“All right, let’s get this FOB set up,” Gates said over the comm. He stepped out of the command Humvee and directed Marines to the other two trucks. The remaining men unloaded equipment and weapons.
Beckham pulled off his gas mask and stuffed it in the bag on his hip. Ghost waited on the curb with the rest of the other strike teams as the Bradleys worked on forming a perimeter around the street. They made a wall of metal with the abandoned vehicles that would slow down any Variants coming from the north, but it also blocked a potential escape route if 1st Platoon needed to get the hell out of Dodge.
What the fuck was Gates thinking? His decisions were straight out of the handbook. But the handbook didn’t apply to end-of-the-world scenarios like this one.
Beckham studied the city, mentally mapping out the target zone of the New York Public Library and the forest of trees surrounding Bryant Park. Ash-covered branches swayed in a light breeze, the soot raining down like snow.
His legs felt numb from the hike. And he was filthy. Blood and soot covered him from boots to helmet. He wiped grime off his face and focused on the park. With the ash on the trees, the image looked like it belonged on some Christmas card. He stood there, watching and waiting for orders, half expecting to see an army of Variants swinging through the branches like they had back at Fort Bragg. But besides the crunching of metal, all was quiet.
“Moving armor into position,” Beckham heard through his headset. It was the voice of Sergeant Valdez.
Jensen walked over to Beckham. Even in the dim light, he could see the lieutenant colonel was furious. Jensen jerked his chin and Beckham followed him a little distance from the other teams.
“I’m considering pulling rank,” he said. “Ordering in an extraction.”
“Sir, I thought you would never say that,” Beckham replied gingerly.
“Problem is, I don’t think Kennor would approve the order. I honestly think it’s going to take a million of those fucking monsters for the general to realize the city can’t be taken back with force.”
Beckham nodded. “Kennor is a bull-headed asshole. Just like Gibson.” He paused to take in a sidelong glance of their men and then said, “So what do we do?”
Jensen spat on the ground. “We set up shop and pray the Bradleys and Humvees can hold off the Variants when they decide to show their true strength. At that point, I’m hoping the flyboys finish the rest.”
“I’m with you, sir. And my men are with you, too,” Beckham said.
Jensen put a hand on Beckham’s shoulder. “To the end.”
“To the end,” Beckham repeated.
The comm channel came online a moment later. It was Gates. “Strike teams advance to Bank of America Tower. Command wants the FOB set up by dawn.”
Beckham turned from the surreal view of the park and snapped his street senses back on. The tower loomed overhead. It was the perfect place for sniping positions, given the vantage it had over the entire area. But what if there were Variants lurking inside?
It was going to be a long hike up. Taking in a measured breath, he flashed an advance signal toward the shattered windows of the first floor. Team Ghost and the other strike teams hustled inside, broken glass crunching under the weight of their boots. Beckham shouldered one last glance at 1st Platoon and said a mental prayer before following his men into the building.
“Clear,” Horn yelled.
Beckham stopped in front of the elevators and scanned the two dozen Special Op soldiers and Marines. Weapons of all sizes and calibers were leveled at the ground, ready to rock ’n’ roll. Grenades and extra magazines hung from armored vests. NVG optics stared back at him.
“All right,” Beckham said. He paused to wait for one of the Bradleys to finish pushing a car into position outside. When the noise subsided, he said, “Our objective is to take out any Variants and support the FOB. I’m going to be honest with you—those things are waiting to strike. I can feel it. You watch yourself, and you watch your buddy. This may be the most important battle of our lives. There won’t be any room for mistakes. Every bullet counts.”
There were several nods from the group. Beckham decided to keep the talk short. “Who’s got the building layout?”
The slender frame of Sergeant Peters stepped forward from the group, followed by Sergeant Rodriguez, a man almost twice as thick. Peters pulled out the blueprints and spread them out on the floor. “The building is fifty-five stories tall with fifty-two elevators, but obviously those aren’t an option. We got concrete stairwells here and here.”
