Extinction Cycle (Kindle Worlds Novella): From The Ashes

by Michael Patrick Hicks

"Heading to the roof now," Alvarez said.

  Cole's head swam, a fuzzy fog coating the inside of his skull. "I'm on my way," he said, finding the nearest ramp to the upper floors.

  He ran and fired, ran and fired, his legs pumping, his lungs burning painfully. There was too much open ground for the infected to spread out across, and they gave chase across the ceilings, leaping on all fours as they bounded toward him, or leapt between floors and scaled the brick exterior.

  As he made his way to the second floor, he caught a sign indicating the stairwell and darted through, wishing he had something to block the stairs with. He bolted up the stairs, energized with adrenaline and panic, and decided to do something potentially stupid. He pulled a grenade from the equipment webbing, yanked the pin, and tossed it down the stairs, back to the door. And then he ran like hell.

  The stairwell door banged open, and the echoes of clicking bones and snapping jaws following him up and up and up. And then the explosion came, shaking the whole building and knocking him off balance. He dropped forward, his chest smashing into the lip of a stair. A buzzing whine filled his ears, drowning out the shrieking cries of wounded and angry infected. He scrabbled to get his feet back under him, his body shaky from the concussion of the grenade. He wasted no time admiring his handiwork as fresh screams pierced his deafness and made him shiver as if somebody were running their nails against a chalkboard.

  His vision was spotted, rimmed in a creeping blackness, and he blinked away the bright flashes of silver and purple as he ran.

  Turning the corner of a landing, he caught a flash of movement as translucent hands gripped the railing, fingers curling around the chipped paint, the shifting of muscles visible beneath the thin flesh. An ugly, leech-like face sprung into view as feet found the edge of the concrete landing, the infected's large, thick lips glossy with blood and saliva, puckering in anticipation. It reached for him as he raised his rifle, his finger pulling the trigger before he even had his weapon hip-high. Bullets stitched across the creature's groin, carving a path across its chest as the recoil yanked the rifle up. Its head burst apart, but its grip never loosened, and hung from the rail, lifelessly.

  He turned to see more infected storming up the stairs, and fired into the writhing collective.

  Cole had often incorporated running stairs into his daily workouts, and his thighs and calves were thick with muscle. He ran miles and miles worth of stairs on alternate days, hating every step of it. Now, even as his whole body felt like it was on fire, he was grateful for the training.

  "I'm coming through," he said across the open mic. "Enemy in pursuit."

  "Roger," Alvarez and Morris replied.

  He hit the rooftop entrance, shoving his way through the door and putting as much distance between himself and the infected as possible. He turned, took a knee, and braced the rifle against his shoulder, lining the barrel up with the door he had come through. Alvarez and Morris were rushing into position alongside him. As soon as the door opened, all three men went weapons free.

  Moments later, the stairwell was jammed with infected dead. The Guardsmen knew better than to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Cole pointed Alvarez and Morris into positions on opposite corners of the roof, and took up a position of his own overlooking Congress Street several stories below. The two Black Hawk choppers, Wayfinder One Eight Seven and Wayfinder Two Niner Three, were circling overhead, the crew chiefs on board using their miniguns to clear the street. Five stories below, scores upon scores of dead infected, as well as their victims, were strewn across the macadam. Directly across from him, Cobo Center was swarmed in the writhing, screeching bodies of monsters, giving the building a hive-like measure of activity. It reminded him of an anthill at its busiest, most productive moments, but realized that wasn't quite right. It was more like a wasp's nest, buzzing and noisy, the threat of imminent violence thick in the air.

  "Echo One Seven, this is Wayfinder One Eight Seven. Be advised, friendlies are inbound."

  Looking down at the ash-covered street, Cole searched for any signs of help. As his eyes swept across Congress Street from Washington to Cass, he saw nothing. Only the dead. Then, he caught a small burst of muzzle flash, a hot orange against an otherwise gray landscape. Two heartbeats later, he saw three bulky, green shapes break cover from behind a tall hill of rubble and leapfrog down the street.

