Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Fitz bit his tongue and tasted blood, but that was the least of his concerns. In seconds, the beasts were on them. A Variant jumped onto the hood, cracking the windshield with its thick talons. Another smashed into Fitz’s door, and a third rammed the back gate with its head.

  “Gun it!” Rico shouted.

  Stevenson steered to the right, then punched the gas to plow through the line of Variants stampeding toward them. The brush guard on the front bumper smashed into the bony, naked beasts. They spun away like bowling pins, blood painting the cracked windshield.

  At the end of the street, the bell tower of the basilica rose into the sky. Rockets peeled away from the smaller towers over the church’s nave. The Ombres were still fighting.

  In the rear view mirror, the King Stallion had pulled ahead, outpacing the flock of Reavers pursuing it.

  “Thank you, Delta,” Fitz said into the comms.

  “Good luck, Ghost,” replied Delta 1, his voice hoarse from yelling.

  Dohi popped the hatch open, but Fitz reached back and grabbed him. “Let me.”

  Fitz’s mother had always told him never to delegate a task if he could do it himself. That lesson had been reinforced by Beckham, who was always the first into the fray. It was time for Fitz to lead by example—and to take out as many Variants as he could.

  Fitz unstrapped his seatbelt, set Apollo on the floor, then jumped into the back seat. He took Dohi’s place and rose into the turret, only to duck as the claws of a Reaver swooped down. One second earlier and it would have caught him. Cautiously, he peeked back out and grabbed the 240.

  The MATV squealed around a corner, kicking ash into the air. Fitz pulled his laughing skull bandana up over his mouth and nose. It was a memento from Riley, the kid and joker of Team Ghost. Fitz wore it with pride.

  Fitz yelled wordlessly as he fired. Rounds tore into the remaining Reavers. He counted three of them, and one was injured, its left wing on fire. Easy pickings. It was the beasts on the ground he was more worried about.

  Variants smashed into the sides of the MATV as Stevenson tore through the streets. Rico opened her window and jammed her shotgun outside. Tanaka did the same with his M4. Like a wagon from the Wild West firing at robbers on horseback, Team Ghost unloaded on the Variants.

  Fitz eyed the rooftops for the Ombres, but they were nowhere in sight.

  “Changing!” Rico shouted.

  “I’ll cover you,” Tanaka said. Fitz saw the flash of light on steel. The sword impaled a Variant clinging to the door. He twisted the blade, opening a hole in the beast’s neck that fountained blood over the side of the MATV.

  The creature fell away with a crunch as the body was crushed under the back tires.

  “Take us to the basilica!” Fitz yelled. He directed his fire at a Reaver that was on the retreat, hitting it in the back before it could escape. The final two took off in opposite directions, and Fitz trained his fire back on the Variants on the streets.

  The European Variants looked slightly different from those in the States. Their spines protruded from their veiny skin like the knobs on a prehistoric animal’s back. Some had hairy manes running up their necks and skulls like Mohawks.

  Bullets punched through their ropy muscles and sent them spinning across the path of the MATV. High-pitched screeches sounded as the monsters were crushed under the weight of the armored vehicle. Without an Alpha or their more intelligent offspring to guide them, the monsters soon retreated to their lairs beneath the ground, leaving the injured to bleed out.

  Stevenson kept his foot on the gas, smashing into beasts on the run. “Yeah, that’s right, you ugly shits!”

  The truck jolted up and down over fallen monsters, but they didn’t slow until they reached the final street. Stevenson navigated around the parking lot, driving cautiously toward the towering Basilica of St. Thérèse.

  Fitz grabbed his MK11 and zoomed in on the towers. When the Ombres had retreated, they had covered the windows back up with wood.

  “Hold up,” Fitz ordered.

  Stevenson pulled around a military vehicle with a skeleton hanging out of the door and put the truck in neutral in front of the stone steps of the church.

  Fitz centered his rifle on one of the three front doors at the entrance as it creaked open. Team Ghost waited inside the vehicle, weapons smoking, ready to fire.

