Extinction Age

-15-

Kate was doing her best not to think about anything but work. By mid-afternoon she’d already logged seven hours in the lab. She’d spent most of the time studying the new glycoprotein expressed by the Variants.

“We’re really calling it the Superman protein?” Kate said, glancing skeptically at Ellis. “How’d you come up with that?”

“Take a look,” Ellis said. He swiveled his monitor in her direction and pointed. “The beta sheets in its tertiary structure look like a cape.”

“So?”

Rolling his eyes, Ellis said, “The Variant Superman protein is attached to oligosaccharide chains. Remember? The sugars?”

Kate nodded, leaning closer.

“The protein enables better, quicker interactions with the biochemical cascade associated with wound healing. It’s why the Variants heal so quickly. Get it?”

She cracked a half smile. Ellis was a nerd, and a brilliant one at that. In the past she’d heard of scientists naming proteins Sonic Hedgehog and Pikachurin. She also vaguely remembered one called Superman. She asked just to be sure.

“Isn’t there already a protein called Superman?”

“Yeah, but that’s just for plants,” Ellis said. “I’m calling this one the Variant Superman Protein, but we can still call it Superman for short.”

“It’s settled then,” Kate said. “Let’s start the sequencing.”

“On it,” Ellis said.

They spent the next few hours sequencing the peptides corresponding to various sections of the protein. When they were finished, Ellis synthesized a string of peptides for immunizing the animal subjects Kate was prepping. With the extermination of the Rhesus population, she was forced to use mice.

“I’ll be back in a few,” Kate said. “Gotta get the rodents.”

“No problem. I’ll have this completed in fifteen minutes.”

Kate left Ellis to his work and crossed the lab, weaving her way through the compartments. Motion-activated lights flickered on as she entered the empty labs. The only other scientists at the facility were all on-call now, waiting in case Kate needed them, but the labs were deserted.

She hesitated outside of the observation window to the animal testing room, remembering the Rhesus monkeys she’d infected with the Hemorrhage virus weeks earlier. She could still imagine their crimson eyes and their clawed hands rattling the cages.

The door beeped as she waved her keycard over the security panel. She pulled the door open and continued inside. Shelves stacked with the remaining rodent populations stretched across the room. There were rats, mice, a few guinea pigs, and even a ferret. Most of them were frail from lack of proper nutrition. Others were missing large patches of hair from stress and the constant tests the technicians had performed. Only a few were in decent testing condition.

Kate picked the plumpest mice she could find and put their cages on a cart. She pushed them quickly back to her lab, trying not to look at the animals. Their suffering would be over soon.

“Almost set,” Ellis said when she returned. “Got us our specimens?”

“A dozen,” Kate said. She positioned the cart near a clear lab station and waited for Ellis to finish prepping the adjuvant solution. It contained the peptide sequences that would be used to incite an immune response from the mice. In turn, this would create antibodies targeting the Superman protein in the Variants.

When he had finished with the prep, he swabbed the base of each mouse’s tail with sterilizing solution and then injected the solution into their veins.

“All done,” Ellis said, taking a step back and standing by Kate’s side.

“How long should it take before we can perform a bleed?” she asked.

“Normally ten to fourteen days. There’s no way to speed up the animals’ immune system to make antibodies faster, but we could always perform a bleed earlier. That would just mean we get a lower concentration of antibodies.”

“We’ll have to start in the next day or two,” Kate said. “General Kennor is going to want this done as quickly as possible.”

Ellis let out a sigh. “I think I can make that work. Question is, what do we do while we wait?”

“We think long term.”

“Right,” Ellis said. “We still haven’t determined a way to deliver the weapon.”

“I’ve been trying not to think about this, but we may not have enough time to manufacture a weapon that we can use on a worldwide level before…”

Ellis nudged the bottom of the station with his boot. “Before the Variants wipe every last man, woman, and child off the face of the planet?”

Kate nodded grimly. “I read a study on endangered species in my undergrad. Scientists found that in order for the human race to survive, they would need a minimum healthy population of two hundred and fifty adults in a single location.”

“Like the two hundred and fifty at Central Command?” Ellis said.

“In theory,” Kate said. “There are other places, too. China, North Korea, Russia, Austria, and a host of other countries built these underground cities during World War II and the Cold War. Places that humans could survive in case there was ever a post-apocalyptic event.”

