Extinction Shadow

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  A Humvee took her to the piers, and a private boat took her to Peaks Island and the lab. Carr was already working, his eyes pressed against a microscope within the cell culture room.

  Kate donned a white bunny suit, mask, and goggles, then stepped into the lab. The familiar chorus of chirping and humming laboratory equipment greeted her.

  Lab techs filtered in and out. The team that Carr had arrived with was big enough to keep the place staffed twenty-four hours a day. It bumped up their productivity and allowed Kate a night of rest so desperately needed without feeling too guilty.

  One of the techs handed Kate a summary of the experiments they’d conducted through the night.

  “Anything particularly interesting I should be looking at?” Kate asked, beginning to skim the report.

  “The cells tested positive for cancer markers,” the tech replied.

  “Ah, that certainly helps explain the unrestrained growth of the cells and why the vessels feeding the tissues are so patchy.”

  The tech nodded and walked away.

  Kate took the report with her to where Carr worked, trying to wrap her mind around the implications of these new findings. Oftentimes in tumors, blood vessels grew too fast to form properly. Instead of allowing blood to flow through them normally like a garden hose, vessels growing in tumors acted more like those sprinkler hoses with all the tiny holes in them used to water lawns.

  But that didn’t help her to understand why they couldn’t get the masses of tissues in their bioreactors and cell culture plates to form the same organized webbing structures that Team Ghost had seen in the tunnels.

  “Good morning, Doctor Lovato,” Carr said, when she joined him at the microscope. “I trust you’ve read the most recent data.”

  “I have, and what it tells me is that we’ve still got a long way to go.”

  “That we do.” He sighed and turned to look at her. “I’ve tried making sense of the phenotypic data in comparison with the abhorrent bulk behavior of the tissue, but it just doesn’t fit together.”

  “What have you tried since I was gone?”

  Carr pulled out the cell culture plate he’d been examining on the microscope tray. “I’m incubating tissue samples from the autopsied Alpha with the webbing samples.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Carr replaced the cell culture plate, and Kate pressed her face to the eyepieces. The nerve and muscle cells from the webbing were a disorganized mess. They certainly looked like the cancerous mass that the tech had reported they were.

  But on the other side of the dish, separated by a thin semi-permeable membrane, the cells isolated from the autopsied Alpha spindle were still growing. They appeared neat and organized, stretching in long networks like the nerve and muscle cells Kate would have expected in mature healthy tissue.

  The cells appeared to be doing exactly what they were supposed to do. As if something was directing their growth. It hit Kate maybe that was exactly what was happening. If so, she had been looking at things backward.

  “Let’s have the team run GTPase activity assays on these samples,” Kate said. “I want to know the signaling activity levels in both cell populations.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “We ran your experiments with the Alpha spindle, and they didn’t work,” Kate said, looking over at Carr who stood by her shoulder. “It’s time to try something else.”

  Carr gave the order to the techs. They started running the assays in the other part of the lab. If the results proved her instincts right, then they were going to have to adjust their understanding of the cellular interactions they thought had been dictating the tissue behavior so far.

  It took a couple of hours, and once the experiments had completed, Kate and Carr studied the results on a computer monitor. The staff had already analyzed the data and transferred it to graphs that showed the relationship Kate had been expecting.

  “My goodness, this is…not what I expected,” Carr said.

  “Increased GTPase activity indicates higher levels of cell signaling with an especially high concentration going on in the webbing cells,” Kate stated.

  “I can see that. What’s strange to me is that there is far less signaling going on in the spindle cells.”

  “Precisely,” Kate said. “My guess is that the cell signaling is stronger in the webbing because the Alpha spindles function differently than we expected. The spindles are more like an old TV’s antenna than a radio station’s antenna.”

  “You mean they are meant for receiving signals instead of transmitting them?”

  “Yes, the GTPase activity is just as high in the webbing in dishes that both have and don’t have the spindle cells,” Kate continued. “If you look at a cell culture that only has spindle cells, there is very little GTPase activity, meaning the Alpha spindle cells don’t do anything without signals from the webbing cells.”

  “That certainly supports your hypothesis.” Carr gestured to one of the larger bioreactors with the masses of tissue growing in them. “Guess it’s time to take these tests to the next level.”

  Kate nodded and helped carry one of the football-sized clear tanks with the webbing tissue to a table in the middle of the cell culture room. Carr set up one of the Alpha’s spindles like they did last time, complete with a controller to apply voltages to the tissue. This time, he set the electrode to apply an electrical field to the webbing tissue instead of the Alpha spindle.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  He turned on the controller.

  Kate held her breath, anxious to see if she was right.

  The invisible current of electricity passed through the mass of webbing tissue and, unlike the other tests, it didn’t bubble or expand. Instead, it pulsed evenly like a heartbeat. At the other end of the bioreactor, connected to those webbing tissues, was the Alpha spindle attached through a port in the bioreactor.

  The spindle seemed to contract smoothly and didn’t quiver or jump around like a fish on land. Even when Carr pressed their luck by increasing the voltage, the tissues continued to perform the same way. There appeared to be little difference in the behavior of the different tissues.

