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

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “Not really.”

  “You’ll need it for Cali.”

  “I know.”

  Horn was right, but closing his eyes felt like a betrayal to the people who had died from the nuclear blast and the all-consuming flames. The military hadn’t been able to evacuate everyone here in time when the bomb dropped.

  “Seriously, boss, get some sleep,” Horn entreated. “You used to nap in the shittiest conditions.”

  “That was before I had a family and the entire world was teetering on extinction.”

  “Yeah…and that’s why you need your sleep.”

  Beckham nodded. “You win.”

  Sleep would help him save people.

  All it takes is all you got, he thought.

  The Marine Corps quote helped ease that burden slightly. He repeated those words in his head like a mantra until his mind cleared. Fatigue sucked him in, and he drifted off.

  A voice jerked him awake sometime later.

  “We got a hot LZ!” shouted one of the pilots.

  Adrenaline cut through Beckham’s groggy mind.

  The Rangers were already slamming magazines into their rifles as the bird began its descent. Brooks, the corporal with the glasses, pumped shells into a shotgun.

  Beckham glanced out the window behind him. He couldn’t see much, but the apocalyptic urban landscape unfolding before him must have been Cleveland—or at least what was left of it.

  “Captain Beckham, I’m not sure putting down is a good idea,” said the primary pilot.

  Beckham stood and went back to the cockpit. Flames scraped toward the sky from piles of rubble and toppled buildings.

  Tracer rounds split the darkness.

  Scanning the ground, Beckham saw the freeway that had been cleared of vehicles. The C-130 sat there, waiting.

  “Our ride’s still there,” Beckham said. “Did they finish the repairs?”

  “Yes, but I really don’t want to drop you boys off in that shit show,” the primary pilot said. “Some of the guards are already retreating with the mechanics.”

  He could have been pissed at them for running from the fight, but looking at the destruction surrounding them, it was hard to blame them.

  A handful of military vehicles on the makeshift runway fled the defensive perimeter set up around the LZ. In the glow of industrial lights, Beckham spotted two small single-prop planes waiting to take off.

  Muzzle flashes sparkled across the road as shadowy figures advanced on the vehicles.

  “We have to get on the C-130,” Beckham said. “We’ll clear a path so you can take us down.”

  “Captain…” said the pilot.

  “That’s an order,” Beckham said.

  He returned to the troop hold and directed the other soldiers to put on their night vision goggles.

  “Change of plans,” Beckham said, shouting to be heard over the blast of the bird’s rotors. “We’re going to clear the LZ so the pilots can touch down.”

  The Rangers all nodded, and Horn stepped up to the crew chief who was preparing the M240 in the open door.

  “Step aside, buttercup,” he said.

  The crew chief backed away, and Beckham handed him a spare rifle to use instead. They opened the opposite door, and the Rangers moved into firing positions.

  Even in the past few minutes, monsters had streamed toward the airfield. On both sides, they slammed into the fences. One section had already come down.

  Creatures trampled over it, bolting toward the meager defenses. It was hard to see much, despite the optics. But Beckham spotted a few brave remaining soldiers, three armored vehicles, and two mobile trailers set up on the shoulder of the freeway.

  Half the convoy had already fled. Those vehicles had pulled some of the Variants away from the C-130, but more monsters descended from the surrounding neighborhoods toward the broken fence.

  The chopper circled, giving Beckham a better view from another angle. He flipped up his NVGs. The generator-run floodlights on the ground illuminated a group of at least ten soldiers fighting back the beasts approaching the tail of the C-130.

  A massive fire ball suddenly blasted out of a building in the center of the outpost, distracting Beckham for a moment.

  Maybe the collaborators had hit the outpost from the inside too, but he couldn’t worry about that now. Their job was to clear this area, get on the plane, and retrieve Team Ghost.

  The chopper lowered and Beckham gave the order to open fire.

