Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Although he was covered in mud, Garcia still felt naked. He was in the open. Plunging into this swamp had been a last resort. They would never have made it across the construction zone, though. He flinched at the hiss of static from his earpiece.

  “Hotel One, Fox One. Over.”

  The transmission was the first good sign he’d heard all morning. It meant Command hadn’t given up on them. They’d been forced to go silent for hours, and had missed two radio checks. A flicker of hope rose where Garcia used to have a heart. He slowly lifted his helmet and watched the Variant until it finally climbed up the metal beams and disappeared into the guts of the structure.

  Think, Garcia. You have to use your fucking head.

  He took two seconds to manage his breathing and look for an escape. They were east of the stadium and north of Georgia Ave. Martin Street ran perpendicular, and beyond that was a neighborhood of luxury apartments. If they could get there, they might have a chance to ride it out. Then again, he wasn’t sure what they would find inside.

  He tilted his head to the west, where a storm drain beckoned him. He didn’t like the idea of going underground, but the tunnel would reduce the likelihood of an ambush from multiple directions. It would also reduce the chances of finding Tank and Thomas. They could still be alive. Although their radio silence meant they were either pinned down, like he was, or else they were dead.

  First Daniels and Morgan in the Keys, now Tank and Thomas. Garcia resisted the urge to punch the mud. His men. His friends. The Variant Hunters were slowly being eradicated.

  And if Garcia didn’t want to join them, he had to make a move. He slowly craned his helmet toward the drain. He didn’t need to look to see Stevo nod. The corporal was waiting for his orders.

  Pushing at the slop, Garcia rose to his knees, letting his M4 dangle across his chest. He scooped up a handful of mud and smeared it across his face. Stevo was doing the same thing. When they finished, they ran in a hunch toward the storm drain opening, their boots slurping through the muck.

  With every stride, Garcia expected to hear the high-pitched roar of a Variant, or the popping of jointed appendages, but the only thing he heard was the distant rumble of thunder. Stevo didn’t hesitate when he got to the lip of the tunnel. He ducked inside with his SAW in front. Garcia followed close behind, sweeping his M4 over the narrow space. A steady stream of water rushed past their boots and spilled out into the swampy construction site.

  Stevo flashed an advance signal, and they continued into the drain until they were far enough in that only a sliver of light penetrated the darkness. Trickling water echoed off the concrete walls. Garcia sniffed the air like one of the monsters to check for the scent of rotting fruit, but he only picked up the sour stink of his own sweat.

  Garcia waited several minutes before he felt comfortable breaking radio silence.

  “Hotel Three and Four, Hotel One. Over.”

  The frustrating hiss of white noise filled his earpiece.

  “Fox One, Hotel One. Over.”

  Stevo scratched at his beard of mud. “Out of range?”

  Garcia looked down the tunnel back toward the construction zone. The walls were blocking the signal, but he couldn’t go back out there and risk the Variants spotting him. There was only one option—to continue into the bowels of Atlanta.

  “Let’s keep moving,” Garcia whispered. “On me.” He raised his rifle and motioned for Stevo to follow.

  Thunder clapped in the distance, the sound spilling into the tunnel and reverberating like a gong. As they worked their way deeper, the natural light dwindled until Garcia couldn’t see five feet in front of him. He stopped and clicked his NVGs into position. The green-hued darkness emerged across his field of vision, enveloping him from all sides.

  Garcia marched forward, his senses on full alert. Every hundred feet he stopped to listen for Variants, but there was only the trickle of water and intermittent growls of thunder. A few minutes later, the walls curved into a junction. Light streamed through a manhole and spread across the pooling water cascading from the street.

  He stopped and balled his hand into a fist. The missing manhole cover meant one thing—the Variants used this tunnel to move under the city. What would have sent a chill up his spine weeks ago didn’t even faze Garcia. He knew the monsters used the passages, and could be dwelling inside this one. Every move he made was a risk.

  Garcia pointed to his eyes, then to Stevo, then to the open manhole. They quietly worked their way through the ankle deep water until they were directly under the opening.

