Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Beckham dislodged the knife and stood. The Variant collapsed on its stomach. He nudged the body to the wall with the tip of his boot and then motioned for the others to follow.

“On me,” Beckham said, taking point. He trained his muzzle on the double doors at the end of the hallway. He stopped again when they were fifty feet away and waved Chow forward. Together they advanced to the doors. Heel to toe, heel to toe.

Chow inched the one on the right open, sticking the barrel of his M4 through. “Looks clear,” he whispered.

Beckham put his hand on Chow’s back. In tandem, the two men moved into the hallway. More carnage greeted them, bodies strewn about the area just beyond the doors. The operators played their lights over every inch of concrete. This time nothing moved.

So far, so good, Beckham thought. He nodded at Chow and then began the walk up the sloped floor, checking his six every few steps. The adults kept the children in the middle of the formation, doing their best to shield the young ones.

“Let’s check those doors,” Beckham whispered to Chow. They ran ahead and took up positions on both sides of the doors. Propping his shoulder against the wall, Beckham nodded at Chow. The operator took a knee and crawled in front of the door, slowly rising to peek through the glass. He pulled away, raising his rifle like he’d seen something.

“Contact?” Beckham asked. His muscles tightened as he waited for the high-pitched shriek.

Chow peeked through the glass again and shook his head. “Thought so at first, but must have just been the flicker from the emergency lights.”

The observation wasn’t reassuring, and Beckham dropped to his knees and then checked for himself. The light blinked, casting an eerie glow over the remains of broken ceiling tiles.

“Clear,” Beckham said. Behind them, the other survivors stood in a bunch, some of them shivering. Beckham propped the doors open and, taking point with Chow, he motioned the group forward again.

Minutes later Beckham was staring through the ash-covered windows. A plastic bag sailed over the sidewalk. Bodies littered the lawn, cooking under a brilliant morning sun. The light cut through the smoke to the north, rays breaking through the plumes.

The knots in Beckham’s stomach tightened. His senses told him something was off.

“Looks clear,” Chow said.

Beckham held up a hand. “Got a bad feeling,” he said. “It’s too quiet.”

Chow stared out the window. “I’ve had a bad feeling for weeks, man, but we have got to move. We got a hike ahead of us, and those choppers are on the way.”

A minute passed before Beckham finally pushed open the left door. Shouldering his rifle, he crossed the lawn to the street. He scoped the area a second time and then shifted back to the civilians, catching a glimpse of the half-burnt magnolia to the right of the building.

“Clear,” Beckham said. “Let’s move.”

Chow led the group from the building in a tight line, the Rangers taking up positions alongside. Horn and his girls were near the back, both of them latched on tightly to their father. The sight sent a spike of adrenaline swirling through Beckham’s bloodstream. He was ready to rock ’n’ roll. Everything that happened before this was in the past. Saving Horn’s girls was a fresh start, a way to move forward. All that mattered now was extracting these people safely to Plum Island.

The two forward snipers moved out fast and began looking for hides along the route. Beckham and the others made sure the main body proceeded at a sharp pace, probably too fast for some of the kids. Beckham checked the pack every hundred yards to ensure no one was falling behind.

He glanced down at his watch as they passed across the Expressway on Zabitosky Road. The choppers would be close now. Beckham ran a bit faster, his eyes sweeping the road, trees, buildings, and vehicles for contacts. The stretch of Zabitosky that ran through the forested area made him uneasy. They were surrounded on all sides by a canopy of thick trees. The perfect place for an ambush, and with no high ground for the snipers to provide good cover. Or advance alert of incoming threats.

The crunch of a tree branch elevated Beckham’s heart rate, taking him back to the first hour they arrived at the post. He eyed the sea of green with a new sense of urgency. Beckham gripped his rifle tighter. They passed another intersection that crossed Honeycutt Road and continued around a mess of vehicles.

Besides a few whimpers from the kids, the group was silent. Everyone knew what was at risk. Even the children. Beckham slowed to check the smoke from Womack Medical Center. The solid columns were finally starting to dissipate.

“Chow, take point,” Beckham said, halting in the street.

The operator rushed past with his weapon sweeping over the road. Beckham hung back to see how Horn was doing. He was running with Jenny on his back. Tasha held onto one of his hands. The two men shared a moment without uttering a single word. It was all Beckham needed to know that his friend was okay. He continued on to the rear guard to check on the others. The two Rangers stood like statues with their MK11s angled to the northwest. After a few beats they lowered their weapons and jogged to catch up with the pack.

“See anything?” Beckham asked the man Chow had referred to as Timbo. He was a tall, bulky African-American man, with a chinstrap of facial hair. They ran side by side for a few moments.

“Negative,” Timbo said in a gruff voice. “Pretty quiet so far.”

“What about you, Steve?” Beckham asked.

The other Ranger shook his head.

“All right, headed back up front. Keep sharp.”

Beckham tucked his chin to his chest and burst into a run. The group was passing a tangle of wrecked vehicles when he heard a creaking in the distance. The noise was so soft it could have been the wind, but when he eased to a stop, his ears told him what his mind wanted to deny. There was something out there.

Not wanting to alarm the group, he jogged back to the snipers at the rear, waiting for the group to get ahead before saying anything. Both men had set their rifles up on the hoods of cars. Beckham watched their muzzles search the road to the north.

The sound came again, a scuffling like a rat scampering across the concrete. Only this wasn’t coming from a rodent; it was a combination of many faint scratches. There were other noises too: low moans and the awful clicking of joints.

Beckham forced himself to look. The sound was coming from Honeycutt Road, about five hundred feet to the north. He readied his rifle.

Steve and Timbo trained their MK11s on the intersection. A solid wall of trees blocked the view to the east and west. Beckham threw a look over his shoulder. The civilians were a couple hundred feet to the south of the intersection now, making their way toward the Airborne Inn and a cluster of other civilian buildings. They were moving at a trot, slowing down. The kids and the injured were fatigued.

“Shit,” Beckham said through clenched teeth. He knew the journey wasn’t going to be easy. The sounds of the Variants erased any hope for a simple extraction.

“Twelve o’clock,” Timbo growled, spitting onto the hood of the car as he repositioned his rifle.

Beckham glassed the concrete just as the first Variants burst onto the street. Tumbling bodies exploded across the intersection, somersaulting and crashing into cars and one another. In the blur of blood-soaked flesh, a single Variant caught Beckham’s attention. He zoomed in on a man dressed in tattered camo shorts. The Variant leapt with ease onto the roof of a pickup truck. His muscles bulged and blue veins webbed across his skin. He tilted his head at an angle, sniffed the air, puckered his sucker lips and pointed in Beckham’s direction. The action shocked Beckham. He’d wondered if the woman in New York had been an anomaly, but the truth was perched on a car in the middle of Honeycutt Road.