“We need to get out of here,” Jake said. “Those things know we’re here now! You led them right to us!”
“Calm down,” Horn said. “The Variants won’t even get close. We’re packing a ton of firepower up here and down there,” he said, pointing to the armored vehicles.
Beckham flicked his mini-mic back to his mouth. “We have multiple contacts outside of the library.”
“Copy that; stand by for orders,” Gates replied, his voice deceivingly calm.
“Hold your fire,” Beckham said to his men. “Wait for the lieutenant to give us the order. And conserve your ammo. Don’t shoot until you have a target.”
He wiped his nose and watched dozens of the Variants flow out of the building. They dashed into the tree cover of Bryant Park, most of them on all fours like the animals they were.
“Contacts incoming,” Beckham said with disgust. This was just the beginning. He could feel it in his gut.
His earpiece filled with static and then Gates said, “Engage the enemy. Fire when you have a target.” This time his voice was rough and tense.
At least you’re not out in the open, Beckham thought, checking on the men below. Most of them were situated behind the armor, but a few stood in the street.
The spotlights from the Humvees crisscrossed the concrete, and the vehicle commanders concentrated the beams on the east entrance to Bryant Park. Beckham clenched his jaw as more of the creatures piled out of the building, a never-ending flow of monsters. He’d lost count of their numbers now. There were well over a hundred—just a snapshot of their true strength.
“Stay focused,” Beckham said. “Don’t fire until you have one in your crosshairs.” He felt like a commander from the Civil War ordering his line to wait with their muskets for the Confederates to come spilling into the open.
The sound of muffled breathing and the whistling of wind crowded around him. The teams waited patiently, every one of them knowing what was about to happen. Weapons were aimed tightly at the park.
Beckham flipped on his NVG optics and scoped the trees. The wind carried a new sound—a sound that filled him with fear and rage. The inhumane screams of the Variants came from inside the urban forest. They had stayed inside the tree cover. The creatures were smarter now.
He wondered if they were taunting 1st Platoon. Nothing would surprise him at this point.
Beckham checked their rear guard. Two Marines held security at the entrance of the floor with their weapons aimed down the hallway. Everything was set.
Jake and Timothy waited in the shadows of a cubicle. The police officer held his trembling son. “We need to leave,” he pleaded when he saw Beckham looking in his direction.
The chorus of shrieks, croaks, and high-pitched screams continued, making it difficult for Beckham to concentrate. His heart thumped. The battle for Manhattan was finally starting.
“Try to stay calm and cover your ears. This is going to be loud,” he said.
“You’re not listening!” the cop insisted. It seemed to be his favorite phrase.
Beckham moved back to the window. He didn’t have time to argue. The armored shells of the Bradleys maneuvered their turrets.
“What the hell is Gates waiting for?” Horn whispered.
“For them to strike first,” Jensen said.
The hungry wails of the creatures increased, and the convoy finally answered with the earsplitting 25mm rounds. The chain guns belched fire. Trees disappeared in a cloud of wooden confetti.
“Hold your fire,” Beckham shouted. The Variants still weren’t in view.
“Where the fuck are they?” Jensen yelled.
The Marines in the Humvee turrets swept their spotlights over the destruction, searching for contacts.
Beckham’s earpiece came to life with Gate’s confused voice. “Does anyone have—” Then a brief pause. “Strike teams, do you have eyes?”
“We lost the Variants in the park,” Beckham said. “Rodriguez, Peters, you got anything?”
“Negative,” both Marines replied simultaneously.
“Behind them! Behind them!” Timbo suddenly shouted.
Beckham pressed his body against the wall and leaned over the side to scan the pile of cars at the rear guard of the convoy, but saw nothing. “Where? I don’t see shit!”
“The manhole covers!” Ryan said.
Beckham’s heart climbed into his throat. The Variants had laid the perfect trap.
They spilled out of the open manholes, breaking into a gallop as soon as they climbed onto the street.
