General Kennor paced his office, impatiently waiting for updated numbers. The numbers were all that mattered now. They represented bodies. Soldiers. His staff wanted him to believe that American soldiers could no longer win the war, so he’d agreed to the unthinkable: a retreat. But now, in the late hours of the evening, he was regretting his decision. He was a control freak. Always had been. By giving up control, he felt like he was raising the white flag. His old muscles and bones longed for the chance to fight again. He was no coward. He’d fought in Vietnam and Korea, and he wore the scars from both wars proudly. They were as much a part of him as his uniform.
But the Variants were unlike any enemy he had ever faced. Colonel Gibson had inadvertently created billions of the ultimate warriors. Now those super soldiers were bringing the human race to its knees. He needed someone who knew how to fight them. Someone who understood how the creatures operated.
A rap on the door pulled Kennor from his thoughts. He turned anxiously to see Colonel Harris standing in the open doorway to his small office.
“Talk to me, Harris. How bad is it?”
The colonel kept his face stern, but the twitch of his right eye said it all. He handed Kennor a piece of paper with a list of military bases across the country.
“Things are still chaotic, sir. But here is what we know,” Harris said.
Kennor carried the paper over to his desk and sat. He slipped on a pair of glasses and clicked on his lamp. The light spread over a list of military bases and dozens of red Xs. It wasn’t a formal briefing, but he didn’t need to ask what the red marks meant.
Edwards Air Force Base, McConnell, Moody, Dover, and countless other bases were gone. Fort Knox, Ford Hood, and Fort Jackson had marks next to them. Barstow, the logistical base for the Marine Corps, did too. The list went on and on.
“How?” Kennor asked, his voice shallow.
“The Variants have penetrated every installation and overwhelmed the forces inside. At this rate, we’re losing a base almost every twenty-four hours.”
“Jesus. I… “ Kennor dropped the paper on the table and stood. “What about civilians? Do we have a current count?”
“Only estimates, sir. The best guess from lead ops is that there are less than seven million survivors left worldwide, and that number drops significantly every day. Most of the civilians are on military bases or in bunkers. There may be some in the cities, but we simply have no way of knowing how many. Like I said, these are estimates—”
Kennor pounded the table with the fist and watched Harris flinch. “There’s only one percent of the population left world fucking wide?” he roared. “How is that possible? A week ago there was just one Variant for every three human survivors.”
“With all due respect, General, there are over five hundred million Variants. They hunt in packs and swarm like a cross between insects and predatory animals. They are taking over every inch of the country, one stronghold at a time. They kill, feed, and bring the rest back to their lairs,” Harris said.
The radio on Colonel Harris’s belt crackled. He glanced down at the device and moved to shut it off when a voice said, “Colonel, do you copy? Over.”
“Sir, I should probably see what this is about,” Harris said.
Kennor nodded and sat back down in his chair, suddenly lightheaded. He looked at the ceiling and tried to understand the enormity of the situation. The numbers were all that mattered, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around the scale of the devastation. Only seven million people left, and dropping every day.
“Colonel, we have a request from Plum Island,” said the voice on the radio. “Major Smith wants an airstrike on the USS Truxtun.”
Harris’s face twisted with confusion. “An airstrike?”
“Yes, sir. They are requesting VX9H9. They claim the vessel has been overrun by Variants infected with the Hemorrhage virus. Lieutenant Colonel Jensen and two fire-teams are on board.”
Kennor pounded the table a second time when he connected the dots. “That dumb son of a bitch,” he growled. “Jensen must have ordered a salvage op after I denied the resupply request.”
Harris nodded. “Probably, sir. I’m told he also went to New York for Operation Liberty when he was told to stay behind.”
“The man can’t follow goddamn orders,” Kennor said. He shook his head and stared Harris in the eye. “Approve the request. Have our birds from Langley make the drop.”
Harris hesitated, holding the radio away from his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”
“No,” Kennor said, a cold wave of horror washing over him. He grabbed the paper off his desk and scanned the names, stopping on a red X next to Langley.
