The whistle of a suppressed round came from the left. Flathman was firing at a pair of infected that came bounding out of a storefront. The male beasts were covered in blood from self-inflicted bite wounds covering their exposed arms and legs. They looked just as surprised as the soldiers.
To the right, an infected boy came bounding across a terrace on all fours. He leaped over the metal fence and landed on the sidewalk.
“Shoot it!” Flathman yelled.
Beckham squeezed off a burst that missed and bit into the concrete sidewalk instead. The creature roared and leaped at Beckham. He brought his gun up and fired a blast that killed the creature instantly. The body slapped the ground, infected blood pooling across the pavement. It wasn’t the first time since the outbreak began that Beckham felt a stab of regret.
It’s just a child, he thought, looking down at the corpse.
Three more monsters came skittering around the corner of the intersection ahead. One of them jumped to the roof of the Humvee, where it stood on two feet and let out a long wail. Behind them, more of the creatures joined in the war call. They streamed out of windows and down the exteriors of buildings, anxious for a chance to feed.
“Fire your damn weapon, Captain!” Flathman yelled. “I got our six, you take point!”
The order snapped Beckham’s fatigued mind back to reality. He took a knee next to a car, placed his stump on the hood, and propped up his carbine. The first two shots whizzed past a dark-skinned beast running on two feet. The third cracked its skull, dropping the monster like a rock.
Two more took its place, and Beckham shifted the muzzle, bringing them down with shots to their vital organs. Another three infected emerged, all of them in tattered army fatigues, with helmets still atop their heads and blood dripping down their weathered features.
“Changing!” Flathman said. He was firing directly behind Beckham now, their flak jackets just inches apart.
A wave of motion flooded the intersection. Five beasts, all of them former soldiers, darted around the vehicles. The figures were blurred in Beckham’s disabled right eye. He closed it and focused with his left.
“We’re drawing too many of them out,” Beckham said. “We have to retreat.”
Flathman shouted back, “No, we have to get to the fucking Humvee!”
Rounds exploded from his M4, shattering bone and tearing through muscular flesh. Bulging veins burst and painted the street red. Beckham killed two more before his magazine went dry. He didn’t have time to change the mag and drew his M9 instead. The shots popped, echoing through what had been a deserted street just moments before.
Three former soldiers dashed down the road, and two more crawled across the pavement, dragging bullet-riddled legs behind them.
Beckham shot one of the runners in the neck, ending its screeching. It took three more bullets to bring the next creature down. It fell face first, skidding over the pavement.
The other two beasts scattered. He clipped one in the shoulder and followed the hairless head of the other creature with the iron sights of his M9. Leading it just a hair, he pulled the trigger. The shot blew its infected brains out.
His pistol clicked dry on the next squeeze. He removed the spent magazine, put the gun in his right armpit, pulled another magazine from his vest with his left hand, and pushed it home.
“Our six, our six!” Flathman yelled.
As Beckham worked on chambering a round, he turned to see what the lieutenant was screaming about. A sewer cover popped open and then clanked back down on the pavement. An armored head with saucer eyes emerged from the hole in the center of the street.
Beckham and Flathman were trapped between the enraged infected and the monster offspring of the Variants.
Beckham finally chambered a round and turned just as a creature hurtled itself into the air and body-slammed him into the car door. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but he managed to roll away before the monster could slash his face.
A butt to the nose from Flathman’s M4 dropped the thing onto its back, blood dripping out over its cheeks.
Beckham covered his eyes with a sleeve as Flathman fired a burst into the monster’s chest. Despite his best efforts to keep it off, hot blood soaked Beckham’s fatigues.
Flathman grabbed Beckham and yanked him upward. The first thing he saw was the pair of juveniles in the street behind them. Curved heads emerged and pointy ears perked. Almond-shaped eyes roved for targets, followed by the popping of dinner-plate-sized lips.
