Extinction Age (16 page)

The heavy thump of blades sounded as the pilots fired up the
birds. Each man took his seat and began his pre-mission routine. Chow chewed on
a toothpick, Beckham traced a finger over his vest pocket, and Horn flexed his
right fist in and out. Valentine sat stiffly, his gaze shifting from face to
face. He stopped on Jensen’s and they locked eyes for several seconds.

Valentine looked away first. He settled his back against the
compartment wall and grabbed his helmet as the bird ascended into the sky.
Jensen let his lips curl into a brief smile.

That’s right. Back in your shell, you little bastard.

The other two Blackhawks peeled off in opposite directions.
Movement at the opposite end of the tarmac caught Jensen’s attention as they
pulled away. He grabbed the handle by the door and worked his way to the side.
A cluster of troops were moving across the tarmac toward the single remaining
aircraft. He didn’t need his scope to see Wood and his entourage boarding the
Chinook.

 Jensen secretly hoped it was the last time he saw the
man. He even let himself wish that Wood somehow found himself up to his neck in
Variants wherever the bird was taking him. But deep down Jensen knew that if
Wood died, Kennor would have another watchdog sent his way.

Fitz took in a breath of salty air
and looked over the side of guard Tower 9. The building had been erected at
Pine Point, on the southern tip of Plum Island. Unlike the other towers, this
one didn’t have a vantage of the entire island. It looked out over Gardiners
Bay to the south and Orient, New York, to the west. He could hardly see the six
white domes of the Plum Island compound.

Overhead, thin clouds lit up as they rolled past a brilliant
moon. Below, the black water sparkled. The tower wasn’t the worst in terms of
the view, but it was the most isolated. A Humvee had dropped him and Apollo off
at the end of the dirt road before returning to the post. Other than the dog,
he was completely alone. From where Fitz stood, he could only see the
silhouetted figures of the snipers in Towers 7 and 8. The boxes had been
erected on the beach to the northwest and northeast. If something happened, he
was far from help, but that’s why he had his MK11 and Apollo. He trusted his
shooting skills enough not to worry, and having Beckham’s new friend watching
his back was an added relief.

His main concern tonight wasn’t Variants. It was Colonel
Wood. The sonofabitch hadn’t believed in him enough to place him under Jensen’s
command. The man had actually looked at him with a pitying glance when he’d
volunteered to go on tonight’s recon mission.

Fitz hated that. He wasn’t useless. He didn’t need the
colonel’s pity—he needed a chance. The same chance Beckham had given him at
Fort Bragg. He was a Marine, and he could still fight. He was determined to
prove the colonel wrong and make his way back onto Team Ghost.

Breathing heavily, he gripped the stock of his MK11 in one
hand and mounted the bipod onto the wooden ledge. A soft rain had begun to
fall. The drops fell at an angle, pinging off his helmet and cooling his
flushed cheeks as he glassed the ocean. He channeled what was left of his anger
into his current mission—his duty to protect the island.

He spent the next few minutes scoping the dark waves. The
lonely shapes of derelict ships drifted in the distance. It was the same sight
he’d seen so many times before. But when he moved the scope back toward the
shore, he saw something odd at one thousand feet out.

What in the hell?

He chambered a round and zoomed in on a trio of shapes. They
bobbed up and down in the dark water. Whatever they were, they didn’t appear to
be moving on their own. The tide was carrying them toward the shoreline. It was
probably plastic cartons or something a ship had thrown over the side, but he
made a mental note to check on them in a few minutes when he had a better view.

Maneuvering to his right, he started his first sweep of the
sloped shoreline to the northwest. The surf slurped against the beach, white
foam forming at its edges. Despite the beach, Plum Island was no paradise—the
sand was littered with plastic bottles and other trash, and rows of electric
fences lined the shelf of the beach and the short ridgeline beyond. If anything
made it past his 7.62mm rounds, they would have to climb the ten-foot tall
fences and clear the razor wire.

Fitz moved his muzzle to Tower 8, sighted the sniper, and
then glassed the woods to the northeast. Beams from the fire-team patrolling
the area shot through the trees as the soldiers searched for threats.

He checked on Apollo next. The dog glanced up from the sand
and wagged his tail. Fitz had tried carrying him up the ladder, but apparently
Apollo didn’t like heights, so Fitz had left him on the beach to stand watch.

Apollo’s ears perked as a female voice crackled over the
comm. “Tower 9, Command. Please report.”

