Extinction Cycle: Dark Age #1-4
Author: Nicholas Sansbury Smith; Anthony J. Melchiorri
Date: 2021-03-11 05:00:00+00:00
Description: This box set includes all of Season 2: Book 1: Extinction Shadow Book 2: Extinction Inferno Book 3: Extinction Ashes Book 4: Extinction Darkness. Survivors thought the extinction cycle had ended, but a powerful evil lurks in the shadows... Eight years ago, an engineered virus ravaged the globe, infecting and transforming humans into apex predators called Variants. Billions died, civilization collapsed, and the human race teetered on the brink of extinction. Nations banded together and heroes rose up to fight these abominations. On the front lines, Captain Reed Beckham and Master Sergeant Joe “
Publisher: Great Wave Ink Publishing

EXTINCTION CYCLE DARK AGE

BOOKS 1-4

Extinction Shadow

Extinction Inferno

Extinction Ashes

Extinction Darkness
by

Nicholas Sansbury Smith & Anthony J. Melchiorri

Extinction Cycle: Dark Age

Book 1: Extinction Shadow

Book 2: Extinction Inferno

Book 3: Extinction Ashes

Book 4: Extinction Darkness

By Nicholas Sansbury Smith and Anthony J. Melchiorri

Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design

Edited by AJ Sikes

Copyright © 2019

All Rights Reserved

These books are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the authors.

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Contents

EXTINCTION SHADOW

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EXTINCTION INFERNO

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EXTINCTION ASHES

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EXTINCTION DARKNESS

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— Epilogue —

About the Authors

EXTINCTION SHADOW

For my co-author and good friend Dr. Anthony J. Melchiorri. Your scientific input helped bring the Extinction Cycle saga to life, and I’m thrilled to work with you again in bringing readers the next chapter.

The boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

– Edgar Allan Poe

Introduction to the Extinction Cycle and Historical Recap:

From Extinction Cycle creator Nicholas Sansbury Smith

Dear Reader,

For those of you that are new to the Extinction Cycle storyline, you are about to embark on a completely new saga based on the original award winning, Amazon top-rated, and half a million copy best-selling seven book series. Critics have called the Extinction Cycle, “World War Z and The Walking Dead meets the Hot Zone.” Publisher’s Weekly added, “Smith has realized that the way to rekindle interest in zombie apocalypse fiction is to make it louder, longer, and bloodier … Smith intensifies the disaster efficiently as the pages flip by, and readers who enjoy juicy blood-and-guts action will find a lot of it here.”

Extinction Cycle: Dark Age is the continuation of the original story, taking place eight years after the events of book seven, Extinction War. Before you dive in, please read this for a brief history of the series, and what to expect for new and old readers.

In creating the Extinction Cycle, my goal was to use authentic military action and real science to take the zombie and post-apocalyptic genres in an exciting new direction. Forget everything you know about zombies. In this story, they aren’t created by black magic or other supernatural means. The infected are a result of a military bio-weapon called VX-99, first used in Vietnam in a government program to design a super soldier. Chemicals from VX-99 activate proteins encoded by dormant genes that separate humans from wild animals—a real process known as epigenetic changes. In other words, these weapons turned men into monsters.

Known as Variants, these creatures become the perfect predator as they evolve from epigenetic changes. The result in the Extinction Cycle is catastrophic, and the infection spreads worldwide. Governments and militaries fall and civilization is destroyed in a matter of months. Scrambling to find a cure and defeat the monsters, humanity is brought to the brink of extinction. By the end of book 7, the human race hangs on by a thread.

Now, eight years later, the survivors in the United States (now called the Allied States) have migrated and settled into approximately one hundred outposts. Most of these walled off cities are in the Midwest and the East Coast, with the West Coast largely abandoned due to the severity of the damage from the war. President Jan Ringgold and her administration have worked tirelessly to rebuild, bringing back basic infrastructure, the agricultural industry, manufacturing, and the energy grid.

A few other key players helped humanity survive the Great War of Extinction and continue to drive progress in the aftermath. Team Ghost, an Army Delta Force team, played a vital role in winning the war and pushing back the Variant scourge. They are still in action under the leadership of Master Sergeant Joe “Fitz” Fitzpatrick. For eight years they have run missions into enemy territory to hunt Variants and rescue human prisoners.

Other heroes from the era include Captain Reed Beckham and Doctor Kate Lovato. They are now married and live in Outpost Portland, Maine with their son, Javier Riley; Master Sergeant Parker Horn; and his daughters.

With President Jan Ringgold’s term coming to an end, a new election looms on the horizon, an election candidate and current Vice President Dan Lemke should win easily due to the tremendous progress their administration has made. The country is recovering, and aside from random Variant and raider attacks, the outposts are safe.

The surviving Variants and the human collaborators remain in the shadows, starving and dying off. At least, that’s what the military thinks… In Extinction Cycle Dark Age, they are about to find out how wrong they are.

Strap in, you’re about to re-enter the world of Variants and the heroes that stand in their way, in the next chapter of the Extinction Cycle. Welcome back to all of the old readers. I’m so glad you encouraged me to return to this storyline. I promise, you’re in for a ride with some of your favorite characters and new twists.

To new readers, we invite you to embark on this post-apocalyptic adventure and hope you enjoy the science, action, and characters in this expanding universe.

Thank you to all for reading. Please feel free to reach out to me or Tony if you have questions or comments. Our contact info is provided in the back of the book.

Best wishes,

Nicholas Sansbury Smith, New York Times Bestselling Author of Hell Divers and the Extinction Cycle.

Anthony J. Melchiorri, Bestselling Author of The Tide.

For your convenience, here is the official reading order for the Extinction Cycle World.

Season 1: The Extinction Cycle by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

The worst of nature and the worst of science will bring the human race to the brink of extinction in this bestselling and award-winning series about one team’s mission to save the world.

Prequel – Extinction Red Line

Book 1 – Extinction Horizon

Book 2 – Extinction Edge

Book 3- Extinction Age

Book 4 – Extinction Evolution

Book 5- Extinction End

Book 6 – Extinction Aftermath

Book 6.5 – Extinction Lost

Book 7 – Extinction War

Extinction Cycle Side Stories

The Extinction Cycle universe expands with novels, novellas, and short stories about heroic last stands, the transformation of men into beasts, hardened warriors engaging in battle against overwhelming odds, and much more. All from some of the leading voices in the post-apocalyptic genre. These tales take place during the first season of the Extinction Cycle.

Season 2: The Extinction Cycle: Dark Age

By Nicholas Sansbury Smith and Anthony J. Melchiorri

Survivors thought the extinction cycle had ended, but evil and intelligent forces dwell in the shadows, scheming to restart the Extinction Cycle and end humanity forever. Eight years after the events of Extinction War, Team Ghost will join forces with new heroes to try and save what’s left of the world.

Book 1: Extinction Shadow

Book 2: Extinction Inferno

Book 3: Extinction Ashes

Book 4: Extinction Darkness

Foreword from DJ Molles,
NYT Bestselling Author of The Remaining

Trust.

If you were to go out into the wilderness, and you had to pick a guide, you’d want one you felt you could trust. You’d want to know that he’ll accurately read the weather, choose the right trails, and get you from point A to point B, all the while keeping you from being washed down some rapids, eaten by wolves, or using that poison ivy leaf as toilet paper.

Picking up a new book is kind of like that. You have to trust the author, just like you trust a guide. You want to know that the author can deliver on their promises, pull your mind into a crazy world of their creation, and get you from point A to point B, all the while keeping you engaged and throwing in a few twists and turns to keep things spicy.

Nicholas Sansbury Smith is the grizzled old pro guide. The wilderness that you are about to head into? The universe of Extinction Cycle. Your traveling companions? Team Ghost. The paths that you’re going to take? Ha ha! There are no paths out here, buttercup. We’re bushwhacking into unknown terrain this time.

Extinction Shadow is an all-new continuation of the bestselling Extinction Cycle series, and though Smith is going to take you into some uncharted territory, you can rest assured that he knows what he’s doing. The journey might be hair-raising, but he’ll get you there in one piece (mostly).

If you’re picking up Extinction Shadow after already being a fan of the original series, then hold onto your favorite characters--maybe utter a prayer for them and remember all the good times you had following their adventures in the other series. This one is going to thrust them straight into the thick of it, where no quarter is given, and the chances for survival are slim.

If you’re brand new to the Extinction Cycle Universe, don’t worry! You don’t have to be an expert in the original universe. Just trust your seasoned guide. Through a combination of fast-paced action, military realism, and credible science (which makes the whole thing just a hair freakier), Smith delivers the goods to old readers and new ones alike.

So trust your grizzled old guide, and head out into the wilderness of Extinction Shadow. But keep your head on a swivel. And keep sniffing the air for the smell of rotting fruit…

Good luck out there,

D.J. Molles, NYT Bestselling author of The Remaining series.

— 1 —

The crackle of a bonfire was a familiar sound at Outpost Turkey River, and would be even more common now that autumn had set in. The smoke was supposed to keep bugs away, but it didn’t always work.

Retired Master Sergeant Cedric Long swatted a mosquito away from the cavity where his left eye had once been, smearing the damn insect across his cheek. It was already swollen with blood. The little vampires reminded him of the monsters beyond the walls. The same type that took his eye during the war.

Variants.

The result of a chemical weapon gone wrong. Former humans that had turned into the perfect predators would do far worse than a swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes if they got into the outpost.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

Not on this eve, and not on any other day that Cedric held watch.

Outpost Turkey River was one of the most secure townships in what was now called the Allied States because of the men that served here before Cedric arrived, and it was even stronger now that he was here.

That’s what Commander Justin Bell had told him, and Commander Bell was no liar. Now in his late thirties, Bell was just a young man during the Great War of Extinction that ended eight years ago. But he was no stranger to the monsters that lurked deep in what had once been the United States of America.

The commander had fought and bled to keep this outpost secure and safe.

Cedric squinted into the darkness. There hadn’t been an attack for over three months. He knew the Variants still dwelled in the shadows, but it was mostly humans they had to worry about now.

Bandits. Raiders. Collaborators.

Whatever people wanted to call them, they would always rather take something that didn’t belong to them instead of working to get it themselves, and the most evil among them worked with the Variants.

Many outposts weren’t lucky like Turkey River with a plentiful supply of fresh food and clear water provided by the fertile land. Supplies were abundant here, which made them a target, not to mention a political hotspot.

President Jan Ringgold had stopped by a week earlier with Vice President Dan Lemke. Now that their two terms were almost up, Lemke was running to succeed her. Retired General Mark Cornelius, Lemke’s opponent and leader of the Freedom Party, was slated to stop by in another week.

Cedric sat at a picnic table in the center of the communal area, enjoying a late supper of mashed potatoes, corn, bread, and water from the neighboring river their community was named for.

Two trucks were parked across the street, their beds nearly overfilling with harvested corn from the surrounding fields. The food within their walls was more than enough to support the three hundred people that lived in the compound. Most of the grain, corn, and beans they produced were shipped by rail to the nearly hundred other outposts in the Allied States.

He thought of the mass migration from the Western states to places like Turkey River over eight years ago, when the government focused on consolidating, protecting, and rebuilding the agricultural industry in the Midwest and manufacturing factories on the East Coast.

Now most of the population lived in places like Turkey River. Families of those who had made that migration ate quietly at the other tables around him.

He sat alone and enjoyed his meal. He didn’t mind the solitude, but it wasn’t always that way. In his former life he had once looked forward to meals with his wife and sons.

But they were gone now, and he was here. Besides, most of the kids were scared of him, whispering behind his back about the ‘pirate’ with a patch over his eye.

He didn’t mind that either. He was a kid once and remembered how his own boys would have reacted. They might have thought he was a monster with his scarred skin and missing eye. But the truth was they had died knowing there were far worse monsters than a deformed old man.

Most of the kids under eight at Outpost Turkey River were lucky to have never even seen the creatures Cedric fought. They no doubt heard the gunshots and the lone cries of a dying Variant, but they had never come face to face with one of the scab-covered, fanged creatures.

Not like his sons.

Cedric pushed aside the painful memories. His job was no longer to be a father and a husband. He was just a simple soldier protecting the people that lived here, and the food they harvested. At least it gave him purpose.

A bell dinged as the moon rose higher in the autumn sky. Cedric wolfed down the rest of his supper. He took a flask from his ballistic vest and washed the food down with a shot of whiskey.

The liquor warmed his gut. He stood, well-fed and relaxed. Grabbing his M4A1 carbine, he set off for a patrol with the other half-dozen men on night perimeter duty. The team was just one cog helping spin the security wheel at the outpost.

Two soldiers manned the M240 fighting position outside town hall. Guards walked on flat rooftops, their weapons cradled, looking out over the sleeping outpost. Everywhere Cedric looked the soldiers seemed relaxed.

There wasn’t much to be stressed about out here.

Most of the men hadn’t seen action for years besides skirmishes with raiders.

Hell, this was the best gig of Cedric’s career. And he’d had a ton of assignments since the Hemorrhage Virus first raced across the world, from a cruise ship sailing in the Atlantic during the first year of the outbreak to security duty in the relocated White House at the Greenbrier.

Cedric had even guarded Captain Reed Beckham; his wife, Doctor Kate Lovato Beckham; and their son, Javier Riley, back when the boy was just a toddler. After Cedric hit retirement age, they transferred him here.

“Turkey River is a modern-day retirement community, my friend,” Beckham had said, patting Cedric on the shoulder with his prosthetic hand. “Plenty of food, good neighbors, and peaceful enough you can actually enjoy a well-earned nap in the afternoon.”

President Ringgold had even thanked Cedric for his service, and the next week he boarded a train to northern Iowa.

Field of Dreams didn’t seem so far from the truth.

Cedric considered pulling his flask out and taking another slug of whiskey, but he was old enough and smart enough to know evil never slept. The Variants might not have attacked recently, but beyond the wall, guard towers, razor wire fences, sensors, and mine fields, they were still out there.

Waiting…

He continued the trek through town square and past the houses and businesses. Like most outposts this one had everything from a general store to a post office with solar panels mounted on most of the roofs. He walked by both buildings and moved to the sidewalk to let a pickup truck down the narrow road.

The circular community was surrounded by a twenty-foot steel wall. He exited through a gate that opened to a bridge over a creek. On the other side six soldiers waited. Two German Shepherds sat on their hind legs, anxious for their noses to be put to work.

“Evenin’ Sarge,” said a private named Malcom.

“Evenin’,” Cedric replied.

They set off. All of them knew the drill. Alpha Team went to the right, and Bravo went left, each team taking a dog. Cedric was an exception. Commander Bell had given him his own route to walk, operating as a lone ranger of sorts. He walked toward the next line of defense, multiple razor wire fences.

On the other side, moonlight captured a sea of corn and soybeans planted in the rich topsoil beyond the minefields.

The gate at the road was closed now that the harvesting for the day was over. No one was allowed outside after dark unless Commander Bell gave the order.

Guard towers rose above the fences, and Cedric raised a hand to the men in Tower Four. Both of the soldiers there were about the same age he had been when he first enlisted, over forty years ago. But these kids were too young to have fought in the war against the monsters.

Chances were good neither of them had ever come close to meeting a Variant face to face. Cedric, on the other hand, had scars to show off his battles, including his empty eye socket.

He smiled when he recalled how he had killed the beast that had done it. Who would have thought a flare would do so much damage if you stuck it in the right place?

“Got anything on infrared?” Cedric called up to the guards.

“Negative, Sarge, just deer.”

“Well shit, maybe we should go hunting,” Cedric replied. It had been a long time since they had even seen a deer. Like humans, the animals had almost been wiped out by the Variants.

He continued his walk along the perimeter, scanning the dirt on the other side of the fences for any flash of movement and sniffing the air for the rotten fruit odor of the beasts.

The Variants had rapid evolution and adaption on their side. Epigenetic changes had turned the abominations into the perfect predators that could camouflage their skin and see in the dark. Some had morphed into terrifying creatures ranging from gigantic beetles to monstrous flesh-eating worms in Europe.

Most of those beasts were nothing more than dust now. Only the first generation of Variants had survived the bullets and the bioweapons the government designed to kill them.

America was on her way back. Some European countries were starting to recover as well. He didn’t know much about South America, Africa, or Asia, but the little bits of news that made their way to Turkey River gave him hope the human species would recover fully in time.

Cedric walked for an hour before his joints started hurting and the chill of the evening finally got under his layers. He let his rifle sag on its sling as he rubbed his gloves together.

Then he pressed on, ignoring the pain of his lower back, and the persistent arthritis in his fingers. He didn’t mind that his retirement was being spent doing what he did best, but he did wonder how many more years he had left before Commander Bell assigned him to some boring guard tower.

Not happening anytime soon.

As the whiskey wore off, the cold crept into his feet. His toes started to numb. He found a seat on a swing hanging from the solid limb of an oak tree, a favorite of the children that lived here.

He sat and wiggled his toes to get the blood moving. Pulling out his radio, he contacted Alpha and Bravo teams. No contacts sighted by any of them. He asked for reports from the guard towers next.

All clear, came the responses.

Another quiet night at Outpost Turkey River.

Cedric stood and walked toward his next stop. The barns were always his favorite part of the rounds.

A farmer named Will slept in a chair outside the barn door, his head slumped against a shoulder. Cedric cleared his throat, waking the man.

Will shot up and raised a hand in defense. “What… What’s wrong?”

“Relax,” Cedric said. “I’m just checking on things.”

Will looked around and then seemed to relax and sat back down.

“Does your wife know you’re out here?” Cedric asked.

A sly grin spread across Will’s face. “She’s the reason I’m out here.”

Cedric chuckled. “You’re in the dog house again?”

“Better than the barn, right?” Will stood and stretched.

Cedric held back a laugh.

In a town this small, everyone knew everyone’s business, and everyone knew that Will and his wife had been on the outs for months.

Commotion from the animal pens distracted Cedric, and Will joined him on the path to the livestock. The beasts were all crowded in the corner of their pens.

Will spat a glob of tobacco on the dirt.

“What the hell has them riled up?” he asked.

Cedric pulled out his radio. “Alpha, Bravo, you got anything?”

“Negative.”

“Negative.”

The guard towers all reported the same thing. Nothing on infrared, and nothing moving in the night vision. Cedric knew the Variants could sometimes avoid detection, but they couldn’t avoid the mines or the fences, and they couldn’t dodge bullets either.

Cedric aimed his rifle at the cornfields beyond the animal pens and jerked his chin for Will to return to the safety of the walled-off compound.

“Go home to your wife and lock the doors,” he said.

Will backpedaled away from the barn, nearly tripping, then he turned and ran. Most men would have done the same thing, but Cedric clenched his jaw and scanned the fields for the monsters.

Moonlight illuminated the white blades of two massive wind turbines churning in the distance, providing energy for the outpost by harnessing the wind.

His radio crackled on his vest as he searched for hostiles.

“Master Sergeant, what’s going on out there?” came the gruff voice of Commander Bell.

“Not sure, sir, something’s got the animals spooked.”

“Meet me on the bridge,” Bell replied.

Cedric cursed.

So much for a quiet night.

He jogged back toward the bridge, the gate opening and disgorging ten more men and three dogs. From the east side of the outpost came the guttural barking of the other German Shepherds with Alpha and Bravo. A flare shot up into the sky, bursting into a red glow over the cornfields.

“Everyone that’s not in a guard tower fall back to the bridge,” Bell ordered over the radio.

Search lights flipped on in the towers, the beams raking over the cornfields beneath where the flare had burst. The stalks rustled in the breeze.

Bell, a good foot taller than almost every man on the bridge, stepped out in front of the pack. All five of the dogs growled, their fur standing like needles.

Cedric straightened his stiff body.

“Show yourself, you diseased son of a bitch,” Bell grumbled.

The spotlight from tower four roved over the field, Cedric’s only eye moving with the light. The guard brought it to a sudden stop over a patch of corn. Alpha and Bravo soon returned with their dogs.

“Commander, I’ve got a heat signature northwest, close to the area I spotted a deer earlier,” came the voice of Isaac in tower four. “Not sure what it is.”

“Can you get a shot?” Bell replied.

“Sir… It’s pretty far out.”

Bell turned back to the men on the bridge. “Get ready, I want a team to go out there with dogs and take a look once it’s dead,” he said. “If it’s a Variant, leave it there. We’ll try and find where it came from in the morning.”

“And if it’s a deer?” Cedric asked.

“Then we’re going to have a nice venison steak,” Bell said.

The other men seemed to lighten up at that.

“Take the shot, T4,” Bell said over the comm.

A crack pierced the night.

Crows took flight around the compound. For an eerie moment, the cawing was the only sound.

“Target down,” Isaac reported over the radio.

“Nice shot, T4,” Bell replied. He looked again at the soldiers standing around him. “Who’s going out there to check it out?”

Cedric’s hand shot up. “I’ll go, sir.”

“Who else?” Bell asked.

The men all avoided his gaze, looking at the ground in shame. Cedric didn’t blame them. Even one Variant was enough to kill a team of greenhorns, and they were likely worried there were more beasts out there.

“Malcom, Agan, Kelly, you go with Cedric, take two dogs. The rest of you fall back inside the compound,” Bell said.

Cedric led the other three soldiers over the bridge, the dogs pulling on their leashes down the road to the main gate. They stopped when they reached the guard tower that looked over the minefield beyond the gate.

“You sure you got it?” Cedric called up.

Isaac emerged from the tower. “It ain’t movin’, Sarge.”

Cedric looked down the road cutting through the cornfields. A shudder tore through his flesh. He blamed it on the cold, but worried it was from fear.

“Go on, Cedric,” Bell said. “Take your team out there and see what’s going on.”

“Yes, sir,” Cedric said.

They unlatched the main gate and swung it open.

Cedric led the team outside, listening to the gate click shut behind him.

“T4, tell me if that heat signature moves,” he ordered over the comm.

“Copy that,” Isaac replied.

“Combat intervals, keep sharp,” Cedric said. He started out onto the road with the dogs on each flank. They sniffed the ground and air, their muzzles searching for the rotting lemon scent of the diseased beasts.

Cedric scanned for movement but saw nothing besides the shifting corn stalks. It only took a few minutes to reach the area of the spotlight from tower four.

The team stopped and faced the fence of corn. None of the dogs bared their teeth or growled.

Maybe it was just a deer, Cedric thought. He shouldered his rifle and the other three soldiers followed suit, their muzzles aimed at the corn.

“I’m not going in there,” Malcom whispered.

Cedric thought about ordering the young soldier to get ahold of himself and go in anyway, but instead he said, “Hold your position.” He didn’t need a scared kid popping off rounds behind him in the dark.

The gusting wind picked up as they stood there, blowing through the fields violently and turning the wind turbines faster. The branches of oak trees in the distance swayed and creaked.

“Do you see that?” Kelly said quietly. He pointed at the tips of the corn that seemed to be parting like something was moving through them.

“T4, you got anything on infrared?” Cedric asked.

“Negative.”

“Something’s coming…” Kelly said.

Cedric held up a hand. “Hold your fire.”

The wind calmed, and the corn stalks straightened.

“I’m going in,” Cedric said. “Agan, you got the balls to follow?”

The big man nodded and followed Cedric into the field, using the spotlight to guide them. Stalks scraped against their skin, scratching his neck and face.

Through the gaps in the corn, Cedric spotted something lying in a fetal position under the glow from the light.

He aimed his muzzle at it and moved his finger to the trigger.

A sudden screech in the distance made him flinch.

“There’s another one out there,” Agan whispered.

Cedric moved over to the creature lying in the dirt. Something twisted in his gut. It wasn’t a creature at all—it was a filthy human. Blood soiled the dirt, but the guy seemed to still be alive, his ribs expanding and contracting slowly.

Agan lowered his rifle.

Cedric went to radio it in. Another high-pitched wail pierced the night.

The call of a monster.

“Help me with him,” Cedric said.

Together, the two soldiers carried the injured man back to the road where Malcom and Kelly stood with the dogs. The animals cowered, their tails between their legs.

“Keep it together,” Cedric ordered. “There is one of those things, and four of us. You run, you die.”

“Fuck it, I’ll take my chances,” Kelly said.

He let go of the dog leash and took off.

The radio crackled with confused voices. Cedric ignored them as they carefully put the injured man down.

“He’s hurt bad,” Agan said.

Another screech came, this time from the opposite direction.

Malcom abandoned them then, running after Kelly.

The two remaining dogs both growled and barked viciously.

Gunshots popped through the night as the radio exploded with panicked voices.

“Agan, watch our back,” Cedric said.

“Okay, Sarge.”

Cedric bent down and rolled the man over gently. Blood covered his side. The bullet had hit him just under his ribs. The man was young, maybe in his thirties, hard to say with mud caking most of his features.

Cedric knew they couldn’t carry him back, but he wasn’t going to leave him here. They needed to get him up and moving.

Using a gloved hand, Cedric slapped the guy on the cheek, trying to rouse him to consciousness. The man winced in pain, breathing heavily.

“You got to get up,” Cedric said. He clamped a hand over the wound and looked up at Agan.

“You cover us on the way back to the gate,” he said.

Agan nodded quickly.

Cedric went to help the guy up, but the man grabbed his wrist, squeezing hard. His eyes widened like he was caught in the grips of insanity.

“It’s too late…” he mumbled. “You can’t go back there.”

More gunshots cracked out, and a second Variant screech sounded.

Then came the screams.

Cedric glanced over his shoulder at the gate where Malcom and Kelly were still waiting to get back in. A land mine exploded in the distance, the boom thumping like a grenade.

When Cedric looked back to the two soldiers at the gate, they were gone, shadows sweeping them into the field. A human cry of agony rose like the howling wind.

Agan back peddled. “Sarge,” he whispered.

Two Variants skittered up the side of Tower Four. They reached in from opposite sides, surprising Isaac and the other guard.

The beasts yanked them out and tossed them onto the minefield on the other side of the fence. Another boom thumped as the two men were blown to pieces.

The beasts climbed higher up the tower, before perching on the top. Wispy hair blew away from the pale skin of the creature on the left, a female judging from her naked chest. The male one reared his head back and let out a howl.

Several more abominations answered the call.

“We have to go,” mumbled the wounded man.

Cedric yanked free of his grip and stood. Dozens of the monsters climbed to the top of rooftops inside the compound.

“How…” he said. “How did they get inside?”

“I came from out there…to warn…” the injured man pointed in the opposite direction of the outpost.

“I came to warn you,” whimpered the man.

Cedric hesitated, trying to make sense of things. The guy had to be one of the homesteaders trying to strike out independent from the outposts.

“Sarge, what do we do?” Agan’s voice was breaking from fear.

The two Shepherds took off running away from the compound, racing as fast as they could into the cornfields.

Screams of horror filled the night. Cedric imagined the monsters tearing through the outpost, devouring the people inside.

“Sarge,” Agan entreated. “What do we do?”

For the first time in his career, Cedric did what he always damned other men for doing. He turned, and he ran away from the fight, following the dogs into the darkness.

— 2 —

At dawn, Kate Lovato walked along the Peaks Island shoreline of Casco Bay, Maine. It was the same thing she did most mornings. The humble house she shared with her husband, Reed Beckham, and eight-year-old son was just five hundred feet from the water’s edge, close enough Beckham didn’t mind her morning excursions.

When she first started the habit of coming to the water, he wasn’t thrilled about it. Their lives before Peaks Island had been fraught with threats, and Beckham had never let his guard down over the years. But they trusted one another, and it would take a miracle for a Variant to get through the secure barriers.

Peaks Island was in the heart of a safe zone, surrounded by advanced sensors, soldiers, sailors, and friends. If anything were to happen, a hidden underground safehouse at the community health center that doubled as her lab provided a final line of defense.

She took a seat on a bench to soak in the clementine sunrise simmering on the horizon. Taking a sip from her steaming mug, she reveled in the small pleasure. The past eight years had been extremely difficult, but despite the odds, they had started to recover and bring back staples like coffee that was grown in Florida. It wasn’t as good as the beans from South America and Africa she had enjoyed before the war, but it was better than nothing.

Still, living on an island was a constant reminder of Plum Island. The secret government labs were ground zero for the bioweapon she had helped design. In the end, the weapon hadn’t just killed billions of infected humans—it had created the Variants.

“You did what you had to do, Kate. To save us—to save humanity from the brink of extinction,” President Jan Ringgold had reminded her over seven years ago.

Guilt at what her research had brought about consumed Kate to this day.

Most countries were clawing themselves out of complete anarchy after the end of the war. Even in the Allied States, people were still fleeing poverty, starvation, and violence. Peaks Island and Outpost Portland continued to receive refugees on an almost daily basis.

“Morning,” came a voice.

She pivoted and smiled when she saw Beckham making his way over. He wore a gray army sweatshirt and camouflage pants. Reaching up with his prosthetic hand, he brushed his thick long hair behind an ear and took a seat next to her.

That hand was a reminder of what Beckham had lost over eight years ago from a Variant acid attack as well as a portion of his leg. But even though his leg and hand might be artificial, the man behind those prosthetics was every bit as strong as he’d been back then. Probably even stronger now.

“Coffee?” she asked, offering her drink to him.

“Sure.”

He took a sip and directed his gaze at the water. He was legally blind in his right eye, but he had experienced some improvement thanks to the steroids and pharmaceutical cocktail she had cooked up in her lab on the island.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“Got a lot on my mind.”

“The meeting with President Ringgold?” Kate scooted close to him, feeling his warmth. “Did she tell you why she wants to meet?”

“Nope, but my gut tells me it’s political. No matter how many times I tell her that I am not cut out for that life, she encourages me to reconsider.” Beckham took another drink. “I think she wants me to challenge Senator McComb.”

Kate narrowed her brows. “But McComb is a Ringgold supporter, isn’t he?”

“Apparently not as much as she would like. Or maybe he’s not supportive of Vice President Lemke’s bid for the presidency.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t tapped you to be Lemke’s running mate,” Kate said, only half joking. The process had changed and the Vice President wouldn’t be selected until after the election now.

He didn’t respond, clearly in deep thought. Kate put a hand on his arm.

“You have done enough for your country, Reed. No need to start a second career in politics,” she said.

Selfishly, that’s what Kate believed, but her husband was a special man, and she knew there might come a time when he was needed off the island.

“What else is bothering you?” she asked, sensing that wasn’t the only thing.

“Things have been quiet on the frontier…too quiet.”

“Quiet is good. It means the Variants are dying. We can live in peace and focus on rebuilding.”

“Quiet scares me,” Beckham replied. “In war, it usually means the enemy is planning something. But I’m not just worried about Variants…with elections looming, I’m worried about what happens after President Ringgold leaves office.”

He took another drink and paused to reflect. “Her legacy and our country is at risk if the Freedom Party takes over.”

“They won’t,” Kate said confidently.

Beckham handed her the coffee mug back and stood, his prosthetic leg creaking. “I wouldn’t be too optimistic. The most recent polls show General Cornelius leading Vice President Lemke by almost four points.”

“Polls always leave room for error,” Kate said. “And that lead is well within the margin of error.”

“Well there are other signs that things aren’t looking good for the New America Coalition.”

“I know,” she admitted. “Vice President Lemke has almost as many enemies as President Ringgold does. Maybe even more.”

It wasn’t surprising to Kate considering the former admiral of the naval fleet had helped take back the country from Resistance of Tyranny (ROT) eight years ago.

“The biggest issue seems to be over the cities in the frontier,” Beckham said. “The Freedom Party is proposing the conscription of all men and women between the age of eighteen and thirty. More and more people think we should try and take the cities back instead of letting the Variants have what once was ours.”

Kate hated the thought of sending more young men and women into the meat grinder. Those that were coming of age had been just kids during the war. Parker Horn’s daughters, Tasha and Jenny, would almost be of age to serve. Police officer Jake Temper’s son, Timothy, and Donna Tufo’s son, Bo, would be able to join the military.

She shuddered at the thought of any of them being sent to the frontlines.

For a moment she fell into silence with Beckham, considering the implications of the election just three months away. The areas outside the safe zones had been abandoned after the great war, left for nature to reclaim as the Variants died off. Some human survivors lived in the lawless zones, preferring life on their own rather than in the outposts and cities.

If the Freedom Party had their way, those people would be forced out of the frontier. The cities would be bombed into oblivion, and the young would be sent to fight and die like they had in every other war.

But the human race was still teetering on the edge, and the post-war generation that included Tasha, Jenny, Bo, and Timothy couldn’t afford to be wasted.

That’s why President Ringgold had taken a more measured approach by sending in Team Ghost and other teams to take out any Variants that threatened outposts.

Fitz was out there now, Kate thought, doing what he did best—hunting down Variants.

Beckham broke the quiet between them.

“The Freedom Party is gaining support, especially with voters in the outposts that have been attacked by Variants,” he said. “People are scared.”

“They should be scared of Cornelius and the Freedom Party. It’s basically ROT in disguise, in my opinion. I guess people are forgetting ROT nearly destroyed us.”

“I wouldn’t exactly compare them with ROT, but I know what you’re saying. Some things never change, huh?” Beckham chuckled. “I think politics will outlive the human race. People will still be fighting in their graves. Can’t do anything about that.”

He brushed his hair back again.

“No, but there is something we can do about that hair,” she grinned.

“I kind of like it, to be honest.”

Kate kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever you want, my love. But I agree, no politics for now, okay?”

“No politics ever, if I have it my way.”

They watched the sunrise for a few more minutes before heading back to their house. Jake, the former New York police officer, shut the door to his house and said goodbye to his son, Timothy.

“Mornin’, Jake,” Beckham called out.

“Morning!” Jake yelled back. He started off for his guard tower post near the ferry. The vessel was waiting to take early morning workers to the town of Portland, just three miles away.

Kate liked the fact she rarely had to leave the island. She taught school here and ran her small lab. The only times she had to go to the mainland were for groceries or meetings at town hall.

Life was good.

The best it had been in a long time, but there were painful reminders of the old world everywhere. Beckham stopped at a tree that provided a canopy of green over their yard. He took a knee at the grave of his best four-legged friend.

“I miss him,” Beckham said.

Kate put a hand on his back. “Apollo lived a good, long life.”

Beckham nodded. “He was a loyal dog. The best.”

“Yes, he was.”

Reaching up, Beckham wiped a tear from his eye. They had just lost Apollo to old age a few months back. They weren’t sure how old he was when he crossed the rainbow bridge, but he had passed peacefully, surrounded by friends and family. Now he was buried next to the one female dog he had loved, a free spirited mutt he had met when they first moved here.

Kate put an arm around Beckham, and they walked around the house to the front yard. A voice called out across the road. Parker Horn, dressed in nothing but sweatpants, lifted a tattooed arm to wave from his open front door.

It was rare seeing him up this early, but Kate saw what had brought him outside. The big man smoked a homemade cigarette as Apollo’s daughter and son ran out of Horn’s house barking.

Ginger and Spark darted across the road and over to Beckham and Kate. The four-year-old German Shepherd mixes belonged to Horn’s girls, Tasha and Jenny.

Beckham grinned as he knelt to play with the dogs. It was good to see him so happy. She wanted to feel that way, too, but her gut wouldn’t let her.

Something was changing on the frontier, and it wasn’t just the shadowy Variant forces. With President Ringgold’s second term just months away from ending, the country faced the uncertainty of a new leader.

The human race had avoided near extinction once, but this time she wasn’t sure they could dodge another bullet if the voters decided to elect Cornelius and support his march back to war.

***

Master Sergeant Joe “Fitz” Fitzpatrick stood at the top of a hill overlooking Ellicott City. Elms and dogwoods blazed with the colors of late autumn. His carbon-fiber blades creaked ever so slightly as he adjusted his weight to pivot for a better view.

It was hard for him to believe he’d lost his flesh-and-blood legs so long ago in Iraq, long before the Variants were even a nightmare on this planet.

But now his prosthetics were as natural to him as his muscles and nerves had once been. Maybe even better. At least, good enough to propel him toward their enemies.

Somewhere out there, an Alpha Variant hid in the shadows with its kin. Team Ghost had the mission to hunt it down and locate the three humans the beasts had kidnapped from Outpost Patapsco Valley just over twenty miles away.

Chances were good all three were already dead, but Team Ghost wouldn’t give up until they found them. For the past eight years, they had run missions into the frontier and lawless zones to do exactly that—find and kill Variants and rescue any humans that were snatched by the beasts.

A loose wooden plank on the church next to him rattled. Chips of white paint fluttered away like dust in a gust of wind that rustled his uniform.

“Apollo would’ve loved a day like this,” Fitz said.

The dog had retired several years ago to live out its final days with Beckham and Kate. Fitz had considered asking for Ginger or Spark to be added to the team, but their fate was as pets, not warriors, and the girls had fallen in love with them anyways.

Footsteps crunched over the gravel and Sergeant First Class Jeni Rico joined Fitz at the lookout. She smiled as she chomped on stale gum. Strands of pink hair under the rim of her helmet rustled in the wind. She always found a way to figuratively and literally make things more colorful.

They had fought together and remained lovers for the past eight years. Through all of the battles, heartbreak, and loss, they had found a balance of sorts in their relationship.

