Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

  Variants writhed on the road, their bodies broken and battered. The few still walking ambled confusedly around, searching for new prey that had not yet erupted into a ball of fire.

  Garcia would not give them the opportunity. He signaled his men onward, away from the macabre bonfire, and he slunk away with the Variant Hunters toward Corolla. Kong had given them another chance, and he was not about to dishonor the man by not taking it.

  — 8 —

  Dark pillars of smoke billowed up from the inferno devouring the bus, blotting out the lights of the stars jeweling the obsidian sky. A few Variants called out to reassemble their remaining forces.

  As a member of a Force Recon team, Garcia’s missions were supposed to be silent get-in-and-get-out types. Leave no trace behind. Draw as little attention as possible.

  They had already blown that.

  Engaging with this many hostiles was not what he had intended, and he was afraid this was just a taste of things to come. They had struggled to handle the monsters that had attacked them in the marshland and on the beach, but they had escaped both times. If the Variants here could muster attacks that threatened the stability of Norfolk Naval Station, then Garcia feared the Variant Hunters had barely scratched the surface on the hordes of creatures that must be lying in wait on this island.

  It was precisely those hordes they needed to find.

  The Variant Hunters ducked behind a series of hedges tracing the perimeter of a Corolla house. Garcia checked his locator. The locations of Rollins and Daniels had not changed. Neither had Russian’s WINS device, but Garcia at least had an answer as to why that one had not moved. Now he feared the stories told by Rollins and Daniels’s lack of movement were the same as Russian’s.

  He imagined the Variants attacking them, disarming them, and carrying them away to whatever den they had crawled out of. Cursing inwardly, he clenched his fists as he thought about Rollins rushing away again in a blinding rage, headstrong and determined to save the others.

  Rollins had failed and had probably caused his death, Russian’s, and Daniels’s while doing so. Damn fool.

  But the mission was not over. So long as Garcia could still walk and hold his M4, he intended to finish what Lt. Davis had entrusted him to do.

  “Sarge,” Stevo said, on point. He was peering over another bush and pointing toward something beside a vacation home.

  The house brought back painful memories of Ashley and Leslie. It was in a similar place, just several dozen miles south of here, that Garcia had spent part of his leave with his family in a house with a tiled roof and vibrant stucco walls. Stevo pointed past a column of flamingos and a dilapidated porch. Garcia’s gaze followed the man’s finger to the beach. Another hole in the ground appeared near the base of a palm tree. Its diameter stretched to that of a manhole cover’s.

  And it was not alone. At a neighboring home, two more similarly sized holes breached the ground. Fresh piles of sandy dirt encircled them. Garcia stood slowly and pressed a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes. He did not have a great vantage point given the flat landscape. But even so, he could see several more holes poking up from various lawns. The holes pockmarked a small park with a broken water fountain and fallen trees, and the gravel parking lot of a seafood restaurant had devolved into a cratered mess like a lunar landscape from the underground burrows.

  “Davis will want to hear about this,” Garcia said, scanning the land with his helmet-mounted cam, ensuring the specialists back on the GW got a full view of what they were looking at. He chinned his mic. “Command, Victor Hotel Alpha. Do you read?”

  “Copy, Victor Hotel.”

  “Are you seeing what we’re seeing?”

  “Vid feed is clear,” a specialist’s voice drawled back. “We see those holes all over, too.”

  “Good. Those look to be the Variants’ burrows, judging from their earlier attacks.”

  “Understood. Hold on one second, Victor Hotel. I’ve got an incoming request from the science team. They’ve gotten reports of Variants using the subways in the cities and sewage systems. Can you confirm these burrows lead to somewhere similar?”

  “I can’t confirm anything yet,” Garcia said. “But I’m going to guess that’s a negative. There are no subways on the Outer Banks and definitely no sewage systems under the beach or in the marsh.”

  “That’s what the science boys and girls feared. They’re running around with a hypothesis that the Variants on those islands evolved some kind of capabilities to dig their own tunnels. Might be individual burrows, or you might be facing a widespread network under your feet. They say to be careful out there.”