Fitz didn’t bother checking his watch. He knew he was late on
his SITREP.

“Sorry, Command. All looks clear out here,” Fitz replied.

He returned to his rifle and searched for the floating
objects he’d seen earlier. They had drifted another two or maybe three hundred
yards closer to the island. The sky had cleared enough to allow moonlight
through, and Fitz zoomed in for a better look.

With a few twists of his scope, he identified the curved
bottom of a capsized yacht about halfway between Plum Island and Orient. He
swept the crosshairs back to the floating lumps. Now he could see they were
bodies.

He checked for any flicker of movement, any sign they were
still alive. Each wore a life jacket, but that hadn’t saved them. They were all
face down in the water. There was no question—the poor souls were dead.

“Command, Tower 9, I have eyes on three casualties,” Fitz
said into his comm.

“Copy that, Tower 9. No sign of survivors?”

“Negative so far,” Fitz said. “Stand by.”

Fitz wiped away the cold drops of rain running down his
forehead and did another quick sweep of the area. A flash of underwater motion
broke across his crosshairs as he slowly moved the rifle.

“What the hell was—” Fitz began to say. He jerked his rifle
back and searched for the contact. The long, narrow body of a sea creature
blurred past his crosshairs like an arrow under the waves. Whatever kind of
fish this was, it was moving fast.

He pulled the bipod off the ledge and shouldered the rifle to
scan the waves with naked eyes. There, six hundred feet out, he saw the
creature again. It might have been a dolphin or even a shark, something sleek
and pale in the water.

Holding in a breath, he steadied his rifle and zoomed in. It
was gliding just beneath the surface. He slowly roved the rifle to the left,
where he spotted more of them, all closing in on the floating corpses.

“Tower 9, standing by for report.”

Fitz didn’t reply. He let out a breath and focused on the
wave of monster-sized fish surging under the waves. They had to be sharks.
Variants couldn’t hold their breath that long, could they?

He flinched as one of the life jackets disappeared under the
water. The other two vanished a moment later, and the shimmering black water
turned a frothy red.

“Tower 9—” the operator began to say. 

“Stand by!” Fitz said, his irritated voice cutting her off.
 

He pressed his eye back against the scope just as a shiny
skull crested the water. Even from five hundred yards out, he could recognize
the yellow eyes of a Variant.

“Command, I have eyes on a hostile. I repeat…” His voice
trailed off as a dozen heads emerged above the water. Steam rose off their skulls,
churning over the surface like smoke.

Fitz’s heart spiked with anxiety when he saw a blur of white
two hundred yards to the northwest. It was a second wave of Variants, and
judging by the crimson water, there wasn’t anything left to eat.  

“My God,” Fitz whispered.

“Repeat your last, Tower 9.”

“Command, I… uh… I have eyes on multiple contacts.”

There was a short pause and then, “Tower 9, how many hostiles
do—”

Fitz fired off a shot. It was a bull’s-eye, the head of one
of the monsters bursting into shards of bone and brain. The others dove before
he could squeeze off another round.

“Command, I have a dozen contacts. Requesting support at
Tower 9!” Fitz said, his voice rising to a shout.

Steady, Fitz, steady…

He waited for the creatures to get closer. When they were in
his sights he fired calculated shots that zipped through the water and found
flesh. The Variants swam using the breaststroke, gliding effortlessly, using
their legs to propel them forward like frogs. Their flexible joints and muscular
bodies made them the perfect swimmers, and Fitz now suspected they had also
evolved to hold their breath longer than humans.

The chatter of gunfire from Tower 8 sounded as Fitz changed
his first magazine. Apollo was barking, his howls echoing up into the boxy
tower. Fitz ignored the dog and concentrated on the water. The Variants were
picking up speed. At this rate, they would reach the shore in a few minutes.

There were hundreds of the monsters now, all coming from New
York. Fitz imagined they had exhausted their resources there and had taken to
the water to find food. Plum Island, unfortunately, was right in their path.

Fitz fired as quickly as he could line up his shots. Injured
Variants struggled above the surface, bleeding from gaping wounds. He concentrated
on those that continued forward, aiming for their glistening heads.

He finished off another magazine and reached for a
replacement. Jamming it home, he picked up the rifle and leaned over the ledge,
firing at the first creatures leaping from the surf. Their naked, hairless
bodies glimmered in the moonlight, revealing frail, starving physiques. Bulging
veins crisscrossed their bony ribcages, the skin so tight it looked like
plastic wrap. Some of them dropped to all fours, their joints snapping and
clicking over the gunfire.

