“Pete, wake up,” he said. “We’re here.”
Pete sat up straighter and yawned as he looked out the window.
“Good. We’ll stay here the night,” Pete said.
“What?” Nick asked. “I thought we were heading straight back to Mount Katahdin after refueling.”
“Too dangerous to keep driving. We hunker down here. We’ll hit the road again when we’ve got better cover.”
The trucks following them pulled up. One of their comrades jumped out and opened the warehouse door. Nick parked his truck in the garage and killed the engine as the other vehicles slid in beside him.
By the time Nick got out, Ray had already jumped down and was waving his machete at the prisoners.
“Get your asses off and go to the back of the warehouse!” he yelled.
A frail bearded man was the first to step down. He turned to help the woman behind him. The Portland survivors kept their eyes down, avoiding contact with Ray and Nick.
“Set up a perimeter,” Pete ordered the other men. “Get a drone in the air. I want eyes up ASAP.”
One of the soldiers jogged over to a locked room where they had stored a basic drone and other tech gear. Equipped with infrared and night vision, the drone was their way of seeing any rogue Variants or hostile humans in the darkness.
“Fucking freezing in here.” Ray rubbed his hands together. “I’ll start a fire in the barrels out back.”
“Hell no, you won’t!” Pete yelled.
“But it’s colder than Alfred’s dead ass in here.”
Nick glared at Ray.
“I don’t give a shit,” Pete said. “Get yourself a damn blanket or something, but don’t be a dumb pussy.”
Ray frowned and walked away, twirling his machete. The guy had an attitude and made Nick miss Alfred even more. He regretted leaving his old friend behind. He deserved a proper burial instead of rotting and decaying out in the cold.
Shouting suddenly came from the back of the warehouse where the prisoners were being rounded up. Ray swung his machete again. He hacked at the air in front of the only two male prisoners. The old guy with a long beard and a balding man missing his right eye both backed away.
The bearded guy was maybe in his seventies, and the one missing an eye looked to be in his fifties. Both had faces weathered by the outdoors. Their features were drawn tight, not from rage—but terror.
Nick felt the tickle of sympathy for these people, but he buried it almost as soon as it appeared. These heretics had made their choice. They had sworn fealty to an Allied outpost and support to the corrupt government, tying their lives to a traitorous lot.
If they were lucky, they would have an opportunity to atone for their sins and join the New Gods. And if they weren’t lucky, their corpses would prove useful as Variant fodder.
The ten women and children behind them would have the same chance. The group sat on the floor, huddled together, shaking in the cold. Most had stopped crying, but one of the little girls sobbed into her mother’s shoulder.
“Please,” said the guy with the missing eye. “My wife needs water, and the kids do, too.”
The old guy with the beard reached out with his bound hands. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
“Fucking right you will,” Ray said. He eyed one of the women and licked his lips.
Pete walked over and gestured for Ray to back off. “Get them some water and food. Show them some New God hospitality.”
Ray looked at him with a tilted head. “You serious, boss?”
“If you make me repeat myself, I’m going to hack off your dick and feed that to them,” Pete said.
The other guys laughed, including Nick. Pete started to lead them away to the barracks and storage rooms.
“This is fucking bullshit,” Ray mumbled as he cracked open a crate of supplies. “Neither of those guys can fight. They’re deadweight. We should just kill ’em and toss ’em outside.”
Nick was getting sick of hearing Ray talk.
“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies,” he said.
Ray looked up.
Pete stopped in front of the barrack door. His dreadlocks bounced when he turned. “Truth be told, that dumbass Ray is right. They’re deadweight.”
He sighed and walked over to the supply crate. Pete dug inside for something to eat while Nick sized the two male prisoners up.
Both were sitting on the floor now, looking at the ground. But not everyone appeared as defeated. A thirty-year-old woman with short hair glared at Nick with fiery rage—a look that told him she wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat if she had the chance.
That steely gaze reminded Nick of Timothy, the kid they had lost during the bombing. He was a firebrand. Nick had some grand plans for the young man, and it stung that they’d lost a potential warrior like that. But in the end, Timothy had played a useful role, providing the distractions that ensured the success of their attack.
Nick smirked at the woman still staring at him, and she raised her lip in a snarl.
“Man, I’m starving,” Pete said. He pulled out some food and scarfed a few bites down. Then he pried the cap off a bottle of beer they had brewed back at the base.
“I’ve got an idea,” Nick said. He held a hand out to Ray who was stacking packaged food. “Give me your machete.”
Ray tilted his head. “Why?”
“Just give it to me,” Nick said.
“I ain’t just giving you my damn machete.”
Pete took a drink, watching curiously.
“Hand it over,” Nick said, eyes narrowing.
“No, not until you tell me—”
“Motherfucker!” Nick screamed.
Anger from their losses and from Ray’s constant bullshit boiled through his veins. He grabbed his comrade by the throat and started squeezing, then he balled his right fist and slammed it into Ray’s nose.
