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

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “You have already lost,” Azrael said.

  “Fuck… you…” said the woman with the gash on her face. “You are—”

  Before she could finish, Azrael spun away from the commander and slashed her neck, claws tracing her flesh. Blood gurgled out of the wound, and her head fell to the side.

  Azrael turned back to the commander and licked the blood off his claws.

  The old military man’s eyes glistened from the pain of seeing her killed. His bottom lip trembled, even though he tried to clench his jaw.

  Azrael wiped his claws clean across the commander’s coat, spreading the soldier’s blood. “Tell me where President Jan Ringgold is.”

  “I have no idea.”

  Azrael wrapped a clawed hand around the commander’s neck. “I think you do.”

  “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “I want to end this war. I want President Ringgold’s surrender. And if she does the right thing, I will allow everyone who is willing to join the army of the New Gods. You too can become a Scion.”

  “We would rather die than become freaks.”

  “Freaks?” Azrael tightened his grasp around the commander’s neck. To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch. “This is what your military set out to create when they first made VX-99. I perfected it. My people implemented it. We’re stronger than you. Smarter. Better in every way. This is evolution.”

  “You’re a science experiment gone wrong. Nothing more.”

  A red-hot heat washed through Azrael. He wanted to tear into the commander, stab his claws right into his meaty gut. He sensed his Scions watching, waiting to see how he would react to the insult.

  Azrael exhaled, letting the anger go. His ego was not important. He had to control himself if he wanted to know where the new Central Command was located.

  “Tell me where Ringgold is and I will spare you all,” Azrael hissed.

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  Azrael stared at the commander. He noticed the small pulsing red vessels in the man’s sclera and the way the pitiful human’s nostrils flared slightly, twitching with each labored breath.

  This man was terrified.

  Judging by the way his pupils dilated and how he bit back his tongue, he was lying, too. Azrael could sense it just as easy as a wolf detected frightened prey.

  But there was another thing he knew. Something he did not need his senses to tell him. This commander would endure untold amounts of physical pain and still he would not give up the president.

  Azrael grinned, lips snarling back to reveal his fangs.

  He took his claws from the commander’s neck. The commander was so insolent he even sighed in relief.

  His mistake.

  Azrael swiftly slashed at the commander’s stomach, tearing open four gashes. Blood drooled from the wounds. The man let out a long groan, sweat rolling down his pallid face.

  “I… won’t… tell… you,” he said.

  “I know,” Azrael said. “That was for my own satisfaction, but I’m afraid it wasn’t satisfying enough.”

  He heard the snarls of the six Scions waiting around the human prisoners.

  “Feed, but leave the commander for me,” Azrael said.

  Jaws snapping, the Scions lunged forward and tore into the other human prisoners as the commander watched. The sounds of ripping tendons and snapping bones echoed through the church. Organs slurped and smacked against the stone floor, the sounds masked by agonized screams.

  The commander’s lips quivered. He no longer forced a veneer of courage. A dark stain spread down his pants as he pissed himself.

  “You can stop this,” Azrael leaned in close, whispering into his ear. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to hear.”

  “I… I… I…”

  “Talk.”

  More tearing flesh. Blood spilled on the floor, and the stench of voided bowels filled the air.

  “I…” the commander’s face was still pale, shock hijacking his brain. “Puerto Rico… I think… they’re setting up another…” Then his mouth shut, and he locked eyes with Azrael. “That’s all I know… all I heard… please stop this!”

  “Of course.”

  Azrael traced his claws over the man’s chin, leaving crimson trails. Then he snapped forward and bit hard into the man’s neck, chewing into the flesh and gristle.

  With the back of his clawed hand, Azrael wiped the blood from his lips, watching his Scions feed on what was left of the prisoners. If the government of the Allied States was retreating all the way to Puerto Rico, then victory was even closer than he had anticipated.

  He looked at the dead body of the commander. A waste of a brave man who could have served the New Gods.

  At least it would not be a wasted meal. He gave in to the animal instincts ingrained in his genetically engineered body and fed.

  ***

  A cool salty breeze snaked through Galveston. Only a few days had passed since they had held a funeral to honor oil tycoon and rancher S.M. Fischer. Fischer was just another life tragically lost in a war that Captain Reed Beckham had thought was over.

  Before this new conflict had erupted, government estimates had reported there were only scattered pockets of Variants left after the Great War of Extinction, most of them living in the abandoned cities.

  Beckham had believed them, and he regretted that now more than ever.

  Humanity was paying a devastating price for that mistaken belief as outposts and bases fell in droves. Now, while Vice President Dan Lemke was establishing a Central Command for the Allied States government on Puerto Rico, the remnants of the Allied States’ civilians and armed forces had retreated to the American Southeast.

  General Souza and his LNO Lieutenant Festa had temporarily returned from Puerto Rico to the continental Allied States. With their help, President Ringgold had set up the United States Special Operations Command in Galveston to run special ops missions.

  Galveston was one of a handful of bases still standing, especially thanks to General Cornelius who had fortified the island. The city now served as a temporary home for Beckham and his wife, Dr. Kate Lovato, along with their son Javier. Likewise, Master Sergeant Parker Horn and his girls, Jenny and Tasha had relocated here with their dogs, Spark and Ginger.

