Extinction Age

-11-

“Dr. Lovato, you can’t board the Truxtun. You’re too important,” Major Smith said. “If something happens to you—”

Kate cut him off. “You’re getting me a ride to that ship.” She glared at the major, her eyes burning. Reed had saved her multiple times, but now it was her turn to save him. She’d requested a case of CBR suits, a helicopter, and an armed escort, but Smith was determined not to let her go.

She felt a powerful grip on her shoulder and turned to see Horn. “Kate, Major Smith’s right. Besides, what the hell are you going to do?”

“Take a fire-team to the ship, fight our way to Beckham and the others, and give them CBR suits. Then we fight our way out,” Kate said.

Horn loosened his hold on Kate’s shoulder and put Tasha on the ground.

“Sounds like a good way to get killed,” Ellis said. “I suppose I’m coming with you, right?”

“No one is going,” Smith said. “Lieutenant Colonel Jensen wouldn’t want you to risk your lives for him. You are way too important.”

“Is Reed going to be okay?” Tasha asked.

“Yes,” Kate said firmly. “He’s going to be just fine.”

Horn massaged his forehead. “This is messed up, really messed up. I didn’t think we would have to worry about the infected ever again!”

Jenny whimpered, burying her head in his side. Horn pulled her close and stroked her hair.

“Jesus Christ,” Smith said, shaking his head. “We’re going to have to light the beach up with bombs. There’s no salvaging anything now.”

“What did you say?” Kate asked sharply.

Smith looked at her like she was trying to trick him.

“Light the beach up with bombs,” Kate said, more to herself than anyone. She scratched at her cheek as an idea formed in her head. “Get General Kennor on the line.”

Smith looked even more confused now. “Doctor, I’m not following.”

“Listen very carefully,” Kate said. “Give him the coordinates of the Truxtun and ask him to order an airstrike.”

Horn grabbed Kate’s arm as soon as the words left her mouth. His chest heaved as he waited for an explanation.

“An airstrike of VX9H9,” Kate continued. “We don’t have to rescue them after all. The bioweapon will do that for us. If they can find a place to hunker down and give the weapon a chance to work, maybe they can ride this out.”

A grin broke across Horn’s face. He slowly let go of her sleeve and faced Smith. “Do it, Major. Do it right now.”

Scottie stumbled beside Beckham as they moved down the passageway. Wounded and probably half blind by the darkness, the officer could hardly walk. Beckham kept to his side, one hand on his rifle and the other to steady Scottie.

“The infected are on the third deck,” Beckham said. “We need to find a way past them to get to the bridge.”

The dog brushed up against Scottie’s leg. “There’s one way. A direct route,” Scottie said. “It’s not far.” His teeth had stopped chattering, but he still trembled from the cold. Beckham wondered how long the man had been in the freezer. If it weren’t for the warmth of Apollo’s body, he would have likely frozen to death before the engines had shut off.

“Show me,” Beckham said.

Scottie continued to a hatch they had passed earlier. “Through here.”

“I’ll lead,” Beckham said. “Fitz, you take rear guard. Chow, keep close to Scottie.” He placed his ear against the metal and listened. The distant shriek of an infected reverberated through the ship. Beckham wasn’t sure if it had come from above, below, or beyond the hatch. The enclosed space muffled every noise.

He cursed their luck and prepared to unload his magazine into a horde of monsters. Instead of pale, distorted flesh, he saw only the guts of another ladder well on the other side. He continued up to the next deck and swept his rifle over the shadows.

“The bridge is at the end of this passage,” Scottie whispered.

Beckham nodded and opened the final hatch. He pulled it back slowly, trying desperately not to make a sound. He cleared the right side first but froze when a shrill screech caught his ear. The horrifying sound was so loud there was no question where it had come from. The infected were here.

“MOVE!” he yelled. The bullets left his M4 before Beckham even had eyes on the targets. He planted his boots and steadied his wild shots. His heart pulsed with the rhythm of the rounds. The infected raced forward, springing to the bulkheads and overhead.

The crack of gunfire broke out all around him as all hell broke loose. His ears rang from the close combat, but he didn’t take his eyes off the monsters. Tracers lit up the passage, and in the glow he saw the bloodshot eyes of the contagious Variants. Some of those faces disappeared in chunks of bone and flesh. Others kept coming, their swollen lips widening as they charged forward like sharks preparing to swallow him whole.

Apollo barked furiously from the hatchway, jaws snapping. Beckham could see the dog in his peripheral vision. Scottie stood his ground and so did Beckham. Surrounded by Fitz and Chow, his senses finally snapped alert, activated by the will to protect his brothers.

