Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Another second of shock jolted Fitz as the man was yanked backward. Fitz scrambled for his MK11 and scooped it off the ground. By the time he had it, the man was gone. A scream rang out in the distance, the awful, guttural wail of a man who knew he was going to die.

  Fitz ran toward the outline of a concrete pillar. He stopped there to catch his breath. Blinking, he peered around the side.

  There were two sets of stairs leading to another level to the north and east. That’s where the other strike teams had entered. A ring of bodies, both human and Variant, lay on the platform at the bottom of the stairs. Through the thin smoke, he glimpsed a pair of Marines firing on a pack of armored juveniles. The beasts were circling the men, swatting at the rounds like they were nothing but pebbles. He had just raised his tranq gun when he heard Knapp’s high-pitched scream.

  Behind Fitz, a monster of a Variant was dragging Rowe and Knapp across the ground. Four other creatures hung from the ceiling. Farther back, two men, filthy and bearded, stood on the platform. Fitz recognized them. These were the same men he had seen scoping out Plum Island from the boats days before.

  Son of a bitch!

  The meaty beast dropped both Knapp and Rowe. It raised its hulking arms as it released a tortured howl. Fitz resisted the urge to cup his hands over his ears, focusing instead on the cord hanging from the creature’s neck and the plates of human bone covering its flesh. He blinked to make sure it wasn’t an illusion, but his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. Ears, noses, and hunks of unidentifiable flesh hung from the grisly necklace. All but the beast’s head was covered in armor made of human bones. It twisted to look at the collaborators, exposing a dehydrated cloak of flesh hanging from its back. The bones making up its armor were all held together using the same dehydrated skin.

  Fitz knew right away this was the monster responsible for the massacre back at their insertion point at Bryant Metro Station. It was the Alpha—the king of this lair. And his Marine squad-mates had made it very fucking angry.

  In his peripheral vision, Fitz saw the other Marines still firing on the Variant offspring. The beast towering over Knapp and Rowe extended a clawed hand and pointed with a single horned nail at the two men. The roar that burst from its mouth echoed through the entire concourse, repeating over and over like a skipping record.

  The four Variants on the ceiling raced over the concrete, and the beast barreled for Fitz. He already had the monster’s colossal head in his sights. The reptilian irises came into focus, and Fitz squeezed off a shot that missed by a fraction of an inch.

  He pulled the trigger twice more; both of the rounds shattered femur and sternum bones making up part of the plate covering its swollen chest muscles. The Alpha shrieked in agony and jerked to the side as Fitz shot it a third time in the gap in bones covering its right shoulder. This time the round punched through flesh, splattering the human hipbone it wore as a shoulder pad with crimson.

  Before he could fire a fourth time, the beast bowed its veiny skull and plowed into Fitz, spearing him in the chest. The impact sent him flying backward. He landed hard, skidding across the concrete and flipping ass over end. His helmet strap snapped open and his helmet tumbled away.

  Gasping for air, Fitz grabbed his tranq pistol and rolled to his back. He pulled the trigger three times as the beast of a Variant lumbered toward him. One of the darts penetrated the nose hanging from its necklace. The other two sunk into the muscular collar of flesh just above its plates of bony armor.

  The darts only enraged the creature more. It grabbed Fitz by his right blade and tossed him into the air. He landed on the ground a few feet from Rowe. The man’s neck was twisted like a pretzel. He was dead, killed by the hands of the human collaborators.

  The two men towered over Knapp to the right. They were babbling about someone called the Bone Collector. Fitz knew exactly who they were talking about.

  First the White King, now the fucking Bone Collector. I’m stuck in a nightmare.

  Fitz sucked in a breath, pushed himself up, and pulled out his knife. He spun back to the gargantuan beast, but it was staggering now. Blood streamed down the femur and fibula bones making up the breastplate of its armor. Reaching up with a needle-sharp nail, it plucked the darts from its neck and tossed them away. Then it twisted to check on its precious children.

  Across the concourse the remaining two Marines fought for their lives. They had killed one of the Variants, but the other three beasts had the men pinned to the ground, slashing, ripping and tearing relentlessly at them. The juvenile Variants circled the slaughter, swiping at one another and hissing, each wanting to be the first to feed.

