Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (22 page)

“I’m going to call it a night,” she said.

Riley glanced up. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m tired.” She hesitated for a moment. “You going to be okay out here?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m good. Do you want me to ‘walk’ you back to your room?”

Meg smiled at that. “I’ll be fine.”

“Goodnight,” Riley said.

“Night,” Fitz said, tipping his head slightly.

She left them there to chat about whatever it was soldiers chatted about at this hour. The sidewalk back to Building 1 was empty, and she enjoyed the brief moment of solitude. It lasted a full minute before a patrol of Marines she hadn’t seen before came bursting from a path that led from the beach.

“Out of the way, ma’am!” one of the men shouted.

She crutched to her left just the men bolted past her.

“What’s going on?” Riley shouted.

One of the Marines said something to him that Meg couldn’t hear. Fitz unslung his MK11 and followed the group, blades clicking against the concrete.

The panic in Meg’s gut returned. She hopped after Riley, who was already wheeling after Fitz and the patrol. It took a few minutes to catch up with him, but when she did, he said, “Get back to your building.”

“Why? What’s going on now?”

“Tower 10 spotted a boat.”

“What kind of a boat?”

“I don’t know,” Riley snapped.

Meg stopped mid-stride, and Riley slowed to throw a glance over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then he jerked his head. “Come on.”

A few minutes later they were at the edge of a ridgeline. Fitz was scoping the water, and the Marines were setting up a perimeter behind the electric fences.

“You see anything, Fitz?” Riley asked.

The growl of a speedboat sounded in the distance. An outline of a cigar-shaped boat shot over the waves. It was fast, but no match for the Blackhawk on patrol. The chopper raced after it, and the spotlight hit the side of the vessel a moment later.

“Survivors?” Meg asked.

Fitz lowered his rifle and nodded. “Same guys I saw before.”

“Will Major Smith take them in?” Meg asked.

Riley snorted. “I wouldn’t. They’re probably bandits looking for a place to claim as their own.” The chatter of voices came from the beach. The Marines who had run past her earlier were trekking over the sand. They climbed the ridgeline and passed Fitz.

“You know what’s going on?” he asked one of them.

All but one of the men continued walking. The last Marine, a man no older than twenty, stopped and nudged his helmet farther up onto his head. He turned to watch the Blackhawk circle. Pushing his finger against his earpiece, he said, “Sounds like whoever it was, they didn’t want to stop. Command ordered Echo 4 back to base.”

“Let’s move, Dillon!” another Marine yelled out.

The young man nodded at Fitz and took off after his squad, leaving Meg alone with Fitz and Riley once again. This time Fitz stared at the thousands of lambent stars, searching for whatever it was he had lost. And Meg, swept up in the moment, did the exact same thing.

T
he sporadic drip of water pecked at the blood and grime smattered across Garcia’s face. He stumbled after Scabs and Frankie into the dark curving tunnels, his sleeve covering his nostrils. Somewhere behind them in the pitch blackness, a pack of Variants followed.

Insurance
, Garcia thought. Insurance, and more evidence the White King had retained or developed an unprecedented level of intelligence. First the children, now this?

Scabs seemed to ignore the click-clack of joints and scratch of talons over the concrete. Perhaps he was used to it by now, or perhaps he was more focused on Garcia. He continued asking questions, his tone becoming more irritated each time Garcia didn’t answer.

“Where’s your base?” Scabs grumbled. “Where are the rest of your buddies?”

Garcia kicked at a human ribcage, the echoing rattle of bones interrupting Scabs. Garcia continued on, pretending like he hadn’t heard Scabs over the clatter. The distraction didn’t work.

“I asked ya a question,” Scabs said. He stopped a few feet ahead. “Where are your buddies? Wasn’t just the two of you out there, was it?”

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.

Garcia clenched his fist, hoping the bastard didn’t see it in the dim light. “Dead,” he finally said. “But there are survivors not far from here. We passed them on the way in.”

Scabs picked at his chin. “Any soldiers?”

Shaking his head, Garcia said, “Not that I saw. Our mission was recon, not rescue.”

“Good,” Scabs said, peeling away a ripe scab. Pus leaked from the wound, dripping down his chin and dropping to the muck at their feet. He pulled his screwdriver from his waistband and poked at Garcia’s chest. “Don’t get any ideas topside. Got it?”

