It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered then but getting through the next sixty seconds. Lara heard all sorts of details later, without meaning to. Right now, though, she lay flattened and breathless under the weight on her back, life and hope and air squeezed out.
“I love you,” the Kaptain whispered in her left ear, hot sour breath against her dark hair. It had grown back, first in the sorting shed and now here, though the ends were brittle and fraying. She was lucky to be in the pink room; the plywood stalls downstairs could see as many as six, seven an hour between first roll call at 0500 to midnight, no breaks, no lunch. Up here in the rooms named for colors, though, there were special clients. A special diet too, more calories than the average kampog, especially a twenty-niner, could dream of. Exemption from even “light” labor in the sorting sheds.
Some of the uniformed guards, or the jar kaptains—the highest class of kampog, because why force a uniform to work in the stinking jar-barracks, where you lay three or four to a shelf-bed—brought “presents.” Tiny containers of scent, either liquid or paste, not enough to get drunk on. Lipstick—it was edible, more welcome than the damn cologne. They often brought food, the best present of all. Cigarettes to trade. Some of the girls here drank the colorless, eye-watering liquor the uniforms were rationed, instead of trading it away for more substantial calories.
It let you forget, and that was worth a great deal. A few minutes of release from the tension was so seductive. The poison dulled you, though, and dull didn’t last long here. Soaking in bathtub booze was a good way to drown.
“I love you,” the Kaptain repeated, the hiss of a zipper closing under his words. The mattress had finished its song of joyless stabbing, and it barely indented under her slight, lonely weight. “I’ve organized a car, and gas. A good coat. I’ll come back and get you.” He bent over to arrange her, pushing her shoulder so she had to move, wanting her to look at him.
Rolled over on her back, Lara gazed at the ceiling, the damp trickle between her legs aching only a little. More raw lumber. Paint was a luxury—the red on the brothel’s outside was left over from something else. The only other painted building was the Kommandant’s House on the outskirts, with its white clapboard walls and picket fence. Lara had even seen the high-haired, floral-dressed wife once or twice, sitting on the porch with a glossy magazine back when the war was going well. Some kampogs used to work in the house or the garden, but that stopped when the siege of Denver was broken. Even the Kommandant’s family had to go back to the cities, retreating eastward.
The Kaptain was blond, his bloodshot blue eyes showing his worry over the war. He was her special client, and his status meant she didn’t have others. Black wool uniform with the special red piping, the silver Patriot Akademy ring on his left third finger mimicking a wedding band, the back and sides of his head shaved but the top longer. He’d begun growing it out a little while ago.
When the war turned.
He examined her while he buttoned his outer jacket, settling his cuffs, made sure he was zipped up completely. A hurried visit, for him. How many hours had she spent in this room, blessedly alone, and how many with him talking at her, unloading his worries, his thoughts, words dripping over every surface, trying to work their way in? Most of her energy went toward being impervious, locked up inside her skull. Building and maintaining walls for the steel bearings rolling inside her, so their noise could drown out everything else.
“I’ll be right back.” The Kaptain bent over the bed again, and his lips pressed against her cheek. There was almost no pad of fatty tissue over her teeth—still strong, they hadn’t rotted out yet. Childhood fluoride had done her a good turn, and with McCall’s crew there had been pine needles. Berries. Ration bars with orange flavor and minerals all in one nasty, grainy mouthful.
She was lucky, really, and how fucked-up was it that she knew? The question was a waste of energy. Here, you couldn’t afford to ask. Every effort was channeled into one thing only.
Survival.
“I love you,” he whispered yet again. Maybe he needed to convince himself, after all this time. His breath made a scorch circle, a red-hot iron pressed against shrinking flesh. Branded, like the Christian Courts were so fond of decreeing. B for “bandit” or P for “partisan,” or the ever-popular A for “scarlet woman,” because “adulterer” could possibly be the man, and you couldn’t blame him.
