Extinction Edge (The Extinction Cycle Book 2)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Seven hours into Operation Liberty and 1st Platoon was finally closing in on their first objective. The convoy crawled through the haze at a turtle’s pace, the silhouettes of Marines followed the armored beasts like ghosts. Dust and ash rained down from the sky, mixing with a light drizzle. Everything was covered with a layer of gray. Tree branches sagged under the weight of the soot.

  Rushing wind hit Beckham when he stepped into the intersection of Broadway and West 50th. He stood there in the slush of ash and dirt, his helmet slowly twisting as he took in the view. No matter how many times he told himself this was no longer New York City, he still stared in awe.

  The billboard of a play that would never be seen again hung at an angle from the building next to an Applebee’s restaurant. Up ahead, 50th Street was choked with charred vehicles and burned, mangled corpses. The contents of food vendor carts littered the concrete. Every window in sight was shattered. The Air Force had used firebombs designed to scorch everything in their path. He tried to picture what it must have been like hours earlier when the jets swooped in. The incendiary bombs would have detonated at street level before spreading to the surrounding buildings, blowing out every window and burning every square inch. The military had used the same strategy during Operation Reaper in an attempt to stop the spread of the infection.

  It hadn’t worked then, and Beckham was starting to wonder if it had worked now. The lone survivor they’d picked up could tell them more—if he was talking. The man was in the troop hold of one of the Bradleys, a medic tending to him. He hadn’t said a word since they put him inside. Maybe the man was crazy, or maybe there were survivors underground. Either way, 1st Platoon’s main objective was to clear the area of Variants and set up a base, not explore the subways and sewers.

  Beckham flinched as a strong hand patted him on the shoulder. Horn walked past, his M27 angled at the dark entrance to an underground parking ramp a few feet away.

  “You good, Boss?”

  “Yeah, Big Horn. I’m good.”

  They walked side by side toward the target zone. Beckham kept his team on the rear guard, hugging the walls of nearby buildings and keeping an eye on the broken windows above. Jensen’s strike team and the other teams from Plum Island had the same idea. They kept to the side of the road rather than walking through the middle of the street like most of 1st Platoon. There wasn’t any danger of being caught out in the open, but Beckham still liked the comfort of a solid wall at his back.

  The convoy slowed a block away from the Avenue of the Americas. Beckham scoped the skyline with his MP5. A hole in the darkening sky spilled rays of light over the city. He still wasn’t sure why, but the Variants seemed to avoid the sunlight. Maybe it was their pale skin, or some of those epigenetic changes that Kate hadn’t explained. He didn’t really give a shit either way. As long as they weren’t setting up an ambush, they could hide all they wanted.

  The vehicles crunched to a stop in the middle of the intersection at 7th Avenue. Lieutenant Gates jumped out of his Humvee and joined Sergeant Valdez on the back of a Bradley. The lieutenant used a pair of binoculars to scope the street as he spoke with the vehicle commander in the hatch.

  Horn stopped next to Beckham. “What’s going on?”

  “Not sure. I’ll check it out,” Beckham replied. A couple of eloquent illustrations caught Beckham’s eye as he jogged ahead. The armor on the left had the name Black Reaper painted in red on the vehicle’s sandy-brown hull. The Bradley on the right had an image of a snorting buffalo tattooed on the armor and above that the words Steam Beast. These Marines had some impressive artistic skills.

  Several of the men watched him curiously as he passed, their visors gravitating to his MP5. Their nods told him they were happy to have Team Ghost along on this operation.

  Gates was already climbing off the track when Beckham arrived.

  “Problem, Lieutenant?” Beckham asked.

  Before he could answer, Sergeant Valdez jumped onto the concrete. “Yeah, there’s a fucking problem,” He raised a muscular arm and pointed over Steam Beast at the intersection with 7th Avenue. “We got a clogged artery ahead that would make a heart surgeon shit a brick.”

  “Lots of dead Marines up there,” Gates said. “Looks like some of the vehicles from Operation Reaper.”

