Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  And the best dog in the world, Fitz mentally amended.

  “Shepherd 1, air assets are incoming for second pass, confirm your pos—”

  Fitz shut off the hissing frequency before the Variants could hear it. The Marines had to get the fuck out of here if they didn’t want to end up barbecued. He glanced around the pillar. A pack of Variants four-strong sniffed from the top of the staircase, but none of them were advancing. It was like they were afraid of what lurked in the shadows.

  Not afraid enough.

  The leader, a bulky creature with a Mohawk of scars, crept down the first three stairs. It stopped and raised a nose that was split down the middle. The second it let out a shriek, Fitz shouldered his rifle and stepped out from behind the pillar. He squeezed the trigger four times in a serious of quick movements.

  Three skulls detonated and the fourth Variant took one in the neck, nearly decapitating it. The corpses thumped down the staircase.

  Fitz shot an advance signal to the left of the circuits. He swung his blades over the side of the platform and jumped to the ground. Then he turned and hoisted Apollo down. Knapp and Craig came next. Cooper did a final sweep of the stairwell before leaping to the tracks.

  Switching on his comm, Fitz said, “Command, Shepherd 1 is heading to objective, over.”

  “Move it, Shepherd 1, birds are coming in hot.”

  Cooper jogged up next to Fitz. “Nice shooting, but those were my kills.”

  Fitz stopped mid-stride. Knapp and Craig froze and watched the area with haunted looks. Cooper paused with that same stupid grin on his face from before. Fitz had a problem, and it was time to fix it.

  “Lance Corporal, this is the one and only time I’m saying this. We’re not on a fucking trophy hunt. Check your fucking attitude or go out on your own and rack up your kills. If we see your body on the way out, I’ll bring it back for a burial at sea. But I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.”

  The challenge shut Cooper up, and the team raced into the darkness, the sliver of light at the end of the tunnel dwindling with every step. But now Fitz had another problem. Knapp was falling out. His labored breaths surged over the comm. Fitz wasn’t about to slow down for him, but he couldn’t leave the man behind.

  A mechanical roar swept through the tunnel as the jets shot over the city for a second run. The next round of bombs fell over Manhattan. The impacts rattled the entire tunnel, dust and fragments sprinkling from the ceiling.

  Fitz glanced over his shoulder to see a fireball explode across the platform they’d just left. The blast scorched the wall and ballooned in their direction.

  “Run!” Fitz shouted. He lowered his rifle and sprinted with his helmet down. The wave of heat licked his back, singeing the hairs on his neck. He had glanced back to check on Knapp again when Apollo howled a warning.

  “Watch out!” Cooper shouted, seeing the monsters at the same moment as the German Shepherd.

  In the blink of an eye, they were on them. Four Variants came barreling out of a side passage onto the tracks to avoid the explosions. The first two clipped Fitz as they darted into the tunnel, apparently just as surprised as the Marines. He spun, tripped, and crashed to the ground.

  Fitz scrambled to get up, but one of the creatures leapt onto his back. It dug its talons into his body armor. Swinging his helmet back, he smashed the beast in the nose, knocking it off.

  The fireball surged forward, stopping a hundred feet short of their position. Fitz shielded his face from the heat with one hand, and reached for his M9 with his other.

  There was suppressed firing, and the ricochets of wild shots. Fitz blinked, his eyes stinging from the smoke, but he didn’t have time to put on his gas mask. The blurred shape of the Variant staggered toward him. He raised his M9 as the creature slashed at him, knocking his pistol away and cutting his arm.

  Fitz rolled away and dropped to the ground to find his weapon.

  “Apollo!” Fitz shouted. He took in a gasp of air, coughing on the smoke.

  More suppressed gunshots rang out, and a Variant wailed in agony. Then Fitz heard what could have been a human scream. A body was catapulted through air, crashing against a wall with a sickening crunch.

  Fitz felt the M9 and picked it up. The monster tackled him to the circuits before he could fire off a shot. He landed on his back and grabbed its thin, wrinkled neck with his left hand, and tried to raise his pistol with his right, but the beast’s knee had that arm pinned down.

