Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 3): Extinction Ashes

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  Maybe the beasts were too far tonight. Otherwise, he suspected they would have already attacked.

  The team went up a slope, boots squishing in the mud. Timothy was the first to crest the hill. He slipped through a maze of towering pine trees, the scent of their needles drifting on a cold wind.

  Carey bent down a few feet away. Timothy stopped when the corporal motioned for the rest of the team. They gathered around his position, and he pointed to tracks in the mud.

  Most looked like they had come from boots—collaborator or military, Timothy couldn’t tell. But there was one set of prints that appeared different from the others.

  Half the tracks were from a boot and the other half was simply a flattened, square-shaped divot in the mud.

  Winslow and Carey pushed on, but Timothy hesitated. He couldn’t help but picture Fitz and Beckham. The strange print looked like it might have come from someone with a prosthetic.

  Those two might be alive somewhere in the States, but after everything that had happened, he doubted it. Even the experienced operators were no match for an enemy as ruthless and powerful as he had seen.

  “Keep moving,” Ruckley said.

  He walked next to her through the woods, still thinking of his old friends. When Timothy lived on Peaks Island, he had viewed Beckham and Horn as uncles. They had always looked out for him like he was part of their family.

  He had loved them, and he had thought they loved him, too. But apparently he had been wrong. They had abandoned him the night Outpost Portland was hit by collaborators.

  Remembering the past reminded Timothy of something his father used to say.

  Anger eats our insides like cancer. You need to learn to let it go.

  His dad had told him that when Timothy was upset with Bo over some stupid thing he couldn’t even recall.

  Now, his dad and Bo were both gone.

  Anger had done nothing to fill the void they had left behind.

  His dad was right.

  Timothy needed to let go of his anger. He needed to forgive Beckham and Horn. They hadn’t killed his dad. In fact, they had saved his dad and him almost a decade ago, risking their own lives for people they didn’t even know.

  He was no longer the naïve child who thought they would just leave him at Portland for no good reason. They couldn’t possibly have known what would happen to him.

  Instead of ascribing his rage to Beckham and Horn, he focused on who really deserved it: The collaborators.

  He hurried to keep up with the other three soldiers.

  Not ten minutes later, they discovered another set of tracks. A single set of shoeprints headed in nearly the opposite direction of the first tracks. These looked fresh, which meant there might be patrols or snipers out here.

  Timothy moved his finger to his trigger, ready to blast the first one he saw.

  They soon reached a rocky overlook. Timothy started to walk toward the side with Ruckley, but she halted and knelt. He dropped beside her to examine a body.

  It was a man in a ghillie suit, a bullet hole in his neck and cheek. In rigor mortis, he still held a sniper rifle aimed at the valley where they had parked below.

  “Someone’s here after all,” Winslow said.

  “Thank God for that,” Carey said. “This guy would’ve had the drop on us.”

  Ruckley nodded. “You think the military sent in a tactical team instead of bombing the place?”

  “I hope so,” Winslow said.

  “If they did, wouldn’t we hear voices or gunshots?” Timothy asked. Then he got a sick feeling in his gut when he started to answer his own question. “Unless we already lost the fight…”

  Ruckley exhaled, her breath misting.

  “If that’s true, we shouldn’t follow the same tracks the other strike force did,” Carey said. “We need a different way in.”

  “Agreed,” Ruckley said, beginning to retreat.

  Timothy looked over the ledge. He noticed a flat area where swathes of trees seemed to have been cut down in the distance. When he squinted, he thought he could see some kind of camouflage netting draping over where the trees had been.

  It struck him then.

  That was the area above the chambers where he had been kept with the other prisoners—and those trees had been destroyed by bombs.

  “Hey, hold up,” Timothy said. “I think that’s where they held me prisoner.”

  Carey scoped the section of burned forest.

  “There’s a back way into the facility from there,” Timothy said. “I remember it well. Plus, the bombs left holes in the ceiling. There might be more ways in.”