  Beckham stood on his toes and caught a glimpse of a fuel tanker turned on its side. By some miracle it hadn’t exploded. The entire street had been spared from the firebombs.

  “Any way around?” Beckham asked.

  Gates shook his head. “We could go back the way we came, but satellite imagery showed the other streets were worse.”

  “Someone at Command really fucked this up good,” Valdez snapped. “How they miss a tanker must be beyond my pay grade.”

  Beckham ignored the sergeant and climbed onto the back of the track. Valdez was right; the road ahead was a clusterfuck of abandoned military vehicles and a ton of bodies. Marines sprawled out across the sidewalks, draped over the hoods of Humvees. Some were hanging from turrets. All had been torn to shreds by the Variants.

  The track commander regarded Beckham from the hatch. “Never seen nothin’ like this,” he said.

  Beckham swung his MP5 to eye level and scoped the road. The tanker lay at a forty-five-degree angle across the street and left sidewalk. There was a short gap on the right side. It would be close, but maybe they could get around. He swept the gun downward and checked for any sign of oil. He saw something dark on the ground, but it wasn’t gasoline—it was blood from the fallen Marines.

  “Lieutenant,” Beckham said. “Can you come up here for a second, sir.”

  The officer climbed onto the rear of the track and joined Beckham near the hatch. “Take a look, sir. One o’clock.” He let his weapon fall against his chest and pointed toward the curb.

  Gates nodded and turned to the vehicle commander. “Think you can push those Humvees to the side and then sneak around the tanker?”

  The man shook his head and then let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, sir. We’d have to go in single file. And if we clip the truck…” He used both hands to mimic an explosion.

  Gates shifted his gaze from Beckham to Valdez like he was looking for reassurance. Well, I’ll be damned, Beckham thought. The puking Marine who had died a few blocks back wasn’t the only greenhorn in the platoon. Gates’s inability to make this simple decision told Beckham that this was his first mission at the helm.

  “Get the platoon into a line. Have every Marine buddy up. We start with Steam Beast,” Beckham said, patting the track with a glove.

  He searched the vehicle commander’s eyes. There was terror there. Despair. The man fidgeted with his helmet and gas mask before nodding.

  “What’s your name?” Beckham asked, pretending like he hadn’t already glanced at the man’s tag.

  “Matthews,” the commander replied. Even with the breathing apparatus, he sounded terribly young. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two.

  “Matthews,” Beckham said, “a lot of Marines are counting on you today, and I know you’re scared. Shit, I’m scared too, and this is my fourth time in the field since the outbreak. But I’ve seen your maneuvers. I’ve been watching. You were born to command this track.”

  Matthews cracked a half smile and nodded twice. They were confident nods. Beckham’s work was done.

  “You got this,” he said, patting the man on the shoulder. He turned and followed Gates. Valdez was waiting on the concrete, his right hand massaging the scar on his cheek.

  “Get the men in line,” Gates said. “Have them buddy up. Matthews is going to clear us a path. Then we send the rest of the convoy around the tanker in single file.”

  Valdez tilted his visor toward Beckham and winked. The gesture took him off guard, but it told him that the sergeant’s stereotypical behavior earlier wasn’t just an act. The man was probably the most experienced Marine out here. And that experience was exactly what 1st Platoon needed.

  Beckham cracked
a half smile when he saw Team Ghost waiting for him at the end of the street. They reminded him that maybe 1st Platoon had a chance after all. Glancing up, he saw his theory was about to be tested. An armada of storm clouds was rolling into the city, and in minutes they would carpet Manhattan with shadows.

  Kate’s brain felt like it had melted inside her head. The only neurons firing were the ones that pulled her back to the night she’d spent with Beckham. She tried to remember what they’d learned about the Variants, replaying her conversations with Cindy and Ellis. The Variants were evolving. Check. The Variants were a new species. Check.

  The list of their strengths was extensive. But there seemed to be only a few weaknesses. Their sensitivity to light wasn’t even really a weakness. The sun didn’t kill the creatures; they just really didn’t like it. They weren’t vampires. After wrapping a four-hour session in the lab, Kate was relieved to spend some time away from science. She picked up Tasha and Jenny from Leila and swung by the medical ward to pick up Riley. He was waiting in the hallway, doing wheelies in his chair.

