Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “What is that?” Rico whispered.

  “The rest of them,” Mira replied. “I told you they would be coming.”

  Michel raised his AK-47 and chambered a round. “C’mon. I’ll show you the crypts.”

  Piero awoke to pitch-black darkness. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and closed one eye, but kept the other open. That’s how he had slept for the past month. Half the time he was so tired he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. But he had a lookout now. The mouse squeaked again. That was what had woken him up.

  “Piccolo amico,” he whispered. “It’s all right, little friend.”

  The same squeak sounded. He couldn’t see the mouse, but he could hear it skittering across the ground. The furry creature brushed against his nose, and Piero had to hold in a sneeze.

  Sitting up, Piero held his nose shut until the urge to sneeze passed. The mouse jumped onto his shoulder, which had become its favorite resting spot.

  “You have a bad dream?” Piero asked. He struck a match and lit a candle in his new hiding spot. The glow blossomed to illuminate the four-by-eight-foot tomb.

  The mouse chirped back. He tilted his button nose up, sniffing the air and narrowing his eyes at the dancing flame. Piero wasn’t sure how old the mouse was. He wasn’t even really sure it was a boy mouse, but he was going to keep thinking of his new friend as he.

  “I need to give you a real name,” Piero whispered. The mouse tilted its head, still sniffing and studying him curiously. “You’re right, we should eat first.”

  Piero got to his knees, plucked his knife off the ground, and sheathed the blade. His pistol was out of ammunition, but he grabbed it and placed it in his bag nonetheless. He might get lucky and find more rounds.

  Their new shelter was three stories beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, in the catacombs most tourists never saw. So far, the Varianti hadn’t found it either.

  “And they aren’t going to find us, are they, little friend?” Piero’s voice was a whisper that he hardly recognized. His father had told him that the voice was the first thing you forgot about someone after they passed. But what about your own voice? If he didn’t recognize it anymore, did that mean he was dead?

  No, you’re still alive. You’re Piero Angaran. You’re a soldier.

  The mouse climbed higher onto his shoulder as Piero crossed the room, his tail brushing against Piero’s ear. The candlelight guided them to the crawlspace they used as an entrance and exit to the tomb.

  The winged creatures always hunted at night, but the sun would be coming up soon. He hadn’t been above ground for days now. He was almost out of water, and his gurgling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything for...how long? He had lost track.

  The mouse squeaked again, his way of telling Piero to hurry up.

  He petted the mouse with a fingertip, and felt its ribs and bony spine just beneath the fur. Piero wasn’t the only one that needed to eat.

  The creature didn’t protest when Piero put him in a small pouch and zipped it up almost to the top. Piero wished he could climb inside there with his little friend.

  He placed the pouch in his backpack, then crawled through the dusty passage. A cobweb stuck to his face, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. No matter how many times he crawled through the narrow tunnel, the spiders would rebuild their webs.

  Piero had already scavenged the eastern passages beneath the Vatican. It was time to try the western side. But there was no telling what lurked in the shadows there.

  “Probably something worse than spiders, eh?”

  Three stories of stone and dirt above, a new day was dawning over Rome. The winged beasts would be returning to their lairs, and the Varianti on the ground would seek refuge in their nests. It was time to leave his own nest for the hunt.

  In the beginning he’d had to flatten his stomach and remove his gear to get through the crawlspace, but now he was so skinny that it was quite easy to carry the essentials as he went through: his rifle, his knife, a water bottle, and a small pack containing medical supplies, ammunition, and the pouch containing his friend.

  The candle flame flickered as he continued squirming, threatening to go out. If it did, he wouldn’t be able to strike another match until he got to the other side. Not that it mattered much. Piero was accustomed to the dark.

  Grunting, he crawled the final stretch and dropped the four feet to the ground by sliding down the wall, his hands hitting the floor first.

  He stood and raked the candle back and forth, illuminating a low stone ceiling and walls that had been built countless years ago. It was difficult to know exactly how old everything was down here. He had always thought humans would last forever, but he realized how naive he had been.

  For all he knew, he could be the last human in the world. When he was gone, the walls would be all that remained.

  Sighing, Piero walked slowly across the room. He switched hands with his candle and rifle, jamming the stock into his right armpit and raising the muzzle toward a staircase that led to a hallway above. He walked on the tips of his boots, avoiding the click of his heels. It was habit more than precaution. If there were monsters above, they would hear the sweat drip off his head.

  Halfway up the winding staircase, he stopped to listen to the silence. There wasn’t even the whisper of drafting air or the skitter of an insect. It was like being in outerspace, or maybe like being dead.

  You’re not dead. Your name is Piero Angaran. You are a soldier.

  The silence was unnerving, but it was better than the alternative.

  He continued up the stairs, the weapon wobbling in his weak grip. He had lost so much muscle and body weight that holding the gun had become a challenge.

  You’re still a soldier. You’re still a man.

  The reassuring thoughts—not to mention the pangs of hunger in his belly—gave him the strength to continue climbing the stairs. There was nothing like hunger to drive a man to desperation. The Varianti were also driven by a primal need to feed. At least he didn’t share their disgusting appetite for human flesh.

