Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  “Not necessarily,” Kate said. “What if Wood moved some of his missiles off the Zumwalt to a loyal SZT or some other ship?”

  Konkoly cut in. “We would know it. I’ve got my people listening on those comms twenty-four-seven. If he moved a missile, we would have heard about it.”

  “I sure hope you’re right, because the biggest threat to our country right now isn’t a civil war—it’s the spread of the virus,” Kate said.

  “We won’t let Wood hit any more SZTs with the virus,” Ringgold said firmly, thinking of Emilia. “I’ll give myself up before I let that happen.”

  Konkoly and Kate exchanged a glance, but neither replied.

  “Send out a team to get Davis back,” Ringgold said. She reached for her empty coffee cup but didn’t ask for a refill. She was running on empty herself. Caffeine wouldn’t fuel her forever—what she needed was sleep.

  “I’m going to my quarters for a few hours. Kate, please consider what we talked about earlier.”

  “I will,” Kate said. “I hope you can get some sleep, ma’am.”

  “Me too,” Ringgold said with a sigh, knowing the chances weren’t good.

  8

  Outpost 46 was impressive by anyone’s standards. Boxed in by twelve-foot-tall electric fences, it looked secure from Beckham’s point of view through the scope of his M4. He began to see how Flathman’s men had survived out here for months after the outbreak without reinforcements.

  The field around the eastern barrier was pockmarked with holes from exploded mines. Flathman claimed there weren’t any left and hadn’t been for months. The juveniles had apparently set off the last of them.

  Four guard towers equipped with M134 Gatling guns were positioned one hundred feet behind the three levels of fences in each corner. A fifth tower with an M260 rocket launcher, protruding from the center of the outpost, overlooked a second barrier of fences topped with razor wire. The sight of the weapons gave Beckham hope that ROT hadn’t stripped the outpost of the radio equipment that Flathman promised was inside.

  The shipping containers and supply crates stacked outside the three buildings also appeared undisturbed. A forklift, a bulldozer, and a Humvee were parked next to a metal shed to the right of the buildings. Rows of sandbags formed a perimeter.

  Absent were the soldiers who had manned this post since Medical Corps scientist Jim Pinkman had arrived at the O’Hare International Airport carrying the hemorrhage virus in his bloodstream. For seven months, Flathman’s ragtag crew had held this place against hordes of the infected, the Variants, and later the juveniles.

  But they were all gone now, and apparently so were the ROT soldiers who had been here just hours earlier.

  A third and final chain-link fence formed a wall around the three buildings across the outpost. It was more of a cage than a fence, with a ceiling that connected to the rooftops of the buildings.

  Beckham pulled his eye away from the scope when Flathman returned from a quick recon of the woods. He gave the all clear with a hand signal. Wincing, Beckham rose and limped over to the lieutenant.

  “Doesn’t look as if anyone’s home,” he whispered.

  Flathman nodded. “No sign of juveniles either. Nothing to indicate why ROT packed up shop.”

  “Maybe they were deployed elsewhere,” Beckham said. “We’ve been out of radio contact with anyone for a while. It’s possible Wood is going after his other enemies and needed the troops.”

  “Who knows,” said Flathman. “All I know is that I need a drink. Let’s move.”

  Beckham limped after the lieutenant. He was starting to wonder if this was how Apollo felt when he followed his handlers. The thought of the German shepherd was just what Beckham needed to kick his tired ass into gear. Apollo, Fitz, and his other friends were out there fighting, and Beckham would be damned if he would let them down now.

  He moved quickly through the shadows of the forest, ducking below branches and stepping over fallen logs covered in moss. His twisted prosthetic leg was hanging together by nothing more than a few pieces of tape and a prayer at this point, but at least it wasn’t creaking.

  Flathman halted ahead, balled his hand into a fist, and dropped behind a bush. Then he pointed at the guard tower on the western electrical fence.

  “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he said before Beckham could protest.

