Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) (10 page)

“Evacuating POTUS and VPOTUS through Portal A!” Stanton shouted into his radio. He glanced over his shoulder and jerked his chin for the others to follow.

Mitchell kept his eyes on the open blast door at the north end of the chamber. Part of him wondered if they were making the right decision. Especially after what he’d seen on those monitors.

Lieutenant Stanton had assured him they couldn’t get past the twenty-five-ton blast doors. But they had managed to get into other secure locations. What would stop them now?

In his mind’s eye, Mitchell saw his wife as the Hemorrhage Virus tore through her. It had started as a trickle of blood dripping from her eyes and nose. Then her body had contorted. The snapping joints sounded in his head. He winced, remembering his narrow escape from the PEOC. It was supposed to have been as secure as Cheyenne Mountain.

I will not die at the hands of those monsters in this hellhole
, he vowed
.

Stanton balled his hand into a fist and stopped at the blast door. “Everyone, quiet.” He brought his radio to his lips and said, “Charlie 1, Cheyenne 1. Is access point 14 secure? Over.”

The squad of Marines formed a perimeter around the President and his staff as they waited. Only a handful of Mitchell’s original team remained now. Most had perished in the early days of the outbreak. Those still with him had hardened into shells of their former selves. They weren’t the same men and women he remembered working with on Capitol Hill.

Over the alarms, a faint reply came from Stanton’s radio.

“Cheyenne 1, Charlie 1. Access Point 14 is secure. I repeat. Access Point 14 is secure. The Variants have retreated.”

“Are they sure?” Mitchell said. “Those things were camouflaged before. Maybe they’re blending in with the terrain and waiting for us to come outside.”

Stanton pulled a sleeve across his shiny forehead. His eyes flitted to the President as he brought his radio back to his lips. “Command, Cheyenne 1. Can you confirm Charlie’s last?”

With the alarms still ringing in the background, Mitchell had a hard time hearing the reply. But he caught most of it. “ ...Cheyenne 1...drone...any heat signatures...vicinity.”

“Copy that, Command. Cheyenne 1 proceeding to inner roadway with POTUS and VPOTUS.” Stanton glanced back at the group. “We’re all clear. Three squads of Marines are waiting in the inner roadway to evacuate us to the tarmac in an armored convoy.”

Mitchell wanted to say something presidential, something that made him seem strong, but the only thing that came out was, “Okay.”

He followed Stanton through the open blast door into a narrow tunnel. Framed on both sides by the red glare of emergency lights, it was like entering a portal to hell. Here in the tunnel, the sirens screamed from wall-mounted public address speakers as if they were warning the group to stay back. More soldiers moved up ahead at the end of the passage, their boots pounding the concrete. They disappeared into another tunnel. Mitchell hesitated, squinting to see ahead. The alarms were like a dinner bell for the Variants. He still didn’t quite trust Stanton when he said there was no way they could hear them through the millions of ton of rock.

“Come on,” Stanton said.

The lieutenant led them through the final maze of passages for ten minutes at a pace Mitchell could hardly keep up with. His hammering heart kept him moving, but the stone walls were closing in. Each breath was a struggle, and carried the scent of cold moisture. God, he hated this place.

The footsteps from the Marines pounded the damp concrete as they made their way through the splash of red light. Olson worked his way up next to Mitchell’s side with the atomic football clutched against his suit. A large backpack bobbed up and down on his shoulders.

“Hold,” Stanton said. He balled his hand into a fist outside the tunnel intersecting with the inner roadway. The door was closed ahead and two Marines stood guard.

“Sir, the convoy is ready to move,” one of the men said.

Stanton nodded and plucked the radio from his vest. “Command, Cheyenne 1. Proceeding to inner roadway.” He faced the group clustering in the passage and gave Mitchell a critical look like he was sizing him up.

The President had given up caring what others thought of him. He avoided Stanton’s gaze and waited; the promise of fresh air made the glares of those around him tolerable.

“Cheyenne 1, Command. You have a green light to proceed to the tarmac. Good luck. Over.”

Stanton’s scowl twisted into what could have been a smile. He nodded at the two Marines holding sentry duty, and one of them unlocked the door. Artificial light washed into the passage, and the hum of diesel engines sounded in the distance.

“Let’s move,” Stanton said.

Mitchell squinted and ran after the lieutenant. Five Humvees waited in the tunnel. The turrets were each manned by Marines. Some bore the viscerally terrifying M240 machine guns. Others had what looked like mounted M260 rocket launchers.

Stanton opened the door to the third truck and motioned for Mitchell to get inside. The President did as ordered and slid into one of the seats. Olson got in on the other side and rested the case on the center console. Black continued to the second Humvee while the rest of the staff piled into the vehicles behind them.

“Got a green light to move out!” Stanton shouted. He let out a low whistle, patted the top of the truck and climbed into the driver seat. Craning his neck, he said, “Buckle up, Mr. President. We’re going to be moving pretty fast once we get outside.”

Mitchell nodded and clicked his belt. The lead vehicle lurched forward, the tires squealing as the overzealous driver stomped the pedal. One by one, the other trucks followed, leaving the remaining survivors behind to defend Cheyenne Mountain.

M
eg sat on the couch of her new room in Building 1, reading the April edition of
People
magazine. It was after midnight, and she was wide-awake. She eyed the knife Riley had given her. The sheathed blade rested on the table within arm’s reach. She still would have preferred her axe, but the nimble knife would do for now. At some point, she was going to have Riley teach her to shoot. If she was going to have any hope of surviving, she had to learn how to fire a gun, no matter how much she hated them.

