Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Kate slid to a stop. “No time to talk. Where are the other patients?”

The doctor ran a hand through his thinning white hair. “Colonel Gibson’s it.”

Kate grabbed the girls and continued down the hallway, their shoes clicking on the tile. When they reached the final ward, the group stopped and huddled around the front desk. Ellis secured the doors and then raised his pistol, giving it a once-over like he’d never seen a gun before. “Anyone know how to shoot this?”

A familiar face emerged from the group of strangers. It was Rod from Toxicology. He’d helped them identify the nanostructures of VX-99 present in the Hemorrhage Virus. The scientist held out a shaky hand. “I do.”

“What the hell do we do now?” Holder asked.

Tina echoed the doctor’s words. “Yeah, what are we supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for those things ?”

Her tone reminded Kate why she didn’t like the woman.

“Yeah. We wait,” Riley said. “I mean, you could go find a place to hide if you want. But I’m going to camp out right here. He raised his pistol at the door. “And then, when those things come through, I’m going to kill every last one of ‘em.”

Tina looked at the man like he was crazy and then took off running down the hall, disappearing into one of the vacant rooms. Dr. Holder shook his head and ran after her.

That left Rod, Kate, Ellis, the girls, and four other scientists she didn’t know. Everyone but Riley was staring at her, looking to the ‘savior of the world’ for strength. But like so many times before, Kate didn’t know what to do. Though she wouldn’t say it out loud, she was convinced this was the end of the line.

Metal clanged deep inside the facility. Kate tensed as she listened. The noise came again. Louder now. Closer.

“They’re in,” Riley said. He raised his pistol. “Stay behind me.”

The monsters were finally coming. And this time Kate had no way to stop them.

The convoy slowed to a stop at the corner of West 42 nd. Spotlights swept over the street, the beams cutting through the night like a scalpel. Beckham tensed as he looked up at the Bank of America Tower. The Air Force had spared the area from the firebombs, but most of the windows were still shattered. As long as the frame was stable, he wasn’t going to sweat it. The biggest concern was clearing the building and finding a place to set up sniping positions.

“All right, let’s get this FOB set up,” Gates said over the comm. He stepped out of the command Humvee and directed Marines to the other two trucks. The remaining men unloaded equipment and weapons.

Beckham pulled off his gas mask and stuffed it in the bag on his hip. Ghost waited on the curb with the rest of the other strike teams as the Bradleys worked on forming a perimeter around the street. They made a wall of metal with the abandoned vehicles that would slow down any Variants coming from the north, but it also blocked a potential escape route if 1 stPlatoon needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

What the fuck was Gates thinking? His decisions were straight out of the handbook. But the handbook didn’t apply to end-of-the-world scenarios like this one.

Beckham studied the city, mentally mapping out the target zone of the New York Public Library and the forest of trees surrounding Bryant Park. Ash-covered branches swayed in a light breeze, the soot raining down like snow.

His legs felt numb from the hike. And he was filthy. Blood and soot covered him from boots to helmet. He wiped grime off his face and focused on the park. With the ash on the trees, the image looked like it belonged on some Christmas card. He stood there, watching and waiting for orders, half expecting to see an army of Variants swinging through the branches like they had back at Fort Bragg. But besides the crunching of metal, all was quiet.

“Moving armor into position,” Beckham heard through his headset. It was the voice of Sergeant Valdez.

Jensen walked over to Beckham. Even in the dim light, he could see the lieutenant colonel was furious. Jensen jerked his chin and Beckham followed him a little distance from the other teams.

“I’m considering pulling rank,” he said. “Ordering in an extraction.”

“Sir, I thought you would never say that,” Beckham replied gingerly.

“Problem is, I don’t think Kennor would approve the order. I honestly think it’s going to take a million of those fucking monsters for the general to realize the city can’t be taken back with force.”

Beckham nodded. “Kennor is a bull-headed asshole. Just like Gibson.” He paused to take in a sidelong glance of their men and then said, “So what do we do?”

Jensen spat on the ground. “We set up shop and pray the Bradleys and Humvees can hold off the Variants when they decide to show their true strength. At that point, I’m hoping the flyboys finish the rest.”

“I’m with you, sir. And my men are with you, too,” Beckham said.

Jensen put a hand on Beckham’s shoulder. “To the end.”

“To the end,” Beckham repeated.

The comm channel came online a moment later. It was Gates. “Strike teams advance to Bank of America Tower. Command wants the FOB set up by dawn.”

Beckham turned from the surreal view of the park and snapped his street senses back on. The tower loomed overhead. It was the perfect place for sniping positions, given the vantage it had over the entire area. But what if there were Variants lurking inside?

It was going to be a long hike up. Taking in a measured breath, he flashed an advance signal toward the shattered windows of the first floor. Team Ghost and the other strike teams hustled inside, broken glass crunching under the weight of their boots. Beckham shouldered one last glance at 1 stPlatoon and said a mental prayer before following his men into the building.

“Clear,” Horn yelled.

Beckham stopped in front of the elevators and scanned the two dozen Special Op soldiers and Marines. Weapons of all sizes and calibers were leveled at the ground, ready to rock ’n’ roll. Grenades and extra magazines hung from armored vests. NVG optics stared back at him.

“All right,” Beckham said. He paused to wait for one of the Bradleys to finish pushing a car into position outside. When the noise subsided, he said, “Our objective is to take out any Variants and support the FOB. I’m going to be honest with you—those things are waiting to strike. I can feel it. You watch yourself, and you watch your buddy. This may be the most important battle of our lives. There won’t be any room for mistakes. Every bullet counts.”

There were several nods from the group. Beckham decided to keep the talk short. “Who’s got the building layout?”

The slender frame of Sergeant Peters stepped forward from the group, followed by Sergeant Rodriguez, a man almost twice as thick. Peters pulled out the blueprints and spread them out on the floor. “The building is fifty-five stories tall with fifty-two elevators, but obviously those aren’t an option. We got concrete stairwells here and here.”

Beckham took a knee to scan the layout. “Are they secured passages?”

“Yup,” Peters replied. “Building has a state-of-the-art security system.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Rodriguez said, swinging a tactical shotgun toward the floor.

“Alpha and Bravo, you take this stairwell to the twenty-fifth floor. Charlie and Delta, you’re with me and Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. We’ll take floor twenty-six and above. If things get dicey, we’re only a few beams of metal and drywall apart.” Beckham rubbed his gloves together. “Keep your headsets on and your eyes open. Good luck.”