Extinction Survival Series (Book 3): Cost of Survival

by Browning, Walt

  “Go!” Massey barked.

  He followed the pair up the ramp and ordered the men on the firing line to retreat. They all hustled into the submarine, the infected close on their heels.

  With the final sailor safely inside, Massey closed and sealed the hatch just as the Variant horde slammed into the metal portal. They were safe.

  “Take us out of here!” Massey yelled.

  A sailor relayed his message, and the sub’s engines churned to life, pulling them away from the dock. The Variants on top of the submarine began to panic and flung themselves off the deck and onto the safety of the dock. Several didn’t make it and quickly dropped under the surface, drowning in their attempts to escape from the submarine and the water that was quickly surrounding them.

  Charlie Team was herded inside to join the rest of survivors. One of the men took inventory of the civilians and noted the missing sailors.

  “Report,” Massey said.

  The sailor handed the manifest to the XO. “Total of fifty-nine survivors.”

  Massey already knew that. He’d sent them all out on the mission and saw who returned. Their deaths already weighed heavily on him.

  Massey scanned the list. Some of the surnames he knew. Many of them were unknown, given that his crew had as many girlfriends as they did spouses. One name stood out. He already knew the commander’s wife was on board. He’d just saved her life back on the ramp.

  “Lieutenant!” Massey heard.

  He spun around and found Commander Sylvia standing behind him, his wife wrapped in his arms.

  “I hear I owe you a debt of gratitude. My wife just told me about your encounter on the ramp.”

  “Sir, just doing my job.”

  Sylvia nodded at Massey’s humility. He expected nothing less. “I understand we lost three men,” the commander added.

  “Yes, sir. Cranston, Ortega, and McGrath.”

  Sylvia stood silently for a moment. They were the first men who’d ever died under his command.

  “Please prepare a service for them. And if you think it’s appropriate, we can also remember the survivors we couldn’t save.”

  “That’s a good idea, sir. I’ll get on it.”

  Then Sylvia and his wife moved off toward the commander’s cabin, a blanket surrounding the frightened woman.

  “Sir. We need to clean up,” one of the sailors from Charlie Team said.

  Massey looked at the small squad, their clothing covered with blood and black-speckled spittle. Several had the filth splattered on their faces.

  “Go on. No water restrictions for you. Get cleaned up and a fresh set of clothing, then report to your stations.”

  The sailors moved off while Massey began the difficult process of finding a place for all the extra bodies where they wouldn’t be underfoot.

  Two Hours Later

  Massey entered the officer’s mess. The room was full, along with one steward who was hovering over a pot, steam rising from its contents. The main table had a tray of coffee and pastries in anticipation of the meeting.

  All eleven of the ship’s officers were seated around the table; only Sylvia remained absent. It was not unusual for the commander to be the last to the table. He didn’t like to waste time waiting for stragglers, not that anyone would dare to be late.

  Massey poured himself a mug and sat idly while several of the other officers engaged in muted conversation. One involved their nuclear officers.

  “Poor kid is exhausted,” Lieutenant Powell said in a hushed voice. “But he’s a trooper. Won’t leave his post until his watch ends.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Massey interrupted.

  “Sir?” the nuclear officer replied.

  “Who’s exhausted?”

  “Burton, sir. He’s been a bit under the weather since he returned from the mainland.”

  Massey berated himself for sending the rescue teams back to work, but they needed every able body right now. Even though they’d only been on shore for a few hours, it had to have taken its toll, especially Burton’s team who’d lost three of their own.

  “See if you can find a replacement. Charlie Team had a tough time of it out there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Powell said. “His shift ends in a few hours. I’m sure we can get someone to cover for him.”

  Massey looked at the clock on the wall. “Let him finish off this watch and take his next one off. He needs some rest. With all the bodies on board, it’s going to be tough finding some rack time.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Powell replied.

  Commander Sylvia entered the room, bringing everyone to attention. After waving a salute at the group, they all sat down.

  “Sir, I have your wife’s soup,” the steward said.

  “Please take it to her.”

  The sailor carried the tray out of the mess, and one of the officers closed the door behind him.

  “Is she all right?” Davis asked quietly.

  “Yeah. Just exhausted and a little nauseous,” Sylvia whispered before turning back to the table. “I’ve called you here to discuss our next move. The fleet is massing off the coast. We’ll be joining them after we complete one more mission.”

  Sylvia picked up a remote control and pointed it at the flat screen. A map of San Clemente Island popped up.

  He aimed a laser pointer at the screen. “We are to rendezvous with the USNS Bob Hope off the coast right here.” The red light flickered on the northern tip of the southernmost of the Channel Islands. “We’re to assist them in evacuation of the island’s bases, transfer our survivors to the Hope, and then escort her to the flotilla.”

  “Sir, any word on where we’re going from there?” one of the officers asked.

  “Not at this time. I can tell you that nothing’s off the table. Fleet has assembled all remaining vessels, including supply and fuel. We can go just about anywhere.”

  Both grins and stoic faces greeted the announcement. Some were thrilled to leave the infection behind, while many were despondent that they were abandoning the mainland. Too many friends and families were still unaccounted for.

