He concentrated on his breathing as he struggled to keep up with the rest of the group. The smoke and the battle minutes before had left him unsteady, groggy. A fog latched onto his brain. He couldn’t seem to shake it.
Palming his helmet, he blinked away the stars floating before his vision, and the team that had saved his ass came into focus. Chow and Jinx took point, and the four Ranger snipers fell in line behind them. Horn was a few steps ahead, fueled by the determination of a father who knew his daughters were still alive.
Just when Beckham thought the mental cloud was beginning to pass, he saw a female in the middle of the street. She stood there under the moonlight, her arms at her sides.
“Sheila,” he whispered. He squinted and slowed to a trot as he approached yet another ghost. And then she was gone. Blowing away like a cloud of dust.
Beckham smacked his head harder. He was hallucinating, no doubt the effect of smoke inhalation. Pushing on, he wondered if he was still seeing things when Chow flashed a hand movement north toward the gray wall of smoke along Zabitosky Road. Beckham followed the group around the turn. The cloud swirled through the center of the street. It was coming from all directions, not just the hospital.
Chow balled his hand into a fist and stopped a hundred feet away from the hospital. Jinx and the Rangers took up positions nearby. Horn seemed ready to keep moving by himself, but he settled against an overturned Humvee and watched the area. The thick black vortex they’d seen from the sky was from Womack, but there were other fires licking the skyline.
“How long have they been burning?” Beckham asked.
“A few days,” Chow said. “The hospital wasn’t the only thing the bombs hit. They also took out the ammunition depots, the fuel station, and a few admin buildings. Fire’s been burning out of control ever since.”
Adjusting his gas mask, Chow asked, “Want the bad news or good news first?”
“Bad,” Beckham replied.
Chow pointed to the smoke. “Tunnels are through there.”
“What’s the good news?” Horn asked.
“Those things won’t follow us,” Jinx said.
Beckham understood now. There had always been rumors about Soviet-era tunnels that ran beneath parts of the post. He’d even seen pictures of the damp concrete corridors under the Womack Army Medical Center. The Army had spent millions of dollars on supplies in the event the post was ever bombed.
Chow waved the team forward and vanished into the smoke, the dense cloud swallowing him. Jinx and the Rangers followed.
Horn approached and then turned to look at Beckham. “Let’s find my girls,” he said.
Beckham nodded, flipped his NVGs over his visor, and took the plunge into the green-hued darkness. The world changed drastically inside the cloud. He’d only trained in smoky conditions with the ‘four-eyes’ a handful of times and had forgotten how eerie the experience was. They ran for what seemed like an hour, following Zabitosky Road under the Expressway. The fires at Womack raged in the distance, flickering in the sky. Without anyone to put them out, they would continue until the entire area was consumed.
Chow jogged ahead, leading the team off the street and toward a three-story building with a partially collapsed roof. Several bodies lay on the lawn; puddles of now dried blood had formed in the grass around them. Bullet casings littered the sidewalk.
Another slaughter.
Jinx dragged a body out of the way and Chow kicked in the door.
“Let’s move! Get inside!” Jinx said.
Two of the Rangers trailed him into the dark building. The other two stayed outside, monitoring the perimeter with their MK11s.
“Clear!” came a voice from inside the building.
Chow, Horn, and the other Rangers hustled inside, but Beckham hung back to stare at a magnolia tree towering over the one-story building. Half of the branches were twisted and burned. Ashes and burnt leaves littered the grass. The other half of the tree was still healthy, the blossoms still vibrant.
Half dead and half alive, he thought as he followed the team inside.
Jensen stood with his back to the makeshift war table and stared out of the observation window. He watched the sapphire waves below, wondering how it had come to this. Colonel Gibson, the man he’d followed for a decade, had deceived him. The truth behind his actions was heartbreaking. He had succeeded where Hitler, Stalin, Genghis Khan, Xerxes, and so many other men had failed—he’d created a new world, albeit a world of monsters and death. Gibson had been obsessed with saving young soldiers like his son, but in the end he’d doomed them all.
