Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

The living area was small, not much larger than a dorm room, and it seemed undisturbed with a carefully made twin bed and clean bedside table.

They backed out and switched positions. Beckham entered the next room with his weapon shouldered. Holding his breath, he burst in just as the comm blared to life.

“Beckham, you…” Tenor’s voice faded and then grew louder. “You better see this.”

He knew by the sergeant’s slight pause that he’d found something significant. Over the years they’d seen a lot together. Mass graves, executed prisoners, war crimes of all types. Nothing ever spooked the man.

“Move,” Beckham said, grabbing Ellis under his left arm and spinning him back the way they had come. “Riley, Horn, you clear the rest of these rooms. Major Caster, you’re with me.”

The officer grumbled and fell in line. Thirty seconds later they entered the mess hall. Beckham immediately stopped in the entrance to survey the destruction. In the center of the room, the outlines of flipped metal tables and chairs littered the ground like shrapnel from an explosion. On the floor he saw empty food trays, their contents splattered on the walls. There were more of the smudges on the ceiling. Clicking on his headlamp, he realized the smears weren’t from Jell-O.

Blood.

It was everywhere. Like something done by a graffiti artist high on meth, the walls and ceilings were painted with the substance. Blood was splattered in every direction.

Beckham had never seen anything like it.

“What the hell happened here?” a voice said. He’d forgotten Ellis was still shadowing him. The doctor and Caster were slowly navigating the overturned tables.

The comm crackled and Tenor came back online. “Beckham, where are you?” There was urgency in his voice, enough to kick Beckham into a full sprint. He raced toward the kitchen, where he could see the outlines of Bravo.

And then he stopped, his boots sliding across the smooth floor. He scrambled, nearly tripping over his own feet. Spinoza reached out and steadied him.

Inside were half a dozen bodies. Most of them naked, their frames twisted and mangled beyond recognition. The one on top looked female, but the body was in such terrible condition it was hard to tell.

The woman had suffered extreme trauma to her skull. A gash ran all the way down to the tip of her nose, where her only remaining eyeball hung loosely from the socket.

“My God,” Beckham said. Turning to face Caster, he snorted. “Something you need to tell us, Major?”

Noble stepped into the freezer and crouched next to the female victim. He flipped over one of her arms. It snapped and broke at the wrist, revealing bulging blue veins. “Fuck. She’s infected.”

“How do you know? Let me look,” Ellis said, shoving his way into the room. A few moments later he shook his head. “Hemorrhaging from multiple orifices. The jaundiced skin and bulging veins imply organ failure. Noble’s right, this woman likely had Ebola. But that’s not what killed her is it, Major?”

Noble quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not.” He peered up at Beckham and very dryly said, “I’m sorry. This is much worse than I imagined.” He looked back down at the bodies. “This goes beyond anything I fathomed. Medford must have accidentally created the monster virus I’ve always feared.”

“What does that mean?” Riley blurted. “Monster virus?”

“Judging by the wounds on these bodies…” Noble paused and scanned the pile of corpses.

“It means that victims will display all the symptoms of Ebola but also those associated with VX-99,” Caster said.

“Meaning what exactly?” Horn asked. His chest swelled as he stood staring over Noble’s shoulders.

“Those exposed to VX-99 exhibit a range of violent behaviors in addition to hallucinations,” Noble said. “From the test files I’ve read, the subjects have all proven to be very cunning, with one overall purpose—”

“We saw the reports. We saw Lieutenant Brett,” Beckham said, cutting the doctor off in mid-sentence. “Their purpose is to kill.”

“Precisely, but we don’t know for how long. It’s likely the victims die of the virus before they can do much harm,” Noble finished.

“Not much harm? What the fuck do you call this?” Riley said, his voice rising just shy of a shout. “Someone was alive long enough to do this!”

“Riley. Get a fucking grip,” Beckham ordered.

“That one has bite marks on it,” Spinoza remarked. He extended a massive arm and pointed at the bottom corpse. A swollen suction mark had formed a circle around shredded and exposed muscles.

Ellis pulled on a leg protruding from the pile and quickly backed away. “What the hell…”

The stack toppled over and the sounds of bones snapping reverberated through the room. The cracking sounded like a fork stuck in a garbage disposal.

When the frozen bodies had finally settled on the floor, Beckham could see they all had bite marks. Someone or something had torn long patches of flesh from the victims. In other places the limbs were devoured to the bone. He stared with disbelief. Never in his career had he seen such an atrocity. It was in that moment he realized the freezer wasn’t a gravesite.

He leaned down and focused on the marks. Circular bruises surrounded the torn flesh. It was like an oversized leech had clamped down to feed on the bodies. A flashback to the images of Lieutenant Brett’s mouth made him flinch. They weren’t dealing with some overgrown leech—they were dealing with a human monster, and he was looking at its leftovers.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “This is a storage facility.” He counted six corpses. Gibson had stated there were ten scientists and support staff working in the facility. So where were the others?

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Beckham scanned the room, searching every corner and shadow. “Keep sharp. There must still be other scientists out there and if my hunch is right, they are going to look a lot like Lieutenant Brett.”

Riley gagged and choked.

“Don’t puke in your mask!” Noble said, his voice just shy of a shout.

After he recovered, Riley looked up. “Whoever did this is some kind of vampire.”

“More like a zombie, man,” Edwards said in his perpetually calm voice. The man rarely spoke, and when he did, his words carried weight. The entire team grew silent for several beats.

“Not exactly,” Noble said. “Whatever these scientists were infected with—”

A guttural, high-pitched shriek cut him off. Beckham spun along with the rest of the team to locate the sound.

“What the fuck was that?” Riley exclaimed, moving the barrel of his shotgun from wall to wall.

Beckham flashed several hand signals, and the team fanned out into the mess hall.

Another screech followed them into the larger room. This one didn’t seem quite human. The sound was primal.

“Where’s it coming from?” Horn said. He angled his M27 at the ceiling.

“Sounds like it’s all around us,” Riley replied.

Beckham knew that was impossible. They’d cleared Level Two, and there was no way the noise would carry from Level Three. The glass was soundproof.

He scanned the ceiling. There, in the right corner just above the nine o’clock position, was a missing tile.

There was a blur of movement.

Beckham froze, not daring to move when he saw it.

A man poked his head from the hole in the ceiling. His eyes were wild, vertical pupils darting back and forth as if they were adjusting to the darkness. A curtain of thin hair hung loosely around his face.

Beckham blinked several times, wondering if this was just an illusion. His focus cleared, and the face was still there staring back at him, studying him.