  The bark of the M240 rang out as Horn went to work, raking the barrel like an artist. He painted a group of Variants that were still climbing a fence, then turned his aim on a group that had already climbed over and were making a dash for the armored vehicles.

  Everyone in the Black Hawk who had a firing zone squeezed off calculated shots, picking off the Variants. The dying creatures flopped over the highway, but more surged over the collapsed fence, rushing in from the ruined city surrounding the interstate.

  “Keep them away from the plane!” Beckham shouted.

  The chopper lowered as the Rangers fired. Targeting the moving beasts from above wasn’t easy, especially in the dark. But the men had experience, and with Horn’s help, they cleared a wide enough swathe to ensure a landing site.

  In the distance, Beckham noticed a swarming cloud against the moon and starlight. Distant fires bloomed on the top of buildings where this erratic cloud touched.

  Bats.

  “Incoming!” Beckham shouted. “Bats headed our way!”

  He retreated into the troop hold and grabbed Horn. A wave of explosive-laden, VX-99 modified creatures slammed into the cockpit, splattering blood on the plexiglass. The pilots screamed in shock and pushed the chopper down toward the ground to avoid the cloud.

  “Bail, bail!” someone shouted.

  Alarms blared throughout the bird. The voices of the pilots and panicked Rangers were silenced in a sudden eruption of fire. An explosion ripped through the plexiglass and metal.

  Adrenaline churned through Beckham, making the world seem to slow around him.

  He was still holding onto Horn, and together they jumped, plummeting toward the concrete. They fell nearly six feet before slamming against the pavement.

  The impact knocked the wind from Beckham’s lungs. Pain shot through his joints. He rolled, stopping on his back.

  Fighting through the agony, Beckham pushed himself to his knees, keeping low. Horn lay prone, blood running down his nostrils.

  They watched as the burning chopper spun out of control, the cockpit completely enveloped by flames.

  Two Rangers jumped out before the bird slammed into the shoulder of the road, exploding in a fireball. Shrapnel seared through the air.

  Beckham turned from the catastrophe when he heard the fearsome growls of Variants. Gunfire lanced into the charging monsters.

  A hand grabbed Beckham, pulling him up. The group of soldiers defending the C-130 had come to help, laying down covering fire.

  Muddled voices came from all directions, but Beckham couldn’t make them out due to the ringing in his ears.

  In partial shock, he stumbled forward like a drunk, trying to follow the soldiers up the ramp and into the belly of the aircraft. Horn turned and helped Beckham inside.

  Brooks and one other Ranger had already made it into the troop hold.

  The outpost soldiers standing guard all piled in, shouting things that Beckham still couldn’t hear. He felt the rumble of the engines as the plane pulled forward.

  Variants flooded the freeway. They raced after the plane on all fours. Their sucker lips tore back into snarls as they dashed after the plane, only to be blocked out with the rear ramp clicking shut.

  Panting, Horn collapsed on the deck.

  “Jesus,” he groaned.

  Beckham could hear that. He rolled over to Horn. “You okay, Big Horn?”

  “Yeah, I think so. You?”

  “I’m alive,” Beckham replied.

  The outpost soldiers dropped into jump
seats as the plane climbed from its improvised runway. Many of their faces were painted in horror. Horror that Beckham knew all too well. Escaping death wasn’t new to him or these men, but losing brothers never got easier.

  He pulled himself into a seat, and Horn followed suit. The engines roared as the plane pulled away from the carnage.

  It was a while before anyone spoke.

  “I… I lost my glasses,” came a voice.

  Beckham looked over to see Brooks.

  “Least you made it out,” said the other surviving Ranger. “What the fuck were those things?”

  “Bats,” Horn said. “Rigged with explosives.”

  “They didn’t look like bats,” the man replied. “They were huge!”

  “The monsters are mutated by VX-99,” Beckham said. “They’re larger and far more aggressive than normal bats.”

  A few curses and angry voices followed. Beckham rested his head against the bulkhead. Something told him this was the easy part of what lay ahead.

  He closed his eyes, and this time, he fell right asleep.

