Extinction Edge

-8-

Beckham slowly opened the door and swept the tactical light on his new M4 into the tunnel. On reflex he pulled his scarf over his nose and nudged a Variant corpse away from the door. A pungent stench filled the space.

Beckham took a guarded step inside, playing his beam over the way ahead.

Nothing moved.

He turned and motioned the others forward, his gaze falling on the boy he’d given his gas mask to. The child’s chaperone grabbed his hand and told him to close his eyes. Cries and whimpers from the civilians followed as they inched forward. Beckham brought a finger to his mouth. Knots formed in his stomach as he took in a breath and proceeded slowly. Beams from flashlights danced across the slaughterhouse, crisscrossing blood-splattered walls and mangled bodies.

Beckham thought of Horn and his daughters. No man should have to experience what he was going through. And no child should have to endure the horrors surrounding them. He hoped to God that Kate was right about the risk of infection being minimal.

A low croaking stopped Beckham in his tracks. Balling his hand into a fist, he stopped the group and swept his tactical light over the concrete until he found the source of the noise. Just as he feared, one of the Variants was still alive. How, he wasn’t sure. Its legs were a twisted mess of exposed muscle and ligaments. Blood oozed from multiple bullet wounds, and one of its ears hung by a thin strand of cartilage.

Chow joined Beckham at his side. “Christ, man. How is that thing still alive?”

The Variant dragged its broken body toward the group, prompting several screams of alarm.

“Keep quiet,” Beckham ordered. He stepped past Chow, leaving about twenty feet between him and the Variant.

“Tell the adults in the front to shield the kids from this,” Beckham said.

Chow nodded and returned to the group.

Beckham waited a moment and drew his knife. The Variant clawed the air with one hand and crawled with the other. Kneeling, Beckham prepared to jam the blade into the monster’s skull. Its eyes followed his motions, studying him, a hint of humanity still left inside. Without further hesitation, he brought the knife down into flesh and bone. There was a pop from the bulging sucker lips and then one last gasp of air as it fought for a final moment of life.

Beckham dislodged the knife and stood. The Variant collapsed on its stomach. He nudged the body to the wall with the tip of his boot and then motioned for the others to follow.

“On me,” Beckham said, taking point. He trained his muzzle on the double doors at the end of the hallway. He stopped again when they were fifty feet away and waved Chow forward. Together they advanced to the doors. Heel to toe, heel to toe.

Chow inched the one on the right open, sticking the barrel of his M4 through. “Looks clear,” he whispered.

Beckham put his hand on Chow’s back. In tandem, the two men moved into the hallway. More carnage greeted them, bodies strewn about the area just beyond the doors. The operators played their lights over every inch of concrete. This time nothing moved.

So far, so good, Beckham thought. He nodded at Chow and then began the walk up the sloped floor, checking his six every few steps. The adults kept the children in the middle of the formation, doing their best to shield the young ones.

“Let’s check those doors,” Beckham whispered to Chow. They ran ahead and took up positions on both sides of the doors. Propping his shoulder against the wall, Beckham nodded at Chow. The operator took a knee and crawled in front of the door, slowly rising to peek through the glass. He pulled away, raising his rifle like he’d seen something.

“Contact?” Beckham asked. His muscles tightened as he waited for the high-pitched shriek.

Chow peeked through the glass again and shook his head. “Thought so at first, but must have just been the flicker from the emergency lights.”

The observation wasn’t reassuring, and Beckham dropped to his knees and then checked for himself. The light blinked, casting an eerie glow over the remains of broken ceiling tiles.

“Clear,” Beckham said. Behind them, the other survivors stood in a bunch, some of them shivering. Beckham propped the doors open and, taking point with Chow, he motioned the group forward again.

Minutes later Beckham was staring through the ash-covered windows. A plastic bag sailed over the sidewalk. Bodies littered the lawn, cooking under a brilliant morning sun. The light cut through the smoke to the north, rays breaking through the plumes.