  “Got anything for us we don’t already know?”

  “One other thing. Lt. Davis wants you to find out where all those tunnels lead, if they do indeed exist. Over.”

  “Copy,” Garcia said. “Victor Hotel out.”

  Stevo looked at Garcia with a slightly worried expression. “We just going to drop in those holes?”

  “That’s what it sounds like,” Thomas said.

  “I don’t like it,” Stevo said. “Whenever I stuck my hands in holes like that as a kid, my fingers would get pinched by whatever crawdad or crab was hiding in ’em. I don’t much like getting pinched by a Variant.”

  “Agreed. Poking about in those holes would be as dangerous as it is stupid right now,” Garcia said. “We’ll snoop around town a bit. See if we can’t find any clue as to where these bastards are really living. Their central hive has to be here somewhere.”

  Tank gave a noncommittal shrug. “Who the hell knows?”

  Stevo appeared more ready to agree. “Kind of like an ant colony. Got the queen’s chamber and the place where she lays all the eggs. Plus, there are separate chambers for food storage and waste.”

  “You an entomologist and you didn’t tell us?” Thomas asked.

  “I like Animal Planet. So sue me.”

  “Let’s just hope we don’t find a queen or any eggs,” Garcia said. “That’s the last thing we need, but I’m guessing a food chamber isn’t so far fetched of an idea.”

  “Think that’s where they took Mulder and the others?” Stevo asked.

  “Could be. If so, we’ll get them the hell out of there,” Garcia said.

  Before he got too far ahead of himself, he needed to figure out where the hell they should start looking. Standing in the backyard of someone’s beach house was not going to help, and wandering through this neighborhood seemed to be a good way to attract Variant attention. He wanted to be somewhere he could survey the landscape and get a better idea of what surrounded them. Maybe they could see a pattern to the burrows, something the drones had missed flying so high above the island on their resource-limited passes around the whole of the Outer Banks.

  At least, now, Garcia felt certain they were narrowing down on where these Variants slept, where they called home between attacks on civilization. If he were a gambling man, he would bet that the central hive—or at least the food stores—were somewhere within the town of Corolla. During the initial outbreak of the Hemorrhage Virus and the results of the VX-99 bioweapon, more Variants and human prey would have been concentrated in the town than on the beaches and parks. It made sense to Garcia that the creatures would start hoarding their food nearby rather than drag it miles to some other random location without good reason.

  Garcia surveyed the town again, looking for higher ground. Somewhere with sweeping views of the town and surrounding beach. Somewhere like the lighthouse standing near the middle of Corolla. The lighthouse where he had proposed to Ashley. Where he had started the life that the Variants had ripped away from him. Fresh anger threatened to upheave his concentration on the task ahead.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the lighthouse. “We go there. See what we can from the lighthouse then make our next move.”

  “You got it, Sarge,” Stevo said, with Tank and Thomas nodding their agreement.

  Stevo pushed through the hedge first and dashed to th
e nearest house. He paused at the corner, scanning the yard and beach before signaling that the coast was clear. Garcia and Thomas came next, with Tank guarding the rear. They moved like this between houses and vehicles, tediously making their way to the part of the town where the lighthouse stood. Tropical trees and neglected flowers wilted in what had once been beautifully manicured lawns and planters along the quaint streets. The smell of rot permeated the air, reminiscent of the odor of Dumpsters behind seafood restaurants that played loose with food-regulation standards. It provided a constant reminder that the Variants were all around them, invisible and lurking underground.

  They approached a store with a sign hanging by a single chain and touting cheap souvenirs. Cages for hermit crabs with brightly painted shells sat in the window. All the crabs had since died off, stuck in their prisons once the humans abandoned them, and beyond their habitats lay a wasteland of towels, T-shirts, and flimsy snorkel masks emblazoned with various beachside images or the words Outer Banks, North Carolina.

  Stevo ducked into the shop and took shelter behind the front counter. He signaled the others to follow. Thomas went first, with Stevo covering his approach. He sprinted across the street. Garcia leaned out from around a parked SUV, ready to lunge across the street, when he heard a distinct clicking echo down the road.

