Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  He steeled himself as they walked toward the medical tent. A macabre chorus of pained voices drifted out of the open flaps. A nurse ducked through the opening with a bucket in hand. Bloody water sloshed over the sides as she waddled to a ditch on the left side of the tent and tossed the contents in.

  Fitz could smell festering wounds as he approached. Nothing could prepare a man for the inside of a medical tent after an attack by the Variants, but at least this time there were no injuries from the toxic juvenile acid. Beckham was lucky to have survived his wounds. Most men died in agony.

  Like Michel, Fitz thought, remembering the brave boy who’d died in his arms outside the basilica.

  Team Ghost stopped outside while Fitz walked toward the tent. Apollo attempted to follow.

  “Stay here,” Fitz ordered.

  Rico took a seat on a barrel and checked the brace on her leg while Dohi and Tanaka folded their arms across their chests. Apollo sat on his hind legs, eyes following Fitz.

  He held his breath and bent down under the open flaps. The long tent was about thirty beds deep, and the lack of airflow made the heat and smell almost unbearable. Flies buzzed through the air, one of them landing on his cheek. After brushing it away, he brought his bandanna up to his nose and held it there. Some of the injured soldiers squirmed and moaned in pain, others had already passed out from it. Each body he saw had suffered terrible lacerations. One man had a bandage covering his face, two circular bloodstains marking where his eyes should have been.

  But he was alive, which was more than could be said for the fifty marines and soldiers who had lost their lives during the attack.

  Fitz pushed on, wedging his way through the narrow aisle, past nurses and doctors working on patients. He looked for Stevenson’s dark skin and saw the man sitting at the edge of his bed, wide shoulders hunched as he helped a nurse tie a bandage around an injured woman’s leg.

  As he approached Stevenson, Fitz saw Sergeant Allan Bird, a marine who had served with his brother overseas. He stepped up to the nurse who was working on Bird. The sergeant was unconscious, his chest slowly rising up and down.

  “Is he going to make it?” Fitz asked.

  “Not sure,” the nurse whispered. “He’s in septic shock. Those Reaver claws are covered with bacteria.”

  Fitz swallowed hard when he saw Bird’s leg, or what was left of it. “Did the Reavers do that?”

  “Friendly fire,” she said, shaking her head. “It was chaos out there.”

  Fitz closed his eyes. His brother had been killed by friendly fire. He said a prayer for Bird and then walked over to Stevenson.

  The hulking marine turned when Fitz put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Master Sergeant, what are you doing here?”

  “Checking on you,” Fitz said. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m good. Doc says I have a concussion, but I’ll be fit for service in a few days.”

  Fitz glanced at the woman in the bed to their right. Her short-cropped red hair, freckled nose, and determined gaze reminded him of Meg Pratt, the firefighter he hadn’t been able to save.

  “Master Sergeant?” Stevenson asked.

  Fitz forced himself to look away from the woman and took a moment to scrutinize Stevenson. “You’re sure you’re good?”

  “Yeah …” His words trailed off as realization settled over his dark eyes. “We’re going back out there again, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, and we don’t have any extra days to recuperate. Colonel Bradley has another mission for Team Ghost. We’re headed to the command tent now.”

  Stevenson stood and grimaced. “I had a feeling. I’ll get my shit together and meet you there in a few minutes.”

  Fitz looked at the red-haired woman again before he left. Her eyes were closed now, but she was breathing steadily. Surrounded by wounded warriors, he walked with his head down, saying prayers for each of them. There was nothing he could do for anyone here anymore. His mission was to keep soldiers out of these beds.

  The other members of Team Ghost were chatting outside in hushed voices. They all looked at him. Apollo stood, tail wagging.

  “Stevenson’s meeting us at the briefing tent,” Fitz said. He didn’t wait for questions and jogged down the dirt road. A Humvee drove past, the armored sides dented and stained red from the Reaver skulls that had plowed into them.

