Across the roof, Garcia and Tank finished pushing the group into the building just as Fitz and Meg reached their position. She rushed inside the door, but Fitz paused and raked his rifle back and forth to ensure they weren’t being followed.
As the bird pulled away, Fitz locked eyes with Beckham. The torment on the Marine’s face told Beckham exactly why Fitz had decided to abandon the chopper. He had confided in Beckham back at Plum Island when the men had been sharing war stories. Fitz shouldered more than his fair share of guilt, and the loss of Riley had hit him hard. Beckham suspected Meg was going through something similar.
If it weren’t for Kate and the children behind him, Beckham would have jumped out the open door to fight right alongside with them. He felt a hand on his shoulder and knew it was Kate. Apollo pressed up against his leg, whimpering as Fitz waved at the craft. He was gone a moment later, slamming the door and vanishing into the building.
-7-
Ellis had thought he had it figured out. He had told Kate and President Ringgold there were three stages in the Variants’ evolution. The first was physical adaptations and metamorphoses: night vision, sucker lips, talons, increased olfactory receptors, gills, fur, etc. The second was a higher level of intelligence, as displayed by the Alphas. Third was communication. But now, as he examined Lucy from behind the safety of the cell hatch, he wondered if there was a fourth stage.
Were Variants really capable of human emotions? Could they feel anything other than hunger and rage?
Evidence indicated they could: first Lucy’s predatory smile, and now the sorrowful tears streaking down her face. And that terrified Ellis more than the armor covering the beast. Only the most evolved mammals were capable of such emotions.
The juvenile Variants couldn’t be allowed to evolve further. Every last one of them had to be killed.
Ellis continued scrutinizing Lucy. She hissed at him, aware she was being watched. That sent a chill down his back.
“Jesus Christ,” Ellis whispered.
A tap on his shoulder made him jump. Doctor Yokoyama stood in the shadows behind him.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Ellis said.
Yokoyama stepped into the light. His bushy eyebrows were smashed together, forming a network of wrinkles on his forehead. He brushed his long hair back with a trembling finger and tucked it behind his right ear, a detail that Ellis only picked up on because it was so uncharacteristic of Yokoyama’s behavior.
A second chill raced through Ellis. He turned away from the door so he could look the doctor in the eyes. If something had happened to Kate….
“What’s wrong?”
“Something I think you should see,” Yokoyama said. “Maybe you can explain it to me.”
“Explain what?”
“We finally got the results from Lucy’s blood and tissue samples.”
“And?” Ellis said to silence. He could tell his colleague wasn’t going to answer him here. Not in front of Sergeant Russo and his men.
“Fine, show me then,” Ellis said. He followed Yokoyama past the squad of soldiers. They hadn’t moved all night, guarding Lucy like she was Hannibal Lector. To Ellis, she was much, much worse, but these men had no way of knowing what she was capable of. To them, she was probably just another Variant.
It took the doctors thirty minutes to get into their CBRN suits and into the lab. By the time Ellis pressed his visor against the microscope, he was on edge. Questions ping-ponged in his mind, but he couldn’t seem to put a finger on what Yokoyama was keeping from him. He was used to working with a partner that shared every detail. Kate couldn’t get back soon enough.
Ellis scanned the slide for several seconds. That’s all it took to see what was missing. With the stain he’d used, any cells containing the superman protein would show up a dark brown. But the cells weren’t brown.
He did a second scan to be sure, then swiveled in his chair. A hot breath steamed the inside of his visor.
“So, you want to explain this to me?” Yokoyama asked. “If the Superman protein isn’t showing up in the tissue samples, then how the hell is Kryptonite working on her?”
“I’m…I’m not sure,” Ellis replied. He scratched helplessly at his helmet, the prickle of an itch on his ear. Something wasn’t right. Lucy was definitely sick, but if it wasn’t from Kryptonite, then what the hell was it from?
Ellis hurried to the other side of the room and sat down at his station. After keying in his credentials, he moused over to a live feed from the camera in Lucy’s cell. An image of the juvenile’s armored back came on screen. From the angle, it looked almost like a turtle shell, with a smooth exterior and rivet-like bumps running down the middle. It was thickest around her shoulders. Earlier, Ellis had been looking forward to dissecting her, but now, he wasn’t so sure. She was different from the other Variants. She seemed too….
Human.
Punching in a command, Ellis manually directed the camera toward Lucy’s face. She was still staring at the door, but the tears were no longer flowing from her eyes. Bloody saliva dripped off her chin onto the floor, forming a gooey puddle between her stretched feet.
No screeches or bile came from her mouth. She hung loosely from her restraints, back slouched, the weight of her arms and legs keeping the chains taut.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Yokoyama asked. He had snuck up on Ellis again, but this time he didn’t flinch. He was too busy figuring out the answer to that question.
A faint cracking sound came from the speakers on the monitor. Ellis turned the volume up. It came again a few seconds later. This wasn’t the sound of snapping joints.
Lucy craned her head away from the video feed and looked at her right arm. Ellis followed her gaze. What he saw took away his breath. The armor covering her wrist to her elbow had split open, and an appendage with a thin, sharp bone on the end extended at a ninety-degree angle.
