He shielded his eyes, squinting through a fort of fingers.
Fitz jumped into the MATV and slammed the door as the explosion died down, revealing the tanks, Humvees, and other vehicles caught in an inferno. A tank commander opened the hatch of his Abrams, his skin melting off like candle wax as Fitz watched helplessly through his scope. The man fell limply over the side of his tank, and Fitz lowered his rifle in horror.
“Jesus, this isn’t happening!” Rico said.
Tanaka leaned forward. “It was a trap all along. That’s juvenile toxin on the beach, isn’t it? They knew we were coming.”
Fitz couldn’t wrap his mind around the facts. More of the juveniles were climbing the side of the landing craft. They were almost inside.
Lead, Fitz. You have to lead.
Black Hawks and Vipers returned to the fight. They flew over the smoldering wrecks of the first wave of the MEU, door gunners firing—but they were aiming into the sky. So what the hell were they shooting at?
Fitz pushed his scope to his eye and leaned back so he had room to move his rifle in the front seat. Something flapped across his crosshairs toward the Black Hawks, but it was too fast to capture.
One of the juveniles made it over the ramp and landed in front of their bumper. It let out a screech that opened a trio of armored slits on both sides of its neck. Fitz knew then how the monsters had avoided detection in the water. They had gills.
Dohi centered his gun on it and fired rounds that lanced into the creature’s chest plate, punching through vital organs.
Fitz exhaled and raised his MK11. The Black Hawks were circling now, and their gunners were still firing into the sky. He zoomed in on the door gunner of the closest helicopter just as a bat-like creature twice the size of a man yanked the Marine out of the chopper. It flapped away, holding the man in its talons.
Not bats. Juveniles. They can fly!
More of the beasts launched from the cliffs and took to the sky, plucking door gunners out and tossing them aside like rag dolls. The Vipers gave chase, guns blazing and missiles streaking away. The winged Variants were massive, but they were no match for a missile. Several of the creatures windmilled to the ground, frayed wings smoking as they plummeted.
A flurry of transmissions from Command overwhelmed Fitz’s earpiece.
“What the hell is happening out there?”
“Fox 1, do you copy? Over.”
“Fox 2, do you copy…”
“Does anyone fucking copy?”
There was screaming, too, and desperate cries for help. All chain of command seemed to have been lost in the chaos. Fitz ripped the bud from his ear and realized that the hissing noise he’d been hearing wasn’t static—it was the sound of air escaping from the cushion of their landing craft. But even worse, the M240s were going silent as juveniles fought their way onto the ship. The gunner from the MATV to their left was ripped from his turret and tossed to another juvenile standing on the hood like a violent, bloody game of catch. The beast ripped him apart in a flurry of slashes before leaping to the next vehicle.
Dohi roved his gun and blew both the monsters away, but it was too late for the Marine gunner. His corpse crashed to the ground, now no more than a hunk of mangled flesh.
Their vessel jerked to the left, drawing Fitz’s attention to the pilot station. Both of the Navy pilots of the LCAC were gone.
Shit, shit, shit. You have to lead, Fitz. Get out there and lead!
Through the windshield, the burning beach was growing closer. He didn’t know if they’d make it before the LCAC sank. But they had a more urgent problem. Another craft was on a collision course with theirs. Fitz grabbed his door handle and prepared to bail out.
Stevenson tried to pull him back. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Saving us,” Fitz replied. He jumped out onto the deck and slammed the door before Apollo could follow him.
“Dohi, cover me!” he yelled.
Rico opened her door as Fitz approached. She raised her M4 over his shoulder and fired a burst that sent a juvenile behind him skittering away.
Fitz gripped his ringing ears. “Jesus, Rico!”
“You’re welcome!”
Gunfire from the 240s streaked overhead. Fitz crouched down and ran with Rico for the back of the boat. A juvenile jumped in front of Fitz as he rounded the next Humvee. He skidded to a stop and went to raise his rifle, knowing it was already too late.
