Extinction Edge

-16-

“Clear a fucking path!” Valdez yelled as Steam Beast jolted forward. “And maintain a straight line. Keep your intervals. Five meters apart!”

The Marines who had clustered fanned out.

“Master Sergeant, what the hell did you say back there?” Jensen asked. He held his gas mask in a hand and spat brown juice on the ground.

Beckham shrugged. “Just gave the track commander a kick in the ass.”

Jensen snorted a laugh and then slipped his mask back over his face. “I’m just waiting for a gigantic fireball when that tanker goes up in flames.”

“And I’m just waiting for the Variants to show up,” Beckham replied, watching swollen gray clouds roll into the city.

The lingering smoke pressed in on 1^st Platoon. Helmets gravitated toward the sky as a giant shadow covered Manhattan. Within seconds visibility was limited to a few hundred yards, and it was diminishing with every beat.

Jensen shouted, “Hold your position. Stay sharp!”

The scraping of metal continued ahead. Steam Beast worked on the first Humvee, angling the truck toward the sidewalk. A bloated corpse in the turret slid over the windshield and disappeared from sight. Bones crunched.

A few agonizing minutes later, the Bradley successfully cleared the abandoned vehicles to the side of the road. That left the gap between the tanker and the building on the right. Beckham scoped the pass again. The space seemed smaller now, just a sliver of street and sidewalk. Every eye in 1^st Platoon settled on the same view as the track snorted full steam ahead, gears grinding and diesel engine groaning.

Beckham checked on Timbo and Ryan, but could only see their fuzzy shapes in the smoke. They were set up at a curb, their sniper rifles sweeping the terrain for hostiles. Satisfied, Beckham watched Steam Beast. The blade flattened a light pole with a screech and then lurched forward. It didn’t look like it was going to clear the back of the tanker.

Thunder boomed in the distance. Rain poured from the bulging sky. The wall of smoke thickened, squeezing the convoy.

“Hold position,” Gates said over the comm.

Beckham shot his team a flash of hand signals and yelled, “Regroup.”

They met on the sidewalk, facing the smoke together. There were other voices now. Confused Marines shouting orders and questions that Beckham couldn’t quite make out. He searched for Jensen through the smoke but saw only the outlines of a few scattered men.

A shriek broke out.

At first Beckham thought Steam Beast was moving again. But the shriek was guttural. Deep. It wasn’t a noise human engineering created.

Horn grunted. “It’s a fucking trap.”

“Jesus,” Beckham said. “They weren’t hiding from the sun, they were waiting for the smoke to shift again.” He could hardly believe it.

The crack of automatic gunfire snapped him back to reality.

“You got eyes?” Chow shouted.

“Negative,” Jinx replied.

“Stay focused,” Horn added.

“I can’t see nothin’,” Ryan said.

Beckham strained to see through the smoke. The engines of the convoy were drowned out by the high-pitched screams of the Variants. The noise was coming from everywhere and nowhere, all around them. The snapping of joints and grinding of claws came from above. Then below.

Beckham spun around just as one of the pale monsters came crashing out of a storefront window.

Kate sat staring at her laptop screen in the conference room of Building 1. Ellis had compiled a list of species that resembled the Variants. A variety of odd creatures filled his notes, some she’d never seen before.

She skimmed through them more out of curiosity than for research. Ellis hadn’t left a single rock unturned. He’d connected the Variants to a host of multicellular organisms: mammals, amphibians, reptiles, insects, and invertebrates. Each image had a note underneath, explaining what trait the species shared with the Variants.

There were leeches and other segmented worms, some with one sucker and others with two. Next were half a dozen spiders. An odd-looking crustacean that was an ancestor of a hermit crab filled the next screen. A chameleon the size of a human finger.

The list wasn’t surprising, considering his fascination with Charles Darwin and evolution. Over the past few days Ellis had become obsessed with linking the Variants to other species. He was convinced the chemicals in VX-99 had turned on genes he could identify. And with the proper equipment and time, he was right.

