Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  This was the moment he’d been dreading. Fitz took a deep breath and said, “They aren’t coming.”

  Every member of Team Ghost focused on him.

  “What?” Stevenson asked, his mouth hanging open.

  “Colonel Bradley briefed us an hour ago and said the EUF can’t risk sending us any forces. They were assaulted last night by an army of juveniles and are hunkered down in Paris. They are barely hanging on to their base. They are surrounded in all directions and it’s our job to clear a path to them.”

  “And save their asses?” Stevenson said.

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Fitz said sternly.

  Dohi pulled a piece of licorice root from his pocket and wedged it between his teeth, chomping on it slowly. Everything he did was slow and discreet. Fitz could never get a read on him, which is what made him so good at poker.

  Rico stopped chewing her gum at the news.

  “They aren’t fucking coming…,” Stevenson mumbled.

  “No, they aren’t, but that doesn’t change our mission,” Fitz said. “And I know we haven’t worked together very long, but we’re all experienced at fighting Variants. We will learn to fight together.”

  Standing as straight as possible, Fitz let out a breath and nodded at each member of his new team. They needed more than reassurance right now. They needed to know they were part of something bigger than themselves.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the extra Delta Force Team Ghost patches Beckham had given him the day Fitz had boarded a ship with Apollo three months ago.

  “This is it,” Fitz said. “The moment we have been waiting months for. Welcome to Team Ghost.”

  One by one, he handed out the patches. Afterward, he stood next to his team and looked out over the cliffs. His grandfather had made it home from WWII, but many of his brothers hadn’t. Fitz had experienced similar losses during the War on Terror and now the war with the Variants. He thought of his friends, both alive and dead, and straightened his helmet. He was going to make them proud.

  “We’re with you, sir,” Tanaka said.

  “I guess we will do this shit on our own,” Stevenson said with a shrug. He pulled an arm across his chest to stretch. “I’ve got your back, sir.”

  “Me too,” Rico said while flashing a contagious smile.

  Dohi nodded reassuringly.

  Apollo looked up and wagged his tail.

  “For Europe,” Fitz said, his voice deep and confident. “For humanity.”

  The second D-Day was just a few hours away, and each one of the Operators was prepared to give their lives for their country. Team Ghost was back, and they were ready to reclaim Europe from the monsters—or die trying.

  Captain Reed Beckham checked the M4 propped up against a wheelbarrow near a row of recently harvested corn. He spat in the dirt and wiped his face on his shoulder. Fitz was about to lead Team Ghost into France against God knew what, and Beckham was digging fresh graves on Plum Island.

  He looked toward the makeshift outhouse and trench separating the graveyard from fifty acres of farmland. Corn, beans, and other produce covered any evidence of the foundations that still remained of the Medical Corps laboratory buildings Colonel Rick Gibson had built. But just because Beckham couldn’t see them didn’t mean he would forget what had occurred there or the hundreds of men and women who had died—many of them buried here, each marked by a white cross.

  He would never forget.

  Guard towers rose over the beaches, and electric fences lined the coast. Water glistened in the distance, and a destroyer with a massive cage on the bow drifted across the horizon, likely heading for harbor to drop off new civilians.

  Beckham looked at his M4 again. He had traded the weapon for a shovel today. He raised his new prosthetic hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. It was unusually hot for October. He glanced down at the carbon fiber blade attached under his left knee. Standing on it was much easier now, but he still couldn’t run better than a ten-minute mile. His goal was to keep up with Fitz on a jog around the island when he returned from the European front. For now, Beckham was just trying to keep up with Kate, and she was almost six months pregnant.

  It was over seven months since Beckham had led Team Ghost into Building 8 to investigate the breached bioweapons research facility. He could still see Sergeant Tenor transforming into a monster in his arms, and the look on his face when Staff Sergeant Riley put Tenor out of his misery.

