Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Three minutes out from the GW Strike Group, the pilots banked to the left and followed the other two Blackhawks. All three gracefully swooped into position to surround the Chinook and its precious cargo. Inside the bird were the finished cases of Kryptonite, resting in six-foot long containers that reminded Fitz of coffins. All Team Spartan had to do was load the weapon into missiles and hit the launch button.

  When the GW Strike Group was a blot on the horizon, Davis patted her helmet to get everyone’s attention. Then she crouch-walked to the center of the troop hold. Cracking her neck from side to side, she said, “Listen up. We have a little over six hours before we get to the target. I’m Spartan 1 on the comms; Fitz, you’re 2, Garcia 3, Rico 4, Murphy 5, and Hoffman 6. We’re meeting three other teams; Lightning from Texas, Saber from Oregon, and Wolverine from Florida. Rendezvous time is 2000 hours, but it sounds like we’re going to be the last team there. The other three will have already secured the facility by the time we touch down.”

  “So what’s our job?” Garcia asked.

  Davis pointed at the Chinook that was now flying adjacent to their Blackhawk. Fitz followed her gaze.

  “We guard what’s in that bird,” Davis said.

  Fitz looked past the Chinook to one of the other Blackhawks in their group. He didn’t know most of the Marines onboard, but he recognized Sergeant Lynch and Sergeant Adair. He’d heard they’d saved a lot of lives during Operation Liberty.

  Back on their own chopper, Garcia scooted forward in his seat, apparently unsatisfied with Davis’s response. “LT, I’m assuming someone knows how to operate the Earthfall facility, right?”

  Davis tipped her helmet to look him in the eye. “I’ve seen the specs; I know how the system works.”

  “Guess we better watch your ass then. I’m not good at reading instruction manuals, and we all know that’s probably horseshit ‘bout the area bein’ Variant free. Last I checked, those freaks could camouflage their skin,” Garcia said with a grin. The smile faded when he saw her reaction. “No disrespect meant by that, LT.”

  “The facility is dark. Nobody's on the comms, and recon runs show no signs of Variants or their offspring,” Davis replied. “With that said. I’ll be watching your ass once we land, Sergeant. No telling what’s inside the building.”

  Rico chuckled and shifted the gum in her mouth to the other side.

  That was good. It meant tensions weren’t reaching a boiling point like they had on so many other missions. Even Apollo was calm. He rested at the edge of Fitz’s blades, muzzle on his front paws. The dog was in some obvious discomfort, shifting every few seconds, but he hid his pain well. Animals always did. Showing weakness made them targets to other predators.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” Fitz murmured.

  Silence filled the troop hold for the next few hours. They stopped at a small military outpost fifteen minutes west of Chicago, one of the last safe zones the military had managed to cling to in the Midwest. Fitz quickly saw why. The post was protected on all sides by an electrical fence. From the sky it looked like a massive Faraday cage. Guard towers surrounded the perimeter with mounted M134 Gatling guns and M260 rocket launchers.

  “Hard to believe anyone’s still alive all the way out here,” Garcia said.

  A skeleton crew of exhausted-looking soldiers fanned out onto the tarmac to refuel the convoy as the birds put down within the safety of the fences. A second group of men in battle armor jogged out after them. They surrounded an officer wearing a Chicago Cubs hat and tennis shoes.

  Fitz had heard stories about this man over the past few weeks. Lieutenant Jim Flathman had made a name for himself by keeping the Variants at bay since the outbreak. He was a crazy son of a bitch who was known to break rules—probably one of the reasons he was still alive.

  “Fitz, you’re with me. Everyone else stay put and keep frosty,” Davis ordered. She jumped onto the concrete and waited for Fitz to join her.

  Rico, Murphy, and Hoffman remained at the door, weapons cradled across their chests. Everyone kept an eye on the woods outside the barrier of the fences. Garcia stayed in his seat, his scope pressed to his eye as he scanned the forest. Fitz wasn’t the only one who had seen what the monsters could do to electrical fences. Every member of Spartan Team knew the feeling of safety at this place was nothing but an illusion.

  “Welcome to Deadwood, Lieutenant,” Flathman said with a slight dip of his chin.