  A slender figure with long gray hair and dressed in a leather trench coat walked out onto the landing. At this distance, Fitz couldn’t make out how old the person was, but he could tell it was a woman. Several smaller shapes flanked her on both sides—maybe eleven or twelve years old, judging by their size. They carried AK-47s. A taller person stood in the open doorway behind them with a rocket launcher. The woman held up her hand and gestured for them to stay back. She walked down the steps toward the MATV.

  Fitz climbed back inside the vehicle and ordered his team to stay put and cover him. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. His carbon fiber blades sank into soft ash. He glanced at the sky and saw nothing but an ocean of blue and the occasional puffy white cloud.

  Satisfied, he pulled his bandana down and approached the church. She mimicked his action, removing her gas mask to reveal the wrinkled face of a woman around sixty. Dark green eyes that were both kind and curious studied Fitz.

  “I’m Master Sergeant Joe Fitzpatrick with the United States military, ma’am.”

  In perfect English, the old French woman said, “What brings you to Lisieux?”

  “We’re told you would know of enemy movements in the area and western France. Anything you can tell us about the Variants, especially the ones with wings, would help the military take back your country. Where do they nest? How long have they…”

  His voice trailed off as every gun in the church suddenly pointed at the MATV. Including the monster of a rocket launcher.

  “You came for info? That’s why Jacques died?”

  Fitz remembered the figure that had been plucked from the rooftop. “I’m sorry about him,” he said. “But we need your help.”

  A screech filled the afternoon, and every weapon was re-directed toward the sky.

  “Can we come inside?” Fitz asked politely. “Let’s talk where it’s safe.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at him in contempt. “Safe is not a word we use in France anymore.”

  -14-

  Commander Davis shifted in her wet uniform. The worst part about wearing the salvaged CBRN suit from the dead soldier wasn’t the blood. No, it was the stench of the man’s cologne. The musky scent was worse than the rotten smell of Variants.

  Who fucking wears cologne in the apocalypse anyway?

  Their Zodiac coasted over the waves, drenching Davis in salt spray. The small craft carried the surviving members of the GW. Sergeant Marks and his two Marines sat in the back with SCARs shouldered, scanning the waves for swimming juveniles. Diaz and Black rested with their backs on the bow.

  Their first objective was to find her ship. Keeping up with an aircraft carrier in a Zodiac was nearly impossible, but they had plenty of extra gas and the GW wasn’t moving at full speed. The real trick was staying out of sight.

  The distant rumble of fighter jets sounded over the sea. She searched the sky for them but could see nothing in the muddy clouds. An oil tanker coasted through the ocean several miles to the west. They had passed a cruise ship earlier. There were hundreds of derelict ships out here, making it all too easy for the terrorists to hide from Command on radar and satellite. “There she is,” Black said. He pointed at a long blot of metal on the horizon.

  Davis breathed a sigh of relief, then said, “Stay back, but don’t lose her again.” She considered using their satellite phone, but she didn’t want to risk it. Her specific orders from Vice President Johnson were to remain out of sight and look for an opening. If and when she had an opportunity, she would request a gr
een light to board the ship and take it back. Davis knew how risky it was. The ship was armed with enough munitions to blow up half the SZTs in the country, and ROT had already threatened to do just that.

  Davis drew in a breath of cologne-scented air and cursed under her breath. She still couldn’t believe she had lost her damn ship to a bunch of terrorist assholes.

  “Where are they headed?” she asked.

  Diaz unfolded a laminated map from her vest. Pointing to the beach to their right, she said, “That’s Pensacola Beach. We’re coming up on Fort Pickens. Fort McRee is on the point ahead.”

  “So where do you think they’re heading?”

  Diaz studied the map. “If I had to guess…New Orleans.”

  Black hefted up his SAW to make way for Sergeant Marks. He sat down next to Davis and pulled off his gas mask. The sergeant’s bruised face twisted into a scowl as if he was trying to say I fucking told you so.

  Instead, he said, “What’s your plan, Commander?”

