Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Beckham took a sidelong glance to check on his team. They were all in back falling positions like he was. Tank was the only one struggling. The massive Marine wobbled in the wind.

  A web of lightning flashed over the eastern edge of D.C. The green glow faded away, and the city once again returned to darkness. Thunder boomed a few seconds later. The storm was moving away from their LZ. That was good, but the wind showed no sign of letting up.

  Beckham fought the force pushing on him and angled his helmet downward. Another network of lighting streaked across the horizon. The brilliant flashes illuminated the ruined metropolis. From above, the nation’s Capitol was scarcely recognizable. Iconic buildings had been reduced to rubble. Green spaces that had once drawn tourists to blooming cherry blossoms were covered in ash, the trees nothing but skeletons. Over two hundred years of the nation's history had almost been destroyed.

  The dirty bomb would blow another hole in the historical fabric of D.C., but he was confident President Ringgold would come through on her promise.

  Humans would rebuild.

  In the distance, the Washington Monument rose over the surrounding pools. It was one of the only things still standing, its tip pointing toward the sky Team Ghost was falling from.

  The screeching wind was replaced by the distant crack of lightning and rumble of thunder. Beckham’s body shook from the sound. Apollo’s fur spiked in the wind, but the dog remained calm, hardly even wiggling.

  Beckham checked his altimeter.

  Five thousand feet.

  They were already two thirds of the way through the dive. At terminal velocity, or one hundred and twenty miles per hour, he was falling thirteen hundred feet every eight seconds. He had only a few seconds left before he needed to deploy his chute.

  Beckham cut through the clouds with a seed of hope forming in him. The seven weeks of hell was almost over. With Ringgold in charge, and men like Horn and Fitz by his side, Beckham allowed the seed to grow. If Ghost and the other teams were successful tonight, America would once again be the great nation it had been since 1776. But first they had to sneak past thousands of juveniles.

  The irony wasn’t lost on Beckham. The last time an invading force had entered the city was when the British burned the White House to the ground in 1814. Two hundred and one years later, Team Ghost was about to do pretty much the same thing.

  The first chute opened below. Gibson floated down to earth, the canopy breaking its descent. Rico pulled hers a few seconds later. Garcia and Tank went next. The Marines fanned out away from one another as they sailed over the Capitol Building toward the National Mall.

  Looking up, Beckham saw Fitz and Horn were still in a back falling position. That was fine. They still had a couple of seconds. He didn’t bother signaling or breaking radio discipline. He had his hands full with Apollo anyway.

  The wind screamed as Beckham cut through the air. Gusts whistled over his armor. He took in a long breath through his cotton bandana and watched the city blooming across his field of vision. The dome of the Capitol Building and the long open lawns of the National Mall came into focus. That was their LZ.

  “Hold on, boy,” Beckham said. The dog had been good on the fall. He had whimpered a few times, but Beckham suspected that was more from the pressure on his injuries than fear.

  Apollo was one of a kind.

  Beckham reached back and pulled the ripcord. The straps tightened and yanked on his upper body as the chute fired. He followed his team over the dome of the Capitol, eyeing the gaping holes from large caliber rounds. As soon as he was over the top, he bent his knees and aimed for a small stretch of green space that had somehow managed to survive the fires.

  The single patch of grass was surrounded by death. Variant corpses dotted the landscape in every direction. Humvees, tanks, and other military vehicles of all shapes and sizes clogged the street below. They hadn’t surrendered the capitol to the Variants without a fight. There had to be thousands of corpses.

  He was glad Kate couldn’t see what he could. The guilt would eat at her. Between her two bioweapons, billions had perished. Monsters or no monsters, it was hard to stomach.

  Silent and unseen, they hoped, Team Ghost fell to earth. The comms were silent; nothing but the hiss of the wind and crackle of thunder on the horizon. Beckham looked away from the battlefield and found Fitz and Horn. They glided toward the open space to the east.

  Garcia was the first to reach the ground. He bent his knees and performed the two-stage flare. His boots almost caught on the decomposing body of a Variant, but he managed to avoid it and jog out his landing. Beckham couldn’t see Rico or Horn, but he kept an eye on Fitz. The Marine hit the dirt a few seconds after Garcia. Despite his blades, it was surprisingly graceful.

