Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  Diaz was struggling a few feet away, but she managed to keep her head and weapon above the surface.

  Something brushed up against Davis. She panicked for a moment, thinking at first it was an infected, or worse, a juvenile. The creatures were known to be expert swimmers. But as she kicked away, nothing tried to pull her beneath the surface.

  Just a fish, she told herself. Get a grip.

  She could see the ladder hanging from the deck ahead. Only about a hundred yards separated her from the ship. Paul Conway, the chief engineer, still hung from the jagged piece of metal that had impaled him through his torso. His head was bowed to his chest, at peace now. It hurt her heart that she couldn’t bury her sailors.

  They weren’t people in the end, Rachel. They were monsters.

  No matter how many times she reminded herself of this, she still saw the dead as her friends. She was going to make Wood pay for this, when she finally reached the bastard, and she was going to do it in the worst possible way.

  Determined, Davis kicked harder, glancing over her shoulder every few yards to check on Diaz. Her freckled face was barely above the water now, but the lance corporal’s eyes were steely with determination.

  Davis finally grabbed on to the ladder and pulled herself up. The rungs were slick beneath her soaked boots, and she clutched the bars tightly after securing her rifle over her back. Keeping her M9 in her right hand, she began the climb to the deck.

  Diaz coughed as she made the final stretch, inhaling water. Davis continued climbing, eyes on the prize overhead. Halfway up the ladder, the coughing stopped, replaced by the lap of water against the side of the ship. When she glanced down, bubbles frothed over the area where Diaz had been just a moment earlier.

  “Shit,” Davis said. She waited a second for the lance corporal to surface, hoping she had just cramped up, but when she didn’t appear, Davis started climbing back down.

  She paused on the next rung when she saw the ripple of water about fifty yards out. A rigid white shell like a turtle’s crested the water.

  “No,” Davis choked out. She holstered her pistol and unslung her rifle. Then she looped an arm around a rung and grabbed the rifle with both hands, aiming it at the juvenile that was dragging Diaz away. It was a nearly impossible shot, since the rifle was so heavy and the beast on the move, but she didn’t have time to climb to the deck and set up. Diaz wasn’t going to last that long!

  A head popped above the water and then an arm, flailing wildly. The violent flurry of motion was hard to lock onto, and it took Davis a second to realize it was her friend and not the monster. The juvenile had Diaz pinned under the water.

  The small woman managed to keep her head above for a moment and shout, “Help!”

  Blood flowed from a slash on her freckled face, and her other arm was mangled. Davis did her best to aim, knowing she was only going to get one shot at saving her friend.

  Positioning the scope and steadying her wet boots on the rungs, Davis prepared to fire. One shot to make the juvenile let go of Diaz, and then another for the kill.

  She directed the sights toward the creature, leading it slightly, but captured Diaz’s face instead. Davis locked onto her terrified brown eyes before moving the barrel back to the beast.

  “CAPTAIN!” Diaz shouted.

  “Hold on,” Davis said through clenched teeth, waiting for the right moment to fire a shot. She moved her finger to the trigger and prepared to fire just as the creature pulled Diaz under the water. Waves rippled outward, and within seconds the surface calmed.

  “NO!” Davis shouted. She raked the barrel back and forth over the water for the outer armor of the monster, her arms burning from the weight of the rifle. Taking another step down, she considered jumping in after Diaz, but that, Davis knew, was suicide.

  Her eyes flitted back and forth, searching the murky water for her friend. After a few agonizing minutes, she knew it was too late to help the lance corporal.

  Davis was alone now.

  Another minute passed, and she finally secured her rifle over her back, grabbed the rung above her, and then started climbing back toward the deck. Tears streamed down her face as she moved. They had been so close—so fucking close!

  On the fourth rung, Davis heard a splash. She looped her arm inside a rung again and turned to see the tall, armored figure of a fully grown juvenile emerge from the water, standing in the shallow surf. It was cradling something in its muscular arms like a mother holding a baby: the mangled remains of a human torso.