  Beckham hit his forehead with his prosthetic hand, trying to pound the memories away, but they kept coming in an endless stream, like the bullets from the MP5 he had fired that day. He saw Sergeant Jose Garcia back in the bunker beneath the Capitol Building, sacrificing himself so the rest of them could escape—a duty Beckham should have done himself. He saw Lieutenant Colonel Jensen gasping for air on the tarmac, bleeding out from a bullet Beckham wished he had caught instead. And he saw Riley on the gurney back on the GW, broken and bloody. He couldn’t bear the thought of the kid like that…

  Beckham hadn’t been able to save any of them.

  Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his already damaged sight. The juveniles’ corrosive toxins had taken his hand, his leg, and much of the vision in his right eye. He’d given all he could, and it still hadn’t been enough to save his brothers.

  No. Don’t do that, Reed. They don’t want your tears. They want you to keep living.

  Beckham plucked his shovel out of the dirt, gripping it with his left hand. He speared the ground with the sharp tip of his left blade for balance and stabbed the earth with the shovel. He scooped up a chunk and tossed it to the side, then dug again and again, until a waterfall of sweat was pouring down his chest.

  He was right handed, and learning how to do everything with his left was maddening. It had taken him days to figure out how to use a freaking shovel, and he was still learning to shoot with his left hand. That was the hardest part—besides touching Kate. It didn’t feel right using something that wasn’t a part of him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Beckham filled his lungs. For three days straight he had worked on completing a new irrigation system for the crops. Now that he was done, he was working on graves for civilians. Plum Island had been hit hard with disease. Many of those being rescued from the mainland were suffering from dysentery. Some even had typhoid. There were rumors of Hemorrhage Virus infections in rural areas, but so far Plum Island hadn’t seen any infected. In any case, the grave digging wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

  A voice interrupted him mid-shovel.

  “Boss, we’re out of TP.”

  The door to the outhouse swung open, and Master Sergeant Parker Horn stepped out wearing a pair of fatigues and a white tank top with sweat stains around the pits. Faded tattoos covered his upper body and arms, but there was a glistening new Celtic cross on his chest above his heart with the names of all of their brothers and sisters lost in the war. He had borrowed the idea from Garcia.

  “I’d rather just shit in the bushes,” Horn grumbled as he slammed the wood door behind him. “Place stinks like a dead Variant.”

  Beckham chuckled. It felt good to laugh, but he was still having a hard time not feeling guilty when he smiled.

  Horn plucked his shovel out of the ground and joined Beckham. A few minutes later, they both looked up at the cough of a diesel engine. An Army truck with an open troop hold plowed down the dirt road. The driver parked the beast of a vehicle on the side of the road. He jumped out, waved at Beckham and Horn, and then disappeared around the side of the truck to let a dozen civilians out the back gate. They were all carrying backpacks and water bottles, like the migrant workers Beckham remembered seeing in the Florida orange groves when Team Ghost was on leave.

  The civilians fanned out across a field of carrots to harvest the vegetables. Horn went back to digging, but Beckham couldn’t seem to look away from the fields
of crops and the fresh graves. Life and death, separated only by a trench.

  He went back to digging. Manual labor was one way to keep his mind off things. It wasn’t as hard as Delta Force training, but it was tough given his injuries. It was also boring as hell. While he didn’t miss the killing, he did miss shooting and training missions. And he really missed Apollo.

  Letting him leave with Fitz three months ago was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but with Plum Island officially designated a safe zone territory (SZT), he had felt compelled to let Apollo protect Fitz and his new team. Fitz needed the faithful German Shepherd for protection. Beckham didn’t.

  He wondered how his two friends were doing now. The last time he had spoken with Fitz was several days ago, and the call had lasted just a few minutes. Not near enough time for an update.

  “Boss, maybe you should have accepted the position from Ringgold,” Horn said. “You’d be running this place as mayor of Plum Island, hanging out in that fancy air conditioned embassy building. This heat wave is—”

  “I’m not a politician,” Beckham interrupted. “And I never will be.”