  Fitz hunched his back, raised his knife, and prepared for hand-to-hand combat. The Alpha turned and moved awkwardly in his direction. Bulging lips opened, and a strangled voice came from the blackness of its gaping maw.

  “K-ill.” It angled a horned claw toward Fitz as it dropped to both knees, joints clicking. It blinked long and slow, struggling to fight the powerful sedatives. Then it crashed face-first to the ground.

  The Bone Collector was down.

  For now.

  Across the concourse, one of the Marines was still fighting the adult Variants. He managed to pull his sidearm and execute the beast on top of him. As he squirmed away, the other two monsters sunk their claws into his flesh. The children clambered forward, their scaly bodies washing over the two Marines in a wave of mutated flesh.

  Fitz closed his eyes for a second before snapping them open, anger taking hold as he turned his attention to the human collaborators. They were pulling Knapp toward the staircase. The Marine was either unconscious, or in shock.

  Behind Fitz, a growl came from the circuits. Apollo bounded over the tracks toward the platform, barking up a storm.

  “Get out of here!” Fitz shouted.

  He searched the ground for a weapon. An M4 lay five feet in front of the tranquilized Alpha. Fitz had just scooped it up when the rattling started. Pounding steps and shrieking voices echoed down the stairwells. Dozens of shadows flickered into the dim passages.

  The Variant Cavalry had arrived.

  Fitz raised the M4 and aimed it at the two collaborators. He didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, but even as he did, he knew it was pointless. He could tell from the weight that the magazine was dry.

  Apollo leapt onto the platform and nudged against Fitz’s right blade as if to say, let’s go!

  By the time Fitz had grabbed extra magazines from Rowe’s corpse, the stairwells were crawling with Variants. He slammed a fresh mag into the M4 and shot the first collaborator in the back of the head, but the other man pulled Knapp around a pillar. Shifting the muzzle toward the offspring, Fitz saw there was no way he could grab one in time. The beasts were all retreating toward the reinforcements.

  Apollo nudged Fitz’s blade again, and after a final moment of hesitation, he turned to run with the dog. The mission was a failure. All he could do now was try and escape with his life.

  Riley bowed his head and cupped his hands around his head. He dragged his fingers through shaggy blonde hair that would have broken regulations not long ago.

  It seemed like ages had passed since those days.

  Riley dropped his hands to his wheelchair and pushed toward the edge of the stairs. For a moment he considered throwing himself down them. He wanted to feel something besides despair, even if it was pain.

  Fitz, Apollo, and every other member of the strike teams were gone. So many of his brothers had died. And he had been forced to sit back and watch. The worst was being cooped up in the CIC as the Marines were pulled apart by the largest Variant he’d ever seen. Part of him was glad he hadn’t seen Fitz or Apollo die. But that felt like a betrayal to their memory.

  The despair dug at Riley like a knife, working its way deep inside of him, relentless and sharp. Meg and Horn’s girls crossed the lawn, hair blowing in the soft breeze. It was quiet, the silence embracing the island. This time, Riley didn’t embrace it back.

&nb
sp; Major Smith closed the door to Building 1 and put a hand on Riley’s shoulder. Ellis strode out a second later, releasing a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Smith said.

  Riley nodded and raised a hand at Meg. She had been fond of Fitz. Hell, everyone was. And Horn’s girls had loved Apollo. The thought of telling them the news made him sick.

  But he had to. They had to know.

  “Kate is on her way back to the island,” Ellis said. “She’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

  Meg slowed as she limped toward the landing. Tasha and Jenny walked by her side, their tiny hands gripped in Meg’s. She had finally ditched the crutches, and judging by the grimace she made with every step, Riley figured it wasn’t by Dr. Hill’s orders.

  Her gaze met Riley’s a moment later. She was a smart woman, and it didn’t take words for Riley to convey the failure of the strike teams in New York.

  “Did anyone make it?” Meg asked, her lips trembling.

  Smith lowered his head, shaking it from side to side. “Every mission has failed.”