Armored plates clicked as the beasts moved, their massive paws clattering over the pavement like hooves. After a quick scan, the beast on the left, which had to weigh at least four hundred pounds, rolled its head back to let out a guttural screech.
The infected creatures that had surrounded Beckham and Flathman all halted in their tracks. Yellow, slitted eyes homed in on the juveniles, and they sniffed the air like wild dogs.
For a fleeting moment, the entire street fell into silence.
Instead of attacking, the infected took off running on all fours like monkeys. One of the juveniles barreled after the retreating monsters, but the other creature snorted out a bulbous, warty nose, and focused on Beckham and Flathman.
Beckham swallowed hard, but Flathman just mumbled, “Run.”
The infected scattered in all directions, fleeing the mutated monsters, and Beckham followed, stumbling away, his blade wobbling. He kept his eye on the Humvee and his ears on the pounding of hooves behind them as he attempted to run.
The juvenile chasing them was a fast son of a bitch. There was no way he was going to make it to the truck. Flathman must have had the same thought.
Gunshots cracked, but they sounded farther off than Beckham expected. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see that Flathman was still standing in the same spot. Apparently his order to run was just for Beckham.
The lieutenant stood his ground, firing his carbine at the armored monstrosity barreling toward them. Rounds chipped at its armor but did little to slow the beast down.
Flathman jumped onto the hood of a car to avoid the armored skull that smashed into the wheel well with such force it sent the vehicle careening onto the curb. Losing his balance, Flathman fell onto his back. He kicked at the beast and fired at its unprotected eye sockets.
“Get the Humvee!” Flathman shouted at Beckham.
As he ran, Beckham wondered why the infected were fleeing the juveniles. Perhaps there was some scientific reason the beasts acted this way, something to do with the pack hierarchy, or perhaps it was just raw fear. Kate would probably be able to explain it. Either way, it didn’t matter as long as they didn’t turn on him.
Flathman slid off the car and onto the sidewalk as the juvenile held a clawed hand to a gushing wound on its face. The lieutenant was putting up one hell of a fight.
By the time Beckham reached the truck, his head was pounding, and his vision had started to fail in his left eye too. The infected creatures blurred into the exterior of buildings. Beckham blinked rapidly and staggered toward the front door of the Humvee. A deep pain settled behind his sinuses, burning as though he’d inhaled hot sauce.
He opened the door and yanked out the skeletal remains of the previous driver, a donut-sized hole in the top of his skull. Beckham scooted onto the seat and slammed the door shut.
He reached for the key in the ignition and twisted it until it made a coughing sound. The engine rattled but wouldn’t turn over.
“Come on.” His words were slurred, and when he looked out the absent window Flathman had split into three figures. The juvenile was a blob of white. He closed his right eye, but this time it didn’t help.
A deep pain stabbed his gut, and his wounds were burning.
Beckham knew the symptoms all too well by now. Blurred vision, headaches …
No, no, no. You can’t be infected. You can’t.
He twisted the key again and again. Each time the engine would rattle but wouldn’t commit.
“Ple
ase,” Beckham mumbled. He wasn’t a begging man, but desperation had set in. He had to get back to his family.
Kate, he thought, trying to fix her face in his mind. The image twisted aside, morphing into his mother and then a Variant.
“Beckham!” another voice called out. This time it wasn’t in Beckham’s mind. Flathman was screaming at the top of his lungs. “BECKHAM!”
At the other end of the street, another shape bounded onto the sidewalk outside a storefront with something hanging from its maw.
Beckham held his breath, twisted the key, and exhaled as the engine finally caught. He put the truck into gear and pulled off the curb. His vision seemed to clear momentarily, and he saw the second juvenile had returned at the other end of the road and was munching on an infected arm.
Flathman was on the move now, running like a madman. He fired the M9 at the armored creature over his shoulder. The second beast tossed its snack away and dropped to all fours to join the pursuit of the more appealing meal.
Only five hundred feet separated the Humvee and Flathman, but the juveniles were closing the gap. Both used their armor to deflect rounds as they prepared to move in for the kill.