“Check your six!” Beckham shouted into his mini-mic. But it was already too late. The creatures tackled a trio of Marines before they could react.
“Open fire!” Beckham ordered as the monsters dragged the men across the concrete and into their lairs.
The Marines in the turrets turned and fired the .50 cals at the Variants attacking their six just as a wave over a hundred strong streamed out of Bryant Park. The chain guns coughed and spewed rounds into the Variants, cutting them down with ease. But they kept coming.
Beckham focused on the Marines. One of them stood on the rear of Steam Beast, firing his rifle wildly at the pack charging on the platoons’ six. It was Sergeant Valdez.
“My God,” Beckham whispered.
The crack of gunfire and faint screams of dying Marines activated Beckham’s internal machine. His entire body went numb, his instinct taking over, and he started barking rapid orders.
“Lieutenant, get your fucking men into the Bradley troop holds!” There was no response. He cursed. The officer was worthless now. He was probably cowering in the backseat of his armored chariot. He tried the sergeant. “Valdez. Do you copy?”
“They’re everywhere!” the man replied.
“Sergeant, get your men into the tracks!” Beckham shouted. The gunfire was so loud he couldn’t even hear himself. He turned to the snipers. “Focus your fire on the Variants at the rear. Lay down covering fire for those Marines.”
The shapes of desperate men scrambled for the safety of the armored vehicles. Beckham paced back and forth behind the strike teams. They fired calculated shots into the melee. Empty magazines and bullet casings clanged on the floor.
A frantic voice spilled over the net. “More contacts to the northwest!”
Beckham squeezed his way between Horn and Jensen. He didn’t need a scope to see the new flood of creatures climbing over the barricade of cars. 1st Platoon was surrounded.
“Can’t hold ‘em!” grunted Sergeant Valdez. He jumped off the track and herded a pair of Marines into the back of the vehicle. Another two stood their ground a hundred yards away. In a blink, the men were gone. Swallowed by the horde, their screams were lost in the madness.
A second turret swiveled from the park and joined the fight to the rear guard. The two .50 cals cut through the creatures flowing from the manhole, buying Valdez a few extra seconds. Beckham scoped the street and watched a final Marine pile into the back of Steam Beast. Valdez fired off another several shots before securing the hatch.
Only four of the Marines on the street had made it.
Beckham cursed. He had to maintain control of his anger. Nothing he could do would change the fate of those lost. He had to think of the living, of the men still fighting.
The turret guns obliterated the final Variants that climbed from the manholes. Beckham zoomed in on the mess. Piles of the dead and dying creatures were hemorrhaging a lake of blood.
It was a small victory.
The vehicle commanders in the Humvees focused their fire on the approaching horde to the north as Black Reaper and Steam Beast kept their fire concentrated on the park. A thick haze loitered in the tree line. Packs of the creatures continued to charge out of the spray.
Only a few made it through.
They dashed across the concrete, swerving and navigating around the gunfire. The creatures were making a run for the convoy.
“Keep them off the Bradleys!” Beckham yelled.
&
nbsp; One of the Variants leapt onto Black Reaper and tugged on the hatch. A sniper bullet took off its head. The body slumped over the hull and slid onto the street. Two more climbed onto the armor before more sniper fire erased them from the fight.
A beat later and the battle to the east ended. Variants stumbled from the wall of gray only to be dropped by the .50 cal fire from the third Humvee. Beckham couldn’t believe his eyes. The massacre had quickly reversed sides. 1st Platoon had prevailed. Maybe Command was right after all—maybe bullets could win this war after all.
The crackle of his headset pulled him back to the reality of the situation. A voice spluttered over the channel. Beckham clenched his fists when he realized it was Lieutenant Gates. The man was babbling, incoherent.
Sergeant Valdez cut in. “Vehicle commanders, hold your fire. Strike teams, hold position.”
“Delta, copy,” Beckham replied. He exchanged a nervous glance with Jensen.
“Charlie, copy,” the lieutenant colonel said, changing his magazine with a metallic click.
