Ace curled around another corner, then swiftly turned back, signaling contacts.
Dohi? Fitz mouthed.
Ace shook his head.
“Watch your fire zones for hostages,” Fitz whispered.
They inched around the corner, picked out targets and, all of them but Ace, opened fire. The suppressed barks of their rifles echoed as they cut down several beasts that had been taken off guard.
Those that survived the initial onslaught didn’t turn around to attack like Fitz had expected. Instead, they bolted into the darkness.
Fitz flashed an advance signal.
The beasts ran up the sides of the tunnel and scurried across the ceiling, their claws and talons digging into the dirt around the webbing.
Variants faded in and out of their beams, disappearing around the corner.
The team slowed as they approached. Ace went first, moving into a straighter tunnel.
“Clear,” he said.
Fitz went next, spotting dirt falling from the ceiling like sand trickling in an hourglass. He directed his flashlight beam on the feet of a Variant just as it disappeared up a vertical tunnel.
For a fraction of a second, he debated climbing up the webbing to pursue the beast. If the webbing could hold a Variant, it could sure as hell hold him. But that would also expose him and the team to even more untold danger.
Variants had the advantage when it came to climbing. And trying to fight a Variant that had the upper ground in a place like this was even more of a nightmare than this mission had already turned into.
Another human yell echoed down from the chimney-like tunnel. It didn’t sound like Dohi, but if it was a civilian being taken away, then there was a damn good chance that’s where the Variants had Dohi, too.
“Ace, get—”
A loud rumble interrupted Fitz. The tunnel seemed to shake. Fitz’s blades nearly slipped from under him. Then the ceiling of the tunnel behind them began to collapse, dumping rock, webbing, and dirt.
“We have to go up!” Fitz yelled over the din.
The other end of the tunnel was collapsing too. They would be buried alive down here if they didn’t move. This must have been what happened to the half-buried humans Rico had described finding on the comms. The tunnels the Variants had transported them through had broken down around those people.
And Fitz didn’t want to be next.
Dirt showered him as he moved. Some of the webbing came loose, slapping over his face. He had to pry the sticky red strands off.
God only knew what was waiting for them up top, but Fitz decided facing a few swinging Variant claws was better than choking on dirt for the last few minutes of his life.
Ace slung his shotgun and started climbing. Mendez followed with Fitz and Lincoln covering them. The collapsing ceilings were closing in from both sides.
To Fitz it was like being trapped in the throat of a giant creature trying to swallow them whole. He followed Lincoln up into the vertical shaft, using the webbing. Lincoln moved fast, quickly ascending, but Fitz strained to propel himself up.
His blades weren’t so good for finding footholds. He managed to get purchase by jamming them in the side of the wall. Then he levered himself upward and stabbed them in again.
The walls thumped below him, dust booming up into the shaft.
Fitz coughed but kept moving.
A hand reached down, and he looked up to see Lincoln. He reached for the man’s fingers, but they were still short by more than a foot.
The ground beneath Fitz rose, threatening to swallow his feet, the rumbling earth shaking his bones. Dirt started to break free from the vertical tunnel.
Rocks and dirt clods smacked into his face and body. He tried to take that last step up, pushing to close the gap between his fingers and Lincoln’s.
His blade wouldn’t budge. He’d embedded it too far into the dirt wall and now had to bounce on it, trying to break it free. The dirt around the blade moved, but he couldn’t get it out.
Fitz grunted and shoved down on his blade with all his strength, digging a small cavity in the wall. He yanked it free, then lunged upward. His fingers met Lincoln’s and the man pulled him up, the earth rising around him as the tunnel collapsed inward.
On all fours above ground, Fitz gasped for air. He wiped the dirt covering his face, seeing they were in the woods.
“Anyone got eyes?” Fitz managed between pants.
“Negative,” Ace said.
Fitz listened for a second with the others, desperate to hear the cries of the Variants or the screams from the hapless humans they had kidnapped.
“Dohi,” Fitz tried one last time over his comm channel. “Dohi, do you read?”
Static came back again.
Fitz looked back down at the collapsed tunnel and considered the reality of their situation. They had lost their best tracker and a good friend.
They had no evidence he was alive. No tracks, no discarded equipment, or a transmission. He picked up dirt and let it filter through his gloved fingers, his heart filling with dread.
Parts of the red webbing stuck out of the ground where the tunnel had collapsed. He pulled out his knife and sawed off a handful of them, then stuffed them in his pack. They weren’t taking Dohi back with them, but they weren’t going home empty handed.
This shit was weird enough to warrant sending it back to a lab for analysis.
“Bag some of this shit up,” Fitz said. “We’ll need a chopper to come back for Cedric anyway, and we can send some of this back with him. I have a feeling Kate is going to want to take a look at this immediately.”
Maybe there was some clue as to what this was and how the Variants had used it and the tunnel to take out Outpost Turkey River. And maybe, just maybe, it would help them find Dohi at some point, even if it was just his body to bury.
“We going back with these samples?” Lincoln asked.
