Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

  “We’re getting close,” Fitz whispered.

  Suddenly Dohi took shelter behind the charcoaled husk of a delivery truck. The others sheltered behind the wall of a nearby building.

  Fitz tried to settle his thumping heart.

  A horde of Variants surged through a water-filled street ahead. Fitz counted their numbers, watching them hurtle by. Some ran, splashing through the street, on their way to the alley the team had just left behind.

  “Go, go, go!” Fitz whispered after the monsters passed.

  Team Ghost ran across the street, fighting through deeper water.

  Clicks from snapping joints and far off screams of prowling Variants haunted the city.

  Fitz’s blade suddenly snagged on something before he made it to the other side of the street, stopping him in the middle of the open water. Rico halted and reached out to help.

  Mendez, still on rearguard, paused beside them, scanning the water.

  Fitz twisted his blade, bending down to remove it from whatever garbage it had gotten jabbed into. As he did, something burst from the water to his right.

  The armored flesh of a juvenile barreled toward Fitz. He couldn’t move out of its way with his blade caught, and there wasn’t time or space for a clear shot.

  Rico swung the butt of her rifle into the creature’s face, then delivered a heavy kick into the monster’s side that knocked it off course again.

  Blood gushed from the monster’s crushed nose.

  Fitz swung his rifle up as the Variant turned on Rico. It raised its claws as bullets lanced through the creature’s chest, chewing through the bone and organs at near point-blank range.

  The choof-choof-choof of the suppressed rifle reverberated over the water, but the splash the dead monster made was even louder. It sank in front of Rico.

  If the rest of the Variants hadn’t known more than alligators were in their midst, they did now.

  Rico bent down, reaching into the water, to help Fitz pry his blade loose. As soon as he was free the shrieks of a dozen monsters rang out.

  They poured from the darkened buildings to the north and south.

  “Run!” he ordered.

  The team sprinted onto another soaked street as the monsters pursued them. A half-crumbling spire of the St. Louis Cathedral speared the gray sky nearby. Dohi pointed to a museum across from Jackson Square in the center of the French Quarter.

  The team stormed past, rifles up as they moved into the lobby of the building. Rotting furniture and broken display cases lay in the water.

  The team splashed across the room toward the ticket counter where they took shelter. Red webbing grew across the walls, even denser here than when they’d seen it before outside. He crouched next to a pile of brown bones loosely wrapped in tendrils of red tissue.

  They were close. Fitz could feel it in his gut.

  Outside, the clamor of the Variants went on for what felt like an eternity.

  But slowly the monsters scattered, their wails becoming more sporadic, more distant, and their clicking joints fading as they searched for their lost prey.

  Fitz waited, letting the furor of the Variants die down. Their angry voices were replaced by the drone of human voices in agony, sounding all too similar to the pained cries and moans the team had heard in other Variant tunnels and Minneapolis.

  He had a feeling that those voices would lead them to the mastermind—or, if not the beast directly, then at least to its lair.

  Fitz signaled for the team to move back out toward Jackson Square. There, Dohi pointed out a path that led into the St. Louis Cathedral where the water began to recede.

  More red vines of tissue stretched out of the thin layer of water along the streets and grass up to the steeples of the church and into half-broken stained-glass windows.

  The team skirted between the overgrown trees and bushes of the square, making their way to the former place of worship. As they closed in on the cathedral, moans traveled out of the broken windows.

  Fitz indicated for everyone to stay put except for Dohi.

  Together, the two men climbed a short set of stairs and clung to the shadows until they made it into the nave.

  The missing roof allowed shafts of light that played across puddles of water between rotting pews covered in red webbing. Tendrils rose to the pillars in the middle of the space and clung to the stained-glass windows.

  Cocoons of the red tissue pasted decaying corpses along the walls. Many were nothing but skeletons and flags of leathery brown flesh. The bodies of different native wildlife were there; fish, birds, even a gator.

  Other long strands of tissue dangled from the ceiling like bloody icicles. At the bottom of those macabre vines hung more bodies; these were all human, wrapped up like a spider’s prey.

  Dozens of Variants climbed up and down those growths, picking at the animals and people suspended in them. Many of the victims moaned in agony.

  At the rear of the cathedral, past the sanctuary and altar was a massive creature that stood nearly four times Fitz’s height. Large, pink folds of skin covered the beast, and its stygian eyes peered around at its surroundings.

  It stuck to the shadows, apparently wary of the light plunging in through the massive holes in the ceiling.

  Fitz slowly backed away with Dohi. They hurried down the stairs and joined the team back on Jackson Square.

  “Rico,” Fitz whispered. “Radio command. We found the ugly son of a bitch.”

  — 13 —

  The cool morning air reeked of death and suffering. Beckham and Horn waited outside the maintenance warehouse on the University of Southern Maine campus. Lawn mowers and equipment sat outside to make room for body bags.

  The inside had been turned into a makeshift morgue for the victims of the attack. Like so often before, Beckham wondered why fate had chosen to take Bo and Donna. So many other innocent men, women, and children had perished, gone in an instant or cursed to horrific burn injuries, their moans still haunting the campus.

