Extinction War

by Nicholas Smith

  As it pulled him into the air he got a bird’s-eye view of the Colosseum. It was filling with the monsters like a rush of ants leaving an anthill. His plan to lure them out had worked, but his escape had failed miserably.

  The boombox had been the fishing hook, but Piero and Ringo had ended up the bait.

  “N-no,” Piero stuttered. “Let us go!”

  He tried to reach down and let Ringo out of his pocket, but any movement only resulted in the Reaver tightening its grip around his neck.

  Red encroached on his vision, blurring his view of the Colosseum. Another Zeppelin song was playing in the distance, but he could hardly make out the words.

  Piero kicked the air helplessly, his boots a hundred feet away from the nearest rooftop. Over the music came a voice. Someone was calling his name.

  It took a few seconds to realize it was the radio still in his pouch.

  “Sergeant Angaran, Crow Two. Do you copy? Over.”

  Piero continued squirming, but the beast was three times his size, and it had the grip of a Greek Olympic wrestler. He dug his fingers into the tendons of its wrist, trying to break its hold, and miraculously, the creature let up slightly. Piero filled his lungs with a long, deep breath.

  The stars and red faded away, his vision clearing to the sight of Rome beneath his boots.

  “Sergeant, Crow Two. We have a jet en route, do you have a visual of the target? We need confirmation. Over.”

  Piero tried to pull his radio, but his fingers came up shy, and his captor increased its grip around his throat as it changed course, flying toward the Vatican.

  This new angle provided Piero a view of the Colosseum again. The arcades and bottom floor were filled with the mutated flesh and armor of the monsters. Some of them took to the skies; a pack of Reavers flapped away to the south.

  He wiggled a finger and gripped the pocket containing Ringo. As soon as the Reaver put him down, he would let the mouse go. It was something he should have done long ago—a selfless act that would be Piero’s last.

  He just had to survive the ride to wherever the monster was taking him. His eyes flitted from the rooftops back to the Colosseum, where a pillar of Reavers was climbing into the sky.

  In the center of the column was a bright red beast twice the size of the others. As it rose, it whipped a black tail through the air and released a guttural croak that Piero recognized even from a distance. A clicking noise followed, and so did a small army of Reavers that flapped after the red monster into the sky away from the Colosseum.

  “The Queen,” Piero gasped.

  The Reaver tightened its grip, choking off his oxygen supply. Piero’s vision blurred once again while his cheeks flared with heat, then turned numb. He managed a breath through his nostrils, giving him a short reprieve. Over the rush of flapping wings around him came the scream of a fighter jet’s twin engines that drowned out the distant clicking call of the Queen.

  The EUF was right on time.

  Piero fingered for the radio again and this time was able to pull it from his pouch. He hit the button on the side and sucked in several breaths through his nostrils.

  “Crow Two, I have confirmation. The Queen is a red Reaver. Repeat, a red Reaver flying out of the—”

  The Reaver choked off his vocal cords, and his last breath came out in a squeak like Ringo’s.

  “Roger that, Sergeant. Stand by,” was the reply.

  The jet appeared to the east, moving low over the city. He blinked and tried to focus on the black dot. The Reaver clutching him began to descend as the fighter jet closed in on the Colosseum.

  Come on, brother. Nail this son of a bitch, Piero thought.

  Missiles streaked away from the jet and side-wound through the air toward the target. They impacted the sides of the building a moment later in a brilliant flash of fire. Explosions tore the ancient structure apart, a wall of flames enveloping the heart of one of Rome’s most historical structures in one pass, silencing both the music and the monsters still trapped inside.

  The tendrils of flames and smoke reached toward the escaping Reavers, enveloping the column of flapping monsters.

  The jet tore across the skyline, away from the destruction.

  Piero blinked again, focusing on the rising smoke. His heart flipped when he saw several of the Reavers break through the top of the dark cloud, flapping through the smoke. One of the beasts fluttered back to the ground, wings smoldering. But the majority of the small army, including the Queen, rose into the sky.

