Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Beckham kneeled in a defensive position a few feet from the tanker.

  “Shit!” Horn shouted. “They’re coming from the east, too!” He pointed to the ridgeline. There was movement across Beckham’s entire line of sight. The Variants were coming from the south and the east. They were trapped. There was only one way forward—under the trucks.

  “Let’s move!” Beckham shouted. He dropped to his stomach and began crawling.

  “Right behind you,” Horn said.

  Beckham squirmed across the concrete. His impact armor dragged across the surface, scratching as he struggled forward. The noise didn’t bother him. The Variants knew where they were, so stealth was no longer a concern.

  He emerged from the first truck to see a second tanker blocking the road. It was obvious then the soldiers had created a roadblock on purpose. With no way to climb over the top, Beckham dropped back to his stomach and crawled under the second vehicle.

  With a final push he burst from under the metal and pulled himself to his feet. A gust of wind caught him as soon as he stood. The gamey scent of rotting flesh and sour fruit filled his lungs. Beckham pulled the scarf over his face. He checked the right side of the road. All clear.

  Then he looked to the left and froze. Horn squirmed out from under the final truck and stood next to Beckham, staring at the surreal scene the trucks had hidden from their view—the source of the awful smell.

  Through the shifting smoke there were bodies lining Gruber Road. Hundreds of them, some charred beyond recognition. With the changing wind, the stench of death filled the night.

  “Holy shit,” Horn said. “What the hell happened here?”

  “I don’t know, but we need to move!”

  The primal shrieks from the Variants grew louder.

  As soon as Beckham turned, he saw the sandbags and the .50 cal set up on the far side of the road. A single soldier in a CBR suit lay hunched over the bags, his body limp and dead. The man had mowed down the refugees trying to escape to the Expressway.

  Beckham swallowed hard at the sight. Was Horn’s family among them? There was no time to find out. Together, the men moved west along the road, passing familiar landmarks. Beckham always assumed every mission would be difficult, but with a horde of flesh-eating monsters trailing them and a lingering wall of smoke ahead, he felt grossly underprepared. If the smoke shifted any further, they would have to make a stand.

  “Is this the turn?” Horn yelled.

  “Negative. Keep moving!” Beckham said. “One more to go until we get to Reilly Road.”

  Beckham rounded the corner at a breakneck speed. His boots trudged across a slippery stretch of concrete. The body of a US Army Ranger lay on the curb. Blood oozed from his shattered skull. The fresh scarlet puddle meant the man had recently been killed.

  Other survivors, Beckham thought, running harder.

  The sound of Horn’s heavy footfalls pounded the concrete. They were only a few blocks away from the building now. The smoke grew closer with every step.

  Beckham coughed violently into his scarf and wiped away the tears blurring his vision.

  “Twelve o’clock,” Horn shouted.

  Ahead, a single figure crouched over another dead Ranger, its shiny skull buried into the soldier’s chest.

  There was more motion to the right. Three shirtless men emerged from behind a Humvee. They moved slowly, catlike, their backs hunched and their heads tilting as they narrowed in on Beckham and Horn. Tremors shook their pale skin as they cautiously inched forward. Their suckers puckered in the air, popping.

  Beckham shivered. They’d run out of blacktop. The only thing between them and the monsters were bullets now. No more running.

  “Boss,” Horn said.

  “I see ‘em.”

  The operators stood back to back. The group of creatures to the north halted in the middle of the street. They crouched silently; sniffing the air and licking their bulging lips with swollen tongues.

  Beckham glanced over his shoulder. The pack from the south had caught up with them. Their distorted bodies clogged the road, slowing as they closed in. Several of the creatures were moving too fast and plowed through the front of the crowd. The monsters tumbled and skidded across the concrete.

  Guttural howls followed.

  Beckham raised his MP5 and readied himself.

  “Open fire!” he cried. Gritting his teeth, Beckham fired on the four to the north.

