Evolution had proven to be a very dangerous thing.
Kate put a gloved hand on Lucy’s right leg. Even through the gloves, she could feel the rigid exterior. She ran a finger over it, tracing it back and forth. The texture was smooth in some places, like a turtle shell, and rough like bark in others.
Yokoyama leaned over the corpse and said, “Let’s start by removing the armor on her left femur. Ronnie, get me a bone saw.”
The technician retrieved the tool and gave it to Yokoyama. With the utmost precision, Yokoyama made a long stroke over the center of the plate covering her femur. The saw made a piercing screech as the blade cut over the rough shell.
Starting slowly at first, Yokoyama worked the tool back and forth, cutting a narrow trench. Ellis exchanged a flicker of a glance with Kate, his brows raised, before turning back to Yokoyama. They watched their colleague struggle for several minutes.
Grunting, Yokoyama finally took a break.
“Good God, the plating is stronger than bone,” he said. “It’s got to be an inch thick.”
Kate examined the shotgun blasts that had cracked Lucy’s armor. The spray had broken the shell, cracks spreading around the impact area. Frayed flesh hung from the more severe wounds, but in most places the armor had deflected the shots. It was a 5.56 mm round that finally took her down, and that was only because it had hit her in the right eye.
Stepping closer, Kate examined Lucy’s face. The bony plating crested her skull and ran down her nose. It looked oddly like a Spartan warrior’s helmet. Her wormy lips were sealed, and Kate could only see a faint trace of where her armored chin had cracked to reveal mandibles.
Ellis leaned closer with a long pair of tweezers. “Stay back,” he said, without looking at Kate.
Every muscle in Kate’s body seemed to tighten, time halting around her as Ellis seemed to reach forward in slow motion. He inserted the tip of the tweezers into a nearly invisible crack in the middle of Lucy’s chin. All at once, four mandibles popped open around the creature’s bulging lips and twisted tongue. Kate jumped at the snapping sound.
Lucy’s deflated right eye seeped out of its socket like an egg yolk as her mandibles deployed. Her left eye stared up at the ceiling. Almond-shaped with a yellow iris, it was much wider than that of an adult Variant. If her parents could see in the dark, Lucy might have developed even better vision. Perhaps she could see heat signatures or spot prey from a mile away. The possibilities were endless.
But it was her mandibles that Kate couldn’t look away from. The horned teeth rimming both sides were coated in plaque and blood stains. Morbid thoughts filled Kate’s mind. She wondered how much human flesh the beast had consumed.
Yokoyama glared, but then went back to sawing away. “Almost…got…it.”
Kate put her hand on her stomach and stepped away from Lucy. When her heart had stopped pounding, she joined the other doctors again.
In her most powerful voice, she said, “Once we get through this armor, I want to perform every test we can think of. We’re going to run panels of chemical analyses and expose her flesh to all ranges of radiation. If she has a weakness, we’re going to find it.”
A sharp crack suddenly echoed through the room. Yokoyama peered at the long ravine he’d sawed in the armor covering Lucy’s femur.
“I’m through,” he said, his voice awed. “Ellis, you use a hammer to finish breaking through this piece. I’ll get started on her arms.”
Kate supervised the autopsy from a distance, breathing steadily. Crunching noises filled the lab as the men slowly broke away Lucy's armor. There was a lot on Kate's mind, but those words from the past once again found their way through the mess:
Sometimes, in order to kill a monster, you will have to create one.
“Ghost 2, this is Whiskey Four, approaching target. Please state position, over.”
The transmission was hard to hear over the roar of the Variants, which had sharpened into a whine louder than an air raid siren. Fitz acknowledged the transmission by screaming into his headset. “On our way to the roof, stand by!”
In the flicker of light from wall-mounted lanterns, two twisted Variants emerged. The beasts jumped onto the landing, crouching and tilting their heads at the approaching Marines.
Their skulls jerked again a beat later. Garcia had taken both creatures out with headshots. Brain matter splattered the wall behind them, and the corpses slumped to the ground. Scratching talons followed as more Variants from the roof poured into the stairwell above. Fitz couldn’t see them yet, but he guessed there were at least two dozen, judging by the macabre cacophony of shrieks and snapping joints.