  "Roger that, Wayfinder One Eight Seven. I have eyes-on."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Keeping as close to the buildings, or, in some instances, the remains of buildings, Hedley led his team down 1st Street, across Fort Street and straight on to Congress. There was surprisingly little resistance, and the small pockets of infected that had come their way were dispatched quickly. It wasn't until they approached Congress and had eyes-on their objective that they understood where the primary resistance was. The infected had clearly seized Cobo Center, their bodies scaling the cube-blocked wall to climb to the roof, or slinking into the darkened recesses of the parking garage beneath the building.

  Cobo Center occupied more than three city blocks. The remaining Guardsmen of Echo One Seven were positioned at the opposite end of the block, on the other side of Cass from where Hedley and his forces were currently stationed at. In between was a long stretch of road.

  Crouched behind the wall of the 1st Street Parking Deck and between a minimal effort at landscaping off the sidewalk, Hedley took stock of their options. Making their way down Congress was suicide. They'd be out in the open and exposed to the infected. Even with aerial support from the Black Hawk's autocannons, the monsters would be on them in a heartbeat. Given how badly they were outnumbered, he didn't like their odds and immediately ruled out traversing the street.

  Cutting their losses and retreating back down to Fort Street and approaching Echo One Seven's location from Cass Street, as originally planned, was both risky and time-consuming. It also carried the strong possibility of more infected finding them as they passed in front of the 455 Building.

  The only other option, and their best as far as Hedley was concerned, was to cut through the alley between the 455 Building and the city parking garage on the north side of Congress, directly across the street from the Cobo Center Garage. That aquamarine concrete building occupied nearly half the land between them and Echo One Seven, and the alley would take them directly to Cass Avenue, and only a stone's throw from the National Guard. The upper half of the city parking garage had been demolished in the Raptor's bombing runs the previous night, but the lower half appeared to be in good-enough condition. He suspected it would provide both cover and safety, and if there were any threats inside the garage, they should be able to spot them through the gaps between floors easily enough and respond rapidly.

  "All right," he said, finally. "Let's go."

  Taking point, he led them across 1st Street at a sharp angle, taking them from one parking garage to another, and into the alley. The tall walls of the 455 Building and the city parking garage left the alley cloaked in shadow. With no power to either structure, the parking decks of the garage were completely dark, and, as far as they could tell, lifeless. One small saving grace, though, was the mostly blank brick wall at the rear of the 455 Building.

  "How many fucking parking lots does this city have?" Fulton complained, as the alley emptied into another parking lot across from the People Mover Station where they had confronted the street gang. He shook his head and said, "Déjà vu, man."

  Hedley looked toward Fort Street and the number of dead infected lying in the street, along with the gang members that had come upon them. The street was cratered from the Raptor's glide bombs, and a thick pall of smoke hung in the air from the still-burning SUVs. Aside from the signs of recent violence, all else seemed quiet.

  As they reached a gap between the city parking garage and a squatter structure with signage identifying it as a bar and grill named Cobo Joe's, they paused to survey their surroundings with greater attention. After a moment, they pr
oceeded to cover behind a large hill of red brick that had been a building twenty-four hours ago. Fulton crouched behind a green dumpster at the mouth of the alley, beside a half-wall, surveying the street as it led toward Cobo. More dead creatures lined the street, along with too many men and women of the National Guard.

  "See anything?" Hedley asked Fulton, who had a wider view.

  "Negative."

  Hedley stepped out, heading toward a shattered support column of the People Mover. Clemson was on his six, and ducked behind the shattered remains of People Mover rail that had collapsed onto Cass.

  The nearest entrance into the parking garage where Echo One Seven were holed up was sealed tight. A metal door had been rolled down into place and locked. They were going to have to make their way down to the corner and enter in through the Cass Street entrance. From his position, Hedley could make out the remains of the Downtown Garage Parking sign in the street, which had been blasted off the wall and rested between the gnarled remains of a stop sign and streetlight.