“Fall back!” Beckham shouted. Scottie was already gone. The man’s screams were distant, growing fainter as the monsters pulled him below decks. The sounds seemed to enrage Apollo even more.
Beckham grabbed the dog by the collar with his left hand and tugged him away from the door. Apollo resisted, struggling in his grip as another infected leapt up the ladder. Beckham raised his rifle with his right hand and shot it in the chest. The monster tumbled head over heels. Two more quickly emerged from the shadows. He squeezed off another burst that sent them spinning into the darkness.
“Come on, Apollo!” Beckham shouted, yanking the dog’s collar. He retreated toward the sound of Chow and Fitz’s footfalls, keeping his eyes on the open hatch as he pulled Apollo down the passage.
“Down here, Beckham!” shouted a voice.
Beckham flung a glance over his shoulder. The door to the CIC was wide open. Chow and Jensen stood out front, waving frantically. Fitz and Timbo were inside. A pile of bodies—contagious bodies—separated what was left of the two strike teams.
Apollo fought to get free, growling and squirming. Beckham tightened his grip and then fired at two infected crewmen that burst through the open hatch. The first shots were wild, but the second volley found targets, two skulls detonating. Both bodies slumped to the ground with meaty thunks, life draining from them in an instant. A few days ago—hell, maybe even less—these men had been human. Two more creatures burst from the open hatch, and Beckham dispatched them without hesitation.
He flung the strap of his rifle over his back and worked on pulling the frantic dog the final stretch. Bullets streaked past him on both sides as the other men opened fire from the CIC.
“Leave the goddamn dog!” Jensen yelled.
Beckham caught a glimpse of motion past the open hatch they had come from. A sudden wave of Variants crashed into the area. One of them tripped and somersaulted. It leapt to its feet and jumped onto the bulkhead so fast it made Beckham queasy. Shots lanced down the passage, shattering bone and spraying the sides with infected blood.
Apollo suddenly jerked from Beckham’s grip. He grabbed the dog under the belly, picked him up and then took off running toward the CIC. Apollo’s weight made every step excruciating, Beckham’s injured shoulder burning with every stride.
The scratch of claws and shrill shrieks followed them as he ran. Chow and Jensen fired off another volley of carefully aimed shots.
“Come on!” Chow shouted.
Beckham leapt over another body and almost lost Apollo in the process. They were close now, only about fifty feet from salvation. He navigated around another three corpses and gripped Apollo tighter against his chest. Something reached up and grabbed one of his ankles when he was ten feet away from the door. He stumbled and crashed to the floor. Apollo jumped from his arms and landed just outside the CIC. The frightened dog darted inside.
The hand around Beckham’s ankle tightened and pulled him backward. He reached out for something to hold onto, but came up empty. He dragged his gloved fingers across the floor, screaming, “Shoot it!”
“I can’t get a shot!” Chow screamed back.
Beckham pulled his sidearm, twisted onto his back, and blasted the infected crewman that had his ankle. He shielded his eyes from the bloody mist and turned away just as another pair of hands grabbe
d his shoulders and pulled him toward the CIC.
Pain blurred Beckham’s vision as he waited for the hallucinations to set in—for the infection to rip through his body. He flinched as the hatch slammed shut. When he managed to open his eyes, he was on his back inside the CIC. Timbo, Jensen, Chow, and Fitz were hovering over him.
“Get away from me!” Beckham shouted, crawling backwards. “I could be infected.” His back hit a bulkhead and he wiped his face clean with an arm. His heart skipped at the sight of blood smeared on his sleeve.
The other men stood their ground, their weapons lowered toward the deck. Apollo made a sad whine and approached Beckham cautiously. The dog sniffed him and then sat by his side.
-12-
Kate rubbed her temples. She was hardly listening to the chatter coming from the wall of radio equipment. Horn, Riley, and Smith were there, huddled around Hook as she twisted a knob with exaggerated care.
“Try and get Jensen back on the line,” Smith said.