But so what if he could link the Variants to the leech or some hairy spider? It didn’t matter. She’d said it for days now—there was no bringing these people back. Ellis was finally starting to believe her. There was simply no precedent for that type of gene therapy. It was too far in the future. Even if they could find a way to reverse or stop the changes, what would be left to save? The Ebola virus had likely caused brain damage in most of the Variants. There would simply be no quality of life for the creatures.

A voice from the past boomed in her head. It was her brother, Javier, his dying words replaying like a broken record. She couldn’t help but wonder what she would do if he was still alive. If he had turned into a Variant. Would she try everything to save him, even if he never returned fully to the brother she remembered?

She realized the answer was more painful than the memory. It was no. She wouldn’t want him to live like that, because she wouldn’t want to live like that.

Kate let her grief pass with a deep sigh, rousing the curiosity of Tasha and Jenny. Both girls fidgeted impatiently in the chairs next to her.

Jenny tapped Kate on the arm. “What are those things?” she chirped.

Kate flipped the lid of the laptop down. “Just some pictures.”

“Can we see?” Tasha asked. “I’m bored.”

Kate stood, stretched, and faked a smile. “I have a better idea.”

Both girls glanced up, their eyes curious.

“How about we play a game?”

Jenny clapped her hands together. “Like hide and seek?”

“Yeah,” Tasha replied. “Can we play hide and seek?”

Kate shook her head. “I don’t think this would be the best place to play that game.”

Tasha’s shoulders sagged. She twisted a red lock of hair with her fingers and said, “When’s Daddy coming home?”

“Soon, honey. He and Beckham will be back before you know it.” She held out her arms and said, “Come here.”

Tasha and Jenny stepped into Kate’s embrace. She held them tight, feeling a warm tear on her neck.

“I’m scared,” Jenny said.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Kate said. “You’re safe here.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A second tear fell on Kate’s neck. And this time it was one of her own.

Beckham whirled and blasted a Variant in the face. It skidded to a stop a few feet away from the shop entrance.

“Hold the line!” he shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, he saw how fucked they were. He was staring into a blackout zone. 50^th Street was shrouded by smoke. The thick curtain of haze seemed to cling to the concrete. But it was too late to retreat now. The only way out of this mess was to fight.

Gunshots cracked from every direction. Beckham focused on the shapes of Marines rushing for cover—or were they Variants? He couldn’t make out a damn thing.

More gunfire. Screeches and screams from wounded men and dying monsters.

It was chaos.

A round whizzed past Beckham’s helmet. He ducked for cover. Two more bullets hit the concrete ahead of him, chunks of rock hitting his exposed flesh.

He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the man next to him. Was it Horn? No, too skinny. Had to be Chow.

Beckham shouted again. “Fall back!”

A blast from the other end of the street shook the ground. The shockwave from the explosion hit Beckham’s position, covering him in dust.

“Why the fuck are they using antitank missiles?”

A second explosion came from above. The missile hit one of the buildings. Dust and fragments of metal rained down on the street. Beckham was on the sidewalk now, Team Ghost surrounding him. The Variant that had crashed out of the shop lay in a puddle of blood a few feet away. Their only protection was an overturned food vendor cart. Blackened hotdogs and scorched fruit littered the concrete.

There was more gunfire, and a third shot from one of the Bradleys.

The sidewalk trembled.

Then the chain guns flared to life. The 25mm rounds pounded the building, impacting with the force of mini-missiles. Beckham scanned the smoke screen for his own target. There, barreling toward their position, he made a Variant moving on all fours. Raising his weapon, he fired and sent the creature tumbling head over feet back into the wall of gray.

Another came from the side. Then another. He fired again, and again, the sound of gunfire drowning out the clacking of joints.

Drops of rain hit his visor. Or was it blood? Beckham wiped away the liquid and searched for the next target.

