Extinction Age (12 page)

“Fall back!” Beckham shouted. Scottie
was already gone. The man’s screams were distant, growing fainter as the
monsters pulled him below decks. The sounds seemed to enrage Apollo even more.

Beckham grabbed the dog by the collar with his left hand and
tugged him away from the door. Apollo resisted, struggling in his grip as
another infected leapt up the ladder. Beckham raised his rifle with his right
hand and shot it in the chest.  The monster tumbled head over heels. Two
more quickly emerged from the shadows. He squeezed off another burst that sent
them spinning into the darkness.

“Come on, Apollo!” Beckham shouted, yanking the dog’s collar.
He retreated toward the sound of Chow and Fitz’s footfalls, keeping his eyes on
the open hatch as he pulled Apollo down the passage.  

“Down here, Beckham!” shouted a voice.

Beckham flung a glance over his shoulder. The door to the CIC
was wide open. Chow and Jensen stood out front, waving frantically. Fitz and
Timbo were inside. A pile of bodies—contagious bodies—separated what was left
of the two strike teams.

Apollo fought to get free, growling and squirming. Beckham
tightened his grip and then fired at two infected crewmen that burst through
the open hatch. The first shots were wild, but the second volley found targets,
two skulls detonating. Both bodies slumped to the ground with meaty
thunks
,
life draining from them in an instant. A few days ago—hell, maybe even
less—these men had been human. Two more creatures burst from the open hatch,
and Beckham dispatched them without hesitation.

He flung the strap of his rifle over his back and worked on
pulling the frantic dog the final stretch. Bullets streaked past him on both
sides as the other men opened fire from the CIC.

“Leave the goddamn dog!” Jensen yelled.

Beckham caught a glimpse of motion past the open hatch they
had come from. A sudden wave of Variants crashed into the area. One of them
tripped and somersaulted. It leapt to its feet and jumped onto the bulkhead so
fast it made Beckham queasy. Shots lanced down the passage, shattering bone and
spraying the sides with infected blood.

Apollo suddenly jerked from Beckham’s grip. He grabbed the
dog under the belly, picked him up and then took off running toward the CIC.
Apollo’s weight made every step excruciating, Beckham’s injured shoulder
burning with every stride.

The scratch of claws and shrill shrieks followed them as he
ran. Chow and Jensen fired off another volley of carefully aimed shots.

“Come on!” Chow shouted.

Beckham leapt over another body and almost lost Apollo in the
process. They were close now, only about fifty feet from salvation. He
navigated around another three corpses and gripped Apollo tighter against his
chest. Something reached up and grabbed one of his ankles when he was ten feet
away from the door. He stumbled and crashed to the floor. Apollo jumped from
his arms and landed just outside the CIC. The frightened dog darted inside.

The hand around Beckham’s ankle tightened and pulled him
backward. He reached out for something to hold onto, but came up empty. He
dragged his gloved fingers across the floor, screaming, “Shoot it!”

“I can’t get a shot!” Chow screamed back.

Beckham pulled his sidearm, twisted onto his back, and
blasted the infected crewman that had his ankle. He shielded his eyes from the
bloody mist and turned away just as another pair of hands grabbed his shoulders
and pulled him toward the CIC.

Pain blurred Beckham’s vision as he waited for the
hallucinations to set in—for the infection to rip through his body. He flinched
as the hatch slammed shut. When he managed to open his eyes, he was on his back
inside the CIC. Timbo, Jensen, Chow, and Fitz were hovering over him.

“Get away from me!” Beckham shouted, crawling backwards. “I
could be infected.” His back hit a bulkhead and he wiped his face clean with an
arm. His heart skipped at the sight of blood smeared on his sleeve.

The other men stood their ground, their weapons lowered
toward the deck. Apollo made a sad whine and approached Beckham cautiously. The
dog sniffed him and then sat by his side.

-12-

K
ate rubbed her temples. She was hardly listening
to the chatter coming from the wall of radio equipment. Horn, Riley, and Smith
were there, huddled around Hook as she twisted a knob with exaggerated care.

“Try and get Jensen back on the line,” Smith said.

“Yes, sir,” Hook replied.

Kate closed her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves. When
she looked back over the water, it was still. Not a single white cap in sight.

A voice pulled her away from the view.

“Alpha Team Leader, this is Plum Island. Do you copy? Over,”
Hook said.

A strained voice, weakened by static, came from the
wall-mounted speakers.

“Kate, you better get over here,” Riley said.

She was already moving across the room. Her heart hammered in
sync with her feet. She squeezed past Horn and Riley next to Hook. Smith paced
behind them.

“Plum Island… Do you…” Static surged. “We’re locked in the
CIC. Bravo Team Leader is…”

Kate held a breath in her chest, aching for news.

“He’s got blood all over him,” Jensen said.

No
.
Please God, no.

Smith faced her and said, “What do they do?”

“Let me talk to Reed,” Kate said.