“Yes, sir,” Hook replied.
Kate closed her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves. When she looked back over the water, it was still. Not a single white cap in sight.
A voice pulled her away from the view.
“Alpha Team Leader, this is Plum Island. Do you copy? Over,” Hook said.
A strained voice, weakened by static, came from the wall-mounted speakers.
“Kate, you better get over here,” Riley said.
She was already moving across the room. Her heart hammered in sync with her feet. She squeezed past Horn and Riley next to Hook. Smith paced behind them.
“Plum Island… Do you…” Static surged. “We’re locked in the CIC. Bravo Team Leader is…”
Kate held a breath in her chest, aching for news.
“He’s got blood all over him,” Jensen said.
No. Please God, no.
Smith faced her and said, “What do they do?”
“Let me talk to Reed,” Kate said.
Hook handed her the headset and Kate took a seat. “Jensen, this is Kate. Put Reed on. Now, please!”
White noise coughed out of the speakers, like there was a heavy wind in the background. There was a sharp crackle and then a voice.
“Kate…”
It was Beckham, and despite the digital interference she could hear the fear in his voice.
“I’m here,” Kate replied. “Are you…”
“I have blood on me, Kate. It’s…it’s everywhere.”
Kate could hardly form a response.
Focus. FOCUS!
She had to set aside her feelings. He needed a doctor, not a panicked woman.
“How do you feel? Are you experiencing any hallucinations?” she asked, her voice sharp. She remembered her brother’s final words, the terror in his voice, his shrill screams as the virus ripped through him.
“I don’t know,” Beckham said. “My head hurts, but I don’t know if that’s from infection or—”
“Listen to me, Reed,” Kate said. It pained her to say it, but she had no choice. “You need to stay away from the others right now. We’ve called in an airstrike of VX9H9. It will kill virtually every contagious Variant in the area.”
“Your bioweapon?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, clinical.
“And how long will it take?”
“The jets are already airborne.”
There was a pause and then, “Peters. Rodriguez. They’re dead, Kate.”
“But you aren’t,” Kate said.
The observation window suddenly rattled. She cupped her headset and strained to hear over the rumble of the incoming jets. Barking sounded across the channel and then relentless pounding.
“Reed, what is that?” Kate shouted.
“We found a dog,” Beckham said. “And the infected are trying to get inside.”
There was shouting in the background. She recognized Timbo’s deep voice and Fitz’s southern drawl. The roar of the jets grew louder, the walls trembling in their wake.
“They’re almost there, Reed. Just hold on!”
“Kate?” he said.
“I’m here,” she said, her voice shaky.
“I’m sorry for earlier—”
The noise from the jets drowned Beckham’s voice as they tore through the sky. She spun back to the window just as three F22s roared over the island.
A wave of panic gripped her as she watched. If Beckham was infected, her bioweapon would kill him. The powerful realization hit her like a missile from one of the jets, and her heart felt like it was going to explode. If Beckham died on that ship, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to keep going.
Beckham sat with his back to one of the radar stations, sucking in breaths tainted with the pungent scent of rotten fruit and infected wounds. The creatures slammed their diseased flesh into the hatch a few feet away, ringing the bell on the bridge with each strike.
“Will that hold?” Timbo shouted.
“Should,” Jensen said.
“What about that one?” Chow pointed to the only other exit to the room, which led to the bow. Beckham glimpsed the brilliant moon through the small porthole and wondered if it was the last time he’d ever see it.
“Keep an eye on that hatch,” Jensen ordered.
The infected beat harder at the entrance. Each impact vibrated through the CIC. Apollo’s barking grew louder, vicious and guttural. The sounds amplified until the distant scream that only an F22 Raptor could make broke through them all. Timbo and Jensen moved to the lookout windows, searching for the jets.
Fitz and Chow flanked Beckham, their weapons shouldered and their frightened eyes flicking from Beckham to the hatches. Beckham studied the end of Fitz’s M27 and imagined it aimed at him. Would his men hesitate if he was infected? Would he hesitate if he were in their shoes?
