Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Madame President,” Davis whispered. “When I tell you to move, you move, but stay low. I’m getting you out of here.”

  Ringgold couldn’t believe the response she whispered back. “Okay.”

  Corporal Anderson crawled across the ground for a pistol, moaning and muttering, “You bastards.”

  Kramer looked at one of her men and nodded. The soldier, faceless behind the black helmet, walked over and aimed a pistol at Anderson’s head.

  “No!” Davis yelled at the same moment as the gunshot. Ringgold flinched as the bullet punched through the birthmark above Anderson’s right eyebrow. His head bounced off the ground and a geyser of blood hit the overhead.

  Kramer and her troops turned toward the radio station Ringgold and Davis were hiding behind.

  “Don’t,” Ringgold insisted when she saw Davis raising her handgun.

  “Be quiet, and stay here, Madame President,” Davis whispered. “I’m going to get help.”

  Before Ringgold could reply, Davis jumped to her feet and ran for the other side of the room like a track and field star. She even fired off three shots as she ran, aiming for Kramer, but taking out one of her men instead.

  Gunfire lanced into a wall of equipment and shattered portholes behind Davis. She ducked behind a station, popped off two random shots for covering fire, then bolted through the open door that led to the passage outside the CIC.

  Ringgold swallowed her thumping heart.

  “After her!” Kramer shouted. “Don’t let her escape.”

  Two of her men took off after Davis.

  “Why, Kramer? Why the hell would you do this?” Johnson said, his voice low. There was sadness there that took Ringgold by surprise.

  Kramer grabbed a shotgun from the soldier closest to her, pumped it, and aimed it at Johnson’s chest.

  “I’ve been monitoring the strike teams over the comm channels. They. Are. Failing. So now I’m taking control of this mission.” She paused and searched the room. “Where’s President Ringgold?”

  Johnson did not so much as glance in her direction, and she knew he wouldn’t give her up. Ringgold worried it was going to get him killed. She pushed herself to her feet—partly out of defiance and partly because she wanted to look the mutinous bitch in the eye.

  “Ah, there you are,” Kramer said. She walked over calmly—so calmly it made Ringgold furious. As soon as Kramer was two feet away, Ringgold cocked her good hand and smacked the lieutenant colonel across her jaw.

  “How dare you!” Ringgold shouted.

  The echo of the slap reverberated through the room like the shotgun blasts. Kramer reared back and regarded Ringgold with a pair of wide eyes. She wiped away blood from her lip with the back of her hand. For a moment Ringgold thought she was going to shoot her, but instead, Kramer simply tossed the shotgun back to the man she had gotten it from, straightened her collar, and narrowed her cold eyes.

  “Madame President, I’m going to need those launch codes.”

  Ringgold narrowed her eyes right back at Kramer. “What codes?”

  “The codes to our nuclear arsenal, Madame President. I’m not just taking control of this vessel. I’m doing what you and Johnson lack the courage to do. I’m ending this war.”

  Garcia didn’t bother saying any prayers. None of them were ever answered. He was the last Variant Hunter alive. His family, his friends, and every man he had fought with were gone.

  He was the last man standing. Why? Why had he survived when better men had fallen?

  Don’t do that. You don’t get to do that. You keep fighting, Marine. All it takes….

  Fitz stopped at the intersection ahead. He balled his hand into a fist and signaled for everyone to get down. Garcia took a knee and waited.

  He was furious. At himself, at the men who created the Hemorrhage Virus, at God. But the anger wasn’t doing him any good.

  You stupid son of a bitch. God is still on your side.

  A distant shriek reverberated through the tunnels. Garcia was only half listening. Every death had tested his faith, and now he was close to the edge of losing it in this dark tomb.

  Lord, I have been your servant for so long. Now I have one final request. Please let us complete this mission. I won’t beg, Lord, but I am on my knees. I am yours, Lord. Do what you want with me, but let me finish this.

  As the words went through his mind, he felt his doubt and anger trying to resurface, but saying the prayer also filled Garcia with relief. He was wrong to doubt his savior. God was always listening, even if Garcia couldn’t hear a response.

