Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “You’re both supposed to be retired,” Kate huffed. “President Ringgold blessed the decision herself. Now she’s asking you to put your uniforms back on.”

  Horn’s eyes flicked from the road to Beckham, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “And you’re not supposed to be in a biohazard lab,” Beckham said. “We all have our duty.”

  Kate looked toward the roof, then back at Beckham. “What about Tasha and Jenny? What about the baby?” Her hand caressed the outside of her stomach. “If something happens to you…”

  Beckham’s heart ached, but he had already made his decision.

  “Kate, if the Zumwalt shows up in the harbor or the GW launches their arsenal at us, then we’re all going to end up dead. ROT already tested our defenses once. Next time we might not be so lucky.”

  “You call that lucky? Hundreds of people were killed.”

  Beckham reached back with his prosthetic hand, hesitated, and pulled it back. He reached out again with his left hand, but she reared away.

  “Damn it, Kate, I don’t want to go back out there either. But if I have to kill every one of those ROT bastards to keep you safe, that’s what I’ll do. I have to do it.”

  Those words made everyone in the jeep pause. Horn turned the steering wheel slowly, his breathing heavy. The whoosh of a chopper in the distance broke the uneasy silence.

  Beckham ducked down to see a trio of Apaches were racing out to sea. A transmission over the open line followed in his earpiece. “Bogey spotted five miles north of home plate. Sending Rogue 1, 2, and 3, to check it out. Over.”

  Horn turned down the road that dead-ended at the BSL4 lab. Several Marines in CBRN gear were positioned at the gate. The largest of them approached the jeep, and Horn rolled down the window to flash his credentials.

  “Evenin’,” Horn said.

  The Marine looked in the window, studying each of them.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Doctor Lovato,” the man said, his voice raspy from his breathing apparatus.

  He stepped away from the jeep, nodded at the gate operator, then gestured for Horn to proceed. The lift rose into the air, and Horn drove onto the bridge that extended out to the lab on its raised platform. A second gate slowly opened.

  Beckham and Horn both looked at the dock connecting to the facility from the west. The USS Monterey had left the island, and the docks where its civilian passengers had perished were shiny from the rigorous spraying of chemicals.

  A Marine waved Horn through the next gate, and he pulled up to the windowless facility. A white dome marked with the Medical Corps symbol rose above them.

  Beckham stepped out on the pavement and gently touched Kate’s arm. She glanced up, blue eyes avoiding his for a moment.

  “You and I both know there are monsters out there,” Beckham said. “You and Ellis are fighting them here in this lab, and our friends are fighting them halfway around the globe. My fight is here, protecting this island.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Kate said.

  “We all fight in our own ways.”

  Kate looked at her stomach and shook her head. “I just…I thought you were done fighting.”

  “I can’t promise I’ll ever be done,” Beckham said. “You’re needed in the lab, and President Ringgold needs me to manage security here at the island. That’s the reality of our situation, Kate. We can’t just quit with the world falling apart around us.”

  “Okay,” she said after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Okay.”

  She put her palms on his chest and leaned in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “We’ll pick you up in a couple of hours. Be careful.”

  “Always am.” She moved away, but he pulled her back.

  “Please don’t be mad at me. I love you, Kate.”

  Her rigid posture relaxed and her eyes softened. “I love you too.”

  She followed two Marine escorts toward the building but stopped and held up a hand before vanishing into the lab.

  Fifteen minutes later Horn was speeding down a gravel road on the way to the island’s forward operating base near the cemetery overlooking the water. He parked the jeep in a gravel lot already filled with Humvees and pickup trucks. Neither of the men said a word when they saw the white crosses on the hill in the distance.

  The ocean was rough tonight, whitecaps stained red by the setting sun. The Zumwalt was out there somewhere, waiting to strike. There was no telling where, when, or even if ROT would hit Plum Island, so Beckham had to prepare for every possible scenario.

  He got out of the jeep and retrieved his gear from the back. It had been a few months since he had carried his rucksack. It felt heavier, or maybe it was all the muscle he had lost.

  The two Delta Operators walked past the graves of the heroes lost in the war against the Variants in silence. They paused at one grave in particular to look down at the white marker.

  Alex T. Riley

  “The Kid”

  Closing his eyes, Beckham sucked in a breath through his nostrils. He felt one of Horn’s massive hands on his back.

  “If I had been there,” Beckham said, bowing his head.

  “You have to let that guilt go, man. It will eat you up.”

  Beckham dragged his sleeve across his face and nodded. “You’re right, Big Horn. Our job is to make sure we don’t have to keep digging graves.”

  It was hard to believe he would never see most of his men again. He hadn’t even been able to bring their remains home. The only one they had buried from the original Team Ghost was Riley. He’d died not far from here, at the hands of the Bone Collector.

  If none of this had happened, they would all be down at The Bing right now, Team Ghost’s favorite Florida watering hole. Riley would be on a table, dancing in his underpants. Tenor, Edwards, and Panda would be arguing over who was up for the next lap dance. And Beckham would have been right there with them, laughing and knocking back beers with his brothers.

