Extinction Age

-2-

General Richard Kennor hustled through an underground tunnel on his way to Central Command. The sun wouldn’t rise for hours, but most of his staff was already awake. Judging by their exhausted looks, some of them hadn’t slept at all. He fell into the same category, and it showed. His movements were sluggish and his eyes were swollen with fatigue. The caffeine had worn off hours ago, and he was operating on pure adrenaline. Sleep during wartime was like the first months of having a child: it came in short intervals, if at all.

An entourage trailed the four-star general as he continued down the crowded hallway. The bunker, buried deep beneath Offutt Air Force Base, was the same location former President George W. Bush had been taken after the September 11 attacks. Now it was the temporary home of more than two hundred people from every corner of the nation, ranging from congressmen to Navy Seals. There was even an anchor from CNN who had managed to sneak in with a senator’s political staff. When the evacuations began weeks ago, chaos and pure luck had ensured that these few had lived.

Kennor watched the flow of human traffic as he walked. In most cases these were important people—people the government had believed should survive an apocalyptic event. Kennor, however, could have done without two-thirds of them. He needed military personnel, men and women who knew how to fight a war. Fortunately, President Mitchell had given him a blank check to wage the war against the Variants as soon as he had been sworn into office.

He didn’t like the new POTUS, and not just because of his political affiliation. The former President pro tempore of the Senate was weak. That was the biggest flaw in a leader, to Kennor’s mind. The chaotic first few weeks of the outbreak had proven Mitchell’s time in congress hadn’t qualified him to lead a country, especially during a time of war. His only redeeming quality was the fact he stayed inside his bunker at Cheyenne Mountain and kept his mouth shut while Kennor handled the heavy lifting.

“Sir,” came a voice that distracted Kennor from his thoughts.

A pair of guards opened the double doors to the command center, and Kennor hurried inside. He took the first left into a small conference room. His personal staff—his three closest confidantes—were already inside. They rose from their seats around the war table and stood at attention as he entered. Their grave looks served as a powerful reminder that the human race was losing the war. Operation Liberty had failed on a massive level.

“At ease,” Kennor said as he took a seat. Most of them had been with him the better part of a decade fighting the war on terror. To his left was Colonel Harris, a man with slicked-back white hair and a mustache to match. Across the table sat Marsha Kramer, a middle-aged lieutenant colonel with crimson hair and a pair of dimples that rarely got any use. Kennor’s oldest friend, General George Johnson, was on the right, his bald head shining under the bank of lights overhead.

His hand shook as he reached for the folder marked Confidential. Breaking the seal, he pulled out a briefing and took a moment to scan his staff.

“Let’s get started. Harris,” Kennor said.

The colonel stood and stiffened. “In front of you, General, is the initial report from Operation Liberty. We suffered heavy losses in every major city. The Variants overran almost every single FOB established. New York is lost. So is Chicago. Minneapolis. St. Louis. Nashville. Atlanta. It’s a mess, sir.”

Kennor shook his head. He’d been caught with his pants down. Thousands of soldiers from every branch of the military were dead because he had ignored the advice of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen and Dr. Kate Lovato. The cities he had so desperately wanted to protect were now in ruins because he’d made the wrong call.

“The good news is that the Air Force pounded the Variants hard with firebombs. The troops drew them out of their holes, and the flyboys turned them to ash. Preliminary reports indicate we killed a significant number.”

“Do we have any idea how many are left?”

“Several recon teams have been deployed, and satellite imagery is being monitored as we speak,” Harris said.

“I want numbers,” Kennor snapped. “Solid numbers.”

“Yes, sir,” Harris said and made a note on his pad.

“How about survivors? Do we know how many people are left out there?” Kramer asked.

Harris’s slight hesitation was all Kennor needed to know it wasn’t good.

“I’m afraid we don’t have solid numbers there either,” Harris said.

“Then give me some soft numbers,” Kennor replied.

Harris raised a brow and in a matter-of-fact tone said, “Extinction, sir. We’re looking at the near annihilation of the human race if we don’t stop the Variants in the next month.”

“You mean to tell me the Variants have killed the majority of the world’s population in less than a month?” Kennor said.

“That’s precisely what he’s saying,” Kramer said. “With all due respect, sir, those things aren’t mindless zombies. We have underestimated them every step of the way. If we are going to win this war, we need to change our tactics.”

Kennor shook his head. “NYC proves these things can be killed. Draw them out and bomb them to kingdom come.”

“Draw them out with what, sir? More Marines?” Kramer said. There was anger in her challenge. Under normal circumstances, he’d have called her out for insubordination, but things had changed.

