Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (3 page)

Maybe he could have saved Daniels and the woman before the beasts dragged them into the water.

Garcia’s heart flipped, the rush of relief transforming into the stab of fear and shock. By the time he grasped what was happening, Morgan was gone too, half of his face ripped off by a set of talons. A dozen of the creatures had flanked them from the ocean, swimming unseen beneath the waves.

Rockets from door-mounted M260s streaked overhead as a trio of Blackhawks closed in, kicking sand and death into the sky. An M240 joined the fight, turning the Variants into little more than floating meat. The sapphire water turned dark crimson. The rounds slammed into the sand around Garcia, Tank, Stevo, and Thomas. Limbs and chunks of gore tumbled across the beach. Garcia crouched with the other Marines to avoid the spray, his heart firing like the M240 above.

In minutes, it was over. The bark of the guns died, replaced by the howls of dying monsters. Smathers Beach was truly a battlefield now, pockmarked with smoking craters and mangled bodies sprawled across the sand.

Garcia took in deep breaths filled with the scent of charred flesh. Ears ringing, and dazed, he slowly stood and searched the water for any sign of his men. The Blackhawks continued to circle, the M240 disgorging sporadic rounds at twitching Variants. As they finally lowered to extract Garcia and what was left of his team, all he could think about was how wrong he had been. If he’d paid more attention to science and studied the adaptation of the creatures, his men would still be alive. The monsters had used the children in the surf and the woman on the road as bait.

Fucking bait.

-1-

Three Days Later

T
he divine glow of a brilliant sunrise crept across Plum Island. On the walkway outside Building 5, twelve Medical Corps soldiers in black fatigues knelt with their hands tied behind their backs. Master Sergeant Reed Beckham walked the line and stopped to point the barrel of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s .45 at the bowed head of the closest soldier. 

Beckham didn’t know the man’s name—hell, he didn’t even know his rank—but he was one of the late Colonel Wood’s henchmen. It seemed only fitting Jensen’s gun should kill them.

The soldier glanced up, his long chin wobbling. “Please. Please don’t shoot me. I was just following orders.”

Beckham resisted the urge to pistol-whip the man right then and there. If he had a bullet for every soldier who had used that line, he would have enough ammo to kill every Variant left in New York. Beckham had helped disarm over one hundred Iraqi troops during the fall of Baghdad twelve years ago, and they’d all used that same line. It didn’t excuse them from sectarian violence or killing Kurdish women and children.

These men were soldiers, but even soldiers had a choice. The Nazis had a choice. The Taliban had a choice. Osama Bin Laden’s men had a choice. When shit hit the fan, there was always a choice. Beckham had broken orders in Niantic to save a stranded family, and he’d done so again when he killed Colonel Wood’s men the night before.

“I say we drop them off in New York City and let the Variants have at ‘em,” Staff Sergeant Horn said with a snort. “Although that would be a waste of fuel.” The Delta Force Operator’s right bicep was still dripping blood, but he didn’t seem to notice the pain. His eyes blazed. Corporal Fitzpatrick and Staff Sergeant Chow flanked him, their rifles all aimed at the Medical Corps prisoners.

Major Smith was there too, his arms crossed, supervising the scene. With the state of the world, Smith had elected to give Beckham free rein to deal with Wood’s soldiers however he saw fit. He hadn’t done so without objecting, though, and his final words on the matter rang in Beckham’s mind:
“It may be their funeral, but it’ll be your conscience.”

On the lawn behind Beckham stood a team of Army Rangers and Marines. Fourteen battle-hardened men, all stationed at Plum Island since the early days of the outbreak. Staff Sergeant Riley sat in his wheelchair next to Meg Pratt, the firefighter they’d rescued from New York. She was propped up on crutches. It felt good to have a small army at his back, but the longer Beckham listened to the sound of the crowd, the more he realized how fucked things really were.

“Kill them,” one of the Marines barked.