  Bradley was smoking a cigarette outside the command tent. He had his good eye turned in the opposite direction, and Fitz cleared his throat as he approached.

  “Colonel, Team Ghost, reporting for duty,” he said.

  “About time,” Bradley said. He tossed the cigarette in the dirt and smothered it with his boot. The lance corporals guarding the tent opened the flaps for everyone to pass through. Inside, they all took seats around a metal table.

  Major Domino was already seated in front of a pile of maps. He scowled when he saw Apollo.

  “Who invited the dog?” Domino asked.

  “Stow your shit, Major,” Bradley said. “Apollo is just as much as part of this team as anyone.”

  Fitz held back a smile. He was really starting to like the colonel.

  “This all of you?” Bradley asked.

  “We’re just waiting on Sergeant Stevenson—should only be a few minutes,” Fitz said.

  “He’s back on his feet?” Bradley asked. “Good to hear. You’re going to need everyone where I’m sending you.”

  Rico caught Fitz’s gaze. She blew a bubble that popped, covering her mouth and part of her chin, and then slowly plucked it away, her cheeks flaring red when Bradley looked at her.

  “Sorry, sir,” she said quietly.

  Bradley palmed the table, shaking his head at Rico, and studied the maps with Domino. They spoke in whispers about the resources the Twenty-Fourth MEU still had at their disposal. From the sound of it, the expeditionary unit was in worse shape than Fitz had thought. Despite the news, his mind still locked onto Andrew Wood.

  “Colonel, sir?” Fitz said.

  Bradley glanced up with his single eye. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if I could ask a few questions about what’s going on back in the States,” Fitz said.

  Bradley shifted his brows upward, a cue for Fitz to go ahead.

  Fitz licked his lips. “Do you have any more intel on what’s going on with this Lieutenant Andrew Wood?”

  Bradley clasped his hands behind his back. “Why are you so curious about Lieutenant Wood?”

  Fitz considered his next words carefully, but Rico beat him to it.

  “Fitz blew his brother’s head off,” she said.

  Fitz and Bradley both glared at her.

  “Sorry,” she said, then added defiantly, “but it’s true.”

  Bradley snorted. “I do remember hearing about how that went down from Captain Beckham, but he didn’t mention that you were the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “If Andrew Wood is anything like his brother, then he’s going to be out for revenge,” Fitz said. “I’m worried about Captain Beckham and my other friends back home, sir.”

  “Well, you better get your head out of the shitter, because there’s nothing you can do to help them,” Bradley said. “You’re in Europe now, and Captain Beckham can take care of himself.”

  The other members of Team Ghost all looked at Fitz, but he said nothing.

  “You let General Nixon worry about what’s going on back home, Master Sergeant,” Bradley said. “Until we’re told otherwise, our focus is winning the war here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fitz said after a split second of hesitation.

  The tent flaps opened, letting in the bulky frame of Stevenson.

  “Welcome back to action,” Bradley said. “Have a seat and we’ll get started.”

  Stevenson lumbered over and pulled out a chair. He was moving slower than normal, but at least he was back on his feet.

  Bradley drew in an audible breath and said, “Brass has been shitting their pants about the radioactive bombs we dropped dur
ing the first stage of Operation Reach. Long story short, the radiation is causing the Variants to mutate in some pretty horrifying ways. But you already know that because you saw it firsthand. The monsters you encountered at the Basilica of St. Thérèse were the result of leaked radiation from the nuclear power plants that the French government blew up.”

  “So we just made it worse by dropping more dirty bombs?” Rico asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Bradley said. “Our orders are to figure out where that army of creatures is now.” He pointed at a regional park on the map called the Parc naturel régional du Perche. “This is where we dropped the majority of the bombs.”

  “The Ombre leader said something about that place,” Fitz said.

  Bradley tilted his head. “What’s that?”

  “She said if there’s one area to avoid, it’s that place. She said we should set the forest on fire,” Rico replied.

  “We did,” Bradley said. “We bombed the shit out of that entire area. But much of the mutated army seems to have survived. Our drones and fighter jets have only been able to find about ten percent of the original army.”

