Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (13 page)

A rush of what felt a lot like relief flooded Mitchell’s chest. Olson leaned forward and patted the back of Stanton’s seat.

“Lieutenant, what are you hearing over the radio?” Olson asked.

“Road’s clear so far, sir, and Command reports no sign of Variants.”

Olson gazed out the side window. “I hope they’re right.”

Mitchell inched closer to his window. Moonlight streamed through the roof of the forest. Shadows danced in the fog, sending a prickle of fear through the President.

The radio barked to life in the front of the Humvee. “Cheyenne 1, Command. Over.”

Reno plucked the radio off the dash. “Command, Cheyenne 1. Go ahead.”

“Cheyenne 1, be advised. We have detected several faint heat signatures north of your position. Stand by.”

Stand by? What the fuck did they mean, stand by?

Mitchell shifted in his seat for a better look out the windshield. Fog bled over the road, surrounding the Humvee with a carpet of gray mist. His heart rate spiked so high he felt light headed. He sucked in another deep breath and leaned closer to the window, frantically searching the landscape.

Stanton eased off the gas. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “Better be some deer. You see anything, Reno?”

“Nothing, sir.” Reno glanced over at Stanton, then looked up in the turret. “Got anything up there, Cunningham?”

“Negative, sir,” came the reply.

“Command, Cheyenne 1. We don’t see any hostiles. Do you have coordinates?” Reno placed the radio back on the dash and shouldered his rifle.

The radio hissed. “Cheyenne 1, we are now picking up faint heat signatures south of your position.”

“What do they mean, faint?” Olson said. He leaned closer to the front passenger seat.

“Means it could be nothing,” Stanton said.

“Or it could be Variants,” Olson replied. “How the fuck do they not know?”

Stanton twisted the steering wheel and said, “The fog. Could be masking heat signatures. That’s why we did several sweeps with the drone earlier. If the Variants were still out here, the drone should have seen them.”

“That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence,” Olson said.

“Keep sharp,” Stanton told Reno. The Marine nodded back.

The road curved again, providing Mitchell a view of the valley. At the bottom of the hill were several long buildings. And there, in the middle of the heliport, he saw the shapes of the choppers that made up Marine One. They were almost there.

Olson leaned back and caught the President’s gaze. His Chief of Staff, one of the former Lions of Capitol Hill, had the look of regret in his squinted eyes. But for once, Mitchell didn’t share his confidante’s sentiments.

“Perhaps...” Olson said. “Perhaps we should turn back.”

“No!” Mitchell didn’t care that his voice cracked, or if Olson didn’t agree. They had to keep moving. He had to get away from this place. This
tomb.

Stanton shook his head. “Too late to turn back now. We’re closer to the heliport than the blast doors anyway. We have to keep moving.” He pushed down on the gas.

The road curved again, and Mitchell lost sight of their salvation. The brake lights of the first Humvees suddenly flared red ahead. Both of the trucks screeched as the drivers slammed the brakes.

“Hold on!” Stanton shouted.

“Cheyenne 1, Command. Variants in the vicinity. Repeat, heat signatures are confirmed to be—”

In less than a blink of an eye, Mitchell’s world cascaded into chaos, his heart skipping and every muscle tensing. He held in a breath as the crunch of metal sounded, drowning out the radio operator’s voice. Mitchell braced himself with a hand against the front seat.

The lead Humvee had smashed into a fallen tree draped across the road. Vice President Black’s Humvee swerved to the side of the road to avoid the wreckage. Tendrils of smoke rose from the first truck. The Marine in the turret was slumped over his machine gun, surrounded by swirling smoke and fog.

“Are you okay, sir?” Olson asked.

Mitchell gasped for air, his hand on his chest. The radio crackled before he could reply. “Cheyenne 1, Command. Variants closing in from your north and south—”

“There!” Olson yelled, pointing to the left side of the road.

Hand still on his rising chest, Mitchell followed Olson’s fingers to the trees. Pale limbs and bald skulls shifted in and out of the mist. All at once, a trio of Variants exploded from the wall of fog and landed on the lead vehicle. Four more leapt off the ridgeline and skittered across the road. Another pack galloped from the trees to the right. They swarmed over Vice President Black’s truck before any of the Marines fired a single shot.

“Shoot them!” Mitchell screamed.

“We risk hitting the VP!” Stanton protested.

