Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Jensen’s eyes widened. He looked down at his watch. “Can’t this wait until the morning? It’s late.”

Kate bit the inside of her lip. “Every second we wait, more people will die outside of this island.”

“Fine,” Jensen said. “But do not get him riled up.”

“I won’t,” Kate said, unsure if she could live up to her promise.

Jensen glanced at his watch again. “Meet us at the ICU in thirty minutes.” He glared at Kate and then walked past her, leaving the room swiftly.

“That went well,” Ellis said.

“Yeah. But that was the easy part.” She placed a hand on Ellis’s shoulder. “Wait till we talk to that son of a bitch. I doubt he’s going to tell us anything.”

“Too bad Beckham’s not here. He’d get it out of Gibson.”

Kate’s gut sank at the thought of Reed out there somewhere being a hero. Facing danger to help save what was still worth saving. It was what he did, and it was the reason she was falling for him. She hoped they’d both survive long enough for her to tell him.

Beckham darted toward a convoy of Army trucks and tankers. They had been abandoned in a hurry. Open doors swayed in the breeze, metal creaking eerily.

The soldiers had inadvertently blocked the southbound ramp connecting to the expressway, or maybe they had done it on purpose. He wasn’t sure. One of the semi tankers stretched completely across the road, blocking the view of the street on the other side.

Beckham kneeled in a defensive position a few feet from the tanker.

“Shit!” Horn shouted. “They’re coming from the east, too!” He pointed to the ridgeline. There was movement across Beckham’s entire line of sight. The Variants were coming from the south and the east. They were trapped. There was only one way forward—under the trucks.

“Let’s move!” Beckham shouted. He dropped to his stomach and began crawling.

“Right behind you,” Horn said.

Beckham squirmed across the concrete. His impact armor dragged across the surface, scratching as he struggled forward. The noise didn’t bother him. The Variants knew where they were, so stealth was no longer a concern.

He emerged from the first truck to see a second tanker blocking the road. It was obvious then the soldiers had created a roadblock on purpose. With no way to climb over the top, Beckham dropped back to his stomach and crawled under the second vehicle.

With a final push he burst from under the metal and pulled himself to his feet. A gust of wind caught him as soon as he stood. The gamey scent of rotting flesh and sour fruit filled his lungs. Beckham pulled the scarf over his face. He checked the right side of the road. All clear.

Then he looked to the left and froze. Horn squirmed out from under the final truck and stood next to Beckham, staring at the surreal scene the trucks had hidden from their view—the source of the awful smell.

Through the shifting smoke there were bodies lining Gruber Road. Hundreds of them, some charred beyond recognition. With the changing wind, the stench of death filled the night.

“Holy shit,” Horn said. “What the hell happened here?”

“I don’t know, but we need to move!”

The primal shrieks from the Variants grew louder.

As soon as Beckham turned, he saw the sandbags and the .50 cal set up on the far side of the road. A single soldier in a CBR suit lay hunched over the bags, his body limp and dead. The man had mowed down the refugees trying to escape to the Expressway.

Beckham swallowed hard at the sight. Was Horn’s family among them? There was no time to find out. Together, the men moved west along the road, passing familiar landmarks. Beckham always assumed every mission would be difficult, but with a horde of flesh-eating monsters trailing them and a lingering wall of smoke ahead, he felt grossly underprepared. If the smoke shifted any further, they would have to make a stand.

“Is this the turn?” Horn yelled.

“Negative. Keep moving!” Beckham said. “One more to go until we get to Reilly Road.”

Beckham rounded the corner at a breakneck speed. His boots trudged across a slippery stretch of concrete. The body of a US Army Ranger lay on the curb. Blood oozed from his shattered skull. The fresh scarlet puddle meant the man had recently been killed.

Other survivors , Beckham thought, running harder.

The sound of Horn’s heavy footfalls pounded the concrete. They were only a few blocks away from the building now. The smoke grew closer with every step.

Beckham coughed violently into his scarf and wiped away the tears blurring his vision.

“Twelve o’clock,” Horn shouted.

Ahead, a single figure crouched over another dead Ranger, its shiny skull buried into the soldier’s chest.

There was more motion to the right. Three shirtless men emerged from behind a Humvee. They moved slowly, catlike, their backs hunched and their heads tilting as they narrowed in on Beckham and Horn. Tremors shook their pale skin as they cautiously inched forward. Their suckers puckered in the air, popping.

Beckham shivered. They’d run out of blacktop. The only thing between them and the monsters were bullets now. No more running.

“Boss,” Horn said.

“I see ‘em.”

The operators stood back to back. The group of creatures to the north halted in the middle of the street. They crouched silently; sniffing the air and licking their bulging lips with swollen tongues.

Beckham glanced over his shoulder. The pack from the south had caught up with them. Their distorted bodies clogged the road, slowing as they closed in. Several of the creatures were moving too fast and plowed through the front of the crowd. The monsters tumbled and skidded across the concrete.

Guttural howls followed.

Beckham raised his MP5 and readied himself.

“Open fire!” he cried. Gritting his teeth, Beckham fired on the four to the north.

The crack of gunfire drowned out the sound of the creatures. Bullet casings pinged off the concrete. Beckham cut the entire pack down before they could move. The creatures dropped to the pavement, limbs flailing. But more came, swarming from the tree line. The dark wall of smoke swirled behind the creatures.

“Changing,” Beckham yelled. He reached for another magazine and jammed it home with a click. He shouldered the gun and sprayed the street with a volley of short bursts. More Variants dropped to the concrete, blood oozing from gaping wounds.

Yet they kept coming.

Within seconds, Beckham and Horn were completely surrounded.

“Short bursts, aim for the head!” Beckham yelled. He dropped to one knee and drew down on the closest creature. Squeezing the trigger, he pivoted to the next target, hardly noticing the bloody mist that exploded from the first Variant’s skull. The second shot caught another in the forehead. And the third did the same. He continued firing, dropping the enemy until his magazine was dry.

He reloaded and finished off another wave. Never had the killing felt so simple. It was like something inside of him knew what was at stake, and an internal strength had taken control. But the men only had so many bullets. And after fifteen minutes of keeping the Variants at bay, both ran out of ammo. They switched to their pistols as the pile of dead bodies grew around them.

More of the creatures flocked to the street. The gunfire had attracted every single Variant in the area.

With a final shot, the slide of Beckham’s pistol locked open.

“I’m out!” he yelled. He dropped the pistol and fumbled for his knife.

“Me too.”

The operators rose to their feet as the creatures formed a perimeter around them. Beckham couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so fucked. He’d left himself no outs. Broken his cardinal rule. There was nowhere to run. No more bullets to fire.