  “We don’t know how accurate those numbers are, though.” Domino leaned over the map. “EUF Command hasn’t been able to get a single recon unit on the ground within twenty miles in any direction. It’s a complete dead zone.”

  After a short pause, Bradley said what everyone already knew was coming.

  “Your mission is to find that Variant army and relay its coordinates. General Nixon has a limited supply of bombs and missiles, so we need to make the next run count.”

  “You won’t have air support after we drop you off,” Domino said. “Once you slip behind enemy lines, you’re on your own until you complete the mission.”

  “We have reinforced your MATV, though,” Bradley said. “You’ve got enough armor to protect you from the juvenile acid.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Stevenson said.

  Dohi stroked his silver goatee. Tanaka shot Fitz an anxious glance.

  “In the meantime, the second phase of Operation Reach is on hold,” Domino said.

  “And the EUF? What are they doing?” Stevenson asked. “I still have yet to see one of their uniforms in France.”

  “What are they doing?” Bradley said incredulously, his eye bulging. “They’re trying to survive, Sergeant, just like us. They just lost the HQ in Barcelona, and the HQ in Paris is being hit every hour by Reavers and Wormers. I’m not sure how much longer they can hold out.”

  “You can count on Team Ghost,” Fitz said, standing and saluting before Stevenson could get them in any more trouble. Apollo stood and wagged his tail as if saluting as well.

  The other members of Ghost stood at attention. Bradley shifted his gaze from Stevenson and nodded at Fitz.

  “I know I can count on you, son. That’s why I’m sending you out there. Now go get your shit ready. Team Ghost moves out in four hours.”

  Apollo’s tail stopped wagging, and the dog looked up at Fitz with anxious amber eyes.

  Fitz started to say everything would be okay, but he paused to reconsider his words. Lying to Apollo felt like lying to himself. “Come on, boy, let’s go.”

  5

  Captain Reed Beckham was, as ever, a lucky man. His splitting headache and blurred vision hadn’t been the early stages of the hemorrhage virus after all but rather a slight concussion. For now, his humanity was still intact.

  He stood sentry on the street while Flathman worked on putting fuel in the Humvee’s tank. They had run out of fuel about five miles west of Outpost 46, leaving them exposed in an old industrial area.

  Gray rain clouds blocked out the sun, and the steady drizzle of rain saturated Beckham’s fatigues. It was the closest thing to a shower he’d had in days, but it did little to wash away the sticky sweat and blood.

  Dozens of warehouses and other buildings in disrepair hugged the road. Sagging roofs, broken brick veneer, and shattered windows provided possible dens for Variants.

  Beckham scanned the area with his rifle for hostile contacts.

  “Hurry up, LT,” he whispered.

  “Almost finished,” Flathman replied. He was using a funnel to pour the diesel into the tank, careful not to spill a drop. Beckham went back to checking the rooftops. He hoped the infected hadn’t made it this far from SZT 15, but that didn’t mean there weren’t juveniles or adult Variants in the area. Scientists had calculated that around 5 percent of the monsters would have survived the radiation attacks by going underground after Operation Extinction.

  “Got it. Let’s go,” Flathman said. He set the empty canister back inside the vehicle and then climbed into the front seat. It took three tries before the truck started, but as soon as it did, he pushed the gas pedal down and jerked back onto the road.

  A cloud the color of a Variant’s eyes passed overhead. Beckham chased down some pain meds with the last of his water. Between the pain of his pulsing headache and the fatigue aching his bones, he was having a hard time concentrating.

  “Hope there’s water at the outpost,” Beckham said. “I’m out.”

  “I still have a bit, and we have a well at the post, so don’t worry.” Flathman pointed at a canopy of oak trees in the distance. “I’m going to park about a quarter mile away. We’ll use the forest to trek in on the west side of the outpost, to make sure it’s clear.”