But Fitz still worried about losing her every time they came out here. He knew loss well. It haunted him. His brothers had been taken from him by friendly fire in a war long before the Variants. His parents were lost in a tragic car accident.

Over the years he had lost more brothers and sisters in the war against the Variants than he cared to count. A painful stabbing coursed through his gut anytime he thought of Rico falling in battle.

Fitz had been close to the edge many times in his life, especially around the time Beckham found him at Fort Bragg. The man had saved his life by giving him a gun and a purpose. Rico had given him even more.

By her side, he actually had optimism. Optimism that there was something worth fighting for. She had taught him how to strive for a better future for the rest of the world—and for each other.

Their time together also meant she could read him like an open book.

“What’s wrong, Fitzie?” she said.

“Just thinkin’ of Apollo.”

Rico looked toward the lake and then chuckled. “Remember him shaking that dirty ass water all over us after he jumped into a swamp on his last mission.”

“Oh yeah,” Fitz said.

“At least he’s at rest where Beckham and Kate are,” Sergeant Yas Dohi said in his stoic tone. The Navajo man stroked his gray goatee that was far longer than regulation length.

“He sure earned his long rest, and I’m glad he enjoyed his golden years in a place free of monsters,” Rico said.

Fitz nodded in agreement. “Me, too. He was a good boy.”

The dog had hunted more than his fair share of monsters, but there were plenty of beasts that still dwelled in places like this—apocalyptic landscapes that posed dangers with every step.

Telephone poles leaned sideways and lines hung between the poles, draped over the muddy brown water flowing through the street. Brick buildings sported dark windows with shards of glass like the jagged teeth of Variants.

Fitz remembered this city as having a scenic downtown. A perfect place for day trippers to explore the antique and boutique stores before stopping for a beer and sandwich at the brewery.

Would have been a good place to take Rico on a date night, he thought.

“So this is Ellicott City, huh?” Specialist Justin Mendez said, moving to stand beside Fitz.

Mendez’s thick black eyebrows arched like caterpillars. He paused.

“Holy shit,” he said, raising a scope to his eye.

Fitz signaled for Team Ghost to hunch down.

“You got a hostile?” Fitz asked.

Mendez lowered the rifle. “No, man, it’s a ’69 Mustang GT,” he mumbled. “Damn shame to see a car like that all rusted.”

“Jesus, you scared me, man,” said Rico, rising back to her feet.

“I had a car like that,” Corporal Bobby Ace said.

“Seriously?” Mendez asked.

Ace nodded. “More like a ’67 Camaro, but basically the same thing.”

“Same thing my ass, old man.” Mendez shook his head while staring at Ace.

Ace laughed a deep sound that welled up from his large belly. A scraggly white beard hung from his chin shaped like the machete he kept on his belt. Wrinkles formed canyons around his leathery skin.

Sometimes Fitz was shocked the guy could keep up with the rest of them. His age and weight would have kept him from even being considered for Delta Force back in the day, but men with his fighting experience were a rare breed nowadays.

Team Ghost was lucky to have him.

Ace was an artist with his custom mag-fed Mossberg 500 shotgun and had the killer instinct Fitz was looking for. He selected the corporal to replace men he had lost in an ambush by an Alpha.

Men like Staff Sergeant Blake Tanaka and Sergeant Hugh Stevenson.

Fitz shook off the memory and focused on the final member of Team Ghost. Specialist Will Lincoln held an M4A1 across his chest. He directed eyes as dark as his skin at Fitz. The thin young man had joined the team the same time as Ace.

What his frame lacked in muscle, he made up for in a mind quick and sharp as a Variant’s claws. He also provided comedic relief and music in dark times.

“You girls and your cars,” he grumbled.

“Girls?” Mendez asked, raising one of his brows.

“Just messin’, brother,” Lincoln said. “So, ya’ll ready to get this hunt started or what?”

“Take in some water, we move out soon,” Fitz said.

He looked out over the city again, glad they had been sent here instead of Baltimore. Compared to the bigger city, Ellicott City was in decent condition, even with the flooding. America’s urban centers were largely decaying wastelands, destroyed by the effort to push the Variants out of the country, especially on the West Coast.

Most of their missions were to places in the Midwest and East Coast now that the Western part of the country had almost completely been destroyed and abandoned.

Humanity abandoned many of the major cities and left them to the abominations that haunted them, still thirsting for fresh protein. Rumor had reached Team Ghost that the Freedom Party wanted to destroy even more of what remained, including places like this where the Variants still posed a threat.

Fitz was a soldier, but he also had an opinion and had given it to Beckham the last time they talked. Much like national parks had once been, places like this needed to be protected.

He took in a breath before giving the order.

All it takes is all you got, he thought.

“Dohi you take point, Ace you got rear guard,” Fitz said. “Stay sharp, Ghost.”

It was the usual setup, since Dohi was the best tracker on the team, and Ace had never let anyone or anything sneak up on them.

The team moved out—all business now that they had passed into Variant territory. With the sun still high in the sky, they kept low and close to cover, their weapons shouldered and roving for targets.

Dohi moved slowly, ears perked and eyes moving as he stepped through the ankle-high water. Fitz kept behind him, scanning the interior of the stores and checking every window for any sign of hostiles. Deep within the next store he saw pangs of sunlight reflect off the costume jewelry around the neck of a mannequin.

“Jesus,” Rico said. “Thought that was a person at first.”

“Nope, but that was,” Lincoln said. He raised his rifle, aiming at the spot that had caught his interest across the road. The bottom half of a human skeleton hung out of a window, mold climbing up from the flooded street as if reaching toward it.

Fitz motioned for the team to check it out. When they got to the second-floor window, he stepped underneath to see that the flesh was completely gone. Tooth marks marred the dried bone. Some were snapped like twigs, the marrow sucked dry.

“Guess we know we’re in the right place,” Rico said dryly.

Fitz looked one last time at the skeletal remains. This was the worst part of tracking down rogue Variants. Team Ghost almost always arrived too late to help.

But they would find the abominations responsible.

According to the reports they’d received, this one was a wily Alpha. Smarter than the average grunt beast judging by how he’d been sneaking in and out of Outpost Patapsco Valley without any of the guards getting a clear shot at it.

Fitz flashed hand signals and the team continued between the brick buildings. A flurry of leaves rustled over the street; flashes of orange and brown, landed in the water, floating away with the slight current at their feet.

The crisp scent of autumn mixed with the odor of must and mold drifted from the buildings. But he didn’t detect the sour odor of a Variant.

“We got another skinny,” Mendez said. With his rifle, he pointed to a second corpse propped up against a bench next to a toppled garbage can. Flags of ripe flesh hung off the bones.

“Looks fresh,” Dohi said.

That sent another stab of dread through Fitz’s gut.

Apparently, the Alpha had been hunting in other areas too.

The sooner they killed it the safer this area would be.

The team continued to survey the street. They were coming to the end of the small, historic downtown. A railway bridge crossed twenty feet above the street. On it was painted ‘ELLICOTT CITY’ in white blocky letters.

A freight train had derailed off the bridge and fallen to the street. The toppled cars served as a dam. Water rushed up against it and trickled between the graffiti-covered cars. Broken crates and steel drums were piled around the train.

Graffiti wasn’t the only thing covering them. Dark stains that could only be blood marked the sides like a macabre painting.

“We’ve got to be close,” Fitz said. “Stay sharp.”

They moved out in combat intervals and squeezed between the train cars. As Fitz came out the other side, water rushed around his blades and streamed toward the river beyond. Before them lay another bridge, this one for cars.

“Do you hear that?” Dohi asked.

Fitz held up a fist to signal the rest of the team to hold tight. He strained his ears, listening for what Dohi had noticed. Between the gusts of wind, he picked up a quiet chorus of something clinking together. The sound reminded him of wind chimes. Only instead of metal, they sounded almost like wood.

“What the hell is that?” Rico whispered.

The team advanced across the bridge and skirted around the abandoned cars there. The wind chime chorus grew louder.

Fitz tilted his head to listen. It seemed to be originating below them. He leaned over the handrail and peered down at a stomach rolling sight.

Bones strung up beneath the bridge rattled in the wind. Tendrils of red hung from the broken edges and droplets trickled off them.

He didn’t need Dohi to tell him these were also fresh kills.

Team Ghost had found two of the human prisoners.

Fitz balled his hand and froze at a scream of sheer agony in the distance. It started off almost animalistic; but by the tail end of the wail he could tell it was human. There was still someone alive out there. At least for now.

Dohi pointed toward a forested area off the road, and Fitz gave the order to pursue the Alpha with a nod. Team Ghost wasn’t going home until it had put down this beast.

— 3 —

President Jan Ringgold took a long drink of cold coffee. She was going to need it tonight. Across from her sat Vice President Dan Lemke. Both of them had been waiting anxiously for her Chief of Staff, James Soprano, to arrive at her presidential office in the Greenbrier.

The knock came a few minutes later, and the door opened.

“Evening,” Soprano said, wandering over to her desk, carrying a stack of briefing folders.

“I hope you’ve got good news for me,” Ringgold said.

“I haven’t looked yet, Madam President,” Soprano gently set the stack of folders on her desk and then backed away.

“Thank you,” she said to her COS. “We’ll catch up shortly.”

Soprano exited the room with a nod toward Ringgold and Lemke.

Ringgold began shuffling through the folders. Most contained information about her meetings tomorrow, but she went right for the one with the recent poll numbers for the upcoming election.

“The moment of truth,” Ringgold said. She took in a breath and opened the folder. “There we are.”

“Well?” asked Lemke.

Ringgold smiled.

The numbers were good. Better than she had thought. Almost seven points in her party’s favor and well outside the margin of error.

“We might just win this thing after all,” she said. “Our recent campaign efforts seem to have pushed things further in our favor.”

Vice President Dan Lemke leaned forward in his chair. She spun the folder around so he could read them.

“That’s because people have a lot to be happy about, Madam President,” he said. “You brought us back from the brink over these eight years. We’ve come a long way from hiding in bunkers and praying during every attack that we would survive for another day.”

She leaned back slightly in her chair, looking out the bulletproof window at the trees. The branches swayed in the wind outside, and moonlight cast a white glow on the bark that made them look like skeletal fingers. A cold wave snaked through her body.

Tonight is not the night to be spooked, Ringgold thought.

Ringgold gave herself a moment to relish in some of her accomplishments in the face of this good news. The migration from the West Coast and mountain states during her first term had been risky, but it had paid off. She had been better able to protect their citizens over the consolidated territory and focus on rebuilding important infrastructure to keep them alive.

The economy was rolling along and, recently, it was accelerating. Dormant industries had reawakened. Factories were producing vehicles for both military and civilian use. An old GM plant had already put out three thousand new cars, a fraction of what it had once done, but it was a start.

Farms and orchards across the Allied States were producing enough food again to feed all the country’s citizens. Wind turbines and solar energy helped power the farms. The government had even rebuilt part of the electrical grid. Telecommunications engineers were getting close to restoring a cellular network that would support personal cell phone use.

In Texas, several oil operations were back up and running to fuel the expanding economy. The country was using all the resources at its disposal to come back online.

But there were some things she wasn’t sure she wanted to return.

Social media, for starters.

She kind of liked the quiet. For one, it made presidential campaigns a lot more straightforward.

The biggest indicator the country was recovering were the relatively infrequent Variant attacks. The beasts were still out there, sure. Some even speculated they were breeding underground, but at least their numbers were manageable, and the damage they did cause was minor, despite it still being a loss of human life.

Lemke stood and tightened his navy tie. The retired rear admiral had helped save the country from ROT. His transition to politics had been surprisingly easy for him after his long tenure of military service.

He was Kennedy family handsome, with thick wavy hair, dimples, and a perfect smile. His charming East Coast accent put even fierce political enemies at ease. He knew when to flash a grin and when to keep a straight face. Best of all, he was loyal and intelligent.

The perfect person to keep the country moving forward.

“You’re going to make a hell of a president,” Ringgold said. “And I’m going to enjoy watching you from retirement with a mojito in hand.”

“I hope you’ll be willing to answer my calls, even when you’re sipping that drink,” Lemke said. “If I’m going to be a good president, it’s only because I have you to thank.”

Ringgold almost blushed.

“I can’t think of any president besides Abe Lincoln that had to deal with such a traumatic war in our homeland the way you have,” Lemke added. “And somehow, we still came out of all that with hope for a better future.”

“Oh, I see you’re already preparing your next talking points for the campaign trail,” Ringgold said with a chuckle.

The dimples on his face widened slightly until he looked down at his buzzing government-issued cell phone.

Any humor in his expression immediately evaporated.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Trouble, if I had to guess,” he replied. “General Souza at SOCOM doesn’t ever call just to shoot the bull.”

Ringgold got out of her chair and moved around her desk, forgetting the poll numbers and the stacks of files for tomorrow’s meetings.

Lemke took the call in the center of the room, standing behind two couches positioned around a coffee table.

“What?” he asked Souza, furrowing his brow. He flung a glance at Ringgold and then turned slightly, shaking his head.

This couldn’t be good. She walked over to the couches but couldn’t bring herself to sit. She was too nervous to remain still.

“Understood,” Lemke said. “Keep me updated.”

He lowered the phone and slowly slipped it into his pocket, pausing like he was nervous to turn and face her.

“Well?” Ringgold asked. “What is it?”

Lemke shook his head. The normally collected rear-admiral-turned-politician looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Outpost Turkey River,” he said in almost a whisper. “They’ve gone completely dark, Madam President.”

***

“I’m bored as hell, brother,” Horn muttered quietly. He pulled on his jacket cuff. “And I hate wearing this dumb suit.”

“Me and you both,” Beckham replied. They stood inside the guest lobby of the White House, dressed in suits that needed tailoring.

Most of the people waiting in the room were business folk and politicians that had thrived during the reconstruction period.

Several of Ringgold’s security detail stood watching the civilians in the lobby like hawks. Beckham was doing the same thing. It was hard to know who here was a friend and who was an enemy.

A man with a real lip hugger of a mustache stood with his back to a marble column. He wore a cowboy hat, leather boots, and a shiny belt buckle. His gun holster and the holsters on the two bodyguards that accompanied him were empty, their weapons taken by Secret Service.

“Get a load of Chuck Norris over there,” Horn whispered. “Who the hell is he?”

Beckham chuckled. “If I had to guess, that’s S.M. Fischer, the oil guy.”

He had heard the oil tycoon had survived in his doomsday bunker with a group of personal bodyguards during the war.

Unlike Beckham and Horn, Fischer probably wasn’t here to advise President Ringgold. From what Beckham had heard, Fischer would be here to interview the president and vice president.

As one of the wealthiest men left in the country, and with one of the biggest oil fields, Fischer’s support would go a long way for whoever he decided to support in the presidential elections.

Maybe I should encourage him to make the right choice… Beckham thought.

Before he could consider the idea thoroughly, a short Latina woman dressed in a business-length skirt, a blouse, and a suit jacket opened a door across the hall. Beckham recognized her right away. Elizabeth Cortez had started off as a staffer for President Ringgold and now served as Chief of Staff for Vice President Lemke.

“Mr. Fischer, the President and Vice President are ready for you,” Cortez said.

Fischer took off his cowboy hat as he followed her into an office. He looked at Beckham for a lingering second, perhaps sizing him up.

Beckham’s prosthetics and the stories that probably verged more on myth than truth meant he often got looks like that. Most everyone here knew his part in the war. He was also the husband of the woman that had saved the world. Or destroyed it, depending on whom you asked.

“Always last on the list,” Horn grumbled.

“You know the drill. The wealthy and powerful always get seats at the table first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Horn said. “Somedays I really do miss the battlefield over this boring shit. At least, I had more of an impact and knew why I was there.”

“We’ll find out soon enough and then go straight home,” Beckham promised. He took in a deep breath. He missed the brotherhood that came with serving his country, but he didn’t miss the death.

Part of him was glad to be retired and raising a family.

One by one, the other people in the lobby were led into the President and Vice President’s offices while Beckham and Horn continued to wait. National Security Advisor Ben Nelson and Ringgold’s Chief of Staff James Soprano opened their doors and met with more businessmen and other politicians from the Allied States.

Retired General Cornelius would be doing the same thing at his home base Outpost Galveston, in Texas. The ocean community had become the hub for the Freedom opposition party. He had even organized his own mercenary army there, with over two thousand soldiers. They came from all over, a hodgepodge of armed military contractors, former US service men and women, and militia soldiers from other outposts that had defected to Galveston.

The troops had access to the best weapons, armored vehicles, and even aircraft thanks to Cornelius’ strategic alliances with former manufacturers and military contractors.

Not only did Cornelius plan to grow these forces and take back the West Coast and abandoned cities by augmenting them with a conscripted army if he was elected, he intended to use low-yield nukes. His strategy would turn several cities into radioactive craters despite the fact there was little evidence the cities were anything more than hospices for the dying Variants.

Beckham looked at another set of doors that led to the banquet room where he had married Kate eight years ago. His worries dissolved at the happy memories from that night when they were surrounded by so many friends and family members.

But he also thought of the friends and family members that hadn’t survived to see their union. He pictured the faces of Captain Rachel Davis, all of the lost souls from Team Ghost, firefighter Meg Pratt, Sergeant Jose Garcia, Lieutenant Colonel Ray Jensen, and so many others.

No matter how many times he thought of his brothers and sisters, their faces and voices continued to fade away. His mind, like his ailing vision, was another wound from the war. It didn’t help that he and Horn weren’t the young men they’d been when they were fighting on Team Ghost.

Beckham was forty-two, and Horn was pushing forty.

Another door opened across the hallway, and Beckham glimpsed President Ringgold in the briefing room. She had also aged since Beckham had last seen her. That was just six months ago.

She was under extreme stress trying to keep the country together and ensure her legacy continued with the election of Vice President Dan Lemke.

The retired admiral was the best hope, in Beckham’s opinion, for a bright future—a future he was here to discuss today.

She shook hands with S.M. Fischer. The oil tycoon left the office, putting his cowboy hat on as he entered the lobby. He walked over to Beckham and Horn with two of his bodyguards flanking him.

“Captain Beckham?” Fischer asked in a southern drawl that matched Horn’s.

Horn stepped up with his arms crossing his swollen chest and his chin up.

“Yeah,” Beckham replied.

Fischer held out a hand. “S.M. Fischer, pleased to meet you.”

“I figured that’s who you were,” Beckham said, shaking his hand.

“Ah, I’m honored to hear that,” Fischer said. He glanced at Horn. “And who is your friend?”

“Master Sergeant Parker Horn,” Horn said, keeping his arms folded over his chest. He finally reached out when Fischer extended his hand.

“You boys here to meet with Ringgold?” Fischer asked.

“We’re here to meet with the president of the Allied States,” Beckham replied.

Beckham waited for Fischer to give him the reason for coming over to say hello. Less talking and more listening was the best strategy he had picked up over the years when he wasn’t sure if he could trust someone.

“She’s an impressive woman,” Fischer said. “I’m grateful for the military support she has lent my growing oil operation. They have been helpful in dealing with the Variants terrorizing my fields in Texas, but I’m hoping for more to eradicate this threat once and for all.”

Beckham nodded.

“I’m told I can expect even more support from Vice President Lemke,” Fischer said.

“He’s a man of his word,” Beckham replied.

“Glad to hear that. I’m curious to hear what General Cornelius has to say about the diseased bastards though,” Fischer said. “What do you boys think of him?”

“I think he would destroy your fields in the process,” Horn said.

Fischer stroked his thick mustache.

“What my friend here means is the retired General’s strategies might lean more on the reckless side of things,” Beckham said. “You might get rid of your pests, but the collateral damage your fields would experience might not be worth it.”

Fischer lowered his hand.

“He’s a good man and served his country during the war, we just see things differently on how to keep the country moving forward,” Beckham said.

“I see,” Fischer said. He seemed to think on it a moment and then nodded. “I better get going, but it was nice to meet you two fellas.”

“Safe travels.” Beckham watched Fischer and his bodyguards leave in silence, but Big Horn didn’t hold back his thoughts.

“I don’t like that guy,” Horn mumbled.

“The vice president needs his endorsement. Fischer’s company supplies nearly half of the country’s oil, and he’s got the wealth to fund a campaign all on his own. Like him or not, we want him on our side.”

“Don’t mean I have to like him though,” Horn said.

“That’s true, but you could be more polite.”

The lobby slowly emptied as the men continued to wait.

“Can we go to the bar for a beer or something?” Horn groaned.

“Shouldn’t be too—”

A door creaked open, and Elizabeth Cortez walked into the lobby. “Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn,” she said. “Thank you for making the journey.”

She reached out and Beckham shook her hand.

“If you’d follow me, please.”

They entered the Oval Office where coffee and water had been set out on the tables, but the chairs were empty. POTUS and VPOTUS were not here.

Elizabeth walked over to one of the side doors. Opening it, she then gestured inside to a long hallway. At the entrance beyond, two Marines stood like statues.

Horn flung Beckham a glance, but neither of them said a word as they continued down the passage.

Another pair of Marines stood guard in front of the closed doors of an elevator. Elizabeth typed a code onto a keypad, and the doors whispered open.

Beckham almost hesitated as a memory surfaced in his mind. This was the place Captain Rachel Davis and a small team of Navy SEALs had come to rescue former Vice President George Johnson. They had arrived too late, and the entire Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC) was filled with the infected, including Johnson.

The elevator took them deep underground and Beckham tried to relax. When the doors opened again, a room bustling with activity greeted them.

Military officers and civilian staffers worked at stations facing a wall-mounted monitor the size of a movie theatre screen. It was split into multiple boxes filled with data and live video imagery.

Elizabeth crossed the room to another door. She knocked, then peeked her head in.

“Good afternoon, Madam President,” she said. “We have Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn here to see you.”

Elizabeth opened the door the rest of the way, gesturing inside.

“Thank you,” Beckham said.

The door closed behind them, leaving the two retired Delta Force Operators alone with the president and vice president.

“Great to see you, Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn,” Ringgold said. “I’m very sorry to keep you both waiting.”

She walked around the table. Beckham held out a hand for a shake, but Ringgold went past it, going in for a hug.

“How are your families?” she asked.

“Good, Madam President—” Beckham began to say.

“Jan,” Ringgold corrected. “I’m only going to be president a few more months, and I’m starting to train my friends to use my name.”

“Ma’am,” Beckham said with a dip of his head.

She smiled and shook Horn’s hand.

“Everything’s good at Peaks Island?” she asked.

“Very good, ma’am,” Horn replied.

The vice president had followed behind Ringgold and now stood waiting to shake their hands before taking a seat.

“I called you here in hopes that you would consider running for Senate against McComb. We need your voice and support in the chambers to help Lemke,” Ringgold said.

“McComb is weak and I’m worried he might defect to the Freedom Party,” Lemke chimed in.

Horn said something under his breath that rhymed with hit, but Beckham ignored him.

“I’m honored, ma’am, but at this time Kate and I would really like to stay out of politics,” Beckham said. “I’m happy to help in other ways of course. Advising and maybe even a little campaigning for the party, but…”

“I understand,” Ringgold said. “It’s something to think about, although it’s not the only reason I brought you in. There are matters that will affect the election more than a Senate race.”

“Lay it on us, Madam President,” Horn said.

She looked to Lemke. Beckham braced to hear what had them both looking so fatigued and worried.

“There was an attack last night on Outpost Turkey River,” Lemke said. “The radio SOS we received said Variants had penetrated the outpost. We lost communications within minutes.”

“What?” Horn said, stepping forward.

“We sent a drone a few hours ago and this is what it has sent back,” Ringgold said.

Lemke used a remote to click on the monitor across the table. Beckham stiffened in his chair and leaned forward to get a better view of the imagery on screen. With his poor vision in his right eye, he was having a hard time making out the grainy footage at first, but there was no mistaking the empty streets.

“Where is everyone?” Horn asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Lemke said. “The drone did not find a single body of a human, or Variant for that matter.”

“Did you ever come across anything like this during your time leading Team Ghost?” Ringgold asked Beckham.

His gaze flitted from the screen to meet hers.

“Not quite on this level, ma’am.”

“There were nearly three hundred people living at the outpost,” Lemke said. “Gone with barely a trace.”

“They’re one of the most important agricultural communities we have, too, and they had just recently started to harvest,” Ringgold said. “We need this community, and we need to know what happened to them.”

“At this point we’ve only sent in the drone, but we’re going to deploy a couple of teams to investigate,” Lemke said. “We’ve got SEALs on deck, already prepared to go. And then if that fails, we can bring in our experts.”

Beckham knew what that meant—Team Ghost was going back out there. He thought of Fitz who had spent the past ten years fighting the monsters during the war and post-war. The team had lost more souls since then.

Somehow Fitz and Rico had survived all of the operations, but Beckham feared one of these days he would get a call that Fitz had finally run out of luck.

“I’d like you two to stick around an extra day to monitor the mission,” Ringgold said. “We could use your input as this unfolds.”

Beckham had promised Kate he would be back by the next morning, but she would understand.

“Absolutely,” he said. “We’re happy to help.”

Ringgold stood and approached the screen, looking at the grainy footage. “I’m worried there is something more sinister going on out there.”

Lemke nodded. “Me too, and when word gets out about Turkey River going dark, it’s going to fuel the support for Cornelius and his plan to ravage abandoned cities with bombs and a fresh army of young men and women.”

“Not my Tasha,” Horn muttered.

Ringgold rotated from the screen wearing a mask of concern. “I know you two have already sacrificed so much, but I’m afraid we’re going to need your help again to fight this new threat.”

A chill passed through Beckham at the thought, and while he knew this didn’t necessarily mean he would need to return to the battlefield, it did mean his days living in peace on the island were numbered.

— 4 —

The screams of agony seemed to ricochet off the trees. Dohi tried to hone in on the direction, but the echo made identifying the location of its source in the treacherous terrain difficult.

Another strong gust whipped through the foliage. Leaves swirled around him and the rest of Team Ghost who had spread out in combat intervals.

Dohi led the way into the thick forest. He cradled his suppressed M4A1, searching for targets. The screams suddenly stopped.

He slowed, stepping on a dead leaf that crunched in the silence.

For a moment he stood there, listening to the woods and the rush of the river not far behind them.

He sniffed the autumn air, but picked up no sour scent from the Variants.

When the wind picked up again, he knew why.

“Christ,” Dohi whispered to Fitz. “I think we’re upwind from those screams.”

“So the Variants smelled us first?” Ace grumbled quietly.

“That’s why they silenced the prisoner,” Dohi said. “They know we’re hunting them.

“Then they’ll start hunting us now, too,” Lincoln said.

The hunters just became the hunted, Dohi thought dourly.

“Find us that trail, Dohi,” Fitz said. “Keep an eye out for camouflaged beasts, too. It may be light out, but they’ll still blend in.”

Dohi nodded, not showing his frustration. People normally thought he had some mystical power that allowed him to listen and talk with the woods when he was tracking.

That was nothing more than a stereotypical myth.

Truth was he’d learned not how to listen or talk to the woods, but how to read them. All the miniscule signs that led to your quarry were there if you put in the work.

The forest didn’t willingly give those signs up. You had to find them.

He crouched to look for any clues. The ground was covered in leaves, making it exceedingly difficult to search for the footprints. Most people made the mistake of trying to track a person or Variant down by looking at things from a single perspective: their own.

They walked, standing straight, and kept their eyes ahead of them. Not very helpful when you were dealing with monsters that could climb, burrow, and even fly, as some across the Atlantic had once done.

An open mind was the best way to come at problems like this. He raked his hands through the leaves, revealing the dried brown grass and patches of dirt underneath them. It would take hours to sift through the leaves if his goal was to find those Variant footprints.

But that wasn’t his goal. Instead, he pressed his fingers against the soil. It gave easily. Not unlike the soil around downtown Ellicott City where the flood waters had softened and eroded it.

The rain would’ve been strong enough to wash the hillside of the blood and little bits of flesh Dohi wanted to look for. What the waters hadn’t washed away, the leaves hid. The weather was conspiring with the Variants against him.

A branch cracked somewhere in the distance.

Mendez swiveled on his heels.

Fitz motioned for everyone to keep still. Then he nodded at Dohi who again took point. Team Ghost followed, walking at a hunch, their rifles roving for targets.

Rifle pointing forward, Dohi’s eyes scanned the surroundings as he sought another sign, another hint of where the Variants’ trail had gone.

He found it on the knotted brown bark of an oak. One of the gray-brown scales had been torn off to reveal a lighter patch of yellow wood, no bigger than his thumb.

Obvious to him, but maybe not to someone who wasn’t looking. He plucked something from the bark that turned out to be a chunk of fingernail.

Human from the looks of it.

Dohi motioned them forward, spotting other tree trunks with scratches on them along with saplings that had been split. The casual wear on the landscape revealed the Alpha’s preferred travel route. He could practically see a path now.

He pushed forward through the foliage, advancing along the trail at a brisk pace.

This wasn’t the first time they had been on a mission to save civilians kidnapped by the Variants, and it likely wouldn’t be their last. Most of their recent missions had ended with dead Variants but, in most cases, they were too late to save their prisoners.

The loss of innocent lives weighed heavy on his mind like a dark storm cloud.

He broke into a run, heart pounding. The scratches on the tree trunks and the depressed leaves and splintered twigs led the team. Around the next oak, a scent hit his nostrils.

Dohi slowed his pace and motioned for Team Ghost to spread out again. Through the screen of trees, he spotted a gray dome propped up by four Doric pillars about twice as tall as a man, each covered by moss.

A rusted iron cross was suspended from the dome giving the structure the appearance of some kind of altar. Bricks lay around it, and huge gray slabs rested on the forest floor where the wind had brushed aside some of the leaves.

The structure was some sort of a rotted chapel. The more Dohi looked between the trees and fallen logs, the more ruined structures he noticed. Most were barely more than a leftover foundation, while others had the remnants of brick walls suffocated by vegetation.

Dohi held his breath to listen.

A screech exploded through the trees. His stomach sank when he realized Team Ghost wasn’t the only one studying the area. He swiveled toward the source of the sound, but Fitz found the camouflaged target first. He fired short bursts—bullets chiseled into one of the low-lying brick walls as a shape flung itself down for cover.

Other inhuman shrieks blasted through the forest.

“Eyes up!” Fitz yelled.

Dohi raised his rifle at a hulking figure in the tree branches. Pangs of sunlight piercing through the leafy cover illuminated a creature with throbbing lips and needle-like teeth. Blood vessels pulsed under the mottled green and brown flesh perfectly matching the colors of its surroundings.

Cover blown, it leapt from branch to branch, staying just ahead of Dohi’s aim. When he finally had a shot, it suddenly changed directions.

Dohi fired calculated bursts at the muscled beast and finally hit the target. Blood and flesh flicked out of the exit wounds.

Mindful of his ammo, he fired one last burst as the creature sailed through the air. He jumped out of the way at the last minute, and the Variant walloped the ground next to him, limp and dead on impact.

Another camouflaged creature raced from behind one of the crumbled walls. Ragged black hair twisted in a knot behind its head. It drew back its claws, ready to use them as scythes.

A flurry of rounds cut into the abomination as it made a run for Dohi, spraying hot blood over his fatigues.

“Got you, bro!” Lincoln called out.

“Thanks!” Dohi replied.

The rattle of gunfire echoed around him as he moved to find a new target. His world became the view through his rifle’s optics.

Find a Variant. Fire. Repeat.

Surging adrenaline seemed to slow time as he sighted up each shot. Team Ghost had recovered quickly from their ambush. Ace’s shotgun boomed as it decimated the bodies of beasts that had gotten too close.

Mendez picked off the Variants still swinging down from the trees, the sunlight hitting their camouflaged skin. Fitz and Rico fended off the monsters further away, winding through the ruins with their suppressed shots.

A final boom from Ace’s shotgun announced the death of the last Variant.

The labored breaths of Team Ghost once again claimed the day, the only other sound was the moan of a dying beast that Fitz finished off with a double tap.

“Think that’s the whole nest?” Rico asked.

“No,” Dohi said. He picked up the muscled arm of one of the dead Variants. The beast was strong, but it wasn’t Alpha strong. And the way they’d thrown themselves at Team Ghost likely meant they were cannon fodder—not the leader of this pack.

“The Alpha’s probably watching us now,” Lincoln said. “Trying to figure out who the weakest link is.” He shot a glance at Mendez who spat on the ground.

“Then he’d be looking at you, hombre,” retorted Mendez.

Dohi ignored them and searched for tracks. After a few minutes of looking, he located another trail. He motioned the team up chipped concrete stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, dark shapes flitted through the shadowy woods. Two appeared to be normal Variants, loping after another. The third…

“There’s the Alpha,” Dohi said.

Fitz balled his hand. “Hold your fire, it’s got a hostage!”

The beast was a good three feet taller than the others, and slender with ropy muscles. The long limbs appeared insectile, both of them wrapped around a male human prisoner. Mottled patches of gray and black covered the camouflaged flesh.

It turned and bolted with the man. The other two beasts screeched as they followed.

Fitz gave the advance signal.

Dohi had already taken off, fearing that if they lost it now, it would melt into the forest. It was no wonder the creature had been able to infiltrate Outpost Patapsco Valley so easily. The entire outpost was located in woods just like this.

Dohi made up lost ground fast and brought his rifle to aim at one of those slender legs. The first shot found a target, ripping through a muscular calf. The Alpha let out a roar and slammed into the ground, the hostage rolling away into the leaves.

He kept his rifle shouldered, an eye on the other two Variants that had slowed. The Alpha pushed itself back up and hissed, brown saliva spraying Dohi as he approached and fired into the Alpha’s side.

Despite the rounds, the creature barreled into Dohi, knocking him to the ground. He lost his rifle and went for his hatchet, pulling it from the sheath just as the Alpha swiped his vest with jagged claws. Dohi planted the blade into its arm, yanked it out, and then struck it in the chin with a crunch.

In his periphery, he saw Fitz engage with the other two Variants, firing at them as they parried their claws with his rifle. Rico soon joined him. They formed a wall between themselves and the person that the Variants had been carrying.

The Alpha let out another roar that nearly deafened Dohi as he tried to pry the blade free from its chin. It brought its fists down, hammering at his chest, and then climbed on top of him.

Suddenly blood sprayed from the Alpha’s mouth.

The creature screeched in agony as nerves and muscles and bones gave way to Ace’s machete. He hacked at the creature over and over until it finally succumbed to the injuries and died on top of Dohi.

Ace helped push the beast off him and then offered his hand. Dohi took it and rose to his feet, thanking Ace with a nod and a clap on the heavyset man’s shoulder.

The other two Variants lay dead next to trees. Lincoln and Rico were already fanning out to hold sentry while Ace bent down to the survivor.

The man crawled away on all fours.

“Relax buddy,” Ace said.

Mendez moved over to help.

The man struggled as they peeled off the dried mucus plugs covering his mouth. He sobbed and scooted away on arms covered in bleeding wounds. “They… They killed the others… I saw them… Oh, God! You’ve got to help me. Help… Help…me…”

“Take it easy,” Dohi said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

Fitz pulled out his radio to reach command and walked over to Rico and Lincoln. “Help…help…” the injured man kept repeating through quivering lips.

“You’re safe now,” Mendez said. He and Dohi worked on dressing the wounds. The man was clearly in shock.

Fitz returned a moment later with a sour look.

“Guess we’re not going to have a celebratory beer tonight, huh?” Lincoln said.

“Not tonight,” Fitz replied.

“Please don’t tell us ‘all it takes is all you got,’” Mendez said. “I really, really need a hot shower and to hit the rack.”

“Yeah, bro,” Lincoln said, waving his hand over his nose. “Mendez ain’t lying. He really needs a shower.”

Fitz frowned. “Sorry fellas, but command has another mission for us,” he said. “As soon as we get back to base we’re shipping out.”

***

“I’m going to be here for another night,” Beckham said over the phone. “Maybe more.”

“Maybe more?” Kate asked. To her, that meant definitely more, but she had a feeling there was a good reason for the extended journey.

“I’m really sorry, but there’s a situation,” Beckham said. “President Ringgold has asked me and Horn to help monitor it.”

“I just want to remind you that you are retired.”

“I remember,” Beckham said. “This isn’t fieldwork.”

A sinking feeling grew in her gut. She recalled that last conversation she and Beckham had shared. How they feared the quiet. The calm before the storm.

Kate knew her husband probably couldn’t share details, but she had to ask.

“Is it really bad?” she asked.

“It isn’t good, that’s for sure.” Beckham let out an audible exhalation. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“An outpost has gone completely dark and everyone there is missing.”

“Where?”

“Turkey River in northern Iowa.”

“How does an entire outpost go…”

“I don’t know, Kate,” he said. “I’ve got to go, but I love you, and will be home as soon as I can.”

“I love you, too, and remember what I said.”

“I’m retired. Got it.”

Kate said goodbye and let out a sigh. She hated knowing that his instincts might be right. That something was going on out there beyond the walls and gates and sensors.

All those technologies and measures they had relied on to protect the burgeoning communities around the Allied States had apparently failed Outpost Turkey River.