  The kids loved the beaches and the sun, but Beckham knew this idyllic lifestyle would not last long. Soon the Variants and collaborators would advance on this base, too.

  But when the enemy arrived, the outpost would be ready.

  He stood at the front of a parking lot beside his best friend and brother-in-arms, Horn, who wore a tank top showing off the tattoos adorning his muscular arms. They watched over the training of over a hundred volunteers who had stepped up to defend the walls. Most of the recruits looked beleaguered, covered in sweat. Some could barely stand.

  They suffered from exhaustion and hunger, but Beckham knew those conditions would be no better now than when they had to face the Variants in the field. These greenhorns needed to learn the value of perseverance.

  “Just one more drill, you maggots!” Horn shouted.

  Beckham gave him a look.

  “What?” Horn asked. “I always wanted to say that.”

  “Take it down a notch, man… Jesus.”

  Sergeant First Class Jeni Rico jogged over. “Yeah, Big Horn,” she grunted. “Half of these people are malnourished. Cut ’em some slack.”

  Horn shrugged. “Being soft gets people killed.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Line up, everyone!”

  A few groans came from the recruits and volunteers, but one of the new soldiers stepped up, ready to go. Timothy Temper wore a stern look, much like his dad Jake had once donned in the line of duty. The kid was looking more like a man every day.

  Timothy motioned for some of the straggling recruits to get into line.

  “Almost done, then we get some chow,” he said encouragingly.

  “Chow for those that put in the effort,�
�� Horn said.

  Rico shot him a glare.

  “Just kidding!” Horn called out.

  Every time Beckham saw Timothy, he felt guilty about what had happened at Outpost Portland, not only to Jake, but also to Timothy in the fallout of the outpost’s destruction. But he couldn’t change the past. All he could do was push forward, just like Timothy was doing.

  “The Variants don’t care if you’re tired or hungry or how old or young you are,” Timothy said. “They are the predators and you are the prey until you decide to change that.”

  A few of the weary recruits straightened.

  “He’s good,” Horn said quietly.

  “He’s been out there,” Beckham said. “He knows what it’s like firsthand.”

  “He’s lucky, but he’s also got skill, unlike most of these people.” Rico sighed. “We got our work cut out for ourselves, my friends.”

  Horn clapped his hands together. “Get moving, and you will all be soldiers in no time!” He looked at Rico for approval. “That better?”

  She smirked and led the recruits with Timothy toward a maze of abandoned buildings that simulated the wastelands and what they would face.

  Gunshots rang out at a separate part of the drilling field. It didn’t make Beckham happy to be using precious ammo, but these people needed to learn how to shoot or they would waste even more in battle.

  Rico signaled for her team to move to an obstacle course. Beckham watched Timothy deftly scale a rope net, then army crawl under a series of low-hanging barbed wire strands. The young man cleared the obstacles and vanished into the old buildings.

  “Best soldier of the bunch,” Horn said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Maybe someday he’ll even find a place on Team Ghost.”

  The last thing Beckham wanted to imagine was the young man spending even more time out in the field on exceedingly dangerous missions. But there might not be any other option with the way the war was going.

  A C-130 flew overhead, engines roaring over the parking lot. It dipped beyond the buildings to land on the makeshift runway along Seawall Boulevard.

  “More refugees?” Horn asked, using a hand to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

  “I didn’t think we had any more coming today.”

  The drills continued in the distance, but Beckham turned to look at a Jeep that squealed to a stop beside them. A man with a black mustache hopped out.

  “Captain Beckham,” he said.

  Beckham recognized him. It was Sergeant Ken Sharp, a soldier who had helped protect S.M. Fischer’s ranch, before joining up with Cornelius.

  “General Cornelius sent me,” Sharp said, out of breath. “He’s requesting you in the CIC now.”

  “Is there a problem?” Beckham asked. He guessed it had something to do with the plane.

  “It’s better if I let Cornelius and Ringgold explain. We don’t have much time.”

  Beckham turned to Horn. “Big Horn, you finish training. I’ll meet up with you and Rico later. And for God’s sake, before we do, take a shower.”

  Horn lifted his arm and sniffed under his pit. Then shrugged.

  Beckham got into the idling Jeep, and they took off for the old Harbor House Hotel along the docks of the northwestern side of the island. Cornelius had turned the building into his command information center (CIC).

  Sergeant Sharp jumped out first, followed by Beckham. They entered the hotel lobby where officers milled around desks filled with computers, radios, and mounted recon images from drones and scouts.

  “This way, Captain,” Sharp said.

  He took Beckham into a wide room with a large rectangular table lined by dozens of chairs. Maps of the United States, Texas, and other regions where the Allied States still had outposts were posted on the walls, along with various screens showing live feeds from those outposts.

  Seated around the table were familiar faces like General Cornelius with his white mustache, President Ringgold, as well as General Souza and his LNO, Lieutenant Festa. A few of their support staff, including Chief of Staff James Soprano, were also at the table.