  Winslow looked for a way down. He found one a moment later and motioned for the team to follow him down the steep hill.

  At the bottom, they continued through the dense forest. A chill ran through Timothy as they got closer to the chamber. Memories of the horror came back to him. The dead bodies, the Variants feeding.

  Timothy pressed his rifle against his shoulder. He stayed close to Ruckley. She had taken point and Winslow and Carey were on rearguard to cover their tracks.

  Fifteen minutes into the march she held up a hand at the edge of the forest. Creaking tree branches sang through the cold morning like a gust of wind had suddenly swept through the woods.

  But Timothy only saw the rustling branches in a slight breeze.

  Ruckley paused beside him, both scanning the white trees in the green hue of their optics for contacts.

  A cracking sounded behind them.

  Timothy checked over his shoulder to look for Winslow and Carey.

  His heart sank.

  Both men were gone.

  “Sergeant,” Timothy whispered. His shaking voice caught when he saw a flash of white dart between the trees.

  “Ruckley,” he whispered again.

  He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to make sure she had heard him. He focused solely on the woods where the seemingly camouflaged Variant had flanked them.

  Was this the only one out there? Had it taken both corporals alone?

  Heart pounding, Timothy aimed his rifle over the shadowy forest.

  Still he saw nothing.

  The beast had vanished liked a ghost.

  A hand clenched his shoulder, and he flinched, biting the inside of his cheek.

  “When I say run, you run,” said Ruckley.

  Timothy gave a nod.

  Before she could give the command, figures seemed to melt out of the trees, their eyes glowing. Half of the camouflaged beasts moved on all fours over the ground. Others leapt between branches.

  Timothy counted ten, but there had to be more. There was no way to win this fight, and running wouldn’t get them far.

  The creatures closed in. Lips popped, and joints cracked. He heard the noises from behind him and Ruckley.

  He knew that as soon as he squeezed the trigger, they would all rush him, tearing him into ribbons. Pulling the trigger would also alert the collaborators to their position.

  “What do we do?” Timothy asked.

  There must be a way out. Some way to save themselves.

  Ruckley pressed her back against his. She gave her only answer by firing a gunshot. Timothy fired a burst from his rifle, blowing off the top of a skull.

  “RUN!” she shouted.

  He turned and bolted after her, dodging past a pair of swiping beasts. He let his rifle fall on its sling and held it against his body with one hand. With the other, he pulled out his pistol. He needed as much speed as he could get.

  They raced for the clearing where the prison chambers were. Beasts ran alongside them, darting around the trees. He let loose a few rounds to keep them back. Bullets punched into trees and flesh; splintering bark and bone.

  Angry howls pierced the night.

  Timothy sucked in deep breaths, his lungs burning. They were almost to the chamber. He could see the hole in the ground.

  Turning, he fired at a beast galloping to catch up. A bullet punctured its shoulder, driving i
nto its chest. The monster tumbled into a bed of pine needles.

  Ruckley screamed as a beast tackled her. It hopped up and dragged her away from the pack and into the woods at a remarkable speed.

  “Ruckley!” he yelled.

  “RUN!” she screamed back.

  And then she was gone, her cries escaping from wherever it must have taken her underground.

  Timothy ran over the splintered trees and ravaged landscape. Three Variants cut him off from going after Ruckley. Moments later, the ground shook once, then twice. The explosions were coming from underground, and his heart sank. Maybe that was Ruckley setting off her grenades, sacrificing herself to stop the monsters.

  He was truly alone now. His head swiveled as he searched for an escape. Finally, he spotted another beast running for a hole in the ground where moonlight flooded a chamber.

  There! He thought.

  He sprinted toward it, his muscles screaming for oxygen, his body at its limits, his mind still trying to wrap around what had happened to Ruckley.

  The Variants circled between the fallen and shredded trees, trying to surround him as he neared the hole. But they were hanging back now, almost like they were afraid of this place.