She prayed there was an explanation and the people living there were okay.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Javier beat her there and stood on his toes to look out the window in the door.

“It’s Jake and Timothy,” he said.

Kate nodded, giving Javier permission to let them in.

“Good evening,” Jake said. “We come bearing tasty gifts.”

Timothy raised an iced cake into the air at his father’s goading.

“Wow,” Kate said, reaching out. “Red velvet?”

“Sure is,” Timothy replied, looking sheepish. The teenager was definitely a notch shier than his father.

“Who told you that’s my favorite?” she asked.

“Javier,” Timothy replied.

Kate smiled and handed the cake to her son.

“Thank you so much for having us over for dinner,” Jake said, stepping inside. He bent down to unlace his boots, but Kate waved her hand. “Keep them on.”

“You sure?” Jake asked, polite as usual.

“Of course. Come on in, it’s so nice to have you two over.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jake said.

“Kate,” she reminded him.

“The table is set!” Tasha called out.

“Sounds like you got some antsy guests,” Jake said.

Kate chuckled. “Antsy doesn’t begin to describe it.”

She moved to the kitchen with Jake and Timothy tailing her. The smell of fresh marinara over spaghetti filled the air. One of Javier’s favorites. Tasha and Jenny set the table while their dogs, Ginger and Spark, looked on from the connecting room.

Tasha was old enough to be left home alone to watch Jenny, but Horn preferred they stayed here when he had to leave the island. And Kate suspected the girls preferred it, too. The need to be around others was a psychological vestige of surviving war.

“Come get a plate,” Kate said to Jake and the kids.

Jenny and Javier raced over to be first in line. Timothy proved himself the gentleman, allowing Tasha to go first. Kate made a note to keep an eye on those two. Nearly the same age, she saw the looks they’d given each other and recalled her days as a carefree teenager.

“Looks really good,” Tasha said as she began to fill her plate.

“Next time, you’re the chef,” Kate said.

Jenny groaned. “Tasha can’t cook.”

“She’s learning.” Kate looked to Tasha with an encouraging smile.

“I bet Tasha is a great chef,” Timothy added.

Tasha’s cheeks turned red.

“That was Dad on the phone, right?” Javier asked. “When does he get back tomorrow?”

Tasha and Jenny both looked up from their full plates.

“Dad and Parker aren’t going to be home for another day or two,” Kate informed them. “They have more business to take care of.”

“Man…” Tasha said.

“I know, but they will be home soon,” Kate said, reaching across the table to place a hand on Tasha’s.

“You know, your fathers have been invaluable when it comes to training the security detail,” Jake said, looking at Javier and the girls in turn.

“How old do you have to be to join?” Javier asked.

Kate frowned, but wasn’t caught off guard by the question.

“Much older than you, buddy,” Jake said.

“About my age,” Timothy said proudly. He looked at Tasha to make sure she was listening. “I’ll be joining up soon.”

Jenny tossed the dogs a piece of food from the table.

“I saw that,” Kate said, not raising her eyes.

“But dad says…” Jenny began to say.

“His rules at his house, my rules at mine,” Kate responded flatly.

“Okay, sorry,” Jenny said, bowing her head slightly.

Kate didn’t like being harsh but, in a way, she had become a second mom to the girls over the past decade since they lost their mother at Fort Bragg. Horn was a good dad, but there was no denying he carried with him a certain gruffness and wasn’t a man of high formality.

And Kate was intent on teaching the kids manners.

“This is really good,” Tasha said, smiling as she went to take another bite.

“Sure is,” Jenny agreed.

Javier nodded, his long hair falling over an eye. He brushed it away. “My mom is the best cook.”

“It beats the pants off the potatoes and beans my dad makes,” Timothy said.

Jake laughed. “Never said I was a good cook.”

A wild wind blew, and tree branches scraped against the house.

Jenny’s eyes went wide and Tasha seemed to tense up at the sound of scratching branches on the window. Timothy reached for her hand. Kate could practically feel the temperature drop around the trio.

They were frozen in fear.

Those scratches along the roof, the wind rustling against the house all could be mistaken for the telltale claws of Variants on the hunt.

Eight years and still the teenagers were haunted by the memories of the slaughter and carnage they’d survived.

Javier looked between them, one eyebrow raised like he didn’t quite get why they were so scared. Unlike them, he had been born after the war. He’d been protected from the atrocities they’d borne witness to.

“It’s okay,” Kate said. “Just the wind.”

“I know.” Kate could tell the girl was starting to relax again. “Every time, in my head, I tell myself that’s all it is. But I can’t help thinking that maybe this time it’s different. Maybe this time it’s a Variant again.”

“We’re safe here,” Kate said. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s hard not to worry.” Jenny looked to Kate as she continued. “They teach us about the war in school. I can’t help thinking that it might happen again.”

“I won’t ever let anything happen to you kids,” Jake added confidently.

“All I know is that if a Variant does show up here, I’m going to skin the ugly bastard,” Javier said, gripping his fork and knife tightly like they were weapons.

“Javier Riley, what did I tell you about that language?”

“If dad and Big Horn can cuss, why can’t I?” Javier asked. “I’m going to be a soldier like them, so I got to act like one.”

Kate looked hard at him, not giving the boy an inch. The boy was a warrior in the making, that much was sure. She supposed it was inevitable growing up in a household like his and surrounded by a community that had fought tooth and nail to establish itself, but that didn’t mean she wanted that future for her son.

“You have a long time to figure out what you want to be.” A small smile played on Kate’s lips. “Maybe a scientist or a doctor…”

“A soldier,” Javier said firmly.

“You have a long time to decide. Either way, no cussing. Especially at the dinner table.”

“Fine. Sorry.”

She tried not to think about her son following in her husband’s footsteps as they continued eating. Javier idolized his father in every way, even growing out his hair and insisting it be as long as his dad’s.

The boy finished another bite and added, “I still want to protect people and kill the monsters.”

“It’s not just soldiers or policemen that protect us,” Jake said. “Those doctors and scientists your mom mentioned are even more important. Heck, you can easily find another guy on the street that can learn to stand in a tower like me.”

Jake tapped his temple. “But if you’ve got half the smarts your mom does, you could grow up to be one amazing scientist who saves more lives than I could ever hope to with my rifle.”

Kate smiled at the police officer. She appreciated the support in encouraging Javier to think of a different career. Of course, her own career as a scientist hadn’t exactly been free from danger.

“So, what happened at school today?” Kate asked, changing the subject.

Timothy was studying the themes and ideas in 1984. Tasha and Jenny had both taken a math test, and Javier was reading The Boxcar Children, which Kate remembered fondly from her own childhood. Knowing they were all getting to have a childhood was a victory in everything they had fought to achieve. Everything they had once taken for granted, and now had worked so hard to earn back.

Peaceful moments like this, when no one was a soldier or scientist or survivor. They were just family and friends, enjoying life, not worrying about a monster hunting them or where their next meal would come from.

It seemed almost like a joke when the distant call of an air-raid siren blared, shattering any illusion that moments of peace were anything but ephemeral now. Spark jumped to his feet, and Ginger’s tail curled between her legs.

“What is that?” Javier asked, slowing standing.

Timothy looked at his dad who rose from the table. Tasha and Jenny, too, knew exactly what it was and were already grabbing the dogs to get them ready to move.

“Javier, get the bug-out-bags,” Kate said.

“I’m going back to my place to get ours,” Jake said. “Grabbing a couple extra weapons, too.”

Javier hurried out of the kitchen and ran to the bedroom while the officer left with Timothy. Kate went to the office and grabbed her Glock from the safe. Then she unlocked the cabinet and pulled out an AR-15 and a bag full of magazines.

This was yet another harsh fact of reality. Emergency preparedness began as soon as Javier could walk. The community ran drills all the time, but those were always preceded with an announcement telling everyone it was just a drill.

There had been no warning about the sirens, which told her it was either a surprise test or it was real.

She wasn’t taking any chances. Palming a magazine into the AR-15, she then pulled the slide to chamber a round and confirmed the safety was still on.

“Follow me,” Kate said in her calmest voice. The girls secured a leash around each dog’s collar and took the Shepherds to the front room. Javier was there with the bags.

“I got yours, too, mom,” he said.

Kate put her bag over her back, doing her best to remain composed.

Act normal, and the kids will follow your lead, she thought to herself.

“We need to get to the shelter,” Kate said.

Javier slipped his hand into her free one and they walked out the front door, greeted by the wail of the air-raid sirens. All along the street, their neighbors poured out of their houses and headed toward the shelter.

Javier held out his free hand to Jenny. She took it, and kept her other hand wrapped in Tasha’s. Together, they hurried down the street, following the flow of the crowd. Familiar faces joined them along the way.

Like Donna and her son Bo, the mother and son that Beckham’s team had rescued during the war. The boy had looked scraggly and weak when she’d first met him. Since then, he’d grown into a young man with linebacker shoulders and tree trunk calves. Timothy and Jake ran to catch up, both armed with rifles and handguns. The duo ushered people toward the shelter.

“Jake! Any idea what’s going on?” Kate called out.

“Something about a blast in Portland,” he replied.

“Good Lord,” she said.

Kate pushed onward. The scenario felt all too familiar, harkening back to those days when Beckham and Horn were off on some mission and disaster struck at home. Every time the Variants or ROT had attacked, it felt like it could be the end of her time here on Earth.

But this time, with the girls and Javier by her side, she felt they had so much more to lose. They continued down the road in an orderly fashion until the distant pop of gunfire shattered the night. Jenny shrieked, and Javier pulled on Kate’s elbow, turning to look toward Portland, Maine.

Another distant explosion bloomed into the night.

The sight of the fireball chilled Kate to her core.

“Run!” someone yelled.

Screams came from all directions and, for the first time in years, the peace on Peaks Island was washed away like a sand castle under the rising tide.

— 5 —

Voices chimed outside of Ringgold’s office in the PEOC. Military officers conferred in trenchant whispers and gruff commands.

“Turkey River isn’t the only outpost that has gone dark,” said President Ringgold. The tremor in her voice caught Beckham off guard almost as much as the news.

“Who else was hit?” Horn asked before Beckham could speak.

Ringgold tapped on one of the monitors on the conference room table, pointing at an old map of the United States. “Outpost Rapid City, South Dakota just went offline and we had almost zero communications before we lost contact.”

“That’s right on the border of the frontier with the west,” Horn said.

Beckham narrowed his eyes at the President. This had to be some sort of a sick joke or perhaps a glitch in communications.

How could two outposts simply go dark?

He thought of their families on Peaks Island. A tingle of worry threaded through his nerves. He simply didn’t want to believe that these outposts going dark was because of something widespread.

Something nefarious.

“We’re not sure what’s happening out there,” Ringgold said.

She let out an uncharacteristic sigh and then stiffened. Beckham watched her come back to life, seeming to summon the strength that had gotten her through years of hardship, battles, and war.

“I’ll meet you two in the situation room, shortly,” she said. “I need to make some calls.”

Beckham and Horn both filed into the small conference room in the PEOC. Of all the places in the world, Beckham never thought he would end up in the situation room again.

The white walls were covered with the pictures of former Presidents and a large American flag. This place was normally occupied by Four Star Generals, the Joint Chiefs, POTUS, VPOTUS, the NSA advisor, and the executive cabinet.

Now it was close to empty.

Brigadier General Lucas Barnes was hunched over a laptop near the head of the table, squinting at the screen, his glasses propped up in his gray hair. He glanced up with dark brown eyes that matched the color of his skin and nodded at Beckham. The sixty-year-old General was overseeing the mission to Outpost Turkey River and was in constant communication with General Noah Souza, the Commander of the Special Operations Command (SOCOM).

Beckham recalled the day they had moved SOCOM from MacDill Air Force Base to the Zumwalt Class Destroyer launched shortly before the Hemorrhage Virus ravaged the world. It had been recommissioned as the USS George Johnson to honor the Vice President that was killed not far from where they all sat right now.

Across from the Brigadier General was National Security Advisor Ben Nelson, wearing his staple red tie. He ruffled through a briefing. Vice President Dan Lemke sat at the opposite end with his Chief of Staff, Elizabeth Cortez, behind him.

Ringgold’s Chief of Staff, James Soprano, rested his back against a wall, gripping a folder under his arms.

“Looks like you’ve been hitting the gym,” Beckham said to ease the tension.

Soprano smiled. “When you’ve got a free personal trainer who doesn’t let you skip a day, these things happen,” he said, jerking his chin at Cortez.

Her face broke into a grin. “You skip plenty of days.”

Cortez gestured to two of the empty seats where nametags had been set out for Beckham and Horn. They sat in their respective seats. Cortez continued to stand, glancing occasionally at the door. Even as she stood, she continued tapping her right foot against the floor.

The door opened and President Ringgold stepped in, prompting General Barnes to stand and offer her his chair in front of the laptop.

“That’s okay. You sit, General,” she said politely. “I’ll take my usual spot.”

Ringgold sat next to Lemke. Soprano handed her a folder before retreating back to his spot at the wall.

“What’s our status?” Ringgold asked.

“We have SEAL Teams 2 and 3 deployed in Operation Snake, with Delta Force Team Ghost on standby,” Barnes said in his gruff voice. “Ghost just tracked down and killed an Alpha at Ellicott City. Saved a prisoner too.”

“That’s our boy, Fitz,” Horn said.

Beckham had a feeling Ghost wasn’t going to get much downtime to celebrate the small victory. The SEAL Teams were both filled with talented men, but many of them were new and lacked the experience that Fitz and his team had under their belts. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ghost was called off standby and deployed in the operation.

“Turkey River went offline approximately twenty-one hours ago and, so far, drone footage has not given us much to go by,” Barnes continued. “SEAL Team 2 will land in approximately ten minutes, but SEAL Team 3 will take approximately one hour to reach Outpost Rapid City.”

“And the emergency alert system?” Ringgold asked.

“Activated as soon as we got word about Rapid City,” said Nelson. “Every outpost and city in the safe zones will be on lock down until we figure out what’s going on.”

Beckham thought of his family back at the outpost in Portland. He wished he had the chance to tell Kate this was coming so it didn’t scare Javier or Tasha and Jenny.

“Bringing up footage from SEAL Team 2,” Barnes said. He pushed his headset back into position, talking to General Souza.

The wall-mounted monitor fired to life, splitting into a dozen boxes from the helmet-mounted cams of the SEALs.

“Here we go,” Barnes said. “SEAL Team 2 is one minute out from the LZ.”

“Do we have any new drone footage?” Lemke asked. He flipped through his briefing folder. “These images make it seem like the entire outpost just vanished. Three hundred people don’t just—”

“Three hundred and four,” Ringgold corrected.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Barnes said. “Three hundred and four people don’t just vanish.”

The Black Hawk carrying SEAL Team 2 crossed over a patchwork of crops and lowered into the compound. The pilots set down in an open area, disgorging the SEALs into the darkness of the night. Their cameras with night vision goggles provided a green-hued view of the agricultural community as the team split up to search for the residents.

Beckham scanned the screens one by one, looking for any sign of bodies or blood or a battle. Anything to indicate what had happened. But all he saw were empty buildings. A school. The post office. Two trading posts. The barracks and offices.

All empty.

Another team moved to the barns and livestock pens located just outside the walls of the main compound. A series of ribbon wire fences looked intact but several of the SEALs stopped at the edge to look through the chain links.

“We got something,” Barnes reported, looking up.

He put a palm over his headset to listen.

Beckham strained to see, but there was definitely something on the other side of the fences. Several craters dotted the terrain from what must have been exploded land mines.

“They found the remains of several soldiers, Madam President,” Barnes reported. “They’re on screen seven.”

Beckham was already looking at that screen. The SEAL directed his helmet cam at a crater, roving it back and forth before stopping on what looked a lot like mangled human limbs and a torso.

“The militia soldiers there got caught in the minefields, but not Variants?” Nelson asked.

“Actually, the SEALs think the Variants tossed the soldiers in the minefields,” Lemke said. “There were claw marks on the corpses and tracks indicating such.”

“Something doesn’t add up here,” Nelson said. “The beasts aren’t normally that smart.”

“Have the other SEALs found anything else?” Ringgold asked.

“Negative, Madam President,” Barnes said. “Not a single body.”

“What about the livestock?” Beckham asked.

Barnes asked over the comms, and came back with an answer a moment later.

“Gone,” he said. “No bodies. No bones.”

Beckham used his prosthetic hand to brush the hair back into place on his head, his new nervous tick. Something about it calmed him and helped him think. But it didn’t help him make sense of what he was seeing on the screens.

“The Variants took all of them without even stopping for a snack?” Nelson asked. “I’ve rarely heard of monsters with that kind of self-control.”

“You’re right,” Horn said, speaking up for the first time. “Normal Variants wouldn’t do this.”

“We must be looking at some kind of twisted Alpha,” Beckham said. “Maybe even something else leading them, keeping them under control.”

“And there’s only one team that can track down whatever—or whoever—is responsible,” Horn said.

He glanced at Beckham who agreed with his friend.

“If SEAL Team 2 doesn’t come back with anything else, I’d highly recommend deploying Team Ghost,” Beckham said. “They have experience with all kinds of Alphas. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it’s them.”

Barnes looked to the President for her approval, and she gave it with a nod. She got up from her chair and walked over to the screen as SEAL Team 2 continued the search.

“Yes…” Barnes said into his headset. His features suddenly darkened, and he squinted so hard his forehead turned into a valley of wrinkles. “What… Another one?” he said.

Ringgold turned to look at the General. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Barnes swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Madam President, General Souza just got word that Outpost New Boston in Massachusetts is reporting a raider attack.”

He paused and put his hand over his headset again to listen.

“Christ,” Barnes grumbled. “Outpost Portland, Maine, is also under attack.”

Beckham’s veins turned to ice. He shot out of his chair. “What? How is that possible?”

Images of Kate and the children slammed through his mind.

“We have to get home,” Horn said, already moving toward the door.

Beckham turned to follow Horn, then stopped.

A dozen thoughts spun through his mind.

He wanted to believe that people like his neighbor Jake could defend the island and that the safe zone’s defenses were prepared for something like this. But between the images they’d just seen of Outpost Turkey River and the reports coming in from other outposts, reality was much more grim.

He couldn’t help but think these events were connected.

Were they dealing with a massive coordinated Variant and human threat for the first time since the end of the war?

Beckham hesitated. He needed to know more before bailing.

“Boss, come on,” Horn urged.

“Hold up,” Beckham shot back. He looked to Barnes. “What does General Souza know so far about Portland?”

“Only that they called in an SOS sparked by a raid,” replied the General.

“Reed, we can’t stay here.” The muscles in Horn’s jaw moved as he gritted his teeth. “Got to get back there, man.”

“Permission to leave, Madam President,” Beckham said.

“Get a chopper fired up,” Ringgold said to Soprano. The COS rushed through the door, already conveying the president’s order to someone outside the situation room.

Beckham and Horn followed her out, Ringgold shadowing them. She stopped just outside. The pain in her features told Beckham she felt partly responsible for this.

But this wasn’t her fault.

She had done everything she could to rebuild and protect the country, and Beckham couldn’t sit idly by any longer in retirement on an island away from the fight.

It was time to get back into the game.

If it’s not already too late, he thought coldly.

***

The custom blue jet circled over S.M. Fischer’s ranch and the oil fields in Northern Texas, about ninety miles north of Amarillo. Fischer Fields, his business and his empire. This was home. Always had been, always would be. Passed down through his family, back during the prewar days, it had reached values in the hundreds of millions of dollars.

His wife had loved it here. She had always dreamed of the day he would retire. Enjoying riding horses together along the creeks and trails cutting through their property and ending the days on their porch enjoying the glory of a Texas sunset. But it was not to be.

She had passed from cancer two months before the Hemorrhage Virus.

Now it looked like Fischer would never retire. While he missed her, he was almost glad it had happened before the chaos. If she had survived any longer, she would have risked being torn to pieces or turned into one of those beasts. To Fischer, that was a far worse fate.

Her death to cancer hadn’t exactly been peaceful, but at least he had been there holding her hand while she passed in her sleep.

God, did he miss her.

He drowned out the memories by finishing his third beer while the pilots waited for the all clear to land. Another Variant attack had kept them in the sky, and Fischer was anxious to get on the ground.

At ten thousand feet, he couldn’t see much of his forty thousand acres of land, especially at night. But in the blanket of darkness below, several geysers of orange flames punctuated the black, spewing columns of smoke that reflected the light of the fire.

Fischer’s gut twisted painfully. He was no stranger to a hellish sight like that.

“Oil well fires! What in the Sam Hill is happening down there?” Fischer asked.

The two bodyguards that had accompanied him to the Greenbrier sat in leather chairs across the cabin. Tran and Chase had both been with Fischer since the war and had never failed in protecting him.

Chase disappeared into the cockpit for a moment, then reemerged. “Sounds like there have been Variant attacks on multiple wells. They went after the engineers again, and our teams are having a hard time capping the wells.”

“Second time in a month,” Fischer said, finishing his comment with a blue streak of curses. He tried to be a gentleman in most cases but, damn, this was pissing him off.

Using a bottle opener, he twisted off the cap of another beer, wishing it was the head of a Variant. He took a long swig and studied the bottle—another product made at his ranch just like the juicy hunk of steak in front of him.

This hadn’t been the first attack on his ranch, and he knew better than to think it would be the last. The Variants were getting more brazen in their efforts.

He was getting tired of losing men and, more importantly, money.

Tipping back the bottle, he took another long swig and then put the bottle down. He caught Tran giving Chase a knowing look. They were right. He should have his senses together.

Three beers gave him a buzz, but anything more could be a detriment to decision making. He looked to Chase and said, “Tell the pilots I want on the ground as soon as fucking possible.”

The thin African American man stood again and made his way back into the cockpit. Tran swiveled his leather chair to look out the window.

“These attacks have to end,” Fischer grumbled. “We’re wasting time capping oil wells when we should be drawing oil up. These filthy, diseased animals are costing us too damn much.”

Tran turned away from the window to face his boss. “I thought President Ringgold was going to send more boots to protect the fields.”

“She did, but I don’t need two dozen greenhorns.” Fischer took another swallow of his beer. He knew he shouldn’t, but he was too damn mad. “I need an army to clean the varmints out once and for all. Perhaps General Cornelius will make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

Tran simply nodded, and Fischer considered asking him his opinion. Most men in his position wouldn’t bother listening to hired muscle or soldiers. But Fischer had built his empire by analyzing the opinions of many, from the engineers that worked on the wells to the president of the country.

So far, those opinions weren’t helping much.

“Who do you support?” Fischer asked.

Tran shifted uneasily in his chair, apparently caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. Fischer had seen him less nervous when facing Variants.

“It’s okay, son, you can talk to me freely,” Fischer assured Tran.

“I don’t support nuking the cities, sir, but I do support eliminating the Variant threat, especially down there. These attacks are growing more brazen, and I fear the creatures are starting to get stronger instead of weaker.”

“Valid assessment,” Fischer said. He looked back down at his steak. It was getting cold, and he wasn’t going to waste a good sirloin. Meat of this quality was a luxury that only a few men in this country could afford.

While the plane continued to circle, he cut into the seared meat. The red inside practically bled. He took a bit of the rare steak and relished the taste like the Variants might savor the taste of human flesh.

Chase returned from the cockpit. “Sir, we need to wait a few more minutes for teams to secure the tarmac for our landing,” he reported. “Apparently, one of those Variant packs is near your ranch.”

“What’s so damn hard about clearing out two little packs?” Fischer said.

“They’re both camouflaged,” Chase replied. “Our teams are finding it more difficult than usual to track them down. We’ve deployed dogs and hunter-killer teams, though. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

Fischer put his fork down, his appetite ruined. He wiped food out of his bristly mustache with a napkin, and prepared for landing.

Ten minutes later they had the all clear, and the jet began its descent. Fischer looked out his window to search for the flames he saw earlier. Sure enough, the well fires still burned, the deep stores of oil being lapped up by tongues of fire.

The flames might as well have been burning dollar bills.

But how could a Variant start a fire? They had attacked the wells plenty of times, but the wells had never burned like this. Not two at once.

He doubted common Variants had the smarts for starting fires like that. Maybe his men had really screwed the pooch on this one. Or maybe it was something else.

As the jet lowered toward the tarmac, Fischer thought of his meeting with President Ringgold. She had promised him more men to patrol the oil fields. But a handful more of guards wasn’t going to stop the beasts.

When your cattle were being stalked by a pack of wolves, it wasn’t enough to wait around at night in hopes you might scare them from dragging a cow away.

No, you went straight to the source. Straight to the wolf’s den. You slaughtered every one of them so not a damn one of those dogs came back to bother you or your cattle.

What he needed was an army of hunters. Someone who could be on the offense instead of pressed against the ropes the whole time.

This had to end.

The tires touched down with a jolt. As they slowed, Tran and Chase both unbuckled and moved to the cabinets to grab their rifles. They palmed in magazines, pulled back the bolts to chamber a round, and then advanced to the door.

One of the pilots stepped out of the cabin.

“Sir, your teams have taken down one pack and captured what we think is an Alpha…” he said.

Just as Fischer thought. More than just common Variants.

“It’s alive, sir, but barely,” the pilot continued.

“Bring it to the tarmac,” Fischer said. “I want to see this ugly son of a bitch that’s been terrorizing my fields.”

“Sir, I’d highly advise against that,” Chase replied.

“This is an Alpha,” Tran reminded Fischer. “They’re extremely dangerous even when injured.”

“I know what it is,” Fischer shot back. “I want to see it, and I want to finish it off myself.”

“Okay, sir,” Tran said with a shrug. “But please stay here until we can secure the area.”

Chase opened the cabin door and walked down a ramp to the tarmac. Tran remained in the opening, rifle shouldered.

Fischer pulled out his handgun, his father’s old chrome .357. He’d added a new engraving to the barrel.

Monster Killer.

Maybe it was a little corny, but Fischer wasn’t one to mince words. Monster Killer was what the weapon was, and killing a monster was what he was about to do.

Pulling back the hammer with a click, he prepared to meet the beast terrorizing his men and fields tonight. Not some pesky, diseased beast, but the king of the pack.

A few minutes later, Chase returned with his rifle cradled. “Okay, sir, it’s safe to come out.”

Fischer followed his men down the ramp. Several Humvees and multiple pickup trucks were parked on the tarmac with the red, double F logo of his oil company.

Soldiers in the mounted gun turrets of the Humvees directed spotlights on the pale, bloody flesh of the biggest Variant Fischer had ever seen. The creature was lying inside a razor wire net, hardly moving.

A dozen men wearing cowboy hats and holding rifles stood guarding the beast. Six German Shepherds barked viciously, their maws dripping saliva.

“Shut them up,” Fischer ordered. He hesitated as he approached the monster. The beast was unconscious from what he could tell, both eyelids closed.

“It took a lot of damage before passing out,” one of the soldiers said. “Big guy like this, we thought you’d want to see what was responsible for the mess out there. Surprised it’s not dead yet.”

“But no telling when it’s going to wake up,” another said.

“It killed four of our men,” the first man added. He dipped his cowboy hat at Fischer and spat a hunk of tobacco on the pavement. “Quicker you kill it, the better, sir.”

Fischer walked past the man, doing his best to hide his fear of the monster. Chase and Tran both kept near his side with their rifles aimed at the Alpha.

“Don’t get too close,” Tran warned.

Fischer stopped five feet away from the naked creature.

A wart-covered nose sucked in air, and a scab-covered back rose up and down in long, deep breaths. Crackling came from the lungs as fluid filled them.

He took another step closer, watching the eyes to make sure they didn’t open. Then he bent down to study the demon.

Wormy lips hung off a chin that was only connected to the face by strands of gristle. Blood flowed out of small holes in the upper cheek from shotgun pellets.

“My Lord in Heaven,” Fischer muttered.

He stood and moved around to check the other injuries. A muscular arm was shredded at the elbow, and a hole the size of an orange gushed blood out of its back. Bullet holes pocked the creature’s torso, blood seeping out.

Fischer knew that the Alpha, like all Variants, had remarkable healing capabilities due to the epigenetic changes of the chemical nanoparticles in its bloodstream, but it would take a lot to come back from these injuries, and Fischer wasn’t going to give it a chance.

He aimed his .357 at the beast’s head.

An eyelid flicked open, a reptilian eye flitting toward Fischer. He stumbled backward as its upper lip drew back to reveal jagged, yellow teeth. The shredded chin and jaw hung loose, a strand of gristle snapping as it opened its mouth wider.

“Kill it,” Chase said.

Fischer pulled the trigger, the gunshot piercing the night. The round broke through bone right below the yellow eye.

But the creature didn’t die.

A screech of rage followed, piercing Fischer’s ears. He glared at the monster in shock as blood burst from the hole in its face.

The Alpha roared and twisted violently under the razor wire, opening up cuts across its entire body, and prompting all of the men with rifles to step back.

The dogs let out guttural barks.

“Jesus Christ,” Fischer said. He aimed, held the gun steady, and fired a bullet into the eye. It popped, exploding and leaking blood and goo.

Still, the beast continued to screech.

“Shoot it,” Fischer said, gesturing to the soldiers and other men around him. “Open fire!”

A hail of gunfire lanced into the monster, punching through muscular flesh and bone. The monster jerked and twitched in violent fits as the rounds pummeled its body.

Fischer finally held up a hand.

“Hold your fire!” he yelled.

The men lowered their rifles, but the dogs continued to go crazy, barking and pulling on their leashes. The creature let out a final gruesome death rattle, and then went limp, blood pooling from its lacerated flesh.

Although Fischer wanted to think this was the last of his Variant problems, he knew it wasn’t. Kill one pack of wolves, another took their place.

There would be more beasts, more Alphas.

Only one thing would end the threat.

“Get that thing out of here,” Fischer ordered. He holstered his gun and jerked his chin for Tran and Chase to follow him over to a vehicle to take him to his ranch. He took shotgun and shut the door, watching as his men dragged the monster off the tarmac.

It took ten of them to get it into the back of a pickup truck.

This wasn’t going to stop, not with this dead Alpha, and not with the next one either. Fischer Fields needed an army, and Fischer had a feeling there was only one person that could give him the resources he needed.

He rode home in silence, thinking of his upcoming meeting with Cornelius. He was more anxious than ever to hear what the presidential candidate had to offer in return for his support.

— 6 —

“Approaching LZ,” reported the pilot.

Fitz tried to stay focused looking out the open side door of the Black Hawk as they circled over Outpost Turkey River. A full moon hung like a gleaming silver disc over the darkened fields. Cloud cover to the west threatened to block out the glow.

The entire team was already on edge after learning about the attack on Portland, Maine, and several other outposts. Having a bit of moonlight to navigate with would help them see, but it wouldn’t make the ache go away. People he knew and cared for were in harm’s way, and Fitz may as well have been on the other side of the planet.

This wasn’t the first time Fitz had been deployed while his friends were in danger, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. The orders came from POTUS.

He pushed aside his worries and patted his helmet to get back in the game.

“All it takes is all you got, baby,” Lincoln said.

Fitz nodded back. “Damn right.”

“Wish I could have met Sergeant Garcia,” said Mendez. “Dude sounded like one hell of an hombre.”

“One of the best Marines I ever met,” Fitz said.

Ace adjusted the strap on his modified mag-fed Mossberg 500. Metallic clinks rang out as the rest of Ghost checked over their suppressed M4A1s, inserting magazines and ensuring everything was in working order. A crew chief manned the M240, sweeping the barrel back and forth over the dark terrain.

From what Fitz could see with his night vision goggles, the area was abandoned just like the SEAL team had reported. That was no surprise. SEALs didn’t make mistakes.

Neither did Team Ghost.

The chopper passed over the minefield pockmarked with craters from exploded mines. Hunks of a body remained scattered on the darkened earth.

But where the hell was everyone else?

The other people hadn’t just disappeared into thin air. Team Ghost had to figure out what the SEAL team had missed.

One thing was for certain, the Variants responsible for this attack were far more sophisticated and far more dangerous than the Alpha they had just taken down in Ellicott City.

“I’ve got a really bad feeling about this,” Fitz said staring out the window.

Rico chewed on a fresh piece of gum. “Tell me about it.”

“Good thing we got Dohi,” Mendez said.

Dohi remained silent, his helmet down as he meditated.

Ace patted his belly. “Anyone else hungry? Maybe we will find some food down there.”

“Chances are better you will end up food if you don’t focus,” Lincoln said.

“He’d be one hell of a meal,” Mendez laughed.

“Cut the shit,” Fitz said. “There were three hundred people living there, and aside from some poor, torn-apart soldiers we have no idea what happened to them, or where they went.”

“Maybe it’s tied to those raiders that have been hitting the other outposts,” Rico suggested. “Could be some ex-military dudes that know how to cover their trail.”

“Cover a trail from SEALs?” Lincoln said with a shake. “I doubt it.”

“I’ll find them,” Dohi finally looked up, eyes smoldering.

The rest of the team simply stared at him and then Lincoln burst into his contagious laugh.

“Dude, that was creepy.” Lincoln continued laughing for a few seconds.

“Jesus.” Fitz reached over and smacked Lincoln on the side of his helmet.

“Sorry, man,” Lincoln said.

Mendez chuckled under his breath, and when they had finally finished, Fitz handed out orders.

“I’ve got Alpha with Ace and Lincoln. We’ll search the interior of the outpost,” he said. “Rico is leading Bravo with Dohi and Mendez on the perimeter.”

After confirming Lincoln and Mendez were done goofing off, Fitz told the pilots they were good to go. The chopper descended, kicking up waves in the dried grass in the middle of a field inside the outpost’s perimeter fences.

“All it takes is all you got, Ghost,” Fitz said.

The wheels of the Black Hawk hit the ground with a jolt.

“Ace, you’re on point,” Fitz said. “Lincoln, rearguard.”

Ace hopped out of the chopper first, his combat shotgun pressed tightly against his shoulder. Fitz followed with Lincoln close behind. He crept forward at a crouch, roving his rifle over the buildings at the edge of the field.

An eerie shiver crept down his spine. He couldn’t attribute the feeling to just the rotor wash hitting his back as Bravo exited the chopper next. It felt like he was being watched from the many windows of the office building and school across the field.

Fitz waved at Rico, and she smiled back, her way of saying she loved him without words.

I love you too, Jeni.

Dohi led her and Mendez out the front gate, past the guard towers. It never got easier fighting with her, and every mission Fitz worried about losing her, but they had both decided long ago to stay together. Of course, neither one of them wanted to give up serving on Team Ghost either.

There wasn’t anywhere he would rather be.

The chopper lifted back into the sky, leaving Team Ghost alone.

Fitz flashed hand signals for the team to spread out. He doubted the Variants had stuck around for an ambush, especially after the SEALs had sifted through the base. But with the monsters, he had come to expect the unexpected.

Soon the thrum of rotor blades evaporated into the whispers of wind gusts tickling through the trees scattered through the outpost. Somewhere a wind chime tinkled, letting out a ghostly metallic ring.

The place looked like an idyllic town just like where Beckham and Kate lived on Peaks Island. The kind of place where your neighbor always had your back, whether you needed help with a flat tire or to borrow some sugar.

The lived-in animal odor of the barns drifted toward them, but there was no more livestock to be found, just as the SEALs had reported.

They pushed toward the town and stopped outside a one-story brick building with a sign out front that said ‘TOWN HALL.’ Ace held up his fist as they approached.

Dried blood spray appeared like dark shadows through Fitz’s night vision goggles, covering the brick walls and the sidewalk. He noticed something else in the torn-up lawn.

Next to spent shells and bullet casings were a scattered array of boot prints in the soil. Those seemed to belong to the people caught mostly unaware, barely able to defend themselves.

And beside those marks were long, even gouges in the soil. Talon-marks. The SEAL teams had reported similar findings throughout the town; blood stains and claw and talon marks were everywhere. But strangely, the SEALs hadn’t found any talon marks or blood outside of the outpost’s perimeter where Bravo was searching.

Fitz hoped Dohi could clear up that mystery.

Ace looked back at Fitz, waiting for his next command. Fitz held up a finger, asking him to wait. Something in the air had caught his attention. He looked up at the dark sky, sniffing the wind.

He picked up the faintest odor of rotten fruit. Not so strong as when a Variant was nearby, but strong enough he didn’t discount it. Or maybe the smell was nothing but Fitz’s mind playing tricks on him, priming him for what he expected to encounter.

He looked back at Lincoln and pointed at his nose. Lincoln seemed to understand the gesture, pausing and taking a big whiff before he gave Fitz a nod.

So I’m not crazy.

Where the hell was this smell coming from?

Fitz gestured for Ace to proceed to the open door of the town hall. The wooden door was hanging off a single hinge, flapping in the wind. Alpha team gathered around the front entrance. Fitz held his breath, listening for sounds from inside.

Nothing.

Fitz gestured for Ace to go in. He went afterward, with Lincoln watching their backs. They found themselves in a wide room with folding chairs scattered across a wooden floor.