“Alpha, copy,” Peters replied.
Beckham waited for Rodriguez to respond. But the sergeant said nothing.
A small tremor suddenly rippled through the building.
“We need to leave!” Jake yelled. He pulled Timothy from their cubicle and hurried toward the Marines holding security at the exit.
“Wait!” Beckham ordered. But the man didn’t look back.
Pushing his mini-mic back into position, Beckham said, “Rodriguez, do you copy? Over.”
Another faint quake rattled the tower.
“Do you feel that?” Horn said.
“What the hell…” Jensen began to say.
The channel flickered and solidified, and Rodriguez finally came online. “Uh, copy, Delta.” He paused and let out a weak cough. “You got to fucking see this to believe it.”
“See what?” Beckham said.
“Grand Central Station,” Rodriguez replied, his voice shaking now.
Beckham hesitantly brought his MP5 to his NVG optics and glassed the station to the east.
“Holy fucking shit,” Jensen whispered.
Holy fucking shit was an adequate response, Beckham decided, watching as thousands of Variants flowed from the station. They fanned out in all directions, transforming the streets into rivers of white flesh. There had to be tens of thousands if not more, and the number kept rising as more spilled from the building.
Now he knew why Jake had insisted on leaving. New York City no longer belonged to the human race. It belonged to the Variants. And 1st Platoon had awakened the hive.
Beckham snapped into motion. “Lieutenant Gates, do you copy? Over.”
Static flickered over the net. He considered tearing the headset off and tossing it out the window. The fucking commander was worthless. Mastering his rage, he turned to the rest of his men waiting at the windows.
“Get to the street,” Beckham shouted. “We need to get the fuck out of here, ASAP. For all we know, that son of a bitch Gates is calling in an air strike!”
Jensen hopped to his feet. “I thought this location was supposed to be off-limits.”
Beckham pointed to the Variant army surging out of Grand Central Station. “They won’t worry about some library when they can kill hundreds of thousands of Variants in one strike.”
In seconds, the team was moving with unprecedented speed, scooping up gear and slinging straps over their shoulders. The doomsday clock was ticking.
Beckham caught up to Jake and Timothy. “You guys have to move fast, okay?”
Two nods.
Straightening his headset back into position, Beckham said, “Valdez, if you can hear me, hold tight. We’re on our way.”
-22-
The command center was guarded like Fort Knox. Radios crackled, buzzing with the voices of men hardened by war. White light flickered and spilled over the front entrance, blinking like a beacon calling a lost ship into harbor. Two Marines on the steps frantically waved Kate and the others to safety. She squeezed Tasha’s and Jenny’s hands, trying to ignore the screams reverberating from the other buildings.
“Let’s go! Get inside!” one of the men yelled.
She moved past him, catching a glimpse of his face. He was young and she almost thought he was Jackson. But no, she knew Jackson was dead. The Marine had sacrificed his life to buy them time to escape. They’d found his broken body a few feet away from the medical building. By some miracle, he’d still been alive, holding on for a final few seconds. When she’d reached down to help, he had let out his last breath.
Kate felt herself beginning to cry again as she walked into the command building. She let go of the children’s hands and held up fingers glistening with blood. She wasn’t even sure whose it was. Jackson’s? Rod’s? After watching the world hemorrhage, she thought she would be used to the sight. But the blood of strangers was different than those of people she knew. She hadn’t known Rod well, but the image of his sunken face would be deep-rooted in her memory for the rest of her life. However long that might be, she thought.
Kate added Rod’s death and Jackson’s to the list of billions she felt responsible for. The burden ate at her, overwhelming her. An enraged voice pulled her back to the present. It was Major Smith, and he stood in the middle of the atrium, surrounded by an entourage of Marines.
“Somebody give me a SITREP!”
No one immediately responded.
“You,” Smith said, pointing to a Marine who had followed Kate’s group into the building. “How many of those things are still on the loose?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” the man replied.