As the Pit Bull of the American Military—a nickname he’d always hated—he had overseen countless missions during the war on terror. The Variants had proved much harder to kill. Now the jihadists were fighting the same enemy he was, and the irony was hard to swallow. The world had changed practically overnight. And like so many times before, circumstance had turned enemies into allies.

A moment of tension lingered and then passed. Kennor wasn’t ready to admit defeat or retreat, but he was toeing a fine line. The frustration of his staff went beyond fatigue. They were all losing their confidence in his ability to lead. He’d seen other commanders fall victim to the same thing, but he was not going to be one of them. He’d made mistakes, but it wasn’t too late to turn this war around.

Kennor looked to an uncharacteristically quiet Johnson. The man had always been a voice of reason. He needed that voice now more than ever.

“What do you think, General?” Kennor asked.

Johnson exchanged a glance with Kramer and Harris. After a pause he said, “I think we need to carefully consider our next moves. With so much hanging in the balance, we can’t afford another Operation Liberty.”

Johnson cleared his throat as if he wanted to say more. Kennor scrutinized him, knowing Johnson wasn’t finished. He could see the wheels turning in the general’s head by his mannerisms. First he crossed his thick arms across his chest, then he twisted his mustache to one side, and finally he tightened his jaw. Kennor wasn’t prepared for what came next.

“It’s time to retreat,” Johnson said sternly. “We need to pull our troops out of the cities completely. Leave only a few recon teams behind.”

“I agree,” Kramer added. “It’s time to give science another chance. Perhaps we need to give Dr. Lovato and her team another opportunity to destroy the Variants.”

Kennor massaged his wrinkled forehead. “Retreat,” he muttered. “I never thought I would hear anyone on my team say that word.”

“Sir, our military isn’t just fractured. It’s been shattered,” Harris said. “We’re strained in every area. I’m not sure—”

A rap on the door interrupted him. The door swung open and a young corporal named Van strode into the room. A bead of sweat trickled from his receding hairline.

“General Kennor, sir. We just received some urgent news,” he said. Van hesitated, looking at the general’s staff.

“Go ahead, son,” Kennor said.

“Raven Rock Mountain Complex.” The corporal paused for a blink and then said, “It’s… it’s been overrun.”

Kennor shifted in his chair to give Van a better look. “What do you mean, overrun? That’s one of the most secure locations in the country. Hell, it’s the alternate joint command and backup for the Pentagon. There are a couple hundred people hunkered down there, including the UN ambassador and the Secretary of State.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Van said. “The Variants found a way into the tunnel system and overwhelmed the forces there.”

“My God,” Kramer gasped.

Silence crowded the small briefing room. The loss of Raven Rock was more than another nail in the coffin; it proved that no location on the planet was safe. Kennor scanned his team. Fatigued and strained, they wore identical looks of defeat.

“Van, I want you to arrange a search and rescue mission. If anyone is alive in there, get them the hell out.”

Van nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Kennor stood, pushed his chair under the table, and looked to Harris. He suddenly felt as weak as President Mitchell, but at least Kennor wasn’t as stupid. His staff had convinced him there was only one option left on the table, and the fall of Raven Rock proved they were right.

“I want a coordinated tactical withdrawal,” Kennor said.

“Are you telling us to retreat?” Harris asked.

Kennor paused, the words burning in his throat. “Yes. Order a full retreat from every city,” he said. “Get our men and women out of there and bring them home.”

With nothing else to say, he turned away from his staff and hurried out of the room. In a sudden fit of rage he slammed the door behind him as he retreated for the first time in his career.

Beckham had just enough time to dart around the next corner before the second grenade went off. The deafening explosion rattled the tunnel, and fragments of rock sprinkled from the ceiling. He closed his eyes and ran through the storm of debris, saying a mental prayer for the innocent lives that had been lost in the lair. In his heart he knew he’d done the right thing. No one should have to suffer like that.

At least they had saved someone. In a time where every life counted, he considered it a victory. Chow carried the woman around the next corner and disappeared from sight. Beckham halted and turned to check the entrance to the tomb. A thick cloud of smoke lingered where the grenade had gone off. Chunks of stone filled the tunnel. He raised his .45 and waited for the smoke to clear.

Beyond the perpetual ringing, he heard a howl. As the haze dissipated, he saw the source—a single clawed hand protruded from the pile. It curled and went limp after a final twitch.

Beckham waited another second, just to make sure, and then ran. His team was waiting at a T-intersection. Timbo was bent over, his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Jinx stood guard in the middle of the corridor. He moved his Beretta M9 in a slow sweep as he searched the other tunnels for hostiles.