  Jogging in a half-crouch, he cut across Cass and squatted by the passenger-side bumper of a cargo van parked alongside the garage. Clemson held her ground while Fulton moved up. Then Clemson quickly moved into position beside another car sitting in the street. They continued in this fashion until they made it to the dark mouth of the garage's entrance.

  Once there, Hedley moved into the garage's interior and took position behind the nearest support column. Clemson and Fulton fanned out to cover the entrance and exit, their weapons pointed to the street.

  Hedley caught movement coming down the ramp, a flash of color. He held his breath, waiting for the threat to materialize, and let out a heavy sigh of relief as the orange CBRNs of the National Guard strode forward.

  "Echo One Seven reporting, sir," a man's voice said. "At least, what's left of us."

  Hedley approached the man with an outstretched hand. "Sergeant Hedley," he said, introducing himself.

  "Sergeant Cole," the man said. He pointed at the men on either side of him. "PFC Morris, Corporal Alvarez."

  Hedley nodded, then pointed at what was left of his team, introducing them in turn.

  "It's good to see you, Sergeant," Cole said.

  "This is all that's left of your unit?"

  Cole's eyes darkened, his voice soft but cold. "Yes, sir."

  Hedley offered a moment of respectful silence, then turned his attention back toward Cobo Center. "How many refugees were inside?"

  "Headcount placed it at two thousand."

  "And how many are left?"

  "I don't know sir. Things went bad fast. We had communications set up with building security and Red Cross officials inside, but that went dark soon after the infected appeared. It was like they came out of nowhere, Sergeant."

  Hedley nodded, able to relate far more than he cared for. He carried with him the heavy burden of losing Hanscomb and Barlow. He couldn't even begin to imagine the guilt Cole was feeling over the losses that had occurred under his watch, a guilt made all the worse by the sense of helplessness and powerlessness that was sure to tag along. Even knowing there was nothing that could have been done to prevent it did little to ease the pain of those particular psychological wounds.

  After listening to Cole outline the interior structure of Cobo Center and the placement of the refugee shelters, they worked out a plan. Fulton and Clemson listened closely even as they monitored the creature's activities around the building of stacked cubes of glass and polished concrete across from them.

  "Wayfinder One Eight Seven, Wayfinder Two Nine Three," Hedley said over the mic, "we're going to need your help scraping the bugs off the walls."

  There was a small, tinny chuckle as Chief Willis responded. "Copy that, Romero."

  Moments later, the soldiers could make out the tell-tale noise of helicopters on approach, quickly followed by the raging storm of M240 machine guns coming violently to life. The bullets ate up chunks of concrete on the facing wall of Cobo Center, utterly destroying the bodies of the diseased monsters clinging there.

  "Go, go, go!" Hedley screamed, leading the charge away from the safety of the parking garage and into the hell beyond.

  The Rangers and Guardsmen fired at the infected, while, ahead of them, the glass cubes comprising the main entrance of Cobo Center exploded under the Black Hawk's assault in a rain of glittery shards crashing to the steps below. Glass crunched and popped beneath their boots as they climbed the steps off Washington, swiftly passing through the obliterated doors and fanning out across the lobby.

  Ahead of them was a long passageway looking out on Washington Boulevard to their left, and a stretch of exhibit rooms on their right. Weapons hot, they stuck to the wall, avoiding the fatal funnel at the middle of the corridor, where they would be most visible and in the open. Fulton checked their rear, pointing toward a narrow hallway that, according to Cole, housed administrative offices and restrooms.

  Hedley positioned himself beside the hydraulic door of the Detroit Hall. Cole and his small team hurried past, taking up similar positions outside the next hall and preparing to clear the room. Once they were in place, Cole gave Hedley a thumbs up.

  Time to move.

  Using his hip to depress the push bar and opening the door with his shoulder, Hedley shoved inside, hoping the element of surprise was on his side. He kept his rifle tucked in close to his body, staring down the sights, as he entered the large exhibit room and quickly crossed to the opposite side of the entrance. Clemson rushed in through the second door, and took her place on the other side of the doorway opposite Hedley, followed in by Fulton.