  Meg dropped Tasha and Jenny’s hands and brought a hand to her mouth. “What happens now?”

  “Vice President Johnson will send more teams. That’s my guess, anyway,” Smith said.

  “So they can be slaughtered?” Meg asked. Tasha and Jenny looked up quizzically. Meg lowered her voice. “Who will they send now? Ghost?”

  Smith didn’t immediately reply. He twisted his wedding ring around his finger. “I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Riley looked down at his casts. He had to get out of them. If Team Ghost was going on what would likely be their last mission, he had to be there with them.

  “I better get the girls inside,” Meg said. Smith and Ellis walked over to help Meg and the girls up. Riley sat in his chair, watching helplessly. That was all about to change. The storm on the horizon wasn’t the only one coming, and this time he was going to fight.

  -21-

  Lieutenant Davis shut the door to the small conference room, sealing Team Ghost and the Variant Hunters inside. She gave Garcia and Beckham meaningful looks, and took a seat at the table. After everyone had sat down, she said, “The strike teams in New York have all been eliminated.”

  The words hit Beckham so hard he might have dropped to his knees if he’d been standing. “Fitz,” he said. “You’re sure Fitz and Apollo are dead?”

  Davis shook her head. “Not for certain, but we can show you the feed. This may be hard, but I need to know what we are dealing with here.”

  “What do you mean ‘dealing with’?” Horn asked.

  “You will have to see it with your own eyes to believe it,” Davis said.

  Chow bowed his head and put a hand on Beckham’s back. Locking his jaw, Beckham fended off the scream he wanted to unleash. He thought he would feel overwhelming sadness, but instead he felt a dangerous emotion crawling under his skin. The prickle of vengeance rushed through him like a shot of morphine.

  “Show us,” Beckham said.

  Davis tapped into the monitor and sorted through a series of images. She moused over to a still frame, clicked on it, and brought it on screen. The men all crowded around her.

  “There,” she said, pointing. “This is the last few seconds of his feed. Note that Fitz left Apollo before he went into the chamber. We’re not sure why, but we’re assuming it was the danger of stray bullets. It was pretty chaotic by the time Team Shepherd arrived.”

  The barrel of Fitz’s MK11 came on screen. He fired at a hulking Variant running toward him that was covered in grisly plates of human bones. Beckham flinched at each shot, watching as the armor shattered and broke away. A cord or necklace of some sort swung from the creature’s muscular neck.

  “Are those bones?” Garcia asked.

  Davis nodded. “Keep watching. The bones are just the beginning.”

  “Can you slow that frame down?” Beckham asked.

  Davis tapped at the keyboard until the feed was moving in slow motion. Beckham took a step closer for a better look, holding his breath. The beast’s neck was decorated with flesh trophies. He had seen something like this before. Lieutenant Brett had been captured with a necklace just like it back in Vietnam.

  “Looks familiar,” Horn said. “Didn’t—”

  “Yes,” Beckham said. “He did.”

  “What the hell is on its back?” Chow asked.

  Garcia leaned closer. “Looks like a patchwork of skin from multiple bodies.”

  “This is why I called you all here. I need your help figuring out what the fuck this thing is,” Davis said. “Is this another White King?”

  “No,” Garcia said, still staring. “Something much worse. This one understands the value of body armor, and the fact it went to lengths to decorate itself with flesh ornaments means its more than just an Alpha predator now—it’s a demon.”

  Beckham thought about replying when the beast lowered its skull and speared Fitz in the chest. A phantom pain raced through Beckham, Fitz’s pain becoming his own. The feed rattled violently, turning topsy-turvy.

  “This is where he lost his helmet,” Davis said.

  The helmet tumbled across the ground and came to a stop upside down. In the right hand corner of the monitor, Fitz was on his back, shooting his tranq gun at the Alpha. The beast crashed to the ground a few minutes later, and Fitz moved out of view.

  “See, Fitz and Apollo could still be alive,” Beckham said, a trickle of hope pooling in his gut. He framed it as a statement, not a question, but Davis pulled up another image from a different feed.