  “Make preparations to get underway. That will be all.”

  Sylvia stood and left the room.

  “That was quick,” one of the officers mumbled.

  Davis silently agreed. Maybe Sylvia’s wife wasn’t doing as well as his commander had said. He made a mental note to check in on them both after they got underway.

  The ensuing hour went by quickly with the work required to relocate the survivors and complete the assignment necessary to get underway. Davis stood on the conn next to Massey, both men giving orders and sharing information.

  “We’re on schedule,” Davis said. “Better get the commander.”

  Massey contacted Sylvia’s berth. After a few moments’ conversation, he turned to Davis. “Boss says to get underway.”

  “He doesn’t want to join us?” Davis asked.

  “Nope. Just to make a heading to the coordinates.”

  “Well, shit,” Davis replied.

  The COB took a deep breath and then nodded. “Get us underway.”

  Massey issued orders, sending the submarine to the northern point on San Clemente Island. Within fifteen minutes, they’d navigated out to sea and were moving in a straight line for the island’s coast.

  When they were well on their way, Davis said, “I’m going to check on the commander.”

  “I hope his wife is all right. That was a hell of a thing out there.”

  “Me too,” Davis replied. “Nice job out there.”

  Massey nodded and grinned, earning him a pat on the shoulder before the COB left for Sylvia’s berth.

  “Make a hole!” Davis yelled.

  All the sailors flattened themselves against the bulkhead while most of the civilians stood dumbfounded. Few of them realized that “make a hole” meant an officer was coming and to get out of the way.

  Davis pressed forward, silently cursing at the inconvenience. Just then, the ship�
��s klaxon began to blare. It was the radiation alarm. Davis shoved his way past the panicked civilians and found Sylvia’s berth. He began to pound on the door as sailors and survivors ran by. There was no answer.

  Davis checked the door’s knob. It was unlocked.

  “Commander!” he yelled as he pushed his way into the room.

  The space was dark, and it took a moment to make out the shape of two people lying on the bunk, one on top of the other.

  Davis was angry at first, thinking Sylvia was ignoring the klaxon as he and his wife were sexually engaged. He stepped forward, but stopped when the person on top turned.

  Blazing yellow orbs stared back at him. The creature’s shriek froze Davis in place, allowing the former Mrs. Sylvia to launch itself onto Davis’s neck, ripping his spine in half.

  Within minutes, the submarine was dead from Variant attacks, but not before Seaman Burton turned while manning the reactor room, which began releasing radiation.

  Eventually, the USS Hampton grounded itself on the shore of San Clemente Island. After hours of trying to raise the doomed vessel, the supply ship returned to the fleet, where it also died from the virus that the Coronado Island survivors brought from the mainland.

  Meanwhile, the Variants were trapped, marinating in the radioactive air that saturated the giant submersible vessel.

  Naval Auxiliary Landing Field

  San Clemente Island

  Six Months Later

  Ensign Rathburn led five of the base’s thirty sailors out to the northern edge of the island. It had been months since the Fleet had been wiped out, and there had been no communication with the mainland or any other government body since then.

  Their food supplies were quickly running out, and there was no way off the island, other than by swimming. Rathburn and some others had begun to fish. They needed to augment their dwindling stores. That’s when he saw the Los Angeles class submarine scuttled on the rocks.

  He crawled down to the submarine’s deck and tried to gain entry, but it was locked down tight. After returning to the small base, they decided to break into the craft. If they did nothing, they’d be dead from starvation within a few months. As it was, they’d already pared down their rations to a bare minimum. The clothing they wore hung slackly on their frames, attesting to the thousand calorie per day schedule they’d put themselves on.

  The five struggled to climb down the rocky slope. Their weakness forced them to go slowly, and even though it was considered a portable system, hauling an oxy-fuel torch didn’t help matters. The only way they could get at the submarine’s supplies was to cut through the steel. The torch they brought could do just that.

  After many minutes of lifting and pushing, they made it to the deck.

  The last time Rathburn had been here, he’d used a stone to hammer on the sub’s door. He’d thought he heard something within, but he passed it off as the settling of the hull in the tide.

  The torch was fired up and the welder began to slice through the steel. The three-thousand-degree flame was blinding, and the other four turned their heads away. It seemed like forever, but the welder finally snapped the torch off.

  “Abracadabra!” he said, pushing on the rectangular hole he’d cut in the outer door.

  The plate of metal fell inside with a dull clunk.

  The interior was black, and Rathburn handed the welder a flashlight. The man quickly crawled inside and disappeared. Rathburn stuck his head into the opening and saw the man about twenty feet away, slowly panning back and forth with his beam.

  “What do you see?” Rathburn asked.

  “Nothing but ship,” he replied. “No one anywhere.”

  Rathburn crawled into the space and unlocked the hatch. He opened the door, letting the light spill in. He turned toward the welder, but nothing was there other than the flashlight. It was rolling on the submarine’s deck.

  Rathburn called out to the sailor, but there was no response. He bent down and picked up the beam and began to search for their lost companion.

  A giant, leathery cape suddenly enveloped him. Rathburn tried to scream, but the sound was cut off as something clamped around his throat. Looking up, he saw a large shape staring down at him. Its glowing amber eyes were the last thing he ever saw.

