Missions from the Extinction Cycle (Volume 1)

by Mark Tufo

  “He said he lost another one. He’s been out looking for it and just got back.”

  “And?” Hal asked, reading Sunan’s eyes.

  “He found its remains at the far end of the property.”

  “Remains?”

  “It had been killed and butchered. His words, not mine.”

  “Is cattle rustling a problem here?”

  Sunan shook his head. “No.”

  “When he says butchered…”

  “I asked him. Someone or something slit its throat and cut steaks from its back and flank. But left most of the meat.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a thief, does it? They’d have led it elsewhere to slaughter or removed everything edible.”

  “Undoubtedly. I asked him to show us where he found it. He agreed.”

  “So another hike,” Hal said.

  “That’s the only way to get there.”

  “Did you ask him if he’s seen anyone suspicious?”

  “Yes. Nothing. Although he seems spooked by the remains. Said it’s never happened before, and he’s lived here for forty-three years.”

  Hal considered the farmer, who looked more like he was in his sixties, and the man grinned, revealing a few blackened teeth. Hal returned the smile, and they set off after Sunan retrieved a flashlight from the glove compartment and locked the vehicle.

  “What do you need that for?” Hal asked.

  “He said it’s a long way, and I don’t want to step on a snake in the dark and add that to my misery.”

  “Good point.”

  The trek to the cow’s carcass took well over an hour, the going treacherous once they crossed the creek, and the light was fading in the western sky when the farmer stopped short and pointed to a clearing ringed by bamboo. They moved as a group to a large brown mound near one edge of the clearing, covered with flies, the dead animal’s flesh rotting in the heat.

  “Jesus,” Hal muttered, nose crinkling at the smell. “That’s evil.”

  “Check out the cuts, though. Random. Like he was just hacking away at the thing.”

  “So I see.”

  “Let’s look around and see if he left a trail.”

  “You think that’s likely?”

  “You say he’s crazy, and he has no reason to think anyone’s looking for him, so why not? Maybe for the first time in this, we get lucky,” Sunan said.

  They spread out and walked the area, and after twenty minutes the farmer called to Sunan to tell him that he was heading back to his home while there was still enough light to make it. Sunan waved in acknowledgement, and they continued working the perimeter of the field until Hal called out from one of the bamboo thatches.

  “There’s blood over here. He went this way,” he said when Sunan joined him.

  Sunan peered at the brown smears on the bamboo stalks and nodded.

  “Good catch.”

  Hal pointed at the ground, still soft from the prior evening’s rain. “Are those tracks?”

  Sunan moved to the faint impressions and studied them, and then stood and drew his pistol. “Looks like it.”

  “Don’t suppose we can call for backup.”

  “Radio’s an hour back at the road. You want to follow these or risk losing them to another rain?”

  “Not much choice, is there?”

  Hal eyed the tracks. “No.”

  They crept along a trail that led up a mild incline, and as the sky darkened with a final marbling of apricot and magenta, they arrived at an ancient wooden fence.

  “This is how he gets in,” Sunan said, pointing to a section where the cross posts were shattered.

  “And out again.” Hal drew his own weapon and glanced at the heavens. “You think he might be nearby?”

  “This is the third cow. Perfect place to lie low. I say we keep going.”

  Hal glanced at the flashlight in Sunan’s hand. “We have big rattlers back in West Texas.”

  “We have vipers here, too. And cobras.”

  Sunan flicked on the flashlight as they continued along the track and stopped short near a grove of trees. He played the beam across another carcass, this one picked clean, bones gleaming white in the light, only a few patches of hide remaining.

  “Cow number two,” Hal whispered.

  “He’s around here somewhere. I can feel it.”

  “Not sure that’s all that reassuring.”

  They made their way from the skeleton, and Hal grimaced as they neared a rise where a row of dark cave openings stretched along the base. He pointed to his right and Sunan followed with the flashlight beam, where relatively fresh stools were clumped near a tree. Sunan nodded, and Hal swallowed back the tang that automatically rose in his throat at the stink of human waste.

  A sound from the nearest cave stopped them in their tracks, and Hal whispered to Sunan, “You hear that?”

  The inspector nodded. “How do you want to do this?”

  Hal hefted his Colt 1911 .45 pistol and his eyes narrowed. “I’ll go first. Give me the flashlight.”

  “Why you?” Sunan asked.

  “He’s one of mine. I’ll deal with him.”

  Sunan handed him the light and they crept toward the cave. As they neared the mouth, a low growl emanated from inside that chilled their blood. Both raised their weapons, their pulses hammering in their ears as they took cautious steps toward it, pistols trained on the yawning opening.

  — 16 —

  Hal stopped near the inky maw and his shoulders relaxed as he played the light into the opening. He twisted to where Sunan stood a few yards behind him, pistol clenched in a two-handed grip, and called out in a stage whisper, “It’s just a dog. Looks terrified.”

  Sunan exhaled with relief and then a blur from one of the trees dropped toward him and knocked him sideways, sending his pistol flying. Hal gasped at the apparition that had materialized from the darkness and swung around with his gun at where Sunan was trying to fend off the brutal attack.

