Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Kate was right. They were evolving.

  The ex-soldier released a raspy howl that would likely result in several of the kids in the group pissing their pants. The sound only angered Beckham. He only feared one thing—not being able to protect the group. Holding a breath in his chest, Beckham considered his options. With only one viable strategy, he quickly exhaled.

  “Change of plans,” he said to the Rangers. “We’ll hold them here. Screw the rooftops. We’re not going to make it up there.”

  The response came in sharp gunfire. Screams from the civilians followed. The group had stopped in the middle of the road.

  “Chow! Get them to the LZ!” Beckham yelled with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Jinx, you’re with me.”

  Beckham searched for Horn. He found him in a single blink. They exchanged a nod and then he was gone, using his thick arms to corral the group forward. Beckham saw a single man had remained behind. He cracked a half smile when he realized it was Fitz. The man jogged toward him, his M27 swinging from the strap around his chest.

  “Need some help?” Fitz said.

  “Hell yeah,” Beckham said. They took up position next to Steve, bracing their bodies against the car. Timbo and Jinx were busy thinning out the field from the car to the right. Empty shell casings clicked off the metal hood and onto the concrete. The chorus of war returned, and it gave Beckham the chills.

  He raised his weapon, brought the scope to his eye and fired on the mass surging over the mangled frames of crashed vehicles clogging the intersection. Most of them moved on all fours, like a swarm of fire ants, their bodies painted with the blood of their victims.

  They were met by a tide of gunfire, splattering the ground with gore.

  Beckham squeezed off concentrated shots, aiming for vital regions. He hit a female in the face, taking off the top of her head. The high-caliber rounds did little to deter the wall of creatures. They charged forward, replacing those that fell.

  “Changing!” Jinx yelled.

  “Me too,” Fitz said.

  Beckham laid down supporting fire, a wide arc of bullets spraying over the road. Several of the Variants out front dropped, convulsing as their life force drained away. He hesitated when he saw the muscular man still on the top of the pickup truck. The creature crouched, its distorted hands waving madly through the air like a crazed conductor of a symphony from hell. Beckham zoomed in for a better look.

  “What the hell,” he muttered as he focused on the man’s face. His bulging lips moved, saliva dripping from the oval sucker. Beckham angled the scope down an inch to focus on the creature’s clawed hands.

  The Variant was giving orders.

  Kate’s warning finally made sense. They couldn’t drive cars or fire weapons, but they were more than just crazed cannibals. They functioned at a very minimal level, a primal level. But they were learning how to hunt and kill more efficiently.

  Beckham didn’t hesitate any longer. With the crosshairs centered on the man’s chest, he squeezed off a burst. The man’s agonized screech rang above the gunfire as bullets caught him in the midsection. He cascaded off the back of the truck, disappearing from view.

  Beckham wasted ten seconds killing the man, but he’d confirmed what Kate already knew. The Variants were learning.

  He finished his magazine as the horde of creatures fanned out across the road, inching closer and closer. There were too many of them, and even without their leader they would overwhelm his position in minutes. A scream in the distance pulled Beckham’s gaze to the civilians. They were almost to the extraction zone, past the wooded area and moving toward the JFK Special Warfare Museum.

  “Fitz, get out of here,” Beckham said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said between bursts.

  Beckham’s eyes darted back and forth as he fired, trying to count the monsters, when he saw the smoke grenades hanging off Steve’s gear bag. Snatching a pair, Beckham pulled the pins and tossed them over the cars. The grenades clanged onto the concrete and hissed as they poured out smoke, covering the roadway. Beckham then reached for a frag grenade and tossed it in the center of the smoke field.

  “Fire in the hole!” he yelled. He grabbed Fitz by his flak jacket and pulled him away from the vehicles. Jinx, Timbo, and Steve sprinted after them.

  The blast from the grenade shook the ground. Shrapnel whistled past Beckham’s right ear. Steve let out a low moan as one of the pieces hit him. Beckham craned his neck. The Ranger cradled his right arm. Only a flesh wound; he would be fine.