The impact knocked Ray backwards, and he fell to the ground with Nick on top of him. The prisoners at the other end of the room cowered as he pounded Ray’s face over and over.
The thud of the portly man’s skull hitting the concrete echoed in the enclosed space.
A few shouts of encouragement joined the din, but there were also voices telling Nick to stop. He ignored them and crushed Ray’s already bleeding nose with an elbow. The satisfying crunch eased some of the anger, but not enough.
Nick continued punching Ray until someone pulled him off. He didn’t fight back when he realized it was Pete. There was one thing that could get you killed faster than a pack of wild Variants attacking you, and that was laying a hand on their leader.
“STOP!” Pete shouted.
Panting, Nick lowered his bloody fists. “Sorry, boss.” The anger subsided and his vision cleared.
Pete let go, and Nick raised his hands in the air, palms up.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Ray held his broken nose, still sitting on the ground.
“We’ve lost enough men,” Pete said. “I don’t need you dumb shits killing each other.”
“That’s why we need new recruits,” Nick said. “And I know how we’re going to get ’em, if Ray would just give me his fucking machete.”
Nick picked up the weapon. Then he walked back to the prisoners, most of whom were gawking at him. He pulled his knife out with his other hand and then pointed at the woman with the short hair and the man with one eye.
“Stand,” he ordered.
The other men huddled behind Nick. Pete stepped up, and Nick looked at him for approval. A shrug told Nick he was free to continue.
Ray stumbled over, blood trickling down his face, mumbling under his breath. A single blazing look from Pete got Ray to stiffen and shut his mouth.
Now that they had peace and quiet, Nick spoke.
“Get those two out of the rope,” he said.
Two of his comrades untied the one-eyed man and the woman from the long rope. The man trembled with fear. The woman’s fiery look had faded too as she
shivered. Nick wasn’t sure if it was because she was wearing just a t-shirt and jeans, or if it was from fear.
Probably both.
“You want to live?” Nick asked them.
Both managed nods.
He tossed the weapons on the ground between them.
“Everyone gets to eat,” he said. “But only after one of you dies.”
“But—” the man started.
“And the winner gets to join us.”
Both prisoners looked back at the group. Almost all of them had stood to watch.
“Please,” the man begged. “Don’t make us do this.”
“Don’t hurt him,” said a woman in the group. Maybe his wife.
The firebrand woman who had glared at Nick earlier studied the knife and machete. Her gaze flitted to the one-eyed man.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
The woman took a step closer to the weapons, her hands shaking.
“No,” he pleaded, but stepped forward anyway.
“One of you kills the other,” Nick said. “Or I kill both of you. What’s it going to be?”
A fleeting moment passed before they burst forward and scooped up the blades. The man got the machete, and the woman got the knife. She wasted no time thrusting it toward his chest.
He backed away, trying to parry her blows, but refrained from going on the offensive.
“Please,” he begged again. “I don’t want to hurt you! There has to be another way.”
“There is no other way,” Nick said.
The woman lunged and stabbed at his ribs. This time her blade sliced into his flesh, opening up a deep red gash in his side. He stumbled and gripped the wound.
Any semblance of pity the man had once exhibited disappeared. Now raw anger warmed his face, and his fear turned into desperation.
Nick grinned. These people had just learned what survival was. They no longer had the protection of the Allied States. They had only themselves to rely on.
The one-eyed man screamed and slashed out with the machete. She hopped back to avoid the blow. He swung again, too hard this time, stumbling.
The woman seized on his mistake, managing a clean slice across his neck.
Blood sprayed out, and he reached up to clamp his hand over the wound. She circled like a lioness over her injured prey.
In a swift movement that surprised even Nick, the one-eyed man swung the machete from the side, slicing a perfect cut across her neck.
She staggered backward, mouth gaping as blood sprayed from the injury.
“Oh shit,” Pete said. He let out a soft chuckle.
The woman’s fingers groped the wound.
Nick knew she was dead, but she fought for every last breath. She took another step forward, then dropped her knife, collapsing to a knee.
The man dropped his bloody machete, his own wounds weeping as his face turned pale from the blood loss. He reached out toward the woman with his free hand.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, blood bubbling out of his mouth. “I’m…”
Both crashed to the ground.
Blood pooled out toward the other prisoners who stared in horror.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Pete said with a frown. “But since they’re both dead, I guess we’ll keep our promise.”
He glanced back at Ray. “Feed them and give them their water.”
This time Ray didn’t protest.
Nick watched him hurry back to the crates as Pete walked to the barracks door.
“Wake me up if the drone picks up anything,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
— 8 —
Fischer shivered from a blast of cold wind. He couldn’t do much but turn his back to the icy air. The collar of his jacket was already zipped up to his chin, just under three days-worth of facial hair that did little to shield his face from the frigid air.
The temperature wasn’t the only thing causing him to shiver. He was scared and not too proud to admit it.