Beckham took a knee to scan the layout. “Are they secured passages?”
“Yup,” Peters replied. “Building has a state-of-the-art security system.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Rodriguez said, swinging a tactical shotgun toward the floor.
“Alpha and Bravo, you take this stairwell to the twenty-fifth floor. Charlie and Delta, you’re with me and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. We’ll take floor twenty-six and above. If things get dicey, we’re only a few beams of metal and drywall apart.” Beckham rubbed his gloves together. “Keep your headsets on and your eyes open. Good luck.”
The teams separated and fanned out across the lobby. Several of the Marines clapped each other on the back amidst muffled chants of “Oorah!”
One of Jensen’s men was waiting for them at the stairwell, his shotgun leveled at the door. Beckham flashed a thumbs-up, and the man fired at the locking mechanism. Sparks and metal exploded from the door. It swung open. The Marine stepped away and a second Marine darted up the stairs. A beat later he yelled, “Clear!”
Beckham fell into line behind Horn. He pulled his scarf over his nose the moment he smelled the rancid reek of rot.
The teams filed up the steps slowly, clearing one corner at a time. On the third floor they came across a mangled corpse, crusted blood still surrounding the body where the victim had bled out.
Poor bastard, Beckham thought. Alone and afraid was a really shitty way to die. He focused on the men in front of him. It was quiet—too fucking quiet.
Ten minutes into the climb, fatigue set in. The numbness returned. He felt every step, the injuries from Fort Bragg dragging on him. He reached for his water bottle and popped a mild pain med into his mouth. Kate had given him a bottle before he left, but he’d held off using them as long as he could.
A sign for floor twenty rolled into view and recharged his muscles. Only a few more floors to go. He wondered if the Variants would show up in the park below before they were able to secure their sniping positions.
“Hold!” shouted one of the Marines from Charlie team. He crouched on the landing.
Horn hunched in a defensive position. Beckham strained to get a view, angling his helmet, but he couldn’t see shit. Static crackled in his earpiece. The concrete stairwell was screwing with the transmissions. Beckham’s hand crept toward his vest, and he ran a finger over the pocket where he kept the picture of his mom. The simple touch quelled the anxiety building in his gut.
The Marine on the landing finally stood and motioned the others forward. He disappeared around the corner.
The stench of sour fruit filled Beckham’s nostrils before he saw the dead Variant three floors up. The creature lay clutching a melon-sized hole in its chest. Vertical pupils stared up blankly at the ceiling. Beckham halted when he thought he saw it blink.
Of course it hadn’t blinked. Beckham wiped a hand across his face to clear the phantom vision. The creature was dead as a fucking doornail. He kicked it in the leg just to be sure and continued on.
The team came to a stop at floor twenty-six. Beckham stretched his legs and then shoved his way through the pack to the front. Lieutenant Colonel Jensen was crouched outside the door next to the Marine with the tactical shotgun.
“On me,” Beckham said.
Jensen nodded and backed away from the entrance. Beckham took his place and said, “Blow the lock.”
The Marine aimed and fired. He then pulled on the handle and swung the
door open. Beckham rushed inside, his MP5 sweeping over a carpeted hallway, clear of any signs of struggle. The opulent space was like walking into a fairytale. Then the lingering rot reached his nose, and he fumbled for his scarf. He pulled it up and breathed out a sigh when he saw the bodies at the end of the hallway.
“We got corpses,” Beckham whispered into his mini-mic. “Lots of ‘em.”
He halted and balled his hand into a fist. Most of the dead were covered with tarps, but there were a few limbs exposed.
“Hold position,” he said. He angled his weapon at a wall of cracked glass that looked over a floor of desks and cubicles. There were no contacts, no movement. Nothing. With his weapon at low ready, he moved slowly toward the pile of dead.
He took a knee when he was several feet away.
