Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (21 page)

“Don’t kill him,” Garcia said, trying to keep his voice low. “I’ll do as you say. I’ll find others.”

The White King stopped mid-stroll, twisting halfway around to glare back at Garcia with its milky eyes. He avoided the creature’s gaze by lowering his head. Just as he was about to beg for Stevo’s life, there was a long crunch and a scream of agony. Garcia’s eyes flitted upward as a limb sailed through the air and landed with a thud in front of the children. They hissed with delight, their miniature clawed hands reaching up into the geyser of blood gushing from the riven hole where Stevo’s right arm had been seconds earlier. The Marine squirmed on the concrete, screaming at the top of his lungs, his left hand flailing to stop the spray coming from the frayed flesh.

Garcia was moving then, running toward the platform. Something barreled into him from the side before he made it ten feet. He crashed to the floor, his eyes still on Stevo as two female Variants pinned him down. The White King crouched next to the Marine, studying the squirting stump. A wet cough broke from its lips, and a ball climbed up its neck until it gagged and puked out a stream of white goo on Stevo’s arm. He was still squirming on the ground, but his screams dwindled into a whimper.

In a matter of seconds, the liquid solidified over the open wound. Now Garcia knew how the other human prisoners had survived for so long with missing limbs. The cocoons, or whatever the hell they were, looked to be made of the same material. It had cauterized Stevo’s injury, prolonging life so his flesh remained fresh. It was the Variants’ version of refrigeration.

The White King rose to his feet and pointed at Scabs and Frankie. “TAKE HIM!” He growled in a voice that hardly crackled this time.

Both collaborators backed away, heads still bowed. They worked their way back to Garcia, and the weight of the female Variants fell off him. He felt Frankie and Scabs lift him to his feet and pull him away.

“Bring more.” Cough. “Else we eat him,” the creature hissed, extending a claw toward Stevo.

The other Variants had formed a fortress around the three men. Scabs and Frankie pushed Garcia forward, and slowly the beasts scattered to make an opening. Garcia tuned out the sounds of the shrieking monsters and ignored the swipe of talons that came within a feet of striking him.

Halfway out of the chamber, a pair of creatures crashed to the floor in front of Frankie and Scabs. The beasts skidded and tumbled from the force of whatever had shoved them from the line. The brawny frame of a Variant staggered into the opening to block the way out. Crusted blood caked the outside of a wound Garcia recognized. This was the same Alpha that had broken his nose. And judging by its snarling maw, it wanted revenge.

Frankie and Scabs froze. The creature cracked its neck from side to side and dropped to all fours. Its jointed arms and legs snapped as it arched its back and prepared to strike.

The two collaborators staggered backward, pulling Garcia with them. But where there should have been fear in his heart, he felt nothing but hatred. Hatred for the ex-soldiers—hatred for the Variants.

The room erupted with a chorus of excited shrieks, the other monsters watching as if it were a game. Scabs and Frankie loosened their grips under Garcia’s armpits and backed away, perhaps realizing the monster wasn’t there for them. But Garcia held his ground, his eyes locked with the shrieking Variant. When the beast charged, Garcia didn’t so much as flinch.

It galloped toward him, long limbs pounding the ground. In a matter of seconds, it had narrowed the gap between them, and still Garcia did not retreat. Instead, he reached for his switchblade. Joints cracked as the Alpha lunged toward him, horned claws extended for his throat. Just when Garcia was about to draw his knife, a blur of white flashed from the side so close he felt the rush of air. It all happened so fast it was hard to follow what happened next. He closed his eyes on reflex, and a beat later a sickening thud echoed through the space. A screech of agony followed. His eyes snapped open. The White King stood on two feet, claws wrapped around the bleeding neck of the Alpha that had charged Garcia. What the White King lacked in size, he made up for in speed.

Behind them, a trio of muscular Variants had emerged from the line. The White King twisted, shrieking at the three other beasts. They clambered forward, snarling.

The White King tightened its claws around the injured Variant’s neck, digging a talon into the bullet hole. The monster howled, fresh crimson blossoming around the wound. In a swift motion, the White King brought its other hand up and snapped the monster’s neck. The body slumped to the ground, and silence immediately washed over the room. All three of the snarling beasts slowly backed away, vanishing into the army of diseased flesh, their pack leader limp and dead.

The White King let out a commanding roar, and the wall of monsters opened once again. Frankie and Scabs wasted no time. They grabbed Garcia under the armpits and dragged him forward.

As Garcia left the chamber, his mind kept coming back to that first word he’d heard the monster Variant speak. This White King had controlled every other monster in the chamber by verbal communication. Even more striking was the fact it was using Stevo as collateral to ensure Garcia brought food back. Somehow, this beast had retained a level of intellect that surpassed any other Garcia had seen. The freaks were getting smarter, and that terrified him more than the thought of being torn apart or even losing another man. Because, in the end, the evolution he had witnessed meant many more Marines were going to die.

“The White King shows you mercy,” Scabs said.

Garcia ignored the man, his thoughts shifted back to the mission. Nothing else had ever been this important. He had to bring the intel back to Command and then return to save Stevo. But before he could, Garcia had unfinished business. He slowly reached for his switchblade and let his body go limp as Scabs and Frankie dragged him out of the chamber.

