Meg was the first to raise her weapon. Garcia backpedaled with his M4 raised to follow the sound. He held up a hand when he got under the ductwork. Fitz slowly slung his MK11 over his shoulder and reached for his M4. With deliberate care, he pulled back the slide of the rifle before pointing it at the ceiling. The echo from the thud faded until there were only the distant shrieks of monsters deep in the guts of the building.
Garcia lowered his rifle, and his hand.
“Listen,” he said. “It might be a while before we get any help. So for now, we’re on our own. Whatever happened on that rooftop is in the past. If any of you have a problem with us being here, then you can take it up with me. Right here, right now. Any questions?”
The heavyset man sitting on the edge of a leather couch looked at the tile floor, his cheeseburger cheeks flaming red.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Huff said. He stopped to correct himself. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Good,” Tank mumbled. He stood and held up his clean SAW. “Cause now we need a plan to get out of here.”
“I thought you just said they’d come back for us,” Huff replied.
Garcia and Tank exchanged a glance, then looked at Fitz.
With all eyes on him, Fitz sucked in a breath. “Beckham said he would come back for us when he can.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Huff asked.
“It means what it sounds like,” Garcia added. “I told you, we’re on our own right now.”
“Fucking military,” the fat man scowled. He scratched at his neck. “They never helped us from the beginning.”
“They left us here, again,” said a young woman standing behind the couches. “This isn’t the first time. They’ve seen our buckets on the roof. They knew we were here.” Both her arms were dressed with bandages that were stained red. Sweat dripped off her forehead. Meg recognized the signs of infection immediately. She needed antibiotics.
“Don’t be stupid,” another man said. He had a metal pipe in his hand and wore a tank top that read I’m not a player, I just blog a lot. “No one is coming back for us.”
A young woman with braided red hair nodded. “Our kids are safe, but we’re not. We’re never going to see them again.”
Meg broke her silence, blurting, “Will you shut up? All of you!”
“Keep it down,” Fitz whispered.
Meg drew in a breath, exhaled, and massaged the handle of her M9. “I used to think the same thing you’re all thinking. That the military, sworn to protect us, had actually abandoned us. But there are good soldiers left out there. Good Marines. Men like the ones I decided to follow into this building to help you. Many have already died to save people like you and me.”
Huff cracked his head to the side and licked his dry lips. “She’s right. She risked her life for us, and so did these Marines. If they say help is coming back, then we should trust them.”
“Help will come, but the Variants could get in here before it arrives,” Tank said. “That’s why we need a plan to get out of here on our own if we have to.”
The other civilians were fidgeting, nervous and frustrated. Some held rifles, but most simply carried knives. The man with the tank top changed hands with his pipe. How he had survived this long was a mystery. Meg almost said something about his ridiculous shirt, but she turned to Fitz instead. The Marine was messing with his headset.
“Beckham, Fitz. Do you copy? Over.”
Meg leaned her head towards his helmet so she could listen. Static filled the Marine’s earpiece. It lasted for several agonizing seconds, and when a voice finally emerged, it sounded distant.
“Copy Fitz … Beckham …. What’s … status …? Over.”
“Safe for now. But we’re still holed up in this apartment. How’s that bird coming along?”
“Working on it, Fitz. You hang in there.”
“Oorah,” Fitz replied. He gave a thumbs up to Garcia.
It was hard for Meg to gauge the sergeant’s expression with all the bruising around his broken nose. The bleeding on his forehead had mostly stopped, but there was enough crusted on his face to make him look like a bloody raccoon. A pissed off bloody raccoon.
“A’ight, you heard Beckham. He’s working on getting us help,” Fitz said.
Tank draped his SAW across his chest, his arm muscles flexing. His large nostrils opened as he snorted his response.
Garcia shot him a glare, but Tank wasn’t deterred.
“We need a plan to get out of this tomb. Not later. Now,” Tank said.
