Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (36 page)

L
ieutenant Davis shut the door to the small conference room, sealing Team Ghost and the Variant Hunters inside. She gave Garcia and Beckham meaningful looks, and took a seat at the table. After everyone had sat down, she said, “The strike teams in New York have all been eliminated.”

The words hit Beckham so hard he might have dropped to his knees if he’d been standing. “Fitz,” he said. “You’re sure Fitz and Apollo are dead?”

Davis shook her head. “Not for certain, but we can show you the feed. This may be hard, but I need to know what we are dealing with here.”

“What do you mean ‘dealing with’?” Horn asked.

“You will have to see it with your own eyes to believe it,” Davis said.

Chow bowed his head and put a hand on Beckham’s back. Locking his jaw, Beckham fended off the scream he wanted to unleash. He thought he would feel overwhelming sadness, but instead he felt a dangerous emotion crawling under his skin. The prickle of vengeance rushed through him like a shot of morphine.

“Show us,” Beckham said.

Davis tapped into the monitor and sorted through a series of images. She moused over to a still frame, clicked on it, and brought it on screen. The men all crowded around her.

“There,” she said, pointing. “This is the last few seconds of his feed. Note that Fitz left Apollo before he went into the chamber. We’re not sure why, but we’re assuming it was the danger of stray bullets. It was pretty chaotic by the time Team Shepherd arrived.”

The barrel of Fitz’s MK11 came on screen. He fired at a hulking Variant running toward him that was covered in grisly plates of human bones. Beckham flinched at each shot, watching as the armor shattered and broke away. A cord or necklace of some sort swung from the creature’s muscular neck.

“Are those bones?” Garcia asked.

Davis nodded. “Keep watching. The bones are just the beginning.”

“Can you slow that frame down?” Beckham asked.

Davis tapped at the keyboard until the feed was moving in slow motion. Beckham took a step closer for a better look, holding his breath. The beast’s neck was decorated with flesh trophies. He had seen something like this before. Lieutenant Brett had been captured with a necklace just like it back in Vietnam.

“Looks familiar,” Horn said. “Didn’t—”

“Yes,” Beckham said. “He did.”

“What the hell is on its back?” Chow asked.

Garcia leaned closer. “Looks like a patchwork of skin from multiple bodies.”

“This is why I called you all here. I need your help figuring out what the fuck this thing is,” Davis said. “Is this another White King?”

“No,” Garcia said, still staring. “Something much worse. This one understands the value of body armor, and the fact it went to lengths to decorate itself with flesh ornaments means its more than just an Alpha predator now—it’s a demon.”

Beckham thought about replying when the beast lowered its skull and speared Fitz in the chest. A phantom pain raced through Beckham, Fitz’s pain becoming his own. The feed rattled violently, turning topsy-turvy.

“This is where he lost his helmet,” Davis said.

The helmet tumbled across the ground and came to a stop upside down. In the right hand corner of the monitor, Fitz was on his back, shooting his tranq gun at the Alpha. The beast crashed to the ground a few minutes later, and Fitz moved out of view.

“See, Fitz and Apollo could still be alive,” Beckham said, a trickle of hope pooling in his gut. He framed it as a statement, not a question, but Davis pulled up another image from a different feed.

“This was taken ten minutes after Fitz fell,” she said.

On screen, hundreds of Variants poured into the chamber. There were six children in the mix, scampering in and out of the tide of diseased flesh. Two human collaborators pulled an unconscious Marine toward the creatures. A gunshot hit the man on the left a second later, a spray of bone and brain matter peppering the ceiling.

“Holy shit,” Horn said. “Only Fitz could have nailed that shot.”

“Maybe, but no way he could have survived against those kind of numbers,” Davis said.

“You don’t know Fitz,” Beckham said.

Davis looked Beckham in the eye, “I’m sorry, Master Sergeant, but it’s highly unlikely he made it out.”

“What’s that?” Chow said, leaning in. He pointed at a flash of movement on the left side of the screen. Davis paused the video and hit rewind for several seconds.

