Extinction Age
Authors: Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Extinction Cycle, Book III
Nicholas Sansbury Smith
Copyright June 2015 by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Creative Paramita
Edited by Aaron Sikes and Erin Elizabeth Long
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales or persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication
can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without
permission in writing from the author.
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Books by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
(The Orbs Series
Offered by Simon451/Simon and Schuster)
Solar Storms (An Orbs Prequel)
The
Extinction Cycle Series
Extinction
Age
Extinction
Evolution (Fall 2015)
The Tisaian
Chronicles
The world
had seen so many Ages: the Age of Enlightenment; of Reformation; of Reason.
Now, at last, the Age of Desire. And after this, an end to Ages; an end,
perhaps, to everything.
—Clive
Barker,
The Inhuman Condition
May 7th, 2015
New York City
T
he tunnels below Manhattan reeked of death, but
Master Sergeant Reed Beckham blocked out the stench of decay in the sultry air.
Injured, rattled, and down to only his sidearm, his focus was on keeping his
men alive.
He pulled his shemagh scarf up to cover his nose and burst
around another corner, following the sound of clanking gear and labored
breathing through the underground sewer system. Light danced across the
green-hued view of his night vision goggles and bent eerily in the darkness.
The graffiti-covered walls seemed to narrow as he ran, the artwork distorting
like he was in some sort of carnival fun house.
Breathe
, Beckham ordered himself.
Breathe.
He ignored the burn in his lungs and concentrated on the six
helmets that bobbed up and down ahead. The loyal soldiers had followed him into
the tunnels to escape the firebombs and the Variants, but Beckham feared he had
only delayed the inevitable for these brave men.
“Keep moving!” Staff Sergeant Chow shouted. The Delta Force
Operator turned and waved Beckham forward.
An inhuman shriek answered, amplified by the enclosed space.
The rapid clicking of joints followed as the Variants homed in on Team Ghost’s
location.
Beckham brushed against the side of a wall and threw a glance
over his shoulder. The creatures clung to the shadows, their diseased flesh
glowing in the moonlight streaming through partially open manhole covers. They
skittered horizontally across the walls just close enough to keep his team in
view.
The monsters had transformed into perfect predators that
could see in dim lighting, heal remarkably fast, and move like insects. Dr.
Kate Lovato called it evolution. Beckham called it natural selection. And with
every passing second, the Variants grew stronger while the human population
dwindled.
Beckham had been there from day one, back in Building 8 when
the virus that turned men into monsters first escaped. But even now, the sight
of the Variants flooded him with raw fear. Adrenaline emptied into his system
like a fast release pill as he ran.
The creatures were testing him. Seeing how far they could
approach before Team Ghost opened fire. He responded with a shot from his 10mm.
Rock and dust exploded from a wall. The warning would only buy them a precious minute
or two.
A sudden tremor rumbled through the tunnel. Fragments of
concrete poured from the ceiling, showering the team with debris. The jets were
making a second pass on Manhattan, firebombing Midtown.
Beckham thought of his brothers-in-arms and of Timothy and
Jake, hoping to God they were all out of the kill zone. He shook the thought
away as he bolted through a cloud of dust and ash, one hand shielding his face.
He slopped through ankle-deep sewage and turned every hundred feet to fire off
another shot.
A frantic voice broke through the chaos.
“Which way?”
“Left!” came a second voice.
“Right!” shouted another a second later.
Beckham could barely see the junction ahead. None of them had
any idea where they were or where they were going. Entering the tunnels had
been a last resort. Now, deep beneath the streets, Beckham’s only plan was to
keep moving.
“Left! Go left!” he yelled just as a second torrent of dull
thuds hit the streets above. These explosions were closer, and the aftershock
sent Beckham crashing into a wall. He braced himself with an elbow and whirled
to fire at a trio of Variants darting across the ceiling. Two of them melted
into the darkness, squawking in anger, but the third and largest creature
dropped to all fours, its muscular limbs pounding the water.
Beckham fired another shot and took off running. By the time
he passed the next corner, his team was fifty feet ahead. Timbo’s bulky frame
loomed in the darkness.
“Come on!” the Ranger huffed.
“I’m with you!” Beckham replied between raspy breaths. His
earpiece crackled with static as he made up lost ground.
“You got a
plan
?” Lieutenant Colonel Jensen asked,
putting deliberate emphasis on the final word.