  Davis removed her own mask to speak freely. “Follow the ship and sneak aboard at nightfall, assuming Command gives us the all clear. If we get caught, at least we’re wearing uniforms that might give us a chance to shoot first.”

  Marks chuckled. “Shoot first, ask questions later. I like it.” He pulled a cigar from his vest and unwrapped the plastic. “I was saving this for later, but since we’re going to die, I might just as well smoke it now.”

  Diaz shot Marks a glare. “All due respect, Sarge, but do you remember who you’re talking to? Commander Davis seized the GW from the enemy back when it was armed with nuclear weapons. She will—we will—take it back again.”

  Davis held up a gloved hand to silence her bodyguard. She knew Diaz meant well, but now was not the time to start an argument with Marks.

  A mile ahead, the GW was beginning to turn. The bow of their craft caught the larger vessel’s wake, sending the Zodiac a foot into the air. They landed with a splash and then smoothed back out.

  Marks eyed the Marine on the engine as he pulled a Zippo from his pocket. “Watch it back there,” Marks grumbled with the cigar jammed between his lips. He went to light it, but Davis nabbed the cigar from his hands.

  “You want to draw attention to us?”

  Marks glared at her like a kid who had been robbed of a piece of candy.

  “You can smoke this later—after we take back our ship.” She stuffed it in her vest pocket.

  Mark’s swollen jaw moved, but he didn’t say another word.

  The GW was rounding a peninsula thick with lush trees and overflowing underbrush. The eastern shore featured a white sandy beach surrounded by a teal lagoon. Seven months ago there would have been sunbathers, but now monsters lurked in the torpedo grass. The bow of the ship vanished, and Davis looked back at the Marine on the engine.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?”

  “We’re maxed out, Commander.”

  Diaz raised her M4 to her visor. She quickly pulled it away and pointed to the sky.

  “We got contacts!”

  Everyone in the craft followed her fingers to a pair of black dots rising over the peninsula.

  “Little Birds,” Davis said. “Get us to the shore, fast.”

  The Zodiac curved hard to the right, the engine humming as the driver pushed it to the max. They shot over the waves, jolting up and down. Every free hand in the boat raised rifles toward the sky, but it only took a moment to see the small helicopters weren’t heading for the Zodiac.

  “What’s that hanging from the bottom of the second one?” Black said.

  Davis zoomed in with her M4. “My God,” she whispered. She slowly pulled the scope away from her eye, unable to look any longer at the man hanging from a noose tied to the bottom of the Little Bird.

  “Those animals,” Black said. He looked to Davis. “When I get on board, I’m going to kill every single one of those bastards.”

  “That a sailor? One of ours?” Diaz asked, her eyes wide behind her visor.

  “It’s Admiral Humphrey,” Black said. “Check the bars on the sleeves. That’s his uniform.”

  Davis looked toward the shoreline, unable to think much past the anger. She pointed to a cluster of downed trees in the water. “Stop us over there until those birds are out of sight.”

  The driver directed the boat toward the beach, carving through the water at an angle. He eased off the gas and coasted to the trees. Davis immediately regretted the choice of cover—it stank of rotting fish, and there were a number of manatee carcasses, each one picked clean, on the nearby beach. There were juveniles hunting here. Maybe even adults that had survived when Kryptonite dropped by swimming out to sea.

  The Little Birds continued inland, Humphrey’s corpse swinging from the rope like a pendulum. The thump of the rotors faded away, the sound replaced by the chirp of bugs and calls of exotic birds Davis couldn’t see. Waves slapped against the shore, and the Zodiac rocked back and forth as the surf crawled through the fallen trees.

  It would have been peaceful, almost serene, were it not for the sense she had of being watched. Davis scanned her team. Weapons were shouldered, and muzzles raked back and forth, covering every direction.

  She flashed hand signals, and the Marines raised their rifles into zones of fire. The afternoon sun baked the surviving members of the Scorpion and Rhino teams as they sat in the boat, waiting for Davis to give her next orders. The radio towers on top of the GW moved in the distance, just visible over the green canopy of trees. The aircraft carrier had rounded the peninsula.

