Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

He wouldn’t let them become orphans. Not today. Not ever.

Beckham pushed on. He strained to hear the sound of gunfire, aching to hear the noise. It would mean the convoy was still waiting for them. But he heard nothing but the stomp of boots as they raced down the stairs.

“Hurry!” Beckham yelled. He leapt down three stairs.

They piled to a halt at the second floor. The ruckus from twisting gear bags and the clang of metal on metal filled the void. A flurry of nervous voices traveled up the stairs, but Beckham was hardly listening. He knew if they had stopped, there was a damn good reason.

“What’s going on?” Beckham asked. He moved through the teams forcefully, pushing them out of the way as he managed his way down the stairs. Horn and Jensen were waiting at the door leading to the atrium. It was propped open a hair, and Jensen peeked through. He had a hand balled into a fist behind his back.

Beckham squirmed past Horn and took a knee next to Jensen. The ground shook again. Broken glass rattled in the lobby.

“Where’s the convoy?”

Jensen kept his NVG trained on the room and replied, “I don’t see ‘em.”

“I’m going in,” Beckham said. “We don’t have time to wait here.”

Horn grabbed his left arm with a hand as strong as steel. “I’m going with you.”

Beckham didn’t object. If they were going to die, he wanted to die by his best friend’s side.

The ground continued trembling, a mini-earthquake that wouldn’t stop. Beckham could feel the blood pumping through his veins. He wasn’t sure what kind of reception they were going to receive outside, but there was nowhere else to run, nowhere else to hide. If the convoy was really gone, then the only option was to fight.

He counted the seconds, knowing they were running out of time.

The two men slipped into the lobby. Beckham kept track of Horn through his peripheral vision. They halted as broken glass rattled on the ground, shaking from the approaching horde. It sounded like an armada of M1s charging through the city.

Beckham waved Horn toward the entrance. The street finally came into view. Not a single living thing moved.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Beckham grabbed the broken door handle and pulled it open. Words sounded in his earpiece, but the rumble was too loud to make out the words. He placed his right boot outside, hanging halfway inside the building and halfway onto the sidewalk. Looking to the left at West 42 ndStreet, he froze in place, not daring to move. His NVG optics provided him a field of view that would have petrified any veteran.

The mob of Variants was racing down the street, stirring up a cloud of dust and ash. Those that couldn’t fit leapt onto the buildings, skittering across the vertical surface.

There had to be thousands of them.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty…

Forcing himself away from the view, he checked the Avenue of Americas for the convoy. Steam Beast and a Humvee sat idling in the middle of the street. A man stood on the back of the Bradley, waving with his machine gun and screaming at the top of his lungs, the sound completely lost in the din of the Variants.

Beckham’s chest heaved with relief when he saw it was Sergeant Valdez. He had waited after all. But the fighting vehicle was built only to hold eight, and the Humvee would only hold another eight, max. They had over twenty-four men between the four strike teams, not to mention Jake and Timothy.

“Let’s go!” he said, motioning Horn to pass on the message to the team.

Soon the teams were sprinting down the street. Beckham considered his options as they ran. There weren’t many. Only half of them would be able to squeeze into the vehicles. Unless some rode on top, but if the Variants caught up…

The army screaming down 42 ndand 43 rdStreets was closing in fast. Only a block separated the teams from countless hungry mouths.

Valdez jumped off the fighting vehicle, his features strained and anxious. “Get your men inside! Eight in the Humvee and eight in the track! Hurry! Gates called in an air strike!” The sergeant looked down at his watch. “We have two minutes to get out of here before we’re barbequed!”

The ground shook from the pounding footsteps. Beckham strained to focus his rattled brain. His eyes roved from the vehicles and then back to the team.

“Get Jake and Timothy in the Bradley!” he shouted. “That leaves room for another fourteen of us. Ten will have to stay behind, unless you want to take your chances riding on top of the track.” He spoke rapidly, watching the Variants hit Bryant Park, their twisted bodies exploding through the haze.

Horn grabbed Beckham’s arm again. “Boss, we can all make it—”

“Get inside the track,” Beckham said sternly. “That’s an order. Your girls need their father.”

Horn hesitated. His gaze shifted to the monsters for a fraction of a second, just enough time for Beckham to see the overwhelming pain in his friend’s features. They both knew the chances of surviving if they stayed behind were slim.

But the decision was already made. Horn eased his grip on Beckham’s arm and embraced him instead. “Love ya, bro. Watch your ass, and good luck.”

“You too, Big Horn. Take care of those girls, and tell Kate I’ll see her soon,” Beckham said. Then he shouted, “For those staying, let’s move!”

The vehicle commander of the remaining Humvee swung his .50 cal into position and opened fire. A missile from the Bradley’s TOW launcher streaked overhead.

The chaos bent time, warping every second into what felt like minutes. Crimson bubbles popped in the park where the missiles found targets, showering the battleground with meaty chunks of the enemy.

“Come on!” Beckham yelled. His words were lost by the crushing weight of gunfire. He spun from the view, ready to shove shell-shocked troops into the vehicles. But the men were already moving. Horn and Jake hefted Timothy into the Bradley, and Marines piled in behind them.

A handful of soldiers had crowded around Beckham, their weapons forming a perimeter. He recognized every face: Timbo, Ryan, Valdez, Chow, Jinx, and Jensen.

“No time to argue. Smith’s more than capable of leading while I’m away,” Jensen said when he saw Beckham’s confusion. He spat on the ground and yelled, “ Move !”

The .50 cal whined overhead. Shells clicked off the pavement as the team ran for the nearest manhole cover. Another missile popped from the TOW.

“Help me with this!” Beckham said. “Those jets are en route!”

Timbo took a knee, and together they slid the heavy cover away from the hole. The team funneled down the ladder as the Humvee raced away. Steam Beast remained behind, Matthews clearly hell-bent on providing Beckham and the others a chance to escape.

“Get out of here,” Beckham shouted.

Matthews glanced down at Beckham. The look of fear on the young man’s face had been replaced with courage.

“Good luck!” Matthews yelled.

Beckham nodded and began the descent, pausing momentarily to watch the Bradley lurch away. The tracks crunched over the broken bodies of dead Variants. Then the swollen mass surging from Bryant Park filled his entire field of vision.

He knew then that Operation Liberty had likely failed in every major city. What little hope humanity had was gone. The Variants were now the dominant species.

“Let’s go, Beckham!” came a voice inside the tunnel below.

Beckham started climbing into the darkness when another sound came, a screaming louder than a hundred thousand Variants combined. He eyed the skyline and saw a squadron of jets flying low to the east. Ducking inside the hole, he slid the cover over the top, sealing them in.