The Sixth Extinction: America (Omnibus Edition | Books 1 – 8)

by Johnson, Glen

  The lift stopped. The doors swished open. They found themselves in the deepest part of the bunker – three-quarters of a mile underground.

  “Evaluate what? You have all my research material. Everything we have accomplished at Groom Lake is at your disposal.” Bachman stepped off the elevator and followed Doctor Tracey as he headed down an empty short corridor.

  “That is true, but nowhere in your material does it cover what the pod is now doing.”

  “What do you mean, what it is doing? You were serious when you said it is reproducing? I presumed you were counting the roots as something else, being that you’re all so incompetent at your jobs.”

  Tracey ignored the comment.

  The tubby doctor scanned a card from his pocket. A metal door slid open. Inside was a room with a thick glass-viewing window that looked down into a circular room. The pod was in the middle. However, it looked different from the one he had worked on for decades. This pod was vibrating, not pulsating, and from its base long tendrils, of what looked like roots was worming their way across the chamber’s floor. The one at Groom Lake had roots only a few meters long. However, this one had roots that covered most of the room; the black vine-like tendrils hung from the ceiling and clung to the walls, and crisscrossed the floor a couple of feet deep. But most alarmingly, there were six miniature pods hanging from different locations – six new pods were being grown to replace those destroyed by the humans.

  50

  Alex and Troy

  Mole Town in a junk shop

  A military installation outside New York City

  The two ran as fast as their feet would carry them.

  Alex was surprised that he was finding it hard to keep up with Troy.

  I’m not as fit as I thought.

  The main street consisted of a 7-Eleven, a laundry mat, a dollar store, an organic vegetable shop, a collection of cafes and restaurants, and an assortment of junk shops and clothing stores. Nothing that would help them and all of them showed signs of the rioting that swept the country.

  They cordoned off the only section of America that hasn’t got a gun store; Alex thought. Then again, if there was one, the likelihood would be that it would be stripped clean.

  No bullets ricocheted around them, along with angry shouting. It looked like they weren’t being followed.

  But all it would take is one radio conversation to set up an ambush around the next corner.

  “In here,” Troy said as he kicked the door of an antique shop open. The frame buckled, and the door slammed against the inside wall.

  Alex noticed he kicked in possibly the only door in the street that was still intact.

  They hustled inside, closed the door, and dropped down behind a large chest of drawers.

  The door slowly swung closed with the tinkle of a small brass bell suspended above.

  The only sound was their heavy breathing. They both stared through the large dirty window, hardly blinking. There was no movement outside. Obviously, the soldiers were busy elsewhere, or their numbers were lower than they were led to believe.

  Luckily, they were well-fed and had plenty of fluids. Alex found it strange that they would waste food and drink on people they considered prisoners.

  Maybe they were lulling us into a false sense of security while they decided what to do with us?

  Troy was fidgeting next to him. The older man swiveled around.

  “Look around, see if you can find anything that can be used as a weapon,” Troy said. They had the handgun, but close quarter weapons would save bullets.

  Troy tucked the gun into his waistband after checking the safety.

  The shop looked unmolested. When the outbreak first started people must have presumed old, rusty, and moth eating antiques were not on the top of their list of priorities.

  Why grab an old chest of rickety drawers when you could carry home the latest LCD HD Smart TV?

  As Alex looked around, he realized using the word antique was wrong, this wasn’t a high-end store filled with Victorian artifacts worth thousands, this was a store filled with cheap, useless, falling apart junk.

  They both crawled around the store, keeping low in case anyone passed the window.

  It was full of things most people would throw away. Old fishing poles, trinkets, chipped ornaments, an ancient video camera the size of a suitcase, dusty curtains, moth eaten cushions, rickety chairs, faded tables, dirty drinking glasses, stained trays, heavy chest of drawers, tatty carpets hanging from hooks, pictures that were browning at the edges, and cheap costume jewelry.

  “Here!”

  Alex turned and crawled over to Troy. The floor was all gritty.

  Troy was knelt, holding a rusty machete that was one and a half foot long.

  “Take it.” He passed it to Alex.

  It wasn’t too heavy, and well balanced for something that was oxidized – all brown with rust. The handle was strong and easy to grip.

  Troy moved a collection of old farm implements around, looking for the best for the situation. There was a pickaxe that was too heavy. A spade, a rake, a hoe, and a long scythe that was too impractical. Then he picked up a weeding knife, a straight metal pole on a handle, with a right angle, rusty blade at the end. It looked like a chisel that someone had bent the end of.

  “Perfect,” Troy muttered.

  They both headed toward the back of the shop. Carefully Troy pushed open the adjoining door to the back storeroom. The likelihood that a Popper would be resting in wait was slim, but old habits died hard. Best to be safe, than dead.

  Dull gunfire could be heard. Alex prayed the others were safe. Someone had pushed the soldier out of the window, and he just hoped they weren’t paying the price for it now.

  The storeroom was full of even older, rustier junk. With a quick scan, they didn’t find any better weapons.

