The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Squads First Three Weeks Omnibus [Books 1-10]

by Johnson, Glen

  She headed down under the arches of the Jardin del Centennario, a towering, faded pink wall that led through the main market.

  The outdoor market was bursting with people. Stalls crowded each other – every available space was crammed with someone selling something. Also people wandered between the stalls selling items that they were carrying. There were also children and older people begging – it broke Echo’s heart. It was one of the situations where no matter how much change you handed out there was always someone else waiting in line.

  Echo stopped to check out some merchandise. She scanned some silver rings. A hand-woven bracelet made of thousands of tiny colourful beads caught her attention. A young girl, who looked about eleven, and had her hair in the most elaborate braid Echo had ever seen, and who was wearing a traditional dress that they still wore in the mountains, was setting up the stall, while looking after an even younger girl who could be her sister. With a cheeky smile, showing brilliant white teeth, the girl motioned for Echo to try it on. The girl’s hands were a blur, pulling different bracelets back and forth until she found one that highlighted Echo’s skin tone.

  As Echo went through the different styles, the girl stared at her. It was rare to see Europeans in the capital city; most people stuck to the coastal areas. However, lying on a beach, cooking her skin, in a completely fake, commercialized environment wasn’t Echo’s style. She liked to explore, immerse herself into the culture. When she did arrive in Cancun, she would fill her time with exploring. She reasoned she was only twenty-four; she had years ahead to vegetate on the beach.

  One place she was looking forward to seeing was Chichen Itza, a World Heritage Site located in the Yucatan Peninsula, just over a hundred miles west of Cancun. The Temple of Kukulcan was probably one of the most famous stepped pyramids in the world, and she’s always wanted to visit it.

  There is also Tulum, a Pre-Columbian Maya walled city with twelve-meter tall cliffs, along the east coast of the Yucatán Peninsula on the Caribbean Sea.

  Not to mention Ek Balam, Coba, and El Meco, just to name a few. She had a full schedule set up. Also, not forgetting she had to find a hotel when she arrived.

  The young girl ran a hand down Echo’s arm, touching her paler skin.

  Echo noticed that the people begging and working on the stalls and cleaning the cars, and parking them – pretty much all the menial jobs – all had much darker skin than the people walking around in suits and driving the expensive cars. It was almost like a caste situation. Echo presumed the darker skinned people were from different areas of Mexico, and had moved to the city from the small villages and from the mountains to earn money.

  The girl serving couldn’t stop staring at Echo’s green eyes.

  “Hermosos ojos,” the girl said, stating Echo had beautiful eyes.

  “Gracias,” Echo replied. She knew enough Spanish to understand most conversations, and make an attempt at a reply.

  “Muy verde.” Very green she commented with a smile.

  Echo smiled in return.

  Echo loved the vibrant coloured bracelets. She paid the thirty pesos, and the young girl tied it around her wrist for her.

  “Pelo increíble,” Echo said, commenting on the girl’s hairstyle.

  “Que desea?” she asked if Echo liked it.

  “Si.”

  The girl said no more, she simply grabbed Echo’s hand and pulled her to one side. Down between the stalls and the one next to it was a different world. There was a blanket to sit on, with drinks and food spread out, ready for the day, with another cloth hung above to keep the sun at bay.

  The girl motioned for Echo to sit.

  The market stalls were set up all around the park, up against the side of the paths. There were stone benches that ran all the way around the hedges, and the stall was pushed up against one.

  The girl moved some bags to one side and then herded her little sister over so Echo could sit on the blanket. The girl then sat on the stone bench behind her and started to braid Echo’s hair into the same style as her own.

  It took about half an hour. The girl had to jump up every now and then to serve customers. The little sister, who was probably around two years old, and donned in a beautiful dress like her sisters, climbed onto Echo’s lap and fell asleep against the crook of her arm while hugging a small cloth dolly that was wearing a miniature dress similar to her own.