The revelation was like a knife to the gut. Jensen’s body burned with anger. Every muscle strained and tightened as he approached the window. He wanted to scream, to jump through the glass and drop into the cool water below. But he had responsibilities. Men and women under his command to protect. Good men like Master Sergeant Reed Beckham and Staff Sergeant Parker Horn, and good women like Dr. Kate Lovato. At the end of the world, they were the most valuable assets the military and the country could have at their disposal.
With a deep breath, he cleared his mind and mastered his temper. He took a seat and swiped the monitor. A map of the country emerged on the table’s display. Central Command was sending him projections of the Variant populations every few hours. Red blotches covered every metropolitan area.
He scooted the chair closer. The images had changed since he had looked earlier that morning. Hundreds of recon units were set up in cities across the United States, watching and monitoring the Variants. And every single satellite the military had orbiting the planet was now focused on tracking the new enemy. Analysts in bunkers buried deep beneath the surface were studying the data, looking for trends and sending the intel out to remaining posts like Plum Island.
Surely they’d seen what he had. The Variants seemed to be gathering. Forming in clusters. Hunting in packs. That would make Operation Liberty run much more smoothly, he imagined. The Air Force would weaken the enemy and the troops would clean up the rest. No matter how cunning or strong the Variants were, they were no match for missiles, tanks and good old-fashioned bullets. Even if they had evolved like Dr. Lovato thought they would.
The door slid open and Smith walked into the CIC. “You get the updated projections?”
Jensen nodded. “Find me any chew?”
Smith chuckled. “I don’t think there’s a single can on this island. Maybe Beckham will bring some back from Fort Bragg.”
“Can’t get a message through to him,” Jensen said. “Must have turned his comm off for stealth.”
Smith pulled a chair up to the table. “I hope that’s the reason. Losing those guys would—”
Raising a hand, Jensen cut off his second. “They’re Delta Operators, and Beckham has proven he can survive out there. Besides there’s still another twenty hours before extraction. I’m not going to worry yet.
“Talk to me,” Jensen said, changing the subject. “What do you make of this?” He swiveled the monitor closer.
Smith slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “Looks like the Variants are gathering in clumps. But why?”
“Hell if I know,” Jensen responded.
Smith put a thumb under his chin and scratched at his skin. “I don’t know. Seems odd, don’t ya think? Maybe there’s a reason the Variants are flocking to these areas.”
Jensen sighed. He swiped the map of New York and enlarged the image, focusing on a red blotch of Variants in the Bronx. For several minutes he stared blankly, trying to make sense of their migration. But no matter how hard he tried, he just didn’t get it. Why would these creatures swarm? And where were the rest of them?
The team rushed down the first-floor hallway. Emergency lights flickered, casting an intermittent red glow over the corridor.
Chow took a single knee and balled his hand into a fist. “Beckham, get up here.”
Jogging past two Rangers, Beckham crouched next to the operator.
“There’s a tunnel entr
ance through there.” Chow pointed to a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. “Thing is, we haven’t been using this access point. The other one is about a mile to the north. I didn’t want to risk it.”
The roof groaned and several ceiling tiles fell to the floor, where they shattered. Chow bowed his head as dust rained down. When it cleared, he brushed the powder off his shoulders and helmet. “You hold rank, Beckham. It’s your show now.”
Beckham adjusted the strap of his empty MP5 and checked on the team. Horn, Jinx, and the Rangers hung back in the shadows. The blinking red light illuminated their armored bodies. Covered in ash and smoke, they looked like they’d just survived a nuclear holocaust.
“You said the other access point is through those doors?” Beckham asked.
Chow nodded.
After a brief pause Beckham said, “Okay. We proceed through the tunnels.” He stood and walked toward the doors with his 10mm aimed in front. The team fell into position, and Beckham flashed an advance signal to Horn, who approached at a careful trot. At the double doors, Horn snapped his night vision back into place, nudged the right door open with his M27, and strode into the darkness.
