Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4

by Smith, Nicholas Sansbury

The Marine nodded and jogged back to command.

  Inside the pack was a jumble of stake flags—plastic flags on small metal posts that looked like they could be used for marking electrical lines under a lawn.

  “Not the most sophisticated way to do this,” Rico said.

  Dohi shrugged. “Sometimes sophistication is just unnecessary complication.”

  Ace flicked on the R2TD system, and the equipment buzzed to life.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Fitz said.

  He led the group through the soldiers working overtime to make final preparations. Most of the men and women didn’t even look up.

  Spotlights guided the way to the fences. The fact snipers and machine gun nests had their backs reassured Fitz as he made his way beyond the secure zone. But despite the firepower, stepping outside the wire sent a chill through Fitz.

  He battled his fatigue and kept his rifle at the ready.

  Not long after leaving the barriers, Ace signaled he’d found part of a Variant tunnel beneath their feet. Rico placed a flag in the soil.

  They moved on and Fitz watched the scanner for contacts. “Still no signs of life down there?” he asked Ace.

  “Nothing heading towards us,” Ace replied.

  “Probably running away ’cause they smell your sweaty fat ass,” Mendez said.

  “If that’s true, then you’re welcome,” Ace replied.

  Dohi smirked for the first time in… Fitz wasn’t sure how long.

  But all trace of jocularity vanished at the sound of an explosion from a grenade. Dust bloomed across the parking lot to the east where Army engineers had detonated C-4 in a tunnel, closing it off so the Variants couldn’t reuse it.

  In his mind’s eye, Fitz couldn’t help seeing that horrific theater at the University of Minnesota and the explosions that had taken Lincoln’s life.

  He would never forget that moment. It was always like that when you lost a brother or sister. The death playing like a nightmare on a loop that you can’t stop.

  Fitz turned at the sound of footsteps pounding the pavement.

  A team of Rangers fanned out across the lot. “We’re here to relieve you all from R2TD duty,” said a Sergeant in command of the group.

  “Already?” Mendez asked. “We were just getting started, and I’m ready to do some damn work!”

  The sergeant nodded. “Command says they’ve got something else for you. Didn’t tell me what it was, but they said to tell you all to get ready to ship out. You’re going back out in the field.”

  Rico gave Fitz that look, the forlorn one that said rest and whatever else would have to wait. Their job at command was done; the place was secure, and ready for the next Variant assault. But for some reason, Fitz had a feeling wherever they were heading was going to be far worse than another attack on Scott AFB.

  ***

  It was going to be a long night, and thanks to her advisors’ input, President Ringgold feared it would be a deadly one. Across the Allied States the outposts had spent all day refortifying their defenses to prepare for the next phase of Variant attacks that they believed was imminent. A few furtive warnings had been sent to outpost leaders that collaborators may have infiltrated their ranks, just as they had in Outpost Manchester. So far, Ringgold hadn’t heard of any traitors that the military had identified or captured. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or if these human monsters were waiting in the shadows like the Variants had for eight years.

  “Last night was a test…” she kept hearing.

  If that were true, then tonight could be the worst night of her administration. Everything and everyone in the Allied States was at risk.

  She took a short, but necessary shower, then finished getting ready for her next briefing. Leaving her private quarters, she found Chief of Staff Soprano waiting outside her hatch with a cup of warm coffee.

  “Thought you might need some caffeine,” he said.

  “You know me too well,” she said.

  Two Secret Service Agents led them through the bowels of the stealth warship. Sailors backed against the bulkhead as they passed, saluting.

  She saluted and tried to nod at each one, but her mind was a tangled mess as she pieced together her next steps.

  Ringgold was doing everything she could to keep it together.

  Plan. Organize. Achieve goals.

  “And never lose hope…” she whispered.

  By the time she arrived at the CIC, she had focused her mind and was ready to face whatever reports awaited her inside.

  A Marine opened the hatch. The space buzzed with activity. Officers worked at stations monitoring everything from troop movements and evacuation routes to the arrival of support from other countries.

  “This way, Madam President,” Soprano said.

  She followed him into a briefing room already filled with staff. LNO Festa, General Souza, NSA Nelson, and Vice President Lemke, among others helping strategize the war efforts.

  Soprano handed Ringgold a briefing folder and then joined Cortez near a bulkhead. She sat at the head of the table. She took a sip of coffee, set the cup down, folded her hands, and nodded.

  “Outposts outside the primary target cities of Minneapolis, Chicago, Lincoln, Kansas City, Indianapolis, and Columbus are all bracing for attack,” Souza said. “We’re still sending air support to help evac the civilian populations, but we’re losing daylight quickly.”

  Souza gestured toward a wall-mounted monitor. “These are the remaining outposts across the Allied States.”

  Ringgold already knew how many were left.

  Eighty-four.

  Eighty-four of the ninety-eight that the country had labored over for almost a decade, struggling against setback after setback to create a new, safe civilization after the Great War. She was relieved to see that number hadn’t dropped since she had taken a shower.

  But night hadn’t even begun.

