“Boss,” came Horn's nervous voice over the comm. “We should think about getting out of here.”
“I’d have to agree with Horn,” Riley added.
“No shit,” Beckham replied. He scanned the room. The lobby opened up into a warehouse full of boat engines and spare parts. A single metal staircase led to a second floor of offices at the far end of the atrium.
Sliding the tranquilizer pistol back into its sheath, Beckham moved toward the stairs. “Grab that thing,” he yelled. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Wolfe and Preston reach down and grab the sick man under his arms. They dragged his limp body across the concrete.
“Riley, clear those offices and find the best place to make a stand,” Beckham said.
“Roger,” he replied as he took off running up the steps.
The double doors shook again, more of the creatures joining the parade. Beckham knew they were running out of time. A flashback from Building 8 crept into his thoughts. He remembered the burned faces of his men and their horrific screams as Dr. Medford’s staff scalded them with chemicals.
A sharp metal pole suddenly harpooned through the center of the front door, snapping Beckham from his thoughts. Beyond the broken glass, a soldier wearing only a pair of shorts tugged on the rod. For the first time on the mission Beckham felt raw fear grip him as the muscular man withdraw the pole and then jammed it back into the door. The impact shattered the lock hardware, the knob bouncing off the floor with a metallic ping.
More thunder shook the roof. Primal screams followed, the shrieks intensifying as the creatures grew more agitated.
“Let's go!” Beckham shouted over the noise. He skidded to a stop at the bottom of the staircase and helped Preston and Wolfe drag the infected man up the stairs. Horn and Riley ran ahead.
“Clear!” Riley shouted a few seconds later. He moved to the railing and aimed his shotgun at the door below.
“Shoot anything that comes through those!” Beckham shouted.
Riley nodded his acknowledgement.
They had the tranquilized man halfway up the staircase when the infected finally smashed into the building. Beckham caught a glimpse of pale, bloody flesh rushing inside the building. Joints creaked and snapped as they swarmed into the space like insects.
The deafening sound of gunfire exploded above them. Shotgun shells rained down on Beckham as Riley fired off calculated shots.
Bottlenecked at the bottom of the stairs, Preston stopped and stared up at Beckham. Terror radiated from the young soldier’s eyes, pleading for help. The specialist spun, his M4 barking and cutting down the first wave of infected, but more quickly piled in. They climbed frantically over the warm corpses.
The chaos prompted another spike of adrenaline in Beckham’s system. With added strength he helped Horn and Wolfe hoist the paralyzed man to the top of the staircase. They dropped him on the metal catwalk, and then the trio joined the firefight.
The first floor of the building became a slaughterhouse, a pool of blood forming at the bottom of the staircase. There were so many corpses now that it was hard to tell where one ended and the next began. Preston had tripped on the third stair but continued to fire his rifle. The infected surged forward, growling in agony as the bullets riddled their sick bodies.
And still they kept coming.
Two others had jumped to the walls, skittering up the surface with hands morphed into claws that helped them scale the building. The disgusting click, clack of their nails on the metal siding sent a chill down Beckham’s spine. He couldn’t stop staring at the creatures. Yes, that’s what they were, he finally decided. These people were alive but little humanity remained. They were…
Monsters.
“Horn, take out the climbers!” Beckham yelled.
A beat later and two bodies dropped from the ceiling, agonized wails filling the room as they smashed onto the floor.
Beckham reached for another magazine. Even with automatic weapons they couldn’t shoot fast enough. Jamming the mag home, he aimed the barrel at the muscular former soldier who had broken the door down. The man crawled toward Preston on bloody stumps. The specialist kicked and screamed.
With the iron sights lined up on the creature’s face, Beckham pulled the trigger.
Click.
The weapon jammed. Beckham slapped the bottom of the magazine with the palm of his hand and then worked the bolt to free the round. He glanced up for a brief second as the creature pounced on the specialist, punching the jagged end of its right arm through his visor. Preston choked and then wailed in agony, a sound so grotesque that Beckham wanted to cover his ears.
