Extinction Horizon (The Extinction Cycle Book 1)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  He skidded to a stop at the ledge of the rooftop and shouldered his rifle, trying the line to Plum Island again.

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

  The response, to Beckham’s surprise was almost instantaneous. “Ghost. Echo 1. We are Oscar Mike. What is your AO? Over.”

  Pausing, Beckham reached into his vest and withdrew a small handheld GPS. He read their coordinates and then looked over the edge.

  “Roger. ETA of fifteen,” the pilot said. Then there was only static.

  Beckham’s stomach churned when he saw the street below. Variants dashed across the tops of burned cars, jumping from vehicle to vehicle. He cursed under his breath. Fifteen minutes was a lifetime out here. They weren’t going to make it two minutes if those things found them.

  One of the Variants stopped below. She crouched on the concrete and sniffed the air like a dog trying to pick up a scent. And she found it. Her eyes locked onto Beckham’s position. He took a step away from the roof, his heart racing, bracing himself for the inevitable scream.

  Nothing came.

  When he peeked over the edge she was gone. Darting away with the others.

  Exhaling, he scanned the flat rooftop. A billboard rose off the north end, giving them some cover. The other three sides were all exposed, save for a few stone gargoyles protruding from the ledges. It wasn’t the best place to make a stand, but they’d run out of roof.

  Riley and Horn were waiting for him at the center of the rooftop. “Horn, you guard the east. Riley, you got the south side. I’ll set the claymores on that billboard in case they come up that side. Then I’ve got the west perimeter.”

  “Gotcha, Boss,” Riley said.

  “On it,” Horn replied.

  They fanned out across the gravel roof. Beckham ran to the base of the billboard, dropped his rucksack, and took out the mines. The billboard stood on a frame of steel that was bolted into the roof. Beckham positioned one mine to fire up the back of the billboard and the other to fire at its base in case any Variants came up the side and tried to crawl through the support structure. When he was done, he uncoiled enough cord to reach the southwest corner of the roof where he had placed the detonators. Then he returned to the west ledge and angled his rifle over the side, squinting.

  The pack of Variants had disappeared. Maybe they'd lost the scent in the rain? Whatever happened, they were gone for now.

  A small victory.

  Beckham was struck by a brief moment of nostalgia, the feeling of uncertainty he’d experienced before entering Building 8 weeks earlier. He’d known something didn’t feel right, but still he’d remained committed to the mission—committed until it was too late to save his men.

  As he scanned the streets below, that same feeling of doubt swept over him. Chinning his comm he said, “Any contacts?”

  “Negative,” Horn and Riley replied simultaneously.

  Shit, where are they? Beckham studied the shadows below, and then moved up the side of the building across the street.

  Nothing.

  Beckham walked slowly along the ledge, his weapon aimed at the rooftop just above Riley’s location. The building stood only about five feet above Riley's head, and a narrow gap was all that separated the two rooftops. They’d made the jump with ease, and he could only imagine how easy it would be for one of the Variants.

  Beckham looked at his wristwatch. Ten minutes to go. He didn’t mind waiting in silence. He almost grinned at the idea of a violence-free evac. The thought was shameful. They had left behind survivors, including a kid. Why the fuck should he be so lucky to get out of NYC in one piece, unscathed like he always did? His face twisted into a frown and he closed his eyes, hating Gibson for causing all of this and hating himself for not being able to save the only people he'd seen who survived it.

  The sound of scratching yanked him from his thoughts of self-pity.

  He looked over his side of the building, but saw no motion.

  “You got anything, Riley?” Beckham asked.

  “Negative.”

  “Nothing,” Horn added.

  Where the fuck was that sound coming from then? He moved along the edge of the roof. A slight breeze whistled around his helmet.

  He checked his watch again.

  Eight minutes.

  The scratching sound faded in the whistling of the wind.

  Was he losing his nerve?

  Another three minutes passed, and a soft rain began to fall from the sky. The drops trickled down Beckham’s visor, clearing it of dust. He ran his sleeve against the panel and did another quick scan of the rooftop and then the street.

