Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

A powerful tremor shook the pavement and a brilliant red arc lit up the sky. Beckham shielded his eyes from the blast.

“This still seems so surreal,” Kate replied. “It’s chaos out there, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Where will you go next?” Kate asked.

“I don’t know,” Beckham said, shaking his head. “Fort Bragg is gone. My home—” Another round of explosions cut him off. He used the moment to scan her eyes for the truth and said, “Knowing what you do now, can you stop this thing?”

Kate looked away. Her eyes swept the skyline and then dropped back to the ground. “I don’t know,” she replied.

Three flashes lit up the horizon. Kate watched them and said, “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do this.”

Suppressing the dark feelings that had emerged earlier, Beckham pulled on the strength that had carried him through every difficult situation.

“You can do this, Kate,” Beckham said, facing her. “You’re stronger than you think you are. I watched you back in Atlanta. Here on the base. You are alive because of your courage and your strength. We need you.”

Kate blinked and slowly nodded.

He reached forward and squeezed her hands, forcing her to hold his gaze.

“You may be our last hope,” he said.

They stood there silently. Beckham finally knew what his new mission was. Protect the living—protect Kate, Ellis, Riley, and Horn.

“You’re right,” Kate said. “I need to get back to work.”

Before he could respond she took off running toward Building 1, leaving him to watch the world burning on the horizon.

Lieutenant Colonel Jensen spat on the concrete, wiping a strand of chewing tobacco that had dripped down his chin. Grabbing the metal railing, he climbed the two flights of stairs to the CIC that looked out over the island. He still couldn’t quite believe the Hemorrhage virus was a bioweapon. After working with Colonel Gibson for the better part of a decade, he’d believed him when he said the work at Building 8 was to protect national security.

Jensen looked out over the base. He gripped the railing so hard that his knuckles turned white. Guard towers and layers of electric fences surrounded the domed labs.

He should have known. Plum Island, Building 8, they were never to help find a cure for Ebola—they were built to produce a bioweapon that used Ebola as a vehicle to spread. In the end, Jensen had been used, too.

And now he was in charge. He needed to start thinking that way. Tucking another wad of tobacco against his gums, he listened to the crickets one final time before waving his badge over the security panel. It clicked, unlocked, and he left the chilly night and thoughts of conspiracy behind him.

Inside, Major Smith sat massaging the scar on his cheek, staring intensely at the security feeds from cameras around the island. The room stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Jensen regarded him with a nod and then moved toward the wall of communication equipment across the room. Corporal Hickman and Corporal Benzing sat there waiting, their eyes searching him for orders.

“First things first,” Jensen said. “It’s time to let everyone on this island know what’s going on outside.” He reached toward the PA. With a single push of a button, every scientist, soldier, and support staff would hear his voice.

His finger hovered over the button while he pondered all of the things he should say. Every man and woman on this island had family out there. He did too, a brother and sister in New Orleans. Last he heard they were evacuating the city. That was days ago, and he knew the chances they were still alive were slim.

With a measured breath he punched the PA to broadcast. It was time to take responsibility for the atrocities he had inadvertently helped to create.

Static cleared from the PA speakers hanging from the ceiling and then came the muffled sound of his own breathing. He grabbed the mic and brought it to his mouth.

“All personnel, this is Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. As many of you know, Colonel Gibson has been placed under arrest for his involvement in the creation of the Hemorrhage virus. I have taken command of the island. My first order is to lift the communication cloak. I know you all have family outside and I know you are all wondering what their fate is. I will give a full briefing at 0730 hours in the mess hall.”

Clicking the PA off he said, “Corporals, see if we can figure out what’s going on beyond our little island.”

“On it, sir,” they both said. They grabbed headsets, activating their stations with a few keystrokes.

Jensen paced behind them, waiting anxiously. Sitting in the dark for days had eaten at him like it had everyone else. Everyone on the island was feeling the overwhelming dread of being boxed in, cut off from the outside world. This time the wait wasn’t long.

Benzing pressed his headset over his ears. “Most of what I’m picking up is automated. Emergency broadcast signals. Evacuation routes, sir.”

“Same here, “ Hickman added. “Wait…” She scrolled her frequency dial, stopping on one of the channels she’d passed over.

“I’ve got something, sir,” she said.

Jensen looked for Major Smith, gesturing for the man to join them. Seconds later a panicked voice bled over the channel. The speakers crackled as white noise surged over the line.

“Does anyone copy?” came the male voice. “Is anyone out there?”

“This is Plum Island, we read you, over,” Hickman replied.

“Thank God,” the man said. More static broke over the channel. Hickman twisted the knob slightly and the line cleared.

“This is Marine Staff Sergeant Bell. 2 ndBattalion, 2 ndMarines. Reporting from—” There was a pause, followed by the sound of distant gunfire.

“Shit, shit. They found us,” Sergeant Bell said, speaking more rapidly. “Ferguson! Where are they coming from?”

Jensen flinched as more shots rang out.

“Fuck. We need evac!” Bell said.

“Sergeant Bell, where are you? What are your coordinates?” Hickman asked.

“New York!” Bell replied.

Hickman frowned. “We need your coordinates.”

Another round of gunfire cracked in the background, the deafening noise filling the CIC with the sound of war.

Before Hickman could respond the line cut out. She glanced back at Jensen for support. Her eyes swelled with fear.

“I had no idea it was this bad,” Smith added. He shook his head and walked away from the monitors.

“This is only the beginning,” Jensen said grimly. “We need to keep trying.”

Hickman nodded, slowly. There was a deep sadness in her features, and it was motivated by fear. He’d seen it in the faces of so many others. Hickman was young, probably only twenty-two or twenty-three years old, and Jensen knew that her training had done little to prepare her for the horrors they would face in the coming days.

“Sir, I’ve just intercepted several messages intended for Colonel Gibson. They’re all encrypted. Looks like they were sent over the past seven days.” Benzing scooted his chair closer to his computer monitor.

“Can you open them?” Jensen asked. He continued pacing behind the two officers, his eyes darting from screen to screen.

“Working on it now, sir,” Benzing replied.

A few moments later the man smiled. “Got it.”

Jensen swallowed and took a seat next to Benzing.

“Looks like the first two are from Deputy Director of the CDC Office of Infectious Diseases, Dr. Jed Frank.”

“Bring it up,” Jensen replied. He repositioned his chair to face the right monitor where an image of Deputy Director Frank appeared. The video was dated 22 April. The man looked exhausted, his eyes both rimmed with purple bags.