The knots in Beckham’s stomach tightened. His senses told him something was off.

“Looks clear,” Chow said.

Beckham held up a hand. “Got a bad feeling,” he said. “It’s too quiet.”

Chow stared out the window. “I’ve had a bad feeling for weeks, man, but we have got to move. We got a hike ahead of us, and those choppers are on the way.”

A minute passed before Beckham finally pushed open the left door. Shouldering his rifle, he crossed the lawn to the street. He scoped the area a second time and then shifted back to the civilians, catching a glimpse of the half-burnt magnolia to the right of the building.

“Clear,” Beckham said. “Let’s move.”

Chow led the group from the building in a tight line, the Rangers taking up positions alongside. Horn and his girls were near the back, both of them latched on tightly to their father. The sight sent a spike of adrenaline swirling through Beckham’s bloodstream. He was ready to rock ’n’ roll. Everything that happened before this was in the past. Saving Horn’s girls was a fresh start, a way to move forward. All that mattered now was extracting these people safely to Plum Island.

The two forward snipers moved out fast and began looking for hides along the route. Beckham and the others made sure the main body proceeded at a sharp pace, probably too fast for some of the kids. Beckham checked the pack every hundred yards to ensure no one was falling behind.

He glanced down at his watch as they passed across the Expressway on Zabitosky Road. The choppers would be close now. Beckham ran a bit faster, his eyes sweeping the road, trees, buildings, and vehicles for contacts. The stretch of Zabitosky that ran through the forested area made him uneasy. They were surrounded on all sides by a canopy of thick trees. The perfect place for an ambush, and with no high ground for the snipers to provide good cover. Or advance alert of incoming threats.

The crunch of a tree branch elevated Beckham’s heart rate, taking him back to the first hour they arrived at the post. He eyed the sea of green with a new sense of urgency. Beckham gripped his rifle tighter. They passed another intersection that crossed Honeycutt Road and continued around a mess of vehicles.

Besides a few whimpers from the kids, the group was silent. Everyone knew what was at risk. Even the children. Beckham slowed to check the smoke from Womack Medical Center. The solid columns were finally starting to dissipate.

“Chow, take point,” Beckham said, halting in the street.

The operator rushed past with his weapon sweeping over the road. Beckham hung back to see how Horn was doing. He was running with Jenny on his back. Tasha held onto one of his hands. The two men shared a moment without uttering a single word. It was all Beckham needed to know that his friend was okay. He continued on to the rear guard to check on the others. The two Rangers stood like statues with their MK11s angled to the northwest. After a few beats they lowered their weapons and jogged to catch up with the pack.

“See anything?” Beckham asked the man Chow had referred to as Timbo. He was a tall, bulky African-American man, with a chinstrap of facial hair. They ran side by side for a few moments.

“Negative,” Timbo said in a gruff voice. “Pretty quiet so far.”

“What about you, Steve?” Beckham asked.

The other Ranger shook his head.

“All right, headed back up front. Keep sharp.”

Beckham tucked his chin to his chest and burst into a run. The group was passing a tangle of wrecked vehicles when he heard a creaking in the distance. The noise was so soft it could have been the wind, but when he eased to a stop, his ears told him what his mind wanted to deny. There was something out there.

Not wanting to alarm the group, he jogged back to the snipers at the rear, waiting for the group to get ahead before saying anything. Both men had set their rifles up on the hoods of cars. Beckham watched their muzzles search the road to the north.

The sound came again, a scuffling like a rat scampering across the concrete. Only this wasn’t coming from a rodent; it was a combination of many faint scratches. There were other noises too: low moans and the awful clicking of joints.

Beckham forced himself to look. The sound was coming from Honeycutt Road, about five hundred feet to the north. He readied his rifle.

Steve and Timbo trained their MK11s on the intersection. A solid wall of trees blocked the view to the east and west. Beckham threw a look over his shoulder. The civilians were a couple hundred feet to the south of the intersection now, making their way toward the Airborne Inn and a cluster of other civilian buildings. They were moving at a trot, slowing down. The kids and the injured were fatigued.

