Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Davis spotted a map on the wall ahead. Using her gloved hand, she carefully cleared it off. A radiation symbol marked the location of a fallout shelter. That was the most likely location.

  “Rhino 1, SITREP,” Davis whispered into her mic. The response took several seconds between waves of static.

  “Scorpion 1, we’re clearing the west wing.”

  “Copy, Rhino 1. Scorpion is advancing to the fallout shelter.”

  Davis glanced back the way they had come to check the three Marines standing outside. They stood with their weapons raised, the smoke making them look like specters.

  The eerie sight sent a chill through her.

  She continued down the hallway when another transmission hissed into her ear.

  “Scorpion 1, this is Wolverine 2. Where are you? We’re picking up something on radar, over.”

  Davis stopped mid-stride. It was Belford on the comms.

  “Copy, Wolverine 2. What are you picking up?”

  “Inconclusive. Actual says for you to get back here as soon as you can. Over.”

  “Roger.” Davis motioned Black and Diaz around a corner to a pair of doors that led to the basement. Belford hadn’t sounded overly concerned, but then he never did. There were hundreds of ghost ships in the area, most of them harmless and drifting aimlessly. She wasn’t going to let that stop her from saving these kids after she had already risked so much to get here.

  Black took up position on the left of the doors and looked for her signal. At her nod, he grabbed the handle and twisted. It clicked. Locked.

  He kicked it open. The door hit the inside wall with a thud that would have told any lurking juveniles of their position. But the screech she thought would follow never came.

  Heart stuttering, Davis maneuvered back into point position and aimed her rifle into the stairwell, finger hovering over the trigger. The tactical light filled an empty concrete passage with a white glow.

  She hesitated in the open doorway when she saw more blood. Labored breathing echoed in her helmet as she tried to catch her breath.

  What the hell happened here? Where is everyone? And where are the monsters?

  Questions raced through her mind, but she pushed on, knowing that if anyone out here had survived this long, they had likely done it by keeping out of sight. She continued down two more passages to a steel door marked with a radiation symbol.

  Another transmission crackled in her earpiece as she approached, this one nearly lost in static.

  “Scorpion 1…Scorpion 4… Helicopter… Reinforcements…”

  “Come again, Scorpion 4,” Davis said. She tapped the side of her helmet, white noise burping into her ear.

  “Scorpion 1, there is a Black Hawk en route from the GW and an unidentified vessel in the water.”

  Great. That’s just freaking great, Davis thought.

  Diaz put a hand on her arm. “Commander, do you think we should go topside?”

  “We’re right here. We finish the mission first,” Davis said.

  “But what about the other vessel?”

  She shook her head. There were kids in this building. Turning back now wasn’t an option.

  Black waited for orders, his hand on the door. Davis gave him a stern nod. When he pulled on the blast door, Davis saw the talon marks. The door was already open.

  Black cursed. He let go of the handle and backed away, shouldering his SAW and aiming it at the door. Davis and Diaz raised their M4s simultaneously.

  She was slowly approaching the door when a distant crack of a gunshot made her flinch. She aimed a glance over her shoulder at the stairwell.

  More gunshots.

  “Scorpion, do you copy, over?” Davis said into the comms.

  There was no answer.

  “Wolverine 2, Scorpion 1. We have small arms fire near our location. Please advise, over.”

  This time the answer came back almost immediately—and it wasn’t Belford. Admiral Humphrey barked an order into Davis’s ear.

  “Scorpion 1, Wolverine 1, you are to return to home plate right fucking now. We’ve made contact with the USS Zumwalt. She’s headed our way.” There was applause in the background and some whistling.

  The Zumwalt? The stealth guided missile destroyer had gone missing months ago, right after the outbreak. It had been christened not long before the world went to hell, but no one had heard from the advanced ship since.

  Davis looked at the blast door, her mind racing. They were so close. So freaking close.

  “Commander, all due respect, but maybe we should go topside,” Black whispered.