Beckham couldn’t lie. He was still trying to come up with a
plan B. So far, running around in the maze of tunnels wasn’t working.
“We’re going to need to make a stand! Get these Variants off
our ass!” Beckham finally shouted. “Ammo count!”
The replies trickled over the comm channel. Between the seven
of them, they had a handful of mags for their primary weapons and only a couple
of frag grenades. Several of his men were also down to sidearms.
Beckham probed the green oblivion of the tunnel as he
considered their options. This wasn’t the first time he’d had his back to a
wall. At Fort Bragg, Beckham and Horn had been down to their knives before Chow
had showed up with the cavalry. But this time no one was going to ride in and
save him. Team Ghost was on their own.
A guttural croak echoed through the passage. Two more
answered the call. The evil cries rattled his senses. He examined his vest for
something useful, anything that might buy them some more time to escape. Two
smoke bombs hung next to his remaining M67 grenade.
Out of desperation, he plucked one off and tossed it as far
as he could. It landed in the water about a hundred feet away with a faint
plop. Smoke hissed out of it a moment later.
“I’m right behind you,” Beckham said into his mini-mike. The
ceiling rumbled as jets swooped overhead for a third pass, drowning out his
voice.
Command was hitting the Variants hard. After 1st Platoon had
drawn them out of their lairs, General Kennor had likely ordered every
available pilot in range to mount up. The flyboys were showering New York with
hellfire and death. Beckham clenched his jaw—Kennor had used him, his men, and
thousands of other soldiers as bait.
A shard of concrete slashed Beckham’s arm, tearing him from
his thoughts. A second piece clanked off his helmet so hard it threw him off
balance. He dropped to a knee and raised his pistol toward the smoke. Moonlight
from an open manhole bathed him in light. He flipped up his NVGs and squinted
at the smoke.
“Move!” Timbo shouted.
“I’ll catch up!” Beckham yelled back. He held his position
and continued searching for the monsters. The swirling cloud quickly spread
over the corridor. His heart thumped as he waited. Seconds ticked by. Five.
Ten. The footsteps of his team splashed through the water, gradually fading.
A flash of motion broke inside the curtain of smoke. The
single shape of the colossal Variant lingered at the edge of the barrier. It
tilted its head, yellow eyes blinking rapidly as it searched for Beckham.
He fired on reflex, his trigger finger responding to the stab
of fear with three shots. The rounds punched into the thick Variant’s sweaty
chest, jerking it from side to side. It let out a roar and leapt to the wall.
Beckham fired off two more shots. One clipped the Variant’s
cranium, blowing off an ear and a piece of skull. That only enraged the
monster. It clambered across the bricks, closing the gap between it and
Beckham. He could smell it now. The sour stench of rotting fruit carried over
the putrid sewage.
“What the hell are you—” Chow started to say over the comm
when Beckham’s gunfire silenced him. He fired again and again, but the
monster’s thick muscles seemed to absorb the bullets. The high-pitched
screeches and the popping joints of other Variants echoed through the tunnel in
the break of his gunshots.
Beckham knew what came next.
Fatigue had screwed with his senses. He should have known the
smoke wouldn’t cover their escape—should have known his bullets wouldn’t stop
them. Without thinking, he reached for his last grenade, bit off the pin, and
tossed it at the beast of a Variant that was now only fifty feet away.
“Frag out!” Beckham shouted.
He turned to run when a meaty body knocked him onto his back
in the water. There was no time to react, no time to call for help or curse the
fact he hadn’t seen the other Variant stalking him through the manhole above.
There was only a fraction of a second to whip his head away from the Variant’s
maw.
The beast pushed against Beckham’s chest, forcing him below
the rancid water. Stars broke across his vision as he battled his way to the surface.
A realization hit him then. He had four, maybe five seconds before the grenade
exploded. The timer counted down in his mind as he fought.
Five seconds.
Beckham clamped a hand around the creature’s thick neck while
flailing for his pistol with the other. He came up empty, the weapon lost in
the muck.
Another second passed. He panicked, knowing he was well
within the kill radius of the grenade. In a final desperate attempt to escape
the monster, he reached for his knife. He jammed the blade into the open mouth
of the Variant. Teeth shattered as he plunged the tip into its brain with a wet
thunk
.