  “No,” Piero choked.

  He watched in horror as the EUF fighter jet vanished on the horizon, unknowingly leaving the Queen behind. The armada of beasts suddenly changed direction, turning in the same direction as the creature holding Piero—toward the Vatican.

  The sight of the place where he’d spent months hiding filled Piero with rage, despair, and sadness. He didn’t want it to end here. He’d hoped at least to die a free man under the sun.

  But it was not to be. His fate, so it seemed, was to return to the place of his nightmares. He struggled for air as the Reaver gripping him descended toward the holy structure. It flapped toward a shattered stained-glass window below St. Peter’s Basilica. They landed on the tile floor a moment later and wings began wrapping around Piero.

  He didn’t bother trying to fight the Reaver. His last act was to free his furry friend trapped inside his pocket. The mouse climbed down his chest, jumped to the floor, and bolted for safety right before Piero was enveloped by the creature’s wings.

  “I love you, Ringo,” Piero whispered. “Good-bye.”

  20

  Kate sat in front of her computer desk inside the cramped quarters assigned to her, still reeling from an epiphany. She was supposed to be taking a nap, but she was too excited about her new idea to sleep.

  The combination of excitement, worry, and fear had also made her sick to her stomach. The gentle rocking of the Thalassa didn’t help. A half-eaten bowl of soup sloshed next to her computer. She had managed to eat a little to calm her nervous stomach, but the nausea was returning.

  The tea Dr. Bruno had brewed earlier was helping. Kate took another sip. The warm liquid ran down her throat and helped clear her mind. She was thankful for Bruno’s kindness. She seemed to be very mindful of Kate’s health and pregnancy. Orlov, on the other hand, had hardly said a word to Kate since she arrived. She could tell he didn’t want her here.

  The other doctors were back in the clean room, testing the chemical components of VX-99. The work they had done to separate the components had taken months, and it was truly genius. The next step was just as difficult—but not as time-consuming, if Kate’s idea worked.

  Getting up from her computer, she left the quarters and walked back down a narrow passage leading to the clean room. Bruno and Orlov looked up from their stations when she pushed the comm-link button.

  “I think I made a breakthrough,” Kate said.

  Orlov was the first to speak. “About time.”

  That earned him a glance from Bruno.

  “Go ahead, Doctor Lovato, we’re excited to hear it,” she said.

  “So, we know how to target the separate chemical components of VX-99 with nanoparticles. But that’s not the problem. The issue is that the particles are still small enough to pass through the blood-brain barrier.”

  She paused to collect her thoughts and, confident in her idea, she said, “I’ve been looking for protein fragments or something to coat the particles to stop them from passing through the barrier. What if we coat the nanoparticles with a complementary protein fragment—say, C3bi? That would activate phagocytes that would devour anything harmful or foreign in the body—including the VX-99 chemical compounds.”

  Orlov and Bruno exchanged a glance.

  “Massive phagocyte activation could also cause an adverse autoimmune response, but I guess it’s worth a shot,” Bruno said. “I’ll prepare the rats for testing.”

  “It better work,” Orlov said. “We have only a few rod
ents left. So unless you want to use fish—”

  The crack of what sounded a lot like gunfire cut the doctor off.

  “What the hell was that?” Bruno asked.

  The clank of boots on steps came from behind Kate, and she turned to see Horn and one of his men hurrying down the ladder. Both of them were putting on their body armor.

  “We got Variants incoming,” Horn said. “The flying kind.”

  “Reavers?” Bruno said from inside the lab, her voice cracking.

  “Yeah,” Horn said. “Stay down here. My men will take care of them. Lock yourself in a hatch and stay there until I give the all clear.”

  Bruno and Orlov were already getting out of their suits in the staging area. By the time Horn lumbered back up the ladder, the other doctors were hurrying out to join Kate.

  “Where’s the safest place to hide?” Kate asked.