The Kaptain slammed the door on his way out. Yelled something down the hall—an order, maybe. Quick, hard bootsteps, scurrying back and forth. Looked like he was clearing the top floor. The girls up here might be grateful for the respite, unless they were waiting for a special to bring them something. If they were, they’d assume Lara had pissed the Kaptain off somehow, or something. They didn’t quite dare to band together against her—it wasn’t worth the risk—but the top-floor joyhouse girls were pariahs even among kampogs, and she was a pariah even among them.
Exclusivity, like luck, was suspect.
I’ll take care of you, he’d promised. Wait for me. Like she had any sort of choice. So Lara just lay there until he went away, his presence leaching slowly out of the small, overdone, dark little room. Nobody wanted bright lights in a joyhouse. A lot of the specials may have even honestly believed the girls in here were glad to see them, glad to be somehow saved.
As if anyone here didn’t know it only took one wrong move, one glance, or even nothing at all, and into the killing bottles you went.
It didn’t matter. She drifted, letting her ears fill with the high weird cotton-wool sound that meant she was outside her skin. Just turned a few inches, so she could look at whatever was happening to her body without feeling.
After some indeterminate period of time—maybe a half hour, maybe more—the throbbing beat of the ancient wheezebox downstairs thumped-ran down to a stop. Without that heartbeat, the expectant hush inside the red-painted building turned painful.
When Lara pushed herself up on her sharp-starved elbows, stealing back into her body bit by bit from the faraway place where not much could hurt her, the first rounds took out two of the watchtowers, splashing concrete, broken glass, slivers of red-hot metal, and rags of guardflesh down into Suicide Alley along the electrified fence.
The Federals—and Swann’s Riders—had arrived.
if you enjoyed
THE WASTELANDERS
look out for
EXTINCTION HORIZON
The Extinction Cycle
by
Nicholas Sansbury Smith
USA Today bestseller Nicholas Sansbury Smith’s first book in his thrilling post-apocalyptic series about one man’s mission to save the world.
Master Sergeant Reed Beckham has led his Delta Force team, codenamed Ghost, through every kind of hell imaginable and never lost a man. When a top secret Medical Corps research facility goes dark, Team Ghost is called in to face their deadliest enemy yet—a variant strain of Ebola that turns men into monsters.
After barely escaping with his life, Beckham returns to Fort Bragg in the midst of a new type of war. As cities fall, Team Ghost is ordered to keep CDC virologist Dr. Kate Lovato alive long enough to find a cure. What she uncovers will change everything.
Total extinction is just on the horizon, but will the cure be worse than the virus?
1
April 18, 2015
DAY 1
The six-man team emerged onto the tarmac at dusk. The shadows they cast moved with calculated precision. They passed under the idle blades of Black Hawk helicopters and crossed between the crates of supplies waiting to be shipped to hot spots around the world.
Any onlooker with even limited military knowledge would know the silhouettes did not belong to the average grunt. Their body armor was thinner and their muscles were sculpted in a way that reflected constant training and exercise. Further scrutiny would reveal that these men carried modified weapons.
But no matter how well trained the eye of an onlooker might have been, none would have known the shadows belonged
to the Delta Force operator team code-named Ghost, because technically, they did not exist—technically, they were ghosts who were activated only when the most critical situations emerged.
Today was one of those days.
It was April, but Master Sergeant Reed Beckham hardly noticed the budding trees and vibrant colors around him. He was still trying to figure out why Command had canceled leave after a six-month tour of Afghanistan. He was supposed to be at a bar in Key West with his buddies, pounding beers and taking afternoon naps under the brilliant white sun. Instead of boarding a charter flight to the Keys, he found himself following his men into the belly of a V-22 Osprey at Fort Bragg.
When Colonel Clinton had told him the team would receive a full briefing on a flight to Edwards Air Force Base, Beckham hadn’t been concerned. That wasn’t unusual. On most missions, they were briefed on the fly before dropping into a hot zone. This was a source of great pride amongst his men.
