Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Will you look at that?” Beckham muttered.

  “Holy crap,” Riley laughed. “That thing’s big enough for a lion.”

  Horn ducked inside the chopper and examined the bars, pulling on them with a grunt. “Seems pretty secure.”

  Footsteps pulled Beckham back to the tarmac. A pilot flanked by two soldiers carrying M4s and wearing white biohazard suits jogged toward the chopper. The equipment they wore made them look odd, almost as if they were astronauts in thinner suits.

  “They came prepared,” Riley said, jumping off the top crate. He landed in a puddle.

  The pilot nodded at Team Ghost and then moved to the chopper and climbed inside.

  The two men in biosuits dropped their rucksacks and duffel bags on the pavement. Rain streaked down their visors, but Beckham could see both of them were young, barely of drinking age.

  Gibson’s sending me out here with rookies.

  “Master Sergeant Beckham,” one of the men said as he and his partner both snapped to parade rest. “I’m Specialist Preston and this here is Specialist Wolfe. We're with the Medical Corps. Our orders are to help you obtain a live specimen of the infected.”

  Beckham nodded. “What about the gear? We weren’t informed we would need anything specific.”

  “The virus is highly contagious, Master Sergeant. Lieutenant Colonel Jensen gave us these suits for you and your team.”

  “We didn’t wear any back in Atlanta,” Riley protested, staring at the specialists.

  “It was Lieutenant Colonel Jensen's order. We—”

  “Yeah, more orders from Brass,” Horn interjected.

  In an effort to diffuse the situation, Beckham said, “Horn, Riley, get dressed.”

  Both men grumbled.

  Wolfe reached for a large duffel bag and unzipped it, revealing more of the suits. Beckham reached out and took one. “Remember,” he said to Riley and Horn, “Improvising is our specialty.”

  Wolfe and Preston helped Beckham and his team into their suits, ensuring they were sealed properly and the respirators were functioning. The last thing Beckham wanted was to get into the field with a faulty suit again.

  Five minutes later he was staring out over the ocean and breathing the familiar rubbery scent of plastic. The smell beat the alternative—infection. He knew how lucky they had been back at Atlanta.

  The shoreline came into focus as the chopper descended. Abandoned cars littered the highway. Wet clothing spilled out of open suitcases, and the gusting wind carried trash across the road. He’d seen a scene like this in Iraq, when the civilians had attempted to flee the violence in the cities, but there were no charred bodies or corpses riddled with bullet holes here. The streets below were quiet, only a few limp bodies in sight.

  “Any ideas on how to capture one of these things?” Riley asked.

  “Yup,” Wolfe said and dragged the bag in front of him across the floor. He removed a small pistol with a long barrel that looked like an air gun. “We’re supposed to tranquilize one of them.”

  A deep voice bellowed over the channel. It was Horn laughing hysterically. “You’re going to tranquilize one of those things? You rooks have never come face to face with one, have you?”

  Static crackled in response, neither of the specialists immediately replied. Wolfe handed the gun to Horn. The operator took the pistol in a gloved hand and hefted the skinny weapon, turning it side to side.

  “That thing will take down a rhino, Sergeant,” Wolfe said.

  “You sure about that?” Horn asked. “Looks like a BB gun to me. I’d prefer to use this.” He reached behind him for his M27 and raised it off the floor to show the greenhorn specialists.

  “Colonel Gibson wants us to bring one back alive, Sergeant,” Preston said with a chuckle. “Not in the form of cat food.”

  “How many of those do you have?” Beckham asked. He wasn’t amused.

  Wolfe reached back into the bag and removed four more of the guns. “One for each of us, Master Sergeant.”

  “We’ve reached Niantic, Connecticut,” came the pilot’s voice over the comm. “Master Sergeant Beckham, advise on insertion point.”

  Beckham grabbed the strap of his MP5 and crouch-walked closer to the door. As the city came into view below, he searched for an open space. He’d memorized the map of the area and quickly identified Main Street. The road ran along a thin beach and, with no contacts in sight, looked like the perfect place to put down.