  Davis swallowed hard and grabbed he rifle. She quickly zoomed in on the monstrosity standing in the surf, anger pulsing through her veins. It pulled its sucker lips off what was left of Diaz, ribbons of flesh hanging off razor-sharp teeth.

  The beast glared at Davis with eyes darker than a tar pit. For a fleeting moment, they stared at each other, or perhaps into each other’s souls, human versus nature’s most magnificent killing machine, neither of them backing down.

  Davis was the first to act. She pulled the trigger and slipped in the process. The round punched into the beach, kicking up sand. She held on to the rung with her arm, muscles screaming from the exertion.

  Stupid, stupid.

  She fought to get her right boot back on the rungs. The abomination let out a screech and scrambled away for the ruins of Fort Pickens, leaving Diaz’s remains behind.

  Davis managed to regain her footing and raise her rifle again, but the beast was already moving into the old fortress, and at this distance, she would just be wasting ammo. Before she could stop it, the bile rose in her throat and she threw up over the side of the ladder into the dark water. She wiped off her mouth, slung her rifle over her back, and continued climbing.

  She had a mission to complete, and she was the only one left to do it.

  A few minutes later, Captain Rachel Davis, the only survivor of the GW, pulled herself onto the deck and limped toward another ladder that led to the island, the command center for flight operations. She had a message to deliver to the president of the United States: The USS George Washington was back in the hands of the United States Navy.

  Ringo ran along the railing, squeezed through the window of the fifth-floor apartment, bolted right up Piero’s arm, and sat on his shoulder.

  “You see anything out there, little buddy?” Piero asked.

  The mouse sniffed the air, his way of saying the coast was clear. Piero knew that Ringo wasn’t really talking to him. The mouse wasn’t smart enough for that, but if there were mutated Variants outside, Ringo would have darted into a hole instead of climbing onto Piero’s shoulder.

  “I’m not crazy,” he said out loud. “I just like to talk to you.”

  Ringo did not reply.

  Piero picked up his Beretta ARX160 assault rifle and checked the magazine even though he knew it was fully loaded. It was an anxious tic that he had developed over the past few months.

  “Time to move, Ringo,” Piero said. He pushed the kitchen door open cautiously, doing his best not to make any noise. Then he moved out onto the tiny balcony that was crowded with ceramic pots. Flowers and vines grew up the side of the building’s cracked stone exterior, eating at the veneer, as they had done for over a century.

  This had been someone’s oasis before the war. The plants were now overgrown and covered with Reaver waste. A human femur bone protruded out of a muddy pile.

  It looked fresh, still swathed with gristle.

  Piero pointed his rifle at the tile roof above, just to make sure there weren’t any monsters perched there. Sections of tile were broken away where the beasts had once landed, but the roof was clear.

  He turned back to the city to search for anything that might be prowling the skies. Historic buildings lined the horizon. From this vantage point, he had a breathtaking view of the city’s landmarks. Castel Sant’Angelo was to the west. The Vatican and St. Peter’s Basilica were just beyond that. One of his favorites, the Colosseum, was just three blocks away. Ancient arched entrances defined the
ruins of the three-story stone structure. He had only been inside the amphitheater a few times in his life, but today he was making the trip again.

  He set off down the twisting fire ladder to the cobblestone street with the mouse still sitting on his shoulder. Several small cars stood where they had been abandoned months earlier. Debris covered the sidewalk where a food cart had spilled its contents.

  Piero cradled his rifle across his chest. He wasn’t sure what good it would do against the newly mutated monsters, but he felt better having the weapon.

  Just before he got to the street, the wail of a Reaver echoed through the city. When the Reaver was answered by another call, Piero realized it was a message.

  Varianti. Two of them.

  The beasts had been communicating more frequently over the past few days. Piero had only a rudimentary knowledge of biology, but he had a feeling the calls were a kind of language. Were they smart enough to talk to one another?

