Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Kate was right. They were evolving.

The ex-soldier released a raspy howl that would likely result in several of the kids in the group pissing their pants. The sound only angered Beckham. He only feared one thing—not being able to protect the group. Holding a breath in his chest, Beckham considered his options. With only one viable strategy, he quickly exhaled.

“Change of plans,” he said to the Rangers. “We’ll hold them here. Screw the rooftops. We’re not going to make it up there.”

The response came in sharp gunfire. Screams from the civilians followed. The group had stopped in the middle of the road.

“Chow! Get them to the LZ!” Beckham yelled with his hands cupped around his mouth. “Jinx, you’re with me.”

Beckham searched for Horn. He found him in a single blink. They exchanged a nod and then he was gone, using his thick arms to corral the group forward. Beckham saw a single man had remained behind. He cracked a half smile when he realized it was Fitz. The man jogged toward him, his M27 swinging from the strap around his chest.

“Need some help?” Fitz said.

“Hell yeah,” Beckham said. They took up position next to Steve, bracing their bodies against the car. Timbo and Jinx were busy thinning out the field from the car to the right. Empty shell casings clicked off the metal hood and onto the concrete. The chorus of war returned, and it gave Beckham the chills.

He raised his weapon, brought the scope to his eye and fired on the mass surging over the mangled frames of crashed vehicles clogging the intersection. Most of them moved on all fours, like a swarm of fire ants, their bodies painted with the blood of their victims.

They were met by a tide of gunfire, splattering the ground with gore.

Beckham squeezed off concentrated shots, aiming for vital regions. He hit a female in the face, taking off the top of her head. The high-caliber rounds did little to deter the wall of creatures. They charged forward, replacing those that fell.

“Changing!” Jinx yelled.

“Me too,” Fitz said.

Beckham laid down supporting fire, a wide arc of bullets spraying over the road. Several of the Variants out front dropped, convulsing as their life force drained away. He hesitated when he saw the muscular man still on the top of the pickup truck. The creature crouched, its distorted hands waving madly through the air like a crazed conductor of a symphony from hell. Beckham zoomed in for a better look.

“What the hell,” he muttered as he focused on the man’s face. His bulging lips moved, saliva dripping from the oval sucker. Beckham angled the scope down an inch to focus on the creature’s clawed hands.

The Variant was giving orders.

Kate’s warning finally made sense. They couldn’t drive cars or fire weapons, but they were more than just crazed cannibals. They functioned at a very minimal level, a primal level. But they were learning how to hunt and kill more efficiently.

Beckham didn’t hesitate any longer. With the crosshairs centered on the man’s chest, he squeezed off a burst. The man’s agonized screech rang above the gunfire as bullets caught him in the midsection. He cascaded off the back of the truck, disappearing from view.

Beckham wasted ten seconds killing the man, but he’d confirmed what Kate already knew. The Variants were learning.

He finished his magazine as the horde of creatures fanned out across the road, inching closer and closer. There were too many of them, and even without their leader they would overwhelm his position in minutes. A scream in the distance pulled Beckham’s gaze to the civilians. They were almost to the extraction zone, past the wooded area and moving toward the JFK Special Warfare Museum.

“Fitz, get out of here,” Beckham said. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“Nah, I’m good,” he said between bursts.

Beckham’s eyes darted back and forth as he fired, trying to count the monsters, when he saw the smoke grenades hanging off Steve’s gear bag. Snatching a pair, Beckham pulled the pins and tossed them over the cars. The grenades clanged onto the concrete and hissed as they poured out smoke, covering the roadway. Beckham then reached for a frag grenade and tossed it in the center of the smoke field.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled. He grabbed Fitz by his flak jacket and pulled him away from the vehicles. Jinx, Timbo, and Steve sprinted after them.

The blast from the grenade shook the ground. Shrapnel whistled past Beckham’s right ear. Steve let out a low moan as one of the pieces hit him. Beckham craned his neck. The Ranger cradled his right arm. Only a flesh wound; he would be fine.

The overwhelming reek of burnt flesh mixed with the awful sour fruit scent of the creatures. Beckham pulled his scarf back up, coughing into the material. When the ringing in his ears cleared, a different noise emerged. It was the beautiful sound of human engineering.

“Evac incoming!” Steve shouted.

Three black dots raced across the skyline. Relief washed over him, right up to the moment he saw the first wave of Variants burst through the smoke wall. Three of the creatures paused in the street, their heads tilting, confused. They clawed at their noses, like the smoke had knocked out their sense of smell. Another pair followed. Both were missing limbs, and the female on the right had a hole the size of an apple in her stomach. Blood gushed from the wound as she searched for food, her eyes roving, unblinking.

It was like the Variants couldn’t sense the team.

“Let’s go,” Beckham said, hoping the smoke would buy them time. His earpiece crackled to life as he turned to run.

“Ghost, Echo 1, en route, prepare for extraction.”

“Copy!” Beckham yelled. “Will meet you at LZ. Do me a solid, Echo 1,” he said. “Thin out this horde chasing us.”

The pilot replied in a calm, unwavering voice. “Copy that, Ghost.”

The whining scream of the chopper’s guns came a moment later.

Then Beckham heard shouts and small-arms fire. He looked away from the birds. The civilians were stopped again. His heart pounded in his throat when he saw the flashes.

“No,” he said aloud. They were trapped. The Variants were piling in from south of Zabitosky Road. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all coordinated, that the Variants had planned the ambush all along.

The knots in Beckham’s stomach loosened. Rage boiled in the pit of his gut, warming his insides like a shot of whiskey. He scanned the area, desperation creeping up on him. Flicking his mini-mic to his lips, he yelled, “Echo 1, Ghost, get those guns on the group to the south. We’ll hold the pack to the north.”

“Copy that,” the pilot said. “Good luck, Ghost.”

Beckham watched the choppers circle overhead. They opened fire, the rounds splattering the concrete with the pulpy mess of the Variants out in front. The gunners focused on thinning out the herd while the other chopper landed in the empty intersection to the south. Chow approached the troop hold and helped the children inside.

Beckham turned back to the north. The dazed creatures were starting to move again, and a dozen more stood in front of the dwindling smoke screen.

“Steve, Jinx, Timbo, Fitz,” he yelled. “We hold them here. Not a single one of those things gets through. Got it?” Beckham examined Steve’s injury. Blood dripped from his arm. “You good to shoot?”

Steve nodded. “Got two arms, don’t I?”

“Fitz, you’re with me,” Beckham said. He reached for a fresh magazine and jammed it in with a click. Dropping to his stomach, he zoomed in on his first target. Fitz took up position next to him.

“We just need to buy them time,” Beckham said, firing off a shot that took a leg off a lingering Variant.