“God,” he muttered, the reek burning his nasal passages. He clutched his MP5 against his chest and held his breath as he reached forward.
He shifted the tarp and uncovered a woman’s hand. The fingers were stiff but straight, not twisted like those of a Variant. He peeled back the tarp all the way to reveal the face of a woman, an obvious victim of the Hemorrhage Virus. A bloody beard surrounded her lips and crusted blood trickled from her eyes, nose, and ears.
He took up his MP5 again and swiveled on his heels to scan the area. Someone had survived both the virus and the Variants long enough to stack the corpses.
A soft scuffling noise pulled him away from the pile. He slowly rose to his feet and aimed his weapon at the glass. He almost fired, but then he saw the wild, frightened eyes of a young boy staring back at him from the other side.
-20-
The ticking of a wall clock was a grim reminder that they were running out of time. The last of the gunshots had faded away minutes before. Now there was only silence and the tick-tock of their fate.
Kate jumped as a hollow pounding filled the air. Then a shriek of strained metal echoed through the building. The creatures breached the first barricade before she had a chance to move. The doors gave way to the crunch of metal, sending Tasha and Jenny running for the nurses’ station.
Kate hurried after them. Bringing a finger to her mouth, she said, “Shh.”
Tasha looked up, her eyes filling with tears. She whispered in Jenny’s ear and then pulled her legs to her chest and buried her head.
“Where are they?” Ellis muttered. He stood behind the desk, his hair a disheveled mess. Kate peeked over the station and checked the door. Rod stood a few feet away, the gun shaking in his wobbly hands. The red from the emergency lights flashed, splashing him with bloody light.
A distant screech of metal rang out in the distance once more.
Rod looked toward the ceiling. “Where’s it coming from?”
For several minutes no one said a word or moved. The banging reverberated as the creatures tore through the building. Kate clung desperately to any shred of sanity she had left, knowing it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.
Time crept by. The noises waned and then intensified, making it impossible to determine where they were coming from.
And then they stopped as if someone had muted the monsters. Kate slowly stood, her eyes roving back and forth. Had the Variants moved on?
Afraid to breathe, Kate crouched next to Tasha and Jenny. Glazed, swollen eyes stared back at her. Both girls were in shock. She corralled them to her chest, wishing she could do more to protect them.
Rod finally lowered the pistol to his side. In a low whisper he said, “Maybe they’re gone.”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” Riley said. He laid his gun in his lap and wheeled himself toward the desk. His features darkened, his jaw clenched. The fun-loving kid had vanished, replaced by a hardened Delta Force Operator.
He crinkled his nose and locked eyes with Kate. In a stern voice he said, “When those things come, you and the girls run.”
There was strength there. The same strength she saw in Beckham.
“You got it, Doc?”
“Y-yes,” Kate stuttered. She jumped as something rattled nearby. Riley scrambled for his pistol and aimed it at the ceiling. Rod hurried over and pointed his gun at the panels.
Kate’s heart raced at every noise. The clanging grew louder.
“They’re right above us,” Riley said. “Shit. They figured a way past the barricades. Up there.”
He brought a finger to his lips with his other hand, and Kate turned to the girls to mimic his gesture. The thumping continued as the creature scuffled through the ductwork. The team followed the sounds as they passed overhead. The Variant was working its way to the back of the medical ward.
Riley jerked his chin toward the doors. “Now’s our chance. We need to get out of here.”
Rod protested with a violent shake of his head. “What if there are more out there?”
Ellis ran his hands through his hair for the hundredth time. “I’m with Riley. We need to get out of here.”
The pounding from the ductwork stopped. An animalistic snuffling sound followed, like a dog trying to get a scent.
Kate froze, her eyes inching back down the hallway. Dr. Holder poked his head out of his hiding spot. He lipped something Kate couldn’t make out. She shook her head and put a finger to her mouth.
A screech broke out above them, and then a desperate clawing as the creature struggled through the ductwork.
