Extinction New Zealand Box Set | Books 1-3

by Smith, Adrian J.

  The room was kept at a cool four degrees Celsius. After a few minutes, he was able to see the occupants. A dozen humans lined the walls. They were secured in a metal framework, and had various tubes and electrodes protruding from them.

  Derek ignored the other humans and focused his gaze on the figure in the centre of the room. She lay on a metal table within a sarcophagus-like capsule. His daughter, Sophie.

  Her face looked so peaceful. He could see a computer display on the side. He checked to see her heart rate. It beat with a slow but steady rhythm. Seeing her like this tore at every part of his being. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth. His mind drifted back to the beginning of this nightmare as he watched Sophie’s chest rise and fall.

  When the news reports first came filtering through of a viral outbreak affecting America, Derek had ignored them. There was always some drama. It never came to much. He and his family went about their usual routines, getting on with their lives. Even the first report of something in Auckland hadn’t frightened him. It wasn’t until it was reported in the other major cities that he grew concerned. His wife was right: it was time to leave their little town.

  Derek knew just the place. A hunting lodge deep within the Mamaku forest. For two weeks they camped there with five other families. Waiting it out. A group of lost Dutch tourists had shown up, scared and starving. With limited English, they tried to communicate. They kept repeating the same phrase over and over in Dutch. “Monster ze etende mensen.”

  Derek only learnt what that meant a few days later, when the Variants attacked. They had been saying “Monsters. They eat people.”

  He had watched, horrified, as the creatures tore the sheltering campers apart. Only a few of them had rifles. All but useless. Derek had pulled Sophie out of his dying wife’s arms and dived into the lake. They had swum to the raft. One of the Dutch girls made it to the raft with them. The screams from the dying humans had pealed out over the lake until none were left alive. The beasts had howled, screeched and run up and down the lake shore, but did not enter the water.

  For three days Derek, Sophie and Patrica, the Dutch girl. Had stayed on that raft, drinking the lake water and trying everything they could to catch the trout that swam just out of reach. It was eventually hunger that drove them back ashore. Derek had noted that during the hottest part of the day when the sun shone brightest, the Variants disappeared. The trio made it to the town of Tirau before being ambushed by the creatures. Within seconds, they had torn the Dutch girl apart. Derek just wanted to save Sophie. In a moment of desperation, he pleaded with the biggest creature, begging for their lives. He never knew what saved them, just that it had spared them. The Alpha he had come to call Clubber had used him ever since. Used him to find other survivors and lead them to their doom.

  Derek grimaced at his memories. He fiddled with the zippo lighter he kept in his pocket, a gift from his wife from when they were first dating. He had long since given up smoking, but the familiar feel of the rectangle of metal comforted him, and he liked to keep it filled with fluid so he could practice his little tricks.

  Derek sighed. Someday he would find a way to save Sophie. For now, he had to carry on. For her.

  He made his way back through the lab and down the corridor. Orange lights placed low lit his way. Pausing at a junction, he pulled a tattered map from his pocket. He always had trouble remembering his way around the complex, filled as it was with corridors, labs, stairs, and room after room, level after level. Satisfied that he was on the right path, he quickened his pace. It wasn’t a good idea to anger Doctor Marks and definitely never Clubber. He shivered, thinking of the winged beast that ruled them all. The Master, the one you most certainly did not anger.

  — 7 —

  Compassion.

  The stinking mud squelched and clung to Pig’s boots with every step he took. The only thing it was good for was soothing his burns. He had covered his torso and neck with mud as soon as he’d entered the swamp. The cooling mud ease his constant pain and irritation.

  For two hours he had slogged through the wetlands inch by inch, all the time listening for the pursuit he knew was coming.

  Pig surveyed his immediate area. It felt good to have an M4 in his hands. It was familiar to him. He tried to grasp the memory that buzzed through his mind but failed to make sense of it. He pulled the magazine free and checked his ammo count. It was still three-quarters full. With two extra in his stolen pack. The smell of the gunpowder tugged at him. Pig was now certain he had either been a keen hunter or a soldier of some kind. He favoured the latter; it explained better how, while his mind didn’t know it, muscle memory kicked in and his body acted.