  “Still no contacts, boss,” Riley said over the comm.

  Two minutes left.

  His heart rate spiked when he heard the bottomless howling followed by an angry torrent of shrieks.

  Beckham twisted to see a wave of flesh spilling over the edge of the billboard. He snapped into motion before his mind had processed what had happened. Loping forward, he raced for the detonators and yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

  Horn dove next to him, hunkering down. Riley ran for the opposite corner and slid on his knees, covering his helmet with his hands.

  The instant the kid was in position, Beckham detonated the mines.

  A deafening explosion shook the rooftop. The tremor rattled the gravel beneath Beckham’s knees. He clenched his jaw and looked up as the billboard toppled over the side of the ledge, taking with it several thrashing Variants.

  When the smoke started to clear Beckham and Horn stood, their weapons sweeping for hostiles.

  “You okay, kid?” Beckham shouted. His ears were ringing but he could hear Riley’s response.

  “I’m fine, Boss!”

  The smoke drifted away, revealing a rooftop littered with chunks of gore. Beckham breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he had packed the mines.

  He clapped Horn on the back when he heard a faint scraping.

  No, he thought, it’s not possible.

  He twisted and shouldered his rifle just as a swarm of Variants slid over the smoldering edge of the roof. When they hit the surface they dropped to all fours. Their suckers puckered in the air, popping. There were no sniffing noses or primal shrieks. The creatures knew exactly where Ghost Team was.

  Gunfire erupted on both of Beckham’s flanks.

  He tapped his vest pocket. “I hope you're looking after us, mom,” he whispered. He concentrated on the monsters and pulled the trigger.

  Two of the Variants dropped immediately, their screams fading over the crack of Horn’s M27 and the blasts from Riley’s shotgun.

  Beckham squeezed off burst after burst. He counted the seconds in his head until he heard the distant whoosh of a helicopter in the distance. His earpiece crackled and the sweet sound of the pilot’s voice filled his earpiece.

  “Ghost, Echo 1, approaching your AO. Over.”

  Beckham fired again. The rounds hit one of the Variants in the back of the head, splattering bone and brains over the ground.

  “Copy. Extraction zone is hot!” Beckham yelled. “Hurry the fuck up! Extraction zone is hot!”

  Riley and Horn retreated with their weapons blazing, but the Variants chasing them were so damn fast, dashing and lunging from side to side.

  Beckham finished off his last magazine and then pulled his sidearm. With one eye closed he followed one of the Variants as it bolted toward Riley. Holding his breath, he squeezed off a shot.

  The bullet caught the man in the chin, sending him flying to the side. Riley swung his shotgun around and finished off the injured Variant before he could recover.

  “Thanks,” Riley shouted.

  “Changing,” Horn yelled. “Cover me.”

  Beckham turned his pistol on the final four Variants that were charging their position. “Run!” he yelled. He fired off another flurry of shots, dropping two of the creatures.

  Horn held his ground, tossing his M27 to the roof and withdrawing two .45s from his back belt. Fire er
upted from the barrels. A head exploded in a spray of mist.

  Screaming, Horn trained his gun on the final Variant. He fired until his pistols were dry, the bullets tearing into the monster’s chest, sending it flying into the night.

  Beckham gasped for air. He surveyed the rooftop. Variants lay across the gravel. A few of them jerked and kicked as they took their final breaths.

  “Prepare for extraction!” Beckham yelled. The team met in the middle of the rooftop. With their backs together they reloaded and waited.

  The ringing in Beckham’s ears gave way to the thump of the Blackhawk’s blades. He watched a rope drop in front of them.

  Salvation.

  Lowering his pistol, Beckham grabbed the rope and attached it to a clip on Horn’s belt. When it was secure, he flashed a thumbs up to the crew chief in the cargo hold above.

  Riley and Beckham stepped away as Horn was pulled into the air. Neither of them heard the sound of the Variants approaching from the south. When Horn finally saw them it was too late.

  “Watch out! Your six!” Horn yelled.

