by Tom Abrahams
Extinction Red Line
Copyright © 2018 by Nicholas Sansbury Smith & Tom Abrahams
All Rights Reserved
Cover Art by Hristo Kovatliev
Proofreading by Pauline Nolet
Formatting by Stef McDaid at Write Into Print
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For Courtney, Samantha, and Luke
My personal Team Ghost
—Tom
For the Extinction Cycle readers, the best fans in the world! Team Ghost is proud to have you on board for future Extinction Cycle stories.
—Nicholas
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Contents
Foreword by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Prologue
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Excerpt from Extinction Horizon
About the Authors
Foreword
by
Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up a copy of Extinction Red Line, the official prequel to the Extinction Cycle. This is the origin story of Lieutenant Trevor Brett, the tortured Marine that was first given a dose of the early version of VX-99. It’s a story that I always wanted to tell, but never had the opportunity. Until now.
Working with author Tom Abrahams, best known for his bestselling Traveler series, we set out to tell the backstory of Lieutenant Brett and the Red Line of carnage he left behind during and after the Vietnam War. This origin story plays a vital role in the VX-99 program designed to create supersoldiers, a program that also sparked the Extinction Cycle.
Please note, Red Line was previously published in Amazon’s Extinction Cycle Kindle World. As you may know, Amazon ended the Kindle Worlds program in July of 2018. Authors were given a chance to republish or retire their stories, and I jumped at the chance to work with Tom. Writing as a team, we added new chapters, expanded the story line, and brought Lieutenant Brett’s story to life in a way never before published. We’re very excited to bring Red Line to paperback, audio, and to readers outside the United States for the first time.
For those of you that are new to the Extinction Cycle story line, the series is the award-winning, Amazon top-rated, and half-a-million-copy best-selling seven-book saga. There are over six thousand five-star reviews on Amazon alone. Critics have called it “World War Z and The Walking Dead meets The Hot Zone.” Publishers Weekly added, “Smith has realized that the way to rekindle interest in zombie apocalypse fiction is to make it louder, longer, and bloodier… Smith intensifies the disaster efficiently as the pages flip by, and readers who enjoy juicy blood-and-guts action will find a lot of it here.”
In creating the Extinction Cycle, my goal was to use authentic military action and real science to take the zombie and post-apocalyptic genres in an exciting new direction. Forget everything you know about zombies. In the Extinction Cycle, they aren’t created by black magic or other supernatural means. The ones found in the Extinction Cycle are created by a military bioweapon called VX-99, first used in Vietnam on Lieutenant Brett and his men. The chemicals reactivate the proteins encoded by the genes that separate humans from wild animals—in other words, the experiment turned men into monsters. For the first time, zombies are explained using real science—science so real there is every possibility of something like the Extinction Cycle actually happening. But these creatures aren’t the unthinking, slow-minded, shuffling monsters we’ve all come to know in other shows, books, and movies. These “variants” are more monster than human. Through the series, the variants become the hunters as they evolve from the epigenetic changes. Scrambling to find a cure and defeat the monsters, humanity is brought to the brink of extinction.
We hope you enjoy Extinction Red Line and have included the prologue of book 1, Extinction Horizon, at the beginning of Extinction Red Line, and the first chapter of Extinction Horizon in the back of this book for you to sample if you do wish to continue the adventure of the Extinction Cycle.
Thank you for reading!
Best wishes,
Nicholas Sansbury Smith, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Extinction Cycle
Prologue
Operation Burn Bright, Northwest Vietnam
July 10, 1968
Operation Burn Bright started off with a smooth insertion. Lieutenant Trevor Brett and thirty-one other Marines jumped into the fray from the crew compartment of multiple UH-1 “Huey” choppers.
The stink of the jungle filled Brett’s lungs as soon as his boots hit the ground. They’d been dropped on the outskirts of a swamp, and the rot lingered in the sultry air.
Brett gagged at the smell and promptly clenched his jaw shut. He moved with his lips sealed and was careful not to swallow any bugs when he was forced to open his mouth and bark orders. Vietnam was the worst place for someone who suffered from a borderline case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. There was simply no way to maintain good hygiene in the jungle.
Breathing through his nostrils, Brett led his men slowly into the knee-deep water in a wedge formation. Every few steps he would pause, scan the area, and then flash a hand signal to advance. The men were experienced enough to know they should maintain combat intervals. Enough of them had seen buddies die from clustering together, forming double targets for the enemy.
If he didn’t have his lips closed, Brett might have even smiled at the sight of his well-organized platoon. But smiling was reserved for peacetime, not war. In Brett’s eyes, Vietnam was just a place for Marines to go and die.