  Davis returned the gesture. “Thanks for the juice.” She looked over his shoulder at the cluster of three buildings in the distance. “Pretty remarkable that this place is still standing.”

  Fitz hung back, alternating his gaze from Flathman’s guards to the fence and woods behind them.

  Flathman pulled off his baseball cap to run a hand through cropped gray hair. “No shit. It’s the Wild West out here, hence the name. When we aren’t holding back Variants, we’re fighting outlaws.”

  “I’m hoping to change that,” Davis said. She jerked her chin toward the Chinook. “Kryptonite’s going to kill the adult Variants.”

  Flathman eyed the convoy skeptically. “I just hope Command can figure out a way to kill the juveniles. They’ve been prowling the forest out there. It’s just a matter of time before they attempt an attack.”

  Fitz kept his eye on the woods, occasionally glancing back at Garcia and Rico in the chopper. They hadn't let their guard down, and wouldn’t the entire time as the birds were refueled.

  Finally, the crew chief shouted they were good to go.

  Fitz checked the Blackhawks. Garcia and Rico were still on point, watching for any signs of Variant activity.

  Flathman slipped his baseball cap back on. “I’d tell you to give ‘em hell out there, but I already know you will. You got a reputation, Lieutenant.”

  Davis grinned. “Not as big as yours, sir.”

  She jerked her chin at Fitz, and together they ran back to the chopper.

  A few minutes later and the birds were airborne. Fitz stood in the open door with the other members of Spartan, watching as Lieutenant Flathman and his tiny fort disappeared on the horizon. The forests and cities seemed to blend together as the convoy continued west.

  Murphy and Hoffman remained at the door, glaring at the derelict cities below. Fitz had seen it all before, but mostly at night. Seeing it in the daylight was a new experience.

  “Which city is that?” Hoffman shouted.

  “Des Moines,” one of the pilots replied.

  “Iowa, right?” Murphy asked.

  Hoffman nodded. “I had a cousin that lived there. Great place to raise a family.”

  “Not anymore,” Fitz whispered to himself.

  A brown skyscraper with gold windows sparkled in the sunlight. In their reflection was a city dotted with decayed corpses. Tattered clothing flapped from bones that had been picked dry. Dark maroon streaks tattooed the streets where blood had been spilled weeks before. The rain still hadn’t washed it all away.

  Garcia made the sign of the cross over his armor. “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

  Fitz said a mental prayer of his own.

  “We did this, you know,” Garcia said. “We’re responsible for the end of the world.”

  “Duh,” Rico said. She continued chomping her gum.

  “We’re also going to put things right,” Davis said sternly from across the troop hold. She gave Fitz a meaningful look before turning back to the view. The convoy of choppers flew through the heart of the city.

  “Think we’ll ever build anything like that again?” Rico asked. She pointed toward a building cresting a hill in the distance. The golden dome dazzled in the sun. The side of the building had a gaping hole from a rocket. The Iowa State Capitol was a reminder of the beautiful architecture humans were capable of creating—and also of tearing down.

  “I saw Rome a couple years ago,” Rico said. “It was crazy how some of their buildings have lasted thousands o
f years. The Coliseum and the Pantheon. And this harbor city, Ostia Antica.” She cracked a mischievous grin. “Sometimes I wonder if Variants will be touring our cities like that.”

  “You’re crazy, Rico,” said Hoffman.

  Her faced hardened, and she twisted a blue strand of hair with her gloved fingers. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m fighting. To protect what we built.”

  Garcia rolled his eyes and turned away, but Fitz continued listening. He appreciated history, and she was right; it was worth fighting for. But first, they had to save the human race. Then they could think about rebuilding.

  Maneuvering to the right, the pilots flew on the south side of the capitol. The building was surrounded by mounds of sandbags and concrete barriers. Tanks, Humvees, and armored trucks sat abandoned, bullet casings surrounding the vehicles on all sides. A battle had raged at the top of the hill, right under the golden dome. Bodies piled four and five high surrounded the barriers. Fitz wondered how long the soldiers had held back the Variants before they were overrun.

  “Couple more hours,” one of the pilots said. “Team Wolverine and Team Saber just stopped to refuel. Team Lightning is en route. We’ll be there about thirty minutes after the other teams land.”