Taking off his helmet, Fitz ran a hand through his auburn hair. “What do you suggest? Fight our way back to the roof?”
“We’re going to have to eventually,” Tank said. “For now, we should get the layout of the building, see what’s passable and what’s not. Then we form a plan. If and when the choppers come back, we’ll probably need to get topside on our own.”
Garcia gestured for Huff to join them at a long table covered in trash. “You got a map of this place?”
“Maybe I can help,” Meg said. “I was a firefighter. Figuring out escape routes was part of the gig.”
Huff used an arm to clear off the table. Then he motioned for a man wearing a pair of blue coveralls and black-rimmed glasses. “This is Pedro. He’s the resident engineer.”
Pedro scratched his full beard. He was a bit nerdy looking, but his muscular frame told Meg this man could hold his own. Anyone who had survived this long could. Even the guy with the blogging shirt.
“I was working on the boilers when the outbreak happened. Hid in the basement for a week. Almost died down there,” Pedro said. “After we sealed off the bottom stairwells with furniture, I flooded the ductwork with gas.”
Meg raised a brow. “You flooded the ductwork with gas? Do you realize how dangerous that is?”
“Calm down, miss,” Pedro replied, holding up a filthy palm. “It’s only the bottom fifteen floors.”
Meg didn’t like his tone or his attitude. “So you turned the bottom half of the building into a ticking time bomb. Do you know what will happen if a single bullet penetrates those floors?”
Pedro formed a wide arc with his hands. “Boom.”
“Jesus,” Meg replied.
“Yeah, I get it,” Pedro said. “But it’s saved us this far, and was worth the risk. Any Variant that’s tried to crawl through the ductwork has died from the fumes.”
“I saw some of them on the upper floors when we were hovering in the Blackhawk,” Fitz said.
“That’s your fault,” Pedro said in a nonchalant voice. “They climbed the exterior and broke through windows above us when they heard your choppers. You drew the bastards right to us.”
Meg thought about apologizing for a split second, but that wouldn’t do any good. She couldn’t change their situation; she could only help fix it.
Huff pointed at a map he had spread out. “We’ve booby-trapped these floors and the ductwork with a variety of homemade contraptions. But it’s only a matter of time before they get through the stairwell. That’s our Achilles heel. The roof access door won’t hold forever, either.”
“We have a few hours by my estimate,” Pedro said. “Maybe less than that before they get to us.”
As if in response, a boom sounded on one of the floors above. A strangled shriek followed.
Pedro jerked his chin toward the ceiling and grinned. “Got one of ‘em.”
Meg studied the engineer with grim fascination. She had worked with crazy firefighters before. Hell, anyone that ran into burning buildings for a living had to be a little crazy. Pedro had that cocky, adrenaline-filled look.
Another thud rang out above, and Pedro’s grin widened. Meg could only imagine what kind of traps he had set for the beasts. The noise continued to echo. She pictured a human-sized mousetrap with a frail Variant twitching in it.
Pedro’s right eye twitched. He scratched at it and said, “They’ll eventually find a way inside this room. I agree with the big guy
over here. We should come up with a plan B.”
“Alright,” Garcia said. “Meg, see if you can find us a way out of here.”
Pedro unfolded a second pair of blueprints and then marked a stairwell with a yellow highlighter. “This is the only route back to the roof that we can use.”
Meg scrutinized the map, checking each stairwell and floor. Those marked with red were the levels Pedro had sabotaged. There were several other ways to the roof, including an elevator shaft, but those were filled with gas.
She continued going over the blueprint slowly, remembering what her fire chief used to say: When shit hits the fan, you must be aware of your surroundings like you are of your own body. The building is a living, breathing thing. Every floor, every staircase, every room can become your salvation or a death trap.
Meg put her finger on a vertical vein from the first floor to the top that hadn’t been highlighted.
“Anyone been inside of this?” she asked.