Beckham went next, his pistol aimed tightly. The passage curved and a sloped floor ran to a pair of doors so far away he could hardly make them out. Horn had already covered a good chunk of the hallway.
Shit, Beckham thought. The man wasn’t thinking with his head. His only concern was for his daughters.
Increasing his pace, Beckham flicked the mini-mic on his headset closer to his lips. “Hold up.”
No reply. Horn was either ignoring him or the channel wasn’t working.
Grunting, Beckham fell into a run, the rifle on his back clinking. The sound would let any Variants know he was coming, but the time for a gear check was behind them. The noises of his equipment mixed with the sound of footfalls reverberating through the passage.
By the time the team reached the other end of the hallway, it felt like they had descended a couple floors underground. The concrete leveled off at two heavy steel doors. Horn waited there, panting. Beckham shot him an angry glare. This time he nodded at Chow to take the lead. Horn fell into position behind the Rangers.
As Chow slowly pulled the door open, Beckham heard a click. It wasn’t the locking mechanism. In one swift motion, he grabbed Chow’s flak jacket and yanked him away from the door. Then he dropped to one knee and aimed his pistol through the gap. Wide yellow eyes stared back at him. The creature coiled, ready to spring.
Beckham squeezed the trigger before it could move. One of the bullets found a home in its right eye socket. The other took off the bottom of its chin. The monster screeched and retreated.
The bank of emergency lights flickered on the other side of the open door. A dozen of the nightmarish creatures skittered across the walls and the ceiling, their joints clicking as they powered forward.
“Fall back!” Beckham yelled. “Get away from the doors!” Horn, Jinx and the Rangers formed a wall, standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the hallway, where they opened up on the Variants.
Beckham’s senses amplified as he dove for the ground. Every movement the creatures made resounded in his ears. He could see the sweat and blood trickling down their pale flesh, could smell the scent of rotting fruit bleeding from their pores. His processor was working at full capacity, his body now a killing machine.
He hit the deck and continued firing as his mind went into overdrive too. He saw his mom, his dad, Spinoza, Edwards, Tenor, and Sheila. Every shot was for them. The animalistic screams of the Variants waned under the heavy pop of gunfire. Flashes of red and orange crisscrossed the corridor. Chunks of concrete exploded from the walls and ceiling, raining debris on the floor.
Beckham reloaded, closed an eye, and aimed from his prone position. A female Variant leaned around the open door. Big mistake, Beckham thought as he squeezed off a shot.
The creature grabbed her stomach, squealing in pain. It was just a flesh wound. Beckham fired again, this time aiming for her throat. The woman slumped forward, blood gurgling from her mouth.
In seconds the passage clogged with bodies, a twitching mound of flesh. But more of the creatures came, leaping from the darkness and through the door. A Variant, still dressed in a ragged janitorial outfit, managed to make it through the gunfire. He had lost an arm, but he was still moving. He growled and leapt into the air.
Two voices called out simultaneously. “Changing!”
Beckham kept firing, watching the ex-janitor’s hands morph into claws. He fired off the rest of his magazine into the man’s distorted body. Blood splattered across Beckham’s visor as the creature collided with him, knocking him on the ground with an audible thud.
“Boss!” Horn yelled.
“I’m fine,” Beckham replied, pushing the corpse off him. He jumped to his feet, ran back to the blockade, and slid through a gap between Jinx and Chow.
Empty shells rained down, pinging off the concrete. The gunfire was so loud he could hardly think. Beckham had trained in conditions like this, but the effects of the smoke inhalation had screwed with his senses. A minute earlier he could hear every agonizing movement, now he couldn’t even focus.
Beckham caught a glimpse of movement at the team’s rear. He changed his magazine and angled his night vision toward the far end of the hallway, the same way they’d come in.
“Contacts on our six!” Beckham shouted.
Chow turned while the others kept firing at the Variants coming through the doorway.