Hook handed her the headset and Kate took a seat. “Jensen,
this is Kate. Put Reed on. Now, please!”

White noise coughed out of the speakers, like there was a
heavy wind in the background. There was a sharp crackle and then a voice.

“Kate…”

It was Beckham, and despite the digital interference she
could hear the fear in his voice.

“I’m here,” Kate replied. “Are you…”

“I have blood on me, Kate. It’s…it’s everywhere.”

Kate could hardly form a response.

Focus
.
FOCUS!

She had to set aside her feelings. He needed a doctor, not a
panicked woman.

“How do you feel? Are you experiencing any hallucinations?”
she asked, her voice sharp. She remembered her brother’s final words, the terror
in his voice, his shrill screams as the virus ripped through him.

“I don’t know,” Beckham said. “My head hurts, but I don’t
know if that’s from infection or—”

“Listen to me, Reed,” Kate said. It pained her to say it, but
she had no choice. “You need to stay away from the others right now. We’ve
called in an airstrike of VX9H9. It will kill virtually every contagious
Variant in the area.”

“Your bioweapon?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm, clinical.

“And how long will it take?”

“The jets are already airborne.”

There was a pause and then, “Peters. Rodriguez. They’re dead,
Kate.”

“But you aren’t,” Kate said.

The observation window suddenly rattled. She cupped her
headset and strained to hear over the rumble of the incoming jets. Barking
sounded across the channel and then relentless pounding.

“Reed, what is that?” Kate shouted.

“We found a dog,” Beckham said. “And the infected are trying
to get inside.”

There was shouting in the background. She recognized Timbo’s
deep voice and Fitz’s southern drawl. The roar of the jets grew louder, the
walls trembling in their wake.

“They’re almost there, Reed. Just hold on!”

“Kate?” he said.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice shaky.

“I’m sorry for earlier—”

The noise from the jets drowned Beckham’s voice as they tore
through the sky. She spun back to the window just as three F22s roared over the
island.

A wave of panic gripped her as she watched. If Beckham was
infected, her bioweapon would kill him. The powerful realization hit her like a
missile from one of the jets, and her heart felt like it was going to explode.
If Beckham died on that ship, she wasn’t sure if she would be able to keep
going.  

Beckham sat with his back to one of
the radar stations, sucking in breaths tainted with the pungent scent of rotten
fruit and infected wounds. The creatures slammed their diseased flesh into the
hatch a few feet away, ringing the bell on the bridge with each strike.

“Will that hold?” Timbo shouted.

“Should,” Jensen said.

“What about that one?” Chow pointed to the only other exit to
the room, which led to the bow. Beckham glimpsed the brilliant moon through the
small porthole and wondered if it was the last time he’d ever see it.

“Keep an eye on that hatch,” Jensen ordered.

The infected beat harder at the entrance. Each impact
vibrated through the CIC. Apollo’s barking grew louder, vicious and guttural.
The sounds amplified until the distant scream that only an F22 Raptor could
make broke through them all. Timbo and Jensen moved to the lookout windows,
searching for the jets.

Fitz and Chow flanked Beckham, their weapons shouldered and
their frightened eyes flicking from Beckham to the hatches. Beckham studied the
end of Fitz’s M27 and imagined it aimed at him. Would his men hesitate if he
was infected? Would he hesitate if he were in their shoes?

No. I wouldn’t
.

“If I turn, you put a bullet right here,” Beckham said,
tapping his throbbing forehead. His mind burned with worry. Every ache, every
hint of pain became a sign that he was infected.

“Incoming!” Timbo yelled from the lookout. The Ranger backed
away from the glass, motioning Jensen to follow. They retreated to the center
of the bridge next to a navigation station.

Beckham heard whispering in his mind, a soft voice he could
hardly place at first.

It’s okay, Reed. Get up. You need to get up.

Was he losing it? Was this the trickery of the virus?

Hollow thuds rang out, followed by explosions and the thunder
of jets. They had dropped their payloads, and Kate’s bioweapon was airborne.

Beckham heard his mother’s voice a second time.

You have to get up, sweetie.

Despite the depth of his panic, her soft, reassuring voice
put him at ease. Beckham pushed himself to his feet.

“Stay down,” Chow said. He shifted his rifle away from the
hatch, the muzzle coming dangerously close to Beckham. He didn’t blame Chow; he
was an operator, and right now Beckham was a threat.

“It’s okay,” Beckham said.   

The hatch rattled in response, their voices infuriating the
infected on the other side. Chow trained his M4 back on the steel.

“Those Raptors dropped VX9H9. In a few hours, anything
infected with the Hemorrhage virus will be dead,” Beckham said. “Including me.”

Fitz’s eyes softened. “You’re going to be fine. If you were
infected, you would already know.”

“Doesn’t always work like that,” Chow said. “I’ve seen people
turn in seconds, but I’ve also seen it take longer.”

“He’s right,” Beckham said. “You need to stay back.”