Drop. Take out target. Repeat.
They had the process down, like a well-oiled machine. That machine never broke. The Delta Force operators on Team Ghost were so well trained they could prep for whatever bullshit the world had to throw at them in just minutes.
But that bullshit typically didn’t involve what Clinton had said next: Beckham’s team was to escort a CDC doctor to Edwards AFB, where they would rendezvous with two officers from the Medical Corps. From there they would receive more orders.
Beckham was team lead for a strike team composed of six men. They weren’t in the business of escorting doctors. They weren’t babysitters. They were operators who snuck in and out of dangerous places and took care of business the old-fashioned way. He led the type of missions the good old US of A loved to watch on the big screen.
Only Beckham wasn’t Chuck Norris, and his men weren’t actors. When they were shot, they bled real blood. They didn’t get a second chance. He’d promised his team from day one that he would do everything in his power to keep them alive—that he would die before they did. For the average person, it was a promise that couldn’t be kept. But for Beckham, it was sacred. It meant everything to him. He wore his promise like a phantom badge into every mission, right above the picture of his mom.
Patting his vest pocket, Beckham stared into the troop hold and watched his men board. Each and every one of them was capable of completing a mission single-handedly, and they were all responsible for making the same life-or-death decisions Beckham did. But he was their leader. He’d never lost a man under his command. Everyone on Team Ghost had come home in one piece. They’d been shot, stabbed, and hit with shrapnel, but they’d always survived. He’d felt every one of their injuries as if they were his own. Their pain was his pain.
The training bible had taught him that his men always came second to the mission, but in Beckham’s book, the men surrounding him were just as important. His first squad leader had said, “My mission, my men, myself.” Beckham had rearranged the order a bit.
This mission was no different, and the facts surrounding it gave him an uneasy feeling as he grabbed a handhold and climbed into the Osprey.
“Welcome aboard. I’m Chief Wright and this is my pilot, John Bush,” said a voice from inside the dimly lit space. Beckham focused on a stocky crew chief standing with his hands on his hips and the slim pilot who stood beside him.
“Holy shit,” the chief muttered. He took a moment to give Ghost Alpha and Bravo the reverse–elevator eyes look, starting with their black helmets and then scanning their clear shooting glasses, headsets, tan fatigues, vests stuffed with extra magazines, body armor, and finally, their boots. Then he moved on to their customized weapons, stopping on Beckham’s own MP5 submachine gun with an advanced combat optical gunsight mount. The crew chief twisted his mouth to the side. “Damn, you all look like you’re about to drop into a war zone.”
“We just came from one,” Beckham replied. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk. He was exhausted and had been looking forward to some R&R. On top of that, he was anxious to get moving. The sooner he knew what was going on, the sooner he could plan for the dangers—and, ultimately, victory.
The chief’s features darkened. He narrowed his eyes and in a stern voice said, “We’re still waiting for the CDC doctor.”
Beckham took a seat across from Sergeant Will Tenor. This was Tenor’s first mission at the helm of a strike team. He was a solid leader and quick thinker—the perfect pick to lead Bravo. Beckham scrutinized the man discreetly in the dimly lit section of the Osprey. The younger Delta operator held his helmet in his hand and cleaned the interior with a cloth, a pre-combat ritual. A modified M4 with an ACOG attachment rested next to him.
Tenor didn’t give off any impression of being nervous. His stern face was framed by a solid jaw and topped with a strip of hair perfectly groomed into a Mohawk. He flashed Beckham a confident smirk, as if he knew he was being sized up. That was Tenor’s way of saying he was ready to go.
The other men wore the same confident looks, but Beckham scanned each one of them to ensure none had shown up with a hangover. He started with Staff Sergeant Carlos “Panda” Spinoza, the team’s demolitions expert. The thick man had a booming voice and the whitest teeth Beckham had ever seen. But he rarely smiled or spoke. Battle had hardened him years ago. He gripped an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon (SAW). The weapon had saved Team Ghost a dozen times.
