Extinction Age

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

“Always do,” Beckham replied.

  “I’m not talking about the Variants.”

  Beckham halted and gave him a cockeyed glance. “Wood?”

  “He’s connected to Gibson’s work. I’m not sure how deep their ties go or what Wood knew about VX-99, but we shouldn’t trust him.”

  Beckham’s face tensed like he was suffering from a massive migraine. “You think he could have been involved with Building 8?”

  “Can’t confirm or deny that,” Jensen said. “But I would guess he was, in some capacity.”

  “Roger that. I’m already two steps ahead of you, sir.”

  Jensen nodded. “Figured as much.”

  They continued the rest of the walk in silence. Jensen dropped his rucksack on the ground beside Echo 2 and waved his new team over. Chow, Horn, Beckham, and a sergeant from Wood’s staff gathered around.

  “Everyone, this is Sergeant Valentine, he’ll be accompanying us on our flyover of Niantic,” Jensen said.

  Valentine stepped forward. He was built like a turtle, with a bulky midsection and a short neck. “Command wants us to chart enemy movement. We are not to engage. I repeat: we are not to engage any hostiles.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Jensen said. “We understand our orders from brass. And this here silver oak leaf means you need to understand my orders. But I expect you already know that.” He didn’t care if he sounded condescending. Valentine clearly suffered from little man syndrome, and given how uncomfortable he looked in his gear, chances were he’d never seen combat at all. Jensen made a mental note of that. The last thing he was going to do was let some green-ass sergeant pull any stunts like Lieutenant Gates had during Operation Liberty.

  “Yes, sir,” Valentine said. “Understood, sir.”

  Jensen looked Valentine up and down, shifted the chew in his mouth, and then pulled a map in a waterproof sleeve from his vest.

  “Beckham, you know this area the best. I’d like you to direct the birds. Give the pilots a heads up about where to look for the enemy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beckham replied. He accepted the map from Jensen’s hand and took a few minutes to study it. A gentle drop of rain fell on the paper, beading on the acetate. The sky opened up just as Beckham folded the map and put it into a pocket.

  Anxious to get in the air, Jensen said, “Let’s mount up.”

  Horn climbed inside the craft and manned the M260. Chow and Beckham flung their scoped M4s over their shoulders and piled in. Jensen waited for Valentine before jumping inside.

  The heavy thump of blades sounded as the pilots fired up the birds. Each man took his seat and began his pre-mission routine. Chow chewed on a toothpick, Beckham traced a finger over his vest pocket, and Horn flexed his right fist in and out. Valentine sat stiffly, his gaze shifting from face to face. He stopped on Jensen’s and they locked eyes for several seconds.

  Valentine looked away first. He settled his back against the compartment wall and grabbed his helmet as the bird ascended into the sky. Jensen let his lips curl into a brief smile.

  That’s right. Back in your shell, you little bastard.

  The other two Blackhawks peeled off in opposite directions. Movement at the opposite end of the tarmac caught Jensen’s attention as they pulled away. He grabbed the handle by the door and worked his way to the side. A cluster of troops were moving across the tarmac toward the single remaining aircraft. He didn’t need his scope to see Wood and his entourage boarding the Chinook.

  Jensen secretly hoped it was the last time he saw the man. He even let himself wish that Wood somehow found himself up to his neck in Variants wherever the bird was taking him. But deep down Jensen knew that if Wood died, Kennor would have another watchdog sent his way.

  Fitz took in a breath of salty air and looked over the side of guard Tower 9. The building had been erected at Pine Point, on the southern tip of Plum Island. Unlike the other towers, this one didn’t have a vantage of the entire island. It looked out over Gardiners Bay to the south and Orient, New York, to the west. He could hardly see the six white domes of the Plum Island compound.

  Overhead, thin clouds lit up as they rolled past a brilliant moon. Below, the black water sparkled. The tower wasn’t the worst in terms of the view, but it was the most isolated. A Humvee had dropped him and Apollo off at the end of the dirt road before returning to the post. Other than the dog, he was completely alone. From where Fitz stood, he could only see the silhouetted figures of the snipers in Towers 7 and 8. The boxes had been erected on the beach to the northwest and northeast. If something happened, he was far from help, but that’s why he had his MK11 and Apollo. He trusted his shooting skills enough not to worry, and having Beckham’s new friend watching his back was an added relief.

