Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Davis swallowed. “Hundreds.”

  Johnson cursed and looked at the deck, then back to Davis. “How much time?”

  “Ten minutes, maybe less.”

  Kilo 3 and 4 were firing on the juvenile Variants with their M4s now, unable to take them down with their tranq guns. Even those rounds pinged off their thick skin. Several of the creatures scampered away on all fours, but the others suddenly charged.

  Echo 1 raised his rifle at the monsters from a hundred feet away, then trained his gun on a Variant standing on top of the raised platform—the White King. Blood flowed from multiple gunshots across its withered body. Despite the injuries, the beast was still alive, and its jaw was moving.

  “The White King is controlling them, giving them orders!” Garcia said, pointing to the screen. “Tell Echo 1 to kill him.”

  A wave of scaly flesh washed over Kilo 3 and 4 before Davis could reply. Their video feeds blurred as the hungry creatures fed on the men.

  Echo 1 and 2 were all that was left now. Both men walked toward the White King, firing as they moved. The creature jerked as the rounds tore into it, but the monster’s lips continued to move, howling in a voice Garcia couldn’t hear. Echo 1 fired a shot that hit the beast in the right eye. The White King flew backward onto the platform, vanishing from view.

  The final wisps of smoke lifted, and the chamber came fully into focus for the first time. The two surviving Marines did a quick sweep of the room. Bodies were sprawled in all directions, but it was clear of adult Variants. The six remaining offspring continued to feed on Kilo 3 and 4. They tore away flesh and tilted their heads up as Echo 1 and 2 approached cautiously. Without the White King giving them orders, they didn’t seem to know what to do.

  “Tell them to kill all but one of the children,” Johnson said. “And tell them to hurry.”

  Davis said something into the comm, but Garcia wasn’t paying attention. On the wall behind the platform were dozens of cocoons. He took a step toward the monitors, searching the wet, curved shapes for Stevo.

  “Our drones have lost sight of the Variants topside, sir,” Davis said.

  On screen, Echo 1 and 2 fired at the juvenile Variants. The creatures abandoned their prey and scattered. They circled the room, then came together as a group, like a phalanx, and charged in formation. Three of them dropped from Echo 1’s well-aimed headshots. Echo 2 killed a fourth, but the final two crashed into the Marines.

  Echo 2 pulled a knife and jammed it into the creature’s neck. The one on Echo 1 slashed at him, claws swooshing in front of the camera. The beast suddenly went limp, and the Marine pushed its body off.

  Both men quickly jumped to their feet. Garcia followed their cams, still looking for Stevo. The human prisoners were draped like curtains across the walls in every direction.

  Working together, the two surviving Marines reached down and picked up the Variant offspring Echo 1 had tranquilized. Echo 2 helped him swing the creature over his back. Then they were running, the scaled flesh of the monster’s skin in clear view of Echo 1’s cam.

  The two men bolted for the ladder leading back to the tunnels above. They made it to the bottom, where they suddenly stopped. Both men slowly rotated, their cameras showing all four of the tunnel entrances above. Hundreds of figures clambered up to the edges. The creatures stared down at the men, yellow eyes blinking rapidly, apparently trying to make sense of what they were seeing in their demented minds.

  Garcia could only imagine the terror the two Marines must have felt in that moment. The army slithered down the wet walls. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to watch. Echo 1 and 2 came together back to back, and opened fire. They fought valiantly, taking down a dozen of the creatures before they were overwhelmed.

  Echo 1 was the last to go down. He fell to his back, two of the monsters dragging him across the concrete. Other skeletal Variants galloped by, slowing to shriek at the Marine.

  The CIC fell into complete silence, everyone watching in horror as Echo 1 was taken to his final resting place. The monsters slung him up on the wall next to the other soldiers that had just been killed in the chamber. Head slumping to the right, the feed captured the image of another soldier a few feet away. This body was already partially cocooned. Judging by the man’s torn flesh and missing guts, he had been there for some time. Garcia wanted to look away when he saw the face. There was no mistaking those huge Dumbo ears.

  A phantom burn prickled across Garcia’s tattooed skin. He forced his gaze away from the screen, his heart pounding. He would be adding his brother’s name to the cross after all.