“What the hell is that?” Yokoyama asked.
Before Ellis could rotate the camera again, Lucy turned to look directly at the lens. She cracked her head from side to side, then launched her spiked tongue. It uncoiled and shot out, shattering the glass.
“Holy fuck!” Ellis shouted. He jumped out of his chair, and stared at the screen incredulously. “I can’t believe it.” The realization was overwhelming, hitting him like a blast from a shotgun. He ran to the wall-mounted comm. Pushing it, he said, “Command, this is Ellis reporting from Lab A. Does anyone copy?”
“Roger that, Ellis. This is Davis.”
“Send every available soldier on the Cowpens to the Brig. Right. Now.”
There was a pause, static crackling from the speaker.
“Why? What’s going on down there, Ellis?”
“It’s Lucy,” Ellis said. “She’s not really sick.”
The crack of a gunshot echoed somewhere in the ship. Ellis exchanged a meaningful look with Yokoyama, but neither of them said a word. They both knew exactly what was happening.
Fitz jammed a metal bar across the makeshift lock system the survivors had rigged across the door. Panting, he put his hands on his thighs as the first creature slammed into the other side. The crack of broken bones echoed inside the stairwell, loud enough to tell Fitz that whatever had hit the metal wouldn't be getting back up right away.
After catching his breath, he took another step away from the shuddering metal and looked for Meg. She glared back at him, a rueful but defiant look on her face. Blood oozed from her grip on the M9.
“What the hell are you doing, Meg? Why did you leave the chopper?” Fitz didn’t mean to yell, but he was pissed. She should never have followed him. By the time he had realized, it had been too late to turn back.
It was difficult to hear her response over the screeching, scratching, and snapping joints, not to mention the fading sound of helicopter blades as their ride returned to the GW.
“I want to help. Just like you.” Meg’s fair skin flared red. She pulled a magazine from her M9, tossed it on the groun
d, and jammed a fresh one inside. With her eyes narrowed on Fitz, she released the slide to chamber a round.
This was no time to argue with her. She was determined, and so was Fitz. They both had their own reasons, and for a second, he wondered if he had made the wrong move. Abandoning Team Ghost to help the Variant Hunters and the survivors here was something he had done impulsively. Kind of like when he had shot the civilian pointing a Glock at Beckham a few minutes prior. But he’d made both of those decisions to save his friends.
Fitz couldn’t bring Riley back, or all the other men and women he had failed to save. All he could do was continue trying to save those still alive, starting with these people.
The Lord is my Shepherd. He guides me in paths of righteousness.
The prayer that popped into his head took Fitz off guard. It was rare for him to pray, but listening to the pounding creatures and standing there trapped with Meg, he suddenly felt helpless. Sometimes that’s what it took to remind him of his faith.
In boot camp, he was told that there was never an atheist in a foxhole. War against the Variants had reminded him that was true.
Most of the time.
As the thuds and shrieks amplified and the sounds of the chopper grew distant, he realized he might have only delayed the inevitable for these people. He glanced down the stairs to check on the group.
Strategically placed lanterns had been set up on both sides of the narrow staircase. In the flicker of the light, a dozen sets of exhausted and terrified eyes stared up at him, pleading.
One of the men, dressed in Army fatigues and carrying an M-16, pushed to the front of the group. “They’re coming back for us, right?”
“They can’t leave us here,” said a slender woman with wild brown hair.
“My babies. They took my babies,” a second woman sobbed. She pressed her head against the chest of a man who glared at Fitz like he was the enemy.
Holding up a hand, Fitz considered offering some sort of reassurance, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t lie to these people. He wasn’t sure if Command would send anyone back for them.
The military might leave them to die. What did that say about his species? Billions were dead, but the biggest civilian stronghold they’d discovered was abandoned by the leaders who were supposed to protect them.
“Your children are safe,” Fitz finally said. “And we’re here to protect the rest of you.”
He stood on the tips of his blades, trying to get a view of Tank and Garcia. There was chatter coming from further down the stairwell. The Marines were somewhere at the bottom, likely securing the area.
“They will send someone back for us,” Garcia said. “We just need to hold tight.”
“For how long?” someone said in voice loud enough that Garcia turned to shush them with a raised finger.
Fitz trusted that Beckham would do everything in his power to find a way to return with a new bird, even if it meant holding a gun to someone’s head. But when? The Variants were already inside the building, and this door wasn’t going to hold forever.
“Let’s move!” shouted someone with a low, deep voice.
It was Tank, and the Marine was motioning for people to follow. The group started moving down the stairs after him. The man in Army fatigues took a step toward Fitz and Meg. He looked past them and examined the rusted roof access door. Dust and pieces of concrete broke from around the trim every time a Variant slammed against the frame.
“I sure hope you know what you’re doin’,” the man said.
Fitz took a second to scrutinize the soldier. He was older than Fitz by about five years, with a full head of brown hair and a sharp nose. There was something about his gaze that seemed off. Living out here for this long would break anyone, Fitz thought.
The bar stretched across the door shook again. The locks groaned as the creatures grew more desperate.