  “Well, I’m not a ditch-digger.”

  Beckham stabbed the ground with his shovel and looked at his best friend. “We’re retired now, Big Horn. We picked this life for Kate and your daughters. Remember?”

  “When President Ringgold personally promoted Fitz, Davis, and us three months ago, I didn’t think we’d be the ones digging ditches. We’ve spent our lives fighting. Now we’re doing this shit.”

  “Would you rather be in Europe, with your girls worrying about you every night, wondering if this time daddy wouldn’t come home?”

  Horn mumbled something under his breath and bent down to scoop another load of dirt. “No. I just miss it.”

  Beckham didn’t need to ask what he meant. “I do too. Every damn minute. I wish we could be out there with Fitz. I wish a lot of things, brother. Pretty much anything beats this shit. But you wouldn’t be happy sitting behind a desk. You wanted to be outside. Besides, we got your girls to think about, and I have Kate and my kid coming. Staying here was the right decision. We can protect them.”

  “Yeah,” Horn said. “Sheila would want me to keep our girls safe. I can’t do that from Europe. Didn’t mean no disrespect, boss.”

  “It’s fine, Big Horn. I understand.”

  They continued denting away at the earth in silence for several minutes. Beckham used the time to think. The only reason he hadn’t immediately turned down President Ringgold’s offer was out of respect for his commander-in-chief. He’d promised to consider it, but in the end, he had still turned her down. There were plenty of other capable people to serve as mayor.

  A half hour passed before Horn spoke again. “You hear what Kate said last night about the Hemorrhage Virus still being out there?” He stopped to wring out the hem of his sweaty shirt. “What about VX9H9 and Kryptonite? I thought that shit was supposed to kill all of the Variants.”

  “Remember the Truxtun?”

  Beckham locked eyes with Horn across the grave they were working on. Raw pain flooded Horn’s gaze.

  “How could I forget?” Horn said.

  “The crew was infected with the Hemorrhage Virus because the ship was outside the range of VX9H9. I’m sure there are rural places that have avoided both bioweapons. The rumors are likely true.”

  “Maybe we’ll be fighting again after all.”

  Beckham bent down and struck the earth with his shovel. Kate was back at their new home, a small three-bedroom prefab house they shared with Horn and his daughters, Tasha and Jenny. They were supposed to find out in a few days if they were having a girl or a boy.

  He dug faster, scooping, throwing the dirt, and bending back down for another shovelful until the motion became automatic. His back muscles ached, and his biceps burned with every scoop.

  Fifteen more minutes passed, then thirty.

  By the time he finally stopped to grab a drink of water, he was standing in a shallow grave, and the ship that had been sailing across the horizon was nearing port.

  “Got some newbs,” Horn said. “How many more of them can we take on here?”

  Beckham shook his head and eyed the boat. Every rifle on the beach was aimed at the newcomers. But it wasn’t Variants or juveniles that the security forces were worried about. It was the civilians they were ferrying in.

  “You really think someone could be infected with the Hemorrhage Virus?” Horn asked. He spat in the dirt.

  “Everyone has to go through decon and an interview about how and where they survived since the Hemorrhage Virus emerged.”

  Horn flared his nostrils. That was Horn-speak for skepticism.

  “Disease isn’t the only threat,” Beckham said. “President Ringgold told Kate not everyone in the government has accepted her and Vice President Johnson with open arms. There are strongholds popping up and claiming the administration has no right to govern them since it just left them to die.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Horn pulled a cigarette and jammed it between his lips. “You hear about those Marines that got ambushed? They were liberating a survival post in Detroit. Gangs are coming out of the shadows. Most of the good people are dead, brother. The ones left out there had to do bad shit to survive. Which makes me very wary of all these new people coming to the island.”

  Beckham watched the boat maneuver into harbor. He still couldn’t see what the name was, but it was an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer. The massive cage on the deck was loaded with civilians.

