Extinction Age (6 page)

The general opened his folder and licked a finger before
thumbing through the pages so quickly it made Jensen sick. Did he even
understand how bad things were?

Kennor paused at the last page, raised his bushy gray brows,
and then frowned. A curse followed.  

“Jensen, Smith,” he said, looking at them in turn.

“General,” Jensen said.

“Heard Plum Island was attacked in a freak accident last
night.”

“Yes, sir, we had sixty-five casualties. Colonel Gibson was
one of them.”

Kennor didn’t even flinch. “How many injured?”

Jensen did flinch at that
. How many injured? Was Kennor
that clueless?

“Zero, sir,” Jensen replied through clenched teeth. “The
Variants don’t leave behind injured.”

Kennor’s forehead tightened, and he grumbled, “Where’s Dr.
Lovato?”

“Not here,” Jensen said.

Kennor glared at him, letting his eyes do the talking.

“She’s in the lab, sir,” Smith said. “Cooking up a new
weapon.”

“Good,” Kennor said. “I want a SITREP at 0700 every day from
here out. If she makes a breakthrough, I’m the first person you tell.”

Jensen nodded. “Certainly, sir.” He wanted to reach through
the screen and strangle the old bastard. But he kept his calm for the sake of
those under his command. The general was still in charge, and Jensen had to
respect that. Kennor was stubborn, but he wasn’t a madman. He wasn’t Colonel
Gibson.

“As you two probably already know, Operation Liberty has
failed. I’ve issued a full retreat to outposts, bases, and strongholds,” Kennor
said. “That means it’s even more important that Dr. Lovato develops something
as soon as possible.”

“Understood, sir,” Jensen said. After a pause, he added, “How
will we deploy this weapon? Aren’t we strained for resources?”

“We’ll figure that out when she creates one,” Kennor said. He
looked away from the camera and held up a finger to someone Jensen couldn’t
see.

“I’m needed in ops, but there’s one last thing you two need
to know. This is confidential. You are to share it with no one,” Kennor said.
His forehead became a canyon of wrinkles, so many that it looked like it hurt.
“Raven Rock has fallen.”

Jensen fidgeted in his chair. Surely the general was
mistaken. There was no way the alternate command center could have been
overrun.

“The Variants got into the tunnels beneath the base,” Kennor
said.
I deployed a search and rescue team, but we lost contact with them shortly
after they arrived.”

Jensen didn’t know what to say. The implications were
startling. First New York, then Plum Island, now the retreat from the cities
and the loss of Raven Rock.

Kennor stood and straightened his uniform. “Actually, you can
share this intel with Dr. Lovato. Tell her we are losing this war.”

“She understands perfectly, sir,” Jensen said. He didn’t
think he sounded condescending, but Kennor responded with a glare.

“Sir, we have a request,” Smith said.

“What is it?”

“We’re running low on munitions and our food supply is
dangerously low, too. Requesting a resupply of both.”

Kennor shook his head. “I can’t authorize that.”

The response came so fast Jensen wondered if the general had
even heard the question. When Smith started to protest, Kennor raised his hand
like he was about to scold a private.

“We have requests coming in from every remaining military
asset across the country. You’ll have to wait your turn,” Kennor said.

“Sir, Plum Island could help bring an end to this war. If it
weren’t for Dr. Lovato’s first bioweapon—”

“I realize that, Lieutenant Colonel, but President Mitchell
has authorized resupplies based on priority level, and as of now Plum Island
isn’t at the top of the list.”

“General,” Jensen said. “If you want a scientific solution to
this war, you need to get me the tools.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Jensen, but we have other
teams working on solutions.” He folded his hands and caught Jensen’s gaze.
“You’re a soldier. You’ll have to make do.”

Jensen nodded, threw up a salute, and waited for Kennor to
shut off the feed. As soon as the general signed off, Jensen stood and walked
to the observation window, barking orders. “Smith, I want a SITREP on our
supply levels. Count every gun, every round, every can of Campbell’s Chunky
Soup. Hook, I want to know what’s going on in the rest of the country.”

The corporal swiveled her chair away from the monitors. “Sir,
I’ve been scanning the channels and I’m not picking up much.”

“What do you mean?” Jensen asked.

“I mean I’m not hearing much chatter at all,” she said. “I
don’t think there are many people left out there.”

-6-

B
y mid-morning, a blanket of calm had settled over
Plum Island. The only sounds were the sporadic chirp of a bird and the faint
rap of footsteps. Beckham heard everything, his senses still on full alert. He
hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours but couldn’t seem to shut off his mind. After
everything he had been through, it wasn’t going to be easy to let his guard
down enough to get some shut-eye.

He sat with Kate on the steps of Building 1, watching the
cleanup crews carry bodies draped with white sheets into the medical building.
Neither of them spoke. Being next to each other was enough for now.

