Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “Please tell me we got everyone into the caves,” Ringgold said.

  “Most of them, and the outpost commander has dedicated a good chunk of forces to protect the caves,” Festa said. “We’ll evacuate more of them tomorrow when daylight drives the beasts back.”

  “Tomorrow…” Ringgold whispered.

  For much of the country there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

  “Who has a SITREP on the other outposts? I want to know if we have identified or captured collaborators,” she said.

  Festa held up a marked-up map. He was helping oversee the prioritizing of outpost defenses and evacuations.

  “The few that have been captured have committed suicide, and we haven’t identified any new cells,” he said. “But we’re working hard on this, Madam President, I assure you.”

  “Redouble your efforts on that front,” Ringgold said, holding back a sigh. “Now how about the physical threat of an attack?”

  “As you know, we’re moving more of the survivors east as the outposts around the western target cities are overrun,” he said. “While the current attacks are mostly centered around these six targets, there are smaller Variant hordes that seem to be working alongside collaborators to hit places like Outpost Portland, Outpost Boston, etc.”

  “The safest places to move these people are locations with geographical or geological attributes that make it difficult for Variants to tunnel under,” Lemke said.

  The vice president noted outposts including Norfolk, Kent Island, and Manchester.

  “We’re going to start evacuating more people to these areas and concentrating our defenses there as a last resort,” he said.

  The aerial footage came back online. This time, the helicopter was flying over the outer defenses along the banks of the river. The fences and walls had collapsed, and the minefields were nothing but smoking craters. Dark holes with halos of fresh dirt and rock marred the inside of the outpost where Variants had burst through the ground.

  The chopper turned back to the interstate. Muzzle flashes sparked from people abandoning their vehicles and trying to hold back the hordes of beasts.

  Cortez put her hand over her mouth.

  Armored juveniles raced down the road, chasing helpless people fleeing the devastation. Suddenly a section of the interstate burst with the bright glow of explosions. Fighter jets had dropped their payloads to buy the survivors time. For those already captured by the juveniles, it was a swift and merciful end to their suffering.

  Another round of bombs burst across the interstate and then the chopper turned away from the view.

  As the hours passed, the other six outposts around the target cities crumbled, their defenses failing, and the Variants spreading like a virus.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  Festa and other officers worked to keep the map updated, but by two in the morning, almost every outpost in the Allied States was under some degree of attack.

  A surprise call came just when Ringgold felt her brain boiling with frustration and fear.

  Soprano handed her a satellite phone.

  “Ringgold here,” she said.

  “Madam President, it’s General Cornelius. I have an update on our work in El Paso.”

  “I could use some good news. What’s going on, General?”

  “It is good, ma’am. The technology works. Fischer and his men were able to not only detect tunnels, but we also used that data to destroy them before the monsters could even surface.”

  “You have no idea how glad I am to hear this. How soon before we can start deploying these measures?”

  “I’m going to need help getting this equipment to the outposts where it’s needed most. I think we can also locate better technology to augment these defenses from some old Department of Defense laboratories in California.”

  “Whatever you need.”

  “Time is what I need most, and I’m afraid we don’t have that.” The General paused and then said, “I’ve got five hundred of my troops ready to deploy where you see fit. What I don’t have is the aircraft to make all this happen.”

  “I think we can handle that,” she said. “Let me speak to my team. I’ll call you later when we’ve decided on our course of action.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Madam President.”

  “Talk soon,” Ringgold said. She set the phone down and described the request to everyone in the room.

  “I won’t be able to identify the outposts where we need those troops the most until sunrise,” Festa said.

  “Not until we know which ones are left…” Ringgold said, realization hitting her like a brick.

  “If this strategy works as well as General Cornelius claims, then we need to make that a priority mission,” Lemke said.

  “That will require rearranging our resources and aircraft,” Souza interjected. “Which means pulling some off evacuations.”

  Being president for almost eight years had taught her she often had to choose the greater good over individuals, but in this case they were talking about leaving thousands of people stranded in order to save tens of thousands.

  “If we don’t get that equipment where we need it, then all we’re doing is prolonging the inevitable by evacuating people,” Lemke said. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to resource aircraft for this new mission.”

  Ringgold knew the guilt would crush her later, but for now, there was no other choice in her mind.

  Lemke gave her a hard nod of approval.

  “Authorized,” she said.

  The room broke into a bustle of activity as the staff and officers erupted in conversation. Ringgold sat watching in silence, considering the implications of her orders.

  “Ma’am,” came a voice.

  Cortez bent down next to Ringgold. “We just got word that Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn have made it back to Outpost Portland safely.”

  “Thank God,” Ringgold said. She welcomed the additional good news.

  “Lieutenant Niven said they took on an entire horde of Variants…” Cortez said. “That’s how the Iron Hogs knew where to call in the air support.”

  Ringgold twisted to look back at the younger woman.

  “Guess those two aren’t so retired anymore,” Cortez said, flashing a smile.

  Ringgold smiled back and then got out of her chair. She walked over to the hatch, a voice calling out after her when she reached it.

