Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

  Like the roadway they had seen approaching the refuge, burned-out husks of cars and trucks littered the asphalt. The wind tickled remnants of soiled clothing seeping out of torn luggage, and an empty water bottle rolled back and forth as the seaward breeze cut across the wide space. Beyond the beach, the first few roofs of buildings stuck up, marking a place where humanity once lived and thrived. A lighthouse towered above the restaurants, motels, and vacation homes like a morbid beacon inviting ghost ships and nothing more.

  “Anybody see any bodies?” Garcia asked as the Variant Hunters scanned the landscape.

  “Nothing,” Thomas said.

  “Nada,” Tank agreed.

  “Doesn’t seem right,” Stevo said. “Those things leave a wake of destruction wherever they go. But what happened to the people? They didn’t all just escape.”

  “No, I’m afraid they didn’t,” Garcia said as they started over the beach. “Something’s not right, and I think we’re going to find out what it is.”

  The men grunted their agreement as their rifles roved across the barren world they had found themselves in.

  Garcia took his first tentative step on the sand, waiting at any moment for a bloodied claw to shoot up from beneath his feet. He considered the long walk over the beach toward the town with increasing dread. There was a time when walking on the beach would have brought him comfort. The salty air would have swirled around him as he held Ashley’s hand in his. Now, the only thing reaching to grab hold of his limbs would be creatures desperate to sink their fangs into his flesh.

  With a swift hand gesture, he guided his men toward the line of wrecked and rusting vehicles. Thomas took point, slipping between a sedan and SUV. Each step on the cracked but sturdy asphalt gave Garcia a fleeting sense of relief knowing that even burrowing, crablike Variants should not be able to break through the road beneath their boots.

  “Sarge!” Tank whispered trenchantly.

  Garcia whipped his head around. He peered over the beach to where Tank had aimed his SAW. Sand seemed to shift at a specific point as if it was being syphoned into a small whirlpool. It soon stopped, but Garcia watched in horror as another spot started to cave in as a hungry sinkhole formed.

  Then another and another.

  “What in the hell?” Stevo asked no one in particular.

  “Stay low and keep going,” Garcia said. “Tank, watch our flank. Kong, stay vigilant on rear guard. If those things are moving about under there, we’ve got to move on.”

  Onward they snuck between the cars as other sinkholes, no more than a couple of yards wide, gaped on the beach. Garcia’s heart climbed into his throat as he stole the occasional glance at the undulating beach, but he forced himself to continue, reminding himself that their objective was in Corolla—as were Rollins and his team. Gawking at whatever the hell was going on now would not be helpful to any of them, and if the Variants started pouring out of those sinkholes, he did not want to be here when they crawled across the landscape like ants in search of food.

  A few gulls circled overhead. One dove to rummage through the refuse along the road. Garcia hoped the gull’s brazenness was a sign that the sinkholes were nothing to worry about.

  Slowly, they made their way through the vehicles, carefully avoiding the glass shards strewn about from broken windows and busted bottles of food and drink. Garcia checked his locator. One of the blips began pulsing on the LCD screen, signaling that its source was close. It belonged to Russian.

  Garcia silently showed the screen to Tank, and the two of them peered around, searching for the large marine. The signal seemed to be coming from a school bus with its emergency doors and front door cranked open. Several passenger windows had been broken, leaving only shards of glass around their perimeter like the teeth of some laughing monster.

  With a couple of hand gestures, Garcia commanded Thomas, Tank, and Stevo to guard him and Kong. The duo climbed up the steps into the bus slowly. Every creaking step caused Garcia to pause. He tried to control his breathing and listen for the telltale scrapes and scratching of a Variant. Once positioned by the driver’s seat, Garcia looked over the vinyl seats. Several sported long gashes where stuffing spilled out. Dark stains covered the floor, and more emergency food supplies and clothes were strewn over the seats.

  But no bodies.

  He crept forward between the seats. His rifle and Kong’s swiveled back and forth. He did not dare whisper Russian’s name, but he listened intently for sounds of the man’s breathing. Anything to let him know the man was still alive.

