Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  General Johnson gave them a moment to relax after the flight, but as soon as the other helicopters had touched down, he wasted no time. An entourage of officers and civilians spilled out onto the deck. Team Ghost and Kate cleared out of the way, watching the events from the sidelines.

  Captain Humphrey, a tall man with gleaming white hair and skin weathered by sun and sea, walked quickly over to Secretary of State Ringgold. General Johnson introduced them, then waved at a sharp looking Navy officer with a Bible tucked under his arm.

  A few minutes later, under the moonlight, the salty breeze rustling through her hair, Secretary Ringgold stepped up to put her hand on that Bible. The presiding judge told her to repeat after him.

  “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution the United States,” Ringgold said.

  And just like that, she became the first female President of the United States of America, on the flight deck of the GW aircraft carrier. There was no applause or ceremony. When Ringgold lowered her hand from the Bible, Johnson shook it and said, “You’re the forty-sixth President of the United States of America now. Congratulations. Only one thing left to do to make this official, President Ringgold.”

  Ringgold folded her arms across her chest, her typical pose.

  “Pick a Vice President? I’ve been thinking about that,” she replied. “And about what you said back at Plum Island about working together. How would you feel about being Vice President and head of Central Command? You will continue to lead the war efforts, and I’ll take over the science side of Operation Extinction, working with Dr. Lovato and coordinating the development of Kryptonite with other labs around the world.”

  Johnson seemed to be taken aback by the suggestion. He didn’t immediately reply. Beckham wasn’t sure what to think either. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what the protocol for this sort of thing was anymore. Truth was, Beckham hated politics almost as much as he hated the Variants, but he couldn’t think of a person more fit to lead than Ringgold. If she picked Johnson, she had a damn good reason.

  “I suppose I have no choice but to accept,” Johnson finally said. He reached out and shook President Ringgold’s hand a second time. “I look forward to working with you, Madam President.”

  The words raised goose bumps on Beckham’s skin. He watched history unfold with cautious optimism. Another short ceremony followed, Johnson placing his hand on the Bible and swearing his loyalty to the country. A few minutes later, he was Vice President George Johnson.

  After they were finished, Ringgold put her hands on her hips and tilted her head toward the star-filled sky. Beckham suddenly thought of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen, wishing he were here to see this. The small beacon of hope the partnership between Ringgold and Johnson represented was exactly what he had given his life for. It was fragile, but it was a start.

  As soon as they were in their quarters, Kate hugged Beckham. The gray bulkheads and sparsely furnished space felt safer than any place she’d been since the outbreak started. Best of all, she was with him. For the first time in as long as she could remember, her mind wasn’t on the science or the bioweapons or even the Variants. “I thought I was going to lose you again.”

  “To be honest, I thought I was going to end up in the brig.”

  Beckham took a seat on the bunk and unlaced his boots. Apollo was already camped out in the corner of the room, his head tucked between his paws and eyes staring upward.

  “Thank God for President Ringgold,” Kate said.

  “She’s quite the woman. I have a good feeling about her. My gut says she’s just what we need to win this war.”

  “I just hope it’s over,” Kate said, letting out a sigh. “General Johnson does seem kind and intelligent, different from his predecessors. Don’t you think?”

  Beckham shrugged. “He’s a hard man to read.” He pulled Jensen’s .45 from his holster and placed it on the table. “Only time will tell who we can trust, but at least we have Chow and Horn here to watch our backs.”

  Kate sighed again, and took a seat next to Beckham. After he had gotten comfortable, she said, “There’s something I need to tell you, Reed. Something I’ve been wanting to tell you for a while.”

  Beckham turned toward her. He patted the bed, motioning her closer. “You know you can trust me, Kate. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together.”

  Kate nodded. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Beckham. She just hadn’t had the right opportunity.

  Until now.

  Without further thought, she said, “I’m pregnant.”

  Kate searched Beckham’s brown eyes for a reaction. They seemed to brighten, but quickly dulled.