  The overwhelming reek of burnt flesh mixed with the awful sour fruit scent of the creatures. Beckham pulled his scarf back up, coughing into the material. When the ringing in his ears cleared, a different noise emerged. It was the beautiful sound of human engineering.

  “Evac incoming!” Steve shouted.

  Three black dots raced across the skyline. Relief washed over him, right up to the moment he saw the first wave of Variants burst through the smoke wall. Three of the creatures paused in the street, their heads tilting, confused. They clawed at their noses, like the smoke had knocked out their sense of smell. Another pair followed. Both were missing limbs, and the female on the right had a hole the size of an apple in her stomach. Blood gushed from the wound as she searched for food, her eyes roving, unblinking.

  It was like the Variants couldn’t sense the team.

  “Let’s go,” Beckham said, hoping the smoke would buy them time. His earpiece crackled to life as he turned to run.

  “Ghost, Echo 1, en route, prepare for extraction.”

  “Copy!” Beckham yelled. “Will meet you at LZ. Do me a solid, Echo 1,” he said. “Thin out this horde chasing us.”

  The pilot replied in a calm, unwavering voice. “Copy that, Ghost.”

  The whining scream of the chopper’s guns came a moment later.

  Then Beckham heard shouts and small-arms fire. He looked away from the birds. The civilians were stopped again. His heart pounded in his throat when he saw the flashes.

  “No,” he said aloud. They were trapped. The Variants were piling in from south of Zabitosky Road. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all coordinated, that the Variants had planned the ambush all along.

  The knots in Beckham’s stomach loosened. Rage boiled in the pit of his gut, warming his insides like a shot of whiskey. He scanned the area, desperation creeping up on him. Flicking his mini-mic to his lips, he yelled, “Echo 1, Ghost, get those guns on the group to the south. We’ll hold the pack to the north.”

  “Copy that,” the pilot said. “Good luck, Ghost.”

  Beckham watched the choppers circle overhead. They opened fire, the rounds splattering the concrete with the pulpy mess of the Variants out in front. The gunners focused on thinning out the herd while the other chopper landed in the empty intersection to the south. Chow approached the troop hold and helped the children inside.

  Beckham turned back to the north. The dazed creatures were starting to move again, and a dozen more stood in front of the dwindling smoke screen.

  “Steve, Jinx, Timbo, Fitz,” he yelled. “We hold them here. Not a single one of those things gets through. Got it?” Beckham examined Steve’s injury. Blood dripped from his arm. “You good to shoot?”

  Steve nodded. “Got two arms, don’t I?”

  “Fitz, you’re with me,” Beckham said. He reached for a fresh magazine and jammed it in with a click. Dropping to his stomach, he zoomed in on his first target. Fitz took up position next to him.

  “We just need to buy them time,” Beckham said, firing off a shot that took a leg off a lingering Variant.

  Fitz replied by dropping three of the creatures with a series of quick squeezes.

  Beckham found two targets of his own, blood and gore exploding out the back of their skulls. Screams of rage and pain combined with the gunfire as more of the Variants hit the pavement. This time Beckham and his team were holding the pack back. The smoke had stopped the creatures in th
eir tracks. The tide had shifted, and the fight no longer felt like a battle. It was now a slaughter.

  The whining of the chopper guns waned and Beckham craned his neck to see all three birds on the ground. The civilians piled in, Chow and Horn directing traffic.

  Beckham patted Fitz on the back. “Time to move.”

  The Marine finished off his magazine and Beckham helped him up.

  “Let’s go!” Beckham shouted to the other three men. They stood and backpedaled, firing as they moved.

  The half dozen remaining Variants suddenly changed directions, ducking behind the safety of vehicles and leaping behind trees on the side of the road. Beckham made a final dash for the choppers. Two of them lifted into the air and traversed the skyline. The third hovered a few feet above the intersection. Horn manned the door gun. Beckham wrapped his arms under Fitz’s arm. The man was struggling now, panting deeply. They lagged behind as Jinx, Steve, and Timbo climbed aboard the bird.

