Ringgold didn’t need to ask who those vessels belonged to. “Put me in touch with Vice President Lemke now.”
Festa tried the encrypted line to Lemke, but no one answered.
Come on, Dan. Tell me what’s going on.
The line continued to ring.
“I’m getting a new signal from the USS George Johnson,” Festa said. He patched the line in.
“Command, this is Captain Harmon of the George Johnson,” the voice said. “The Variants—they just—they swam under us before we could spot them. Then they started climbing up the sides of our ships. They’re overrunning the George Johnson. We can’t hold them back for much longer.”
Festa spoke to the captain while Ringgold went to Souza, who was still trying to contact the vice president at Central Command.
“How could they have known about Puerto Rico?” Ringgold asked. She lowered her head in despair, trying to make sense of what was happening.
A few minutes later, the line with Captain Harmon had severed. They couldn’t reconnect.
The room fell into silence for several grueling moments.
“All this time we thought the science team was listening in on them,” Souza said. “Maybe they were the ones listening in on us.”
Ringgold looked at the two generals, feeling sick. “The Prophet got us to focus all our attention on Vegas, one big honey trap, while they swept through from the east.”
Cornelius shook his head. “I… I never saw this coming either, Madam President.”
“Is there anything we can do to help Central Command?” she replied.
“Nothing we send will arrive in time,” Cornelius said. “We don’t have the supply chains. Most of our surviving air units are focused on evacuating Las Vegas, and the few naval units stationed in Galveston couldn’t make it until at least a day after the enemy arrived.”
“We need to put everything we have into protecting what little assets we have left,” Souza said. He paused, appearing as if he didn’t like what he was about to say next. “Let’s hope the vice president can hold Central Command, because I’m afraid Puerto Rico is on their own, Madam President.”
***
Azrael crouched in the open door of the MH-65 Dolphin. The chopper had been recently acquired after one of their successful conquests on the east coast of Florida, yet another benefit of their dominance over the Allied States.
After dealing with the general, he had left Los Alamos almost immediately to personally join another mission crucial to crippling the Allied States.
He had not originally planned to go, but he could no longer rely on Scions or Alphas like the general to get things done for him. And this mission was too important to fail.
Fortunately, by the time his flight from the Citadel had gotten him to the transfer point for this chopper, the battle over San Juan, Puerto Rico was almost won. He had arrived just in time to join in the final destruction.
The former Coast Guard chopper took him and six of his best hunters over the remains of the ancient walls of San Juan, built during the Spanish-American War. Fires bloomed through the darkness and tracer rounds pierced the night across the city.
His forces had prioritized destroying their comms so the Allied States had almost no warning of the destruction taking place down here.
The Allied States military still stubbornly held a few strongholds, but their navy was crushed and soon he would unleash the beasts standing with him in the belly of the helo. These six represented one of his new death squads, hunters whose minds and bodies had been tuned for one thing: eliminating the most tenacious heretics.
In the port, smoke fingered away from a burning helicopter on the deck of the USS George Johnson. Azrael had never met the former Vice President that the Zumwalt Class destroyer had been christened after, but he was going to meet Vice President Dan Lemke very soon.
A pair of cruisers and a frigate were tilted at odd angles, smoke rising from their superstructures from the surprise attack hours earlier. They were half-sunk just off the piers near Old San Juan where cruise ships once docked.
The remaining ships represented the majority of the once dominant Allied States naval forces. A decade ago, an enemy helicopter would have been shot down before the pilots even saw the ships, but Azrael would be close enough to piss on them in a few moments.
He watched as more of his forces skittered up the hull of the warships from the smaller yachts and motorboats pulled up alongside them. Each of the smaller vessels had been filled with a mixture of Variants and Scions.
His faithful creatures now stalked the upper decks of the destroyer and the nearby escort ships, hunting down the scattered crew members. They had been preceded by seaborne Variants with gills and webbed claws and feet who had swum underwater, then overwhelmed the crews in a surprise assault.
A voice crackled over his headset. “Prophet, our forces are cleaning up the last survivors of the First Fleet crew.”
It was one of his faithful Scions.
“Very good,” Azrael said. “Have you located Vice President Lemke?”
“There’s no sign of him aboard the ships.”
“Alert all forces to focus their hunts. He cannot be allowed to escape.”
The chopper circled low over an aircraft carrier with a top deck puckered by ruptured metal. A single team of sailors held the bridge and fired at the deck where Variants advanced, using piles of debris for cover.
A few bullets pinged off the chopper, and the pilots pulled away.
Azrael took one last look as the chopper left them behind. Another explosion burst from inside the carrier, and it too began to list, no doubt taking on water. It was just a matter of time before Azrael’s forces took the final heretics.
The voice of another Scion commander broke over the comms. “Prophet, we believe we’ve identified the vice president’s position.”
“Where?”
“He was spotted in Punta del Morro. We believe there might be another sub positioned at that location.”
“Take me there,” Azrael said to the collaborator human pilot. He changed his headset channel to the Naval Commander. “The heretics are trying to escape with a sub at Punta Del Morro. Find it and destroy it.”