  “Madam President, where are you going?” Soprano asked.

  “To see Doctor Lovato to let her know her husband is safe. At the way things are turning out, hopefully she’ll have some good news for us.”

  “All the science in the world won’t save us if there are more collaborators out there ready to unleash hell,” Lemke said.

  The vice president was right, and Ringgold knew it. At this point, she wasn’t sure there was anything that could save the Allied States, but she would rather die than hand it over to the monsters.

  — 11 —

  The thuds from the not so distant explosions had passed over an hour ago, maybe longer, but the group of collaborators were still fuming across the chamber from Timothy.

  They stood near piles of collapsed ceiling. Several of the pieces had landed on human prisoners, tearing them from the wall and crushing them to pulp on the concrete floor.

  It was a mercy, Timothy thought.

  “He’s going to be furious…” said the short man in his Brooklyn accent. “We got to blame someone for this. Pete seems like the logical choice. You boys got to back that up, okay?”

  He paced in front of the passage that the men had entered through. The other two collaborators, one with a Red Sox hat, and the other wearing a stocking cap both sat on crates.

  A radio crackled across the space, but Timothy couldn’t make out the transmission. He strained to listen, but he was still groggy. He had passed out earlier, and had been jolted awake by those explosions. All he heard was the response from the short collaborator.

  “Oh man, th
is is so fucked up,” he said. “Everything has gone to shit, and someone is going to have to answer for this… one of us… one of us is going to be fed to them…”

  The other two men got off their crates and paced nervously. From what Timothy had gathered so far, a group of their soldiers had engaged a truck back on the same road he was kidnapped.

  But those collaborators had never returned. Someone had killed them and apparently taken off with explosives meant to be used on the outpost.

  Not only that, but the Variant hordes they had deployed to attack Outpost Portland, had been destroyed—probably by whatever had caused those explosions Timothy had heard.

  Someone had severely messed up the collaborators’ battle plan, and Timothy couldn’t be happier. He held back a grin.

  In the past he might have thought something like this was Beckham and Horn’s doing. But they had abandoned him, Bo, Donna, and everyone else they had sworn to protect.

  Someone else… someone with real balls was responsible for the badass attack that had killed those raiders and resulted in the utter demolition of the Variant horde.

  Another man suddenly walked into the chamber wearing camouflage and a black ski mask. He stripped the mask off, and long dreadlocked hair fell over his shoulders.

  The other three collaborators all took a step backward.

  This must be the real leader, Timothy thought.

  The man they all feared.

  “The attack on the outpost failed,” said the new man, almost calmly. “We lost one wave of beasts and two demo crews. I’ve called back the other teams, and the rest of the beasts are safe for now.”

  He looked away from his soldiers to scan the crushed prisoners.

  “What a fucking disaster,” he said. Anger rose in his voice in his next words. “The master’s wrath is going to come down hard.”

  “Master will want a head,” the short man said in his Brooklyn accent. “It’ll be one of us, won’t it?”

  “Don’t be such a pussy, Vin,” said the man with dreadlocks. “The only way our heads don’t end up on pikes is if we show strength.”

  “I’m no pussy, Pete,” said Vin.

  “You’re sure acting like one,” Pete said. He flipped his dreadlocks over his back and looked to the other two collaborators. “With tonight’s fuckup, we got to show we still have plenty of meat to draw from at the outpost.”

  Vin looked across the room, and Pete followed his gaze to Timothy. The dreadlocked man took a step forward.

  Timothy squirmed in the restraints, sensing whatever happened next wasn’t going to be good.

  “Check the others,” Pete instructed.

  The four collaborators fanned across the space but Pete stopped a few feet in front of Timothy.

  “He’s a real wiggler,” Vin said. “Like a worm.”

  “Only one to survive the Variants in the forest,” said Red Sox hat.

  “So he’s a fighter,” said Pete. He leaned forward. Once again, Timothy was being studied and scrutinized by a monster in the chamber.

  Judging by the way the collaborators kept their distance from Pete, even they were scared of him. This guy was not someone Timothy would want to be in a room alone with. He exuded confidence and terror.

  Maybe he was the one that had led the attack on Peaks Island.

  Maybe he killed my father.

  Rage warmed his chest. A spike of adrenaline helped him fight harder against the glue holding him in place.

  “Yeah… he’s a fighter,” Pete said.

  “That’s right, and I’ll kill that wannabe gangster over there if you let me go,” Timothy said.

  For a moment Pete simply glared at Timothy, but then his face twisted into a grim smirk. “You got balls, kid.”

  “Not a kid,” Timothy said. He directed his eyes at Vin. “And that guy is a real fucking coward if you ask me.”

  He raised his voice and added, “You should have heard what he said before you got here.”

  “What the fuck!” Vin yelled, his voice echoing.

  He ran over, clearly caught off guard. Before he could get to Timothy, Pete stuck out his arm to hold Vin back.

  “He’s lying, Pete,” Vin said. He spat on Timothy. “He’ just a lyin’ little rat.”

  Pete pressed his arm harder against Vin’s chest.

