Extinction Edge

-22-

The command center was guarded like Fort Knox. Radios crackled, buzzing with the voices of men hardened by war. White light flickered and spilled over the front entrance, blinking like a beacon calling a lost ship into harbor. Two Marines on the steps frantically waved Kate and the others to safety. She squeezed Tasha’s and Jenny’s hands, trying to ignore the screams reverberating from the other buildings.

“Let’s go! Get inside!” one of the men yelled.

She moved past him, catching a glimpse of his face. He was young and she almost thought he was Jackson. But no, she knew Jackson was dead. The Marine had sacrificed his life to buy them time to escape. They’d found his broken body a few feet away from the medical building. By some miracle, he’d still been alive, holding on for a final few seconds. When she’d reached down to help, he had let out his last breath.

Kate felt herself beginning to cry again as she walked into the command building. She let go of the children’s hands and held up fingers glistening with blood. She wasn’t even sure whose it was. Jackson’s? Rod’s? After watching the world hemorrhage, she thought she would be used to the sight. But the blood of strangers was different than those of people she knew. She hadn’t known Rod well, but the image of his sunken face would be deep-rooted in her memory for the rest of her life. However long that might be, she thought.

Kate added Rod’s death and Jackson’s to the list of billions she felt responsible for. The burden ate at her, overwhelming her. An enraged voice pulled her back to the present. It was Major Smith, and he stood in the middle of the atrium, surrounded by an entourage of Marines.

“Somebody give me a SITREP!”

No one immediately responded.

“You,” Smith said, pointing to a Marine who had followed Kate’s group into the building. “How many of those things are still on the loose?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” the man replied.

Fitz slung his rifle farther over his shoulders. He spoke in a rapid, confident tone. “Sir, I counted eighteen of the creatures. We killed six on the tarmac. Two were killed in Building 3 and another three went down in Building 2. I saw one other body in the concrete circle. So there could be another six out there.”

Smith swore. He flicked his headset to his lips and barked out new orders. “Six more hostiles on the loose. All strike teams proceed with caution.”

Kate followed his gaze around the room. Groups of frightened scientists and staff huddled in corners, some of them catatonic, others crying. There couldn’t have been more than seventy-five people in the room.

“Where’s everyone else?” Smith asked. When none of his staff replied, he looked to Fitz.

The Marine straightened and said, “This is everyone, sir.”

For the first time, Kate saw the major’s eyes soften. He was truly overwhelmed by the loss. His lips moved, but he said nothing, shocked into silence.

And for good reason, Kate thought, focusing on the packs of survivors. Half of Plum Island’s scientists were dead, and an unknown number of soldiers had lost their lives in the fight. With six more of the creatures on the prowl, the future of the facility was at risk.

Smith twisted his wedding ring around his finger, his thoughts clearly still elsewhere. He turned to the Marines and staff behind him. “Get all of these people to the end of the hallway and then secure the doors.”

A Marine with a Brooklyn accent motioned Kate and the others forward with two fingers. “This way, ma’am.”

Ellis muttered as they walked, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Dr. Kate?” asked Jenny. “Where’s my dad?”

“He’s with Reed in New York, sweetheart.”

When they got to the end of the hallway, the Marines locked the door with a loud metallic click. Three of them remained behind with the group.

“What if he doesn’t come back?” Tasha asked. “What if he dies like Mommy?”

Kate knelt in front of the girls. Releasing a deep sigh, she pulled on the last drop of strength she had left. “Don’t worry. Your dad and Reed are coming home soon. They are going to be just fine.”

She hoped it wasn’t a lie.

Fitz bolted out of the command center. The last time his body had hurt so much had been when he was still in rehab. Running like a madman across the island and killing Variants had taken a toll on him. But that’s what Marines did. They kept going.

To the end.

A hundred feet ahead, two Medical Corps soldiers stood guard under a light pole. Beams from tactical lights crossed the base as strike teams searched for the six missing creatures.

An evil shriek cut through the night. Several cracks from a rifle followed. The shots stopped abruptly—another soldier, lost.

“Follow me,” Fitz said.

“Our orders are to hold this position,” one of the men protested.

Fitz snorted. “Did you hear that? We just lost another man.”