  A hand patted his knee. His eyes flitted to Rico. She flipped up her face guard and gave him a kind and reassuring smile that reminded Garcia of his wife. In his mind, he was suddenly no longer in the cold, damp tunnels beneath the Capitol. He was back on his ranch in North Carolina, watching a brilliant sunset. The fiery glow lowered over their acre of apple trees, the light slowly receding like the surf returning to sea. Ashley was sitting on the porch swing, rocking their daughter, Leslie, to sleep. Garcia stood with his palms on the railing overlooking the lush hills in the distance. But he wasn’t admiring the beauty of the trees or the sunset—he was mesmerized by the tiny life in front of him.

  “Jose, she’s beautiful,” Ashley said with a wide smile. She rocked Leslie back and forth across her chest.

  My beautiful girls.

  “Garcia,” someone whispered.

  A tap on his armored shoulder pulled him back to the underground tomb. The North Carolina sunset from his memory was replaced by a chain of light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, only half of which were still glowing. He felt cheated. He wanted to lose himself in those sweet memories for just a moment longer.

  Closing his eyes, Garcia pictured his men and family one last time, then tucked the memories safely away. He was a Marine, and he had a job to complete—with or without God’s help.

  Beckham was looking down at him and pointing to the next bend. Fitz hugged the wall as he approached the corner with his rifle shouldered.

  Horn, Rico, and Garcia took up position on the opposite wall of the passage, and Beckham gestured for Apollo to follow him toward Fitz.

  They paused to listen to a distant humming sound that sounded like a generator. Now Garcia knew what was keeping the lights on. Bunkers were designed to function for years after a catastrophic event. It had only been seven weeks since the Hemorrhage Virus emerged from Building 8, so the systems were still operational in places like this.

  Horn heaved the bomb higher onto his shoulders and tightened the straps as they waited.

  Garcia was sweating his balls off under his armor. After seeing what happened to Tank, the plates seemed pointless. The venom was more potent than acid, and he doubted that anything less than inch-thick steel would stop it.

  A distant thud broke Garcia’s concentration. It echoed for several seconds before fading away. He trained his eyes on shadows darting back and forth. It seemed to go on forever, like an open portal with no end. Had the juveniles entered through the same secret passage at the Grant memorial?

  Garcia scoped the tunnel behind him, but there was no sign of movement. No armored bodies clambering across the ceiling or pointed tongues firing off venom. Only the dark, damp walls of a place built to protect humans from radioactive fallout. He turned back to Team Ghost. They waited several more minutes before continuing.

  Rico was the first to move. She inched closer to the corner ahead. Garcia put his hand on her shoulder and walked with her. Fitz and Beckham were doing the same thing across the corridor. When they got to the corner, Beckham knelt and lifted Apollo’s gas mask up. The dog sniffed at the air. He trotted forward a few steps, sniffed again, and then wagged his tail.

  The coast was clear.

  Beckham lowered the mask back over Apollo’s face and looked at Fitz. They paused to listen again, but there was nothing besides the distant hum of the generator.

  Fitz pointed to his eyes, then to the left. Garcia nodded and repeated
the gesture, pointing to the right. Fitz nodded back and moved out.

  Garcia stepped in front of Rico and pushed the butt of his M4 into his shoulder, where the gun felt at home. He crouched down and then moved into the tunnel. A quick sweep revealed that Apollo’s nose still worked. The passage was empty.

  “Clear,” he heard Fitz whisper.

  Fitz continued down the left corridor with Apollo by his side. Everyone else filed behind them. Horn walked backwards with his M249 raised to cover their rear guard.

  In his mind’s eye, Garcia brought up the map he’d memorized. They were approximately a quarter mile from the entrance to the underground bunker. At this rate it would only be a few more minutes before they reached the blast doors. There they would have the opportunity to deal a severe blow to an enemy that had taken everything from him. The thought filled him with adrenaline that quickened in his veins with every step.

  The next several minutes became a blur. Garcia’s arms and legs moved without thought, and he aimed his rifle out of habit.

