Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  Apparently the lieutenant had made a pit stop to gather some extra gear. He attracted the attention of a sinewy creature still wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. It jerked toward him, every limb seeming to contort as it tilted its head and snarled.

  Beckham lined up the sights on its back as it gave chase. A burst of 5.56-millimeter rounds punched through flesh and painted the ground with infected blood. He fired a single shot that hit it in the skull once it was down, silencing it before it could cry out.

  Flathman stopped at the next gate and unlocked it.

  So far, so good.

  The shrieks around the outpost disguised the clatter from his suppressed M4, and Beckham shifted the barrel toward the three beasts stalking around the Humvee. They all looked at Flathman, yellow eyes homing in on the soldier.

  The largest of the bunch, a male with a heavy gut covered in blue veins, let out a screech just as Beckham fired a shot into its puckered lips. The beast collapsed to the ground face first. The females flanking the dead monster dropped to all fours and darted away. They used their back legs to propel their naked bodies after Flathman. Beckham led them with the sights of his scope and fired a shot that hit one in the rib cage, throwing her off-kilter. She tumbled across the dirt. His next shot missed, kicking up dirt in front of the beast making a run for Flathman.

  The creature was almost on him, but Flathman didn’t turn to fight. He was trusting Beckham to take the shot. He squeezed off three shots, the second trimming the monster’s skull. The female collapsed inches from the duffel bag.

  Flathman picked up his gear and grinned at Beckham. Then he turned and hurried over to the bottom of the guard tower inside the second fenced-in area. Beckham didn’t see any beasts inside the zone. The others outside the building must have all used the exit near the machine shed.

  So why the hell was Flathman going after this entrance? Unless he was trying to stop them from getting under the third section …

  “Smart thinking, Lieutenant,” Beckham whispered.

  Flathman moved under the guard tower and got down on his knees outside the hatch. He set the duffel bag down and pulled out a car battery and what looked like a land mine. He spent a few minutes fiddling with the materials and finally lit the rag hanging out of the vodka bottle.

  Flathman reached for the hatch and opened it just as a pair of infected hands shot out, grabbing him by the arm. He pulled back, and Beckham squeezed off a shot that hit the monster in the temple.

  Blood and gore exploded onto Flathman’s face.

  He spat and dragged his sleeve across his mouth, still holding the burning Molotov cocktail.

  “Shit,” Beckham whispered, pushing the scope away. The lieutenant remained on his knees for a moment before dropping the vodka bottle inside the hatch. Then he placed the car battery and mine inside.

  “Get out of there,” Beckham whispered.

  Flathman pushed himself to his feet and then shut the hatch over the tunnel. He retreated to the gate, but instead of walking through, he closed it and locked it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Beckham pushed the scope back to his good eye and zoomed in on Flathman’s face. It was covered in so many flecks of gore that it looked like a pepperoni pizza.

  “Oh God,” Beckham said, realizing what he’d done.

  Flathman raised a hand and traced a finger across his neck—a request that no soldier ever wanted to receive from a brother. Beckham had already doomed Flathman with the messy shot that splattered inflected blood on his face, and now the lieutenant wanted Beckham to finish the job.

  He aimed the sights on Flathman’s heart and moved his finger to the trigger. An explosion boomed in the tunnel. Dirt caved into the earth, and flames spewed outward.

  Lieutenant Jim Flathman rolled away from the blast, his fatigues catching fire. He did indeed have one last trick up his sleeve, but in the end, it looked as if the officer had run out of lives, using up his tenth to save Beckham’s.

  13

  Davis could hear the chatter between the Seahawk pilots, but it was just white noise, like the rotors and crackle of static in her new comm-link earpiece. Her mind and heart were still back at the GW with the remains of her crew—her friends, her family, all of their lives had been destroyed by the actions of a madman.

  The Seahawk had been flying north for over an hour now, but time, like the voices in the cockpit, was lost to Davis. She had received a quick briefing when the SEALs picked her up, but she was having a hard time paying attention to anything.

