Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Fitz replied by dropping three of the creatures with a series of quick squeezes.

Beckham found two targets of his own, blood and gore exploding out the back of their skulls. Screams of rage and pain combined with the gunfire as more of the Variants hit the pavement. This time Beckham and his team were holding the pack back. The smoke had stopped the creatures in their tracks. The tide had shifted, and the fight no longer felt like a battle. It was now a slaughter.

The whining of the chopper guns waned and Beckham craned his neck to see all three birds on the ground. The civilians piled in, Chow and Horn directing traffic.

Beckham patted Fitz on the back. “Time to move.”

The Marine finished off his magazine and Beckham helped him up.

“Let’s go!” Beckham shouted to the other three men. They stood and backpedaled, firing as they moved.

The half dozen remaining Variants suddenly changed directions, ducking behind the safety of vehicles and leaping behind trees on the side of the road. Beckham made a final dash for the choppers. Two of them lifted into the air and traversed the skyline. The third hovered a few feet above the intersection. Horn manned the door gun. Beckham wrapped his arms under Fitz’s arm. The man was struggling now, panting deeply. They lagged behind as Jinx, Steve, and Timbo climbed aboard the bird.

When they were fifteen feet from the chopper, Horn suddenly swiveled the machine gun and screamed, “Move!”

By the time Beckham turned around, it was too late. The muscular ex-soldier from Honeycutt Road charged him. The others had regrouped, following their injured leader.

A flash burst from the chopper’s mini-gun as Horn trained the weapon on the pack. Beckham could hear their bones shattering as the bullets shredded their sick bodies. The gunfire ended as quickly as it started. Movement from his peripheral vision revealed the leader was still trailing him. They were in Horn’s line of fire.

In one swift movement, Beckham pushed the Marine toward the Black Hawk, swung his M4 toward the crazed face of the monster darting for him, and pulled the trigger. The bullets thunked into the man’s chest, jerking him back and forth. But it only slowed him down.

Beckham fired until his magazine was dry. He had tossed the gun to the ground and reached for his sidearm when the Variant tackled him onto the concrete. Beckham’s head hit the ground hard. Sharp pain jolted through his skull. He gripped the man around its thick throat, trying desperately to hold back jagged teeth. Saliva flowed from the Variant’s lips.

The taste of coppery blood filled Beckham’s mouth, his front lip gushing from where his teeth had torn it open. He squeezed the creature’s neck harder, but it yanked free of his grasp. The Variant slammed its fists into Beckham’s torso, driving the wind from the operator’s lungs.

He fought back with a few haphazard hits of his own, but they only infuriated the creature more. It let out a deep growl, leaning back and tilting his head toward the sky. Then it speared Beckham in the chest with the top of its skull. He gasped for air as the creature clawed at his face. Fingernails dragged across Beckham’s flesh.

Beckham’s vision faded in and out in time with the pulsating pain in his head.

He was going to die. It should have happened a dozen times before, but now he was finally going to die.

Beckham caught a glimpse of the chopper. “Go!” he yelled.

A fog dragged across his vision.

He blinked and caught a glimpse of black, bloodstained boots. They were moving. Close now. Two steps away.

One step.

Beckham felt the weight of the creature fall off his body. Or was he slipping into unconsciousness? He wasn’t sure. He struggled to peel back an eyelid.

The Variant was gone. A new face was looking down at him. Beckham blinked, the salty sweat and blood stinging his eyes.

“Get up,” said a deep voice.

Beckham’s vision focused on the freckled face of Horn. Fitz stood next to him, and together they reached down and grabbed Beckham under his arms. He went limp, his legs dragging across the concrete as they carried him back to the chopper. Rounds from the door guns zipped overhead.

Beckham’s body was numb as he was lifted into the air and placed onto the floor of the chopper.

“Is everyone okay?” he muttered.

“Everyone’s fine,” Horn replied. “You did it, man. You saved everyone.”

Beckham fought to keep heavy eyelids open. He saw Tasha and Jenny staring at him behind Horn.

“It’s okay now,” Beckham choked, reaching for them. “You’re going to a safe place.”

Lieutenant Colonel Jensen had requested a call with Central Command, hoping to talk to someone with pull, someone who could get shit done. To say he was shocked when Hickman told him General Richard Kennor was on the line would have been an understatement. Kennor wasn’t only the acting commander in chief; he was the mastermind behind Operation Liberty.

“Sir, video call in five minutes,” Hickman said.

Jensen nodded, mentally preparing his thoughts. He had a real shot at saving countless American lives. All he had to do was convince the general that their intel was wrong.

After transferring the files, Jensen took a seat at the war table and typed in his credentials, wishing more than ever for a wad of juicy chewing tobacco. Instead he chewed on the inside of his lip and turned on the screen.

Straightening his uniform, he said, “Patch the call through, Lieutenant.”

The wrinkled face of General Kennor appeared on screen. His lips and nose were angled in a way that made him look like he had a sour taste in his mouth. With his saggy skin, the general reminded Jensen of a bulldog—which wasn’t far from the truth. The man’s career was defined by his aggressive war strategy. If the US military had an attack dog, Kennor was it. He’d overseen countless missions in the War on Terror and was responsible for killing or bringing close to one hundred terrorists to justice.

“Jensen,” General Kennor said, “I hear you have some important intel.”

The lieutenant colonel cleared his throat and said, “Yes, sir, very important. It’s about the Variant populations in New York City.”

Kennor raised a bushy gray brow. “I’m listening.”

“Sir, Central Command sent us projections of the population in Manhattan, specifically the cluster in Times Square around Rockefeller Center and the New York Public Library. The data shows only about two thousand Variants in the area.”

The general studied a piece of paper in front of him and then shrugged. “Good. Should make it that much easier for your strike teams and 1 stPlatoon to clear the area and set up a forward operating base.”

“Yes, sir, it would, but I believe the intel isn’t accurate. Dr. Lovato, the CDC doctor who designed the—”

“I know who she is,” Kennor replied, looking up to meet Jensen’s eyes. “Relay my gratitude when you get a chance.”

Jensen nodded and continued, “I will, sir, but as I was saying, she believes there are hundreds of thousands more Variants in the area that aren’t being picked up by satellite imagery or the recon scouts.”

“Nonsense.”

“Sir, I understand how this sounds, but please check the encrypted file I sent a few minutes ago. I apologize for the delay, but I had to check with Dr. Lovato to ensure the numbers were correct.”

Kennor slid a laptop across his desk and flipped the top open. “Give me a second.”

“Yes, sir.” Jensen pulled open the file and reviewed the numbers.

“For the sake of time, why don’t you explain this to me?” Kennor said.

Nodding again, Jensen said, “Dr. Lovato believes approximately eighty percent of the population in New York was infected with the Hemorrhage Virus. About sixteen million people. After VariantX9H9 was launched, the infected population was reduced to ten percent. The Variants should then number between one and two million in New York City. The map should be crawling with them, sir. The numbers just don’t add up.”