The 6th Extinction

by James Rollins

  “Company’s coming,” Kowalski intoned grimly.

  Gray swung around to see headlights racing along the river toward them. It was the CAAT that had ambushed them, likely coming to make sure they were all dead.

  Gray pointed to the opposite bank, in the direction of the Back Door. “Jason, you get Stella and her father up into that substation, blow those bunker busters, and seal this place up tightly. Kowalski and I’ll deal with the others.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Jason asked.

  “They ambushed us . . . only polite for us to return the favor. With luck, we’ll commandeer their vehicle.”

  Jason eyed him, his brows pinched. “You’re planning on going after Wright, aren’t you?”

  “If something goes wrong with those bunker busters, we can’t let that bastard use that LRAD to cause a stampede, to flush this cavern system out into the world.”

  Jason nodded and headed toward the supports near the front of the cruiser. Gray moved out with Kowalski toward the tangle of steel and wooden trestles at the back end.

  Kowalski glanced back at the other three. “Since when is splitting up ever a good idea?”

  5:07 P.M.

  Free of the bridge, Jason slogged with Stella and Harrington toward the substation high up the back wall. They had only the one DSR between the three of them. Stella lost her weapon during the crash. Still, after so long in the dark, the single IR illuminator cast enough light to let them see with their night-vision gear.

  Like hiking under a full moon.

  Jason studied his goal ahead. The Back Door was a collection of boxy workstations jammed into a high crack. A few units spilled out and were stuck to the wall, like toy blocks glued to the side of a building.

  “How do we get up there?” Jason asked.

  From the cables running along the roof, the aerial gondola must be the normal way of reaching that steel penthouse in the sky.

  Stella marched with her father, holding his hand. Both of them were bruised, battered, and bloodied, but they forged on through the knee-high tufts of moss and boot-sucking expanses of thick algal mats.

  Stella pointed her free arm toward the substation. “There’s a ladder. Steel rungs pounded into the wall that climbed from the cavern floor to the station.”

  They had crossed only thirty yards when a loud grinding crash drew Jason’s attention over his shoulder. The war between the river’s current and the jammed cruiser ended. Byrd’s old machine tore free of the bridge and rolled into the depths.

  Farther out, a flare of bright lights closed toward the far end of the bridge. Jason prayed Gray’s ambush was successful. Otherwise, the CAAT could probably ford that river atop its floating treads and quickly run them down.

  Knowing that, Jason urged the others faster.

  “On the left,” Stella warned.

  Jason swung his rifle, casting his IR beam in that direction. Dark shapes came loping across the plain toward them, looking like a pack of wolves, each about the same size as a large dog.

  He counted at least a dozen.

  “What are they?” Jason asked.

  Harrington answered. “Trouble.”

  5:09 P.M.

  Gray lay on his stomach in pitch-darkness, an unnerving experience considering the harsh life found in this hellish landscape. A few yards off, Kowalski breathed heavily, plainly not any happier.

  After climbing the trestles to the bridge, Gray had insisted they go dark, clicking off his IR illuminator. He didn’t want to alert the approaching CAAT of their presence on this side of the river. The two of them crawled blindly on their hands and knees until they found a cluster of rocks twenty yards from the bridge, then went into hiding. They also coated their bodies with algal muck to reduce their body heat signatures.

  In the darkness, creatures skittered across his skin or buzzed around his face, likely drawn by the smell of his sweat and the blood dripping from his scalp. Some bit; others stung. He did his best to swipe them away.

  Luckily they didn’t have long to wait.

  The CAAT came blazing forward, brightly enough that Gray shifted his night-vision goggles off his eyes.

  The treads tore across the terrain, skidding slightly as the vehicle made a sharp turn at the bridge, stopping at the river’s edge.

  After a moment, the cabin door on the passenger side popped open. A figure climbed out and rolled expertly over the treads, dropping lightly to the ground. He lifted a set of night-vision goggles and stared down at the river, then across to the other side.