Ellis dropped to both knees by the desk to try to calm the girls. “It’s okay,” he said in a low and unconvincing voice.
Kate took a knee next to them and pulled them toward her, shielding them from the monster she knew would fall from the ceiling. She closed her eyes and prayed.
The scratching continued toward Dr. Holder’s room. The rest of the rooms were empty, except…
Her eyes snapped open again when she remembered that Colonel Gibson lay hooked up to machines in the last room of the ward. The Variant was banging its way right toward him. The thought of his own creation tearing him apart sent a chill through her. He was helpless, just like her brother had been helpless when he was infected with the Hemorrhage Virus back in Chicago. Conflicting emotions pulled at her.
Riley wheeled over to the door. “Help me,” he said, reaching for the lock.
Rod hesitated. “What about the others?”
“They can come with us,” Riley replied. “Let’s go.” Jerking his chin toward the double doors, he unfastened the lock and inched it open with the muzzle of his pistol.
Kate trusted the man. He’d helped save her in Atlanta, and he was their only chance of surviving now. “Come on,” she said, reaching out for the girls. Grabbing both of their tiny hands within her own, she pulled the girls up and ran after Rod and Riley.
“You have to keep quiet,” Ellis said. He held a finger to his lips as he looked at them.
Both girls nodded.
The flickering red lights guided them into the second corridor. They left the banging behind, and the terrifying scratching faded as they raced down the hall. Kate’s heart rate slowed, but she didn’t dare let herself relax. Not until they were safe.
She stole one glance over her shoulder, wondering if Colonel Gibson could hear his fate inching closer. In a blink, the ceiling collapsed in front of his room. Panels, ductwork, wires and flakes of white streamed over the muscular frame of a man wearing nothing but frayed white trousers. Covered in dust and blood, the creature shook off the soot and grime. Charred black skin ran from his right leg to his rib cage, muscles and flesh exposed to the elements. Tilting his chin, he sniffed the air and then dropped into a catlike position.
Everything froze in that moment. Distant voices told Kate to run. Dr. Holder and Tina poked out of their room and then slammed their door shut.
There were more voices and a tug on Kate’s arm. She wanted to move, she wanted to run, but she was petrified. Unblinking, she stared at the Variant. It pursed its bulging lips and flicked a swollen tongue around the edges. Then it whirled around, its arms extended outward, claws cur
led toward the floor.
Kate could smell it from where she stood, a draft of the sour rot finding its way into her nostrils.
The creature’s vertical yellow slits blinked, over and over, studying her.
“Kate!” Riley shouted, finally snapping her from her morbid trance.
“Help!” cried a voice. “Somebody help me!”
The creature twisted toward Gibson’s room.
Tasha and Jenny squealed. Before Kate realized what she was doing, she dropped both girls’ hands and rushed back to the doors. Tina and Holder had made their choice. She had children to think about.
Hating herself for doing it, Kate pushed the doors shut and locked the doctor, his nurse, and their patient inside.
The boy ran the moment Beckham moved. He took off through the maze of cubicles and then vanished.
Beckham swore under his breath. He flipped his mini-mic to his mouth and said, “We have a survivor. A kid.”
Flashing an advance signal toward the office door, he traversed the hallway. Horn was waiting for him. Beckham took a knee and looked over the wall. A shattered glass panel blocked his view, cobweb cracks filling the entire pane.
“You got eyes?” he asked, hunching down.
His earpiece crackled. It was Sergeant Peters. “Alpha and Bravo in position.”
Lieutenant Gates replied a beat later. “Assembling FOB. Armor is in position. Charlie, Delta, SITREP.”
Beckham flicked his mini-mic back to his lips and changed the channel so he could communicate with the entire platoon. “We have a survivor. Kid took off running.”
White noised crackled in his earpiece long enough to make Beckham nervous. He knew what the officer was thinking on the other side. The objective was to set up a base and clear the area. Survivors were secondary, a liability to the mission.
Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2) Page 22
