Extinction Red Line (The Extinction Cycle Book 0)

by Tom Abrahams

  Linh couldn’t see. Between his blurred vision and the mud coating his face, he was virtually blind. He knew he’d connected. He felt it and heard the Ma Trang scream in pain. The grandmother was right; this was no ghost. It was flesh and blood.

  The blow gave Linh a moment to scramble free of the Ma Trang’s grip. The beast, still waist deep in the mud, wailed. Its cry was earsplitting and unearthly. Linh covered his ears as he caught his breath. The animal grabbed at its wrist, holding it above the filth, its fingers curled toward its palm.

  Then it turned its attention from the wound. Ma Trang turned its demonic, reptilian eyes to Linh. The pupils were yellow, thin slits. Its chest was heaving. A spiderweb of dark blue veins stretched against its chest.

  The chest. What is hanging across its chest? Is it a necklace? And what is hanging from it? Are those…body parts?

  Its nostrils flared. Its leechlike sucker lips popped open and closed before a wide smile spread across its face.

  A smile? It’s smiling?

  The world slowed and Linh suddenly felt the urge to vomit. His stomach heaved and the sting of bile rocketed up his throat. All he wanted was a story about a legend. Instead, he was about to become part of the legend.

  Amidst the searing pain across his shoulder, headlines flashed in his mind.

  Reporter In Search Of Ma Trang Finds What He’s Looking For, Dies Horrible Death

  British Journalist Becomes Subject Of His Own Report

  Gertrude Wombley, his editor, would have a field day. She’d be thrilled at the publicity for the paper. She wouldn’t care it took his life to gain it. She’d probably even pay for the cost of an elaborate funeral just to promote the story even more. That was, she’d pay for the funeral if there was anything left of him to bury.

  Linh knew he was taking his last breaths. The White Ghost was gathering its strength for one final attack. It pushed itself to its feet and stood, mud dripping from its head and shoulders. It flexed its fingers in and out. In and out. The joints clicked. In and out.

  The reporter searched the mud for another weapon. Anything. Anything at all. All that wormed its way through his hands was lumpy black mud. He closed his eyes and said a prayer. Maybe he should have joined the family business. There were no flesh-eating monsters.

  His muscles tensed as he awaited the final lunge. It never came. Instead he heard an engine rev and tires screech. He opened his eyes in time to see Due’s car slamming into the Ma Trang, sending it flying fifteen feet from the edge of the road. The monster’s wide-open eyes and slack jaw imprinted in Linh’s mind, and he scrambled to his feet. His uncle was waiting for him, screaming at him to get up and get in the car.

  ***

  With a surge of adrenaline, Due scurried from the road and ran through the grass, past the mudslide and to his car. His nephew, surprisingly, was putting up a fight. Due thought he was a goner when the Ma Trang had swiped at him with those gargantuan claws. Somehow Linh had fought back. Due pushed his way, breathlessly, through the grass and emerged on the other side of the mudslide.

  As he ran the short distance to his car, he turned and saw the monster rear back and grab one of its wrists. It wailed a bloodcurdling scream that almost knocked Due off balance. He kept his feet and, using his hands, he worked his way around the front of the car to the driver’s side door.

  He fumbled for the keys in his pocket and then struggled to find the right one to slip into the door lock. Once he’d managed it, he dropped into the driver’s seat, cranked the ignition and slipped the car into reverse.

  Due didn’t know what had come over him. He didn’t even have time to think about his actions. He didn’t plan them. He just executed them. Some subconscious survival/hero mechanism kicked into gear and he slammed on the gas with the transmission in reverse.

  The tires struggled to grip the wet dirt and spun, squealing and emitting a thickening cloud of smoke from the burning rubber. He pressed harder on the gas and they caught. The car jumped backward and Due used his rearview mirror to aim straight for the beast.

