Extinction Age

-3-

Meg ignored the rancid smell of sewage. She was more concerned with her shredded legs. When she had finished her first Ironman Triathlon, she’d endured the pain from the thousands upon thousands of rotations and footfalls that went into the one hundred forty mile race. That day, her muscles had been stretched like too-tight guitar strings. She had thought they were going to snap before she crossed the finish line.

The agony she felt now was worse. She still hadn’t gotten a good look at the damage the creatures had inflicted. The tunnels were too dark for that, but she knew from the pain that it had to be bad.

“Give me a weapon,” Meg said.

The two soldiers carrying her down the tunnel hesitated for a moment. Beckham, the man on her right, shook his head.

“No way in hell you can fight like this,” he said.

“A weapon,” Meg repeated. “Please give me something. A knife or a gun.”

“I’ll give you my knife before we go up top,” Beckham replied.

It wouldn’t replace her axe, but a blade would do. Steel always made her feel better—even if it wouldn’t do much against the monsters. Ahead, the other soldiers had stopped. They clustered around a skeletal ladder that led to a manhole.

“Jinx, check it out. See if you can get eyes on the street,” Beckham said. “Chow, help me with her.”

Meg groaned as the two soldiers helped position her back against the wall. Chow kept a hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling over. Her head felt foggy. The cloud was so thick she could hardly think. She could only seem to focus on one thing: the blade the man named Beckham had promised her.

“I’m going to check these dressings,” Chow said. He crouched down in front of her. “This might hurt.”

Meg gritted her teeth in anticipation. The faint scraping of metal sounded somewhere in the distance. The manhole, she realized, tilting her head for a better look. For a second, Meg’s heart caught in her throat as she remembered Jed and Rex dropping the cover into place, sealing her into this mazelike grave. Then she felt the presence of the soldiers who had come to help her, not abandon her. Meg’s breathing slowed and she relaxed while Chow examined the bandages he’d put on her injuries.

Overhead, the man they had called Jinx climbed the ladder. His feet disappeared and moonlight flooded the tunnel, casting an eerie glow over the team that had saved her. Covered in ash, the soldiers looked like ghosts.

The sight reminded her of one of her first days on the job. In the aftermath of the September 11 attacks, she and all the other rescue workers had looked a lot like these soldiers. That awful day had prepared her mentally for everything she’d seen since then—everything except the monsters.

Meg cursed as Chow pulled away one of the bandages. She cursed again when she saw her injuries.

Chow pushed his NVGs up and caught her gaze. “Don’t look,” he said.

It was too late. Meg couldn’t pull her eyes away from the exposed muscle on her right calf. She wouldn’t be completing any triathlons again. Not that it really mattered—the only race she was likely to run again was away from the zombies, or whatever they were.

“Hey lady,” came a voice.

A soldier with an unmistakably Italian nose stood behind Chow. He stared at Meg with broken eyes. “Hey,” he said again.

Meg managed a weak response. “What?”

“How many made it out of the city?” he asked. “Before things got really bad?”

She understood then. He was from New York. Probably Queens or the Bronx, judging by his accent.

“I don’t know,” Meg replied solemnly, her heart hurting for the man. “Not many. When the virus started spreading, things got bad really fast. The Air Force took out the bridges first.”

The soldier bowed his head. Before he could reply Beckham said, “Jinx, you got eyes?”

Meg couldn’t hear the response, but saw Beckham’s features tense.

“Went too far. That convoy is two blocks away,” Beckham said. “In the other direction.” He peered into the darkness of the tunnel leading to the east.

An African-American man with the build of a career soldier spat and wiped off his mustache with a sleeve.

“What do you think, sir?” Beckham asked the man.

“Two blocks, ain’t far,” he replied. He stepped out of the moonlight and said, “I’ll leave this one up to you. You’ve gotten us this far.”

“You boys ready for a quick jog?” Beckham asked his men.

The other soldiers nodded and approached the ladder. Beckham crouched back down next to Meg. “When we get up top, Timbo’s gonna carry you.”

His voice sounded so confident that for a moment she actually believed he would get her out of the city. She held out a shaky hand. “Fine with me. Long as you give me that,” she said, pointing at his knife.

Beckham reluctantly unbuttoned the sheath and extended the handle to her. “Hopefully you won’t need it.”

Instead of grabbing the handle, she put her hand over his. “Just promise me one thing,” Meg said, searching his eyes.

The strength there told her she could trust him. He was not Jed or Rex. He’d proved that when he’d stayed behind to save her from the lair, and she could see by the way he interacted with his men that he wouldn’t abandon them, either.