  Across the troop hold sat Senior Chief Petty Officer Randall Blade, helmet bowed. Davis had spent years picking up on the subtle signs of emotion in posture and expression—a shaky hand, a twitch of an eye, a lowered helmet like Blade’s.

  Davis recalled a similar sight just a week into the outbreak, when she had led a rescue mission with more than two dozen soldiers. Only four of them had made it back, and the survivors they had attempted to rescue had perished, dragged beneath the city streets and entombed in a Variant meat locker.

  The SEALs around her were just as tired, broken, and scared as she was.

  Blade looked up and caught her gaze. He crab-walked over to Davis. He took a seat next to her and pulled out a water bottle.

  “You look more tired than a nerd after pulling an all-nighter.”

  She raised a brow. “Interesting analogy.”

  Blade shrugged it off. “I have another one about the prom queen, but …”

  “Yeah, probably not a good idea. I was the prom queen.”

  “Well, damn, Captain.” He laughed and pushed the water bottle toward her. “Splash some on your face. Trust me. It will help.”

  She pulled off her gloves and palmed water onto her flushed cheeks. Blade reached into his collar and pulled off a black shemagh.

  “For your face,” he said.

  She couldn’t see her reflection, but if her filthy uniform was any indication, her face was covered in a layer of shit. Her clothing reeked of body odor and death—something she had gotten used to over the past few days.

  “Thanks,” she said, low enough that he probably couldn’t even hear her over the rotors. She wet the scarf and wiped the muck from her face, a combination of mud, blood, and sweat.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  She took a swig of water and nodded. “You got a sitrep?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Davis cracked her neck from side to side and tried to get her head back in the game.

  “President Ringgold has been moved to the USS Abraham Lincoln, sailing two hundred miles to the east,” he said. “As you know, SEAL Team Four has been tasked with finding Captain Reed Beckham and Lieutenant Jim Flathman at Outpost Forty-Six. Command made the decision not to warn them we’re coming, for fear that ROT would intercept the message.”

  Davis recognized the name of the outpost, a memory surfacing. “I’ve been there, back before Operation Earthfall. Impressive place. Let’s hope it’s still intact and our boys are still there.”

  Senior Chief Blade nodded and continued the briefing. “Once we evacuate them from Outpost Forty-Six, we will head to the White House at the Greenbrier, in West Virginia, to infiltrate the PEOC and determine the fate of Vice President George Johnson. He’s the key to stopping Lieutenant Wood.”

  He glanced at her for a moment, sizing her up. At least that’s what she figured he was doing, checking to make sure she wasn’t too broken after blowing up her own goddamn ship.

  “You can count on me,” she assured him.

  “I know, Captain, and you can count on us. Let me introduce you to my men.” Blade jerked his chin at each man as he introduced them. “This is our medic, Petty Officer Third Class Brandon Melnick.”

  The SEAL scratched at his beard and nodded. He had sharp green eyes like Davis’s.

  “This is Petty Officer Third Class John Tandy,” Blade said, gesturing to the second man on his left. Tandy was by far the tallest of the group. He raised a gloved hand. />
  “Next are Petty Officer Second Class Robert Larson and Chief Petty Officer Dave Watson.”

  Larson and Watson nodded. They were similar in appearance, with athletic builds, tan skin, and mustaches. Each carried an MK16 fitted with an Advanced Armament Corporation SCAR suppressor and an Aimpoint CompM4 sight.

  “Finally we have Petty Officer First Class Andrew ‘Papa Smurf’ Dixon.”

  Dixon was the shortest of the group, which Davis assumed had something to do with his nickname. He was the only SEAL to offer a reassuring smile, and Davis forced herself to return the gesture. It was good to be back in the company of the SEALs. The men were some of the finest warriors on the planet, and they were going to be vital assets in her eventual mission to find and kill Wood.

  Blade looked toward the cockpit. “That’s Colonel Pressfield and Captain Omstead,” he said. “Call signs are Scorpion One and Two.”

  The crew chief sitting at the other end of the troop hold raised a hand when Blade pointed in his direction.

