by Mark Tufo
A three-way intersection appeared, forking off to the left and right. Shrill, bloodcurdling screams pierced Garcia’s eardrums, and he swiveled to the right. A trio of Variants rushed them. One galloped along the bottom of the tunnel as another dug its claws into the side. The third followed the ceiling like an oversized lizard, scuttling toward them with its tongue swatting over its wet lips.
Stevo swung his rifle up and put a bullet through the first creature’s head. The monster slid over the wet dirt floor, skidding to a stop. Thomas sprayed a three-round burst into the monster on the wall, and it stumbled before recovering and continuing its warpath. Tank’s SAW chewed through the monster’s chest, riddling it with 5.56 mm rounds, and Garcia fired at the Variant closing in on the ceiling.
Bullets slammed into the Variant’s arm and knocked it off balance. More rounds plunged into the dirt walls as the Variant deftly leapt to the ground and pounced. Its pincerlike claws grabbed Garcia’s shoulder, biting into flesh. Pain lit up his shoulder in agonizing lightning strikes. He tumbled backward under the weight of the creature. Its maw opened, ready to tear a chunk out of his neck. Right as its teeth snapped together, the Variant was lifted from his body and thrown into the wall. Tank battered the Variant with a debilitating elbow strike to its jaw then delivered a teeth-rattling uppercut to its chin.
More cries echoed from the other two corridors.
Garcia peered behind him to see the tunnel they had come from filled with Variants. The other must have been littered with other sinkholes and intersections, because creatures churned through them like raging rapids, trampling each other as they raced toward the Variant Hunters’ position.
Garcia’s fingers toyed with one of the remaining M67 grenades on his TAC vest. Maybe he could collapse a tunnel—or better yet, the intersection. Stevo’s rifle barked as he took precise, powerful shots. Tank sprayed rounds into the creatures, batting back the oncoming forces. Thomas gave Garcia a sideways glance, waiting for an order. He eyed the grenade Garcia was examining. Such a blast in an enclosed space like this was practically suicide.
But Garcia decided the chance of suicide was better than guaranteed death at the hands of the Variants.
“Fire in the hole!” he boomed over the rattle of gunfire and howls of the Variants. He lobbed the grenade toward the intersection and signaled for his men to resume their flight away from the roiling masses.
A Variant poked its head in from an intersecting path before them, and Garcia ended its life with a trigger pull. A couple of other creatures peered in from other paths that spiderwebbed in front of them, and the Variant Hunters plastered them against the walls with gunfire as they ran.
Then the ground rumbled beneath their feet. A deafening blast overwhelmed them. Garcia’s ears rang before silence enveloped him. Sheets of heat scorched his body, and pebbles and rocks pelted his back. He risked a glance behind them. The ceiling had collapsed. Variants trapped under the rock, sand, and mud stuck their claws out of the debris, trying to shovel themselves out before they suffocated. Garcia’s gamble had paid off.
Then the earth trembled. Dust and rocks shifted from the ceiling, and fissures formed all along the tunnel, cracking above and around Garcia and his men. More sand and rubble fell behind them. Garcia heard the debris clattering to the ground through his muddled senses. His pulse thumped in his ears, and he urged his body onward, relying on every reserve of strength he could muster. The others rushed beside him, sweat and dust covering their faces. Chunks of earth crashed, walloping the floor. Variants crawled out of other intersecting tunnels before them, threatening to cut them off.
The Variant Hunters used elbows, rifle stocks, and gunfire to keep the Variants at bay, demolishing the creatures almost as soon as they appeared. Pure instinct kicked in, fueling their progress. Garcia guided them down another tunnel to escape the collapsing underground networks. Holes above them flickered past, revealing momentary glimpses of a star-studded sky. Creatures leapt in as they passed, attracted to the hellish cacophony.
Garcia wished he could get an idea of where they were now under Corolla, but the tunnels filling in behind them and the Variants crashing into their escape path dashed any hopes of finding a chance to reorient himself.