  Stevo cleared the right side of the corridor, and Garcia took the left. Both tunnels continued into a black oblivion. He flipped off his NVGs and angled his M4 toward the street above. Clouds rolled overhead, drops of rain splattering on his face. He blinked away the water and grabbed the bottom rung of the skeletal ladder.

  “I’m going to see if I can raise Tank and Thomas,” Garcia said. “Hold here.”

  Stevo winked and raised his SAW. Garcia checked both ends of the tunnel and then continued climbing up the ladder. He stopped just shy of poking his helmet into the street. Directly overhead, a web of lightning sizzled through the clouds. The electric blue light lingered, and thunder clapped like a grenade exploding. Dull echoes followed, booming and fading. Garcia waited for the cacophony to pass, then inched his helmet through the opening to scan the street with naked eyes. An abandoned pickup truck blocked his view to the west, and a squad car blocked the view to the east. To the north there was a sign that read Reed Street SE.

  He flicked his mini-mic into position.

  “Hotel Three and Four, this is Hotel One. Over.”

  Another network of lightning tore through the clouds, masking a faint reply. Garcia cupped his right hand over his earpiece.

  “Hotel Three—”

  Tank’s voice cut Garcia off. “Hotel One, Hotel Three. Over.”

  Garcia held back a grin. The Variant Hunters were still in business. “What’s your location, Three?”

  “A church on Martin Street South East. Over.”

  “Roger, Three. We’re at Reed Street South East.”

  “Roger. There’s a park two blocks to your east. Good for extraction, One?”

  “Copy that, we’ll—”

  A flash of motion below stopped Garcia mid-sentence. Stevo roved his SAW back and forth as if he was searching for something. Then he took a step out of view.

  “Yo, Stevo,” Garcia whispered. “I said hold—”

  “Contact!”

  Garcia squeezed the rung of the ladder before sliding down. The second his boots hit the water, Stevo opened fire. Even with the AAC silencer reducing the muzzle flash, it still lit up the shapes of a half dozen Variants advancing down the tunnel. The larger creatures galloped through the water, while the smaller ones took to the walls and ceiling. Long, stalky appendages moved in the staccato light of muzzle flashes. Swollen lips opened, releasing tortured screeches. The abominations raced forward, bringing with them the putrid scent of rotting fruit.

  “Fall back!” Garcia yelled. His earpiece crackled, but he couldn’t make out Tank’s transmission. He pulled on the back of Stevo’s flak jacket and guided him to the ladder.

  “Come on, you freaks!” Stevo yelled. He fired steady, short bursts. The 5.56 mm rounds pierced flesh and shattered bone, splattering the passage with crimson gore. He picked the monsters off one by one, his muzzle raking back and forth in methodical sweeps. Outside of combat, Stevo was the quietest man Garcia had ever met, but in battle, the youngest member of the Variant Hunters was a fucking beast.

  “Ten...eleven...twelve,” Stevo shouted, keeping track of his kills. The flashes from his SAW illuminated his features, which had transformed from a passive good ol’ Southern boy into a raging sociopath.

  “Move it, Marine!” Garcia shouted. He jerked Stevo away from the fight and turned to the ladder when the popping of joints sounded behind them. Without his NVGs in position, he couldn’t see the Variants
, but he could hear the snapping in the brief pauses between Stevo’s suppressed gunfire and tormented shrieks of the dying creatures.

  They’d never make it up the ladder if they didn’t clear these monsters first. Garcia gritted his teeth, aimed his M4, and fired into the darkness. A hellish noise followed as the rounds punched through meat. He came back to back with Stevo, bullet casings plopping into the water at their boots.

  “Changing!” Garcia yelled.

  Stevo was screaming like a madman now, going cyclic on the Variants as they charged down the tunnel. Garcia continued firing as the silhouetted creatures came into view. He counted five, but they were just the advance guard. Others quickly flooded the passage behind them. The gunfire would draw others from the city. It was only a matter of time before Garcia and Stevo were overrun.

  Once again, he had broken the cardinal rule. The Variant Hunters were fucking compromised.