At the front of the room was a table that had collapsed, legs broken. A handful of other seats were tossed about behind it. Long streaks of blood crossed the floor. Dark, crusted handprints marred the walls beside gaping holes punched into the drywall. Scratches along the floorboard showed clear marks where the Variants had been.

The single bathroom and a door leading to a kitchen told Fitz this place had served not just as a place for town meetings, but also a location for community gatherings.

They crept into the kitchen next. Flies clouded the room, buzzing relentlessly. On the counter lay a half-dozen opened glass jars reflecting the moonlight shifting in through the nearby window. A large mixing bowl was filled with the source of the smell—a putrid mix of rotten moldy fruit.

Fitz moved past the scattered pie tins and spilled cans of fruit preserves littering the floor. He noticed a knife on the ground with dried blood crusting the edge. Maybe a desperate, last-ditch weapon.

The three-man team advanced on to another house, and then the school, and finally an office building.

Every place showed some signs of struggle, but if they ignored the blood, it was as if they’d walked into a town where people had just vanished doing their daily chores: baskets full of half-folded laundry and sinks with dishes still soaking in water.

Fitz cursed, trying to think outside of the box. They were basically doing the same thing the SEALs had already done.

He went back to the road to look for tire tracks, wondering if it was possible that collaborators working with the Variants had brought in large vehicles to ship these people somewhere.

But he didn’t see any major tracks. He shook his head. No way they would have missed something that obvious, anyway.

Ace led them toward a storehouse in the center of town when the sound of crunching glass broke over the wind chimes.

Fitz instinctively ducked low, signaling for Ace and Lincoln to do the same. They took cover against the wall of the warehouse.

Another crunch came. It could have been a wild animal. Maybe a raccoon slinking through garbage. But if it wasn’t…

The sound came from behind a house across the street. He signaled for Ace to take one side while Fitz and Lincoln took the other.

They rushed over to the house, running as quietly as they could, then rounded the corner. He leveled his rifle, ready to squeeze off a burst into the wart-covered face of a beast, but there was nothing except for a patio with broken pots spilling dirt and plants positioned across the rail.

Only a few fragments of glass remained in the sliding doors, gleaming in the moonlight, making them look like the maw of some angry monster.

Ace appeared on the opposite side, and Fitz motioned for him to go inside the house. Lincoln and Fitz went through the broken sliding door next.

Toys were scattered over the floor, and a playpen, torn apart, lay in the corner. Bloodstains covered the carpet amid dried brown footprints that looked as if they’d belonged to Variants.

The living room opened up into a hall with toppled bookshelves. Ripped book pages fluttered in the breeze coursing through the place.

At the end of the hall, broken windows opened to the view of the trees outside. Drapes danced along the frame.

He went to turn when something or someone jumped through one of the windows.

Fitz gave Ace the go ahead with a nod, and all three of them stormed over the trampled books and fallen bookshelves, charging down the hall, then leaping out the window back onto the lawn.

Gravel on the driveway crunched under Fitz’s blades as he pursued.

Ahead of them, the contact had just disappeared around the side of another house. Fitz pumped harder, rocketing forward. He made it to the backyard, getting a good glimpse of his target for the first time.

It was a man, covered in dirty, ragged, blood-stained clothes.

A rifle hung over his back.

He looked like he might be a raider.

“Stop!” Fitz said, shouldering his rifle. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

The man kept running.

Fitz gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was actually kill what might be their only clue.

The man looked over his shoulder, then started to run faster as Fitz took off after him. Lincoln had already sprinted down the sidewalk, keeping out of sight. The athletic soldier quickly caught up and tackled their contact like a linebacker.

A crunch sounded, followed by a muffled grunt.

Fitz slowed his pace and aimed his rifle as Lincoln wrestled the guy to his back.

“No!” the man yelled. “Let me go!”

“Who are you?” Fitz said.

The man snarled, baring coffee-stained teeth, but they were all intact, which told Fitz this guy was probably not a collaborator.

“I asked you a question,” Fitz said standing over the man.

He signaled to Ace who helped Lincoln get the guy upright. Dried mud covered nearly every inch of the guy’s face, including an eye. But even through the grit, Fitz could see the deep wrinkles carved into the man’s skin.

No matter how many times Fitz demanded that the old guy tell him who he was, he got nothing but incoherent babbling.

Exasperated, Fitz tried another tactic. “My name is Joe Fitzpatrick and I’m with Delta Force Team Ghost. We’re here to figure out what happened and to help any survivors.”

That seemed to snap the man out of his fugue. He looked down at the ground. “I’m a coward.”

“What?” Fitz said.

“I am a soldier. A good soldier…”

Lincoln and Ace shot each other wary glances.

“You were posted here?” Fitz asked, flipping up his NVGs. “Were you defending the outpost against the attack?”

Now the wheels seemed to be turning in the old man’s head again, he lifted his head slightly at Fitz’s shoulder where the Team Ghost patch was: a skull next to pistols emblazoned against black fabric.

“We never saw it coming,” the man muttered.

Then he lifted his head fully to meet Fitz’s gaze, one eye blinking through the mask of grit. It was then Fitz saw the mud covering half his face wasn’t masking a second eye—the soldier only had one eye.

“I’m Cedric Long,” he said. “I know Captain Beckham.”

“Well, goddamn, ain’t that something,” Ace said.

Fitz vaguely remembered meeting the one-eyed soldier at the White House years ago, but this was not the man he remembered.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric mumbled. “They came out of nowhere. They were just…there. All at once.”

“How?” Fitz asked.

“I don’t know,” Cedric said, starting to rock. “I ran. I ran, and I didn’t look back. Escaped with one other guy. But the beasts found us, too. Took him… and… and…”

He bit his bottom lip and started to shake. “I forced myself to come back the next day and that’s when I saw them.”

“Saw who?” Ace asked.

“The townspeople,” Cedric whispered.

Fitz looked at Lincoln and Ace in turn.

“Are they alive?” Lincoln said.

Reaching forward, Fitz put a hand on Cedric’s shoulder, but the man flinched and pulled away like he had been burned.

“It’s okay,” Fitz said. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you have to tell us what you saw. We need to know where everyone went.”

Cedric’s remaining eye glassed over as if reliving some horrifying memory.

“They were alive when I saw them,” he choked. “But I think they had wished they weren’t.”

— 7 —

The CH-47 Chinook hit turbulence on the final stretch of sky to Portland, Maine. The vibrations through the bulkheads and howling wind didn’t distract Beckham from his thoughts. He sat strapped in a seat next to Horn who seemed to be shouting every ten minutes over the comms.

“Do we have a SITREP?” Beckham had asked.

Each time the pilots would come back with a negative.

The grid at the outpost was down. No one was answering from the bunker where their families should have been. And even though the first transmissions reported raiders, the lack of communication since made Beckham fear it was a Variant attack, coordinated just like the others.

He pushed aside those morbid thoughts.

Kate and the others were alive, and they were safe in the bunker. They had to be. He could feel it in his bones.

His concern for his family occupied his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the soldier instincts in him. He continued to wonder if there was a coordinated human collaboration effort going on with the Variant forces outside of the safe zones. And whether it had something to do with the election.

Brutal memories flooded his mind of the Great War of Extinction, when Lieutenant Andrew Wood, the former Commander of ROT, had made a deal with the devil by infecting several SZTs with the Hemorrhage Virus.

But Beckham couldn’t bring himself to believe General Cornelius would stoop so low to join forces with the Variants to win the presidency.

Cornelius wasn’t Wood. Not even close. Beckham had met the man multiple times, and he loved his country. He just had a very different idea on how to protect it.

“ETA thirty mikes,” reported one of the pilots.

Beckham and Horn watched the assault team as they made their final preparations. Ringgold had sent some of her best—a twelve-strong team of Army Rangers from the 75th Ranger Regiment who had been reassigned from Fort Benning and now posted near the White House. The men and women joining Beckham and Horn came from First Battalion, Alpha Company. They called themselves the Iron Hogs. From the stories Beckham had heard about them, they had more than earned that moniker, and he was glad to have them along.

Armed with suppressed M4A1s and equipped with night vision goggles (NVGs) they would have no problem taking down whoever or whatever was responsible for this attack.

Especially with the help of Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn.

The retired Delta Force Operators were doing something they hadn’t done in over a year—heading into battle.

The Rangers didn’t glare at his prosthetics like he had experienced in the past with some greenhorns. They all knew who he was and how he had lost an arm and leg.

“Good to have you with us, Captain,” said Lieutenant David Niven.

“Damn honor,” the team Sergeant, a woman named Candace Ruckley, agreed.

“Honor’s mine,” Beckham said. “And let’s be clear: this is your mission. Your team, your orders. Horn and I are just glad to have you all along, especially since our families are down there.”

“We’ll do our best to keep them safe, Captain,” Niven said.

Horn grumbled as he tried to loosen his vest. “Fucking thing doesn’t fit.”

“Too many beers,” Beckham said, trying to cut the tension.

It worked for a split second and Horn grinned.

All trace of jocularity vanished as they made their final preps on approach to the island and outpost.

“We got multiple fires ahead,” said Lieutenant Niven over the comms. “Still no contact with anyone on the ground. Making two passes to ensure we got a clear LZ.”

“Check your gear, and check your buddy’s gear,” Ruckley said. “We’re going in hot.”

The Chinook sailed over the border of Outpost Portland. Two major fires raged in the heart of the historic downtown. Peaks Island, however, appeared dark on the horizon. No fires, or lights for that matter.

Horn palmed a box into his M249 and opened the feed tray cover to lay the belt in. Beckham loaded his M4A1 carbine. Then he checked his Sig Sauer.

“What’s the OPORD, Lieutenant?” Beckham asked.

“I’m splitting us into two teams,” Niven said. “I’ll take Alpha Team to Portland. Sergeant Ruckley will take Bravo to Peaks Island.”

Beckham nodded and clapped a hand on Horn’s shoulder. The man was holding it together, but Beckham could tell worry was eating at him. Horn had suffered the loss of his wife at the beginning of the outbreak eight years ago, and now Beckham knew that same fear.

The chopper lowered over a park at the outpost and Niven hit the button for the rear loading ramp. The ramp hissed open, revealing the orange glow of distant fires. Alpha Team filed out into the night.

As soon as they were clear, the pilots pulled away.

Horn and Beckham stepped up to the open door on their final leg to the LZ on Peaks Island. He spotted the school where Kate taught classes below.

The Chinook headed for the eastern side of the island, between the forested area and the city. They set down in a field north of Brackett Ave with a slight jolt.

Beckham flipped his night vision goggles over his eyes, charged his M4, and was the first out of the troop hold. A wind swept into him, carrying the scent of smoke, but he didn’t detect the sour smell of Variants.

The team fanned out across the field and most of them went prone while the chopper pulled away into the black sky. Beckham and Horn crouched down, scanning for hostiles. The wind died down, but the overgrown grass swayed in the breeze.

An eerie silence claimed the night, interrupted only by the sound of chirping bugs and a creaking of tree branches. There were no air raid sirens like he’d expected. They must have been cut. Their absence sent another chill of fear through him.

Ruckley flashed hand signals and the team moved out, hurrying down the side of the road to the bunker at the healthcare center in the middle of the island. She had studied the map well on the ride and knew exactly where she was going thanks to Beckham’s guidance.

A transmission broke over the comms, and Beckham slowed his pace.

“Bravo 1, this is Alpha 1, we’ve got mass casualties here,” Niven reported. “Looks like a bomb went off. Over.”

That explains the fires, Beckham thought. He looked toward the mainland where the flames continued licking the night.

“No sign of hostiles,” Niven added.

“Copy that, Alpha 1,” said Ruckley. “Negative on hostiles here, too. Over.”

The team pushed on, moving into the outskirts of the residential area and deeper toward the more populated area. A cat darted across the road and into the brush, but the team didn’t even flinch.

Ruckley cut through a backyard to Upper A Street, continuing diagonally toward Hermann Avenue. The group of Rangers moved across a dirt field and approached a broken-down abandoned house that the teenagers often used to drink and smoke cigarettes.

Horn had found Tasha here a few days ago with Timothy. A few weeks before, they had been caught doing the same thing at a rundown park maintenance building, forcing Horn to have a stern conversation with Jake Temper about their two kids.

Ruckley balled her fist. The team moved to cover and hunched down. Beckham did as ordered, but he was itching to move, and Horn was no different. The man stayed in a half crouch, ready to leap.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Horn whispered.

Beckham remained silent. Hopefully the answer was inside the bunker, which could fit the entire town’s population of sixty-two. But in the seconds that passed, he started to worry they weren’t going to find anyone—that Peaks Island had suffered the same fate as Turkey River.

They waited another few beats to look for hostiles, and seeing none, Ruckley gave the signal to advance on the Healthcare Center.

Beckham and Horn ran along the shoulder of the road near the center of the pack of Rangers. They moved to the back entrance, finding it wide open, and the windows shattered.

Bullet holes marked the door and frame.

Ruckley again balled her first.

Horn didn’t heed the command and went right in before she could stop him. Beckham followed his friend into the open door and moved into a hallway, checking his corner and running the wall behind Horn.

They cleared the entrance hall, and then moved to the stairwell that led to the basement where Kate’s lab and the bunker had been built inside an old Cold War fallout shelter.

His heartbeat accelerated.

They took up position on either side of the doorway and exchanged a nod. Beckham saw Ruckley stalking down the hall with her rifle shouldered. He couldn’t see her features, but knew she had to be pissed.

Horn had put the team at risk by charging forward.

But it was too late to back up now.

Beckham gave Horn a nod and moved into the stairwell.

A body lay at the bottom landing.

Horn directed his rifle at the man and moved slowly down the concrete steps. Beckham followed him down, his prosthetic blade clicking on a step.

“Jake?” Horn said, lowering his rifle.

He hurried down to the landing and bent down next to Jake Temper. The man sat with his back to the wall, hand gripping his gut, head slumped against his chest.

Beckham moved past them to check the next corner, his blade and boot nearly sliding in the puddle of blood. But it wasn’t just the blood that made his heart skip. The blast door was blown open.

“I tried to stop them,” Jake mumbled, his voice so low it sounded like a whisper. “Flanked them from behind…”

Beckham moved back to the fallen officer.

“Stop who?” he asked.

“They had masks.” Jake shook his head. “I don’t know who they were, but they were trained…” He let out a moan and winced. “I hit two of ’em, but they had armor.”

“Take it easy,” Beckham said.

“Where are my girls?” Horn asked.

“They’re gone…” Jake whispered, blood drooling down his chin.

Horn shot up.

Beckham also stood and looked up at Ruckley, “We need a medic.”

She nodded, and Beckham put a hand on Jake.

“Hang on man, we’re going to get you help,” he said.

Jake managed a nod. “I’m sorry…” he said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

“You did all you could, Jake.” Beckham stayed with the officer until the medic came, and then he followed Horn into the bunker.

Bloody footprints led down the stairs and into an interior living space furnished with couches and two tables. The red tracks moved into the hallway past the other communal areas, a storage room, a kitchen, and the bedrooms.

Beckham moved faster, fearing that their families had been kidnapped or worse. They cleared two more rooms and stopped at the glass walls of the secured lab.

The open spaces were clear.

Not a person in sight, or a sign of a fight.

“No one’s here,” Horn whispered.

Beckham moved back to the storage room and opened the door. He had helped with the retrofitting of the fallout shelter and was one of a few people that knew there was a second exit here, just in case the occupants needed to escape.

The large room was full of shelving units supporting canned goods, water, and medical supplies. He navigated through the aisles to the back where the escape door was normally hidden behind a shelf. His blade again slopped through a puddle, but this time it wasn’t blood—it was peaches and tomato sauce. The broken bottles and dented cans were scattered on the floor.

Someone had moved the shelf, and in a hurry. The hatch was still open.

“They must have escaped while Jake ambushed the raiders in the passage, before they blew the door open,” Beckham said. He jerked his chin and Horn followed him back the way they had come.

When they reached the landing, Ruckley’s medic was trying to resuscitate Jake.

“Oh no.” Beckham hurried over and bent down.

“Jesus,” Horn said putting a hand on Beckham’s shoulder as Beckham watched the medic work on his friend of over ten years.

Beckham wanted to scream.

The police officer had survived the virus and monsters only to be killed by some raiders. But instead of screaming, Beckham said a prayer, and made a promise to the fallen officer.

I’ll find Timothy and I’ll take care of your boy.

Giving Beckham a moment, Horn waited impatiently at the top of the stairs. Several of the Rangers stood sentry in the hallway as Ruckley spoke to Niven over the comm channel.

The report made Beckham’s blood freeze.

“Multiple causalities at town hall, including children,” Niven reported.

Horn didn’t waste time with words and started off for the exit. Beckham moved to follow, but paused and looked to Ruckley.

“Come on, Sergeant” he said. “We have to find our families.”

***

Kate squeezed Javier’s hand as she pulled him along through the woods. In her other hand she held the strap tight for the AR15 hanging over her back.

“Don’t look back,” she told him.

They led the other twenty escapees away from the bunker. The other half of their group had already scattered to hide in the darkness, but Kate had decided not to go back to the town. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between them and the raiders.

Ginger and Spark led her deeper into the forest, away from civilization. Leaves and sticks whipped past her face as she stumbled through the dark.

“Ouch,” Jenny said.

“Keep moving,” Tasha whispered.

Trying to keep track of the kids, while simultaneously navigating her way through the forest was almost impossible, especially with only moonlight to guide her.

The dense canopy of autumn leaves allowed only faint beams to pass through. All around her the silhouettes of others faded in and out of the shadows.

These people were not trained military professionals, and they were all frightened, which made the journey slower and noisier.

Every breaking branch, every crunch of fallen leaves made her think the raiders had caught up to them. In her head, she could still hear the shots from Jake’s gun and the return fire as she led the group away from the bunker.

If they hadn’t had that door, and if Jake hadn’t sacrificed himself, she feared they would’ve all been dead by now.

“My dad, we have to go back for my dad,” Timothy said, his voice louder than before. The teen was a wreck. He had to have known what those echoing gunshots outside the bunker meant.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” Kate said. “That’s what your dad told us to do, and we’ve got to listen to him, okay?”

It was everything Kate could do to keep her own mind on track.

Someone yelped to her right and hit the ground. Kate ran over to them to see Donna pushing herself up. Bo reached down, but she cried out in pain when he tried to help her.

“It’s my ankle,” she cried.

“Come on, mom,” Bo said. He finally helped her up with the aid of a neighbor, and the group continued moving, making far too much noise.

“Please, everyone, you need to be quiet,” Kate said, loud enough for them all to hear, but hopefully quiet enough that none of the raiders could.

She might as well have been telling the ocean to stop sending waves to the shore. All she could do was pray that the couple of people with guns at the back of the group were ready if the raiders caught up to them.

Without the constant threat of Variants on Peaks Island, people had started to take their security for granted, despite the work Jake, Beckham, and Horn did to train these people. But the last thing they had expected were raiders with training and weapons to match.

She hoped someone would respond to the SOS, but it had gone out hours ago, and still nothing. Beckham was at the Greenbrier, and she had no idea what the situation was in Portland.

Kate pushed forward, heading for shelter. She remembered a three-story building out here where Tasha and Timothy had been caught smoking cigarettes.

The cement and cinderblock structure had once been used as a park management resource building, but she didn’t know exactly where it was.

“Tasha,” Kate whispered. “Do you remember where the old park management building is? The concrete one?”

“I don’t know—” Tasha said. “I can’t see anything out here.”

“I know how to get there,” Timothy responded. “Follow me.”

He veered away and Kate motioned for everyone to follow them in the drip of moonlight. Bo picked his mother up, and carried her.

The crack of gunfire rang out in the distance, and Kate crouched down with everyone else. She turned to quiet Ginger and Spark.

“Help me with them, Javier,” Kate said.

While her son calmed the dogs, she held up her rifle, searching for a target. She was used to saving lives, not taking them. If she was backed into a corner though, given no other choice but to protect herself, the kids, and the rest of the people around her, she knew what choice she would make.

“I don’t see anyone,” Timothy said. He motioned for Tasha and Jenny to get behind him and then brought up his own gun. A few other people sobbed behind a cluster of bushes, but Kate saw more of their friends taking off through the woods.

She searched for Donna and Bo just as more gunfire lanced through the darkness. Muzzle fires flashed through the branches. Several pained screams echoed between the trees.

Another burst illuminated a raider. She lined up her rifle, but the man took off before she could fire a shot, pursuing the small pack that had broken off from their group.

Another volley of rounds blasted through the branches.

“When I tell you, get up, and run,” Kate whispered.

Javier nodded, and Tasha and Jenny did as well.

Kate waited for another blast of gunfire, and then said, “Run.”

The kids swarmed around her as she moved deeper into the woods, throwing her rifle over her back again. She grabbed Javier’s hand tight and nearly pulled him off his feet. The dogs raced ahead, but she could still see them in the moonlight.

She wanted to call out for Bo and Donna, but couldn’t risk making noise. Kate took off through the woods, branches scraping her face, and thorns cutting her pants.

“Are we close, Timothy?” she panted out.

When she got no response, she turned around, but didn’t see Timothy.

“Timothy,” she said quietly.

“He went back,” Tasha replied.

The pop of a pistol sounded.

Oh no… Kate thought.

Timothy had gone to avenge his dad.

A hand pulled on Kate’s sleeve as she tried to think.

“There,” Tasha said. She pointed through a gap in the woods at a structure. There was a single window on each wall of each floor and an empty doorway. The wooden door had long since rotted away, leaving only hinges.

“Go, go,” Kate said.

They bolted for the structure. She made sure the kids got in first, ushering Javier in after them. Other escapees broke through the trees, heading toward their direction. Spark and Ginger growled beside Kate, staring out into the woods. The fur on their hackles stood straight, their tails tucked beneath their legs.

More people came out of the woods. A woman ran toward Kate, blood streaming from her shoulder. Her right arm hung beside her.

A handful of other people were close behind, children in tow. A baby wailed from where it was tucked in against the chest of one of the men.

She scanned them all, realizing Bo and Donna weren’t among them, and Timothy was still out there.

“What do we do?” someone asked.

Kate had only a second to decide.

“We hold here,” she said. “Everyone with a weapon, get ready. If you see a raider, shoot them, but make sure it’s not one of our people.”

The kids and women huddled into the corner of the earth-covered floor and comforted each other. Some stared with wide eyes at Kate and the door.

“Go upstairs,” Kate said. “It’ll be safer up there.”

And easier to defend, she added inwardly, still praying it didn’t come to that.

She counted no more than twelve people that had joined them. So many were still lost out there, scattered by the chaos. Her heart ached, thinking of how frightened Donna, Bo, and Timothy were right now.

But there was nothing more she could do for them.

Kate positioned herself with her AR-15 so she could keep an eye on the woods without being seen. Time seemed to slow to an agonizing lurch as she waited. The screams and yells were growing distant and the gunfire more sporadic.

She felt the adrenaline starting to fade. Exhaustion taking over.

They’d run for so long. Both tonight and well before they’d ended up on Peaks Island. She had always thought they had found safety and security here. That they could forge new lives, rebuild society.

And instead these raiders had shattered everything they had fought so hard to build.

A flurry of gunshots pierced the woods, some of them more of a whistle than a crack. In less than a few seconds, all hell seemed to break loose.

Muzzle flashes lit up the black but then, seconds later, everything went dark again.

Kate strained to see what was happening. A muffled scream sounded. More whistles followed. Then a scream of agony and what sounded like a tree limb snapping.

“Someone’s coming,” said the man next to Kate.

“Hold your fire until you get a good shot,” she replied. Her grip tightened around her rifle. She signaled to another man with a shotgun, and he inched forward.

Kate lined up the sights on the figure.

Another shape appeared.

Then a third.

They definitely held rifles and were advancing low and slow like soldiers.

The question now was whether they were raiders or friendlies.

The only advantage she had was the element of surprise, and the fact they outnumbered the three men.

She steeled herself, thinking of Javier and Tasha and Jenny and all the others upstairs. Closing an eye, she aimed and moved her finger to the trigger. The crosshairs hit the chest of one of the men.

“Kate!” yelled a familiar voice. “Kate, Tasha, Jenny!”

“Timothy?” Tasha called out.

The teenager ran forward, his pistol still in his hand. Two men followed close behind, and when Kate saw the prosthetic leg, she knew it was Beckham and Horn.

She ran out into the night, doing all she could to not drop to her knees and sob out of joy and sadness.

— 8 —

Over an hour had passed since Fitz discovered Cedric. Bravo Team had continued on their mission to uncover what the outpost soldier had seen in the forest. They had moved slowly due to the minefields and other security measures that in some cases weren’t marked at all.

Now they were at the edge of the eastern cornfields, and Dohi studied the fence of trees in the distance. A storm cloud passed over the moon, and the glow retracted from the landscape like the tide receding into the ocean.

A chill ran through Dohi as he considered what Cedric had told Fitz about seeing the people from the outpost. The part about them being partially buried in the forest reminded him of an old Navajo folk story about humans that were pulled into the ground by evil spirits.

Rico stepped up to his side.

“What cha’ thinkin’?” she asked.

You don’t want to know…

Instead of telling her he said, “I’m worried about mines between these fields and the forest, but I don’t know any other way.”

The terrain separating them from the line of trees was covered in foliage, and he didn’t see any warning signs.

“Let’s keep moving through the corn,” Rico said.

Dohi didn’t like that either, but they had no choice.

He moved into the field, doing his best not to rustle the plants. But the task was nearly impossible. A minute into the trek, a sound crackled that sounded suspiciously like the popping of joints.

He held up a fist to listen.

The wind shook the tops of the stalks, and he waited for a shriek to erupt and a Variant to come charging at him.

Raising his rifle, he moved his finger to the inside of the trigger guard.

Come on, he thought. Show yourself.

Squawks and caws suddenly exploded in the distance. A murder of crows took flight, climbing into the air. Their cacophony rose with them as they circled against the full moon before finally settling somewhere to Bravo’s south.

After waiting a few minutes, he continued forward. The leaves on the stalks scraped against his face and snagged on his skin. He scanned the area while he moved, waiting for a Variant to come bursting out with claws spread and sucker lips smacking.

Eventually he could see trees growing near the edge of the corn. A good sign that meant he wouldn’t have to lead his team through any potential minefields.

The wind shifted as he moved. Stalks smacked against each other, creating a whispering chorus of scratching leaves. A blast of carrion odor drifted on the air.

There was definitely something out here.

He halted at the edge of the field. White moonlight bled across the space between the field and the tree line. The smell of rot only grew worse as they pushed into the dark forest.

Elms and oaks towered above Dohi, their branches swaying. Weeds protruded from the carpet of leaves that had already fallen here. Judging from the scent wafting through the crisp air, they were close to whatever Cedric had seen.

Dohi stopped when he heard a scratching. Rico and Mendez heard it, too, and fanned out, keeping low.

They continued slowly through the dense woods. Dohi avoided the rotting logs and dense patches of leaves as best as he could. But even the best covert operative couldn’t help but make noise in a place like this.

A gurgling creek sounded as they crested a hill. Dohi halted at the top to scan the terrain and almost froze at the sight of gray-fleshed Variants, still partially blended with the forest.

He quickly went prone.

Rico crawled up next to him.

“Alpha 1, Bravo 2 here,” Dohi whispered. “We got contacts. Lots of them.”

“Hold your position,” Fitz said. “We’re on our way.”

The Variants were hunched and focused on the ground. Their talons cut into the carpet of leaves. They were digging, throwing fantails of dirt behind them.

It was clear this was the source of the odor.

Dohi peered through his optics to see what they were digging up from the dirt. His heart climbed to his throat when he saw what looked like a human half-buried in a crater of dark earth.

It might’ve been a man, but Dohi could hardly tell. Most of the skin from his chest had been flayed off, revealing bleeding muscle and bone. Some strange webbing was wrapped around his face, masking his eyes.

Strings of long, greasy black hair protruded from between those webs. Blood trickled from bruised, broken lips. A few cords from that webbing seemed to go up the man’s nostrils and into his mouth, giving him a decidedly inhuman appearance.

The man let out a moan as the Variant pulled on him, ripping his flesh.

All around him, the same scene played out. Men and women covered in wounds. Their heads wrapped in that same strange netting, like bloody oversized spider webs. Almost as if the blood vessels inside their bodies didn’t know they were supposed to grow under their skin and had suddenly erupted from the people’s faces.

Judging by the Variants’ frantic attempts to dig them out, the monsters were in a hurry to get the people out of here, which told Dohi this was all recent.

No wonder the SEALs hadn’t found anyone.

The people were underground all this time.

Dohi winced as one of the Variants began tugging on a woman. Red webs covered her eyes but her mouth was partially free.

She let out an agonized moan as the beast sunk claws into her shoulder and tried to yank her from the dirt. It got her halfway out.

The Variant squawked in frustration, shredding her shoulder in the process. Her moan turned into a pained scream only partly muffled by the webbing.

“We got to do something,” Rico said. “Alpha could take an hour to get here.”

Dohi motioned for her to move back down the hill to send a transmission to Fitz. She hurried away and Mendez joined Dohi at the crest of the hill.

They were far enough away that the creatures hadn’t detected them, but Dohi kept his finger near the trigger just in case. He cringed as more people were pulled from the ground.

The Variants began dragging them away. In minutes, the first disappeared over another crest, leaving nothing but blood-covered leaves and dirt behind.

This was the evil sight that had caused the soldier Fitz had found to go mad.

All these people half-buried in the middle of the woods with some kind of strange netting growing around their heads was enough to steal the breath of any hardened warrior, even Dohi.

So many questions circled his mind as the minutes ticked by. Most pressing was what they were going to do now. Alpha was still on their way but one by one the Variants finished digging the people out and took them over the small hill.

Dohi listened to the convo over the channel.

“Alpha 1, Bravo 1,” Rico said from the bottom of the hill. “Variants are moving out with hostages. Pursue?”

There was a beat of silence over the channel.

“Track them,” Fitz said, “but do not engage.”

“Copy,” Rico whispered back.

The last few Variants disappeared with their prey.

Dohi rushed down the hill and toward the creek. He cleared it in a single jump. Mendez and Rico shadowed him. They started climbing up the hill, passing the tunnels where the civilians had been dug out.

But as they made their way up, Dohi noticed something else in the freshly upturned soil. Slimy red tubes pushed up from the dirt like broken blood vessels from a wound in the earth.

They looked like the same growths he’d seen on the people’s faces. Whatever those tubes were, they gave off a smell that was nearly as bad as a Variant.

He led Bravo up to the top of the next hill where he shouldered his rifle, ready to fire. Rico and Mendez spread out between the trees to cover the vantage.

But he didn’t see the beasts.

Shafts of moonlight pierced the forest canopy on the other side.

Not a single one of the creatures or even the hostages was in view. He had seen camouflaged Variants vanish before, but not humans.

Dohi set off to continue the search, wondering if they had gone back underground. He searched the trees, too, just in case any of the beasts had climbed up as lookouts.

Seeing none, he followed the only evidence he could find.

A trail of splattered blood.

It didn’t go far and stopped at what looked to be dark, wet soil, as if someone had just filled in a hole.

The pieces started to coalesce in his head. But even as they came together, he had a hard time believing them.

“Shit,” Rico whispered, her gaze on the trees. “We lost them.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Dohi said. He bent down and prodded the ground with a finger.

“This shit is creepin’ me out,” Mendez said quietly. He glanced up at the trees towering above them. “Where the hell did they go?”

“Alpha 1, Bravo 1,” Rico said. “We got—”

The ground trembled before she could finish. Dohi tried to retreat with Mendez and Rico, but he was hit by a blast of soil that knocked him down.

He landed on his back as a pack of mud-covered Variants spilled out of the hole like ants from a broken mound. They dispersed around him, needle-pointed teeth grinding together, joints clicking as they prepared to attack.

Gunfire burst from Rico and Mendez as Dohi scrambled away. He got to his feet and then turned with his rifle leveled. A trigger squeeze sent bullets punching through the closest Variant. Blood and flesh sprayed out the exit wounds.

The body of the monster flopped to the ground, but another crashed into Dohi. He pushed the creature off and pulled his buck knife, jabbing it through its meaty throat.

Rico and Mendez fended off the others when three more Variants burst from the hole. Dohi rolled to grab his rifle, but a Variant leapt onto his back. It slammed its claws into his helmet, and his head thudded against the ground, blurring his vision.

He rolled to his back, slashing at the beast with the knife still in his hand.

Another hammering fist crashed into his helmet. The blow knocked his night vision goggles off kilter with a crack. Growls and gunfire sounded like they were coming at him from inside a pool.

You have to get up!

Something hot and wet hit his face, followed by what could only be the rancid breath of a Variant. A moment of clear vision allowed him to see the jagged teeth behind wormy lips inching toward his own face.

The beast pinned him down to the soft earth.

All sense of weight suddenly subsided, but it wasn’t until his hand scratched the vertical wall of a tunnel that he realized it wasn’t from the beast letting up.

He was falling!

Dohi tried to brace himself but hit the ground hard a moment later, pain radiating through his back. The beast landed a few feet away with a thump.

Above him, moonlight streamed in the hole they had broken through.

The gunfire and screeches sounded even more distant now, but he wasn’t sure if it was from his pounding head or because the team was retreating.

No, they wouldn’t leave you.

The thought filled Dohi with adrenaline, and he managed to reach up with a trembling limb to put his goggles back into place. When he brought them over his eyes, he saw darkness.

The damn things were busted.

“Rico, Mendez!” he tried to yell, but his strained voice was lost in the din of combat above. Not only that but his earpiece and mic were also busted.

Son of a bitch!

He struggled to move, his muscles tensing at the sound of a snapping joint, followed by a snarling maw. Dohi pulled his knife and prepared to fight when more popping joints and smacking lips filled the dark cavern.

Dohi and the beast that had fallen with him weren’t alone.

***

“We have to hold here until it’s clear,” Beckham told the civilians huddling upstairs. He hated leaving Bo and Donna out there, but without knowing where they could possibly be, he had to hope they would just hunker down and wait.

“I want to go home,” moaned Jenny.

“Soon,” Kate said, reassuringly. She walked over to Beckham who remained to the side of a window, looking out in the darkness with his NVGs.

He couldn’t see any hostiles out there, but there were bound to be more. He and Horn had followed their gunfire into the forest and managed to take down three of the raiders before the other two fled.

Ruckley’s team was out there hunting them, and Alpha team in Portland was still securing the area. So for now, Beckham and Horn had to keep holding position.

Javier hugged him around the waist.

“I knew you’d come back, dad,” the boy said. Beckham patted him on the back of the head and listened to an incoming transmission.

“Bravo 7, this is Bravo 1, do you copy, over?” said Ruckley.

“Copy Bravo 1, this is Bravo 7,” Beckham replied.

“Can you move your injured and meet back at the rally point?”

Beckham looked back at the others. Several had gunshot wounds, and others had injuries that would slow them down.

“Affirmative, Bravo 1,” Beckham said. “We’ve got a lot of people that need medical attention. We’ll be slow moving, but we can make it.”

“Copy that,” Ruckley said. “We’ll be ready for you.”

Horn suddenly went rigid by the door. He pointed to his eyes and then held up two fingers. Beckham turned to Timothy. The teen hadn’t left his corner by the stairs. They still hadn’t told him his father was dead, but Beckham had a feeling he already knew the truth.

“Timothy, I need you to tell everyone to stay put for a second,” Beckham whispered. “Do it as quietly as you can.”

Timothy nodded, then crept up the stairs.

“Boss, they got a hostage,” Horn said. He paused and added, “Make that two.”

Beckham’s stomach sank.

“They’re headed this way,” Horn said.

“We know you’re hiding in there!” boomed a voice. “You shoot, and we shoot your people.”

“You’re out numbered and surrounded!” Beckham shouted back. “Put down your weapons and let the hostages go.”

“Not a chance, asshole!” replied the raider.

Beckham looked at Horn who snorted and yelled back, “Which one of you wants to turn into a spray of pink mist first? You got one minute to decide.”

Brash and garish, Beckham expected no less from Horn. He gave his friend a nod, and then slunk to the building’s single open window in the back, concealed from the raiders’ view, and slipped his rifle out.

Beckham pulled himself through after, landing hard on his blade. Slowly, he made his way to the cover of the woods.

“We want passage off this island,” one of the raiders called out. “Give us a boat and we will let your people go.”

“That’s what you want?” Horn said.

Beckham was almost behind them now. He paused a second, glassing the duo with his optics. He recognized the hostages instantly.

Donna and Bo. The teenager was taller than his captor, but he wasn’t fighting back.

Beckham saw why.

The raider had a pistol pressed to Bo’s temple.

“Radio your army friends and tell them we’re free to go,” said the captor. “Do it, or I’m going to off this kid and his bitch mom.”

Bo moved, which earned him a pistol whip to the face.

Donna screamed, “Leave him alone!”

Beckham moved faster, knowing he had just moments to save them. He was about twenty meters away now, and the raiders still hadn’t noticed him. These grunts weren’t that bright, but whoever had coordinated this attack likely had military or police training.