  Two of the creatures sprang off the adjacent building and came dashing across the rooftop.

  Beckham saw them just in time to squeeze off a single shot. The bullet only slowed the first man down, his muscular chest jerking to the side. He snarled and kept running. Horn took him down a beat later, a .45 round puncturing the man’s heart.

  The other Variant, a woman with a screen of hair covering her eyes, lunged toward Riley. She landed on him with her feet first, knocking him to the ground with a sickening crunch.

  Beckham aimed, but couldn’t get a clear shot. Tossing it aside, he dove for the woman as she beat the side of Riley’s helmet. Another Variant barreled into him before he could reach the woman, sending Beckham crashing to the ground.

  He struggled to his back as the man punched and clawed at his head. Blood flowed from a wound in the creature’s chest, squirting onto his visor. Beckham fought back, throwing punch after punch, but he couldn’t see shit. Each blow scraped past the shrieking beast on top of him.

  Beckham spied a glimpse of movement to the side, where a pair of boots landed on the gravel. He recognized Horn's oversized shoes instantly.

  Thrashing, Beckham did his best to deflect the torrent of punches. He was now in survival mode, trying to limit the damage.

  “Help Riley!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. There was no fucking way that Beckham was going to let the kid die.

  Horn’s boots vanished and Beckham heard another crack from a .45. There was a second shot. Gore speckled Beckham’s visor. He gasped, struggling for air, hot puffs exploding inside his helmet.

  He felt the weight of the creature on top of him go limp, and with a small grunt Beckham tossed the corpse off him. Wiping his visor with the sleeve of his biosuit, he cleared the pane free of the chunks of brain matter.

  Horn was hunched over Riley a few feet away. Beckham quickly stumbled to his feet. The kid reached up as he approached, blood gurgling out of his mouth behind a cracked visor.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Riley choked.

  Beckham’s heart sank when he saw Riley’s bloody face. He could hardly make out the young man’s features.

  “Take it easy, kid,” Beckham replied. He crouched next to Riley and grabbed his right hand, clutching it in his own. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “Can’t feel my legs,” Riley said.

  Beckham glanced down. The kid’s right leg was ruined. A broken bone protruded out of his suit just above the ankle. There was no time for a tourniquet, they had to get him to the bird first.

  Riley tightened his grip on Beckham’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “Contacts incoming. Let's move, Ghost,” the pilot said over the comm.

  “Horn,” Beckham yelled, motioning with a hand for the larger man to help him. Together they pulled Riley to his feet and dragged the kid over to the rope. He wailed in pain as they attached it to a clip on his belt.

  A flash of movement from the south side of the building pulled Beckham’s attention to another group of Variants. He could hear their claws scratching across the concrete over the whoosh of the blades. There were dozens of them, galloping across the rooftop of the adjacent building.

  “Go!” Beckham yelled, giving the crew chief above a thumbs up.

  He watched as Riley’s limp body was pulled toward the chopper. When the kid was halfway up, Beckham reached for another magazine and jammed it home into his pistol. Horn ran to where he'd dropped his M27. In one action he reloaded it and leveled it toward the approaching creatures.

  Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two operators fired. Something inside Beckham snapped in that moment. An internal machine activated. His gun became part of him. He killed without thought. He killed to avenge his fallen brothers and he killed to protect the brother beside him. They would fight to the bitter end, to the final bullet.

  Kate woke up freezing cold. Her teeth chattered as she struggled to open her eyes. With one eyelid cracked open, she saw a bank of lights hanging from the white ceiling.

  Where was she? In a hospital?

  Panicking, Kate tried to sit up, but her arms, feet and hands wouldn’t budge. She thrashed and twisted in protest, fear gripping her, but whatever was holding her down was tight. Lifting her head slightly, she saw white restraints strapped across her body. And then she remembered what had happened inside Building 4.

  The last thing she could recall was Patient 12 lunging at her, the man’s crazed eyes caught in the beam of her flashlight.

  “Hey!” she screamed. “Someone get me out of here.”