  The sound of something scraping against metal caught his attention. Maybe something jostled by the wind cutting through the bus. Kong straightened, acknowledging the noise with a nod. They crept forward. Before they reached the source of the scraping, a shining piece of plastic glinted from the space under a vinyl seat. Garcia dropped to his knees and bent to retrieve the plastic. He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. It was sticky, wet with blood. Rotating the plastic object he had picked up, Garcia recognized the small device. It was one of the WINS devices.

  Russian’s.

  Moonlight reflected on several cylindrical objects at his feet. Bullet casings. Pieces of black fabric from fatigues not unlike those Garcia was wearing were draped over the seat. A holster and handgun, slide locked back as if its magazine had been spent, lay under another seat.

  The scraping sound near the back of the bus grew louder, and Kong started to prowl toward it. A pit formed in Garcia’s stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. He shot up, shouldering his rifle, and swung it to aim at the spot where Kong was headed.

  “No, Kong! Stop!”

  But it was too late.

  A Variant exploded over the seat, its claws outstretched. Reptilian scales covered its body, and its yellow eyes glowed in the darkness. Its legs looked as though they had been borrowed from a Komodo dragon as it clambered toward Kong. The marine managed to fire a couple of quick shots that lanced into the monster’s body, plunging through scales. Squirming, the Variant absorbed the blows and screamed, baring all its curved teeth as it tackled Kong.

  The marine’s rifle flew from his hands, and Garcia sprinted toward him. Marine and monster disappeared behind one of the seats. Only their feet were visible, sticking out into the walkway. Desperation spread through him on the back of wild wrath. He would not let this monster take another Variant Hunter. Garcia lunged over a suitcase and a box filled with canned food. Another muffled gunshot rang out, but Kong did not yell, either in anger or pain. The Variant growled, and Garcia heard the sickening sound of tearing flesh, sending his heart pounding anew.

  He rounded the seat where the Variant and Kong struggled. They intertwined in a tangle of limbs. Blood was smeared across Kong’s face, and Garcia could not tell to whom it belonged. The Variant seemed to have its body wrapped around Kong, almost as if it were more snake than human, crushing Kong’s ribs with its grip. Kong’s mouth gaped like a fish sucking for breath on dry land, and his fingers splayed, quaking slightly. The man’s condition stoked the fires of Garcia’s rage.

  He bashed the Variant’s head with his rifle. The creature turned, growling at him, and whipped one hand laced with daggerlike claws at Garcia’s face. Still, the creature did not lose its grip around Kong. It let out a resonating war cry, spraying saliva over Garcia. Pallor seeped into Kong’s face as the Variant tightened its hold. There was no time to lose. Garcia leveled his gun at the monster and started to squeeze the trigger.

  But the Variant seemed to understand what was about to happen. It rolled, using Kong like a human shield, and Garcia was forced to lower his weapon. His chest heaved as he stared the creature down, anger building in him like a boiler ready to explode. Writhing in the monster’s grip, Kong tried to free himself, but the thin man was no match for the reptilian Variant and its unquenchable hunger.

  “Stay strong, brother!” Garcia barked. He shed his rifle and tore out his knife. The Variant growled, squeezing Kong harder. Kong’s eyeball
s bulged, and Garcia lunged. He dug the blade under the creature’s scales. The knife bit into flesh and muscle, sawing through one of the creature’s arms. Enough sinew tore for Kong to shake himself loose from the monster’s arm. He crumpled at Garcia’s feet, on his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

  Garcia stepped past him and drove the knife down at the Variant again. The creature tried to dodge but had nowhere to go in the bus seat. The blade cut into the beast’s neck, and the Variant’s growling came out intermingled with gurgling. Blood bubbled from its mouth.

  Garcia twisted the knife, drawing more blood. One of the Variant’s flailing arms caught the side of his head, knocking him backward. Pain flooded through his head, and his vision turned red for a moment as snowflakes appeared.

  The Variant towered above him. Long ropes of saliva dripped from its sucker lips and dangled over its scaled chest. It lifted its good arm, ready to strike again. Its tongue danced over its teeth, and it dove at Garcia. He was not going to let this bastard win.