  And somehow he had once again been spared. Left alive to watch all these people suffer.

  Beckham looked up to the sky, but he didn’t curse God nor did he question why God might allow atrocities like last night. He had always believed that if there was a God, he had nothing to do with what happened on Earth.

  Humans had to live with the consequences of their actions, good or bad. Lately, Beckham had seen too much of the bad.

  Especially this morning.

  Soldiers and volunteers continued to carry body bags into the warehouse.

  In some cases, the bags looked light. Not much remained of the deceased. The real weight was on the minds and hearts of the survivors.

  Another pickup truck pulled up. Civilian volunteers lowered the lift gate to reveal more bodies, these ones without the luxury of body bags. People who had likely died in triage.

  In the past, with the proper treatment, some of them might have survived. But out here, the medical staff simply didn’t have the supplies or equipment needed to treat them.

  Beckham still didn’t know how the collaborators had controlled the bats or what type of explosives they were rigged with, but he had a feeling this was just one of many tricks they would use to win the new war. Between those new weapons and the conspirators within their ranks, he feared the enemy was far stronger than anyone realized.

  “Fucking animals,” Beckham growled.

  First Jake, then Timothy, and now Donna, and Bo.

  All killed by the collaborators. Those people were worse than terrorists. They were demons. He gritted his teeth and punched the side of the metal siding, denting it with his fist. Blood filled the cracked skin over his knuckles.

  It wasn’t his hand that hurt the worst though. His head still throbbed from the truck wreck. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath to manage the pain until it passed.

  Horn didn’t say anything. The two men had barely slept in twenty-four hours of hellish insanity, and they were at their wits’ end.


  A side door to the maintenance building opened and a soldier stepped out, gesturing for them.

  “Captain, Master Sergeant, the bodies are ready for you to identify,” said the young man.

  Beckham and Horn followed him inside. The door clicked behind them a moment later, sealing them in the long space. Eighty some corpses lay on the concrete floor in zipped up black body bags.

  Another soldier with a clipboard walked up and down the aisles, checking off names on his list.

  “Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn are here to confirm the identity of the deceased, Donna and Bo Tufo,” their escort said to the soldier with the clipboard.

  He glanced at his board, and then looked across the room. “Please, come with me, sir. Master Sergeant.”

  Beckham and Horn followed the soldier until he stopped at two body bags.

  “These are them,” he said.

  Horn bent down and unzipped the bag on the left, the odor of charred flesh exploding out.

  “Christ have mercy,” he muttered, covering his face with his wrist.

  Bo Tufo’s face was hardly recognizable. Scorched and disfigured, his features had melted into a hideous sight.

  Beckham pictured the young boy he had rescued during Operation Liberty. He had survived the monsters and grown up into a young man only to die at the hands of humans.

  Bile rose in Beckham’s throat.

  “This is Bo Tufo,” Horn managed to mumble.

  The soldier with the clipboard nodded, and Horn unzipped the second body bag.

  Donna didn’t look as bad as her son. Partly due to the fact Bo had shielded her from the blasts. Despite his sacrifice, he hadn’t saved her.

  And maybe that was for the best, Beckham thought. The two were so close that they wouldn’t have survived without each other.

  Beckham stood, his blade creaking.

  “This is Donna Tufo,” Horn said.

  “Thank you,” said the soldier. “From my records, they don’t have any other kin here, is that correct, sir?”

  “Yes,” Beckham said.

  “Would you like us to take care of the burial or…”

  “We’ll do it,” Beckham said. Donna and Bo deserved to be buried together on Peaks Island where they had enjoyed a hiatus of peace in the middle of this endless war.

  The soldier nodded and stepped away.

  Beckham began the short walk to the exit of the maintenance building. Each step felt like a mile. His head spun. The black body bags stretched in all directions.

  It was too much, even for him; when he got outside, he vomited into a bush.

  Horn patted him on a shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m good,” Beckham said, wiping his lips. He drew in a breath and started back to the campus with Horn.

  Chimneys of smoke rose from the damaged rooftops where suicidal bats had flapped into the sides. Soldiers had reclaimed some of the positions, but what could they do against another attack like that?

  Beckham started the march to the command tent on campus.

  “Are we going to head back to the George Johnson after we bury our friends, or do you want to keep looking for Timothy?” Horn asked.

  Beckham drew in a breath. They both knew the odds of finding the young man alive were slim to zero. “If we go back out there looking for him, we’re not comin’ back, Big Horn.”

  Horn rubbed his neck, wincing at the reality. They fell into silence until they got back to the command tent. Beckham pushed past the flap to go inside where Lieutenant Niven was going over maps with Sergeant Ruckley. They both stood at the table.

  There were no good mornings or salutes. Only the hard looks of soldiers that had just gotten their asses handed to them and fully expected more.

  “Have you heard anything from SOCOM?” Beckham asked.

  “We spoke to Lieutenant Festa, but our orders have not changed,” Niven said. “We are to hold this post at all costs.”

  Ruckley raised her chin a bit, clearly wanting to say something. If Beckham had to guess she didn’t like those orders.