The attack was far more coordinated than others and made him worry again it was part of something on a much wider scope.

“All right, boys, I’m coming out,” Horn bellowed, keeping the raiders’ attention on him. He took a step out of the doorway and raised one hand. His rifle swung down slightly on the other, giving the impression he was going to let it go.

Beckham snuck behind a bush and got into position.

“Go on now,” one of the raiders said. “Drop it all the way to the ground.”

Bo kicked at the raider hard enough the impact of his boot on bone echoed. The raider’s handgun wavered, pointing upward, as he reached down to his shin. The timing could not have been better.

Beckham took his shot. The man crumpled, and the second raider looked nervously around, trying to figure out where the shot had come from.

Horn started to swing up his rifle, and the other raider pushed Donna aside and fired at Horn. The big man dove to the ground and scrambled away.

By the time Beckham had his rifle on the raider, he had grabbed Donna again.

“Shit,” Beckham whispered.

“I’ll kill the bitch!” the raider shouted. “I’ll fucking kill her!”

He turned his gun on Bo and fired a shot, but Bo leapt behind a tree. Beckham lined up the sights on the raider, but he couldn’t get a clear shot with Donna still in his grips.

Instead, Beckham moved away from his position and charged. He propelled himself forward from the bushes, feeling the springy bounce of his prosthetic blade. The raider took three wild shots at Horn and then at Bo as Beckham hit him from behind.

The guy sprawled forward, releasing Donna. Beckham used his helmet to slam the guy in the nose. A sickening crack sounded.

The second head butt did the trick.

The raider went limp in the dirt, knocked out cold.

Bo held a gun that he must have grabbed from the dead raider. He aimed it at the unconscious man, but Beckham slapped the gun away as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet lanced into the dirt next to the raider’s head.

“Hey!” Bo shouted.

“We need him alive,” Beckham said.

“But he was going to kill me and my mom,” Bo shot back.

“He will get what’s coming to him, but first we need to find out who he is, and who the other raiders are.”

Beckham moved in front of Bo, not giving him the chance to fire on the downed raider. “Lower the gun,” he said.

Bo spat on the ground but did as ordered. He moved over to his mom and wrapped her in his arms.

“You okay, mom?”

Beckham studied her in the green hue of his night vision, checking for injuries. She was shivering, her bottom lip trembling, but she managed a nod.

Bo looked down at the raider again before helping her to the building.

“Bravo 1, this is Bravo 7,” Beckham said into his headset. “We found the last two raiders. Bringing one back.”

“Copy,” Ruckley replied.

Beckham pulled zip-ties from his vest and bent down to the crumpled raider.

Horn trotted over and picked the guy up over his shoulder. The civilians flowed from the building, fanning out around them.

“Stay close,” Beckham said. “We’re going back to the bunker.”

He took point with Ginger and Spark on either side. Having the dogs with him was a comfort, much like having Apollo back in the day.

Beckham kept his optics trained on the terrain. They might have eliminated all the raiders in this pack, but he didn’t know if there were more out there.

Timothy walked up alongside Beckham carrying the pistol his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday. Before Jake had given it to his son, Beckham had helped him carve an engraving on the barrel that read, Never Stop Fighting.

The young boy had already used the gun to kill a raider in the forest when Beckham and Horn had discovered the boy, and so far he seemed to be taking his first kill pretty well.

But having him up here was no good in his emotional state.

“Timothy, fall back and watch the kids, okay?” Beckham said.

“Sure,” Timothy said. The teen dropped back to the center of the pack.

Horn was on rearguard, making sure they weren’t being followed. He and Beckham were both used to skulking through the darkness with a team of trained operatives. But now they might as well have been shepherding a herd of cattle through the woods and praying the wolves around them somehow didn’t notice.

Fifteen minutes later, Beckham spotted the entrance to the bunker. Several Rangers stood sentry, and he motioned for the group of civilians to come out of hiding.

Ruckley met him on the sidewalk, returning from her own search.

“Good to see you, Captain,” she said. Her tone didn’t mask the frustration of Horn and Beckham going AWOL earlier.

“I’m sorry about taking off,” he said. “I didn’t mean to put you and your team—”

“All that matters is everyone’s okay,” she said.

But everyone wasn’t okay, Beckham thought.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Timothy a safe distance back.

“Where’s Jake?” Beckham asked Ruckley in a whisper.

“Who?”

“The man we found on the stairs. Is he out—”

“We moved his body out of view, don’t worry.”

Beckham exhaled, unable to hide his emotions.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ruckley said. She walked away and began handing out orders to her soldiers. The Rangers helped the injured into the bunker.

“I’ll meet you inside,” Beckham said to Kate.

“But dad,” Javier protested.

“Please go with your mother,” Beckham said.

Kate led Javier inside with Horn and his girls.

Beckham walked over to Timothy. The teenager’s face went white like he knew what was coming, even though Beckham hadn’t uttered a single word.

“No,” Timothy said. “No…please…”

He moved away from Beckham and in through the doorway.

“Wait up,” Beckham called out.

Timothy pushed the group and made his way into the hallway. Beckham ran after him, nearly tripping. The boy made it down the stairs and into the bunker before he finally caught up with him.

In the first section, medics and a couple of nurses from Peaks Island were treating those who had already made it to the bunker.

“Where’s my dad?” Timothy said, in a voice shy of a shout. He searched the beds, and then stopped near a large olive canvas curtain separating the triage into sections. Beckham put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Timothy, but your dad didn’t make it,” Beckham said. “He died saving you and the others.”

“No,” Timothy choked. He pulled back the curtain to reveal another section filled with cots covered with white sheets. All anonymous victims of the raiders, masked by those sheets, with only the point of a nose tenting it up at one end or their feet at the other.

Beckham put a hand on Timothy’s arm, but the boy pulled away and set off through the space.

“No, no, no,” he murmured, turning back to Beckham. “Which one is he?”

“You shouldn’t see this,” Beckham said.

Kate joined them in the room and helped Beckham sort through the dead. They found Jake at the back of the room, while Timothy was still searching the other cots.

He looked up and caught Beckham’s gaze, then hurried over to his side.

Beckham held the sheet down.

“I want to see him,” Timothy said.

Kate and Beckham exchanged a glance, and then Beckham pulled back the covering.

“Noooooo,” Timothy moaned. He nearly collapsed over his father, wrapping his arms around his dad’s shoulders, tears streaming down his face.

Kate rubbed his back in the way she used to comfort Javier when he was scared at night. Beckham placed a hand on Timothy’s shoulder.

“Your dad was a great man,” he said.

Timothy nodded, keeping his head on his dad’s chest.

Beckham had seen so many of his brothers-in-arms perish fighting the Variants, but this was something even more heartbreaking. To see Timothy suddenly alone in this world, losing the man that had been his anchor, that had helped see him through since before Operation Liberty during the first months of the war eight years ago.

How many other children were orphans because of these raiders?

Beckham’s sadness erupted into anger.

He managed it by clenching his jaw, and stayed there beside Timothy, seething with rage but doing his best to comfort the teen.

A transmission over the headset Beckham still wore made him flinch. Lieutenant Niven’s voice came over the channel. “We’ve picked up the enemy’s trail, and we’re going after them,” he said.

Beckham looked at Kate. Even though she couldn’t hear the transmission she must have recognized the gaze in his eyes. With a nod she gave him permission to do what he did best—hunt and kill monsters.

— 9 —

Fitz broke through the final row of corn and stopped at the edge to look at the dense forest of oak trees. The canopy of leaves blew in the wind, masking the distant sound of gunfire.

Rain drops bit his face as he kept moving.

He had run all the way from the center of Turkey River after the SOS came in over the comms about a Variant attack, covering nearly three miles in the past thirty-two minutes.

It wasn’t a record pace by any means, but with his gear, and the threat of mines, he couldn’t run much faster, especially without letting his guard down.

Leaving Cedric didn’t help matters, and Fitz wasn’t sure he would be where they left him when they returned. But there was no way in hell he would bring the guy back out here.

Lincoln kept up with Fitz, but Ace fell behind, stopping every few minutes to breathe.

“Go on,” he called out, hands on his knees. He raised one of them, waving to proceed without him. “I’ll…catch up.”

Fitz and Lincoln didn’t waste time. They kept moving into the dense forest, following the sound of gunfire, and the ethereal screeches of dying monsters.

A half mile later, they came up on a hill that blocked their view of the forest. Fitz balled his hand, and slowly moved up the slope, leaves crunching under his blades.

Ace finally caught up behind them, panting like a wild boar.

“Holy shit,” Fitz said, staring at the scene of carnage.

Rico and Mendez stood in the middle of it, surrounded by a red halo of dead beasts.

“Come on!” Fitz said.

He hurried down the hill and set off across an area of holes seeping the Variants’ noxious, rotten odor, but stronger, like it had been distilled and hyper-concentrated.

“You okay?” Fitz whispered.

Rico and Mendez both nodded but kept their rifles up, still roving the barrels for contacts. Lincoln and Ace joined them, weapons also up.

“Where’s Dohi?” Fitz asked, keeping his voice low.

Rico simply pointed at the ground.

Fitz crept to the edge of a gaping hole and peered over the edge. The full brunt of the carrion smell made his eyes water.

Moonlight illuminated a patch of the tunnel covered in webs of strange tissue stretching across the soil. He bent down for a better look.

A Variant the color of an earthworm came bursting from the tunnel, knocking Fitz backward. Vessels bulged under its skin, ropey muscles tensing.

Fitz brought up his rifle and shot it in the head.

The beast fell limply to the floor of the tunnel, landing with a thud.

The other team members huddled around, all of them looking down.

Fitz tried Dohi on the comms. Nothing came back but static.

He pushed his NVGs away from his eyes and flicked on the tactical light mounted to the bottom of his gun barrel. The others did the same, angling the light into the tunnel. The drop to the bottom appeared to be about ten feet.

“We’re going in there, aren’t we?” Lincoln said.

Fitz nodded.

“Shit.”

Fitz and Rico helped lower Ace down first. Then Rico dropped in with Mendez and Fitz following. Lincoln came last, his boots smacking against the mud-filled tunnel floor.

Maybe it was an illusion, but the red vines and webbing looked like they were actually pulsating. Fitz moved quietly, taking it all in.

The tunnel appeared to have a diameter of about ten feet and seemed to travel north, winding so he couldn’t see the end. The southern end was blocked by piles of fallen soil and rock. While the walls and ceiling were curved, the floor seemed to be pounded nearly flat.

What in the hell kind of twisted Variant engineering was this?

He had seen tunnels, especially in Europe. The worm Variants had burrowed under the cities. But as far as he knew, they’d never made it across the Atlantic. And from his experience, they didn’t leave behind this webbing.

No, this was something entirely different.

The only tunnels he had seen in the states were manmade. This…this was beyond anything he experienced.

A wail broke the silence, and a Variant came bounding into the tunnel. Five tactical lights hit the beast as it moved, digging claws into the red tendrils stretching over the walls and ceiling like a spider web.

It practically galloped toward them on the ceiling, using the tendrils to move.

“Ace, take it down,” Fitz ordered.

“I got this ugly son of a…” Ace said, his voice silenced by the boom of his shotgun.

Bits of the tendrils flew away with the shot as the Variant leapt away unharmed. He pumped the weapon and fired again. This time the buckshot found a home in its skull, erasing all former human features in a fine pink mist.

The corpse slammed against the muddy floor, kicking up wet muck.

An angry roar echoed through the tunnel from seemingly all directions. The team turned to search for the source.

Ace bumped into Mendez.

“Watch it big guy,” Mendez said.

“Get out of my way, dude,” Ace shot back.

“Take it easy,” Fitz said. “Watch your zones.”

That smell of rotten fruit seemed to waft off the red webs covering the walls as their beams flitted through the black. He had no idea what it was, but it sure as hell looked like something Kate would be interested in seeing in the lab.

Right now, though, lab samples could wait; Dohi could not.

The roars faded away, leaving them in silence.

Fitz waited another moment before giving the advance sign.

They followed the winding tunnel, darkness swallowing them except for the patches illuminated with their beams. Every surface was covered with the same gruesome webbing. The hairs on the back of Fitz’s neck stood straight, almost as if they were passing through an electric current.

Variant shrieks echoed, but sounded distant, like they were moving away from the team. The monotony of the massive tunnel was interrupted for the first time with an intersection. The team halted, the faint echo of their movement fading away into silence. Fitz heard something dripping to the right.

“Which way?” Rico whispered.

A human scream to the right provided their answer.

Ace took point, and the team moved in behind the large man and his shotgun.

The tunnel they entered next looked like it had been dug by a group of human-sized moles. It was wide enough for them to walk through three abreast and tall enough no one had to duck down. The red vines were even more dense, covering every surface, even the ground.

Now Fitz was almost certain some of those webs were pulsing. He caught Rico and Mendez studying the webbing, but Ace’s shotgun never strayed from pointing straight ahead.

The tunnel curved back and forth slightly, bending just enough to prevent them from seeing what lay beyond each turn. The squawks and growls carried through the narrow passage, but the echo made it difficult to determine distance.

Whatever this strange place was, there was no doubt that they had uncovered how the Variants entered this outpost. The sensor systems wouldn’t have caught anything invading the place from underground.

Ace curled around another corner, then swiftly turned back, signaling contacts.

Dohi? Fitz mouthed.

Ace shook his head.

“Watch your fire zones for hostages,” Fitz whispered.

They inched around the corner, picked out targets and, all of them but Ace, opened fire. The suppressed barks of their rifles echoed as they cut down several beasts that had been taken off guard.

Those that survived the initial onslaught didn’t turn around to attack like Fitz had expected. Instead, they bolted into the darkness.

Fitz flashed an advance signal.

The beasts ran up the sides of the tunnel and scurried across the ceiling, their claws and talons digging into the dirt around the webbing.

Variants faded in and out of their beams, disappearing around the corner.

The team slowed as they approached. Ace went first, moving into a straighter tunnel.

“Clear,” he said.

Fitz went next, spotting dirt falling from the ceiling like sand trickling in an hourglass. He directed his flashlight beam on the feet of a Variant just as it disappeared up a vertical tunnel.

For a fraction of a second, he debated climbing up the webbing to pursue the beast. If the webbing could hold a Variant, it could sure as hell hold him. But that would also expose him and the team to even more untold danger.

Variants had the advantage when it came to climbing. And trying to fight a Variant that had the upper ground in a place like this was even more of a nightmare than this mission had already turned into.

Another human yell echoed down from the chimney-like tunnel. It didn’t sound like Dohi, but if it was a civilian being taken away, then there was a damn good chance that’s where the Variants had Dohi, too.

“Ace, get—”

A loud rumble interrupted Fitz. The tunnel seemed to shake. Fitz’s blades nearly slipped from under him. Then the ceiling of the tunnel behind them began to collapse, dumping rock, webbing, and dirt.

“We have to go up!” Fitz yelled over the din.

The other end of the tunnel was collapsing too. They would be buried alive down here if they didn’t move. This must have been what happened to the half-buried humans Rico had described finding on the comms. The tunnels the Variants had transported them through had broken down around those people.

And Fitz didn’t want to be next.

Dirt showered him as he moved. Some of the webbing came loose, slapping over his face. He had to pry the sticky red strands off.

God only knew what was waiting for them up top, but Fitz decided facing a few swinging Variant claws was better than choking on dirt for the last few minutes of his life.

Ace slung his shotgun and started climbing. Mendez followed with Fitz and Lincoln covering them. The collapsing ceilings were closing in from both sides.

To Fitz it was like being trapped in the throat of a giant creature trying to swallow them whole. He followed Lincoln up into the vertical shaft, using the webbing. Lincoln moved fast, quickly ascending, but Fitz strained to propel himself up.

His blades weren’t so good for finding footholds. He managed to get purchase by jamming them in the side of the wall. Then he levered himself upward and stabbed them in again.

The walls thumped below him, dust booming up into the shaft.

Fitz coughed but kept moving.

A hand reached down, and he looked up to see Lincoln. He reached for the man’s fingers, but they were still short by more than a foot.

The ground beneath Fitz rose, threatening to swallow his feet, the rumbling earth shaking his bones. Dirt started to break free from the vertical tunnel.

Rocks and dirt clods smacked into his face and body. He tried to take that last step up, pushing to close the gap between his fingers and Lincoln’s.

His blade wouldn’t budge. He’d embedded it too far into the dirt wall and now had to bounce on it, trying to break it free. The dirt around the blade moved, but he couldn’t get it out.

Fitz grunted and shoved down on his blade with all his strength, digging a small cavity in the wall. He yanked it free, then lunged upward. His fingers met Lincoln’s and the man pulled him up, the earth rising around him as the tunnel collapsed inward.

On all fours above ground, Fitz gasped for air. He wiped the dirt covering his face, seeing they were in the woods.

“Anyone got eyes?” Fitz managed between pants.

“Negative,” Ace said.

Fitz listened for a second with the others, desperate to hear the cries of the Variants or the screams from the hapless humans they had kidnapped.

“Dohi,” Fitz tried one last time over his comm channel. “Dohi, do you read?”

Static came back again.

Fitz looked back down at the collapsed tunnel and considered the reality of their situation. They had lost their best tracker and a good friend.

They had no evidence he was alive. No tracks, no discarded equipment, or a transmission. He picked up dirt and let it filter through his gloved fingers, his heart filling with dread.

Parts of the red webbing stuck out of the ground where the tunnel had collapsed. He pulled out his knife and sawed off a handful of them, then stuffed them in his pack. They weren’t taking Dohi back with them, but they weren’t going home empty handed.

This shit was weird enough to warrant sending it back to a lab for analysis.

“Bag some of this shit up,” Fitz said. “We’ll need a chopper to come back for Cedric anyway, and we can send some of this back with him. I have a feeling Kate is going to want to take a look at this immediately.”

Maybe there was some clue as to what this was and how the Variants had used it and the tunnel to take out Outpost Turkey River. And maybe, just maybe, it would help them find Dohi at some point, even if it was just his body to bury.

“We going back with these samples?” Lincoln asked.

Fitz wanted to say yes, but emotions had to take a back seat to duty.

“We aren’t going back until we find Dohi and figure out what the hell is going on,” he said.

The team huddled around the hole, none of them saying what they were all likely thinking.

For now, Dohi was on his own.

All it takes is all you got, brother, Fitz thought.

***

The Portland Sheriff Department dual cab truck cut through the night without headlights, but soon the passengers wouldn’t need their night vision goggles. Beckham glanced at the dashboard and confirmed it was almost morning.

They had been pursuing the raiders for the past hour, and he was getting anxious the farther they drove from Portland. The driver of the truck ahead of them reported he could see one of the raiders, but Beckham still hadn’t laid eyes on the person.

Ruckley stared in the front passenger seat, her gaze seemingly glued to the dark road.

“We’re outside the safe zone now,” said the driver. “This is Variant country.”

Beckham saw the posted warning signs by the road, and Horn readied his M249 in the back seat next to him.

“Can’t this truck go any faster?” Horn grumbled.

Beckham strained for a better view as the road curved ahead. Frankly they were lucky they had caught up to this raider crew at all. The assholes had gotten a head start, but several citizens from Portland had followed them and relayed the information to the Rangers.

A voice sounded from Ruckley’s radio, and she pressed the receiver to her ear.

“Wilco,” Ruckley said. Then she spoke over the channel to the rest of the team. “Bravo, we’re turning around. Now.”

The brake lights of the pickup truck in front of them fired, glaring red as it stopped.

“What the hell are you doing?” Beckham said.

“Lieutenant Niven has called off the chase,” Ruckley said. “He doesn’t want to risk going into a Variant hot zone.”

“Fuck this,” Horn said. “Keep going! This is bullshit!”

Horn was still a pressurized boiler about to explode and Beckham didn’t have to know Ruckley as well to see she was just as angry about their orders.

Enough anger and frustration radiated off them all to keep the truck cab hot even without the use of its heater. Beckham was also steaming. They had let the raiders that killed Jake and slaughtered countless citizens get away.

Keep cool, Reed.

Beckham still wasn’t sure what the death count was. But he guessed it was going to get worse when the sun rose and they sent out patrols to locate missing residents in Portland and Peaks Island.

“The piece of shit raider we captured on Peaks Island is mine,” Beckham said.

Ruckley glanced into the back seat again. “I’ve got orders to bring him back to command, Captain. Can’t stop you from interrogating him first, of course.”

“I just need a few minutes.”

Horn nodded. “That’s all it’s going to take.”

The two-truck convoy raced down the highway with their headlights on now. Beckham tried to focus on how lucky their families were to be okay after the bloodshed. But he couldn’t help feeling that their luck was running out.

They rode in silence for the first half of the trip back, but Ruckley broke it by turning around from the front seat again.

“These raiders could have been collaborators,” she said. “Maybe they had something to do with what happened at Turkey River.”

“In Iowa?” Horn replied. “That’s a hell of a long way for Variants and collaborators to coordinate attacks.”

“Captain, you got any ideas on what’s going on?” she asked.

“I was thinking the same thing Horn, actually,” Beckham said. “But usually collaborators don’t use bombs and hunt down civilians just to kill them. They kidnap people and take them to lairs to feed their Variant masters.”

“Maybe they just knew we wouldn’t follow them there,” said the driver.

“I guess they were fucking right,” Horn snorted.

Ruckley turned back to the front seat and lowered her helmet to listen to another message over a private channel.

“Copy that,” she replied, clearly frustrated.

Beckham expected her to fill them in, but she didn’t say anything. He didn’t push the issue. Niven’s reason for turning them around was by the book, and Beckham and Horn couldn’t do shit about it.

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. Twenty minutes later, they turned onto an off-ramp on the outskirts of Portland. Razor wire fences marked the barrier into the inhabited part of the city.

None of the defenses had stopped the raiders.

Smoke billowed from fires in the heart of the safe zone.

For so long, he’d told Javier and Kate they were safe here.

Now, he had to tell his son he’d been wrong, and explain what had happened.

Come on, Reed. You’re lucky you get to explain it to him at all.

There were others that wouldn’t get the same opportunity.

Timothy was now an orphan, and Jake would never get the chance to talk to his son again. The thought sent another surge of anger roaring through Beckham, just as their pickup pulled up in the town’s square.

Dozens of troops and emergency response personnel were on the ground, recent arrivals to help secure the area and help with the cleanup.

White sheets covered the dead in front of Portland City Hall. The first bomb had gone off right outside the glass windows. The front wall was nothing but rubble, glistening with shards of broken glass and pieces of the metal plating where the roof had caved in.

A second bomb had gone off inside the medical clinic after the raiders had taken what they wanted there. As if stealing medicine weren’t bad enough, they had destroyed the city’s emergency facilities, leaving the residents of Portland without a working medical center when it was needed most.

Sick sons of bitches, Beckham thought.

The military had already put up a makeshift tent, and Beckham saw several doctors and nurses working on patients through the open flap. Kate was inside, but that was no surprise.

Beckham and Horn followed Ruckley and the other Rangers toward the police station without stopping.

Multiple generators powered lights set up around the staging area, casting a carpet of light over the devastation. Beckham stepped over broken glass and charred metal, and his blade splashed into a puddle of blood.

He looked down to see a severed hand missing several fingers. The remaining finger still wore a wedding ring.

The rest of the body was under a sheet a few feet away judging by the stump of a wrist sticking out. A group of civilians carried off the dead and loaded them into the back of a pickup truck.

One of the men dropped a corpse and bent over, vomiting on the street.

Beckham felt sick to his stomach, too.

All of this senseless death and for what?

The raiders could have taken what they wanted.

Why slaughter so many innocent people?

There had to be more to this story and, in a few minutes, he was going to talk to the one person that knew the answers.

Lieutenant Niven stood outside the police station talking on a handheld radio. He looked at Beckham as he approached.

“Yes, Captain Beckham is here,” Niven said into the radio. “Yes, I’ll let him know.”

Beckham halted, anticipating more bad news.

“Captain, Master Sergeant,” Niven said in turn. “That was Command. Got an update from Team Ghost at Turkey River. They found some of the missing townsfolk. Apparently, the Variants dug tunnels and used them to get inside the perimeter without being detected.”

“And that’s how they got the people out, too, without leaving a trace aboveground,” Beckham said, more of a statement than a question.

“Sounds that way,” Niven said. He paused a moment, looking tense.

The pit at the bottom of Beckham’s stomach started to give way. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Sergeant Yas Dohi is MIA.”

“Son of a bitch,” Beckham whispered. Things kept getting worse. “What about the rest of Team Ghost?”

“They’re back at the outpost waiting for reinforcements,” Niven replied. “Sounds like Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick sent a sample of webbing from the tunnels that he wants the white coats to look at.”

“Boss,” Horn said, jerking his chin. He was anxious to see the raider, and so was Beckham.

“We’d like to have a chat with the prisoner,” Beckham said.

“Be my guest, but don’t rough him up too much,” Niven said. “I need him in one piece for Command.”

Horn mumbled something under his breath and followed it up with a snort.

“Sergeant Ruckley, escort them please.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Beckham followed her into the lobby. A lantern lit the desks and closed office doors beyond the reception area. They proceeded to the hallway and down a stairwell which led to the cells in the basement.

A single Ranger stood guard outside the main door.

“Sergeant,” he said.

“Open it up,” she replied.

The man unlocked the door and stepped aside.

Ruckley went first and stopped two strides in.

“What in the actual fuck?” she said.

Beckham moved past her, stopping at the sight of the raider curled up on the floor. Flesh had melted away from his face. The rancid smell forced Beckham to hold a sleeve to his nose.

“Guard!” Ruckley shouted.

The Ranger that had been holding sentry duty rushed in.

“What the hell happened?” Ruckley asked.

The man shook his head. “I… I don’t know, he was fine when I checked thirty minutes ago.”

Beckham and Horn moved over to the old school barred door. The lock sizzled, and strands of a clear hardened material hung from it like strands of solid glue.

“The hell…” Horn said.

“Don’t,” Beckham said to the guard who held up a key.

The Ranger backed away.

“Variant acid.” Beckham was intimately familiar with the gunk that had taken his leg and part of his arm. It only took a small amount to do extreme damage.

Horn pulled his skull bandana up over his nose. “Dude must have had some hidden away, and it backfired.”

Niven joined them in the basement a few moments later. He paced and put a hand on the back of his head. Then he looked to the guard and yelled, “How the hell did this happen, Rollins?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Rollins said. “I thought I searched the guy really well…”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niven said. He stopped pacing, straightened, and drew in a breath. “What a goddamn mess.”

Beckham didn’t know what to say. All he knew was the only man that could have answered their questions was dead.

Sick to his stomach, he left the Rangers in the basement and hurried up to the medical tent with Horn. Over twenty people, some of them gravely wounded occupied the cots.

Kate was busy working with two doctors on a guy in the middle of the room. The man was laying still on a table and, judging from the sheer amount of blood on the ground, he was in pretty bad shape.

Beckham took a seat on the curb to wait. “I want to talk to Kate before we go find the kids,” he said.

Horn pulled out a cigarette. “I figured as much.”

Frantic voices came from inside the tent, and from the words Beckham picked up, it sounded like some unlucky patient was going into cardiac arrest.

Horn took a drag on his cigarette and offered it to Beckham, but Beckham waved it away. The distant glow of a new sunrise warmed the horizon.

Despite the view of a new day, his heart continued to pound from anxiety. There were too many questions in his mind.

“Hell of a few days,” Horn mumbled. “Things could have been worse though.”

“It could still get worse, Big Horn. I got a bad feeling about all of this.”

The voices in the tent trailed off, replaced by the sporadic moan or cough of a patient. Kate stepped outside a few minutes later, removing her surgical gloves and tossing them into a bin. Then she pulled her surgical mask down and let out a long sigh before she saw Beckham.

“Kate,” he said.

“Reed,” she hurried over and threw her arms around him. “Did you catch them?”

“No, and the raider from the island is dead.”

Kate pulled away with a confused look. “What? How?”

“He had Variant acid. Must have backfired when he tried to use it to escape.”

“What was he doing with that?”

“Good question,” Horn said. He blew the smoke skyward.

“Do we have a death count yet?” Beckham asked, looking at the tent.

“No but it just went up by one,” Kate replied without turning. “We just lost McComb.”

“McComb?” Horn said. “As in Senator McComb?”

“He was speaking at city hall when it was hit by the bomb,” Kate said.

Beckham swallowed with realization. He knew it could just be a coincidence that the Senator was here during the attack, but it was hard to believe when looking at the bigger picture.

This definitely wasn’t a random raider attack. These guys weren’t just here to steal shit and sow a little chaos. They had known about the location of the bunker on the island, which meant they had an inside source, and they had known McComb was going to be here.

They also had a clear connection to Variants with the acid, which led him to believe they were collaborators.

“Maybe that prisoner told us more than we thought,” he said.

“The acid?” Kate asked.

Beckham nodded. He grabbed her and pulled her tight, looking at the rising sun. Earlier, he could have bought the raiders weren’t working with the monsters and that they were escaping into the Variant zone just to hide.

But not now.

In this world, Beckham had learned coincidences were never just coincidences. Whoever these guys were, they were connected to the monsters, and he had a feeling the only way to unravel this mystery was to return to the hell where the demons dwelled.

— 10 —

The road sign pocked with bullet holes made S.M. Fischer smile every time he drove past.

Is this heaven? No, it’s Texas.

Whoever had hung it years ago had scratched out the word “Iowa” and replaced it with the Lone Star State. Nothing against the Midwest or Iowa, but there wasn’t anything like the Texas Panhandle. Fischer would have happily shaken the hand of the fellow that had mounted the sign.

He drove his truck solo this morning, but his men weren’t far from sight. Three pickups led the way toward the site of one of his damaged oil derricks.

It was one of those mornings that he needed time to think and contemplate. He had started it early, getting up before dawn to map out his day.

He turned his black dual-cab Ford F350 down a rust-colored dirt road and eased off the gas to give the truck ahead some room.

The golden glow of the morning sun continued to rise in a cloudless ocean of blue. He took in the sights cautiously, recalling why he had stayed here after losing his wife.

When he was a child, his parents had sent him to a good Christian boarding school back east. They had a second home in upstate New York where he had eventually met his wife.

During the summers, he had returned to the ranch where he spent dawn to dusk outside riding horses, driving dirt bikes, and hunting for wild hogs with his father’s .357. That same handgun was still nestled in his hip holster.

Those were some damn good memories.

Now he felt like most of his time on the ranch was spent hunting for Variants.

Rolling brown hills rose to the west, but the land to the east was flat and green. Portions of old fences lay on their sides beside the dusty road. He didn’t bother having them fixed. There was no point in keeping cattle out here anymore. The Variants would kill them all, and he didn’t have the men to watch the herds.

The three-thousand heads he did own were in barns not far from his house. The only way the monsters could get to them were through electric fences and his guards.

They had tried in the past, and they had failed every time.

But after the attack on several of his derricks the other night, he was starting to wonder how long they could hold them back. The Alpha had been a smart son of a devil. Who knew how many more were out there like it that would encroach on his land in search of food?

The convoy of pickup trucks pulled off the dirt road, parking along the shoulder. Fischer maneuvered behind them and then killed the engine. He jumped out, and his most trusted guards, Tran and Chase, got out of the truck ahead. They both wore black fatigues and black baseball caps with the red double F logo.

Tran carried an SR-25, and Chase had an M4A1. They nodded at Fischer and flanked him on the walk to the fence. The derrick was on the other side of a hill.

The dozen men started out on the path, their rifles up and ready just in case any Variants had returned to finish what they started.

At the crest of the hill, Fischer saw that there had been no need to return.

He had grown up earning his keep by working on the derricks during the summers when he was back from college, long after his days of playing were over. His father had, in turn, paid for his education.

He knew enough about the technology to know when his engineers were right or when they were just being lazy.

This time, they were right. The derrick was done for.

“Son of a bitch,” he said, spitting into the dirt.

The skeletal oil derrick was completely blackened and bent at the top.

That brought his count from ninety-five derricks down to ninety-three. It wouldn’t hurt production dramatically, but he couldn’t afford to keep losing more. Employing so many men and investing in tools and weapons to fend off the Variants rang in at a heavy price.

At least they had capped the wells before too much oil was burned off.

“Did we recover any bodies?” Fischer asked Tran.

Tran shook his head.

“I doubt we will,” Chase said. “My guess is they’re just bones now.”

He glanced at his watch and then took one last look at the derrick before turning away. He needed to scope out the other one and then get back to the ranch to prepare for his meeting with General Cornelius at noon.

“Tran, ride with me,” Fischer said. Before his meeting, he wanted to talk to Tran again about his thoughts on the General.

The four-pickup convoy headed back on the road to the second damaged rig. This one was in plain sight from the road. After putting the truck in park, Fischer used a pair of binoculars to survey the damage.

“We got this one capped faster,” Tran said from the passenger seat. “You think we can get it back up and running?”

“Maybe,” Fischer replied. “I’m just not sure if we can recoup the cost, especially since the engineers say they’ve got about a fifty-fifty shot at getting that thing functional. Might be better to just strip it of parts and…”

His words trailed off when he saw movement.

“Sir?” Tran said.

“You see that?” Fischer whispered, a chill running through him. He zoomed in on movement on the right side of the derrick.

Something was hunched over.

Tran rolled down the window and brought the scope of his SR-25 up to an eye.

“Oh shit,” he muttered. “It’s a Variant.”

Fischer opened the door and exited the vehicle.

“Sir,” Tran said, meeting him at the front of the truck. “You should stay inside.

The other men all got out, shouldering their rifles and aiming at the beast in the distance. Fischer calmly reached out to Tran.

“Relax, and give me your rifle,” he said.

Tran reluctantly handed it over, and Fischer pulled the bi-pod down. He positioned it on the hood of the truck and lined up the sights on a gruesome scene that made him cringe.

Two human corpses lay in the dirt. But it wasn’t the dead engineers the Variant had all but consumed that repulsed him—it was the charred right side of the creature.

Blistering black flesh peeled back to reveal bulbous red tissue the color of a ripe watermelon. The burns extended to the head, covering most of the skull and patchy, melted flesh that had once been its ears.

No wonder it can’t hear us, he thought.

“It’s not going to miss this, though” Fischer said aloud. He steadied the sights, aiming for the head, moved his finger to the trigger, and pulled. The round found a home in the creature’s skull, blowing out a spray of burned flesh.

The monster collapsed over the body of the dead engineer.

Fischer pulled the rifle off the hood and handed it back to Tran.

“Put the bodies of the men in the back of my truck,” Fischer ordered.

He got back in his F350 and waited as his men worked, forcing himself to watch them carry the remains back with them.

Chase was right.

There wasn’t much left but bones.

A few minutes later they set off for the ranch. Fischer still wanted to have that talk with Tran about General Cornelius, but a new sight caused him to delay those plans again.

“Is that a chopper?” Tran asked.

Fischer looked at the dashboard clock. It was only ten in the morning. He wasn’t late for his meeting.

Cornelius, or whoever this was, was early.

Fischer sped around the other trucks and pushed the pedal down, increasing the speed to eighty miles an hour. The vehicle and its oversized wheels easily handled the rough terrain.

They hit smooth gray concrete over the next hill, and he gunned the engine to one hundred miles an hour. The mile long stretch of road had cost him a pretty penny, but he liked to greet his guests with smooth roads to remind them where they were when they arrived, and what they were leaving when they departed.

The Fischer ranch was a castle in the middle of what had once been the Wild West. The property, with its many barns and multiple buildings, was more than fitting for his oil empire, and it was equally fitting for a meeting with the man many thought would be the next President of the country.

Soon, Fischer would make his own determination.

The chopper landed in the field on the other side of the circular drive. Fischer parked and watched the men getting out of the bird. Keeping low, they hurried under the blades, all but two of them wearing fatigues.

He spotted Cornelius among them. The tallest, with a mane of white hair, the General was the type of guy that stood out in a room, commanding attention. He wore a crisp uniform that seemed immaculately clean for the current state of the world.

Dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat, Fischer was hardly ready for a meeting with the potential leader of the country, but he honestly didn’t care all that much. He wasn’t the one asking for money today.

Fischer got out of his truck and considered telling his men to drive it, with the bodies, away, but it was too late.

“Mr. Fischer,” Cornelius called out.

Fischer walked out to meet the man, smiling but not too widely. He was a businessman and didn’t want to look over eager. Entering negotiations with a poker face was one of the first things his dad taught him.

“You’re early, General,” Fischer said. He reached out and shook the man’s calloused hands.

“My apologies, but a lot happened last night and I wanted to meet with you before I head out east,” Cornelius replied.

Fischer motioned for Cornelius to follow him toward the house.

“Perhaps if you get elected you could move the government down here,” Fischer suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to leave the best state in the Allied States and you would have prime access to the most productive oil fields to fuel your small army. Don’t tell me you aren’t interested in them.”

Cornelius let out a laugh. “Perhaps, but I’ve got a lot of other things on my agenda first. Although, you’re right. My plans include cooperation with Fischer Fields.”

A waft of rotting flesh drifted through the air. Cornelius put a sleeve over his mouth and nose as he passed the truck with the corpses.