He centered his sights on an infected male that had broken off from the front of the pack and fired off a three-round burst. The creature was fast—lightning fast. It darted around the spray, taking only one of the shots.

Beckham dropped to a knee, ejecting his magazine in the same motion. The monster charged, its swollen lips aimed at Beckham’s face. He pulled a magazine from his vest, slammed it inside, and raised his rifle just as the creature leapt into the air. A millisecond was all that separated him from the infected jaws.

Before he could pull the trigger, the monster’s head disintegrated. Beckham felt a tug on the back of his flak jacket and he fell on his ass, blood splattering the floor where he had knelt a moment before.

He scrambled to his feet and emptied his new magazine into the pack. Two of them dropped from the bulkhead, clawing at their gaping wounds, leaving four of the creatures prowling toward Beckham. One of them halted, confused, like it knew it was suddenly fucked. The other three rushed into the line of fire. They jerked as the rounds tore into their flesh, plastering the area with arterial blood.

Injured monsters struggled across the floor toward Beckham, long and bloodied limbs reaching up. He fired on those that were still strong enough to crawl but didn’t waste bullets on the ones he knew were taking their final breaths.

Apollo’s steady growl suddenly broke into a bark. Beckham glanced back at Scottie just in time to see the man disappear down the ladder as a creature pulled him into the darkness.

General Kennor paced his office, impatiently waiting for updated numbers. The numbers were all that mattered now. They represented bodies. Soldiers. His staff wanted him to believe that American soldiers could no longer win the war, so he’d agreed to the unthinkable: a retreat. But now, in the late hours of the evening, he was regretting his decision. He was a control freak. Always had been. By giving up control, he felt like he was raising the white flag. His old muscles and bones longed for the chance to fight again. He was no coward. He’d fought in Vietnam and Korea, and he wore the scars from both wars proudly. They were as much a part of him as his uniform.

But the Variants were unlike any enemy he had ever faced. Colonel Gibson had inadvertently created billions of the ultimate warriors. Now those super soldiers were bringing the human race to its knees. He needed someone who knew how to fight them. Someone who understood how the creatures operated.

A rap on the door pulled Kennor from his thoughts. He turned anxiously to see Colonel Harris standing in the open doorway to his small office.

“Talk to me, Harris. How bad is it?”

The colonel kept his face stern, but the twitch of his right eye said it all. He handed Kennor a piece of paper with a list of military bases across the country.

“Things are still chaotic, sir. But here is what we know,” Harris said.

Kennor carried the paper over to his desk and sat. He slipped on a pair of glasses and clicked on his lamp. The light spread over a list of military bases and dozens of red Xs. It wasn’t a formal briefing, but he didn’t need to ask what the red marks meant.

Edwards Air Force Base, McConnell, Moody, Dover, and countless other bases were gone. Fort Knox, Ford Hood, and Fort Jackson had marks next to them. Barstow, the logistical base for the Marine Corps, did too. The list went on and on.

“How?” Kennor asked, his voice shallow.

“The Variants have penetrated every installation and overwhelmed the forces inside. At this rate, we’re losing a base almost every twenty-four hours.”

“Jesus. I…” Kennor dropped the paper on the table and stood. “What about civilians? Do we have a current count?”

“Only estimates, sir. The best guess from lead ops is that there are less than seven million survivors left worldwide, and that number drops significantly every day. Most of the civilians are on military bases or in bunkers. There may be some in the cities, but we simply have no way of knowing how many. Like I said, these are estimates—”

Kennor pounded the table with the fist and watched Harris flinch. “There’s only one percent of the population left world fucking wide?” he roared. “How is that possible? A week ago there was just one Variant for every three human survivors.”

“With all due respect, General, there are over five hundred million Variants. They hunt in packs and swarm like a cross between insects and predatory animals. They are taking over every inch of the country, one stronghold at a time. They kill, feed, and bring the rest back to their lairs,” Harris said.

The radio on Colonel Harris’s belt crackled. He glanced down at the device and moved to shut it off when a voice said, “Colonel, do you copy? Over.”

“Sir, I should probably see what this is about,” Harris said.

Kennor nodded and sat back down in his chair, suddenly lightheaded. He looked at the ceiling and tried to understand the enormity of the situation. The numbers were all that mattered, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around the scale of the devastation. Only seven million people left, and dropping every day.

“Colonel, we have a request from Plum Island,” said the voice on the radio. “Major Smith wants an airstrike on the USS Truxtun.”