“Shit,” Beckham said through clenched teeth. He knew the journey wasn’t going to be easy. The sounds of the Variants erased any hope for a simple extraction.

“Twelve o’clock,” Timbo growled, spitting onto the hood of the car as he repositioned his rifle.

Beckham glassed the concrete just as the first Variants burst onto the street. Tumbling bodies exploded across the intersection, somersaulting and crashing into cars and one another. In the blur of blood-soaked flesh, a single Variant caught Beckham’s attention. He zoomed in on a man dressed in tattered camo shorts. The Variant leapt with ease onto the roof of a pickup truck. His muscles bulged and blue veins webbed across his skin. He tilted his head at an angle, sniffed the air, puckered his sucker lips and pointed in Beckham’s direction. The action shocked Beckham. He’d wondered if the woman in New York had been an anomaly, but the truth was perched on a car in the middle of Honeycutt Road.

Kate was right. They were evolving.

The ex-soldier released a raspy howl that would likely result in several of the kids in the group pissing their pants. The sound only angered Beckham. He only feared one thing—not being able to protect the group. Holding a breath in his chest, Beckham considered his options. With only one viable strategy, he quickly exhaled.

“Change of plans,” he said to the Rangers. “We’ll hold them here. Screw the rooftops. We’re not going to make it up there.”

The response came in sharp gunfire. Screams from the civilians followed. The group had stopped in the middle of the road.

“Chow! Get them to the LZ!” Beckham yelled with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Jinx, you’re with me.”

Beckham searched for Horn. He found him in a single blink. They exchanged a nod and then he was gone, using his thick arms to corral the group forward. Beckham saw a single man had remained behind. He cracked a half smile when he realized it was Fitz. The man jogged toward him, his M27 swinging from the strap around his chest.

“Need some help?” Fitz said.

“Hell yeah,” Beckham said. They took up position next to Steve, bracing their bodies against the car. Timbo and Jinx were busy thinning out the field from the car to the right. Empty shell casings clicked off the metal hood and onto the concrete. The chorus of war returned, and it gave Beckham the chills.

He raised his weapon, brought the scope to his eye and fired on the mass surging over the mangled frames of crashed vehicles clogging the intersection. Most of them moved on all fours, like a swarm of fire ants, their bodies painted with the blood of their victims.

They were met by a tide of gunfire, splattering the ground with gore.

Beckham squeezed off concentrated shots, aiming for vital regions. He hit a female in the face, taking off the top of her head. The high-caliber rounds did little to deter the wall of creatures. They charged forward, replacing those that fell.

“Changing!” Jinx yelled.

“Me too,” Fitz said.

Beckham laid down supporting fire, a wide arc of bullets spraying over the road. Several of the Variants out front dropped, convulsing as their life force drained away. He hesitated when he saw the muscular man still on the top of the pickup truck. The creature crouched, its distorted hands waving madly through the air like a crazed conductor of a symphony from hell. Beckham zoomed in for a better look.

“What the hell,” he muttered as he focused on the man’s face. His bulging lips moved, saliva dripping from the oval sucker. Beckham angled the scope down an inch to focus on the creature’s clawed hands.

The Variant was giving orders.

Kate’s warning finally made sense. They couldn’t drive cars or fire weapons, but they were more than just crazed cannibals. They functioned at a very minimal level, a primal level. But they were learning how to hunt and kill more efficiently.

Beckham didn’t hesitate any longer. With the crosshairs centered on the man’s chest, he squeezed off a burst. The man’s agonized screech rang above the gunfire as bullets caught him in the midsection. He cascaded off the back of the truck, disappearing from view.

Beckham wasted ten seconds killing the man, but he’d confirmed what Kate already knew. The Variants were learning.

