Nicholas Smith - Extinction Age

“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.

As the team worked forward, the trickle intensified into a steady stream. Falls cascaded in the distance. The shades of green folded into darkness, the end of the tunnel transforming into a black portal of a cavern. Beckham slowed as he approached a waterfall of sewage spilling over the edge into the massive room.

He formed a fist with his hand and then pointed to his eyes and then at the drop off. Jensen and Timbo acknowledged with nods and eased into a stealthy formation on the left platform.

“Let me bandage you up,” Chow whispered. He squeezed by Beckham and crouched in front of him. “How you feeling, man?”

“Dizzy,” Beckham replied. A random star floated across his vision.

“You’ve lost some blood,” Chow said. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small medical box. Then he leaned in and flipped his NVGs, using what little light the tunnel behind them provided for a better view.

“Looks deep,” Chow said.

“Feels…” Beckham shook his head. He caught a glimpse of Timbo walking closer to the ledge.

Chow cut away a piece of Beckham’s shirt and dressed the wound with antiseptic. The cold gel burned its way into his shoulder, and Beckham gritted his teeth. He closed his eyes and waited for the agony to pass. Chow applied a bandage over the injury.