  Davis nodded, but instead of turning to run, she reached for the door handle. She had to know for sure.

  Diaz and Black took up position with their rifles when they realized what she was doing. She waited a moment before pulling the door open. The screech of metal would have made Davis cringe if it weren’t for the adrenaline pumping through her veins. The trio aimed their muzzles inside. Beams from their tactical lights illuminated a long room furnished with bunk beds, desks, and chairs.

  Dust whirled in the still air. She took a breath and exhaled inside her visor. The pane fogged around the edges, narrowing her view.

  She took a step inside, slowly moving her light back and forth. The rays cut through the dusty air and fell upon one empty bed after another.

  “No one’s here, ma’am,” Diaz whispered.

  “We better move out,” Black added.

  Davis centered her light on a desk with radio equipment. It had been smashed. Even if there had been someone here to send a distress signal, the damned radio didn’t work.

  None of it made any sense.

  “Let’s move,” Davis said. “I’ll take point.” She paused when she stepped on a furry lump. Bending down, she grabbed a teddy bear stained black with blood. Her already aching heart broke in half as the tattered toy fell to pieces in her hand. It confirmed what she had known and had been pretending wasn’t true—the juveniles had already made their way inside.

  Any survivors were long gone.

  But that didn’t make any sense either. The SOS mentioned the bombing, which meant it had to be recent, but the blood here was dried. So who had sent the message…and why? Had the juveniles set some sort of a trap? Were they capable of that?

  Davis tossed the remains of the teddy bear to the ground and rushed out of the room. She loped up the staircase two at a time, her legs screaming in pain.

  An explosion sounded just as she got to the top landing, but it wasn’t until she reached the hallway that she realized the blast wasn’t coming from the gasoline facility nearby. This was coming from the shore.

  The boom faded away, giving rise to another sound not unlike someone choking on a chicken bone. The gurgling echoed down the hallway. She instantly flicked off her light and instructed Diaz and Black to do the same.

  She could only imagine what kind of creature was making the noise. Darkness and smoke closed in, and with it came a gripping fear that Davis hadn’t felt since the Earthfall facility. She flipped her NVGs into position, held in a hot breath, and peered around the corner with her finger on the trigger of her M4.

  Instead of a beast, her gaze fell on a Marine crawling across the floor. Scorpion 4, who was supposed to be holding security, was dragging his legs behind him, smearing blood across the already filthy floor.

  Davis almost burst around the corner to help him, but froze when she saw three men in black CBRN suits striding down the other end of the passage. They wore gas masks and four-eye NVGs over their helmets. The men raised their black SCAR rifles. The red dots from their optics painted the downed Marine’s back.

  There were no markings or identification on their CBRN suits or helmets.

  So who the hell were they?

  The leader stopped and leaned down next to Scorpion 4 with
a suppressed M9. He pointed it at the Marine’s head. In a robotic voice filtered by the gas mask, he said, “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  Scorpion 4 continued crawling, choking as he moved. Bloody spit peppered the inside of his visor.

  Three more men in black suits climbed through the open window and entered the hallway. The soldier with the suppressed M9 watched the injured Marine squirm a few feet, then aimed the gun at the back of his helmet and fired two shots.

  “No!” Davis gasped. Her panicked voice drew the attention of the soldiers. The leader pointed his M9 and shouted, “Over there!”

  A salvo of gunshots punched into the brick wall as Davis turned. She stepped out from the safety of the corner and returned fire with a burst that hit the man with the M9 in the chest. Blood sprayed the floor, and she turned before he hit the ground. Another volley punched into the wall, and shrapnel hit her helmet.

  “What the fuck is happening, Commander?”

  Davis waved Black’s question away. Even with Diaz and Black’s help, there was no way they could take five more men without suffering more casualties. They had to survive first and avenge the rest of her team later.

  “Run!” Davis shouted. She pointed to the other end of the hallway. “Now!”

  “Who are you shooting at?” Diaz yelled back.

  Davis grabbed her bodyguard and heaved. “MOVE!”