  When they were fifteen feet from the chopper, Horn suddenly swiveled the machine gun and screamed, “Move!”

  By the time Beckham turned around, it was too late. The muscular ex-soldier from Honeycutt Road charged him. The others had regrouped, following their injured leader.

  A flash burst from the chopper’s mini-gun as Horn trained the weapon on the pack. Beckham could hear their bones shattering as the bullets shredded their sick bodies. The gunfire ended as quickly as it started. Movement from his peripheral vision revealed the leader was still trailing him. They were in Horn’s line of fire.

  In one swift movement, Beckham pushed the Marine toward the Black Hawk, swung his M4 toward the crazed face of the monster darting for him, and pulled the trigger. The bullets thunked into the man’s chest, jerking him back and forth. But it only slowed him down.

  Beckham fired until his magazine was dry. He had tossed the gun to the ground and reached for his sidearm when the Variant tackled him onto the concrete. Beckham’s head hit the ground hard. Sharp pain jolted through his skull. He gripped the man around its thick throat, trying desperately to hold back jagged teeth. Saliva flowed from the Variant’s lips.

  The taste of coppery blood filled Beckham’s mouth, his front lip gushing from where his teeth had torn it open. He squeezed the creature’s neck harder, but it yanked free of his grasp. The Variant slammed its fists into Beckham’s torso, driving the wind from the operator’s lungs.

  He fought back with a few haphazard hits of his own, but they only infuriated the creature more. It let out a deep growl, leaning back and tilting his head toward the sky. Then it speared Beckham in the chest with the top of its skull. He gasped for air as the creature clawed at his face. Fingernails dragged across Beckham’s flesh.

  Beckham’s vision faded in and out in time with the pulsating pain in his head.

  He was going to die. It should have happened a dozen times before, but now he was finally going to die.

  Beckham caught a glimpse of the chopper. “Go!” he yelled.

  A fog dragged across his vision.

  He blinked and caught a glimpse of black, bloodstained boots. They were moving. Close now. Two steps away.

  One step.

  Beckham felt the weight of the creature fall off his body. Or was he slipping into unconsciousness? He wasn’t sure. He struggled to peel back an eyelid.

  The Variant was gone. A new face was looking down at him. Beckham blinked, the salty sweat and blood stinging his eyes.

  “Get up,” said a deep voice.

  Beckham’s vision focused on the freckled face of Horn. Fitz stood next to him, and together they reached down and grabbed Beckham under his arms. He went limp, his legs dragging across the concrete as they carried him back to the chopper. Rounds from the door guns zipped overhead.

  Beckham’s body was numb as he was lifted into the air and placed onto the floor of the chopper.

  “Is everyone okay?” he muttered.

  “Everyone’s fine,” Horn replied. “You did it, man. You saved everyone.”

  Beckham fought to keep heavy eyelids open. He saw Tasha and Jenny staring at him behind Horn.

  “It’s okay now,” Beckham choked, reaching for them. “You’re going to a safe place.”

  -9-

  Lieutenant Colonel Jensen had requested a call with Central Command, hoping to talk to someone with pull, someone who could get shit done. To say he was shocked when Hickman told him General Richard Kennor was on the line would have been an understatement. Kennor wasn’t only the acting commander in chief; he was the mastermind behind Operation Liberty.

  “Sir, video call in five minutes,” Hickman said.

  Jensen nodded, mentally preparing his thoughts. He had a real shot at saving countless American lives. All he had to do was convince the general that their intel was wrong.

  After transferring the files, Jensen took a seat at the war table and typed in his credentials, wishing more than ever for a wad of juicy chewing tobacco. Instead he chewed on the inside of his lip and turned on the screen.

  Straightening his uniform, he said, “Patch the call through, Lieutenant.”

