Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  The other two were both muscular and about six feet tall. They were younger than the leader. The man on the left wore a stocking cap, and the guy on the right had a thick beard and wore a Boston Red Sox hat with a frayed bill.

  Timothy gritted his teeth again, rage boiling inside of his veins. He bucked against his restraints, desperate to get free.

  The men all laughed.

  “Got a real squirmer,” said the short guy in a Brooklyn accent.

  “I’ll kill you!” Timothy tried to scream. “I’ll kill all of you!”

  The trapped words came out an indecipherable gargle, prompting more guffaws from the collaborators.

  Timothy thrashed harder, fueled by the cruel laughter. This time part of his shoulder ripped free and the restraint on his forehead came loose, allowing him to move his neck. He saw then what had trapped his body.

  White glue cocooned him from the chin down.

  He had once heard about these Variant excretions used to keep human and animal prisoners like a spider with its prey.

  Now he was one of them.

  The men stopped laughing as Timothy craned his neck enough to get a good look at the other prisoners. His heart caught in his chest at the gruesome sights.

  The man to his left didn’t look human anymore. A Variant had chewed off most of the face, including the nose, eyes, and lips. Long bangs hung over what was left of his cheeks.

  Past the hanging corpse, two women hadn’t fared much better, their features erased by claws and teeth. Flags of red flesh hung from their torn skin. One of them still had her eyes, and Timothy sucked down a horrified breath when he realized they were focused on him.

  No… she can’t be still alive, he thought.

  He forced his gaze back to the collaborators.

  “Damn,” said the guy with the Red Sox hat. “Never seen one break free like that.”

  The short guy walked over to Timothy and then reached out with a knife. He angled the blade toward Timothy’s eyes, but Timothy kept them open, glaring at the abominable man.

  Using the curved blade, the collaborator punched a hole in the glue covering Timothy’s lips. Timothy let out a scream as the knife cut through his upper lip.

  “Oops, sorry about that, kid,” the man said. He stepped back and studied Timothy like the Variant had earlier.

  Blood gushed from the cut in his lip and into Timothy’s mouth.

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” the short man said. “Everyone else ended up as snacks. Wouldn’t have been long before you became one, too.”

  He looked from left to right before focusing back on Timothy.

  “I would’ve liked to keep the others around, but it’s okay,” the man continued. “Our pets need the energy for tonight.”

  Timothy glared, resisting the urge to spit in his face.

  “Not going to say anything, huh?” asked the short man. “No?”

  He raised a remote in his hand. Timothy figured that was what had set off the shock in the Variant’s collar.

  “Soon as I press this button, I send that monster into shark mode,” he said.

  The man in the Red Sox hat chuckled, his beard parting over his lips. “And you know who the chum is, don’t you, pal?”

  The man in front of Timothy stepped closer. His lips spread in a lop-sided smirk, exposing yellow and rotting teeth that smelled as bad as they looked.

  “I’m not afraid of dying,” Timothy said. “Go ahead. Kill me. You’ll be doing me a favor if I don’t have to smell your rotten breath anymore.”

  The guy chuckled and then looked over his shoulder at his men. Timothy used the opportunity to throw a head butt that almost connected. He strained, his neck extending as he spat and snarled.

  “Well shit, you are a rabid little fucker, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe he could come in handy,” said the guy with the stocking cap. “Tough guys are hard to find.”

  The short man held up the remote so Timothy could see it.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll end up bait, all depends on tonight.”

  “What’s happening tonight?” Timothy asked.

  “You’ll see,” the man with the stocking cap said.

  Then the collaborators filed out of the room, leaving Timothy in the darkness with the dead and dying prisoners. His pounding heart slowed and after a few minutes he finally relaxed in his restraints, saving his strength for later.

  A screech broke the silence, and another answered the first.

  The chamber darkened as a cloud passed over the moon.

  All at once, many shrieks sounded outside, rising into a chorus like a pack of werewolves howling at the moon.