  Beckham rested his back against the bark of an oak tree and scanned the outpost, while Flathman slipped out into the meadow. Keeping low, the soldier bolted across the grass for the fence.

  Damn, he’s fast.

  The lieutenant was also one of the worst—or best, depending on your perspective—high-functioning alcoholics that Beckham had ever met in his life.

  It took Flathman less than five seconds to get to the edge of the first chain-link fence. He dropped to his knees and then got down on his belly.

  Beckham turned to check the woods while he waited. The afternoon sunlight could barely penetrate the canopy. Shadows shifted beneath the trees like the ghosts of the dead soldiers from Outpost 46. When he turned back to the outpost, Flathman was gone.

  A single cricket chirped in the still forest as the shadows closed in around Beckham. He waited for his blurry vision to adjust. Clicking sounds drew his attention, and he whirled with the barrel of his M4. Another shadow darted across the forest floor and vanished behind a tree.

  Beckham moved to the right for a better view.

  Other noises seemed to ring out from all directions: the crunch of a stick, the hiss of an insect, the caw of a crow.

  A minute passed. Then two.

  Beckham froze at the snapping sound that could have been a branch or the joints of an infected. He searched the canopy of changing leaves above, recalling the beasts at Fort Bragg that had hidden in the trees.

  Nothing moved in his vision.

  He turned back to the outpost and raised the M4’s scope to his good eye. The ankle-high grass shifted in the wind on the other side of the fences. He moved the cross hairs back to the area where he’d last seen Flathman but only saw more of the overgrown grass.

  Beckham took a step out into the meadow and, keeping low, set off for the fence, refusing to wait here any longer. His blade sank in the mud, resulting in a creak so loud that he cringed.

  He could feel something watching him from the woods. The sensation of eyes on his back forced him to turn, but he still didn’t see any yellow eyes staring back at him.

  Pushing on, Beckham limped to the fence and angled his rifle at the area where Flathman had disappeared. He bent down in the dim light and found a hole just wide enough for a human. At first he thought Flathman had been pulled into a Variant-dug tunnel, but then he saw the metal plate that had been used to block the entrance lying a few feet away.

  A low whistle came from the outpost.

  Beckham aimed his rifle at a figure on the other side of the fences.

  “Holy shit—hold your fire, Captain,” Flathman said. He grinned as he unlocked a gate. Once through, he jingled a key in his right hand and jerked his head toward the gate to the first fence.

  “Welcome to Deadwood, Captain Beckham—also known as Outpost Forty-Six. How about a drink?”

  “I’d prefer a radio. Did you see one of those yet?” he asked as he slipped through the gate.

  “Haven’t checked yet to see if the ROT pricks took it with ’em. Figured I’d let you in first.”

  He locked the gate behind Beckham, and they set off for the buildings.

  “So I’m guessing these fences aren’t live, right?” Beckham asked.

  “Correct. They need power, and we’re out of fuel. I’ll check on the generators in a bit, but first things first.”

  Vodka, Beckham thought, resisting the urge to shake his head. At least Flathman had let him inside before going to find the bottle.

  “Had that tunnel dug a month after the outbreak,” Flathman said. “Figured it might come in handy if we needed to escape. Never thought I’d use it to get back in.”
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  “You should have told me what you were doing. I got worried.”

  Flathman shrugged off the rebuke and pulled out the key ring. He held it up and fingered through the keys.

  “I think it’s this one,” Flathman said. He inserted the key into the door, and it clicked open. Pulling out his flashlight, Flathman angled the beam into a dark room furnished with several metal desks and a leather couch. Two offices and a small kitchenette were off to the right, and a bathroom was to the left.

  “Radio room is over there,” Flathman said, directing the light to the office on the far right.

  They walked over and Beckham opened the door, anxious to see if ROT had left anything behind. His heart flipped when he saw several radios and a desktop computer inside.

  “They didn’t take the equipment,” he said with a smile.