  — 22 —

  Santa Catalina Island

  Airport in the Sky

  Sometimes, human places create inhuman monsters.

  — Stephen King

  After Dr. Maxwell left for her ranch, Carver and the teams reinforced their positions. Using what was available, and with a few supply flights from the Freedom, they managed to weld or brace the entrances and windows. It was dark by the time they finished.

  “Each team takes a shift,” Carver said.

  Shader looked at his team. “We’ll go first.”

  “All right. You’ll take first watch. My team will relieve you at midnight. Lazzaro, you’re on at two, and Gonzalez, you have the last shift at four. Any questions?”

  With no reply, they gathered in the restaurant with Blue Team taking positions in the tower and at the front and rear entrances of the airport.

  Carver and Shrek lay down in a corner and fell asleep.

  Carver was dreaming about Hope when he felt Shrek move next to him. His team had returned from their midnight-to-two shift, and he’d only been asleep for less than an hour when the war dog stood up. Carver put his hand on Shrek’s neck. His hair was standing on end.

  “Everyone up!” Carver yelled.

  Shrek

  Carver has led us up a small mountain to a place where the air machines come and go. The building has a smell of the asp, but I can tell that it has been a long time since those things have been in here.

  The warriors are all nervous. They should be. The asp is a strong enemy and they should be killed, but respected.

  We stand guard after having a little time to try to sleep. I never really sleep, my nose and ears pick up so much that the humans cannot. But I do not mind. It is who I am. I keep watch when everyone else does not.

  We return from our guard duties. Carver lies down and instantly falls asleep. I will stay focused. I will keep my friend and master safe.

  I hear something. The sound of a new danger. It is coming from above. It is coming from the top of the building. This is a new sound. The vibrations are low and gather strength before stopping all together.

  Then I hear it. The sound of death. One of the warriors has been killed by an asp. But the smell is different than the other acidic-smelling creatures. It is, somehow, hotter. I know that does not make sense, but its odor is warm from some other affliction.

  I stand up. The hair on my neck stiffens; it is a beacon to Carver, letting him know about the danger above. I bump his leg. He understands.

  Carver

  Lazzaro’s team was on watch, and the three remaining teams quickly rose as Carver led Shrek to the restaurant’s entrance.

  “Green Team, report,” Carver said over his radio as the rest of the teams switched on their own squad communicators.

  “Green One, here,” Lazzaro said. He waved at Carver from the front entrance.

  “Green Four, here.”

  “Green Three, here.”

  The radio remained silent.

  “Green Two, report,” Lazzaro said.

  Nothing.

  Carver walked over to Lazzaro. “Where is Green Two?”

  “He’s in the tower.”

  “Keep your men in position,” Carver said. “Red Team on me.”

  Carver’s group formed behind him, and they began to ascend the stairs. Each landing required a stop and sniff from the war dog. With each step, Shrek became more intense. At the top level, they stopped. Shrek’s posture told Carver there was something above, and they were getting close.

  Carver leaned around the bend in the steps and shined his flashlight into the room. He panned back and forth but found nothing.

  “This is Red One. I’ve gotten to the last floor. Green Two
is not here.”

  “Red One, this is Green One. Check the roof. Green Two reported there’s a hatch to the roof. He may be up there. Over.”

  “Solid copy, Green One,” Carver replied.

  The windows in the room were small and sat high on the wall, making the space unusable as a sentry position. Carver panned his flashlight and found metal rungs imbedded in the concrete wall. He shined his light up and saw the open hatch above.

  “Green Two! Report!”

  There was no response.

  “Blijf!” Carver commanded. Shrek knew to stay. The war dog couldn’t climb the runged ladder anyway.

  Carver let his rifle drop to his side, the single-point sling allowing the weapon to dangle under his shoulder. He began to climb the steps, stopping twice to listen.

  As he got close to the open hatch, he heard something above. He knew immediately what was waiting for him on the roof. It was the sound of death. It was the sound of the infected, chewing on its victim.

  The damn thing must have scaled the wall, Carver thought.

  He keyed his mic, broadcasting three clicks over the network. It was their pre-planned signal when there were Variants nearby and the sender couldn’t talk. The results were instantaneous.

  The rest of Red Team assembled below him, their weapons raised. On the first floor, the other teams formed up at each entrance and the stairwell. Their combined firepower all aimed at these breach points.

  Carver dropped his NV monocular over his right eye, then unholstered his sidearm and held it with his right hand. Using his left, he lifted himself up to the roof, his head and shoulders poking out of the opening. What he saw was confusing.

  Several shapes were clustered in the corner of the roof. They didn’t look like Variants so much as tall tents, almost like teepees.

  There were three that had formed a circle, hunkered over something. Carver heard the crunching of bone and the slurping of liquid; they were feeding, and he had yet to be discovered.

  He replaced his handgun in his holster and swung his rifle up over the edge of the opening. He turned on his laser and aligned it with the closest mass. Without a discernible piece of anatomy to aim for, Carver selected automatic fire, pressed the trigger, and fired a burst into them.