The Extinction Cycle (Book 6): Extinction Aftermath

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  If none of this had happened, they would all be down at The Bing right now, Team Ghost’s favorite Florida watering hole. Riley would be on a table, dancing in his underpants. Tenor, Edwards, and Panda would be arguing over who was up for the next lap dance. And Beckham would have been right there with them, laughing and knocking back beers with his brothers.

  Beckham carried the guilt of all their deaths, and he couldn’t help thinking about how he could have done things differently. War was a series of decisions with unpredictable outcomes. A single step in the wrong direction could earn you a bullet. Some men could make it all the way up a beach unscathed with thousands of rounds zipping by them. Others might get hit the second they jumped out of the boat. He’d been luckier than most. Maybe luckier than he deserved.

  “Captain Beckham!” shouted a voice.

  Army Lieutenant General Miles Rayburn stood on the beach in front of the Command Center building with three dozen troops surrounding him. An M1A1 Abrams growled down the shoreline about a quarter-mile away. Guard towers dotted the shoreline like light poles, the muzzles of sniper rifles angled out over the water.

  Rayburn waved two fingers, the large silver ring of his old military unit glinting. He was all Army, the type of guy who didn’t get along well with other branches. But his history as a former Delta Operator and his speech back at the embassy proved he was supportive of President Ringgold. That earned him, if not Beckham’s respect, at least the chance to prove his loyalty.

  “Boys, this is Captain Reed Beckham and Master Sergeant Parker Horn,” Rayburn said as the two men approached.

  The soldiers on the beach all turned. Some of them raised their eyebrows at Beckham’s prosthetics. He had expected that, and was ready for the stares. Fitz had taught him what courage really was—not just fighting an army of monsters, but standing proudly after you had been torn apart by them.

  “Good evening everyone,” Beckham said. “Tonight we stand in front of the graves of those who gave their lives to protect Plum Island and everything it represents. Our job is to do everything we can to honor their sacrifice by make this island secure for future generations.”

  Every eye on the beach remained focused on Beckham. He had their attention now. Just like his CO at Fort Bragg, he had learned how to invoke emotion in his team without saying much.

  “I’m not going to waste time explaining our situation. Operation Reach will begin soon thousands of miles away, but here at home we are planning for our own battle. It’s time to get to work.”

  “You heard Captain Beckham. Let’s get moving!” Horn shouted. He clapped his hands, and every grunt on the beach began filing toward the Command Center building. An American flag snapped on its pole as a helicopter shot overhead.

  Beckham stopped to watch as the Apaches flocked toward the crimson sunset. A transmission came over the open comms while they were still in view.

  “All hands to your stations. The bogey spotted fifteen miles north of home plate is an Arleigh Burke-class guided destroyer. Looks like the Monterey. Repeat, bogey incoming.”

  Rayburn looked at Beckham and Horn.

  “She was supposed to be heading to Maine,” Rayburn grumbled. “Why the hell would she…”

  Rayburn’s words trailed off, and Beckham said, “I have a feeling Lieutenant Wood just added another ship to his fleet, and he’s sent it our way.”

  -15-

  Fitz set his rucksack down on a dusty church pew and told Apollo to stay. The dog sat on his hind legs, eyes never leaving Fitz as he followed the leader of the Ombres down the center aisle. He performed the sign of the cross as he walked. Never in his life had he been in such a beautiful church before. His blades clicked over the marble floor, echoing in the cavernous space.

  It was only late afternoon, but the church was shrouded in darkness. Planks of wood covered the shattered stained glass windows. Even the massive rose window had been covered from the outside, muting its vibrant colors. Upended church pews barricaded the entrances. These people had been living in hell for months on their own with no running water or electricity. The reek of body odor and feces filled the ancient church.

  “This way,” the woman said, waving Fitz toward the altar. He wanted to stop and marvel at the mosaics covering the walls and the paintings of religious iconography, but the woman’s pace was brisk.