  The George Washington aircraft carrier split across the waves at full speed away from the Georgia coastline. With the mission to capture a juvenile Variant in Atlanta a failure, Captain Humphrey had ordered the fleet north to Virginia.

  Kate stood on the flight deck, waiting to board the chopper that would take her back to Plum Island. The sun hid behind a solid mass of dark, bulbous clouds. Rough waters beat against the ships, whitecaps speckling the horizon.

  She had mixed feelings about leaving, even if Ellis did need her help. President Ringgold was a strong woman, but she had been wounded badly, and Kate felt guilty leaving her behind.

  A voice pulled her back to reality.

  “Kate.”

  Beckham was jogging across the flight deck with Horn and Chow in tow. Their features gave off no indication of the horror they had witnessed in the CIC. She could only imagine what the Marines in Atlanta had found in the White King’s lair. They’d told her that the mission had failed, but she’d been spared the details.

  The crew chief from the Blackhawk jumped onto the deck behind her. “Dr. Lovato, we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

  Kate gave him a thumbs up, then walked over to meet Team Ghost. Beckham didn’t slow his hurried pace until he reached her. Wrapping his arms around her, he squeezed tightly as though they hadn’t seen each other for weeks. They embraced for several seconds, interrupted by Horn clearing his throat.

  Beckham whispered, “I love you,” into her ear.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered back.

  He released his grip and pulled away, running a sleeve across his face.

  “Atlanta was a complete loss?” Kate asked.

  Beckham nodded. “No one made it out.”

  “I’m sorry, Reed. You did your best training them.”

  Beckham put his hands in his pockets, but didn’t reply.

  “Have you heard about New York yet? Anything about Fitz and Apollo?”

  There was a moment of hesitation before Beckham shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

  Chow let out a soft whistle as footsteps sounded in the distance. A dozen men jogged toward the choppers, all armed to the teeth.

  “Vice President Johnson has authorized more troops to protect Plum Island in case the strike teams don’t make it back from New York,” Beckham said.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t ordered us to go back out there yet,” Chow said.

  Every muscle in Kate’s body seemed to tighten at once. “You guys aren’t going back out there, right?”

  Beckham shook his head without hesitation this time. “There are no plans to send us into the fray, don’t worry.”

  “What if the other teams fail?” Kate thought of Fitz and Apollo. They were coming back—they had to come back.

  But what if they didn’t?

  “Fitz will get the job done,” Beckham said. “He always does.” He sounded confident, but Horn and Chow both looked skeptical.

  “Tell my girls I love them,” Horn said. “And tell Riley he better be behaving himself. I don’t want to hear about any sexual harassment suits. God only knows what he’s been saying to Meg.”

  Chow chuckled, and a smile touched the sides of Beckham’s lips.

  “I will, Big Horn. I’ll give them your love,” Kate said.

  The rotors on the trio of Blackhawks made their first rotations as the pilots warmed up the birds for Kate and the troops.
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  “I have to go,” Kate said. She hugged Beckham again. “Take care of President Ringgold, and if you are asked to go back out there, remember what you have to lose. It’s not just us anymore.” She finished her thought with a kiss to Beckham’s cheek, then ran to the chopper.

  -20-

  Fitz would have left Knapp behind back in the tunnel if it weren’t for his conscience. The kid kind of reminded Fitz of himself when he first got to Walter Reed after the IED took his legs—weak, scared, and desperate for an out. The difference was, Fitz had powered through those dark days. Knapp had emptied his magazine into Cooper to save his own skin. Knapp was just like Duffy, the Marine who had killed two kids and their grandfather in Fallujah. Fitz thought about beating Knapp’s face in like he had Duffy’s, but that would bring Fitz to their level.

  No. I’m nothing like them.

  Fitz slowly craned his neck. He could hardly see the Marine’s silhouette in the darkness. Knapp was still huddled back there against a wall. Apollo sat a few feet behind Knapp, guarding their rear.