“Sorry about that,” Fischer said. “We were surveying the damage to my derricks and found some of my men that had been out there a while.”

Cornelius lowered his hand. He didn’t seem disturbed by the gory sight.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Fischer,” said the General. “You weren’t the only one that got hit. Something is happening at the outposts and safe zones. Things that I’m sure President Ringgold wants to keep quiet.”

Fischer remained standing by the pickup, his curiosity piqued.

“Ringgold is a smart woman,” Cornelius continued. “I like her and Vice President Lemke. They’re good people, but they’ve proven they don’t have the strength to protect the country.”

Cornelius looked back at the corpses in the truck. “Letting the Variants take over the abandoned cities is a strategic failure. Those cities are ticking time bombs waiting to explode. It’s negligence like that is leading to the increase in attacks, like the ones on your ranch.”

There was anger in the general’s voice. Fischer had heard about the general’s temper.

Anger wasn’t necessarily bad if it was controlled. But if the general was the type that let emotion get in the way of a sound decision, that was a problem. Someone leading the country needed to be cool and levelheaded, especially when facing threats like this.

“That’s why I’m here to make you an offer in return for your support,” Cornelius said, the edge no longer in his voice.

Fischer didn’t speak too loudly. He didn’t want his men to hear the offer just in case Fischer didn’t end up accepting it, although he had a feeling whatever it was, it would beat what little Ringgold had done to protect his oil fields.

***

The morning after the attack, Kate had gone straight to the lab to test the samples rushed in by a helicopter from Outpost Turkey River. Horn and Beckham were outside with several Rangers, and the kids were back at the shelter for survivors in downtown Portland. Knowing Beckham was close and her family was safe helped her focus on the questions.

There were hundreds of thoughts on her mind about the attacks, but she tried to keep them all about science. Her job wasn’t to figure out who the raiders were or how the attack on Portland and Peaks Island was connected to the other attacks—her job was to find out what was going on in those Variant tunnels.

A musty odor hung in the lab, contrasting sharply with the sterile hospital smell that usually pervaded the space. Half of her working area was strewn with individually wrapped pipette tips, syringes, and broken beakers.

Muddy boot prints tracked across what had once been a clean white-tiled floor. Kate brushed aside the cardboard boxes of disposable syringes where they lay scattered on a lab bench.

Normally, she would’ve been bothered by a single pipette negligently left on a lab bench instead of in its stand or a stray disposable nitrile glove left hanging outside a trash can. But today she had no choice but to work in the filth, hoping that the raiders hadn’t taken everything she would need for her experiment.

Perusing drawers and cabinets with doors askew, she searched for cell culture supplies. She pulled out a plastic sleeve of cell culture dishes. She could’ve sworn she had had more in stock.

In the freezer, all her one-liter bottles of red liquid cell media were gone. As were the bottles of bovine serum to supplement that media.

What in God’s name did raiders need cell culture supplies for?

Maybe they’d mistaken them for medicine of some kind. Thankfully she still had a few half-used bottles of media with serum already added in her 4-degree Celsius refrigerator.

Cell culture dishes and handheld electronic pipettes at least had not been stolen. Most of the antibiotics she kept on hand for adding to cell cultures were gone, of course. No surprise there.

That was okay. As long as she was extremely careful, she could minimize the risk of contaminating her culture dishes.

Sitting on the bench in front of her was a cooler-sized Styrofoam container with the samples that had been sent to her from Fitz. She lifted one of the ten milliliter plastic tubes from the container.

The red matter in there—whatever it was—had apparently been living just fine in dirt tunnels bored through the ground by the Variants outside of Outpost Turkey River.

If this stuff had been living in those tunnels, what harm was a little bacteria from the lab anyway?

Looking across the lab space to the smaller room where the biosafety cabinets were, the place looked empty. Not for a lack of debris and lab supplies. But Kate found herself thinking of Doctor Pat Ellis, her old laboratory partner. He’d been with her for several years before he met his tragic end.

There was still a hole in her heart for the man who’d been both a close and valued coworker and friend. Now she had to do this alone.

She missed Ellis, but especially today. All the death and destruction had peeled back the scabs of time, reopening old emotional wounds.

She took the plastic culture dishes and pipettes to one of the biosafety cabinets, inserted them under the protective glass sash. A bottle of pink, pre-warmed liquid cell medium went in next.

“Let’s see what Team Ghost found,” she whispered to herself.

Holding the plastic sample tube in one gloved hand, she unscrewed the cap with the other, placing it on the metal surface inside the biosafety cabinet.

Images of the scenes inside the medical tent flashed through her mind. Still fresh, she could practically feel Senator McComb’s pulse stopping under her fingers again, smell the coppery scent of blood, and hear the cries of the wounded and the frightened.

She blinked away the memories and exhaustion, willing herself to wake up. The dregs of adrenaline that helped her through the night faded. She needed every bit of brainpower left in her reserves, and it had been so long since she really sat in a lab like this to work on Variant-related research.

But history had a vicious way of repeating itself.

She used a pair of stainless-steel forceps to pull a thin strip of the red webbing from the plastic tube. Dangling in the air above the cell culture dish, it could have been a thinly sliced chunk of steak for all she knew.

Her fingers trembled as she held the forceps, examining the sample.

You got this, Kate.

But in her mind’s eye, she saw Timothy standing over his dad again. That look on his face. The pain no child should have to endure. Losing both parents like this. Growing up alone.

The trembling in her fingers traced down the length of the forceps, and the red webbing nearly slipped out. Holding her breath, she gently deposited the tendril into the cell culture dish. Next, she filled the dish with cell media from one of the bottles in the refrigerator that hadn’t been stolen. Hopefully it would get the tendril to grow, using a pipette.

She continued the process. It was work that any decent lab tech—or even a novice student in biology—could do. Yet now, it felt like the hardest thing she had done in her life.

But Kate worked through the pain and anguish like she always did and managed to set up all the samples. She would let them grow and observe their phenotypical changes and behavior. Once she placed the cell culture dishes back in the incubator, she prepared a microscope slide with another razor thin piece of the webbing.

Kate found it hard to believe that this living material had covered those tunnels like Team Ghost had described. When she’d first heard of it, she had figured it must be some kind of fungus. That would explain how it could evidently grow so fast, especially in an underground environment like that.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

She took the prepared slide over to an inverted light microscope. Peering through the scope’s eyepiece showed her doubts had weight. Most of the tissue seemed to be made of long, striated cells. Clearly mammalian. Between them grew other spidery cells that connected to each other through tendril-like growths that looked suspiciously like dendrites.

If she didn’t know any better, she would say those spidery cells looked like nerves. And all the others around them might be myoblast or fibroblasts—muscle cells or connective tissue cells.

Cells like that didn’t grow outside of an animal or human though. At least not that she knew of. With the Variants, it seemed all the rules of nature had been broken or bent.

The trick was figuring out how the cells grew like that, and if these cells had some kind of secrets that would help them find Dohi or prevent another Turkey River event, then she was determined to uncover them.

She made a note to check her supplies for the antibody kits she would need to perform proper tissue characterization assays on these cells. It might be a few days before she got the proper supplies if she was missing anything.

Team Ghost would need her results to have some idea of what they were dealing with in the tunnels. Dohi likely didn’t have time to wait for robust experiments. Assuming he was still alive.

Whatever clues might be in these samples needed to be found now. There was no time to do every experiment in replicate and put each hypothesis through a battery of tests.

She would have to go with her gut on this one. Move forward with her hypothesis and verify later. So for now, she would operate as if these cells were indeed a mixture of nerve and muscle cells.

But if they were, the question was why?

And, nearly as important, what kind of creature grew these types of cells?

The dark round spots of nuclei inside them were readily apparent and there was no thick, square-like cell wall holding them together. Definitely not plant or fungus derived like she had originally thought.

As she studied the cells, she noticed something peculiar. Some of the nuclei were actually dividing in front of her eyes. And as they did, so too did the cytoplasm—all the gooey parts inside the cells.

That couldn’t be possible…

She blinked, half-tempted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, taken by exhaustion. Sure enough, when she stared back through the eyepiece, she saw that the cells were in fact dividing.

They weren’t just dividing—they were growing. Odd, considering the slice she’d prepared for the slide wasn’t in perfect physiological conditions like the cell culture dishes in the incubator.

Mammalian cells just didn’t do a good job growing unless they were in the right temperature, humidity, oxygen levels, and nutrients. Yet here these were, not only dividing, but spreading across the slide rapidly.

“This can’t be…” she whispered.

Ellis would have loved seeing this.

She stored the slide in a culture dish and kept it on the table next to the scope, too afraid to simply discard it. Before she threw it out, she made a mental note to douse this thing in acid or burn it, just to make sure it didn’t start growing from a landfill or something. Then she went back to the incubator, pulled out one of the cell culture dishes, and placed it on the microscope’s stage.

She didn’t even have to look through the eyepiece to see that the cells within that dish had already adapted to their environment. The tissue sample pulsed wildly, contracting and expanding randomly throughout the strand.

When viewed through the scope, the images there only confirmed her suspicions. Those cells she thought were myoblasts were moving. Just like cardiomyocytes, the cells that automatically contracted and released to maintain a person’s heartbeat.

What frightened her even more was seeing that as the cells pulsed, they continued to divide. It looked like she was watching a tumor grow in time-lapse images. Only instead of taking weeks or months for the tumor to become malignant and spread, it was happening in seconds.

Kate’s stomach sank as she peeled herself away from the scope. The Variants had tested her knowledge and understanding of biology from the very start. Now it was as if they were toying with her and torturing her with the unknown.

But she would not be tricked.

If these biological samples contained the clues that would stop whatever happened at Outpost Turkey River from spreading, she would crack the code.

— 11 —

Everything hurt.

That was the first thing that made its way into Dohi’s dulled consciousness. Sharp pain radiated through his elbows and throbbed along his spine. His mind seemed to be trapped in a dark pool.

Maybe his body, too.

He couldn’t see anything but black.

Fear joined the pain, and adrenaline churned through his vessels.

The grogginess fogging his mind faded, and he felt his limbs again. Something was dragging him over the ground. The rush of blood helped activate his senses, and the memories flooded him with the events at Outpost Turkey River.

Variants had ambushed him, and he had fallen into a tunnel.

Everything after that was a haze.

There was no easy way to tell how long he’d been out or how far he had been dragged. His headset and night vision goggles were busted to shit. His rifle had been lost in the fray.

Slowly he felt near his hip. At least his M1911 was still in its holster. Thankfully, so was the tactical light on his utility belt. If he stood any chance of escaping, he would need both.

That was going to be very difficult judging from the huge claws wrapped around one of his ankles. While he couldn’t see the beast, he could tell right away this was no ordinary grunt Variant.

At least not judging by the heavy thwack of its footsteps and the bellowing, huffing breaths it let out.

Suddenly the creature let out a high-pitched squeal and a series of clicks.

A Variant answered in the distance.

The abomination dragged him deeper into the tunnel. The squawks and clicking of joints echoed.

Without the luxury of sight, Dohi concentrated on his other senses.

The rotten fruit odor of the creatures overwhelmed him, especially the stink of the monster dragging him along. If he let his fingers relax, tracing along the tunnel floor, he could feel the moist earth and more prominently the stretchy webbing that he’d seen before he’d fallen into the tunnel.

Every time he made contact with the organic material it made the hair on his arm stand straight. The air itself left a biting, cruel taste on his tongue, making his stomach roil. Almost as if he had taken a long swig of chunky spoiled milk.

He tried to focus on counting the number of Variants but the agonized cries of the other human captives made the task difficult. He guessed there were at least half a dozen grunts marching in front of the monstrous knuckle-dragger pulling him along.

Maybe he was thinking about this the wrong way—maybe this was a break and the bastards would take him right to their nest. If he could escape, he would have the location of this lair and the rest of the people from Outpost Turkey River.

But escaping was going to be next to impossible down here.

He went back to using his internal compass to try and track the path just in case he might have an opportunity. The path seemed to wind and curve so much, it was difficult to maintain any semblance of proper orientation.

The longer he was dragged, the worse of a beating he took. His mind struggled to maintain focus, and he couldn’t tell if he’d gone unconscious again or if time passed differently in the inky darkness.

In truth, he had no idea how long he had been down here.

A piercing scream suddenly echoed down the tunnel, followed by the unmistakable splatter of blood. The clamor of squawking Variants exploded through the murk.

Something primal roared in Dohi. Pure instinct, ingrained by years of evolution, prepping him for a flight or fight response.

Another human scream blared, cut short by a tearing sound.

Then a thump. Like a body falling, followed by another, lighter thump. Dohi imagined a headless body hitting the ground and a horde of Variants consuming the meat.

A moment later, the monstrous creature pulling him halted.

Dohi tried hard to control his breathing.

The beast gave him a single tug, inching him forward slightly.

Another human shrieked.

That’s when he made his move.

With all his strength, he yanked his boot free from his captor. The monster was caught off guard and jerked backward as Dohi pulled his M1911 from its holster and with his other hand pulled out his tac light.

He flicked the flashlight on and spun on his captor, bringing the handgun to bear in concert with the light’s beam.

Time seemed to slow.

The tunnel around him was nearly twice as tall as Dohi, and the beast before him took up most of that space. An ape-like face with exaggerated, pointed features rotated in his direction. Huge nostrils flared, and its lips tore back to reveal a set of curved fangs. Large, bat-like ears fanned off the side of its face, and its wide, webbed claws were caked in dirt.

Dohi had expected the creature to stare him down—or maybe, if he was lucky, throw a clawed hand in front of its eyes to shield itself from the sudden blinding light.

But this Alpha didn’t even move away from the beam. It was then he realized its milky white eyes weren’t even looking at him. Suddenly the high-pitched squeals and clicks made sense. The beast was using echolocation, perfectly suited for the tunnel.

Dohi didn’t waste another second and pulled the trigger.

Click.

“Shit,” he muttered.

The beast simply tilted its head, not realizing how lucky it was that his gun hadn’t fired. Muscles rippled down the length of its body, and some kind of viscous goo coated its smooth flesh.

Claws large enough to go straight through Dohi’s chest and out the other side protruded from its fingers. Thin tendrils sprouted from its spine. Each of those fibers seemed to prod at the webbing along the tunnel wall.

The beast released another high-pitched shriek.

Now he was fucked.

Dohi quickly pulled the slide back to chamber a round and pulled the trigger as the beast homed in on him. Two rounds buried in its barreled chest.

He kept the beam aimed on the creature as he fired. Blood and bits of clear goo flecked off in the light.

The other Variants in the tunnel dropped their human captives ahead. In the glow of his beam, he noticed humans stuck in the red webbing. The strange growths seemed to spread out of their open mouths and eyes.

Dohi had no time to make sense of the horrific scene. The Variants charged around the Alpha.

One of the monsters flung itself into the air, claws outstretched.

Dohi fired twice into the creature’s center mass, sending it sliding across the tunnel floor. Two more trampled over their dead comrade, and Dohi took them out in quick succession and then put a round in the Alpha’s skull, sending it hunching against a wall.

He quickly pushed himself up and limped away, changing his magazine while he moved. Every step hurt, each tremor rocking through his bruised bones.

Palming in the mag, he turned and raised the gun and light at the pursuing Variants. He squared off another shot that slammed into the head of the lead monster.

Two more darted past and he took them both down with shots to their T sections. The giant Alpha roared behind them and then lumbered forward on all fours, using its wide claws to help propel itself forward like a gorilla.

Dohi sent another shot straight through the chest of the last grunt Variant. The beast crumpled, tumbling headfirst into the webbing. The Alpha careened forward stomping the dead into the mud while letting out another piercing screech.

The long fibrous growths tracing along the red webbing tensed.

Dohi could almost feel the air explode with electricity.

He pulled the trigger again, sending a bullet punching into the Alpha’s chest that resulted in a raucous roar. It seemed to absorb the impact.

Another trigger squeeze and the slide locked.

The pistol was empty, and he was out of magazines. He had lost his buck knife in the fall with his rifle. All he had to defend himself with were his hands.

Those fight-or-flight instincts kicked in again.

This time he chose the latter of the two.

Dohi ran using his light to guide him through the tunnel. Webbing snagged at his boots and shoulders, and he broke through the sticky vine-like growths. The earthen corridors branched. He took random turns, no idea where he was headed.

Grunts and squeals resounded through the tunnel as the beast used echolocation to track him. But even when Dohi was far out of what he judged as the beast’s effective sonar range, the monster still pursued.

That left only a few other possibilities. Scent being one of them, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the webbing also had something to do with it being able to track him.

He pictured those fibrous growths sprouting from the Alpha’s spine and tracing the webbing. Running wasn’t going to help him escape either of those things.

He stopped around another bend and placed his hand between the gaps in the webbing. Easily his fingers pressed through the muddy soil.

Maybe…

He turned around and stretched the webbing over himself. Then he slowly squirmed backward into the mud. With his hands, he smeared it over his body in cold, wet globs. As best he could, he dug out a shallow cavity in the wall.

The stomping of the Alpha grew closer. Squeals erupting down the tunnel.

Mud slopped around Dohi’s shoulders, and he squeezed it over his helmet, into his hair, and over his cheeks.

Another high-pitched shriek echoed down the tunnel.

He flicked off his flashlight and stuffed it into his pocket. He was almost certain the Alpha couldn’t see, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

The ground trembled.

The beast wasn’t far.

Dohi sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The tunnels were already steeped in darkness, but he couldn’t help the natural instinct to make every bit of him disappear in that mud under the web.

The clicking grew louder. The beast couldn’t have been more than a yard or more away now. Massive feet slopped along the muck, and a rolling growl sounded.

Dohi could smell rancid breath, but he kept his mouth clamped shut, the air still in his lungs.

A sniffing followed the growl.

It knows I’m here. It knows.

Another whoosh of rank breath rushed past Dohi’s mud-covered face.

The creature was right in front of him.

Was it toying with him?

His lungs burned, but he held the same breath inside. If he let it out, the beast would tear out his guts.

As the seconds passed his heart thumped harder.

Could it hear that?

The creature growled again.

Then it stomped away, taking off down the passage the way they had come. Dohi waited a few more moments before slowly letting out a breath. He gulped down a mouthful of the tunnel air. Musty and rotten as it was, air had never tasted sweeter.

He stayed in the mud behind the webbing until those clicks and squeals finally went silent. After another fifteen minutes had passed, he emerged from the mud and squeezed back through the gaps in the webbing. He pulled his fingers over his face and through his goatee, flaking the mud away.

With nothing but a flashlight to find his way out of here, he set off, knowing what he had seen had to be relayed to command before another outpost was attacked.

The very future of the country could rest on his escape.

***

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees the day after Team Ghost lost Dohi. They remained at Outpost Turkey River where they had received a resupply in the evac that had taken Cedric Long to command for questioning, and the samples Fitz collected for Kate.

Fitz wasn’t leaving until they had recovered Dohi. Every passing hour, he knew the chances of finding him alive were shrinking.

But Dohi was the best tracker on Team Ghost, a veritable bloodhound. If anyone could survive underground in the Variant infested superhighway it was Dohi.

Fitz checked his team as they continued the search for their lost brother.

Mendez was on point. Lincoln had rearguard, his gaze roving the skeletal trees. Fitz and Rico were between them. Ace wore a large black backpack that held a rugged computer system and battery connected to the long gray tubular instrument he carried.

The tube looked like an old-fashioned bazooka, except that it had an LCD screen glowing up toward Ace. He held it over the ground in front of him like a minesweeper.

When command had learned of the team’s situation, they had offered the perfect solution. Along with fresh ammunition, a group of Army engineers had dropped off an R2TD, or Rapid Reaction Tunnel Detection system developed over a decade ago by the US Army. It used ground penetrating radar to detect tunnels as well as the sounds and activity of people or machinery underground.

Before abandoning some of the cities to Variants after the great war ended, the device was widely used by squads just like Team Ghost.

While operating the device was easy enough, discerning the signal from noise on the detection screen Ace was staring at was more of an art than a science and would require communication with two Army combat engineers.

“Overwatch 1, Ghost 1,” Fitz whispered. “Anything?”

“Negative, Ghost 1,” Lieutenant Scott, the engineer assisting them, replied. “We’ll ping you if we see something. Over.”

For all the magic that the engineers had promised them this R2TD system could accomplish, they had found precious little to show for it. Fitz looked over at Rico with a raised brow. An unspoken question: Can you believe this?

She shrugged back.

For far too many hours, they’d been scouring the forest with only the rustle of the trees to keep them company. They hadn’t found a single tunnel. Nothing to take them to Dohi or the escaped Variants.

He was halfway tempted to try something drastic. Start setting up explosives to blow holes in the earth. Maybe cave in some tunnels and get the beasts to show themselves.

But that was his frustration speaking and it could end up killing Dohi and any other prisoners below ground.

Slow and steady saves lives, Fitz thought.

They approached the crest of another rolling hill, far past the outskirts of Outpost Turkey River’s safe zone. Every step they took was another pulling them deeper into enemy territory.

Ace froze, his eyes on the screen. He motioned to Fitz to join him.

If Fitz wasn’t mistaken, the strange deep blue and black colors appearing in a semi-circle on the screen were what the engineers had told them they would see if they had indeed found a tunnel.

Fitz studied the image for a second, making sure what he was seeing was real.

Lieutenant Scott chimed back in over the channel. “Ghost 1, Overwatch 1. You have a positive read. Tunnel depth approximately one meter down and three meters in diameter directly below your position. Appears to lead twenty degrees east from current course.”

Fitz signaled to Mendez to adjust his route and follow Scott’s directions.

Sure enough the signal on Ace’s radar screen remained strong. Fitz followed, finally confident that they had a trail of some kind.

They still didn’t know if this was the tunnel that Dohi had gone down, but without any other leads, this was the best chance they had of finding some clue as to where their brother had gone.

Ace stopped again, and Fitz checked the screen. Strange shapes emerged there. Green, globular things, almost like spirits.

There were Variants under their feet, and possibly human prisoners, too.

“Ghost 1, slow down,” Scott said over the comm channel.

“Any idea how many targets are down there?” Fitz asked.

There was a slight pause before the Lieutenant replied. “Ghost 1, by my estimate, you’ve got six to eight contacts.”

Fitz did the math. Getting the scoop on six to eight Variants would be tough, but doable. Especially if a couple of those contacts turned out to be captive humans and not Variants.

“Ghost 1,” Scott began, “I’m seeing something strange. Is there any issue with the R2TD system? Like one of the power supply cords damaged or something?”

Fitz and Ace gave the cables and system a cursory glance. But neither of them was as technically familiar with the system as the engineers.

“Negative,” Fitz responded. “At least, as far as I can tell.”

“I’m getting some really weird readings,” Scott replied.

Fitz looked at the screen. A flash of white seemed to illuminate the circumference of the tunnel on the radar readings. “Is it this halo-looking thing you’re talking about?”

“Correct, Ghost 1,” Scott said. “If you’re seeing it, too, that means it’s not just an imaging artifact on my end.”

Fitz wasn’t sure what the engineer meant by artifact, but he didn’t like the sudden nervousness in the man’s voice.

Fitz peered back over his shoulder. The woods around them were mostly silent. Not even the call of the crows that lived in the canopy. Only a few dried leaves brushing against each other.

“The electromagnetic induction system that the R2TD uses can also detect other EM signals,” Scott said.

“In English, please,” Fitz said.

“Electrical wires, communications equipment, all that stuff. If there’s power going through a cable, for instance, it’ll give off a signal like that.”

“And light up the whole tunnel?”

“Negative,” Scott said. “Ghost 1, something’s happening below you. The entire tunnel is exploding in electromagnetic activity. Like, the whole thing is wired or something.”

Fitz wracked his mind trying to come up with any explanation that made sense.

“That webbing,” Rico whispered. “You think—?”

She had no time to finish the thought. A huge green amorphous shape appeared on Ace’s screen. Fitz saw it only for a brief second before the ground erupted, soil and grass flying around them.

The force of the blast sent Ace flying backward. He hit a tree trunk, his helmet cracking against the side and knocking him unconscious.

Fitz managed to level his rifle up as the cloud of dirt fell back to the ground. A beast appeared at the lip of the hole and jumped out, blood seeping out of the dirt-covered flesh.

The monster looked like some muscular mix of a bat and a gorilla. Long fibrous growths stood out of its spine like a porcupine’s quills. It let out a series of shrieking clicks, bulbous head swiveling on its neck.

“Take it down!” Fitz ordered.

The rest of Team Ghost fired as he pulled the trigger.

The beast propelled itself through the torrent of gunfire, barreling straight toward Ace who was still limp on the ground.

Rico tried to move in closer, chewing up the creature’s flank. Lincoln and Mendez followed suit, battering at the creature with gunfire.

The beast started to slow, wounds stitching its side. A long groan erupted from its wormy lips as it reared back a meaty fist tipped with knife-like claws.

“Behind us!” Rico shouted.

Fitz twisted as six grunt Variants emerged from the hole.

He didn’t even need to yell at Mendez and Rico to turn their focus on the beasts.

Fitz finished his magazine, scoring several more hits on the Alpha.

“Help!” Rico shouted.

Lincoln turned to provide covering fire while Fitz changed his magazine. In the seconds it took him to pull out a fresh one and palm it home, the Alpha had reached Ace.

More blood sprayed from the rounds buried in its flesh, and yet the creature still advanced, bending down with a talon tipped claw.

But to Fitz’s surprise, the blades didn’t curl around the fallen member of Team Ghost. Instead they grabbed the long, tubular portion of the R2TD. The beast crunched into the metal, and the device fell apart like it was nothing more than a Lego model.

For a moment, the creature stood there. It let out a breath almost as if it was relieved, blood trickling out of its gaping nostrils and weeping down the front of its chest.

Then it collapsed, the ground trembling from the impact.

Fitz checked his six, seeing the other members of Ghost had cleared the area. Crumpled Variants lay in the dirt.

Rico and Mendez stepped between the fresh corpses of the smaller Variants while Lincoln followed Fitz over to the beast. Another transmission hissed over the comm channel, and he could finally make out the Lieutenant.

“I lost the signal,” Scott said.

Fitz kicked the dirt near the shattered machine and reported the loss. Then he made his way over to Ace, who began to stir, lifting a hand toward his head.

“You good?” Rico said.

Ace managed a nod.

“You sure?” Fitz said, crouching.

“I’ve taken worse hits in my day, boss,” Ace said, as Fitz and Mendez helped him to his feet.

“So what do we do now that we don’t have R2TD to guide us?” Lincoln said.

Fitz found himself missing Apollo right now more than ever. The team could use the dog’s nose, and he considered requesting the army send fresh canine reinforcements to help their search.

But even if they did, that would just take up more time that they might not have to find Dohi.

Fitz walked over to the Alpha and nudged the enormous clawed hand. The beast didn’t move. Blood seeped from its body, soaking the ground.

He stared at it for a moment, wondering what had compelled it to go straight for the radar system, as if it possessed some kind of preternatural intelligence.

“You hear that?” Mendez whispered.

The scratching came a moment later, and Fitz nodded. He ordered Rico and Lincoln to watch over Ace, then gestured for Mendez to fall in with him.

They moved around the side of the Alpha, guns pointed at the hole in the ground where the Alpha and its minions had appeared. A dark shape moved out of the dirt there. Soil-covered fingers clawed at the lip of the hole pulling a body up covered in mud.

Nothing but the white of the creature’s eyes showed.

“Hold your fire!” the creature said in an all too familiar voice.

Fitz lowered his rifle and blinked to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

“Dohi?” Rico said.

She bent down, and together with Fitz, they grabbed Dohi and helped pull him onto solid ground.

“Dude, where the…” Lincoln said.

He and Mendez looked down in the hole, aiming their rifles into the darkness.

Dohi sat up on his knees and wiped his face with a sleeve.

As much as Fitz was thrilled to see his friend, Dohi smelled like he had just crawled out of a sewer.

“Water,” Dohi choked.

Fitz quickly handed him a water bottle.

The rest of the team were all grins, but they didn’t give away their position by calling out in celebration.

Dohi finished off a drink, wiped his mouth, and then looked at the Alpha.

“That monster almost ended me,” he said.

“What the hell is it?” Fitz said.

“Some new kind of Alpha,” Dohi said.

Ace staggered over like he was drunk with blood dripping down his forehead. He cradled his shotgun and stood over the hole, guarding it with the others while Fitz opened a channel to command.

“Hotspot 1, this is Ghost 1, requesting evac. We’ve got a brand-new specimen for you.”

“Copy that Ghost, sending a chopper to the outpost. Over.”

“We got to haul ass back there,” Lincoln muttered when Fitz shared the news.

“Who’s got the rope?” Rico asked.

Lincoln looked at her and then the Alpha.

“You got to be kidding me, we’re taking it with?” he grumbled.

“Yeah, and you’re going to pull it first,” Fitz said.

Mendez chuckled. “You’re such a baby, brah.”

“You help him,” Fitz watched as the grin on Mendez’s face soured.

Working with Lincoln, he helped secure the rope around the Alpha’s legs.

“Damn, look at these paws,” Lincoln said. “Huge.”

“All the better for digging, by the looks of it,” Mendez said.

“Let’s move out,” Fitz said. He led Team Ghost off in silence toward the evac zone back in the walled off outpost. It was slow going, and the team took turns dragging the monster that was basically a tunnel-digging machine.

Fitz held his questions for Dohi, trying to keep quiet, and also give the man some time to collect his thoughts.

“Glad to have you back, brother,” Fitz said.

Dohi hardly reacted, his eyes glazed like he was in a trance.

An hour and a half later the distant thump of a bird sounded.

Lincoln and Mendez dragged the Alpha out toward the landing zone, while the rest of the team scanned the shadows for hostiles. If the Variants were going to attack, this would be the time.

But the beasts remained hidden, and the chopper set down, the crew hopping out to help load the Alpha. The crew chief passed a new headset to Dohi.

After Dohi drank another bottle of water, Fitz finally figured it was time to ask him some questions, the most obvious one coming first.

“How’d you find us?” Fitz said.

“I followed the gunfire and the screams.”

Fitz was so tired he hadn’t even considered it. Of course Dohi would have come toward the sound of gunfire, but why had the Alpha come after the R2TD?

That was a question far above his pay grade, but looking at the beast slumped on the floor of the chopper, he imagined someone would be able to figure it out.

For now, Fitz was counting his blessings.

They had Dohi back, and they had killed a beast that might just hold the key to the mystery behind the tunnels and recent attacks.

Today was a victory.

He would savor it as long as he could.

— 12 —

“I’ve got to figure out what’s going on,” Beckham said to Kate.

“I understand why you have to go,” Kate said. “Hopefully President Ringgold will be able to give you answers.”

He had expected Kate to protest, but if the bags under her eyes were any indication, she was too exhausted.

Voices outside brought him to the window of the historic brick and stone hotel that was now serving as a shelter for the survivors of Peaks Island.

The room his family had been assigned was small, but nice, with two bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a kitchen. It wasn’t their comfortable home back on Peaks Island, but it would suffice until they could return.

Outside a platoon of Marines patrolled the streets. They had deployed all across the country at affected outposts per President Ringgold’s orders. Beckham felt much better about leaving now that they were here. Especially since Kate also had Sergeant Ruckley and her Ranger team assigned to protect the lab.

Kate pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Headache?” he asked.

Kate nodded and sighed. “Tired.”

Beckham was, too, but at least he could sleep on the ride to command.

“You promise you’ll try and get some sleep now?” he asked her.

She placed a hand on her forehead. “If I can…but not until tonight. I’ve got to get back to the lab. I just wanted to see you off and make sure Javier and the kids are okay.”

Beckham hated seeing her like this, but she had duties to their country just like he did, and she took them just as seriously.

“Has that sample that Fitz sent back been helpful?” Beckham asked, anxious to hear about it.

“Helpful is a generous word. I’ve only had the day to analyze it, but so far, I’ve got more questions than answers.”

“Do you at least have some idea what that stuff is?

Kate pulled her hand away from her head. “This is going to sound crazy, but it looks to me like mammalian muscle and nerve cells. They seem to spontaneously grow at an alarming rate… Faster than even cancer cells.”

Beckham knew just enough about science to know that was weird. “I didn’t think cells like that could just grow outside an animal’s body.”

“Normally they can’t,” Kate said. “There are a whole bunch of reasons why they shouldn’t be able to grow like they are. Most obvious is the lack of nutrient and oxygen delivery, along with a working immune system.”

“So you’re telling me those tunnel walls are alive?”

He thought she was going to shrug, but after a slight hesitation she nodded.

“Not literally,” she said. “The cells are. Those vines are. But not the tunnels. Still, the longer I examined the cells under the scope, the more red and white blood cells I found. There seemed to be small vesicles, too, to deliver those cells.”

She stepped closer to the window. “Whatever this growth is, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“This has to have something to do with Outpost Turkey River, don’t you think? The missing people.”

“Probably. My guess is the Variants are using people as food and energy, like fodder for the cellular growths. Hard to tell right now though.”

Beckham swallowed hard at the implications.

“With the sheer number of nerve cells in there, I’d have to guess it’s some kind of massive sensory organ or something,” Kate said. “How exactly it works—or why—I’m still not sure. But that’s what I hope to find out. Only way to do that is go back to the lab.”

She gave Beckham a hug, holding him tightly for a moment.

“It feels good to have some work to do,” she admitted with her head to his chest. “Spending time in the lab has made me miss Ellis even more though. He was a close friend, no denying that, but I could also use a hand or two on these experiments. It’s a lot for one person to do.”

“I’d be surprised if Ringgold doesn’t already have plans to send help your way. If she doesn’t, I’ll request it.”

“I wouldn’t say no to that.” She pulled away and took in a deep breath. “I just hope whatever is happening, we can stop it.”

“Dohi is alive, and the Alpha the team killed might help us figure out what’s going on. Everything is going to be okay.”

“Maybe for us, but not for everyone. Not for Timothy.”

Beckham brooded at her words.

She was right.

Timothy’s life would be forever changed.

“We’ll take care of him,” he said.

Kate simply nodded.

“We survived the war,” Beckham said. “We’ll survive whatever this is.”

Whatever this is… he thought.

The limited intel he had right now wasn’t much, but it led him to believe that the attacks at the outposts were the start of something much bigger and widely coordinated. That’s exactly why President Ringgold had requested his council at command to meet her and Team Ghost.

But it wasn’t just soldiers that would win this new fight. The work Kate was doing in her lab was also important.

The thump of a chopper sounded in the distance, and a Black Hawk crossed over the city, putting down in a green space a few blocks away.

“My ride is here,” he said. “I better get moving so I can say goodbye to Javier and the kids.”

He walked away from the window to grab his rucksack and rifle, but she grabbed his prosthetic hand.

“Reed, we still haven’t talked about Senator McComb,” Kate said.

“I know…but that can wait. For now, the more important thing is figuring out who is behind these attacks and what those tunnels are used for.”

“But what if President Ringgold asks you to run for Senate again? With McComb gone, she’ll be even more desperate to find a good candidate.”

“I won’t make a decision without talking to you first, I promise.”

He threw his pack over his shoulders and slung his rifle. Then he opened the door and reached for her hand. She gripped his prosthetic on the walk to the stairs. Several doors were open along the way, one of them to the room Donna was sharing with her son.

Beckham paused at the open doorway. “You guys doing okay?”

Donna managed a half smile, but he knew it was forced. She limped over to the door, her ankle wrapped. Bo wore a tank top that showed off his muscular body.

He seemed fine, despite the bandage on his head.

The two had been through so much in the past decade. Once again, they were victims of war, and if it weren’t for Beckham and Horn, they would have ended up like Bo’s father, Red.

A memory of the large man fighting the Bone Collector on Plum Island flashed through Beckham’s memory—the same beast that had killed Staff Sergeant Alex ‘The Kid’ Riley.

“Your ankle okay?” Beckham asked Donna.

She directed her dull eyes at him and nodded.

All of the torment she had suffered had taken its toll.

Beckham wasn’t sure if Donna would ever come back from the darkness, but he believed there was still hope for her son. Bo still had a sparkle in his gaze. Like most kids, he was resilient.

“I heard that raider died in the police station.” Bo crossed his arms as he continued, “You should have let me take care of that piece of garbage in the woods.”

The spark Beckham had seen a few moments before seemed to grow. But instead of the optimism and hope Beckham had expected, it was replaced by rage.

“We needed information from him,” Beckham said.

“Did you get any?” Bo asked.

Beckham shook his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

Bo snorted and muttered under his breath.

“I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you both soon,” Beckham said. He nodded at Donna and then did the same to Bo. The teenager nodded back and walked away, fists still clenched, knuckles white. “Just wanted to make sure you were doing all right.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Kate said. “I’m right down the hall.”

“Thank you,” Donna replied. She slowly shut the door, whispering something to Bo that Beckham couldn’t make out.

Kate frowned and Beckham let out a sigh. They made their way down the stairs to the lobby. The place was packed with their fellow refugees, all friends and neighbors, from Peaks Island.

Beckham said hello to a few people but hurried outside. Horn stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette, a rifle slung over his back.