Craning his neck, Fitz checked the pile of debris clogging the stairs that led to the floors below. It wasn’t moving, as far as he could tell, but there was a sound reverberating from the pile like the fins of massive fish hitting the bottom of a dock.
Meg caught his gaze, her eyes widening. They didn’t have much time. He limped after Tank and Garcia, his right blade creaking with every step. Shit, he didn’t want to look down at it.
Don’t look down.
Fitz snuck a glance.
The carbon fiber blade had a crack near the dent. He wasn’t sure how much longer it would hold—especially if he had to run for his life.
“Goddammit,” Fitz whispered. He brought his scope to his eyes and centered the red dot on the landing just as a Variant skittered across the ceiling. Garcia and Fitz fired at the same time, pumping the creature full of holes. It collapsed onto the two downed beasts.
Meg stuffed her pistol into her waistband as she crept past Fitz. Then she brought her axe down with both hands on the twitching monster’s skull like she was chopping wood. It did the trick, splitting the Variant’s ripe head in half. The crack of bones made Fitz cringe.
Ahead, Garcia flashed an advance signal to Tank. The massive Marine nimbly leapt over the corpses, bounded around the corner in a defensive position, and opened fire.
A Variant missing an arm bounced off the wall next to Tank and crashed to the landing behind him. Meg brought her axe down on the beast’s spine. It screeched in agony, legs kicking the ground and arms flailing. She withdrew the blade, flipped it over, and swung an uppercut that hit the monster’s chin, silencing it with the graceful blow.
“Multiple contacts!” Tank bellowed.
Fitz and Garcia hurried around the corner, rifles shouldered. The narrow passage was swarming with creatures. Every inch of the walls, ceiling, and stairs was crawling with them. Blood dripped from wounds the monsters had accumulated on the rooftop.
Two dozen lips seemed to open all at once, revealing broken, jagged teeth and maws dripping with saliva. The Marines fired into the mass. A river of blood gushed down the stairs as the creatures were torn apart. Meg pulled her pistol and nailed two consecutive headshots.
“Short bursts!” Garcia yelled. “Conserve your ammo! Meg, watch our six!”
The wounded, starving Variants didn’t stand a chance against the well-trained Marines. Fitz, Tank, and Garcia had fought enough of them by now to know exactly how to handle the beasts in close quarters. They went from the defensive to the offensive, advancing up the stairs and pushing the Variants back toward the rooftop. Meg swung her axe in smooth arcs, decapitating or fatally maiming monsters that still had air in their lungs.
Fitz wondered if the beasts felt any sense of fear, or if their retreat was fueled only by basic survival instincts. A female squatting on the landing above stared at him right as he squeezed the trigger. She didn’t even flinch when the bullet hit her in the forehead. It was almost as if the creature had accepted its fate.
Tank moved past the dead female and pivoted toward the open door to Floor 29 with his SAW. “Clear!”
He stomped on the face of another downed beast before he continued around the corner to the next flight. One less for Meg to take care of.
Fitz continued up the next stairs carefully, eyeing his cracked blade. Four Variants were waiting above, thei
r webbed hands plastered to the ceiling, microscopic hairs allowing them to cling to the concrete. Another half dozen loped down the stairs on the tips of their talons.
The passage filled with what sounded like hundreds of pitchforks being dragged over rocks, overshadowed only by the agonizing howls of dying monsters. Fitz’s nostrils were still burning from the scent of raw sewage back in the apartment, but a draft of rotting fruit quickly took over. Even their blood reeked.
“Changing!” Garcia yelled.
Fitz’s M4 went dry the same moment. He slung it over his shoulder with one hand and grabbed the strap of his MK11 with the other. He raised the sniper rifle and was firing three seconds later.
The blasts echoed in Fitz’s ears as he fired. He counted each shot and watched the same number of heads explode with satisfaction. They only had two floors to go before they hit the rooftop, and so far they hadn’t run into any snags.
He thought of his blade again, but this time resisted the urge to look down.
Crack!