  Black was already running. He raised his SAW and took point, moving low with his muzzle roving across the smoke-filled hallway. Halfway down, a transmission broke over the comms. It was another robotic voice like the man that had executed Scorpion 4.

  “Tell us where the rest of your team is, and we won’t kill you.”

  “Fuck your mother,” Marks replied.

  A crack followed that could have been a pistol whip to the helmet. Marks grunted, and white noise crackled over the channel.

  Another message broke into her ear. Humphrey’s voice sounded panicked, and that alone frightened Davis more than anything else.

  “Scorpion 1, we’re being boarded! The Zumwalt has been compromised.” There were gunshots, then Humphrey shouted, “Davis, damn it, get your ass back here!”

  Davis cursed. The entire thing, from the SOS to the arrival of the long-lost ship, had been a trap. Who would do such a thing, and how had they taken control of the Zumwalt?

  She angled her M4 at the other end of the hallway as more soldiers in black emerged. Red dot sights flickered across the passage, falling on Diaz and Black. The large Marine took a knee and opened up with his SAW before Davis could get off a shot. The rounds tore through the three soldiers, splattering blood over walls already caked with dried crimson. They crashed to the ground.

  Black was up and running with Diaz on his six, but before Davis turned the corner she grabbed a grenade from her vest, pulled the pin, and listened to the approaching footfalls.

  “Commander, come on,” Black yelled. “We need to—”

  Davis cut him off with a shout of her own as she tossed the grenade around the corner. “Eat that, you assholes.”

  -8-

  Ringgold sat in the situation room surrounded by members of her cabinet and military officials. The lights dimmed as the monitor brightened on the north wall.

  News of Operation Beachhead and the slaughter of the 24th MEU had reached the Greenbrier in the early morning hours. The other MEUs hadn’t fared much better in Spain or Germany. General Vaughn Nixon, like General Kennor before him, had been caught with his pants down. Despite this failure, he was still pushing Operation Reach.

  She laced her fingers together and waited anxiously to hear more about Europe and the attack on Plum Island, but she also desperately wanted an update on SZT 15 in Chicago and her cousin, Emilia.

  Several more staffers filed into the small room and stood at the back. Across the table sat Vice President George Johnson and Joint Chief of Staff General Jay Allen. The other joint chiefs were seated around the long table.

  Ringgold reviewed the names of all the new advisors and officials. She had made a point of sitting in on every interview and had spent hours reading resumes and bios. Ben Nelson, a rising star in the CIA before the outbreak, was her new National Security Advisor. His background in counter-terrorism had helped him hit the ground running, but this morning he had every reason to be nervous. He straightened his tie and tucked it into his black suit.

  Last time she had seen him was at a meeting about the threats to the safe zone territories. He had assured her that security measures were in place to keep the Hemorrhage Virus and remaining juveniles out of the strongholds. While they still didn’t know exactly what had happened to SZT 15, Nelson was calling the incident at Plum Island a terrorist attack.

  He wasn’t the only one sweating. Ringgold felt perspiration drip down her own forehead. She touched the American flag pin on her lapel. It always helped calm her.

  James Soprano squeezed in behind Nelson and Ringgold. He took a seat to her right and offered a smile. James was overweight, had bad teeth, and a receding hairline. He also loved his cigars, but although he was incredibly unhealthy, he was also brilliant. That was exactly why Ringgold had picked him to be her Chief of Staff.

  Ringgold donned her red glasses and scanned the room. Her gaze lingered on the American flag above the door. It was a symbol of pride and hope, and she deeply respected the traditions it represented. But there were those out there who didn’t respect it, who didn’t believe in the things America stood for. Someone was attacking the SZTs that Ringgold had worked so hard to build. She knew that Emilia and the other survivors at SZT 15 were likely dead, and she felt sick for not being able to stop whatever had happened there and at Plum Island.

  Ringgold had promised survivors homes. She had promised them safety. Instead, they had been plunged into a new nightmare.