  “That’s more than I can say for my two ex-wives,” Flathman muttered. “ROT left in a hurry, just like them two lovely ladies. Question is, why?”

  Beckham sat down at one of the desks and began checking the equipment.

  “I’ll see if I can get a generator working, but we should have a battery-operated radio in here somewhere,” Flathman said. “Check those cabinets.”

  He walked back out into the main quarters without waiting for a response, and Beckham opened the metal drawers of the cabinets to his right. The first was empty, but the second contained a radio that was both battery operated and outfitted with a hand crank. He couldn’t use it to send a message, but he would be able to listen to anyone transmitting over the AM/FM channels.

  A ruckus came from the other room—drawers opening and shutting, the tap of boots on tile, and the clank of metal. It sounded as if a wild animal was ransacking the other offices.

  “Hell yes!” Flathman finally shouted. “They didn’t find my loot!”

  The lieutenant reappeared, cradling a bottle of vodka as if it was a newborn baby. He screwed off the cap and took a gulp, then another, and finally sat the bottle down on a desk.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, again leaving without waiting for a response.

  Beckham turned back to the radio. He flipped it on and began searching the stations. The speakers fuzzed with static, but it didn’t take long to find a broadcast. There were dozens of active stations, but most of them were too difficult to make out due to the crappy signal.

  Beckham stopped the knob when he heard the first clear voice and slowly turned it back to listen.

  “This is Coast-to-Coast Resistance,” said a male operator, “bringing you the latest news from North America and Europe.”

  Beckham waited impatiently for a wave of static to pass. Each second that ticked by felt like an hour. It finally cleared, and the broadcast continued.

  “We’re just receiving word that another EUF base in Spain has fallen to the Variants. The EUF troops pushing east are facing mutated creatures unlike—”

  White noised flickered over the man’s voice. Beckham tapped the radio on the desk and then pushed the antenna up toward the ceiling.

  “ … in news back at home, the hunt for Jan Ringgold, the disgraced former president, continues. Anyone with information regarding her whereabouts should go to their local SZT embassy immediately. Anyone aiding her is subject to execution by hanging.”

  The former president? Had the other SZTs all sworn loyalty to Wood? Another flurry of static rolled from the speakers, and Beckham tapped the radio harder on the table.

  “ … has promised that all mayors of SZTs aligning with his administration will receive—”

  The transmission cut out again, and Beckham cursed. He was about to shatter the damn radio but he managed his anger by taking in a deep breath.

  “We also received word today that President Wood has signed an executive order drafting all citizens over the age of eighteen into the Resistance of Tyranny army. Eligible citizens should immediately report to their local recruiting station.”

  Beckham had to place his hand flat on the table to stop himself from throwing the radio across the room. Not only was Wood apparently president now, he was also building an army. It made sense, all of it, but Beckham didn’t want to believe the news. It was as though he’d woken up in an alternate universe.

  Static broke over the frequency again, and no matter how many times he tried to get a better signal, he couldn’t make out the rest of the broadcast.

  Beckham set the radio back down and continued through the channels, his heart pounding faster and faster. For the next ten minutes, he skimmed through broadcasts from other SZTs. There was a guy transmitting from Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada, about a rogue juvenile pack patrolling the forest, a woman from the Deep South in the States reporting a missing aid shipment in a Southern drawl, and multiple FEMA broadcasts on repeat. There were a dozen more channels broadcasting news Beckham didn’t care about or couldn’t make out due to the poor signal quality.

  What he didn’t hear were messages from the American military.

  That meant either they were lying low and waiting to make a move against Wood or, worse, they had already aligned with ROT. Beckham had no idea how many troops were even still out there, but Wood couldn’t have manipulated everyone.

  The bank of lights suddenly flickered on overhead. Beckham put the battery-operated radio away to save its juice and turned on the main radio and transmitter. It would pick up broadcasts from all around the world, and he would be able to send his own transmission when the time was right.