  “Get back,” Pete growled. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “He was going to throw you under the bus for whatever is happening out there,” Timothy said.

  “That’s a fucking lie,” Vin protested in a nasally voice.

  Timothy would have shrugged if he could have. “Just ask the other two guys if you don’t believe me.”

  Pete looked over at Red Sox and Stocking Cap. “Well, boys? Kid telling the truth?”

  Neither made a move.

  “I find out you are lying to me too, all three of you are being fed to our fanged friends. So again, the kid telling the truth?”

  They both nodded, nearly cowering as they did.

  Vin looked at them both, and then turned back to Pete who had drawn a knife. Before he could so much as mutter a word of protest, Pete sliced Vin’s neck from ear to ear.

  Blood gushed from the wound. Vin reached up to stop the flow, mouth opening like a fish on land, and dropped to his knees, eyes pinned on Timothy.

  Timothy smirked at the dying collaborator, hoping he suffered as he crumpled to the floor. Blood spread around him like a broken shadow as he writhed.

  Pete leaned in close to Timothy.

  “So you are part of the militia at Portland?” he asked.

  A nod.

  “You were part of it,” Pete corrected. “You’re the type of dumb kid thinks he’s invincible, aren’t you?”

  Timothy didn’t reply.

  “That’s why the military has always had an age limit and recruits from high schools. I know. I was one of them kids…” Pete snorted. “Somehow you got lucky to survive this far… Or, maybe not, maybe you can fight and know how to stay alive.”

  Timothy raised his chin slightly. He didn’t want this guy’s compliments. He wanted to kill the fucker. But if sucking up gave him an opportunity to do just that, he’d take it.

  “I respect that, but I don’t like rats,” Pete said. “Still, some rats are bigger than others. Especially the kind that try to stab you in the back.”

  He again looked at Vin. The man was twitching, his face bleach white as the final seconds of life faded away.

  “Guess our team has a new opening.” Pete returned his gaze to Timothy. “You might be lucky enough to join our army if you play your cards right.”

  The guy with the Red Sox hat took it off. “The most powerful in all of history—the army that the military only dreamed of when they created VX-99.”

  “An army of super soldiers and genetically superior beings,” said Pete. “Come over here, Alfred.”

  The man with the stocking cap joined Pete. He took it off, exposing a balding head with long thin hair. He pushed the cap to his chest, and reached out with his other hand to Timothy’s forehead like a priest might during a blessing.

  “You’ve been saved to help with the great reckoning,” Alfred said in an almost soothing voice. “To help fight for the Land of the New Gods.”

  He let his hand fall away from Timothy’s forehead but held his gaze for several long beats before stepping away.

  “Get him down from there, Whiskey,” Pete said.

  The man with the Red Sox hat put it back on and moved over with a knife. He used the blade to start cutting Timothy out of the glue prison.

  “My name’s Nick,” he said. “They call me Whiskey sometimes.”

  The man’s breath sure smelled like his nickname.

  When Timothy was free, his numb body fell forward. He crashed to the ground in front of Vin’s corpse, the man’s dead eyes staring up at him.

  In time, Timothy knew all the collaborators would be doing the exact same thing. This was his chance to get in his enemy
’s head. He would have his revenge, and he would become the soldier his father would be proud of.

  The men surrounded him and dragged him up to his feet. He staggered but kept his balance as his vision cleared. Nick pulled out a water bottle and handed it over.

  Timothy didn’t want their charity, but he needed it to survive. He snatched the bottle and gulped it down until he choked. When he finished coughing, he took another sip, this time slower.

  “Easy, kid,” Nick mumbled in a deep voice.

  Wiping droplets off his chin, Timothy handed the bottle back.

  “Let’s go,” Pete said.

  The dreadlocked man led them from the chamber.

  Timothy stumbled several times, his muscles weak from neglect and his legs numb, but he managed to keep going. As he passed the crushed and mangled prisoners, he kept his eyes forward.

  The circular room emptied into a long passage way. Candle wax bled from sconces along the concrete walls and pooled on the floor.

  Pete led the way with Alfred and Nick following Timothy.

  They passed multiple steel doors, all of them rusty. Several were open, and Timothy glimpsed living quarters, pantries, and supply rooms.

  Finally, they came to the entrance of another chamber, sealed off with mesh wire. Pete flipped on a flashlight. The beam penetrated the inky black beyond the wiring and hit a concrete wall covered in dark stains.

  “Come here,” Pete said, jerking his chin.

  Timothy stepped up to look into the chamber. This one was deeper, like a silo that plunged so far into the Earth he couldn’t see the bottom, even with the light angled downward. Pete pulled out a remote that looked like the one the men had used to control the Variant that had nearly eaten Timothy’s face.

  A rustling sounded, followed by what sounded like gusting wind. A shiver coursed through Timothy’s flesh. He wanted to back away but a hand on his back kept him in front of the mesh wire.

  Pete clicked a button on the remote.

  A shriek exploded up the silo, echoing loudly. It faded away, replaced by the rustling that quickly grew to a strong din like a tornado rising up through the chamber.