Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (38 page)

If they needed more firepower than that, they were fucked anyway.

“ETA, Bryant Park two minutes,” Tito said over the comm. “Good luck, Ghost and VH.”

“Listen up,” Beckham said. “We all know what’s at stake. It’s up to us now. We have to capture a live specimen. That’s the ‘primary mission’,” Beckham said, using his fingers to trace quotation marks. “But we will also be on the lookout for Fitz, Apollo, and any other survivors. Understood?”

Garcia quickly replied, “Roger that,” but Tank and Thomas hesitated before nodding. Beckham nodded back, figuring both men had thoughts of their fallen brothers in mind.

A few seconds later, the Osprey descended over the New York Public Library. A thick layer of ash covered the ground around the building like snow. The destruction was widespread, and the library looked like a hunk of coal.

“Sergeant Garcia,” Beckham said, getting the man’s attention with a wave. “I’ll take point for Team Ghost. We advance together, combat intervals, but tighter than normal since we don’t have to worry about enemy fire.”

Garcia nodded and turned to his men. “I’m point for us. Tank, you have the right flank. Thomas, you got left.”

The crew chief in the back of the troop hold punched the button that opened the lift gate the moment the wheels hit the ground. He flashed a thumbs up, and every man on board stood and grabbed a handhold, keeping the other hand on his main weapon. The crew chief flashed another hand signal, and Team Ghost ran down the ramp. The Variant Hunters followed close behind, boots pounding the gate as they ran into sheets of rain. On the muddy lawn, the two teams spread out, weapons sweeping over the battlefield in careful arcs, each man on his own zone of fire.

Beckham would never forget this place. He could still picture the massacre when Lieutenant Gates had attempted to set up the forward operating base. A lot of good Marines had died here, but they had taken hundreds of Variants down with them.

Swollen clouds the size of Navy destroyers cruised across the sky. In the west, lightning tore through the gray. Thunder boomed, growing closer every second. Cold rain pattered Beckham’s skin.

The teams jogged through the maze of splintered trees and charred corpses in Bryant Park. Beckham stopped on the steps overlooking West 42
^nd
Street. Hundreds of track marks in the wet ash led away from the Bryant Metro Station. He crouched down to examine the closest of them.

There was no mistaking the prints. These were Variants, and judging from the route, it didn’t look like any of them had returned from their recent outing. The rain had distorted the tracks, but there was no mistaking their direction.

Beckham glanced to the right. Each building wore a skirt of black where the firebombs had toasted the city. The blasts had shattered nearly every window he could see. Besides the tracks, there was no sign of the monsters. No awful rotting fruit smell, no tormented shrieks, and no snapping joints—just rain, thunder, and an empty city.

This was their chance.

Beckham shot an advance signal and bolted toward Bryant Metro Station. The plan was simple—head to the lair where Fitz had last been seen. If the juvenile Variants were still there, they would split up to capture one and search for survivors.

A draft of death hit Beckham the moment he entered the top of Bryant Metro Station. He stopped at the stairwell and angled his M4 down the steps. They were littered with corpses, torn apart and scattered like a tornado had whipped through a slaughterhouse.

He pulled his wet scarf over his nose and cautiously worked his way down the stairwell. The deeper he went, the worse the stench became. Flies surrounded the team as they continued to the concourse below.

Beckham couldn’t hear anything past the buzzing, but it only took a quick sweep to see that nothing had been down here for some time. Still, the sight gave him pause. A battle had been fought here, but there weren’t any bullet holes or blasts. These creatures had been torn to shreds and left to rot by one another, not by the military. He strode through the graveyard of flesh to the station stop, and angled his UV light into the left passage and then the right.

“What the hell happened here?” Horn whispered into the comm.

“Rival groups,” Garcia said. “They fight over territory and resources. We’ve seen it in Florida, Georgia, pretty much everywhere.”

Jumping to the circuit below, Beckham motioned for the others to follow. He didn’t care what monsters had done this, as long as they were long gone. They made good time through the damp tunnel, and didn’t slow until Beckham discovered fresh bodies. There were four Variants and two Marines, all stiff with rigor mortis, and deader than doornails. Beckham stopped to check both of the men. He rolled one body over to a face he didn’t recognize. The other man was lying on his back, hands up around his neck.