  “That’s Ronaldo,” Blade said.

  Davis nodded at the crew chief and looked back at Blade. “How far out are we?”

  “Not far,” Blade replied. “Should be there shortly.”

  Davis took a final swig from the water bottle and handed it back to Blade.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  Davis tucked the bottle into her pocket and rested her helmet on the vibrating bulkhead. It was amazing what a clean face and a few sips of water did to lessen her anxiety. But as soon as she closed her eyes, images of monsters surfaced. She saw her crew, of course, but there were other familiar faces in the horde. She pictured her husband, Blake, and her nephew, Ollie, transformed into hideous, sucker-faced infected. She had left them behind when the outbreak happened, sailing away on the GW while they remained holed up in her tiny apartment.

  She hoped they’d died quickly, or at least that they’d lost themselves the moment the infection took hold. She couldn’t imagine how horrible it would be, knowing that you were turning into a monster but being unable to stop it.

  She lost herself in the memories, slipping away until Colonel Pressfield reported they were coming up on the target.

  “Lock and load, boys,” Blade said. He handed Davis a new M4, while his men palmed magazines into their weapons and finalized their gear prep. “And ladies,” he amended.

  “Thanks,” she said with a smirk.

  “I have no idea what we’re going to find at Outpost Forty-Six, but better to be prepared,” Blade said.

  She grabbed the carbine and slapped in a fresh magazine. A few minutes later, the helicopter began its descent through the clouds.

  “Target sighted,” said one of the pilots.

  “Holy shit,” added the other. “You better have a look at this, Captain Davis.”

  Most of SEAL Team Four moved to get a view out of the windows, while Blade and Davis maneuvered into the cockpit. Pillars of smoke rose from a fire burning under a guard tower centered in the base.

  “Looks like trouble,” Blade said.

  “Where the fuck did all of those Variants come from?” Melnick asked over the comms.

  Davis stared at the base. Its three rows of electric fences were surrounded by hundreds of the beasts.

  “Hand me your binos,” she said to Blade.

  He gave her the binoculars, and she zoomed in on the southern side of the fence. But what she saw wasn’t the Variants she was used to. These beasts were bleeding from their eyes and ears.

  “Infected,” she said. “Those are all newly infected!”

  “What?” Blade said, reaching for the binos to see for himself.

  “Looks like hostiles inside,” said Captain Omstead, pointing down.

  Davis spotted the beasts inside the third fenced-in area, but she didn’t see any in the first or second lines of defense. How the hell had those gotten through?

  “Get us closer,” she ordered.

  The pilots dipped lower, providing a better view of the three buildings.

  “Look at that,” Blade said.

  Davis followed his finger to a beast draped in flames, rolling in the dirt. Another creature came running around a shed and slammed into an electric fence. It flew backward from the electric jolt and sprawled on the ground, sizzling.

  “Gunfire on the rooftop at two o’clock,” Blade said.

  Davis leaned closer for a better look. Sure enough, a soldier was lying in a prone position behind a mound of sandbags. The man continued firing at the infected below the buildings without so much as glancing up at the bird. A man that determined could only be Flathman or Beckham. But there was just one man on the rooftop. Where was the other soldier?

  “Anyone got eyes on other survivors?” Davis said.

  “Negative,” reported both of the pilots.

  “I see where those things are coming out,” Blade replied. “Check out that machine shed.”

  Davis pivoted for a better look. Sure enough, one of the burning monsters came crawling out of a hole in the ground. It stomped out the flames and then made a run for the fence behind the concrete building where the soldier was camped out.

  Blade looked to Davis for orders. She had forgotten, briefly, that she was the commanding officer.

  “Keep them away from that soldier,” she said firmly.

  Another monster leaped onto the fence surrounding the building. This one wasn’t zapped and continued climbing.

  “Shit,” she whispered, realization setting in. The power had gone out, and it was only a matter of time before the other barriers fell.

  14

  There were a few memories seared in Fitz’s brain that would never fade. They weren’t happy memories: the moment he got word his brother had been killed by friendly fire, losing his teammates and his legs to an IED in Iraq, hiding under a pile of rotting corpses in New York.