The farther they moved into the muck, the deeper the swamp became. Stagnant water crawled up his legs, sending a cold chill through his body.
Goddamn, he hated the fucking jungle and everything inside it—the snakes, the bugs, and, worst of all, the leeches. He stifled a curse when he saw a foot-long leech swimming in his direction. The last thing he wanted to do was notify Charlie they were coming. The sloshing water was already loud enough to tell every Vietcong in the area that a platoon full of fresh meat was on its way.
As he slopped through the water, Brett wondered how he had gotten so unlucky. The war had ruined everything. After graduating college, he had looked forwa
rd to a career in banking, with a nice little cookie-cutter house, a gorgeous wife, and a warm dinner waiting at home for him every night. Instead, his girlfriend had left him, and he was wading through water toward one of the most ruthless enemies the American military had ever faced. To make things worse, he and his men carried an experimental drug that they were supposed to take right before reaching their target. Command had said it would negate the effects of any chemicals lingering in the area, such as Agent Orange, but Brett had his doubts. It sounded more as if they were being used as guinea pigs.
“Shit,” he muttered as a fly the size of a peanut buzzed by his helmet. He swept the muzzle of his M16 over a clearing at the far end of the swamp. They weren’t far from their target, a remote village that brass claimed was secretly supporting the local VC.
Brett wasn’t so sure. He’d been down this road many times before. Most of the time, they didn’t find shit.
When they reached the edge of the swamp, Brett balled his hand into a fist. He jerked his chin toward the platoon sergeant, a stocky Texan named Fern. The man was built like a football player, with wide shoulders and tree trunks for legs. He approached with a toothy grin, revealing a wad of chew that bled a brown trail of juice down his chin strap.
The two men were exact opposites. Fern cared nothing for hygiene and seemed to thrive in the disgusting jungle. The thicker the muck, the more he enjoyed himself.
“Lieutenant,” Fern said, squinting, with a hand shielding his eyes.
“The village should be just beyond that ridgeline,” Brett said, pointing toward an embankment across the field. “Tell everyone not holding security to pair up and take their doses of VX-99, and make sure they actually do it.”
“Roger that, sir,” Fern replied. He spat a chunk of tobacco into the soupy water, and Brett watched it vanish into the mouths of some small fish. His stomach churned at the sight. Brett followed Fern onto solid ground. They stepped over rotting vegetation and slapped away sharp branches. When they got to the edge of the clearing, Brett dropped to his right knee and reached for his bag. He removed the small syringe of VX-99 and eyed it suspiciously. There was nothing he hated more than needles except the jungle and everything inside it. If sticking the needle in his arm meant he would get out of here quicker, well, then, fuck it.
He bit off the plastic tip and spat it out, found a bulging vein in his wrist, and jammed the point of the needle into his arm. Slowly, he pushed the mysterious cocktail into his bloodstream. A sharp pain instantly raced down his arm. Brett tossed the syringe into the brush and placed a finger over the spot. The other men were taking turns: one man on guard with weapon at the ready, the other with his weapon cradled while jabbing the chemicals into a vein.
Brett waited there, listening to the hum of oversized insects and the chirps of exotic birds, for several seconds, wondering if the platoon would notice any side effects.
After a minute, the tingling sensation in his veins passed. He stood, shouldering his rifle and leveling the muzzle over the field. So far there was no sign of the enemy, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Charlie was always out there, waiting to strike like the drugs in his veins.
“Move out,” Brett said.
Fern nodded and flashed a blur of hand movements to the men on their right. The Marines fanned out over the field at a brisk pace, their boots slurping through the mud.
Before they’d made it halfway, Brett felt a burning. At first he wondered if the wind had carried Agent Orange into the area, but this burning wasn’t the same. It wasn’t coming from outside his skin—it was coming from inside his chest, as if he’d swallowed an entire bottle of Vietnamese hot sauce.
Small jolts of pain raced through his body with every heartbeat. The agonizing burn spread to his head and lingered there. He blinked, tears welling in his eyes. He felt as if he was being burned alive, only from within.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a PFC named Junko collapse to both knees, clawing madly at his skull. Then came the screaming. Wails of pain broke out as other Marines fell.
What the fuck is happening to us?
The pain was so intense Brett could hardly think. Shimmering arcs of bright light broke across his vision. The oranges, reds, and yellows swam before his eyes. The jungle faded behind the colors.
Dropping his rifle on the ground, he cupped his hands over his ears to drown out the pained shrieks.