  Orlov pointed down the passageway to their quarters. They hurried in that direction, and Kate followed them into a cramped, windowless room with a single bed and desk. A picture of Orlov and two small children rested next to a laptop.

  “Stay calm,” Bruno said, sitting next to Kate on the bed. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Gunfire echoed through the ship. Orlov sealed the door and spun the handwheel until it clicked shut. Then he sat down at his desk and opened his laptop as if this were just another workday.

  Kate rubbed her belly, trying to take deep breaths. In a lull in the gunfire, she heard a scream—a mixture of pain and terror. It was impossible to tell if it was human or monster.

  “Get out the gun,” Bruno said.

  Orlov opened a drawer and pulled out a pistol. He handed the gun to her and she handled it like a pro, inserting a magazine and then chambering a round.

  “Just in case,” she whispered.

  Another screech reverberated belowdecks. This time it was unmistakably Variant. The monster let out a cackle, almost a laugh. A human scream followed, and then crashing equipment and shattering glass sounded outside the hatch.

  “That’s coming from the lab,” Orlov said. He walked over to the hatch and put his ear against it. “One of them must be inside.”

  “Is there another way into the ship?” Kate asked.

  “Plenty of ways,” Orlov said.

  Bruno raised the pistol. “We can’t let them destroy our work.”

  “If we die, it won’t matter, but you’re right,” Orlov said. He gripped the handwheel and looked at Kate as if for approval.

  “I agree,” Kate said. “We can’t let those things destroy the clean room.”

  Grinding metal echoed, and a crunching sound made its way through the lower decks of the ship. The frantic sound of nails scratching against metal, like the sound of a rat trying to escape its cage, seized the air from Kate’s lungs.

  It was growing louder, and it was headed in their direction.

  Bruno pointed the gun at the hatch and nodded at Orlov. He was breathing heavily, and he used a shoulder to wipe the sweat from his wrinkled forehead.

  “On three,” Bruno whispered.

  A sniffing sound came from the passageway. The beast was hunting them.

  “One,” Bruno said. “Two …”

  Kate flinched at the sound of gunfire right outside the door. A mixture of human shouting and monsters screeching filled the passage. Grunts, the popping of joints, more screeching, and another gunshot followed.

  Blood pooled under the hatch and flowed into the room. Kate pulled her feet up as a loud thump hit the ground. An eerie silence loomed for several moments before a voice said, “All clear.”

  Orlov opened the door to reveal Horn bracing himself against the bulkhead with one hand, chest armor rising up and down as he panted. Behind him, on the ground, was a Reaver curled up in a fetal position.

  Kate rose to her feet to look Horn over. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, not a scratch.” He pushed a finger to his earpiece. “Diamond One, sitrep.”

  Kate sagged against the bulkhead, relief washing over her.

  “Roger that,” Horn said a moment later. “Looks as if we got all of ’em. This one must have gotten in through one of the portholes. I’ll make sure that won’t happen again.”

  Bruno nodded and handed the pistol back to Orlov. She looked at Kate and said, “Time to get back to work,” as if nothing had happened.

  This is it, President Ringgold thought to herself. She stood in the flag bridge on the USS Abraham Lincoln with her fingers on her chin.

  All around her, staff members and officers were monitoring the events that would shape history. Each of them had on a headset connected to the teams working inside the combat information center, where more sailors were monitoring the situation.

  In Europe, the EUF and American forces were moving across the country to face mutated beasts straight from the pits of hell. In Los Angeles, an Army Ranger team was moving to capture another monster, Lieutenant Andrew Wood. At the White House in the Greenbrier, SEAL Team Four was raiding the PEOC to search for Vice President Johnson and evidence of the attack perpetrated by ROT, and on the Thalassa, Kate was working on a cure for the hemorrhage virus.

  Ringgold only had access to the video feed of what was happening in LA, but she was focused on the entire picture, her mind racing from one event to another. They needed victories across the board for success, and right now that seemed unlikely.