Beckham steered with his stump and opened the passenger’s door with his left hand. He locked eyes with Flathman. Now Beckham saw why his men called Flathman “The Running Man.” For an old guy, he was moving like a high school track star, sprinting so fast he had to hold his Cubs hat down to keep it from blowing off.
The two juveniles galloped after him, tucking their heads down like bulls preparing to spear a matador. Streaks of red bled down Beckham’s vision, nearly blinding him as he tried to drive.
You’re not infected. You’re not …
A hundred thoughts were racing through his mind all at once: Sergeant Tenor back at Building 8 when he was first infected—his mom in Rocky Mountain National Park the day he’d realized she wouldn’t survive the cancer—Kate placing Beckham’s hand on her stomach when they decided to name their child Javier Riley. The image of Kate suddenly became a nightmare as he pictured their child clawing its way out of her stomach.
“NO!” Beckham shouted. He forced his eyes open as wide as he could and focused on Flathman. The soldier was just twenty feet away, but the juveniles were so close.
Beckham grabbed the parking brake and then twisted the steering wheel. The truck fishtailed toward the monsters and Flathman, who jumped backward at the last moment.
The back end of the truck jolted from an impact that sent the two armored creatures flying backward. Beckham felt the air rush from his lungs again, the crash rattling his entire body. It snapped him completely alert, and the red vanished from his vision.
He could see again.
For now.
The juveniles clamped into balls and rolled away, screeching armor and wails so loud they hurt Beckham’s ears. Flathman stood on the sidewalk, staring in shock. He reached up for his baseball cap, but it was gone.
“Get in,” Beckham wheezed.
Flathman didn’t follow the order. Instead, he ran to grab his hat on the sidewalk. The monsters were pushing themselves up now, stunned but recovering.
“LT!” Beckham yelled.
Flathman spat at the monsters and let out a victory whoop as he bolted around the truck and onto the passenger’s seat.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted.
Beckham put the truck into reverse and pushed down on the gas pedal. When he had enough momentum, he pulled up onto the curb and back onto the street. As soon as the tires hit asphalt, he punched down on the gas, peeling out in front of the monsters.
Both men gasped for air as Beckham sped away. The creatures pursued, but their speed was no match for the Humvee’s.
Flathman looked Beckham up and down, focusing on his blood-streaked face.
“You okay, Captain?”
“I … I think so,” Beckham said. He watched the juveniles give up their pursuit in the rearview mirror. Then he looked over at Flathman and eyed the Cubs hat. “You risked your life for that hat.”
Flathman chuckled. “It’s a goddamn lucky hat, Captain. I couldn’t leave without it.”
Kate sat inside the cramped operations compartment aboard the USS Florida. Javier Riley had kicked several times over the past hour. It was as if her son could sense something happening out there and wanted to help.
She felt a large hand on her shoulder. “How are you feeling, Kate?”
Horn sat down next to her. He was chomping on something, like a horse eating hay.
“I’m fine.” She patted his hand with a reassuring smile.
“Do you want anything else to eat?”
Kate shook her head. “I’m full. Those peaches really hit the spot. I think the baby is enjoying them too.”
They both looked to the front of the compartment, where President Ringgold was meeting with her staff. Kate couldn’t hear most of the discussion, but she did catch fragments, including something about General Nixon and Europe.
“Are Tasha and Jenny okay?” Kate asked.
“Yeah, but …”
Kate already knew the end of the sentence. “They’ve been asking where Uncle Reed is?”
Horn dipped his head solemnly. “Look, Kate, I know he’s not dead. My guess is Wood’s keeping him somewhere. We just need to find out where so I can bust him out and bust Wood’s skull in.”
“How? Wood has an army. And if—if Reed is still alive, he’s somewhere we can’t reach him.”