He turned to the six Scions in the helicopter.
Before they had been chosen, they had come from different walks of life. They had risen above their frail human pasts, cut up and put back together to become something far greater.
Azrael looked at the Scions in turn. “You are the best of my hunters, and tonight you get a chance to carry out your most important mission yet—find the heretic Dan Lemke.”
“We carry the faith,” the six death squad members replied.
“The first of you to find him will be rewarded with as much flesh as you can eat,” he said. “Whatever human prisoner you desire will be yours.”
The chopper descended over an overgrown grass field in front of the Castillo San Felipe de Morro. Layers of castle-like walls rose above choppy waves, bulwarked by towers between the gates. Azrael leapt out first, wielding his saw-toothed cutlass. The other six followed, each carrying a rifle, their swords strapped over their back.
As the chopper lifted off again, the thrum of the engines faded against the cacophony of the ongoing battle.
Azrael surveyed the open lawn behind them leading to Old San Juan. Human corpses lay strewn over the grass. Thrall Variants tore into them, devouring the corpses. Other prisoners were shackled by collaborators deployed to capture as many humans as they could. Those prisoners were taken to the Santa Maria Cemetery overlooking the sea to await their transport back to the Citadel. They were destined to become labor or food for his growing army.
One of the Scions near Azrael pointed a crooked, clawed finger to the gate leading into the castle. “I smell humans. Alive. They went that way.”
“Find them!” Azrael yelled.
The six soldiers rushed through the gate and entered a cramped courtyard filled with doorways under
white arches. Azrael narrowed his eyes, studying each of the entries.
“That way,” the lead Scion said.
The beast led them into a dark corridor. Stone steps took them down into another tunnel. Azrael sniffed the air. He could smell the stink of humans, their pungent body odor and sweat.
They could not have gotten far.
Darkness filled the tunnel, far too black for a human to see, but Azrael and his augmented soldiers used their enhanced sight to scan for prey as they delved deeper under the castle, north toward where the point met the sea. If Lemke made it to those waters and into his sub, Azrael would fail.
He hadn’t come all the way to Puerto Rico while his forces fought the heretics in Vegas just to let one of the most powerful human beings left in the world slip so easily between his claws.
“We’re getting close!” one of the Scions said. “I can smell it!”
Sniffing the air, Azrael too detected the scent of flesh and fear.
Though their eyesight was preternaturally strong, even they couldn’t see as the final traces of surface light vanished in the tunnels. The death squad turned on the tactical lights fixed to the barrels of their rifles. Beams of white light probed the darkness, cutting through the black to reveal mold-covered stones and rubble.
They took a corner, raw adrenaline filling Azrael. He grinned imagining the fear that must be striking through Lemke at this moment. It had been too long since he had taken part in a hunt like this, and he had to hold in a primordial howl.
They came to another intersection, taking a sharp left, still following the scent trail. Between the sound of their claws on the stone, Azrael heard something else. The clatter of boots and shoes on concrete.
“They’re just ahead,” he growled.
The death squad charged, sprinting through the darkness, their lights bobbing.
Muzzle flashes lit up the passage, followed instantly by the sharp crack of gunfire.
One of the Scions yelled out in agony, her body crumpling. The other five took cover and returned fire, allowing two of the soldiers to advance.
More flashes of gunfire illuminated the tunnel in strobing blasts, and another Scion went down. Azrael sighted up targets and fired at them in turn.
Human cries sounded from the men caught in the hail of his bullets. Another Scion crumpled from a bullet to the head, leaving only two of his soldiers.
The smell of blood in the air was too strong, awakening the primal animal within Azrael.
“On me!” Azrael screamed.
The remaining two Scions let loose a salvo that lanced into a pair of soldiers. The rest of the group of heretics disappeared around another bend in the tunnel, and Azrael barreled after them with his Scions.
Starlight bled into the next section of the tunnel. They had reached the end under the fortress, and a salty seaborne breeze swept through the corridor. Three human soldiers waited with their rifles shouldered.
Azrael slid under the gunfire, but one of his loyal comrades was not quick enough. The beast was cut down in a spray of bullets.
He fired from the ground while the final Scion lay down covering fire. All three of the human soldiers slumped over, dead or dying.
The screams of agony were enough to fuel Azrael and the remaining Scion. He leaped over the soldiers, letting his final soldier finish them off with a cutlass.
Azrael ran out into the weeds and grass of a pathway overlooking the Caribbean.
Three men in ACUs ran, covering a man who had to be the vice president. The final Scion joined Azrael as they stalked the human prey toward a concrete platform.
Amid the choppy water crashing against the black rocks past the pathway, Azrael noticed a Zodiac bobbing. Three men waited in the rigid-hulled inflatable boat. Beyond the craft, a submarine had pierced the surface of the deeper waters.
“Do not hit the heretic,” Azrael said. He raised his rifle next to the final Scion and lined up the sights. Two of the soldiers collapsed under the well-aimed shots, but return fire from the Zodiac forced Azrael to roll away.
He got up and charged ahead, aiming toward the third soldier. His surviving Scion covered him, providing suppressing fire against the men in the Zodiac.