Pedro and Huff leaned in. Both men shook their heads.
“Not even sure what that is,” Pedro said. He ran a finger over his mustache.
“Some of these older buildings have skeletal ladders built inside old coal chutes that were abandoned when they were renovated,” Meg said. She looked in the bottom right corner of the blueprint. “Built in 1915. I bet this building has one.”
“We still have to take the main stairwell to access it,” Huff said.
Meg nodded. “But that’s our out. If things go south, we fight our way to this room and take the ladder to the roof.”
Garcia tipped his helmet, and nodded. “Works for me. I think we can manage the creatures above us, but what about below? No way in hell we can stop two assaults.”
Pedro smiled a wide grin that exposed coffee-stained teeth. “I have an idea about that.”
Tank shook his head as if he knew what the engineer was going to say next.
“We blow those floors up, and every Variant inside of them,” Pedro said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a homemade timer with a switch on it.
“That will likely take down the entire building,” Meg said. “It will blow us all up.”
“I know. It’s a last resort.”
“It’s not going to come down to that,” Garcia said. “Now, if you’re all done chatting, we have work to do.” He patted the table and pulled Tank aside. Fitz took a seat on a chair near a boarded-up window and reached down to check his blades.
Meg strolled over to him. When she looked down, Fitz met her gaze with cold, sad eyes. It was then she saw his dented, blood covered blades. She hadn’t noticed that the right one was bent at the bottom. She took a seat next to him and looked at her own bloody legs. Not long ago, they had carried her one hundred and forty miles to complete an Ironman Triathlon. Now she wasn’t sure she would even be able to limp out of this building. To make things worse, she was having difficulty holding a gun in her injured hand. The wound pulsated with her heartbeat. The gash was deep, and Meg knew she would need stitches. She just hoped she would be able to fire the pistol when the time came.
All of a sudden, the plan didn’t sound all that great. She didn’t know how many more miles her legs or Fitz’s blades would take them. Running up stairs certainly wasn’t going to help.
“We’re still in this fight, Meg,” Fitz said when he saw her looking. He put his helmet on and rested his back against the wall. Meg could see the same darkness creeping over him that she’d seen on Plum Island. And deep down, she felt it crawling through her too. She didn’t dare close her eyes, knowing that if she did, she would see Riley in his final moments.
-9-
Don’t leave, Rachel.
The words appeared in Lieutenant Davis’s mind, emerging from the vault where she had stored them since the outbreak. The world had ended while she was on leave in Boston with her husband, Blake, and her nephew, Ollie.
There were other words, too—words that reminded her of the worst day of her life.
Lieutenant, you have been ordered back to the GW. Report to Hanscom AFB by 1430 for airlift to your duty station.
Duty to country came before family. That’s what her superiors drilled into her head. When shit hits the fan, there would only be soldiers to stand between those families and whatever evil threatened them. There would come a time when America’s fate rested in the hands of the few.
That time had come. Davis had answered the call, leaving Blake and Ollie behind.
She’d left them behind to die.
Now, nearly two months later, she was sitting in a room with men and women who had made the same sacrifice. All were here because they’d abandoned their loved ones for their posts. But what if they could go back? What if she could go back? Would she have done her duty? Or would she have spent the last few days with Blake and Ollie?
And died along with them? Ripped apart by monsters?
Or made into a monster by VX-99, just like Lieutenant Brett.
Ever since she was a kid, she had believed there would come a day where she would be faced with a life-changing decision. Never had she ever imagined it would be between saving the world or leaving her loved ones behind. The question wasn’t the only thing pecking away at her guts. The intel she had reviewed minutes before consumed her thoughts. Hearing how fucked things were worldwide made her ask another question—was it too late to save the human race?
The door to the conference room swung open, and her superiors filed into the room. Now was not the time to be questioning her decisions or worrying about the future. Davis drew a discreet breath to settle her nerves. She had made her choice. It was done. Her job was to fight, even if fighting seemed all but hopeless.