  Hal tried to draw a bead on the assailant, but the man was moving at incredible speed, landing blow after blow in spite of the slim Thai’s defensive blocks, a testament to the ineffectiveness of martial arts against a madman. Hal forced himself to remain calm and squeezed off a shot that hit the attacker in the upper shoulder blade, earning him an animal howl of pain and fury.

  The killer spun and bolted away, and Hal fired three more times before he disappeared into the shadows. Sunan groaned from where he’d fallen and Hal moved to him, flashlight still trained on where the attacker had vanished.

  “How bad?” Hal asked.

  “I…not good. Arms are torn up. And I stopped your bullet with my shoulder.”

  “Damn. Sorry.”

  “Go after him. He’s wounded. I’ll be fine.”

  Hal retrieved Sunan’s gun and handed it to him. “Watch out for the dog.”

  “Get going.”

  Hal didn’t delay or argue. He took off after the killer at a run, following a glistening trail of crimson drops on the grass, the flashlight bobbing like a living thing on the track in front of him. He rounded a bend, and the jungle closed in around him. He slowed to take his bearings and paused, his breath a rasp from the exertion.

  If his quarry was still running, he was doing so in silence—which Hal didn’t see as possible given the heavy boots the man was wearing, much less while losing blood from a substantial wound. Hal resumed the chase, but moved more slowly, not wanting to underestimate the killer again. He emerged from the brush in another clearing, this one encircled with trees, and followed the blood to the far edge, where it disappeared into the gloom.

  A rustle from his left stopped Hal in his tracks. He spun with his gun in the direction of the sound and barely had time to pump out two rounds before Kendrick was on him, blood coursing from his wounds and frothing from his nostrils as he tried to skewer Hal with the knife. The blade slashed through Hal’s shirt and a flash of pain seared along his ribs, and then the hilt slammed against his temple, dazing him and causin
g him to drop the gun.

  Kendrick howled in triumph, but the sound was quickly replaced by a renewed bellow of pain when Hal slapped his open palms against the man’s ears, rupturing both eardrums. The knife came at Hal again, but he was ready for it, and he dodged and jammed his thumbs into the killer’s eyes. The killer roared in rage and agony, and Hal threw himself to the side and scrambled for his pistol while Kendrick was blinded. His fingers felt the gun grip, and then a kick lifted him into the air, his ribs cracking from the force.

  Hal landed hard and winced in pain, and then twisted as Kendrick stood over him, knife in hand, blood streaming freely down his chest. Kendrick let loose a bloodcurdling scream and brought the knife back for a killing blow. Hal’s gun barked three times, the big rounds pounding into the killer at point-blank range. Kendrick jerked back as the top of his skull blew off and then tumbled to the ground. His body spasmed once, and then again, and finally lay still.

  Hal sat up, his ears ringing from the shots, and probed his side, his ribs throbbing. It was bad, but he’d been hurt worse. He holstered his pistol and tried the other side, and his hand came away slick with blood from the knife wound. He hissed at the sting and wiped his fingers on his pants, shaking his head at his predicament—hurt, ribs broken, cut up, in the middle of nowhere with nothing but cobras and wild dogs to keep him company. He looked up at the gibbous moon and, after drawing several tentative breaths, stripped off his shirt, tied it in a makeshift bandage around his torso, and forced himself to his feet, shaking from the effort and the pain.

  “At least you’re alive,” he muttered to himself. He looked around in the grass and spotted the flashlight. He scooped it up with a grimace before pulling his pistol free and walking over to the dead man to play the beam over his ruined face. The final slug had mushroomed on exit, and there wasn’t much left of his head, which had split apart like a melon dropped from a second-story window. Even in death the man’s features were twisted in hate, and it took every bit of self-control Hal had to keep from emptying the pistol into him.

  Hal knelt unsteadily beside the dead soldier, half expecting Kendrick to lunge at him at the last minute, and felt his neck for a pulse. Feeling none, he straightened, and after a final glance at the killer’s corpse and a tentative probe of his throbbing temple, he turned to find his way to Sunan so they could begin the long, hard slog back to the truck.

  — 17 —

  The hospital in Pattaya was primitive by American standards, the equipment largely relics from decades earlier. Sunan was in a private room on an IV drip of antibiotics. Both his arms were bandaged, but the surgery to remove the bullet from his shoulder had been successful.

  Sunan looked up when Hal entered, and managed a weak smile.

  “Well, we made it,” he said.

  “Barely.”

  The trek back to the truck had taken everything they’d had. Hal had fashioned a pressure bandage to stem the worst of the bleeding from Sunan’s gunshot wound and had supported him on the hike back, which had taken three times as long. It had started raining halfway through, which had made the already miserable journey even more difficult, the ground slippery beneath their feet with treacherous mud.

  When they’d finally made it to the vehicle, Hal had driven hard in the downpour to get Sunan to medical care, ignoring the ache in his sides from his own injuries. At the hospital, the emergency team had quickly carted Sunan into surgery while a physician stitched up Hal’s knife wound, swabbed his bruised temple, and taken X-rays of his ribs. Three fractures, fourteen stitches, and a painful shot of antibiotic later, Hal had returned to base after being told that Sunan was stable.

