Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

“Why the hell would someone turn off the lights?” Cole asked.

“Who knows,” Fitz said. “Keep moving.”

A flashing red light flickered in the open doorway, illuminating the space with a ghostly glow like a gateway to hell. “Keep quiet,” he said, flipping on his night vision and pushing open the door.

They crept forward into the hallway, the sound of his metal blades clanking on the floor. Fitz cringed with every step. He policed the space with his pistol, swinging it up and down, checking the ceiling and shadowy corners for the creatures. Instead he found dead scientists, their bodies battered and torn. Blood speckled the walls, floor, and even the ceiling. Fitz gagged when he smelled the sour scent of rotting fruit. It was the awful perfume of the Variants.

The monsters were close.

Smooth and slow, he led his overweight comrade through the carnage, clearing each room. By the time they got to the end of the hall, his heart had climbed into his throat. He felt every beat, the pulse throbbing inside his skull.

Fitz slipped into the final room with his pistol firm in his hands. The green optics revealed a small twin bed, desk, and closet.

Empty.

Exhaling, he lowered his weapon. Then he heard a crunching noise. Cole bumped into him, startled.

“What the hell was that?” the man asked.

Raising a finger to his lips, Fitz moved back into the hallway. He cautiously approached the door leading to the next hallway.

A clacking sound followed, and then a deep crunch like the snap of a bone. The noises came from the other side of the door. There was a clicking and then another crunch from the passage beyond. Fitz and Cole both took a step back, exchanging glances.

“On three,” Fitz said, reaching for the handle and raising his pistol.

Cole’s eyes hardened and he shook his head. “No, man, let’s just stay here.”

“You can stay, but I’m going in,” Fitz replied. He’d made a promise to Beckham and he wasn’t going to break it, no matter how terrified he was. Fitz was a Marine, and Marines didn’t run from a fight.

“One.

“Two.”

Cole backed away and shouldered his rifle.

“Three.” Fitz yanked the door open and trained his pistol on a Variant. The creature’s face was buried in the exposed stomach of a female scientist. Bodies clogged the hallway. He hesitated before pulling the trigger, hoping that he wasn’t too late, hoping the woman wasn’t Kate.

Night had fallen on New York City. Shrouded in complete darkness, the convoy rolled to a stop at the intersection of the Avenue of the Americas. The door to the command Humvee opened, and Lieutenant Gates stepped into the ash. He staggered away from the vehicle like he was drunk.

With his NVGs active, Beckham could see why 50 thStreet was impassable. The GE building and Rockefeller Center were reduced to stubs of metal and rebar. Stone, brick, and other debris formed a mountain that ended at the edge of the intersection. Remains of a Radio City sign protruded from the rubble.

The view was horrifying and breathtaking at the same time. This was where Gates said the convoy would experience the most resistance, but as Beckham scanned the area, he didn’t see how anything, even the Variants, could have survived the blasts.

Then a voice cried out, “Contact!”

A pair of Marines rushed over to the debris and aimed their weapons at the pile of destruction.

“Hold position,” Gates yelled. Sergeant Valdez and the lieutenant approached carefully. Beckham hustled over to the Marines. The crushed body of a Variant jutted out of the wreckage. The skin on its torso was burnt away, exposing glistening muscles and fat. By some miracle it was still alive, twisting and lurching as it struggled to get free.

“Jesus,” Valdez muttered. “Probably should put this one out of his misery before he alerts his friends.”

“They already know we’re here,” Beckham replied. The creature reached up with mutated hands. The nails curled into sharp tips. They had to be four or five inches long. The creature pressed its swollen lips together with a pop. It tried to let a scream fly, but only a faint gurgle escaped its mouth.

“Thing’s not going to alert anyone,” Gates said. He looked to the right. “Keep moving. We’re almost to our final objective. I want to get this FOB set up ASAP.”

Valdez nodded and whistled to the vehicle commanders. Then he flashed an advance signal. The men pulled the spotlights away from the crumbled buildings, and their bright white beams cut through the night.

Beckham remained at the wreckage, wondering what the Variants were waiting for. They had the advantage of darkness. His gut told him something was wrong, that the Variants were planning something.

The longer he waited for the convoy to start rolling, the more the sixth sense intensified. He suddenly thought of Kate, Riley, and Horn’s girls. Had something happened on Plum Island? He gave his helmet a strong pat, quashing the concerns before they had a chance to take hold. From the moment he boarded the Black Hawk, he had promised himself he wouldn’t think of Kate.

The beam from a spotlight caught him in the face. He flipped up his NVGs and shielded his eyes with a hand, squinting through his fingers.

“Let’s roll,” Valdez shouted from inside the turret of a Humvee. He gripped the .50 cal and trained it on the street. “Keep sharp!”

Black Reaper and Steam Beast screamed, their tracks reversing and then turning to the south. The Humvees drove after them.

“Six more blocks to go,” Beckham muttered. Team Ghost fell into line and followed the platoon down the Avenue of the Americas. The street was twice the size of 50 thand considerably less clogged. The Bradleys weaved around the derelict vehicles and plowed the others out of the way.

Beckham kept close to Horn. The last thing he wanted was to lose his brother in the chaos of the attack they all knew was coming. They walked in silence, glass crunching under the layer of ash and dust covering the sidewalk.

“How do you think the other platoons are doing?” Horn asked.

Beckham replied with a shrug. “Hopefully better than us.” He hadn’t heard a single gunshot or explosion for five hours.

He strained to hear something besides the scraping of metal. He would have given anything to hear a gunshot from one of the other platoons, evidence that there were still Marines out there fighting.

Horn stepped off the curb and glanced up at the skyscrapers. “Where the hell do you think all the other survivors are? Rex couldn’t be the only one.”

“Maybe there aren’t any,” said a voice behind them. It was Chow. Jinx followed him through the ash, leaving a trail of footprints behind like they were walking through snow. There wasn’t much to say after that.

Fifteen minutes passed and the armored vehicles were pushing through the second intersection with 48 thStreet. Up ahead, the dark mouth of a subway entrance yawned. Beckham waited for the Variants, but none came. He lowered his weapon to give his arms a break and checked the Gap store on his right. He saw the scorched body of a headless female manikin. Her clothes were burned away. The other five models were all twisted from the heat of the firebombs. But there was one that looked unscathed behind the others, one with a head. Beckham’s hands found his weapon, and he narrowed his focus on the figure.

It moved.

His heart rate rose along with the muzzle of his MP5, but the creature disappeared before Beckham could pull the trigger.

“Contacts!” another Marine yelled somewhere across the street.