Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

  Frustrated clanging sounded from the other side. Scraping and scratching against the metal rang out. Muffled roars drifted from under the small gap between floor and hatch.

  They had made it, and as long as that door held, they might actually survive.

  “Garcia!” Beth yelled. She pointed over the side of the lighthouse. Garcia ran to her. He looked to where her index finger indicated. All along the base of the lighthouse, reptilian Variants sank their claws into the mortar between bricks. They forced themselves up the side of the tower, slinking up like so many determined spiders. The door to the platform might keep the Variants trapped inside the lighthouse.

  But from those on the outside, the Variant Hunters and civilians had no such protection.

  — 14 —

  Garcia handed Beth’s baby back to her. The woman held her infant closer to her chest, and she shrank into the others, screaming and crying. Garcia would not let these people die up here. Not after he and the Variant Hunters had promised them salvation. Not after their terrifying flight out of that hive.

  Shouldering his rifle, Garcia aimed at the climbing monsters. He picked them off, one by one. The others joined him, emptying their magazines into the clamoring ranks at the base of the lighthouse. Rain pelted them in torrents. Lightning crackled. It illuminated a swarm of Variants pushing past the downpour of lead and water. Another rumbling blast of thunder rocked the lighthouse.

  Please, God.

  The rumble faded, and another noise pierced the night. This one did not belong to the frightened civilians, the determined Variant Hunters, or even the ferocious creatures themselves. This familiar sound inspired an emotion Garcia had almost forgotten during his time on the Outer Banks. Hope.

  The heavy thwack of helicopter blades fanned the dying flame of confidence in Garcia’s mind. He saw spotlights shine from the choppers. The lights swept over the lighthouse, casting their intense glow over the monsters. Then another sound, even sweeter than the beating rotors, sounded out. The heavy bark of M240s. Tracer rounds cut through the sky from the choppers like sprinting fireflies. Bullets pierced Variant shells and plates. The machine-gun fire brought death to the creatures’ numbers. The Variants fell from the lighthouse as if the tower were a snake shedding its dead skin.

  A Seahawk hovered above the tower. It swayed slightly while the pilot fought to control the craft against the stormy winds buffeting it. A ladder unrolled from an open side door, and a fabric rescue basket dropped from the other.

  “Victor Hotel, this is Delta One,” a voice sounded in Garcia’s earpiece. “We don’t have time to do this safely, so let’s do this fast. Those who can, climb the ladders. Those who can’t, take the baskets.”

  “Understood,” Garcia yelled into his mic. A navy combat search-and-rescue sailor from the chopper slid down the ladder. The CSAR sailor fixed harnesses onto the first round of civilians, showing them how to hook their carabiners to the ladder to secure themselves in case they slipped. He led the first civilian group up. Tank and Stevo loaded a woman with a broken leg into the rescue basket. The winch whined, and it started upward.

  They repeated the process. Variant Hunters guarded the rails and picked off Variants that the side-door gunners missed. After the second load of civilians, the chopper pulled back, making room for a new Seahawk. Another ladder reached to the platform. More lights swarmed over it, and civilians began the arduous climb up to safety.

  A third Seahawk followed. Thunder rolled over them again, and the chopper swayed. Several of the civilians on the ladder screamed. One lost his grip, falling four feet until the safety harness caught him. He yelped, swung, snatched a rung, then returned to climbing.

  When a fourth Seahawk emerged from the darkness, Garcia thought they finally had a chance at ensuring all the civilians made it. He spotted Beth across the platform.

  He ran to her, heat flaring in his cheeks. “Why weren’t you on the first chopper?”

  “My baby is, but I couldn’t climb. I was scared. I couldn’t do it.” Tears streaked down her face, mixing with streams of raindrops.

  “Delta One, I have an injured woman down here. Her baby’s on the first Seahawk. Why isn’t she there?” Garcia asked, his voice quaking in anger.

  “Rescue team reported a few civilians too frightened to take the baskets or ladders. Didn’t have time to fight ’em.”

  Garcia looked at the remaining civilians. He did not have time to play psychologist and comfort these people’s irrational thoughts. “This is your last chance. I need you to listen to me. Now! If you do not climb, if you do not let my men help you into these baskets, you will die.”