  He skimmed through the channels as he waited for Flathman to return. Another ten minutes passed, and then ten more of listening to the broadcasts from SZTs and survivors out in the wastelands of the United States. There was even a young woman from Canada who had spent the past five months in her grandfather’s Cold War–era bunker with her father. Neither of them seemed to believe the world had ended.

  Beckham wasn’t going to be the one to convince them. There were plenty of other people out there for that.

  A click from the other room distracted him, and he looked over his shoulder. The front door was still shut. He trusted the lieutenant to watch their backs, but he’d been gone for a while. If it weren’t for the shit Flathman had pulled earlier with the tunnel under the fences, Beckham might have stepped outside to look for the other soldier.

  Instead, he kept scrolling through the transmissions until he heard two words that made his fingers lock up. With the utmost care he scrolled back to a message that was on repeat.

  The door burst open in the other room, but Beckham didn’t turn to see why Flathman was panting.

  “Quiet,” Beckham said, holding up his hand. Then he reached down and turned the volume up, listening to the two words that were being repeated by a male operator.

  “Javier Riley. Javier Riley. Javier Riley …”

  “Holy shit,” Beckham said. It was from Kate. It had to be from her, right? He pushed himself up with a groan and turned to look at Flathman with a smile. But the lieutenant’s weathered face was set in a mask of horror.

  “Captain,” Flathman said. “We got a big fucking problem.”

  Beckham made it halfway to the other room before he heard a high-pitched screech in the distance. Another answered the call, and all at once a dozen of the distant, otherworldly shrieks seemed to surround the outpost.

  “I guess we know why ROT left,” Flathman said, gasping for air. He shut the door behind him, locked it, and turned off the lights.

  “The infected,” Beckham said quietly. “ROT knew they were coming.”

  Flathman nodded. “The creatures must have left the SZT to find food. And we’re it, Captain.”

  “Wood’s declared himself president?” Ringgold said in a voice bordering on a shout.

  “And he’s declared a draft to build his army,” Konkoly explained. “ROT will be unstoppable soon if we don’t do something.”

  The submarine captain’s words were met with silence. Kate held back what she was really thinking—that it was actu
ally a brilliant move to add to ROT’s already swelling ranks. “Wood’s insane,” she said instead.

  Horn popped his knuckles. “I’ll crush his head in when I find that son of a—”

  Kate shot him a glance, and Horn looked over at President Ringgold sheepishly and said, “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “No apology necessary, Master Sergeant,” Ringgold said. She sighed and looked at the monitor in the operations room. The cramped space was filled with naval officers, Ringgold’s staff, Kate, and Big Horn.

  On the screen was their first look at the fleet still loyal to President Ringgold. Kate recognized only the USS Abraham Lincoln, an aircraft carrier, and the French research ship Thalassa. But there were other ships out there: one naval Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser and one Arleigh Burke–class guided-missile destroyer. She also saw a smaller ship with US Coast Guard insignia, a container ship, an oil tanker, several yachts, and a large fishing boat.

  Kate almost shook her head at the motley fleet. This was the resistance that had come together to help President Ringgold take back the country from a psychopath? Weren’t there more people out there to help?

  She studied the screen in despair, having expected so much more.

  “SEAL Team Four is en route to pick up Captain Davis and confirm the destruction of the GW,” Konkoly reported.

  “The same team that evacuated us from Hatteras Island?” Ringgold asked.

  “Yes, the mission is being spearheaded by Senior Chief Petty Officer Randall Blade.”

  “Good,” Ringgold said. “Hopefully they’ll have her by the time I arrive on the Abraham Lincoln.”

  Konkoly ran a hand through the graying hair on the side of his head. “Ma’am, I really think you should stay on board the sub for your safety.”

  Ringgold shook her head. “Not a chance, Captain. I need some fresh air, so that’s where I’d like to move our command center.”

  “I’d highly recommend listening to the captain,” James Soprano said. “I don’t trust this ‘loyal’ fleet,” he said, using his fingers to trace quotation marks around the word.