“He’s already dead!” Mitchell yelled back. “Get us the hell out of here!”

Stanton put the truck into reverse and glanced up at the mirror. Mitchell saw something in the Marine’s gaze that made Mitchell feel even more terrified: desperation.

“We’re boxed in!” Stanton shouted.

Mitchell spun. Humvee 5 had already retreated, but the fourth truck was stalled. The gunner was gone, and a pack of Variants had already overwhelmed the truck. On the ridgeline to the right, a thick Ponderosa leaned over the side of the road. The pine needles shook violently as it lowered, the branches bobbing up and down with dozens of Variants. At the bottom of the tree, a goliath monster pushed at the base, ripping the roots from the ground. Three other beasts helped push, but the leader dwarfed them. Fog swirled around the creatures like a ghoulish curtain.

“Move this fucking truck!” Mitchell shouted when he finally realized what was happening.

“Now, Lieutenant!” Olson added.

“Working on it!” Stanton yelled back. He put the truck in reverse and raced toward Humvee four. “Cunningham, clear us a path! Don’t let that thing bring the tree down!”

Mitchell flinched as the Marine open fired from the turret. The bark of the heavy machine gun reverberated inside of the truck, and the President cupped his hands over his ears. Rounds kicked up dirt toward the leaning tree. A dozen Variants climbed the branches while the beasts at the base continued pushing. Cunningham centered his fire on the shaking branches, sending the monsters spinning away into the night.

“Stop the one at the bottom!” Stanton yelled.

The tracer rounds lowered, and .50 cal projectiles lanced into the ground, kicking up a geyser of dirt and pine needles. A round clipped the colossal Variant pushing at the trunk, taking off its right arm in a blast of red. The monster roared and slammed its left shoulder into the tree. Cunningham raked the gun left to right, taking out the other three creatures, then back to the injured beast. Chunks of gore bloomed out of the mist, but the monster kept pushing, relentless.

“Take it out, Goddammit!” Stanton shouted again.

The heavy machine gun finally turned the monster into confetti, rounds punching through flesh and slamming into bark. Cunningham roved the gun away, but he inadvertently hit the exposed roots, finishing what the Variants had started. They snapped, and the Ponderosa crashed onto Humvee 4.

“Go right, go right!” Olson shouted.

Stanton slammed the brakes, put the truck back in drive, punched the gas, and maneuvered the vehicle onto the shoulder of the road. Rocks crunched under the tires as the truck jerked up and down.

The beams hit a Variant pulling a kicking man from Humvee 2. It wasn’t hard to spot the Vice President’s shiny, bald head in the bright lights. 

“They got the VP!’ Reno yelled.

“Cunningham, fire on Humvee 1 and 2,” Stanton said, making an effort to try and remain calm. But Mitchell knew the truth. The Lieutenant wasn’t in control. They had never been in control.

The turret swiveled overhead and the gun coughed back to life. Rounds spat down the road, splitting through metal and shattering glass. The monsters abandoned the Vice President’s vehicle and scampered up the ridgelines on both sides of the truck, providing Stanton a window for escape. He gunned the truck past Humvee 2, smashing into a soldier crawling across the road. Mitchell’s gaze flitted to the man as he skidded over the pavement. When he came to a stop, he moved an arm, then a hand. It happened so fast that Mitchell hardly had time to recognize the man as Black. The Vice President reached up at Mitchell’s Humvee as Stanton sped past.

Mitchell opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a groan. He had been the only one to see Black still alive. They couldn’t go back for him—they had to keep moving. They couldn’t do anything for him. At least that’s what Mitchell kept telling himself. 

“Through there!” Olson yelled. He pointed to the right of the fallen tree Humvee 1 had crashed into. There was a narrow gap between the roots of the tree and the hill it had tumbled from.

A Variant yanked a civilian from the twisted metal of the wreckage of Humvee 1 by his arms, both of which were broken at the elbow, bones protruding from flesh. He let out a scream that Mitchell could hear over the bark of the machine gun.

Stanton steered the Humvee onto the right shoulder. The driver’s side clipped the roots from the fallen Ponderosa, and the passenger’s side scraped the ridgeline to the right. In a screech of metal, their Humvee shot through the gap.

Stanton pulled back onto the road just as a Variant lunged from the hill. It landed on the roof with a thud. Cunningham let out a muffled scream. His boots rose up into the turret as the beast pulled on him. Olson grabbed one of the Marine’s boots and shouted, “Help me!”