  He prayed his nephew wasn’t in the way. There was no other choice. He didn’t have time for anything other than to slam the car into the mud in the hopes of hitting the Ma Trang. The car lurched as he hit the front edge of the slide, but it held its momentum and speed.

  “Yes!” Due cheered as he felt the heavy thump against the rear left corner of his car. He slammed the brake and the car skidded before stopping in the mud. He drove open his door and jumped to his feet, slipping against the thick dark slime.

  He didn’t see his nephew anywhere. He scanned the mud pit, the hillside, the grass. “Jimmy,” he called. “Jimmy, get up! Get up!” He took another step into the mud. It was at his ankles. “Jimmy!”

  His nephew’s hand reached up from the mud, and then his mud-covered face appeared. Linh pushed himself to his feet and slopped his way toward his uncle. Due grabbed Linh when he was close enough and pulled him to the car. He tossed Linh into the backseat and hurriedly moved into the front.

  Behind them they could hear the beast’s high-pitched cry. Due shifted the car into gear and pressed the accelerator. The engine whined, but the car didn’t move.

  “We’re stuck,” said Due, panicking. “We’re stuck.”

  “Rock it back and forth,” suggested Linh. He was coughing and trying to free mud from his nostrils. “Forward and reverse. Forward and reverse.”

  Due did as his nephew suggested. It wasn’t working.

  Without saying anything, Linh kicked open the rear driver’s side door and rolled around to the rear of the car.

  Due almost stood in his seat and yelled back at Linh, “What are you doing?”

  Linh coughed and leaned onto the trunk. The camera was swinging around his neck. “Pushing.”

  Due glanced in the rearview mirror. He didn’t see the Ma Trang. He shifted into drive and slowly depressed the accelerator. Linh was grunting. Due pushed harder with his foot until the wheels caught and the car jerked forward from the mud. He looked back in his side view and saw Linh covered with the spray.

  “Get in,” Due yelled through the open back door swinging on its hinges. Linh wasn’t coming though. Instead he had his back to the car and was looking out toward the grass.

  Due shifted his weight and turned around to look out the back window. Standing in the grass, next to a tree, was the Ma Trang. His clothes were muddied and tattered. Due’s heart leapt into his throat. He swallowed past the knot and swung back around to Linh, who was frantically wiping his camera clean.

  The idiot is taking a picture?

  “Get in!”

  Linh recapped his lens and limped toward the car. His right arm was bloodied and it was dripping from his elbow as he moved.

  Due checked the rearview again. The Ma Trang was still there, but he was moving toward them again. He began running and then dropped onto his hands and used all four limbs to propel himself toward the car.

  “C’mon,” Due said as Linh reached the backseat. Due had his foot pressed to the floor before Linh could close the door. The car accelerated and Due wrapped both of his hands around the steering wheel. He leaned forward in his seat, rocking back and forth, urging the car to move.

  In the rearview, the Ma Trang was gaining ground. It had passed the mud pit and was closing the gap. Due kept the pedal pressed to the floorboard as he drove north. His eyes were on the winding road ahead, until the car bounced and the wheel jerked to the right. The Ma Trang was clinging to the trunk, clawing its way toward the roof.

  ***

  Brett didn’t see the car hit him, but he felt it. It was a sledgehammer that knocked him from his feet as he launched toward the thin man in the mud. He breathlessly flew through the air and landed on his back in the grass. If it hadn’t been for the mud, he’d have been mid-feast.

  Despite the muck, he thought he’d gotten the thin one with a wide swipe of his hand. But instead of gashing the man’s back, he’d caught the leather bag with his claws. Th
e man was resilient and crafty. It made Brett want to kill him all the more. He caught his breath, gathered his strength, and made another run at them. He couldn’t let them get away.

  Run, said the voice. She was angry. Faster.

  The car was accelerating and Brett was exhausted. Exhaustion was a rare feeling for a man who’d morphed into something invincible. There it was, thickness in his muscles and burning in his lungs. He fought past it and used the spring in his legs to explode toward the car.