Stevo juked to his left, narrowly avoiding another snapping creature, and Tank clocked the monster with the stock of his M249, smearing its skull and brains against the wall. Another tried to jump at Tank, its claws outstretched and muscles undulating. Garcia sent three precise shots lancing through the monster, knocking it off its trajectory. Its crippled body tripped two other Variants chasing the group.
A half-dozen other creatures trampled the monsters, narrowing their distance to the Variant Hunters. Howls echoed, warning Garcia of the hordes that had survived the collapse and doggedly pursued the marines. Before them, somewhere in the slew of intersecting tunnels, more calls cried out.
Pain still fired through Garcia’s shoulder. Soon these tunnels would become like catacombs, entombing men and monsters alike. It would not be long before the Variants sank their teeth into Garcia and his men. He could already feel their spittle on the back of his neck, their claws digging through his muscle. Adrenaline surged through his vessels, fighting to keep those nightmares from becoming reality. A claw stretched out, threatening to tear at Tank, and Garcia put a flurry of bullets into the offending creature. The marines’ strength was flagging. Their ammunition would not last forever, and the Variants grew more numerous and hungry by the second.
“Up!” Garcia yelled. It was their only salvation.
Stevo hopped up the first hole they ran under. He made it to the top, his fingers barely gripping the edge as dirt crumbled around him. Once he pulled himself through, he bent back down and helped Thomas. Tank and Garcia covered the duo, knocking down the leading ranks of Variants crawling across the floors, walls, and ceilings. Their corpses crumpled, quickly crushed by the feet and claws of their relentless brethren. Tank gestured to help Garcia next, but Garcia shook his head, refusing and making the big man go first.
Thomas and Stevo were forced to work together to hoist the heavy man out of the hellish lair and into the night air. Garcia leapt up next as the first Variant closed in, its claws just missing his ankle. He scrambled up the side of the hole, his hands fighting for purchase, digging into the earth as he clawed himself out.
Sharp pain radiated up his leg, and he turned to see one of the monsters with its pincers around his calf. He kicked at the monster with his free leg as other creatures leapt, jostling with each other for position. A heavy blow in the face did nothing to perturb the Variant with a death grip on Garcia.
“Come on, you ugly bastard!” Garcia boomed.
Hands wrapped around his wrists. Tank grunted as he fought against the Variant’s weight, desperate to pull Garcia from the tunnel. Another Variant climbed the one holding onto Garcia, followed by a second. As strong as Tank was, he could not lift Garcia and three Variants.
Garcia slipped one hand from Tank’s, gritting his teeth, and reached for his holster. Tank’s fingers started to lose their hold, and Garcia slid six more inches into the hole, dangerously close to the Variants fighting with each other to get at him. Another began climbing up the sidewall.
Garcia’s fingers found what they were looking for, and he pulled out his M9 Beretta. The pistol barked in quick succession. Bullets could not miss in such short range, cutting through bone and flesh. The pincers around Garcia’s legs let go, and he flew up, aided by Tank. The night air welcomed him into its warmth, and he tumbled over soft grass jutting through sandy soil.
“Fire in the hole!” Thomas yelled, dropping a grenade into the hole.
A blast soon sounded afterward. Bits of Variants flew out like a geyser. Chunks of flesh and blood and dirt rained around them. Garcia quickly took stock of their surroundings. They were in the middle of Corolla, in the lawn near the tourist center. A few feet away lay a road packed with vehicles. Garcia’s eyes locked onto a twelve-foot-long mov
ing truck, and he sprinted to the vehicle. After bashing in the window, he reached in and unlocked the door then hopped into the driver’s seat. He did not expect the engine to start, but he twisted the keys dangling in the ignition anyway. The starter clicked uselessly, so he put the truck into neutral. Tank and Stevo seemed to understand Garcia’s plans without a word. They had served long enough beside him to create a sort of instinctual, nonverbal communication within the group.
And their work together paid off in dividends.