Unstrapping his cutlass, Azrael flanked Lemke and the final soldier, catching them off guard and stabbing the guard through the guts. The man slumped against Azrael, gurgles coming from his mouth.
Azrael used the man as a human shield as he strode toward the vice president.
“No, no, no!” Lemke said, still running for the boat.
Gunfire from the remaining Scion tore into the Zodiac, killing two of the three men. Azrael withdrew his cutlass and pushed the still breathing man to the ground. Slotted eyes on the heretic, Azrael bolted forward.
When he was just within reach, Azrael lunged toward him, snagging his claws through the back of Lemke’s shirt. A scream rang out as Azrael pulled the vice president to the dirt.
Several final gunshots rang out before the last Scion ran over.
“All hostiles eliminated,” he growled.
No longer masked by the sounds of gunfire, Azrael heard the churning engines of his fleet converging on the submarine still waiting for Lemke.
He yanked the vice president to his face, drawing him close, eye to eye.
There was certainly fear in the man’s gaze, but there was also an undeniable anger.
“You won’t win,” Lemke said, wincing.
“Oh, I have already won, “Azrael snarled. “You are just too naïve to see it. This is the end of the Allied States and the end of you.”
— 15 —
Dohi searched the patient rooms and offices on the fifth floor of the University Medical Center of Southern Nevada for some sign of the Prophet. He picked through the tangles of webbing lining a hallway as they made their way toward the administrative offices.
Distant booms from the main strip still sounded like thunder, and the UMC shook slightly with each impact. It sounded like the other teams were getting pounded out there, especially from the constant chatter over the comms.
Dohi had turned off the public channels to concentrate on his own team, Spearhead was in bad shape. Neilson could hardly stand and Toussaint had a swollen face, one of her eyes sealed shut by swelling.
Fitz stayed close beside Dohi with Corrin, while Rico and Ace watched their six.
No one dared speak. Too many monsters stalked the corridors, searching for them.
Sporadic shouts called up the stairwells. Howls and shrieks blasted through the elevator shafts. The collaborators and Variants were searching the building for them, and Dohi knew it wouldn’t be long before they caught up.
He just hoped they found the Prophet first, assuming the beast was even still here.
Every passing minute that seemed to be less likely.
But something was ahead. The webbing grew denser, clogging the halls. Dohi could almost feel the network pulsating. He hacked away at clumps of webbing blocking the passage with his hatchet. Fitz used a knife to saw through strands.
We have to be getting close.
Working together, they pushed through to an area with expansive windows that had once overlooked the surrounding medical center. Now those windows were mostly blotted with viny growths.
The stench of death grew stronger, bringing with it the telltale odor of rotten fruit.
His NVGs picked up what little light sifted through the windows, revealing a space choked in vines. Cubical walls and desks had been toppled, making space for dozens of cocoons where bodies rotted, their nutrients shuttled away by the vines snaking through the corpses.
Dohi breathed though his mouth, trying not to suck in the fetid odor, and continued past.
A flash of movement burst through a corridor ahead. He raised his fist, and counted at least five Variants, hunched. Most of them were feeding, but a few scanned the darkness for prey.
He signaled to the rest of Ghost. Fitz directed Ace and Rico to flank the Variants on the
right side while he and Dohi took the left. Team Spearhead stayed behind with Corrin.
Dohi tried to mask the sounds of their approach but it was nearly impossible with the slurp of his steps. Their only saving grace was another rash of explosions in the distance and the overpowering odor of the dead and dying masking their own smells.
He held his hatchet at the ready, and Fitz gripped his Ka-Bar. The Variants stood in front of another set of wooden doors which were cracked slightly open.
If something was in there, maybe the Prophet, Dohi didn’t want to give any warning that they were outside.
He peeled back more vines until he was just a few feet from his first target Variant. The beast gnawed at a bone. Another two were focused on a cocooned body, pulling out stringy lengths of flesh and chewing them.
Fitz counted down with his fingers.
Three.
Dohi inhaled sharply, cocking back his hatchet. With his other hand, he pulled out his knife.
Two.
He took a step forward and aimed at the spine of the first Variant.
One.
Dohi lunged, swinging the hatchet. It cleaved into the creature’s diseased flesh and cut into bone with a sharp crack. Fitz attacked the second, catching it from behind and sawing his knife straight through the cartilage and flesh at its throat.
Ace and Rico engaged two others, leaving a final abomination that twisted toward Dohi with an open mouth, ready to let loose a shriek.
Dohi threw his knife into the black hole, breaking teeth as it plunged into the throat. The monster shuddered, then fell backward.
The others circled around the open doors, their targets down. Dohi wiggled his hatchet free and then retrieved his knife.
Fitz signaled for Team Spearhead and Corrin to join them. Toussaint and Neilson were in no shape to perform room-clearing maneuvers, but they kept close behind.
Dohi prepared to enter what he hoped would be the lair of the Prophet. All the dense webbings led to this spot. If someone or something was controlling the operations in Vegas, it would be orchestrating the monsters from this place.
Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 114