A fourth blast from a Bradley’s launcher rang out. The concussion sent a shockwave of air through the street. The sound of screaming Marines found its way past the ringing in Beckham’s ears. Adrenaline flowed through him, and his internal processor clicked on. He fired from habit, instinct taking over. A bullet clipped his backpack and sent him spinning. He dropped to the concrete and then pushed himself back up on a knee, just in time to see another Variant rushing across the street.

He squeezed the trigger without restraint, screaming into his mask.

The creature’s chest absorbed the rounds, jerking it left and then right. A high-caliber round from one of the Rangers finished the job, taking off its head.

Another Variant took its place. Then a second. And a third. The trio waited in the periphery between smoke and light. Hunched and coiled, searching. The smoke swirled around their deformed shapes.

Beckham fired relentlessly, aiming for their heads. The bullets took off the first creature’s limbs. It flopped on the concrete like a fish struggling for air. His next shots were more precise, splattering chunks of skull and soft tissue on the car behind the Variants.

“Smoke’s clearing!” Horn shouted.

Beckham finished off his magazine, killing three more of the creatures that were making a run for his position. Their bodies slumped to the concrete, twitching. Blood oozed from multiple gunshot wounds.

“Hold your position,” Beckham yelled. Reaching for a new magazine, he added, “Changing!”

The ringing in his ears waned. Snapping the fresh mag into his weapon, he froze and listened. A few random shots rang out in the distance. When the echo ended, an eerie quiet passed over the convoy. He couldn’t hear a single thing. As the haze lifted, Beckham raised his muzzle and swept it over the battlefield, expecting to see Marines sprawled over the terrain. Instead he only saw a couple mangled Variant corpses. There wasn’t a single dead Marine in sight. And there were no moans or screams from any wounded men either.

Beckham turned to his left and counted five helmets. Team Ghost was accounted for. Across the street, Jensen emerged from behind a crushed cab with team Charlie. Alpha and Bravo stood behind a squad car a hundred yards to the left.

There were only a handful of Marines stumbling away from the protection of the Humvees. He counted twelve, including Sergeant Valdez.

“Where the hell are all of the bodies?” Horn said, changing a magazine.

Beckham examined the street again. Where there should have been corpses, there were only streaks of blood.

“SITREP! Give me a fucking SITREP!” Valdez screamed. “Where’s Rodney and Libby? Where the fuck is everyone?”

The adrenaline that had fueled Beckham earlier broke down in his system. Dread replaced the energy when he realized where the closest blood trail led. He followed the red across the concrete, moving slowly, the muzzle of his weapon leading the way. He stopped at the edge of an open manhole. Dropping to a knee, he bent and peered inside.

He didn’t need a flashlight to see the crimson water below. The Variants had dragged away half of the platoon into their lairs. He finally understood why the satellite imagery and recon teams had only accounted for a couple thousand of the creatures.

“We better get moving, Boss,” Horn said. “It’ll be dark soon.”

“Someone better get Command on the line,” Beckham said. “Tell them we found their missing Variants.”

A hand on his shoulder pulled his gaze upward. Jensen stared down at him. He stripped the mask away from his mouth. “Goddamn,” he muttered. “What are the odds of General Kennor ordering in an airstrike with thermobaric missiles? We could pound the shit out of those sewers and subways!”

“I doubt that’s going to happen,” said a voice. Gates strolled over to the hole with Valdez on his flank. “I just got off the line with Command. We’ve been ordered to continue to the target zone and set up the FOB.”

“With all due respect, sir, we aren’t going to make it to the FOB if we’re attacked again,” Beckham said.

“Those are General Kennor’s orders,” Gates said.

“Does he know what we’re dealing with?” Jensen spat on the concrete and wiped a sleeve across his lips.

“We did receive a warning from Command. Apparently they received a message from Plum Island,” Gates said. “A doctor there claims the Variants can see in the dark and have moved underground.”

Beckham spoke without thinking. “Kate.”

Gates regarded him with a quick glance. “Yeah, Dr. Lovata.”

“Lovato,” Beckham corrected. He peered back into the dark manhole. The concrete under his feet suddenly seemed paper thin. He stood and backed away from the edge, a chill trembling through his fatigued body.