He finished his magazine as the horde of creatures fanned out across the road, inching closer and closer. There were too many of them, and even without their leader they would overwhelm his position in minutes. A scream in the distance pulled Beckham’s gaze to the civilians. They were almost to the extraction zone, past the wooded area and moving toward the JFK Special Warfare Museum.

“Fitz, get out of here,” Beckham said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he said between bursts.

Beckham’s eyes darted back and forth as he fired, trying to count the monsters, when he saw the smoke grenades hanging off Steve’s gear bag. Snatching a pair, Beckham pulled the pins and tossed them over the cars. The grenades clanged onto the concrete and hissed as they poured out smoke, covering the roadway. Beckham then reached for a frag grenade and tossed it in the center of the smoke field.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled. He grabbed Fitz by his flak jacket and pulled him away from the vehicles. Jinx, Timbo, and Steve sprinted after them.

The blast from the grenade shook the ground. Shrapnel whistled past Beckham’s right ear. Steve let out a low moan as one of the pieces hit him. Beckham craned his neck. The Ranger cradled his right arm. Only a flesh wound; he would be fine.

The overwhelming reek of burnt flesh mixed with the awful sour fruit scent of the creatures. Beckham pulled his scarf back up, coughing into the material. When the ringing in his ears cleared, a different noise emerged. It was the beautiful sound of human engineering.

“Evac incoming!” Steve shouted.

Three black dots raced across the skyline. Relief washed over him, right up to the moment he saw the first wave of Variants burst through the smoke wall. Three of the creatures paused in the street, their heads tilting, confused. They clawed at their noses, like the smoke had knocked out their sense of smell. Another pair followed. Both were missing limbs, and the female on the right had a hole the size of an apple in her stomach. Blood gushed from the wound as she searched for food, her eyes roving, unblinking.

It was like the Variants couldn’t sense the team.

“Let’s go,” Beckham said, hoping the smoke would buy them time. His earpiece crackled to life as he turned to run.

“Ghost, Echo 1, en route, prepare for extraction.”

“Copy!” Beckham yelled. “Will meet you at LZ. Do me a solid, Echo 1,” he said. “Thin out this horde chasing us.”

The pilot replied in a calm, unwavering voice. “Copy that, Ghost.”

The whining scream of the chopper’s guns came a moment later.

Then Beckham heard shouts and small-arms fire. He looked away from the birds. The civilians were stopped again. His heart pounded in his throat when he saw the flashes.

“No,” he said aloud. They were trapped. The Variants were piling in from south of Zabitosky Road. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all coordinated, that the Variants had planned the ambush all along.

The knots in Beckham’s stomach loosened. Rage boiled in the pit of his gut, warming his insides like a shot of whiskey. He scanned the area, desperation creeping up on him. Flicking his mini-mic to his lips, he yelled, “Echo 1, Ghost, get those guns on the group to the south. We’ll hold the pack to the north.”

“Copy that,” the pilot said. “Good luck, Ghost.”

Beckham watched the choppers circle overhead. They opened fire, the rounds splattering the concrete with the pulpy mess of the Variants out in front. The gunners focused on thinning out the herd while the other chopper landed in the empty intersection to the south. Chow approached the troop hold and helped the children inside.

Beckham turned back to the north. The dazed creatures were starting to move again, and a dozen more stood in front of the dwindling smoke screen.

“Steve, Jinx, Timbo, Fitz,” he yelled. “We hold them here. Not a single one of those things gets through. Got it?” Beckham examined Steve’s injury. Blood dripped from his arm. “You good to shoot?”

Steve nodded. “Got two arms, don’t I?”

“Fitz, you’re with me,” Beckham said. He reached for a fresh magazine and jammed it in with a click. Dropping to his stomach, he zoomed in on his first target. Fitz took up position next to him.

“We just need to buy them time,” Beckham said, firing off a shot that took a leg off a lingering Variant.

Fitz replied by dropping three of the creatures with a series of quick squeezes.