Harris’s face twisted with confusion. “An airstrike?”

“Yes, sir. They are requesting VX9H9. They claim the vessel has been overrun by Variants infected with the Hemorrhage virus. Lieutenant Colonel Jensen and two fire-teams are on board.”

Kennor pounded the table a second time when he connected the dots. “That dumb son of a bitch,” he growled. “Jensen must have ordered a salvage op after I denied the resupply request.”

Harris nodded. “Probably, sir. I’m told he also went to New York for Operation Liberty when he was told to stay behind.”

“The man can’t follow goddamn orders,” Kennor said. He shook his head and stared Harris in the eye. “Approve the request. Have our birds from Langley make the drop.”

Harris hesitated, holding the radio away from his mouth. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

“No,” Kennor said, a cold wave of horror washing over him. He grabbed the paper off his desk and scanned the names, stopping on a red X next to Langley.

“Fall back!” Beckham shouted. Scottie was already gone. The man’s screams were distant, growing fainter as the monsters pulled him below decks. The sounds seemed to enrage Apollo even more.

Beckham grabbed the dog by the collar with his left hand and tugged him away from the door. Apollo resisted, struggling in his grip as another infected leapt up the ladder. Beckham raised his rifle with his right hand and shot it in the chest. The monster tumbled head over heels. Two more quickly emerged from the shadows. He squeezed off another burst that sent them spinning into the darkness.

“Come on, Apollo!” Beckham shouted, yanking the dog’s collar. He retreated toward the sound of Chow and Fitz’s footfalls, keeping his eyes on the open hatch as he pulled Apollo down the passage.

“Down here, Beckham!” shouted a voice.

Beckham flung a glance over his shoulder. The door to the CIC was wide open. Chow and Jensen stood out front, waving frantically. Fitz and Timbo were inside. A pile of bodies—contagious bodies—separated what was left of the two strike teams.

Apollo fought to get free, growling and squirming. Beckham tightened his grip and then fired at two infected crewmen that burst through the open hatch. The first shots were wild, but the second volley found targets, two skulls detonating. Both bodies slumped to the ground with meaty thunks, life draining from them in an instant. A few days ago—hell, maybe even less—these men had been human. Two more creatures burst from the open hatch, and Beckham dispatched them without hesitation.

He flung the strap of his rifle over his back and worked on pulling the frantic dog the final stretch. Bullets streaked past him on both sides as the other men opened fire from the CIC.

“Leave the goddamn dog!” Jensen yelled.

Beckham caught a glimpse of motion past the open hatch they had come from. A sudden wave of Variants crashed into the area. One of them tripped and somersaulted. It leapt to its feet and jumped onto the bulkhead so fast it made Beckham queasy. Shots lanced down the passage, shattering bone and spraying the sides with infected blood.

Apollo suddenly jerked from Beckham’s grip. He grabbed the dog under the belly, picked him up and then took off running toward the CIC. Apollo’s weight made every step excruciating, Beckham’s injured shoulder burning with every stride.

The scratch of claws and shrill shrieks followed them as he ran. Chow and Jensen fired off another volley of carefully aimed shots.

“Come on!” Chow shouted.

Beckham leapt over another body and almost lost Apollo in the process. They were close now, only about fifty feet from salvation. He navigated around another three corpses and gripped Apollo tighter against his chest. Something reached up and grabbed one of his ankles when he was ten feet away from the door. He stumbled and crashed to the floor. Apollo jumped from his arms and landed just outside the CIC. The frightened dog darted inside.

The hand around Beckham’s ankle tightened and pulled him backward. He reached out for something to hold onto, but came up empty. He dragged his gloved fingers across the floor, screaming, “Shoot it!”

“I can’t get a shot!” Chow screamed back.

Beckham pulled his sidearm, twisted onto his back, and blasted the infected crewman that had his ankle. He shielded his eyes from the bloody mist and turned away just as another pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and pulled him toward the CIC.

Pain blurred Beckham’s vision as he waited for the hallucinations to set in—for the infection to rip through his body. He flinched as the hatch slammed shut. When he managed to open his eyes, he was on his back inside the CIC. Timbo, Jensen, Chow, and Fitz were hovering over him.

“Get away from me!” Beckham shouted, crawling backwards. “I could be infected.” His back hit a bulkhead and he wiped his face clean with an arm. His heart skipped at the sight of blood smeared on his sleeve.

The other men stood their ground, their weapons lowered toward the deck. Apollo made a sad whine and approached Beckham cautiously. The dog sniffed him and then sat by his side.