An image of Ollie’s curly locks and bright blue eyes vanished from her mind, replaced by the freshly shaved faces of the men tasked with leading the war. The scent of aftershave drifted into the room.
“Good morning,” Captain Humphrey said.
Everyone in the room stood as Vice President Johnson wheeled President Ringgold to the head of the table. Officers flanked them on both sides. Colonel Kramer was there, her hair in a severe bun. Davis had never liked Kramer much; she was a hard, cold woman who inspired loyalty with her own men, but treated everyone else like shit. General Tom Davis, a man who had helped plan Operation Liberty, was to her left, the lines on his forehead as deep as battlefield trenches.
Ringgold cradled her injured arm, which hung in a white sling. Despite her injuries, she looked Presidential in a white button-down shirt, black slacks, and an American flag pin on her collar, right above the area where Lieutenant Brett had shot her. She smiled when she saw Kate, and gestured to the doctor with her free hand. Kate hurried over and leaned down. They exchanged a few words that Davis couldn’t hear before Kate returned to her seat between Dr. Ellis and Dr. Yokoyama.
“Good morning, all,” Captain Humphrey said. “And welcome home, Dr. Lovato and Team Ghost.”
Ringgold raised her hand again and winked at Master Sergeant Beckham and Staff Sergeant Horn. They were in clean uniforms, but clearly hadn’t had the chance to shower. Davis could smell them from where she sat.
Beckham simply nodded back at the President. The two men were all that was left of the original Team Ghost. And from what she’d recently learned, the Variant Hunters were down to two final members also.
Two damn men.
The magnitude of loss was hard to fathom. Between the sight of the battle bruised Delta Force soldiers and the numbers she had just seen in a confidential report, she felt overwhelmed, and demoralized. An enthusiastic voice pulled Davis back to the room. At first she couldn’t believe it belonged to the Vice President.
“We have entered a new stage of this war—a stage that will determine, frankly, whether our species survives or perishes.”
Johnson laced his hands together and waited for the news to sink in. Davis went over the numbers in her mind, anxious for her turn to speak, but unsure how the news would be received.
“I’m breaking this meeting up into three parts. The first will address the current situation worldwide: projected numbers of survivors, adult Variants, and offspring. The second will focus on Kryptonite. The third will be our plan moving forward.” Johnson jerked his chin toward Davis. “Lieutenant, you’re up.”
Standing, Davis regarded the President and Vice President in turn with formal nods. She resisted the urge to pull at her cuffs, and instead focused on making her back as rigid as possible.
“Madame President, Mr. Vice President. This morning we received updated numbers from our sources around the world. The Variant population is projected to be around half a billion. Human survivors have been reduced to approximately one million. A drastic drop from our previous estimates. In a month, that will plummet to hundreds of thousands of humans, and soon there will not be enough survivors in one place to ensure the survival of our species.”
Davis spoke over the hushed voices that followed. “There is a bit of good news. The Variants aren’t breeding at the rate we thought they were. Only about one percent of their population is healthy enough to produce offspring, and while the gestation period is weeks, we put the juvenile numbers at about five hundred thousand.”
Several conversations broke out around the table.
“Five hundred thousand juveniles is not good news,” said Lieutenant Colonel Kramer, scowling. “Will Kryptonite kill them all?”
Davis kept her jaw locked. Kramer was baiting her, and she wasn’t going to fall for it. Looking at Dr. Ellis, Davis said, “I’ll defer to our science staff to discuss Kryptonite.”
Before Ellis spoke, he carefully ran a hand through his hair to fix his side part, then took off his glasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket.
“In short, Kryptonite doesn’t work on the offspring,” he said.
All around Davis, the room erupted into a chaos. Officers spoke out of turn, the drastic development and lack of sleep transforming stoic soldiers into panicked men and women.
Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5) Page 11