  Fitz rested his helmet on the bulkhead. Hopefully he could catch a few minutes of rest. The second he closed his eyes, thoughts of Meg invaded his mind. He tried to push them away, but an image of the Bone Collector picking Riley up by his neck replaced Meg’s blood-stained face. Fitz couldn’t shake the nightmarish scenes no matter what he did. The only way to keep his mind frosty was to stay active.

  Moving over to the door, he crouched next to Murphy and Hoffman. The three Marines stayed there for several minutes, studying the landscape below. There were no animals prowling the forests, or signs of a single human. Fields that had once been meticulously plowed were now overgrown. Fruit lay rotting on the vine or stalk. Strands of withered grain waved back and forth like wisps of graying hair on an old man's head.

  Fitz couldn’t help but wonder if the weapon they carried was already too late.

  “Listen up, everyone, just got a message from Command,” Davis said. “They said the juveniles may have a delivery system for their venom. The science team thinks the little bastards can shoot the stuff.”

  Garcia raised his shotgun. “Great, so if we do get close enough to kill one of ‘em, we have to worry about that shit?”

  “That’s right,” Davis replied. “We have no reason to believe there will be any juveniles in the target area, but if we do encounter them, use your M4s. Our new rounds are armor penetrating and should bring them down, but remember you have a limited supply.”

  “Got it, LT,” Murphy said. The others all nodded, but Fitz simply stared ahead. He didn’t have a shotgun anyway. He carried an M4 and his staple MK11. Shotguns were for hunting deer, not Variants.

  The pilots changed course, directing the bird toward a wall of mountains lining the horizon. Jagged peaks covered in snow reached toward crimson-stained clouds that bulged across the sky like smoke from a raging fire. The stunning sunset signaled the beginning of the end. Somewhere out there, the other strike teams were preparing to land and enter the Earthfall facility.

  They were almost there. In minutes, Fitz would be running on his new blades.

  “Alright, people. Final gear checks. Make sure you’re frosty as fuck when we get out there,” Davis said.

  The lieutenant seemed different than the officer he’d observed on the GW. He found her demeanor oddly charming. She was respectful, intelligent, and supportive in front of her superiors. In the field, she was fearless and inspiring. And she clearly cared about her soldiers.

  Fitz reached down to check the belts securing his new blades. They fit surprisingly well. He tightened the right strap and smiled at Davis. She winked back.

  The troop hold came alive with the routine sounds of pre-combat. Magazines were slotted into weapons, bootlaces were pulled tight, and every piece of gear was checked, double checked, and checked a final time. Fitz tightened Apollo’s saddlebag and kissed him on the tuft of brown hair cresting his head.

  Rico watched from a few feet away. She winked at Fitz, plucked out her gum and stuck it on the side of her helmet. Then she sat back and closed her eyes. Hoffman, Murphy, and Garcia continued going over their gear while Fitz turned to look at the landscape below.

  The shadows of the choppers raced over open fields split by crystal clear streams. Pine trees reached up at the birds, pointed tips swaying in the wind. A flash of motion commanded Fitz’s attention to the edge of a forest. Blurs of white fur darted through the canopy of green.

  Fitz hadn’t seen a live animal for weeks. Recon reports indicated the Variants had killed almost everything outside the cities. Livestock that had survived the first few weeks of the outbreak were later slaughtered when their owners had transformed into monsters.

  “You see those?” Fitz asked. He angled the barrel of his MK11 toward the forest. “Whatever those things are, they must have been able to fight off the Variants.”

  “Could be deer,” Davis said.

  “Deer aren’t white,” Rico said.

  Fitz moved to the door and zoomed in with his rifle. By the time he had centered the scope on the trees, the beasts had vanished.

  “What the hell were those things?” Garcia asked.

  Before anyone could reply, a transmission hissed in Fitz’s earpiece.

  “Spartan 1, this is Wolverine 1. We’ve landed at….”

  Fitz held the scope against his eye. Another creature darted in front of the crosshairs and vanished into the underbrush.

  “Wolverine 1, Spartan 1, come again. Didn’t catch your last. Over.”

