Nicholas Smith - Extinction Age

Chow nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

The operator hurried away with Jensen, leaving Beckham alone with Meg. He reached for his water bottle and gave it a quick shake. It was almost empty. He was just about to take a swig when Meg moaned.

Beckham handed her the bottle. “Here, drink.” He helped her bring it to her lips and held it there as she finished it off.

“Bet you’re hungry, too,” Beckham said. He pulled an energy bar from his pocket and peeled back the wrapper.

“No,” she said, waving it away. “I feel sick.”

“You have to eat. You’ll need your energy.”

She studied the bar in the dim lighting like it was poison. Beckham pushed it closer.

“You really think you can get me out of the city?” Meg asked.

“I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here. I promise you that.”

A pained grin broke across her face. “Guess not every man left in this city is a yellow-bellied coward after all.”

Two Blackhawks hovered overhead. The blades chopped through the silence of the early morning as the smoke from the smoldering Chinook swirled across the tarmac.

“Daddy!” Tasha shouted as the choppers descended. Kate grabbed the girl’s hand and held her back.

“Doctor,” the Medical Corps guard said. “My orders are to escort you back to Building 5. Major Smith has requested your presence at the command center.”

She shot him a glare. “Can’t he wait a few minutes? Their father is on one of those choppers.”

The young man frowned and flicked his headset to his lips. “Command, this is Sinclair. Holding position on eastern edge of tarmac.”

Kate couldn’t hear the response over the whirring of the Blackhawks’ rotors, but the man’s eyes told her she could stay.

“Thank you,” Kate lipped.

A beam from a spotlight centered on the wall of smoke creeping over the concrete. The soldiers roved the light from side to side, penetrating the thick haze. In the glow Kate saw two-dozen men trudging across the tarmac.

Kate squeezed the girls’ hands tighter as the men emerged with their helmets bowed in defeat. Their uniforms were soiled with dried blood and ash.

One of them stood taller than the others. She knew right away it was Horn. He jogged ahead when he saw them standing behind the concrete barriers.

“Tasha! Jenny!” he yelled, picking up speed.

“Daddy!” the girls yelled. Kate loosened her grip and let them run to their father. He scooped them up in his arms and held them tight. Hot tears blurred her vision as she watched. Tragedy had opened the door for a miracle, and once again a father was reunited with his daughters.

Meg ignored the rancid smell of sewage. She was more concerned with her shredded legs. When she had finished her first Ironman Triathlon, she’d endured the pain from the thousands upon thousands of rotations and footfalls that went into the one hundred forty mile race. That day, her muscles had been stretched like too-tight guitar strings. She had thought they were going to snap before she crossed the finish line.

The agony she felt now was worse. She still hadn’t gotten a good look at the damage the creatures had inflicted. The tunnels were too dark for that, but she knew from the pain that it had to be bad.

“Give me a weapon,” Meg said.

The two soldiers carrying her down the tunnel hesitated for a moment. Beckham, the man on her right, shook his head.

“No way in hell you can fight like this,” he said.

“A weapon,” Meg repeated. “Please give me something. A knife or a gun.”

“I’ll give you my knife before we go up top,” Beckham replied.

It wouldn’t replace her axe, but a blade would do. Steel always made her feel better—even if it wouldn’t do much against the monsters. Ahead, the other soldiers had stopped. They clustered around a skeletal ladder that led to a manhole.

“Jinx, check it out. See if you can get eyes on the street,” Beckham said. “Chow, help me with her.”

Meg groaned as the two soldiers helped position her back against the wall. Chow kept a hand on her shoulder to keep her from falling over. Her head felt foggy. The cloud was so thick she could hardly think. She could only seem to focus on one thing: the blade the man named Beckham had promised her.

“I’m going to check these dressings,” Chow said. He crouched down in front of her. “This might hurt.”

Meg gritted her teeth in anticipation. The faint scraping of metal sounded somewhere in the distance. The manhole, she realized, tilting her head for a better look. For a second, Meg’s heart caught in her throat as she remembered Jed and Rex dropping the cover into place, sealing her into this mazelike grave. Then she felt the presence of the soldiers who had come to help her, not abandon her. Meg’s breathing slowed and she relaxed while Chow examined the bandages he’d put on her injuries.

Overhead, the man they had called Jinx climbed the ladder. His feet disappeared and moonlight flooded the tunnel, casting an eerie glow over the team that had saved her. Covered in ash, the soldiers looked like ghosts.

The sight reminded her of one of her first days on the job. In the aftermath of the September 11 attacks, she and all the other rescue workers had looked a lot like these soldiers. That awful day had prepared her mentally for everything she’d seen since then—everything except the monsters.

Meg cursed as Chow pulled away one of the bandages. She cursed again when she saw her injuries.

Chow pushed his NVGs up and caught her gaze. “Don’t look,” he said.

It was too late. Meg couldn’t pull her eyes away from the exposed muscle on her right calf. She wouldn’t be completing any triathlons again. Not that it really mattered—the only race she was likely to run again was away from the zombies, or whatever they were.

“Hey lady,” came a voice.

A soldier with an unmistakably Italian nose stood behind Chow. He stared at Meg with broken eyes. “Hey,” he said again.

Meg managed a weak response. “What?”

“How many made it out of the city?” he asked. “Before things got really bad?”

She understood then. He was from New York. Probably Queens or the Bronx, judging by his accent.

“I don’t know,” Meg replied solemnly, her heart hurting for the man. “Not many. When the virus started spreading, things got bad really fast. The Air Force took out the bridges first.”

The soldier bowed his head. Before he could reply Beckham said, “Jinx, you got eyes?”

Meg couldn’t hear the response, but saw Beckham’s features tense.

“Went too far. That convoy is two blocks away,” Beckham said. “In the other direction.” He peered into the darkness of the tunnel leading to the east.

An African-American man with the build of a career soldier spat and wiped off his mustache with a sleeve.

“What do you think, sir?” Beckham asked the man.

“Two blocks, ain’t far,” he replied. He stepped out of the moonlight and said, “I’ll leave this one up to you. You’ve gotten us this far.”

“You boys ready for a quick jog?” Beckham asked his men.

The other soldiers nodded and approached the ladder. Beckham crouched back down next to Meg. “When we get up top, Timbo’s gonna carry you.”

His voice sounded so confident that for a moment she actually believed he would get her out of the city. She held out a shaky hand. “Fine with me. Long as you give me that,” she said, pointing at his knife.

Beckham reluctantly unbuttoned the sheath and extended the handle to her. “Hopefully you won’t need it.”