Beckham wondered how long the quiet would last. He wanted to
reach out and put his arm around Kate, to pull her tight, but he feared her
soft touch could break him, so he pretended he didn’t need it. He tried to feel
something—wanted to feel something—but beyond the lingering pain of losing so
many of his brothers, there wasn’t much that seemed safe to feel besides anger.

Anger was a dangerous emotion. Like a house built of cards,
the rage threatened to blow everything away. He’d gotten pummeled by a Variant
at Bragg and taken shrapnel to the shoulder in New York, but it was always the
mental wounds that hurt the worst. They went deeper than the bruises and cuts
that tattooed his skin. He was a Delta Operator, yes, but no amount of training
or experience could prepare him for the anguish that came with the loss of so
many of his brothers, not to mention the civilians they couldn’t save.

“Will you stay now?” Kate asked, breaking the long silence.

“I hope so,” he said. “Need to heal.”

Kate scooted closer, just inches away from him. He almost
flinched. She read his body language with a single, critical look.

Seeing her expression, Beckham said, “Sorry.”

“No,
don’t
do that. You don’t apologize. You’re a
hero, Reed.”

Beckham shrugged; he didn’t feel like a hero. Before he could
react, Kate brushed up next to him, placing her head on his shoulder. The fresh
stitches screamed at him, but instead of pulling away, he leaned closer.

“I’m sorry about Jinx and the others,” Kate said. She stared
ahead now, her eyes following another white-draped body on its way to the
medical building.

“He died fighting. Can’t ask for anything more than a soldier’s
death,” Beckham said. He looked to the north, toward New York City, and thought
of Jake and Timothy. The cop and his son they’d rescued from Manhattan during
Operation Liberty were safe on a destroyer now, sailing somewhere away from the
monsters. He took solace in knowing that Jinx’s death hadn’t been for nothing.
In the end, they had saved a few precious lives.

Kate let out a sigh and said, “What comes next?”

“Was about to ask you the same thing.”

“Back to the lab.”

Beckham shifted, trying to relieve the pressure on his
wounded shoulder.

“I’m going to design another weapon,” she continued.
“Something that will kill every last one of the Variants.”

“That’s what we should have done a week ago,” Beckham said.
His anger and frustration bubbled just below the surface. “That son of a bitch,
Kennor. In some ways he’s no better than Gibson. If he would have just
listened
before Operation Liberty. And don’t get me started on Lieutenant Gates, that
piece of shit. Called in an airstrike and left us out there to fight an army of
Variants numbering in the hundreds of thousands.”

Kate placed her hand over his and gently squeezed his
battered knuckles. Then she kissed him on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Reed.”

Hearing those simple words drained the anger from him. It
flowed out with a breath and was gone. He pulled Kate toward him and kissed her
with a soft ferocity.

Their lips parted and Beckham bowed his forehead against
hers. “You get to the lab. I’m going to go check on Riley and then sleep for a
day or two, if I can.”

Kate smiled, flashing the dimples that made his heart race.
She gave him another kiss that kindled an emotion he had spent most of his life
trying to bury. Now, after all hope seemed lost, it had arisen from the grave.
He decided then to embrace it. To stop hiding behind his armor and weapons. He
could be more than just a soldier.

Beckham gave Kate a meaningful look, and reached down to help
her up.

“Where’d you find her?” Kate asked as they walked up the
stairs. “The woman you brought back.”

Beckham stopped mid-stride, remembering the nightmarish lair
beneath New York.

“Reed?”

He shook his head and turned partially toward her.

“If you’d rather not talk about it, I understand,” Kate said.

“It’s okay,” he said. “We found her in the sewers. There were
hundreds of survivors down there. Maybe more. I don’t know.”

Kate squinted, her features tensing. “What do you mean there
were survivors?”

Beckham could see she was trying to understand, but nothing
he said could describe the true horrors his team had stumbled upon beneath the
streets. There was no simple way to explain what he’d seen, and the thought of
admitting to her that he’d killed the human prisoners made him feel queasy.

“Reed, you can tell me. I can handle it.” Kate swept a strand
of brown hair behind an ear. “I need to know.”

Beckham didn’t want her to feel responsible. The burden she
carried was already heavy enough to send a normal person over the edge. She’d
blamed herself for the Variants since the deployment of her bioweapon. If she
knew what they were doing and what he had tried to stop…

“If I’m going to design another weapon, I need to know
everything you do. I’m assuming what you saw is no different than in other
cities. I already know they are going underground to avoid sunlight.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Beckham replied, a bit too
fast. He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath and exhaled. “They store their
food down there, Kate.”

When he opened his eyes, Kate had taken a step back. “Store
their food?” Her blue eyes widened as she realized what he meant.

“We discovered a lair of human prisoners. There were hundreds
of mutilated survivors that the Variants were feeding on. We saved Meg, but…I
was forced to kill the others.”

Kate cupped a hand over her mouth. She whimpered into her
palm and then peeled it away. “I’m so sorry.”

Beckham wrapped his arms around her. “It’s not your fault.
The blame rests solely on that bastard Gibson.”

