Extinction Horizon

-18-

Beckham slammed his shoulder into the door. Every muscle in his body ached from the hour they’d spent in the stairwell, trying desperately to keep the horde of infected back.

They’d made it ten feet from their office hiding spot when they were cornered and forced to retreat to a concrete staircase. Neither of the doors on either floor locked. Riley and Horn held off the pack frantically trying to get in through the bottom door, while Beckham and Wolfe held off the infected on the second floor.

The growing group of creatures smashed into the door again, pushing Beckham back. Screaming with rage, he bowed his head like a lineman about to sack a quarterback and slammed into the door with his shoulder. He wasn’t sure how much longer they could hold them back.

He brought his sweaty chin down on the comm. “Horn, Riley. How many do you think are down there?”

Horn’s reply sounded more like a grunt. “Ugh. Five.”

Beckham had no idea how many were on the other side, but from the sounds of their desperate howls, he guessed there were at least half a dozen.

“We need to make a move,” Riley said. He breathed heavily over the channel. Beckham knew he was running on empty. They all were.

“Got any ideas?” Beckham replied.

“Not really,” Riley said. “I guess we could try shooting our way out.”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that,” Beckham said. There was no other option. Morning was quickly approaching. They needed to get to a safe location if they had any hope of being evacuated. There was no way in hell they would survive another day or night out here.

With his shoulder firmly planted against the door, Beckham glanced over at Wolfe. “You good?”

The young soldier managed a nod.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You can count on me,” Wolfe replied.

Chinning his comm, Beckham said, “Okay, on the count of three we let go of the doors and meet in the middle of the staircase. You fire the moment one of those things breaks through.”

“All right,” Wolfe said, nodding.

“Short controlled bursts. Conserve ammo. Aim for the head or the heart,” Beckham added.

“Got it, boss,” Horn replied.

“Roger that,” Riley chipped in.

Closing his eyes, Beckham calmed his breathing and focused. He kept reminding himself this was no different than firefights in Iraq or Afghanistan; these things could be killed just like any other human.

“One.”

“Two.”

Gripping his MP5 in his left hand, he said, “Three!”

Beckham jumped away from the door and took a careful step down the stairs, standing shoulder to shoulder with Wolfe. The first creature hit the door at a breakneck speed, stumbling and falling face first against the pavement. The moment gave Beckham the perfect view of the hallway beyond. The infected stood six deep, staring back at him almost as if they were surprised.

He utilized the moment of confusion and fired several short bursts into the man on the ground. The bullets tore through the back of his head and he immediately went limp. The next two creatures looked down at the destroyed man’s head and let out deep howls—howls so loud that Beckham could hear them over the gunfire from below.

Wolfe cut them down with his M4 in two shots. Their ruined bodies slumped to the floor. The next batch came running down the hall with amazing speed. Two of them dropped to all fours and used momentum from their back legs to hurtle their bodies forward. The leader, a woman with crazed, rose-colored eyes, lunged through the doorway.

Beckham squeezed off another blast and caught her in the face. A curtain of black hair formed a halo around her head as she flew back into the hallway, crashing into two men behind her.

Taking two more steps backward, Beckham aimed at the creatures just as another pack came bursting around the corner of the hallway. Their hungry shrieks reverberated down the corridor.

“How we doing?” Beckham yelled.

A blast from Riley’s shotgun cracked. The booming gunfire rang in Beckham’s ears, making it impossible to hear a response.

Seconds later the team stood back to back, their guns blazing. Never in his career had Beckham fought in such close quarters. There was nothing quite like a firefight in a space so tight and narrow. Blood and gore caked the walls as the infected grew more desperate. The insanity of the situation recharged Beckham’s muscles and he fought harder, his shots precise. Calculated. He wasn’t going to let his men down. Not again.

Blood splattered on Beckham’s visor, throwing him off balance. He swiped it away, regained his composure, and fired the last of his magazine.

“I’m out!” He reached for another but his hand came back empty. He instantly reached for his 10mm and instead found the grip of the tranquilizer gun. With only two of the creatures left, he pulled the pistol from his belt and with one eye closed he fired off one of the rounds at the closest one. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it was just a boy.

Wolfe took out the final woman that emerged at the top of the stairs with four rounds to her mid-section. Her body jerked several times as she slumped against the wall, blood smearing down the concrete.

An odd silence filled the space, ghostly trails of smoke coming from their gun barrels. Beckham scanned the ground. Brass casings littered the concrete and dark red blood flowed freely down the steps, a small river making its way down to his boots. He stood in the middle of a slaughterhouse, some of the bodies still jerking from involuntary muscle spasms.

The sight terrified him for the first time, knowing that only a small layer protected him from the virus that could turn him into a monster.

“We better move,” Horn said. “Those things will be back.”

Beckham slowly emerged out of his trance. Horn was right. They needed to get to higher ground and find a place where a Blackhawk could evacuate them.