Fitz fired a 7.62 mm round into the chest of a creature that had tried to get past Tank by clambering above him. Whatever was inside its ribcage caked the ceiling with muddy sludge. It fell limply to the stairs behind the larger Marine.
“Thanks, little man!” Tank slaughtered five more beasts as they came bounding around the next corner.
Garcia was firing again, M4 in one hand and M9 in the other. Fitz used the stolen moment to change the magazine in his MK11. Then he swung the rifle over his back, grabbed his M4, and changed that mag too.
By the time he had finished, seven more Variants were bleeding out from mortal wounds. Some of them swiped at Tank as he ran past them. Each time Meg brought her axe down on their puckering lips, leaving no question that the Variants left behind wouldn’t be flanking them.
Tank stopped on the final landing and fired into the hallway. Sunlight streamed from the open door above, something Fitz hadn’t been sure he would ever see again.
Fitz felt a grin coming on. He was almost to the top.
Before he had a chance to fire another shot, something grabbed his right blade and yanked so hard it broke the carbon fiber in half. He fell face-first to the ground, his helmet smashing into the concrete. His heart slammed against his ribcage.
He’d been so focused on getting topside that he hadn’t noticed one of the beasts behind them was still alive.
Stupid! So fucking stupid!
Fitz reached for his sidearm, pulled it, and twisted as something pulled on his other blade. He almost squeezed the trigger when he saw Meg’s frightened eyes. She was on her back, looking at him, her neck craned at a painful-looking angle.
“Help!” she choked.
A Variant had her pinned to the ground, maw descending toward her neck. To its right was a second beast missing its left arm and a chunk from the top of its skull. A flap of thick skin hung loosely over its right eye. The left eye homed in on the piece of Fitz’s blade it held in its good hand. Croaking, the creature tossed the piece down the stairs.
“Son of a bitch!” Fitz shouted. He shot the creature in its good eye and watched a piece of himself clank down the steps in what seemed like slow motion. His heart hammered, but not because he had just lost his mobility. When he roved the barrel to shoot the monster on Meg, it was already pulling her down.
“Meg!” he shouted.
She reached up, screaming in horror as the creature dragged her down the stairs. It was there, at the bottom of the flight where his blade had come to a rest, that a pack of Variants charged up the passage. Their bodies distorted in the light, twisting and bending, shadows growing in size as they raced toward Meg.
“No!” Fitz shouted. “Garcia, Tank! Help!” He squeezed off calculated shots, dropping monsters to her left and right. Light from the lanterns danced over a small armored lump that made Fitz nearly shit himself.
It was then that he understood. This pack wasn’t just adult Variants; it was full of juveniles. They had bulldozed through the debris pile and opened a gateway for the others to follow.
Fitz aimed his M4 and M9 at the beast as it galloped up the stairs toward Meg. Dozens of adults and offspring followed, talons screeching over concrete.
“Help me!” Meg shouted.
Spent shells ejected from Fitz’s weapons and rounds streaked down the passage, ricocheting off the juvenile’s armored body. It grabbed the adult that was dragging Meg, tossed it against the wall, then grabbed her legs and pulled her backward.
Fitz dropped his pistol and gripped his M4 with both hands, trying to line up a shot, but Meg’s head was in the way.
“Please move, Meg. Please.”
For the first time in Fitz’s career, he couldn’t line up a shot. The wave of pallid flesh obscured Meg a second later, rushing over her and slithering up the stairs toward Fitz in a solid lump of ropy muscle and bulging lips.
He fired his weapon on full automatic, rounds lancing into flesh and coating the walls with sticky crimson. By the time he finished off the magazine, she was gone. Tossing away his rifle, he swung his MK11 from his back, screaming, “Meg! I’m coming! Hold on!”
You can still fight. You can still save her.
Fitz pushed himself up using the muzzle of his MK11 like a crutch. He grabbed the wall and then raised the gun. The first shot threw him off balance and he crashed to the stairs, sliding on his butt. Shouldering the weapon, he fired from his back into the mass charging toward him, frantically searching for any sign of her between shots.
“Tank, Garcia! They got Meg, they fucking got Meg!”