“No,” Kate said, pulling away. She sobbed and wiped away a
tear. “If VX9H9 had killed all of the Variants, this would never have happened.
There wouldn’t be any lairs. You wouldn’t have had to kill
anyone
.”

Meg jerked awake and reached for her
axe that wasn’t there. The movement sent the most awful pain of her life
searing through her legs. She gritted her teeth, but a whimper slipped through.
Behind blurred eyes, she saw a bank of lights. Her mind went blank a moment
later, the agony shutting off her brain.

When she woke again, she felt nothing. If it weren’t for the
nurse staring down at her, she would have thought she was dead. A warm,
reassuring smile touched the sides of the young woman’s face.

“This might sting,” the nurse said. She reached forward with
a needle that looked more like a small knife.

Meg didn’t bother protesting. She couldn’t even if she wanted
to. She watched as the nurse inserted the tip into her arm. It hurt as bad as
she thought it would. Her muscles knotted, tensing around the needle. She
blinked, a tear falling from her eye, and then there was darkness.  

The third time she woke, she was alone. Her body felt
strange, like it wasn’t hers anymore. She knew it was the drugs.  In the
past she would have refused them. She was an all-natural kind of a gal, but a
lot had changed in the last month. Her husband was dead, and the world was full
of monsters. She drew a deep breath in an attempt to calm her nerves.  The
door squeaked open a moment later and a bearded man with neatly parted brown
hair entered her room. 

“Hi, Meg, I’m Dr. Hill,” he said. He approached her bedside
with his eyes locked on a clipboard.

She tried to sit up by scooting her legs. That hurt worse
than the needle. She grimaced as the pain passed.

“Probably want to sit still,” Hill said gingerly. “Your legs
are pretty torn up. I stitched them back together, but honestly, I’m not a
surgeon.” He flipped a page over the clipboard and continued, “I was a physical
therapist working at Fort Bragg. Got lucky and was rescued about a week ago.”

She glared at him incredulously. A physical therapist had
stitched her up? She didn’t want to see what was beneath the white covers.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

“Good news is you’re going to be fine. Will take some time
for your legs to heal, but once we get you hydrated you’ll start feeling
better.”

Meg craned her neck to the left and looked out the window. A
patrol of armed soldiers walked down a concrete pathway.

“Where am I?”

“Plum Island,” Hill replied. “You’re safe now.”

Meg let out a weak laugh and closed her eyes again, drifting
back into the perpetual nightmare inside her head.

Fitz scoped the beach with his new
MK11. It was mid-afternoon and he was still on edge from the attack the night
before. He played the crosshairs over the water, half expecting to see the pale
flesh of a swimming Variant. After an hour of pacing back and forth, he finally
took a seat on a stool and rested his aching body. He was fighting to keep his
eyelids open, and his thigh muscles burned like he’d just finished a marathon.
He desperately needed sleep, a deep tissue massage, and a shot of whiskey.

Scratch that. He needed a
bottle
of whiskey.

Just when he was starting to relax, his earpiece crackled.

“Tower 4, Command. We have a report of an unidentified ship
drifting south in Gardiners Bay. You got eyes on?”

“Stand by,” Fitz said.

He walked to the edge of the box. This wasn’t the first
report of a derelict ship. Vessels dotted the horizon like shells on a beach.
Their crews had either abandoned them or were dead.

Hoisting his rifle onto the ledge, he set the bipod and
pointed the sleek black muzzle toward the bay. The horizon warned of a
mid-afternoon storm. Swollen gray clouds rolled across the sky, a sharp
contrast to the calm teal waves. Fitz squared his shoulders, and then roved his
aim slowly to the right until he saw the dull gray of metal.

“Got eyes,” Fitz said. “Definitely a ship. Stand by for
identification.”

He zoomed in expecting to see a freighter, or perhaps a yacht
out of Martha’s Vineyard. Instead of a luxury cruiser, he saw a Navy destroyer.
And it wasn’t anchored, either. A powerful wake trailed the boat as she split
through the water.

“Command, Tower 4. I have eyes on a Navy destroyer with the
markings USS
Truxtun
, 103. She’s coming in pretty fast.”

There was a hard pause of static, enough to tell Fitz that
command was already planning a strategy to blow the boat out of the water if it
got too close. Unless Lieutenant Colonel Jensen had some hellfire missiles Fitz
didn’t know about, that wasn’t going to happen.

The electronic wail of a siren sounded from the public
address system before Fitz could get his thoughts straight. He brought his eye
back to the scope. The ship appeared to be on a collision course with the
island.

Fitz chambered a round and centered his sight on the bow—as
if a shot from his gun would do anything. Still, the cold steel in his hands
made him feel better. He scanned the deck of the boat for contacts as it came
into focus, but there wasn’t a single person in sight.

A ghost ship.

He imagined a Variant at the helm, crazed and starving, its
yellow eyes focused on the island. His heart rate increased as the whine of the
emergency sirens blared louder.