  He stopped, sucking in air to catch his breath as he watched the beasts cautiously prowl the perimeter. They stayed close to the cover of the trees and rocks, saliva dripping from the corners of their sucker lips.

  “Drop your weapon,” came a voice.

  A group of four men in fatigues appeared from behind the trees surrounding the entrance to the chamber. All carried machine guns, and they were all pointed at Timothy.

  He prepared to fight back but froze when he recognized a man with dreadlocks.

  It was Pete.

  The leader walked over with a gun aimed at Timothy. Another man Timothy recognized joined him. Nick, the manipulative asshole and Pete’s right-hand man.

  “Lower your weapon,” Nick said.

  Timothy’s heart kicked. This was his chance. He could kill them both here and now. Sure, he would die, too, but he would get his revenge.

  What he wouldn’t do, was stop the nuke. Countless innocent people would perish.

  Then again, when they realized who he was, they would probably kill him anyway.

  It was now or never.

  He brought his pistol up to fire. A bullet slammed against his chest before he could squeeze the trigger. Shock dulled his senses, and he dropped to his knees. The pistol fell from his grip. He looked down at his chest, patting it and wheezing until he felt the hole in his vest.

  Red crept over his vision. He tried to suck in a breath, but his lungs felt like mush, exploding with agony when he did.

  A pair of boots stomped toward him and kicked away his gun.

  Then someone bent down and pried off his night vision goggles.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Nick.

  “What?” Pete asked.

  “You got to see this,” Nick replied.

  Two faces hovered over Timothy. He could smell their breath, and he tried to reach out, to choke one, maybe. But he was too weak, the pain too much to fight back. He slumped over, still gasping.

  “Well shit, the world’s way smaller than I thought,” Pete said. “The New Gods really blessed us tonight. Not only do we have Captain Reed Beckham, but now we got the prick kid who betrayed us.”

  ***

  “Let Timothy go…” Beckham stammered. Slung up on a concrete wall, he was suspended in a mixture of the slimy glue from the Variants and webbing.

  Nick couldn’t believe it. The famous heretic and traitor, Captain Reed Beckham, had walked right into their clutches. And the young guy who Nick had thought died in Outpost Portland had wandered back too.

  All in the same night.

  Even crazier, the two traitorous assholes knew each other.

  The sound of a chopper thrummed in the distance. Nick looked up through the jagged moonroof in the chamber ceiling as a Little Bird crossed the moon.

  The general had called off his trip early and was returning to their Master. It was no longer safe for him at Katahdin now that this location had been compromised. Soon Nick and his comrades would follow.

  The general’s business here was finished anyway. But there were still some things to wrap up before Nick and Pete left.

  “Let him go…” Beckham said. “My life for his.”

  Nick smiled as Timothy bucked against his restraints. The kid was secured next to the famous Captain Reed Beckham and his ginger best friend, Master Sergeant Parker Horn. Another operator named Rico had joined them on the mission.

  Beside them, two male soldiers, Winslow and Carey were imprisoned. The corpses of the other soldiers captured in the woods were on the cold ground or strung up on the wall.

  Not really corpses, mostly just spindly bits of gristle left on the gnawed-over bones.

  Nick appreciated that the military had sent foot soldiers instead of bombs. Bombs probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, but this failed attack gave the followers of the New Gods time to evacuate the facility and still launch their nuclear weapon.

  Plus, their corpses had kept their visitors and the thralls well-fed.

  “You failed,” Nick said to Beckham. “Do you know what happens now?”

  Beckham ignored him, looking at Timothy.

  “I’m sorry,” Beckham whispered. “I’m sorry we left you that night in Portland, Timothy. If only we could’ve known… I’m so sorry.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth, heretic,” Pete said. He punched Beckham in the face. The impact cracked his nose, the sound echoing.

  “I’m going to kill you both,” Timothy said through clenched teeth.