  “Con artists, boss. I bet a few of those people are maggots that helped the Variants. Human collaborator fucks.” Horn jammed his shovel into the dirt, his cigarette wobbling from his lips. “I should be working those interviews. If a human collaborator makes it onto the island, I’ll rip their spine out.”

  Beckham kept his eyes on the boat while he sucked down the rest of his water bottle. Horn was right—and Kate was part of the interview team with Ellis.

  “Let’s head back,” Beckham said. “I don’t want Kate out there without me. I don’t care how many people they got guarding her.”

  Horn emptied his bottle over his head and shook the water from his red hair like a dog shaking his coat. Then he walked over to the wheelbarrow to retrieve his M249. Beckham grabbed his rucksack and flung the strap of his rifle over his back.

  They walked back to their jeep in silence, both exhausted from six hours of digging graves. Despite the fatigue and his strained muscles, Beckham felt good. He had missed the exhaustion that followed long training runs and workouts. And even though his new detail wasn’t exactly Delta Force training, it felt amazing to be back outside. He had been cooped up in their house for most of the first month of his recovery after they got off the GW.

  Horn tossed him the keys when they got to their jeep. Beckham instinctively reached up to catch them with his right hand and had to fumble to keep them from hitting the dirt.

  “Come on, boss, you know you want to. This jeep is dope.”

  Beckham hesitated. He hadn’t driven a vehicle since his last mission, before he lost his hand. They climbed inside, sliding onto leather seats stained with the blood of the previous owners. Beckham eyed the manual transmission, then looked through the hole where the windshield ought to have been. There were still pieces of glass around the frame, but Horn had kicked out the shattered remains two days earlier.

  You got this, Reed. No problem.

  He grabbed the knob of the transmission, put his foot on the clutch, shifted into gear, and peeled out. Gravel spat out behind them. The jeep suddenly jerked forward as the transmission died.

  Horn reached out to brace himself against the dashboard.

  “Holy shit. Take it easy, boss.”

  Beckham shook his head and turned over the engine again. He grabbed the gearshift, fumbling with it on his fi
rst try. He grasped the stick with his prosthetic hand on the second attempt.

  The silence wasn’t just awkward; it was embarrassing. How the hell was Beckham supposed to protect his family if he couldn’t even drive a manual transmission?

  Come on, Reed.

  Horn reached for his seatbelt and strapped in.

  Beckham put his foot on the clutch and shifted into first gear by pressing with what was left of his arm. The jeep lurched, but the gear caught as his foot slipped off the clutch. The tires screamed, spitting gravel into the air. He grinned at that. It wasn’t much different than when he had learned to drive a stick on his father’s old Ford Ranger. Even the faces that looked his way were similar. The farmers stared as Beckham sped by the fields.

  “Easy as shooting a Variant in the face,” Horn said. He let out a bellowing laugh and pounded the outside of the door. Sticking his head out the window, he drew in a long breath of air. “You smell that?”

  Beckham shifted into second gear smoothly this time. “What?”

  “The smell of freedom. America’s back, baby!” Horn pulled his head back inside and smiled.

  But Beckham didn’t return the smile. He was too focused on driving and too preoccupied with his worries. Kate, Operation Beachhead, the rebuilding efforts. Retirement was supposed to bring with it peace of mind, but Beckham didn’t have anything close to it.

  He struggled to shift into second gear and waited for Horn to say something reassuring, like he always had during the silences.

  “You’re still the same man you were before D.C. You can still fight if it comes down to it. You know that, right?”

  “You think it will come down to it?” Beckham asked, although he already knew the answer. He took his eyes off the road for a moment. Horn flexed his forearms, the tattoos stretching across his muscular flesh. That was his way of saying yes.

  Beckham nodded. He shifted into the next gear, more smoothly this time, and turned the wheel to the left. The road curved toward Plum Gut Harbor on the west side of the island. To the north was the abandoned Animal Disease Center facility. The airstrip was located to the east, near more farmland that would be cultivated in the spring.