Nicholas Smith - Extinction Edge

“One second.” Ellis fidgeted with his glasses and then drilled down on the keyboard. “That can’t be right.”

“What’s it say?”

“March 15 th, 1988.”

“Twenty years after Brett’s mission?”

Kate exchanged a glance with Ellis as they considered the dates. She suddenly felt light-headed. Brett was a glimpse of the future. Given time, Variants could evolve. They were more than wild animals. They could think. That meant they could also strategize.

And maybe even speak.

“This discovery could change everything,” Ellis said. “But we can’t jump to conclusions just yet. We have to remember Brett was never infected with Ebola. Dr. Medford altered VX-99 after Brett’s platoon took the initial doses. We need to perform tests on the Variants. We don’t know if Brett is an accurate example of what the creatures are capable of.”

“Maybe not,” Kate replied. “But Brett does prove the effects of VX-99 are truly irreversible. The only way to end this nightmare is to kill every last one of the monsters.”

The wind howled outside the dark hotel room, gusts rattling the window with every pass. Inside, a sultry draft of air lingered, carrying the stink of sweat and mold. With his eyes narrowed and his breathing slow, Beckham studied every flash of movement through the filthy glass. He knelt under a pair of ragged drapes, sweeping the empty parking lot for any signs of hostiles with his MP5.

Trash and pieces of newspaper whistled past. One of them slapped against the pane. His muscles tensed as he spotted something else moving, something much bigger than a newspaper.

Horn fidgeted. He saw it too.

Beckham listened, still expecting to hear noises of the old world. But the hum of civilization had long since vanished. Instead, Beckham heard new sounds, automatically identifying them to create a sonic map of his surroundings. He didn’t need to see the open car door grinding against the concrete to know someone had hastily abandoned their vehicle. He didn’t need to see the downed power line to know it was the source of the whining in the distance.

As a Delta Force Operator, Beckham had made a career of using his senses to get him out of hot zones, to succeed where other men failed. But things had changed. There were new rules now, and they required constant focus and attention. Ignore them and you would end up a rotting corpse like the majority of the world’s population.

Beckham zoomed in on the Kangaroo Express gas station beyond the parking lot and then the tree line across the street. There was a faint clicking, but he saw no other sign of motion. He didn’t need to see the Variants to know they were there. Images of their swollen lips, distorted bodies, and reptilian eyes were tattooed on his memory.

Back at Plum Island, Kate had explained that the creatures had undergone epigenetic changes. He tuned out for most of the science, but understood the fundamentals. The Variants weren’t just insane, deformed humans; they possessed super strength, speed, and predatory senses. And they moved like insects, scaling walls and hanging from ceilings. Beckham missed the days of fighting enemies that moved on two legs.

A distant screech ripped through the night.

Beckham ducked under the window ledge. He caught Horn’s gaze. They were used to being the hunters, not the hunted. Bringing two fingers to his eyes, Beckham pointed at the curtains. He took a measured breath, trying not to focus on the awful stench of rancid fruit and rotting flesh. He never thought he would miss the smell of plastic from the biohazard suits.

Pulling his scarf over his nose, he waited a few more beats before moving back to the window. He slowly peeled back the curtain with his right hand. White rays of moonlight spilled across the parking lot. It was just enough to light up the abandoned vehicles. Flipping up his night vision, Beckham peered through the glass without the aid of his optics.

Nothing.

The lot was empty, no sign of the creatures. Beckham scoped the blacktop one more time just to be clear, noting the sagging power line and open car door he’d heard before. Under normal circumstances, he would have grinned at being right, but this wasn’t normal. They were deep in enemy territory and a few miles away from Fort Bragg.

It wasn’t just Horn’s wife and daughters out there. They were Beckham’s family too, the only family he’d had since his mom and dad had died of cancer. And there was the possibility of finding more Delta Force Operators. If anyone had survived out here for this long, it would be his brothers in arms.

“Clear,” he finally whispered.

Crouching, Beckham spread his crinkled map on the stained carpet and studied it one last time. The plan was to move north along the All American Expressway and then take Gruber Road west to the US Army JFK Special Warfare Center and School building.

Beckham grabbed the door handle as Horn fell in behind him. “We move on three,” Beckham whispered. He held up his fingers as they waited and mentally counted.

One.

Two.

“Go,” Beckham said. He twisted the doorknob with a click and stepped out into the humid night. Wind whipped against his body armor as he moved with rapid and calculated steps. Beckham pushed his scarf further over his face until it was just below his eyes. He charged forward with his lips clenched shut, breathing into the cotton.

His eyes darted from the abandoned vehicles to the gas station at the end of the lot. His gut told him they weren’t being watched, that they were in the clear, and his eyes revealed nothing but the flicker of tree branches and swirling wrappers.

Then a guttural screech sent him running for the nearest vehicle. Beckham slid on his knees and propped his back against the passenger door. Horn took up position behind a pickup.

“One o’clock,” Horn said, his voice cold and tense.

Beckham swept his submachine gun toward the roof of the Kangaroo Express. Two of the creatures were perched on the ledge, their pale, naked skin shimmering under the moonlight.

The shattering of glass pulled Beckham to the entrance of the building, where a male and female emerged from the broken front door. Their bodies twisted from side to side, their arms and legs cracking.

Horn made a dash to the car and took a knee next to Beckham.

“They know we’re here,” he said.

“If we take them out, we’ll draw others.”

“I’m not sure we can outrun them,” Horn said. “I don’t think we have a choice.”

The clacking grew closer, claws scratching across the concrete. Beckham snuck a look through a window.

Neither of the creatures wore much of anything, their clothing torn away from constant scratching and biting. Bushy, tangled hair hung over the side of the woman’s face. A reptilian eye probed the parking lot as she shambled forward. She stopped abruptly and tilted her head to scratch a bloody bald spot. When she was finished she clamped down on her arm with her sucker lips and tore away a piece of flesh.

The two on the roof remained still, while the male on the edge of the parking lot sniffed the muggy air. It was an odd feeling, Beckham thought, knowing they were sniffing for his scent.

Before Beckham could duck, the woman stared in his direction. Hunger radiated from her eyes. She blinked and then let out a roar.

“Shit,” Beckham said. “You take the top. I’ll take out the other two. Then we run.”

Horn’s response came in the heavy crack from his M27. Fire flashed from the muzzle and cut into the roof’s awning. The creatures dropped to all fours and disappeared over the backside of the building while the two on the ground loped forward.