  Everything comes down to this. Our species will look back on what happened today with pride … or there won’t be anyone left to remember how we failed, Ringgold mused.

  “Okay, we’re live at SZT Nineteen,” said Nelson. The national security advisor gestured to a wall-mounted monitor displaying a crowded street in Los Angeles. To the right and left of the man with the hidden camera were two soldiers dressed in civilian drab. Ringgold imagined they were packing major firepower beneath their coats.

  “This feed is from Sergeant Major Pat Churchill of the Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment,” Lemke said. “Churchill and his ten-man team have been all over the United States killing Variants in the past seven months.”

  Ringgold folded her arms across her chest. She had thought about asking for another SEAL team, but Lemke had been confident when he deployed the Rangers, and it wasn’t as if they had many choices. Most of the military was either in Europe or aligning with ROT.

  “How many men does Wood have?” she asked.

  “According to our intel, there are two dozen ROT soldiers located at SZT Nineteen, an even match for our Rangers,” Lemke said. “With the element of surprise on our side, our odds are even better. By the time Wood knows what hit him, it will be too late.”

  Churchill and his men passed under strings of light bulbs hanging over the road. Sandbags formed walls around storefronts with boarded-up windows. Spaces that had once been luxury clothing stores, fresh-juice bars, and sushi joints were now retrofitted to cater to basic survival. It looked more like a street in the Wild West than in upscale Los Angeles.

  A message came in over the open frequency from Captain Ingves on the bridge. “Got a sitrep on those destroyers General Nixon is sending,” he reported. “They’re about two hours out.”

  “Excellent,” Ringgold said. She took a moment to look at all the faces in the flag bridge. Lemke, Soprano, Nelson, and four sailors she hardly knew sat around the table. Captain Konkoly and his crew were waiting under the surface in the USS Florida, with orders to fire on anything not authorized to approach.

  If all went to plan, the men and women of this ragtag fleet were going to be part of the beginning of a new America—a nation focused on rebuilding and peace, not caught up in a civil war.

  On-screen, the three Army Rangers continued down the street, blending with filthy civilians. Most of them wore tattered clothing, and more than a few appeared gaunt and malnourished. The hidden camera revealed a bleak picture: Vendors and customers bartered over goods that months ago would have been considered garbage. Children, some of them no older than Horn
’s girls, were wandering the streets without anyone to look after them.

  Food and power were in limited supply at most of the SZTs. Rations were already running out, and with the government in shambles, people were fending for themselves. Ringgold had heard all about the violence, riots, and rapes being reported at SZTs. Things were getting worse with ROT in control, but doing nothing to help the people in the territories.

  “Do we know why Wood took the risk to travel here?” Ringgold asked.

  “Intercepted radio transmissions said something about meeting with Coyote in the basement of the embassy, but we’re not sure who or what that’s a code word for,” Nelson replied.

  Several police officers patrolled the street on the monitor, but there was no sign of the ROT soldiers in their black fatigues and armor. Ringgold hovered behind her seat, too nervous to sit down.

  “Churchill and his team are moving in toward the embassy,” Lemke said. “The other teams are en route to the tarmac to block off escape routes. We also have several snipers in position.”

  “How many people live at SZT Nineteen?” Ringgold asked.

  Soprano thumbed through the folder in front of him and scanned a page. “Looks like just shy of two thousand,” he reported.

  It didn’t sound like a lot, but Ringgold had been surprised to learn it only took a healthy breeding population of 250 adults to keep the species going. They were far above that number in this SZT alone, but humanity was still dangerously close to extinction. At the end of the city street, concrete panels walled off the SZT from the city. On the other side were lawlessness, death, and monsters.

  “Here we go,” Lemke said, pointing at the screen. He scooted his chair closer to the table, but Ringgold remained standing. “Can we get audio?”

  “Still working on it,” Nelson said. He typed on his laptop, trying to secure a connection.

  Churchill and his two men had moved into another street and were approaching the embassy building—a brick structure that used to be a police station, surrounded by two barbed wire fences.