  “Say something, Reed.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” Beckham said. “I mean, I love you, Kate, but holy shit.”

  “I know,” Kate said. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. What type of world will our child grow up in?”

  “Actually, that’s not what I’m thinking at all,” Beckham said. He scooted closer to Kate. “Please don’t misunderstand. This is the greatest gift I could ever have hoped for. I never thought I would be a father or have someone as wonderful as you to share my life with—but that’s just it, isn’t it?”

  Kate’s heart sank. She reached out and put her hand on Beckham’s. “What? What is it?”

  Beckham looked down at the bed. When he glanced back up, she thought she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “I’m not sure either of us will survive long enough to see this baby born.”

  -12-

  The switchblade in Garcia’s pocket suddenly seemed like a toothpick. As soon as he heard the hellish cacophony that only hundreds of snapping joints could make, he began second-guessing his decision to follow Scabs. Maybe he should have tried to escape with Stevo. Then again, maybe was a word that didn’t belong in a Marine’s vocabulary. He swallowed the regret and owned up to his decision. Their mission was clear; find the White King and get the intel back to Command.

  Garcia searched his memory for inspiration as they drew closer to the lair of the White King. He was doing his best to stay frosty, but the decay, rot, and sight of the human traitors had overwhelmed him with anger.

  Deliver me, my God, from the hand of the wicked, from the grasp of those who are evil and cruel.

  Garcia had never believed God intervened or picked one side over another in war. Not until the monsters came. Trudging through these horrific tunnels reinforced the Variants were the work of the devil. God was with the Marines, and knowing that gave Garcia the strength he needed to continue.

  “You doin’ okay, Stevo?” Garcia whispered.

  He managed a weak nod.

  “Good. Keep your mouth shut when we get there, and don’t look any of the freaks in the eye.”

  Another nod.

  A draft of the overwhelming scent of rotting fruit, stomach acid, and decaying flesh filled Garcia’s nostrils. It burned its way up into his broken nose, lingering in his sinuses. He had to stop and cover his face with a sleeve.

  Scabs and Frankie paused a few feet ahead. They stood at the edge of a tunnel that emptied into a long and vaulted chamber. Water spilled over the side, cascading into a pool twenty feet below. Scabs threw a glance over his shoulder every few seconds, as if he was expecting Garcia to push him into the abyss. But Garcia was too busy staring at the abominations. A wave of misshapen bodies that had once been men and women rippled over the concrete next to the water.

  At first, Garcia thought they were breeding, but in the rays of moonlight streaming through storm drains somewhere far above, he saw they were just slowly slithering against one another. So slowly it was hard to see what they were doing. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting in the cold chamber, and he saw the creatures were actually sleeping, keeping close to share body heat.

  “Down there,” Frankie whispered.

  Garcia followed his finger
to a raised concrete platform in the center of the vaulted room. There, sitting with legs dangled over the side, was a Variant paler than any Garcia had ever seen. Its flesh glowed in the ghostly light. At the foot of the platform, dozens of tiny armored lumps with curved skulls rested. Unlike the other Variants, the children slept alone, their scaly flesh insulated from the cold.

  “That’s him. That’s the White King,” Scabs whispered excitedly. “Follow me.”

  They took a right into another tunnel that wound down to the bottom. Carefully and quietly, the two men led Garcia and Stevo around the ocean of sleeping creatures until they were a hundred feet from the platform. Normally, the sight would have driven fear deep into Garcia, but this mission and his own curiosity pushed him on. Frankie and Scabs knelt then, bowing their heads to the ground like they were about to worship at Sunday mass.

  The pallid beast slowly rose to his feet, skin stretching like a wrinkled white blanket. Jointed arms folded oddly at its sides, snapping as it tried to straighten. This beast was lean, with bony appendages and square chest muscles. At first, the White King didn’t look that much different than most other Variants, but the darkness was deceiving.