  Thirty-two hours later, Hal’s expression was dour as he approached Sunan’s bed.

  “What’s wrong? You got your killer. You should be happy,” Sunan said.

  Hal took a seat and shook his head. “Yeah. Right.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I’ve just got a bad taste in my mouth from all of this.”

  “Why?”

  Hal frowned. “There are some things I can’t tell you due to national security.”

  “Then leave those parts out.”

  “Let’s just say that it’s possible the killer got that way due to an experiment gone wrong. One that’s been covered up by everyone involved. Now that he’s dead, everyone’s breathing easier, but nobody seems to be interested in taking responsibility for their role in creating a monster.”

  “That sounds about right for government work. It’s not just yours. They’re all crooks and thieves.”

  “Right. But we’re supposed to be the good guys.”

  Sunan sighed. “There are no good guys in war or government work. Only different shades of bad. That’s always been true. It attracts a certain type. Always will.”

  “Maybe. But I believed differently until now. Watching the cover-up roar into full swing, everyone trying to rewrite history…and when I pressed the colonel about the drug ring, he gave me the brush-off. Seems like he might have more to lose than I thought; or worse, that maybe the smuggling wasn’t just a couple of guys.”

  “There have always been rumors of government involvement,” Sunan said. “Common knowledge here on the ground.”

  “It makes me sick to be a part of it.”

  Sunan shrugged and then winced in pain. “Then don’t be. Find a new line of work.”

  Hal nodded. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. I joined the marines out of a sense of duty and honor my daddy instilled in me. Same reason I wanted to be a lawman. Now it seems that it’s nothing but acting as an enforcer for a bunch of crooks. I didn’t sign up for that.”

  “When’s your tour up?”

  “Six more months.”

  “What are you thinking about doing?”

  “I don’t know. Honest work of some kind. Whatever it is, not this.”

  Sunan nodded. “You’re being hard on yourself. You stopped a killer. That’s something.”

  “It is. But he wouldn’t have been one if he hadn’t been turned into one. So everyone that died goes right back to that.” Hal paused. “Which you can’t discuss with anyone.”

  “I understand. Nobody talks to me anyway, so I’m not sure there’s anyone to tell.”

  Hal stood. “The doctors say you’re going to recover fine. You’ll be dancing on tables in no time.”

  “I’d have been better if you hadn’t shot me.”

  “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “I’m kidding.”

  “I know.” Hal regarded the bandages on his appendages. “Your arms looked like hamburger. You’re lucky you didn’t lose them.”

  “At least we know what caused the defensive wounds.”

  “High price to pay for knowledge.”

  Sunan closed his eyes. “You think the colonel’s in on the drug ring?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then you’re probably better off getting out of here sooner than later. He might want to shut you up.”

  “That occurred to me. I’m headed to Bangkok from here.”

  “And then?”

  “I’ll run out the clock. The general will see that I get plenty of R&R. Maybe something stateside after for the duration. But I’m done.”

  Sunan nodded again. “Sounds that way. Good luck. And watch yourself in Bangkok.”

  “You take care. It was good working with you.”

  “Except for the part where you shot me, same here.”

  Hal grinned and Sunan managed a pained smile. Hal walked to the door and paused at the threshold. “You need anything before I go?”

  “No. I’m fine. Thanks for getting me back in one piece.”

  Hal inclined his head as though ready to say something more and then reconsidered. He pushed past an unfortunate on a gurney, who was moaning like a wounded animal, a stump where his leg should have been seeping blood through a bandage, and continued down the hall, his kit bag in hand, shoulders square, radiating an authority he didn’t feel. Outside, he paused on the sidewalk and looked up
at the clouds, the sun warming his skin. Thousands of butterflies, their wings bright yellow, drifted across the sky like petals blown on a strong breeze, and he watched them absently as he considered his options.

  After a long moment, Hal drew a deep breath and marched down the sidewalk to where a row of taxis were waiting, the drivers clumped nearby, smoking and laughing. A brief memory of Aranya’s untroubled face and playfully mocking eyes flitted through his mind and he shook his head to clear it as he neared the queue, knowing in his core that his dreams would be haunted by images of Kendrick and his victims for many nights to come.

  The Bone Collector

  by

  Jeff Olah

  An Extinction Cycle Novella

  © Jeff Olah – All rights reserved

  — 1 —

  The living room was cold. Definitely too cold, but for the last several days, every room was too cold. Every hallway, every locker room, every doctor’s office, and every single place that Blake Chambers had been since that day. Just too damn cold. He didn’t know what he was more afraid of, the fact that this—whatever this was—had somehow changed a part of him that he couldn’t control, or the possibility that he’d never again suit up as a professional football player.

  His season had ended just over ninety days before. Sitting alone in the dark, attempting to control the massive headache that had returned for the second time that day, Coach Mays texted him, asking how he was doing.

  He knew what was happening. What the text message was really asking. Blake had missed the previous three appointments with the team doctor and continued taking Sumatriptan—the medication he was prescribed for migraines—even though it had stopped working six days ago. Now the only time his head stopped hurting was when he was asleep, which was almost never.