The only reply came in the shrieks of the monsters. There might have been a human scream of agony, but it was too hard to tell. He squeezed off another shot and then felt a pair of massive hands that could have only been Tank’s underneath his armpits. The Marine yanked him up a step as Fitz kicked with his broken blade.
“We have to move!” Garcia shouted.
“Meg’s down there!” Fitz yelled back. “We can’t leave her!”
Fitz fought in Tank’s iron grip, squirming and firing his MK11 at the same time. The pack of monsters that hadn’t stopped to feed advanced, led by three more armadillo-like offspring.
“No,” Fitz sobbed as Tank pulled him up the stairs. “God, please, no.”
Fitz had failed his friends again, and this time he couldn’t even run back in to help.
-11-
For the first time in six weeks, Beckham had nothing to do but worry. He paced on the flight deck of the GW as the sun came up. The amber glow crested the waves on the horizon, spreading warm light over the ocean. On any other day, Beckham would have marveled at the glorious sight.
The sail of the USS Florida cut through the waves to the north. It submerged a few moments later, vanishing under the sparkling teal water. An Apache helicopter shot over the Cowpens. From this distance it sounded like a dragonfly. Two more gunships raced after it.
Beckham took a knee next to Apollo and rubbed the dog’s head as the birds raced away from the strike group to deal with an unknown threat. The dog was lucky. The tactical vest he wore had mitigated some of the damage from the wound he’d suffered on Plum Island, but he still had a nasty gash that had required a dozen stitches. Knowing Apollo, the injury wasn’t going to slow him down.
“You did good back there, boy,” Beckham said. “You helped save Fitz. If it weren’t for you, our friends would be dead.”
Apollo craned his head to the side, dark eyes with flecks of amber locking with Beckham’s. His tail whipped back and forth. Beckham envied the dog. Apollo had no idea how bad things were.
Riley was gone. Chow was in bad shape, Fitz was still out there with Meg and the Variant Hunters, and Kryptonite didn’t work on the juveniles.
Hope was always the last thing to go, but Beckham was starting to wonder how much more he could take before he lost it for good. Delta Force training had taught him to lock the emotions away, to keep fighting despite the losses, but that was before the a
pocalypse—before his friends and his world were torn apart by monsters.
Beckham ran a hand over the back of his short-cropped hair, working his fingers to the top of his skull where the hair was longer. When he pulled them away, his hands were shaking. His eyes flitted to his trigger finger, and for the first time in months, he wondered how many men and beasts he’d killed.
I can’t remember.
Before the outbreak of the Hemorrhage Virus, Beckham could recall every Taliban, Al-Qaeda, Iraqi insurgent, and terrorist he’d killed. Since then, he’d gunned down human collaborators and Colonel Wood’s guards. In total, he’d killed around five hundred men. Some were more evil than others, but all deserved their demise. Still, taking a life could change a man. Taking five hundred could ruin one.
Apollo whimpered as if he could sense his handler’s thoughts.
“It’s okay boy,” Beckham said. He stroked the side of the dog’s coat where he was unharmed. The soft fur felt good against his battered fingers.
Pounding sounded over the wind. These weren’t the clack of officers’ boots. It was the sound of flight crews performing their morning checks.
Apollo sniffed the air and studied the small army of orange jumpsuits as they strolled toward the F-18 Super Hornets three hundred feet away. The dog watched them work for a few moments, then turned back to bask in the glow of the rising sun with Beckham.
Horn was inside with his girls, comforting them and probably attempting to catch some shuteye. Chow was healing below decks, and Kate was in the lab with Ellis. Beckham however, couldn’t have slept even if he wanted too. He’d been out here since the Blackhawks had left to get Fitz, Meg, Garcia, and Tank, and he would stay until the birds brought them home.
Ringgold stared out of the portholes of the CIC, sipping a cup of steaming coffee. The brilliant sunrise was one of the most beautiful things she’d seen in a long time, but now she couldn’t look away from the flight deck.
“A man and his dog. If that’s not a symbol of everything we are fighting for, then I don’t know what is,” she whispered to herself.
Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5) Page 14