“Shoot ‘em!” yelled another.

Beckham was still fuming from Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s death the night before, but this wasn’t right. His men were better than this. They weren’t executioners. Civilization was gone, but Beckham wasn’t going to let justice go with it.

“Get up,” Beckham said. He motioned with the muzzle of Jensen’s .45.

The Medical Corps soldier struggled to his feet. He squinted in the morning sun, his youthful features crunching together. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

“What’s your name, kid?” Beckham asked.

“Keith,” he replied, his chin still wobbling. “Keith Sizemore. I’m sorry, Master Sergeant. I’m sorry about Colonel Wood. I didn’t know...”

“Shut the hell up, Sizemore,” one of the other prisoners said. Beckham strode over to the man, a sergeant named Gallagher according to his uniform. He was the highest-ranking soldier of the group.

Beckham grabbed him under the arm and jammed his .45 into the man’s back. “On your feet, Sergeant.”

“Tough guy with a gun,” Gallagher said. “Once they find out what you did to Colonel Wood, you’re all going to wish you were dead. They’re going to send an army after you fucking traitors.”

The door to Building 5 creaked open. Dr. Kate Lovato and Dr. Pat Ellis stepped out onto the landing. Kate gave Beckham a critical look and slowly shook her head. The simple act washed away whatever bloodlust was still swirling inside of Beckham. He took in a breath and holstered his .45. Then he pulled his knife and cut the ties binding the sergeant’s wrists.

“What the...” Gallagher said.

“No gun,” Beckham said. He sheathed the blade and added, “No knife. Just me...and you.”

Gallagher’s cocky smile revealed a mouth full of crooked teeth. He massaged his wrists in turn, then balled his hands into fists. In two swift motions, he planted a boot and threw a punch that sailed past Beckham’s right eye.

Beckham hardly had the chance to move out of the way. Gallagher grunted, regained his balance, and swung again. He was fast, but Beckham was more agile. He grabbed the sergeant’s arm, twisted it, and shoved him. Gallagher crashed to the grass.

“Take him, Boss!” Riley shouted.

“Son of a bitch!” Gallagher yelled. He spat, wiped his lips with a sleeve, and pushed himself to his feet. As soon as he was standing, he launched another fist.

This time Beckham pivoted to the right, but Gallagher’s fist still whizzed by his chin. By habit, Beckham stepped back, planted his left boot, stepped forward with his right, and used all the forward momentum to throw a punch that connected with the side of the sergeant’s left cheek.

A bone-shattering crunch sounded over the shouts of the Marines and Rangers. Blood exploded from Gallagher’s mouth, a crooked tooth flying out in the mist. He spun and crashed face first to the ground.

Gallagher crawled a few feet before collapsing to his stomach. There was a moment of complete silence, broken only by the chirp of a bird in the distance.

“Anyone else still loyal to Colonel Wood?” Beckham asked.

Not a single one of the Medical Corps soldiers said a word.

“Good, because I’m going to make this really simple. You’re either with us, or you’re against us. This is the apocalypse. Things don’t work the way they used to, but we all still have a choice. And I’m offering you all a very simple one—either join us, or my friend Big Horn will give you a ride to New York and you can fight the Variants on your own.” After a pause to let the prisoners digest his words, he said, “Any questions?”

P
resident Nate Mitchell started his twenty-first day as President of the United States with a cold cup of coffee. He brought the Styrofoam cup to his lips and eyed the muddy liquid. It was a far cry from the steaming Starbucks Venti Chocolate Mocha that used to be waiting on his desk in his private Senate office every morning.

Mitchell imagined sitting in the Oval Office, discussing the current jobs report or the War on Terror with his staff. That’s what Presidents did.