  The stall next door sold cold drinks. Resting on the warped wooden stall was a huge block of ice. An old, bent double woman used a metal device to shave the ice into a plastic cup, and then added a flavor of your choice from a range of colorful sticky glass bottles that ran around the sides of the stall – which were drawing the attention of a swarm of wasps. The old woman didn’t seem to mind the droning insects.

  Echo bought a fresh lemon drink for herself that had crushed salt around the lip of the plastic cup. The girl, when offered a drink, simply went for a bottle of something called Brisk, which was a bright pink coloured drink that was apparently a strawberry and melon flavored fizzy drink.

  After she finished a small mirror appeared, and Echo checked her hair. She loved it. She paid the small girl a hundred pesos, even though she only wanted twenty-five.

  As Echo went to walk off, she took a few photos of the girl. The girl sat behind her sister and posed for the photos. Then she sprang up and gave Echo a huge hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  After perusing around the market for another twenty minutes, carrying her hat, so she didn’t mess up her hair, and buying a white silk neck scarf, she wandered into a small cafe for breakfast.

  She checked the clock on the wall.

  9:37 AM.

  She then moved her gaze to the menu.

  She marveled at what was on offer. In England, it was cereal or a fry-up. There was over forty different breakfasts listed on the wall in bright fancy writing.

  She went for huevos rancheros – two warm tortillas covered in refried beans, with two fried eggs on top, topped with green and red sauces, with slices of avocado on the side. The green sauce was chili and the red a spicy tomato. She drank a coffee made of all milk that was served in a tall glass. When the server filled the glass, she started low then moved the silver pot right up into the air, over three feet, while still pouring the coffee – she lowered it to stop just in time. It was sweet, rich, and foamy.

  As Echo ate, she looked around the small cafe that skirted the park’s edge. People around her were enjoying their food. They chatted loudly. They laughed and shouted boisterously, and were energetically swinging hands holding forks, knives, and spoons as they enjoyed their first meal of the day with family and friends. It wasn’t just a meal to them; it was an event – a social gathering, time to catch up.

  Echo removed her camera from her cloth bag. She took a few photos of the people around her. She loved portraits of people doing everyday things in their own surroundings.

  She didn’t like using her phone as a camera, she preferred the old-fashioned 35mm manual. In her opinion, you cannot beat real film. She was using a Pentax P30T SLR, with a 28mm wide-angle lens. It was heavy in the hand, but it used to belong to her mother. It was one of her prize possessions.

  She could watch people all day.

  On one table, there was a family. The father chatted with what looked like his oldest son, while the mother wiped the baby’s face. Two twin girls, looking about eight years old, were swinging their arms around while eating. A grandmother ignored it all while she slowly sipped soup, which was dribbling down her hairy chin.

  Echo took a photo.

  If this was England, a similar family would all be on their handheld devices, or listening to their iPods.

  She never had what could be called a normal life. Growing up in a military household was hard.

  It was made harder when her mother committed suicide when Echo was only five.

  It was her earliest memory. When she made her way downstairs, shuffling along in her pajamas, dragging her oversized stuffed eleph
ant behind her – its trunk was all wet where she had been chewing it. She found her mother, Elena Mae Philips, in her father’s study, slumped in his leather-studded chair. No longer was her face elegant, with her creamy complexion and beautifully brushed, silky hair; half her face was missing and the top of her head from her father’s service weapon. She had placed the gun under her jaw and aimed upwards.

  Echo didn’t scream, or even cry. She stared. Her mother looked like one of the animals that were run over on the side of the road, the ones that looked like they had been turned inside out. Her mothers head looked the same. The top of her head was hanging from the ceiling and over the desk. Where the bullet exited there was a ring of broken chunks of skull protruding upwards, making it look like she was wearing a bony crown.

  In her mothers hand was clutched a photo of Echo – which was splattered in blood.

  The nickname Echo was used only a few days previous. Her mother said she would wander around behind her, repeating what she said, like an echo.