  As soon as it stepped into a ray of light, Garcia saw a wizened torso laced with bloated veins webbing under transparent skin. This Alpha had white eyeballs with milky Irises. Garcia tried to look away, remembering Scabs’s warning, but he realized it didn’t matter. This Variant was blind. It couldn’t see him looking. Maybe Scabs was completely mad after all.

  But the closer Garcia moved, the more he felt the sense he was being watched. A chill spiked up his aching back as the beast’s creamy eyes followed his movements. He lowered his gaze to the wet ground, breathing faster, heart kicking. Perhaps Scabs wasn’t lying after all, and this Variant could see them. After all the adaptations Garcia had seen in the other creatures, he shouldn’t have ruled anything out.

  He helped Stevo forward, stopping a few feet behind Scabs. Garcia slowly glanced up again just as the monster’s jaw dropped open, unleashing a tormented shriek that hurt Garcia’s ears. He dropped to his knees, Stevo crashing into him.

  Scabs cupped his hands over his ears and glared back as if trying to say, What did you do?

  Garcia looked down at his belt, resisting the urge to reach for his switchblade. Joints snapped and cracked in the distance, and a pair of feet thunked on the wet ground. He lowered his head, panting and petrified. Stevo had collapsed belly-first on the concrete.

  The juvenile Variants and the army behind them had woken from their slumber, and in a matter of seconds the entire chamber came to life in a chorus of dreadful shrieking that ebbed and flowed into a noise louder than an air raid siren.

  Garcia closed his eyes, trying to pull up a memory of his wife and daughter, but no matter how hard he tried to picture their faces, all he saw were the grotesque images of his girls transformed into monsters. Heart pounding harder, his eyelids jolted open. Pale calves and feet were standing between Scabs and himself. Garcia forced his eyes from the beast’s gaze. He waited to be torn limb from limb, but seconds later a raspy, guttural voice boomed.

  “SI-LANCE!”

  The word, if he could call it that, was nearly indecipherable. It echoed through the chamber, repeating over and over, until Garcia and every Variant in the room understood. Beast and human alike fell into quiet.

  The White King roared again, this time nothing more than a raucous howl. It squatted to sniff Garcia, then Stevo, and then back to Garcia. Specks of saliva burst from its mouth, peppering Garcia’s forehead and dripping into his eye.

  Besides the creature that had broken his nose, this was the closest Garcia had ever been to one. He involuntarily blinked the burning spit from his eye.

  A coarse crackling noise rose from the White King’s throat like it was trying to speak through atrophied vocal cords. The beast choked on its second attempt, a sheet of slobber hitting Garcia’s forehead. It coughed and cleared its throat. A strangled word broke from its mouth.

  “You.”

  Garcia remained silent, trying not to move.

  “You,” the White King repeated, choking again. It leaned to Garcia’s right side, its face next to his cheek. The grotesque sound of popping lips sizzled into Garcia’s ear.

  He cringed as it hissed in a strained whisper. “Ssserve and live. Runnnn...” Its voice trailed off as it slithered away, and then suddenly the White King shrieked. “RUN, AND DIE!”

  With deliberate care, Garcia slowly raised his gaze to see the beast grab Stevo’s flak jacket with a horned claw and drag him away.

  “No!” Garcia shouted, unable to contain his rage.

  “Sarge!” Stevo thrashed at the beast, swatting it with sluggish blows.

  Frankie and Scabs kept their heads bowed. One of them was laughing. Shaking with anger, Garcia balled his hands and rose, watching in horror as the White King hoisted Stevo onto the platform. The juvenile Variants were hissing now. Circling the raised concrete, their armored skulls tilted to watch Stevo crawl away from the White King. The beast ambled alongside of him, naked flesh glowing in the moonlight streaming from above.

  “Don’t kill him,” Garcia said, trying to keep his voice low. “I’ll do as you say. I’ll find others.”