“Austria was supposedly the most prepared country a few years ago. They drilled into the mountains and built bunkers that were stocked with enough supplies to last years,” Ellis said. His eyes suddenly brightened under the lights. “The cities may be gone, but there still have to be pockets of resistance, right? Places like these underground cities.”

Kate nodded uneasily. She wanted to believe that, but everything Beckham had told her said otherwise. Most of the human race had been forced into shelters underground, and like the caged mice in front of her, they were trapped.

“We can still stop the Variants, Kate,” Ellis said. “We have to stop them.”

“I know,” Kate said. She watched the rodents with a hopeful eye. Inside these tiny creatures, the antibodies she needed to build her new weapon would soon begin to seed.

Lieutenant Colonel Jensen had done some things in his career that he regretted, but never in all of those years had he done anything that kept him up at night. Not until the Truxtun. Nothing he could do would bring his men back or relieve the pain he felt for taking Timbo’s life. He could only pray that God would forgive his sins and give him strength to continue fighting. He doubted, however, that God would forgive Colonel Gibson or Colonel Wood.

Jensen’s gut told him that Wood had known what was going on at Building 8. Gibson and Wood were like brothers and had worked together since Vietnam. Though Jensen knew better, you could at least make the argument that Gibson possessed a moral compass. He had designed VX-99 in hopes that other parents wouldn’t have to lose their sons on foreign battlefields. The result was disastrous, but a part of Jensen understood why Gibson had done what he did.

A very small part.

Wood, on the other hand, had no morals. He didn’t even understand the concept. Referred to as “The Snake” by his fellow officers, he was known for his cutthroat tactics. There were rumors that Building 8 wasn’t the only top-secret biological warfare program Wood had worked on. Some of Jensen’s colleagues had hinted that Wood had his own hidden facility focused on weapons of mass destruction.

As much as Jensen wanted to bury Wood next to Gibson, he had to carry on with his duty. The military still had rules and protocols, even at the end of the world. Jensen had sworn an oath and he still believed in his country—although he was starting to lose faith in those that protected her, especially after the disaster known as Operation Liberty.

Jensen buried any thoughts of mutiny as he jogged toward the tarmac. He had new orders—a recon mission to Connecticut to observe the Variant migration patterns. Command had sent word through all channels that the creatures were leaving their lairs and traveling farther afield for human prey. His job was to document their behavior and look for anything that could help win the war, but he doubted a flyover would tell them anything they didn’t already know.

When he passed Building 1, he glimpsed Kate and Beckham embracing on the steps. Jensen slowed, hoping to catch the operator’s ear before they departed for Connecticut.

“It’s just a recon mission, Kate. I won’t even leave the chopper,” Beckham was saying. He caught sight of Jensen, kissed Kate on the cheek, and then loped down the stairs. “Good evening, sir,” he said.

“Is it?” Jensen said. He waved to Kate and added, “Let’s take a stroll.”

Jensen led Beckham away from the building in silence. He checked the path for any of Wood’s men. The last thing he wanted was for any of the soldiers to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Ahead, a patrol marched in the opposite direction. When Jensen rounded the corner, the crackling of leaves and snapping of branches commanded his gaze to the trees behind Building 1. A trio of soldiers in black fatigues had just emerged from the thick canopy.

“How’s Kate doing?” Jensen asked casually in case the soldiers were listening. He continued forward, using the glow from the industrial light poles to guide them toward the tarmac.

“She’s hanging in there. Sounds like they’re making some headway with their experiments. She says they identified a protein only expressed in Variants, but I don’t really understand all the science mumbo jumbo.”

“Don’t know what that means either, but it sounds promising. My first CO told me that if you don’t know what someone’s talking about, you just nod and grin.”

“Mine said the exact opposite,” Beckham said. “Told me not to react at all.”

They shared a laugh as they reached the concrete barriers on the edge of tarmac. The black silhouettes of Echo 1, 2, and 3 rested ahead. The pilots were starting to warm the birds up.

A dozen soldiers flocked around the Blackhawks, stacking gear and loading weapons. Half wore the black fatigues of Wood’s men. The other half sported tan camo and body armor. Among them were a few Marines and Rangers from Fort Bragg and the last members of Delta.

Just a recon mission.