  “What about other countries? Did your calls or mine help?” she asked Nelson. He had helped arrange most of the support and aid after Ringgold talked to her counterparts in each country.

  “Page twenty summarizes our current levels of support, Madam President,” Nelson said. “We just updated the responses.”

  She opened up to page twenty and scanned the report. “This is…”

  “Afraid so, Madam President,” Nelson said. “The European Union, Mexico and the Central American Coalition, the Southeast Asia States, and most of our other strongest allies seem to be sitting on the sidelines to see how bad this is.”

  “French President Morain promised me he would send us more than this,” Ringgold said. “Am I reading this correctly?”

  “Yes, Madam President. Instead of sending troops, he has sent one hundred consultants that will help with the detection of tunnels. They come from private sector, government, and military roles with experience combating those worm Variants that dug underground in Europe.”

  Ringgold managed her disappointment with a breath. “That’s good, but we don’t just need help finding tunnels. We need help destroying them. That means more than just sending people over.”

  “We can win this fight without them, especially with the help of General Cornelius,” Lemke said.

  “He called not long ago with an idea he wants to discuss,” Soprano said. “I said you would call him back as soon as you had some free time.”

  Ringgold nodded. “Get him on the phone now.”

  Cortez left the room with Soprano.

  In the meantime, General Souza went over other updates.

  “Doctor Lovato and Doctor Carr are still figuring out how this webbing network works,” Souza said. “We’ve got multiple Special Op teams preparing to track down new masterminds. Team Ghost is on standby for a mission to New Orleans where we’ve identified one. At your orders, we’ll deploy them.”

  She thought on it a moment. They had no choice. The masterminds had to be destroyed.

  “Permission to proceed,” she said.

  Souza nodd
ed at Festa who left the room to give the order.

  “We’ve done everything we can to prepare with the time and resources we have,” Lemke said. “If the Variants do come tonight… our outposts are as ready as they can be.”

  Ringgold noticed Cortez making the sign of the cross. Praying was one of the only things they had left at this point, although with the way things had gone lately, God didn’t seem to intervene in their affairs as much as the devil did.

  The hatch opened and Soprano walked back in with a satellite phone. “Madam President, I have General Cornelius on the phone.”

  Ringgold took the phone to another office where she could speak in private.

  “This is Jan,” she answered.

  “President Ringgold, it’s good to get ahold of you. I want to discuss something beyond my initial conversation with Vice President Lemke.”

  “If it’s nuking the outposts, then I don’t have the time.”

  “No, it’s something else that doesn’t require nuclear weapons.”

  “Then I’m all ears, General, go ahead.”

  “You know S.M. Fischer from Fischer Fields?”

  “I do.”

  “He has agreed to help me test some equipment to detect Variant tunnels as they form in El Paso,” Cornelius said. “If it works, then we can not only locate them, but destroy them before the Variants surface.”

  “That sounds like a winning proposition.”

  “Exactly,” Cornelius said. “Problem is we don’t have the people to run the equipment. I may have some ideas on how to get more and better equipment that the military abandoned out west, but first and foremost, we need the manpower.”

  “Do you know if it even works?”

  “We’re testing it tonight, Madam President.”

  Ringgold thought about the consultants from France. Perhaps they would be more useful than she had originally thought, but first she wanted to ensure Fischer could do what Cornelius hoped he would.

  “If the test is successful, then we’ll help get you whatever you need,” she said. “In the meantime, while I’ve got you, I could use your assistance with something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have two thousand soldiers at your disposal, and I respectfully would ask if you would deploy some of them to the outposts,” she said. “We think last night’s attacks may only be the beginning of something bigger.”

  “So do I, but I’m curious if you can share any intel?”

  “Let’s just say we believe collaborators have attempted to infiltrate more than a few outposts and we might be dealing with sleeper cells.”

  “I see… And how many troops do you need?”

  “As many as you can spare to bolster our defenses.”

  “Madam President, with all due respect, I don’t think being on the defensive constantly is going to win this war.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “We’ve got plans to launch a counter strike and we have a team of scientists working on ways to locate the masterminds and tap into their network. If they are successful, it will lead us right to them.”

  There was a brief pause on the other line.

  “I may not agree with the way you’ve protected our country, Madam President, but we’re in this together now,” he said. “I’ll coordinate with your people to send some of my troops where they’re needed the most.”

  Ringgold almost breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, General.”

  “I’ll let you know how our test goes.”

  “Good luck.”

  “And to you as well.”

  She hung up and almost smiled for the first time in days. Hearing the general was willing to commit some of his personal troops was great, but hearing he was also working on testing out equipment that could help was even better.

  When she got back to the CIC, Souza was on a call with the commander of Outpost Kansas City.

  Soprano pulled Ringgold aside and whispered, “We just got a call from Lieutenant Niven at Outpost Portland.”

  “What now?”

  “Apparently Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn went on a manhunt for one of their friends, and now they’re missing, Madam President.”

  All the optimism she’d felt after getting off the phone with Cornelius evaporated.

