The monster reeled backward, collapsing, but still struggling. Dohi tugged the hatchet and knife out, then struck out again and again. Hot blood sprayed over his face. The creature groaned, and its limbs finally stopped twitching.
Voices called his name, but he ignored them. He continued to carve the beast until he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He held up his blood-soaked blades, ready to strike the Chimera that had stopped his attack.
“Come on!” Corrin said, voice crackling. “We need to leave!”
Dohi looked up to see the Blackhawk was finally loaded up. He and Corrin ran back to the bird.
Corrin had laid waste to several of the thralls with his cutlass, and the other soldiers had taken down the rest of the pack with bullets. Dozens of gray corpses lay in the street and in the loading bay area.
Another wave of hungry Variants rushed down the street, chasing Dohi and Corrin back toward the helicopter. As soon as they were inside, it lifted, but several of the beasts were close enough to leap into the air, claws extended.
Another pack had charged in from the east, and three jumped into the opposite open door of the chopper before Beckham could get it closed.
One of them lunged at the injured man from Recon Sigma. Timothy aimed his pistol at the beast, shooting it until the monster tumbled backward, falling back. Dohi threw his hatchet, hitting one of them in the chest. The third pounced on Ruckley.
“Hell no!” Horn rumbled.
He grabbed the creature by the back of the neck and yanked it off, then slammed its head into the deck, over and over until it caved in. He tossed the limp body out of the chopper.
Fitz closed the side door, sealing out the shrieks and sporadic gunfire as the helo rose past the swirling smoke.
Dohi sucked in breath after breath. He finally crashed on the blood-soaked deck. Across from him, Horn leaned down to check Ruckley while Rico and Fitz tended to the other man on Recon Sigma, whose nametape read Boyd.
Corrin wiped his cutlass over his pant leg, eyes locked on Dohi. “Are you okay?”
Dohi nodded, trying to speak, his throat scratching, still raw from the smoke.
“I’m sorry about Ace. He stuck his neck out for me, even when no one else trusted me,” Corrin continued. “I won’t forget him.”
“None of us will,” Dohi said.
— 17 —
Azrael looked out over his land. The sun peaked over the mountainous horizon, red and orange light bleeding across the sky. It had been a full day since the victories in Las Vegas and Puerto Rico. Much of his fleet was escorting the ships they had captured there, preparing for their next battle as they headed west into the Gulf of Mexico.
The collaborators he had acquired over the years with adequate knowledge of operating the vessels were supplemented by those new prisoners they had enslaved and forced into service through the promise of brutal torture to them and their families.
He had only recently flown back to his lab on one of the civilian model planes they had commandeered from the forces they had defeated on the island, and he was anxious for the next step of his plan.
But before he could proceed, he waited for the return of Elijah and the rest of his forces from Las Vegas. They had spent the previous day ensuring there were no lingering survivors and taking multitudes of prisoners who Azrael hoped would fuel the New Gods in their final campaign.
Soon the entire Allied States would be nothing but smoldering ashes.
Ringgold would bow to his power when he gave her one final choice: join them or die.
He leaned against the railing on the terrace of a building that served as his communication center. From his perch, he had a clear view of the mountains and all the roads leading up to his base.
This was where his empire had begun.
To the casual observer, the facilities and warehouses around him appeared no different than they had during the first war. Like the human loyalist base Mount Katahdin in Maine, he ensured that everything was carefully camouflaged, keeping the important facilities out of sight and surveillance for as long as possible.
So far, it had worked. The heretics may have infiltrated smaller satellite bases around his kingdom, but they hadn’t found this stronghold.
This holy place was where he had first worked to help the United States, back when he thought he was developing a cure like Dr. Kate Lovato for the X9H9 virus plaguing the country.
But fate had other plans.
Azrael had unwittingly fulfilled the true mission behind the VX-99 program. The Scions were the perfect predator and soldier.
He had started a new world order, rising from the ashes of humanity’s self-destruction.
The fiery orange and red sunrise of dawn melted away to clear blue skies. Black specks appeared over the western horizon, growing larger.
Azrael drew in a deep breath of warm air. These were the first of his faithful legions returning from Las Vegas.
He took the stairs down from the terrace and strode between the spread of white and tan buildings stretching between parking lots. Voices called out from Scions commanding groups of chained human prisoners as they lugged crates full of ammunition and fuel into a warehouse.
These were the slaves healthy enough to be of service to the New Gods, but stubborn enough that they would not serve loyally. They would be put to use until their bodies gave out, and then they would be plastered in the webbing network permanently, nutrition flowing from their meat to feed the growing network of masterminds and other godly creations.
Among the slaves were a few Scions—or members of the Fallen, as Azrael liked to call them.
Those were creatures that had shown disloyalty. He had given them the gift of joining the ranks of the New Gods, and they had squandered it. They were the flawed part of his creation. Soon the new batches would be completely indoctrinated.
Anger flashed through his augmented body as he observed the Fallen hoisting crates into the back of a truck.
“Quicker!” the Scion said.
A female Scion with long wiry hair draping over her bony shoulders snarled at him. “Screw you, monster.”
