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 nodded 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, lik
e 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.
The other two were both muscular and about six feet tall. They were younger than the leader. The man on the left wore a stocking cap, and the guy on the right had a thick beard and wore a Boston Red Sox hat with a frayed bill.
Timothy gritted his teeth again, rage boiling inside of his veins. He bucked against his restraints, desperate to get free.
The men all laughed.
“Got a real squirmer,” said the short guy in a Brooklyn accent.
“I’ll kill you!” Timothy tried to scream. “I’ll kill all of you!”
The trapped words came out an indecipherable gargle, prompting more guffaws from the collaborators.
Timothy thrashed harder, fueled by the cruel laughter. This time part of his shoulder ripped free and the restraint on his forehead came loose, allowing him to move his neck. He saw then what had trapped his body.
White glue cocooned him from the chin down.
He had once heard about these Variant excretions used to keep human and animal prisoners like a spider with its prey.
Now he was one of them.
The men stopped laughing as Timothy craned his neck enough to get a good look at the other prisoners. His heart caught in his chest at the gruesome sights.
The man to his left didn’t look human anymore. A Variant had chewed off most of the face, including the nose, eyes, and lips. Long bangs hung over what was left of his cheeks.
Past the hanging corpse, two women hadn’t fared much better, their features erased by claws and teeth. Flags of red flesh hung from their torn skin. One of them still had her eyes, and Timothy sucked down a horrified breath when he realized they were focused on him.
No… she can’t be still alive, he thought.
He forced his gaze back to the collaborators.
“Damn,” said the guy with the Red Sox hat. “Never seen one break free like that.”
The short guy walked over to Timothy and then reached out with a knife. He angled the blade toward Timothy’s eyes, but Timothy kept them open, glaring at the abominable man.
Using the curved blade, the collaborator punched a hole in the glue covering Timothy’s lips. Timothy let out a scream as the knife cut through his upper lip.
“Oops, sorry about that, kid,” the man said. He stepped back and studied Timothy like the Variant had earlier.
Blood gushed from the cut in his lip and into Timothy’s mouth.
“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” the short man said. “Everyone else ended up as snacks. Wouldn’t have been long before you became one, too.”
He looked from left to right before focusing back on Timothy.
“I would’ve liked to keep the others around, but it’s okay,” the man continued. “Our pets need the energy for tonight.”
Timothy glared, resisting the urge to spit in his face.
“Not going to say anything, huh?” asked the short man. “No?”
He raised a remote in his hand. Timothy figured that was what had set off the shock in the Variant’s collar.
“Soon as I press this button, I send that monster into shark mode,” he said.
The man in the Red Sox hat chuckled, his beard parting over his lips. “And you know who the chum is, don’t you, pal?”
The man in front of Timothy stepped closer. His lips spread in a lop-sided smirk, exposing yellow and rotting teeth that smelled as bad as they looked.
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Timothy said. “Go ahead. Kill me. You’ll be doing me a favor if I don’t have to smell your rotten breath anymore.”
The guy chuckled and then looked over his shoulder at his men. Timothy used the opportunity to throw a head butt that almost connected. He strained, his neck extending as he spat and snarled.
“Well shit, you are a rabid little fucker, aren’t you?”
“Maybe he could come in handy,�
�� said the guy with the stocking cap. “Tough guys are hard to find.”
The short man held up the remote so Timothy could see it.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll end up bait, all depends on tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?” Timothy asked.
“You’ll see,” the man with the stocking cap said.
Then the collaborators filed out of the room, leaving Timothy in the darkness with the dead and dying prisoners. His pounding heart slowed and after a few minutes he finally relaxed in his restraints, saving his strength for later.
A screech broke the silence, and another answered the first.
The chamber darkened as a cloud passed over the moon.
All at once, many shrieks sounded outside, rising into a chorus like a pack of werewolves howling at the moon.
Only it sounded like an army.
***
Beckham’s head still pounded with a fiery agony. He figured he was suffering a concussion.
Two hours had passed since the ambush. They were still another fifteen minutes from the outpost by car, and probably two hours or more on foot. At this rate, they wouldn’t be back until midnight.
Not only had they failed to find Timothy, they might not return in time to defend the outpost from another attack. Kate was probably worried sick, if she even knew he was out here, and he had no way of telling her what was going on.
You really screwed things up this time, Reed, he thought.
Night had fallen, and Beckham and Horn weren’t prepared to fight in the dark. With the radio broken, they couldn’t even call for help.
They were on their own, but they had plenty of ammunition. Beckham carried an M4A1 and a vest full of magazines, plus his sidearm. Horn grabbed the M240 from the pickup truck and two belts of rounds, now draped over his chest. His primary rifle was also slung over his back, and he had a pistol if it came down to it.
Beckham also carried Timothy’s pistol.
They salvaged grenades and a backpack of explosives from the dead collaborators. Even more importantly, they had snagged FLIR thermal binoculars off one of the assholes.
Beckham had a feeling the explosives he carried were intended for Outpost Portland.
“How you doin’, boss?” Horn whispered over his shoulder. “Want to stop and rest?”
Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno Page 9