A blade struck the creature’s armored neck, slicing through the organic plates. Warm blood squirted over Fitz. He wiped it away to see Tanaka standing behind the beast with his Katana out, the metal gleaming with crimson. He finished the monster with a stab from the smaller Wakizashi to the back of its skull.
Two more of the juveniles jumped onto the roof of the Humvee Tanaka was standing behind, crushing the metal. Both monsters looked to be over four hundred pounds, with sucker lips the size of Tanaka’s head.
“Go!” he yelled, twirling his two swords and walking toward the juveniles confidently. Fitz looked back at the other LCAC still drifting toward them. Water bubbled around the cushion as the juveniles worked to sink the craft.
Fitz and Rico ran to the pilot station. She grabbed the door and pulled. Glass fell away from the shattered window. Fitz climbed through the missing windshield where a juvenile had plucked out the previous pilots. He grabbed the controls and twisted the steering wheel to avoid the oncoming craft. Gunfire cut in all directions as the M240 gunners fought desperately to keep the juveniles off the sides of the LCAC.
From this vantage, Fitz could see the entire battlefield. The ocean, beach, and cliffs were alive with monsters. Bubbles frothed and burst on the surface over submerged boats, and vehicles burned on the beach. Helicopters circled above the jagged cliffs, firing on the juveniles in the sky.
They passed the sinking LCAC on their left. It was going down, but there was a final Marine still fighting from the turret of his MATV. The flash from the muzzle fire illuminated a youthful face that Fitz recognized from the Iwo Jima.
Fitz turned the wheel again, away from the craft. The Marine continued firing even as water rose around his MATV. The ocean swallowed him a moment later.
There was nothing you could have done, Fitz told himself. But it didn’t make him feel any better.
Their own LCAC was still in trouble. The ramp fell with a crash, letting in a dozen juveniles. The cold ocean flowed into the LCAC, gurgling around the vehicles. Fitz could see Apollo pawing at the window of the MATV. They were sinking less than a thousand feet from the shore.
Not like this, Fitz thought. Please, God, not like this.
He looked for Tanaka. The man was busy carving up a Variant near the starboard side of the ship. He stuck his Katana inside the creature’s sucker lips and twisted it before turning to strike the other beast as it lunged at him.
“Watch out!” Rico shouted.
She wasn’t yelling at Tanaka—she was yelling at Fitz. He whirled as a shadow covered their craft. The outline of another ship emerged to the west. The massive bow of a destroyer cut through the water. At first he thought it was the Iwo Jima, but the silhouette was wrong.
“It’s the Forrest fucking Sherman!” Rico shouted.
An M2 Browning 50 cal. on deck opened fire, rounds slamming through a wave of the flying Variants. Another M2 joined the fight. Together, the MA Deuces cut the abominations from the sky.
The crew of the Forrest Sherman had arrived just in time to save what was left of the second wave of the MEU. But there wasn’t anything they could do for the Marines on the beach, and Team Ghost wasn’t out of this yet.
“On me, Rico!” Fitz shouted. He climbed back out of the window and jumped into the cold water flooding their craft. The ocean surged around his blades. He waded forward, firing on a juvenile shaking the side of their MATV. Apollo barked furiously from inside. The beast
reached back, then punched an armored hand through the window.
“No!” Fitz screamed.
Rico surged in front of him, tossing her M4 aside and unslinging the sawed-off shotgun from her back. She fired a blast into the juvenile’s back. It fell off the MATV and whirled toward her. She pumped the shotgun and fired another blast that hit the beast in the face, its eyes exploding like egg yolks. The creature pawed at its head, then jumped over the side of the boat into the water.
“Tanaka!” Fitz yelled.
The man walked around the end of a Humvee, sheathed his blades, and pulled his M4. Neither Fitz nor Tanaka said a word as they raced back to their MATV.