“Where are the kids?” Kate asked, holding up a hand to shield her tired eyes from the sun.

Horn pointed with his cigarette at the park across the street, “Figured I’d let ’em run a bit.”

Laughter came from behind several trees in the park. The sound was the last thing Beckham had expected to hear, but it was a welcome one.

He followed the drifting giggles to the park with Kate and Horn. On the other side of the trees, they found Javier, Tasha, and Jenny playing with Ginger and Spark. The dogs rolled in the grass and chased a bone Javier threw.

But not everyone was enjoying the sunshine and dogs.

Timothy sat on a bench, staring into the distance.

“Better keep a close eye on him while I’m gone,” Beckham said.

Kate folded her arms across her chest, looking at the young man with concern. “I will. He’s staying at the shelter until things are secure on the island, and then we’ll have to figure out if he’s going to stay with us.”

“Like I said, we’ll take care of him,” Beckham said.

Horn flicked his cigarette on the ground. “He’s welcome to stay with me, too.”

“We’ll figure it all out.” Beckham shrugged his pack higher on his shoulder. “I’ve really got to get to the bird now.”

“How long you going to be gone?” Horn asked.

“Hopefully not more than a day or two.” Horn smothered the cigarette with a boot. “You sure you don’t want me to come?”

“I want you to stay here and keep watch over the home fires,” Beckham said.

“You got it, boss.”

Javier spotted them then and came running over. He wrapped his arms around Beckham.

“Look after your mom for me while I’m gone.”

“I will, Dad.”

Javier ran back to the other kids, and Beckham made his way over to Timothy. The teenager looked up as he approached.

“How you doing?” Beckham asked.

Timothy didn’t reply.

“I’m really sorry about your dad.”

Timothy didn’t respond to that either, but he did look at Beckham’s fatigues, rucksack, and weapon.

“You going somewhere?”

Beckham pointed to the chopper waiting in a field a few blocks away. “To SOCOM on the USS George Johnson.”

“Can I come?”

“You have a more important role here,” Beckham said. He jerked his chin at the kids. “I need you to look after everyone like your dad did.”

Timothy glanced around. “I want to fight, not play babysitter.”

Beckham understood where he was coming from. Just like Bo, Timothy wanted to fight back. Wanted revenge for what he’d lost. But neither of the boys were ready or even trained to fight the raiders or Variants.

“When I get back, you, me, and Bo are going to sit down to talk about your futures,” Beckham said. “Until then, please watch after things here for me. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Timothy replied. He got up and followed Beckham over to the group that had huddled around the dogs.

“I’ll see you all soon,” Beckham said. He finished his goodbyes, patted Spark and Ginger, and then he set off for a new mission.

The pilots and crew chief waited for him in the grass outside the Black Hawk, eating a snack of local produce a few citizens had brought them.

“Captain Beckham, good to have you with us,” said one of the pilots. He climbed back into the cockpit, and the crew chief jumped into the open troop hold.

“Captain,” he said, handing him a headset.

“Thanks,” Beckham said.

A few minutes later they pulled into the air.

Beckham looked out the window to the quaint city below, seeing the hotel turned shelter for refugees from Peaks Island and the Marines and Rangers patrolling the area.

Several Humvees and a MATV sat parked in front of the police station. Despite all their firepower and armor, they hadn’t been able to stop the raider from burning his face off with Variant acid.

Debris piles and the charcoaled ground outside town hall evinced the night’s destruction.

Beckham closed his eyes and rested his head on the bulkhead.

There were so many questions in his mind; hopefully, in a few hours, he would start to get some answers.

But first, he needed sleep.

***

President Jan Ringgold flew under the cover of darkness in a stealth Black Hawk like the one she had used to escape the attack on the Greenbrier almost eight years ago.

Tonight, she wasn’t escaping anything, but her nerves were still tight like back then. Over the past several days, the situation had escalated from one outpost going dark to three outposts going dark, and three more attacked by raiders.

Her generals and intelligence officers were still piecing things together. By the time she reached command she hoped to have a better idea of what the hell was happening out there.

She had been in politics long enough to know one thing—these attacks would have a dramatic effect on the upcoming election. The violence gave General Cornelius and his Freedom Party plenty of ammo to accuse her administration of being unable to protect the country, which meant more ammo to support bombing the cities and conscripting an army of kids to fight.

Last week, Vice President Lemke had been ahead in the polls. This week the polls would tell a different story. Fear was a powerful motivating factor, and there had been plenty of reasons for fear to spread through the citizens of the safe zones.

She opened her briefing folder to see more numbers. These weren’t polls; they were the number of troops she had at her disposal. Before she left, she had requested the current count from her staff.

Now she stared at them.

These can’t be right…

Twelve thousand and change wasn’t much.

There were ninety-eight outposts, varying in size. If her math was right, and she deployed all the troops equally, there would be just over one hundred and twenty for each outpost to join the current militias there.

Hardly an army.

The Navy and Air Force had about the same numbers combined with just shy of fifteen thousand. But that wouldn’t help at the outposts except by pulling the Special Ops teams like the SEALs.

She didn’t like it, but Cornelius had two thousand of his own men and women in his private army that could be deployed should the need arise. But she wasn’t sure how cooperative he would be given the current political climate and certainly didn’t want to rely on them if she didn’t have to.

Next she looked at the current estimate of Variants in the frontier and living in the abandoned cities. The number seemed like a lot, but it wasn’t a surprise.

Sixty to sixty-five thousand.

The estimate had actually gone down since she saw it last, with scientists arguing the creatures were starving to death and killing each other. There was almost no evidence of any breeding, which was another good sign that their numbers would continue to drop.

The beasts didn’t seem like a huge threat until now, and that’s why she hadn’t destroyed the cities or sent in precious troops to wipe them out. Plus, there was still the hope that someday humanity could reclaim those urban centers, once symbols of their economic and cultural strength.

The idea was to let the creatures die naturally, and only go after the Alphas that ventured out to cause problems at the outposts. The plan had worked well until two days ago.

“ETA fifteen minutes, Madam President,” said one of the pilots.

Ringgold put her briefing folder back into her pack, trying to suppress her worries. She was packing light, expecting to stay on the USS George Johnson only twenty-four hours or less.

Vice President Lemke had remained behind at the Greenbrier’s PEOC. He and Brigadier General Lucas Barnes had insisted she stay there, but she wanted to talk in person to the teams most familiar with the situation.

The soldiers on the ground were always more knowledgeable than the generals about what was really happening, from her experience.

Men like Captain Reed Beckham, whom she trusted more than all of her generals combined. He had served his country in a way few men in the history of the country had served, and now she needed him for a new mission.

With the death of Senator McComb last night, it was time for the former leader of Team Ghost to carry the torch into the halls of Congress.

She also needed his wife, Kate, to figure out what was going on in the tunnels. The couple had done more for America than anyone she knew, and once again, she was asking for their help.

“Prepare for landing,” said one of the pilots.

Ringgold looked out the porthole window. She knew she was over the ocean, but she couldn’t see the stealth destroyer in the darkness. Clouds drifted across the horizon blocking out most of the moonlight and the stars.

A few moments later the wheels touched down with a soft jolt.

The crew chief across from her opened the door, and two of her Secret Service agents helped her onto the deck. A group of Marines ran over to escort them.

General Noah Souza, the SOCOM Commander, waited for her outside a hatch. He was a handsome man with a square jaw, sharp nose, and even sharper green eyes.

“Madam President, good to have you with us tonight,” he said in his rough voice.

“Thank you, General. First things first, take me to that Alpha.”

Souza looked at her security guards, but quickly focused back on her. “Yes, Madam President, but I’ll warn you, it’s pretty gruesome.”

“I’ve seen plenty of dead monsters,” she said.

“That makes two of us,” Souza said. “Follow me, Madam President.”

They went to the lower decks where two Marines stood guard outside a hatch marked with a biohazard symbol. When they saw her, both men came to attention.

“At ease, gentlemen,” she said.

Souza gestured toward the hatch and the Marines opened it to a cold dark room. One of them switched on a light, revealing several metal tables. A corpse lay on the center table, covered mostly by a white blanket.

Huge arms hung over the sides, talons protruding out of thick fingers.

Footsteps echoed down the passage and a man wearing a white lab coat with slicked back hair joined them.

“Madam President, I’d like to introduce you to Doctor Jeff Carr,” said Souza.

Ringgold shook the man’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, President Ringgold,” Carr said. “I take it you want to see our new specimen.”

“Indeed, I do.”

Souza nodded at the two Marines. They entered the freezing room and Carr followed without hesitation. He pulled reading glasses out of his breast pocket, put them on, and then placed a pair of protective goggles over those.

“Let’s give President Ringgold a look at our new friend,” Carr said.

The Marines pulled the blanket back to reveal the grotesque ape-like face of a monster without eyes. Crusted blood lined its wide nostrils, and saggy lips hung over curved fangs. But it was the bat-like ears fanning off its face that sparked her curiosity.

She stepped closer. “Doctor, tell me what in the devil I’m looking at.”

“A new Alpha Variant, Madam President.”

Ringgold kept her gaze on the beast while Carr put on surgical gloves. Then he grabbed a scalpel off a tray and used it to push up a flap of skin covering a tendril on its back.

“This Alpha has strange attributes unlike any I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot,” he said glancing up for a moment. “The huge claws’ purpose seems clear enough: digging.”

He focused back on the tendril. “But these are more interesting. They have some kind of fibers in them. According to Team Ghost, those fibers seem to interact with the webs in all those tunnels. I’m told Doctor Kate Lovato is working on identifying and studying those samples.”

“She is,” Souza confirmed.

“I’d like to talk to her,” Carr said. “Get her opinion on what we’re dealing with.”

“And what’s yours?” Ringgold asked.

Carr looked down at the corpse for several moments before glancing at her. “I think we’re dealing with a deadly new threat that’s been evolving underground right beneath our noses.”

— 13 —

“Beckham!” shouted Rico.

She got up from the metal table and ran across the mess hall of the USS George Johnson.

Fitz pushed himself up fast—a bit too fast. Pain flashed across his back, reminding him of the injuries and damage his body had never quite had the chance to recover from. The soreness quickly faded, replaced by joy at the sight of his friend and mentor. He and the rest of Team Ghost followed quickly after Rico toward his old friend, anxious to talk to the man that had once been the leader of the Delta Force Team Ghost.

Beckham walked toward them with a slight limp on his way to embrace Rico.

Despite his limp and the prosthetic hand, Beckham looked pretty good to Fitz, if not a bit older. His perpetual five o’clock shadow had streaks of gray on his chin, and his hair was much longer. But his uniform was filled out well with hardened muscles.

“Captain, it’s great to see you,” Fitz said. He reached out to shake Beckham’s hand but Beckham wrapped him up in a hug like he had Rico.

“You know you’re not supposed to call me Captain,” he said. “I’m a civilian now.”

“You’ll always be the leader of Team Ghost to me.” Fitz smiled and patted Beckham on the back. “I’ve missed you, my friend.”

“I’ve missed you too, brother.”

They pulled away and Beckham looked Fitz up and down. “You look good,” he said. “Still got that baby face.”

Fitz stroked his chin and smirked. “Still can’t grow a beard, but Rico doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Not a fan of facial hair on myself or others,” Rico said with a grin. That got a laugh from the rest of the team. “No offense, of course, Captain.”

“None taken. Kate doesn’t seem to mind.”

“How is Kate and the rest of the family?” Rico asked. “And Big Horn and his girls?”

“The family is okay. So is Horn and his family…but we lost Jake Temper and twenty-two more people across Peaks Island and Portland in the attack.”

The grins on Team Ghost’s faces all vanished. Fitz said a mental prayer for Jake and the other victims, then quickly regained his composure.

Now was not the time to grieve—now was the time to prevent this from happening to anyone else.

“The raiders bombed Portland, too,” Beckham added. “Senator McComb was one of the victims.”

Fitz reached back up and stroked his chin nervously this time. Not only had they lost one of the best men Fitz had ever known, but they had lost a Senator aligned with the New America Coalition agenda.

“I can’t believe it,” Rico said, shaking her pink-streaked hair.

“How in the hell did they get past the defenses?” Lincoln asked.

“I suspect they had an inside source. They posed as civilians and drove right through gates in pickups,” Beckham replied. “Another group took a boat to Peaks Island.”

“And they all got away?” Mendez asked.

“The only raider we captured killed himself with Variant acid before we could question him,” Beckham said.

Lincoln reared back.

“Those people are worse than the monsters,” Mendez said, brows crunched together.

“That’s because they’re working with the monsters, aren’t they?” Rico asked. “That’s the only explanation that makes sense to me.”

“I think you’re right,” Beckham said. “They seem to be connected somehow, and that’s why I’m here. To find out and plan an offensive before they strike again…”

Fitz got the sense that wasn’t the only reason Beckham was here. It was an open secret that Ringgold had been recruiting him to run for office, and with McComb’s demise, he suspected the meeting with Ringgold wasn’t just a coincidence. But Fitz saved his questions for later. There would be plenty of time to catch up in private.

“You hungry?” Rico asked.

Beckham shook his head. “But I’ll sit with you guys.”

He sat across from Dohi. “How are you feeling, brother?”

Dohi shrugged. “I’ll live.”

“Not going to lie, I thought you were Variant chowder,” Ace said with a chuckle. His upper cheeks above his long white beard turned red when none of the other members found his statement amusing.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Santa Claus with those rosy cheeks?” Lincoln said.

Ace shrugged. “A skinnier version, yeah.”

Fitz frowned. The big guy really needed to learn when to joke and when to keep his mouth shut. So did Lincoln for that matter.

Picking up a fork, Fitz went back to eating his roast beef and mashed potatoes.

“On the flight here, I read your report on those tunnels,” Beckham said. “Most men would never have made it out alive.”

“Those people down there… I hope they didn’t survive, because if they did… Let’s just say hell couldn’t be any worse,” Dohi said.

Beckham leaned forward. “We’ve all seen some pretty horrifying stuff and, before this war is over, we’re going to see more. As painful as it is to talk about, that’s why we need to figure out what these tunnels are and more about the Alpha you killed.”

I just hope it’s not too late, Fitz thought.

“Officer on deck!” came a bellowing voice.

The sailors and soldiers all stood as General Souza and an entourage walked into the mess hall, boots clicking on the deck.

“Briefing room in fifteen minutes,” said Lieutenant Brian Festa, the liaison officer—LNO—from SOCOM.

Fitz grabbed his tray and followed the rest of the enlisted troops and sailors out of the mess in a hurry. By the time they got to the briefing room, the place was packed.

Fitz and Beckham went to the front to stand at a table with General Souza and President Ringgold. Secret Service agents flanked them, along with a middle-aged man in a lab coat that Fitz had never seen before.

While more people filed into the room the President shook hands with Beckham. They turned away from the crowd, speaking somewhat quietly within their group. Fitz was close enough to catch some of the conversation, something about Senator McComb and attending one of her speeches before he made up his mind.

When Beckham turned around, Fitz could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t happy. Fitz’s suspicions about the Senate race seemed to be right.

“Alright, people, let’s get started,” General Souza said. He swept a commanding gaze over the men and women in front of him. “We’ve got a hell of a situation on our hands, so I’m going to cut right to the chase. Three outposts have gone dark from Variant attacks, and three more were attacked by raiders.”

He motioned to Lieutenant Festa. The shorter man with puffy thin hair stepped over to a wall-mounted monitor. A map of the country came online. He tapped the touch screen and pulled up a five-state area.

“Outpost Turkey River, Iowa; Outpost Rapid City, South Dakota; and Outpost Kansas City, Missouri, have all gone dark,” Festa said. “Our recon teams discovered the Variants used tunnels to avoid our defenses.”

Hushed voices broke out in the room.

“Quiet,” Souza said.

Festa waited a moment and then continued. “Three more outposts were attacked by raiders, but they were all on the East Coast. Needless to say, we believe these attacks are all connected.”

Souza picked up when Festa paused. “The pattern of these attacks suggests there is some sort of connected network here in the Midwest. We still don’t know how the Variants are communicating over such large areas or with the human collaborators.”

Festa touched the monitor again, this time bringing up a map of the northeastern seaboard.

“The raider attacks hit outposts in the following areas,” Festa said. “Portland, Maine. New Boston, Massachusetts. Providence, Rhode Island. Casualties are still coming in, but we’re already in the hundreds.”

More voices broke out around the room. The numbers were chilling. After years of only the stray Variant attacks and random raiders, the news was beyond devastating to the men and women that had fought for peace.

Especially President Ringgold.

She stood at the front of the room, stiff and proud. But the pallor that had overcome her face belied her confident posture. She was clearly horrified at what was happening in the final months of her administration. Her entire legacy was at stake, not to mention the future of the country.

“We expect casualties to continue rising, and we’re also preparing for more attacks,” Souza said.

Fitz studied the map on the wall-mounted screen, trying to come up with a theory of what was happening. Unless the Variants had evolved to use radios, and their transmissions were somehow encrypted, he had no freaking idea how they could be coordinating over such a large territory.

“We now believe many of the Variant kidnappings over the past few years weren’t for food,” Souza continued. “Personally, I believe these kidnappings were to create a small army of raiders that were utilized the other night to inflict terror.”

Fitz wasn’t surprised. He had met a few collaborators in his day. Most were batshit crazy after being held hostage by the monsters.

The General paused and looked over at the man in the lab coat. “This is Doctor Jeff Carr. He will be working with Doctor Kate Lovato to figure out exactly what we’re dealing with, starting with the Alpha Variant from Outpost Turkey River and the other samples our teams have retrieved.”

“Thank you, General,” Carr stepped up to the monitor and brought up an image of the beast that the Navy had stored in a freezer a deck below their feet. Fitz had already seen it up close and personal but seeing it on screen still sent a chill up his spine.

“This is an Alpha that no one has seen before now,” Carr said. “Based off our field reports and my research, it seems to use echolocation to find prey. We also believe that the fibers attached to its spine may have something to do with the strange webbing found in the tunnels our recon teams found.

“We’re not quite sure what the purpose of those fibers are. If you should meet one in the wild, any observations are appreciated. Other than that, all I can say is that you should expect the unexpected with these new monsters.”

President Ringgold stepped up. “I was hoping the worst days of humanity were behind us,” she said. “But again, we are faced with another threat to our species.”

Fitz felt a sense of déjà vu and could almost guess what was coming next.

“I’ve decided to send in recon teams for more intel before we mount an offensive or reach out to our allies for help,” Ringgold continued. “General Souza is in the process of putting together teams, and I’ve authorized the deployment of our main fighting force to be evenly distributed to the ninety-eight outposts to help guard them from future attacks.”

Fitz appreciated her proactive approach but wondered if she knew something he didn’t. Deploying all of the troops?

“Operation Shadow will start in a few hours,” Ringgold said.

She swept her gaze over the hardened soldiers, sailors, and Marines.

“Make no mistake, ladies and gentleman, this new threat may be the greatest we have faced since the first days of the Hemorrhage Virus,” Ringgold said. “It will be up to you to help stop it before we lose everything we have fought to rebuild.”

Fitz and Beckham exchanged a glance as two old friends and warriors. Both of them knew exactly what this meant.

No rest for Team Ghost.

They were headed back into the fray.

***

Dohi knelt in the knee-high grass. The blades were already golden, dried by the onslaught of cooler weather striking Outpost Duluth in Minnesota. Between the crushed stalks of grass were the unmistakable taloned footprints of the Variants.

Just like General Souza had feared, the Variants had continued their assaults, reaching all the way into northern Minnesota. This was just the latest attack, occurring only hours after their briefing on the USS George Johnson.

Team Ghost stood in the overgrown practice baseball and softball fields at the University of Minnesota Duluth. The campus had been retrofitted over the years into a fortified outpost, complete with chain-link fences, razor wire, and all the electronic surveillance equipment the military had given them.

Unlike Outpost Turkey River and Outpost Rapid City, the defenses had held, and only a handful of monsters had managed to get inside before they were repelled and forced to retreat.

The emergency alert system the Ringgold administration had provided to all of the outposts had helped, too, and this one knew trouble was coming from the quick acting alert.

But Dohi had a feeling it was really the two platoons of Army Rangers working with the militia that had saved this place from falling.

A group of Rangers were helping treat civilians across the field, some of which had lost loved ones in the fighting. The sobs and cries of pain drifted in the blustering winds.

White sheets covered the bodies of the deceased in neat rows.

Dohi and Team Ghost made their way across the field.

“Who’s in charge here?” Fitz called out.

An Asian man with broad shoulders looked over his shoulder and then walked over to Fitz.

“That would be me,” he held out a hand to Fitz. “Sergeant Randall Chung with the 3rd Battalion.”

“Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick with Team Ghost.” Fitz gestured at the other men and Dohi nodded.

“Glad to have you with us, Master Sergeant,” Chung said. He sighed and gestured to the bodies. “We did what we could, but we couldn’t stop all of the Variants once they tunneled in.”

“Wish we’d gotten here sooner,” Mendez said.

Chung adjusted his chin strap. “You guys have any idea on where all these beasts are coming from?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Fitz said.

Dohi walked over to a hole near home plate while Fitz and Chung spoke. He flicked on his tactical light and shone it down into a passage covered in the glistening red webbing.

The nightmares of what he had seen in those tunnels at Turkey River flashed through his mind. He felt a pang of nausea as images of the half-buried people with tendrils growing from their mouths and out of their orbital cavities passed through his mind.

“You, okay, bro?”

Dohi looked back at Mendez who stood with his rifle cradled. They rejoined the rest of the team at the tail end of the conversation.

“Did the Variants escape with any people?” Fitz asked.

“None that we know of, but we haven’t accounted for all civilians yet,” Chung said.

“Did you see any Alphas?” Fitz asked.

“Caught one.” Chung pointed toward the opposite side of the field where the Rangers had dumped the remains of the beasts.

The team made their way over to corpses riddled with bullet holes, their gray flesh even paler in death. Unseeing reptilian eyes staring up at the cloud-covered sky.

Dohi checked the barreled chest of an Alpha. It was the same type that he had fought at Outpost Turkey River.

“Have your men started searching the tunnels yet?” Fitz asked.

“No,” Chung replied. “We’ve been too busy cleaning up this mess. But we’ve got an R2TD setup and ready to go to look for others.”

Chung motioned to one of the red brick-covered buildings.

“Thomas, Watson, get the R2TD over here,” he called.

Two of the Rangers began setting up the equipment.

“You all used one of these before?” Chung asked.

“I got some experience,” Ace said.

“Then be our guest. It’ll be more effective to have you guys on this one than us. I want to make sure we’re prepared for another attack.”

Ace jogged over to the two Rangers. They strapped the pack over his back and handed him the tube-shaped radar device.

“If we’re going to prevent this from happening again, then we need to find out where these tunnels are coming from,” Fitz said. “That’s the only way we can launch an effective offensive.”

“Whatever it takes,” Rico said.

“Man, we’re going underground?” Lincoln mumbled.

“You ever stop complaining?” Mendez gave Lincoln a questioning glare.

“I mean…not really,” Lincoln smirked.

A cold wind howled over the open field, a harbinger of the winter that was only weeks away, silencing the team. Dohi thought he heard something else on the wind. Like the distant moan of someone in pain.

Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Those images of his time in the tunnels flashed through his thoughts again.

He did not want to go back underground again either but, if Fitz gave the order, he would do whatever it took, just like Rico had said.

“Good luck,” Chung called out.

Fitz led the team toward the edge of the university campus. Chain-link fences and razor wire marked the border. Two of the town’s militia soldiers pulled back a mechanized gate to let Team Ghost through.

Ace studied the screen of the R2TD as they marched south, following the curve of Lake Superior into the city of Duluth.

Houses lined the streets around them. Most seemed to have been vacant for years. Broken glass stuck up in shards around rotted window frames. Some were burned down to their foundations, now nothing more than piles of charcoaled debris.

Ace led them between the lawns of abandoned structures until they reached a wide park with tall trees. Canopies of leaves the shades of fire rustled in the wind.

“Tunnels end here,” Ace said, looking up from his screen, perplexed.

“Not quite,” Dohi said.

He bent next to a hole in the ground about as big as his waist. Several braided ropes of red tissue protruded from the edge and stretched across a creek.

Taking off a glove, he then traced his fingers over the rope of red webbing. Electricity practically flowed to his hand. The individual threads within the organic cables pulsed slightly, pushing back against his skin.

“They didn’t dig under the water,” Dohi said. “Maybe they were smart enough to know they’d risk collapsing the tunnel.”

“That webbing…” Mendez started.

“Keep following it,” Fitz said.

Dohi lifted his rifle to his shoulder again. He pushed into water that rose up to the middle of his shins. The bank on the other side of the creek crested slightly. He scurried over the mud, still following the red tendrils.

There they led back into another opening. Talon prints marred the ground between the carpet of dead leaves. But something else made his heart climb into his throat. He aimed his rifle into the darkness of the tunnel opening. Wind howled out of the Variant-made cavern. Somewhere in there he thought he heard a groan.

Get ahold of yourself, Dohi.

The groaning continued, and now he was almost certain this wasn’t the wind.

God, he might be going mad.

He wondered if what he’d seen in those tunnels was coming back to haunt him in a bad way. He hated to admit it, but maybe he should have sat this mission out. If he didn’t get his head on, he would become a liability to the other members, but he also didn’t want to let them down.

Fitz held up a fist. He pointed to his ear, then at the tunnel. Ace lowered the R2TD device.

So maybe Dohi wasn’t so crazy after all. The others had also heard the noise, and if someone was groaning in there, that meant they were still alive.

Fitz signaled for them to turn on their lights. Then with another gesture, he sent Dohi forward. He moved inside without hesitation, his light illuminating braided red cables that spread into the webbing. Claw marks marred the walls and a trail of taloned footprints led deeper.

The pained, animalistic groans grew louder as they advanced.

The closer he got, the more inhuman it sounded.

Dohi crept along, following the curve in the tunnel, heart pounding harder with each step. He rounded the corner and swept the passage with his light. The shadows fled as the beam hit webbing that had grown together in a mass of strange flesh.

“What in the…” Dohi paused.

Red ropes climbed out of this creature’s ears and open mouth.

It wasn’t human.

Not Variant either.

Dohi moved closer, shining his light to see it was a deer.

More of the red webbing grew from open wounds. The chest slowly rose and fell, blood-covered fur glistening in the light. Every time it exhaled, it let out a haunted groan.

The Variants did not discriminate when it came to live prey, and it seemed that their wide taste in food extended to their use of living creatures for whatever this was.

As the rest of Team Ghost filtered in around Dohi, their lights filled the tunnel. Other animals hung from the walls. Webbing grew from all of them. Some of the creatures were nothing but skin and bones, their fur falling away in large clumps.

Dohi said a prayer for every animal that the Variants had done this to as he moved deeper. Heat swelled in his chest. This was an abomination of nature.

He had read Kate’s report on the flight and understood that such fast-spreading growths needed sustenance. The Variants seemed to be turning humans and animals into fuel.

Team Ghost pushed along through the darkness.

Fitz pulled out his knife and ended the suffering of the deer and other living animals behind them. Dohi flinched at each sound and walked faster at the sight of columns of light in the distance.

A way out of this hell.

Dohi followed the light to a ramp of scree that led into the sunlight. This was the end of the tunnel. He made his way up on the side of a hill overlooking Lake Superior. The vast freshwater body stretched all the way to Michigan.

The rest of Team Ghost joined him, fanning out to follow the Variant footprints that scattered in all directions. Whoever or whatever was organizing these monsters knew what they were doing. There was no easy path forward.

Except…

Dohi dropped to a knee. A slight glint caught his eye. A flash of scarlet peeking out from the black soil near his boots. He hooked a finger on the red tendril and pulled it up. More of the red webbing unearthed itself as he pulled on the organic cables.

The more fibers that Dohi pulled up, the more certain he was that these tendrils would lead them to something. But when Fitz signaled for Ace to use the R2TD system again, they found no more tunnel systems. It seemed that while the fibers continued on, the tunnels were only dug when the beasts were close to the outpost.

“Might want to tell command what we’re finding,” Dohi said. “If I had to guess, the Variants don’t just tunnel all the way from one part of the country to another.”

“No, shit,” Lincoln said. “That would be impossible.”

Rico reached out toward the webbing Dohi had in his gloves.

“This reminds me of something I saw on the National Geographic channel once,” she said. “The world’s largest living organism—at least at that time—was a mushroom. It covered like 2000 acres of forest in Oregon. Most of it all just tiny filaments underground.”

Lincoln bent down to pull up another strand. “Don’t look like mushrooms to me.”

“You missed the point,” Rico said.

“Come on guys, keep digging this shit up so we can see where it leads,” Fitz ordered.

The team worked for an hour to peel the fibers up, taking them south and deeper into the woods. Finally, as the light of day began to wane, Fitz called off the search.

“Let’s get back to the outpost,” Fitz said. “We’ll pick this trail up at first light.”

While they walked, Dohi looked southward, past the tree-covered horizon, wondering where those webbings would lead.

“Seems like the Variants can collapse those tunnels at will,” he said.

“Makes sense to me,” Rico said. “If those things are like muscles fibers or whatever Kate said, then maybe they can force the tunnels to contract.”

“They dig the tunnels just far enough away so they can attack unseen, then poof,” Mendez said. “They yank the tunnels closed after they exit back out the other end.”

“And still leave the fibers behind in this massive network,” Dohi said. “Hold up a second.”

He pulled out a map from his pack, studying it in the waning light.

“The tunnels—or at least the webbings—head this way,” Dohi said, tracing the direction they had followed over the map. “And the ones from Turkey River…”

Fitz’s eyes widened, seeming to understand where he was going with this. “From New Chicago, reports said the tunnels were headed northwest. And from Kansas City, almost straight north.”

“Well shit,” Mendez said. “I failed geography but even I know where that leads. It’s got to be New York.”

Dohi laughed, a rare act. “Not even close, man.”

“I know, I was kidding,” Mendez chuckled.

“Only you weren’t, dumbass.” Lincoln looked over Dohi’s shoulder, glancing at the map.

Dohi shook his head. “You guys never stop do you?”

“So what are you thinking?” Fitz asked.

“I’m thinking if you triangulate all of these tunnels, we know where this web might have originated from,” Dohi said.

He jabbed a finger at the map right over Minneapolis.

“All the networks we’ve discovered head that direction, and if these fibers need a lot of people to grow, there is probably more than enough food for them there.”

“The Midwest outposts are rife with people,” Rico added. “Highest number of kidnappings before all this started, too.”

“Goddamn you guys are smart,” Mendez said.

“I guess we know where we’re going next,” Lincoln grumbled. “Back underground, huh?”

Dohi had a feeling he was right.

— 14 —

Kate soaked in the astringent smells of the laboratory on Peaks Island. The stinging odor of the freshly sanitized whitewashed tiled floors and black lab benches never failed to energize her.

Fluorescent lights buzzed on with the flip of switches.

The lab itself wasn’t exactly cavernous, but working alone in here made the place feel like she was the last person left on earth. She had barely seen Beckham before he’d been sent off to SOCOM and her time with Javier felt like little more than an exchange of a few words before bedtime over the past forty-eight hours.

As much as she knew she should rest, and spend time with her son, her country needed her again. No one else in the world had her experience and expertise researching Variants.

Fortunately, she was getting the help she needed. Today she was receiving support staff and the body of an Alpha that Team Ghost had retrieved from Outpost Turkey River.

She worked fast to get the lab in tip-top shape for the new arrivals. When she finished, she checked on the cell culture experiments with the samples from the webbing.

Once again they had grown to the limits of the large plastic flasks she had placed them in. It seemed they grew out of each smaller cell culture plate and flask in a matter of minutes. The only limitation on their growth was the amount of nutrient media she placed in the containers.

She turned at the intercom’s buzzer.

Sergeant Ruckley stood behind the glass wall, near the intercom system.

“Doctor Lovato, the new staff just landed and will be here shortly,” she said.

Kate gave a thumbs up sign and went right back to work.

One by one, she checked her smaller samples before moving onto the riskiest experiment she had setup. No laboratory she knew made much use of cell flasks larger than a liter or two. Even that was on the big end of things.

When she saw the webbing would outgrow its container so quickly, she had put in a strange request with her suppliers that had thankfully been answered: she needed a fifty-gallon fish tank.

The tank now housed a monstrous cell growth at the back of the lab behind a plexiglass window. Strangely, the cells no longer looked like the well-organized red webs, but rather like lab grown meat.

She walked over to check the mass of red cells. They seemed to throb and pulsate within the equipment. For the next thirty minutes, she examined the growth, wondering if she should move it into a bigger enclosure. If they got any bigger the tank could fracture.

A sudden knock against the lab’s door caused her to jump.

This time Beckham stood behind the glass.

“What in the hell is that?” he said, staring at the fish tank.

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she said loud enough for him to hear through the window.

She peeled off the nitrile gloves she wore, tossing them into the trash. Then she removed her lab coat and joined Beckham outside the lab.

“How are you?” Beckham said, tugging on her hand.

“Tired. You?”

“We have a lot of work to do.”

Kate had a feeling that could mean a number of things, but she didn’t ask. She simply wrapped him in a hug.

“You know that doesn’t exactly answer my question,” she said.

“I’ll be fine.”

The click of footsteps pulled her away.

Horn stood next to a tall man with dark, slicked-back hair. The newcomer approached with an extended hand.

“I’m Doctor Jeff Carr,” he said.

Kate took his hand. “Doctor Kate Lovato.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Carr said. “The president has spoken very highly of your work. Your reputation certainly precedes you in…what’s left of the scientific community,” he finished with an awkward grin.

Kate had stopped worrying about her reputation years ago. It was evenly split between hate and love after her scientific developments killed billions of those initially infected by the Hemorrhage virus, only to create the deadlier Variants.

“Welcome to my humble lab,” Kate said. “I’m happy to have you here to assist with the work.”

“Assist?” Carr’s eyebrows rose as if he was dismayed. “I thought this would be more of an egalitarian, team-based approach.”

“Oh, of course,” Kate said, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable.

Carr peered back down the hall and waved at the cadre of people surrounding a cart there. Kate moved for a better look, confirming it was indeed the cart used in a morgue to transfer corpses. This one had a plastic dome to keep the contents sealed.

“Bring the subject in,” Carr said, waving.

Kate stood aside as the team pushed the cart toward the lab entrance. Carr led the procession inside.

He peered around the room, a discerning scowl on his face until he pointed to a corner.

“It’s one ugly SOB,” Beckham said.

The lab team filtered in and out of the room, bringing in boxes of supplies and equipment. Carr surveyed them, barking orders at the techs.

“Is he always like this?” Kate said in a conspiratorial tone to Horn and Beckham.

“Definitely takes some getting used to,” Beckham said.

Horn exhaled sharply. “Guy like that probably likes the smell of his own farts. There’s no getting used to that.”

“That’s just great,” Kate said. “I hoped an extra hand around here would make this a little easier, but…”

“Well you got an entire team now,” Beckham said.

The techs continued to unload equipment. The potential of their productivity had increased an order of magnitude, assuming cooperation with Carr wasn’t difficult.

“The extra hands will help determine the Alpha’s connection to the webbing faster,” Kate nodded.

“Sooner we can figure out how it’s working, the sooner we can shut it down,” Beckham said.

“Doctor Lovato,” Carr interrupted from the other side of the lab. “What’s this monstrous thing growing in your cell culture room?”

Beckham and Horn shot a glance at the aquarium.

“I was going to ask the same thing,” Horn said. “Looks like what happens after I used to eat McDonalds.”

“Very funny, Big Horn.” Beckham groaned, shaking his head.

“That’s the webbing,” Kate said.

Beckham motioned for her to join him in the hallway. He jerked his chin at Horn, too, and they all retreated into the shadows. If Kate didn’t know any better, she would say her husband appeared nervous.

“This better not be more bad news,” Horn said.

Carr shot them a raised eyebrow, peering curiously at them as the team of techs continued flowing in and out of the lab with equipment.

Beckham began in a hushed voice. “Ringgold asked again about running for McCombs seat.”

“Brother, you’re retired. Being a politician…well, damn, that’s the kind of stuff we told each other we’d never do,” Horn responded gently.

“I know.”

Beckham reached for Kate’s hand. “And I’m sorry. I am. I know we said we’d talk about it first but, with everything going on, we’re inches from anarchy in this country and inches from losing everything you and I and Team Ghost worked so hard to achieve. I can’t stand by, sitting here on Peaks Island, while everything crumbles.”

Kate pulled her hand away. “We’re a team, Reed. There are people who need you here. Timothy. Bo. Your son.”

A grimace cut across Beckham’s face. “I haven’t forgotten them or you or my friends. I’m just afraid that if we can’t stabilize the political situation, things will only get worse for everyone.”

Horn clapped a hand over Beckham’s shoulder. “You know I respect you and look up to you, but I want it on record that I think this is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.”

“I have to run for Senate,” Beckham firmly stated.

“You don’t have to,” Kate shot back. “We’ve got plenty to do around here.”