  His main concern tonight wasn’t Variants. It was Colonel Wood. The sonofabitch hadn’t believed in him enough to place him under Jensen’s command. The man had actually looked at him with a pitying glance when he’d volunteered to go on tonight’s recon mission.

  Fitz hated that. He wasn’t useless. He didn’t need the colonel’s pity—he needed a chance. The same chance Beckham had given him at Fort Bragg. He was a Marine, and he could still fight. He was determined to prove the colonel wrong and make his way back onto Team Ghost.

  Breathing heavily, he gripped the stock of his MK11 in one hand and mounted the bipod onto the wooden ledge. A soft rain had begun to fall. The drops fell at an angle, pinging off his helmet and cooling his flushed cheeks as he glassed the ocean. He channeled what was left of his anger into his current mission—his duty to protect the island.

  He spent the next few minutes scoping the dark waves. The lonely shapes of derelict ships drifted in the distance. It was the same sight he’d seen so many times before. But when he moved the scope back toward the shore, he saw something odd at one thousand feet out.

  What in the hell?

  He chambered a round and zoomed in on a trio of shapes. They bobbed up and down in the dark water. Whatever they were, they didn’t appear to be moving on their own. The tide was carrying them toward the shoreline. It was probably plastic cartons or something a ship had thrown over the side, but he made a mental note to check on them in a few minutes when he had a better view.

  Maneuvering to his right, he started his first sweep of the sloped shoreline to the northwest. The surf slurped against the beach, white foam forming at its edges. Despite the beach, Plum Island was no paradise—the sand was littered with plastic bottles and other trash, and rows of electric fences lined the shelf of the beach and the short ridgeline beyond. If anything made it past his 7.62mm rounds, they would have to climb the ten-foot tall fences and clear the razor wire.

  Fitz moved his muzzle to Tower 8, sighted the sniper, and then glassed the woods to the northeast. Beams from the fire-team patrolling the area shot through the trees as the soldiers searched for threats.

  He checked on Apollo next. The dog glanced up from the sand and wagged his tail. Fitz had tried carrying him up the ladder, but apparently Apollo didn’t like heights, so Fitz had left him on the beach to stand watch.

  Apollo’s ears perked as a female voice crackled over the comm. “Tower 9, Command. Please report.”

  Fitz didn’t bother checking his watch. He knew he was late on his SITREP.

  “Sorry, Command. All looks clear out here,” Fitz replied.

  He returned to his rifle and searched for the floating objects he’d seen earlier. They had drifted another two or maybe three hundred yards closer to the island. The sky had cleared enough to allow moonlight through, and Fitz zoomed in for a better look.

  With a few twists of his scope, he identified the curved bottom of a capsized yacht about halfway between Plum Island and Orient. He swept the crosshairs back to the floating lumps. Now he could see they were bodies.

  He checked for any flicker of movement, any sign they were still alive. Each wore a life jacket, but that hadn’t saved them. They were all face down in the water. There was no question—the poor souls we
re dead.

  “Command, Tower 9, I have eyes on three casualties,” Fitz said into his comm.

  “Copy that, Tower 9. No sign of survivors?”

  “Negative so far,” Fitz said. “Stand by.”

  Fitz wiped away the cold drops of rain running down his forehead and did another quick sweep of the area. A flash of underwater motion broke across his crosshairs as he slowly moved the rifle.

  “What the hell was—” Fitz began to say. He jerked his rifle back and searched for the contact. The long, narrow body of a sea creature blurred past his crosshairs like an arrow under the waves. Whatever kind of fish this was, it was moving fast.

  He pulled the bipod off the ledge and shouldered the rifle to scan the waves with naked eyes. There, six hundred feet out, he saw the creature again. It might have been a dolphin or even a shark, something sleek and pale in the water.