  “Forget the fast ropes,” Beckham said into his headset. “Land on the beach.”

  As the chopper descended, he began to feel the tingle of uncertainty. His idea was to have the ocean at their back, that way no one could sneak up on them. Then again, it also meant they couldn’t retreat if they had to.

  After scanning the clogged city streets, he realized there weren’t many other options for an LZ. Gripping his weapon, Beckham waited for the pilot to get them low enough over the beach that they could jump down to the sand.

  When they were a few feet above the ground, he flashed a thumbs up and hopped out. He landed in the mushy sand with a thunk and broke into a jog with the muzzle of his MP5 aimed at the road beyond.

  Taking point, he moved cautiously to the metal barrier lining the street. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning for any sign of contacts.

  Nothing.

  With a measured breath he flashed an advance signal. Riley and Horn ran up the beach with the two specialists close behind.

  The chopper pulled away as soon as they got to the road. In seconds it was gone, nothing but a speck on the bright horizon. Rays of distant sunlight bled through the cloud cover in the distance, an oddly beautiful sight in the gray and seemingly deserted city.

  The other men huddled around him at the metal fence wrapping around the road. After they had caught their breath, Beckham said, “I'm on point. Horn, you've got left, high and low. Riley, you're right, the same. Preston, Wolfe, at my six between Horn and Riley, and watch our ass for contacts.”

  Beckham glanced down at the tranquilizer gun on his belt. He grabbed the pistol and checked the cartridge before jumping over the barrier and moving onto the street.

  “Let’s go,” he said. They fanned out across the road, taking positions as Beckham directed.

  Besides the whistling of the wind and rap of rain beating down on Beckham's suit all was quiet. Nothing moved. The stillness was chilling. It reminded him of San Nicholas Island, and he wondered what infrared optics would reveal if he had them at his disposal. Would he see any sign of animals, or would he be staring at a dead landscape like the one they’d encountered on the island?

  Pushing the thought aside, Beckham continued past the empty vehicles, checking each car for any stragglers. The last thing he wanted was a surprise.

  “Where the fuck is everyone?” Riley asked. His voice sounded shaken, a far cry from his normal enthusiastic tone.

  “Looks like a ghost town,” Horn replied.

  “More like a ghost port,” Wolfe said.

  “Keep your trap shut,” Horn snarled.

  A gust of wind pushed at Beckham. He wiped his visor with his sleeve and saw the Niantic River on the north side of Main Street. Hundreds of boats still covered with white winter tarps filled the marina. A similar mass of new boats on trailers sat unattended in the yard of a marine supply store nearby. The ping of raindrops on aluminum filled the afternoon. In a way, the noise was oddly soothing, but Beckham knew the danger they were in.

  He hesitated. They were surrounded by hundreds of places where the infected could hide, and he suddenly felt naked standing in the open.

  “We need cover. Let’s move,” he said, waving the men toward a large warehouse in the middle of the boat yard. They took a right on Smith Avenue and passed through the intersection of Grand Street.

  Beckham kept his MP5 trained on the boats to the right and swept the muzzle of the weapon back and forth, checking the houses to the left and the abandoned cars in the middle of the road.


  A single plume of smoke streaming from the north side of the warehouse jolted him to a stop. He hadn’t seen it before their insertion.

  When the team reached the building, Beckham paused. “I’ll take point. Keep combat intervals,” he said. With his back to the white metal siding, he crouch-walked to the edge, where he balled his hand into a fist and peeked around the corner to the east.

  The smoke was streaming from a smoldering pickup truck. It was obvious someone had emptied several magazines into the vehicle. Pockmarks the size of cherries peppered the exterior of the truck. The windshield was gone, shattered by the rounds, but he couldn’t see any bodies inside.

  Beckham looked for more cover. There wasn’t much. Just two flipped boats between their position and the truck.

  “Stay here,” Beckham said to the Spec 4s. He flashed hand signs to Horn and Riley, who took up posts behind the boats.

  With his MP5 in his left hand and tranquilizer in his right, Beckham approached the vehicle cautiously. The rain beat down on his visor as he moved, the drops trailing down his small window to the world.