Fitz counted thirty, and thirty quickly turned into fifty. He
cut them down as fast he could, but they continued to emerge from the water.
The night filled with the shrieks of enraged monsters and Fitz’s own
uncontrolled shouting. The blood rushed in his ears, his heart threatening to
break through his ribcage.

“Command! Where are my reinforcements?” Fitz yelled into his
comm as a pair of Variants collided with the electrical fence. The metal
rattled as the current fried both of the monsters. They tumbled back onto the
sand, their bodies smoldering. Instead of deterring the others, a tall male
jumped on the first fallen corpse and leapt to the top of the fence. Others
followed, leaping and throwing themselves on the chain-link mesh and razor
wire. They wrapped their claws around the metal even as they were jolted with
electricity. Most of them died right there, their bony bodies going limp, but
their sacrifice allowed others to climb the ladder of Variant corpses.

Within minutes, the fence was crumpling and the breeze reeked
of burned flesh. Fitz watched with a sense of awe as he fired, amazed at the
intelligence of the creatures. They were starving and desperate, but most of
them were still smart enough to make it over the fence using the bodies of the
fallen.

An air raid siren screamed in the distance. As he changed
magazines, Fitz threw a glance over his shoulder to see a pair of Humvees
squeal to a stop at the road behind the tower. Two fire-teams piled out and ran
to the fences. The crack from their rifles was only a short relief that
vanished when he looked back over the beach.

The mass of monsters swarming over the sand prompted a fear
that reached deeper than any he’d felt during his time in Iraq. It was more
powerful than what he’d felt during the escape from Fort Bragg—more powerful
than what he’d felt on the
Truxtun
or during the first attack on the
Island.

This time it wasn’t a Chinook that had brought the monsters
to the post. The Variants had finally found it on their own. They’d brought the
battle to Plum Island, and Fitz feared this time they would win.

-16-

Rain pelted the side of the Blackhawk
as it passed over the
Truxtun
. Beckham fought to keep his emotions under
control at the sight of the ship. Seeing it plunged him back into the horrors
of that night. At least this was no rescue op or salvage mission. Pure recon.

“Take us over Niantic,” Beckham said into his comm.

“Roger that,” one of the pilots replied.

The chopper banked hard to the right and pulled them over the
highway still littered with the remains of Variants Horn had turned to mulch
two nights ago when he’d rescued them all from the grounded destroyer. Despite
the carrion field of flesh, there was no movement, or activity of any kind.

Beckham flipped on his four-eyes and scanned the desolate
landscape. The green-hued darkness revealed the same sight of abandoned
vehicles and rotting corpses.

“Anyone got eyes on?” Beckham asked.

“Nothin’ at nine o’clock,” Chow said.

The M260 clicked as Horn searched the road for contacts.
“Negative, Boss. I don’t see shit.”

The rooftops of Niantic came into view a moment later.
Beckham raised his scoped M4 and glassed the streets. Valentine leaned over his
shoulder for a better vantage, his breath hitting Beckham’s neck. It reeked of
stale coffee.

“Where the fuck are they?” the sergeant asked.

“Just wait,” Chow said. “It’s still early. They hunt mostly
at night.”

The pilots circled the city again, this time taking the bird
over the boatyard where Beckham’s team had been ambushed in an attempt to catch
their first live specimen. A flashback of the Variant boy with the shredded
legs made Beckham shudder.

He shook the thought away and scooted away from Valentine. As
soon as he got to the open door, the comm came to life.

“We got movement,” Horn said. “Three o’clock. What the hell
is that?”

When Beckham glanced to the shoreline, he saw why Horn
sounded so confused. An F150 pickup was hauling ass down main-street,
zigzagging between gridlocked vehicles.

Beckham followed the truck in his scope, noting a male driver
and a female passenger. Tucked between them was a smaller figure—a child.

“Found your Variants, too, Valentine!” Horn shouted.

Beckham swept his scope to the horde of Variants thirty deep
behind the pickup. The creatures leapt from car to car. From above it looked
like an army of ants swarming after an injured beetle.

“Get us into position,” Beckham said into the comm. “Horn,
you take out the pack.”

“Roger that,” one of the pilots replied.

“NO!” Valentine yelled. He scrambled to the cockpit. “Ignore
that order. We are not to engage.”

Beckham twisted and flipped up his NVG. He locked eyes with
Jensen, who nodded.