Chow reached down and picked up Beckham’s M4. “Sorry, man,
it’s just a precaution.”

Beckham offered a nod and then reached out to Apollo. The dog
glanced in his direction, baring white canines. It let out a low growl, fur
trembling.

“It’s okay, boy,” Beckham said. He saw then Apollo’s dark
eyes weren’t on him. They were locked on the porthole where bulging lips had
smacked against the glass.

 “Contact!” Timbo yelled. He rushed to the hatch just as
an infected crashed through one of the lookout windows behind him. Shattered
glass exploded into the air and an infected Variant rolled across the ground.
It jumped into a catlike crouch, tilting its bony face in Beckham’s direction
and blinking bloodshot eyes.

Its skull disappeared in a torrent of gunfire a beat later.
Before the headless body hit the ground, two more frail-looking creatures dove
through other windows. Both skittered across the floor on all fours, arching
their naked backs, vertebrae protruding. Their joints clicked and clacked with
every motion as they darted for cover.

Chow and Fitz worked their way around the stations for better
vantages while Beckham pulled on Apollo’s collar to hold the dog back.

 “Watch your line of fire,” Jensen yelled as he squeezed
off a shot. The round hit one of them in the back and sent it twirling toward
Timbo. With no time to fire, the Ranger reached up and snapped its neck in one
swift motion. He tossed the limp body aside just as the other emaciated
creature lunged at him, clamping its lips onto his muscular forearm.

Timbo let out a roar and tore the thing off his arm in a
spray of blood. He took the back of its head in his other hand and slammed it
into the helm over and over until its faced had caved in like a smashed
pumpkin.

Beckham glimpsed motion through the lookout windows behind
Timbo as three more of the infected came barreling across the bow. They charged
the windows in full stride, blood dripping down their pale, sunken faces. Chow
and Fitz cut the first two down, but the third lunged over the spray and shot
through the shattered glass, shredding flesh and muscle in the process. It
dropped to the floor, crouched, and coiled its lean muscles.

Jensen pulled his .45, took two steps forward, and shot the
creature before it could strike. Brains exploded out of the exit wound,
peppering an oval radar with chunks of gore. He quickly holstered his pistol
and changed the magazine in his rifle.

“Looks like that’s all of them,” Chow said, panting. He
backpedaled from the broken lookout windows, his rifle still shouldered and
involuntarily roving for contacts. Jensen and Fitz had crowded around Timbo.

The Ranger collapsed in a chair, cupping his arm and shaking
his bowed helmet from side to side. “It fucking got me, man!”

Beckham pulled back on Apollo’s collar again as the dog
growled at the corpse next to Timbo’s feet. Bloody tears streaked down the
monster’s collapsed face. There was no question it was infected with the
Hemorrhage virus.

Closing his eyes, Beckham sucked in a breath of sour air.
Instead of his men watching him turn, he was forced to endure the pain of
witnessing one of his own brothers transform into a monster. His eyes snapped
back open just as Timbo jolted in the chair.

Chow, Fitz, and Jensen slowly raised their guns. Timbo’s hand
slipped away from his injured arm. He glanced down at the exposed muscle and
then back up at his team.

“Do it!” Timbo roared.

“Maybe you won’t turn,” Fitz said, looking over at Jensen for
support. The lieutenant colonel kept his gaze on the Ranger.

“He already is,” Chow whispered. “Look at him.”

“Wait!” Beckham shouted.

Timbo looked over at him and snorted. “It’s okay, man. I had
a good run.” His eyes rolled up into his head then and a stream of blood
trickled from his nose. A scream erupted from his mouth and he reached up to
claw at his eyes.

Before anyone could react, he batted Chow’s rifle away and
shoved him into a wall. Chow crumpled to the ground, his weapon sliding across
the floor.

“Timbo, stop!” Beckham yelled a second too late.

Jensen was already firing at the bulky Ranger’s chest. The
barrage of rounds cut through Timbo’s flak jacket and tore into his flesh as he
charged Chow.

The operator jumped to his feet and kicked Timbo in the chest
with such force it sent them both sprawling backward. Timbo crashed into an ops
station. Blood gushed from his flak jacket, saturating his fatigues.

Jensen centered his weapon on Timbo but paused. The Ranger
tilted his head and narrowed bloodshot eyes at his brothers in turn, stopping
on Beckham. Past the crazed look, there was a flicker of sadness that vanished
just as Jensen fired and took off the top of Timbo’s skull.

 “I’m sorry,” Jensen said, lowering his rifle. “God, I’m
so sorry.” He dropped to his knees and sobbed.

The hatch continued rattling, but none of the men were paying
attention. In a few hours, the noise would fade away and the infected crewmen
would join Timbo, Peters, Rodriguez, and Scottie in death.

The mechanical whir of chopper blades
pulled Kate toward the tarmac. She ran after Major Smith as fast as she could
in her bulky CBR suit. Ellis trailed her, yelling for her to wait.