  He hurried down the ladder and took up position under the shadows of an awning. Ringo had the right idea, climbing down Piero’s shoulder and into his pocket to hide. No matter how hard Piero tried to flatten his body against the wall, he was still exposed in the sunlight.

  He pulled his boots back into the shadows and scanned the sky for the monsters, ready to fight or flee at a moment’s notice. The otherworldly cry came again, but it was farther off this time, somewhere in the direction of the Vatican.

  The Varianti were on the move, and so was Piero. He stepped out from under the awning cautiously to look for contacts, and then set off for a narrow alleyway tucked between two apartment buildings across the street.

  Piero had never taken this route before, but he’d seen a stairway leading to another street below. The Colosseum wasn’t far.

  He bolted for the alley after a final skyward glance. He made it across the street and slipped into the alleyway, where water dripped from a fountain and flowed down the stairs.

  Ringo chirped at him to stop, and Piero let the mouse down to drink. He didn’t risk filling his bottle with the water. It might be contaminated, and the last thing he needed was the shits.

  As they neared the bottom of the steps, Piero saw the next street was littered with police cars and military vehicles. He remembered this place now, the site of an earlier battle. Several bodies rested where they had met their doom months ago. They were all picked dry, nothing but tattered clothing and skeletal remains. The last time Piero had seen them, there had still been flesh on the bones of most of the corpses.

  He checked the sky several times, raising his hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. It was clear, but he hesitated, performing several scans of the street and buildings for whatever mutated monsters might be hiding here.

  Stay focused and stay alive.

  He repeated it to himself in his mind, never forgetting that a single mistake, a second’s lapse in concentration, meant death. Even when he was exhausted, he would keep his eyes and ears alert for any sign of the monsters hunting him.

  The wails of the monsters and the flap of wings were absent, and the sky, streets, and buildings were all clear. There was only the whistle of the wind in a city that had been a hot spot for tourists and travelers for centuries.

  He longed to hear a human voice. Talking to the EUF operators wasn’t the same, and despite Ringo’s friendship, Piero felt a void that the mouse couldn’t fill. He’d made a promise to Ringo to find a mouse colony at some point. Or was it rats that lived in colonies? Piero wasn’t sure, but eventually he would find a good home for his furry little companion.

  Most creatures should be with their own kind. It wasn’t good to be alone.

  He hurried across the intersection and moved one block closer to the Colosseum. It was just on the other side of the next street. Behind him was Palatine Hill, the place where he had seen the Beetle monster emerge from the cocoon.

  The mouse pushed its pink nose into the air and sniffed. Before the creature could protest, Piero grabbed him and stuffed him into his vest pocket.

  “Sorry, little buddy, this is for the best.”

  Ringo safely inside his pocket, Piero set off to cross the street, keeping low and alert. The Colosseum rose above them, casting arched shadows over the street.

  Piero ran past a police car, noting its charcoaled exterior riddled with bullet holes. The Italian military had attempted to defend citizens seeking refuge in the Colosseum many months ago.

  The Varianti had won.

  The Varianti always won.

  Piero stopped halfway across the road and took a knee behind a military truck. He peeked around the corner to look for a way into the building. The ancient site’s twelve-foot metal fence was already down, but he would still have to cross over the razor wire that topped it.

  He took off running and leaped over the coils of wire. His boot snagged, but he made it over the top and continued running under an arched ceiling.

  Three stories of concrete and stone towered above him as he stepped into the shadowed mezzanine. Piero shouldered his rifle and swept it back and forth over the passage, listening for the click-clack of joints or the screeches of the Reavers. He habitually checked the ceiling every time he entered a structure, after seeing the creatures nesting like bats under the domed roof of St. Peter’s Basilica.

  There was nothing on the ceiling and no sign of droppings on the floor.

  He continued up a staircase, moving heel to toe, trying not to make any noise. Ringo stirred inside his vest pocket but kept silent. The mouse knew the drill.