  “That’s something, isn’t it?” he asked the mouse.

  It didn’t answer.

  He tensed as he rounded the final corner, listening for any sign of the demons. The candlelight danced in the narrow passage, like hands reaching out for him. A distant drip, drip of water echoed, but besides that he heard nothing.

  Raising his rifle, he stepped into the hallway and held his candle out to the east, then to the west, muzzle sweeping over the dark passages. The light only reached a few hundred feet, and there was no sign of the monsters.

  For the first time, he took a left to head west, starving, scared, and unsure if he would ever see the sun again.

  -16-

  Commander Davis was still shaking from shock and anger. Three hours ago, she’d seen a dozen of her crew executed. Since then she had remained hidden in the tall grass on an embankment with nothing to think about but revenge. Her small team flanked her on both sides, all watching the brick walls of Fort Pickens. They had abandoned their Zodiac in a canal and covered it with a camouflage tarp Marks had discovered onboard. So far they had avoided detection, but patrols of ROT soldiers were combing the area.

  She wasn’t sure how long they could remain hidden, and she didn’t want to try walking up to the terrorists in a stolen ROT uniform either. But they couldn’t stay here forever.

  She crawled through the grass and scoped the deck of the ship where the ROT soldiers had airlifted two MGM-140 Army Tactical Missile System delivery vehicles. Several men were carefully unloading crates around them. Zooming in, she saw the same surface-to-surface ballistic missiles she had encountered at the Earthfall facility, which could carry a payload like the bioweapon they’d used to exterminate most of the surviving Variants. But these looked more advanced with larger fuel chambers for a wider range.


  But why would ROT have those? Unless…no, even they wouldn’t be that insane.

  The only reason they’d have them would be to arm them with the Hemorrhage Virus. Firing even a few of them at SZTs would wipe out every man, woman, and child left in America. With most of the American forces overseas, there was no way they could stop another outbreak here in the States.

  Davis bit down on her lip. She would not let ROT destroy everything President Ringgold had worked to rebuild and the military had fought and bled for to defend.

  She flattened her body against the embankment, her finger creeping toward the trigger of her rifle. A patrol of six ROT soldiers was walking down the shore, their SCARS roving back and forth. In her mind’s eye, she could picture her rounds tearing through the men. But even then, she wouldn’t feel satisfied. Davis wanted to gut them—to paint the beach with their blood.

  Never in her life had she felt anger like this. It burned in the very marrow of her bones. The itch to jump up and empty her magazine into every ROT soldier she could see was overwhelming. Revenge was all she could think about.

  Get your head on straight, Rachel. You need to be smart about this. There is too much at risk to do something stupid.

  There were still members of her crew alive on the ship, and she still had Black and Diaz, as well as Marks and his men to think about. Not to mention the fate of the human race.

  The patrol was fifty yards away now, walking through a cluster of trees.

  “We can take ‘em, Commander,” Marks whispered.

  “Not without firing a shot. I’ve counted over fifty soldiers so far. We can’t kill them all by ourselves, and the ones we don’t take down will make short work of us.”

  “Look, I know you have your orders, but even you can’t be this cold. The admiral is dead and they displayed his body like a fucking dog. Then they executed a dozen of our crew in front of us. I’m just a sergeant, but even I know sometimes orders are meant to be broken.”

  Davis heard Diaz suck in an angry breath, but she held her tongue this time.

  “Those were my men, too,” Davis said. “My responsibility. I’m going to get the GW back, and then we’re going to kill every last one of those sons of bitches. But not until we have the right opportunity. Understood?”

  Marks stared her down for a moment longer, but in the end he looked away and grumbled, “Understood.”

  Davis wasn’t sure she believed him.

  Part of her wanted to charge in with guns blazing just like him, but she knew that was the wrong move. These ROT soldiers had been baiting her by displaying Humphrey’s corpse and executing the crewmen. They were terrorists, and their currency was fear.

  The only way to fight them was through superior strategy. Ideally, President Ringgold would have sent a Special Ops team to retake the ship. But Davis and her motley band of soldiers was the best they were going to get. Luckily, she had learned a thing or two about situations like these when Lieutenant Colonel Kramer had commandeered the GW.

  Quick and steady, she thought, and then mentally added quiet to the list.

  She waved Diaz over.

  “Diaz, where’s the closest SZT?”

  “There’s one in New Orleans and one in Tallahassee,” she answered promptly.

  Marks scooted closer. “Both are way too far from here to get help, if that’s what you’re thinking. And New Orleans has sided with the enemy.”

  Diaz looked back down at her map. “There is a small outpost here.” She pointed to a blue dot on the map that was marked OP119.

  “What do we know about it?” Davis asked.

  “It’s only twenty miles from here by boat, or thirty if we had a car, but there’s no way to know if anyone is actually manning the post. There are hundreds of these stations, and many of them have fallen in the past few months to juveniles or raiding parties. I think the standard crew is twenty soldiers.”

