The White King let out a commanding roar, and the wall of monsters opened once again. Frankie and Scabs wasted no time. They grabbed Garcia under the armpits and dragged him forward.
As Garcia left the chamber, his mind kept coming back to that first word he’d heard the monster Variant speak. This White King had controlled every other monster in the chamber by verbal communication. Even more striking was the fact it was using Stevo as collateral to ensure Garcia brought food back. Somehow, this beast had retained a level of intellect that surpassed any other Garcia had seen. The freaks were getting smarter, and that terrified him more than the thought of being torn apart or even losing another man. Because, in the end, the evolution he had witnessed meant many more Marines were going to die.
“The White King shows you mercy,” Scabs said.
Garcia ignored the man, his thoughts shifted back to the mission. Nothing else had ever been this important. He had to bring the intel back to Command and then return to save Stevo. But before he could, Garcia had unfinished business. He slowly reached for his switchblade and let his body go limp as Scabs and Frankie dragged him out of the chamber.
Two of the men General Johnson left behind at Plum Island were assigned Tower 4 that night. Fitz would have been lying if he said he was disappointed. He hadn’t slept more than three hours straight for days. The comfort of a bed and pillow sounded heavenly. Sometimes it was the simple moments like a warm shower after a cold patrol, or a taste of his favorite food, that made everything worthwhile. Tonight, it was the fleeting moment of safety that General Johnson’s men had provided the island.
Fitz grinned when he thought about what Chow had said. Maybe whoever is in charge will send some pogues to arrest us.
These guys weren’t pogues. Not by a long shot.
They were everywhere. Patrols combed the shoreline and woods. The towers were full, and two choppers with spotlights circled overhead.
Not five minutes after removing his blades and crashing onto his bunk, Fitz felt the veil of fatigue sweep over him. But the peaceful slumber he had hoped for never came. Instead, he was propelled into a dream he knew all too well.
Fitz rode in a Humvee with his squad. Ralphie, Tang, and Jerrod were discussing their sexual experiences, each trying to top the other with their stories. It was a common conversation that Fitz never took part in. The other guys didn’t seem to notice his silence. He watched the tan shanties and dilapidated buildings race by in silence. From all around him, Fitz breathed in the overwhelming scent of body odor. And he couldn’t lift his hand to swat at a buzzing fly. He wanted to shoo it out the window, but his hand wouldn’t move.
A group of Iraqi children carrying books under their arms ran down the side of a dusty road as Ralphie followed the convoy of five military vehicles onto the highway. Once they were out on the open road, with sand dunes blurring by, Fitz started to relax. He pushed his sunglasses back into position and followed the paths of two Apache helicopters racing across the sky.
The other guys were quiet for a few minutes before they started arguing about who got to play Call of Duty when they got back. Fitz heard their voices and saw their faces perfectly. His waking memories were never this clear. It was calming for a moment even though Fitz knew what came next.
When the fly landed on Fitz’s cheek, the panic of the nightmare swept back over him. He willed it to stop, begging his mind to release him. A growing dread filled Fitz as he tried to escape. But it was no use. He was a prisoner to his mind.
Tang had looked in the rear view mirror just as the blast hit the truck. An explosion rocked the vehicle, the concussion barreling into them from the right side. They were rolling across the road a beat later. The roadside bomb had been laced with nails and hunks of jagged metal. One of those shards sliced right through Fitz’s right leg, severing it just above the knee. He never saw what hit his left leg.
Upside down, the stumps squirted blood that smelled like battery acid. The steaming liquid drenched his uniform in seconds, and his entire body quickly went numb. The last thing he saw was Tang’s face stuck to the backseat. The mask of flesh was charcoaled by the heat of the blast.
Fitz awoke gasping for air in the barracks at Plum Island. A Ranger sleeping across the way stirred in his bed, glanced over at Fitz, then rolled on his side. Finally released from the nightmare, he looked down at his missing legs. For a second, phantom pain splashed over his body.