  They were at the edge of an abandoned junction with three rail routes. The maps showed other tunnels that went even farther underground. At its deepest point, there were seven levels. A team of Navy Seals had identified an old station stop as the lair. The other strike teams had already radioed that they were in position, but Fitz was still a quarter mile from the stop.

  A voice crackled over the comm channel. “Shepherd 1, Whiskey 1. Where the fuck are you?”

  It was Lieutenant Rowe, and Fitz could tell by the anger in his voice they were waiting on him. Fitz didn’t know what to say at first. Should he tell the Lieutenant about what happened to Cooper?

  Fuck. We have bigger problems than Knapp.

  “Whiskey 1, Shepherd 1 is Oscar Mike. Down two squad members. Encountered hostiles. ETA 5 minutes.”

  There was a short pause, then, “Roger, Shepherd. We can’t wait for you.”

  Fitz gritted his teeth, then muttered, “On our way.” He shut off the comm channel and ran to Knapp, towering over him with his UV light shining in Knapp’s face. “Let’s go, Marine.”

  “But...”

  Fitz smacked him on the helmet. “You’re a Marine; there are no buts. Move yours, or I’m leaving you here.” He gestured for Apollo, and started jogging down the tunnel away from Knapp.

  The soft sound of footsteps followed. Fitz wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved. He decided not to feel anything at all and focus on the mission. He had a promise to fulfill.

  Fitz draped his MK11 across his chest as he ran. The weapon and Apollo were the only true reassurances he needed, although he would have given anything for a shot of whiskey.

  He ran faster in his track lane with the dog racing inside the lane to his right. Knapp kept up pace behind. The tunnel curved ahead, and Fitz reached to dim his weapon-mounted UV beam. Water trickled from the ceiling, hitting his face as he adjusted the light.

  The passage opened into a larger tunnel. Fitz halted and signaled for Knapp to hold up. He slowly raked his light back and forth, illuminating graffiti-covered walls and a ground littered with trash. Not too long ago, this had been a camp for dozens of homeless people, but the sour scent of rotting fruit told him the Variants had claimed it as their own.

  He was close now.

  Fitz flashed an advance signal and continued. Knapp hurried after him, the muzzle of his rifle aimed at the ground. That was good. Fitz hated having the man at his back with a loaded rifle.

  Halfway down the tunnel, their lights danced across the first of the human prisoners. Masses of webbed glue hung from the skeletal remains. These people had been dead for weeks.

  “Shit,” Knapp said. “Are those—”

  The shrieks started all at once, cutting the Marine off mid-sentence. A macabre chorus swelled in the tunnel. Fitz froze alongside Knapp, and Apollo’s tail dropped.

  “What is that?” Knapp whispered. He backed away from the corpse of a woman stuck to the wall on their left. One eye hung from the socket, and strips of dried flesh that looked like beef jerky hung from her skull.

  “Shut up,” Fitz whispered back.

  The enclosed space made it difficult to determine where the sounds were coming from, but Fitz figured the other teams were engaging the enemy. He jerked his chin and bolted into the darkness, his rifle out in front now.

  The three sets of circuits curved again, and the boxy shape of a train came into focus. It was still docked at the main platform that had once served a busy concourse. Metal gleamed in the glow of his light. He stopped at the entrance to the station, threw his back against the wall, and peeked around the corner.

  Smoke drifted across the platform, spilling over the back of the train. A chunk of rock suddenly exploded from the wall, peppering Fitz’s uniform with shrapnel. He took cover as rounds bit into the ground around him. Back on Plum Island, each team had been assigned a zone of fire. They’d gone over the station layouts, and every man understood where the other teams would be.

  Somebody had forgotten that. Or maybe it was just the chaos of fighting on an unknown battlefield with enemy that could come from any direction.

  Another flurry of rounds struck the ground nearby, and Fitz backed away from the platform a step. As soon as the stray gunfire stopped, he looked at Knapp and said, “Get your mask on. Then we move.” He paused, and caught Knapp’s gaze. “And don’t fucking shoot me or anyone else. Keep your cool and shoot the Variants. Your brothers need you in this fight.”

  Knapp managed a short and unconvincing nod.