  Snarling, it shook from his grip and lurched for his jugular. Fitz pulled his arm free and pistol-whipped it in the face, shattering jagged teeth. The beast howled in anger and yanked his gun away. Hot, rancid breaths puffed from its mouth, more awful than the decay and the smoke. Saliva dripped onto Fitz’s nose as the monster leaned back in. He grabbed its neck with both hands and squeezed, but the monster was much stronger than it looked.

  Fitz jerked his head to the right to avoid the needle teeth as the creature snapped at him again. He fought the urge to cough, tightened his grip, and pushed. Behind the lump of pale flesh on top of him, Fitz saw Knapp firing at the two remaining Variants as they prowled through the smoke. Craig was slumped against the wall, unmoving. The creatures made a run for Cooper, who’d been reloading his weapon when Fitz lost sight of them.

  The gaping maw of the Variant on top of Fitz closed in, chomping behind swollen, veiny sucker lips. He pushed harder, but the beast inched closer.

  “Help!” Fitz shouted.

  Something slammed into the beast, and Fitz used every ounce of strength left to push it off him. He rolled out from under the monster as Apollo tore at the Variant’s neck. The dog ripped a hunk of flesh away, and then went back in for another bite. Warm blood slopped onto Fitz as Apollo chewed through arteries.

  The Variant’s body went limp, bleeding out in a matter of seconds. Relentless, Apollo continued tearing away flesh. Fitz pushed himself up, anxious to help his team. He stumbled, overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness. Through muddied vision, he saw Knapp had killed one of the other Variants, but the final one had Cooper pinned against a wall.

  Knapp was sobbing uncontrollably. He raised his rifle before Fitz could tell him to stop, and fired. Bullets slammed into both Variant and man, syrupy blood plastering the wall.

  “No!” Fitz shouted. He ran for Knapp’s position. “Hold your fire, goddammit!”

  Knapp continued shooting until his magazine was dry. Fitz stopped mid-stride and stared in horror at the mess the PFC had created. Cooper let out a whimper as he dropped to his knees. Blood gushed from his ruined body. The monster slumped to the ground by his side, twitching.

  “Stand down, Knapp,” Fitz said, his voice bordering on a scream. He checked the passage to make sure there weren’t any other Variants, then staggered over to Cooper and squatted down next to him.

  Blood gurgled from the Marine’s lips. It only took a beat to see he wasn’t going to make it. Cooper had taken rounds to the neck and chest. Geysers of crimson gushed from rounds that had penetrated his flak jacket. His arms and legs were shot to shit. There wasn’t anything Fitz could do for him but grab his hand. He didn’t like the man, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be left to die alone.

  “It’s okay, Cooper, you’re going to be okay,” Fitz lied, trying to comfort him in his final seconds.

  Cooper’s throat made a wet crackling noise as he struggled to speak. His eyes glazed over, but then suddenly locked on Fitz in a moment of awareness.

  He cracked a bloodied grin like he couldn’t believe what was happening, then choked violently. “He ...”

  “It’s okay, man,” Fitz said.

  Cooper coughed again. “He...he fucking shot me.” His eyes rolled up into his head, and his hand fell away from his neck, a wicked grin still on his face. Fitz glared up at Knapp as Cooper died in his arms.

  -19-

  Stevo was still alive.

  Garcia could feel it in his bones. He raised his arm and discreetly pulled back his sleeve. The tattoo
ed cross still had another spot for a fallen brother. When Tank and Thomas had asked why he hadn’t filled it in yet, Garcia hadn’t replied.

  The more he contemplated Frankie’s final words in Atlanta, the less he trusted them. He was a fucking human collaborator, for God’s sake. Garcia was convinced he shouldn’t have left Stevo on the word of such a scum-sucking bastard. He’d made the wrong call again.

  “Echo 1, Romeo 1, Kilo 1, and Sierra 1, you are clear for next phase,” Lieutenant Davis said.

  The words pulled Garcia back to the present. The CIC was hot as hell, and he dragged his arm over his forehead. His broken nose stung from the slight touch. He blinked away a bead of sweat and focused on the monitors.

  This was it.

  On screen, the strike teams crept to the edges of the tunnels emptying into the massive chamber. Below, the shapes of dozens of sleeping Variants came into focus. The decoy had worked. Most of the monsters had left to scout for prey topside. Hopefully the bombs had toasted the majority of them.

