Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

The pack of Variants had disappeared. Maybe they’d lost the scent in the rain? Whatever happened, they were gone for now.

A small victory.

Beckham was struck by a brief moment of nostalgia, the feeling of uncertainty he’d experienced before entering Building 8 weeks earlier. He’d known something didn’t feel right, but still he’d remained committed to the mission—committed until it was too late to save his men.

As he scanned the streets below, that same feeling of doubt swept over him. Chinning his comm he said, “Any contacts?”

“Negative,” Horn and Riley replied simultaneously.

Shit, where are they? Beckham studied the shadows below, and then moved up the side of the building across the street.

Nothing.

Beckham walked slowly along the ledge, his weapon aimed at the rooftop just above Riley’s location. The building stood only about five feet above Riley’s head, and a narrow gap was all that separated the two rooftops. They’d made the jump with ease, and he could only imagine how easy it would be for one of the Variants.

Beckham looked at his wristwatch. Ten minutes to go. He didn’t mind waiting in silence. He almost grinned at the idea of a violence-free evac. The thought was shameful. They had left behind survivors, including a kid. Why the fuck should he be so lucky to get out of NYC in one piece, unscathed like he always did? His face twisted into a frown and he closed his eyes, hating Gibson for causing all of this and hating himself for not being able to save the only people he’d seen who survived it.

The sound of scratching yanked him from his thoughts of self-pity.

He looked over his side of the building, but saw no motion.

“You got anything, Riley?” Beckham asked.

“Negative.”

“Nothing,” Horn added.

Where the fuck was that sound coming from then? He moved along the edge of the roof. A slight breeze whistled around his helmet.

He checked his watch again.

Eight minutes.

The scratching sound faded in the whistling of the wind.

Was he losing his nerve?

Another three minutes passed, and a soft rain began to fall from the sky. The drops trickled down Beckham’s visor, clearing it of dust. He ran his sleeve against the panel and did another quick scan of the rooftop and then the street.

“Still no contacts, boss,” Riley said over the comm.

Two minutes left.

His heart rate spiked when he heard the bottomless howling followed by an angry torrent of shrieks.

Beckham twisted to see a wave of flesh spilling over the edge of the billboard. He snapped into motion before his mind had processed what had happened. Loping forward, he raced for the detonators and yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

Horn dove next to him, hunkering down. Riley ran for the opposite corner and slid on his knees, covering his helmet with his hands.

The instant the kid was in position, Beckham detonated the mines.

A deafening explosion shook the rooftop. The tremor rattled the gravel beneath Beckham’s knees. He clenched his jaw and looked up as the billboard toppled over the side of the ledge, taking with it several thrashing Variants.

When the smoke started to clear Beckham and Horn stood, their weapons sweeping for hostiles.

“You okay, kid?” Beckham shouted. His ears were ringing but he could hear Riley’s response.

“I’m fine, Boss!”

The smoke drifted away, revealing a rooftop littered with chunks of gore. Beckham breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he had packed the mines.

He clapped Horn on the back when he heard a faint scraping.

No , he thought, it’s not possible .

He twisted and shouldered his rifle just as a swarm of Variants slid over the smoldering edge of the roof. When they hit the surface they dropped to all fours. Their suckers puckered in the air, popping. There were no sniffing noses or primal shrieks. The creatures knew exactly where Ghost Team was.

Gunfire erupted on both of Beckham’s flanks.

He tapped his vest pocket. “I hope you’re looking after us, mom,” he whispered. He concentrated on the monsters and pulled the trigger.

Two of the Variants dropped immediately, their screams fading over the crack of Horn’s M27 and the blasts from Riley’s shotgun.

Beckham squeezed off burst after burst. He counted the seconds in his head until he heard the distant whoosh of a helicopter in the distance. His earpiece crackled and the sweet sound of the pilot’s voice filled his earpiece.

“Ghost, Echo 1, approaching your AO. Over.”

Beckham fired again. The rounds hit one of the Variants in the back of the head, splattering bone and brains over the ground.

“Copy. Extraction zone is hot!” Beckham yelled. “Hurry the fuck up! Extraction zone is hot!”

Riley and Horn retreated with their weapons blazing, but the Variants chasing them were so damn fast, dashing and lunging from side to side.

Beckham finished off his last magazine and then pulled his sidearm. With one eye closed he followed one of the Variants as it bolted toward Riley. Holding his breath, he squeezed off a shot.

The bullet caught the man in the chin, sending him flying to the side. Riley swung his shotgun around and finished off the injured Variant before he could recover.

“Thanks,” Riley shouted.

“Changing,” Horn yelled. “Cover me.”

Beckham turned his pistol on the final four Variants that were charging their position. “Run!” he yelled. He fired off another flurry of shots, dropping two of the creatures.

Horn held his ground, tossing his M27 to the roof and withdrawing two .45s from his back belt. Fire erupted from the barrels. A head exploded in a spray of mist.

Screaming, Horn trained his gun on the final Variant. He fired until his pistols were dry, the bullets tearing into the monster’s chest, sending it flying into the night.

Beckham gasped for air. He surveyed the rooftop. Variants lay across the gravel. A few of them jerked and kicked as they took their final breaths.

“Prepare for extraction!” Beckham yelled. The team met in the middle of the rooftop. With their backs together they reloaded and waited.

The ringing in Beckham’s ears gave way to the thump of the Blackhawk’s blades. He watched a rope drop in front of them.

Salvation.

Lowering his pistol, Beckham grabbed the rope and attached it to a clip on Horn’s belt. When it was secure, he flashed a thumbs up to the crew chief in the cargo hold above.

Riley and Beckham stepped away as Horn was pulled into the air. Neither of them heard the sound of the Variants approaching from the south. When Horn finally saw them it was too late.

“Watch out! Your six!” Horn yelled.

Two of the creatures sprang off the adjacent building and came dashing across the rooftop.

Beckham saw them just in time to squeeze off a single shot. The bullet only slowed the first man down, his muscular chest jerking to the side. He snarled and kept running. Horn took him down a beat later, a .45 round puncturing the man’s heart.

The other Variant, a woman with a screen of hair covering her eyes, lunged toward Riley. She landed on him with her feet first, knocking him to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Beckham aimed, but couldn’t get a clear shot. Tossing it aside, he dove for the woman as she beat the side of Riley’s helmet. Another Variant barreled into him before he could reach the woman, sending Beckham crashing to the ground.

He struggled to his back as the man punched and clawed at his head. Blood flowed from a wound in the creature’s chest, squirting onto his visor. Beckham fought back, throwing punch after punch, but he couldn’t see shit. Each blow scraped past the shrieking beast on top of him.