Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (39 page)

Beckham locked his jaw and became a machine, firing without restraint into the waves of monsters. They were closing in, and he fired in an arc that pushed them back. But there were so many. At least fifty, and others were still answering the battle cry from the street above. Where the fuck were Garcia and his men?

A tracer round shot by Beckham’s left ear, slamming into the wave of advancing monsters. Horn and Chow now flanked him on both sides, firing into the masses of diseased flesh. Beckham bent down, pulled a dry mag, tossed it, reached for another, and slammed it home before his knee hit the ground. He was firing again, shots ripping through eye sockets and emaciated chest cavities.

“Did you find Fitz and Apollo?” he shouted.

“Negative,” Chow replied.

Hope drained out of Beckham like the bullets leaving his gun. He knew it was a long shot, but if Fitz and Apollo weren’t here, it would be like finding a needle in a fucking haystack outside. 

Beckham ground his teeth and continued squeezing the trigger. The encroaching creatures were close. So close he could smell their sour, rancid flesh.

“Garcia, we need help!” Beckham shouted.

Static hissed into his earpiece, then a voice said, “On our way...Variant...”

Beckham hoped that whatever Garcia meant by
Variant
, it was good news. He took another step backward, his boots reaching the edge of the stairwell. Horn and Chow squeezed up against him, their muzzles flicking from the ceiling to the floor to the walls.

No! Goddammit. Not like this!

Beckham gripped his rifle tighter and counted the beasts. There were still at least thirty. And they were inching closer, claws swiping, jaws clamping. The sounds merged into a hellish symphony of snapping joints and howls, but it was the noise coming from the staircase behind them that sent a chill up Beckham’s spine. He whirled just as a pack of beasts rocketed up the stairs.

“Our six!” Beckham managed to shout. He emptied the rest of his magazine into the creatures, killing or maiming all four of them.

Something big hit Beckham from behind, knocking him forward. He reached out to grab the wall, but crashed into the side and then toppled down four stairs. He caught a glimpse of Horn falling too, but Chow was still at the top of the landing, firing at the pallid wall of crazed monsters.

“Chow, get out of there!” Beckham shouted. He climbed over a corpse and pulled his .45. Horn was already on his feet, SAW spitting rounds into the monsters surrounding Chow.

Beckham went to fire when a claw grabbed his boot. Pain lanced up his leg as horned nails sunk in. Twisting, he shot the beast he had failed to kill earlier directly between the eyes. Blood caked his uniform and splattered in his face.

When he turned back to the landing, the Variants were surging toward Chow. They lashed at his arms, tearing through cloth and ripping into flesh. He backed away as Horn ran up the stairs, but it was too late. The monsters pulled Chow beneath their ranks, the wall of pallid flesh closing around him.

F
itz ran through the streets fueled by pure adrenaline. Apollo was having a hard time keeping up, still sluggish from the sedatives. They’d been on the move for over an hour, trailing the army of creatures to the edge of Manhattan.

Cold rain fell from the dark sky, rinsing the filth and blood from Fitz’s fatigues. He’d lost sight of the beasts a few streets back, and had worried they’d taken the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. The thought of heading underground again gave him the chills, but as he approached the United Nations tower along East 42
^nd
Street, he heard the chorus of snapping joints and sporadic shrieks again.

Fitz jogged through the abandoned cars on the FDR onramp. The narrow one-way road was clogged with twisted metal. He ran to the concrete barrier overlooking the river, Apollo nudging up against him when they got there.

To his left, the center of the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge sagged into the river. The white hull of a capsized yacht sat in the water under the bridge like a fin of some giant whale.

Fitz shouldered his M4, and centered his scope on FDR Drive to the right. There were several platforms in the river along the side of the road. A small fleet of eight boats ranging in shapes and sizes were docked on the third galley down. Some appeared to be Coast Guard vessels; others were speed boats like those he had seen scoping out Plum Island. Movement on the dock caught his attention, and he centered his muzzle on several soldiers loading boxes.

Fitz wanted to scream and wave, but held his breath instead. He wiped the rain from his face and pushed the scope to his eye. These men, filthy and thin, were dressed in soiled, tattered clothing. They didn’t look like the type that could survive out in the open. He flinched as a pack of Variants leapt onto the dock. The men backed away and jumped into the boats.

Zooming in, Fitz almost choked at the sight of dozens of human collaborators. Some of the men carried rifles, and there was no mistaking the AT-4 launcher one of them had slung over his back, nor his Army uniform.

Mother—

It took every ounce of strength to hold back his trigger finger from raining rounds on the boats. But there was nothing he could do from here. He didn’t have enough ammunition.

The Bone Collector lumbered across the dock with the surviving collaborator dragging Knapp behind them. The Alpha turned and picked Knapp up by his throat and tossed him into the closest boat. Then it turned and roared at the other Variants. They clambered onto the platform, squawking as if disoriented. The beast screeched again, and the Variants finally climbed into the boats. Others continued to file in from FDR Drive until the eight vessels were filled to the brim.

Fitz considered shooting the engines or trying to take out the human collaborators. The Variants couldn’t drive themselves, and it would take days to swim to Plum Island. He pivoted from side to side, searching for a clean shot, but the Variants had filled the boats, and the human collaborators were already behind the helms.

Apollo poked Fitz’s bent blade with his wet muzzle. He let out a low whine and looked up, the fleck of amber in his dark eyes reflecting an astonishing level of comprehension—the dog understood what they were up against, and he was still itching to fight. They were both exhausted, injured, and frightened, but it was up to Fitz and Apollo to stop these bastards from reaching their friends at Plum Island.