Fitz wanted to say yes, but emotions had to take a back seat to duty.
“We aren’t going back until we find Dohi and figure out what the hell is going on,” he said.
The team huddled around the hole, none of them saying what they were all likely thinking.
For now, Dohi was on his own.
All it takes is all you got, brother, Fitz thought.
***
The Portland Sheriff Department dual cab truck cut through the night without headlights, but soon the passengers wouldn’t need their night vision goggles. Beckham glanced at the dashboard and confirmed it was almost morning.
They had been pursuing the raiders for the past hour, and he was getting anxious the farther they drove from Portland. The driver of the truck ahead of them reported he could see one of the raiders, but Beckham still hadn’t laid eyes on the person.
Ruckley stared in the front passenger seat, her gaze seemingly glued to the dark road.
“We’re outside the safe zone now,” said the driver. “This is Variant country.”
Beckham saw the posted warning signs by the road, and Horn readied his M249 in the back seat next to him.
“Can’t this truck go any faster?” Horn grumbled.
Beckham strained for a better view as the road curved ahead. Frankly they were lucky they had caught up to this raider crew at all. The assholes had gotten a head start, but several citizens from Portland had followed them and relayed the information to the Rangers.
A voice sounded from Ruckley’s radio, and she pressed the receiver to her ear.
“Wilco,” Ruckley said. Then she spoke over the channel to the rest of the team. “Bravo, we’re turning around. Now.”
The brake lights of the pickup truck in front of them fired, glaring red as it stopped.
“What the hell are you doing?” Beckham said.
“Lieutenant Niven has called off the chase,” Ruckley said. “He doesn’t want to risk going into a Variant hot zone.”
“Fuck this,” Horn said. “Keep going! This is bullshit!”
Horn was still a pressurize
d boiler about to explode and Beckham didn’t have to know Ruckley as well to see she was just as angry about their orders.
Enough anger and frustration radiated off them all to keep the truck cab hot even without the use of its heater. Beckham was also steaming. They had let the raiders that killed Jake and slaughtered countless citizens get away.
Keep cool, Reed.
Beckham still wasn’t sure what the death count was. But he guessed it was going to get worse when the sun rose and they sent out patrols to locate missing residents in Portland and Peaks Island.
“The piece of shit raider we captured on Peaks Island is mine,” Beckham said.
Ruckley glanced into the back seat again. “I’ve got orders to bring him back to command, Captain. Can’t stop you from interrogating him first, of course.”
“I just need a few minutes.”
Horn nodded. “That’s all it’s going to take.”
The two-truck convoy raced down the highway with their headlights on now. Beckham tried to focus on how lucky their families were to be okay after the bloodshed. But he couldn’t help feeling that their luck was running out.
They rode in silence for the first half of the trip back, but Ruckley broke it by turning around from the front seat again.
“These raiders could have been collaborators,” she said. “Maybe they had something to do with what happened at Turkey River.”
“In Iowa?” Horn replied. “That’s a hell of a long way for Variants and collaborators to coordinate attacks.”
“Captain, you got any ideas on what’s going on?” she asked.
“I was thinking the same thing Horn, actually,” Beckham said. “But usually collaborators don’t use bombs and hunt down civilians just to kill them. They kidnap people and take them to lairs to feed their Variant masters.”
“Maybe they just knew we wouldn’t follow them there,” said the driver.
“I guess they were fucking right,” Horn snorted.
Ruckley turned back to the front seat and lowered her helmet to listen to another message over a private channel.
“Copy that,” she replied, clearly frustrated.
Beckham expected her to fill them in, but she didn’t say anything. He didn’t push the issue. Niven’s reason for turning them around was by the book, and Beckham and Horn couldn’t do shit about it.
They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto an off-ramp on the outskirts of Portland. Razor wire fences marked the barrier into the inhabited part of the city.
None of the defenses had stopped the raiders.
Smoke billowed from fires in the heart of the safe zone.
For so long, he’d told Javier and Kate they were safe here.
Now, he had to tell his son he’d been wrong, and explain what had happened.
Come on, Reed. You’re lucky you get to explain it to him at all.
There were others that wouldn’t get the same opportunity.
Timothy was now an orphan, and Jake would never get the chance to talk to his son again. The thought sent another surge of anger roaring through Beckham, just as their pickup pulled up in the town’s square.
Dozens of troops and emergency response personnel were on the ground, recent arrivals to help secure the area and help with the cleanup.
White sheets covered the dead in front of Portland City Hall. The first bomb had gone off right outside the glass windows. The front wall was nothing but rubble, glistening with shards of broken glass and pieces of the metal plating where the roof had caved in.
A second bomb had gone off inside the medical clinic after the raiders had taken what they wanted there. As if stealing medicine weren’t bad enough, they had destroyed the city’s emergency facilities, leaving the residents of Portland without a working medical center when it was needed most.
Sick sons of bitches, Beckham thought.
The military had already put up a makeshift tent, and Beckham saw several doctors and nurses working on patients through the open flap. Kate was inside, but that was no surprise.