  He kicked a boot up, landing it square in the middle of the creature’s chest. Air hissed from between the Variant’s teeth, and Garcia kicked with his other foot, catching the monster behind one of its ankles. The beast tumbled forward, straight onto Garcia. Garcia’s arm lashed out, but not to catch it. The Variant landed on the blade, and the knife stabbed through its neck. Hot liquid poured over Garcia’s fingers, and the Variant’s muscles spasmed in its death throes. Its clicking joints tremored for the last time.

  Catching his breath, Garcia kicked the beast over and pulled out his knife. He recovered his rifle. Kong still had not moved from where he had crawled from the Variant. Garcia bent toward the marine. Kong twisted his neck and looked at Garcia with a pained expression. Bullets of sweat coursed over his forehead.

  Garcia offered a hand, but Kong refused to take it.

  “Don’t think…don’t think I’m getting up again, Sarge,” Kong said. He clutched his belly with one hand and waved Garcia off with the other. It was covered in blood.

  “You’ll be okay, brother,” Garcia said, already worried the words rang untrue. But what should he say to the man? That he looked as if Death’s skeletal fingers were wrapping their icy grip around his dying heart? “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Kong fought against Garcia’s attempt to help him. Wet liquid glistened across his belly. A painful knot twisted in Garcia’s gut. Kong had been split open from his groin to his sternum. If the man moved his hand, he would lose his innards.

  Pounding footsteps echoed in the bus. Tank’s hulking form sped down the aisle. “Sarge! We got company!”

  “Shit,” Garcia said. “What is it? How many?”

  “Those sinkholes…” Tank’s words lingered in the air as he pointed out the bus’s windows.

  Garcia stood tentatively and peered out a broken window. Beyond the glass shards jutting from the window frame, he saw movement all over the beach. Dark, mutated shapes pushed out of the sand, like nocturnal creatures crawling out of their burrows to embark on their midnight haunts. Dozens upon dozens of them appeared, shaking the sand off their bodies. Their eyes glowed like hot embers as they surveyed the roadway. They studied the vehicles and seemed to be searching for the Variant Hunters.

  “We need to leave,” Garcia said. “Kong, come on. I’m not giving up on you.”

  Kong groaned in pain when Tank tried helping him. “No, Sarge, I’m not going anywhere.”

  A rush of guilt thrashed through Garcia. This man had been on his team for a matter of hours, serving as well as any other man before him. He did not want to see Kong’s name added to the tattooed cross on his arm. Despite all the evidence pointing to Kong’s certain death, a deeper desire burned in Garcia. He could not give up on a fellow marine. He could not bear to be responsible for another death.

  “I’m not letting you do this to yourself,” he said. Chinning his mic, he called out to Thomas and Stevo. “I need you guys in here now.”

  His order was soon met with the clatter of feet on the bus floor as the two Variant Hunters joined the group. Every one of the Variant Hunters he had left was here. A dying man and three other marines who would follow him to the ends of the earth, through the deepest hells the Variants had to offer.

  The howls of the creatures on the beach grew louder and rolled across them like thunder from a summer storm. Their noses pointed up to the breeze, sniffing for signs of life, no doubt attracted by the ferrous scent of blood dousing the bus now. The monsters began filtering between the wrecked boats and refuse littering the beach, headed to the roadway.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Sarge,” Kong repeated. “And you’re not going anywhere if you don’t move soon. I can hear those things. They’re hungry, they’re thirsty for blood. They won’t dig their way back to the burrows they came from without meat.” Kong’s eyelids quivered as his gaze met Garcia’s. A devilish grin broke across the marine’s blood-covered face. “Let me give it to them.”

  Garcia gritted his teeth, pushing all emotions to the back of his mind. He would give his life for his men, and he knew they would return the gesture. This man he barely knew was ready to give his. If he did, Garcia had a duty to fulfill, to carry out this mission and pay full respects to Kong’s impending sacrifice. He owed the marine that much.

  Kong ripped off his dog tags and held them, dangling between his fingers, for Garcia. Garcia took them.

  “I got one request,” Kong said. “Don’t let me go out like a fucking wuss.”

  “You got it,” Garcia said reluctantly, his heart climbing into his throat as the howls outside became louder.