He worked the bolt on his weapon again. The jammed round finally popped out, but it was too late. The creature was already feeding on Preston through a hole that it had torn in his suit.
Beckham fired off a burst that hit the monster in the chest. It tumbled off Preston and slid to join the other dead infected at the base of the stairs.
Four other creatures raced up the stairs and climbed over Preston’s fresh corpse. Horn and Riley took out the first two, but the others leapt over the stairs, hit the ground, and made a mad dash toward the walls.
Beckham swung his gun in one quick arc toward the climbers, spraying the room with bullets. They were so fucking fast, a blob of white flesh and tattered clothes. They moved like spiders, scrambling across the surface of the walls. He could hardly follow them with his weapon.
Riley caught one of them in the back with a blast from his shotgun, but the other man lunged from the wall to the ceiling just above the team, hanging there and releasing a shriek. Then, with all limbs spread out, he dropped to the platform.
Beckham fired off the rest of his magazine directly into the creature’s midsection. The monster twitched as the bullets riddled its body and then slumped to the ground, letting out one final raspy moan.
Panting, Beckham used the moment of calm to survey the damage. His gaze stopped on Preston’s twisted body. The man was dead. There was no doubt about it. His visor looked like a shattered egg after some alien creature had hatched from inside. Next he looked at the tranquilized man at the top of the stairs. Horn stood over the top of him, his boot firmly planted on the man’s chest.
Riley glared at Beckham, his eyes wild behind his blood stained visor. “I think it’s time to call in that extraction.”
Beckham nodded and chinned his comm.
“Echo 1. Ghost. We're ready to go. Over.” With his ears still ringing from the gunfire, Beckham could hardly hear the faint crackle of static in his earpiece. The pilot’s voice drifted over the channel a moment later.
“Ghost. Echo 1. LZ is too hot. Those things are everywhere.”
The words hit Beckham like a slap to the face.
“They can’t leave us out here,” Wolfe stuttered.
Beckham didn’t reply. He clenched his right fist, trying to think. They were surrounded.
Trapped.
“Ghost. Echo 1. Do you copy? Over.”
“Roger,” Beckham replied. “We’re working on a plan out of here,” he lied.
“Ghost. Echo 1. We can't hang around. LZ is too damn hot.”
Beckham smacked his right hand against his helmet. Had he heard right or were his ears still ringing?
“Come again, Echo 1.”
“Repeat. We cannot hold position until a safe extraction is possible. LZ is too hot and there's no telling when it'll cool down. Closest safe extraction is about six hundred meters west of your location. Looks like a small office building. We can come down over the roof. Can you make the objective, Ghost?”
Beckham glanced up at the second level. His three remaining teammates stared down from the balcony. The blood stained visors couldn’t hide their eyes. Even Horn looked terrified.
Beckham thought about what was out there in the surrounding terrain—nothing but neighborhoods with wide open yards around dark houses with low fences between them. There was no way they'd make the new LZ alive.
“Ghost
. Echo 1. Do you copy? Can you make the new LZ? Over.”
With anger thick on his tongue, Beckham replied. “Negative, Echo 1. I repeat. Negative. We are locked down and cannot move.”
“The hell's wrong with this roof?” Horn said, aiming his M27 over his head.
Beckham nodded and chinned his comm once more. “Echo 1. Ghost. Can you come down on top of this roof? Over.”
“Negative. Hostiles up top. Sorry, Ghost. You're on your own until morning. We'll be back when we receive your all clear. Good luck.”
The line cut out and white noise surged over the channel.
Beckham looked at his team. “You heard the man. We’re spending the night here. So get your ass in gear. We need to secure this AO.”
“What about this guy?” Riley said, kicking the captured infected.
“Do you want to get back to Fort Bragg or what, kid?” Horn said. He reached down and grabbed the man under his right armpit and began dragging him down the hallway that led to the offices. Riley bent down and helped him.