It wasn’t just his life or the lives of his men that he worried about, but the five thousand lives sheltering around the World Trade Center memorial. The vibroseis trucks and the bravery of those defending them would determine whether they survived the next few nights.
That terrified Fischer. Terrified him to his very core.
He looked to Commander Massey who didn’t seem to show a shred of fear. She was a leader, and a damn good one for keeping her people alive under such conditions.
They stood with Tran and Chase at the edge of City Hall Park. The vibroseis trucks had arrived. One was stationed on Park Row and another on Broadway. Fischer’s engineers had worked all afternoon to set up the trucks with the help of the outpost mechanics.
They all knew it wasn’t just a cold front blowing in tonight.
The Variants were already moving underground, according to the science team. Something had gone wrong down there. Fischer didn’t know the entire story but had heard the webbing had attacked Captain Beckham and a pair of soldiers.
He wasn’t sure how that was possible, but he didn’t doubt it had happened.
Massey squinted at the sunset. “They usually attack a few hours after dark. Unless we get lucky tonight.”
“I’d go for a little luck right now and a case of cold beer,” Chase said. “Hell, I’d even settle for warm beer. I’m not picky.”
“We’re out of beer, but there’s some champagne sitting in crates back around the memorial,” Massey said over her shoulder. “If we survive tonight, I’d be happy to bust them out and—”
The rhythmic beat of a chopper’s rotors cut her off. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch a bird cutting through the sky.
“There they go,” Massey said. “In and out faster than a bad one-night stand. I guess I should have expected that from Command.”
Fischer studied the Black Hawk as it shrank in the distance. Beckham and the science team were on board. He didn’t exactly blame the commander for feeling like that, but he didn’t like her tone.
“Captain Beckham was nearly killed today,” he said. “And the science team will be back to finish the job, but they can’t risk staying here tonight.”
“Instead of running, I thought you guys were going to shore up our defenses,” Massey said.
“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Fischer said. “These trucks will help us identify the Variant tunnels so you can blow ’em to hell.”
“We’re very good at blowing ’em to hell, Mr. Fischer. You just keep your end of the bargain and let me know when and where to blow them to hell.”
She walked back toward the lifted pickup truck, leading them toward their next destination, Zucotti Park. Fischer confirmed the trucks there were ready too, before they moved to the final spot, Bogardus Garden.
This was where Fischer planned on spending his night.
The green space was the smallest and only had one truck. But it was guarded by an M1 Abrams. If he had to fight tonight, he wanted to be with the tank.
Massey parked her truck on the sidewalk behind the M1 Abrams and climbed down. Fischer and his men met her around the front of the pickup, all pausing to admire the massive tan tank with its cannon pointing down Broadway.
Concrete barriers stretched across Reade Street. Two machine gun nests perched on the rooftops of adjacent buildings to fire on any collaborators that might drive in.
Screeching metal over concrete came from Chambers Street where a city truck plowed demolished cars into a wall to block off the intersection. A crew of soldiers with razor wire waited nearby to add it to the top of the improvised barricade.
Somewhere on the taller buildings, the Apaches were on standby.
Hunkered down behind the open windows of apartments and offices were teams of snipers. Massey had told Fischer there were over thirty posted throughout the sites to provide another layer of defense.
Overall, he felt damn good about the defensive forces assembled here, but urban combat was a w
orld apart from the battle in El Paso. Concrete didn’t react the same way to the vibroseis trucks as packed dirt and loose rock did. But at least it would be harder for the Variants to tunnel through, which would buy them more time to deal with any threat.
“Anyone hungry? We got sandwiches,” said one of the outpost soldiers.
“Starving,” Chase said.
Fischer walked over to the center of the park. Two of his engineers were already there grabbing food. A soldier passed Massey a sandwich and she took it to a bench to sit by herself.
Fischer walked over to see if she wanted company.
“You mind if I sit?” he asked.
She gave her answer by patting the empty spot beside her.
“I figured you’d be heading back to the outpost,” he said.
“And I figured you’d be heading back with the science team.”
Fischer took a bite of the sandwich. It was surprisingly better than he had expected. He chalked it up to the fresh tomatoes. There was never anything better than homegrown veggies from the farm or garden, and it made him miss Fischer Fields even more.
“You always been a city gal?” he asked her.
“I’m from Alabama, born and raised. Came here for a job. Fell in love…”
He shot her a look.
“With the city, not a guy,” she clarified. “Never thought much about going back south.”
“To be honest, I never did care for this city.”
“It wasn’t for everyone, but I do miss it. Not all of it, but the food, culture, and parks in the summer. God.”
“How about Alabama? You miss it ever?”
“Not a lick.”
Fischer figured there was a story there but didn’t ask. Instead, he thought of Texas. He would have given up just about anything to be watching a Texas sunset right now, but like New York, his homestead was probably never going to return to what it had been to him— home.
“You really think these trucks will save us tonight? Or for that matter, tomorrow, or the night after that?” Massey asked. “And even if they do, when does this end? We can’t keep fighting forever.”
Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 73