  Beckham carried the guilt of all their deaths, and he couldn’t help thinking about how he could have done things differently. War was a series of decisions with unpredictable outcomes. A single step in the wrong direction could earn you a bullet. Some men could make it all the way up a beach unscathed with thousands of rounds zipping by them. Others might get hit the second they jumped out of the boat. He’d been luckier than most. Maybe luckier than he deserved.

  “Captain Beckham!” shouted a voice.

  Army Lieutenant General Miles Rayburn stood on the beach in front of the Command Center building with three dozen troops surrounding him. An M1A1 Abrams growled down the shoreline about a quarter-mile away. Guard towers dotted the shoreline like light poles, the muzzles of sniper rifles angled out over the water.

  Rayburn waved two fingers, the large silver ring of his old military unit glinting. He was all Army, the type of guy who didn’t get along well with other branches. But his history as a former Delta Operator and his speech back at the embassy proved he was supportive of President Ringgold. That earned him, if not Beckham’s respect, at least the chance to prove his loyalty.

  “Boys, this is Captain Reed Beckham and Master Sergeant Parker Horn,” Rayburn said as the two men approached.

  The soldiers on the beach all turned. Some of them raised their eyebrows at Beckham’s prosthetics. He had expected that, and was ready for the stares. Fitz had taught him what courage really was—not just fighting an army of monsters, but standing proudly after you had been torn apart by them.

  “Good evening everyone,” Beckham said. “Tonight we stand in front of the graves of those who gave their lives to protect Plum Island and everything it represents. Our job is to do everything we can to honor their sacrifice by make this island secure for future generations.”

  Every eye on the beach remained focused on Beckham. He had their attent
ion now. Just like his CO at Fort Bragg, he had learned how to invoke emotion in his team without saying much.

  “I’m not going to waste time explaining our situation. Operation Reach will begin soon thousands of miles away, but here at home we are planning for our own battle. It’s time to get to work.”

  “You heard Captain Beckham. Let’s get moving!” Horn shouted. He clapped his hands, and every grunt on the beach began filing toward the Command Center building. An American flag snapped on its pole as a helicopter shot overhead.

  Beckham stopped to watch as the Apaches flocked toward the crimson sunset. A transmission came over the open comms while they were still in view.

  “All hands to your stations. The bogey spotted fifteen miles north of home plate is an Arleigh Burke-class guided destroyer. Looks like the Monterey. Repeat, bogey incoming.”

  Rayburn looked at Beckham and Horn.

  “She was supposed to be heading to Maine,” Rayburn grumbled. “Why the hell would she…”

  Rayburn’s words trailed off, and Beckham said, “I have a feeling Lieutenant Wood just added another ship to his fleet, and he’s sent it our way.”

  -15-

  Fitz set his rucksack down on a dusty church pew and told Apollo to stay. The dog sat on his hind legs, eyes never leaving Fitz as he followed the leader of the Ombres down the center aisle. He performed the sign of the cross as he walked. Never in his life had he been in such a beautiful church before. His blades clicked over the marble floor, echoing in the cavernous space.

  It was only late afternoon, but the church was shrouded in darkness. Planks of wood covered the shattered stained glass windows. Even the massive rose window had been covered from the outside, muting its vibrant colors. Upended church pews barricaded the entrances. These people had been living in hell for months on their own with no running water or electricity. The reek of body odor and feces filled the ancient church.

  “This way,” the woman said, waving Fitz toward the altar. He wanted to stop and marvel at the mosaics covering the walls and the paintings of religious iconography, but the woman’s pace was brisk.

  They passed row after row of pews. Stone columns framed the three-story nave on all sides. There was a balcony on both sides. Children, hardly taller than the wood railings, patrolled the walkways, carrying weapons too big for them.

  Fitz cradled his MK11 across his chest and walked faster to keep up with the woman. She still hadn’t said much, and his patience was starting to wear thin.

  “When the EUF said they would send soldiers, I assumed there would be more of you,” the woman said at last. She had stopped at the bottom step leading up to the altar. She flashed a pair of hand signals to the kids above. They darted away, keeping to the shadows. Fitz had no doubt they were still watching.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but we took a beating on the beaches,” Fitz said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re on a timetable here. Your intel can help save lives as General Nixon pushes toward Paris.”

  The woman brushed her curtain of gray hair aside and glared at him.

  “Intel? I’ll give you intel,” she said, speaking rapidly, her French accent growing thicker. “Three days ago those things descended on Lisieux. They killed five of my children as well as every adult left in the group. Another boy, Jacques, died today. He died trying to save you. We’d been hiding in the crypts, but when you showed up, you led them right to us.”

  Fitz leaned back slightly from the onslaught. “Madame, I’m really sorry for your losses. Truly. But we did not lead them to you. They were already here.”

  “They know we’re here now,” she replied. “They will come for us, and when they do, they will bring more.”

  “I’ll call in evac before that happens.” Fitz was careful with his words, not wanting to make a promise he couldn’t keep. After losing the Apaches, Colonel Bradley would be wary of authorizing air transport.

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Look, ma’am, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. What’s your name?”

  She hesitated for a moment before answering, “My name is Mira.”

