Nicholas Smith - Extinction Age

“Me?” Kate asked.

“Yes,” Smith replied patiently. “Central is putting forth a new strategy, and they want your help.”

Before Kate could respond, the radio operator twirled her chair away from her terminal. She cupped her hand over her headset and said, “Sir, I’m getting a transmission from New York.”

Smith hurried over to the equipment. “Put it on the speakers.”

“Yes, sir,” the woman said. She twisted a dial and static coughed from the PA system.

“Plum Island, this is Beckham. Does anyone copy?” There was a pause and then, “Team Ghost is on the run. I repeat, we’re on the run and need extraction, ASAP.”

The crack of gunfire surged from the muddied speakers. Kate flinched, her heart leaping at every sound. Beckham was alive—for now. She rushed over to Smith’s side as the other soldiers crowded around.

There was a break in gunfire. “We’re at Fiftieth and Eighth, going to try and make it back to Pier 86 in a—”

Smith flicked his mini-mike to his mouth and said, “Echo 3, Smith. Warm up the bird. Ghost Team is on their way to Pier 86.”

The other men were already hurrying out of the room by the time Smith gave the order. Horn touched Kate’s hand on his way out. “Don’t worry. I’m going to bring him back.”

Beckham bolted toward the sounds of Jinx’s screams with his .45 out in front, scanning for a target. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark streets as Variants charged their position. He looked past them, yelling, “Jinx! Jinx, where are you?”

Chow was shouting now, too. “Tell us where the fuck you are!”

Beckham hesitated once he finally saw the numbers they were facing. The creatures charged toward Team Ghost from every direction. They spilled out of manholes and came crashing through the glass doors of nearby buildings. A dozen scampered across the walls of a bombed-out skyscraper.

Ghost’s gunfire drew them in like moths to a flame. Beckham felt every shot, counting them in his head, hoping they had enough ammunition—but knowing they didn’t.

Beckham slowed to fire his .45 at a female perched on a scorched Toyota Corolla a hundred feet away. The crack only an MK11 could make sounded behind him first, and her skull exploded in a cloud of mist from the 7.62 mm round, saving Beckham from using one of his precious cartridges. She tumbled to the ground, blood gushing from the gaping hole where her face had been.

“On me!” Beckham yelled.

He jumped onto the hood for a better vantage. Ryan and Valdez acted as flankers, setting up firing positions to cover the east and the west. Beckham would have ordered Timbo with Ryan instead of Valdez, but the Ranger was busy carrying Meg and Valdez had proven to be an expert marksman. The Marine Sergeant from 1 stPlatoon had killed more Variants in New York than Beckham had.

Chow and Jensen covered the rear, while Timbo struggled forward with Meg bouncing on his wide shoulders. He was falling behind despite her frantic pleas to go faster.

The entire team was running on fumes. They were all morning-after-leave tired, but the current threat was far worse than a bad hangover. As Beckham scanned the streets, he realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. He had broken every fucking rule in the book by giving chase to the Variant that had Jinx, and his order to open fire had only drawn more of the things from their lairs. He could blame it on the fatigue, but he knew better. The wound still hadn’t healed from the massacre of Team Ghost at Building 8 a month earlier. Seeing Jinx pulled away into the darkness had torn the scab off that wound. Now he’d put the lives of every person in his team in jeopardy by giving chase.

And still Ghost worked forward, the muzzle flashes forming a fiery barrier around the group. Beckham searched the terrain desperately for any sign of the fallen operator.

A male Variant with a crooked back galloped down the sidewalk, jerking from side to side. It leapt over bloated corpses, coiled its back legs, and then sprung into the air. Beckham shot it in the face with a movement so smooth it surprised him.

Five rounds left.

“Eyes! Who’s got eyes on?” Beckham yelled frantically.

A smaller Variant charged him from the right, and Beckham turned to fire. He jerked the barrel aside at the last second when he realized it was a child. The shot went wide, whistling past the creature’s head. Beckham knew the thing racing toward him wasn’t a boy. It was a monster. He took aim again and shot it between the eyes. The tiny Variant crashed to the ground, skidding across the pavement until it came to a rest in front of Beckham. He jumped over the corpse and pushed on.

Three rounds left.

“Jinx!” Beckham shouted.

Gunfire erupted from his six. Jensen and Chow took turns holding the Variants off their tail with short bursts.

“Come on!” Beckham stormed through the clogged street toward Eighth Avenue, where they had last seen Jinx.

“We have to get out of here!” Valdez yelled.

“Not without, Jinx,” Beckham said.

“I’m down to my last mag!” Valdez snarled.

“We’re not leaving him,” Chow shouted back. “I don’t care if we have to use our knives.”

Even if Beckham wanted to, it was too late to turn back and retreat. The entire city block was swarming with the monsters, hemming them in on all sides. Several rogue Variants made dashes for Team Ghost. Each was cut down in controlled fire. Jensen and Ryan halted to shoot at a pack that had broken off from the horde trailing them. They took turns, stopping every hundred feet to thin the group.

It was obvious that the Variants were continuing to evolve, growing smarter and more cautious. Their actions in the tunnels and out here reflected that of predatory animals hunting in packs. They were testing Beckham’s men, figuring out who was weak. They’d started by grabbing Jinx and now they would do the same with the rest, picking them off one by one rather than risk a suicidal charge with their main force.

“Jinx! Say something!” Beckham said into the comm. There was a faint response, more of a croak than a word. He couldn’t tell if it was static or the operator struggling to reply.

A flash of motion at the intersection with Seventh Avenue commanded his gaze. Beckham jumped onto another hood just in time to see two Variants dragging Jinx past several abandoned Humvees.

“Twelve o’clock!” Beckham shouted. “Ryan, hurry!”

The Ranger crouched behind a vehicle and scoped the street with his MK11 while the rest of the team covered the perimeter.

“Why have we stopped?” Meg yelled.

“Ryan, take them out!” Beckham shouted.

Two cracks sounded, and Beckham watched the Variants’ heads disappear in a satisfying spray of red. He ordered the team forward with a hand signal before the bodies had slumped to the ground.

“Jinx… Hold on… We’re coming!” Beckham wheezed.

There was a muffled response before it was lost to a torrent of gunshots. Beckham gritted his teeth and sprinted toward the convoy. When he reached the edge, he slowed to raise his .45 and moved the barrel from side to side over the motionless street. Pounding boots and frantic voices followed him into the intersection. He darted through the street and collapsed at Jinx’s side.

The operator held his neck with glistening hands. Blood gushed between his fingers. His wild eyes searched Beckham’s face in the moonlight, roving back and forth. Beckham gripped Jinx’s wrist and whispered, “It’s okay, man, it’s okay.” They locked eyes as Jinx struggled for air. His lips moved in and out with each gasp, blood gurgling in his mouth.