  Holding in a breath, he steadied his rifle and zoomed in. It was gliding just beneath the surface. He slowly roved the rifle to the left, where he spotted more of them, all closing in on the floating corpses.

  “Tower 9, standing by for report.”

  Fitz didn’t reply. He let out a breath and focused on the wave of monster-sized fish surging under the waves. They had to be sharks. Variants couldn’t hold their breath that long, could they?

  He flinched as one of the life jackets disappeared under the water. The other two vanished a moment later, and the shimmering black water turned a frothy red.

  “Tower 9—” the operator began to say.

  “Stand by!” Fitz said, his irritated voice cutting her off.

  He pressed his eye back against the scope just as a shiny skull crested the water. Even from five hundred yards out, he could recognize the yellow eyes of a Variant.

  “Command, I have eyes on a hostile. I repeat…” His voice trailed off as a dozen heads emerged above the water. Steam rose off their skulls, churning over the surface like smoke.

  Fitz’s heart spiked with anxiety when he saw a blur of white two hundred yards to the northwest. It was a second wave of Variants, and judging by the crimson water, there wasn’t anything left to eat.

  “My God,” Fitz whispered.

  “Repeat your last, Tower 9.”

  “Command, I… uh… I have eyes on multiple contacts.”

  There was a short pause and then, “Tower 9, how many hostiles do—”

  Fitz fired off a shot. It was a bull’s-eye, the head of one of the monsters bursting into shards of bone and brain. The others dove before he could squeeze off another round.

  “Command, I have a dozen contacts. Requesting support at Tower 9!” Fitz said, his voice rising to a shout.

  Steady, Fitz, steady…

  He waited for the creatures to get closer. When they were in his sights he fired calculated shots that zipped through the water and found flesh. The Variants swam using the breaststroke, gliding effortlessly, using their legs to propel them forward like frogs. Their flexible joints and muscular bodies made them the perfect swimmers, and Fitz now suspected they had also evolved to hold their breath longer than humans.

  The chatter of gunfire from Tower 8 sounded as Fitz changed his first magazine. Apollo was barking, his howls echoing up into the boxy tower. Fitz ignored the dog and concentrated on the water. The Variants were picking up speed. At this rate, they would reach the shore in a few minutes.

  There were hundreds of the monsters now, all coming from New York. Fitz imagined they had exhausted their resources there and had taken to the water to find food. Plum Island, unfortunately, was right in their path.

  Fitz fired as quickly as he could line up his shots. Injured Variants struggled above the surface, bleeding from gaping wounds. He concentrated on those that continued forward, aiming for their glistening heads.

  He finished off another magazine and reached for a replacement. Jamming it home, he picked up the rifle and leaned over the ledge, firing at the first creatures leaping from the surf. Their naked, hairless bodies glimmered in the moonlight, revealing frail, starving physiques. Bulging veins crisscrossed their bony ribcages, the skin so tight it looked like plastic wrap. Some of them dropped to all fours, their joints snapping and clicking over the gunfire.

  Fitz counted thirty, and thirty quickly turned into fifty. He cut them down as fast he could, but they continued to emerge from the water. The night filled with the shrieks of enraged monsters and Fitz’s own uncontrolled shouting. The blood rushed in his ears, his heart threatening to break through his ribcage.

  “Command! Where are my reinforcements?” Fitz yelled into his comm as a pair of Variants collided with the electrical fence. The metal rattled as the current fried both of the monsters. They tumbled back onto the sand, their bodies smoldering. Instead of deterring the others, a tall male jumped on the first fallen corpse and leapt to the top of the fence. Others followed, leaping and throwing themselves on the chain-link mesh and razor wire. They wrapped their claws around the metal even as they were jolted with electricity. Most of them died right there, their bony bodies going limp, but their sacrifice allowed others to climb the ladder of Variant corpses.

  Within minutes, the fence was crumpling and the breeze reeked of burned flesh. Fitz watched with a sense of awe as he fired, amazed at the intelligence of the creatures. They were starving and desperate, but most of them were still smart enough to make it over the fence using the bodies of the fallen.