  Mimicking Garcia’s two-stage flare, Beckham hit the ground with a thud. Apollo and the gear pulled down on his chest, throwing him off balance. A shiver rushed through him as he fought to stay on his feet. He ran it out the best he could, but couldn’t stay on his feet. Dropping to his armored knee-pads, Beckham skidded across the grass with his arms around the German Shepherd.

  Apollo whined for the first time on the entire drop as the straps tightened around his body.

  “Sorry, boy,” he whispered.

  Beckham pushed himself to his feet and unstrapped Apollo. All around him, his team cut away their chutes, chambered rounds, and began moving out across the field. Horn had recovered the RDD and was throwing the pack over his shoulders.

  A buzzing sound filled the night as Beckham fell into a run. He swept his muzzle across the lawn for contacts, but only saw the twisted corpses of Variants that had puked up their insides. He could smell them through his gas mask, the awful sour scent radiating off their rotting bodies.

  The beasts were everywhere, piled on one another. Scars and lacerations covered their diseased flesh. He slowed when he saw a cloud of flies shifting across the mass graveyard. The buzzing was like a lawnmower stuck in the wrong gear. Millions of bloated flies took to the air as Horn and Tank passed. Fitz followed at a crouch run with his scope pressed to his eye. He kept his rifle up with one hand and signaled with the other.

  No contacts, Beckham thought. Good. That means no venom to worry about. Yet.

  Beckham fired back an advance signal across 1st Street. Fitz took point and darted over the lawn.

  Vehicles completely clogged the road ahead, but it was the quickest way to the tunnels. The Ulysses S. Grant Memorial rose above the other side of 1st Street. That was their target.

  The rest of Ghost continued moving, their footsteps silent and breathing steady. He picked up his pace and hopped over a dead Variant, his boot scraping a taloned hand that reached toward the sky like branches from a leafless tree. Beckham took a knee a hundred feet from the street and motioned for Fitz, Apollo and Horn to clear the vehicles. Rico, Tank and Garcia huddled next to Beckham.

  They watched in silence, weapons roving over the terrain as Fitz worked his way to the first cars with Horn. Apollo trotted alongside, his tail up. The small squad moved quickly, Fitz checking the inside while Horn checked the under carriages. They gave the all clear a few minutes later.

  Beckham moved into the road cautiously, scrutinizing the Ulysses S. Grant statue on the other side. There were four horses pulling a wagon to both sides, and steps leading to a pool full of murky water.

  A slight breeze rippled its surface.

  Beyond, the National Mall stretched as far as he could see. His eyes roved back and forth as he took in the sight. Lightning flashed across the skyline. The green electric explosion lit up the city like a bomb exploding.

  Beckham focused on the Grant statue. It was surrounded by four lions, and there was a fifth on the steps leading to the pool of water. Another ripple broke across the surface.

  In his mind’s eye, Beckham reconstructed the picture he had studied of the memorial. The horses and wagon solidified in his memory. So did the Grant statue and the four lions.

  But he couldn�
��t remember the fifth lion.

  Team Ghost continued across the street, weapons shouldered. Raising his hand, he attempted to signal Fitz, but Apollo did that for him with a low growl. His tail dropped between his legs.

  In the wake of the thunder, clicking armor sounded as the fifth statue slowly rose onto two feet and twisted in Beckham’s direction.

  The juvenile stood a full six and a half feet tall. Covered in plates of armor, it was thicker, and wider, than Big Horn. The monstrosity blinked almond eyes the size of pomegranates at the team, then cracked its head from side to side. The plates of thick armor continued clanking as it stretched its muscles and opened its bulging mouth. A pointed tongue shot out at Beckham, curled, then vanished back in its mouth.

  Every member of Team Ghost froze and stared at the massive beast—everyone except for Fitz. He raised his silenced MK11 and shot it in the face. The creature’s tree trunk arms flew up as it tumbled backward and skidded down the steps all the way to the pool of water.

