“Can’t hear you,” Horn said. “Because you were never here and didn’t see me leave.” He grabbed the machine gun and tapped the top of the cab.
Sam started the engine, and Beckham closed the door. He kept his window rolled down and charged his rifle as Sam drove out of the lot and through the city. The soldiers manning checkpoints all gave them the same look as if to say, You guys crazy?
It wasn’t the best of plans, but Beckham and Horn couldn’t just leave Timothy out there.
The sun continued to lower in the sky on the ride. Sam didn’t talk much and Beckham kept quiet. They both clearly had one thing on their mind—finding the militia soldiers.
Thirty minutes later they pulled onto a gravel and dirt road.
“There,” Sam said, pointing.
He eased off the gas as they approached an idle truck.
“Stay here and keep it running,” Beckham said. He opened his door and motioned for Horn to stay on the mounted machine gun.
Beckham shouldered his M4A1 as he approached the truck. Bullet holes had fractured the windshield, and the driver side window was shattered, revealing torn seats covered in blood that gave him a pretty clear mental image of what had happened.
He halted when he saw long scratches marred the door.
It wasn’t the collaborators that had attacked the militia.
Variants had done this.
He cautiously opened the truck door to look inside. A pistol with a bloody grip rested on a floor mat, surrounded by empty bullet casings.
Beckham picked the familiar gun up, confirming it was the same pistol Jake Temper gave his son for his sixteenth birthday by the engraving on the barrel.
Never Stop Fighting.
He remembered Kate insisting on holding the party at their house. The memories sparked a wave of dread that washed over Beckham, deflating him like a punctured tire. He wiped the pistol handle against his pants to clean off the blood, then stuffed the gun in his waistband.
As he made his way back to the pickup, he scanned the woods. The autumn colors glowed in the final hours of sunlight in what might have been considered a divine view before the age of monsters.
But Beckham knew evil dwelled in those woods and wouldn’t hesitate to show itself once they’d turned dark.
Ruckley was probably right. By all odds, Timothy was likely dead. But there was a chance, however small, that the young man was still alive. If he was, then he was almost certainly a prisoner to the beasts. A fate even worse than a quick slash of a claw to the throat.
He walked over to the side of the truck and looked up at Horn, then pulled out the pistol. “It was his.”
“I could tell by the look on your face,” Horn said quietly. He clenched his jaw, face turning red as he looked out over the forest.
They stood in silence for a moment before Beckham gave an order that almost physically hurt. Timothy’s trail ended here. Coming out here had been a big enough risk. Searching for Timothy now would be suicide.
“We have to get back to the outpost for now,” he said.
Horn didn’t protest. The brash man knew they had no choice. Instead his eyes went low, and he kicked at the pickup bed, muttering a stream of curses.
Beckham got back into the cab.
“Either the guys that stayed out here are all dead or they’re prisoners now,” he told Sam.
The old militia soldier didn’t seem too surprised. “I see. We calling off the search then?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Sam put the vehicle into drive. Beckham kept his rifle on his lap as they drove away. They wound back down the road, surrounded by the hilly forest rising on either side. Shadows enveloped them as the sun began its descent beyond the trees.
“Lost some good men out there,” Sam said, nose twitching. “Men I called friends. Stephen was one of the best I ever had.”
“I’m sorry,” Beckham said.
“Me—”
The M240 barked the same second Beckham saw the men emerge from the woods. Muzzle flashes came from the foliage, rounds peppering the passenger door and shattering the window.
“Floor it!” Beckham yelled. He leaned down, barely avoiding a volley of bullets meant for his head. They sliced past him, but still found a target.
Hot blood splattered his neck as he remained hunched. Beckham glanced to the side. Sam had been hit across his shoulders and chest. Despite the injuries he kept his hands on the wheel and foot on the pedal.
Sam tried to open his mouth to talk, but only blood came out.
The crack of the M240 exploded again.
Return fire punched through the passenger door, letting in rays of light. Another bullet clipped Sam in the neck, blood spraying out. He reached up to staunch the wound, and Beckham grabbed the wheel.
Sam slumped forward onto the wheel, breaking Beckham’s grip.
The truck swerved into the ditch and down an embankment that ended at a cluster of large trees. Beckham sat up. In the side mirror, he saw Horn jump out of the bed and roll into the foliage. The pickup jolted violently at the bottom of the ditch.
There was no time for Beckham to brace himself. Crunching metal and shattering glass sounded when the hood of the truck crumpled against a tree. Beckham’s head snapped into the dashboard. There was pain, but then only darkness.
A voice stirred him awake some time later.
Beckham groaned, his head pounding.
He opened his eyes to a view of overhead branches. Leaves fluttered down behind over a blurred face.
“Boss, you got to wake up,” Horn said.
Beckham’s vision cleared enough to see Horn, a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth.
“There you are, brother,” Horn said. “Can you sit up?”
He grabbed Beckham under the arm and helped him up. Beckham reached up to touch a tender gash on his head, blood still trickling from it.
“Reed, say something,” Horn said.
