Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

“You look like you’re about to rob a bank,” Horn said.

Beckham glanced down at the extra magazines tucked into his tactical vest’s pouches. “Can’t afford another situation like New York, man. Riley’s legs wouldn’t be broken if I hadn’t run out of ammo.”

Horn nodded and glared at the skyline. “You think my family is still out there?”

“If they are, we’re going to find them. Jensen had his comm team run through the last radio transmissions from Bragg. There were survivors holed up in the Warfare Center and School building, so that’s where we’re headed.” Beckham pulled out a map and pointed at the facility he’d circled in red.

“I remember that place,” Horn said. He reached inside his vest and retrieved a single cigarette. Wedging it between his lips, he cupped a hand over his Zippo. He closed his eyes and took one long drag.

“Thank you, Reed,” Horn said, smoke trailing out of his nostrils. “Thank you for doing this. I can’t tell you—”

Beckham held up a gloved hand. “Don’t, man. You don’t need to say anything. If Sheila, Tasha, and Jenny are out there, I stand by the promise I made to you on the rooftop in New York.”

Jamming the cigarette back between his lips, Horn placed both hands on Beckham’s shoulders. They locked eyes, neither of them flinching.

“We’ll find them,” Beckham said. “One way or another.”

Horn gave a solemn nod and then turned toward the sound of approaching voices. Two figures rounded Building 1. They strode toward the concrete barricade and stepped into the sunlight.

“Here she comes,” Horn said. “Finally.”

“Sorry we’re late,” Kate said. She dropped two duffel bags on the ground and bent down to unzip them. A crew chief and pilot hurried past them, both men eyeing Horn’s cigarette without uttering a word.

“What’s in the bags, Doc?” Horn asked, taking another drag.

Kate pulled out a CBR suit and handed it to Beckham.

“I thought you said there’s no risk of infection anymore.” He hesitated and then grabbed the white suit.

“That’s mostly true,” Kate said. “But there might be infected that were outside the first and secondary drop zones.”

“People with the Hemorrhage Virus?” Beckham asked.

Kate nodded. “The bioweapon is still being deployed in remote areas outside the cities. The virus has mostly been eradicated, according to reports from Central Command. Fort Bragg was part of the initial drop. But I don’t want to take any chances.”

“I’ll let you two hash this out,” Horn said. He swung his M27 around his back and walked over to the pilot and crew chief, discussing something that Beckham couldn’t hear.

“Kate, I don’t think we need them. We didn’t use them in Atlanta. Besides, I’m already bogged down with all of this extra ammunition.” He patted his vest and ran a finger over the pocket containing a picture of his mom.

“But—”

“I’m more concerned about the Variants than the remote chance of contacting what’s left of the Hemorrhage Virus.”

Her eyes darted to the ground for a brief moment. She nodded slowly and found his eyes.

“We’ll be fine, Kate. These things are only going to slow us down,” he said, handing the suit back to her.

Kate dropped it onto the bag and wrapped her arms around Beckham’s frame. He let out a short gasp of surprise. She hugged him tighter before finally letting go. “Fine. You can make up your own mind.”

Horn whistled. “Gotta go, Boss!”

Beckham returned Kate’s embrace for a moment and then bent down to scoop up his gear. “I’ll be back in thirty-six hours.”

“Be safe,” she said.

“Always am.”

The blades from the chopper whooshed on the first pass. Beckham jogged across the tarmac, ducking as he approached. Grabbing a handhold, he climbed inside and waved one final time as the bird ascended into the air.

Beckham and Horn sat with their legs dangling over the side of the troop hold. They flew in complete darkness; not a single light flickered as the chopper raced over the landscape.

Flipping his night vision goggles up, Beckham stared over the side. A veil of black consumed him, and all sense of motion vanished. For a moment he felt like he was suspended in space. Then his eyes adjusted. He could vaguely make out the outline of a city in the distance. Never in his life had he seen a landscape so dark. The entire grid was down. No one was left to run critical facilities. The chopper passed over a miasma of stink from an abandoned water treatment plant. It was the smell of the new world.

For two hours they flew over crumbling buildings and scorched urban areas, the scars from Operation Depletion present even in the darkness. No city had been spared. Outside the cities, the acres of lush crops would never see harvest. The destruction was numbing.

The promise Beckham had made to his team years ago flashed across his mind. He could picture the day in Iraq vividly. Insurgents had his six-man team pinned down behind a wall in the filthy streets of Fallujah. Spinoza, Edwards, Riley, Horn, and Tenor had been crouched behind the stone, waiting for air support as one hundred hostiles had crept closer. Brass had fed him some bullshit intel claiming they could help take back the city. Instead, Beckham had led Team Ghost into a trap.

“Six against a hundred,” he muttered.

Horn spat over the edge of the chopper. “Fallujah?”

Beckham nodded. “Never thought we’d make it out of there.”

“If it weren’t for Panda, we never would have.”

Beckham chuckled at the memory of the gigantic man breaking through the ten-foot stone wall. Spinoza had rammed it three times with a shoulder before the stones toppled, allowing the team a chance to escape into an alleyway. He had also taken four shots to his flak jacket that had put him out of commission for a month. And now he was dead, along with Edwards and Tenor.

“Goddamn,” Beckham said, shaking his head. He would have traded places with any of them. The pain of a fallen brother was worse than the idea of death itself. He was barely managing the losses, motivated only by the mission ahead of them.

Horn reached over and nudged Beckham in the side. “We all should have died a long time ago, bro.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but Horn was right. Maybe fate had finally caught up to them. Thousands of hours of training and experience meant nothing when it was your time. Somehow Beckham had always come out unscathed. The other men had joked someone was looking out for him. And maybe there was. He liked to think that his mom was keeping an eye on him. He brightened at the thought.

“Holy shit,” Horn said. “Take a look at that.”

“What?” Beckham flipped his NVGs back on and saw a highway cluttered with vehicles. Not just any vehicles. Tanks.

Beckham examined the abandoned M1 Abrams as the chopper flew closer. The expensive symbols of American military muscle were now just a graveyard of metal.

“Wonder what happened,” Horn said.

“Probably got trapped.”

A flash of movement pulled his gaze to the ditch. Something lurked in the darkness. Several somethings. Human sized.

Beckham gripped the handle of his MP5 tighter out of reflex when he caught a glimpse of four Variants. They galloped into the forest, escaping as the chopper whipped overhead.

“You see that?” Horn asked.

“Yeah,” Beckham said. He twisted toward the cockpit. “You picking up any sign of survivors down there?”

The pilot craned his helmet. “Negative.”

Closing his eyes, Beckham scooted away from the door and rested his back against the wall of the chopper.