  Only it sounded like an army.

  ***

  Beckham’s head still pounded with a fiery agony. He figured he was suffering a concussion.

  Two hours had passed since the ambush. They were still another fifteen minutes from the outpost by car, and probably two hours or more on foot. At this rate, they wouldn’t be back until midnight.

  Not only had they failed to find Timothy, they might not return in time to defend the outpost from another attack. Kate was probably worried sick, if she even knew he was out here, and he had no way of telling her what was going on.

  You really screwed things up this time, Reed, he thought.

  Night had fallen, and Beckham and Horn weren’t prepared to fight in the dark. With the radio broken, they couldn’t even call for help.

  They were on their own, but they had plenty of ammunition. Beckham carried an M4A1 and a vest full of magazines, plus his sidearm. Horn grabbed the M240 from the pickup truck and two belts of rounds, now draped over his chest. His primary rifle was also slung over his back, and he had a pistol if it came down to it.

  Beckham also carried Timothy’s pistol.

  They salvaged grenades and a backpack of explosives from the dead collaborators. Even more importantly, they had snagged FLIR thermal binoculars off one of the assholes.

  Beckham had a feeling the explosives he carried were intended for Outpost Portland.

  “How you doin’, boss?” Horn whispered over his shoulder. “Want to stop and rest?”

  “I’m fine. We need to keep moving.”

  Grogginess clouded Beckham’s head, but he did his best to stay alert. Collaborators lurked out there. Variants too.

  They crept through the trees and light foliage at the edge of the road. Beckham stopped every now and then to scan the forest with the thermal binos. The monsters could camouflage their bodies and mask their heat signal a little, but the optics were still better than his naked eyes.

  Crickets chirped in the underbrush, and the caw of crows echoed through the forests. Beckham searched the darkness for moving shapes, but could hardly see anything. If not for the moon, he would be blind.

  For the second time, he tripped and fell to the dirt.

  Horn helped him up, and they kept walking. With his head aching, Beckham felt like a drunk. He did his best not to stumble on roots or rocks.

  An hour later they made it back to the main road.

  They crossed over the intersection to survey the muddy field framing the paved road. A crunching in the distance drew Beckham’s gaze to the woods at the edge of the field.

  “If we’re lucky, that was just an animal,” Horn whispered.

  “Maybe.” But Beckham didn’t believe in good luck anymore. “Let’s pick up the pace and keep to the shoulder.”

  If they encountered any hostiles they could always veer off and find cover, but this way he could run without worrying about falling on his face.

  They jogged for half an hour before finally stopping to rest.

  Beckham took a sip of water, and listened. He half expected to hear the distant sound of gunfire and explosions, but the night was still as the surface of a frozen lake.

  “How far are we now?” Horn asked.

  “At least another hour if we keep up this speed,” Beckham said. “Hard to say.”

/>   “I hope my girls don’t know we’re out here.”

  “Same with Kate and Javier. Chances are good they think we’re still at the outpost, unless Ruckley got in contact with them.”

  “Ruckley probably thinks we’re dead. Hate saying it, but maybe she was right about coming out here.”

  “At least we killed some collaborators,” Beckham said. “Four less assholes with explosives to use on the outpost or elsewhere.”

  “True… I lit those fuckers up, man. Wish you could have seen it.”

  “I wish I could have helped.”

  “All that matters is you’re alive.”

  Beckham took in more water before pressing onward. The moon climbed higher into the sky, a carpet of white pushing the shadows away.

  He was thankful for the brightening glow. If it had been overcast, or even a half moon, they would have had to hunker down for the night.

  Fatigue really set in over the next two miles of the journey. Lactic acid built up in Beckham’s muscles, his stomach growled, and his head felt like it was inside a slowly closing vice.

  Horn was slowing down too, the heavy machine gun definitely taking a toll.

