Nicholas Smith - Extinction Age

“Me too,” Meg said, turning to face in the direction of New York. “I want to believe I can go home someday.”

The metal doors rattled so hard Kennor almost dropped his .45. He steadied the gun and kept it aimed at the entrance. The Variants pounded on the other side relentlessly. They had murdered and eaten their way through the entire base, and it was only a matter of time before they found a way inside the command center.

Harris stood his ground a few feet away. He cupped his hands over his headset, still listening for intel down to the very last second.

“Sir,” Harris said. “I’ve got Colonel Wood on the line. He wants to talk to you.”

Kennor nodded and reached for Harris’s headset. He used his knife hand to hold his .45 and grabbed the headset with his other.

The emergency alarms screamed from every corner of the room, the electronic whine making it nearly impossible to think. Never in his career had he felt the prickle of fear so deep. He’d given the orders that had sent countless others to their deaths, and before that he’d led men into battle—but even those bullet-riddled memories paled against the prospect of being torn apart by a horde of goddamn monsters.

“Go ahead, Wood,” Kennor said after a deep breath.

“General, why aren’t you on a bird?” Wood asked. His voice sounded distant, but Kennor could still make out his dry tone. It was almost as obnoxious as the emergency alarms.

“I decided to stay with my staff,” Kennor said.

“Honorable, sir,” Wood said, somehow making the word into an insult.

“Promise me you’ll finish Operation Extinction, Wood.”

“Colonel Gibson and I made a commitment to our nation that we would come up with a weapon to wipe our enemies off the face of the Earth. I’m not going to give up now.”

The door shook violently as a Variant rammed the other side. The thud echoed over the screeching sirens. Kennor gripped his .45 tighter in his hand, his fingers slimy with sweat.

“The Hemorrhage virus wasn’t exactly my idea of destroying our enemies,” Wood said. “But in the end, I think it shall work out rather nicely. I plan on using Earthfall over the US and selected territories. I’ll probably save Puerto Rico. I always did like San Juan. In a few weeks, we’ll take back our country and will never have to worry about enemies overseas…” His voice disappeared in a flurry of white noise.

“Colonel… Colonel!” Kennor shouted, his gut tightening.

“I’m here,” Wood said a moment later.

“What about our allies? What about the British or the French? We can’t abandon them!” Kennor shouted.

Wood sighed, his breath crackling across the line. “You used to remind me a lot of Secretary of Defense McNamara. Remember him? The architect of the Vietnam War? He put our national security first. Took the fight abroad. But you? You’re a disappointment, sir.”

“You son of a bitch, I should have known not to trust you,” Kennor said. “You can’t do this, Wood. You can’t abandon our allies.”

Wood let out a laugh. “We’re on our own now, General.”

The feed cut out. Kennor ripped the headset off and tossed it to Harris. “Get General Johnson and Lieutenant Colonel Kramer on the horn. NOW! Tell them they have—”

The sirens abruptly shut off and darkness washed over the room. Emergency lights flickered on, bathing the command center in a malicious red. The pounding on the door stopped, too, and a rattling broke out overhead.

Kennor spun, his .45 darting across the ceiling from panel to panel. Everyone in the room fell quiet.

“When they come, watch your covering fire,” Kennor said.

Vicious scratching reverberated through the ductwork as the Variants clawed at the metal. Kennor shivered at the sounds, his breathing coming out in gasps. The Marines at the door took up position behind Harris, and Kennor worked his way through the stations to them. The other officers formed a perimeter, holding their sidearms. Corporal Van was the only one still at his desk. He was staring at the tile above his station.

Kennor waved at him, but froze when he saw dust raining from the ceiling. The flakes fluttered through the glow of the red light. Van turned and locked eyes with Kennor just as the panels overhead gave way.

Before Van could move, a Variant was on him. He let out a high-pitched scream as the monster tore him apart. The sound abruptly ended when it slashed his jugular vein and then clamped its bulging lips onto his neck.

Kennor ended Van’s suffering with a shot to his head. He squeezed off two more into the Variant’s back just as all hell broke loose. Ceiling panels in every corner of the command center cracked and plummeted to the ground. Variants poured from above.

The crack of gunfire sounded and muzzle flashes illuminated the pale, naked bodies of a dozen monsters. They darted across the room the moment they hit the ground.

He focused on the creature still perched on Van’s broken body. It pulled its lips away, clawed at its back, and let out a guttural roar of rage. Kennor squeezed off a shot that hit the monster right between its yellow eyes.

Kennor whirled to find another target when something hot stung his back and sent him crashing to the floor. His face smashed onto the ground. He struggled to get up, but everything below his belt felt numb. He watched helplessly as his staff vanished one by one, the Variants pulling them into the darkness.

He heard the popping of joints and screeching of claws before he saw the monster crawling toward him with its back arched in a catlike stance. With no small amount of effort, he rolled his head to the side just as the Variant leapt and sunk its claws into his paralyzed legs.

There was no physical pain, only the mental anguish of his failure. Kennor had failed to save Central Command, failed to save his beloved country. From Reaper to Liberty and now Extinction—he had made all the wrong choices, and now he would pay for it. It was the last thought that crossed his mind as his vision went dark and the Variants dragged him away.

Beckham grabbed the injured soldier under an arm. “Where is Alpha?”

He pointed to the south and said, “Just outside the Industrial Reservoir. We found survivors hunkered down in the Presidential Command Center. We were evacuating them when w-we…”—he stuttered, his long chin wobbling—“we woke the nest.”

Beckham looked over at Chow. He knew what they were heading into. If there was a nest inside, then the chances of any of them making it out alive were slim.

“When we couldn’t raise you on the radio, Sergeant Mikesell ordered me to come find you guys. I picked up the Humvee along the way,” the soldier continued.

“How bad are you hurt?” Chow asked.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. He grimaced and pulled his hand away from a slash on his chest.

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

“Sawyer,” he said, still looking down at his red-stained hand.

“You did the right thing, Sawyer. Just hang in there.”

The pop of gunfire echoed through the tunnel. It meant there were still soldiers fighting, and it snapped Beckham into motion.

“Horn, help Sawyer. Let’s move,” Beckham said. “I’ll drive.”

He climbed inside the Humvee and waited for the others to pile in. There was a turret with an M260 and a spotlight on top of the truck. It was a good old-fashioned M1 that looked like it had been used for patrols. No bells and whistles, just a diesel engine and a drivetrain that could handle virtually any terrain on the planet.

Beckham put the truck in gear and stomped the pedal. With stealth out the window, he didn’t care who heard them coming. He gripped the wheel tightly and sped down the tunnel, navigating around the crates and boxes that littered the road.