  “Hey, we’re going to be late,” he said when he saw Kate. “I think we told Fitz 1800.”

  “Yeah, it’s only…” Kate glanced at her watch. It was already after six. “Crap.”

  They hurried to the mess hall and found Fitz waiting with his back against a wall. He smiled when he saw them.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Kate said. “Lost track of time.”

  Fitz shrugged. “Not like I have any place to be. Not yet anyway. Still no orders.”

  Kate felt a tug on her sleeve. Jenny was looking up, her eyes dull and sad. “Is my daddy coming back soon?”

  When Kate didn’t reply, Riley jumped in. “He’s going to be back soon, honey. Reed and him are just out on a training mission.”

  “Okay,” Jenny whispered.

  “I’m hungry,” Tasha chimed in.

  “Well, let’s get some food,” Kate said, leading the girls toward the end of the line. The survivors from Fort Bragg had added a significant chunk to the island’s growing population. The sight of other children was reassuring. It reassured Kate that humanity still had hope, a fighting chance. But she missed her own family. Grabbing two trays, Kate moved up to the counter with Tasha and Jenny.

  “What do you girls want to eat? Anything you want,” Kate said.

  A middle-aged cook wearing a backwards New York Yankees hat flashed her an incredulous look. “Sorry, Doc, but tonight we’re only serving soup.”

  Kate examined the empty buffet. She was so lost in her own thoughts she’d failed to see the single serving bowl of soup the man was handing each person. No wonder the line was moving faster than normal.

  “Soup it is,” she said, forcing a smile. She carefully passed bowls to Tasha and Jenny. Kate refused the third bowl. “I’m not hungry. Better save it for the others.”

  “Suit yourself,” the man replied, handing the bowl to Fitz.

  “You should eat, Kate,” Riley said. He cradled a bowl of soup on his lap as he wheeled forward.

  “I’ll be fine,” she replied.

  They found an empty table, and Riley maneuvered his wheelchair under the opening at the end. Tasha and Jenny sat next to Kate, grabbing their spoons and attacking their soup like they hadn’t eaten in days.

  Most of the soldiers and support staff around them ate in silence. Small talk seemed unimportant. With resources dwindling, conversations had shifted from lost loved ones to concerns about food and resources. Kate found herself staring at Tasha and Jenny as they lapped up the broth in front of them. Their mother’s death and the horrors they witnessed at Fort Bragg would be with them the rest of their lives.

  Sighing, Kate broke the silence. “You said you didn’t get assigned a post. Is that right, Fitz?”

  He nodded. “Not yet. Apparently things are backed up at the administration building with all of the new refugees.”

  Riley glanced up from his bowl. “Did you tell them you’re a bull’s-eye waiting to happen?”

  Fitz grinned. “Yeah, I mentioned it.”

  “I bet you could outshoot most of the turds on this island.”

  “Not my daddy,” Tasha said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  “He’d give me a run for my money,” Fitz said.

  “What’s that mean?” Jenny asked.

  Both men chuckled, prompting several looks from the adjacent tables. Laughter was rare these days.

  -16-

  “Clear a fucking path!” Valdez yelled as Steam Beast jolted forward. “And maintain a straight line. Keep your intervals. Five meters apart!”

  The Marines who had clustered fanned out.

  “Master Sergeant, what the hell did you say back there?” Jensen asked. He held his gas mask in a hand and spat brown juice on the ground.

  Beckham shrugged. “Just gave the track commander a kick in the ass.”

  Jensen snorted a laugh and then slipped his mask back over his face. “I’m just waiting for a gigantic fireball when that tanker goes up in flames.”

  “And I’m just waiting for the Variants to show up,” Beckham replied, watching swollen gray clouds roll into the city.

  The lingering smoke pressed in on 1st Platoon. Helmets gravitated toward the sky as a giant shadow covered Manhattan. Within seconds visibility was limited to a few hundred yards, and it was diminishing with every beat.