But this? He looked around the dimly lit conference room in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain and took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like shit. Vice President Josh Black sat across the table, decked out in his perfectly pressed Army uniform. He studied a pile of reports while scratching his halo of gray hair. Every few minutes he would lick his right finger, peel back another page, then go back to scratching. It was annoying as hell, and Mitchell wondered if it was part of the reason Black didn’t have a fourth star on his chest. Then again, looks didn’t seem to matter in the military like they had in Washington.

Nobody cared what you looked like at the end of the world. Men and women were judged on their ability to survive. That’s how things should have always been, Mitchell thought, but it took the apocalypse for the playing field to even out. That’s why Mitchell had appointed Black as his Vice President. He was one of the highest-ranking soldiers left, and with martial law in effect, he had also been the perfect liaison to General Kennor.

With Kennor dead, Mitchell wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

“You got the backup Central Command recommendations for me yet?” he asked.

The Vice President closed a folder and placed it back into the pile. “I don’t like any of the available options, sir. The Variants have found ways into almost every single one of our facilities. Raven Rock Mountain Complex, Langley AFB, Offutt AFB, the PEOC...”

Black winced, clearly realizing his mistake. Mitchell’s wife, June, had perished in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center two weeks after the first case of the Hemorrhage Virus. Mitchell and June had been whisked away when one of the Secret Service guards began displaying symptoms, but she never made it out.

Mitchell closed his eyes, blocking out the memory of the gunshots that took her life as she had reached out to grab him. “You’re telling me we’re out of options?” He snapped his eyes open and exhaled.

Black had folded his hands on the table. “No, sir, I’m telling you we need to abandon dry land.”

“And what? Circle the Earth in Air Force One?”

The sides of Black’s dry lips trembled slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he should grin. “I’ve been looking over our current assets on the sea, and it looks like the
George Washington
Carrier Strike Group may be the perfect option for Central Command. They returned to US waters during the outbreak, and are currently sailing off the coast of the Florida Keys. It’s the last strike group still intact.” He paused for a moment to lock eyes with Mitchell. “I’m also advising that we abandon Cheyenne Mountain. It’s only a matter of time before the Variants infiltrate this facility.”

Mitchell leaned back in his chair. He had never really liked the ocean, but it sure as hell beat this damp underground city built into the mountain. A rap on the door sounded before he could respond. Chief of Staff Brian Olson walked into the room wearing the same pinstripe suit he’d had on since they entered the facility weeks before. The expensive suit made him feel normal, he’d told Mitchell.

“Mr. President, Mr. Vice President,” Olson said. He reached up and fixed the side part in his thin black hair. The glow of the overhead lights illuminated his pale features and the bulging vein running from his forehead to his scalp.

“Jesus, you look like shit, Olson. Didn’t you sleep last night?” Mitchell asked.

“Not a wink,” Olson replied. “Was dealing with the fallout from yesterday’s attack on Central Command. Speaking of, that’s why I’m here. There’s good news and bad news, sir.”

“Start with the good,” Mitchell said.

“Several of General Kennor’s staff made it out of Central Command before it fell. General George Johnson is now temporarily in charge of the military. He’s been taken temporarily to the
George Washington
Carrier Strike Group.”

“Smart man,” Black said. “Another reason to move Central Command there.”

Olson handed Black and Mitchell manila folders stamped
TOP SECRET
.

“The second piece of good news is that the first stage of Operation Extinction has been a success. Our teams collected more than enough chemotherapeutics. Inside, you will see the four locations assigned to the development of Kryptonite. They’re all using genetic modification to speed up the production of the antibodies. Three of those four have already started the process. Kryptonite should be ready in two weeks.”

“What’s the bad news?” Black asked, seemingly unconcerned with the science.

“Central Command itself is a complete loss. The facility is offline, and I wouldn’t advise investing any resources into taking it back.”

“I agree,” Black said. “But if General Johnson is in charge, then it will be up to him.”

Olson continued like he hadn’t heard the Vice President, addressing Mitchell directly instead. “There’s something else, sir. Apparently there has been an incident on Plum Island.”