Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

Beckham followed his men inside to a narrow staircase. Greeted with darkness, he clicked on his night vision. The small hubs of emergency lights on the low ceiling were dark.

Ducking under the bulbs, Beckham followed the twisting stairs, checking his avenue of fire and shifting his gaze between front and rear, checking on Ellis every few seconds. The team moved with flawless precision, rotating from front to back.

By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, a stream of adrenaline had spiked in Beckham’s system. He felt powerful again. Invincible, even. He grinned. This was what he lived for.

An unmarked steel door separated them from Level One. There was no warning sign or other indication that would imply there was anything significant on the other side.

Noble squeezed past Beckham, Horn, and Spinoza to use his keycard. This time he unsheathed a sleek .45 and carefully opened the door himself.

Beckham saw Horn’s bulky frame straighten in front of him and then they were moving. The scuffle of footfalls filled the stairwell.

Even with his NVGs active, Beckham could see the floor was spotless. So clean the concrete looked as if someone had just mopped the tiles.

He swept the muzzle of his weapon over the space. It was divided into two sections. To the right, a hallway led to the individual examination rooms where the scientists working in the facility would undergo health screenings.

The left passage connected with three decontamination chambers. They were oddly shaped, like pods. Through the glass he could see the entrance to Level Two. Beyond that, there was only darkness.

With a quick flash of his hand, Beckham guided Alpha toward the decontamination chambers. Tenor broke off and led Bravo to clear the medical wing.

It became quite obvious right away that Level One was empty. There were no signs or evidence of recent life. That was a bit of a relief, but it deepened the mystery of what had happened.

“How you doing back there, Dr. Ellis?” Beckham asked.

“Fine,” the doctor answered.

Beckham knew by the monosyllabic reply that the virologist was scared shitless, and he couldn’t blame him.

White noise crackled over the comm and Tenor’s voice broke across the channel. “Area clear. No sign of Dr. Medford or his staff.”

“Copy that,” Beckham answered. He lowered his MP5 and waited for Bravo to make their way back to the lobby. Craning his head, he looked for Caster.

The officer was crouched next to one of the glass cylinders, tapping the surface of his tablet with one of his thick gloves. Caster studied the display and then said, “Looks like access to the control room is just beyond the mess hall.”

“Roger. Let’s see if we can get the power back on,” Beckham said. He motioned the team forward. The sound of boots pounding across the lobby echoed loudly through the sector as the two strike teams proceeded to the decon chambers. Beckham paused as the sudden feeling of being watched overwhelmed him. Horn had always suggested Beckham had a sixth sense. He wasn’t sure if the man was right, but at that moment he felt the strong sensation of being observed. Someone was out there.

Tilting his head, Beckham scanned the lobby.

Nothing.

Sucking in a deep breath of rubber-scented air, he continued through the lobby to the front entrance of the first decontamination pod.

“How do we know that no one’s escaped?” Horn asked while the team waited for Noble to open the first chamber.

“Those scanners,” Caster said, pointing. “They have backup batteries in case of catastrophic power failure, in which case the lab is locked down. The system was designed so no one could get out if that happened. They would have to wait for rescue.”

“In other words, wait for us?” Spinoza asked.

“Anyone working in a lab like this knows if something catastrophic happens, they won’t be rescued. If we didn’t need the sample, we’d already blown this place to hell,” Caster replied.

The first cylinder hissed and the glass doors parted. When they were halfway open, they groaned to a stop.

“Shit,” Noble said. “The hardware must have malfunctioned.”

Beckham eyed the gap. It looked large enough for Spinoza and Horn, but if they had to back out quickly, it could bottleneck the team. “Big Horn, Panda, try to get those open.”

Together the two men pulled the glass doors far enough apart that the team could get through. Beckham waved them forward. Noble moved quickly to the next scanner. This time the doors opened without resistance. The strike teams spilled into the final chamber in a single file line, where they waited to enter Level Two.

Beckham stood next to Noble as he waved his key card over the last scanner. Through the glass he could see an empty hallway leading to the mess hall and personnel quarters, but it wasn’t spotless like Level One. A large, dark smear streaked across the floor beyond the door. He followed the trail to the wall where it stopped.

Flipping up his NVGs, he risked using his headlamp. The beam cut through the darkness and illuminated a bloody handprint on the wall.

Beckham flinched at the sight. What the fuck? he thought, taking a step away from the glass just as it cracked open. Balling his hand into a fist, he very sternly said, “Hold position.” He then pointed at the wall and angled his light at the smear of blood.

The sight didn’t seem to bother Noble. “Don’t worry, that’s why we have suits.”

His response took Beckham by surprise. “That’s not from a spilled test tube, sir. That’s from an injury. A bad one.”

“Turn off your light, Sergeant,” Noble replied coldly, leveling his .45 into the darkness and moving through the door.

“Let’s move,” Caster said, patting Beckham on his shoulder.

Hesitating, Beckham clicked off his headlamp and activated his night vision. Flashing a signal, he followed Noble’s outline into the passage. With his MP5 pointed forward, he scrutinized the trail of blood. He knew better than anyone how much blood a man could lose before death. There was no mistaking it. Whoever had bled out was severely injured. Any soldier would know this, but for some reason the sight hadn’t fazed Noble or Caster at all, like they were expecting it. Beckham was used to working with men he didn’t trust—Afghani and Iraqi forces were the perfect example—but U.S. soldiers?

He reminded himself this wasn’t a normal mission. In the past, he had been forced to keep key details of other missions secret when working with foreign troops. He had never been on the other side of it, however. He now realized how Dr. Ellis must have felt when he first boarded the Osprey hours ago. There wasn’t anything Beckham could do about it, either.

He blinked the thought away and concentrated. The end of the hall broke off into two directions. He remembered that the corridor to the left led to the personnel quarters, while the other corridor led to the mess hall. With another quick hand gesture, he ordered Bravo to the right, while Beckham and his team shuffled toward the individual rooms.

The green outlines of several doors came into view as he rounded the corner. Placards identified the names of the scientists assigned to each room. The first one Beckham approached read Dr. Jane Levoy.

Placing his back against the wall, he waited for his team to move into position. Horn leveled his M27 at the nameplate and inched the door open with the barrel while Riley took up position on the opposite wall.

“Dr. Ellis, Riley, stay here,” Beckham whispered. He put his hand on Horn’s back and followed him into the room. For the first time on the mission, his suit felt tight around his chest. Clenching his jaw, he waited for something to dart out at them, but the room was empty.