  “But the choppers!” a rotund man wailed. He did not look as if he could handle the physical exertion of climbing a ladder like this, even on the best of days. “Look at the winds. I’ll fall!”

  “Falling is a better goddamned fate than being torn apart by those beasts!” Rollins countered, somewhat unhelpfully.

  The man shivered, rain pushing the remnants of a comb-over across his forehead.

  “What he’s saying is you don’t have a choice,” Stevo said, buckling a harness on the man and prodding him to the ladder. A CSAR sailor reached for the man and yanked his arm up. Reluctantly, the man followed. The last couple of frightened survivors finally began their ascent.

  “Morgan, Daniels, Tank, Stevo, and Thomas, get your asses up there with them. Rollins and I will cover you,” Garcia said. They were close. So damn close to being back on the ship.

  Rollins offered a curt nod, swinging his rifle over the rail of the platform. He shot a Variant who had avoided the strafing fire of the choppers.

  Only one survivor remained on the platform with Rollins and Garcia. Beth. She wrapped her arms around herself. With her twisted ankle, it would be difficult for her to climb the ladder. Garcia helped lower her into the rescue basket. The winch started, beginning to whisk her away.

  A low howl sounded, chilling Garcia to his bones. The chopper shuddered when a strong wind slammed into its side. The ladder swayed and tossed the civilians about. The large man who had protested before fell. His voice echoed over the pounding rain and growling Variants. His harness started to slip, and Garcia feared his worries would soon be proved correct. One of the CSAR sailors leaped down a rung and guided the man back to the ladder.

  But while the man survived, the rescue basket swung perilously close to the railing. Protruding bolts snagged the fabric and tore the basket.

  Garcia sprinted toward it. “Beth!”

  He grasped the basket. The tear ripped down the side, and Beth started slipping out. Garcia grabbed her wrist, holding her as the basket whipped away, flapping in the wind. Every muscle in his arms seemed on fire. Rain dripped over his forearm and between his fingers, threatening to loosen his grip on Beth. He clenched his jaw and pulled her up with a heave. She toppled into him as they rolled back onto the platform.

  More lightning and thunder belched out of the night sky. More Variants clawed at the tower. Metal rang out loudly, and a loud snapping sound echoed from the hatch.

  The metal bar Rollins had placed to lock the door had bent enough to break. Claws squeezed between the hatch and lip of the platform. Variant eyes peered through the cracks, and their voices roared louder, incensed by the sight of prey. The locking mechanism failed on the hatch and broke, flinging a metal bolt that pinged over the deck and tumbled off the side.

  “Go! Now!” Rollins yelled, throwing himself atop the hatch. He pushed down the hatch and batted at the claws reaching for him through the cracks around it.

  Garcia rushed to help Rollins, but the marine waved him off.

  “You need to go now! They’ll get through soon!”

  “I’m not leaving—”

  “Don’t be a fool!” Rollins said. “Save the woman!”

  Beth cowered at the edge of the platform, her eyes entranced by the hatch as it bucked when the Variants threw themselves against it.

  The tattoo on Garcia’s forearm burne
d. The white gauze around it had bled through. A CSAR sailor dangled at the end of the ladder. The other civilians had already made it up. The sailor reached out with a harness, and Garcia secured it around Beth. He helped Beth onto the ladder and clipped her first carabiner in place.

  “You’ll be okay!” Garcia said. “Just climb!”

  She nodded. Her bottom lip quivered.

  “Your daughter’s waiting,” he said. “She needs her mother.”

  With a new fire raging behind her eyes, she turned and started the ascent. The operator handed another harness to Garcia, and he strapped it to himself then slung his M4 over his back. His fingers grasped the first rung. His boots almost slipped when he stepped up, climbing toward the hovering chopper as it swayed in the wind. He stole a glance at Rollins. The marine had his legs propped against the short wall under the light panes, giving himself much-needed leverage to hold back the Variants. Above Garcia, Beth reached into the fuselage of the chopper.

  Made it, Garcia thought, thanking God for her safety.

  A loud pop sounded from the lighthouse. The hatch burst open, and Rollins was flung forward.

