeway, their function long ago destroyed by the viral invasion. The electric conduits crisscrossed back and forth across the interstate on their journey to cities long dead. They were a skeletal-like reminder of the late reign of man.
Eventually, the foothills vanished and the vast plane beyond spread out. Miles of flatland rolled by. Billions of dollars in agriculture had once flowed out of the Bakersfield area. Now, the fields were weed-covered stretches of earth. Farms that had grown crops as diverse as grapes, almonds, and citrus were now being reclaimed as nature took back what man had once stolen.
In the distance, wisps of smoke crawled into the sky above the Mettler settlement, marking the convoy’s destination. Gonzalez saw the black-and-grey ash curling into the morning breeze. He tightened his hold on the machine gun’s grip. Everyone’s senses heightened. The battlefield was just minutes away.
Mettler, California
The collection of older one-story and metal prefabricated homes lay in ruins. The three-block neighborhood had been built behind a frontage road that faced Interstate 5. A gas station, truck service center, and a few fast food restaurant buildings had been burned here, as well.
Before the virus, the town had been nothing more than a bump in the road.
A few years prior, several families began to farm the land. The proximity of a branch of the California aqueduct system was still providing water to the area. A week of gathering and assembling a solar pump gave them a way to irrigate the normally arid soil. Within months, the farmers had their first vegetable crop.
The farmers then turned their attention to several fields of almond trees and grape vines, restoring their health. By the time a trade route had been established, there were over four hundred people living in the area, providing nuts, vegetables, and citrus to the rest of the survivor enclaves. The loss of the town and their produce was devastating.
Carver stopped the convoy at a cloverleaf intersection just south of Mettler. They formed a defensive perimeter, then he sent their Stryker armored car into the cluster of burning buildings in an attempt to flush out any Variants that might remain.
The eight-wheeled vehicle rushed forward and disappeared. After running up and down the roads of the tiny settlement several times and getting no response, Carver ordered the rest of the convoy forward.
“Dismount,” he ordered over the squad radio. “Gonzalez, Price, and Felix, provide overwatch while the rest of you rally on me.”
The three soldiers took their positions. Gonzalez and Felix manned the machine guns mounted on top of their HUMVEEs, while Price stayed in his MRAP and monitored the situation through a camera unit that had a slaved M-19 weapons system mounted on top of the vehicle. He controlled the grenade launcher without touching the cannon and could go through a forty-eight-round belt of 40mm explosives in about a minute.
The dog and its handler joined Kinney’s squad while Carver used a second unit to hold the first squad’s flank. They moved through the three-block settlement quickly. There was nothing left to salvage, not even a corpse.
They gathered at the east end of the community, standing at the back of the businesses that faced the frontage road and I-5 just beyond. Some of the buildings had been burned to the ground while others still stood, damaged to some degree or another. Those that were still standing had to be cleared.
The squads started south and moved their way north. Each building breach brought more questions than answers. The structures were all clear. No skeletal remains were found, either human or Variant. It was as if a spaceship descended on the town, sucked up its residents, and disappeared back to the stars.
They had just finished clearing the last structure when Kinney pulled Carver to the side. “Does this bother you? Not a single corpse. Hell,
we haven’t even seen that much blood.”
“You’ve no idea how wrong this feels to me,” Carver replied, taking his helmet off to mop his brow. “It’s like everyone just decided to leave.”
Kinney removed his helmet as well and sat on a nearby rock wall. Most of the flames had died down except for one particular hot spot at the center of a truck repair facility. Smoke continued to billow out of the ground at the center of the demolished metal building.
Kinney stood back up and wandered over to the still-burning fire. Black smoke billowed into the air. Carver followed his friend as they walked across a parking lot and wandered into the metal shell.
The Quonset-hut-shaped steel building had been torn apart inside. The rounded roof that had buckled from the fire that still burned at its center while the building’s vaulted ceiling was scarred by the flames.
“No wonder it’s still burning,” Kinney said. “Look at the oil change well.”
At least three cars were pinned into the opening, all pointing down into the hole. The cars were engulfed by fire, their tires and upholstery creating the dark, acrid smoke.
“How the hell did three cars get stuck in the hole?” Carver asked.
They both stared into the fire as the automobiles were consumed by the flames. Neither noticed that the hole was almost perfectly circular and not the normal rectangular shape of an oil changing station.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Kinney said. “We aren’t going to find any answers here.”
— 18 —
Death commences too early – almost before you’re half-acquainted with life – you meet the other.
— Tennessee Williams
Thirty-Six Hours Before
Mettler
“Come on, Teresa.”
The teenage couple had moved away from the Saturday evening bonfire. Six hard days of farming were rewarded every weekend with a town-wide celebration. Wine and booze flowed, along with the traditional foods of the American Southwest.
“No, Arturo,” she complained with a less-than-resolute voice.
The young man, sensing her hesitation, pressed his case. With the whole enclave busy celebrating, it was his chance for the couple to sneak away. He knew the perfect spot for the two of them to have some privacy.
She didn’t put up a good fight and happily followed the young man into the nearby field.
The moon was nearly full, providing a soft-blue light to walk by. The couple moved hand-in-hand toward the distant canal. The potato field’s plants were nearly mature with their purple blooms swaying in the evening breeze. It was going to be a good harvest.
They reached the water’s edge, and the young man spread out a blanket he’d been carrying. They sat down on the ground and began to share a bottle of wine. The sweet liquid, a recently produced product made from local fruits, was quickly absorbed into their blood.
“Oh!” she giggled as the alcohol hit her brain.
The heady rush brought a calming warmth, and she looked at the handsome young man next to her. He was beautiful, bathed in the azure light of the moon. With the field crickets chirping their mating songs and a gentle, cool breeze blowing across the canal, she gave in to her desires and lay back on the blanket. She reached up and pulled the boy down to her and sighed.