The faithful Scion struck the female Fallen with an electric cattle prod.
“Kill this small-minded beast if she disobeys you again,” Azrael said.
“Yes, Prophet,” the Scion said.
He struck out at the Fallen with the cattle prod again. The Fallen writhed in pain but didn’t let it stop her from snarling at Azrael.
“We chose you, and yet you spurn us.” Azrael placed a foot on her sternum, pressing down so she struggled to breathe. “You have been gifted so much. Why do you waste it? Why do you cling to your silly notions of humanity?”
He leaned in toward her, baring his fangs.
“Your side has already lost.”
With that, he slashed at her face, leaving crimson tears in her flesh, then kicked her away.
Satisfied, Azrael turned and continued toward an expansive parking lot.
The buzz of the cattle prod and an anguished cry sounded from behind him again. He relished in the female’s pain.
Guards stood sentry at the parking lot. They bowed at Azrael’s approach, then turned back toward the surrounding terrain for any threats. A squadron of helicopters drew close. Among them were a few civilian models, in addition to a Black Hawk and a Little Bird.
The Black Hawk hit the ground first, and the side door slid open. Human loyalists readied the camouflage netting and tents to conceal the choppers as a group of Scions poured out. Blood covered their clothes and stained the cutlasses strapped over their backs. They strode toward Azrael, pride evident in each marching footstep, but they kept their eyes low out of respect for him.
He stood there watching, his cloak flapping behind him in the wind. He could smell the scent of death lingering over the loyal Scions as they knelt on the pavement.
The final Scion left the troop hold of the Black Hawk. He carried something roughly the size of a soccer ball wrapped up in an olive
shemagh scarf mottled with dark stains.
“Elijah,” Azrael said as the Scion approached.
“We’ve returned to serve, Prophet,” Elijah said, dropping to one knee, his tattered cape falling over his battered body.
“Rise.”
Elijah stood, the object still cradled under his left arm. Bandages covered his limbs and several spots on his torso. Dried blood had soaked through them.
He kept his head bowed, blood dripping past the broken human-skull mask he wore. “I brought something back for you, master.”
“Show me.”
Elijah let the shemagh scarf fall, then gripped a human head. The long white and gray beard was tangled and matted in dried blood.
“Who’s this?” Azrael asked.
“A member of Team Ghost,” Elijah dropped the head, then fell to his knees again. “Prophet, I failed you. This is not one of the men you requested. I lost many of my soldiers to a sacrilegious Fallen Scion that was with Team Ghost and—”
“Quiet,” Azrael said calmly. He reached toward Elijah, placing his claws under the soft flesh of his chin. “Look at me.”
Elijah glanced up with golden eyes. “Prophet, I beg your forgiveness. Give me an honorable death and cleanse me of my failure.”
Azrael stood and stepped away from Elijah, considering his fate. He appreciated the loyalty of the Scion and the fact he had actually killed one of the elusive members of Team Ghost. Not to mention the trap was a success.
“You brought back something the others before you could not,” he said. “This will strike fear in their numbers to see yet another of their heroes dead.”
“I will kill those that remain, master. I swear it.”
Azrael motioned for him to stand. “You have proven yourself faithful.”
Elijah rose as Scions and human loyalists began to lead military prisoners away from the birds. The fresh meat shuffled along, together with ropes.
“Very good,” Azrael said, unable to stop from grinning. “One of these wretched beings is bound to tell us where we can find Ringgold. There are only so many outposts left in the Allied States after all.”
“That was what I had hoped, too,” Elijah said.
Azrael gestured to Elijah, then the rest of the Scions assembled before him. “Go treat your wounds, then begin the interrogations.”
He locked eyes with Elijah again. “Then once we have the intel we need, you’ll have your chance at redemption. Team Ghost will be yours.”
***
President Ringgold sat next to Chief of Staff Soprano in the EOC at the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Generals Cornelius and Souza, along with General Vance and Colonel Stilwell from Canada and General Hernandez from Mexico, were seated around the conference table. Comms officers surveyed the computers lining one of the walls.
The Las Vegas mission had been an abject failure, and they had been reorganizing their defenses since the survivors had returned. But their failure had not been limited to Sin City.
“We still haven’t heard anything from Lemke, have we?” Ringgold asked.
“Nothing,” Souza said. “The last transmission we received from Puerto Rico was when the USS George Johnson reported being overrun by Variants. Since then, it’s been silent.”
“They could have repositioned to another island,” Souza suggested. “They’re probably maintaining radio silence to prevent the New Gods from finding them.”
“Lemke’s a smart man,” Ringgold said, trying to reassure herself as much as the others. “He’ll have found a way to survive.”
Cornelius nodded. “I hope so.”
“How about Los Alamos?” Ringgold asked. She had kept the science team’s report about OrgoProct and Charles Morgan close at hand, wondering if they had been right. That maybe the New Gods were based in New Mexico instead of Nevada after all.
“You can see the latest images we took of Los Alamos,” Souza said, showing the National Laboratory. “We haven’t seen any signs of activity there. It looks just as it did when it fell during the Great War.”