“Keep it slow,” Chow said. After a pause he said, “There, that’s Apollo!”

Beckham squeezed next to them. Sure enough, on the edge of the platform in the very left corner of the video feed was the dog. And slightly to his right was the edge of a flashing blade.

Apollo jumped back to the circuits a second later, and the blade vanished.

“Replay it,” Beckham said.

Davis looked back at him.

“Please, Lieutenant, those are our friends.”

She nodded and replayed the video three times. The image of Apollo and Fitz’s blade was only onscreen for five seconds, but it was more than enough for Beckham to know they were still alive.

“We have to mount a rescue operation,” he said.

Davis hesitated, as if she was considering the idea. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. We don’t have the resources for a successful operation, and we both know your friends are probably dead by now.”

“Like I said, you don’t know our friends,” Beckham replied.

“You’re right, I don’t,” Davis said. “But going back out there isn’t an option right now. Vice President Johnson is considering our next steps. My orders are to determine if we are dealing with a new type of Variant. And from the sounds of it, we are.”

Garcia nodded and scratched at his head with one eye on Beckham. 

“I’m sorry about your friends,” Davis said. She hesitated before leaving the men in silence. When she was gone, Beckham turned and looked at the other men in turn. Horn and Chow shared the same defiant looks. Garcia seemed to brighten like he’d had the same idea Beckham was having. Tank and Thomas stood tall. Their looks told Beckham he could count on every soldier in the room.

Remember what you have to lose. It’s not just us anymore...

Beckham looked at his boots, faces of everyone he had ever lost emerging in his mind: his parents, his men, Jensen. Their faces vanished, replaced by images of those still alive. Horn’s girls, Kate and their unborn baby, even Fitz and Apollo were there.

Garcia patted Beckham on his arm, right next to the Team Ghost patch. “I made the mistake of leaving Stevo out there. If you need our help, we’re in.”

Beckham returned the pat. “Thank you, brother.” He ran a hand over two days’ worth of scruff, and searched the faces of the men staring back at him a second time, looking for some answer to the questions eating him up inside.

“What do you guys say? Want to go back out there and save some Marines? Shit, maybe we will even capture our own child Variant.” 

There were five quick nods, but no one said a word. Each man knew they would be breaking orders if they went rogue.

“Only one problem,” Beckham said. “We need a ride.”

Tank smiled for the first time since Beckham had met the lumbering man. “Don’t worry, Master Sergeant, my cousin Tito is a pilot, and fortunately for us, he’s on board the
GW
. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sneaking us on board.”

N
ew York City was shrouded in gray. Dark storm clouds rolled over the skyscrapers. Fitz ran like a madman toward the Public Library, with Apollo close behind. Dozens of Variants were in pursuit, slamming into charred vehicles and leaping to the darkened walls of nearby buildings. Clicking joints and angry shrieks echoed through the derelict city. He felt kind of like he was the grand marshal of a particularly evil parade.

Fitz stopped at a squad car and fired off three short bursts from his M4. Two of the monsters went down and skidded across the pavement of West 42
^nd
street. A cloud of ash trailed them as they came to a stop. He counted at least two dozen more hostiles. Some of the beasts moved slowly, injured from the bombing raid earlier, their bodies charcoaled from the fire that had licked their pallid skin.

Apollo barked fiercely, his fur trembling with rage.

“Come on, Apollo!” Fitz shouted.

His thighs were burning now, and when he looked down, he saw why. The bottom of his right blade was bent. It must have happened back in the underground, when the Bone Collector had tossed him like a ragdoll. Fitz ran for Bryant Park. He loped up the three levels of stairs and jumped over the trees draped across the walkway. The decayed bodies of the Variants killed by 1
^st
Platoon were sprawled in all directions.