Fitz slung his rifle farther over his shoulders. He spoke in a rapid, confident tone. “Sir, I counted eighteen of the creatures. We killed six on the tarmac. Two were killed in Building 3 and another three went down in Building 2. I saw one other body in the concrete circle. So there could be another six out there.”
Smith swore. He flicked his headset to his lips and barked out new orders. “Six more hostiles on the loose. All strike teams proceed with caution.”
Kate followed his gaze around the room. Groups of frightened scientists and staff huddled in corners, some of them catatonic, others crying. There couldn’t have been more than seventy-five people in the room.
“Where’s everyone else?” Smith asked. When none of his staff replied, he looked to Fitz.
The Marine straightened and said, “This is everyone, sir.”
For the first time, Kate saw the major’s eyes soften. He was truly overwhelmed by the loss. His lips moved, but he said nothing, shocked into silence.
And for good reason, Kate thought, focusing on the packs of survivors. Half of Plum Island’s scientists were dead, and an unknown number of soldiers had lost their lives in the fight. With six more of the creatures on the prowl, the future of the facility was at risk.
Smith twisted his wedding ring around his finger, his thoughts clearly still elsewhere. He turned to the Marines and staff behind him. “Get all of these people to the end of the hallway and then secure the doors.”
A Marine with a Brooklyn accent motioned Kate and the others forward with two fingers. “This way, ma’am.”
Ellis muttered as they walked, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Dr. Kate?” asked Jenny. “Where’s my dad?”
“He’s with Reed in New York, sweetheart.”
When they got to the end of the hallway, the Marines locked the door with a loud metallic click. Three of them remained behind with the group.
“What if he doesn’t come back?” Tasha asked. “What if he dies like Mommy?”
Kate knelt in front of the girls. Releasing a deep sigh, she pulled on the last drop of strength she had left. “Don’t worry. Your dad and Reed are coming home soon. They are going to be just fine.”
She hoped it wasn’t a lie.
Fitz bolted out of the command center. The last time his body had hurt so much had been when
he was still in rehab. Running like a madman across the island and killing Variants had taken a toll on him. But that’s what Marines did. They kept going.
To the end.
A hundred feet ahead, two Medical Corps soldiers stood guard under a light pole. Beams from tactical lights crossed the base as strike teams searched for the six missing creatures.
An evil shriek cut through the night. Several cracks from a rifle followed. The shots stopped abruptly—another soldier, lost.
“Follow me,” Fitz said.
“Our orders are to hold this position,” one of the men protested.
Fitz snorted. “Did you hear that? We just lost another man.”
The two guards exchanged a glance and then nodded.
“Let’s go,” Fitz said. He charged toward the noise of the last gunshot with his weapon shouldered, his eyes probing the underbrush and trees for the creatures. A voice crackled in his earpiece as he ran.
“Command, Charlie. Four hostiles down. Repeat, four hostiles down.”
Only two left, Fitz thought. He imagined the damage the creatures could do if they made it inside the command center. He and a handful of other men were all that stood in their way. Fighting the pain, he ran harder.
Budding tree branches whipped back and forth overhead as he rounded the corner of Building 4. Balling his hand into a fist, he stopped and took a knee next to the trunk of a tree. The other two men propped their backs against the side of the building, waiting for orders.
With the memory of Cole’s death fresh on his mind, Fitz hesitated. The stocky Medical Corps soldier had died entering the first ward, his throat slashed by the claws of a Variant.
Fitz wasn’t used to giving orders and finally understood the burden that came with leading men into battle. Exhaling, he rose and said, “Stay sharp.”
After one final scan of the underbrush and the trees beyond, he pushed on. Thorns shredded his pants as he moved deeper into the bushes. Through the tree branches he should see the electrical fences and a guard tower.
He emerged from the brush and hurried over to the closest tree for cover. A scan of the beach revealed a mangled body on the ground in front of the tower, its neck twisted in a way that left no room for question. He zoomed in with his scope and flinched when the body disappeared into the bushes.
Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2) Page 24