  Her father found her stood staring at the blood and pulp.

  She was told she didn’t say a word for two weeks after, from the shock.

  Her father was always distant, but he became even more so after the suicide. He didn’t step in to fill the hole. Rather, she was raised by different nannies. Her father is a general. He had far more important things to concern himself with, other than raising a motherless child. As it turned out, he was in charge of saving their small pocket of the world from going extinct.

  She only ever broached the subject of her mother’s suicide when she was fourteen. It was only the second time in her life that her father looked like he was about to hit her – his hands were twitching with the effort of holding them back. He didn’t say a word he simply walked away. She didn’t see him for three months after. The subject was never raised again.

  Even though she hated the fact he was never around, and blamed the army for ruining her childhood, she still signed up when she was old enough.

  When she was evaluated, whether she was fit for duty, after being in a plane crash off the coast of Tunisia while delivering supplies, the psychologist stated she joined the army to catch her father’s attention. She didn’t agree or disagree. She cared little for other people’s opinions, whether they have letters after their name or not.

  She sipped her sweet coffee and watched the colourful market through the window.

  Sounds assaulted her ears. There were people laughing, talking, arguing, hawking goods, shouting, and singing, with cars and bikes whizzing past, with car horns honking and brakes screeching, and above it all the sound of the coyote fountain in the Jardin Centenario.

  She did eventually catch her father’s attention. Or the great General Philips simply moved her close to keep an eye on her. The end of the world was coming, the least he could do was give her a chance at surviving it.

  At the age of sixteen Echo joined the army. She received no special treatment; she had to struggle just like everyone else. She had to wait until she was eighteen to follow her specialist career path – Logistic Ammunition Technician.

  She specialized in explosives and bomb disposal, including counter-terrorist bomb disposal, and everything to do with ammunition. She could build or dismantle a bomb, or strip any weapon down to its bare components and build it again.

  She wanted to understand weapons and help others work with them. Also, to dismantle bombs, to save lives.

  She did one tour in Afghanistan; she had the record for the most disarmed bombs in her unit. She would never forget the feeling of wearing the bulky, padded protective gear in the sweltering heat, while being fully aware that her extremities were still dangerously exposed, and that she was completely alone – with an expanding ring of people trying their best to get as far away from her as possible.

  Her last job of the tour was disarming a would-be martyr in Jalalabad. The man was captured before he had chance to set off the device that was strapped around his chest and waist. Security forces had hogtied the man to stop him from detonating the mechanism. He was then placed in a dusty field away from everyone, while Echo marched out in her padded suit and disarmed the bomb. All the while the mans angry eyes bored into her. Luckily, he was gagged.

  It was those eyes that convinced her the extremists would never stop; they would always be there. How do you fight someone who is willing to blow himself up – and does so with pleasure?

  She tried to sign up for another tour, but her father had her transferred. One of their biggest arguments, when she returned to England, was about his over protectiveness.

  Echo paid her bill and headed towards the metro.

  As she walked past the large fountain, she took some photos of the water splashing over the backs of the fountains two coyotes.

  Metro Coyoacán is on Line 3 of the Mexico City Metro. The sign for the station is a sickly green coloured coyote sat down looking over its shoulder. She learned that Coyoacán means Place of the Coyotes, so the sign and water fountain made sense.

  She took the line through ten stations to Line 2, the blue line, and rode another three stations to El Zócalo.

  If it went okay on the metro today, she would use it again to visit a metro station itself. Metro Pino Suárez, which was on Line 1, which had a small pyramid inside the underground station itself. The small round, stepped pyramid was dedicated to Ehecatl, the Aztec god of wind – which was discovered when they dug down to create the metro station. She also wanted to visit the station because it also had a small underground cinema that she found intriguing.

  The metro was an experience all of its own.

  She made her way through what seemed like miles of underground tunnels that were full of subterranean shops, and wide-open, tiled spaces. The tunnels leading to the different directions of the line were so long she was convinced it was a scam; you paid for a ticket, and then walked to the next station.