  “Got three targets!” the man shouted in a British accent. “On the move . . . headed toward the Back Door.”

  The driver swore. “Bloody bastards got nine lives.”

  The commando outside studied the river. “Sir, the current looks too treacherous to risk the CAAT. Could pull us under.”

  “Understood.” The driver sounded like the squad leader, his words flavored with a distinct Scottish brogue. He called to another teammate. “Cooper, grab the AWM. Clean this mess up.”

  Gray tensed. AWM likely stood for Arctic Warfare Magnum, a cold-weather version of a common British sniper rifle. They were planning on picking the others off.

  Gray waited until a second man exited the same door. Once on the ground, the commando slapped a box magazine into his rifle and lifted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusting the sight.

  “No worries, sir,” he announced. “They’re all out in the open. Easy shots all around.”

  Same here.

  “Now,” Gray whispered, leaping forward.

  Kowalski fired from his right side. His machine gun chattered and rounds ripped through the sniper’s chest. Even before his body fell, Kowalski swung his gun and took out the commando at the bridge, blasting him into the river.

  Gray sprinted to the CAAT and lunged at the open door. He fired his DSR point-blank into the confined space of the vehicle’s cabin, a deafening barrage of sonic bullets.

  As cries erupted inside, he rolled into the interior.

  Before Gray could stop him, the driver bailed out the far side, plainly dazed, but with enough wits about him to expect such a follow-up attack. Another wasn’t so quick. Gray planted a dagger through the man’s throat and twisted. As he yanked the blade free, the man choked, clawing at his neck, then collapsed.

  Gray searched the remainder of the cabin.

  Empty.

  So only the four.

  Through the windshield, he saw the squad leader sprinting along the riverbank, smartly keeping the CAAT’s bulk between him and where Kowalski was firing. While running, the commando struggled to free a radio.

  If he reached his superior, alerted him of the attack, any hope of using the CAAT as a Trojan horse to get close to Wright would be gone.

  Gray jumped out the driver’s door and lifted his rifle, but he knew the distance was too great to do much good. Likewise, Kowalski came charging around the back of the CAAT, machine gun in his arms, dragging a belt of rounds.

  The squad leader already had the radio to his lips.

  Too late.

  Then something dark snapped out of the river, wrapped around the man’s waist, and yanked him off the bank. He vanished into the water with a thrashing splash.

  Gray had recognized that pincer-lined tentacle. The gunfire—both sonic and regular—must have drawn the beast to the shoreline here. Apparently giving that monster a hot foot earlier had not only shocked it but also pissed it off.

  Even in Hell, revenge is sweet.

  5:11 P.M.

  Jason ran alongside Stella and her father. He had heard the firefight break out across the river, but he dared not take his focus off the closing pack of predators in order to check on Gray and Kowalski.

  With the DSR locked to his shoulder, he shielded Stella and her father. He took potshots at the beasts, but the sonic rounds only seemed to scatter the pack temporarily, buying them an extra few seconds. Worst of all, the power meter on the side of his rifle had flickered into the red
as he fired repeatedly.

  Almost out of juice.

  “I’ll lead them off,” Jason gasped, his boots heavy with mud and algae. “You two make for the Back Door.”

  He slowed, waving them toward the far wall.

  “Go, father.” Stella pushed the professor forward, while slipping out a knife from her belt. “I’ll help Jason.”

  “We stay together,” Harrington said, stopping with them, breathing heavily. “Leox depilis are like their African lion counterparts. They try to split off the weak. And besides, I don’t think I could run the rest of the way. We’ll make our stand here.”

  Jason fired another shot, hitting the lead Leox, which reacted as if struck in the snout with a baseball bat. The others jerked to the left and right, slowing until their assaulted pack member could recover his senses.

  Must be the leader.

  By now, Jason had gotten a good look at them. Their muscular shoulders stood waist-high, their hairless skin oiled in black, almost iridescent under the IR beam’s glow. Their heads were wolfishly long, with jaws hinged near the back of their skulls, allowing them to open their dagger-lined maws disturbingly wide, reminding him of photos of the now-extinct thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger.