  “People are being evacuated across the Allied States, and we’re expecting to receive over a hundred refugees by tonight,” Niven continued. “We’ve been marked high on the safe list.”

  “How the hell did that happen?” Horn muttered.

  “I guess command thinks since we don’t have issues with tunneling Variants we’re safer than other outposts.”

  “Yeah, but those bats might be worse,” Horn said. “Plus, we got sleeper cells wreaking havoc inside our borders. Tunneling Variants aren’t the only damn issue we should be worried about!”

  “All I know is that I’m staying put until command says otherwise,” Niven replied.

  “How about you two?” Ruckley asked. “What’s your next move?”

  “We’re going to bury our friends on Peaks Island and then return to command,” Beckham said.

  “We’ll see if we can get you some extra support,” Horn said.

  “The Iron Hogs are grateful for whatever we can get,” Niven said. “I’ll get a bird ready for you after you’re finished with the burial.”

  “Sir, permission to accompany them to Peaks Island,” Ruckley said.

  Niven paused, seeming to think on it.

  “It won’t take long, sir,” Ruckley said. “They’ll need some help. And besides, it’s the least we can do.”

  “Approved, Sergeant, but make it fast, okay?” Niven said.

  “Yes, sir,” Ruckley said.

  “Thank you,” Beckham said.

  “I’ll meet you in the staging area,” Ruckley said. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “I’m very sorry about your friends,” Niven said.

  “Me too,” Beckham said. He walked away with Horn while Ruckley made a call over to the morgue requesting Bo and Donna’s bodies be prepared for their arrival.

  “You want to call Kate about Bo and Donna?” Horn asked.

  “I don’t want to give her the bad news until I can do it in person. Besides, she’s got so much on her plate already, and Niven already informed SOCOM last night we’re okay.”

  “Good point…” Horn wagged his head. “Man, Tasha is going to be a wreck when she hears about Timothy. I promised her I would…”

  Beckham put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  On their walk to the staging area between Woodbury Campus Center and Masterton Hall, a line of military transport trucks passed by. The beds were filled with equipment and soldiers. Many of them looked no older than Timothy had been.

  The staging area, too, was a flurry of activity between stacks of shipping containers. Militia and soldiers listened to orders from their leads. People in civilian clothing lined up, too, joining the call to arms after witnessing yesterday’s events.

  “Jesus, that kid looks like he’s ten,” Beckham said nodding toward one.

  The cost of the war was never more evident. While he and Horn had saved Tasha and Jenny from the fighting, Bo had lost his life and Timothy had almost certainly lost his against the collaborators and Variants. Now kids younger than eighteen were joining up to fight.

  That was something Ringgold had fought so hard against. And now they had no other choice as those men and women of fighting age perished in the Variants’ attack.

  Ruckley showed up with a truck a few minutes later. Two body bags were in the bed, along with shovels.

  They took the truck to the shoreline where a speedboat was tethered to a dock. Four soldiers standing guard ran over to help them unload the body bags and joined them in the boat.

  The ride to Peaks Island was quiet. Horn and Beckham watched the horizon in a trance. They had both dreamed of returning home, but doing so like this was more nightmare than dream.

  The island loomed ahead of them, and Ruckley looked back from the wheel.

  “Which way?” she called out over the motor.

  Horn pointed toward the shoreline where they had all lived. The boat curved over the water, thu
mping against the waves.

  Beckham’s heart accelerated with the engine when he saw his home.

  Or at least what was left of it.

  Charred skeletal boards and a brick foundation were all that remained.

  Beckham grabbed handholds on the gunwale as he climbed toward the bow for a better view. The boat passed houses on the shore, none of which had been hit. The only destroyed home was the one Beckham had shared with his family. He was too upset to consider the implications.

  “Damn, boss,” Horn said.

  “Is that your house, Captain?” Ruckley asked as they pulled up to the dock.

  “It is… was my house,” Beckham said.

  The four soldier escorts jumped out and tied the boat off on the dock’s pilings. Then they got the body bags out and hauled them to the shore with Horn and Beckham.

  “Where to?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “This way,” Beckham said, leading them to the tree where a stone marked Apollo’s grave and the grave of his female companion. The branches creaked in the breeze, saved, thankfully, from the flames.

  “Here is good,” Beckham said.

  Ruckley instructed the four soldiers to start digging with her while Beckham trudged over to look at the remains of his house.

  “I’m so sorry, man,” Horn said.

  Beckham stopped just outside where the back door had been. A metal picture frame had melted on the remains of a metal bedside table, the picture erased into ash.

  They walked around the crumbled side of the house together to the front when Horn suddenly halted.

  “FUCK!” Horn yelled.

  The soldiers all came running, shovels discarded, and rifles shouldered.

  “What? What’s wrong?” Ruckley said.

  Horn stared across the street at the remains of the house where he had raised Tasha and Jenny for the past eight years.

  For a moment no one said anything, but realization hit Beckham when he scanned the rest of the road. The other houses on the block were spared from the explosions and flames.

  “This isn’t a coincidence,” Ruckley said.

  “We were targeted,” Beckham said.

  Beckham thought back to the collaborator in Boston that knew his name, and then the attack on the lab that nearly killed Kate.