  So far, so good.

  Garcia exchanged a glance with Beckham. The Delta Force Operator nodded sternly, and Garcia nodded back. Whatever happened next would determine both their fates. If the strike teams failed, then chances were good they were heading back out there.

  On screen, Echo 1 angled his camera toward the raised platform in the center of the room. Garcia continued searching for any sign of Stevo. There was movement on the floor, a single Variant walking through the maze of armored lumps. He instantly recognized the gait and anemic skin of the hunched, emaciated monster.

  “That’s him,” Garcia said, pointing. “That’s the White King.”

  Again, there was no reply. Everyone continued to stare at the screens, fingers on chins, arms crossed. The palpable tension couldn’t have been shattered with anything short of a sledgehammer.

  One by one, the men on screen slipped on gas masks. Then came the smoke grenades. The canisters sailed from the four tunnel entrances. In seconds, the chamber was filled with smoke. Sabers of UV light shot from their weapons, penetrating the cloud below as the Marines prepared to move. The White King blended with the gray swirling cloud. Flurried movements broke in the heart of the smoke as the other Variants woke from their slumber.

  Echo 1 wasted no time. The soldier slid down a ladder to the ground. As soon as his boots hit the concrete, he moved forward with the butt of a suppressed M4 cupped under his armpit and the tranq pistol in his other hand.

  The strike teams formed a perimeter around the White King’s throne and advanced toward the juvenile Variants. It was hard to follow what happened next. All hell broke loose in a single heartbeat, and adrenaline dumped into Garcia’s veins as if he were there himself.

  Rounds lanced into the smoke, slamming into disoriented Variants galloping from the fray. Riddled with bullet holes, the monsters crashed to the floor, coughing and clawing at the air. Echo 1 nailed kill shot after kill shot. He was a skilled shooter, and for a second Garcia couldn’t believe it was the kid from the flight deck with all those questions. The lance corporal was hardly inexperienced. He marched through the smoke firing short bursts into the desperate monsters, mindful of his zone of fire.

  Garcia couldn’t hear the battle, but in his head, he imagined the tormented howls of the creatures. The chaos and death was nothing new to his eyes, nor those of Delta Operators next to him. The same couldn’t be said for the command staff. Most of them had never seen a Variant up close.

  Smoke shifted across the screens. Through the shroud of gray, several Variants stood their ground. They thrashed wildly at the approaching Marines, but the men cut them down easily from a distance.

  This wasn’t a battle. It was a slaughter.

  Halfway to the platform, only two of the sixteen feeds were idle from fallen Marines. Garcia felt a dangerous emotion rising inside of him.

  Hope.

  Ooh-fucking-rah.

  “Hell yeah,” Horn said.

  Tank made a fist with his right hand.

  The Variants skittered away from the advancing teams. Swirling smoke covered their retreat. Echo 1 was moving faster now. There was a sudden blur of motion across his screen. He whirled toward the flash of pallid flesh as it slashed the neck of Echo 3. The Marine fell to his knees, hands wrapped around his neck as he bled out. Echo 1 continued past the dying man, his weapon sweeping for the Variant.

  Garcia checked the other screens. Echo 4 and Echo 2 were slowly making their way through the screen of gray. A cape of skin flew past their cams. Both men whirled, but the beast was already gone. In the second it took for Garcia to shift his gaze to Echo 1, a pair of claws reached out and grabbed Echo 4, pulling the Marine into the smoke.

  “Shit,” Tank said. “What the hell was that?”

  Sierra 1 and Romeo 3 were whisked away in the span of two minutes. Garcia still hadn’t seen what killed them. Their feeds showed nothing but smoke and pooling blood on the concrete where they had fallen.

  The other Marines continued to work their way forward, but one seemed to drop every minute. The tide was changing, and no one seemed to know how or why.

  “What the hell is happening?” Vice President Johnson asked. There was fear in his voice. He ran a nervous hand over his head. Davis was pacing now, shifting from screen to screen.