The engines coughed to life, and one by one they launched into the water. Rain pelted the diseased cargo as they took off down the East River. Even at full-speed, it would take them a couple of hours to reach their destination. With no way to contact the island, he would have to beat the creatures there. That was his only hope, unless the Blackhawks patrolling the skies above the island noticed them first.

As soon as the final boat launched, Fitz took off running down the ramp, his loyal German Shepherd by his side. There were still two docked vessels, both red, one with lightning bolt strikes on the side. He opted for that one, and almost grinned when he clambered into the cigar-shaped boat. The Variants weren’t as smart as he’d given them credit for. They had left the fastest boat, and Fitz was going to give the beasts a run for their money.

S
ide by side, Beckham and Horn fought their way into the crowd of beasts in their search for Chow. They couldn’t see him, but they could hear his screams over the comm. Every agonizing second felt like talons flaying Beckham’s flesh. This was his fault. Chow’s death would be on his hands, just like all of his other men lost since Building 8. The sound of distant suppressed gunfire rang out as the duo battled their way deeper into the throng. At the end of the corridor, a trio of soldiers rushed down the stairs.

The hope that had died inside of Beckham reared its head, fueling another wave of adrenaline that pushed him forward. He fired his .45 with his right hand and slashed with his knife in his left, executing any Variants that made a run for him, and slashing the throats of those he didn’t shoot in the head. Horn had torn a hole in the wall of Variants to the center and the right.

“Hold on, Chow!” Beckham shouted. He was down to his final bullet when a muffled reply broke over the channel.

“Save some for us?”

It was Garcia, and the monsters were falling back right into the gunfire of the Variant Hunters. Forming a perimeter, the two teams clamped around the desperate creatures. Through the fence of stalk-like appendages and withered torsos, Beckham saw Chow’s still body.

Claws ripped across Beckham’s left arm. He shot the beast in the face without slowing. Another lunged at him from the side, and he jammed his blade into the creature’s skull.

The final Variants scattered, Garcia and his men pursuing while Horn and Beckham ran for Chow. Blood was already pooling around the man’s body. He lay curled up in a fetal position. A deep gash stretched from his chin to his eyebrow on the right side of his face.

Beckham dropped to a knee and put a hand on Chow’s shoulder. The man screamed in agony. Trembling, Chow rolled onto his back.

“Got me good,” he said.

Beckham held in a breath when he saw the extent of Chow’s injuries. His body was covered in lacerations, some so deep he could see muscle. Beckham wasn’t sure what to dress first.

“Fuck, we need to get him out of here ASAP,” Horn said.

“I’m cold,” Chow said. “Shit, man, they really fucked me up, didn’t they?” He tried to raise his head, but Horn pressed down on Chow’s chest.

“Don’t move, brother,” Horn growled. He reached into his pack for his medical supplies.

“You’re going to be fine,” Beckham said. He looked up as Garcia, Tank, and Thomas rushed over.

“Thomas, Tank, hold security,” Garcia said. He crouched down, whispering something under his breath and locking eyes with Beckham.

“We got the package.” Tank said. “Should I call in our extraction?”

Chow managed a crooked grin with blue lips. “You guys got one of those little fucks?” He let out a wet cough, his lungs crackling.

“Don’t talk, man,” Beckham said to Chow. He glanced back at Tank. “Hold off on the extraction. We still haven’t found Fitz or Apollo.”

Tank hesitated, but Garcia nodded at the Marine.

Chow attempted to move his head again. “You guys really nabbed one of them?”

“Hold still, Chow!” Horn growled. He was already wrapping Chow’s right arm.

Garcia pointed back at the staircase. A juvenile Variant was sprawled on the ground, unmoving. “Yeah, we got one, brother.”

Garcia stood and gestured for Beckham to join him a few feet away. Horn remained at Chow’s side, working quickly to dress the worst of his injuries.

“Look, I know you want to search for Fitz and Apollo, but if we don’t get Chow out of here, he’s going to bleed out. Plus, we have to get that thing back to the
GW
,” Garcia said.

Beckham looked back at the staircase leading to the concourse below. He stared for several seconds, his heart icing over. Garcia was right. They had to get Chow and the specimen out of the city before it was too late. With no way of telling where Fitz and Apollo were, Beckham knew what he had to do. Chow’s life depended on it. If Fitz and Apollo were out there, they were on their own now.

Good luck, brother,
Beckham thought as he nodded to allow Tank to call in their extraction.

“W
e can’t let them down, boy,” Fitz said. He looked back at Apollo. The dog was lying on the floor of the boat, head tucked between his paws. He had already thrown up twice, but Fitz couldn’t let up on the gas.

Thunder clapped overhead, and the distant booms rattled Fitz. A heavy rain beat down from the purple sky. In the meat of the clouds, rays of moonlight lit up the East River with an eerie glow. Ahead, the small fleet of eight boats carrying the Bone Collector and his army were closing in on Plum Island, and Fitz was still at least a mile behind. The monsters hadn’t seemed to notice him yet, or maybe they didn’t care. There were at least sixty of the beasts on the boats. Between air support, and the Mark V SOCs, Fitz was hopeful the monsters would be intercepted before they reached the island. If they weren’t, Vice President Johnson’s reinforcements would be able to stop them at the fences, as long as the human collaborators didn’t put up a fight. That’s what Fitz was mostly worried about now. The AT-4 launcher and machine guns they carried could do some major damage.