  A hair-raising howl burst from the throat of the pack leader, plainly a challenge. Apparently, in this dark world, the louder you shouted, the bigger your balls.

  The pack closed ranks to either side, stalking more cautiously forward now, preparing to close the last of the distance.

  Jason lifted his rifle, which slowed the leader.

  Smart . . . he recognizes the threat.

  Jason’s only hope was that at closer range the sonic weapon would do more harm, encourage the pack to go after easier prey. A glance to his rifle’s power meter suggested he had only one shot left, so he had better make it count, which meant letting the pack get as close as possible before firing.

  He fixed his aim upon the pack leader, knowing that was his true adversary.

  Stella shifted to his side, ready to defend her father.

  “Give me the gun,” she whispered.

  Jason hesitated.

  “I have an idea,” she pressed.

  He relented and passed her his rifle, taking her dagger in trade. “I think we only have a single pulse left.”

  “Then let’s hope I’m right about the dominance patterns of this species.”

  She extracted what looked like a small microphone from where the rifle’s stock joined the gun. Jason suddenly remembered Harrington’s prior instructions about the DSR: how it could not only fire a sonic bullet, but it could also be used to amplify voices like a megaphone, or in reverse mode, to eavesdrop from a distance.

  Stella settled the butt of the rifle to her shoulder, bringing the microphone to her lips. Instead of pointing the muzzle toward the pack as it silently stalked toward them, she lifted the gun toward the roof.

  And howled.

  It was a fair mimic of the pack leader’s cry, only magnified a hundredfold as she pulled the trigger, pulsing that scream of challenge up to the rooftop.

  The blast echoed across the cavern.

  The savage wail stopped the leader in his tracks, driving the beast into a wary crouch. It was plainly intimidated by the volume of that echoing scream.

  Jason recalled his own thought from a moment ago.

  In this dark world, the louder you shout, the bigger your balls.

  The leader pushed away from them, one step, then another, never turning his back. The pack followed his example, shifting and darting to either side nervously, all the while slowly retreating.

  Then upon some unknown signal, the pack turned and fled back into the darkness, yipping as they ran, ready to pursue less noisy prey.

  Jason stared over at Stella. “You’re amazing.”

  She shrugged and returned his rifle, now out of charge. Still, she tried to hide a smile of pride as she turned away. They continued on toward the far wall. At least there was enough trickling juice to keep the IR illuminator lit, but for how much longer?

  He set a hard pace and crossed the last hundred yards in a matter of minutes. Far overhead, the substation shone dimly, lit by a couple of standby emergency lights.

  Closer at hand, Jason stared at the steel rungs bolted into the wall. They formed a ladder that climbed the dozen or so stories to reach the Back Door.

  It would be a tough haul.

  Stella pointed out into the cavern. “Over there!”

  Jason tensed, swinging around, expecting another attack. But she was pointing to a pool of light on the far side of the river. It was the CAAT. As they watched, it began to roll along the waterway, heading off.

  Jason held his breath, then a distant triple beep of a horn sounded.

  It was the prearranged signal.

  Gray and Kowalski were okay. They had successfully commandeered the enemy’s CAAT, ready to pursue Dylan Wright.

  Must’ve held off departing until our own lights reached the back wall.

  Jason didn’t know if the others could see him, but he lifted his arm.

  Good luck.

  In retrospect, he should’ve saved some of that luck for himself.

  As he lowered his arm, the IR illuminator flickered and died, plunging them into darkness.

  27

  April 30, 1:22 P.M. AMT

  Roraima, Brazil

  What have I done?

  Kendall sat at a workstation in the main lab. He had no choice but to stare at a large LCD monitor. It displayed live video feed from a tree-mounted camera. From the stark shades of grays, it must be recording through a low-light sensor. The view revealed a thick forest, draped in vines, shaded by a dense canopy. The lens pointed down into a clearing lined by gravel.