  The crack of gunfire drowned out the sound of the creatures. Bullet casings pinged off the concrete. Beckham cut the entire pack down before they could move. The creatures dropped to the pavement, limbs flailing. But more came, swarming from the tree line. The dark wall of smoke swirled behind the creatures.

  “Changing,” Beckham yelled. He reached for another magazine and jammed it home with a click. He shouldered the gun and sprayed the street with a volley of short bursts. More Variants dropped to the concrete, blood oozing from gaping wounds.

  Yet they kept coming.

  Within seconds, Beckham and Horn were completely surrounded.

  “Short bursts, aim for the head!” Beckham yelled. He dropped to one knee and drew down on the closest creature. Squeezing the trigger, he pivoted to the next target, hardly noticing the bloody mist that exploded from the first Variant’s skull. The second shot caught another in the forehead. And the third did the same. He continued firing, dropping the enemy until his magazine was dry.

  He reloaded and finished off another wave. Never had the killing felt so simple. It was like something inside of him knew what was at stake, and an internal strength had taken control. But the men only had so many bullets. And after fifteen minutes of keeping the Variants at bay, both ran out of ammo. They switched to their pistols as the pile of dead bodies grew around them.

  More of the creatures flocked to the street. The gunfire had attracted every single Variant in the area.

  With a final shot, the slide of Beckham’s pistol locked open.

  “I’m out!” he yelled. He dropped the pistol and fumbled for his knife.

  “Me too.”

  The operators rose to their feet as the creatures formed a perimeter around them. Beckham couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so fucked. He’d left himself no outs. Broken his cardinal rule. There was nowhere to run. No more bullets to fire.

  Gripping his knife, Beckham studied the subhuman faces of the enemy. Deformed mouths snarled and vertical pupils blinked back at him.

  Beckham tightened his grip on his knife as the creatures surged forward in a distorted wave. His body tingled from the adrenaline coursing through his system. A hundred thoughts drifted across his mind, and none of them made any sense. His brain was working in overdrive, unable to focus in the face of inexorable death.

  A bright flash from the west pulled Beckham’s gaze away from the creatures.

  Crack, crack, crack.

  Beckham knew that sound. Only an MK11 sniper rifle made that defining war cry.

  More flashes lit up the rooftops of several buildings west of the road. Bodies dropped on the concrete, bones and gore splattering the pavement. Beckham kicked at a hand that came rolling toward him.

  “Yeah!” Horn cheered.

  Beckham watched the street fill with blood. The sight was surreal. Surely there were men and women he’d known amongst the dead, but he couldn’t bring himself to look. He wasn’t sure how long the gunfire lasted. When the sound of last shot waned away, he took a guarded step forward.

  “Jesus,” Beckham muttered. He sidestepped around the corpses, jumping over some that were piled on top of one another.

  “Freeze!” came a raspy voice.

  A trio of silhouettes stood at the edge of the swirling smoke. They wore gas masks and the same ‘four-eye’ NVGs. All three men were covered in impact armor similar to what Horn and Beckham were wearing.

  “Get on the ground!” the leader yelled. He pointed an M4 in their direction.

  “Boss?” Horn said.

  �
�Do it,” Beckham said.

  Both of them dropped to their knees and put their hands on their heads. “We’re friendly!” Horn protested.

  The soldiers didn’t reply. They walked cautiously, heel to toe. Beckham recognized their calculated movements and their equipment. These were no grunts. These were well-trained killers. And if their sharpshooting skills were any indication, they were probably Army Rangers.

  A smiled dawned on Beckham’s face. He didn’t mind being rescued.

  “Don’t move,” the leader said. His voice was stifled by the gas mask, but it sounded familiar.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” the man said.

  “Rescue mission,” Horn said.

  The two men behind the leader exchanged looks and the one on the right said, “Just the two of you?”

  “Not just any two,” the other man said. He slowly slipped his gas mask off and leaned forward. “Delta Force Operators.”

  Beckham blinked away the burn of the smoke and focused on the man’s face. “Chow? Is that you?” The operator was part of another team codenamed Titanium.

  “Hell yeah, brother!” Chow said. He lowered his rifle and reached out with open arms, embracing Beckham in a strong hug.