Ringgold withheld the curses begging to be let out. “Then where in the hell is this Prophet? How are these monsters spying on us and we can’t even figure out where they’re keeping all their forces?”
No one had answers.
“Madam President,” one of the younger comms officers said, his voice excited. “I’m getting an incoming transmission. It seems to be coming from a computer that belongs to the Centcom facilities.”
“From Puerto Rico?” Ringgold asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s on our encrypted lines with the right machine ID, but I can’t geolocate the signal.”
“Put it through.”
The comms officer accepted the transmission. “It’s… it’s a video.”
“Let’s see,” Ringgold said.
The video replaced the views from the flyover. It showed an auditorium with red webbing stretched over the seating. Two hulking masterminds were positioned on either side of the stage. Between them was what looked to be a throne made of red organic webbing.
“What in the hell is this?” Ringgold asked.
“I don’t know,” the comms officer said. “But I do know this is a recording. That’s all I can say for sure.”
A figure strode to the center of the stage wearing a dark cloak. His fingers ended in hooked claws, and his face was a patchwork of scars. His nostrils were little more than slits above his wormy lips and pointed teeth.
When his golden eyes locked onto the camera, a chill snaked down Ringgold’s spine. She could almost sense the creature’s intelligence seeping through the image on the screen.
“That’s… a Chimera,” General Vance said.
The beast sat on his throne, clawed fingers clenching into the red vines of its armrest.
“This message is for President Jan Ringgold,” the Chimera said in a gravelly voice. “I am Prophet Azrael, the leader of the New Gods you have failed to defeat.”
Ringgold stared at her mortal enemy. Evil radiated from the eyes of the monstrosity. He was responsible for so much death and devastation.
“Las Vegas was not your only loss last night,” Azrael continued. “Your foolish attempts to establish a foothold in Puerto Rico were an absolute disgrace. We took the island from your pitiful forces in a matter of hours. I want to show you just how easy that was for us.”
The video went black, before coming back online to a view of the streets of Old San Juan. Once colorful buildings with colonial architecture were pocked with bullet holes. The camera followed a group of collaborators who were advancing through the streets trailing a pack of Thrall Variants.
Sporadic gunfire sounded in the distance. The monsters surged forward, pouncing through windows and doorways. Some pulled human soldiers out of buildings, tearing the poor souls apart or dragging them away.
The camera view shifted to another angle. Three helicopters soared above the collaborators, spitting gunfire into the Thrall Variants. Suddenly light flared from neighboring buildings.
LAW rockets punched into the choppers. They exploded and spun out of control, slamming into buildings and the street.
The video showed other equally horrifying scenes.
More small seacraft drawing close to the San Juan port, unloading monsters and collaborators that overwhelmed the Allied States vessels docked there. Variants with webbed hands and feet emerged from the waves, scaling the sides of Allied States naval vessels.
Ringgold had prayed that Vice President Lemke and the First Fleet had somehow survived. That maybe Souza was right, and they were hiding out now, biding their time. But the silence from Puerto Rico had inspired all manner of nightmarish thoughts.
This video showed those thoughts were accurate.
After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, the video switched back to Azrael.
This time, a line of Scions stood on the stage with him. One Scion with a broken human skull as a mask held a hostage who wore a black cl
oth hood tied over his head.
“The weapons your government created started this, and I will finish it,” Azrael said.
With a snap of his clawed hands, the Chimera with the macabre mask tore off the hood from the hostage’s head.
Ringgold gasped at the sight of her vice president.
“Son of a bitch,” Cornelius said, balling his fists.
Bruised and beaten, Lemke stood on the stage next to the Chimera. His hands were tied together by a rope and another cloth was pressed into his mouth as a gag. Blood dripped from cuts along the side of his face.
Azrael stood from his throne and strode to Lemke’s side. He used one claw to slowly peel away the flesh along one of his arms.
Lemke yelled in agony, his cries distorted by the cloth in his mouth. The Chimera guarding him held him upright, preventing him from backing away as Azrael flayed the man alive.
Ringgold wanted to look away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Part of her kept hoping that Team Ghost would show up and save him.
This was no old action movie, though. There was no saving him from these abominations.
Azrael turned toward the camera.
“I am pleased for you to witness the pain I can inflict. This is just a glimpse at what is to come,” he said. “All because you have arrogantly tried to dethrone me. You heretics must learn. We will not hesitate to punish each and every one of your insolent followers.”
He tore the gag from Lemke’s mouth.
“Don’t give in to this filthy bastard!” Lemke said.
Azrael used a claw to cut off one of his ears, then threw the piece of flesh and cartilage into the air, catching it with his teeth and eating it.
Ringgold looked away, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The vice president let out a long wail, and she turned back, eyes narrowed, to see his intestines slopping out onto the stage.
The Chimera behind Lemke let the vice president collapse to the floor. Azrael pressed his boot against Lemke’s neck, preventing him from breathing.
“You have tried and failed to stand against me,” Azrael said. “And still, I am willing to show you some mercy. Abdicate, release your tyrannical hold on your country. Then I will consider some of your people to be among my chosen, to be elevated as Scions.”
Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 117