No. I wouldn’t.
“If I turn, you put a bullet right here,” Beckham said, tapping his throbbing forehead. His mind burned with worry. Every ache, every hint of pain became a sign that he was infected.
“Incoming!” Timbo yelled from the lookout. The Ranger backed away from the glass, motioning Jensen to follow. They retreated to the center of the bridge next to a navigation station.
Beckham heard whispering in his mind, a soft voice he could hardly place at first.
It’s okay, Reed. Get up. You need to get up.
Was he losing it? Was this the trickery of the virus?
Hollow thuds rang out, followed by explosions and the thunder of jets. They had dropped their payloads, and Kate’s bioweapon was airborne.
Beckham heard his mother’s voice a second time.
You have to get up, sweetie.
Despite the depth of his panic, her soft, reassuring voice put him at ease. Beckham pushed himself to his feet.
“Stay down,” Chow said. He shifted his rifle away from the hatch, the muzzle coming dangerously close to Beckham. He didn’t blame Chow; he was an operator, and right now Beckham was a threat.
“It’s okay,” Beckham said.
The hatch rattled in response, their voices infuriating the infected on the other side. Chow trained his M4 back on the steel.
“Those Raptors dropped VX9H9. In a few hours, anything infected with the Hemorrhage virus will be dead,” Beckham said. “Including me.”
Fitz’s eyes softened. “You’re going to be fine. If you were infected, you would already know.”
“Doesn’t always work like that,” Chow said. “I’ve seen people turn in seconds, but I’ve also seen it take longer.”
“He’s right,” Beckham said. “You need to stay back.”
Chow reached down and picked up Beckham’s M4. “Sorry, man, it’s just a precaution.”
Beckham offered a nod and then reached out to Apollo. The dog glanced in his direction, baring white canines. It let out a low growl, fur trembling.
“It’s okay, boy,” Beckham said. He saw then Apollo’s dark eyes weren’t on him. They were locked on
the porthole where bulging lips had smacked against the glass.
“Contact!” Timbo yelled. He rushed to the hatch just as an infected crashed through one of the lookout windows behind him. Shattered glass exploded into the air and an infected Variant rolled across the ground. It jumped into a catlike crouch, tilting its bony face in Beckham’s direction and blinking bloodshot eyes.
Its skull disappeared in a torrent of gunfire a beat later. Before the headless body hit the ground, two more frail-looking creatures dove through other windows. Both skittered across the floor on all fours, arching their naked backs, vertebrae protruding. Their joints clicked and clacked with every motion as they darted for cover.
Chow and Fitz worked their way around the stations for better vantages while Beckham pulled on Apollo’s collar to hold the dog back.
“Watch your line of fire,” Jensen yelled as he squeezed off a shot. The round hit one of them in the back and sent it twirling toward Timbo. With no time to fire, the Ranger reached up and snapped its neck in one swift motion. He tossed the limp body aside just as the other emaciated creature lunged at him, clamping its lips onto his muscular forearm.
Timbo let out a roar and tore the thing off his arm in a spray of blood. He took the back of its head in his other hand and slammed it into the helm over and over until its faced had caved in like a smashed pumpkin.
Beckham glimpsed motion through the lookout windows behind Timbo as three more of the infected came barreling across the bow. They charged the windows in full stride, blood dripping down their pale, sunken faces. Chow and Fitz cut the first two down, but the third lunged over the spray and shot through the shattered glass, shredding flesh and muscle in the process. It dropped to the floor, crouched, and coiled its lean muscles.
Jensen pulled his .45, took two steps forward, and shot the creature before it could strike. Brains exploded out of the exit wound, peppering an oval radar with chunks of gore. He quickly holstered his pistol and changed the magazine in his rifle.
“Looks like that’s all of them,” Chow said, panting. He backpedaled from the broken lookout windows, his rifle still shouldered and involuntarily roving for contacts. Jensen and Fitz had crowded around Timbo.
Extinction Age Page 12