  Jensen shouted, “Hold your position. Stay sharp!”

  The scraping of metal continued ahead. Steam Beast worked on the first Humvee, angling the truck toward the sidewalk. A bloated corpse in the turret slid over the windshield and disappeared from sight. Bones crunched.

  A few agonizing minutes later, the Bradley successfully cleared the abandoned vehicles to the side of the road. That left the gap between the tanker and the building on the right. Beckham scoped the pass again. The space seemed smaller now, just a sliver of street and sidewalk. Every eye in 1st Platoon settled on the same view as the track snorted full steam ahead, gears grinding and diesel engine groaning.

  Beckham checked on Timbo and Ryan, but could only see their fuzzy shapes in the smoke. They were set up at a curb, their sniper rifles sweeping the terrain for hostiles. Satisfied, Beckham watched Steam Beast. The blade flattened a light pole with a screech and then lurched forward. It didn’t look like it was going to clear the back of the tanker.

  Thunder boomed in the distance. Rain poured from the bulging sky. The wall of smoke thickened, squeezing the convoy.

  “Hold position,” Gates said over the comm.

  Beckham shot his team a flash of hand signals and yelled, “Regroup.”

  They met on the sidewalk, facing the smoke together. There were other voices now. Confused Marines shouting orders and questions that Beckham couldn’t quite make out. He searched for Jensen through the smoke but saw only the outlines of a few scattered men.

  A shriek broke out.

  At first Beckham thought Steam Beast was moving again. But the shriek was guttural. Deep. It wasn’t a noise human engineering created.

  Horn grunted. “It’s a fucking trap.”

  “Jesus,” Beckham said. “They weren’t hiding from the sun, they were waiting for the smoke to shift again.” He could hardly believe it.

  The crack of automatic gunfire snapped him back to reality.

  “You got eyes?” Chow shouted.

  “Negative,” Jinx replied.

  “Stay focused,” Horn added.

  “I can’t see nothin’,” Ryan said.

  Beckham strained to see through the smoke. The engines of the convoy were drowned out by the high-pitched screams of the Variants. The noise was coming from everywhere and nowhere, all around them. The snapping of joints and grinding of claws came from above. Then below.

  Beckham spun around just as one of the pale monsters came crashing out of a storefront window.

  Kate sat staring at her laptop screen in the conference room of Building 1. Ellis had compiled a list of species that resembled the
Variants. A variety of odd creatures filled his notes, some she’d never seen before.

  She skimmed through them more out of curiosity than for research. Ellis hadn’t left a single rock unturned. He’d connected the Variants to a host of multicellular organisms: mammals, amphibians, reptiles, insects, and invertebrates. Each image had a note underneath, explaining what trait the species shared with the Variants.

  There were leeches and other segmented worms, some with one sucker and others with two. Next were half a dozen spiders. An odd-looking crustacean that was an ancestor of a hermit crab filled the next screen. A chameleon the size of a human finger.

  The list wasn’t surprising, considering his fascination with Charles Darwin and evolution. Over the past few days Ellis had become obsessed with linking the Variants to other species. He was convinced the chemicals in VX-99 had turned on genes he could identify. And with the proper equipment and time, he was right.

  But so what if he could link the Variants to the leech or some hairy spider? It didn’t matter. She’d said it for days now—there was no bringing these people back. Ellis was finally starting to believe her. There was simply no precedent for that type of gene therapy. It was too far in the future. Even if they could find a way to reverse or stop the changes, what would be left to save? The Ebola virus had likely caused brain damage in most of the Variants. There would simply be no quality of life for the creatures.

  A voice from the past boomed in her head. It was her brother, Javier, his dying words replaying like a broken record. She couldn’t help but wonder what she would do if he was still alive. If he had turned into a Variant. Would she try everything to save him, even if he never returned fully to the brother she remembered?

  She realized the answer was more painful than the memory. It was no. She wouldn’t want him to live like that, because she wouldn’t want to live like that.

  Kate let her grief pass with a deep sigh, rousing the curiosity of Tasha and Jenny. Both girls fidgeted impatiently in the chairs next to her.