  He extended his body, flying almost horizontally as he landed with a heavy thud onto the trunk. The curled edges of his claws caught the lip of the trunk where it met the rear window, and he pulled with his biceps until he was comfortably on the back of the car.

  The chunky, older man was driving. The thin one was in the back. That thin one. He’d been arrogant enough to stand in the mud and take a photograph.

  Who is he?

  Brett gripped the edge of the trunk with all ten fingers and pulled his chest forward. He reached back with one hand, balled it into a tight fist, and slammed it through the window. Glass exploded around him, slicing his arm. The blood was intoxicating, but he ignored it and reached deep into the car, fishing for the thin man. He pressed the side of his face to the glass and opened his eye wide. The man was there, bleeding himself, and curled on the floor behind the driver’s seat. He’d made himself as small as he could. It wasn’t small enough.

  Grab him, cried the voice in Brett’s head. He’s wounded. You can take him and the driver. Crawl inside the car. Get in there.

  Brett withdrew his arm from the jagged opening, drew back, and punched another hole into the glass. Now the opening was wide enough for him to squeeze through. He adjusted his grip on the trunk and then reached into the backseat.

  He could smell the sweet odor of urine mixed with sweat. Someone was afraid. They should be, Brett thought.

  The driver was screaming. The thin man was struggling, kicking his feet, as he had in the mud. Brett managed to grab the seat fabric and puncture it with his claws. He used the leverage to heave his head through the opening. He licked his teeth and drew in a deep breath before opening his pucker lips as wide as he could to wail as loudly as he could.

  The shriek was bloodcurdling. He knew it. In the mirror in front of him, the driver’s eyes were bulging; his skin was gray with fear. He was soaked with his own sweat. Brett reached his other arm through the opening, but as he did, he felt his weight shift violently to the left and then to the right.

  His claws lost their grip and he slid from the opening. Brett tried holding onto the trunk, but couldn’t. His claws scratched through the paint, but he tumbled from the car and rolled off the road and into the grass. The driver had swerved and knocked Brett from his hold. Now he was a hungry, bleeding heap in the dirt. Brett pushed himself to his feet and watched the car spit mud as it moved north along the narrow road. The men had escaped. The hunger in his gut was suddenly acute. He lowered himself to a crouch and licked his wounds. He rolled his blood-soaked tongue across the roof of his mouth, relishing the consolation.

  If you ever see them again, said the voice, you need to punish them.

  For once Brett liked what the voice had to say.

  ***

  “I pissed myself,” said Due. He took his eyes off the road to look at the broad damp spot on the fabric between his legs. “I can’t believe I pissed myself.”

  Linh pulled himself from the floor and sat in the middle of the backseat. He carefully brushed window shards onto the floor. He reached out and put his hand on Due’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Due snapped. “Sorry I pissed myself? Sorry my car is a mess? Sorry we almost got eaten by Ma Trang?”

  Linh winced at the pain in his shoulder. “All of it.”

  Due glared at Linh in the mirror. “You should be sorry. You should be ashamed.”

  Linh’s eyes narrowed. “Ashamed? I’m not ashamed. It was bad luck.”

  Due shook his head. He banged on the wheel with his hand. “No,” he said. “Not the monster. You should be ashamed because of what you do.”

  Linh leaned forward. “What?”

  “You bothered those fishermen while they worked, while they were trying to provide for their families,” Due explained. “Then you invaded that woman’s privacy. You made her cry. You made her tell you things her own grandchildren didn’t know. Then you nearly got me killed because you stopped to take a photograph of Ma Trang.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You are a waste of a good mind, Jimmy Linh,” said Due. “I’m telling your father. I’m telling him what happened. He will stop you from this foolishness.”

  Linh sat back against the seat and said nothing. He thought about his uncle’s complaints. They were valid. He had stopped the men from fishing. He had unwittingly led the old woman to reveal her darkest secret. He had, indirectly, caused his uncle to piss himself.