  Pete laughed. “I’ll give you credit for making it this far, but how are you going to kill any of us tied up like that?”

  Nick studied the young man. His bullet-proof vest had stopped a bullet meant for his heart. He was a lucky son of a bitch, and Nick was honestly surprised to see he had returned after Outpost Portland.

  Most sane people would have run and never looked back. But not Timothy.

  “It’s a shame,” Nick said. “A kid with guts like yours would have made such a good soldier for the New Gods.”

  He looked up at the hole at the top of the chamber. Four sets of yellow, hungry eyes stared down. The crouching thralls licked their sucker lips, anxiously waiting to feed on the captured soldiers the general and his guards had left.

  But Nick wasn’t quite ready to give up these prisoners yet. This was too satisfying, finally pressing their heels against the faces of legends like Beckham and Horn. War ‘heroes’ that had fought so long to sabotage their efforts.

  “You wanted to know how we recognized you?” Nick said to Beckham. “How we knew where you and this big redneck asshole lived? We’ve been watching a very long time. It hasn’t been nearly as hard as you might think.”

  Horn lifted his battered face. He let out a muffled curse behind the glue over his mouth.

  “I’ve seen your daughters,” Nick said to Horn. “Very pretty. I have two of my own, and they’ll survive this war…unlike yours. It’s truly a shame.”

  Horn pushed against his restraints, his jugular bulging and his eyes going wild as a monster’s.

  “Don’t worry,” Pete chimed in. “Unlike yours, their deaths will be quick.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. We’re going to launch our nuke at President Ringgold’s little bunker. Your kids won’t even know what hit ’em.”

  Nick folded his arms over his chest.

  “You on the other hand…” Pete said, pointing at the prisoners. “You all will feel every bite.”

  Horn finally stopped struggling, his head sagging to his chest.

  “I didn’t really ever foresee this as the end for Captain Reed Beckham,” Pete said. “Did you, Nick?”

  “Nope,” Nick said. “We watched, planned, and waited for our chance to strike back and destroy the Allied States. I never thought it would be you who came t
o us like a bug flying into a spider’s web.”

  Beckham glared as they spoke.

  “And all that time, while I watched and waited, I wondered…” Nick stepped closer and lifted Beckham’s chin with his hand. “I wondered why Captain Reed Beckham fought with a military and served an administration that had all but destroyed his life.”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Beckham grumbled. “You have no honor.”

  “Honor is what losers cling to when they want to fool themselves into thinking defeat is acceptable,” Nick said.

  Pete smiled at that and punched Beckham in the gut. Horn and the other prisoners squirmed like pigs realizing they were being led to slaughter.

  Again and again, Pete hit Beckham.

  Nick watched, but his mind drifted to what was happening outside this chamber. The families were already being loaded onto a convoy for evacuation. He couldn’t help but think about his wife, and despite it all, what Ray had told him.

  Voices broke him from his thoughts. A guard who had been holding sentry entered the chamber.

  “Sir, we’re ready to evacuate on your order,” he said.

  “Get started,” Pete said. “We’ll be there soon.”

  The guard left, and Nick stepped up to Beckham. This was the hardened warrior who had led Team Ghost into Building 8 during the early days of the first war. His team was the first to bear witness to the result of the new VX-99 that the Medical Corps had created.

  “You have seen the worst of Mother Nature and man created by a corrupt government, but you still fight under the same banner,” Nick said. “You’re defending the very people who made the things you think are evil. If you can’t tell me why, then I guess we don’t have anything left to discuss. I’ll let you explain your motives to the thralls as they feed on you.”

  “We’re wasting our time,” Pete said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Nick reached up with the remote that controlled the collars of the thralls, but Beckham opened his bloody lips.

  “Because freedom is worth fighting for, and you…” his eyes went from Nick to Pete, then to the beasts above. “You think you’re saving the world by giving your allegiance to those things. You’re nothing but their slaves. When they’re tired of you, you’ll end up like us.”