  It was pure luck that Beckham glimpsed the movement of diseased flesh in the woods to their left. Freezing, he watched a group of Variants sneaking through the tree line.

  Horn saw them too and went low as he followed Beckham into the ditch on the right side of the road. They ran into the woods until they were safely positioned on the crest of a small hill overlooking the road.

  “Did they spot us?” Horn whispered.

  Beckham stared into the forest where he had seen the pack of Variants. These creatures weren’t camouflaged and their sallow flesh almost glimmered in the moonlight.

  He counted six but when he raised the thermal optics to his eye he saw there were many, many more.

  Most were camouflaged after all.

  “Holy shit, there’s a small army,” he said.

  A hulking figure strode along the smaller beasts. Beckham couldn’t see it well, but knew enough about the Alphas to identify them.

  Horn reached out, and Beckham handed the binos over.

  “Judas Priest,” Horn mumbled. “There’s got to be more than a hundred and is that a…”

  “An Alpha, the new kind, I think. They’re going in for round two tonight.”

  “We have to do something,” Horn said, handing the binos back. “Warn LT Niven somehow.”

  “How? Even if we open fire we’re too far away. No one will hear our shots.”

  “Yeah, but they might hear those,” Horn said, pointing to the pack of explosives Beckham wore.

  He considered their options as he looked out with his thermal optics again. The beasts were moving fast, but not as fast as Beckham and Horn could move if they really hauled ass.

  All the pain in his skull was nothing compared to imagining what those Variants would do to the outpost if they made it in unannounced. If he and Horn could get ahead of them, maybe they could lay an ambush and take most of them down.

  An explosion and fire might also attract attention from the outpost. Hell, maybe Niven would even send a team to figure out what was going on.

  Or maybe it’s suicide, Beckham thought.

  He explained his idea to Horn, and the big guy agreed.

  “Sounds like a Kamikaze mission, but you know I’m always down for some fireworks, boss.”

  “Good, then let’s move.”

  Beckham followed Horn this time, hoping the bigger man would be better able to carve a path through the woods. Even with Horn ahead, Beckham fell several times. He pushed himself up each time, unwilling to fall behind.

  Within fifteen minutes they had put themselves a good distance ahead of the Variant horde. They found another embankment overlooking the road protected by trees. From there, Beckham spotted the perfect place for the ambush: an abandoned van.

  He told Horn to plant C4 on the gas tank, set off the car alarm if possible, and then retreat back to a hill where Beckham would be camped out with his rifle.

  Once the horde came, they would detonate the C4, toss their grenades, and open fire before retreating to the road toward the outpost.

  “It really is full blown Kamikaze mode,” Horn said. He set up his M240 and laid out the belts of ammunition. Then he unslung his rifle, ready to go.

  Beckham brought up his thermal binos again to make sure the path was clear.

  “Ready when you are.” He patted Horn on the shoulder. “Be careful.”

  Horn sprinted down the side of the hill and then bolted for the van. When he got to the road he kept low, but fast.

  Beckham continued surveying the area. He still saw nothing nearby but his friend’s heat signature. Horn bent down to setup the C4.

  Across the road, in the woods, the Variants were advancing. Horn’s estimate of a little over a hundred seemed about right. Trying to take them all on at once would be difficult. He hoped their explosives would be enough to thin their ranks.

  Horn was now at the van’s driver side door and was working on setting off the alarm. The wail sounded a beat later.

  An animalistic shriek answered, different than a normal Variant.

  This had to be the Alpha.

  “Run, Big Horn,” Beckham whispered. He picked up his rifle and pressed the butt against his shoulder as he settled into a prone position. The beasts were on the open road now, their pale, almost translucent skin captured by the rays of moonlight.

  They streamed out toward the screaming vehicle. Horn made it back up the hill and got down on his belly. He handed Beckham the C4 detonator and then prepared the grenades.

  Beckham waited until the front of the horde had reached the van. Several of the beasts broke the windows and tore at the car’s interior.