Wolfe crossed the platform and walked down the first two steps. He tried to squeeze past, but Beckham put up a hand to stop him.
“Is he...” Wolfe began.
“He’s gone. I’m sorry,” Beckham said. Forcing himself to look away, he scanned the room. A rolling engine stand occupied one corner of the open space. A boat motor hung from the chains.
“Help me block up that door,” Beckham said.
Together, they made their way past Preston's body and around the pile of dead infected. Beckham hurried to the motor and with Wolfe's help pushed it to the entrance. Kicking two corpses out of the way, they slid the engine stand into place to hold the double doors closed.
Beckham took one last look at Preston’s corpse and then clapped Wolfe on the shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said, climbing the stairs and leaving the carnage behind.
-17-
A primal screech jerked Kate awake. The sound was oddly familiar, reminiscent of noises that had kept her up at night on her first trip to the remote jungle in Congo three years ago.
An involuntary spasm shook her body. She was so tired. What time was it? Where was she?
Another shriek followed. Then rattling metal. Kate jerked wide-awake, suddenly remembering.
She shot out of the chair she’d set up outside the observation window to the animal testing area. Rubbing her eyes, she scanned the dark, lab but only saw the silhouettes of frightened rhesus monkeys moving inside their cages.
Kate looked down at her watch. One hour and thirty-five minutes had passed since she’d infected the animals with the Hemorrhage virus.
And now the entire lab sounded alive. Metal cages shook. Shrieks vibrated throughout the space.
Kate hit the lights. A dozen set of crimson eyes instantly gravitated to her. Blood trickled down fur and bulging lips puckered into suckers.
“My God,” Kate said, bringing a hand to her mouth.
As soon as they saw her, the animals went crazy. They stuck tiny hands that were twisted into claws through the gaps in the metal bars, shaking the sides of their cages violently. A female on the bottom row speared her head into the front of the cage.
Kate watched in shock, her eyes darting from monkey to monkey. They weren’t all trying to break loose. Others were tearing at their own flesh, their swollen lips clamped down on a leg or arm as they fed.
Kate had seen enough. They were suffering, and the symptoms told her nothing more than she already knew. Under normal conditions she would apply sedatives, analgesics, or anesthetics to put the animals to sleep, but the risk of infection was simply too high.
Sitting down at the computer, she typed in her credentials and password. Next she brought up the terminate screen and with a few more simple commands, she implemented a procedure that would end the monkeys' suffering.
Seconds later a hissing noise filled the room. It was one of the worst parts of Kate’s job, but she always forced herself to watch. Sacrificing animals was a necessary measure of viral research. A minute after the gas had filled the room the screeches had stopped. Furry bodies twitched in their cages as the rhesus monkeys struggled to breathe.
Kate picked up the phone and dialed Ellis.
A voice she hardly recognized picked up after a few rings.
“Hello?”
“Ellis, wake up. I need your help. We have some autopsies to perform.”
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice groggy and slurred.
“Time to work. I'll see you in a few minutes,” Kate replied and then hung up. When she turned back to the window, every single monkey was dead.
April 23rd, 2015
DAY 6
The annoying tick of an antique clock replaced the dribble of rain off the rooftop. A single emergency light illuminated the clock next to Beckham with an eerie red glow. It was 0005 hours.
He’d listened to the piece click for the past four hours. Sitting next to it, he was starting to wish he could smash the wood with the butt of his MP5. But then again, the sound did distract him from other thoughts. Especially of those they’d lost.
Standing, he paced over to check the door. Riley stood there with his back to the wall and his shotgun angled at the floor, waiting.
They were holed up in one of the back offices. The room was furnished with several large metal tables, blueprints of some yacht that would never see completion draped across the surface. The infected man they’d captured lay unconscious in the corner of the room. Horn sat on an aged leather couch next to him, his foot still pushing down on the man’s chest. They had bound the man’s feet and hands with heavy cords, but Beckham wasn’t taking any chances. He’d assigned his friend the job of ensuring the creature didn’t get loose.