After everything they’d been through, Jensen wasn’t going to underestimate a mission ever again.

“Beckham,” Jensen said quietly. “We got to watch our backs now more than ever.”

“Always do,” Beckham replied.

“I’m not talking about the Variants.”

Beckham halted and gave him a cockeyed glance. “Wood?”

“He’s connected to Gibson’s work. I’m not sure how deep their ties go or what Wood knew about VX-99, but we shouldn’t trust him.”

Beckham’s face tensed like he was suffering from a massive migraine. “You think he could have been involved with Building 8?”

“Can’t confirm or deny that,” Jensen said. “But I would guess he was, in some capacity.”

“Roger that. I’m already two steps ahead of you, sir.”

Jensen nodded. “Figured as much.”

They continued the rest of the walk in silence. Jensen dropped his rucksack on the ground beside Echo 2 and waved his new team over. Chow, Horn, Beckham, and a sergeant from Wood’s staff gathered around.

“Everyone, this is Sergeant Valentine, he’ll be accompanying us on our flyover of Niantic,” Jensen said.

Valentine stepped forward. He was built like a turtle, with a bulky midsection and a short neck. “Command wants us to chart enemy movement. We are not to engage. I repeat: we are not to engage any hostiles.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Jensen said. “We understand our orders from brass. And this here silver oak leaf means you need to understand my orders. But I expect you already know that.” He didn’t care if he sounded condescending. Valentine clearly suffered from little man syndrome, and given how uncomfortable he looked in his gear, chances were he’d never seen combat at all. Jensen made a mental note of that. The last thing he was going to do was let some green-ass sergeant pull any stunts like Lieutenant Gates had during Operation Liberty.

“Yes, sir,” Valentine said. “Understood, sir.”

Jensen looked Valentine up and down, shifted the chew in his mouth, and then pulled a map in a waterproof sleeve from his vest.

“Beckham, you know this area the best. I’d like you to direct the birds. Give the pilots a heads up about where to look for the enemy.”

“Yes, sir,” Beckham replied. He accepted the map from Jensen’s hand and took a few minutes to study it. A gentle drop of rain fell on the paper, beading on the acetate. The sky opened up just as Beckham folded the map and put it into a pocket.

Anxious to get in the air, Jensen said, “Let’s mount up.”

Horn climbed inside the craft and manned the M260. Chow and Beckham flung their scoped M4s over their shoulders and piled in. Jensen waited for Valentine before jumping inside.

The heavy thump of blades sounded as the pilots fired up the birds. Each man took his seat and began his pre-mission routine. Chow chewed on a toothpick, Beckham traced a finger over his vest pocket, and Horn flexed his right fist in and out. Valentine sat stiffly, his gaze shifting from face to face. He stopped on Jensen’s and they locked eyes for several seconds.

Valentine looked away first. He settled his back against the compartment wall and grabbed his helmet as the bird ascended into the sky. Jensen let his lips curl into a brief smile.

That’s right. Back in your shell, you little bastard.

The other two Blackhawks peeled off in opposite directions. Movement at the opposite end of the tarmac caught Jensen’s attention as they pulled away. He grabbed the handle by the door and worked his way to the side. A cluster of troops were moving across the tarmac toward the single remaining aircraft. He didn’t need his scope to see Wood and his entourage boarding the Chinook.

Jensen secretly hoped it was the last time he saw the man. He even let himself wish that Wood somehow found himself up to his neck in Variants wherever the bird was taking him. But deep down Jensen knew that if Wood died, Kennor would have another watchdog sent his way.

Fitz took in a breath of salty air and looked over the side of guard Tower 9. The building had been erected at Pine Point, on the southern tip of Plum Island. Unlike the other towers, this one didn’t have a vantage of the entire island. It looked out over Gardiners Bay to the south and Orient, New York, to the west. He could hardly see the six white domes of the Plum Island compound.

Overhead, thin clouds lit up as they rolled past a brilliant moon. Below, the black water sparkled. The tower wasn’t the worst in terms of the view, but it was the most isolated. A Humvee had dropped him and Apollo off at the end of the dirt road before returning to the post. Other than the dog, he was completely alone. From where Fitz stood, he could only see the silhouetted figures of the snipers in Towers 7 and 8. The boxes had been erected on the beach to the northwest and northeast. If something happened, he was far from help, but that’s why he had his MK11 and Apollo. He trusted his shooting skills enough not to worry, and having Beckham’s new friend watching his back was an added relief.