  Pig glanced to the eastern sky, checking to see how much night he had left. About four hours by his reckoning. Plenty of time to enact his plan.

  Trudge through the swamp.

  Kill some plebs.

  Circle back to the camp.

  Kill some more plebs. Kill Duke.

  Free everyone.

  All before those bastard creatures showed up.

  Pig took a deep breath and peeled off his tattered shirt. His injuries needed attention. The burns that covered his torso and part of his neck had never healed properly. The skin still looked red and raw in daylight, and pus-filled blisters oozed stinky liquid. Gritting his teeth, he scooped up handfuls of swamp mud and began coating his body again. He started with his head and worked his way down. His mind screamed at him about bacteria that could cause an infection.

  The sound of dogs barking carried to him on the cool night breeze. The plebs were lazy bastards, except when they were on a hunt. Hunting people was their favourite pastime. Right now, he was target number one. Looking down, he checked his handiwork over. Satisfied, he eased himself back into the brackish water and continued leading the pursuing plebs deeper into the swamp. As he sloshed his way through the mud, he checked for what he was looking for. His shattered mind told him that this was prime duck shooting country. Duck shooters loved to hide themselves in little huts called “maimais”. They were often well hidden and camouflaged with shrubs and branches.

  The barking of the rabid pack tracking him became louder, so Pig quickened his pace. Squinting into the darkness, he finally found what he was looking for. The maimai was perched high on a knob of raised ground. Tucked between manuka and flax, one could easily walk past it without even knowing it was there. Hurrying now, he squeezed his way into the maimai and looked around. It was a simple structure of four walls and a roof. A narrow door, where he had entered, and thin windows like strips were the only openings. It was bare except for two wooden chairs that faced out over the twisting waterways of the swamp.

  Pig leaned his M4 on the window ledge and placed his two spare magazines within easy reach. By the sound of the dogs and the hollering of the plebs, he wouldn’t have long to wait.

  Make every bullet count.

  The first few dogs ran straight past him, noses close to the muddy ground. Pig rubbed his hand through his hair before rubbing it on his pants, drying the sweat off. He heard the plebs long before he saw them. Four men, two grouped tight together at the front and two more three metres behind.

  Amateurs.

  Breathing out, he pulled the trigger.

  Crack, crack, crack, crack.

  The four plebs dropped to the ground as though a puppet master had cut their strings. Pig sprang into action and dashed out of the maimai. He had no idea how many plebs chased him. Staying in one place wasn’t his plan. He rolled the first pleb over and checked his weapon. Another M4. He grabbed the ammo and tossed the rifle before smashing his way into the scrub.

  The canines snarled. He did not want to kill any dogs if he could help it. Footsteps thundered behind him. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Pig’s eyes went wide.

  Where the hell had they come from?

  Men in dark clothing chased him through the bush. Strangely, they weren’t firing. Not that he was complaining. Skidding to a stop, he dropped to one k
nee and swept his M4 from side to side.

  He caught the chasing plebs by surprise. Five of his 5.56mm rounds found their marks, stopping the men in their tracks. Two plebs at the back of the pack dived for cover. Pig stepped forwards, peppering the bushes with bullets. The bush on the right stopped moving. Pig swivelled, hunting for the last pleb.

  Crack!

  His leg buckled under him and twisted to one side. Pig dropped into the mud as the bullet zipped past his ear. His instincts saved his life. Desperate, his eyes searched out the bush where he had seen the muzzle flash. He pulled the trigger.

  Click!

  Damn it!

  Bullets from the last pleb continued to whiz above him as he dragged himself through the muddy water and down another channel, eager to put distance between himself and the bullets that tore through the scrub.

  All thoughts of hiding his tracks and whereabouts now vanished, and he rose into a crouch and crab-walked as fast as he could. After ten minutes he slowed down enough to reload. Looking west, he could see the glow of the pleb camp. Confident that he had lost his pursuer, he adjusted his course. A sudden thought struck him.