After flipping through the magazine a third time, Meg plopped it back onto the table and secured her long brown hair into a ponytail. Then she grabbed her knife and tucked the sheath into her belt. She had always been an independent girl, but she was lonely now. She missed her husband, her friends, and her fellow firefighters. If it weren’t for her friendship with Riley, she would have gone stir crazy. He was a good man, and so were the other men of Team Ghost.

Time had blended together since she arrived at Plum Island. She wasn’t even sure how many days she’d been here, but her legs were healing and her energy came back more each day. Doctor Hill had said she might even be able to walk on her own again in a week or two.

She took in a breath. She needed some fresh air. Using her crutches to stand, she hopped from the couch to the door. The hallway outside was quiet. Everyone else in the building seemed to be sleeping except her. She walked by Kate’s room, then Horn’s, and finally Riley’s old room. He had given it to Red and his family after Beckham rescued them from Niantic. Meg heard a panicked voice as she passed the door. It was Bo, she realized, and she stopped to listen.

“Mama, I’m scared.”

“It’s okay, Bo. Go back to sleep. Nothing can get you here.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, baby. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

Listening to the hushed conversation broke Meg’s heart. Red, Donna, and their son had been through hell out there. Now they were protected by some of the best soldiers left in the world, but the boy was still terrified.

Meg didn’t blame him. Team Ghost may have restored her faith in a military that had all but failed the country, but no matter how impressive they were on the battlefield, they couldn’t stop an army of Variants. If the wolves came, there was only so much Ghost could do.

The door to the building opened as she continued down the hallway. Horn squeezed through and quietly shut it behind him. He nodded at Meg and whispered, “How you doing?” His breath reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Fine. How’s your arm?”

He regarded his right bicep and shrugged limply. “Nothing to fuss over. I’ve been hit worse.”

Meg smiled. “Your girls doing okay?”

Horn brought a finger to his lips and jerked his head toward the door to Meg’s left. “They’re sleeping.”

Meg nodded and patted him on his good arm. “Goodnight, Big Horn.”

“Night, Little Meg.”

She smiled again and crutched through the door Horn had opened. On the landing outside Building 1, a lonely Marine stood guard. Two others patrolled between the other facilities, and two more manned the machine gun behind sand bags in the center of the lawn. It was a far cry from what Meg had seen when she was first brought here. The door clicked shut behind her as she hopped into the cool night.

“Ma’am,” the Marine said with a nod of his helmet.

“Evening,” Meg replied, then corrected herself. “I mean, good morning.”

He grinned and strolled to the other side of the landing to scope the tree line. Across the lawn, past the machine gun nest, several figures stood outside the barracks, while another sat in a wheelchair. Tendrils of cigarette smoke trickled into the air.

Alex Riley. You little shit.

She started hopping down the steps when the door opened behind her. A woman wearing a dress shirt and slacks stepped outside. She smiled at Meg, then closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Exhaling, she said, “Never thought I would be so happy to breathe fresh air again.”

The Marine lowered his rifle and held up a gloved hand. “Secretary Ringgold, ma’am, I would encourage you to return to your quarters where it’s safe.”

The woman regarded the Marine with another smile. “I’m sure a few minutes to enjoy the peaceful night won’t get me killed. You’ll keep watch, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Meg paused at the stairs. It wasn’t every day she had an opportunity to speak to the Secretary of State. Riley’s lecture could wait.

“I’m Meg Pratt,” she said, cupping a crutch under her armpit and offering her hand. “Excuse me for asking, but have you been out there?”

Ringgold took her hand and shook it with a powerful grip. Her smile twisted as if she was in pain. “I was at Raven Rock Mountain Complex since the outbreak started in April. Seems like I was in that tomb for years.”

She loosened her grip and regarded Meg’s crutches. “How about you?”

“I was trapped in New York. Master Sergeant Beckham and his men pulled me from a tunnel.”

“Beckham is quite the hero.”

Meg nodded enthusiastically. “Every member of Team Ghost is.”

Ringgold didn’t nod back, but her kind eyes told Meg she agreed.

“So, Beckham found you hiding in a tunnel?”

“Not by choice.” Meg looked skyward to study the dazzling sky and creamy Milky Way. The beauty was a respite from the memories.

“You don’t need to tell me,” Ringgold said.

Meg shook her head. “No it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. I feel damn lucky to be alive. The Variants dragged me down there. That’s where they nest. Where they feed.”

The Marine glanced over at Meg with an arched brow, then strolled to the other side of the landing.

“I’m sorry,” Ringgold said. “I hope Dr. Lovato and her colleague know what they’re doing. From what I understand, it sounds like we have less than a month to take back the world before it’s too late.”

“I hope so too, but I believe in Dr. Lovato, just like I believe in Team Ghost.”

Across the lawn, the cigarette smoke had ceased and one of the soldiers was leaning next to Riley’s chair. Meg squinted and crutched a pace forward. If she didn’t know better, it looked like the man was helping Riley remove one of his casts. But that couldn’t be right. He still had weeks left in them. Plus, they were on the freaking steps, not in the medical ward.

“Madame Secretary, if you’ll excuse me,” Meg said.

“Certainly.”

“It was wonderful speaking with you,” Meg said. She crutched over to the steps and carefully worked her way down each one. When she got to the grass she hopped like there was a Variant chasing her. As she moved closer, she saw it was Chow next to the chair.

“Alex
T.
Riley,” she said, in a voice just shy of a shout. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Both Delta Operators looked up in surprise. Riley grimaced and exhaled a breath.

“What are you doing out here, Meg?”

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Riley had cut into the cast covering his right leg. She took another step closer, nearly tripping from the shock. “What the hell am I doing out here? What the hell are you doing?”

Riley looked up at Chow for support.

“Don’t look to him for an answer. You’re a
grown
man. Tell me what the hell you’re thinking, trying to remove your casts three weeks early. Do you realize how much permanent damage you could cause by taking them off before your bones have knit?”