Glancing over his shoulder, Fitz saw the beasts were gaining. There was no way he and Apollo could outrun them. They had to hide and hope the monsters moved on. Otherwise they had to fight. But both options seemed impossible. He didn’t have enough ammunition to mount a stand. And even if he did, he wasn’t sure he could kill the beasts before they overwhelmed him. There was no calling for help, either. The wind rustling through his auburn hair reminded him he had lost his helmet, and with it his connection to the outside world.

Besides Apollo, Fitz was alone. The mission to extract a juvenile Variant seemed distant now, but it was still on his mind. He just had to figure out a way to get back to the lair. Even though he knew it was next to impossible to complete his mission, his brain still searched for a strategy that might salvage the operation.

He bounded up the stairs to the library entrance and leapt over the mangled body of a Variant that looked like a squished starfish. Apollo ran through the partially open central doors, but Fitz halted.

The monsters trailing them were almost to Bryant Park. Packs from connecting streets streamed into the long line of beasts, increasing their numbers to fifty or more. Without thinking, Fitz grabbed the splattered Variant corpse and dragged it into the building. Then he slammed the door with his back and lugged the corpse to the next level. Apollo sniffed ahead, his tail still up.

There was pounding on the first level as the creatures broke their way into the building. Fitz whistled at Apollo and jerked his chin toward a room halfway down the hall. It led into an open workroom with two sets of doors. He dropped the corpse as he entered the room, the putrid scent of decaying bodies filling his nose. There were half a dozen human bodies in here. Most of them torn to shreds.

He pulled his scarf above his nose and did a quick scan of the long room. Desks and bookshelves barricaded the second and third doors, but the shelves at the entrance Fitz had used were toppled. Survivors had tried to make a stand here.

Fitz quickly rebuilt the barricade, shoving the shelves into place and dragging chairs and tables over to reinforce them. The shrieks and raucous cries of the Variants tearing the first floor of the building apart fueled Fitz’s rapid movements.

When he finished, he gestured for Apollo and continued to a pair of corpses still dressed in the clothes they had died in. He unslung the rifle from his back and laid it next to the bodies. Then he dragged a third over, along with the squishy Variant corpse.

Apollo watched, tilting his head from side to side.

“You’re not going to like what I’m about to do, boy,” Fitz whispered. Holding his breath, he plucked a gooey hunk of flesh from the Variant’s stomach and smeared it over his face, fatigues and blades. Apollo backed away as Fitz raised a second hand of rotting flesh. He reached out, but the dog shook and shied away again.

A thump sounded down the hallway. The popping of joints and snarls from a pack of Variants grew closer. Fitz took a second to think. Even if he could get Apollo to obey, he wasn’t sure he could keep the dog quiet when the Variants found them.

“I’m sorry, boy,” Fitz whispered. He pulled his tranq pistol and pulled one of the darts out. Then he grabbed Apollo and said, “You’re just going to sleep for a little while.” He stuck the dog in the leg and pulled the dart out rapidly so he would only have a small dose of the sedatives.

Apollo let out a soft whimper and went limp in Fitz’s arms. He carried the dog to the stack of bodies against the wall and spread the guts over his fur. After applying a second coat of gore to both of them, Fitz lay down with Apollo and pulled the human corpses over top. The cotton scarf did little to block the awful scents, but Fitz had more to worry about than what the Variant had eaten before it died over a week ago.

Thud after thud echoed outside the door, followed by shattering glass and splintering wood. They were close now. The clatter sounded like they were inside a fucking kitchen, not a library.

Fitz was on his back under the bodies, holding Apollo with his right arm. The dog’s heart thumped against Fitz’s bicep. He looked up through the fort of rotting limbs at a ray of sunlight bleeding in from a window halfway up the wall. It was the only one with intact glass; the others were all broken from the firebombs of Operation Liberty.

Something darted past the window, climbing up the surface of the building. Other skeletal shapes skittered up the exterior of the library, the room falling into shadow as they passed the glass. In his mind’s eye, Fitz could see the beasts swarming over the burnt structure like an army of ants consuming a hunk of flesh. The scratching, snapping and shrieks came from all directions.