Whatever was happening to the platoon wasn’t the effect of some chemical lingering over the field. Brett could hardly form a cohesive thought, but he knew the pain was a result of the VX-99.
A sudden surge of fire blasted through Brett’s body. It was followed by a sharp tingling sensation, as if hundreds of bees were stinging him all at once.
He fell to his back, itching the bare parts of his skin violently. There was no relief, only more pain.
His mind responded by taking him away from the jungle, to a place where there were no massive bugs, rotting vegetation, or men trying to kill him.
A brick house, with a stone path leading up to it, emerged. At the front door, an attractive woman held a glass of ice water. She smiled. “Come in, honey. Dinner is almost ready.” Brett felt the pain diminish as he slipped deeper into this fantasy. He knew that the house and the woman weren’t real, but he didn’t care. He wanted to escape the godforsaken jungle.
He needed to escape.
When he got to the door, the woman was gone. The door was closed. He tried the knob. It was locked. Then the house was gone too. The bright colors returned. He could feel his body again. Fear replaced the pain.
When his eyes popped open, he saw the cloudless sky and the brilliant white sun above.
Where was he?
He heard muffled voices, the rustling of gear, and the shriek of some exotic animal.
There were other noises—distant noises.
The world became exceptionally vivid. Brett could hear the bugs crawling through the underbrush; he could smell the stink of sweat on his uniform. He could taste coffee he didn’t remember drinking. His senses were heightened to a level he’d never experienced before.
It was terrifying, but at the same time it was oddly liberating. He clenched his fists, feeling his muscles contract.
He stared at his hands with grim fascination. He felt stronger than ever before, as if he could take on an entire army. He felt…
Invincible.
Dazed but alert, Brett leaped to his feet. Tilting the front of his helmet upward, he ran his sleeve across his face to clear the sweat dripping into his eyes.
When his vision cleared, he instantly stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he sloshed through the mud. Brett spun to see two dozen men staggering across the moist dirt. They wore the same fatigues he wore and carried the same gear he did. They were Marines, like him. Several of the men walked off aimlessly in different directions, cupping their heads in their hands. He felt there was something almost familiar in their faces, but he couldn’t place it. Did he know these men?
He heard a woman’s voice. Kill them, she croaked. Kill them all.
Brett spun again, his boots sinking in the mud as he searched for the woman. It was then he realized the voice was coming from inside his head.
You must kill them, said the voice again. She snarled, Do it before they kill you!
Brett smacked the side of his helmet.
Who was this woman, and why did she want him to kill these men?
Brett focused on the Marine in front of him. He was a short, stocky fella with a wad of chew jammed inside his lip. Brett could smell the tobacco juice dripping off the man’s chin.
When he saw Brett, he held up his hands and balled them into fists. The Marine growled, “Get away from me, y-you”—he stuttered, swallowing a chunk of the tobacco—“you fuck!”
Brett experienced an abrupt wave of adrenaline. He reached for something to protect himself. His fingers found the warm metal handle of a blade on his belt. He pulled the kni
fe from its sheath in one swift motion, as if he’d done this many times before.
The woman’s voice returned, booming inside his mind. Stab him. Stab him right in his fat little gut. It was an awful voice, the kind that scraped at the inside of his brain with its jagged claws. But it was somehow familiar. In some distant world, he knew this voice.
“Get away from me!” the man yelled, a vein bulging in his neck as spit flew from his mouth. Brett narrowed in on the vein. He could see it pulsating. He imagined the blood flowing through the thin passage.
The image sent a thrill through Brett’s body. His own blood tingled inside him. In one move, he jumped to the side with impressive speed. The stocky man moved quickly too, throwing a jab that whooshed through the air.
Brett ducked and plunged forward, sinking the blade deep into the man’s stomach, just as the woman had told him to. The Marine let out a scream of agony, blood gurgling from his mouth. Brett wasted no time. He withdrew the knife, took a step back, and then jammed the blade into the man’s neck.
The stout man clutched both wounds and dropped to his knees before collapsing face first into the mud.
Taking a short, satisfying breath, Brett picked up a new scent. He could almost taste it.
It was the scent of death.
The sudden crack of automatic gunfire pulled Brett back to the rice field as if a switch had been flicked. His gaze roved across the embankment beyond the field, noting each flash.
An explosion went off a few hundred yards away. The deafening blast sent a red geyser of dirt and body parts into the sky. When the mist cleared, a bloody crater was all that remained of the Marine who had been standing there seconds before.
Run! cried the woman’s voice.
Shocked into motion, Brett gripped the knife tightly and took off at a dead sprint. The sound of his boots stomping through the muck faded against the sounds of war.