  Johnson’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Madame President, Raptor 1 is en route to SZT 15. We’ll have a visual in a moment.”

  General Allen typed on his laptop, and the main screen on the north wall flickered to life.

  “It has now been twelve hours since SZT 15 went dark,” Johnson said. “All attempts at communication have failed. Our drone flyovers have shown nothing.”

  Ringgold regretted not sending troops earlier, but Johnson had advised against it unless it was a last resort. With the failure of the flyovers, they now had no other choice. The closest outpost was twenty miles west of Chicago. It was operated by Lieutenant Jim Flathman and a skeleton crew of battle-hardened men. They had held the small military outpost against overwhelming forces for over seven months. Commander Rachel Davis had landed there to refuel on her way to the Earthfall Facility, and she had been impressed with the unconventional lieutenant and his operation. Ringgold trusted her recommendation—but his help came at a price. Flathman wanted more food, more ammo, more men…and a lifetime supply of whiskey.

  Ringgold wasn’t used to negotiating with soldiers, but in this situation she had agreed without a counteroffer. She looked at Johnson, who was running a hand over his bald head, and nodded at her second-in-command.

  “Go ahead, General,” Johnson said.

  Allen brought up a series of grayscale images of SZT 15. High walls topped with razor wire surrounded a three-block area. There were half a dozen buildings within the perimeter. In the center was the embassy, and on top of that were empty nests with idle machine guns. There wasn’t a soldier at any of the posts. FEMA semi-trailers, military vehicles, and civilian cars lined the road, but the sidewalks were vacant. Not a person—or a body—in sight.

  “As you can see, it’s like everyone just disappeared,” Allen said. “We see no evidence of a battle or Variants. Raptor 1 is almost to the target. Lieutenant Flathman reports his team is ready to deploy.”

  “Transfer us to the feed,” Johnson said.

  Ringgold thought of her missing cousin, the on
ly living family member she had left. Growing up they had been very close, but college and careers had separated them over the years. She had hoped to visit SZT 15 soon, but now the only visit Ringgold was going to make was via video feed.

  And she already suspected it was too late for a reunion.

  With a short nod, she gave her orders for Flathman’s team to drop into the fray.

  “Find my cousin alive, and I’ll give you every bottle of whiskey you could ever drink, Lieutenant,” Ringgold whispered.

  The morning sun rose into the sky above the destroyed skyscrapers of Chicago. From above, it could have been Baghdad or Kabul. The husks of buildings lined the horizon like chipped teeth. The streets were still clogged with the burned hulks of cars left over from the firebombing of Operation Liberty.

  Lieutenant Jim Flathman had seen a lot in his four tours of Iraq and Afghanistan, but nothing had prepared him for what he saw when he returned from the War on Terror. His platoon had hurried back to the States when the Hemorrhage Virus had first emerged at O’Hare, but by the time he reached Chicago the virus had ravaged the metropolis he called home. He grew up in the hood, worked construction starting at fourteen, and joined the Army at eighteen. He’d served his country ever since.

  Coming home to a place overrun with monsters was worse than any war in foreign lands. The only thing that came close to the Variants were his two ex-wives. They had taken him for every penny. Not that it mattered much now.

  Flathman leaned out the door of the Black Hawk for a better view. PFC Stone and Staff Sergeant Bosse crouched next to him. The two men represented a quarter of his crew. The other six soldiers were back at Outpost 46, holding down the fort.

  “Jesus,” Bosse whispered. “I used to play baseball down there.” He pointed toward a crater with gloved fingers. Metal bleachers, black with soot, surrounded the gaping hole in the earth where a baseball field had been.

  “You’ve seen it all before,” Flathman said. “Stay focused. We got a mission.”

  Bosse gave a haphazard salute. “We’re with you, Ten Lives.” It was Flathman’s nickname and a running joke at the outpost, given to him after surviving just about everything the apocalypse could throw at him. Flathman wasn’t a superstitious man, but he had escaped some dicey situations.