  “It’s working,” Carr said, as a smile slowly started to spread across his face. “You’re right. Whatever signals are being transmitted through the webbing are passing through the Alpha spindle. And this time, nothing appears to be going crazy.”

  “This is how the tissues are supposed to behave.”

  “So the Alpha is taking signals from the webbing, but the webbing tissues haven’t changed form at all. It’s still a mess instead of self-organizing into the spider web tendrils.”

  Kate frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. We’ve only got half the equation here.”

  “There must be something else that transmits commands through the webbing…” Carr seemed to think on it for a moment before turning to look at Kate. “I don’t think the Alphas are at the top of the food chain, Doctor Lovato.”

  “I think you’re right. All this reminds me of the monsters from Europe that had morphed into bug and reptile-like creatures. They had fairly complex social structures.”

  If there was something else out there that could control the Alphas, and coordinating Variants and collaborators, it had to be more intelligent and frightening than anything they had encountered yet.

  Her stomach sank.

  Team Ghost was out there in enemy territory. They could come face to face with this monstrosity and, this time, there was nothing she could do but warn them. If she wasn’t already too late.

  “Come on,” she said, turning toward the exit. “We have to notify command.”

  — 20 —

  Two elements of a platoon from SEAL Team 3 sat inside the briefing room of the USS George Johnson listening attentively to General Souza and his LNO, Lieutenant Festa, discuss their mission, dubbed Operation Renegade.

  Beckham and Horn watched from
the back of the room, their backs to a bulkhead.

  The eight SEALs sat ramrod straight, faces covered by black paint, only the whites of their eyes showing. Horn, on the other hand, was slouched and staring off into space. Beckham gave him an elbow to the side.

  That did the trick.

  Horn stood up straight and folded his arms over his chest.

  “The drone we sent over the target shows no recent Variant activity,” said General Souza.

  Beckham had already studied the maps and satellite imagery, but this new image on the wall-mounted monitor was much more recent. He took in the fiery canopy of trees and the mostly abandoned parking lot outside the Luray Cavern buildings.

  “Infrared scans came back negative for human and Variant contacts,” Souza added. “However, these scans can be unreliable. Past experience shows Variants can mask their heat signatures, and there is evidence to suggest recent human activity in the area.”

  Lieutenant Festa brought up a new picture of two roads leading to the caverns.

  “Fresh tracks indicate vehicle movement on both Highway 340 and Cave Hill Road,” he said.

  “If our source is telling the truth, this could be one of the most important missions in figuring out the collaborators’ connection to the Variants and their attacks on the outposts,” Souza said.

  Malcom Winters, the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the SEAL team, cleared his throat. “What about other human populations in the area?” he asked. “Any friendlies we should be aware of?”

  “This is Variant territory, so anyone out there is living off the grid and should be considered hostile until proven otherwise,” Souza replied.

  “Roger that,” said the chief.

  “Any other questions?” Souza asked.

  The SEALs shook their heads.

  “Beckham, Horn?” Souza looked to the back.

  “No, sir,” Horn said.

  “Not right now, sir,” Beckham added.

  “Good, let’s get topside. I want to bag and tag these fuckers before sunset.”

  The SEALs filed out of the room. Beckham and Horn started to follow but, before they left, Souza called out to them.

  “Hold up, Captain,” he said.

  The general directed his LNO to shut the hatch, indicating whatever he had to say wasn’t good. Beckham’s thoughts instantly went to Team Ghost.

  “We just got word from Doctor Lovato before this briefing,” Souza said.

  Beckham’s heart flipped. He pictured another raid on Peaks Island sweeping away Kate and Javier and the other kids.

  “What’s wrong?” Horn got out before Beckham could respond.

  “Nothing’s wrong at the outpost. It’s what Doctor Lovato found in the lab. She thinks she’s figured out what the red webbing is for.”

  Beckham knew she would come through.

  “It’s some sort of communication network,” Souza said. “They think the Variants are using it to coordinate the attacks by sending signals to the Alphas we’ve seen.”

  “If this is true, then maybe the collaborators are tapped into this network, too,” Beckham said.

  “It’s unclear if humans can tap into this network or if they’d be relying on communication through Variants. Either way, we need an immediate answer to this,” Souza said, crossing his arms. “That’s why Festa is coming along on this mission.”

  “Sir…” Beckham’s words trail off, realizing he would be out of line to tell the Commander of SOCOM that it was a bad idea to send his LNO.

  Instead, he said, “Have you heard anything from Team Ghost?”

  “Negative, they’ve been radio silent since the HALO jump,” Souza said. “Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”

  “I hope so, too, sir.”

  “I need to get back to command to monitor Operation Shadow,” Souza said. “Good luck out there.”

  Festa opened the hatch, and Souza hurried off in the opposite direction. The rest of them took ladders to the deck of the destroyer. The SEALs were finishing up their gear check outside the open troop hold of a V-22 Osprey.

  Clouds crossed over the morning skyline, blocking out the sun. Beckham didn’t like going in during daytime, but they didn’t have a choice.

  There was no time to waste.