  They passed row after row of pews. Stone columns framed the three-story nave on all sides. There was a balcony on both sides. Children, hardly taller than the wood railings, patrolled the walkways, carrying weapons too big for them.

  Fitz cradled his MK11 across his chest and walked faster to keep up with the woman. She still hadn’t said much, and his patience was starting to wear thin.

  “When the EUF said they would send soldiers, I assumed there would be more of you,” the woman said at last. She had stopped at the bottom step leading up to the altar. She flashed a pair of hand signals to the kids above. They darted away, keeping to the shadows. Fitz had no doubt they were still watching.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but we took a beating on the beaches,” Fitz said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re on a timetable here. Your intel can help save lives as General Nixon pushes toward Paris.”

  The woman brushed her curtain of gray hair aside and glared at him.

  “Intel? I’ll give you intel,” she said, speaking rapidly, her French accent growing thicker. “Three days ago those things descended on Lisieux. They killed five of my children as well as every adult left in the group. Another boy, Jacques, died today. He died trying to save you. We’d been hiding in the crypts, but when you showed up, you led them right to us.”

  Fitz leaned back slightly from the onslaught. “Madame, I’m really sorry for your losses. Truly. But we did not lead them to you. They were already here.”

  “They know we’re here now,” she replied. “They will come for us, and when they do, they will bring more.”

  “I’ll call in evac before that happens.” Fitz was careful with his words, not wanting to make a promise he couldn’t keep. After losing the Apaches, Colonel Bradley would be wary of authorizing air transport.

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow but said nothing.

  “Look, ma’am, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. What’s your name?”

  She hesitated for a moment before answering, “My name is Mira.”

  He reached out to shake her hand, but she just stared at him until he dropped it.

  “Nice to meet you, Mira. I’m—”

  “Master Sergeant Joe Fitzpatrick. Yes, you said.”

  He made a point to always be a gentleman, but apparently chivalry had died with the apocalypse.

  “We don’t have much time,” Fitz said quietly. He took a seat on a nearby pew and propped his MK11 and M4 up next to him. He didn’t feel right about bringing a weapon into God’s house, but he figured the big guy would understand.

  “Mira, I need to know where the enemy is so we can advance across the countryside and liberate any survivors.”

  Fitz pulled a map from his vest. Unfolding it, he then flapped it out and looked for their location.

  “Liberate,” Mira said. She said something in French under her breath that Fitz didn’t understand.

  “It means we’re here to help you.”

  She scoffed, shaking her head as she stood. A quick glance at the balcony above sent two children darting away to hide in the shadows.

  “Many months ago, I told them help would come. The soldiers who came died. Dragged away at night by the monsters. The parents of these children, too. I am the only adult left in Lisieux. I taught the Ombres to fight. I taught them to hide. Now you come here and demand information. What could you, barely half a man, and these few soldiers do to protect us?”

  “We don’t look like much,” Fitz said, trying to keep his temper in check. “But Team Ghost is the best out there. The 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit trusted us with this mission. Now, I understand you may not trust
us—”

  Mira cut him off with the click of her tongue like she was scolding a child.

  One of the kids glancing through the wood posts above smiled at Fitz, then vanished from view. He trained his eyes back on Mira.

  “Ma’am, I need to know about enemy movement in this area.” Fitz pointed at the map to the section the Command staff had identified back at the FOB.

  Mira eyed the document with obvious distaste. Fitz held it out, but she sighed and pushed it away.

  “I’m not helping you until I have some guarantees for my children. You don’t fool me, boy. You can’t take all of us in that truck, can you?”

  Rico approached the pew where they were sitting. “How many of you are there?”

  “Twenty.” Mira’s green eyes flitted toward the ceiling, then refocused on Fitz. “Nineteen now.”

  He flashed back to the tiny tennis shoes of the child who had been picked off the roof of a nearby building. Jacques had died risking his life to help Team Ghost.