His main concern tonight wasn’t Variants. It was Colonel Wood. The sonofabitch hadn’t believed in him enough to place him under Jensen’s command. The man had actually looked at him with a pitying glance when he’d volunteered to go on tonight’s recon mission.

Fitz hated that. He wasn’t useless. He didn’t need the colonel’s pity—he needed a chance. The same chance Beckham had given him at Fort Bragg. He was a Marine, and he could still fight. He was determined to prove the colonel wrong and make his way back onto Team Ghost.

Breathing heavily, he gripped the stock of his MK11 in one hand and mounted the bipod onto the wooden ledge. A soft rain had begun to fall. The drops fell at an angle, pinging off his helmet and cooling his flushed cheeks as he glassed the ocean. He channeled what was left of his anger into his current mission—his duty to protect the island.

He spent the next few minutes scoping the dark waves. The lonely shapes of derelict ships drifted in the distance. It was the same sight he’d seen so many times before. But when he moved the scope back toward the shore, he saw something odd at one thousand feet out.

What in the hell?

He chambered a round and zoomed in on a trio of shapes. They bobbed up and down in the dark water. Whatever they were, they didn’t appear to be moving on their own. The tide was carrying them toward the shoreline. It was probably plastic cartons or something a ship had thrown over the side, but he made a mental note to check on them in a few minutes when he had a better view.

Maneuvering to his right, he started his first sweep of the sloped shoreline to the northwest. The surf slurped against the beach, white foam forming at its edges. Despite the beach, Plum Island was no paradise—the sand was littered with plastic bottles and other trash, and rows of electric fences lined the shelf of the beach and the short ridgeline beyond. If anything made it past his 7.62mm rounds, they would have to climb the ten-foot tall fences and clear the razor wire.

Fitz moved his muzzle to Tower 8, sighted the sniper, and then glassed the woods to the northeast. Beams from the fire-team patrolling the area shot through the trees as the soldiers searched for threats.

He checked on Apollo next. The dog glanced up from the sand and wagged his tail. Fitz had tried carrying him up the ladder, but apparently Apollo didn’t like heights, so Fitz had left him on the beach to stand watch.

Apollo’s ears perked as a female voice crackled over the comm. “Tower 9, Command. Please report.”

Fitz didn’t bother checking his watch. He knew he was late on his SITREP.

“Sorry, Command. All looks clear out here,” Fitz replied.

He returned to his rifle and searched for the floating objects he’d seen earlier. They had drifted another two or maybe three hundred yards closer to the island. The sky had cleared enough to allow moonlight through, and Fitz zoomed in for a better look.

With a few twists of his scope, he identified the curved bottom of a capsized yacht about halfway between Plum Island and Orient. He swept the crosshairs back to the floating lumps. Now he could see they were bodies.

He checked for any flicker of movement, any sign they were still alive. Each wore a life jacket, but that hadn’t saved them. They were all face down in the water. There was no question—the poor souls were dead.

“Command, Tower 9, I have eyes on three casualties,” Fitz said into his comm.

“Copy that, Tower 9. No sign of survivors?”

“Negative so far,” Fitz said. “Stand by.”

Fitz wiped away the cold drops of rain running down his forehead and did another quick sweep of the area. A flash of underwater motion broke across his crosshairs as he slowly moved the rifle.

“What the hell was—” Fitz began to say. He jerked his rifle back and searched for the contact. The long, narrow body of a sea creature blurred past his crosshairs like an arrow under the waves. Whatever kind of fish this was, it was moving fast.

He pulled the bipod off the ledge and shouldered the rifle to scan the waves with naked eyes. There, six hundred feet out, he saw the creature again. It might have been a dolphin or even a shark, something sleek and pale in the water.

Holding in a breath, he steadied his rifle and zoomed in. It was gliding just beneath the surface. He slowly roved the rifle to the left, where he spotted more of them, all closing in on the floating corpses.

“Tower 9, standing by for report.”

Fitz didn’t reply. He let out a breath and focused on the wave of monster-sized fish surging under the waves. They had to be sharks. Variants couldn’t hold their breath that long, could they?