  A group of ten Marines filed out of the hatch in full combat kit, carrying suppressed M4A1 carbines. They loaded straight into the Osprey.

  “We got more people joining the party out there?” Horn wasn’t very good at hiding the skepticism in his voice, and Beckham shot him a look.

  “They’re going to help with intel extraction and prisoners,” Festa said. “And they’ll make sure I don’t become Variant feed.”

  Beckham cracked an uneasy grin as he grabbed his M4 and Horn picked up his M249. They followed the Lieutenant into the troop hold where they took seats and waited for the SEALs.

  If all went well, the support crew wouldn’t have to fire a shot while the SEALs cleaned house.

  Horn settled into the seat next to Beckham.

  “Reminds me of the day this all started, riding one of these to San Nicholas Island,” he said.

  Beckham swallowed and looked down at his boot and blade. The memories brought back physical and emotional pain.

  “Sorry, boss, I know you remember,” Horn said, resting a hand on Beckham’s shoulder. “We lost a lot of our brothers that day.”

  “Hard to fathom what’s happened since then.”

  “Tell me about it. I think of Sheila every damn day and what could have been.”

  “She would be damned proud of how you’ve raised your girls,” Beckham said, looking up. “You’re a hell of a father. The best.”

  Horn drew in a breath and forced a smile.

  The SEALs moved into the hold and sat down. Some of them traded looks with Beckham, but nobody spoke. The V-22’s engines growled to life, and the rumble vibrated through the bulkheads. Beckham put on his headset and closed his eyes. The flight would take three and a half hours, plenty of time to get some desperately needed shuteye.

  A nudge to his arm woke him up sometime later. He blinked away his grogginess.

  “Better wake up, boss,” Horn said. “Command is reporting contacts in the drop zone.”

  Horn tapped his headset, and Beckham snapped alert, listening to one of the pilots over the channel.

  “Please advise,” the pilot said.

  “Standby for orders,” was Chief Winters reply.

  Across the troop hold, Festa was talking on another channel.

  Beckham couldn’t hear what the LNO was saying over the engines. He strained to look out the windows, seeing nothing but clouds.

  “We’re ten minutes from target,” said one of the pilots over the comms.

  “Alright listen up,” Festa said. “Our drone operators are reporting movement in the area. Two pickup trucks and a van.”

  “Are they headed to or from the target?” asked Winters.

  “To the target,” Festa said.

  “If you don’t want them to hear us coming, we better put down far outside the DZ,” Winters said.

  Beckham agreed.

  “Moving in on foot is risky, but it’s your call, Chief,” Festa said, looking to Winters.

  “Why not just land and go in guns blazing?” Horn rumbled.

  “That’s not how we do things, Master Sergeant,” said the SEAL Chief.

  “He’s right,” Beckham agreed. “We haven’t even confirmed they’re collaborators.”

  “Who the hell else would they be?” Horn said. “You heard what General Souza said. Anyone out here has to be treated hostile until proven otherwise.”

  “I’m all for lighting up these bastards if they are collaborators, but I don’t want to kill some random stranded survivors,” Winters spoke.

  “Me either,” Festa said. “Plus, we need the collaborators alive for intel.”

  The voice of a pilot came back over the open channel. “Sir, we need to make a decision soon.”

 
“Let’s go low and sweep them,” Beckham said. “See if we can get them to stop. If they aren’t collaborators, they might still have good information for us.”

  Winters agreed after a short pause.

  “Let’s get it done,” Festa said with a nod.

  He went up to the cockpit to talk to the pilots while Winters relayed the plan to his team and the Marines. The nervous sounds of pre-combat stretches and gear checks echoed through the space as the craft lowered through the cloudy sky.

  “I don’t like this boss,” Horn said. “What if they are collaborators and start shooting?”

  “Then we take them out,” Beckham answered.

  Horn looked at the M240 near the back of the aircraft.

  “Targets in sight,” said the primary pilot. “They are heading north on Cave Hill Road.”

  The Osprey continued to descend and the back door opened. A crew chief grabbed the M240 and set it up, manning the weapon.

  “They spotted us,” confirmed one of the pilots. “One pickup just veered off onto a dirt road through that forest, but the van and other pickup are still heading north.”

  “Cut ’em off,” Festa replied.

  “Stranded survivors my hairy ass,” Horn snorted.

  The Osprey curved through the sky as it moved to intercept the vehicles. Beckham glimpsed the sea of orange and red leaves in the forest canopy. A brown road curved through it like a polluted river.

  The crew chief on the M240 aimed the barrel downward and Horn moved over, tapping him on the shoulder.

  “Step aside, bub.”

  The crew chief gave him a glance, but a nod from Festa made him get out of the way, allowing Horn to grab the weapon.

  “Both vehicles just turned off the road,” reported the primary pilot. “They’re still heading for the target area.”

  The aircraft turned again, cutting low over the trees. They were close enough Beckham could see the truck and van driving perpendicular to the Osprey.

  “Fire a warning shot,” Festa told Horn.

  Horn squeezed off a burst in front of the pickup, but instead of stopping, two men stuck rifles out of the windows and opened fire.

  The M240 barked to life in Horn’s grip.