  “There are nineteen of them, plus me. But my seat doesn’t matter. Get the children out of here. I will stay,” Mira said. She let out a weary, mirthless chuckle. “Maybe someday they’ll talk about Saint Mira of Lisieux, eh?”

  Fitz hadn’t been sure what to think of her until now. She was prickly and cautious, but she was also serious about giving up her shot at rescue. She would die for these kids. He could feel Rico staring at him, but he avoided meeting her gaze. They both knew the MATV couldn’t carry that many.

  “Our MATV was built for a crew of three and up to twelve additional troops. We will try to squeeze everyone into the truck,” Fitz said. “That’s assuming Command sends the King Stallion to retrieve the MATV. If not, we’d need a Black Hawk, and those are in short supply right now.”

  Mira didn’t answer right away. Fitz lowered the map and set it on the bench where she could see it. Then he stood and walked up to the altar. A life-sized crucifix hung under the stained glass window.

  God, if you’re listening, I could really use some help right about now.

  Fitz made the sign of the cross again.

  “You’re a religious man?” Mira asked.

  Fitz dipped his helmet. “I have faith.”

  Mira cracked a sly grin. “You won’t when you see what’s out there.” She picked up the map. Holding it in one wrinkled hand, she used the other to point at the red line Command had marked from the FOB to Paris.

  “There are things you have never seen before out there. Unspeakable things. The ones outside—” she scoffed again. “You have no idea what lurks in the shadows.”

  Rico chomped on her gum impatiently. “Oh yeah? So how about you tell us exactly what you mean by that.”

  “Wormers,” said an adolescent voice.

  A boy no older than thirteen with shaggy red hair came from the shadows and leaned against the opposite edge of the altar, curious blue eyes studying Fitz.

  “Michel, I told you not to talk about those things. You’re going to scare the other kids,” Mira said.

  “I’m not a kid,” he fired back.

  “I suppose I should introduce you all to my second-in-command,” Mira said.

  “I’m Michel,” the boy said, planting his hands on his hips. “The Captain of the Ombres.”

  “Do you all speak English or what?” Stevenson asked from the balcony above.

  Tanaka, who was checking one of the boarded-up windows, turned to look at them. “America is one of the only countries where most citizens speak just one language.”

  Stevenson shrugged. “Whatever, man, I know some Spanish.”

  “And I know five languages,” Tanaka said. He paused, then added, “Fluently.”

  “Is one of them French?” Stevenson said with a smug grin.

  The piercing howl of a monster silenced the men. Fitz looked toward the ceiling as a thud sounded from somewhere up above. Dust rained down on the pews like dirty snow. A chorus of shrieks and growls followed, coming together in a symphony that made the children take shelter under pews and in the shadows. It was unlike anything Fitz had ever heard. These sounds were guttural and primal, like a pack of hyenas had somehow become infected with the Hemorrhage Virus.

  “What is that?” Rico whispered.

  “The rest of them,” Mira replied. “I told you they would be coming.”

  Michel raised his AK-47 and chambered a round. “C’mon. I’ll show you the crypts.”

  Piero awoke to pitch-black darkness. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and closed one eye, but kept the other open. That’s how he had slept for the past month. Half the time he was so tired he wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming. But he had a lookout now. The mouse squeaked again. That was what had woken him up.

  “Piccolo amico,” he whispered. “It’s all right, little friend.”

  The same squeak sounded. He couldn’t see the mouse, but he could hear it skittering across the ground. The furry creature brushed against his nose, and Piero had to hold in a sneeze.

  Sitting up, Piero held his nose shut until the urge to sneeze passed. The mouse jumped onto his shoulder, which had become its favorite resting spot.

  “You have a bad dream?” Piero asked. He struck a match and lit a candle in his new hiding spot. The glow blossomed to illuminate the four-by-eight-foot tomb.