The two guards exchanged a glance and then nodded.

“Let’s go,” Fitz said. He charged toward the noise of the last gunshot with his weapon shouldered, his eyes probing the underbrush and trees for the creatures. A voice crackled in his earpiece as he ran.

“Command, Charlie. Four hostiles down. Repeat, four hostiles down.”

Only two left, Fitz thought. He imagined the damage the creatures could do if they made it inside the command center. He and a handful of other men were all that stood in their way. Fighting the pain, he ran harder.

Budding tree branches whipped back and forth overhead as he rounded the corner of Building 4. Balling his hand into a fist, he stopped and took a knee next to the trunk of a tree. The other two men propped their backs against the side of the building, waiting for orders.

With the memory of Cole’s death fresh on his mind, Fitz hesitated. The stocky Medical Corps soldier had died entering the first ward, his throat slashed by the claws of a Variant.

Fitz wasn’t used to giving orders and finally understood the burden that came with leading men into battle. Exhaling, he rose and said, “Stay sharp.”

After one final scan of the underbrush and the trees beyond, he pushed on. Thorns shredded his pants as he moved deeper into the bushes. Through the tree branches he should see the electrical fences and a guard tower.

He emerged from the brush and hurried over to the closest tree for cover. A scan of the beach revealed a mangled body on the ground in front of the tower, its neck twisted in a way that left no room for question. He zoomed in with his scope and flinched when the body disappeared into the bushes.

“Contact!” Fitz yelled. He managed to fire off three shots before something hit from above, knocking him to the ground with such force his lungs emptied in a guttural huff. Red blossomed around the sides of his vision as the Variant he hadn’t seen in the tree above beat his body with a flurry of punches. With each powerful blow, he imagined his organs liquefying.

A gunshot answered before the creature could do too much damage. It slumped off his body and landed with a meaty thud in the dirt.

“You okay?” the medical guard that had saved his life said.

Fitz fought to refill his lungs, gasping for precious air. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so… Thanks, man.”

He rubbed the stars from his vision and then glanced down at the Variant. Its face was gone, nothing but a scrambled mess of flesh and bone where the bullet had exited. Remembering the other Variant, Fitz scrambled across the dirt and grabbed his rifle.

“Looks like it’s dead,” yelled the other soldier. Fitz watched the man drag a corpse from the bushes.

“Nice shot,” the solider said.

Fitz collapsed with his back to the dirt. The stars in the cloudless sky sparkled with an intensity he hadn’t seen. With the cities of the old world dark, the stars had a chance to truly shine. The beauty of the view was the perfect reward for the tiny victory.

Smiling, Fitz pushed his mini-mic to his lips and said, “Command, Fitz. All hostiles eliminated.”

“Move!” Beckham shouted. His voice echoed through the concrete staircase. He had taken point, leading the strike teams down the twenty-six floors of the Bank of America Tower as fast as possible. He was flying down the steps, bounding two or three at a time. His muscles groaned and his injuries ached, but he ignored the pain. He had to get them the fuck out of here before the convoy took off without them.

It wasn’t a question if Lieutenant Gates would leave; it was just a matter of when.

Beckham didn’t have a single ounce of trust left for the man. Their only hope rested in Sergeant Valdez. He wasn’t the type of leader to leave men behind, especially fellow Marines.

The decaying body of the dead Variant lay across the next landing. Beckham held his breath, but the rancid stench of rotting fruit invaded his nostrils anyway. He shoved the corpse to the side with a swift kick to the midsection.

Two Marines brushed past him, the magazines tucked into their vests scraping against his own weapons. The sound of labored breathing and the pounding of heavy boots saturated the narrow space. Every man moved with urgency fueled by fear. The same fear raided Beckham’s own thoughts.

He ground his teeth, praying and pleading they wouldn’t emerge from the tower in the midst of the ravenous mass of creatures.

Beckham ran faster when he heard the faint crack of heavy gunfire outside the building.

Shit.

The Variant army was getting close.

A frantic voice called out from above, asking them to wait up. Beckham snorted and twisted his helmet to look up the next stairwell, narrowly avoiding Timbo’s massive frame from crashing into him.