Fitz opened the front door, and Apollo jumped into his arms. Stevenson clambered out, and the entire team climbed onto the roof of the vehicle as water rushed into the sinking craft. Standing above the MATV with Apollo in his arms, Fitz saw the hellish landscape before him. The beach was still on fire, and the charcoaled hulls of vehicles smoldered in an oven that didn’t seem possible to shut off. Blue flames raged over the sand and rocks. Fitz could feel the heat on his face, despite the cold water surrounding him.
“Fitz, we need you!” someone shouted.
Something gurgled as more water rushed in, and Fitz could feel it pulling them down. He set Apollo down and searched for a target with his MK11.
“Up here!” shouted a voice.
A rope ladder hit the opposite end of the LCAC as the Forrest Sherman maneuvered closer. It was shallow here, which meant Colonel Bradley was taking a major risk to save the scattered survivors of the MEU.
Marines climbed down from the side of the destroyer.
“Get to the ladder!” Fitz shouted.
Standing back to back on the roof of the MATV, the team fired at the juveniles swimming around the vehicles. The war for Europe had just begun, but if Team Ghost didn’t get moving, they weren’t even going to make it to the shore.
-5-
“Come here, little buddy,” Piero whispered.
He bent toward the skinniest mouse he had ever seen and slowly set his emergency candle on the brick floor of the access tunnel. The light danced over damp walls covered with dripping green stains. Graffiti, both modern and old, tattooed the ancient walls. There were designs of Roman soldiers, cartoon animals, and religious symbols. The abandoned sewer had existed for hundreds of years with these markings, and would continue long after Piero died here.
But he wasn’t ready to die just yet.
A draft of cold air whistled down the tunnel, causing the flame to flicker out of control. He reached out with a crumb of granola bar to bait the mouse. In his other hand, he gripped his knife, ready to strike.
The tiny creature glanced up, pink ears perked and curious black eyes centered on the piece of food. It cautiously sniffed the air.
Piero had always had a soft spot for animals, but he hadn’t eaten anything but granola bars for days now. It was amazing how the mind worked when it was in distress. Especially when the body was starving.
You’re going to taste delicious, he thought. The two bites I can get off your ribs. He imagined eating the creature would be a lot like eating chicken wing. There was never enough meat on them.
Piero wasn’t a big man, but he had always had a large appetite. Food was life to an Italian, and he hadn’t had a proper meal in more months than he could count. The mere thought made his stomach grumble.
He studied the tiny creature, tilting his head like a Varianti watching its prey. Maybe mice really did taste like chicken, or maybe they tasted like something else entirely. The pigeon he had eaten sure hadn’t tasted like chicken.
Shut up, Piero. Focus.
It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. He had to remain vigilant if he ever hoped to escape this wretched city, but he felt himself drifting further and further into insanity.
The mouse stood on its hind legs and reached up with little white paws, sniffing the air voraciously.
“That’s right,” Piero whispered. “You’re almost there. Just a little farther.”
He scooted forward on his knees, his knife clenched tightly in his hand. Gritting his teeth, he slowly pulled it from the sheath and prepared to skewer his dinner.
Like the starving creature before him, Piero had let his guard down for the chance at a meal. Years of Special Operations training had prepared him to survive for days without food in the field. But not months. And not on his own in a city ravaged by monsters.
The mouse inched forward until the morsel of food was a centimeter away from its nose. Just as Piero prepared to knife it, a distant thud echoed in the dark passage. As slowly as possible, he reached for the candle and picked it up. The frail creature craned its small neck and peered into the moving candlelight that illuminated the narrow sewer passage. The sewer seemed to stretch on and on. Now was Piero’s chance to kill it, but the distant banging stopped him.
He sheathed the knife and reached for his rifle. He’d made himself go back to the river a few days after Antonio’s death. There had been no sign of his friend left. At least he’d found his rifle.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The mouse’s ears perked, and so did Piero’s. For a moment he had forgotten that he wasn’t the predator. Like the mouse, he was the prey. And the juveniles had finally found his hiding spot.
He blew out the candle with a shallow breath. The light receded, and darkness swallowed Piero like he had jumped into a black hole. He felt a tug on his finger. The brave mouse wasn’t going to let the food go without a fight.