  He curled around the bumper of the SUV and peered through the optics on his M4. He could not yet see the Variant, but he recognized the sound of the monster moving on its spidery, bent appendages. It let out no howl, no cry to let others know it had spotted prey, and for that, Garcia thanked God.

  But he would not feel relief until the creature was either dead or gone. The clicking grew louder as the creature approached. It did not take long for Garcia to spot the Variant moving between vehicles. Its skin stretched over elongated, lean muscles, and its glowing yellow orb-like eyes twitched left and right. The monster’s head cranked as it searched under and around vehicles as if it were probing for something it lost. Tension worked its way through Garcia’s muscles as he held his position. The monster would never find what it was looking for. Garcia would see to that.

  Clicking echoed off the sides of buildings from somewhere behind them. More sounded to the north. The Variants were closing in. Whether the strange creatures were actively scouting for the Variant Hunters or not, Garcia did not want to be here to find out.

  But by now, the nearest Variant, the one ambling along the road, was too close for Garcia to scamper across the street unnoticed. Gunfire, even suppressed, might be too much. He did not need the muffled shots to careen into cars or trees and let the other Variants know where they should be searching.

  Garcia slung his M4 over his back and turned to Tank. “Cover me if things go south. No matter what, we make it to that lighthouse.”

  “Yes, Sarge,” Tank said, clenching his jaw and shouldering his rifle, prepared to take the Variant down should Garcia fail.

  Garcia’s fingers tingled in preparation as he slipped his knife from its sheath. He tensed his muscles, crouching at the bumper of the SUV with one hand on the hood, ready to pounce. His nerves coursed with energy. Like a tiger in the grass, he coiled when the Variant scratched at a nearby car. The monster’s nostrils twitched and flared as it sniffed the street under the vehicle. Its eyes swept the ground.

  Just a few more seconds, and Garcia would dig his knife into the skin under the creature’s chin, his blade biting into vessels and flesh, ending the monster’s putrid existence. He would make the creature pay for the sins of its brethren, for being part of the mob of abominations killing those he loved and those he served beside. Then he and Tank would sprint to Stevo’s position unseen and unheard.

  But the monster had other plans.

  Its hissing growl sounded like a grizzly announcing its presence to a hapless rival. The Variant stood, stretching to its six-and-a-half-foot height. It had twisted around the SUV before Garcia could react. The creature let out a howl then careened toward Garcia.

  So much for a sneak attack.

  Garcia stuffed his knife back into its sheath and flipped his M4 up, immediately sighting the Variant within his optics. A swift squeeze of the trigger sent a flurry of bullets plunging through the Variant’s chest. Bone and scales popped. The monster tumbled forward, sprawling over the asphalt, its claws outstretched.

  It was dead.

  But it had already done enough damage. A storm of clicking and scratching echoed everywhere. The other monsters prowling the streets descended on their position, attracted by the attack cry of the Variant.

  There was no more time for crouching, crawling, and creeping.

  “Go, go, go!” Garcia yelled. He and Tank sprinted to the souvenir store where Stevo and Thomas covered them. His shoulder slammed into a rack, spilling plastic snorkeling fins and inflatable inner tubes. The group charged through aisles of snow globes and picture frames.

  A low growl caused Garcia to spin and face the front of the store. A window shattered, breaking into shards of glass like so many pieces of deadly hail spewing over the Variant Hunters’ bodies. A monster landed on the floor, hunching its back and wielding its claws. The Variant did not even have a chance to set its sight on any of the marines before bullets chewed into its gray flesh. Its body slumped to the floor, bleeding.

  It was soon replaced by two more creatures. The men dispatched them with swift lead justice, and more Variants poured into the broken window.

  “Changing!” Stevo yelled.

  Tank’s SAW barked, chattering with the guttural roar of 5.56mm rounds ripping the air. Garcia did his best to bring down the creatures as he slowly retreated to the back of the store. A wall of Variant corpses clotted the entryway to the shop. The macabre barricade gave way as writhing limbs spiked with talons forced themselves through the mess.