  Kong snatched one of the grenades from his vest and held it out. Garcia nodded, understanding immediately what Kong had in mind.

  “Screw you, Kong,” Tank said as he relinquished two of his M67 grenades to the thin marine. “Never wanted to see a brother go out like this. It’s not right.”

  Kong forced a painful laugh. Blood streamed in rivulets out the corners of his mouth. “I’ll make this worth it.”

  Stevo said nothing as he offered the downed marine another grenade.

  “That’ll do,” Kong said. “Don’t have too many hands. Now, go, get the hell out of here.” He caught Garcia’s eyes. “Honored to serve with you, Sarge. Remember me when you tell stories about your victory here, okay?”

  “I won’t ever forget,” Garcia said. He already felt the itching on his arm where he would add Kong’s name. His heart hung heavy in his chest. The clicking of joints increased in volume. It sounded as though hail pounded around them as the Variants descended on the roadway. They seemed to know the earlier gunfire and brief skirmish had taken place somewhere among the broken and debilitated vehicles, but they did not seem to be focused on the bus yet. He looked at Thomas, Tank, and Stevo. “Out the back, now. Guard it.”

  The trio complied with his orders, jumping out of the emergency exit.

  Kong’s fingers wrapped around Garcia’s wrist. “Never thought it’d end like this, Sarge.” His face seemed to go even paler than Garcia realized possible. “Didn’t want Rollins to be right. Thought I’d live…” He stopped as his face distorted in a wave of pain. Shock and adrenaline were wearing off, leaving him to fend off the full brunt of agony undoubtedly pulsing through his mangled body now. “Didn’t think it’d come to this.”

  His lips quivered, and his right arm twitched, fingering one of the grenades. Garcia had seen this look before. It meant Kong would say nothing more. Could say nothing more. He had minutes to live, if that.

  “Thank you, brother,” Garcia said. “Thank you.” He started to slip toward the rear of the bus, ready to jump out the emergency exit and join the other three.

  Kong watched him warily, his eyelids sagging and his hair matted down, sticking out from under his helmet, soaked in sweat.

  “All it takes is all you got, Marine,” Garcia said. He thought he saw Kong offer a subtle nod before he leapt onto the roadway and ducked behind a nearby sedan where Tank, Tho
mas, and Stevo were hiding.

  They crept between the vehicles, winding toward Corolla, toward the lighthouse, toward their last objective. Variants scuttled over the beach, and their claws tapped on the asphalt and crunched over broken glass.

  A loud, animalistic yell echoed from the bus. Kong. His voice was filled with primal anger, hatred for the Variants, and topped with the agony clutching his body. It was his final call, an invitation to the monsters that were responsible for his death, entreating them to come aboard the bus with the promise of fresh meat. And equally so, it was a cry of anger and rage at the Variants responsible for so many other lost lives, responsible for the impending extinction of the human race. But Garcia imagined the Variants did not hear all of that in his yell, as he did. All they heard was dinner being served. They scuttled over cars and SUVs, jostling and shoving each other as they crammed onto the bus.

  For a moment, Garcia thought that was it. The monsters piled into the bus until it was full of the scaled, pincer-clawed abominations, and dozens were left outside, trying to squeeze into windows or claw their way into the emergency hatch on the roof.

  Had Kong been killed too quickly? Had his final courageous effort gone unrewarded?

  Garcia offered a silent prayer for the marine. He was brave enough to at least draw the creatures away from the other Variant Hunters, blessing them with a chance to live, to finish their mission. Before Garcia could even say an Amen to himself, great plumes of orange and red shot from the bus’s window in a series of explosions. The entire vehicle leapt a foot or so off the ground, and all the remaining windows burst in a spray of deadly shards. Glass pinged off other cars and trucks and pierced Variants like shrapnel. Those beasts caught in the blasts dissipated in the rolling fire and smoke. Their limbs tore from their bodies, and their heads shattered like gore-filled light bulbs. The sound of the detonations echoed over the beach, nearly deafening Garcia. A heat wave followed soon after. Nearby, a car alarm began wailing, at first sounding muddled through Garcia’s ringing hearing.