The duo threw their backs into the rear of the truck. They shoved it forward until momentum carried the heavy vehicle. It thumped over the curb and rolled straight to the sinkhole, still surrounded by chunks of Variant appendages and broken bones. A Variant emerged from the hole, its plated torso singed and bleeding. Garcia leapt out of the truck and tumbled onto the ground. The vehicle crashed into the hole, teetering over the edge, and smashed the Variant. While it could not fit down the burrow, it clogged the entrance enough to satisfy Garcia. The scratch of frustrated claws against metal rang out from the undercarriage of the vehicle. Garcia’s maneuver had bought them some time, but he had no idea how much and did not want to stick around to find out.
After wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, he pointed toward the lighthouse once more. They seemed to have made it about a half mile closer, with only another half mile or so to go. That half mile had been hard fought, and Garcia feared what that foretold for the rest of their undoubtedly tumultuous journey.
Thomas patted his back, his white teeth shining out through the grit and dirt covering his face. “All it takes is all you got. And you got a hell of a lot, Sarge.”
“Let’s hope we have more of it,” Garcia said, guiding them past the tourist center and around a burned-out ice cream stand. They crouched for a moment by the melted plastic and scorched wood, taking sips of water as they took turns covering the group’s momentary reprieve.
That reprieve seemed as if it would be short lived. Variant calls echoed around the island like the howls of wolves announcing an impending hunt. Garcia had heard the same sounds too many times to count tonight, but they never failed to send a wave of shivers through his flesh.
He looked at each of his men. The three that remained from the ten he had started with. “Time to move.”
— 10 —
The lighthouse loomed against the night sky. It beckoned to Garcia as Stevo led the marines to a restaurant with a wooden sign hanging by one chain, announcing Robby’s Crab Shack. They snuck into the Crab Shack, and the odor of seafood left to bake in the heat hit them with an almost palpable force. As they crept over soiled napkins and tablecloths and past overturned tables and broken chairs, Garcia felt the tug of the lighthouse. It was almost as if he had left a piece of his soul there and someone from above was telling him to return to it, to retrieve it from this wasteland.
Hell, he was certain he had left a piece of himself there. His memories of embracing Ashley up there, of holding her close to his chest, feeling her celebratory tears drip onto his shoulder, were almost too much, threatening to distract him from the mission at hand. The Variants’ unyielding cries made sure his mind did not stray too far. His face grew hot with his anger, and his fingers clenched tightly around his M4. If he could just kill every one of those goddamned creatures…
His team crept through the kitchen. Water pinged as it dripped from the ceiling and landed on metal pots and pans. A layer of brown liquid covered the tile floor, and claw marks cast long gouges in the metal door of the walk-in cooler. The door was stuck open. A wooden crate prevented it from shutting. The smells wafting out of the room evoked colorful images of what the steel and stain-covered glass hid. None of them inspired Garcia to investigate.
Scratching claws and clicking joints sounded somewhere toward the front of the restaurant. Garcia signaled the others to duck, and they crouched behind the stainless-steel appliances and counters. The scuffling continued onward, growing quieter. The Variants had not spotted them yet.
Once the clicking and scraping quieted, Garcia motioned to the marines again. They squeezed through a door in the kitchen leading to a fenced-in area with a Dumpster. Dark stains marred the gray concrete, and overhead palm trees cast derisive silhouettes against the starry sky, almost mocking them, reminding the Variant Hunters that this once had been paradise.
But no more.
Spent bullet casings rolled underfoot. Garcia bent to examine one, thinking it might be a sign of Rollins or Russian or Daniels. But the golden case was encrusted in mud and much too small to be from their M4s. He examined the etchings along the case. He did not need to read them to know these casings had come from a .22.
He doubted such a weapon would be powerful enough to puncture the armor-encased bodies of the crablike Variants they had seen roaming this island. Hell, even if it were a fleshier Variant, a .22 would be like throwing sewing needles at a charging rhino. Likely whoever had made their last stand here had perished under the slicing claws and pointed teeth of the monsters.
Garcia scanned the fenced-in enclosure, even peeking into the Dumpster. He found no sign of a body other than the bloodstains in the concrete. Had the person actually escaped whatever slaughter had taken place here?