  The mouse chirped back. He tilted his button nose up, sniffing the air and narrowing his eyes at the dancing flame. Piero wasn’t sure how old the mouse was. He wasn’t even really sure it was a boy mouse, but he was going to keep thinking of his new friend as he.

  “I need to give you a real name,” Piero whispered. The mouse tilted its head, still sniffing and studying him curiously. “You’re right, we should eat first.”

  Piero got to his knees, plucked his knife off the ground, and sheathed the blade. His pistol was out of ammunition, but he grabbed it and placed it in his bag nonetheless. He might get lucky and find more rounds.

  Their new shelter was three stories beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, in the catacombs most tourists never saw. So far, the Varianti hadn’t found it either.

  “And they aren’t going to find us, are they, little friend?” Piero’s voice was a whisper that he hardly recognized. His father had told him that the voice was the first thing you forgot about someone after they passed. But what about your own voice? If he didn’t recognize it anymore, did that mean he was dead?

  No, you’re still alive. You’re Piero Angaran. You’re a soldier.

  The mouse climbed higher onto his shoulder as Piero crossed the room, his tail brushing against Piero’s ear. The candlelight guided them to the crawlspace they used as an entrance and exit to the tomb.

  The winged creatures always hunted at night, but the sun would be coming up soon. He hadn’t been above ground for days now. He was almost out of water, and his gurgling stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything for...how long? He had lost track.

  The mouse squeaked again, his way of telling Piero to hurry up.

  He petted the mouse with a fingertip, and felt its ribs and bony spine just beneath the fur. Piero wasn’t the only one that needed to eat.

  The creature didn’t protest when Piero put him in a small pouch and zipped it up almost to the top. Piero wished he could climb inside there with his little friend.

  He placed the pouch in his backpack, then crawled through the dusty passage. A cobweb stuck to his face, but he didn’t bother wiping it away. No matter how many times he crawled through the narrow tunnel, the spiders would rebuild their webs.

  Piero had already scavenged the eastern passages beneath the Vatican. It was time to try the western side. But there was no telling what lurked in the shadows there.

  “Probably something worse than spiders, eh?”

  Three stories of stone and dirt above, a new day was dawning over Rome. The winged beasts would be returning to their lairs, and the Varianti on the ground would seek refuge in their nests. It was time to leave his own nest for the hunt.
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br />   In the beginning he’d had to flatten his stomach and remove his gear to get through the crawlspace, but now he was so skinny that it was quite easy to carry the essentials as he went through: his rifle, his knife, a water bottle, and a small pack containing medical supplies, ammunition, and the pouch containing his friend.

  The candle flame flickered as he continued squirming, threatening to go out. If it did, he wouldn’t be able to strike another match until he got to the other side. Not that it mattered much. Piero was accustomed to the dark.

  Grunting, he crawled the final stretch and dropped the four feet to the ground by sliding down the wall, his hands hitting the floor first.

  He stood and raked the candle back and forth, illuminating a low stone ceiling and walls that had been built countless years ago. It was difficult to know exactly how old everything was down here. He had always thought humans would last forever, but he realized how naive he had been.

  For all he knew, he could be the last human in the world. When he was gone, the walls would be all that remained.

  Sighing, Piero walked slowly across the room. He switched hands with his candle and rifle, jamming the stock into his right armpit and raising the muzzle toward a staircase that led to a hallway above. He walked on the tips of his boots, avoiding the click of his heels. It was habit more than precaution. If there were monsters above, they would hear the sweat drip off his head.

  Halfway up the winding staircase, he stopped to listen to the silence. There wasn’t even the whisper of drafting air or the skitter of an insect. It was like being in outerspace, or maybe like being dead.

  You’re not dead. Your name is Piero Angaran. You are a soldier.

  The silence was unnerving, but it was better than the alternative.

  He continued up the stairs, the weapon wobbling in his weak grip. He had lost so much muscle and body weight that holding the gun had become a challenge.