“If those things come—don’t let them take me again. You put a bullet in my head before that happens.” Meg coughed into her shoulder and then squeezed his hand harder.

The man nodded once and she let go, taking the knife. Chow helped her up, but she kept her eyes on Beckham as he walked away. Like the rest of this band of soldiers, she had already started looking to him for leadership—for hope.

“Looks clear up here,” Jinx said.

Beckham stopped under the manhole, tilting his helmet into the light. “You take point, Jinx. Valdez, you’re on rear guard. Timbo, you think you can carry Meg up this?” He placed a hand on the ladder.

“Yeah, no problem,” Timbo grumbled. He threw the strap of his rifle over a shoulder and approached her. “Hang on tight. Okay, ma’am?”

She nodded and tensed her muscles as Chow handed her off to Timbo. He picked her up and draped her over his back with the grace of someone who had carried wounded comrades before. Despite his care, her legs hurt so bad she let out an uncontrolled whimper.

The other soldiers were already moving up the ladder in single file. They disappeared one after the other into the night. Meg’s arms dangled over Timbo’s back. She gripped the handle of the blade tighter.

Footfalls pounded the concrete above and a soldier said, “Go, go, go!”

Timbo’s labored breathing reverberated through the narrow passage. Meg could feel each breath, his chest moving her up and down. Panic set in as he climbed. Sweat dropped from her forehead and plummeted into the stream of sewage flowing below.

“Almost there,” Timbo grunted. “You just hang on tight.”

The fear. The numbness. The radiant moonlight. It all washed over her, forming a sensation that bordered on an out-of-body experience. Then the warm trickle of what felt a lot like security replaced the numbness as Timbo emerged from the manhole.

The soldiers fanned out across the street, setting up positions behind a cluster of vehicles covered in soot. Everything about their actions radiated experience. Timbo stopped behind a pickup truck as Jinx wedged his body through a narrow gap between bumpers. He slowly strode out into the intersection, scoping Ninth Ave as he moved.

Nothing moved in the derelict streets or the absent windows of the skyscrapers towering overhead. The quiet city was a concrete and metal graveyard—a crumbling museum showcasing how things used to be.

No one else seemed to hear the faint clicking of joints in the silence. Not in time, at least. Meg should have known not to trust the deceiving sense of security. It vanished in a heartbeat as a shadowy figure crashed into Jinx, and a pair of claws dragged him screaming into the darkness.

For ten years, Kate had dedicated her life to science. In college, when her friends were choosing paths in fields like pediatrics, she had picked virology. Years later, when they were swabbing the throats of kids with colds, Kate was holding the hands of children who were dying of malaria in third world countries. Through all of it she’d been resilient, praying that her work would help those who needed it the most in some small way.

Kate never thought for a moment she would be sitting in a room with the survivors of the worst virus the human race had ever seen. The fact that it had been engineered as a weapon made her feel so much worse. The very scientific discipline that was supposed to eradicate disease had wiped out most of the people on the planet.

She fidgeted at the thought, still unable to completely grasp the nightmare she was living in. Ellis slid into her as he fell asleep with his back to the wall.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Tasha and Jenny were curled up on the floor next to Riley. The young Delta Force Operator slept with his head propped up on a fist, his broken body cradled by a wheelchair.

The lobby of Building 5 was crowded. The old and young. Men and women of all races. There was no discrimination here. The only conversations were hushed. Hands were held. Prayers were whispered, and tears were shed.

This was the new world.

In some ways it wasn’t all bad. Now that the Variants had effectively ended all human wars everywhere in the world, Kate supposed it didn’t matter what anybody believed anymore. Humans had finally set apart their differences and come together. Unfortunately, it had taken the imminent threat of extinction to bring them to this point.

Shouting from inside the command center echoed down the hallway. Tasha pulled on Kate’s sleeve.

“Are they yelling at my daddy?” she asked.

Kate crouched down. “No, honey. They’re just talking. He’s going to be back in a few minutes.”

Jenny trembled and sniffled. Sweat glistened under her auburn bangs.

“Are you feeling okay?” Kate asked. She held the back of her hand to the girl’s forehead.

Unblinking, the girl nodded and said, “I’m tired.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. You lie back down and try to get some sleep,” Kate said. It was just shy of four a.m., and the adrenaline from the attack was finally starting to wear off. Kate felt it like she was carrying a phantom weight. Beckham was trapped or dead in New York, and a third of Plum Island’s population had been killed. The truth hurt so bad she could hardly move.

She snapped alert at the hoarse voice of the Medical Corps guard.

“Doctors, Major Smith is ready for you,” he said.