  In the chaos, an image of Ashley emerged in Garcia’s mind. She was holding their daughter, Leslie, her big blue eyes staring down at their beautiful gift from God. The flashback ended as soon as it begun, and in its place came the gaping maw of a Variant that had made it through the shots without losing more than an ear.

  Garcia shot it in the kneecap and finished the last three rounds of his magazine, each tearing away a chunk of the beast until it crashed to the ground. Behind it, a solid mass of distorted figures approached. His earpiece crackled again as he flipped magazines and fired at the approaching monsters. Several of the Variants darted into the spray, absorbing the rounds.

  What the hell?

  In the past, the creatures had shown lack of discipline, especially the starving ones, but this was different. As he fired again, two more of the Variants broke off from the mass and into his fire. They crashed to the water, thrashing and shrieking.

  In the gap between bloody limbs and emaciated bodies, the misshapen skull of the biggest Variant Garcia had ever seen came into focus. The beast was as big as a lineman, with huge chest muscles and thick abs rimming its wide torso. It ambled forward, protected by the wave of frail monsters surrounding it. One by one they broke off from the pack, using their diseased bodies as shields to protect the beast.

  This was an Alpha, like the one he’d seen at Turner Field, but it dwarfed the other leaders he’d encountered. He had never seen one this fucking big before.

  “Stevo, we got to move!”

  “Almost clear, Sarge!”

  Garcia held in a breath, lined up the crosshairs, and waited for a shot.

  Come on, just one.

  The beast’s head moved into his scope and he pulled the trigger. The shot clipped its neck, a geyser of blood squirting over the monsters on its right. The Alpha roared and reached up, clamping its right palm over the wound.

  The other Variants came together in a phalanx to protect their leader, and the entire pack halted. Garcia didn’t waste the opportunity to escape.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted, grabbing the ladder. Stevo fired off another shot, then followed him.

  Garcia climbed the wet rungs as fast as he could, his gaze locked on the churning storm clouds above. His earpiece crackled again.

  “Sarge, what the hell is happening?”

  “We’re—” Garcia choked on his words. He froze at the sight of a Variant that had clambered right up to the edge of the open manhole not four feet above. Before it had a chance to react, Garcia pulled his side arm and shot it between its yellow eyes. A chunk of skull and spongy, wet brain matter rained down on Garcia’s face, blinding him with gore.

  He never saw the monster tumble, but he felt every pound as it crashed into him, knocking his grip loose from the slippery rungs. He didn’t even have a chance to scream as he fell backward and smashed into Stevo.

  The plunge felt like a time warp. He blinked away the blood in his eyes. At the rim of the manhole opening, a trio of Variants appeared. They stared down at him, lips popping as he fell. A second later, he crashed to the ground, Stevo taking the brunt of the crash.

  The impact knocked the air out of Garcia’s lungs. He rolled off Stevo and tried to push himself to his feet, but the pain was too intense. His body was in shock. Swirling red and the skeletal figures of Variants rushed across his vision.

  Garcia fumbled for his sidearm, but his hand came up empty.

  “Stevo,” he groaned.

  The only reply was the squawking of the Variants surrounding them. The packs closed in from both sides, and the Alpha Garcia had shot in the neck broke from the wall of monsters. Blood gushed down the side of its glistening chest, but the wound didn’t seem to slow the beast. It staggered forward, stopped, and rotated to slash at the creatures behind it. When it turned, Garcia saw what it took to rise to the top of the Variant hierarchy. The beast’s back was covered in lacerations and long scars.

  Garcia grabbed his knife and pulled the blade from its sheath. He fought the pain lancing down his legs, desperate to survive, to fight. He had thought he was ready to die and join his family, but lying in the water, surrounded by the monsters, he felt the undeniable grip of fear that came before death. He had seen it in the eyes of Marines in countless situations, and now, if he could see his own eyes, he knew they would have the same look.