  Beckham pulled out the partially spent magazine in his M4 and exchanged it for a full one. “You sure there isn’t anyone left there?”

  “All my men are dead.”

  There was a fleeting moment of silence that didn’t feel right. They were both too tense, too tired. Beckham and Flathman both had stories to tell, and this seemed like a good time to tell them, if for no other reason than to keep them both awake and alert.

  “Before the outbreak, I’d never lost a man under my command,” Beckham started. “Since Building Eight, I’ve lost all but one of the original members of Team Ghost.”

  Flathman took one hand off the steering wheel and pulled out his flask from his vest pocket.

  “I had a good thing going here,” Flathman said. “We held this post for months. Now my boys are all gone, and I’ve got nothing left but this.”

  He held up the flask and shook it. The liquid sloshed inside, and Flathman drained it in one pull. “I’ve got vodka hidden back at the base. It ain’t whiskey, but it’ll do. Tonight, we drink to our fallen brothers.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time Beckham had toasted the memory of his men. It seemed like just yesterday he was sharing a bottle of Jameson with Riley and Horn after the massacre at Building 8. He prayed that Horn was still out there somewhere, keeping an eye on Kate and the girls.

  Flathman pulled down another road that curved through a city block of warehouses. Train tracks divided the end of the street. He took a right at the next intersection to take the back way to the woods. He eased off the gas and stopped around the next corner, where the road was blocked by a semitrailer.

  “That wasn’t here a few days ago,” Flathman said.

  Beckham bent down to check the three-story buildings on both sides of the road. This time he wasn’t as worried about a juvenile staring back at him as he was worried about an ROT sniper.

  “Move it, LT,” Beckham said. He twisted in his seat to look at the road to the west.

  Flathman performed a U-turn and sped away from the roadblock. He hung a right at the next street, which took them over the railroad. The tires thumped over the tracks.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” Flathman said. He pulled down another street and slowed as they approached a four-story brick building built around the turn of the twentieth century. Vines snaked up the side, twisting around windowsills framing shattered glass.

  “Why are we stopping?” Beckham asked.

  Flathman’s eyes were focused on the rooftop. “I just remembered this place. Used to have a guard stationed here at all times because of the vantage. Something tells
me someone’s taken up residence at my former outpost, and I want to have a look.”

  He parked outside the building and opened the door.

  “As long as it’s quick,” Beckham said. His blade creaked as he stepped onto the concrete, piercing the afternoon quiet.

  Flathman bent the bill of his Cubs hat and stuffed it back on his head. He flashed a hand signal toward an old fire ladder on the side of the building, directly over a pair of Dumpsters. When they got to the ladder, Flathman glanced at Beckham’s blade.

  “You’re going to sound like a wind chime in a tornado on this rusty piece of shit. You stay here and watch the truck. I’ll take a look,” Flathman said.

  Beckham eyed the rusted metal rungs and decided not to argue. He put his sleeve to his nostrils to hold back the putrid rot drifting from the Dumpsters. The smell didn’t seem to bother Flathman. He scrambled up the side and reached for the ladder. The screech of rusty metal sounded as he pulled it down into position.

  “And I’m the one who makes too much noise?” Beckham muttered under his breath. He walked back to the Humvee and held guard while Flathman climbed. It took the lieutenant several minutes to get to the top, but when he did, he gave a thumbs-up and then vanished.

  Beckham flicked the safety off on his M4. He rested the gun on his swollen stump of a forearm and kept the barrel trained on the road. A bug buzzed from the shadows cast by the building, and a crow cawed in the distance, but besides that, the industrial zone was devoid of noise.

  The trees growing on the shoulder of the road hardly moved in the weak breeze. A single brown leaf fluttered to the ground.

  Beckham checked the building across the street. Shattered pieces of glass lined the windows like the teeth of a Variant. Nothing moved in the dark rooms.

  He raised the carbine and scoped the intersection at the other end of the road. There was only a single vehicle there. All four tires on the pickup truck were deflated, and a skeletal body hung out the open door.