  Then a new sight evoked a fresh wave of adrenaline to surge through Garcia’s vessels. The floor tiles cracked and crumbled underneath a fallen clothes rack. A pincerlike claw pierced the devastated flooring. Tiles and the rack tumbled into a gaping sinkhole. Two Variants crawled out, dragging themselves into the shop.

  “Good God,” Thomas said as he swiveled to aim at the mutants.

  “Back door! Now!” Garcia yelled. Panic threatened to overwhelm his mind, flooding him, and subvert their escape.

  Tank leveled a huge boot at the door and kicked it down with a single blow. It flew off its hinges and clattered onto the broken asphalt of a parking lot. But the exit offered no better escape from the masses of Variants accumulating to make good on the promise of a new hunt. Creatures stampeded over an RV and Volkswagen Beetle sitting in a puddle of oil. The herd swarmed over the vehicles as if they formed a single, fluid organism. Tank sprayed bullets into their numbers, but Garcia knew the four of them stood no chance against the oncoming tide.

  With monsters crashing at the front of the store and avalanching toward the back, Garcia saw only one way out of this mess.

  He did not like it one bit.

  — 9 —

  “You’re shitting me, Sarge!” Thomas yelled over the roar of Tank’s M249.

  “’Fraid not!” Garcia leapt into the sinkhole left by the Variants. His boots hit something hard, almost like concrete. His NVGs gave him a view into the pervasive darkness. A tunnel stretched far in front and behind him. The ground beneath him looked to be constructed of hardened mud. Stevo dropped down next to him, followed by Thomas. The trio leveled their rifles down the tunnels, but no Variants appeared.

  At least, not yet.

  Tank’s light machine gun continued to bark from above.

  “Tank! Now!” Garcia yelled through the mic.

  The huge man jumped in, his boots smacking against the floor. He flung out a hand to brace himself against the tunnel wall. His head swiveled as if he was questioning which direction they planned to travel.

  Garcia knew exactly which way to go. The world above might have erupted into a fang-filled hell, but they still had a mission to fulfill.


  “South! That way!” He pointed in a direction that should take them to the lighthouse.

  His team sprinted ahead, and he lingered for a moment. With his rifle slung, he snatched an incendiary grenade from his TAC vest and tossed it up through the sinkhole. It clattered on the floor of the souvenir shop. Normally, Garcia would not dare close off their only sure way of retreat out of an enclosed space. But the souvenir shop was no longer an option for them. The Variants would force themselves forward, churning after the Variant Hunters in hot pursuit if he did not do something to stop them.

  Waves of heat and red-and-yellow light rushed overhead, quickly igniting the T-shirts and sweatshirts strewn about the shop. The glow of the fire flickered as Garcia hurried after his men. Agonized howls of Variants caught in the fiery blast echoed after them, but Garcia thanked God for every second that it was only their voices and not their clawed feet chasing them through the tunnels.

  They sprinted through the tunnel, the slap of their boots echoing around them. The orange glow flickered, growing more distant. A shriek sounded out, and Garcia twisted to face the sinkhole again. Three Variants plunged into the tunnel. They barreled forward. Flames still danced across their skin and fanned behind them like demonic capes.

  Tank paused beside Garcia, and the two of them sent a wall of lead into the creatures, ending their pursuit. Fire consumed their bodies as other creatures dropped into the hole, riled up by pain and the thrill of the hunt. Again, Tank and Garcia knocked the monsters off their feet with a spray of bullets, but they could not sit here all night, trying to take them out one by one.

  “Let’s go!” Garcia yelled.

  Tank and Garcia dashed after Stevo and Thomas. They caught up in a couple of seconds as more creatures spilled into the tunnels. It was as though the faucet had been turned on, and the monsters dropped faster than they could dispatch them. On they ran. Garcia and his team had trained their bodies to remain in peak physical condition, but the apocalypse had been hard on them. Garcia’s lungs burned, and he felt the stinging buildup of lactic acid in his leg muscles with each loping step. The frantic breaths of the Variant Hunters sounded around him as they carried on.