Mitchell hesitated before he reached forward and grabbed the Marine’s other boot. Both men pulled, but the Variant lifted the man out of the truck with ease. Mitchell jerked back in his seat, feeling the Marine’s boot laces still digging into his palms. Gasping for air, he wrapped his arms across his chest. He wanted to curl up and hide.

“Cunningham!” Reno screamed. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed into the turret just as Cunningham came crashing onto the windshield. The impact splintered the glass, blood filling the cracks. The Variant jumped onto the hood and tossed the Marine’s body away.

“Get it off!” Stanton yelled.

The truck swayed from side to side, Stanton trying to see around the beast. The turret roared to life again, and the monster disappeared in an explosion of blood that coated the entire windshield with slimy gore.

“Brace yourself!” Stanton shouted.

Mitchell reached up for a handhold as the truck spun out of control. The bumper clipped something he couldn’t see, and then they were spinning with such force that Mitchell crashed into the side of the door.

For a second, Mitchell locked eyes with his Chief of Staff, sharing a moment of terror. The Lions of Capitol Hill had reached the end of the line.

Mitchell’s fingers wrapped around the handhold just as the truck flipped. His neck lurched, pain shooting down his spine. The atomic football sailed through the air in slow motion. The vehicle landed on its side, shattering every window before it rolled onto the roof. Mitchell’s seatbelt dug into his waist and he gripped the handhold harder. Upside down now, sparks trailed the truck as it screeched over the pavement.

A few agonizing seconds later, the Humvee ground to a stop. Smoke and fog spilled inside, filling Mitchell’s straining lungs. He coughed and swatted at the smoke. Olson hung from the ceiling, his neck twisted in a way that left no question.

“No,” Mitchell said. “Olson, no...” He unbuckled his belt and crashed to the floor with a thud that echoed through the vehicle.

Stanton coughed from the front seat. “Mr. President, are you okay?”

“I think so,” Mitchell replied, glancing over at his Chief of Staff again. “But Olson’s dead.”

The radio crackled, cutting him off. “Cheyenne 1, you have hostiles surrounding your position. Get POTUS out of there now!”

Stanton swiped for the radio, but his hand came up short. He let out a groan and coughed. Mitchell scrambled into the front of the truck where the lieutenant hung from the ceiling. He reached down to Mitchell with a hand covered in blood.

“Let me help you,” Mitchell said.

“No, sir, I can’t feel my legs. I’m done... You have to get out of here,” Stanton said.

Mitchell grabbed the radio as a high-pitched shriek rang out. Stanton let out a cough, but quickly covered his mouth with a sleeve to suppress the sound. Then he pulled a pistol from a holster on his vest and handed it down.

“Sir, take this.”

“But I...I don’t know how to shoot,” Mitchell stuttered.

The noise of snapping branches came from the rear of the vehicle. Mitchell whirled as jointed appendages whizzed by the shattered back passenger window. Then came the scrape of talons over the concrete, like one of the beasts was dragging a pickaxe across the ground.

Mitchell froze, his eyes darting from window to window as his heart assaulted his rib cage. A pair of feet staggered by the passenger side. The creature stopped and pounded on the back gate of the truck. Another joined, rocking the Humvee from side to side.

Stanton pushed the gun down to Mitchell.

“Take it, Mr. President.” The lieutenant whispered in a formal voice even as they were being surrounded.

A thud sounded on the undercarriage of the vehicle. The creatures were on top now. Others circled outside. Wet, naked feet slapped over the asphalt as two emaciated Variants raced in front of the windshield, their backs arched and yellow eyes roving for prey. Mitchell grabbed the pistol, his heart rising into his throat.

“Aim for the head,” Stanton said.

Mitchell looked up and nodded. When he glanced back to the passenger side window, a female Variant on all fours tilted her head just outside the vehicle, blinking thick eyelids. Wispy blonde hair dangled over her scarred face. Her tongue shot out of her swollen lips and made a circle, leaving a trail of saliva. She cracked her head at an unnatural angle, focusing on Mitchell. Then she was moving, skittering forward on oddly jointed arms and legs.

“Shoot it!” Stanton shouted.

Raising the pistol, Mitchell let out a whimper. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The monster’s wet, veiny lips twisted into what looked a lot like a smile.