  — 10 —

  The roar of fighter jets woke Timothy violently. He shot out of his sleeping bag. Ruckley was already at the window with her rifle, peering at the sky through the cracked glass of the abandoned farmhouse they had found.

  Moonlight glowed on her face as she looked out over a field overgrown with weeds. He searched the stars for the fighters but didn’t see them. The growl slowly faded, until it was nothing but a low rumble.

  “At least we’re still in the fight,” Timothy said.

  “Of course, we are,” Ruckley said.

  She sounded confident, but after Outpost Portland, she had to know the Variants and the collaborators were winning this war.

  Timothy sat back on his sleeping bag and took a sip of water from his bottle. They had been lucky to find a few camping supplies and other necessities stocked in this house. It had offered a refuge for the night, giving them the time to plan their next steps.

  Ruckley looked at her watch. “I better relieve Neeland.”

  The young Ranger was holding watch in the living room downstairs. Timothy had already served his rotation. He had spent most of the time staring out the windows at the field, picturing Variants prowling through the tall weeds.

  He had imagined every rustling stalk of grass might be a monster. It had been unnerving waiting for an attack.

  He was glad his shift was over.

  “See you in a few hours,” Ruckley whispered.

  Timothy rested on the sleeping bag and a pillow he had found. His body was dog-tired, but the sound of fighter jets meant he wasn’t falling back asleep any time soon.

  He found himself thinking of how nice it would be to sleep on a real mattress again. Every bed in this house was covered in dark stains and mold from water leaking through the ceiling.

  He propped the pillow under his head and tried to think of happy memories, goading his mind to relax. Times when he and his father had spent their nights on Peaks Island fishing or those hot summer days diving for lobsters with spearguns.

  He missed those moments of peace so much. More than anything, he just missed being with his father. Feeling his presence, knowing he was always there with words of reassurance or a long conversation when Timothy needed it.

  Darker images flooded his mind.

  That last night on the island, running through the woods. The gunshots. Returning to the bunker to see his father cold, lifeless. Pain turned to fear, forcing his eyelids open.

  He should have stayed in that bunker with his dad. He would have rather died then by his father’s side. Fighting instead of running with only decaying memories to hold onto.

  Anger and guilt tore at his insides, a monster more powerful than a Variant. Sleep would be impossible now.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then heard a creak in the stairwell outside the bedroom.

  Must be Neeland, he thought.

  Timothy watched the open door, waiting for the young Army Ranger to appear.

  But it wasn’t Neeland who entered.

  Ruckley stepped into the room, a mask of worry on her face.

  Timothy instinctively grabbed his gun. “What is it?”

  “Neeland’s gone,” she said. “Something might be wrong. Grab your things.”

  “Are we leaving?” Timothy asked, confused. “Maybe he’s taking a shit.”

  None of the toilets in the house had been working, and they’d been forced to use a spot in the backyard.

  “Maybe, but we can’t risk it. Let’s go.”

  Timothy stuffed his meager belongings into his backpack and heaved it over his back. He left the sleeping bag and pillow. Then he followed her down the stairs.

  At the ground floor, she raised her rifle and strode out, clearing the room.

  Timothy followed, bringing his gun up.

  Two couches and a broken coffee table furnished the living room. There was no sign of Neeland. The weak moonlight streaming through the windows didn’t reveal much. He didn’t see any broken glass, blood, or trampled carpet to indicate a struggle or forced entry.

  If there had been, Timothy would have heard it.

  Ruckley led them through the living room into the kitchen. The curtains around an open sliding door blew in the breeze. That door led to the deck and Timothy joined her out there in the cool night.

  The backyard was an acre of trees and grass that bordered an old farm field filled with weeds almost as tall as Timothy.

  Branches from the trees groaned and snapped in the breeze, masking any popping joints of prowling Variants.

  Ruckley took the stairs down to the grass, using her night vision optics to check the area. Clouds passed over the moon, leaving Timothy nearly blind. He waited for it to pass, squinting to make out the shadowy shapes around him.