  The wrinkled face of General Kennor appeared on screen. His lips and nose were angled in a way that made him look like he had a sour taste in his mouth. With his saggy skin, the general reminded Jensen of a bulldog—which wasn’t far from the truth. The man’s career was defined by his aggressive war strategy. If the US military had an attack dog, Kennor was it. He’d overseen countless missions in the War on Terror and was responsible for killing or bringing close to one hundred terrorists to justice.

  “Jensen,” General Kennor said, “I hear you have some important intel.”

  The lieutenant colonel cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir, very important. It’s about the Variant populations in New York City.”

  Kennor raised a bushy gray brow. “I’m listening.”

  “Sir, Central Command sent us projections of the population in Manhattan, specifically the cluster in Times Square around Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library. The data shows only about two thousand Variants in the area.”

  The general studied a piece of paper in front of him and then shrugged. “Good. Should make it that much easier for your strike teams and 1st Platoon to clear the area and set up a forward operating base.”

  “Yes, sir, it would, but I believe the intel isn’t accurate. Dr. Lovato, the CDC doctor who designed the—”

  “I know who she is,” Kennor replied, looking up to meet Jensen’s eyes. “Relay my gratitude when you get a chance.”

  Jensen nodded and continued, “I will, sir, but as I was saying, she believes there are hundreds of thousands more Variants in the area that aren’t being picked up by satellite imagery or the recon scouts.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Sir, I understand how this sounds, but please check the encrypted file I sent a few minutes ago. I apologize for the delay, but I had to check with Dr. Lovato to ensure the numbers were correct.”

  Kennor slid a laptop across his desk and flipped the top open. “Give me a second.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jensen pulled open the file and reviewed the numbers.

  “For the sake of time, why don’t you explain this to me?” Kennor said.

  Nodding again, Jensen said, “Dr. Lovato believes approximately eighty percent of the population in New York was infected with the Hemorrhage Virus. About sixteen million people. After VariantX9H9 was launched, the infected population was reduced to ten percent. The Variants should then number between one and two million in New York City. The map should be crawling with them, sir. The numbers just don’t add up.”

  “This map focuses just on Manhattan,” Kennor replied gruffly.

  “Yes, sir, but if you add up every single other cluster in the metro area, you will see there are only fifty thousand of the creatures accounted for. So where the hell did the other million plus go?”

  Kennor closed the lid to his laptop, folded his hands, and cleared his throat. �
��I’m going to be blunt here. Dr. Lovato was clearly off on her calculations. I appreciate her work, but let’s be honest, Jensen. That many people don’t simply vanish. And we’ve been running recon missions for weeks. Between flyovers, scouts, and satellite imagery, we have a pretty good idea of what we’re up against.”

  Jensen picked at a hangnail under the table, out of view. He could feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead.

  “Sir, I understand how this sounds, but we could be walking into a trap in New York. Why not insert a Special Ops team into the city? The Variants could be underground, in the subways or storm tunnels. I’d request that you delay Operation Liberty until we know—”

  Kennor shook his head. He crunched his eyebrows again, forming a hundred wrinkles. “Absolutely not,” he growled. “Do you realize how much coordination and planning has gone into this mission? New York is only one of a hundred other cities. The Marine company in New York and the teams you will supply are only a small piece of the overall puzzle here. We need you in this fight. I need you in this fight. And I need you to keep your goddamn cool. This is just the sort of claim that could cause panic or desertion.”

  The general scratched a day’s worth of gray stubble on his chin. “Quite frankly, we’re running out of time to take back our country. Every minute we wait, more survivors are brutally murdered and eaten by those things.”

  Jensen bit back a response.

  “Besides, you’re forgetting one key piece of information here,” continued Kennor.

  “Sir?” Jensen asked.

  “We are part of the United States military. And we have the most advanced weapons in the world at our disposal. The Variants are the equivalent of our distant Neanderthal ancestors. They don’t drive cars or fly jets. They can’t even fire a handgun. So I don’t care if there are one thousand or one million. Operation Liberty will crush them. The battle will be a slaughter.”