  The back door was blocked by old boxes that hadn’t been moved in years, a fire risk, not that anyone cared about such things anymore.

  They worked fast and cleared the way. With a boot, they were out in another narrow alley. They jogged to the mouth. There was still no one on the streets.

  There it was, down next to a collection of cars parked at the end of a road near a barricade. The truck rested with its back doors closed, with two cars blocking it in.

  The place looked deserted. But if Alex was going to ambush someone, it would be near the transport.

  They both stood silent, waiting to hear any sound. Nothing. Together they ran to the truck, with Alex gripping the machete and Troy holding the weeding knife in one hand and the gun in the other.

  51

  Terrance, Lindell, and the others

  Mole Town hospital

  A military installation outside New York City

  There was no time to think about it. No time to wait. Lindell rushed passed his brother and ran straight at the soldier who was about to toss Dante to his death. Raising the metal bar he brought it down hard on the man’s head. With a sickening crunch, the man’s legs folded beneath him. Luckily, Dante dropped and landed on the edge of the bed then rolled onto the floor.

  Tierra crawled over to her son and rocked him in her arms. The child was fine. No one could be injured and cry that vigorously.

  The soldier who stripped Jessica and thrust her onto the bed, and had dropped his clothing to his ankles, reacted slowly. He reached for his gun, but tripped on his pants. He fell sideways, onto his rifle. He fumbled with it and tried to swing it towards the two men.

  Terrance was faster. He kicked the soldier in the face with an audible crunch. The mans head snapped back too far, tearing his throat at his Adam’s apple. However, the man was already halfway through pulling the trigger. His muscle memory kicked in along with a muscle spasm. Bullets peppered the ceiling, causing a light fitting to crackle and shower sparks, and it then swung down, just hanging on by one side.

  Terrance grabbed the hot barrel and forced it away, while with the other hand, he slammed the metal pipe down with all h
is might, just to be sure. The cracking sound echoed around the ward.

  Tierra was crying, rocking her son, while leaning against a wall.

  Jessica swung around, swinging her fists.

  “Wait up, it’s me!” Terrance shouted.

  Jessica collapsed onto the bed, as her body jerked from crying. She grabbed at the sheets to cover herself.

  Terrance unfolded a blanket and tossed it over her.

  Naomi was just stirring. A groan came from her as she moved.

  “Fuck that hurt,” she muttered, as her hand dabbed at a bruise swelling on her forehead. The skin was split. One of her eyes was starting to swell.

  Bonnie rearranged her clothing and stood by the edge of her bed.

  “Jesus, what hit me, a truck?” Naomi rubbed blood from her forehead.

  “A soldier hit you with the butt of his rifle, after you pushed one of them out of the window.”

  “I did? Shit, that was reckless of me.” Naomi gave a gruff laugh. She touched the lump again. “You sure only one hit me?”

  “They took my brother and Frank,” Bonnie stated.

  “We know; we witnessed them taking them away,” Terrance said as he was checking the handgun and rifle he had just taken from the soldier he had brained.

  “You did nothing?”

  “All we had was a couple of metal pipes, not much against machine guns, not without the element of surprise.”

  “We need to get out of here,” Jessica said, as she stood up pulling on her clothes.

  “Yes we do. We also need to find the others first,” Terrance stated.

  “Fuck ‘em, more room for us in the truck,” Naomi said as she got to her unsteady feet.

  “I will pretend that’s the concussion speaking,” Lindell stated.

  “Think whatever ya like, Baracus.” Naomi slowly got to her unsteady feet. No one helped her.

  Terrance stood with the rifle ready and the handgun pushed in his belt, looking back down the corridor. The others must have heard the gunfire. Hopefully, they think it was the soldiers culling the ranks.

  “Everyone grab what you need, we are getting out of here,” Lindell stated.

  52

  Doctor Bachman

  Underground military facility

  The pod chamber viewing room

  Quirauk Mountain, Pennsylvania

  “It’s growing more to replace the six that have been destroyed,” Bachman stated. “I wonder how they then move to different locations?”

  The six pods were all at different stages of growth, some larger than others. They pulsed slowly, as if they were breathing. Only the large pod vibrated. The chamber was also filled with black spores, swirling as if a breeze carried them around the room.

  Bachman had never really paid much attention to the spores before. The pod at Groom Lake never issued any. They reminded him of black paint dropped into clear water – almost fluid in their movement.

  Small lumps on the top of the large pod was spewing forth more as he watched. Soon the room will be so full they wouldn’t be able to see what was happening inside.

  Bachman watched as tendrils slowly undulated across the floor and up the walls, with the tips seemingly testing the surfaces. It looked like a deformed sea creature covered in an oil slick – it looked like a tanker full of crude oil had been pumped through the chamber.

  “It’s looking for a way out,” Bachman said.

  “Seriously?”