  No barking? No noises at all?

  Had they lost his scent? Pig shook the thought away. These guys were experts.

  He turned and backtracked through the swamp, down its twisting channels of water and mud. Seeing the lights of the camp reminded him of all the other innocent people suffering at the hands of Duke. He had to go back.

  Compassion.

  He stopped every few feet, straining his ears for any sounds of pursuit. Nothing. He carried on, trying to ignore the pain from his leg, though with each step it was becoming more difficult.

  Pig searched around for some dry land. Finding some, he climbed out and rolled up his pant leg. Blood was pouring out of a hole in his thigh. Twisting his leg, he could see the exit hole. A through and through. He pulled off his stolen pack and rummaged through it. Buried below food wrappers and a couple of water bottles, he found a small first-aid kit.

  Grimacing, Pig did his best to clean the wound before bandaging it. Finally he swallowed a couple of ibuprofen for the pain, rolled his pants back down and drained his water bottle, enjoying the cool liquid running down his parched throat.

  Circle back to the camp and kill more plebs.

  Pig breathed in deep and looked out over the pond in front of him. Turning his head, he could see thick scrub and gorse. He didn’t fancy getting pricked and scratched on their thorns, so the pond was the quickest way back to the camp. Back to Duke. Months ago he had promised himself to kill that sick bastard.

  Pig snapped his eyes back to the surface of the pond. Something had definitely moved. He brought his carbine up and focused on the spot where he had seen the movement. Something brushed against his leg, triggering visions that flooded into his mind.

  Screams, shouts. Soldiers crying out. Creatures snarling and tearing into men as gunfire filled the air. Hands, dragging him. Running. Gunfire. A boat. Fire. A large octopus beast swamping the boat. Pain… Pain… Pain…

  Pig gaped in horror. The beast from his nightmare rose out of the water in front of him. It had a thick bulbous body and eight tentacles. Six were grouped together at the front, while the last two, which were thicker, were being used as hind legs. He shook at the sight. Now he knew what had happened to the dogs and any other plebs.

  It wasn’t the tentacles that caught his eye, though. It was the gaping mouth lined with shark-like teeth. And at the centre was one large beak tooth. The beast gnashed its beak and let out a high-pitched whale-like sound. The wail rattled the bones in his ears. Screaming, Pig opened fire, sweeping his rifle across the bulging sack of flesh. His bullets bounced off, causing little harm to the beast. Its tentacles flung out, searching for him. He dodged the flailing limbs and adjusted his aim for the mouth. Pain lanced up his body as a tentacle found his leg and yanked him into the water.

  Pig cried out in agony and held down the trigger.

  Compassion.

  — 8 —

  Jack shook his head at the sight of the wall in front of him. It hadn’t been difficult finding the Hidden Rock Winery and Station. It was the only farm around with a stone wall, and the signs stuck on the walls on either side of the entrance were the other giveaway.

  Farther up the drive, hidden behind a row of trees, was a three-metre-high fence. The survivors holed up inside had lined up cars, 4x4s, trucks and earth-moving vehicles along its length. Metal plates and steel piles had been driven into the ground just behind the wall, reinforcing it further. These people meant business. Jack could see why they had survived. A large tourist coach had even been parked in front of the gate.

  He smiled at Dee. “Reminds me of The Road Warrior.”

  “The thunderdome one?” Boss, standing next to Dee, barked out a laugh.

  Jack shushed him. “No, that’s three. The Road Warrior is the one with the masked guy trying to steal the gasoline.”

  “Oh yeah. You’re right, it does look like it.”

  Jack scanned the length of the wall through his scope. Nothing moved. It was empty and devoid of life. No insects, no farm animals, nothing. He didn’t want to voice his concerns to Dee, Boss and Yalonda, but the whole situation was like Hadley’s Hope. The feeling of death hung in the air.

  “Jack, get up there and scout it out. Caro, keep an eye on our pursuers,” ordered Simpson.

  “Sir.” Jack and Yalonda answered.

