Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Rod protested with a violent shake of his head. “What if there are more out there?”

Ellis ran his hands through his hair for the hundredth time. “I’m with Riley. We need to get out of here.”

The pounding from the ductwork stopped. An animalistic snuffling sound followed, like a dog trying to get a scent.

Kate froze, her eyes inching back down the hallway. Dr. Holder poked his head out of his hiding spot. He lipped something Kate couldn’t make out. She shook her head and put a finger to her mouth.

A screech broke out above them, and then a desperate clawing as the creature struggled through the ductwork.

Ellis dropped to both knees by the desk to try to calm the girls. “It’s okay,” he said in a low and unconvincing voice.

Kate took a knee next to them and pulled them toward her, shielding them from the monster she knew would fall from the ceiling. She closed her eyes and prayed.

The scratching continued toward Dr. Holder’s room. The rest of the rooms were empty, except…

Her eyes snapped open again when she remembered that Colonel Gibson lay hooked up to machines in the last room of the ward. The Variant was banging its way right toward him. The thought of his own creation tearing him apart sent a chill through her. He was helpless, just like her brother had been helpless when he was infected with the Hemorrhage Virus back in Chicago. Conflicting emotions pulled at her.

Riley wheeled over to the door. “Help me,” he said, reaching for the lock.

Rod hesitated. “What about the others?”

“They can come with us,” Riley replied. “Let’s go.” Jerking his chin toward the double doors, he unfastened the lock and inched it open with the muzzle of his pistol.

Kate trusted the man. He’d helped save her in Atlanta, and he was their only chance of surviving now. “Come on,” she said, reaching out for the girls. Grabbing both of their tiny hands within her own, she pulled the girls up and ran after Rod and Riley.

“You have to keep quiet,” Ellis said. He held a finger to his lips as he looked at them.

Both girls nodded.

The flickering red lights guided them into the second corridor. They left the banging behind, and the terrifying scratching faded as they raced down the hall. Kate’s heart rate slowed, but she didn’t dare let herself relax. Not until they were safe.

She stole one glance over her shoulder, wondering if Colonel Gibson could hear his fate inching closer. In a blink, the ceiling collapsed in front of his room. Panels, ductwork, wires and flakes of white streamed over the muscular frame of a man wearing nothing but frayed white trousers. Covered in dust and blood, the creature shook off the soot and grime. Charred black skin ran from his right leg to his rib cage, muscles and flesh exposed to the elements. Tilting his chin, he sniffed the air and then dropped into a catlike position.

Everything froze in that moment. Distant voices told Kate to run. Dr. Holder and Tina poked out of their room and then slammed their door shut.

There were more voices and a tug on Kate’s arm. She wanted to move, she wanted to run, but she was petrified. Unblinking, she stared at the Variant. It pursed its bulging lips and flicked a swollen tongue around the edges. Then it whirled around, its arms extended outward, claws curled toward the floor.

Kate could smell it from where she stood, a draft of the sour rot finding its way into her nostrils.

The creature’s vertical yellow slits blinked, over and over, studying her.

“Kate!” Riley shouted, finally snapping her from her morbid trance.

“Help!” cried a voice. “Somebody help me!”

The creature twisted toward Gibson’s room.

Tasha and Jenny squealed. Before Kate realized what she was doing, she dropped both girls’ hands and rushed back to the doors. Tina and Holder had made their choice. She had children to think about.

Hating herself for doing it, Kate pushed the doors shut and locked the doctor, his nurse, and their patient inside.

The boy ran the moment Beckham moved. He took off through the maze of cubicles and then vanished.

Beckham swore under his breath. He flipped his mini-mic to his mouth and said, “We have a survivor. A kid.”

Flashing an advance signal toward the office door, he traversed the hallway. Horn was waiting for him. Beckham took a knee and looked over the wall. A shattered glass panel blocked his view, cobweb cracks filling the entire pane.

“You got eyes?” he asked, hunching down.

His earpiece crackled. It was Sergeant Peters. “Alpha and Bravo in position.”

Lieutenant Gates replied a beat later. “Assembling FOB. Armor is in position. Charlie, Delta, SITREP.”

Beckham flicked his mini-mic back to his lips and changed the channel so he could communicate with the entire platoon. “We have a survivor. Kid took off running.”

White noised crackled in his earpiece long enough to make Beckham nervous. He knew what the officer was thinking on the other side. The objective was to set up a base and clear the area. Survivors were secondary, a liability to the mission.

Beckham brought two fingers to his eyes and then pointed into the office. “Go get that kid,” he whispered to Horn.

The man nodded his reply and reached for the handle. Ryan took his place as Horn moved into the room. Beckham started to tell the Ranger to follow, but another order crackled across the comm.

“Set up position, but do not search for survivors. I need your men on those windows, Beckham,” Gates said. His voice shook, but Beckham knew it wasn’t really the lieutenant giving the order; it was the old fossil leading Operation Liberty—General fucking Kennor.

“Copy that,” Beckham replied. Anger swirled through him at the thought of leaving a kid behind. Fuck that , Beckham thought. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind again. He would never forgive himself for abandoning that family the last time he was in New York.

Beckham turned the channel back to Charlie and Delta. “Listen up. We got a survivor on this floor. We’re going to clear the room, secure the kid, and then fall into position. Got it?”

Nine helmets moved up and down, including Lieutenant Colonel Jensen’s. That was good; they all trusted him.

“I want two Marines to hold security here,” Beckham said. Then he signaled the strike teams to advance into the office. “Horn, you got eyes?”

“Negative.”

Beckham pulled his scarf away from his mouth. “Ryan?”

“Negative.”

Gripping his weapon, Beckham paused to map out the room. The cubicles were set up in rows of ten and went five deep. The glass that had overlooked Manhattan was mostly gone. Shards stuck out of a three-foot-high wall. That’s where they would set up their rifles, he decided.

He looked for Horn next and found the man’s helmet bobbing up and down at the far right of the room.

“Clear,” Ryan said over the comm.

Beckham swore again. The kid was probably long gone now. If he had survived this long, he likely had some secure hiding spot.

“Found something,” Horn said.

Beckham pointed the rest of the strike teams toward the waist-high wall overlooking Bryant Park and the library. “Get into position.”

He rushed through the row of cubicles to the edge of the floor, catching a breathtaking glimpse of the city. The wind whistled through the open windows, brushing against his armor. It was one hell of a long way down, like break-every-bone-in-your-body long way down. He felt a flash of extreme vertigo and waited for it to pass.

He spied Horn’s helmet jutting over a cubicle at the other end of the room. He broke into a run and found the man standing in the doorway of a small office. Filthy blankets and trash littered the floor.