  He waited a beat when he got to the driver's side door. Puffs of hot breath fogged the inside of his helmet as his breathing became more labored.

  Leaning down, he saw the door was cracked open just a hair, but he couldn’t see anyone through the inside of the filthy window. Jamming the small barrel of the pistol into the gap, he wedged the door open. The metal creaked and groaned, revealing two empty seats.

  He quickly moved down the length of the truck and came to a stop at the end of the bed. Corpses were piled three high. Someone had gone to the trouble of covering the bodies with a tarp, but naked arms and legs protruded from the stack.

  “What the fuck,” he muttered, taking a step back from the truck. Another hot blast of air fogged his visor as he examined the truck bed.

  “Everything okay, boss?” came Horn’s voice over the comm.

  “Stay where you are,” Beckham replied.

  He wiped the front of his helmet clean for a better look. There were at least a dozen bodies; all had suffered blunt force trauma and deep gashes. Self-inflicted or the result of an attack, he wasn’t sure. By the looks of it they had been dead for a grip. The bodies were already decomposing.

  Taking another step away from the vehicle, he heard the faint sound of raspy breathing. He spun and scanned the road. The wind hissed by as he spun again, making it impossible to hear where the sound was coming from.

  “Do you guys hear that?” Beckham finally said.

  “Negative. We got nothing back here,” Riley replied.

  Beckham dropped to his stomach, careful not to puncture his suit, and scanned the gaps under the cars. And then he saw it. A boy lay shivering on the concrete, curled up on the other side of a sedan.

  “Shit. I think we have a survivor,” he said, rushing over to the child.

  When he got there his heart skipped a beat. The boy looked up at him, puckering his pale, bulging lips. Bloody tears streaked from his red-stained eyes. Blinking, he focused yellow, vertical pupils on Beckham. His lips parted and blood webbed across his open mouth as he snarled.

  Backing away, Beckham examined the boy from a distance. It was then he saw the boy’s legs—or what was left of them. They were both mangled beyond recognition, like they had gotten stuck under the blades of a lawn mower.

  His stomach reeled at the grotesque sight, and he stumbled even further backward. How was this kid even still alive? He’d lost so much blood, and the pain should have rendered him unconscious.

  “Shit,” Beckham said. He kept his distance and aimed both weapons at the kid, waiting for the rest of the team.

  “Jesus,” Riley said when he arrived.

  Wolfe shook his helmet. “This one won’t work. Might not make the trip back.” He raised his M4 and pointed at the child’s head.

  “No!” Beckham yelled.

  The child snarled again, reaching out for the gun like he knew what was coming.

  A loud crack echoed through the afternoon, and the boy’s head exploded in a spray of mist that peppered their uniforms with gore. His body slumped to the ground, twitching several times before going limp.

  “What the fuck did you do that for?” Horn half-shouted, shoving the specialist into the car.

  Lightning cracked in the distance. The clouds opened and a heavy rain pelted down on them, washing the blood and gore away.

  “Hey, not fucking cool!” Wolfe replied, regaining his balance. “I was putting the kid out of his misery.”

  Horn raised a fist and Wolfe backed away.

  “I was… I'm sorry, Sergeant. We couldn't guarantee he'd survive, and he might have attacked us. He was gone anyway. Why does it matter?”

  Thunder rumbled seconds later, the noise shaking the ground. It was followed by another sound, a high-pitched croak. The same one they’d heard back in Atlanta.

  Beckham froze. The noises were coming from everywhere and nowhere. He spun and swept the area with his MP5.

  “Hear that? That’s why it matters,” Horn said. “Those things are drawn to noise like a moth to a flame.”

  “Eyes on, everybody. Watch for contact,” Beckham said. He climbed onto the hood of the blood-stained car. His right foot slipped on the wet surface, but he steadied himself against the roof. What he saw in the distance sent an instant chill down his entire body.

  Dozens…

  No.

  Hundreds or more infected were emerging from the boats, tossing the covers off their expensive coffins. They jumped onto the dock and took off with a speed that still amazed Beckham.