“Come on,” Fitz said. Meg checked the bolts one last time before following Fitz down the stairs. They both moved slowly behind the civilians, who had bottlenecked in the passage.
Tattered clothing that reeked of sour sweat formed a blur of different colors ahead of Fitz. Most of these people were filthy, with matted hair and grime covering their skin. He doubted any of them had seen a bathtub for weeks. As the pounding of the Variants intensified, the group grew more desperate, pushing and shoving their way to the front of the line.
“Calm down,” Tank grumbled.
The Marine’s voice did nothing to stop the crazed group. They continued working down two flights of stairs, hurrying around corners with barricaded doors. Fitz and Meg loped after them.
Fitz knew what it was like to have hope ripped away. But these people had already been through so much. To have salvation appear in front of them only to have it torn from their grips would leave most of them shattered.
They finally took a right into an open hallway on the twenty-eighth floor. Fitz halted on the landing to check the stairwell around the corner. The dark passage below was clogged with bookshelves, bed frames, and metal doors that had been removed from apartments. Steel planks weighed the pile down.
The light from the lanterns danced over the debris. Fitz took a step toward the pile. In the shadows, it appeared to be shifting subtly. Something was working its way up from the bottom floors.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Meg asked.
Fitz nodded, swallowing hard. The sounds were coming from above and below. Scraping talons, clamping maws, and popping joints. He could almost picture the Variants squeezing through the barricades.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.
Fitz patted Meg on the shoulder, glimpsing the bandages on her legs. They were weeping blood in several areas. Being dragged through Manhattan and then jumping out of the chopper had reopened the wounds. Her hand was still oozing from a deep gash too.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Meg said with a whimper. The sweat streaming down her forehead told Fitz she was lying. Of course she wasn’t okay. She was emotionally and physically at her breaking point. Just like everyone else.
“Hurry up, you two,” the man in fatigues said from the hallway. He jerked his chin at a door down the corridor.
Fitz patted Meg on her shoulder as they followed the soldier. Halfway down the dim passage, Tank was holding sentry duty. He angled his SAW at the stairwell.
After everyone was inside the room, Tank retreated and slowly shut the door. He helped Fitz secure it with a fifty-pound, four-foot steel bar that looked like it was from a weight bench. Then both men clamped the bolt locks shut at the bottom, middle, and top of the steel.
When Fitz turned, he found himself inside a wide, long apartment with exposed brick walls. Mattresses lined the right wall, and an open kitchen was piled high with canned goods, jugs of water, and containers of food.
The dozen remaining civilians clustered in the center of the room, where four couches had been positioned together. Behind them, Garcia and Tank were working their way to the far end of the room to check the windows that were covered with metal shutters and boards.
It was a bunker above ground.
Somehow, against all odds, these people had survived. It was a true testament to the strength and resilience of the human species. It also proved these people were resourceful. They had kept the Variants out for almost seven weeks—something most military bases hadn’t even been able to do. There was a glimmer of hope represented in this room. Hope that maybe there were hundreds, even thousands of places just like this. Strongholds that hadn’t been discovered yet.
Places worth protecting.
Fitz checked his MK11, pulled the magazine, and reached for a new one. He still had a vest full of them. His M4 was slung over his shoulder. That was reassuring, but the pounding and skittering of feet on the floors above them wasn’t. He ran around the group of civilians, picking up a new stench of raw sewage.
These people may have managed
to survive here, but the conditions were awful, and he couldn’t help but wonder if they had just gotten lucky.
“Fitz, what the hell are you and Meg doing here?” Garcia asked. He was checking the shutters and shaking them one at a time. Blood cascaded down the sergeant’s bruised face. He wiped it away from a gash on his head, but it continued gushing out.
“Looked like you guys needed some help,” Fitz said.
“Beckham gave you the okay?” Tank asked.
Fitz shook his head and jerked his chin at Garcia’s injury. “Looks bad.”
Garcia ignored him, glancing over Fitz’s shoulder to look at Meg and civilians. “Who’s in charge?” he asked in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear.
The soldier from the stairwell with the M-16 walked over. “I am. Name’s Trey Huff. Was a Specialist with the National Guard when shit hit the fan. My unit took refuge across the street. I was the only one that made it out. These people took me in.”
Garcia wiped the blood from his face a second time. “Looks like you guys have done okay. Pretty damn impressive, if you ask me.”
“We’ve survived,” Huff said.
“And you’re going to continue to survive,” Garcia replied. He checked a loose board, and nodded at Tank. “Maybe,” Garcia whispered in a voice only Fitz and Tank seemed to hear.
“We’ll need to reinforce everything in this room and figure out who can fight and who can’t,” Garcia added.
Huff scratched his long nose, turning slightly toward the civilians. “We can all fight.”
Garcia nodded. “Good.”
Tank pointed at an exposed pipe hanging from the ceiling. “How the hell have you kept the Variants out of those?”
Fitz examined it. Judging by the width, it was an air circulation unit, just big enough for a baby to crawl through. But the Variants were starving and frail. It wouldn’t be impossible for the beasts to tunnel through if they flattened their bodies.
Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5) Page 9