“Stand down, Sergeant,” Jensen said.

“But, sir. Our orders are only to observe,” Valentine argued.

 “You got a family, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“If that was them down there, would you still refuse to
engage
?”

“Sir, our orders are—”

Jensen shouldered his rifle and worked his way to the side of
the chopper next to Beckham. “Those orders have changed!”

The Variants were gaining on the truck, flowing through the
streets and lunging from vehicle to vehicle. The driver must have seen that the
creatures were closing the gap. He clipped a mini-van in an attempt to maneuver
into the other lane.

 The truck fishtailed and the bed crashed into a sedan.
The passenger window shattered. The driver slammed the gas pedal, and smoke
boiled off the burning tires as the vehicle lurched forward. A Variant with
long limbs laced with muscle flung its body onto the roof of the mini-van and
then jumped into the bed of the truck. Beckham steadied his breathing, waiting
for a clear shot as the creature clambered to the back window of the truck and
slammed its head into the glass.

“Take that one down, Beckham!” Jensen shouted, pointing. “The
rest of you, open fire on the pack!”

The M260 coughed to life, the whine of the chain-gun filling
the troop hold with the mechanical roar of violence. The rounds smashed into
the vehicles and Variants behind the pickup, penetrating metal and flesh.

Beckham centered his crosshairs on the Variant in the back of
the truck. He waited for the perfect window and squeezed the trigger. The first
shot pinged off the side of the bed, but the second hit the creature in the
shoulder. It spun and almost tumbled over the back gate. Before Beckham could
fire, the Variant jumped on top of the cab.

“Fuck,” Beckham muttered. The shot was nearly impossible now.
If he fired, he risked hitting the driver or passengers. He zoomed in just as
three bullets tore through the roof of the truck. Someone was firing from
inside.

The bullets found their target. A spray of blood burst from
the Variant’s exit wounds, and the force of the blasts launched it into the
air. The creature landed on the roof a second later. It clawed frantically for
something to hold onto. The driver jerked the truck to the right, and the
monster flew over the side and smashed against a car door. It slumped down the
side, leaving a streak of blood across the metal.

 Horn cut through the meat of the pack still pursuing
the truck. The high-pitched howls of the monsters reverberated through the
night as the rounds shredded their bodies and sent torn limbs rolling across
the scarlet asphalt. The driver of the truck didn’t waste the opportunity to
escape. He pounded the gas and sped away from the massacre.

The Variants also fled and fanned out in all directions. Only
two remained behind, staggering through the smoke. Beckham focused on the one
holding a bloody stump where its arm had been. In the past, he would have saved
his ammunition, but the Variant was still dangerous, even with a single arm. He
took it down with a single shot to its head.   

Less than a minute was all it had taken to paint the street
with a fresh coat of blood. The sole survivor dashed into the night, evading
the gunshots and leaping into the bay. The pickup continued down the main
street until it was clear of the carnage and then slowed to a stop.

“Take us down over the beach,” Jensen shouted.

Beckham changed his magazine as he scanned the LZ for
contacts. It was close to the extraction point during Team Ghost’s first
mission to Niantic. The bullet-riddled, rotting bodies of the Variants would
still lie there.

“Chow, on me!” Beckham shouted as soon as the chopper was
hovering over the site. After a quick sweep for hostiles, Beckham jumped out
and landed in the mushy sand with a plop. Raindrops smacked his face as he
worked his way to the road. His headset crackled when he was halfway there, and
a message that stopped him mid-stride sounded in his ear.

“Echo 2, Command. We are under attack. I repeat, we are under
attack. All birds return home, ASAP,” a female voice said.

Beckham whirled back to the chopper. Jensen was standing at
the door, his hand cupping an ear.

“What do you mean, attack?” Jensen said over the comm.

“Variants are storming the shore,” the radio operator said.
“There are hundreds of them. We need support!”

Beckham’s heart fluttered as he turned back to the truck. It
was stopped at the road and a man wearing green camo and a baseball cap was
pulling a boy no older than six out. A woman darted from around the other side
of the vehicle.

“Get back here!” Valentine shouted from the chopper. “We have
to go!”

Chow had halted a few feet in front of Beckham. They
exchanged a glance. Would the few extra minutes it took to extract the family
cost lives on Plum Island?

Beckham had to take that chance. He couldn’t leave these
people behind. Especially when they were so close.