  He briefly considered calling out for Neeland. But if the Ranger was taking a shit, he would return. If he wasn’t, then yelling for the man was tantamount to calling all the Variants lurking in the area to dinner.

  The clouds rolled away, and the moon again spread a carpet of white over the terrain. Timothy caught up to Ruckley and walked beside her. She suddenly stopped before a line of trees fencing off the property from the fields.

  The tall weeds swayed in the wind like waves, back and forth. Almost hypnotic.

  Timothy aimed his rifle over the field, waiting for Variants to come bounding out. His finger went to the trigger, and he steadied his breathing.

  Ears strained, he listened for the noises of the beasts. Instead of snapping jaws and nightmarish screeches, all he heard were the rustling branches and the whistle of the wind.

  “Where the hell did he go?” Ruckley whispered.

  She turned, then froze, staring at the house through her NVGs.

  Timothy didn’t see anything. “What?”

  Ruckley took a step forward and aimed her rifle at the barns on the eastern side of the property about twenty yards from the main house.

  “Someone’s watching us,” she said. “Get ready to run.”

  Timothy felt a ball forming in his throat. It wasn’t just Variants out there. As the implications crossed his mind, he found himself almost hoping it was collaborators.

  No, not if they have the drop, he thought.

  He would get his revenge, but not tonight—tonight he had to survive.

  Something whizzed past his head as he took a step toward Ruckley.

  “Go,” she said firmly.

  He turned and ran, seeing an arrow sticking out of a tree. It was still quivering from when it had stabbed into the bark. Another whistle of an arrow cut through the air. It lanced into Ruckley’s arm, and she cried out in pain.

  Timothy stopped to fire a burst, but his shots were wild. Without any night vision, he couldn’t see the shooters wherever they were. He turned and ran for the fields, not slowing even when he pushed through the tall weeds.

  The rough blades scratched at his bare face, but he kept g
oing. He couldn’t see Ruckley, but he heard her breaking through the plants behind him.

  Voices yelled in the distance.

  One was familiar.

  It was Neeland. “Help me!” he shouted. “Please, help me!”

  Had these people kidnapped the poor bastard?

  The end of the field came into focus. A dense forest covered a hill not too far away but Timothy decided to crouch instead of making a run for the cover.

  “Ruckley,” he said quietly.

  No response.

  He waited a few moments, listening for her movements.

  Only the wind swayed the grass. The distant shouts had stopped too, and he didn’t hear Neeland anymore.

  A chill of fear shivered through him. What if he was all alone now?

  He refused to believe it. Ruckley was still out there, and he couldn’t just sit here and wait for her. Cautiously, he advanced with his rifle ready to fire at anyone on the other side of the weeds.

  A moment later he reached the edge of the field and scanned for contacts through the shifting blades. He didn’t see anyone out there. Darkness had swallowed much of the landscape, and these people seemed to be expert hunters.

  Suppressing his fear, he strode out of the foliage, staying low. The forest growing along the hilly terrain stretched before him. He ran low for cover.

  “Timothy,” came a voice.

  He froze.

  “It’s me, Ruckley.”

  She was crouched behind a tree, waving with her good arm. The arrow jutting out of her other arm was broken.

  Timothy joined her and hunched down.

  She winced as she aimed her rifle at the farmhouse and the two barns. A fire had started in a pit on the gravel drive, the glow flickering on the faded paint of the bigger barn.

  Timothy zoomed in on a pole sticking out of the firepit, flames licking the sides.

  He spotted movement in the glare and moved his scope to the right. A figure dressed in camo was strung up on a cross. It had to be Neeland. His legs and arms were bound, and his mouth was now taped shut.

  A group of four… no… five people circled around, all holding crossbows.

  “Collaborators?” he whispered.

  “I don’t think so,” Ruckley said. “I’ve never seen collaborators use crossbows. These freaks must be some sort of cult.”