  And now this one: sitting on a rock, staring at the stumps of his legs in the middle of a radioactive wasteland in France.

  Things weren’t looking good for Team Ghost. They were stranded, and they’d lost Stevenson. Their MATV, radio, and CBRN suits had been sucked into the bowels of the earth. Tanaka and Dohi held a perimeter on the outskirts of the woods, waiting. Rico stood nearby, her weapon at the ready. Alecia was stroking Apollo’s coat, while Fitz sat helpless on a boulder and tried to figure out their next move.

  “What are we going to do, Fitzie?” Rico asked. She fiddled with her blue locks as she paced in front of him.

  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

  Fitz immediately regretted his outburst, but the damage was done. Rico’s huge eyes gleamed with hurt, and she turned away to stare at the spot where the MATV had disappeared.

  A few feet away lay the corpse of one of the juveniles. The beast’s oddly humanoid head and misshapen eyes seemed to stare up at Fitz. Ghost had killed all of the monsters that had attacked them, but Fitz had a feeling there were more out there. He could feel their presence, and Apollo could sense them too. The dog’s eyes were alert, roving back and forth while Alecia ran her fingers through his fur.

  “Better start walking,” Dohi said. “Come on, Master Sergeant, I’ll carry you.”

  When Fitz didn’t respond, Rico walked over and hunched down in front of him.

  “Fitzie—Fitz—he’s right. We gotta move,” she said. “Stevenson is dead, and our MATV is gone. If we stay out here, it’s a race to see what kills us first—the Variants or the radiation.”

  Fitz balled his hands into fists. He wanted to scream and lash out and punch the closest tree, or stomp the dead Variant in front of him, but he couldn’t even do that. A wave of despair swept over him. He hadn’t felt this helpless since he’d landed at Walter Reed.

  “I’m falling apart,” he said, so quietly that only Rico could hear him.

  She put her gloved hand on his. “You are stronger than this bullshit,” she said. “You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met. Now let that big Indian pick you up, and then let
’s get moving.”

  Fitz almost laughed. “And you’re the craziest woman I’ve ever met.”

  Before she could answer, Apollo walked over and shoved his snout under their hands, clearly feeling left out.

  “Pack up,” Fitz said. “We’re moving out.”

  Dohi did another sweep of the woods with Tanaka before walking over. Rico grabbed Alecia’s arm and pulled the girl to her feet. The teenager didn’t seem all that rattled by recent events. If anything, she appeared anxious to get back into the fight.

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  Fitz didn’t have an answer. None of them did, so they headed west, with Apollo on point and Dohi carrying Fitz over his back. Tanaka took rear guard, and Rico walked with Alecia in the middle of the group.

  “Stay on the road just in case there are more of those sand traps out there,” Fitz said. He tightened his grip around Dohi’s neck. Being unable to defend himself was probably the worst part of being carried.

  No, he decided. The worst part was feeling like a burden.

  If it came down to it, Fitz would order his team to leave him behind. He wouldn’t be responsible for their deaths. When he’d taken off his blades, he’d known what he was doing—but that was before the MATV had been swallowed.

  “What do you think those things are?” Rico asked. “The sand traps, I mean.”

  “My guess is the Variants created ’em. Remember the beaches at Normandy? They set a trap for our mechanized units,” Tanaka replied.

  “Yeah,” Fitz said. His mind drifted as they walked out of the burned valley. The scent of charcoal floated around them, and ashes fluttered in the moonlight.

  Team Ghost continued up a hill, and Fitz twisted to see the valley they were leaving behind. Alecia looked up at him. There was no hint of fear in the girl’s eyes. She had already lived through so much in her short life. Today was just another day in a world overrun by monsters.

  “Get me a reading with the Geiger counter,” Fitz said.

  Tanaka, who’d taken over the duty from Dohi, pulled the device from his cargo pocket. It ticked so rapidly Fitz didn’t even need to look at it to know they were still in danger.