Nicholas Smith - Extinction Age

May 7th, 2015

New York City

The 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.