  An air raid siren screamed in the distance. As he changed magazines, Fitz threw a glance over his shoulder to see a pair of Humvees squeal to a stop at the road behind the tower. Two fire-teams piled out and ran to the fences. The crack from their rifles was only a short relief that vanished when he looked back over the beach.

  The mass of monsters swarming over the sand prompted a fear that reached deeper than any he’d felt during his time in Iraq. It was more powerful than what he’d felt during the escape from Fort Bragg—more powerful than what he’d felt on the Truxtun or during the first attack on the Island.

  This time it wasn’t a Chinook that had brought the monsters to the post. The Variants had finally found it on their own. They’d brought the battle to Plum Island, and Fitz feared this time they would win.

  -16-

  Rain pelted the side of the Blackhawk as it passed over the Truxtun. Beckham fought to keep his emotions under control at the sight of the ship. Seeing it plunged him back into the horrors of that night. At least this was no rescue op or salvage mission. Pure recon.

  “Take us over Niantic,” Beckham said into his comm.

  “Roger that,” one of the pilots replied.

  The chopper banked hard to the right and pulled them over the highway still littered with the remains of Variants Horn had turned to mulch two nights ago when he’d rescued them all from the grounded destroyer. Despite the carrion field of flesh, there was no movement, or activity of any kind.

  Beckham flipped on his four-eyes and scanned the desolate landscape. The green-hued darkness revealed the same sight of abandoned vehicles and rotting corpses.

  “Anyone got eyes on?” Beckham asked.

  “Nothin’ at nine o’clock,” Chow said.

  The M260 clicked as Horn searched the road for contacts. “Negative, Boss. I don’t see shit.”

  The rooftops of Niantic came into view a moment later. Beckham raised his scoped M4 and glassed the streets. Valentine leaned over his shoulder for a better vantage, his breath hitting Beckham’s neck. It reeked of stale coffee.

  “Where the fuck are they?” the sergeant asked.

  “Just wait,” Chow said. “It’s still early. They hunt mostly at night.”

  The pilots circled the city again, this time taking the bird over the boatyard where Beckham’s team had been ambushed in an attempt to catch their first live specimen. A flashback of the Variant boy with the shredded legs made Beckham shudder.

  He shook the thought away and scooted away from Valentine. As soon as he got to the open door, the comm came to life.r />
  “We got movement,” Horn said. “Three o’clock. What the hell is that?”

  When Beckham glanced to the shoreline, he saw why Horn sounded so confused. An F150 pickup was hauling ass down main-street, zigzagging between gridlocked vehicles.

  Beckham followed the truck in his scope, noting a male driver and a female passenger. Tucked between them was a smaller figure—a child.

  “Found your Variants, too, Valentine!” Horn shouted.

  Beckham swept his scope to the horde of Variants thirty deep behind the pickup. The creatures leapt from car to car. From above it looked like an army of ants swarming after an injured beetle.

  “Get us into position,” Beckham said into the comm. “Horn, you take out the pack.”

  “Roger that,” one of the pilots replied.

  “NO!” Valentine yelled. He scrambled to the cockpit. “Ignore that order. We are not to engage.”

  Beckham twisted and flipped up his NVG. He locked eyes with Jensen, who nodded.

  “Stand down, Sergeant,” Jensen said.

  “But, sir. Our orders are only to observe,” Valentine argued.

  “You got a family, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “If that was them down there, would you still refuse to engage?”

  “Sir, our orders are—”

  Jensen shouldered his rifle and worked his way to the side of the chopper next to Beckham. “Those orders have changed!”

  The Variants were gaining on the truck, flowing through the streets and lunging from vehicle to vehicle. The driver must have seen that the creatures were closing the gap. He clipped a mini-van in an attempt to maneuver into the other lane.

  The truck fishtailed and the bed crashed into a sedan. The passenger window shattered. The driver slammed the gas pedal, and smoke boiled off the burning tires as the vehicle lurched forward. A Variant with long limbs laced with muscle flung its body onto the roof of the mini-van and then jumped into the bed of the truck. Beckham steadied his breathing, waiting for a clear shot as the creature clambered to the back window of the truck and slammed its head into the glass.