Beckham found two targets of his own, blood and gore exploding out the back of their skulls. Screams of rage and pain combined with the gunfire as more of the Variants hit the pavement. This time Beckham and his team were holding the pack back. The smoke had stopped the creatures in their tracks. The tide had shifted, and the fight no longer felt like a battle. It was now a slaughter.

The whining of the chopper guns waned and Beckham craned his neck to see all three birds on the ground. The civilians piled in, Chow and Horn directing traffic.

Beckham patted Fitz on the back. “Time to move.”

The Marine finished off his magazine and Beckham helped him up.

“Let’s go!” Beckham shouted to the other three men. They stood and backpedaled, firing as they moved.

The half dozen remaining Variants suddenly changed directions, ducking behind the safety of vehicles and leaping behind trees on the side of the road. Beckham made a final dash for the choppers. Two of them lifted into the air and traversed the skyline. The third hovered a few feet above the intersection. Horn manned the door gun. Beckham wrapped his arms under Fitz’s arm. The man was struggling now, panting deeply. They lagged behind as Jinx, Steve, and Timbo climbed aboard the bird.

When they were fifteen feet from the chopper, Horn suddenly swiveled the machine gun and screamed, “Move!”

By the time Beckham turned around, it was too late. The muscular ex-soldier from Honeycutt Road charged him. The others had regrouped, following their injured leader.

A flash burst from the chopper’s mini-gun as Horn trained the weapon on the pack. Beckham could hear their bones shattering as the bullets shredded their sick bodies. The gunfire ended as quickly as it started. Movement from his peripheral vision revealed the leader was still trailing him. They were in Horn’s line of fire.

In one swift movement, Beckham pushed the Marine toward the Black Hawk, swung his M4 toward the crazed face of the monster darting for him, and pulled the trigger. The bullets thunked into the man’s chest, jerking him back and forth. But it only slowed him down.

Beckham fired until his magazine was dry. He had tossed the gun to the ground and reached for his sidearm when the Variant tackled him onto the concrete. Beckham’s head hit the ground hard. Sharp pain jolted through his skull. He gripped the man around its thick throat, trying desperately to hold back jagged teeth. Saliva flowed from the Variant’s lips.

The taste of coppery blood filled Beckham’s mouth, his front lip gushing from where his teeth had torn it open. He squeezed the creature’s neck harder, but it yanked free of his grasp. The Variant slammed its fists into Beckham’s torso, driving the wind from the operator’s lungs.

He fought back with a few haphazard hits of his own, but they only infuriated the creature more. It let out a deep growl, leaning back and tilting his head toward the sky. Then it speared Beckham in the chest with the top of its skull. He gasped for air as the creature clawed at his face. Fingernails dragged across Beckham’s flesh.

Beckham’s vision faded in and out in time with the pulsating pain in his head.

He was going to die. It should have happened a dozen times before, but now he was finally going to die.

Beckham caught a glimpse of the chopper. “Go!” he yelled.

A fog dragged across his vision.

He blinked and caught a glimpse of black, bloodstained boots. They were moving. Close now. Two steps away.

One step.

Beckham felt the weight of the creature fall off his body. Or was he slipping into unconsciousness? He wasn’t sure. He struggled to peel back an eyelid.

The Variant was gone. A new face was looking down at him. Beckham blinked, the salty sweat and blood stinging his eyes.

“Get up,” said a deep voice.

Beckham’s vision focused on the freckled face of Horn. Fitz stood next to him, and together they reached down and grabbed Beckham under his arms. He went limp, his legs dragging across the concrete as they carried him back to the chopper. Rounds from the door guns zipped overhead.

Beckham’s body was numb as he was lifted into the air and placed onto the floor of the chopper.

“Is everyone okay?” he muttered.

“Everyone’s fine,” Horn replied. “You did it, man. You saved everyone.”

Beckham fought to keep heavy eyelids open. He saw Tasha and Jenny staring at him behind Horn.

“It’s okay now,” Beckham choked, reaching for them. “You’re going to a safe place.”