He signaled for Chow, Jinx, and Horn to proceed without him. Jensen and Ryan came next. Then a handful of Marines. Finally he saw Jake and Timothy. With only a small beam from a flashlight to guide them, they were lagging an entire flight of stairs behind the group.

“Come on!” Beckham yelled.

Jake grabbed his son’s hand. “We’re doing our best! I told you this would happen, I freaking told you!”

Beckham wanted to offer reassurance, but what could he say? The man was right. The Variants were closing in.

His anger spiked as he followed the police officer and his son down the stairs. How many soldiers had to die for Central Command to realize the creatures weren’t mindless animals? This wasn’t the same type of war generals like Kennor had spent their life fighting. This wasn’t the same enemy.

Beckham spied a sign for floor five. They were almost there. He flipped his mini-mic back to his mouth as he ran and attempted another transmission. “Lieutenant Gates, Delta Team. Do you copy? Over.”

Static crackled in his earpiece.

“Shit! Come on!” Beckham shouted. He tried again. “Gates, goddammit, if you can hear me, you better not fucking move that convoy!”

More white noise.

Beckham stifled another curse. There were so many people counting on him right now. Kate was waiting at Plum Island—worried sick, he was sure. And Horn’s daughters…

He wouldn’t let them become orphans. Not today. Not ever.

Beckham pushed on. He strained to hear the sound of gunfire, aching to hear the noise. It would mean the convoy was still waiting for them. But he heard nothing but the stomp of boots as they raced down the stairs.

“Hurry!” Beckham yelled. He leapt down three stairs.

They piled to a halt at the second floor. The ruckus from twisting gear bags and the clang of metal on metal filled the void. A flurry of nervous voices traveled up the stairs, but Beckham was hardly listening. He knew if they had stopped, there was a damn good reason.

“What’s going on?” Beckham asked. He moved through the teams forcefully, pushing them out of the way as he managed his way down the stairs. Horn and Jensen were waiting at the door leading to the atrium. It was propped open a hair, and Jensen peeked through. He had a hand balled into a fist behind his back.

Beckham squirmed past Horn and took a knee next to Jensen. The ground shook again. Broken glass rattled in the lobby.

“Where’s the convoy?”

Jensen kept his NVG trained on the room and replied, “I don’t see ‘em.”

“I’m going in,” Beckham said. “We don’t have time to wait here.”

Horn grabbed his left arm with a hand as strong as steel. “I’m going with you.”

Beckham didn’t object. If they were going to die, he wanted to die by his best friend’s side.

The ground continued trembling, a mini-earthquake that wouldn’t stop. Beckham could feel the blood pumping through his veins. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception they were going to receive outside, but there was nowhere else to run, nowhere else to hide. If the convoy was really gone, then the only option was to fight.

He counted the seconds, knowing they were running out of time.

The two men slipped into the lobby. Beckham kept track of Horn through his peripheral vision. They halted as broken glass rattled on the ground, shaking from the approaching horde. It sounded like an armada of M1s charging through the city.

Beckham waved Horn toward the entrance. The street finally came into view. Not a single living thing moved.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Beckham grabbed the broken door handle and pulled it open. Words sounded in his earpiece, but the rumble was too loud to make out the words. He placed his right boot outside, hanging halfway inside the building and halfway onto the sidewalk. Looking to the left at West 42^nd Street, he froze in place, not daring to move. His NVG optics provided him a field of view that would have petrified any veteran.

The mob of Variants was racing down the street, stirring up a cloud of dust and ash. Those that couldn’t fit leapt onto the buildings, skittering across the vertical surface.

There had to be thousands of them.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…

Forcing himself away from the view, he checked the Avenue of Americas for the convoy. Steam Beast and a Humvee sat idling in the middle of the street. A man stood on the back of the Bradley, waving with his machine gun and screaming at the top of his lungs, the sound completely lost in the din of the Variants.

Beckham’s chest heaved with relief when he saw it was Sergeant Valdez. He had waited after all. But the fighting vehicle was built only to hold eight, and the Humvee would only hold another eight, max. They had over twenty-four men between the four strike teams, not to mention Jake and Timothy.

“Let’s go!” he said, motioning Horn to pass on the message to the team.