  All around him, Team Ghost moved with that same precision. They hugged the sides of the passage as they worked their way beneath a city that had been the symbol of liberty for the free world. God willing, D.C. would once again be that beacon.

  Garcia tightened his grip on his M4.

  Heel to toe.

  Deep breath.

  Exhale.

  Check your line of fire.

  What the fuck is that?

  Just a shadow. Calm down, Jose.

  Steady breath.

  Keep moving.

  In his peripheral, Apollo trotted along, his tail still up. Fitz followed a few feet behind. Even in the enclosed space, the Marine opted for his MK11. Garcia was really starting to trust that gun and the man carrying it. He was a hell of a shot.

  Fitz suddenly halted, and Garcia realized the clicking sound he’d thought was from Fitz’s blade was something else. A raucous noise came without warning. It sounded like a landslide, as if jagged boulders were crashing down the side of a mountain.

  Garcia pushed the scope to his naked eye. The end of the passage darkened as the long, thick shapes of juveniles filled the tunnel. Their joints snapped beneath their plates of heavy armor.

  The tightness of Garcia’s muscles wasn’t from fear as he would have expected. It was from excitement. He was so primed for action that his trigger finger quivered for action.

  Rico, on the other hand, caved to her fear. She fumbled for an R49 grenade but dropped it on the ground. She bent down to scoop it up, cursing as she accidentally kicked it away.

  “Apollo, back,” Beckham ordered. “Fitz, Garcia, suppressing fire.” He plucked an R49 off his vest, pulled the pin, and chucked it toward the beasts. They were two hundred feet away, maybe closer, and closing in fast. In the glow of the lights, Garcia counted a total of five: two on the ceiling, one on the right wall, and two more on the floor.

  Fitz quickly reduced the number to four with one round. His first shot sent the leader crashing into a wall. It stood, clutching a gaping hole in its chest armor where one of the 7.62 mm rounds had penetrated. The abomination slumped to the ground, shock painted across its inhuman face.

  Taking a knee, Garcia opened up with his M4. The rounds lanced into the skull of a juvenile racing across the ceiling. He got lucky when one of those shots found the soft flesh of an eye socket. He could almost hear the wet thunk of the bullet entering the yellow iris.

  The creature dropped and landed on its belly with such force that it's armor sent up a cloud of dust from the concrete floor. A discord of angry shrieks followed. The juveniles increased their pace. Dozens of talons slashed the walls, drawing sparks and creating a high-pitched whine that threw off Garcia’s aim.

  His next shots chipped away the floor as the enraged monsters leapt over their fallen siblings and jumped to the ceiling. They were moving into striking distance, and yet the R49 grenade still sat idly on the floor.

  “Fuck, it’s a dud!” Beckham shouted. He reached for another, but Fitz had already launched one into the air.

  Garcia pulled his spent magazine.

  The beasts on the ceiling knocked the chain of lights lose. The cord snaked to the right, then dropped to the floor. Shadows filled the tunnel as the bulbs smashed beneath the feet of a juvenile that had dropped back to the ground. Their armored bodies distorted in the dim lighting.

  Garcia slammed a fresh magazine into his M4 and fired a burst into the leader. It leapt to the side, avoiding the rounds. Snarling, Garcia gripped his rifle tighter and fired again. This time his aim was true, blowing off the plating covering the beast’s back.

  That’s for Stevo.

  The next burst hit the monster in the gut.

  That’s for Tank!

  In the brief pause between each burst, he thought of his men. Muzzle flashes lit up the tunnel, and in the strobing light, the three creatures continued to charge, relentless, rounds cracking armor and tearing through flesh.

  Fitz’s grenade rolled to a stop about twenty feet in front of the juveniles. That put Ghost in striking distance.

  Gas hissed out of the grenade.

  All at once, the clank of the juveniles' armor stopped.

  The cloud of white drifted across the floor and rose to the ceiling, forming a solid wall that Garcia couldn’t see through. He held his fire and waited for a target, but the juveniles had stopped on the other side, hissing as if taunting Team Ghost.

  Come on you bastards. I got something for you.

  Beckham raised a hand and ordered the team to retreat.