  There was a surge of white noise.

  “Spartan 1, Wolverine 1. We’re approaching the facility. What’s your ETA?”

  Davis pulled her hand away from her earpiece and moved to the cockpit. “How far out are we?”

  “Thirty minutes,” one of the pilots replied.

  Davis relayed the info to the other three strike teams.

  The bird jerked as the pilots twisted to the right. The shadows of the other Blackhawks and the Chinook rolled over the forest floor, darkening Fitz’s view. He was lowering his rifle when he saw another streak of motion to the east. This time he had enough time to center the muzzle on the movement.

  Apollo nudged up next to Fitz’s left blade and barked at a pack of four wolves racing over the forest floor. The majestic creatures took Fitz’s breath away. He’d never even seen a wolf before in the wild, and seeing them now defied everything he thought he knew.

  There was still life out there.

  “Holy shit, you see those?” Rico said. She wedged into the open doorway and pointed. Fitz followed her finger to the thickest pine trees in the north. She wasn’t pointing to the wolves. She was looking at something a quarter mile ahead of them. The branches of the trees swayed back and forth as something big moved through the green canopy.

  Wolverine 1 came back online as Fitz zoomed in for a better look. “Spartan 1, we’re preparing to enter the facility and going dark. See you soon. Over.”

  “Copy that, good luck Wolverine 1. If you find any Variants, save a few for us. Over and out,” Davis said. She scanned her Marines individually. “Alright, Spartans. Lock and load. When we hit the ground, I’ll take point. Fitz, I want you and Apollo right behind me. Put that MK11 to good use. Rico, you’re with us. Garcia, you take Murphy and Hoffman.”

  Fitz nodded, but he was still searching the trees for whatever prey the wolves were chasing. The muscular back of a Variant suddenly darted in front of his crosshairs.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered, nearly dropping his rifle.

  “Forget the wolves,” Davis said, glaring at him. “This isn’t a fucking safari.”

  Sweat cascaded down Fitz’s forehead. “LT,” he said. “You better—”

  Davis cut him off. “When we land, our priority is to help secur
e the facility. The other teams will guard our batch of Kryptonite.”

  “LT,” Fitz repeated. He had centered his rifle back on the beast.

  “What?” Davis said, frustration in her voice.

  Fitz pointed, and every Marine in the troop hold slowly worked their way to the door to stare. The wolves had closed the distance on the Variant by half now. Apollo watched attentively, his tongue hanging from his mouth.

  “Just when I thought I’ve seen it all,” Garcia said. He flipped his guard up to cover his face. The other Marines followed suit, and one by one the Spartans secured their armor. Fitz reached down and patted Apollo on the head.

  “On second thought, Fitz, let’s see what you’re made of,” Davis said. “Take that monster down.”

  “With pleasure, LT,” Fitz said. He chambered a round and drew in a breath as he zoomed in.

  Steady, Fitz. Steady.

  A flash of ropy muscle blurred in front of his crosshairs. The Variant leapt from branch to branch, trying to escape, but it was running out of room. The forest stopped at the rocky base of a mountain.

  “Don’t got all day, Fitz. We’re almost there,” Garcia said.

  Fitz exhaled and took in a slow breath. The Variant leapt to another tree and climbed to the very top. It perched there like a bird, tilting its head at the chopper like it had never seen one.

  Crack!

  An empty brass casing shot out of his MK11 a millisecond after the Variant’s ripe face vanished in a spray of bone and blood. The body slumped over the side of the tree and skidded down the bark, crashing to the dirt below.

  “Attaboy!” Garcia shouted.

  “Holy fuck,” Rico laughed.

  The wolves tore into the corpse as the chopper flew overhead.

  Fitz lowered his smoking rifle and held back his own grin. For once, he was heading into a mission without feeling like the underdog.

  Kate had to wait over an hour to see President Ringgold. She had already met with several high-level officers to discuss her recent findings, but she wanted to talk to the President face to face.

  The small room in the CIC where she paced back and forth was a mess. The bulkheads were covered in satellite imagery of cities and green night-vision images of Variant lairs. Several maps lay draped in a jumble over a single metal table. Red marks that could have been bloodstains marked the paper.