“Where are the fuckers that ambushed us?”
Horn grinned. “Dead. All four of ’em; I fucked ’em up good. We got to move before more come.”
Beckham saw Horn had already gathered their weapons and added a backpack to the mix. He guessed that’s where the new cigarette came from too.
“Can you walk?” Horn asked.
“I think so. You got the radio?”
“Yeah… but it’s broke dick,” Horn said. “We’re on our own, boss.”
— 7 —
Spotlights snapped on around Scott AFB as the horizon swallowed the last drop of sunlight. They flitted back and forth over the terrain as the soldiers prepared to defend the base for a second night.
Beyond the defenses, smoke still drifted away from smoldering buildings and houses. The crack of gunfire echoed through the early evening as the final hunter-killer teams finished picking off the rogue Variants still prowling for food.
Fitz carried a box of explosives out of the command building. The rest of Team Ghost was working to put up a third fence surrounding the building. The front gate to the first layer of defenses opened as the armored vehicles returned from their missions.
About one hundred soldiers had remained behind to protect the command building from the Variants now that most of the non-combatants had been evacuated. The sounds of hammers and shouting voices echoed over the parking lot.
Fitz was glad that command had decided to try and hold this position.
“Hurry up!” someone shouted.
The urgency was shared by every soldier and Marine working near the command building. They were all exhausted, and Fitz wasn’t sure when any of them would get to rest.
He handed his crate of explosives off to a Marine and then joined Rico who was working on piling up sandbags in the glow of portable lights.
She dropped another onto a small pile and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Both dimples widened when she saw him, but quickly turned to a frown. “You doing all right, Fitzie?”
“Yeah, I’m good,
how about you?”
“Glad we saved those kids but worried about what the night brings.” She turned to look out over the defenses. “I got a bad feeling we might have just been delaying the inevitable.”
“I know what you mean,” Fitz said.
She gave him another sideways glance. “Seriously, you sure you’re good? If you need to grab thirty minutes of shuteye, I can pull double duty.”
Fitz nearly laughed. That was one thing he could never fault Rico for. She would look out for everyone else at the sacrifice of her own needs.
“No way,” he said, almost calling her babe. If his teammates heard him call Rico that he would get more shit than a Kandahar porta potty.
Ace, Dohi, and Mendez were working on another mound of sandbags nearby but they didn’t seem to be listening.
“What I would do for a few hours of sleep,” she said. Then she playfully hit him in the arm. “And a little of you know what…”
“Get a room, kids,” Ace said.
Fitz’s cheeks warmed. Apparently they were listening.
“I wish,” Rico chuckled.
Mendez joined in. “Does fucking up Variants get you all as hot as it gets me?”
“Christ, man,” Ace said. “You’re a nut.”
Dohi didn’t react. The stoic man grabbed another sandbag and placed it on top of the mound.
“How you doin’, brother?” Fitz asked him.
Dohi shrugged. He always had a way of keeping his emotions and thoughts close. Trying to get at them was like prying at a crate with a plastic shovel to see what was inside.
“I heard what you did in that chopper,” Ace said. “You did the right thing.”
Fitz recalled what Rico had said—that Dohi had shot a man being torn to shreds by the Variants. His silence made even more sense.
“Pops always taught me to put an animal out of its misery, and the same goes for humans,” Ace said. “He also told me to always know more than the name of the guy on your left in the assembly line.”
“I track things and I shoot things, what else do you want to know?” Dohi asked.
Ace looked like he was about to try again when a Marine jogged over from an M-ATV holding another rocket-launcher-shaped R2TD device.
“Master Sergeant Fitzgerald!” the man called out. “We’ve got new orders for you.”
Fitz had been waiting on those words, and for the R2TD. Several other teams were already using the surviving devices command had on hand to mark tunnels around base.
Now Fitz had a feeling Team Ghost was going to help beyond the walls again.
They had danced with death too much lately, and although Rico was a skilled soldier, he couldn’t help the anxiety that coursed through him when she was out there on her own.
Of course that was the life they had both chosen, but the past few days were different than the past few years of missions. This wasn’t just hunting down an errant Variant or two. This was all out war.
“Any word on enemy movement?” Fitz asked the Marine as he took the R2TD unit.
“The only activity in this area are the rogue Variants still scrounging for food, but most of them have been eliminated by our hunter killer teams.”
“So no indication that they might attack again tonight?”
“And no sign of the hordes?” Ace asked.
“Not yet,” said the Marine.
Fitz stamped the ground with one of his blades. “They’re still down there. They have to be.”
“Guess it’s a good thing we still have a couple R2TD systems,” Rico said.
“No kidding,” the Marine said. “We’re lucky we got this one. It was on the chopper dropping off those kids y’all rescued.”
“Glad to hear they were evacuated,” Rico said.
“Them, and the rest of the people here. Just us jarheads and our brothers… and sisters left now.” The Marine unslung a pack and handed it to Rico. “These will help the demo teams collapse any tunnels you locate.”
“Thanks,” Fitz said.
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.”
Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno Page 8