A gurgling croak escaped the monster’s swollen lips before it
went limp. The dead weight pushed down, forcing Beckham beneath the water
again. He heard a muddled voice as he struggled back to the surface.
“Beckham! Hold on! I’m com—”
The words vanished in an explosion. Shrapnel whistled through
the tunnel, tearing into the flesh of the corpse on top of him. A piece bit
into Beckham’s exposed right shoulder. He winced from the raw heat that
instantly turned his right arm numb. Pinned down, he was forced to watch
helplessly as fissures broke across the ceiling. Chunks fell from the network
of cracks into the foul water.
He squirmed under the dead Variant, but his right arm was out
of commission. The corpse had saved him from the blast only to suffocate him
beneath the water.
Red flooded his vision and a memory of the night he spent
with Kate floated into his mind. It disappeared into a flashback of Building 8
and the members of Team Ghost who had never made it out.
The memories gnawed at his mind as his lungs groped for
oxygen. Darkness slowly replaced the red. His body was numb now. So numb he
could hardly feel the weight of the Variant roll off him. His eyes snapped open
as someone grabbed his flak jacket and hauled him from the water.
A voice, distorted by the dull ringing in Beckham’s ears,
called out for him.
“Beckham! You with me, man?”
“Yeah,” Beckham managed to say. He was still alive, but he
knew he was in bad shape. His shoulder burned like someone had dumped battery
acid on it, and his lungs felt like they’d been crushed. He squinted to focus
on the face hovering over him.
Fingers snapped in front of Beckham’s eyes. His vision slowly
cleared to the sight of Chow looking him up and down for injuries.
Beckham took in deep breaths filled with the scent of seared
flesh and the rotten water. The burn of stomach acid ate at his throat. He ran
his tongue over slimy teeth and spat into the muck.
“You okay?” someone else asked.
Beckham could hardly hear anything over the rush of blood in
his ears. He sat there for a few minutes as the world slowly returned to
normal.
“We need to get moving,” another voice said.
Beckham flipped his NVGs back into position. Smoke and dust
whirled through the tunnel behind Chow, Jensen, and Timbo. He twisted to see
Jinx, Ryan, and Valdez holding security on their rear guard.
“You good, man?” Chow asked.
“Everything but my right shoulder,” Beckham said. “Got nicked
by some shrapnel.”
“Help him up,” Chow ordered. “And be careful.”
Beckham grimaced as Timbo bent down, grabbed him under
the armpits, and hoisted him to his feet. The other men formed a perimeter
around him, like a legion of knights protecting a fallen warrior.
“You’re one crazy son of a bitch,” Jensen said as he stared
at the destruction.
“Had to hold them,” Beckham said.
“Yeah,” Jensen said. “Looks like you did.”
“For now,” Beckham added. He applied pressure to his wound
and scanned the dissipating smoke one more time for movement. Nothing stirred.
The Variants had been reduced to scattered chunks of gore.
“Let’s move out,” Beckham said. He was lightheaded, but they
had to keep moving.
“Hold up, man. Let me look at your shoulder,” Chow said.
“It can wait,” Beckham said. “Someone give me a gun. I lost
mine in the blast.”
Jensen handed him a revolver. Beckham flipped open the
cylinder of the Colt .45 and counted the six hollow-tipped cartridges.
“That’s my girl,” Jensen said. “I want her back.”
Although the NVGs were covering his eyes, Beckham knew the
lieutenant colonel was sizing him up. If he were in Jensen’s shoes, he would be
doing the same thing.
“On me,” Beckham said. He didn’t give his men a
chance to protest. He strode through the group and led them
away from the carnage, blood still dripping from his shoulder.
Ringing followed him through the tunnels, singing in his
ears. He lost track of time in the rancid, damp network of storm drains and
sewers.
The next corridor widened and curved into a larger passage
with brick platforms on both sides. Beckham jumped onto the right ledge and
hugged the wall, happy to be out of the shit. Jensen and Jinx hurried across
the platform on the left, Timbo close on their six.
Beckham pressed down on his wound. If he made it out of this,
he was going to need stitches and some powerful antibiotics to combat sepsis.
The injury blazed from the bacteria that had already entered his system.
“You got eyes?” Chow asked.
“Looks clear,” Beckham replied.
There was no sign of Variants or other threats in the tunnel.
For the first time in hours, Beckham could make out the trickle of water. The
ringing from the grenade was still fading, but the Air Force had finally
finished their bombardment.