Beckham and Horn followed Ruckley and the other Rangers toward the police station without stopping.
Multiple generators powered lights set up around the staging area, casting a carpet of light over the devastation. Beckham stepped over broken glass and charred metal, and his blade splashed into a puddle of blood.
He looked down to see a severed hand missing several fingers. The remaining finger still wore a wedding ring.
The rest of the body was under a sheet a few feet away judging by the stump of a wrist sticking out. A group of civilians carried off the dead and loaded them into the back of a pickup truck.
One of the men dropped a corpse and bent over, vomiting on the street.
Beckham felt sick to his stomach, too.
All of this senseless death and for what?
The raiders could have taken what they wanted.
Why slaughter so many innocent people?
There had to be more to this story and, in a few minutes, he was going to talk to the one person that knew the answers.
Lieutenant Niven stood outside the police station talking on a handheld radio. He looked at Beckham as he approached.
“Yes, Captain Beckham is here,” Niven said into the radio. “Yes, I’ll let him know.”
Beckham halted, anticipating more bad news.
“Captain, Master Sergeant,” Niven said in turn. “That was Command. Got an update from Team Ghost at Turkey River. They found some of the missing townsfolk. Apparently, the Variants dug tunnels and used them to get inside the perimeter without being detected.”
“And that’s how they got the people out, too, without leaving a trace aboveground,” Beckham said, more of a statement than a question.
“Sounds that way,” Niven said. He paused a moment, looking tense.
The pit at the bottom of Beckham’s stomach started to give way. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Sergeant Yas Dohi is MIA.”
“Son of a bitch,” Beckham whispered. Things kept getting worse. “What about the rest of Team Ghost?”
“They’re back at the outpost waiting for reinforcements,” Niven replied. “Sounds like Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick sent a sample of webbing from the tunnels that he wants the white coats to look at.”
“Boss,” Horn said, jerking his chin. He was anxious to see the raider, and so was Beckham.
“We’d like to have a chat with the prisoner,” Beckham said.
“Be my guest, but don’t rough him up too much,” Niven said. “I need him in one piece for Command.”
Horn mumbled something under his breath and followed it up with a snort.
“Sergeant Ruckley, escort them please.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
Beckham followed her into the lobby. A lantern lit the desks and closed office doors beyond the reception area. They proceeded to the hallway and down a stairwell which led to the cells in the basement.
A single Ranger stood guard outside the main door.
“Sergeant,” he said.
“Open it up,” she replied.
The man unlocked the door and stepped aside.
Ruckley went first and stopped two strides in.
“What in the actual fuck?” she said.
Beckham moved past her, stopping at the sight of the raider curled up on the floor. Flesh had melted away from his face. The rancid smell forced Beckham to hold a sleeve to his nose.
“Guard!” Ruckley shouted.
The Ranger that had been holding sentry duty rushed in.
“What the hell happened?” Ruckley asked.
The man shook his head. “I… I don’t know, he was fine when I checked thirty minutes ago.”
Beckham and Horn moved over to the old school barred door. The lock sizzled, and strands of a clear hardened material hung from it like strands of solid glue.
“The hell…” Horn said.
“Don’t
,” Beckham said to the guard who held up a key.
The Ranger backed away.
“Variant acid.” Beckham was intimately familiar with the gunk that had taken his leg and part of his arm. It only took a small amount to do extreme damage.
Horn pulled his skull bandana up over his nose. “Dude must have had some hidden away, and it backfired.”
Niven joined them in the basement a few moments later. He paced and put a hand on the back of his head. Then he looked to the guard and yelled, “How the hell did this happen, Rollins?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Rollins said. “I thought I searched the guy really well…”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niven said. He stopped pacing, straightened, and drew in a breath. “What a goddamn mess.”
Beckham didn’t know what to say. All he knew was the only man that could have answered their questions was dead.
Sick to his stomach, he left the Rangers in the basement and hurried up to the medical tent with Horn. Over twenty people, some of them gravely wounded occupied the cots.
Kate was busy working with two doctors on a guy in the middle of the room. The man was laying still on a table and, judging from the sheer amount of blood on the ground, he was in pretty bad shape.
Beckham took a seat on the curb to wait. “I want to talk to Kate before we go find the kids,” he said.
Horn pulled out a cigarette. “I figured as much.”
Frantic voices came from inside the tent, and from the words Beckham picked up, it sounded like some unlucky patient was going into cardiac arrest.
Horn took a drag on his cigarette and offered it to Beckham, but Beckham waved it away. The distant glow of a new sunrise warmed the horizon.
Despite the view of a new day, his heart continued to pound from anxiety. There were too many questions in his mind.
“Hell of a few days,” Horn mumbled. “Things could have been worse though.”
“It could still get worse, Big Horn. I got a bad feeling about all of this.”
The voices in the tent trailed off, replaced by the sporadic moan or cough of a patient. Kate stepped outside a few minutes later, removing her surgical gloves and tossing them into a bin. Then she pulled her surgical mask down and let out a long sigh before she saw Beckham.
“Kate,” he said.
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