She massaged the outside of her stomach. The uncertainty was the worst part. It was slowly driving her crazy, but she had to remain strong for Javier Riley, for Jan, and for all of the other survivors she had worked tirelessly to save.
“Doctor Lovato, can we speak with you?”
Kate and Horn both stood as President Ringgold walked over. Soprano, Nelson, and several submarine officers joined her.
“This is Captain Steve Konkoly,” Ringgold said.
A man with brown eyes and close-cut, graying hair extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Doctor. Your work has helped save the world.”
“The world is far from saved,” Kate replied, shaking his hand. “Wood has single-handedly destroyed everything we’ve fought for. We have to find the GW and the Zumwalt and then stop Wood before he can deploy more of those missiles.”
Konkoly nodded brusquely. “Trust me when I say Wood will pay for what he’s done. As you know, the USS Florida was assigned to the GW strike group. It didn’t take long for us to determine Wood was behind the attack on the GW and the SZTs despite the counterinformation campaign. The problem is convincing others of that fact. We decided to dive until we could figure out who our allies—”
Ringgold interrupted him. “We still don’t know who’s on our side?”
“Those loyal to you have formed a fleet and are preparing to take a stand against ROT. We’re heading to their location now. It’s about two hundred miles east of here.”
“What about General Nixon? Has he sent any ships from Europe?” Kate asked.
“No, so far he’s remained neutral,” Konkoly said. He gestured for them to follow him into another compartment. “I want you to listen to something we intercepted.”
They walked out of the main control room and into the radio room, where several officers were listening to headsets.
“This was from two days ago,” Konkoly said. He nodded at the comms officer, who reached forward to relay a transmission over the speakers. A voice that Kate hated crackled from the speakers.
“General, this is Lieutenant Andrew Wood of ROT. I hear the war efforts in Europe aren’t going too well.”
“Sounds as if things back home aren’t going too well either,” Nixon replied.
There was a mirthless laugh over the comms that made her skin crawl.
“That depends on you who you ask. President Ringgold has decided to wage war on the SZTs that don’t support her. It’s my duty as a retired soldier to take up the work of my late brother and h
elp lead the effort to bring her down and restore order to the republic.”
There was another pause before Nixon’s rough voice replied, “I’m here to win a war, so I’m going to focus on that until the commander-in-chief tells me otherwise. So far, I haven’t heard from President Ringgold, and I will remain neutral until I do. But I have a very hard time believing she would attack our own SZTs.”
“Then you would be wrong, General. When the time comes, you should pick your side very carefully,” Wood replied.
The transmission ended, and Konkoly looked at Ringgold with a raised brow. “That man is a bigger weasel than his older brother.”
“I know,” Ringgold replied. She sighed. “He must have thought I would reach out to Nixon. That’s why he tried to trap me in the PEOC. It was the perfect plan.”
“Until you escaped,” Nelson said.
Soprano wedged his way closer to the president. “He figured Nixon would rally to our cause, so he attacked the PEOC and made it look as if you attacked those SZTs.”
“But it sounds as if Nixon doesn’t buy that lie,” Konkoly said. “Maybe now is the time to contact him.”
Ringgold looked to Kate for her opinion. She didn’t hesitate in giving it.
“Like I said, finding the GW and the Zumwalt should be our primary objective. We have to destroy the hemorrhage virus. We can’t let Wood infect any more safe zones.”
“We know where the GW is,” Konkoly said.
Ringgold turned to the captain. “How far?”
“It’s in the harbor near Pensacola Beach in Florida, not far from Fort Pickens. The carrier hasn’t moved for several days. We intercepted an encrypted SOS transmission when they were attacked.”
“And Wood hasn’t launched any more attacks on SZTs?” Ringgold asked.
Konkoly shook his head. “Why would he kill more people and risk getting caught? He’s already got half the SZTs on his side.”
“So why are we headed east to meet up with these other ships if the GW is west of us?” Kate asked. “We have to go finish it off, just in case you’re wrong about Wood.”
Extinction War Page 6