  “I figured you guys were dead,” Chow said.

  Beckham shook his head. “Same here.”

  Chow’s eyes darted to the ground. “There aren’t many of us left now. Just me and Jinx.” He pointed to the rooftop. “Everyone else was infected or killed. We teamed up with a squad of Rangers.”

  “What about my family? Have you seen my family?” Horn asked.

  Beckham’s heart skipped when Chow hesitated.

  “I’m sorry,” Chow said, finding Horn’s eyes. “Sheila didn’t make it.”

  Horn sucked in a deep breath like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. He took a step backward, his hands clutching his chest. A deep groan erupted from his mouth.

  Beckham felt the churning dread in his stomach. A powerful wave of anxiety took hold of his fatigued body. Sheila was gone. It was real now. They couldn’t save her. He walked over and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m—”

  “What about my girls?” Horn said, shaking. He pulled away from Beckham’s grasp.

  “Alive,” Chow said. “Back in the tunnels with the others.”

  “We don’t have much time,” one of the Rangers said. “Those things will come back. They always do.”

  Chow nodded. He reached in his pack and tossed two gas masks to Horn and Beckham. Eying their weapons, he dug inside for magazines.

  “You’re lucky, Beckham. I got some extra 10mm mags,” Chow said. He pushed three of them toward Beckham. “You can thank me later.” Then he pulled several M27 magazines from his bag and turned to Horn.

  Chow held out the ammo and said, “Follow me. I’ll take you to your girls, brother.”

  A single soldier stood guard outside the medical ward. He stiffened when he saw Kate and Ellis approaching.

  “Good evening, Doctors,” the man said, glancing at their badges. “Lieutenant Colonel Jensen is waiting for you at the front desk.” He pulled the left door open and ushered Kate and Ellis inside.

  They walked into the shadows of a sparsely lit hallway. A large metallic click followed as the guard sealed them inside. Kate hustled down the passage, anxious to get started. Every room they passed was dark, save for the one at the end of the north quadrant. That was where she was headed. Jensen stood behind a desk on the right side of the hallway, his arms crossed, staring at the locked door to Gibson’s room.

  Kate rehearsed the questions she would ask the colonel over and over as she walked. The goal was to keep them simple. She wasn’t interested in linking him further to VX-99—that wasn’t her job. Some hotshot prosecutor would take care of that. Her job was to find out what had happened to Lieutenant Brett in that prison cell almost thirty years ago.

  Jensen stepped out from behind the desk when they arrived. “We have to make this quick,” he said, tapping his watch. “The colonel’s primary doctor threw a fit about your visit.”

  “Understood,” Kate said.

  “He’s awake and knows you’re here to see him. But please, Doctors, don’t get him agitated,” Jensen said.

  “I won’t,” Kate said.

  “Me neither,” Ellis added.

  The lieutenant colonel glanced at them in turn and then pushed the door open. “You have five minutes.”

  Kate hesitated, suddenly unsure if they were making the right decision. She had no idea what to expect from Gibson.

  Ellis nudged her. “Kate…”

  “Sorry,” she replied, stepping into the room. The colonel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his blue eyes fixated on the white panels. Multiple tubes snaked under his sheets. A biomonitor displaying his vitals chirped in the corner of the room.

  “Colonel Gibson?” Kate whispered.

  The man’s eyes remained locked in place.

  “It’s Dr. Kate Lovato. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

  Jensen strode to the corner of the room as she inched closer to Gibson’s bedside. He watched her with hardened eyes.

  “I would really appreciate your help, Sir,” Kate said.

  Gibson tilted his head in her direction at last. “Good job on the bioweapon, Doctor.”

  Kate took a step backward. She hadn’t expected the abrupt response. “I’d like to ask you…uh…”

  “We’re here to talk to you about Lieutenant Trevor Brett,” Ellis cut in when she stumbled.

  Gibson lifted his head off his pillow and looked at Ellis. He coughed deeply, fluid crackling in his chest.