  Garcia almost asked where they were retreating to, but he kept his mouth shut and his muzzle trained on the cloud of gas. A massive body that could have only been Horn filled his peripheral on the left.

  Garcia was glad to have the big man next to him, but he wasn’t Tank, and Beckham wasn’t Stevo. He had to accept they were gone now. Team Ghost were his new brothers and sisters.

  With deliberate care, the team slowly backed away, making sure each footstep was as silent as possible. Garcia wasn’t sure it mattered. The freaks could probably hear the sweat cascading down his forehead.

  They were almost out of striking distance when he heard the telltale whistle of the launching venom.

  A flash of liquid streaked through the air and whizzed past Garcia’s helmet. He ducked down and fired into the mist. Retreat wasn’t an option. They had to kill the beasts here.

  The rattle of suppressed gunfire sounded all around him. Team Ghost unloaded magazines into the cloud as the juveniles fired back.

  Rico let out a shriek and dropped to her knees. Garcia hesitated, watching from the corner of his eye. She pawed at her chest plates. He pushed his scope back to his eye. There wasn’t anything he could do to help her right now.

  He searched the cloud for a target.

  Come on, show yourselves, you bastards.

  One of the grotesque creatures surfaced for a moment, and Garcia blew its lips off. The creature let out a roar, and so did Horn. Garcia heard shuffling behind him, and kneepads scraped across the floor.

  Whistling venom and gunfire filled the passage. The sounds hit his ears like stones, but Garcia stayed on one knee, praying as he fired.

  Please Lord, I’m yours and always will be. Please don’t take more of my friends before we complete this mission.

  Slowly, the gunfire silenced around him. Garcia ached to turn and see who had been hit, but he kept firing. The cloud of glass lifted, dissipating into the air. He finished off his magazine, pulled it, and jammed a fresh one inside. Then he was firing again. The ringing in his ears made it impossible to hear much of anything besides the faint, muffled screams of injured soldiers.

  By the time he finished it off, every other gun was silent. He blinked rapidly and rose to his feet, his muzzle still on the unmoving armored corpses sprawled across the ground. He backed up, afraid to look behind him. An awful feeling gripped him. Was he truly the last human standing?

 
Keep moving. There will be more contacts. There’s always more.

  Popping his ears, Garcia tried to hear past the ringing in them. There were stifled voices, and then someone shouting at him. He caught Fitz’s Southern drawl and Horn’s deep voice.

  When Garcia was certain the juveniles were dead, he turned to face his team. Horn was crouching over the bag containing the dirty bomb. Beckham and Fitz were bending down next to Rico. Her chest plate hissed on the ground next to her. Apollo sat behind them.

  Garcia drew in a deep breath.

  “I said hold your fucking fire, Garcia,” Beckham snapped. He looked up from Rico and caught Garcia’s gaze.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t hear shit,” Garcia replied. He changed his magazine and glanced back at the juveniles. Blood had pooled around their bodies. The remaining lights flickered down the hall, creating more shadows that made Garcia’s heart kick. “We need to move, ASAP.”

  “I know,” Beckham said. “Can you walk, Rico?”

  “I think so. None of that shit got on me, right?” She tilted her visor to scan her body.

  Fitz patted her on the shoulder. “If it did, you wouldn’t be talking.”

  “That shit may not have gotten on her, but it did get on Gibson,” Horn said with a snort.

  Every helmet turned in his direction.

  The bag was smoking next to Horn. He pulled the dirty bomb out and placed it on the ground, but the metal case was smoldering on top.

  “Looks like we have a major problem.” Horn flipped his face guard up and shook his head as he glared at Beckham. “The timer is fucking toast, boss. Someone’s going to have to stay behind and set it off manually.”

  Davis ran from the CIC at a break neck pace. Her leg screamed with every stride, but the pain was a small sacrifice. She’d already lost the two soldiers from Kramer’s detail who had been trailing her.

  At the next bulkhead she slipped into an empty security station. She carefully shut the hatch behind her and turned to the video monitors.

  Holy shit. I can’t believe this is happening.

  She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and wrapped it tight.