  Beckham wasted no time giving the advance signal. The team continued to the monument and set up a perimeter as Horn and Tank searched for the entry into the tunnels.

  He didn’t need to tell the men they didn’t have much time.

  Beckham angled his M4 toward the rippling pool, where the dead juvenile was lying with what was left of its skull in the water.

  As soon as Beckham looked past the beast, his heart flipped. The ripple wasn’t from the impact of the body. Curved skulls slowly rose from the other end of the pool. More juveniles emerged, dripping wet.

  “Everyone back,” Beckham said, breaking radio discipline. He plucked an R49 grenade off his vest, but hesitated. The gas wouldn’t deploy if he threw it in the pool. And Ghost was just within striking distance of their venom.

  He pivoted away and pointed at the monument. “Get behind the statue.”

  Rico, Garcia, and Fitz took refuge on the other side. Tank and Horn were already prying up a stone slab covering the hidden entrance to the tunnels on the street side of the monument. Together, they hefted the three-foot square and slid it across the ground.

  No one said a word as the juveniles charged through the water on two feet, even as the hissing shrieks of the evolved monsters sounded all at once. Weapons were raised and readied, but everyone remained calm. Team Ghost was prepared for this. They had expected it. Everyone knew exactly what to do.

  A whistling rose over the discord. Something hit the statue on top of the monument. Beckham looked up to see venom eating away at the top of Grant’s face.

  Hurry, Big Horn!

  Tank pulled open a metal door and waved the others inside. Rico, Fitz, and Garcia darted over to the entrance. Garcia was the first inside. He reached up for the bomb. Horn grabbed it and handed it down. Rico and Fitz went next, boots clanking on a skeletal ladder that hadn’t been used in decades.

  Apollo nearly jumped into Beckham’s arms when he reached down for the dog. He tightened his grip and leaned down to climb into the opening just as another stream of venom splattered onto the stone next to Tank. The massive Marine let out a screech and stumbled away from the safety of the monument.

  Horn grabbed at his arm, but it was too late. Three different shots of the corrosive liquid slammed into Tank’s armor, hitting him in the chest, face, and right thigh. He let out an agonizing cry and crumbled to his knees, armor crackling as the venom ate right through the plates.

  Beckham watched in horror as Tank grabbed at his smoldering chest. He plucked an object from a pouch and reached for it with his other hand as a second round of venom plastered his body. The scream that came from Tank’s mouth sounded inhuman, like a desperate, dying animal. His left hand melted and fell away. That’s when Beckham saw the M67 grenade still clutched in his right fist.

  Horn fired on the advancing beasts that Beckham could no longer see from his position. Tank pushed his face guard up and met Beckham’s gaze as he plucked the pin away in his teeth. They shared a moment of understanding, and despite the overwhelming pain from the venom, Tank somehow managed to speak.

  “Tell Tito....” Tank’s voice trailed off, but Beckham understood. He nodded and yelled for Horn to get inside. Horn fired off another few bursts and hesitated to look at Tank.

  “Get out of here, you big, stupid shit,” Tank growled.

  Horn wasn’t moving. He reached out as if he wanted to haul Tank to his feet, but the big Marine slumped to his left as his guts spilled from his stomach.

  Garcia was shouting from below. “What’s happening? Where the fuck is Tank?”

  The situation was crumbling, and Beckham couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it. He felt someone tap his leg, but he didn’t move. His eyes were locked on Tank. The Marine was somehow still alive, even though his flesh was melting.

  Horn fired off a final shot, then climbed into the passage with Beckham. Both men watched as a third salvo of venom peppered Tank. The Marine finally fell. Smoke rose off his smoldering armor, and the primed grenade rolled away from the body.

  Horn slammed the hatch shut and twisted the wheel to seal them in as Garcia continued shouting over the comm. A massive detonation rocked the monument above with a rumble that shook the entire passage. The explosion from the M67 drowned out Garcia’s frantic voice.

  Beckham and Horn fell from the rungs, crashing into one another at the bottom. Someone grabbed Beckham under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. It was Garcia, and his eyes were wide and wet.