To his right sat Staff Sergeant Parker Horn, also holding a SAW. The star college football player hailed from Texas. He’d earned the nickname Big Horn at Texas Tech, where he’d crushed the school’s sack record. He was a staggering six feet two, with a thick skull and wide shoulders. He looked innocent enough at first glance, with his freckled face and strawberry-blond hair, but beneath his fatigues he was a hard man. Delta had made an exception by allowing Horn on the team. With a tumultuous background, history of a broken home, and arms covered in ink, Horn wasn’t the model recruit, but Beckham had vetted the man himself. He’d read his file. He knew how Horn worked under pressure, when his life and those of his men were threatened. His valor in the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom had earned him two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star. Beckham knew instantly he wanted the man on Team Ghost, and he had never regretted the decision for a minute. Horn was one of the most talented operators he’d ever worked with.
Horn wasn’t the only one. All of Beckham’s operators were talented. Each of them had scored 95 percent accuracy or better in shooting tests at a thousand yards. They’d all survived the grueling endurance tests that would have left other men dead. They were the best of the best. Beckham’s team was America’s first line of defense that no one knew existed. Unseen and unheard, they were truly ghosts. He could count on every single one of them when the shit hit the fan.
A flash of movement from the tarmac distracted Beckham before he could examine the youngest members of his team, Staff Sergeant Alex Riley and Sergeant Jim Edwards. Both men carried Benelli M1014 twelve-gauge shotguns as their primary weapons.
Standing, Beckham watched a short man with an enthusiastic stride and slicked-back hair climb inside the compartment with the aid of a stern-looking African American MP. The soldier had the eyes of a hawk. Beckham stifled a snort. He knew the type. They took their jobs very seriously—sometimes too seriously.
Holding out his hand, Beckham said, “Welcome, Doctor …”
“Ellis. Doctor Pat Ellis,” the man said, shaking Beckham’s hand vigorously and turning to the rest of the team with a smile. “Most people just call me, uh, Ellis.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the MP said. “We will have time for proper introductions later. We need to get moving immediately.” There was urgency in his voice.
“Just waiting on you guys,” Beckham replied firmly.
The MP didn’t look amused. He took a seat, and Chief Wright hit the button to close the cargo-bay door. The crew chief gave a thumbs-up and pounded the inside wall. “Good to go,” he said. Groaning, the metal door crunched shut behind them.
> Beckham watched Dr. Ellis like a coach sizing up a recruit. The civilian moved quickly down the troop hold, carrying a leather bag clutched against his chest. He searched the empty seats, stopping next to Horn. The operator ignored him, pulling his skull bandanna up to his nose as if to say, This seat’s taken.
Ellis hugged the bag closer to his chest and moved toward Tenor. The man dropped his gear bag into the open seat next to him. “Sorry, taken.”
Beckham chewed at the inside of his lip. Typically his men were better behaved, but they weren’t used to babysitting.
“You can sit here,” Beckham offered.
The doctor’s face lit up when he saw the open seat, and he rushed over to it, plopping down just as the V-22‘s engines hummed to life.
“Thanks,” Ellis said.
The roar of the aircraft’s motors rippled through the walls. Ospreys were known for more than their speed and versatility; they were known for their noise. Beckham had always thought they sounded like a large lawn mower with too many ponies and a dire need for an oil change.
Beckham handed Ellis a pair of earplugs and said, “Better put these on.”
“Thanks,” Ellis remarked. He grabbed them and held them out in front of his face as if he’d never seen them before, then slowly slipped them into his ears. Then, with the utmost precision, he reached for his harness and buckled in with a click.
The whoosh from the rotors filled the cabin, sending vibrations through the craft. The doctor’s eyes widened ever so slightly, but not from fear. He looked excited, like a kid riding on a roller coaster for the first time. The aircraft pulled to the right as the pilots maneuvered it onto the runway. The rumble of the engines intensified. Moments later they were ascending into the sky.
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