Arturo was a typical young teenage boy, full of bravado and big ideas. He’d planned many different scenarios to get his girlfriend alone. He had an answer to just about every excuse she could have provided as to why they shouldn’t consummate their relationship. The only situation he hadn’t anticipated was a partner who wanted the same thing he did. When she grabbed him and pulled him down, he froze.
The suddenness of her passion terrified him. He found himself doing things instinctively while the rational part of his brain seemed to become a spectator. He began to critique his efforts. Was he moving too fast? If he did, would she suddenly decide to stop? Was he going too slow, which might make her afraid that he didn’t know what he was doing? All these things raced through his mind as his fingers moved to places on her body that he’d been dreaming about. She responded to his touch with an earthy moan.
Fortunately for the couple, Arturo had kept some of his senses about him. The rational part of his brain registered the gentle shaking of the ground as the couple’s passion was just starting to play out. His awareness of the sudden blanket of silence shook him further. The insects had gone quiet.
Teresa continued to writhe under his touch and was unaware of the change. A sudden shake of the soil and the “crump” of falling dirt brought the young man out of his passion. Teresa moaned with the shifting soil, still caught in the moment.
Arturo moved his hand from inside of the young girl’s shirt and gently placed it over her mouth.
“Quiet,” he whispered. “I think we’re having an earthquake.”
The girl’s panicked eyes stared back at him.
“It’s all right,” he said after several moments of quiet. “I think it’s over.”
He was about to take his hand from her mouth when the sound of grunting and chirping came from the potato field.
The couple was just outside of the farmland, lying on the gentle downslope at the canal’s edge. The boy slowly raised his head above the plants just as an explosion erupted from the old truck repair building. A giant fireball rose into the sky.
Framed against the rising flames were Variants. Arturo watched in horror as hundreds of the monsters were vomited from the soil, rising out of the potato field as if born there. The creatures quickly oriented themselves and rushed off toward the town. Soon, screams of terror and the pop of guns firing echoed from the nearby homes as well.
Teresa had rolled over and was staring at the distant carnage. She gave Arturo a terrified look and began to stand up. He pressed her to the ground and shook his head.
He led them to the water’s edge and pulled her into the warm canal.
“We need to go,” he whispered.
“My family. I need…”
He put his finger to her lips and shook his head.
“We’ll come back after it’s over. There’s nothing we can do right now.”
Terrified, she let him lead her away. They slowly swam upstream, keeping their heads low and making as little noise as possible.
They escaped undiscovered.
Arturo broke his promise that night to go back after it was over. That decision saved their lives. A few hours later, they left the canal and continued north, heading to another smaller group of humans that they’d begun to trade with just last year.
Mettler Truck and Engine Repair
Mettler
Carlos had been working on his 1983 Oldsmobile most of the evening. He stole away from his home in the evening because nearly every minute of daylight was consumed by farming. No one escaped their obligations in the field, unless they were sick or too old for manual labor. At twenty-six years of age, he didn’t qualify for that exemption, not that he would have done so. The community needed everyone to pitch in, and that’s exactly what each resident did. Even the old couple who lived in the blue mobile home did their part.
The community’s truck repair facility had an oil changing well where he did most of the work on his old Cutlass. His four-door Ciera diesel was his pride and joy before the apocalypse. Other than the black exhaust it spewed when driven, it was identical to all the other Cutlasses that had been sold from that model year.
The four-door, maple-red car hadn’t been driven in several years because of the fuel’s degradation with time. Now that they had biodiesel from Lost Valley, he could use his earnings to get his ride going once again.
He had just finished installing synthetic hoses and seals in the engine. Biodiesel acted as a solvent as well as fuel, which had the benefit of keeping the car’s fuel system clean. Unfortunately, it would also degrade rubber, which was used in the old car’s fuel lines and O-rings. With the rubber replaced, he was ready to get the Cutlass going once again.
/> “There!” Carlos said contentedly, as he finished tightening the last of the engine hose clamps. “Let’s try you out.”
The young man climbed out of the well and filled the empty tank with five gallons of biodiesel. The battery still worked well enough, although it had degraded somewhat over the years of disuse. The trickle charger he had used brought it back to 80% of its maximum. Plenty of cold cranking amps to get the beast going.
He jumped into the car and closed the door. He crossed himself for good luck and turned the ignition. The old diesel engine chugged as the pistons began to cycle. Several times, the engine sputtered and caught briefly, only to choke and die. The car shuddered with each failure while the engine rattled and rocked.
“The injector timing,” he said to himself.
The spray of diesel into the engine had to be adjusted. It had to be precisely metered into the cylinder at just the right time for the compressed air to burn the petrol mixture. Too soon or too late, and the pressure wouldn’t be high enough to ignite the fuel properly.
He crawled out of the car and grabbed a cup of coffee that sat cooling on his workbench. If the timing adjustment didn’t solve the situation, it was going to be a frustrating night. Then there was always the possibility that the ignition temperature of the biodiesel was too high and that it wouldn’t work in his car. That was unlikely, given the success they had running the fuel in their tractors and Lost Valley’s military vehicles.
Carlos drank from the tepid mug and returned it to the worktable. He looked at his watch and saw that the community party had already started. If he wanted anything to eat, he’d need to leave soon.
He was just about to quit for the night when the ground at his feet shook and the coffee in his mug formed tiny waves, as if someone had dropped a pebble into the middle of the cup. He’d lived in California long enough to know that this likely meant another earthquake. He’d been through enough of them to know what to do without panicking.
Extinction Survival Series | Book 4 | Warrior's Fate Page 19