“Stupid little idiot,” Piero whispered. He pulled the granola bar away, but the mouse didn’t let go. It held on as he put the precious piece in his vest pocket. Inside too went the small creature.
“I’ll save you for later then,” Piero said. He rose to his feet, gripping his Beretta ARX160 assault rifle, and raised the night vision optics to his eyes. The green-hued pane came into focus. He centered the crosshairs on the end of the passage, where it curved to the northeast.
It sounded like the thumping was coming from the secret trap door that led to the Vatican, but he couldn’t be sure. The narrow passages made it difficult to locate the noise. If it was coming from the door, he would hear a warning. He had rigged up an alarmed barricade just in case the monsters made it through.
Scanning the passage, he saw no sign of movement. The sewer tunnel weaved under the city streets along the edges of the Vatican. After living down here for months, he had the layout memorized. He had been using the tunnels to get from place to place, but he wasn’t the only one. Although the juveniles now controlled the streets above, they also dwelled in the darkness.
Piero hadn’t seen sunlight for several days. Or was it longer than that? Sometimes he thought of himself as Gollum from Lord of the Rings. Other times he pictured himself as a Varianti.
No, Piero. You’re not a monster. You’re still a man.
Another distant boom thumped down the passage. The mouse struggled in his vest pocket at the sound. Piero turned to run, but he froze at the screech that followed. The secret metal door leading to the Vatican had been broken off its ancient hinges. A siren wailed, louder and louder with every beat. That only seemed to enrage the monster on the other side of the barricade. Over the sound of the alarm came the shattering of wood crates and the shriek of the beasts tearing through them.
Piero’s heart fluttered.
The juveniles were inside.
In seconds, they had destroyed the barricade he had spent an entire day building. He stood there, frozen in terror, unsure if he should run or stand his ground and fight. There were fifteen rounds left in his last magazine. If there had been only one juvenile, he might have been able to kill it before it killed him. But there was no way he could defend himself against a pack of the beasts, especially if they were the other kind…
Don’t say it,
Piero. Don’t you say it.
The winged horror that had ripped Antonio apart wasn’t the only one. He had seen others topside, which was another reason he no longer ventured above the streets, even during the day. The juveniles were still growing, still changing, developing wings and horns and God knew what else.
Piero made the sign of the cross and then raised his rifle. Somewhere overhead, the heart of the Catholic Church had fallen. Hell on earth was real, and no prayer was going to save him. The Pope, the cardinals, and all the priests were long dead—or turned into Varianti.
The mouse quivered in his pocket, and Piero made a decision. In all his years of fighting, he had never run from an enemy. But that was before he had faced the monsters. He turned and fled.
He tried to lighten his footfalls, but everything echoed in the narrow tunnel. And the juveniles would hear him regardless. They knew he was there.
He tried to imagine how they saw the world. It was all too easy to slip into the mind of a monster. The yellow-hued view, similar to his own night vision optics, narrowed as it raced down the tunnel on all fours, joints popping and armor creaking. Lips the size of a bowl smacked and popped, and a warty bulbous nose sniffed the air, picking up Piero’s gamey scent. It rounded a corner and snorted at a heat signature ahead—a heat signature with a second, smaller signature near its chest. The monster’s vision changed from yellow to white, and now Piero could see a heartbeat—his heartbeat. The vision homed in on the second, tinier heartbeat.
Stop it, Piero. Stop it!
There was no denying he was going crazy. Maybe he’d already gone over the edge. He knew the monster couldn’t see his heartbeat, and especially not that of the mouse in his pocket.
He closed his eyes briefly. The vision was gone, replaced by the darkness of the tunnel. He pushed the scope back to his eye. Somewhere behind him, claws scraped over the walls. He couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder, but the movement threw him off balance. He reached out to brace himself as he tripped. In the last second before impact, he palmed the ground, saving the mouse in his vest from certain death. Using a scraped, bloody hand, he pushed himself up and kept running.
Extinction Aftermath (Extinction Cycle Book 6) Page 8