  “What? How?” she stammered.

  “They went to find Timothy Temper and some militia that went missing but never returned,” Soprano said.

  “Does Kate know?”

  “Not yet, we just got this report.” Soprano scrunched his brow together and paused. “There’s a lot riding on her work. Maybe we should wait to tell her when we know more.”

  Telling Kate that Beckham and Horn were missing could throw off everything, but this wasn’t something she could keep from the doctor for long.

  “Wait until we know more,” she said reluctantly.

  Souza raised his voice at the table as Soprano walked away.

  “Give ’em hell,” said the general.

  “Wilco,” came the reply from the speaker.

  Ringgold walked over. Souza palmed the table and kept his head bowed as if in defeat. When he looked up to meet her gaze, she saw a cold look of fear that she had never seen in the SOCOM chief before.

  “That was the Commander at Outpost Kansas City,” he said. “The second wave of the attack has begun, Madam President…”

  — 8 —

  Timothy woke to the sound of dripping water. He cracked an eye open. His head pounded, confusion muddling his thoughts. Most everything was bathed in darkness, but a single shaft of moonlight streamed through a hole in the ceiling to reveal he was in some kind of round, concrete structure.

  Something that looked like veins hung from the opening above.

  Where the hell am I?

  It took him a few moments to realize he was actually in a standing position against a wall. He tried to move his arms, but something pressed against them. When he tried to look down, something pulled against his forehead.

  Whatever had him pinned to the wall was out of view.

  He strained to remember something, anything, but his brain wouldn’t work normally. All his thoughts felt just out of reach, like he was stuck in a pit of tar reaching for purchase.

  One thing was certain…

  He wasn’t alone.

  Several other people were against the wall across from him, slightly off to his left and right. He could barely see their blurred figures in the pervasive dark beyond the moonlight.

  “Help…” he tried to say.

  The word came out muffled, trapped in his mouth. Something sticky covered his lips when he tried to open them. Cold panic gripped his body as he took in another breath through his nostrils.

  He squirmed in the restraints, trying to twist and turn, fueled by adrenaline. His frantic movements did nothing to break his bonds. If anything, it just made things worse. His skin tore under the rope, tape, or whatever had him stuck to this wall.

  He snorted, frustrated and terrified.

  A squawk answered the noise.

  Timothy froze.

  Memories flooded his brain of the ambush in the forest. He had made it to the truck, only to be pulled out and dragged here by a pack of camouflaged Variants.

  But they hadn’t killed him like the other men.

  For some reason he was still alive.

  Popping joints commanded his gaze across the chamber. A shadowed figure moved on all fours across the floor, stopping in the beam of moonlight.

  The sinewy Variant snarled in the eerie glow. Blue veins webbed across its pale and hairless flesh. The beast reeked of sour, decaying meat.

  Wormy sucker lips smacked as it studied him with reptilian eyes. It let out a low growl and took another couple of steps closer.

  Timothy fought violently to get free; turning, twisting, and pulling up with his chin. He winced in pain from the struggle, as more skin and hair pulled away under his restraints.

  The Variant stood
and the yellow-slotted eyes met his. Timothy winced as swollen lips peeled back to expose jagged, chipped teeth. It tilted its head, showing a hardy black collar wrapped around its neck.

  Leaning in, the beast sniffed him, nostrils flaring. He closed his eyes as the monster’s rancid breath rolled over him.

  The Variant shrieked into his face, splattering him with saliva.

  Timothy knew what was coming next.

  Unable to scream, he gritted his teeth and waited for the beast to tear open his guts and feed on his intestines. It was their favorite part of their prey.

  The beast noisily ground its teeth together.

  Timothy forced his eyes open when the creature didn’t immediately sink its claws into his flesh. He could see every pulsating blood vessel in the creature’s eyes. Something compelled him to watch, like this was a nightmare that might end if he willed himself to wake.

  But this wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

  This was real.

  He was about to join his dad.

  The monster’s mouth opened wide to release another long shriek.

  Timothy’s muscles locked up like a boxer preparing for a punch. The animalistic cry echoed through the chamber, but another sound rose above it.

  A human shout.

  Timothy snapped his eyelids open to the sight of three figures striding into the chamber. An electronic click sounded, almost like a buzz.

  The beast wailed in pain and reached up with a clawed hand to grab at the black collar around its neck.

  “Back you, filthy shit!” a man called out.

  Three men appeared in view, all carrying rifles. Timothy’s heart flipped. The militia had come back for him after all!

  The Variant bolted away, passing the men, frightened like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. It curved far around the militia soldiers, and none of them gave chase. They stopped in the center of the chamber, directly under the moonlight.

  Timothy didn’t recognize any of the dirt and grime-covered faces. Their camouflaged clothes appeared no cleaner.

  Stark reality struck Timothy like a claw to his guts.

  These weren’t militia… they were collaborators.

  The smallest of the three stepped out in front. He was in his fifties and had a thick head of gray shaggy hair pulled back with a black bandana. Dark eyes drilled into Timothy.