“I’ll watch ‘em,” Riley said. He straightened his back with a wince and rolled his chair closer to the girls.

Kate nodded and followed Ellis into the sweltering command center. The stink of battle filled the air, reminding her of the medical tents from missions overseas. She could almost taste the sour stench of blood and sweat. Horn and the other survivors of Operation Liberty sat around the war table, oblivious to her presence.

“Have you heard from the others?” Kate called from the doorway.

Horn, Peters, Rodriguez, Smith, and a handful of other men she didn’t know turned in her direction, but didn’t reply. Horn dragged a tattooed arm across his mouth and then put his elbows on the table. She could see his face fall from where she stood.

“We lost contact with them shortly after the bombs dropped,” Horn finally said.

“Well, try again!” Kate snapped without thinking. Her eyes involuntarily roved from the new female radio operator sitting at the terminal across the room, to the soldiers, and back to the radio operator. The middle-aged woman stared back defiantly. Silver hair fell over the shoulders of her surprisingly neat navy uniform. Kate felt the stab of embarrassment. They were all looking at her like she was crazy.

Kate turned back to the table, her cheeks hot and flushed. Several soldiers bowed their heads, but Horn held her gaze. “We have, Kate. Multiple times.”

“Send a chopper and search for them. You can’t leave him there…”

Major Smith rose to his feet. “We have a chopper on standby, Doctor. But we can’t deploy one without extraction coordinates.”

“Kate, calm down,” Ellis whispered.

It was then she realized she was shaking. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Smith gave her a silent but meaningful look and gestured for her and Ellis to join them at the table.

“We received a message from Central Command a few minutes ago,” Smith said. “They have ordered a full retreat from every city. General Kennor has requested a call with you later this morning, Dr. Lovato.”

“Me?” Kate asked.

“Yes,” Smith replied patiently. “Central is putting forth a new strategy, and they want your help.”

Before Kate could respond, the radio operator twirled her chair away from her terminal. She cupped her hand over her headset and said, “Sir, I’m getting a transmission from New York.”

Smith hurried over to the equipment. “Put it on the speakers.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said. She twisted a dial and static coughed from the PA system.

“Plum Island, this is Beckham. Does anyone copy?” There was a pause and then, “Team Ghost is on the run. I repeat, we’re on the run and need extraction, ASAP.”

The crack of gunfire surged from the muddied speakers. Kate flinched, her heart leaping at every sound. Beckham was alive—for now. She rushed over to Smith’s side as the other soldiers crowded around.

There was a break in gunfire. “We’re at Fiftieth and Eighth, going to try and make it back to Pier 86 in a—”

Smith flicked his mini-mike to his mouth and said, “Echo 3, Smith. Warm up the bird. Ghost Team is on their way to Pier 86.”

The other men were already hurrying out of the room by the time Smith gave the order. Horn touched Kate’s hand on his way out. “Don’t worry. I’m going to bring him back.”

Beckham bolted toward the sounds of Jinx’s screams with his .45 out in front, scanning for a target. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark streets as Variants charged their position. He looked past them, yelling, “Jinx! Jinx, where are you?”

Chow was shouting now, too. “Tell us where the fuck you are!”

Beckham hesitated once he finally saw the numbers they were facing. The creatures charged toward Team Ghost from every direction. They spilled out of manholes and came crashing through the glass doors of nearby buildings. A dozen scampered across the walls of a bombed-out skyscraper.

Ghost’s gunfire drew them in like moths to a flame. Beckham felt every shot, counting them in his head, hoping they had enough ammunition—but knowing they didn’t.

Beckham slowed to fire his .45 at a female perched on a scorched Toyota Corolla a hundred feet away. The crack only an MK11 could make sounded behind him first, and her skull exploded in a cloud of mist from the 7.62 mm round, saving Beckham from using one of his precious cartridges. She tumbled to the ground, blood gushing from the gaping hole where her face had been.

“On me!” Beckham yelled.

He jumped onto the hood for a better vantage. Ryan and Valdez acted as flankers, setting up firing positions to cover the east and the west. Beckham would have ordered Timbo with Ryan instead of Valdez, but the Ranger was busy carrying Meg and Valdez had proven to be an expert marksman. The Marine Sergeant from 1^st Platoon had killed more Variants in New York than Beckham had.

Chow and Jensen covered the rear, while Timbo struggled forward with Meg bouncing on his wide shoulders. He was falling behind despite her frantic pleas to go faster.

