Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

But so what if he could link the Variants to the leech or some hairy spider? It didn’t matter. She’d said it for days now—there was no bringing these people back. Ellis was finally starting to believe her. There was simply no precedent for that type of gene therapy. It was too far in the future. Even if they could find a way to reverse or stop the changes, what would be left to save? The Ebola virus had likely caused brain damage in most of the Variants. There would simply be no quality of life for the creatures.

A voice from the past boomed in her head. It was her brother, Javier, his dying words replaying like a broken record. She couldn’t help but wonder what she would do if he was still alive. If he had turned into a Variant. Would she try everything to save him, even if he never returned fully to the brother she remembered?

She realized the answer was more painful than the memory. It was no. She wouldn’t want him to live like that, because she wouldn’t want to live like that.

Kate let her grief pass with a deep sigh, rousing the curiosity of Tasha and Jenny. Both girls fidgeted impatiently in the chairs next to her.

Jenny tapped Kate on the arm. “What are those things?” she chirped.

Kate flipped the lid of the laptop down. “Just some pictures.”

“Can we see?” Tasha asked. “I’m bored.”

Kate stood, stretched, and faked a smile. “I have a better idea.”

Both girls glanced up, their eyes curious.

“How about we play a game?”

Jenny clapped her hands together. “Like hide and seek?”

“Yeah,” Tasha replied. “Can we play hide and seek?”

Kate shook her head. “I don’t think this would be the best place to play that game.”

Tasha’s shoulders sagged. She twisted a red lock of hair with her fingers and said, “When’s Daddy coming home?”

“Soon, honey. He and Beckham will be back before you know it.” She held out her arms and said, “Come here.”

Tasha and Jenny stepped into Kate’s embrace. She held them tight, feeling a warm tear on her neck.

“I’m scared,” Jenny said.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Kate said. “You’re safe here.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

A second tear fell on Kate’s neck. And this time it was one of her own.

Beckham whirled and blasted a Variant in the face. It skidded to a stop a few feet away from the shop entrance.

“Hold the line!” he shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, he saw how fucked they were. He was staring into a blackout zone. 50 thStreet was shrouded by smoke. The thick curtain of haze seemed to cling to the concrete. But it was too late to retreat now. The only way out of this mess was to fight.

Gunshots cracked from every direction. Beckham focused on the shapes of Marines rushing for cover—or were they Variants? He couldn’t make out a damn thing.

More gunfire. Screeches and screams from wounded men and dying monsters.

It was chaos.

A round whizzed past Beckham’s helmet. He ducked for cover. Two more bullets hit the concrete ahead of him, chunks of rock hitting his exposed flesh.

He scrambled to his feet and grabbed the man next to him. Was it Horn? No, too skinny. Had to be Chow.

Beckham shouted again. “Fall back!”

A blast from the other end of the street shook the ground. The shockwave from the explosion hit Beckham’s position, covering him in dust.

“Why the fuck are they using antitank missiles?”

A second explosion came from above. The missile hit one of the buildings. Dust and fragments of metal rained down on the street. Beckham was on the sidewalk now, Team Ghost surrounding him. The Variant that had crashed out of the shop lay in a puddle of blood a few feet away. Their only protection was an overturned food vendor cart. Blackened hotdogs and scorched fruit littered the concrete.

There was more gunfire, and a third shot from one of the Bradleys.

The sidewalk trembled.

Then the chain guns flared to life. The 25mm rounds pounded the building, impacting with the force of mini-missiles. Beckham scanned the smoke screen for his own target. There, barreling toward their position, he made a Variant moving on all fours. Raising his weapon, he fired and sent the creature tumbling head over feet back into the wall of gray.

Another came from the side. Then another. He fired again, and again, the sound of gunfire drowning out the clacking of joints.

Drops of rain hit his visor. Or was it blood? Beckham wiped away the liquid and searched for the next target.

A fourth blast from a Bradley’s launcher rang out. The concussion sent a shockwave of air through the street. The sound of screaming Marines found its way past the ringing in Beckham’s ears. Adrenaline flowed through him, and his internal processor clicked on. He fired from habit, instinct taking over. A bullet clipped his backpack and sent him spinning. He dropped to the concrete and then pushed himself back up on a knee, just in time to see another Variant rushing across the street.

He squeezed the trigger without restraint, screaming into his mask.

The creature’s chest absorbed the rounds, jerking it left and then right. A high-caliber round from one of the Rangers finished the job, taking off its head.

Another Variant took its place. Then a second. And a third. The trio waited in the periphery between smoke and light. Hunched and coiled, searching. The smoke swirled around their deformed shapes.

Beckham fired relentlessly, aiming for their heads. The bullets took off the first creature’s limbs. It flopped on the concrete like a fish struggling for air. His next shots were more precise, splattering chunks of skull and soft tissue on the car behind the Variants.

“Smoke’s clearing!” Horn shouted.

Beckham finished off his magazine, killing three more of the creatures that were making a run for his position. Their bodies slumped to the concrete, twitching. Blood oozed from multiple gunshot wounds.

“Hold your position,” Beckham yelled. Reaching for a new magazine, he added, “Changing!”

The ringing in his ears waned. Snapping the fresh mag into his weapon, he froze and listened. A few random shots rang out in the distance. When the echo ended, an eerie quiet passed over the convoy. He couldn’t hear a single thing. As the haze lifted, Beckham raised his muzzle and swept it over the battlefield, expecting to see Marines sprawled over the terrain. Instead he only saw a couple mangled Variant corpses. There wasn’t a single dead Marine in sight. And there were no moans or screams from any wounded men either.

Beckham turned to his left and counted five helmets. Team Ghost was accounted for. Across the street, Jensen emerged from behind a crushed cab with team Charlie. Alpha and Bravo stood behind a squad car a hundred yards to the left.

There were only a handful of Marines stumbling away from the protection of the Humvees. He counted twelve, including Sergeant Valdez.

“Where the hell are all of the bodies?” Horn said, changing a magazine.

Beckham examined the street again. Where there should have been corpses, there were only streaks of blood.

“SITREP! Give me a fucking SITREP!” Valdez screamed. “Where’s Rodney and Libby? Where the fuck is everyone?”

The adrenaline that had fueled Beckham earlier broke down in his system. Dread replaced the energy when he realized where the closest blood trail led. He followed the red across the concrete, moving slowly, the muzzle of his weapon leading the way. He stopped at the edge of an open manhole. Dropping to a knee, he bent and peered inside.

He didn’t need a flashlight to see the crimson water below. The Variants had dragged away half of the platoon into their lairs. He finally understood why the satellite imagery and recon teams had only accounted for a couple thousand of the creatures.