He flinched as one of the life jackets disappeared under the water. The other two vanished a moment later, and the shimmering black water turned a frothy red.

“Tower 9—” the operator began to say.

“Stand by!” Fitz said, his irritated voice cutting her off.

He pressed his eye back against the scope just as a shiny skull crested the water. Even from five hundred yards out, he could recognize the yellow eyes of a Variant.

“Command, I have eyes on a hostile. I repeat…” His voice trailed off as a dozen heads emerged above the water. Steam rose off their skulls, churning over the surface like smoke.

Fitz’s heart spiked with anxiety when he saw a blur of white two hundred yards to the northwest. It was a second wave of Variants, and judging by the crimson water, there wasn’t anything left to eat.

“My God,” Fitz whispered.

“Repeat your last, Tower 9.”

“Command, I… uh… I have eyes on multiple contacts.”

There was a short pause and then, “Tower 9, how many hostiles do—”

Fitz fired off a shot. It was a bull’s-eye, the head of one of the monsters bursting into shards of bone and brain. The others dove before he could squeeze off another round.

“Command, I have a dozen contacts. Requesting support at Tower 9!” Fitz said, his voice rising to a shout.

Steady, Fitz, steady…

He waited for the creatures to get closer. When they were in his sights he fired calculated shots that zipped through the water and found flesh. The Variants swam using the breaststroke, gliding effortlessly, using their legs to propel them forward like frogs. Their flexible joints and muscular bodies made them the perfect swimmers, and Fitz now suspected they had also evolved to hold their breath longer than humans.

The chatter of gunfire from Tower 8 sounded as Fitz changed his first magazine. Apollo was barking, his howls echoing up into the boxy tower. Fitz ignored the dog and concentrated on the water. The Variants were picking up speed. At this rate, they would reach the shore in a few minutes.

There were hundreds of the monsters now, all coming from New York. Fitz imagined they had exhausted their resources there and had taken to the water to find food. Plum Island, unfortunately, was right in their path.

Fitz fired as quickly as he could line up his shots. Injured Variants struggled above the surface, bleeding from gaping wounds. He concentrated on those that continued forward, aiming for their glistening heads.

He finished off another magazine and reached for a replacement. Jamming it home, he picked up the rifle and leaned over the ledge, firing at the first creatures leaping from the surf. Their naked, hairless bodies glimmered in the moonlight, revealing frail, starving physiques. Bulging veins crisscrossed their bony ribcages, the skin so tight it looked like plastic wrap. Some of them dropped to all fours, their joints snapping and clicking over the gunfire.

Fitz counted thirty, and thirty quickly turned into fifty. He cut them down as fast he could, but they continued to emerge from the water. The night filled with the shrieks of enraged monsters and Fitz’s own uncontrolled shouting. The blood rushed in his ears, his heart threatening to break through his ribcage.

“Command! Where are my reinforcements?” Fitz yelled into his comm as a pair of Variants collided with the electrical fence. The metal rattled as the current fried both of the monsters. They tumbled back onto the sand, their bodies smoldering. Instead of deterring the others, a tall male jumped on the first fallen corpse and leapt to the top of the fence. Others followed, leaping and throwing themselves on the chain-link mesh and razor wire. They wrapped their claws around the metal even as they were jolted with electricity. Most of them died right there, their bony bodies going limp, but their sacrifice allowed others to climb the ladder of Variant corpses.

Within minutes, the fence was crumpling and the breeze reeked of burned flesh. Fitz watched with a sense of awe as he fired, amazed at the intelligence of the creatures. They were starving and desperate, but most of them were still smart enough to make it over the fence using the bodies of the fallen.

An air raid siren screamed in the distance. As he changed magazines, Fitz threw a glance over his shoulder to see a pair of Humvees squeal to a stop at the road behind the tower. Two fire-teams piled out and ran to the fences. The crack from their rifles was only a short relief that vanished when he looked back over the beach.

The mass of monsters swarming over the sand prompted a fear that reached deeper than any he’d felt during his time in Iraq. It was more powerful than what he’d felt during the escape from Fort Bragg—more powerful than what he’d felt on the Truxtun or during the first attack on the Island.

This time it wasn’t a Chinook that had brought the monsters to the post. The Variants had finally found it on their own. They’d brought the battle to Plum Island, and Fitz feared this time they would win.