“Valdez, you hold security with Jinx,” Beckham said. “The rest of you, take five.” He crouched next to Chow, who was busy dressing the injuries on the woman’s legs.

“How is she?” Beckham asked.

“Weak. But she’ll live.”

He applied another bandage and looked up. “What are we doing, man? We can’t just run around down here forever.”

Before Beckham could respond, the woman let out a long moan.

“It’s okay,” Chow said. “You’re going to be all right.”

She blinked, trying to focus on Chow and then Beckham.

“Where am…” she began to say when her eyes widened with realization. She scrambled away from the two operators, dragging her legs across the platform until her back hit the wall.

“Don’t be scared,” Chow said. “We’re here to help.”

“What’s your name?” Beckham asked.

The woman reached for the curtain of hair covering her filthy face and pulled it to the side.

“Meg,” she whispered.

“I’m Master Sergeant Beckham, and this is Staff Sergeant Chow. We’re Delta Force, and our team is going to get you out of here.”

She glanced over at the other men. “How many are you?”

“Seven,” Beckham replied.

Meg let out a sad laugh. “You can’t save me. We’ll never make it out of the city.”

Beckham exchanged a glance with Chow. Both of them knew she was probably right, but they were soldiers and admitting defeat wasn’t in their nature. Surrendering was death. They had to keep fighting.

“We need to get back up top,” Beckham said as Jensen approached. “If we can find that Marine convoy we passed on West Fiftieth and Seventh Avenue, we can load up on ammo and pile into one of the Humvees.”

Jensen nodded. “I was thinking the same thing, but I have no idea where the hell we are. Could be blocks away or could be miles.”

“Any plan is better than running around in this maze,” Chow said.

“I don’t like the idea of moving in the dark. Maybe we should wait for sunup when the Variants are less active,” Jensen said.

“Not sure we’re going to last that long down here, sir,” Beckham replied. “We’re low on ammo and low on fuel.”

Jensen looked over his shoulder and nodded. “I definitely don’t want to get cornered again without ammo.”

“Then it’s settled. We go topside as soon as everyone has a chance to take in some nutrition and water,” Beckham said. He looked toward Chow. “Redistribute ammo. Make sure everyone has a mag for their primary weapon.”

Chow nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

The operator hurried away with Jensen, leaving Beckham alone with Meg. He reached for his water bottle and gave it a quick shake. It was almost empty. He was just about to take a swig when Meg moaned.

Beckham handed her the bottle. “Here, drink.” He helped her bring it to her lips and held it there as she finished it off.

“Bet you’re hungry, too,” Beckham said. He pulled an energy bar from his pocket and peeled back the wrapper.

“No,” she said, waving it away. “I feel sick.”

“You have to eat. You’ll need your energy.”

She studied the bar in the dim lighting like it was poison. Beckham pushed it closer.

“You really think you can get me out of the city?” Meg asked.

“I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here. I promise you that.”

A pained grin broke across her face. “Guess not every man left in this city is a yellow-bellied coward after all.”

Two Blackhawks hovered overhead. The blades chopped through the silence of the early morning as the smoke from the smoldering Chinook swirled across the tarmac.

“Daddy!” Tasha shouted as the choppers descended. Kate grabbed the girl’s hand and held her back.

“Doctor,” the Medical Corps guard said. “My orders are to escort you back to Building 5. Major Smith has requested your presence at the command center.”

She shot him a glare. “Can’t he wait a few minutes? Their father is on one of those choppers.”

The young man frowned and flicked his headset to his lips. “Command, this is Sinclair. Holding position on eastern edge of tarmac.”

Kate couldn’t hear the response over the whirring of the Blackhawks’ rotors, but the man’s eyes told her she could stay.

“Thank you,” Kate lipped.

A beam from a spotlight centered on the wall of smoke creeping over the concrete. The soldiers roved the light from side to side, penetrating the thick haze. In the glow Kate saw two-dozen men trudging across the tarmac.

Kate squeezed the girls’ hands tighter as the men emerged with their helmets bowed in defeat. Their uniforms were soiled with dried blood and ash.

One of them stood taller than the others. She knew right away it was Horn. He jogged ahead when he saw them standing behind the concrete barriers.

“Tasha! Jenny!” he yelled, picking up speed.

“Daddy!” the girls yelled. Kate loosened her grip and let them run to their father. He scooped them up in his arms and held them tight. Hot tears blurred her vision as she watched. Tragedy had opened the door for a miracle, and once again a father was reunited with his daughters.