“Holy shit,” Horn said. “Take a look at this, Boss.”

Beckham lowered his light to the other Marine, illuminating a man riddled with bullet holes. His heart rate spiked at the sight. First the Variant-on-Variant violence, and now a Marine that had been shot to pieces?

“Variants still can’t shoot, right?” Chow asked.

Beckham exchanged a glance with Garcia, who shrugged limply.

“Let’s keep moving,” Beckham said. They didn’t have time to investigate. He continued down the passage at a jog that slowed to a walk when they came to the human prisoners. They were all prepared for the gruesome sights, but the decaying bodies were still a shock.

“Check to see if anyone’s still alive,” Beckham said. He directed his light toward the prisoners slung to the ceiling. Guts hung from a man’s burst stomach like electrical cords. He shifted the beam to the right. A woman stared back at him with eyes frozen in terror. Her arms and legs were shredded to the bone. None of these people were alive. The Variants had already fed on them.

Beckham waved the teams forward. Ahead, the passage curved into a three-circuit network. The sour scent of rotting fruit increased with every step. They were close to the lair now, and with no sign of the Variants, Beckham increased his pace into a cautious but quick trot.

He balled his hand when he saw the entrance to the old train stop. Then he slowly reached to shut off his UV light and flip his NVGs into position. This was where Fitz had first left Apollo. He did a quick sweep in the green-hued darkness.

Where the hell are you, boy?

The other men flipped on their NVGs, and continued at Beckham’s command. The passage opened up into a chamber that connected with a concourse. A train was docked there, blocking half of the platform from view. Beckham pointed Ghost to the left. To his right, Garcia led VH to the train. The teams fanned out over the circuits, passing the fresh corpses of Variants. This is where the battle had taken place, but he didn’t see any sign of the Marines until he was hundred feet from the platform.

He halted and crouched, pointing at his eyes and then at the walls across the concourse. Packs of Variants were still slinging fresh bodies onto the wall. Beckham searched the shapes for Fitz’s blades or Apollo’s fur. He counted at least two dozen Variants, but he didn’t recognize their human prisoners. To the right, near the staircases leading up to another level, sat six armored lumps, still as rocks.

Back on the
GW
, Beckham had seen at least two hundred Variants in the lair, but they were gone now, and their tracks led away from the station. Now was the chance the military had hoped for. It almost seemed too good to be true. Beckham used his fingers to tell the story, and gestured for his men to advance.

It wasn’t until they were five feet away from the platform that the first howl sounded. A second and third quickly answered, the shrieks echoing through the chamber in a tide of high-pitched wails.

“Don’t shoot any of the human prisoners,” Beckham said into the comm. Shouldering his rifle, he shouted, “Open fire!”

A torrent of suppressed shots lanced into the concourse. Tracer rounds from Horn and Tank’s SAWs streaked through the air. The Variants took to the ceiling and walls, scampering and skittering toward the six soldiers.

Beckham centered his fire on two of the creatures making a dash across the ground. He followed their quick movements with his muzzle and squeezed off three short bursts. The crack of a skull exploding seemed almost as loud as the suppressed shots. He took the other beast out with two rounds to the neck that sent its head spinning away from its body. The body crashed to the ground, thrashing like a decapitated snake.

The first wave went down easily, but more came from the two staircases at the back of the platform. Dozens turned into fifty. Long limbs pounded the ground, horned nails scraped across the concrete, and gaping mouths released tortured shrieks.

Instead of retreating, Beckham made an advance signal with two fingers. The soldiers took turns climbing onto the platform. Once up top, they worked together side-by-side, mowing down the monsters with calculated precision.

“Changing!” Chow shouted.

“Enemy to the right,” Tank yelled.

“Got it,” Thomas shouted back.

The creatures skidded across the ground, their bodies twitching as the men fired short bursts into their flesh. Chunks of gore somersaulted over the concrete. Beckham’s boots touched the pooling blood. The juvenile Variants were squawking and hissing now, enraged and terrified. Beckham continued searching the walls for Fitz and Apollo.