Behind them a half-dozen windows lined the wall overlooking a small brick building and narrow alleyway. The boat yard was beyond that. White tarps flapped on the concrete from where the infected had tossed them earlier. A fire escape gave them access to a ladder if they needed a quick exit.
The sound of clawed hands and feet scrabbling over the roof had faded hours ago. The silence was awful. He knew the creatures were still out there, waiting. The boat yard had been quiet when they arrived.
Beckham looked back at the clock. It was 0011 hours now. The space was their AO for the night. He was exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t let his guard down. Fuck it, drive on, he thought. They had to get the specimen back to Plum Island. It was their only shot of getting back to Fort Bragg.
Walking across the room, he crouched next to one of the windows and peeled back a dusty curtain. The alley below looked empty, shadows creeping across the concrete from the light of a half moon. None of the creatures were in sight.
Relieved, he stood and moved over to the couch. The captured man’s breathing was more labored now, fluid crackling in his lungs. Beckham took a knee.
“Careful,” Horn said. He grunted and pressed down harder with his boot.
Nodding, Beckham swept his flashlight over the young man’s body. The white beam revealed the same thing they’d seen back in Atlanta; pale, almost translucent skin with blue veins bulging, blood flowing freely from the ears, mouth, nose, and eyes.
Waving the light in front of the man’s eyes, Beckham checked to see if he was conscious. There was no response. His yellow, slit-shaped pupils gazed up toward the ceiling, blank and detached.
“Still out,” Horn whispered.
“Keep an eye on him,” Beckham replied, standing with a groan. He walked over to Wolfe, who sat by himself in the other corner of the room.
“You doing okay?” Beckham asked. He wanted to make sure his team was ready to go at a moment's notice.
Wolfe looked up, the red glow from the emergency light illuminating his dirty visor. He stared back blankly.
Beckham sighed. He knew the look was from battle shock. It had set in the moment the soldier had seen the corpse of his friend back on the stairs.
“Listen. I need you to stay focused.
We can’t stay here forever.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, the sound of crunching glass reverberated from somewhere inside the building. Beckham froze and watched the other team members stiffen.
Another noise followed a few seconds later. This one sounded like it was coming from the alleyway. It was a combination of frantic scraping and then shuffling. Almost like a desperate animal climbing the bark of a tree to get away from a predator.
Moving back to the window, Beckham slowly pulled back the curtain, knowing exactly what was making the noise. The alleyway was dark now, the moon hidden by a dense set of clouds. He scanned the shadows for any sign of the creatures.
A blur of white suddenly flashed across the exterior brick surface of the adjacent building. It disappeared before Beckham could focus on it.
He swallowed. Hard. Cautious not to be seen, he dropped to the floor and crawled under the windows to the other side of the room. Then, standing, he gripped the shades in between his gloved fingers. The scratching grew louder, the scraping closer. The faint moonlight bled into the room.
Slowly he moved the curtain to the side. There was motion on the exterior of the building. He squinted and focused, but his mind couldn’t grasp what his eyes were showing it.
Across the alley, the entire brick wall looked alive. Dozens of infected scaled the surface. They gripped the brick with twisted hands that resembled claws more than fingers. And they moved with inhuman speed.
The sight made Beckham’s skin crawl. He instantly moved his back to the side of the window, peeking out as discreetly as he could.
“What is it, boss?” came Horn’s voice.
Beckham didn’t reply. His gaze was locked onto the building. The first of the group reached the edge of the rooftop. A woman dressed in tattered, blood-stained clothes stood there, sniffing. She tilted her head, finding a scent. Using her legs as springs, she broke into a run across the ledge, her body twisting and jerking. The creaking of her joints echoed in Beckham’s ears.
Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1) Page 21