  A metallic click sounded behind them as the doors whispered shut.

  The room was dark, but battery-powered lanterns had been set up at regular points. In the chaos, they had been tipped over or broken, and what little light they provided was irregular and pointed at crazy angles. The Rangers had to rely on the tactical lights mounted on their rifles, and Hedley knew the grisly sights the high-powered beams revealed would be stuck with him for life. They cleared the room, sweeping past the ruined cots and overturned supply crates. The floor was slick with blood, thick pools in some places, and thin swirls in others from where bodies had been dragged. The walls were splattered with gore. Hedley had to step over spilled entrails, following the path of uncoiled intestine as if it were a guide rope to the hollowed cavern of a man's pitted belly. Another victim's chest had been cracked wide open, broken ribs pointing skyward, her throat missing.

  "God damn," Fulton whispered.

  That was it, then. Detroit Hall was devoid of any survivors, but also free of the monsters that had caused so much damage.

  "Cole, sitrep?"

  "Macomb Hall is clear. No survivors. Moving on to Oakland Hall now."

  "Copy," Hedley said. Cole's team were covering the two middle halls, while the Rangers took responsibility for the two large exhibitor spaces at either end of the corridor. They moved their way back to the entrance, clearing the doorway quickly, and proceeded down the passageway, mindful of threats.

  Outside, the Black Hawks continued their assault, and it struck Hedley as strange that they were encountering so little resistance. Perhaps the birds had provided enough of a distraction to occupy the infected for the Rangers and Guardsmen to slip inside undetected, but he could not shake the queer feeling that something was deeply wrong.

  "Stay sharp, all," he said. Everything seemed quiet, but appearances could be deceiving. None of them could afford to be lulled into a false sense of security by the odd quiet and even stranger level of inactivity. He was certain there had to be monsters lurking in these shadows, tucked away in the work areas of the food service kiosks or waiting to spring down the escalators leading to the floors above and beneath them, but no attacks came.

  His heart was racing, sweat pooling uncomfortably in the crevices of his crotch and armpits. The pucker factor was high, and he couldn't shake the nervous feeling that death stalked the
m from the shadows.

  They cleared Wayne Hall. They were nearly finished when Cole checked in and reported that Oakland Hall was clear, as well. Hedley could sense the uneasiness growing among his soldiers.

  "You ever seen so many dead bodies piled up like this?" Clemson asked.

  "Never," Hedley answered. Fulton merely grunted a negative.

  All of them had seen plenty of bad shit before, and dead bodies were not an uncommon sight in their line of work. Each of them had already claimed plenty of lives, or bore witness to death itself, oftentimes in gruesome and violent ways. What they saw in this building, though, was not just unspeakably atrocious but pure evil. The smell of blood and innards haunted each room, bodies not only savagely ripped apart but feasted upon. It was safe to say that not only had they never seen so many corpses, but that they had also never seen such displays of primal ferocity and wickedness. The refugees that had sought shelter here had never stood a chance.

  According to Cole, the refugees had been sheltered in the exhibit halls on this floor, and on Level One beneath them. As such, they had decided to not risk a potential confrontation with any infected that may have been sheltering in the ballroom and lounge areas of the dome-like area overlooking the riverfront across from Wayne Hall. Their primary objective was to get any remaining survivors to safety, not to engage the infected.

  Quietly, they made their way down the inoperative escalators to Level One, descending into the ground-level atrium. Shards of glass were strewn everywhere, the columns and walls chewed away by the Black Hawk's assault. Bodies of the infected were lying lifelessly on the floor, cut down by the miniguns. Claw marks were visible on the walls and ceiling from where they had scrabbled in an effort to flee...or perhaps to chase down would-be survivors.

  "They were using the exhibit halls down here." Cole pointed down the corridor, away from the atrium and the meeting rooms that were sealed off. "Plus a basement shelter, accessible by the stairs at the opposite end."