He stilled his breathing, repeating the words that got him through these episodes.
You’re fine, Marine. You can still fight. Nothing can take that away from you.
The moonlight filtering through the window brought with it a sense of relief. The nightmare had ended, but the relief was short lived. The dreams were always so vivid, but when he was awake, he couldn’t picture the faces of the brothers he’d lost, couldn’t hear their voices. The doctors had told him that PTSD could do that sometimes, the memories cauterized like wounds in his mind.
Filled with anxiety, Fitz swung his stumps over the side of the bed and reached down for his blades. He had crashed onto his bed with the hope of a good night’s rest, but instead had been propelled back to one of the worst days of his life.
One thing was certain: sleep would not come again anytime soon. He didn’t have a tower assignment, but he was sure his MK11 could be put to good use somewhere on the island. After securing his blades, Fitz walked to the door, sighed, and stumbled out into the night.
Meg was worried about Riley. Over the past few days she’d seen his anger sparking out of control, from target practice to mouthing off to General Johnson. Now that the rest of Team Ghost had departed, she was concerned he was going to pick a fight. He certainly seemed to be itching for one. And after his attempt to remove his casts, she feared he was also losing his sanity.
Meg had grown to care deeply for him. He was her best friend on Plum Island, one of her only friends left in the world. There was no denying the way he looked at her, or the way she felt when she was with him. She had considered letting those feelings develop, but she was still grieving over the loss of her husband. Friends they were, and just friends they would remain for now, no matter how cute his shit-eating grin and blue eyes were.
It was almost midnight, and Meg studied the stars from the sidewalk outside Building 5. Riley slowly pushed his chair down the path while she crutched beside him. Her arms were tired and her legs hurt, but she wanted to make sure he was okay. He hadn’t said much since the rest of his team had left.
When she was about to say goodnight, the click of metal sounded from nearby. The sound was a familiar one. She didn’t need to turn to see Fitz walking toward them.
“I thought you were going to bed,” Riley said, his voice a bit more chipper.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Fitz replied. “What are you two doing up?” He strode through the light cast by a spotlight, his face pale and haggard.
“Enjoying the night,” she replied.
“Wishing I was out there,” Riley said.
Fitz tucked his fingers between the sling of his rifle and his chest. He looked skyward and then away, the beauty of the stars seeming to have no effect on him. Meg had seen the look before. He was searching for something, but it wasn’t beauty. Both soldiers beside her were dealing with the guilt and trauma of surviving the apocalypse, and Meg realized she was too.
“I’m going to call it a night,” she said.
Riley glanced up. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m tired.” She hesitated for a moment. “You going to be okay out here?”
“Yeah, Mom. I’m good. Do you want me to ‘walk’ you back to your room?”
Meg smiled at that. “I’ll be fine.”
“Goodnight,” Riley said.
“Night,” Fitz said, tipping his head slightly.
She left them there to chat about whatever it was soldiers chatted about at this hour. The sidewalk back to Building 1 was empty, and she enjoyed the brief moment of solitude. It lasted a full minute
before a patrol of Marines she hadn’t seen before came bursting from a path that led from the beach.
“Out of the way, ma’am!” one of the men shouted.
She crutched to her left just the men bolted past her.
“What’s going on?” Riley shouted.
One of the Marines said something to him that Meg couldn’t hear. Fitz unslung his MK11 and followed the group, blades clicking against the concrete.
The panic in Meg’s gut returned. She hopped after Riley, who was already wheeling after Fitz and the patrol. It took a few minutes to catch up with him, but when she did, he said, “Get back to your building.”
“Why? What’s going on now?”
“Tower 10 spotted a boat.”
“What kind of a boat?”
“I don’t know,” Riley snapped.
Meg stopped mid-stride, and Riley slowed to throw a glance over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he jerked his head. “Come on.”
A few minutes later they were at the edge of a ridgeline. Fitz was scoping the water, and the Marines were setting up a perimeter behind the electric fences.
“You see anything, Fitz?” Riley asked.