  Kate softened her voice. “We know he was given a dose of VX-99. And we know he was taken to a military maximum security prison after he was found ten years later.”

  Gibson squirmed in his bed. The biomonitor chirped louder.

  “Yes. This is all true,” the colonel said.

  “We know that the lieutenant…evolved. Both physically and—” Kate began to say, but Gibson interrupted her.

  “That was the point of VX-99.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Gibson returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Isn’t it obvious by now?”

  Kate didn’t reply. The biomonitor chirped louder.

  “VX-99 started off as a serum that was supposed to turn men into super soldiers. Lieutenant Trevor Brett was one of the first ever to be exposed to the chemicals. The result was horrific. His entire platoon died in some rotting jungle, along with a hillside of VCs. He was the only survivor. Spent ten years wandering that godforsaken jungle.”

  “And he changed over that time, didn’t he?” Ellis asked.

  Gibson coughed again and wiped an arm attached to cords across his face. “Yes,” he said. “He became a monster. Those—what do you call them, Variants? They aren’t much different.” He held up a finger and said, “The Ebola virus would have caused brain damage, so I doubt any of them can speak like he did. There may be some, however, that display higher levels of intelligence.”

  Kate pursed her lips, wanting to ask more questions, but she waited. Gibson clearly had more to say.

  “During the lieutenant’s isolation we ran hundreds of tests on that poor bastard,” he continued. “He was an animal. Rabid, deadly and forever changed. We couldn’t control him. It was then my vision changed from creating the perfect soldier to creating the perfect weapon. A bioweapon that could be dropped over foreign soil, do its job, and fizzle out. Efficient. Untraceable. And no more American soldiers—our boys, our sons—would need to die in hellholes halfway around the world.”

  Gibson blinked several times. If Kate didn’t know better, she’d think he was crying. “But that’s not what happened, Colonel,” Kate said.

  The biomonitor chirped again. His heart rate was elevating. Jensen strolled over and nudged Kate’s arm.

  “Help me understand,” Kate pleaded. She began to speak more rapidly. “I’m not sure you rea
lize how dire the situation is outside Plum Island. The world is dying. The human species could very well plummet into extinction if we don’t stop the Variant threat. I need to know how Brett evolved. I need to know what these things are capable of.”

  Gibson tilted his head in her direction. She held his gaze for several seconds, but his blue eyes had gone dull. They were the eyes of a broken soldier.

  “Like Lieutenant Brett, the Variants will change,” he said grimly. “Dr. Medford was supposed to solve that by creating a weapon that would kill its host. That’s why he used Ebola. But instead he created something that was too contagious, something that didn’t kill the host. That’s why I sent in a team to get a sample of his research, and that’s why I wanted to bring Dr. Michael Allen to Plum Island.”

  Kate held back her anger. She spoke just loud enough for everyone around her to hear. “Dr. Medford created a monster. Void of emotion. Void of humanity. I need to know how to stop them.”

  “How do we bring them back?” Ellis asked.

  Gibson laughed at that. “Bring them back? You can’t bring them back.”

  “Do you understand what you’ve done?” came a voice full of anger. At first, Kate thought it was Ellis, but then Jensen approached the bed and leaned close.

  Gibson glanced at the man that had replaced him. “I’m sorry.”

  “You tried to play God.”

  “I wanted to save our soldiers!” Gibson snapped. “I didn’t want other fathers to go through what I did when I lost my son.”

  Kate and Ellis exchanged glances. The biomonitor beeped again, faster and louder this time.

  “Congratulations. You killed billions of people instead,” Jensen said.

  Gibson closed his eyes, agony filling his features as he burst into another coughing fit. The nurse rushed into the room. Kate took a step back to let the woman through.

  “He needs to rest,” the nurse insisted.

  “Yeah,” Jensen replied. “Rest up, Colonel. You’ll have to answer for your sins soon.”

  -5-

  Beckham took a long, deep breath. The faint plastic smell of his gas mask had never smelled so good. Hours of taking in smoke and the stench of the decaying world had numbed his senses.