  “Rollins!” Garcia yelled. He stretched a hand out, willing the marine to stand back up, to run and jump for the ladder. He could still make it. He could still survive.

  Rollins did stand, and he swiveled at the Variants bounding from the open hatch. His M4 let out suppressed whoomphs. Bullets lanced through the first few monsters.

  “Come on, Rollins!” Garcia yelled again.

  The marine turned and started sprinting over the platform to the ladder. He reached the railing, his outstretched hand inches from Garcia’s. So close. But Garcia was not the only one reaching for Rollins. A Variant sank its claws into Rollins’s shoulder and spun him back. The monster cocked back its other hand. Claws glistened with blood and rain. Its cheekbones jutted from its thin face as its jaw wrenched open. Fangs met flesh in a flurry of crimson spray.

  Rollins went down.

  Before Garcia could so much as unholster his sidearm, four more Variants rushed around Rollins. They dug into his body. Flesh tore from bone. An agonized yell quickly devolved into a gurgle. Garcia wanted to rip into the monsters, to kill every one of them with his own hands, bring them the death they so deserved. But it was already too late. Rage would do nothing to save Rollins now. A bitter pang of sorrow crossed through Garcia as he considered the new name he would soon add to his arm.

  The chopper lifted higher, taking the ladder and Garcia away. A Variant turned its head from Rollins’s corpse. Blood dripped down its chest in a long crimson beard. The monster roared and rushed at Garcia. Its feet pounded the platform, and it threw itself off, over the rail, soaring toward the ladder. Garcia twisted, and the chopper continued upward. The Variant’s claws grazed the bottom of the ladder. It plunged to the earth, returning to its brethren.

  Bastard, Garcia thought as he watched it crack against the ground.

  As more and more of the creatures overwhelmed the lighthouse, the chopper flew from Corolla. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolled in, slightly quieter now. Garcia climbed into the fuselage and watched the Outer Banks fade in the distance. Memories and blood washed away with the pouring rain. Low voices murmured around him. Hands clasped his shoulder as people congratulated him on rescuing the civilians, on finding the hive.

  He did not deserve congratulations. He did not deserve any of it. He collapsed to his knees near a window and crossed himself, murmuring a prayer of mercy for himself, for Rollins. A prayer of thanks for those hearts still beating in the Seahawks. For Beth. Her baby.

  A prayer of love for Ashley. Leslie.

  And one of forgiveness for the men he had lost.

  ***

  Garcia put the tattoo gun to his skin again. It was a ritual that had become all too familiar.

  Kong. Mulder. Russian. Chewy.

  Rollins.

  He dabbed the beads of blood seeping through the fresh ink. His eyes traced solemnly over the cross. Too many names. Too many damn names. There was room for three, maybe four more. He feared it would not take long to fill those spots of bare skin. This war was unlike any he had ever served in. The costs more demanding. The stakes higher. The enemy more ruthless.

  At least the sacrifices had been worth something this time. A hive bombed. Civilians rescued. More scientific intelligence gathered. A child and mother delivered from the edge of darkness, of death. That had to mean something.

  Garcia let out a long exhalation. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up in his muscles.

  Kong had been right. The darkness was evolving. Every time the science junkies developed a new weapon against the Variants or unveiled a new change in the beasts’ biology, the Variants introduced fresh surprises like pincers or tunnel networks.

  The darkness, the Variants were evolving.

  But they were not the only ones adapting and changing to this new world. The Variant Hunters were, too. They would follow the monsters into whatever hellhole they buried themselves in during the search for new clues, new intelligence on their morphing physiology. There would be no obstacle, no challenge the Variants threw at them that would stop Garcia from achieving that goal. He promised to himself, to Ashley’s memory, and to all those who had fallen, he would do anything he could to restore the light of hope and optimism that had once existed on this earth. Anything to shatter the burgeoning darkness.

  As Garcia examined the names on his arm, he realized the Variants were not the only source of darkness in this world. Rollins had gone AWOL, had disobeyed his orders because of his rage and vindictive nature. He had let himself lose control over his dark emotions. Garcia had been just as close to losing it. He could not let himself succumb to the nagging, pulsing seed of guilt threatening to take root. It would be all too easy to let the anger and frustration fill him, rotting his mind from the inside.