  Jack used the roof of the ute to clamber onto the coach that blocked their path. Once he had his footing, he surveyed the area. Beyond the wall were three groups of buildings. A large, long barn-like shed with several smaller buildings next to it stood to the west, and what must be the winery buildings lay to the east. Jack figured it must be the winery due to the large metal vats on either side of the tall, red buildings. The stainless-steel vats reminded him of grain silos: conical in shape, with a door at the bottom. Around the building, dozens of wooden barrels were scattered. A large mansion sat amongst an overgrown garden, directly north of his position. Once-manicured lawns were now filled with weeds and wildflowers. The lawn had been divided into garden plots but any crops there had once been now lay trampled into the soil. The occupants must have attempted to grow some food. Jack spotted torn up ground everywhere. Signs of the Variants. He thumbed his comms.

  “Simpson.”

  “SITREP.”

  “Variant signs, but no movement. We have three groups of buildings. No visible hostiles or civilians. Over.”

  “Roger. Move the coach. Out.”

  “Wilco.”

  Jack glanced down at Dee and Boss. Both were watching him. He gave the all-clear signal before making his way to a metal ladder someone had welded to the side of the coach. Jack scanned his immediate vicinity, fearful of the danger that always lurked. He drew a deep breath, waiting for the familiar rotten fruit stench, but the air remained clean.

  The door of the coach hung open. Jack heard a couple of thumps on the ground as Dee and Boss joined him. He held up a close fist, warning them to stop. Using two fingers, he pointed at his eyes and then the inside of the coach. He kept his eyes firmly on the coach, trusting his team. Ben had drummed trust into their heads.

  Without the trust of your fellow soldiers, you have nothing.

  Jack swept his AR-15 over the seats of the coach. Like the rest of the area, it was empty of life. Satisfied that they were safe for now, he started the engine. It caught first try and, engaging the gear, the coach rumbled forwards. He watched in the rearview mirror for the ute as it motored into the property. Once it had pulled up next to him, he reversed across the gate, shutting them inside Hidden Rock Winery.

  Hone, Tama and the Renegades gathered around Simpson. Max sat on his haunches next to Jack, ears pricked, but silent. Jack bent down and scratched behind the dog’s ears, doing his best to reassure him.

  “Listen up, Renegades. I want two teams. Same as always. Alpha and Beta. Hone, you can join Beta with
Jack. Tama, you’re with me. We search the house first, clear it, move on. You find anyone, report it immediately. Boss, look for their radio. Chang, I want you up on that coach giving me updates. Stay frosty, Renegades.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Jack and the Renegades.

  Jack glimpsed Hone shaking his head, but the Maori warrior stayed silent.

  The Renegades split into their two teams. Taking point, Jack jogged up the long concrete drive. Magnolia trees lined either side. The drive ended in a roundabout outside the mansion’s large wooden doors. Whoever had lived here hadn’t been short of cash.

  Beta team approached the doors, sweeping their rifles left and right. Jack took up position directly in front of them, Boss and Yalonda on either side of him. He signalled for Boss to open the door. The wood creaked as it swung open. Boss eased it against the house and looked back at Jack who gave him a nod and moved into the house. Jack gaped at the vast foyer. A sweeping staircase curved up and around to a second storey. A chandelier shimmered in the afternoon light, which refracted off the hundreds of crystals.

  Jack strained his ears, but the giant house remained silent. He edged his way forwards and Beta team followed. They quickly cleared the bottom floor, ending up in the kitchen. Everywhere he looked, he could see recent signs of habitation, but it was as if everyone had vanished into thin air. A plate of spaghetti sat half eaten on the side table, and a half-full glass of water stood next to the sink.

  Jack reached out and tried the tap. Water flowed, clear and cool.

  He thumbed his radio. “Ground floor clear.”

  “Roger. Second Floor clear. Beta team, check the winery. Out.”

  “Wilco.”

  Jack glanced up at Hone, who was leaning against the bench. “All good?”

  “I don’t like it, Jack. My Maori senses are tingling.”

  “Something’s off, that’s for sure. Are you worried about your men back in Paeroa?”