  They advanced through the dim vestibule toward the entrance of the amphitheater. Rays of light shone through the arched doorway ahead.

  He stopped just shy of the entrance to take in the view. Thousands of spectators had once watched violent battles here. The structure was said to hold up to fifty thousand people, but every time Piero had been here, the Colosseum seemed too small for that.

  He carefully made his way through the entrance, where he stepped in sticky white goo. He scraped his boot on the floor to remove the tarlike substance.

  The remains of a cocoon hung from the ceiling. The skin was flayed open, and whatever had plopped out was long gone.

  He followed the gooey streak out into the amphitheater. The brilliant glow of the sun blinded him, and he squinted, his rifle still pushed against the sweet spot of his shoulder. When his vision cleared, he had a view of the arcades. He took it all in, scanning every floor, row, and arch in the arena where so many men and beasts had fought to the death.

  Ringo chirped, and Piero quickly put his hand against his pocket to silence the mouse. Collapsed tents, trash, and clothing littered the bottom of the amphitheater where civilians had sought refuge during the early days of the outbreak. But the corpses were all gone now, replaced by the remains of cocoons that had disgorged mutated Variants.

  It didn’t take Piero long to see where the beasts had gone. The gooey trails led down the seats, into the battle arena, and across the dirt to a large iron gate that stood ajar.

  “No,” he breathed. “Not down there.”

  Ringo squirmed inside Piero’s pocket again. The mouse might not have been able to understand what was happening, but it must have sensed something was wrong. After all this time, Piero and his friend were going to have to go back underground to find the demons.

  He aimed his rifle at the gate and set off down the stairs, his head held high, like a gladiator preparing for battle.

  7

  The MATV wasn’t just their transportation; it was going to be Team Ghost’s living space for the intermediate future. They had everything but a kitchen sink and shower inside the armored vehicle—so much gear and armor that the King Stallion helicopter carrying them through the dark skies was struggling for altitude.

  Colonel Bradley hadn’t been lying when he said his engineers had added armor to the vehicle. They had welded large plates over the already two-inch-thick armor in several strategic spots, including the hood. It w
ould stop an acid attack from the juveniles and protect Team Ghost against any suicidal Reavers that decided to nosedive into the truck.

  The black paint had been Fitz’s idea, however, as was the Team Ghost logo of a skull surrounded by smoke on the hood. He doubted it would scare off any Variants, but it sure made him proud.

  Rico twisted her blue-tipped hair with one hand and gripped the steering wheel with the other. Fitz had reassigned her to the driver’s seat for this mission due to Stevenson’s injuries.

  She reached into her vest pocket and dug out a piece of gum.

  “You got any for me?” Stevenson asked from the back seat. He sat between Dohi and Tanaka. Apollo was resting on the floor at their feet.

  Rico shook her head. “I’m down to my last pack— sorry.”

  “And here I was thinking you had an endless supply,” Fitz said.

  He turned his attention to the sky. The hazy clouds stretched across his field of vision. Two Apaches flanked the MATV, and even though he couldn’t see them, it felt good to know they were there. But Fitz also knew they would need more than some Hellfire missiles and .50-caliber rounds if the Reavers showed up. That was why they were flying at a higher altitude, hopefully out of reach. If Fitz had to guess, he would put them somewhere around five thousand feet above sea level.

  Of course, if the steel cords connected to the MATV snapped, the fall would crush everyone inside the vehicle, regardless of its thick armor.

  Fitz was trying not to think about it. He looked out the passenger’s window at the checkered farmland below. Motion distracted him a moment later, his heart flipping at the silhouette in the clouds to the right.

  He reached for the M4 propped next to the MK11 on his right but hesitated before sounding an alarm. The shape in the clouds was too big to be a Reaver—it had to be one of the Apaches.

  He relaxed and pushed the black bead of his mini-mic to his lips. “Raptor One, Ghost One. How far are we from the target?”