  “Barbecue time,” Horn whispered.

  Beckham clicked the remote, then grabbed his rifle again.

  The explosion lifted the van off the ground, metal and glass bursting outward in the fiery blast. Hunks of shrapnel peppered the surrounding Variants that weren’t immediately consumed by the inferno.

  Horn raised a hand to shield his face and then stood to toss the grenades one at a time. They were close enough that both men hit the dirt again to avoid shrapnel. The explosions rocked the road and the ditch. From his prone position, Beckham glimpsed the mangled beasts cartwheeling and flying into the air.

  Body parts thumped back to the ground while Beckham opened fire with his suppressed rifle, picking off the ones that had escaped the flying debris and flames. He worried they would find his position anyway, but the beasts were too disoriented to figure out what was happening.

  It wasn’t until the throaty wallop of Horn’s M240 joined the fight that the creatures homed in on their position. Horn raked the weapon back and forth, cutting down the abominations with bursts of gunfire as they scaled the embankment.

  “Changing,” Beckham said. He heard the shriek of the Alpha and finally saw the beast lumbering behind a pack of others across the road, beyond the blazing van.

  Horn covered both of their firing zones as Beckham reloaded. By the time he brought the rifle back up, the Variants had started to scatter to flank their position and the Alpha had vanished.

  “Let’s go,” Horn said.

  They left the hill, leaving a surprise behind.

  After sliding down the other side of the embankment, Horn led them into the forest. Beckham could hear the snap of joints and shrieking of furious monsters as they closed in. The dying wails of others faded away as Beckham and Horn added distance between them and the battlefield.

  The first of the creatures reached their former sniping position a minute later. The fuse on the small chunk of C4 Beckham had left behind went off, detonating the explosive, and erasing more of the monsters.

  They ran harder, headed toward the road. A glance over his shoulder and Beckham confirmed the creatures were on the pavement too, running like wild animals on all fours.

&nb
sp; He halted and shouldered his rifle, firing off a couple of bursts. Horn did the same thing, taking down five of the beasts. They crumpled in bleeding tangles of limbs and claws.

  “Go, go, go!” Beckham shouted.

  They ran like that for the next ten minutes, stopping only to take down the creatures drawing too close. But it was the hostiles bolting through the woods on both sides of the road and the missing Alpha that had Beckham worried.

  Horn switched back to his M240 to finish off the rest of the ammo while Beckham took a knee by his side and reloaded his M4.

  Rounds lanced across the road and into the ditches as dozens of Variants exploded out of the trees toward their position.

  Beckham was on magazine three of six now.

  Horn’s M240 went dry a few minutes later. He switched to his M4A1 and turned to keep running.

  This wasn’t the first time the two men had fought off overwhelming numbers. Back at Fort Bragg they had been down to just their knives as Variants closed in.

  As they slowly burned through their ammo, it seemed like they were heading for the same fate.

  There were still at least twenty or thirty Variants pursuing and the Alpha still held back. Waiting to make its move.

  Beckham turned and ran again, seeing a single light spearing through the dark in the distance. The spotlight glowed like a beacon, but it was still impossibly far.

  A high-pitched screech erupted through the chorus of the monsters. The beasts all stopped their pursuit, but Beckham kept firing calculated shots, killing three before they darted away and vanished into the night.

  Horn, panting, stepped over to Beckham, pistol in hand.

  “Sounds like the Alpha,” he said. “Maybe it’s calling a retreat.”

  “Or reorganizing. I don’t want to wait here to find out.”

  They fought against the exhaustion choking their muscles, running with all the vigor they could muster until more lights blazed across the road ahead. Horn pulled Beckham to the shoulder out of view as an armada of vehicles sped toward them from Outpost Portland.

  “Think those are our friends?” Horn asked.

  Beckham squinted, but couldn’t tell. “Don’t want to chance it in case they’re not. Get in the ditch.”