  Those fishermen, though, volunteered information without any prodding. The woman had chosen to open up about her past when the interview was over. She’d invited them into her home. And his uncle had been battling incontinence before the Ma Trang jumped them. His father had told him as much months earlier.

  The truth was, Linh felt invigorated. Despite apologizing for nearly getting them killed and the damage to the car, this had been a remarkable day. They’d survived the attack, hadn’t they? He couldn’t wait to get back to his hotel and call Gertrude with the news. His fingers were itching to start writing. He almost couldn’t feel the wound in his shoulder. Almost. Another round of adrenaline was coursing through him. He felt as alive as he ever had. Surviving the attack had been empowering somehow.

  Linh leaned forward again, using the front seat backs to draw close to his uncle. “Look, Uncle,” he said. “I will pay for the damage to your car. I will pay for new pants. And I will give you gas money plus something extra for your trouble. I owe you that. I am grateful to you for coming with me and for helping me escape.”

  Due opened his mouth and wagged his finger. “You can’t just—”

  Linh cut him off. “But I’m not a disgrace. I am a reporter. I’m a storyteller. You can tell my father whatever you want, Uncle,” he said. “It won’t change my mind.”

  Due sat dumbfounded. He huffed and regripped the wheel with both hands before holding up two fingers. “Two thousand.”

  “Two thousand what?”

  “Pounds. I need two thousand.”

  Linh chuckled.

  Due shot his nephew a glance. “What?”

  “I met a woman on the train,” said Linh. “She’s beautiful. She likes me. I’m going to try to call her when we get back to Hanoi. I want to take her out on a date. And guess what, Uncle?”

  Due shrugged.

  “She’s white,” said Linh. “Tell my father about that too.”

  — 19 —

  Frederick, Maryland

  April 20, 1980

  Major Rick Gibson held the paperwork in his hands. He was at his desk. It was dark in the room aside from the spray of pale yellow light from a desk lamp. He leaned on his elbows and reread the US Federal Form sf-503. It was the official autopsy protocol for the military. The patient’s name was absent from the identification box at the bottom of the form. Gibson wanted it that way. He didn’t know the guinea pig’s name when the man arrived at the installation from Leavenworth, and he sure as hell didn’t want to know it now. Instead of the name, social security number, and rank, it listed his Bureau of Prisons number, 07424-080, his date of birth, 05/01/50, and his sex.

  There were two main sections to the form. The first was the clinical diagnosis. The second was the pathological diagnosis. Gibson had overseen the transcription of both sections. Neither was entirely accurate. Neither told the truth of how the man died or the condition of his internal organs.

  Gibson put down the document and slid it across the desk to Dr. Starling. “Take a look,” he said. “I think that should cover us.”

  S
tarling looked at the paper for a moment before picking it up to read it. He shot Gibson a disapproving look as he read the false narrative. He’d been in the lab. He’d seen the procedure. The official sf-503 was a farce.

  The procedure had been as much an autopsy as it was a necropsy. The attending forensic pathologist had called for the help of a veterinarian.

  “The phenotypic changes from the normal human characteristics are remarkable,” observed the pathologist. “The skin is almost absent melanin, similar to albinism. The hair on the scalp and in the pubic region has, however, retained its pigment. The eyes are inhuman.”

  “They’re reptilian,” the veterinarian had added. “Maybe amphibian. Note the upper lid above the conjunctiva and the lower lid. There are also suspensory ligaments that you wouldn’t typically find in a human eye.”

  They’d measured and examined the claws on both the hands and feet, which they determined to be keratin, the same biological material humans use to produce fingernails and toenails. But they were thicker and multilayered.

  The men had spent considerable time measuring the angles of the joints and their distention, but the majority of the exterior examination had been spent on the subject’s lips and teeth.

  “The lips are best described as a sucker,” the pathologist had said. “They’re swollen and rounded. The tongue is also enlarged. The teeth—”