  Echo 1 continued into the smoke, muzzle searching for the Variants killing his brothers. An emaciated Variant rolled across his feed. The flash of motion continued to the screen of Echo 2. The Marine fired off a shot as two clawed hands swiped at his face. Echo 2 avoided the talons and jumped away, his camera catching a snapshot of the back of the creature that had attempted to kill him. It moved like the wind, disappearing into the smoke in the blink of an eye.

  “How can they see in the smoke?” Johnson asked. There was no response, and the Vice President hissed in frustration. “Somebody tell me what the hell is happening!”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Davis replied. “Intel indicated that—”

  “That intel was bullshit,” Johnson said.

  A fragmented memory of Garcia’s time in the lair emerged on his mind. He was walking toward the White King. The creature’s cloudy eyes had locked onto him. Then another image replaced it. The White King barreling into the Alpha that had broken Garcia’s nose.

  The realization hit him then. How could he have been so stupid? This wasn’t a desperate attempt by several Variants trying to save their children. It was the last stand of the White King. The fucker was blind after all, but somehow it had adapted to see without eyes. Whether it was by sonar or something else, it didn’t matter. They had to stop the monster before it killed every Marine in the chamber.

  Garcia pushed his way to the front of the room. “LT, tell all strike teams to regroup and kill that one! It’s the White King!”

  Davis glared at him with her crystal blue eyes, then looked at Johnson for approval.

  “Do it,” the Vice President said.

  “Echo, Romeo, and Sierra, regroup and advance in pairs. Target is the White King.”

  Ten minutes had passed since the teams had entered the chamber, and half the men were already dead.

  Echo 1 and 2 came together side by side on screen. Sierra 2 and 3 managed to find each other, but Romeo’s screens were all idle now, smoke rolling past their still feeds. The only team left intact was Kilo. They advanced toward the raised platform where the juvenile Variants were.

  Garcia searched the walls in the background, still holding onto a sliver of hope that Stevo was alive. Distorted shapes like eggs emerged on Kilo 3’s screen. The Marine turned away before Garcia could see if any of the human prisoners was alive.

  The hunt for the White King continued on the monitors. Sierra and Echo gunned down the injured Variants crawling across the ground.

  “There,” Davis said. “Those are the targets.” She pointed to Kilo’s monitors. There was movement in the swirling gray. Dozens of scaly juvenile Variants clambered across the ground, cone shaped heads watc
hing the approaching soldiers. They reached out with long, armored limbs. These monsters were larger than those Garcia remembered seeing at Turner Field. They looked like they had grown several inches in a matter of days.

  Kilo 1 and 2 were hit just as they raised their tranq pistols. The White King slashed their necks before either of the men could defend themselves. Kilo 3 and 4 opened fire, but the beast disappeared back into the smoke. They backpedaled away from the targets, their weapons arcing wildly.

  Johnson put his hand on his forehead and sighed. “Tell those men to stand their ground.”

  Sierra 3 went down next, one of the injured mother Variants pouncing on him. A second creature missing a hand lunged toward the camera. Sierra 2 killed both of the monsters, but the White King found him as he reached to change his magazine. This time the monster snapped the Marine’s neck. He fell face-first to the concrete, the feed sizzling out from a shattered cam.

  Sierra and Romeo were gone.

  Garcia took in a breath to manage his nerves. God, how he wanted to be out there fighting with these men.

  Echo 1 and 2 walked slowly through the smoke, their rifles steady. They came across the limp bodies of Sierra 2 and 3.

  The White King attacked Kilo 3 and Kilo 4 next. This time, one of the Marines wounded the beast, shooting it in the chest before it melted back into the gray. Both men ran after the retreating monster, only to run smack into the cluster of juvenile Variants. The Marines stopped, raised their tranq guns, and fired.

  The smoke was dissipating now, and it wasn’t hard to see the darts bounce off the armor. Garcia had trained the soldiers to aim for the soft spot on the neck, but the little bastards were so fucking fast. They circled the Marines, slashing angrily. Long, snake-like tongues shot out of their mouths.

  At the front of the room, an NCO rushed up to Davis and whispered in her ear. The lieutenant’s face contorted with fear. She turned to Vice President Johnson and said, “Drone reports show the surviving Variants from the bombings are retreating back into the sewers, sir.”

  “How many?”