  He reached out to shake her hand, but she just stared at him until he dropped it.

  “Nice to meet you, Mira. I’m—”

  “Master Sergeant Joe Fitzpatrick. Yes, you said.”

  He made a point to always be a gentleman, but apparently chivalry had died with the apocalypse.

  “We don’t have much time,” Fitz said quietly. He took a seat on a nearby pew and propped his MK11 and M4 up next to him. He didn’t feel right about bringing a weapon into God’s house, but he figured the big guy would understand.

  “Mira, I need to know where the enemy is so we can advance across the countryside and liberate any survivors.”

  Fitz pulled a map from his vest. Unfolding it, he then flapped it out and looked for their location.

  “Liberate,” Mira said. She said something in French under her breath that Fitz didn’t understand.

  “It means we’re here to help you.”

  She scoffed, shaking her head as she stood. A quick glance at the balcony above sent two children darting away to hide in the shadows.

  “Many months ago, I told them help would come. The soldiers who came died. Dragged away at night by the monsters. The parents of these children, too. I am the only adult left in Lisieux. I taught the Ombres to fight. I taught them to hide. Now you come here and demand information. What could you, barely half a man, and these few soldiers do to protect us?”

  “We don’t look like much,” Fitz said, trying to keep his temper in check. “But Team Ghost is the best out there. The 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit trusted us with this mission. Now, I understand you may not trust us—”

  Mira cut him off with the click of her tongue like she was scolding a child.

  One of the kids glancing through the wood posts above smiled at Fitz, then vanished from view. He trained his eyes back on Mira.

  “Ma’am, I need to know about enemy movement in this area.” Fitz pointed at the map to the section the Command staff had identified back at the FOB.

  Mira eyed the document with obvious distaste. Fitz held it out, but she sighed and pushed it away.

  “I’m not helping you until I have some guarantees for my children. You don’t fool me, boy. You can’t take all of us in that truck, can you?”

  Rico approached the pew where they were sitting. “How many of you are there?”

  “Twenty.” Mira’s green eyes flitted toward the ceiling, then refocused on Fitz. “Nineteen now.”

  He flashed back to the tiny tennis shoes of the child who had been picked off the roof of a nearby building. Jacques had died risking his life to help Team Ghost.

  “There are nineteen of them, plus me. But my seat doesn’t matter. Get the children out of here. I will stay,” Mira said. She let out a weary, mirthless chuckle. “Maybe someday they’ll talk about Saint Mira of Lisieux, eh?”

  Fitz hadn’t been sure what to think of her until now. She was prickly and cautious, but she was also serious about giving up her shot at rescue. She would die for these kids. He could feel Rico staring at him, but he avoided meeting her gaze. They both knew the MATV couldn’t carry that many.

  “Our MATV was built for a crew of three and up to twelve additional troops. We will try to squeeze everyone into the truck,” Fitz said. “That’s assuming Command sends the King Stallion to retrieve the MATV. If not, we’d need a Black Hawk, and those are in short supply right now.”

  Mira didn’t answer right away. Fitz lowered the map and set it on the bench where she could see it. Then he stood and walked up to the altar. A life-sized crucifix hung under the stained glass window.

  God, if you’re listening, I could really use some help right about now.

  Fitz made the sign
of the cross again.

  “You’re a religious man?” Mira asked.

  Fitz dipped his helmet. “I have faith.”

  Mira cracked a sly grin. “You won’t when you see what’s out there.” She picked up the map. Holding it in one wrinkled hand, she used the other to point at the red line Command had marked from the FOB to Paris.

  “There are things you have never seen before out there. Unspeakable things. The ones outside—” she scoffed again. “You have no idea what lurks in the shadows.”

  Rico chomped on her gum impatiently. “Oh yeah? So how about you tell us exactly what you mean by that.”

  “Wormers,” said an adolescent voice.

  A boy no older than thirteen with shaggy red hair came from the shadows and leaned against the opposite edge of the altar, curious blue eyes studying Fitz.

  “Michel, I told you not to talk about those things. You’re going to scare the other kids,” Mira said.

  “I’m not a kid,” he fired back.

  “I suppose I should introduce you all to my second-in-command,” Mira said.

  “I’m Michel,” the boy said, planting his hands on his hips. “The Captain of the Ombres.”

  “Do you all speak English or what?” Stevenson asked from the balcony above.

  Tanaka, who was checking one of the boarded-up windows, turned to look at them. “America is one of the only countries where most citizens speak just one language.”

  Stevenson shrugged. “Whatever, man, I know some Spanish.”

  “And I know five languages,” Tanaka said. He paused, then added, “Fluently.”

  “Is one of them French?” Stevenson said with a smug grin.

  The piercing howl of a monster silenced the men. Fitz looked toward the ceiling as a thud sounded from somewhere up above. Dust rained down on the pews like dirty snow. A chorus of shrieks and growls followed, coming together in a symphony that made the children take shelter under pews and in the shadows. It was unlike anything Fitz had ever heard. These sounds were guttural and primal, like a pack of hyenas had somehow become infected with the Hemorrhage Virus.