  As the ringing passed and the last dying groans of the juveniles above faded into the night, Team Ghost looked into the dark tunnels. Beckham offered his silent condolences to Garcia with a pat on the shoulder. The sergeant trembled with anger, but it wasn’t directed at anyone. There was no time to mourn Tank, and both of them knew that.

  Rico and Fitz stood ahead in the tunnel, awaiting Beckham's order. He flashed an advance signal and they hurried into the darkness. Horn heaved the pack with Gibson over his shoulders and followed the Marines, but Garcia hesitated.

  Beckham patted Garcia on the shoulder a second time. It took a third to get the sergeant to move.

  “Should have been me,” Garcia whispered, turning and locking eyes with Beckham. “Why the fuck is it always someone else?”

  Beckham shook his head, although he understood exactly what Garcia meant. Both of them had lost almost every man in their squad since the beginning of the war. As leaders, they felt responsible for those deaths. Beckham would lay down his life to protect Team Ghost, and he knew Garcia felt the same way about the Variant Hunters. But there was nothing they could do to change the past.

  Right now, they had bigger problems than the grief and guilt over losing Tank. The blast from his grenade had saved Ghost from the pack of monsters, but it had also told every other beast in the city exactly where they were.

  -25-

  Ringgold’s heart ached. She’d watched Corporal “Tank” Talon fall on the live feed, cut down before he’d even made it below ground. She wasn’t used to the horrors of war. Years ago, when she had first stepped into the world of politics, she had found a way to shut off her emotions in order to do battle with her political opponents over important issues. But real war was much different than war over laws and taxes. She couldn’t un-see what she had just witnessed.

  Watching Tank die had taken away her breath. Now she was holding it as strike teams all over the country entered underground bunkers, tunnels, sewers, and wherever the monsters dwelled. The adults were dead, but the offspring were larger and more dangerous than ever before. These brave men and women were likely heading to their deaths—and she had sent them there.

  Ringgold paced back and forth as she waited for the feed from Team Ghost to come back online. As soon as they had entered the tunnels, the transmission had cut out. Nagle said the bunkers were probably blocking the signals.

  Across the room, Lieutenant Davis searched the ocean with a pair of binoculars. Rain cascaded down the glass, but she continued raking them back and for
th.

  “Keeping busy?” Ringgold asked as she strolled over.

  Davis lowered the binoculars. “Trying to, Madame President.”

  “It’s the wait that kills us, isn’t it? I can still remember those walls closing in around me at Raven Rock. Every day I was trapped there, I thought would be my last. At times I wanted it to be my last, but then Beckham showed up. If anyone can survive out there, it’s him and his men.”

  “He’s a fine soldier. I have the utmost confidence….” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

  In the reflection of the glass, Ringgold saw what Davis must have noticed a moment earlier. Figures were rushing into the room. And they appeared to be armed. Davis reached for her sidearm just as a deafening blast rang out.

  Ringgold didn’t have time to turn before Davis tackled her to the ground. They landed in a heap. Pain streaked across the President’s collarbone. The gunshot rang off the metal walls like a church bell, lingering in her ears.

  From the floor, Ringgold watched men in black armor rush into the CIC. Their leader held a smoking shotgun. The Marine who had been standing guard at the entryway was sprawled on his back, a gaping hole blown in his chest.

  “Nobody move!” someone shouted.

  Johnson and Humphrey were hunched next to Nagle’s monitors. Several officers reached for weapons, but were quickly disarmed. Two more Marines rushed into the room, weapons raised. Neither of them got off a shot before they were blown away. Blood splattered the bulkheads.

  Davis hovered over Ringgold. “Shit, shit, shit,” she kept repeating.

  Despite the pain of her injured arm, a dozen questions swam in Ringgold’s mind. As soon as she saw Lieutenant Colonel Kramer stride into the room, it all made sense.

  “No one else has to die,” Kramer said.

  “What the hell is this?” Johnson yelled, getting to his feet. Humphrey stood too, his hands raised in the air. A soldier silenced Johnson by roving a shotgun in his direction.