“Let’s go,” Riley shouted.

“Wait!” Beckham replied, remembering the boy he’d shot with the tranquilizer gun. He raced up the stairs, stepping over two dead bodies. Reaching for his 10mm, he aimed at the pile on the top floor. The boy’s right arm protruded out of a stack three deep.

Beckham pushed the woman off of him and then poked the kid with his pistol. His yellow, blood-stained eyes popped open, the vertical slits blinking rapidly. The boy groaned and reached up with his one free arm, clawing slowly through the air. He struggled, his lips puckering as the tranquilizer entered his system.

Beckham took a step back and watched the poor boy suffering. In a few seconds it was over. The child’s eyelids closed over his reptilian-like eyes and he let out one final grunt.

Nudging him with a boot, Beckham waited a few more beats and then bent down and grabbed the boy. He hoisted him over his shoulders and then joined the others at the bottom of the stairs. “Got us a new ticket to Fort Bragg.”

Horn acknowledged with a nod and then disappeared into the hallway beyond. Riley and Wolfe went next, and Beckham followed, hoping they could make it to a clear LZ before they were swarmed.

Kate twitched in her chair as the door to the research room swung open. Ellis held two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands.

“Thirsty?”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Kate moaned. “What time is it?”

“Nine a.m.” He yawned. “Did you sleep?” He set the mugs on the table and plopped down in the chair next to her.

“A little,” Kate replied. She nearly jumped from her chair when she remembered the samples they’d sent to Toxicology. “Have you heard anything from…”

“Nope. Not yet.”

Kate slowly sat back down and crossed her arms, tightening them against her chest. The room was freezing. “How about Beckham? Is he back yet?”

“Not sure, but I don’t think so.”

With her mind spinning, she moved to her next question. “What’s the latest on what’s happening outside?”

Ellis frowned. “Colonel Gibson has placed a communication cloak over the island. So I have no idea.”

Kate finished a sip from her mug and scowled. “Why would he do that?”

“I know. I don’t understand either, but Major Smith tried to sell the decision as a morale thing,” Ellis said. He ran a hand through his slicked-back hair and took a drink. “Things must be awful outside if he doesn’t want people to know what’s going on. I’m assuming the virus has made it overseas by now.”

Kate resisted the urge to chew her fingernails. There was only a remote chance that other countries could have shut down the airports before it spread, preventing planes with suspected cases from landing. There were protocols put into place that prevented the spread of Level 4 contagions, and if they were followed…

She shook the impossible idea away. Even if the virus hadn’t made it to every continent yet, it would. Knowing what she did now about incubation periods and the nature of the infection, it was ludicrous to think otherwise.

“I did hear the President is dead,” Ellis said nonchalantly.

Kate froze. “What? How?”

Ellis shook his head. “Somehow the infection made it into his bunker. The Vice President is gone, too.”

“My god,” Kate replied.

“The virus is spreading so fast,” Ellis said. His voice grew lower as he spoke. “It’s almost as if it was engineered.” He shook his head and reached for his cup.

“What did you say? Kate said.

“Just that the virus is spreading so fast.”

“No, after that.”

Ellis paused to think. “It seems like it was engineered to spread?”

Kate still couldn’t bring herself to believe that Doctor Medford had designed the Hemorrhage virus with sinister intentions. The man had found a way to severely restrict the destruction of the endothelial cells. He’d done what Kate and Michael had never been able to accomplish. It was a partial cure in its own right, but it still didn’t make sense to her. Why stop at a partial cure? The virus was more contagious now than ever, and the prolonged life of the host had allowed it to spread across the country.

And none of this explained the transformation these people were going through. What was causing the virus to transform hosts into violent monsters?

Taking a gulp of coffee, Kate stood and stretched. In a few hours she would know. And hopefully she would have some idea of how to create a cure.

Beckham grunted, hoisting the boy farther onto his shoulders. They’d had a stroke of luck since leaving the back exit of the warehouse building. None of the creatures had spotted them, and none followed them. Clinging to the shadows, Beckham guided the team through the city streets silently and without detection.

Pausing at the edge of Grand Street, he scanned both sides of the road. Besides a few dusty vehicles, the path was empty. The only movement was from the gusts of wind that carried trash across the concrete.

With his hands supporting his cargo, he was forced to give a verbal command. “Move,” he said, chinning his comm.

Footfalls pounded the concrete behind him and he pushed harder. The muscles in his legs groaned, burning with every motion.

His plan was simple. They were headed for the same beach where the pilot had dropped them. The chopper was supposed to be hovering over the ocean, waiting for them there, but they were still a block away from the extraction point.

Looking toward the skyline, Beckham caught a glimpse of the morning sun. He’d never been so excited to see the beautiful crimson rays.

The feeling didn’t last. The quiet streets were unnerving. There wasn’t even the faint thump of helicopter blades.

Groaning, Beckham checked his watch, knowing they were close to their extraction time. If he didn’t hurry they were going to be late.