“Rich, Timbo, Jinx, cover our ass,” Chow said. “Beckham, Horn, Steve, Ryan, you’re with me.”
The men repositioned themselves in the center of the hallway, their backs together. Both ends of the hallway were crowded with half-naked monsters.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t follow us into the smoke!” Horn screamed in between bursts.
“They never have before!” Chow yelled.
Beckham winced. If the Variants were swarming the tunnels, then how the hell were the others supposed to hold them back? “Are there more guards protecting the survivors?”
Chow hesitated between shots. “Only a few. They’ve never come in this far!”
Beckham gritted his teeth. He knew what Horn was thinking as his fire became more rapid, less controlled. The floor filled with a river of blood, empty bullet casings plopping into the slimy red.
The Variants were getting closer now, many of them hurtling from wall to ceiling back to the floor. It made finding a target incredibly difficult even in the narrow space. Beckham counted a total of a dozen of the creatures coming from his side of the corridor. They were using one another as shields, streaming forward in a mass.
“Changing!” Chow shouted.
Beckham concentrated on the lead Variant and fired off two shots. The first caught the monster in the kneecap, the second in its chest. It slid down the wall, blood tattooing the concrete scarlet. Another clawed its way across the ceiling like some demented spider. Beckham blinked, wondering if he was in some sort of suspended nightmare, as if he would wake up suddenly and find himself on a beach in the Florida Keys.
The creature dropped from the ceiling and dashed down the hall. It didn’t make it very far before it was torn apart by bullets, blood splattering the walls. Beckham regained his stature and reached for another magazine. Last one, he thought as he eyed the rest of the pack.
He got off three shots before it was all over. Chow moved ahead of him as soon as the gunfire stopped. He kicked several twitching bodies and double-tapped every one with his rifle.
“Clear,” Chow said, nonchalantly.
Beckham held his 10mm by his side and focused on the heat from the muzzle of the gun. He wondered how many lives he’d taken over the past few weeks. Looking at the dozens of bodies and the pooling blood, Beckham wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. His gaze focused on the face of one of the creatures. Its features were hardly recognizable, so deformed by the bulgin
g lips and transformed eyes that it no longer looked quite human. Yet he saw a trace of a person he remembered. Beckham couldn’t recall his name, but he had seen this man several times around the post.
Beckham shivered and ran a sleeve across his visor to remove the blood. This wasn’t the type of war he was used to fighting. This enemy had once been their friends and family. He pushed past the corpses with the rest of the team. He didn’t want to know who they’d killed.
Chow paused in the doorway ahead.
“How far to the others?” Horn asked.
Chow pulled out a tattered map. He studied it for several minutes.
“A right, a left, and another right,” Chow said, tapping the sheet with a gloved finger.
“Then let’s move,” Horn said.
“Hold up,” Beckham replied. “How do we know the other tunnels aren’t full of hostiles?”
“We don’t,” Jinx said.
“You guys better have sealed the doors to the place where my girls are hiding,” Horn said. His voice was just shy of a growl. His chest surged. Beckham knew he was about to blow a gasket.
“Don’t worry. Your girls are safe. Only one way forward,” Chow said, pointing down the hall. “Unless you guys want to go back outside.”
Horn jammed a fresh magazine into his M27. “We’re wasting time.”
“Check your ammo and take a drink,” Beckham said. “We move in two minutes.” He walked over to Horn and pulled the man to the side.
“Look,” Beckham said. “I have no idea how you’re feeling right now.”
Horn glared at him, his breathing fast and raspy through his mask.
“But you can only help your daughters if you’re alive. Get it together, Big Horn!” Beckham smacked the wall with his palm. “We made it this far. You need to slow down and do things the right way. The way we were trained.”
The man sucked in a breath, his shoulders dropping as he calmed down. “You’re right, Boss. Wasn’t thinking back there. It’s just…” He formed a fist as the anger returned. Shaking his head he said, “Fuck! Sheila’s dead.”
Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2) Page 6