  “This was taken ten minutes after Fitz fell,” she said.

  On screen, hundreds of Variants poured into the chamber. There were six children in the mix, scampering in and out of the tide of diseased flesh. Two human collaborators pulled an unconscious Marine toward the creatures. A gunshot hit the man on the left a second later, a spray of bone and brain matter peppering the ceiling.

  “Holy shit,” Horn said. “Only Fitz could have nailed that shot.”

  “Maybe, but no way he could have survived against those kind of numbers,” Davis said.

  “You don’t know Fitz,” Beckham said.

  Davis looked Beckham in the eye, “I’m sorry, Master Sergeant, but it’s highly unlikely he made it out.”

  “What’s that?” Chow said, leaning in. He pointed at a flash of movement on the left side of the screen. Davis paused the video and hit rewind for several seconds.

  “Keep it slow,” Chow said. After a pause he said, “There, that’s Apollo!”

  Beckham squeezed next to them. Sure enough, on the edge of the platform in the very left corner of the video feed was the dog. And slightly to his right was the edge of a flashing blade.

  Apollo jumped back to the circuits a second later, and the blade vanished.

  “Replay it,” Beckham said.

  Davis looked back at him.

  “Please, Lieutenant, those are our friends.”

  She nodded and replayed the video three times. The image of Apollo and Fitz’s blade was only onscreen for five seconds, but it was more than enough for Beckham to know they were still alive.

  “We have to mount a rescue operation,” he said.

  Davis hesitated, as if she was considering the idea. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. We don’t have the resources for a successful operation, and we both know your friends are probably dead by now.”

  “Like I said, you don’t know our friends,” Beckham replied.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” Davis said. “But going back out there isn’t an option right now. Vice President Johnson is considering our next steps. My orders are to determine if we are dealing with a new type of Variant. And from the sounds of it, we are.”

  Garcia nodded and scratched at his head with one eye on Beckham.

  “I’m sorry about your friends,” Davis said. She hesitated before leaving the men in silence. When she was gone, Beckham turned and looked at the other
men in turn. Horn and Chow shared the same defiant looks. Garcia seemed to brighten like he’d had the same idea Beckham was having. Tank and Thomas stood tall. Their looks told Beckham he could count on every soldier in the room.

  Remember what you have to lose. It’s not just us anymore...

  Beckham looked at his boots, faces of everyone he had ever lost emerging in his mind: his parents, his men, Jensen. Their faces vanished, replaced by images of those still alive. Horn’s girls, Kate and their unborn baby, even Fitz and Apollo were there.

  Garcia patted Beckham on his arm, right next to the Team Ghost patch. “I made the mistake of leaving Stevo out there. If you need our help, we’re in.”

  Beckham returned the pat. “Thank you, brother.” He ran a hand over two days’ worth of scruff, and searched the faces of the men staring back at him a second time, looking for some answer to the questions eating him up inside.

  “What do you guys say? Want to go back out there and save some Marines? Shit, maybe we will even capture our own child Variant.”

  There were five quick nods, but no one said a word. Each man knew they would be breaking orders if they went rogue.

  “Only one problem,” Beckham said. “We need a ride.”

  Tank smiled for the first time since Beckham had met the lumbering man. “Don’t worry, Master Sergeant, my cousin Tito is a pilot, and fortunately for us, he’s on board the GW. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sneaking us on board.”

  New York City was shrouded in gray. Dark storm clouds rolled over the skyscrapers. Fitz ran like a madman toward the Public Library, with Apollo close behind. Dozens of Variants were in pursuit, slamming into charred vehicles and leaping to the darkened walls of nearby buildings. Clicking joints and angry shrieks echoed through the derelict city. He felt kind of like he was the grand marshal of a particularly evil parade.

  Fitz stopped at a squad car and fired off three short bursts from his M4. Two of the monsters went down and skidded across the pavement of West 42nd street. A cloud of ash trailed them as they came to a stop. He counted at least two dozen more hostiles. Some of the beasts moved slowly, injured from the bombing raid earlier, their bodies charcoaled from the fire that had licked their pallid skin.