  Her ship was getting away again.

  “Where are they headed now?” she asked.

  Diaz looked at the map. “Maybe Pensacola. Hard to say. There’s a few bays they could be trying to anchor in. Escambia Bay, East Bay…”

  Davis motioned for the driver to turn the engine back on. The Zodiac hummed back to life. She did a final check for the Little Birds before flashing an advance signal back to sea. The boat backed up, then jolted forward.

  Waves slapped against the bow, salt water misting the occupants. Davis kept the butt of her M4 in the sweet spot of her arm, ready to center in on a target at a second’s notice. She was frosty, but she was also on edge. If they fell too far behind, they would never catch up to the GW.

  Another peninsula and an island came into focus at nine o’clock. She couldn’t see nearby Fort McRee, but she spotted Fort Pickens at one o’clock. Brick walls, stained black from nearly two centuries of exposure to the maritime elements, surrounded the fort. Cannons still poked from the walls. They were there for the tourists, but once those cannons had protected this spot from hostile ships.

  More bloody carcasses of manatees dotted the sand below the fort. She zoomed in on the remains. Not a single ounce of meat was left on the creatures. The Variants here had picked them clean.

  She flicked her muzzle to the wooded area up the beach, expecting to see eyes staring back from the foliage, but all she saw was tangled weeds and branches swaying in the wind.

  “Faster,” she said.

  The driver turned the throttle, and the craft zipped over the waves. Storm clouds were rolling in from the west. Rain that looked like rays of light hit the ocean on the horizon. Davis turned her attention back to the peninsula to scan the water for hostiles. She scooted closer to Black, who stood at the bow, his SAW trained on Fort Pickens.

  She balled her hand into a fist to tell the driver to ease off the gas as they rounded the corner. The Zodiac crested a wave, slapped the water, and coasted toward the shallows. The Marine on the engine navigated the craft around boulders sticking out of the clear water. Schools of fish swam by, just small enough to avoid interest from the monsters.

  Davis held in a breath as they cleared the edge of the peninsula, letting it out into her mask when she saw the stern of the GW. It was already moving through Pensacola Ba
y toward the natural harbor.

  Diaz looked up from the map. “They’re definitely not heading toward—”

  The thump of a helicopter cut her off. A Little Bird rose from the center of Fort Pickens and climbed into the sky, Humphrey’s body still hanging from the skids.

  Davis clenched her jaw and pointed toward the shore. The boat turned sharply, engines humming and water spraying. Davis took a seat and grabbed a handle as the boat accelerated. The GW was now in the bay, and there was a flurry of movement on the deck.

  “They’re anchoring,” Diaz said.

  Zodiacs and black speedboats raced from Fort Pickens with more men and supplies. ROT soldiers lowered ladders from the hangar decks of the GW to quickly transfer the boxes.

  “Up there,” Diaz whispered. She pointed to the deck where a dozen of Davis’s crew were being marched to the starboard side with guns to their backs.

  Marks rose from his position, but Davis pulled him back down.

  “No,” she grunted.

  “We have to help them,” Marks said. He squirmed in her grip, and eventually Black helped restrain him.

  “Stay down, Sergeant,” Davis said. She watched her men knelt on deck with guns to the backs of their heads.

  Davis flinched at the crack of gunfire. To her right, Diaz cupped a hand over her face and wept, but Davis forced herself to look as the ROT soldiers executed twelve members of her crew. The bodies plummeted over the side of the ship into the water. It took every bit of her self-control to not open fire, but now was not the time.

  Soon, she silently promised. Soon these bastards would get what was coming to them.

  Beckham was supposed to be preparing corn on the cob and vegetable stew with Kate. His mouth watered at the thought. Instead, he was riding with her to the BSL4 lab, where she would be continuing her research on the European juveniles. She was in the back seat, arms crossed over her swollen stomach, frustration painted on her face. Horn was behind the wheel, his expression neutral. He clearly didn’t want to get in the middle of this particular fight.