“We need to keep moving,” Gates said. He motioned Valdez to follow him and they hurried back to their command Humvee.

“He’s going to get us all killed.” Jensen said. He kicked a chunk of rock into the hole. It landed with a plop. A shriek answered, the sound reverberating from deep within the tunnel.

“If we can secure that FOB, we might have a chance to hold those things off. It’s our only chance,” Beckham said. He followed Jensen back to the convoy. The sunset, bloody orange against a darkening sky, silhouetted the oblique skyscrapers. It would have made the perfect post-apocalyptic painting.

Meg was aware of the distant gunfire but wasn’t sure if it was real. Her mind was a blank slate; she couldn’t remember where she was or how she had gotten there. The darkness didn’t help. She couldn’t see much of anything. When she tried to move her numb body, it didn’t respond.

There was no pain. Not at first. She focused on wiggling her fingers. They moved. That was a good sign. She wasn’t paralyzed. Next she moved a toe, and then her right foot. It was caught on something—something coarse and sticky.

Twisting, she fought to move. Fear bit her like jagged teeth. She remembered now. The monsters had dragged her down into the water. Anger followed when she remembered Jed and Rex sealing in her into the tunnel.

Those bastards, she thought. She hadn’t trusted Rex, not since the outbreak. The man she’d followed into burning buildings had transformed into a coward. And Jed? The Marine proved that not all soldiers were brave. Now she knew why she had found Jed hiding under a Humvee. Heroes, so it seemed, were in short supply during the apocalypse

If she could have moved her head, she would have shaken it in disgust. But whatever slimy substance she was stuck in made that impossible.

Meg focused on her surroundings, squinting in the darkness as if it would help. She concentrated on fuzzy webbed shapes to her right. At first glance they looked kind of like tree branches, but they were covering something. A bulb shape. Something curled up. She saw the same thing in her peripheral vision. And she could see one of them above her, too. Everything seemed blurred though, like she was looking through a thick piece of glass.

Was she still inside the tunnels?

She had to be. But where were the monsters?

Afraid to take a breath, she listened for the clicking of joints and scratching of claws. Somewhere in the distance there was the trickle of running water, but there was no sign of her captors.

She could feel her heart beating now. Her body warmed as the blood started circulating again. When the numbness passed she finally became aware of the substance covering her body. She was stuck to a wall, covered from her legs to head in some sort of sticky slime. Her left arm was plastered to her side. The only thing she could move was her right hand and her feet.

Meg squirmed again, tearing a patch of skin on her forehead in the process. The result was a sharp jolt of pain that made her eyes well with tears. She held back a scream, breathing rapidly through a small hole in the filmy substance.

The pain passed, and the numbness returned. At least she could move her head now. Careful not to rip anymore skin, she tilted it to the side.

Moonlight illuminated a pool of dark water below. She was in some sort of collection room, with waterfalls of sewage cascading out of tunnels. The walls and ceilings were lined with more of the same fuzzy shapes.

With no small amount of effort, she finally moved her right hand and ripped her arm free. The pain was a small price to pay for the range of motion that allowed her to strip the film over her face away.

She pulled her hand away, studying the gel webbing across her fingers. That’s when she saw the others. There were so many. Hundreds of other human prisoners, plastered to the walls and ceiling with thick rose colored vines that looked like tree branches.

It finally hit her. She was in some sort of lair.

A flash of motion followed by a clicking made her heart leap. She froze, not daring move an inch.

The bulging shape of one of the creatures skittered across the ceiling.

“No,” she said, her lips quivering. “Please no.”

Another figure fell into line behind the first. A third and fourth joined in a moment later as the beasts awoke. Within moments, the ceiling and walls were crawling with pale, naked flesh.

This was no lair. This was a meat locker. Full of human flesh. The place where the monsters came to feed.

As the moonlight faded away, she let out a scream and closed her eyes, praying that her death would be quick and painless.