  “We need to get the fuck out of here!” He hopped off the hood and ran when his feet hit the ground. “Follow me!”

  More lightning streaked through the sky above them. Thunder shook the ground, mixing with the sounds of their footfalls as the team ran.

  Beckham desperately searched for a place to make a stand. His visor fogged as his breathing became more labored. He knew they were dead if they stayed out in the open. He risked a glance over his shoulder to see the team was right behind him.

  The squawks of the infected grew louder with every step, deeper and desperate. Like wild animals that hadn’t eaten in days, their cries were hungry. Ravenous. Another arc of lightning flashed through the sky.

  “Into the warehouse!” Beckham yelled. He turned around the corner they had come from and burst back onto Smith Avenue.

  “They’re gaining on us!” Wolfe said.

  Automatic gunfire erupted behind Beckham. He winced and chinned his comm. “Don’t engage. Just run!”

  Wolfe didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. The crack of his rifle rang out, followed by the faint sound of empty brass pinging off the concrete.

  Riley caught up to Beckham a few seconds later. The entrance was less than thirty meters away. Standing between them and the doors stood a uniformed police officer.

  “Where the fuck did he come from?” Horn shouted.

  For a moment Beckham thought the man was going to help them, but then he saw the officer’s hands were cuffed together. It was someone’s last-ditch effort to restrain the sick man.

  Without hesitation, Beckham raised his MP5 and fired off a volley of shots into the cop’s chest. One of the bullets caught him in the nose. Gore plastered the door behind him and he dropped to the ground, raspy groans gurgling from his throat.

  The sound faded against the roar of thunder. Lightning hit the ground somewhere on the north side of town and shook the ground.

  Riley raced up the front steps two at a time. Kicking the dead police officer’s body out of the way, he reached for the handle.

  As soon as he grabbed it, Beckham’s world slowed to a stop. Like a video game that he could pause, he watched the rain crash against his helmet and heard the scratching coming from the inside of the building. He didn’t tell Riley to wait or even to get down. When the kid swung the door open Beckham very methodically raised his MP5 and blasted the two i
nfected waiting on the other side. They catapulted back into the darkness. Another one came racing toward them from the right, and Beckham raised the tranquilizer pistol into the air and shot the man in the throat. The creature slumped to the floor, skidding to a stop a few feet away from Beckham.

  Another clap of thunder snapped the world back to normal speed. Beckham moved out of the way as the rest of his team rushed through the open door and Riley slammed it behind them, locking it with a click. Horn and the specialists took up position in the center of the room, dropping their rucksacks on the ground and bending over to catch their breath.

  “Nice shooting,” Riley said.

  Beckham nodded and then moved over to their ticket back to Fort Bragg. The infected man looked up at them blankly with eyes the color of roses.

  “Echo 1. Ghost. We have the package. Request extraction. Over.”

  The pilot responded almost immediately. “Roger that, Ghost. Standby.”

  Static crackled in Beckham’s earpiece. He knew the area was too hot for the pilot to land. They were going to have to wait.

  “Sit tight. We’ll get you coordinates ASAP. Over,” the pilot said.

  “I don’t fucking like this shit,” Horn said. “We don’t have time to sit and wait.”

  The double door rattled behind them, the noise echoing through the building. Beckham’s heart kicked. A thin elderly man pressed his face against the small glass pane on the right door. His lips clamped onto the window, and a tongue flicked through a gap in several pointy teeth, smearing dark blood in circular motions. The man pushed harder and the glass cracked, along with two of his teeth. The creature pulled back as if in shock and then reached up to feel the jagged shards that remained. A look of confusion and then fear raced across his features.

  Beckham watched in awe, studying the monster. Everything he’d witnessed in the field led him to believe the infected were only mindless beasts with superhuman strength and speed, but this one seemed aware of his injury, of his pain.

  In a fit of rage the man smashed his fist against the door, a cobweb of cracks splintering around the impact. He pounded it again and the glass shattered, raining down on the concrete floor. Another three infected joined in. Together, they rammed their shoulders against the frame. The steel shook but held.