He seriously doubted it. More likely, the Variants had done something with the body, bones and all. Everywhere they had been on the Outer Banks, there had been a severe lack of human remains. Except for the SEAL team, there had been no signs actual humans had traipsed on these grounds.
What in God’s name was happening here?
Garcia feared Davis had unwittingly landed them in a winding rabbit’s hole of a mission that would ultimately yield more questions than answers. His men seemed to sense their leader’s burgeoning worry, eyeing him furtively as they snuck through a tall patch of grass toward another ramshackle motel. Though they could not see it, Garcia knew from memory that beyond the motel lay the museum leading to the lighthouse.
He prayed the lighthouse would offer some answers or at least allow them a vantage point to tell them something, anything to help them forge a path forward. After losing the rest of the Variant Hunters, he could not imagine simply abandoning the mission and ignoring their sacrifice. As he waited for Stevo to give them the all clear, his tattooed skin under the gauze itched.
“No contacts,” Stevo whispered over the mic. Thomas flew across the street, followed by Garcia. Tank continued on rear guard, ensuring no Variants stalked them. They made their way around the motel, passing rooms with doors hanging open. Many had simply fallen forward, lying useless on the wooden walkways as if the whole building were some giant discarded Advent calendar.
Garcia imagined what it would have been like when this motel still shone with its bright lime-green and yellow paint. In his mind’s eye, he saw Leslie, no longer an infant, but a girl of six or seven, long dark hair and olive skin like his, running out of one of those rooms and leaping into his outstretched hands. He would envelop her in a hug as she wrapped her thin arms around his neck and Ashley joined them, folding chairs and towels in tow, ready for a day of digging their toes into the wet sand and building sandcastles, searching for sea stars and jumping into the gentle, breaking waves. That day would only ever exist in his dreams. He touched the place on his helmet where, inside, the photograph of his daughter and wife was taped. Fresh rage flowed through him again. The Variants would pay. He would see to that.
Violent light flashed suddenly over the Variant Hunters. The landscape lit up as if the heavens had parted, as if God Himself was sending Garcia a message. Darkness soon returned, followed by the rumbling bellow of thunder. The storm churned off the coast, ready to devour the island just as the Variants had, bringing more darkness, more destruction.
Maybe that was His message. That this was all hopeless. That Garcia would not have a chance to see those he loved again. Not here. Not in Heaven. Not ever.
“Sarge?” Thomas whispered quietly, peeking over the hood of a sedan in their pat
h.
Garcia shook himself back to reality, back to one-hundred-percent focus, and stared over the pavement with Thomas.
“Good God,” Stevo muttered.
Tank said nothing, watching their backs, sweeping his M249 back and forth. Garcia tended to agree with Stevo. “Good God.”
A Variant dragged something behind it. It looked to Garcia like a huge garbage bag stuffed with a damned wooden barrel. It was not until he saw the broken legs and hooves that he realized it was one of the horses.
“Guess that explains what happened to the refuge,” Stevo said.
Tank merely huffed.
“Poor animals,” Garcia said, spotting another couple of Variants lugging a horse carcass. The corpse left a wet trail behind it as the monsters pulled it over a parking lot toward the museum at the lighthouse’s base. From other directions, Variants scuttled across the landscape, pulling other things. A few looked like human shapes, and Garcia’s heart skipped a beat. He wondered if he was seeing Rollins and company again for the first time.
Rain began pattering on the broad leaves of a palm tree. Drops soaked into the Variant Hunters’ fatigues, and rainwater started to wash the trails of blood and flesh the Variants’ prey left behind. Some of the Variants vanished into holes along the ground, tugging their loads beneath the earth. As Variants crawled underground and disappeared with their war spoils, more filtered out of other burrows, presumably setting out on some other mission.
“Maybe this is it, Sarge,” Thomas said.
Garcia nodded, chinning his mic. “Command, Victor Hotel. Think we may have found one of the Variant strongholds on the island.”