Garcia scrutinized the tip of the screwdriver, imagining driving it through Scabs’ neck.

“Got it?” Scabs asked a second time, poking Garcia harder this time.

Garcia simply nodded and staggered after Frankie. They worked their way through the passages until the reek of the Variants and human prisoners had faded to a tolerable stench. Ten minutes later and they reached the spot where Garcia and Stevo had been ambushed. Garcia’s helmet was still there, resting in a puddle of rancid water. He scooped it up as he passed, relieved to find the pictures of his family and praying the headset still worked.

“The fuck you doin’?” Scabs asked. He grabbed at the helmet, but Garcia yanked it from his reach.

“Got a picture of my wife and baby in here,” Garcia said, turning the helmet upside down for Scabs to see. “I’m bringing it with.”

The anger in his voice seemed to deter Scabs. A flicker of what could have been empathy sparked in Scab’s twitching eyes. It vanished in a blink. He spat in the water. “Fine.”

Garcia slipped the helmet on, buckling the strap. The earpiece hung loosely, but he didn’t dare re-position the mini-mic to his lips. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since his capture. It wasn’t likely, but Tank and Thomas could still be out there.

Frankie stopped under a ladder. He grabbed at a rung and climbed without uttering a word. Scabs motioned for Garcia to go next. The Variants were still lurking in the darkness behind them, waiting and watching. It felt odd not to be running from the monsters.

Overhead, Frankie pushed the manhole cover onto the street and pulled himself up. The sky grew darker as he leaned down and extended a hand to Garcia. The motion took the Marine off guard. He would never accept help from these cocksuckers.

Anxious to get out of the putrid tunnel, Garcia ignored Frankie’s hand and quickly climbed up the final rungs. A gust of wind bit into his dank fatigues as soon as he was above ground. He shivered in the cool night and drew in a sharp breath, filling his lungs with clean, sweet air.

“Let’s go,” Scabs said.

The screeches of monsters prowling Atlanta rose and fell. Garcia hustled down the residential street, his mind multi-tasking as he looked for the Variants and a street sign. He was moving so fast he quickly put fifty feet between him and the other men. They were on Martin Street, the same road as the church Tank and Thomas had holed up in the day before. That meant he was close to Phoenix II Park.

“Hey, wait,” Scabs said.

Garcia increased his pace and hustled up a sloped lawn of wet grass. He rounded a house, memorizing the number as he passed. Momentarily out of sight, he reached up and pushed his earpiece in, then flicked his mini-mic to his lips.

“Hotel Three, do you copy? It’s Garcia.”

Static hissed in his ear.

“I said, wait up,” Scabs said.

“Okay,” Garcia replied. Lowering his voice he said, “Hotel Three, do you copy?”

More white noise cracked out of the earpiece. Then a voice.

“Sarge, holy shit. Where the fuck are you guys?”

Garcia could hardly believe his ears. Tank and Thomas were still out there.

“Just passed 811 Martin Street. Being pursued by Variants,” Garcia replied. “Repeat, hostiles in pursuit.” He turned off the mic and pushed it out of view just as Scabs came running around the house. The man hunched over, hands on his knees, panting.

“I said wait!”

“Sorry,” Garcia said. “I didn’t realize you were so slow.”

Scabs narrowed his bulging eyes, his nostrils flaring. He sucked in several deep breaths. “Stay...” Gasp. “Stay in sight.”

Garcia turned back the way he had come.

“Where the hell are you going now?” Scabs asked.

“Taking a short cut, but didn’t realize there was a fence back there,” Garcia replied, still walking. He heard boots hitting the concrete driveway, Scabs and Frankie hurrying to keep up this time.

The Variants that had followed them through the tunnels were emerging from the manhole now. They scattered under the moonlight. Some clambered across the street, their jointed arms and legs making cracking sounds like the snapping of twigs. Garcia counted over a dozen of the beasts. More were still slithering out of the hole as he turned back to the south.

“Hold up,” Scabs said. He jogged to catch up and grabbed Garcia’s wrist. He had his screwdriver drawn again. “You fucking with me, man?”