Soon the teams were sprinting down the street. Beckham considered his options as they ran. There weren’t many. Only half of them would be able to squeeze into the vehicles. Unless some rode on top, but if the Variants caught up…

The army screaming down 42^nd and 43^rd Streets was closing in fast. Only a block separated the teams from countless hungry mouths.

Valdez jumped off the fighting vehicle, his features strained and anxious. “Get your men inside! Eight in the Humvee and eight in the track! Hurry! Gates called in an air strike!” The sergeant looked down at his watch. “We have two minutes to get out of here before we’re barbequed!”

The ground shook from the pounding footsteps. Beckham strained to focus his rattled brain. His eyes roved from the vehicles and then back to the team.

“Get Jake and Timothy in the Bradley!” he shouted. “That leaves room for another fourteen of us. Ten will have to stay behind, unless you want to take your chances riding on top of the track.” He spoke rapidly, watching the Variants hit Bryant Park, their twisted bodies exploding through the haze.

Horn grabbed Beckham’s arm again. “Boss, we can all make it—”

“Get inside the track,” Beckham said sternly. “That’s an order. Your girls need their father.”

Horn hesitated. His gaze shifted to the monsters for a fraction of a second, just enough time for Beckham to see the overwhelming pain in his friend’s features. They both knew the chances of surviving if they stayed behind were slim.

But the decision was already made. Horn eased his grip on Beckham’s arm and embraced him instead. “Love ya, bro. Watch your ass, and good luck.”

“You too, Big Horn. Take care of those girls, and tell Kate I’ll see her soon,” Beckham said. Then he shouted, “For those staying, let’s move!”

The vehicle commander of the remaining Humvee swung his .50 cal into position and opened fire. A missile from the Bradley’s TOW launcher streaked overhead.

The chaos bent time, warping every second into what felt like minutes. Crimson bubbles popped in the park where the missiles found targets, showering the battleground with meaty chunks of the enemy.

“Come on!” Beckham yelled. His words were lost by the crushing weight of gunfire. He spun from the view, ready to shove shell-shocked troops into the vehicles. But the men were already moving. Horn and Jake hefted Timothy into the Bradley, and Marines piled in behind them.

A handful of soldiers had crowded around Beckham, their weapons forming a perimeter. He recognized every face: Timbo, Ryan, Valdez, Chow, Jinx, and Jensen.

“No time to argue. Smith’s more than capable of leading while I’m away,” Jensen said when he saw Beckham’s confusion. He spat on the ground and yelled, “Move!”

The .50 cal whined overhead. Shells clicked off the pavement as the team ran for the nearest manhole cover. Another missile popped from the TOW.

“Help me with this!” Beckham said. “Those jets are en route!”

Timbo took a knee, and together they slid the heavy cover away from the hole. The team funneled down the ladder as the Humvee raced away. Steam Beast remained behind, Matthews clearly hell-bent on providing Beckham and the others a chance to escape.

“Get out of here,” Beckham shouted.

Matthews glanced down at Beckham. The look of fear on the young man’s face had been replaced with courage.

“Good luck!” Matthews yelled.

Beckham nodded and began the descent, pausing momentarily to watch the Bradley lurch away. The tracks crunched over the broken bodies of dead Variants. Then the swollen mass surging from Bryant Park filled his entire field of vision.

He knew then that Operation Liberty had likely failed in every major city. What little hope humanity had was gone. The Variants were now the dominant species.

“Let’s go, Beckham!” came a voice inside the tunnel below.

Beckham started climbing into the darkness when another sound came, a screaming louder than a hundred thousand Variants combined. He eyed the skyline and saw a squadron of jets flying low to the east. Ducking inside the hole, he slid the cover over the top, sealing them in.

With his weapon dangling across his chest, he dropped into knee-high water. The team was already moving west through the muck. Beckham hesitated a single beat. He saved half of his men, but he had only delayed the inevitable for the loyal soldiers that had joined him. They were now in Variant-controlled territory. And God only knew what they would find in the dark tunnels.

Beckham took off running as fast as he could through the stagnant sewage. Somewhere in the distance, a massive explosion rocked the street. Dust and rock rained from the ceiling. The entire passage shook as the bombs dropped above. He flinched at every blast, hoping, praying that Horn and the others had made it out of the kill zone.