“Come on!” Beckham shouted. “Hurry!” He sprinted to the
street and met the family at the guardrail at the edge of the road. Holding out
his hand, he helped the woman over the top.

“God bless you,” she said, her voice shaky.

The man didn’t utter a word as he pulled the boy over the
railing. He simply nodded at Beckham. The boy’s mile-long stare seemed like a
symptom of shock, and his parents both looked like they had been through the
wringer. Their faces were covered in grime, and their clothes were soiled with
blood and dirt.

“Let’s go,” Beckham said.

The family didn’t need to be told twice. They started down
the beach and ran for the chopper. Chow and Beckham hung back to cover their
escape and then darted after them.

There was something about the way the man carried himself
that seemed military. It made sense—if they had survived out here this long,
the man likely had training. At the Blackhawk, Jensen helped the woman and the
boy inside. The man climbed aboard and Chow and Beckham jumped in after him.

“Get us out of here!” Beckham said. As soon as they were in
the air, he half-crouched over to the family.

“What’s your name?” Beckham shouted over the chop of the
blades.

“Red,” the man said. He scratched at his beard and glanced
up. “This is my wife, Donna, and our son, Bo.”

“Where are you taking us?” Donna asked.

Jensen hovered over Beckham’s shoulder. “Somewhere safe…”
Jensen said, his words trailing off like he didn’t believe it.

Bo glanced up. “Where?”

“Place called Plum Island,” Beckham said, looking at Red.
“Where were you coming from?”

Red’s eyes hardened and he hugged Bo closer to his chest.
“Hell,” he said.

Beckham moved back to the door just as the crack of gunfire
broke out in the distance. He raised his rifle and scoped the island. Tracers
lanced across the southern shoreline.

“Thought you said this place was safe!” Red shouted over the
rotors.

Meg yelled for the third time, “What
the hell is going on?” And for the third time there was no response, her voice
lost in the whine of the emergency sirens.

Red light swirled in the hallway outside her room. She
grabbed the handrail of her bed frame and then leaned over to reach for the
crutches propped against a nearby chair. Her fingers found one of the grips,
but when she wrapped them around it, the tip spun away. The crutch clanked on
the floor, half under the bed.

“Dammit!” Meg shouted. With no small amount of effort, she
scooted her back against the headboard until she was sitting up. The limited
movement sparked a streak of pain that took her breath away. She hadn’t taken
any pain pills for a couple hours, and without them the wounds hurt like they’d
been cooking over an open flame.

She sucked in a deep breath, released it, and screamed at the
top of her lungs, “Somebody help!”

After waiting several beats, she came to terms with the fact
she was alone. No one was coming to help her. She collapsed the guardrail,
gritted her teeth, and swung her bandaged legs over the side of the bed.

You can do this, Meg. You’re a damn Ironman
.

 She held in a breath and prepared to move as the door
swung open and Riley rolled inside.

“Post is under attack, let’s go!” he said. He scooped up her
crutches and handed them to her.

“We’re under attack?”

“No time to explain. We’ve got to get to the shelter.”

Meg nodded and put her left foot down first. It hurt like
hell, but at least it would hold her weight. She hopped over to Riley. The burn
wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, or perhaps she just wasn’t thinking
about the pain. A slew of questions rushed across her mind but she stayed
silent, determined to get somewhere safe before interrogating her rescuer.

“Follow me,” Riley said.

“Wait.”

Riley glanced up, his blue eyes searching hers.

“You carrying? I feel naked without my axe.”

“Here, you can have this,” he said, plucking the sheathed
knife from where he’d tucked it beside his hip. “Be careful with it.”

Meg balanced herself on the crutches and carefully reached
out to take the sheath. She tucked it into her pants and nodded.

“Now let’s move!” Riley said. He maneuvered his chair through
the door and took a right down the hallway. The glow from emergency lights
bathed the two in a malicious red as they struggled down the empty corridor.

“Where are we going?” Meg shouted over the wail of the
sirens.

“Building 5!”

“Which one is that?”

Riley pulled around another corner, the wheels on his chair
squeaking. “It’s just next door. Don’t worry, there are two guards waiting for
us outside. They escorted me here to find you.”

“You came here for me?”

Riley glanced over his shoulder and cracked a half grin.
“Wasn’t gonna leave a lady in distress.”

Meg would have smiled back, but her lips twisted into a scowl
from the pain. She hoped Riley didn’t see it.

“Where’s Dr. Hill and the rest of the medical staff?” Meg
asked. If they had left her here, so help her, she was going to…