  It was blissfully cool underground.

  She eventually arrived at the edge of the platform, stopping just shy of the yellow warning line that was painted over very shiny tiles.

  With a rush of warm air, the bright orange train pulled into the station.

  Like several other countries, Mexico had passenger-cars set aside just for women, so they weren’t ogled or groped by men in rush hour.

  Echo decided to take the normal carriage.

  It wasn’t too busy.

  Inside the train itself was also a whole new world of experiences. People wandered along selling everything from chewing gum and cigarettes to blankets and hats. One man was even walking along trying to sell a handcrafted bedside cabinet. Entertainers appeared playing guitars or violins, or simply singing, bursting out a short rendition of something, then collecting a few pesos and moving on to the next carriage.

  While she sat in the window seat and moved through thirteen stations, she witnessed six different entertainers and nine people selling different merchandise, as well as five people – four children and one old woman – walking the train begging with outstretched dirty hands, or with tatty Styrofoam cups.

  She took lots of photos.

  People didn’t seem to mind. As she pointed at the old beggar woman, the lady made an even sadder face, playing to the camera. Echo gave her ten pesos for her performance.

  She eventually arrived at El Zócalo.

  Echo enjoyed the area so much when she looked around on her first day here that she wanted to walk around some more, heading out a little further. And this time she wanted to go to the top of Torre Latino, the iconic forty-four story skyscraper.

  After looking around El Zócalo, wandering the shops and stalls that lined the streets, and buying a bag of sweet nuts from a vender, she headed towards Torre Latino. She couldn’t miss it; it dominated the skyline.

  The main vast concrete square of El Zócalo was setting up for a free performance. Large white tents perched on the square’s edges, with a huge stage made from scaffolding erected with the church as a backdrop.
The banners announced it was a free concert put on by Pepsi. Hundreds of people were scurrying around, setting up seats and barriers.

  She decided to ride in a cycle rickshaw. She sat in the back under a green metal cover as the skinny man peddled the bike at neck breaking speeds through the crowds of people and between cars, buses, and lorries, shouting all the while, presumably to warn people to get out of his way. He always seemed to just miss everyone.

  Echo arrived at the Torre Latino, paid the seventy pesos fee, and joined the queue for one of the elevators. She was surprised to see a sign stating there was an aquarium – the worlds highest – on the thirty-eight floor, as well as two museums, on the thirty-sixth and thirty-seventh floors. She decided to check all three out on the way back down.

  She rode one of the eight small elevators up to the forty-first floor to the restaurant and bar. A man next to her stunk of beer and sweat.

  The lift stopped in the restaurant, if you wanted to go higher, you had to climb the stairs.

  Echo stood out on the viewing platform on the forty-forth floor and took in the three hundred and sixty degree panorama.

  She studied El Zócalo in the distance, with the huge flag the size of a football pitch fluttering in the warm wind. She slowly made her way right around. She was amazed at the view that encompassed over twenty-six million people living their lives.

  The fact that she knew a secret that could wipe them all away wasn’t lost on her. She put work to the back of her mind.

  The air was a little smoggy from the night before, but the haze was slowly clearing. Buildings stretched as far as the naked eye could see. Millions of structures reaching right up to the mountain line.

  She could see Popocatépetl, Mexico City’s active volcano, off in the distance, as well as three other inactive volcanoes that ringed the massive city. It was strange seeing the icecaps on the mountains when the air was so warm.

  Echo stood for almost an hour gazing out across the city she was falling in love with. She took hundreds of photos, and used the dated telescopes that she poured coins into.

  She looked down onto The Palacio de Bellas Artes, which according to the leaflet, she read in her hotel room, is the most important cultural centre in Mexico City as well as the rest of the country. It looked impressive from above, with its orange and yellow domed windows and red roof, surrounded by a vast slab of concrete that was pickled with statues.