Garcia shook his head. “Trying to get my bearings.” He looked to the east, pretending to search the rooftops. “Yeah, now I remember. The survivors are holed up in a church not far from here. Come on, maybe we can reach them before those things give in to their hunger and have us for a snack.”

Scabs drove his fingernails into Garcia’s flesh. “Get moving.”

Garcia pushed on at a slow pace, keeping his strides short. His eyes roved back and forth, searching for any sign of his men, although he knew he wouldn’t be able to see them. If they were close, they were watching him. Tank would be analyzing and forming a plan. He wondered what would go through Tank’s head when he saw the Variants following Garcia, Scabs, and Frankie without attacking.

The farther Garcia walked, the more nervous he became. He stopped at an abandoned car and peered through the window.

“What you doin’?” Scabs asked.

“I need water, man.”

“Fuck that. Keep moving,” Scabs said. He let out a chuckle and said something under his breath that Garcia only caught the tail end of. God, it was going to feel good driving his knife into the man’s throat.

The popping of jointed appendages snapped him from the fantasy. The Variants were moving in the shadows of the houses behind them. Some climbed onto roofs, watching his every action like gargoyles. In the sky to the east, low storm clouds rolled over Atlanta, blocking the glow of the moon. Darkness stretched across the landscape.

A howl sounded in the distance, halting Scabs and Frankie mid-stride. They both scanned the street, the sudden noise prompting fear in both men.

“What is it?” Garcia whispered.

Another shriek answered the first.

Frankie’s eyes widened with panic. “Others,” he whispered.

“Beasts,” Scabs said. “A rival group. Hunting. Usually they don’t come this far.”

A cloud of fatigue clamped down on Garcia, and it took him a bit longer than it should have to understand. Exposed and in the open, he hunched next to the closest car and gestured for the men to do the same.

“They’ve never come this far,” Scabs whispered. “They fear the White King.”

He continued talking to himself, but Garcia was hardly paying attention. In the brief pause between shrieks, there was another sound. Faint but sharp, the whistle sent a wave of adrenaline through Garcia. He scrambled on all fours to the bumper of the car and looked south just as the head of a Variant exploded on a rooftop. The body slumped over the side of the chimney and slid down the roof, leaving a wake of gore.

Unheard and unseen, the Variant Hunters were doing what they did best. He wondered how many Variants had made no sound at all as the 5.56 rounds ended their miserable lives.

“Is that fucking gunfire?” Scabs whispered.

Still on his knees, Garcia reached for his switchblade and pulled it from his pocket, using his body to shield the motion from Scabs. He clicked the button and the blade popped out just as a dreadful howl filled the night. His heart was thumping, but not from fear. This was the thrill that came from excitement and adrenaline.

Another torrent of suppressed shots streaked down the street.

Scabs looked over the hood of the car. “What the hell is that sound?”

Clenching his hand around the knife, Garcia gritted his teeth and said, “Death.”

When he spun to stick the man, Scabs was already holding his neck, his face hidden in Frankie’s shadow. Garbled, choking sounds broke from Scabs’ lips.

“Die, you fuck,” Frankie whispered, his wild eyes flitting from Scabs to the bloody screwdriver he held in his hands.

Crimson streamed between Scabs’ fingers, running down his wrists and soiling his chest. He fell to his back, legs kicking, as he choked on his own blood.

The whistle of gunfire continued. Frankie dropped the screwdriver to the ground. It clanked on the concrete next to Scabs’ body. He glared at Garcia and said, “Those your men?”

Shocked but comprehending, Garcia nodded.

Frankie had suddenly transformed back into a soldier. Had he been playing along all this time? Waiting for an opportunity to strike and escape, just like Garcia had been?

“Get out of here,” Frankie said.

“I can’t leave without Stevo.”

Frankie grunted. “The Marine we left down there? He’s already dead. From the moment we left the lair.”

“No,” Garcia whispered. “But...”

“But what? You think those fucking things have any sense of honor? Fuck, man, the White King is no more trustworthy than this piece of shit.”  Frankie looked back at Scabs before turning to the Variants advancing toward the car. “I’m sorry, but your friend is dead. And you will be too, if you don’t run. Come on,” he said, shooing Garcia away with a hand. “Get out of here while you still can.”

Scabs writhed on the ground, still fighting for life. Garcia wasn’t even slightly bothered by the satisfaction he felt from the sight.