  That was the real darkness. The real evil. Variants were monsters and always would be. But humans had a choice. A choice between darkness and light. He would follow the light.

  A knock at the hatch caused him to turn on his bed. He padded over the deck and opened the hatch. Thomas stood before him. Scabs and bruises covered his face. Dark bags hung under his eyes. He traced a hand over his freshly shaved scalp.

  “Davis wants to see us. Again.”

  Garcia nodded. “Variants never sleep, do they?”

  “Not until we put ’em to rest.”

  They continued past the others rushing through the corridors. All doing their part to keep humanity chugging along in a desperate fight to prevent the ever-looming threat of extinction.

  When they made it to the CIC, Lt. Davis greeted them with a solemn nod. “At ease.” Her dark eyes cast a sorrowful look. “We’ll pay your brothers the proper respects.”

  “They’d appreciate that,” Garcia said. “But I take it that’s not what you brought us down here for.”

  She shook her head then turned to a nearby monitor showing a chain of islands at the southern tip of Florida. “I’ve got a new mission for you. How do you feel about the Florida Keys?”

  Extinction: Thailand

  by

  Russell Blake

  An Extinction Cycle Novella

  © Russell Blake – All rights reserved

  — 1 —

  Pattaya, Thailand, 1972

  Music blared from a jukebox in the far corner of a dark bar. A haze of cigarette smoke lingered over the crowd as the Rolling Stones’ “Brown Sugar” thumped out its hypnotic rhythm. A sign announcing Hot Paris Nights hung over the watering hole entry, featuring an exaggerated depiction of an Asian nymph wearing a French maid’s outfit and an expression that promised endless delight. A half dozen scantily clad working girls barely out of their teens in stiletto heels and bikinis so skimpy they were little more than afterthoughts stood awkwardly by the entrance, gazing out into the muggy night with eyes dulled by ten-hour shifts and obligatory shots of local rotgut, their s
lim hips swaying and bumping to the beat.

  The Vietnam War had transformed Pattaya from a sleepy beach town favored by locals as a seaside getaway into an anything-goes den of iniquity where no vice was too depraved and virtually any craving could be satisfied for a price. Narcotics and prostitutes of every age and gender were plentiful in the large cities, as well as near the airfields where the U.S. Air Force housed its squadrons under the deniable hospitality of the Thai military. Pattaya was no exception: the nearby U-Tapao Royal Thai Navy Airfield provided plentiful traffic for the bars that had sprung up like green shoots since the start of the war.

  The song changed to “Me and Bobby McGee,” Janis Joplin’s whiskey croon as thick as syrup. The lament was interrupted by the sharp crack of a ball jumping the pool table in the rear of the bar and smacking against the stained cement floor. Three American servicemen in civilian clothes laughed drunkenly as the largest of their number, a man with coal black skin and broad shoulders, leaned unsteadily to retrieve the ball, his stick in one hand and a sweating bottle of Singha beer resting on a nearby table beside an overflowing ashtray.

  “You’re drunk, Kyle. I mean Sergeant Kyle,” declared one of his companions, a redhead named Nick. The observation drew hoots of laughter from all three, as though the idea was the funniest they’d ever heard.

  “Hell no, I’m not, Nick. You ain’t seen nothing yet,” Kyle said, scooping up the ball and slamming it back onto the table before raising one foot and holding his arms straight out to the sides for balance. “See? Sober as a judge.”

  Nick clapped him on the back. “Bartender! Another round!”

  His companion leaned into him and shook his head. “Not for me. Still got half mine left.”

  “Down the hatch. It’s gonna be warm as Satan’s piss in no time, Cody.”

  Cody shrugged and chugged his beer. The barkeep, a slim man in his forties with an almond complexion and a permanent smirk, loaded up one of the waitress’s trays with beer and shots of high-octane rum. The slim woman carried the drinks to the men, and Cody tossed some of the local currency at her as she deposited the bottles and glasses on the table. She knelt to pick up the bills, her face unreadable, and then hurried away, catching the eye of several tough-looking locals who’d watched the performance from across the room.