  Those that Beckham did not recognize wore military uniforms with the red and white flag of Canada emblazoned on their shoulders.

  “Captain Beckham, thank you for joining us with such short notice,” General Cornelius said. “Our brothers from the north have arrived bearing gifts. This is Colonel Maurice Stilwell from the Canadian Armed Forces.”

  A man in his early sixties with black thick-rimmed glasses and a square face stood and shook hands with Beckham.

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Stilwell said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  Stilwell introduced the rest of his officers and the political dignitaries who had joined them.

  “Please, everyone, take a seat,” Ringgold said. Beckham found one next to General Cornelius. “We’ve got much to discuss. First matter of business, Colonel Stilwell brought the seismic detection system equipment that Ghost retrieved from California.”

  Beckham’s heart lifted at that. The technology that Team Ghost had fought so hard to recover had finally made it into the Allied States. Deploying the devices would help them detect incoming Variant forces and defend against them before they tunneled under outpost or base walls.

  “How’s Team Ghost?” Beckham asked.

  “I’ve heard they’re doing well,” Stilwell said.

  “They’re still stationed at Banff,” Ringgold said. “Since we’ve lost all our bases up north, we’re keeping them in Canada.”

  “That way we have someone who can respond to threats quicker in those regions,” Souza explained.

  “In exchange, we’ve brought some reinforcements,” Stilwell said. “Most importantly, we have engineers to help install the SDS equipment you requested.”

  “We’ll be sending half the engineers and SDS equipment to Outpost Houston,” Ringgold said. “Houston was nearly destroyed from their last attack, and they’ve consolidated into an area roughly ten percent the size of the initial outpost. They’ll need everything we can send them. The other half will stay in Galveston.”

  She gestured to the soldiers. “Captain Beckham, you, Master Sergeant Horn, and Sergeant Rico will help set up the defenses around Houston. We want to keep what little is left of the outpost. It’s our first line of defense against attacks headed to Galveston.”

  “We also brought two platoons of soldiers who are willing and ready to assist in the fight against the Variants and Chimeras,” Stilwell added. “We can assign them to your defenses or scouting parties as necessary.”

  Beckham tried to hide his disappointment. Two platoons would be nothing against the coming storm.

  “The Mexican President also vowed to commit forces,” Souza said. “In total, we’re looking at coordinating the deployment of two-thousand additional men and women to assist the Allied States.”

  Beckham liked the sound of that better, and he saw the worry in Ringgold’s features seemed to fade for a moment, too.

  “We’re grateful for Canada and the Mexican Federation’s assistance. It’s good to know that the Allied States is no longer in this fight alone,” she said. “With our joint forces and the tireless efforts from our scientific community, I am confident this is the turning point in this war.”

  The conversation continued for nearly an hour as they discussed the logistics of the incoming reinforcements. When the meeting finished, the group began to disperse, but Ringgold stopped Beckham before he could leave.

  “Reed, I know you only just got to the island, but you and Horn will need to start preparing immediately to escort the Canadians to Houston with the SDS equipment,” she said. “Now that we have it, I don’t want to spend another day without being tapped into the Variant network, either. Kate and her team will go with you.”

  “When do we leave?” Beckham asked.

  “In two hours.”

  — 2 —

  Doctor Kate Lovato picked up a box of laboratory supplies from th
e warehouse floor and carried it to the back of a waiting transport truck parked next to an Interim Armored Vehicle (IAV) Stryker. Her lab assistants, Ron and Leslie, situated the box among the other crates and supplies in the back of the truck destined for Outpost Houston.

  Beckham, Horn, and Sergeant First Class Jeni Rico from Team Ghost were helping load equipment. Even Javier and the girls lugged smaller pieces of lab equipment into the truck, eager to spend as much time with their parents as they could before they left.

  Sammy Tibalt, their resident computer engineer, picked up a small crate with a groan and waddled toward the truck, a grimace on her face.

  “Sammy!” Kate scolded her. “Let me take that.”

  She took the crate.

  “I’m fine,” Sammy said.

  There was a slight bulge under her shirt where bandages protected the entry and exit wounds of the bullet that had cut through her abdomen. Sammy had been lucky it had not hit anything vital, but she seemed to press that luck every day, trying to overextend herself.

  She sighed. “I hate being useless.”

  “You’re anything but useless,” Kate said. “It’ll be better if you’re well-rested anyway for when we get to Houston. We need you.”

  “Now you’re just trying to prop up my ego.”

  “Is it working?”

  Sammy gave her a knowing grin.

  A group of six Canadian engineers joined them, carrying metal containers with the SDS equipment.

  “That’s it, huh?” Beckham asked, hopping down, followed by Horn.

  “I think so,” Kate said.

  Javier stood near the back of the truck with them. “Are you sure I can’t come too?”

  “It’s safer here,” Kate said.

  Javier met her gaze. “But I can fight.”

  “You can do your part by looking out for Galveston,” Beckham said. “Watch out for Tasha and Jenny.”

  Javier frowned.

  “That’s right,” Tasha said, playing along. “Someone’s got to protect us.”

  “You’ve already got Timothy,” Javier said.