  This time he didn’t say a prayer or a repeat any motto. Words wouldn’t save him—only steel. He gripped the handle of his knife as the beast whirled back toward him and dropped to all fours. Clambering forward, it moved to Stevo first, sniffing his still body. Then it moved to Garcia, climbing over the top of him and holding itself up with muscular, jointed arms tattooed with scars. The membrane over its reptilian eyes clicked rapidly.

  Behind it, the group of shrieking Variants surged forward, their bulging lips wide open, starving and desperate. The Alpha hovering over Garcia craned its head, and Garcia seized the moment. He drove the knife toward the monster’s glistening neck, but it caught the blade in its right hand, the blade slicing through skin and gristle with a crunch. The creature leaned back, screeching, then brought the butt of its bald skull down on Garcia.

  The blow hit him in the nose, shattering cartilage and clouding his vision with stars. His helmet snapped off and clanked over the concrete.

  Squawks and shrieks came from all directions as the creatures closed in. Somewhere, over all of the noise, there was a hissing. But there was no way he could hear his headset. This was something else.

  “Stevo,” Garcia mumbled. He reached for the Marine, then for his helmet. He couldn’t lose it, the pictures of his family...

  A pair of claws gripped Garcia’s ankles, piercing his flesh and prompting a wave of adrenaline that cleared his vision. Two Variants dragged him through the water. The Alpha walked alongside, its slitted eyes locked on its prey.

  Garcia reached for his other knife, a switchblade he kept on his belt. The motion earned him a kick to the ribs. Talons tore across his flak jacket as the beast kicked him again. He coughed and sucked in a breath, his lungs struggling for air. The stars came back, then the encroaching red, and just before he lost consciousness, he saw the things emerge from the small army of emaciated Variants.

  There were six of the hissing, armored children, all of them sitting on their hind legs, their cone shaped heads tilting and their almond-shaped eyes studying, scrutinizing...

  Learning.

  -10-

  Kate massaged the side of Beckham’s hand with her thumb. Team Ghost may have been instructed to stand down, but she still had a plan. If General Johnson attempted to arrest Beckham, she was going to refuse to work on Operation Extinction. And considering she was the architect behind the science, she figured that would tip the scales back in their favor. Plus, Team Ghost had the future President of the United States on their side.

  In less than ten minutes, Plum Island had transformed into what Kate imagined a real combat base looked like. General Johnson’s men, dressed in blue navy fatigues, were busy disarming the Marines and Rangers stationed throughout the island. They swarmed
onto the lawn, fanning out and shouting, “Lower your weapons!”

  Four of the men hustled over to the steps of Building 1, where they stopped and waited for a middle-aged man with a handsome face, chiseled jawline, and buzzed gray hair. He approached with the muzzle of his rifle angled toward the ground, but the others had theirs aimed at the landing. Kate’s heart flipped when two of the men slowly approached the steps. Beckham gripped her hand tighter.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. Apollo brushed up between them, his teeth bared.

  The man with gray hair held up both of his hands and continued walking toward the landing. “Secretary Ringgold, I’m Lieutenant Brock Rowe of the United States Navy, and we’re here to escort you back to the George Washington Strike Group. The rest of you, please hand over your rifles to my men.” His gaze shifted from face to face, stopping on Beckham. “Master Sergeant Beckham, I presume.”

  Beckham loosened his grip on Kate’s hand and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Horn and Chow moved in Kate’s peripheral vision. Riley’s hand went for his pistol, but Ringgold stood completely still and replied, “Lieutenant, with all due respect, I’m not going anywhere until I speak with General Johnson.”

  “That’s fine, ma’am,” Rowe replied. “But I need Master Sergeant Beckham and the members of Team Ghost to come with me.” There was measured restraint in his voice.

  “Master Sergeant Beckham is not going anywhere,” Ringgold said. “You may disarm him and Team Ghost, but they are staying with me.”

  Rowe lowered his hands and motioned for his men to proceed. They slowly advanced up the steps, one of them bumping into Kate. She turned as a soldier reached for Horn’s SAW. The operator spat on the ground and glared at Beckham, who nodded back. Grunting, Horn pushed his weapon into the soldier’s chest.