  “They say soldiers go there to die,” Black said. “They’re basically outposts, like the traders used back during the Revolutionary War. Deep in enemy territory and away from the help of the military.”

  The team flattened as the beam from a flashlight hit the top of the embankment. Davis put a finger to her lips as voices muffled by gas masks came over the hill.

  “Man, I don’t know if I like this. I mean, executing those sailors is one thing. That’s all about sovereignty. You can’t let the tyrants have anything over you, right? But turning kids into monsters is where I draw the line.”

  “Wood won’t do it. He’s just using the missiles as leverage,” said someone else.

  “What about Chicago?”

  Another voice, rougher and deeper, replied, “Stop being a pussy, Morgan. This is war. We got to do what we got to do to take our country back from that bitch.”

  “Ringgold ain’t so bad,” said the first voice.

  There was a sound of a scuffle, and then an ooph, like someone had been hit in the stomach.

  “Lieutenant Wood would have you killed for that comment, Morgan. You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat to shut your stupid ass up.”

  Davis heard coughing. “I’m just sayin’, man. Jesus.”

  “Cut that shit out,” said the rough voice. “We’re supposed to be at the checkpoint in ten minutes.”

  The muffled voices faded with the wind, but their words stuck with Davis like a fire that wouldn’t go out. She knew she had to make a decision quickly.

  “Sergeant, you and your men stay here and watch the GW. Diaz, Black, and I will head to OP119 to see if we can get some help. Hopefully they will have some firepower there.”

  Davis didn’t voice the rest of her plan out loud. She wasn’t ready to blow her ship up yet—with the rest of her crew still on it—but she couldn’t let Wood fire any of those missiles at civilian targets. If it came down to a choice between saving the GW and saving the country…well, that was no choice at all.

  The kids in the Basilica of St. Thérèse had seen a lot since the monsters came to Europe. Fitz could tell by their hollow, haunted eyes. But the way their faces lit up when they saw Apollo warmed his heart. The dog was a well-trained combat veteran, but he was also a big, good-natured animal that loved attention. The kids petted the German Shepherd and cooed over him in French until a stern word from Mira made them scatter back to their posts.

  Most of their group had moved to the crypts while Fitz waited for Command to return his transmission. Dohi was upstairs with Stevenson, watching the grounds for movement. Fitz didn’t feel much safer underground, but he couldn’t hear the howling.

  “What is that?” came a voice.

  Fitz felt a tug on the bandana around his neck and looked over to Michel. While most of the kids were fascinated with Apollo, the boy had taken an interest in Riley’s laughing skull bandana.

  “I like it. Where did you get it?”

  “From a very good friend,” Fitz replied. As much as he wanted to tell the story, there was work to do. He glanced at the blockaded doors where Tanaka and several kids stood guarding the entrance. The children were chatting with each other, but Tanaka remained silent in the shadows.

  Rico and Mira were studying the map, their heads bent over it, the younger woman’s hot pink hair a stark contrast against Mira’s silver gray. Mira still didn’t want to talk about the beasts that had overrun her country. Fitz had to get her to talk, and fast. Enemy forces were heading their way, and it was only a matter of time before they broke into the basilica.

  He looked at his watch. The sun had gone down hours ago, and whatever was coming would move in the early morning hours.

  They were running out of time.

  “Lion 1 this is Ghost 1, do you copy? Over.”

  A response hissed into his earpiece this time. Static at first, then a voice.

  “Copy Ghost 1, this is Lion 1. Over.”

  Fi
tz looked at Mira. She was still holding her cards tight, unwilling to tell him any details. Not that he blamed her. She was doing what any mother would do to protect her children.

  A second transmission came across the channel. Colonel Bradley growled, “You better have some good news for me.” There was a pause of static, then, “Have you completed your mission?”

  “Working on it, sir.”

  “Have you located the Ombres?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Fitz hesitated. “They want a ride out of here.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Twenty.”

  There was a pause that seemed to stretch forever.

  “If you get me the intel I need to advance across France, I’ll send the King Stallion to pick up that MATV,” Bradley finally said. “You got to cram everyone in though, because I can’t risk sending any Black Hawks. Get back to me when you have what I need.”

  There was cursing and a shout on the other line. White noise followed, then the transmission cut off. Fitz almost tore his earpiece from his ear.

  Fitz hated being a hard-ass. He’d been raised to treat people—especially women—with respect and courtesy. But the time for being a gentlemen was over. He turned to the Frenchwoman and gave her a steely glare.

  “If you want your kids to leave this town alive, you’ll tell me everything you know. Right now. I want enemy movements, coordinates. What type of monsters we’re dealing with, and how many.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Those things outside, whatever they are, they will find us. They will kill everyone in this church. And Command isn’t coming to help unless I give them something.”

  Mira blinked and took a step back. “Your commander would leave you out here?”

  There was no hesitation in Fitz’s response. “Absolutely.”

  Rico pulled the map closer to Mira. “Show us where these ‘unthinkable’ things are so we can bomb the hell out of ‘em, okay?”