T
wo of the men General Johnson left behind at Plum Island were assigned Tower 4 that night. Fitz would have been lying if he said he was disappointed. He hadn’t slept more than three hours straight for days. The comfort of a bed and pillow sounded heavenly. Sometimes it was the simple moments like a warm shower after a cold patrol, or a taste of his favorite food, that made everything worthwhile. Tonight, it was the fleeting moment of safety that General Johnson’s men had provided the island.

Fitz grinned when he thought about what Chow had said.
Maybe whoever is in charge will send some pogues to arrest us.

These guys weren’t pogues. Not by a long shot.

They were everywhere. Patrols combed the shoreline and woods. The towers were full, and two choppers with spotlights circled overhead.

Not five minutes after removing his blades and crashing onto his bunk, Fitz felt the veil of fatigue sweep over him. But the peaceful slumber he had hoped for never came. Instead, he was propelled into a dream he knew all too well.

Fitz rode in a Humvee with his squad. Ralphie, Tang, and Jerrod were discussing their sexual experiences, each trying to top the other with their stories. It was a common conversation that Fitz never took part in. The other guys didn’t seem to notice his silence. He watched the tan shanties and dilapidated buildings race by in silence. From all around him, Fitz breathed in the overwhelming scent of body odor. And he couldn’t lift his hand to swat at a buzzing fly. He wanted to shoo it out the window, but his hand wouldn’t move.

A group of Iraqi children carrying books under their arms ran down the side of a dusty road as Ralphie followed the convoy of five military vehicles onto the highway. Once they were out on the open road, with sand dunes blurring by, Fitz started to relax. He pushed his sunglasses back into position and followed the paths of two Apache helicopters racing across the sky.

The other guys were quiet for a few minutes before they started arguing about who got to play
Call of Duty
when they got back. Fitz heard their voices and saw their faces perfectly. His waking memories were never this clear. It was calming for a moment even though Fitz knew what came next.

When the fly landed on Fitz’s cheek, the panic of the nightmare swept back over him. He willed it to stop, begging his mind to release him. A growing dread filled Fitz as he tried to escape. But it was no use. He was a prisoner to his mind.

Tang had looked in the rear view mirror just as the blast hit the truck. An explosion rocked the vehicle, the concussion barreling into them from the right side. They were rolling across the road a beat later. The roadside bomb had been laced with nails and hunks of jagged metal. One of those shards sliced right through Fitz’s right leg, severing it just above the knee. He never saw what hit his left leg.

Upside down, the stumps squirted blood that smelled like battery acid. The steaming liquid drenched his uniform in seconds, and his entire body quickly went numb. The last thing he saw was Tang’s face stuck to the backseat. The mask of flesh was charcoaled by the heat of the blast.

Fitz awoke gasping for air in the barracks at Plum Island. A Ranger sleeping across the way stirred in his bed, glanced over at Fitz, then rolled on his side. Finally released from the nightmare, he looked down at his missing legs. For a second, phantom pain splashed over his body.

He stilled his breathing, repeating the words that got him through these episodes.

You’re fine, Marine. You can still fight. Nothing can take that away from you.

The moonlight filtering through the window brought with it a sense of relief. The nightmare had ended, but the relief was short lived. The dreams were always so vivid, but when he was awake, he couldn’t picture the faces of the brothers he’d lost, couldn’t hear their voices. The doctors had told him that PTSD could do that sometimes, the memories cauterized like wounds in his mind.

Filled with anxiety, Fitz swung his stumps over the side of the bed and reached down for his blades. He had crashed onto his bed with the hope of a good night’s rest, but instead had been propelled back to one of the worst days of his life.

One thing was certain: sleep would not come again anytime soon. He didn’t have a tower assignment, but he was sure his MK11 could be put to good use somewhere on the island. After securing his blades, Fitz walked to the door, sighed, and stumbled out into the night.

M
eg was worried about Riley. Over the past few days she’d seen his anger sparking out of control, from target practice to mouthing off to General Johnson. Now that the rest of Team Ghost had departed, she was concerned he was going to pick a fight. He certainly seemed to be itching for one. And after his attempt to remove his casts, she feared he was also losing his sanity.

Meg had grown to care deeply for him. He was her best friend on Plum Island, one of her only friends left in the world. There was no denying the way he looked at her, or the way she felt when she was with him. She had considered letting those feelings develop, but she was still grieving over the loss of her husband. Friends they were, and just friends they would remain for now, no matter how cute his shit-eating grin and blue eyes were.

It was almost midnight, and Meg studied the stars from the sidewalk outside Building 5. Riley slowly pushed his chair down the path while she crutched beside him. Her arms were tired and her legs hurt, but she wanted to make sure he was okay. He hadn’t said much since the rest of his team had left.

When she was about to say goodnight, the click of metal sounded from nearby. The sound was a familiar one. She didn’t need to turn to see Fitz walking toward them.

“I thought you were going to bed,” Riley said, his voice a bit more chipper.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Fitz replied. “What are you two doing up?” He strode through the light cast by a spotlight, his face pale and haggard.

“Enjoying the night,” she replied.

“Wishing I was out there,” Riley said.

Fitz tucked his fingers between the sling of his rifle and his chest. He looked skyward and then away, the beauty of the stars seeming to have no effect on him. Meg had seen the look before. He was searching for something, but it wasn’t beauty. Both soldiers beside her were dealing with the guilt and trauma of surviving the apocalypse, and Meg realized she was too.