  A series of three tall cages stood in the middle of the glade. Hazard signs warned the pens were electrified, like the fences between the tiers of Cutter’s macabre garden.

  This must be the lowest level.

  Kendall remembered catching a glimpse of that isolated piece of rain forest. But what else was down there?

  On the screen, he watched Jenna being manhandled into the centermost cage. From the way she hugged her arms around her chest, keeping clear of the bars, she must know about the danger.

  Rahei slammed the pen closed.

  “Our Ms. Beck should be feeling the first signs of infection,” Cutter said, pacing behind him, shadowed by Mateo in the background. “Headaches, maybe neck pain.”

  “Please don’t do this,” Kendall said.

  On the screen, Rahei retreated with the two other men. The pair kept a close watch on the jungle, guarding with electrified cattle prods and rifles. They all quickly piled back into the cart, swung the vehicle around the clearing, then headed out the way they’d come in.

  “Why did you take her down there?” Kendall asked, glancing back at Cutter. “Why leave her alone?”

  “Oh, she’s not alone.”

  Proving this, something massive moved past the camera, too fast to catch more than the briefest glimpse of huge hooked claws and a shaggy coat. Still, Kendall recognized the species, falling back into his seat in horror.

  “You didn’t . . .” he moaned.

  Cutter shrugged. “It was an early experiment, taking a page from your preservationist playbook. De-extinction was the word you used in that paper, as I recall. It was a simple matter of using the MAGE and CAGE techniques to take a species already found in this rain forest, alter its genetic code, and resurrect its ancient ancestor.”

  Kendall knew it was theoretically possible, that labs around the world sought to accomplish this very goal, and would likely succeed in the next few years. Already multiple facilities searched for ways to resurrect the woolly mammoth from elephant DNA, another sought to revive extinct passenger pigeons from its common relative, yet another worked to pull the long-deceased wild aurochs from the genetic heritage of present-day cattle. These ventures went by many names: Revive & Restore, the Uruz Project, even on
e appropriately called the Lazarus Project, which sought to de-extinct an Australian frog that gave birth through its mouth.

  But what Cutter accomplished here . . .

  “You can’t leave her down there,” he insisted.

  “She’s safe enough for now, behind those electrified bars. We’ll give her another half hour, when the infection reduces her to something simpler. Then you’ll get a glimpse of what this new world will be like for humankind, when our species is stripped of its cancerous intelligence.”

  Kendall felt tears threaten, knowing this monster would force him to watch what happened to Jenna.

  “But you can stop all of this,” Cutter insisted. “Just tell me the name of the XNA species that holds the genetic key to unlocking your armored viral shell. One name . . . and this all ends. I will take matters over from there.”

  If Cutter ever got hold of this last critical piece of information, Kendall knew he could figure out the rest of his biological puzzle.

  “Do not take long.” Cutter waved to the screen. “There is a counteragent to what plagues Ms. Beck, but it must be administered within the hour or the neurological effects will be permanent.”

  “There’s a cure?” Kendall swallowed.

  “Indeed.” He glanced toward the large refrigerator at the back of the BSL4 lab. “A protein that’s a mirror image of what I engineered. It’s capable of repairing the neuronal damage wrought by my prion, but like I said, there is a time limit. A point of no return for Ms. Beck.”

  Kendall had a larger worry beyond the young park ranger. “And if I give you that name, you’ll tell me how to stop what’s spreading in California.”

  Cutter rubbed his chin, plainly feigning concentration. “I am a man of my word. That was my original offer. But that was before Ms. Beck arrived.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you choose. I can either teach you how to eradicate the horror unleashed from your lab . . . or I can save Ms. Beck. But not both.”

  Kendall stared at the screen, knowing he would have to tell Cutter the truth eventually. With time, the bastard would get the information out of him anyway.

  He turned to Cutter, his voice low with defeat. “You’ll need the blood from one of the Antarctic species.”