“Fuck,” he mumbled. If Gibson left them out here another day he was going to personally pay the man a visit as soon as he got back. And this time he wasn’t going to hold his tongue, or his fists.

The thought gave him an extra boost of energy and he rounded Smith Avenue anxious to see the shoreline beyond. A semi-truck blocked the view, the trailer stretching across the street. Above the glistening metal he finally saw the rotating blades from a chopper.

Our ride.

“Thank God,” he mumbled, hoisting the boy onto his shoulders again.

Moving around the front of the truck, Beckham used his last bit of strength to run toward Main Street. He could see the railroad tracks now and the white sand beyond. The waves crashing across the shoreline filled his helmet with a soothing sound.

They were almost there.

Almost safe.

When he was halfway down the street he heard a deep croaking so loud he nearly dropped his infected cargo on the concrete.

He twisted his frame, looking for the source of the noise. Beckham strained to see through his filthy visor. Strands of saliva hung from the inside where he’d coughed and spit during the firefight inside the staircase. There was no way to clean it without taking it off, and he was forced to try and look around the smears.

“What the fuck is that?” Horn asked.

Beckham swept his gaze over the road in front of him the best he could, stopping on empty cars and then moving to a cluster of trees lining the road.

Nothing.

Riley spun a few feet away, his shotgun searching for a target. “Where is it coming from?”

Beckham shook his head. Lowering the boy to the ground, he reached for his MP5, cursing when he remembered the magazine was dry.

“Shit! One o’clock!” Riley shouted.

Beckham looked up and saw a man perched on the rooftop of a three-story building. He held a severed limb in his right hand and tore chunks of flesh away in between howls.

The sight sent a violent chill down Beckham’s back. He twisted his head to the side and chinned his comm. Fighting to stay calm, he said, “Don’t engage. Get to the LZ.”

The faint whoosh of the Blackhawk’s blades reminded Beckham how close they were to salvation. He caught a quick glimpse of sand as he reached down to grab the sick boy under his armpit. “Got to move,” he whispered in a voice so low only he could hear.

The team crossed Main Street and then carefully navigated the railroad tracks. Risking a glance behind them, Beckham saw the single infected man toss the limb off the building. Then, on all fours, the man scaled the exterior surface.

“Jesus,” Beckham muttered. He found himself wondering again how that was even possible. When the man got to the street, several other infected came flying through the bottom door, deafening and angry screeches pouring from their mouths.

Beckham could hardly hear the sound of the pilot’s voice as it crackled into his earpiece.

“Ghost, this is Echo 1, en route to LZ.”

The voice cut out and Beckham watched the chopper jerk right.

“LZ is hot! Repeat. LZ is hot!” the pilot suddenly yelled.

No fucking shit, Beckham thought.

The Blackhawk banked hard to the side and then hovered. In the open doorway, a crew chief grabbed the compartment gun and fired. Red-hot rounds tore through the air, whistling like mini missiles.

Adrenaline gave Beckham a final boost of energy to get him across the wet sand. Still, he struggled to move, the boy weighing down on him. When he was under the chopper he dropped the kid and waited for the rest of the team.

Riley and Horn arrived a second later, taking up position a few feet away. Then came Wolfe, panting heavily.

The crew chief continued to spew rounds from the compartment gun over their heads. Infected creatures dropped to hands and feet in an attempt to bolt around the spray, but the gunner was precise. He compensated quickly. The bullets cut them down one by one, splattering the beach red. The infected soldier from the roof was the last to fall. He crumpled to the ground thirty meters from the chopper, his hands reaching up toward the craft.

Beckham flinched when the man’s head exploded. He harbored no anger toward the creature like he had so many other enemies. The soldier was sick, just like Tenor had been. He had not asked for this. The virus wasn’t some suicide jacket or sniper rifle that Beckham’s enemies used to kill American soldiers. The real enemy was the microscopic virus inside the poor bastard’s bloodstream.

Beckham looked for the unconscious boy. He lay curled up on the sand a few feet away, and Beckham couldn’t help but wonder what his role would be in finding a cure. A hand extended down above him. He looked up to see the crew chief.

“Let’s go! Hoist the boy up!” the man yelled.

Nodding, Beckham reached down and grabbed the kid under his armpits. With a grunt, he lifted the child into the air. Horn helped and together they pushed the child toward the chopper.

Beckham climbed in next and collapsed with his back to the metal floor. Closing his eyes, he took in a slow breath. Filtered air had never tasted so good. His chest swelled with pride when he felt the chopper pull away. Somehow they had survived and had managed to complete their mission.

His thoughts drifted from all those who had died and finally to Dr. Kate Lovato. Something in his thoughts naturally brought her to mind. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. She didn’t need saving. She had handled herself in Atlanta like a soldier would. And even though he didn’t know the doctor well, his gut told him that if anyone could stop this nightmare, she could.