  While studying the pod in Groom Lake for decades, he always wondered if it was sentient, a living, thinking creature, not just a plant. With all their research, they could never determine how intelligent it was, or whether it was like every other plant on the planet? The only problem was there was nothing to compare it to, apart from the other pods, which were identical and of no help. They used every type of x-rays – a portable MRI, a CAT-scan, fluoroscopy, DEXA scan, PET/CT, even ultrasound – all procedures that didn’t need to inject or dissect the pod. They could roughly see what was inside, but it still made no difference because, once again, they had no reference. They couldn’t determine if any of the different texture’s inside was a brain.

  “Of course I’m serious. It knows it’s imprisoned.” Bachman leaned both hands on the counter in front of the thick, protective window. “It’s reproducing, giving itself a better chance of survival.

  “Has anyone been inside since the growth spurt?”

  “No,” Tracey stated while turning sideways. “There’re too many spores to enter safely.” He frowned. “Jesus, you want to go inside don’t you?”

  53

  Alex and Troy

  Mole Town street

  A military installation outside New York City

  They made it to the truck unmolested. Troy tossed the weapons onto the seat and quickly climbed into the cab. Luckily, the keys were in the ignition. If they weren’t Troy had a spare set in his pocket.

  They hoped the food was still in the back along with the water, but in reality, they knew it would be gone.

  Alex sat on the passenger seat. He was nervous. Handheld weapons were okay for close quarters, but if someone was shooting at you from a distance, they were useless.

  They knew that the instant they reversed and slammed into the two cars behind them, everyone in the vicinity would know where they were.

  “We have to let the others know where the truck is, and see if they need any help,” Alex stated. “If we ram the vehicles, then we will have to make a run for it.” He thought about the tank and the two jeeps with .50 caliber weapons mounted to the back. He kept looking out the windshield, checking every direction.

  “If you stay here, and keep down, I will locate the others and lead them back. Then we can all leave together.” He sounded more confident than he felt, but there was no other option.

  Troy rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Okay,” he simply said. “I will keep a look out. As soon as I see you, or any of the others running toward the truck, I will start her up and push my way out.” He looked nervous. He had every reason to be.

  Alex sat for a minute. He was about to head out of relative safety and towards soldiers with automatic weapons. Soldiers who should be on their side. Soldiers who pledged to protect them.

  Do we need the others? Could we do it on our own? he wondered. What would that make me if we left them all behind? I would become my father, letting others down. No, I would be worse than my father. He didn’t want to find out. He owed nothing to the rest of them, but it was the right thing to do. Being right, or being safe. He rubbed his hands over his face and pressed his fists into his eyes. He was so tired. Tired of running. Tired of hiding.

  Why do I have to grow a conscience now; he thought? I lived in the apartment for most of my life with a drunk, violent father – where were all of them when I needed help? They must have heard the shouting and crying, the noise of my body slamming against the walls? They knew he was hurting me, yet they all turned a blind eye – a deaf ear. It wasn’t their problem. It wasn’t hassle they needed in their lives.

  Now he was the one who had to prove he was better than them. He was willing to help.

  Alex knew he was just stalling.

  “Take this,” Troy said holding out the handgun.

  “No, you keep it. Keep the truck safe. With it, you can keep them at a distance until we return, if needs be.”

  Jesus what am I doing? He knew he stood a much better chance with the weapon, but the instant he fired it; it would be a siren to announce to all the soldiers where he was. Also, he didn’t know if he had it in him to shoot someone. At least with the machete, he could make a blow that would not be life threatening, but would put them out of the fight – something that can be fixed.

  Then again, will they think like that when they see me? Would they put a bullet in me without a moment’s notice?

  Fuck it! I just hope I don’t find out.

  “Hopefully, I will see you very soon,” Alex stated, then slipped out the door and ge
ntly shut it, before Troy had chance to say anything or demand he took the weapon.

  Alex crouched down beside the truck. He took his bearings. The hospital was just down the block. There was no one in sight. He headed off at a crouching run with the machete in hand.

  First, he checked out both cars behind the truck. There were no keys in their ignitions. Not that it mattered, it would probably take longer to start them up and reverse them than it would just to shunt them out of the way. He checked the tires. They were fully inflated. If they had been flat, the truck would have difficulty pushing them out of the way.

  He ran along the pavement, hiding in the doorways of the shops as he went, slowly making his way down the empty street.

  A vehicle’s engine could be heard revving from around the corner. Alex ducked behind a low wall. A truck rolled past. There was no covering over the back. Inside was maybe ten or so males, all chained together. They sat with heads lowered as if they had already been forced into submission. They looked like there was no fight left in them.

  Jesus! Where are they taking them? Outside the barrier, to be left for the Eaters? Or have they got somewhere they make them work?

  That could have been me! Alex thought as the realization of the situation sunk in. He didn’t want to know what they did with the females.

  He didn’t believe in the gods, or any higher power. Sometimes he wished he did, then he would have someone to ask to keep him safe, something to unburden on – to tell all his worries to. Whereas, in reality, he knew the only person he could count on was himself. It had been that way for decades. His father had been useless; he was used to relying on himself.

  Slowly, he headed down the empty street. He had a plan to distract the soldiers and get the others.

  54

  Terrance, Lindell, and the others