  “Apollo, you stay here,” Fitz said. He hated leaving the German Shepherd, but with the stray rounds, he was worried the dog would get hit in the smoke even with the small gas mask he’d brought for him.

  Apollo whimpered, but obeyed. Fitz slipped on his mask, shouldered his MK11, and burst around the corner. He didn’t wait to see if Knapp was following.

  The view of the concourse was partially obscured by the train. Smoke churned across the clear side to his left. He jumped over the circuits and made his way for the platform. A Variant suddenly exploded from the wall of smoke and landed on all fours in the first of the three circuits. Fitz shot the beast in the back as it galloped for the safety of the train.

  The howls of dying monsters swelled into a din so loud it hurt Fitz’s ears. More of the creatures poured from the smoke as he approached. His light captured their scarlet-streaked bodies, most of them riddled with bullet holes and gasping for air. Three of them climbed on top of the train at the same time. He mowed them down with headshots that speckled the dusty metal with a coat of red paint.

  Two more skittered toward Knapp. Fitz shifted his aim, but Knapp took them out with short bursts before Fitz could squeeze the trigger. He didn’t have time to celebrate the small victory.

  During a lull in the high-pitched shrieks of the Variants, a human scream sounded. At first Fitz thought it had come from the comm channel, but he’d turned it off before entering the chamber.

  He ran faster, leaping into the second circuit. The strike teams were in trouble, but he was almost to the platform. He prepared to pull his tranq gun when a Marine somersaulted out of the smoke and landed between the tracks with a thud. He skidded to a stop, his body twisted and broken.

  Fitz flinched as a second man came flying out a second later. The Marine smashed into the side of the train with a crack. Fitz squared his shoulders, and planted his blades. He raked his gun back and forth, waiting for a target, heart rising in his throat.

  Two more Marines flew out of the smoke as he strained to see through the polycarbonate visor. One of the men landed just in front of Fitz. The injured Marine tore off his mask and tossed it away. Then he crawled forward, glancing up with wild eyes that locked on Fitz.

  “LT,” Fitz said. He crouched next to Lieutenant Rowe.

  Rowe coughed. “Kill it,” he croaked.

  Knapp stopped a few feet away, his rifle aimed at the churning vortex of gray. Something was moving
in there—something big.

  Fitz reached down to help Rowe up, but the lieutenant shook his hand away.

  “No! Leave me. You have to kill that thing.”

  The lieutenant’s right leg was snapped, the bone sticking out of his thigh. His eyes bulged. “Fitz. There’s a Variant in there unlike the others. An Alpha—”

  Knapp fired into the cloud at something Fitz couldn’t see.

  “It’s protecting the little ones,” Rowe said. He dragged himself closer, coughing as he moved.

  Fitz looked up at Knapp. “Help him and get the hell out of here. I’ll complete the mission.” He was running toward the smoke before Rowe had a chance to protest. He could only hope that Knapp would stay and help the lieutenant before fleeing the concourse.

  The whistle of suppressed rounds caught Fitz’s ear. There were still Marines in the fight. He climbed onto the platform. With his MK11 out in front, he carefully worked his way through the dissipating screen of smoke. He could see bodies, but nothing was moving. At least he didn’t have to worry about the Marines maintaining their zones of fire.

  The high-pitched shrieks had quieted now. There was only the rattle of dying monsters and shouts of Marines. Fitz pivoted to the right as a meaty hunk of flesh darted by. The curtain of smoke continued to lift the deeper he moved. His blades bumped into one of the grenade canisters. It clanked noisily across the ground. He cursed and took in deep breaths of filtered air that tasted like rubber, his heart kicking the shit out of his ribcage.

  Focus, Fitz. Focus. You can do this. You have to do this.

  The screech of nails over concrete came from above. Fitz raised his rifle toward the ceiling just as another flash of movement raced toward him. The Variant above scampered away, but the one in front smashed into Fitz. A second of shock overwhelmed him as he hit the ground.

  “Help! You have to help!” someone shouted.

  Fitz struggled to get up, reaching for his bayonet and preparing for hand-to-hand combat with a Variant. Instead, he stared into the visor of a Marine covered in blood.

  “We have to get out of here!” the man shouted.