Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

Ryan angled his MK11 toward the library. “Front steps.”

Beckham scoped the grounds and zeroed in on the motion. Sure enough, dozens of Variants swarmed out of the building. The clanging of weapons vibrated through the room as the men shifted their rifles toward the motion.

“We need to get out of here,” Jake said. “Those things know we’re here now! You led them right to us!”

“Calm down,” Horn said. “The Variants won’t even get close. We’re packing a ton of firepower up here and down there,” he said, pointing to the armored vehicles.

Beckham flicked his mini-mic back to his mouth. “We have multiple contacts outside of the library.”

“Copy that; stand by for orders,” Gates replied, his voice deceivingly calm.

“Hold your fire,” Beckham said to his men. “Wait for the lieutenant to give us the order. And conserve your ammo. Don’t shoot until you have a target.”

He wiped his nose and watched dozens of the Variants flow out of the building. They dashed into the tree cover of Bryant Park, most of them on all fours like the animals they were.

“Contacts incoming,” Beckham said with disgust. This was just the beginning. He could feel it in his gut.

His earpiece filled with static and then Gates said, “Engage the enemy. Fire when you have a target.” This time his voice was rough and tense.

At least you’re not out in the open , Beckham thought, checking on the men below. Most of them were situated behind the armor, but a few stood in the street.

The spotlights from the Humvees crisscrossed the concrete, and the vehicle commanders concentrated the beams on the east entrance to Bryant Park. Beckham clenched his jaw as more of the creatures piled out of the building, a never-ending flow of monsters. He’d lost count of their numbers now. There were well over a hundred—just a snapshot of their true strength.

“Stay focused,” Beckham said. “Don’t fire until you have one in your crosshairs.” He felt like a commander from the Civil War ordering his line to wait with their muskets for the Confederates to come spilling into the open.

The sound of muffled breathing and the whistling of wind crowded around him. The teams waited patiently, every one of them knowing what was about to happen. Weapons were aimed tightly at the park.

Beckham flipped on his NVG optics and scoped the trees. The wind carried a new sound—a sound that filled him with fear and rage. The inhumane screams of the Variants came from inside the urban forest. They had stayed inside the tree cover. The creatures were smarter now.

He wondered if they were taunting 1 stPlatoon. Nothing would surprise him at this point.

Beckham checked their rear guard. Two Marines held security at the entrance of the floor with their weapons aimed down the hallway. Everything was set.

Jake and Timothy waited in the shadows of a cubicle. The police officer held his trembling son. “We need to leave ,” he pleaded when he saw Beckham looking in his direction.

The chorus of shrieks, croaks, and high-pitched screams continued, making it difficult for Beckham to concentrate. His heart thumped. The battle for Manhattan was finally starting.

“Try to stay calm and cover your ears. This is going to be loud,” he said.

“You’re not listening!” the cop insisted. It seemed to be his favorite phrase.

Beckham moved back to the window. He didn’t have time to argue. The armored shells of the Bradleys maneuvered their turrets.

“What the hell is Gates waiting for?” Horn whispered.

“For them to strike first,” Jensen said.

The hungry wails of the creatures increased, and the convoy finally answered with the earsplitting 25mm rounds. The chain guns belched fire. Trees disappeared in a cloud of wooden confetti.

“Hold your fire,” Beckham shouted. The Variants still weren’t in view.

“Where the fuck are they?” Jensen yelled.

The Marines in the Humvee turrets swept their spotlights over the destruction, searching for contacts.

Beckham’s earpiece came to life with Gate’s confused voice. “Does anyone have—” Then a brief pause. “Strike teams, do you have eyes?”

“We lost the Variants in the park,” Beckham said. “Rodriguez, Peters, you got anything?”

“Negative,” both Marines replied simultaneously.

“Behind them! Behind them!” Timbo suddenly shouted.

Beckham pressed his body against the wall and leaned over the side to scan the pile of cars at the rear guard of the convoy, but saw nothing. “Where? I don’t see shit!”

“The manhole covers!” Ryan said.

Beckham’s heart climbed into his throat. The Variants had laid the perfect trap.

They spilled out of the open manholes, breaking into a gallop as soon as they climbed onto the street.

“Check your six!” Beckham shouted into his mini-mic. But it was already too late. The creatures tackled a trio of Marines before they could react.

“Open fire!” Beckham ordered as the monsters dragged the men across the concrete and into their lairs.

The Marines in the turrets turned and fired the .50 cals at the Variants attacking their six just as a wave over a hundred strong streamed out of Bryant Park. The chain guns coughed and spewed rounds into the Variants, cutting them down with ease. But they kept coming.

Beckham focused on the Marines. One of them stood on the rear of Steam Beast, firing his rifle wildly at the pack charging on the platoons’ six. It was Sergeant Valdez.

“My God,” Beckham whispered.

The crack of gunfire and faint screams of dying Marines activated Beckham’s internal machine. His entire body went numb, his instinct taking over, and he started barking rapid orders.

“Lieutenant, get your fucking men into the Bradley troop holds!” There was no response. He cursed. The officer was worthless now. He was probably cowering in the backseat of his armored chariot. He tried the sergeant. “Valdez. Do you copy?”

“They’re everywhere!” the man replied.

“Sergeant, get your men into the tracks!” Beckham shouted. The gunfire was so loud he couldn’t even hear himself. He turned to the snipers. “Focus your fire on the Variants at the rear. Lay down covering fire for those Marines.”

The shapes of desperate men scrambled for the safety of the armored vehicles. Beckham paced back and forth behind the strike teams. They fired calculated shots into the melee. Empty magazines and bullet casings clanged on the floor.

A frantic voice spilled over the net. “More contacts to the northwest!”

Beckham squeezed his way between Horn and Jensen. He didn’t need a scope to see the new flood of creatures climbing over the barricade of cars. 1 stPlatoon was surrounded.

“Can’t hold ‘em!” grunted Sergeant Valdez. He jumped off the track and herded a pair of Marines into the back of the vehicle. Another two stood their ground a hundred yards away. In a blink, the men were gone. Swallowed by the horde, their screams were lost in the madness.

A second turret swiveled from the park and joined the fight to the rear guard. The two .50 cals cut through the creatures flowing from the manhole, buying Valdez a few extra seconds. Beckham scoped the street and watched a final Marine pile into the back of Steam Beast. Valdez fired off another several shots before securing the hatch.

Only four of the Marines on the street had made it.

Beckham cursed. He had to maintain control of his anger. Nothing he could do would change the fate of those lost. He had to think of the living, of the men still fighting.

The turret guns obliterated the final Variants that climbed from the manholes. Beckham zoomed in on the mess. Piles of the dead and dying creatures were hemorrhaging a lake of blood.