The growl of a speedboat sounded in the distance. An outline of a cigar-shaped boat shot over the waves. It was fast, but no match for the Blackhawk on patrol. The chopper raced after it, and the spotlight hit the side of the vessel a moment later.
“Survivors?” Meg asked.
Fitz lowered his rifle and nodded. “Same guys I saw before.”
“Will Major Smith take them in?” Meg asked.
Riley snorted. “I wouldn’t. They’re probably bandits looking for a place to claim as their own.” The chatter of voices came from the beach. The Marines who had run past her earlier were trekking over the sand. They climbed the ridgeline and passed Fitz.
“You know what’s going on?” he asked one of them.
All but one of the men continued walking. The last Marine, a man no older than twenty, stopped and nudged his helmet farther up onto his head. He turned to watch the Blackhawk circle. Pushing his finger against his earpiece, he said, “Sounds like whoever it was, they didn’t want to stop. Command ordered Echo 4 back to base.”
“Let’s move, Dillon!” another Marine yelled out.
The young man nodded at Fitz and took off after his squad, leaving Meg alone with Fitz and Riley once again. This time Fitz stared at the thousands of lambent stars, searching for whatever it was he had lost. And Meg, swept up in the moment, did the exact same thing.
-13-
The sporadic drip of water pecked at the blood and grime smattered across Garcia’s face. He stumbled after Scabs and Frankie into the dark curving tunnels, his sleeve covering his nostrils. Somewhere behind them in the pitch blackness, a pack of Variants followed.
Insurance, Garcia thought. Insurance, and more evidence the White King had retained or developed an unprecedented level of intelligence. First the children, now this?
Scabs seemed to ignore the click-clack of joints and scratch of talons over the concrete. Perhaps he was used to it by now, or perhaps he was more focused on Garcia. He continued asking questions, his tone becoming more irritated each time Garcia didn’t answer.
“Where’s your base?” Scabs grumbled. “Where are the rest of your buddies?”
Garcia kicked at a human ribcage, the echoing rattle of bones interrupting Scabs. Garcia continued on, pretending like he hadn’t heard Scabs over the clatter. The distraction didn’t work.
“I asked ya a question,” Scabs said. He stopped a few feet ahead. “Where are your buddies? Wasn’t just the two of you out there, was it?”
And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.
Garcia clenched his fist, hoping the bastard didn’t see it in the dim light. “Dead,” he finally said. “But there are survivors not far from here. We passed them on the way in.”
Scabs picked at his chin. “Any soldiers?”
Shaking his head, Garcia said, “Not that I saw. Our mission was recon, not rescue.”
“Good,” Scabs said, peeling away a ripe scab. Pus leaked from the wound, dripping down his chin and dropping to the muck at their feet. He pulled his screwdriver from his waistband and poked at Garcia’s chest. “Don’t get any ideas topside. Got it?”
Garcia scrutinized the tip of the screwdriver, imagining driving it through Scabs’ neck.
“Got it?” Scabs asked a second time, poking Garcia harder this time.
Garcia simply nodded and staggered after Frankie. They worked their way through the passages until the reek of the Variants and human prisoners had faded to a tolerable stench. Ten minutes later and they reached the spot where Garcia and Stevo had been ambushed. Garcia’s helmet was still there, resting in a puddle of rancid water. He scooped it up as he passed, relieved to find the pictures of his family and praying the headset still worked.
“The fuck you doin’?” Scabs asked. He grabbed at the helmet, but Garcia yanked it from his reach.
“Got a picture of my wife and baby in here,” Garcia said, turning the helmet upside down for Scabs to see. “I’m bringing it with.”
The anger in his voice seemed to deter Scabs. A flicker of what could have been empathy sparked in Scab’s twitching eyes. It vanished in a blink. He spat in the water. “Fine.”
Garcia slipped the helmet on, buckling the strap. The earpiece hung loosely, but he didn’t dare re-position the mini-mic to his lips. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since his capture. It wasn’t likely, but Tank and Thomas could still be out there.