  Squirming, she tried to get free again, but it was futile. The restraints were tight. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Help!” Kate yelled, desperation in her voice.

  She froze when she heard the heavy rap of boots in the hallway. They stopped outside her door.

  “Good evening, Doctor Lovato. I know you can’t see me, but this is Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. I’m here with Major Smith. You are one hell of a lucky lady.”

  She lifted her head. Throbbing pain rippled down her skull and neck. Closing her eyes, she clenched her jaw and waited for the pain to pass.

  “Where am I?” Kate winced.

  “You’re in the medical ward, Building 3,” Jensen replied. “I’m sorry we had to quarantine you. It’s for your own safety. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “I feel fine,” Kate said. “I’m not infected. I can’t be,” she said, her voice trailing off. For a moment she felt unsure. The virus would have purged from Patient 12’s body, but there was the small chance that some virions remained.

  Kate felt her heart flutter and stared at the ceiling. Closing her eyes, she tried to remain calm. “When can I get out of here?”

  “Soon,” Jensen said. “In the meantime we need to talk to you. Operation Depletion has been an overall success,” he stated. “But as you are aware, some of the infected survived. Reports are coming in right now. So far it’s looking like somewhere between four and eight percent of the infected are recovering.”

  “That high?” Kate said, her eyes snapping back open.

  “Unfortunately. Interim POTUS has authorized the mission to continue, however. Air assets are currently deploying VariantX9H9 around the country, moving from larger cities to smaller ones.”

  Kate felt her heart kick hard.

  “Dr. Lovato, this is Major Smith.”

  “We are now moving into Phase 2, as Colonel Jensen just explained. We want to—”

  “What’s Phase 3?” Kate interrupted before he could finish.

  Jensen’s voice reemerged. “Clean up. Once Phase 2 is complete, we'll coordinate targeted air strikes and send in ground troops for the final sweep. One by one, we will clear the cities of the remaining hostiles.”

  Kate closed her eyes again. How many were they talking about? And how long would it take? She felt too tired to ask any more questions. Her body
ached and she just wanted to sleep.

  An explosion of sounds echoed in the passage beyond. She struggled to move, to get a view of the glass window in her room.

  Wheels screeching against the ground. A panicked voice.

  No.

  Two panicked voices, and a third.

  “Move, get this guy into surgery ASAP!”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “You guys need to wait out here!”

  Kate recognized the second voice. It was Horn. Which meant … Lifting her head despite the pain, she watched Smith and Jensen throw their backs against the wall as medical staff rushed by with a patient on a gurney. Horn and Beckham followed close behind. They were dressed in decon outfits.

  “Reed!” she yelled.

  The man stopped, acknowledging Jensen and Smith before meeting Kate's eyes with a confused gaze.

  “Glad you’re back in one piece,” Jensen said.

  Beckham nodded and moved to the glass, palming the surface with a clean hand still glistening wet from the showers. “Kate, what happened? Why are you in there?”

  Summoning her most confident voice, she said, “I’m fine.”

  “She was exposed,” Jensen said. “We had to quarantine her.”

  Beckham shook his head and he looked down the hallway. He muttered something she couldn’t make out.

  “Who was that?” Kate asked, terrified to hear the truth.

  “Riley. He’s hurt. Hurt bad,” Beckham said, bowing his head as a tear coursed down his cheek, a moment of weakness finally bleeding through.

  Kate felt tears welling in her eyes. She blinked them away. She needed to be strong for Beckham like he had been for her. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s going to be okay,” Beckham replied, confident now. “And so are you.” Lifting his chin, he narrowed his eyes. Kate struggled to keep her head up.

  “We have work to do, Kate. You have work to do. There are still monsters out there.”

  “I know,” Kate replied. “That’s why I need to get out of here. I need to get back to my lab.” Shaking in her restraints, Kate let her frustration show. “I’m fine. You can let me out of here now.”

  Jensen shuffled to Beckham’s left side. “I'm sorry, Dr. Lovato, but you know better than anyone we have protocol to follow.”