The entire team was running on fumes. They were all morning-after-leave tired, but the current threat was far worse than a bad hangover. As Beckham scanned the streets, he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. He had broken every fucking rule in the book by giving chase to the Variant that had Jinx, and his order to open fire had only drawn more of the things from their lairs. He could blame it on the fatigue, but he knew better. The wound still hadn’t healed from the massacre of Team Ghost at Building 8 a month earlier. Seeing Jinx pulled away into the darkness had torn the scab off that wound. Now he’d put the lives of every person in his team in jeopardy by giving chase.

And still Ghost worked forward, the muzzle flashes forming a fiery barrier around the group. Beckham searched the terrain desperately for any sign of the fallen operator.

A male Variant with a crooked back galloped down the sidewalk, jerking from side to side. It leapt over bloated corpses, coiled its back legs, and then sprung into the air. Beckham shot it in the face with a movement so smooth it surprised him.

Five rounds left.

“Eyes! Who’s got eyes on?” Beckham yelled frantically.

A smaller Variant charged him from the right, and Beckham turned to fire. He jerked the barrel aside at the last second when he realized it was a child. The shot went wide, whistling past the creature’s head. Beckham knew the thing racing toward him wasn’t a boy. It was a monster. He took aim again and shot it between the eyes. The tiny Variant crashed to the ground, skidding across the pavement until it came to a rest in front of Beckham. He jumped over the corpse and pushed on.

Three rounds left.

“Jinx!” Beckham shouted.

Gunfire erupted from his six. Jensen and Chow took turns holding the Variants off their tail with short bursts.

“Come on!” Beckham stormed through the clogged street toward Eighth Avenue, where they had last seen Jinx.

“We have to get out of here!” Valdez yelled.

“Not without, Jinx,” Beckham said.

“I’m down to my last mag!” Valdez snarled.

“We’re not leaving him,” Chow shouted back. “I don’t care if we have to use our knives.”

Even if Beckham wanted to, it was too late to turn back and retreat. The entire city block was swarming with the monsters, hemming them in on all sides. Several rogue Variants made dashes for Team Ghost. Each was cut down in controlled fire. Jensen and Ryan halted to shoot at a pack that had broken off from the horde trailing them. They took turns, stopping every hundred feet to thin the group.

It was obvious that the Variants were continuing to evolve, growing smarter and more cautious. Their actions in the tunnels and out here reflected that of predatory animals hunting in packs. They were testing Beckham’s men, figuring out who was weak. They’d started by grabbing Jinx and now they would do the same with the rest, picking them off one by one rather than risk a suicidal charge with their main force.

“Jinx! Say something!” Beckham said into the comm. There was a faint response, more of a croak than a word. He couldn’t tell if it was static or the operator struggling to reply.

A flash of motion at the intersection with Seventh Avenue commanded his gaze. Beckham jumped onto another hood just in time to see two Variants dragging Jinx past several abandoned Humvees.

“Twelve o’clock!” Beckham shouted. “Ryan, hurry!”

The Ranger crouched behind a vehicle and scoped the street with his MK11 while the rest of the team covered the perimeter.

“Why have we stopped?” Meg yelled.

“Ryan, take them out!” Beckham shouted.

Two cracks sounded, and Beckham watched the Variants’ heads disappear in a satisfying spray of red. He ordered the team forward with a hand signal before the bodies had slumped to the ground.

“Jinx… Hold on… We’re coming!” Beckham wheezed.

There was a muffled response before it was lost to a torrent of gunshots. Beckham gritted his teeth and sprinted toward the convoy. When he reached the edge, he slowed to raise his .45 and moved the barrel from side to side over the motionless street. Pounding boots and frantic voices followed him into the intersection. He darted through the street and collapsed at Jinx’s side.

The operator held his neck with glistening hands. Blood gushed between his fingers. His wild eyes searched Beckham’s face in the moonlight, roving back and forth. Beckham gripped Jinx’s wrist and whispered, “It’s okay, man, it’s okay.” They locked eyes as Jinx struggled for air. His lips moved in and out with each gasp, blood gurgling in his mouth.

By the time the team caught up, Jinx was gone. Beckham bowed his head and closed Jinx’s eyelids as more gunshots broke over the high-pitched screeches of the Variants.

Chow dropped to his knees and shook Jinx’s body. “Jinx! Jinx! We’re going to get you out of here.” He felt for a pulse, knocking Jinx’s limp hands away from his throat and revealing a deep gash that stretched across his neck.

Beckham pulled Chow away. “We’ve got to move!”

“I got us a Humvee,” shouted Valdez over the comm. The cough of a diesel engine confirmed it.

“Help me with him,” Beckham said.

Together, Chow and Beckham carried Jinx’s body to the truck. As soon as the team was inside, Valdez pounded the gas, the tires squealing as they left the army of Variants in a cloud of dust and ash.