A few minutes into the slaughter, the remaining beasts retreated back to the children and formed a perimeter around them. Most of them appeared to be female Variants, their bellies still sagging from their recent births.

Beckham had to remind himself they were monsters as he gunned them down. The other men worked their way forward, shooting stray creatures that made dashes for the walls and ceiling.

“Don’t let them escape!” Beckham shouted as the cluster of females steered their children toward the far set of stairs.

He cursed under his breath and changed his magazine. Jamming a new one into the M4, he squared his shoulders and took down three more of the fleeing monsters. He hit another in the knee cap and sent it shrieking in agony. The beast flopped on the ground, and Beckham shot it in the forehead as he passed, the crack echoing through the concourse.

The main clump of remaining creatures darted for the staircases. They scrambled up the steps on all fours, climbing over one another, desperate to escape. Others scaled the walls, clawing and biting their way out of the slaughter.

“Horn, Chow, search for survivors!” Beckham shouted. “Garcia, take the right staircase. I got left!”

Horn voiced his protest over the comm with a grumble, but Beckham kept running, firing short bursts. He couldn’t let the beasts escape above ground. There was no way in hell Beckham or any of the other men could catch them, and if they were allowed to move into the city, they might never find these offspring again. This was their chance. It was now, or never.

Bodies thumped down the stairs, gushing blood that slopped down the concrete. Beckham changed his magazine as he ran, pivoting to the right as a corpse tumbled by him. He slammed a fresh mag into his M4 and brought the gun up just in time to fire on a female that had leapt to the ceiling.

They made eye contact in the moment he fired a burst into her chest. In slow motion, her lips opened into a wide oval, like she was gasping for air. She dropped and landed with a thud in front of him, clutching tomato-sized holes that spouted crimson onto his pants. He smashed her head in with the butt of his rifle to conserve ammo.

The other Variants continued to the second level, and Beckham moved to follow them cautiously, scanning the dim space. The corridor had once served as a ticket station. To his left, a staircase led to the street. The Variants were already skittering up the stairs, but several of the beasts stopped to cover the retreat of the children. They turned in his direction, heads tilting, yellow eyes locking onto him. To the right, Garcia’s team was running up another staircase to flank the creatures.

A female Variant missing her nose licked her wormy lips and charged. An anguished shriek reverberated through the wide room as Beckham squeezed off a burst into her torso. She spun away in a spray of bloody mist.

Moonlight streamed from the left stairwell. Beckham caught a glimpse of one of the children escaping into the night. He fired at a pack of three emaciated male beasts that had regrouped. Two of them went down by the ticket counters, and he killed the third when it leapt to the ceiling.

“Hotel 1, Golf 1,” Beckham said into his comm.

“Hotel 1,” Garcia replied. “We’re topside. Eyes on the prize.”

“On my way.” Beckham fired on two females galloping in his direction. Others clambered across the ceiling, homing in on him with their demented eyes. The stairwell had come alive with motion as the abominations poured back into the room.

Beckham’s heart raced in sync with the automatic bursts from his gun. He was slowly being surrounded. He had broken a cardinal rule, running ahead with no backup. Planting his boots and squaring his shoulders, he squeezed off another flurry of shots. The two females crashed to the ground, swiping at his legs as he executed both of them.

He shifted to his right to kill another beast charging over the ceiling. A spikey tongue shot from its mouth, curled around bulging lips, then disappeared back inside the gaping hole. Beckham lined up a shot that hit the creature where its tongue had been, the bullet entering through the mouth and blowing out the back of its head.

“Chow, Big Horn,” Beckham said into his comm. “Up here!”

Static broke over the line, the delay in response making Beckham’s heart flutter.

“On our way,” Chow finally replied.

The ceiling and floor were crawling with monsters now. Beckham backpedaled as he fired. Shadows flickered around him, long and distorted, claws like swords stretching over the ground.

Fucking rookie mistake, Beckham!

He should never have pursued the creatures alone. He simply couldn’t shoot them fast enough. More continued to stream down the staircase. Thoughts of Kate and their unborn child filled him with relentless strength to keep fighting.