  The White King stopped mid-stroll, twisting halfway around to glare back at Garcia with its milky eyes. He avoided the creature’s gaze by lowering his head. Just as he was about to beg for Stevo’s life, there was a long crunch and a scream of agony. Garcia’s eyes flitted upward as a limb sailed through the air and landed with a thud in front of the children. They hissed with delight, their miniature clawed hands reaching up into the geyser of blood gushing from the riven hole where Stevo’s right arm had been seconds earlier. The Marine squirmed on the concrete, screaming at the top of his lungs, his left hand flailing to stop the spray coming from the frayed flesh.

  Garcia was moving then, running toward the platform. Something barreled into him from the side before he made it ten feet. He crashed to the floor, his eyes still on Stevo as two female Variants pinned him down. The White King crouched next to the Marine, studying the squirting stump. A wet cough broke from its lips, and a ball climbed up its neck until it gagged and puked out a stream of white goo on Stevo’s arm. He was still squirming on the ground, but his screams dwindled into a whimper.

  In a matter of seconds, the liquid solidified over the open wound. Now Garcia knew how the other human prisoners had survived for so long with missing limbs. The cocoons, or whatever the hell they were, looked to be made of the same material. It had cauterized Stevo’s injury, prolonging life so his flesh remained fresh. It was the Variants’ version of refrigeration.

  The White King rose to his feet and pointed at Scabs and Frankie. “TAKE HIM!” He growled in a voice that hardly crackled this time.

  Both collaborators backed away, heads still bowed. They worked their way back to Garcia, and the weight of the female Variants fell off him. He felt Frankie and Scabs lift him to his feet and pull him away.

  “Bring more.” Cough. “Else we eat him,” the creature hissed, extending a claw toward Stevo.

  The other Variants had formed a fortress around the three men. Scabs and Frankie pushed Garcia forward, and slowly the beasts scattered to make an opening. Garcia tuned out the sounds of the shrieking monsters and ignored the swipe of talons that came within a feet of striking him.

  Halfway out of the chamber, a pair of creatures crashed to the floor in front of Frankie and Scabs. The beasts skidded and tumbled from the force of whatever had shoved them from the line. The brawny frame of a Variant staggered into the opening to block the way out. Crusted blood caked the outside of a wound Garcia recognized. This was the same Alpha that had broken his nose. And judging by its snarling maw, it wanted revenge.

  Frankie and Scabs froze. The creature cracked its neck from side to side and dropped to all fours. Its jointed arms and legs snapped as it arched its back and prepared to strike.

 
The two collaborators staggered backward, pulling Garcia with them. But where there should have been fear in his heart, he felt nothing but hatred. Hatred for the ex-soldiers—hatred for the Variants.

  The room erupted with a chorus of excited shrieks, the other monsters watching as if it were a game. Scabs and Frankie loosened their grips under Garcia’s armpits and backed away, perhaps realizing the monster wasn’t there for them. But Garcia held his ground, his eyes locked with the shrieking Variant. When the beast charged, Garcia didn’t so much as flinch.

  It galloped toward him, long limbs pounding the ground. In a matter of seconds, it had narrowed the gap between them, and still Garcia did not retreat. Instead, he reached for his switchblade. Joints cracked as the Alpha lunged toward him, horned claws extended for his throat. Just when Garcia was about to draw his knife, a blur of white flashed from the side so close he felt the rush of air. It all happened so fast it was hard to follow what happened next. He closed his eyes on reflex, and a beat later a sickening thud echoed through the space. A screech of agony followed. His eyes snapped open. The White King stood on two feet, claws wrapped around the bleeding neck of the Alpha that had charged Garcia. What the White King lacked in size, he made up for in speed.

  Behind them, a trio of muscular Variants had emerged from the line. The White King twisted, shrieking at the three other beasts. They clambered forward, snarling.

  The White King tightened its claws around the injured Variant’s neck, digging a talon into the bullet hole. The monster howled, fresh crimson blossoming around the wound. In a swift motion, the White King brought its other hand up and snapped the monster’s neck. The body slumped to the ground, and silence immediately washed over the room. All three of the snarling beasts slowly backed away, vanishing into the army of diseased flesh, their pack leader limp and dead.