Frankie stopped under a ladder. He grabbed at a rung and climbed without uttering a word. Scabs motioned for Garcia to go next. The Variants were still lurking in the darkness behind them, waiting and watching. It felt odd not to be running from the monsters.
Overhead, Frankie pushed the manhole cover onto the street and pulled himself up. The sky grew darker as he leaned down and extended a hand to Garcia. The motion took the Marine off guard. He would never accept help from these cocksuckers.
Anxious to get out of the putrid tunnel, Garcia ignored Frankie’s hand and quickly climbed up the final rungs. A gust of wind bit into his dank fatigues as soon as he was above ground. He shivered in the cool night and drew in a sharp breath, filling his lungs with clean, sweet air.
“Let’s go,” Scabs said.
The screeches of monsters prowling Atlanta rose and fell. Garcia hustled down the residential street, his mind multi-tasking as he looked for the Variants and a street sign. He was moving so fast he quickly put fifty feet between him and the other men. They were on Martin Street, the same road as the church Tank and Thomas had holed up in the day before. That meant he was close to Phoenix II Park.
“Hey, wait,” Scabs said.
Garcia increased his pace and hustled up a sloped lawn of wet grass. He rounded a house, memorizing the number as he passed. Momentarily out of sight, he reached up and pushed his earpiece in, then flicked his mini-mic to his lips.
“Hotel Three, do you copy? It’s Garcia.”
Static hissed in his ear.
“I said, wait up,” Scabs said.
“Okay,” Garcia replied. Lowering his voice he said, “Hotel Three, do you copy?”
More white noise cracked out of the earpiece. Then a voice.
“Sarge, holy shit. Where the fuck are you guys?”
Garcia could hardly believe his ears. Tank and Thomas were still out there.
“Just passed 811 Martin Street. Being pursued by Variants,” Garcia replied. “Repeat, hostiles in pursuit.” He turned off the mic and pushed it out of view just as Scabs came running around the house. The man hunched over, hands on his knees, panting.
“I said wait!”
“Sorry,” Garcia said. “I didn’t realize you were so slow.”
Scabs narrowed his bulging eyes, his nostrils flaring. He sucked in
several deep breaths. “Stay...” Gasp. “Stay in sight.”
Garcia turned back the way he had come.
“Where the hell are you going now?” Scabs asked.
“Taking a short cut, but didn’t realize there was a fence back there,” Garcia replied, still walking. He heard boots hitting the concrete driveway, Scabs and Frankie hurrying to keep up this time.
The Variants that had followed them through the tunnels were emerging from the manhole now. They scattered under the moonlight. Some clambered across the street, their jointed arms and legs making cracking sounds like the snapping of twigs. Garcia counted over a dozen of the beasts. More were still slithering out of the hole as he turned back to the south.
“Hold up,” Scabs said. He jogged to catch up and grabbed Garcia’s wrist. He had his screwdriver drawn again. “You fucking with me, man?”
Garcia shook his head. “Trying to get my bearings.” He looked to the east, pretending to search the rooftops. “Yeah, now I remember. The survivors are holed up in a church not far from here. Come on, maybe we can reach them before those things give in to their hunger and have us for a snack.”
Scabs drove his fingernails into Garcia’s flesh. “Get moving.”
Garcia pushed on at a slow pace, keeping his strides short. His eyes roved back and forth, searching for any sign of his men, although he knew he wouldn’t be able to see them. If they were close, they were watching him. Tank would be analyzing and forming a plan. He wondered what would go through Tank’s head when he saw the Variants following Garcia, Scabs, and Frankie without attacking.
The farther Garcia walked, the more nervous he became. He stopped at an abandoned car and peered through the window.
“What you doin’?” Scabs asked.
“I need water, man.”
“Fuck that. Keep moving,” Scabs said. He let out a chuckle and said something under his breath that Garcia only caught the tail end of. God, it was going to feel good driving his knife into the man’s throat.
Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) Page 16