“You’ve got plenty to do. You’ve got a whole team to help you in the lab now, and you’ve been plenty busy with experiments since the raiders’ attack. I promise you won’t even miss me while I’m campaigning.”

“You know that’s not true,” Kate looked away.

Beckham leaned against the wall. “I’m sorry, Kate, but if I don’t run, who will?” He looked at Horn. “Clearly not Big Horn.”

“God damn right,” he said with a snort.

“You know politics can be just as dangerous as any mission with Team Ghost,” Kate suddenly responded. “Ringgold has enemies. Look at what happened to Senator McComb!”

“She’s right,” Horn said. “With people angry as they are, who’s to say another crazy R.O.T. group shows up and tries to take you down?”

“Or maybe they already have,” Kate said, thinking of the raiders.

“My whole goal in running is to ensure that doesn’t happen,” Beckham said.

“Still think this is the wrong move.” Horn kicked his toe against the tiled floor. “But damn it, you’re Reed Beckham, and you haven’t got us killed yet, so I guess I gotta support you.”

Beckham offered him a measured grin and looked to Kate.

“You know I support you, too, whatever you do,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“I’ll take that for now.” He held her hand again, and this time she let him. “I’m sorry I basically agreed to this before talking to you first, but—”

“We can talk later. I better get back to the lab.” Kate glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t trust Carr in there.”

“One last thing,” Beckham pulled her back.

“Ringgold wants me at a rally with her tomorrow, which means I’ve got to leave first thing in the morning,” he said.

Kate sighed and shook her head. “I’ll see you at the shelter when I get off work.”

“I’m sorry, Kate,” Beckham said.

“Me too, but what can we do?”

With that Beckham and Horn left the corridor and she returned to her office. The techs had a nearly complete autopsy suite ready. Atop the table lay the abomination still covered by the plastic dome.

The beast underneath did not disappoint her expectations. The ape-like face with bat-like ears were even more gruesome than she had imagined.

Long spines stuck out from under the back. They appeared both delicate and dangerous, not unlike a stack of fencing sabers.

Carr stepped up next to her. “It’s a beauty, right?”

“Sure is,” Kate said. “Got any idea how it interacts with that webbing yet?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“Let’s get to work then.”

Carr hesitated, suddenly not as ambitious as he was when he got here. Perhaps he had heard some of her conversation with Beckham and wondered if she was up to the task.

“Sure you don’t need a break?” Carr asked. “You seem a little tense. I don’t want it to hamper our work.”

“Nothing hampers my work.” Kate tossed a set of goggles to him and put some on herself.

“Well do not let me hold us back then,” Carr said. “Please, lead on, Doctor Lovato.”

***

“Gather round, boys!” Fischer yelled.

He stroked the sides of his freshly trimmed mustache as his security guards and hired hunters approached. Over fifty men dressed in camouflaged fatigues with automatic weapons and high-powered hunting rifles stood on his property this morning.

Another group had just parked in a gravel lot full of pickup trucks and dust-covered SUVs. Every security guard on the Fischer Fields payroll was here tonight, plus the hired help they had brought in to hunt.

There were also the ten soldiers President Ringgold had sent to help secure the oil fields. The men had arrived yesterday in a pair of rusting Humvees, led by a man named Sergeant Ken Sharp. He and his boys had seen plenty of action, and Sharp was a Native Texan, which Fischer appreciated.

But just ten men and some shitty equipment that looked like it had come from an Army surplus store?

It just reaffirmed the fact her administration wasn’t serious about protecting his fields. And if the government wasn’t going to take care of the Variants in the area, he was going to do it the way they used to in the Wild West—with blood and bullets.

Word had spread fast across the Allied States, and the men were all talking about what was going on: raiders and mysterious Variant tunnels popping up across the Midwest.

Texas was a long way from the heart of the trouble, but everyone here knew it was just a matter of time before the Variants and their human collaborators hit the Lone Star State.

Fischer had no doubt, the increased Variant activity was a sign of a growing threat. Something more dangerous than anyone in the government was letting on. While he wasn’t sure what sinister Alpha or Alphas were behind it, he wasn’t going to stand idly by and wait for their attack.

There was one old adage that had always proven true in matters of personal and business interest: the best defense was a good offense. Dealing with Variants was no exception.

His most trusted soldiers, Tran and Chase, agreed with his decision to hunt the diseased monsters on his property.

Now it was time to break it to everyone else.

“That’s the last of them,” said Tran.

Chase swept his gaze over the crowd from under the bill of his Fischer Fields baseball cap. The two lead security agents flanked Fischer on the deck overlooking his backyard where the men had gathered.

Blazing sunlight bore down on the hardened faces of men that in some cases had been fighting the monsters for eight years or more now.

Fischer may have been standing over them, but he felt like he was one of them.

He instinctively put his hands on his chrome belt buckle holding up his fatigues and filled his lungs with the dry breeze.

“As many of you have heard, the Allied States are under attack,” Fischer bellowed. “The Variants are going after the outposts, taking those homesteaders underground into God only knows what kind of hell on Earth.”

The men all seemed to stiffen, their gazes locked on Fischer.

“Several outposts in the east got hit by raiders that some suspect might be human collaborators,” he continued. “With human enemies and the monsters fighting on all fronts, I’m afraid we can’t count on someone over a thousand-and-a-half miles away to save us.”

Hushed conversations broke out in the crowd, but the ten soldiers present remained quiet, not reacting to his words at all.

“That’s why we’re all here,” Fischer said. “I’ve got my own backup plans.”

He looked at part of those plans in the distance. Multiple industrial barns that housed his cattle sat in rows about a quarter mile away on the eastern edge of his property. Electrical fences surrounded the metal buildings. The only way in was a gate guarded by two men at all times. More guards patrolled the inside. They were there now, walking with their shotguns and rifles.

The expensive redundancy had protected his livestock for years now, and it had worked for his oil derricks, until recently.

“We’re going to plan B today,” Fischer said. “We’re not waiting for the Variants to come to us anymore. Instead, we’ll find the holes they are hiding in and…”

Fischer reached for a bag Chase held and pulled out a stick of TNT.

“We will blow the dirty bastards out of their nests like the varmints they are.”

Several of the men in the crowd grunted their approval. But they weren’t all convinced. A former sheriff’s deputy that now worked for Fischer spat a blob of tobacco on the dirt and said, “How do we know where the devils sleep?”

“Our friends here helped with some of that,” Fischer said, gesturing to the Army soldiers. “I also paid good money for a private tracking team to dig up my own intel.”

He nodded in the direction of two men in the crowd. The older guy, a man named Aaron Galinsky, had short-cropped hair and was former Israeli military. His partner Eric Welling had hair to his shoulders and looked as if he had stepped straight out of the Australian outback.

“I got a pretty good idea where the demons sleep,” Fischer said. “And if we have our way, they’re never waking up.”

“You’re asking us to put our lives on the line,” said another man. “What’s in it for us?”

“I will be paying very well,” Fischer replied. “Every man that goes out with us will receive triple hazard pay. Bonuses will go to anyone that kills a Variant. Bag an Alpha and you get five grand.”

“Well what are we waiting for? Let’s get out there!” yelled Galinsky.

Welling laughed, and several men in the crowd joined in.

Fischer smiled at the change in enthusiasm. If there was one thing that could change a man’s heart real fast, it was a wheelbarrow full of cash.

“You’ve all trained for this,” Fischer said. “Going to be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

He nodded at Tran and Chase who both dispersed into the crowd to hand out maps and assignments. An hour later the sixty plus group had split into six teams of ten. They loaded up into their pickup trucks and SUVs with their weapons slung and spirits high.

Three of the teams would head thirty miles to the hills in the southwest, and the other three would head with Fischer to the hills in the southeast. All signs pointed at those areas being potential nest locations, from tracks to the direction of most attacks.

Fischer got into his pickup truck, riding shotgun with Chase behind the wheel. Tran hopped in the back of the dual cab with Sergeant Sharp and, soon as the door shut, they were off.

The convoy took the road past the barns of cattle, chickens, and pigs on the way out. Fischer Fields provided almost five percent of the nation’s meat, something else he was damn proud of. But that was a small contribution compared to how much oil he was producing for the country.

As of now, his fields were supplying over 25 percent of the nation’s refined petroleum products.

The fact he couldn’t get more government help in protecting them was maddening. It was also the reason he was leaning toward supporting General Cornelius in the general election.

Chase raised a hand out the window to several guards patrolling the interior of the electric fences as they passed the barns.

“How many men did you pull off sentry duty?” Fischer asked.

“Half, but don’t worry, there are still plenty,” Chase said.

Fischer looked at the blazing sun. The Variants were far more likely to attack when the sun had sunk beyond the horizon, just about now, but he still worried about leaving so few men to guard his livestock.

He tried to relax on the ride to the foothills. The beauty of the open fields and blue skies helped. The ride took them through the flat country, past several of the oil derricks, where more of his workers monitored the extraction and others guarded the precious resource.

Fischer pulled out his map and then put on his reading glasses. He studied the potential nesting areas for a few moments before turning to Sharp.

“Sergeant, which site do you think is the most likely to be an active nest?” he asked.

Sharp seemed to tense at the question, which gave Fischer his answer.

The Army soldiers had no idea.

“Hard to say,” Sharp replied, hoping to sound confident.

“Did you or did you not confirm the presence of Variants at these locations?”

“We did,” Sharp said. “But we did not confirm numbers.”

“In other words, you didn’t get close enough.”

Sharp said nothing.

Fischer turned back to the front seat, suddenly questioning how useful these maps would be. The other teams were heading to the location marked by Welling and Galinsky. Now he wondered if he should head to the location the two professional trackers were going.

“So we don’t know if any of these are live tunnels?” Fischer asked.

“We confirmed the presence of bones just outside several,” Sharp replied. “However, since we didn’t get close, we couldn’t see how fresh the kills were. It’s always hard to say with bones anyways, because the Variants don’t leave much behind.”

Fischer gave the Sergeant that. The beasts stripped everything clean. The best way to tell if a tunnel or hole was active was their feces.

Dust billowed up ahead as the convoy of vehicles hit a gravel road. Chase eased off the gas to give them some room. The next road was paved and took them past several more derricks. Over the next hill, they got their first view of their target.

“Here we go,” Chase said. He followed the other vehicles to a staging area off the road where he parked next to one of the Army Humvees.

Fischer jumped out and went to the back bed of the truck to pull out his M4A1. Tran grabbed his SR-25, and Chase slung his carbine.

Sergeant Sharp spoke to his men while they charged their weapons.

In total, thirty men gathered outside the vehicles, including the ten soldiers. Sharp told a Corporal and PFC to take point, and they set off toward the clumps of hills a quarter mile away, fanning out into the grass.

Tran and Chase remained close to Fischer, but let him lead the way. He kept behind Sharp, eyeing the foothills. The mounds of brown earth were covered in vegetation and trees unlike a lot of the surrounding area. Plenty of places for Variants to hide.

The soldiers fanned out ahead into two teams, weapons up and roving.

Fischer followed his team across the field, heart thumping with excitement. Being out here, with these men, made him nostalgic for the hunts he had gone on as a kid.

Only this hunt was far more dangerous than going after wild boars.

The two groups peeled off, filing down separate tracks. Fischer kept behind Sharp.

Underbrush scraped across his fatigues, and his boots crunched over small rocks. Fischer spotted the first evidence of Variant tracks in the dirt ahead.

Sharp pointed them out, but then continued on up a hill and through the spindly vegetation. Skeletal limbs from dead trees reached out like grasping fingers.

Most of the vegetation on the other side of the hill was dry and brown. The lack of leaves and underbrush made the tunnels easier to spot.

Sharp stopped to look at his map, and then pointed to the next hill on their right. The group peeled off into two smaller teams and moved toward the holes.

Fischer was one of the first to reach it and stopped about ten feet away. He aimed his barrel at the entrance of the shadowed cavern.

Sure enough, several animal bones were scattered just inside the lip of the dirt hole. He bent down with Sharp and they directed their lights inside, revealing more bones scattered on the dirt floor. Raking his light, Fischer saw no sign of fresh Variant feces.

“This must be an old one,” Fischer said.

Sharp gestured toward the group that had veered off to check another cavern. Two of his soldiers had crouched down in front of it for a better look.

By the time Fischer got there, they had ducked inside. The rest of the group waited outside, weapons angled at the entrance.

A radio crackled, and Tran pulled it out from his pouch.

“FF1, this is FF2, do you copy?” came a voice.

Fischer waited anxiously for the report from his team at the other location.

“Copy FF2, this is FF1 what you got?” Tran replied.

“Nothing, FF1, we’ve got dead tunnels. You have better luck than us?”

“Standby FF2,” Tran said. He put the radio back in his pouch and moved over with Fischer to get a better look inside the tunnel.

The soldiers were already returning, and they were carrying something.

Fischer didn’t need his flashlight to see one of the items was a helmet with the FF logo. The men crawled out of the hole with gear and several bones of the final missing derrick engineer.

“Looks like an old nest,” said the soldier. He looked down at the helmet. “At least we finally found his remains.”

Fischer nodded, happy that the family would have some closure now, but disappointed he wasn’t going to get to use any of his TNT.

He spat on the ground and turned his back to look at the dead terrain.

“Where the hell did you bastards go?” Fischer muttered.

— 15 —

Beckham hated getting dressed up almost as much as Horn did, but today he found himself in a sharp navy-blue suit with a red tie. Suits were for businessmen and politicians, he had been told as a young man.

You’re going to be a politician, he thought. You’re going to have to get used to this.

He wasn’t the only one that didn’t like what he was wearing. President Ringgold had complained about the bulletproof vest Beckham had insisted she wore today.

She sat in a chair next to the Vice President for an interview with a reporter across the lobby in a hotel in Outpost New Boston, not far from the site of the raider attack. The President had insisted on moving the rally here.

Ringgold was probably telling the reporter the same thing she had said to Beckham.

“I will not be intimidated,” she had said. “I will not be scared off by these cowards.”

Beckham waited by a window near the hotel’s entrance. Outside, hundreds had gathered in the street. Most held New America Coalition signs, but not everyone seemed so enthusiastic.

He scanned the faces with his normal paranoid mindset.

Any of them could be enemies.

Raiders and collaborators.

The assholes had penetrated several outposts, including this one, and he feared they would try again.

Beckham let the drape fall over the window and made his way back into the lobby. President Ringgold and Vice President Lemke were still talking to a female reporter from the New Boston Globe paper.

The Globe was one of several institutions of journalism that had made a comeback over the past few years. With television and civilian cell phone service still a thing of the past, printed news was one of the only ways for average citizens to get their information.

Which made this interview very important.

He waited patiently for it to conclude and then walked over.

“There you are, Captain,” Ringgold said. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

Beckham stepped over. The middle-aged reporter seemed to measure him up with a sweeping gaze before she finally walked away with her bag.

Ringgold got out of her chair and motioned for Lemke and Beckham to follow her to a conference room off the lobby. Two Secret Service agents shadowed them to the door where they stood sentry.

“Close that, please,” Ringgold said.

Beckham closed the door, anticipating more bad news.

“Team Ghost reported in late last night,” Lemke said. “They think they know the epicenter of the Variant activity.”

“Minneapolis, Minnesota,” Ringgold said.

“Really?” Beckham said. “That’s a heck of a long ways away from some of the outposts the Variants attacked.”

He paused to think a moment and then said, “What does SOCOM think about this?”

“Honestly, we’re not sure yet, but we’re going to find out,” Lemke said.

“Operation Shadow is continuing with the deployment of six teams, including Team Ghost to figure out what we’re dealing with,” Ringgold said. “All the teams so far have reported similar findings around the attacked outposts. Variants used tunnels to get under the defenses.”

“When our teams followed the tunnels out, they eventually disappeared, and they were left only with the remnants of webbing to follow,” Lemke added.

“Now we’re sending Team Ghost to Minneapolis, and the other teams to five other targets where the webbing seems to lead,” Ringgold continued.

Lemke handed Beckham a folder.

Inside were the names of the targets: Minneapolis, Minnesota; Chicago, Illinois; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; Indianapolis, Indiana; and Columbus, Ohio.

“These are the other likely locations of the civilians abducted from outposts,” Lemke said. “If these people were taken to any of these locations, there could be hundreds of others under these cities.”

“The teams are heading out shortly, and I wanted you to know,” Ringgold said. “But I won’t be mentioning this to anyone out there. For now, the mission stays under wraps. I don’t want there to be any chance of it leaking to collaborators.”

The suggestion made Beckham tense up even more. In the past, rival campaigns might have sent spies to listen to speeches. Now they had to worry about traitorous human collaborators working with the Variants.

“I’m just waiting for a leak to happen though,” Ringgold said. “I’m sure Cornelius will find out, and push even more for nuking these sites, regardless of the potential innocent lives we could lose.”

“Nuking the city might not even destroy the nests anyways,” Beckham added. “The creatures are resilient. More so than cockroaches. I wouldn’t be surprised if those tunnels go pretty deep under the cities.”

“Precisely,” Ringgold agreed. “And of course, most people supporting Cornelius’ Freedom Party agenda don’t realize this.”

“I’ve also been trying to bring more attention to how many people are still scratching out a living outside of the outposts, in cities like Minneapolis,” Lemke said.

“Yeah but Cornelius does not care about them,” Beckham said. “In his eyes, and the eyes of his supporters, the people outside the outposts have made their choice. They’re nothing but collateral damage.”

“Or human collaborators,” Lemke said. “That’s their new line. Anyone behind the lines are working with the Variants.”

“Bull fucking shit.” Beckham winced a second later. “Sorry for my language.”

“It’s quite all right,” Ringgold said with a grin.

“Hopefully you mentioned this stuff in your interview with the Globe,” Beckham subtly inquired.

Lemke nodded and looked to Ringgold.

“Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about,” she said, pausing for a moment. “I’m hoping you’ll talk today, not just to the crowd, but to the reporters.”

“You’re a national hero,” Lemke said.

Now Beckham knew why the reporter had studied him like that. She was sizing him up for a potential interview.

“All due respect, but I’m not good at talking to crowds, and I’ve never liked journalists,” Beckham said. “No offense to the profession, but as a soldier, I’m used to saying less than more.”

Ringgold sighed and looked at Lemke.

Beckham hated the fact his past could be used for the election, but he knew it was necessary to save lives.

Especially if it could stop the cities from being nuked.

“Look at page five of your briefing folder,” Lemke said.

Beckham flipped to recent poll numbers.

“The tide has changed.” Ringgold began tapping her foot unconsciously. “Citizens are blaming us for what’s happening at the outposts.”

She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “I know what you might be thinking, but you’re not a political pawn. You are a patriot, and your country needs you and your wife again.”

“And we will serve until our last breaths,” Beckham said.

“I know,” Ringgold said with a kind smile. “We better get out there.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Lemke said.

Beckham hesitated before following the president and vice president back to the lobby, his mind racing. By the time he joined them, James Soprano and Elizabeth Cortez had arrived.

“Ready?” Cortez asked cheerfully.

“Always,” Ringgold said with a smile.

Soprano handed the President her speech, and they set off with a team of Secret Service agents. They moved in a cordon around the POTUS and VPOTUS as soon as they were outside, joining more agents posted on the sidewalk.

Brick and stone buildings framed the historic street where they would give their speech and ask these people for their support. Beckham spotted snipers posted on rooftops and knew there were even more he couldn’t see behind darkened windows.

The military was also here, with an entire Marine platoon on this block alone. Security was tight, and everyone that had come to see the two speak had gone through metal detectors.

But there were other ways in and more weapons than guns.

He fiddled with the buttons on his suit, cursed under his breath, and told himself to relax as he followed the leaders of the country.

Talking in front of people scared him more than facing a Variant. Coupled with his nerves about threats in the crowd, he was practically sweating bullets.

Elizabeth Cortez took the stage first, heading to the podium that sported the New America Coalition logo. She tapped the microphone. Static broke from the speakers.

The crowd quieted.

“Good afternoon, and thank you for coming out today,” Cortez said. “President Jan Ringgold and Vice President Dan Lemke are here to talk about everything the administration has achieved and hopes to achieve with another four years of the New America Coalition.”

Beckham sensed the tension in the woman’s normally peppy voice. He didn’t blame her. Only about half of the crowd responded positively with claps and applause.

Cortez smiled after a pause and said, “But you didn’t come here to see me, so without further ado, I’m honored to present President Jan Ringgold.”

Beckham clapped and was relieved that most everyone joined in. He watched the President walk up to the stage and step up to the podium.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for taking the time to be a part of our movement,” Ringgold said. She set her speech out on the podium and looked over the crowd.

“Today, I’m outlining a vision for our future. A vision that builds on our history of achievements and victories. A vision that includes all of you,” she said. “I know many of you are scared. You’ve heard about the recent attacks, and you might be wondering how can I stand up here and talk about achievements during these trying times.”

“Damn right!” someone shouted.

Ringgold recognized the man with a nod. “I understand being scared and being mad. I have done everything in my power to protect our country and will continue to do so in the face of evil.”

Another man yelled out in the distance. “You failed us!”

The crowd broke out in a storm of voices.

Ringgold waited for them to quiet down.

“Please,” she urged. “Give me a few minutes of your time and, when I finish, I will stick around to personally answer your questions.”

The citizens seemed to calm down, and she continued after a brief pause.

“The Variant threat is still out there. We believe they are planning something, but at this point I don’t believe in destroying our cities and killing the people living there or killing the people the Variants have captured.”

“Nuke the cities!” someone yelled.

Another shouted. “We have to do it!”

“No, we don’t,” Ringgold said. “In a few moments, we’re going to introduce you to someone that will explain why we don’t and why doing so will cause far more harm than good.”

Beckham knew she was looking in his direction, but he was looking at two men dressed in dark brown jackets. One had a scruffy beard, and the other had a face marred by a long scar. Their emotionless features stood out to him.

Neither of them seemed to be reacting to Ringgold’s speech in a positive or negative manner. Their faces remained stern even when others exploded in enthusiastic cheers or angry jeers.

Beckham relocated down the sidewalk for a better look, keeping his hand low, near the Sig Sauer he had holstered under his suit jacket. For the next few minutes, he drowned out Ringgold’s speech and focused his senses on the crowd.

Vice President Lemke joined President Ringgold on stage, wearing a dimpled smile.

The two onlookers still remained stern faced.

Beckham moved again and was able to see they wore muddy boots and pants with rips in the side. Suspicious, but not all that much different than what a lot of people were wearing.

Lemke went into his speech, talking about his new proposals to spur the safe zone economies and reignite global trade, but Beckham was hardly listening.

He started off into the crowd, carefully maneuvering around families that had come out to see the President and Vice President. Several people holding New America Coalition signs moved and blocked his view of the two suspicious men.

Beckham made his way around the campaign signs and then paused just as the two men spotted him. The one with the beard jerked his chin to the other, and they promptly turned and began their way out.

The crowd cheered at Lemke’s speech as Beckham moved faster. By the time he got to the sidewalk across the street, the two men were practically jogging.

“I promise our brave men and women will identify and destroy this new Variant threat!” Lemke said to the roar of the crowd.

Beckham flagged down two Secret Service agents and pointed at the two men. Using his radio, one of the agents called in reinforcements to stop the men before they could escape.

The crowd quieted behind them.

“Now I’d like to introduce you to another brave man that has fought for our country against overwhelming odds since day one of the Variant threat,” Lemke said.

Beckham paused as two Secret Service agents and a pair of Marines rounded a corner at the end of the block and told the two fleeing men to stop.

The bearded guy reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a plastic canister the size of a water bottle. The other guy took off running.

“Drop it!” shouted a soldier, aiming his rifle.

The other soldier pursued the runner with a Secret Service agent around the next corner. People at the rear of the crowd turned to look, but Lemke was still speaking, his voice booming. Most of the people at the front and middle still hadn’t noticed what was happening.

“It’s my honor to present Medal of Honor recipient Captain Reed Beckham,” he said. “Please join me in welcoming this hero today!”

Beckham took off in the opposite direction of the stage.

“Captain Reed Beckham!” Lemke said again.

Murmurs flowed through the crowd, but Beckham wasn’t listening. He watched in horror as the bearded man tossed the contents of his canister at the soldier. Fluid hit him in the face and he cried out in agony, dropping to his knees. Gunshots followed as the Secret Service agent took down the assailant with multiple rounds.

Beckham drew his weapon.

Screams rang out in all directions, and Beckham glanced over his shoulder as the President and Vice President were whisked off the stage by security.

Seeing they were safe, he continued toward the violence, navigating through the crowd until he reached the downed soldier. The man twitched on his back, his sizzling features erased by Variant acid.

Next to him, the body of the collaborator lay in a pool of blood, his eyes roving. They flitted to Beckham as he approached.

The dying man gasped for his last breaths through black teeth.

“Adios, Reed,” he said.

Then he was gone, his eyes rolling up and his chest flattening.

— 16 —

The C-27J Spartan shook as the plane entered another patch of rough turbulence. Fitz held onto the cable above his head, bracing himself. The sounds of groaning and flexing metal resonated through the cabin along with the throaty drone of the engines.

Fitz looked around at the rest of Team Ghost as they finished putting on the rub that would hopefully mask their scent from the Variants.

Mendez closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. Dohi’s jaw was set and expression stern, almost as if he were a marble statue. Rico popped another bubble, and Ace and Lincoln checked their weapons.

Fitz could feel the electricity of tension in the air. Soon they would be jumping out of the back of the Spartan 17,000 feet above Minneapolis in the dead of night. The mission would leave them alone for several days and nights behind enemy territory.

This wasn’t Fitz’s first rodeo, but he couldn’t help but feel this mission was more dangerous and different than all the others.

“Five minutes until drop,” the crew chief reported, standing near the rear door. A tether hooked to his harness kept him attached to a metal loop on the bulkhead.

“Alright, y’all,” Fitz said, looking at each member seated around him. “Call signs are the usual. I’m Ghost 1 and Alpha team leader with Ace and Lincoln. They’re Ghost 4 and 5. Ace is our designated R2TD operator. Rico, you’re Ghost 2 and Bravo leader with Dohi and Mendez. They’re 6 and 3, respectively.”

The team responded with a chorus of grunts and nods.

“This is a HALO jump,” Fitz continued. “So we won’t be pulling chutes until three thousand feet. There’s no telling what’s down there. Stealth will be key to avoiding detection. Keep your wits about you and stay low.”

He looked at Rico with those last words, and she nodded, giving him a wink. Just enough to let him know she understood what had gone unspoken between them: Be careful.

The aircraft bucked again.

“If we encounter civilians, we mark their location and move on,” Fitz said. “Our goal is to extract intel, not people.”

“What if we find a shit ton?” Lincoln questioned with raised brows.

“You mark it, dummy,” Ace responded.

“Pendejo,” Mendez said. Fitz had since learned that roughly translated to dumbass or idiot. He’d had about enough of Ace and Mendez’s bantering.

“Cut the shit already!” Fitz snapped.

“He’s right,” Rico said. “You guys need to quit the jokes and focus.”

Fitz waited a moment before continuing. Now that he had their full attention, he said, “Our DZ is a softball field. Rally point is a hundred yards east, place called Bohemian Flats park. If you land outside the DZ, head straight to the rally point.”

The team nodded in response.

“Our two main targets are the University of Minnesota and downtown Minneapolis,” he added. “Satellite imagery confirms some recent Variant activity in both locations, so maintain radio silence on the surface unless it’s an absolute emergency.”

“Approaching target!” the crew chief said. “Oxygen on!”

Rico spit out her gum into her palm and slapped it on her helmet. She hesitated before putting her oxygen mask on to look at Fitz. “Stay safe, Fitzie!” she said.

“I love you,” Fitz mouthed in reply.

Her dimples widened. “I love you, too.”

“Cute shit!” Ace yelled.

Rico rolled her eyes and strapped her oxygen mask over her face. Fitz did the same thing and secured his visor.

“Door open!” the crew chief said, as he hit the mechanism to open the rear door.

Air blasted in, wind slamming the team. Fitz could barely hear anything over the roar filling the troop hold.

With a hand signal, the crew chief gestured for them to approach the rear door. Fitz waddled toward him. The weight of all his gear for this multi-day mission and the heavy MC-5 parachute strapped to his back dragged him down. Ace had it the worst with the R2TD system over the front of his chest plus his shotgun and suppressed M4A1.

Dohi was first in line with his fingers wrapped tightly around the harnesses strapped over his chest. The crew chief held his arm bent at the elbow and then made a chopping motion.

Go time, Fitz thought.

Dohi stepped out first and immediately disappeared in the blackness. Next went Ace, then Lincoln. Rico followed with Mendez, leaving just Fitz on the platform. He paused there briefly.

Beneath the scattered clouds lay a carpet of black. No lights punctuated the city. No fires. No signs of life at all. Even with the assistance of his night vision goggles, he saw only dark except for the blinking strobes of his team’s IR tags far below.

The crew chief motioned for Fitz to drop and he moved over the edge into freefall. For the first few moments, he felt nothing but the weight of his pack and gear. Then the wind took him: pulling, tugging, and slamming his body like an angry ghost.

He fought back, battling the forces lashing his body until he brought his arms tight against his sides. Maneuvering into a nosedive he rocketed toward terminal velocity.

The adrenaline chugging through his body seemed to lessen, and instinct took over. This was the part of jumps he could normally enjoy. The feeling of weightlessness and freedom.

But there was no joy to be found in a dive like this knowing what they were headed toward tonight.

Craning his visor, he saw the last two blinking IR tags showing Rico and Lincoln catching up to him. The Spartan continued onward, abandoning them to gravity and the Variants.

The IR tags below started to coalesce, just as they were trained. After another couple thousand feet, Fitz made it over to Dohi, Ace, and Lincoln, who were already into stable arch positions to slow their fall.

Not long after, Rico and Mendez found them, breaking out of their nosedives and into arch position, too. For now, the team moved into formation, bodies spread out, arms and legs bent enough to guide them through the air.

If all went well and the stars aligned, the Variants would never know they were even here.

Fitz shifted his wrist enough to see his altimeter watch. Just a few thousand more feet to go before they deployed their chutes. The Navigation Aid (NAVAID) showed they were still on target.

Low opening free-falls like this were not forgiving when it came to mistakes and, once they hit an altitude of three-thousand feet, there was precious little time between deploying their chutes and landing without busting their bones, especially with the weight of all their equipment.

Fitz watched the numbers shoot down on his watch. They were seconds from deployment.

He motioned for the team to spread back out. The team gracefully fanned apart, giving each other ample room to deploy their chutes without tangling their lines or colliding.

When Fitz was comfortable with their distance, he reached up and yanked on his cord. His chute exploded open behind him, pulling hard on his body. The harnesses tightened around his shoulders like a giant hand from the back.

The dark chutes of the other Team Ghost members bloomed around him one by one.

All except for Mendez. His chute came out like a snake, twisting around wildly. Somewhere, somehow, something had gotten tangled just enough that the chute couldn’t fully deploy.

Mendez whipped around like he was trapped in a cyclone.

Fitz adjusted his chute, positioning himself closer to Mendez’s position. But the other soldier was being pulled away wildly.

“Can’t get control!” Mendez yelled over their channel.

“Cut to reserve!” Fitz shouted back.

Mendez reached to release his chute but thanks to the malfunction of his first chute, he’d been tossed far from the landing site showing on Fitz’s NAVAID.

An enemy world of whites and greens came into view. The concrete jungle rose up to meet their boots, growing nearer by the second. Fitz was close enough to see highways littered with charred vehicles, and skeletal buildings blown to pieces from the failed Operation Liberty.

Fitz’s heart climbed into his throat. If Mendez’s reserve chute didn’t pull soon, he would end up smeared across the concrete.

“Deploy!” Fitz cried.

The reserve chute shot out of Mendez’s pack in the distance. He was far from the Mississippi River now, pushed off course and headed past the snaking 35 West interstate toward downtown.

Fitz breathed a sigh of relief.

But his relief was short lived.

“Mother of Jesus!” Mendez said. “I’ve got hostiles across my LZ!”

Fitz glanced at the NAVAID. The rest of the team was still on their way to the DZ near Bohemian Flats. They would land in the open fields and make their way to the park on the river, giving them plenty of open space to cut loose and leave their chutes.

But Mendez was headed right in the middle of the urban hell.

The ground was approaching quickly, and there was no way for Fitz to make up enough distance now to reunite with Mendez.

“Ghost 3, I want you to get as close as you can to Gold Medal Park. It’s a mile west of our DZ,” Fitz said. “Post up there if the streets aren’t safe.”

“Copy,” Mendez said.

His chute disappeared behind a screen of buildings framing the highway.

The tattered grass of the old softball fields spread before Fitz. He eyed the landing zone and prepared to do a two-stage flare. Seconds later, his blades hit the ground and he ran out the momentum, all the while looking for movement in the field.

His chute floated down behind him as he ran forward and slowed. Coming to a stop, he quickly shed his harness and chute.

Around him, Team Ghost completed their descents, chutes falling to the ground like deflating balloons sucked to the grass. Fitz crouched down, raising his rifle while his team shed their harnesses and chutes. The team collected their jump gear, and Fitz looked for a place to stow it. He thought the base of a tree at the field edge would work, but something in the back of his mind told him to hold off. Wishing they had time to bury the gear properly, Fitz gave the signal to move out to the Bohemian Flats park.

A wall of trees lined the perimeter of the park except where a pedestrian path stretched across the river toward the university campus. All the vegetation seemed sapped of life, dry and brown.

Even the overgrown grass had died off, crunching beneath their feet.

A mobile construction office trailer sat at the near edge of the park, beside the pedestrian path. Its door hung open and the windows were all broken. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do as a storage spot for their jump gear and, once inside, he could break radio silence to check on Mendez.

Turning, Fitz scanned the shadows in the forested area. Nothing moved in the darkness. He checked the rest of his team as they finished stowing their gear.

Their discarded chutes caught the wind rustling through the grass, flapping and creating a muffled scratching sound. But that wasn’t the only thing Fitz heard.

Distant groans and clicks echoed over the park.

Somewhere out there, the Variants were on the prowl.

Beyond the trees, a beast suddenly screamed, freezing Fitz in place. Scanning the pines, Fitz knew the monsters were close, and he wondered if they had heard the chutes snapping open at such a low altitude.

Fitz signaled them to form up on him, then gestured for Dohi and Ace to take point and head for the construction trailer. Team Ghost moved out, rifles coming up quickly, probing the darkness.

Their advance wasn’t easy with the extra bulk of the HALO gear. They walked with clumsy gaits trying to manage it all toward the construction trailer. None of this stuff was supposed to be carried once they had hit the ground.

Ace pushed the door open, cleared the space, and then gestured for the team to go inside. Once everyone was in, Lincoln shut the door, and the Team stowed their chutes and oxygen supplies under the desks in there.

Fitz directed the rest of the team to watch out the windows for hostiles. He hated to make any sound, even inside, but he had to know if Mendez was alive.

“Ghost 3, Ghost 1, do you copy?” he whispered into his mic.

Static filled his earpiece.

“Ghost 3, Ghost 1, do you copy? Over.”

The channel remained silent.

Fitz pictured the Variants ripping Mendez to pieces. The imagery filled him with dread. He could do nothing to help his teammate.

“Ghost 3, I say again, do you copy?” Fitz whispered a final time.

The only response he got was the wind rushing through the blinds of the office trailer and the constant noise of the distant Variants.

Dohi and Lincoln glanced at Fitz. Rico signaled to him that she had eyes on a hostile, and it was headed into the open fields.

The comm channel suddenly fired with a voice.

“Ghost 1, Ghost 3. I’m holed up, but I think they got my scent,” Mendez whispered back.

“Location?” Fitz asked.

“Inside a condo at the corner of 11th and South Washington.”

“Can you make it to Gold Medal Park?”

“Negative. At least not yet. Soon as I set foot outside this place, I’m toast.”

“Keep your head down. We’ll come to you.”

Rico pointed at the tree line.

Fitz heard the clicking of joints and looked out the window as Variants emerged from the darkness. The pack prowled on all fours, their tongues lashing against their sucker lips.

A brute led them down the slope toward the fence along the river.

Team Ghost was being surrounded, just like Mendez.

Dread welled up inside his gut as Fitz considered their next move. They would have to split off in order to save Mendez.

And that meant sending Rico off with Dohi.

Fitz cursed his anger, but managed to separate his feelings like all the other times they had run into issues like this.

“Rico,” he whispered. “After we get out of here, I want you and Dohi to go after Mendez. Then sweep downtown, find any signs of the tunnel origins and the webbing.”

He turned to Ace and Lincoln next.

“We’re going straight to the university. But first, we take down this pack,” Fitz said.

The Variants swept the area, changing direction, as they approached the trailer, while another pack emerged at the edges of the park. They were closing in.

The leading monster skittered over toward the mobile office, stopping about one hundred yards away to sniff the air. Its bony back went rigid like an angry cat, confirming it had picked up their scent.

It let out a screech that sent the other beasts into a frenzy.

The creatures bolted toward the trailer. If Team Ghost fired now they might be able to hold them off for a little while, but more would be drawn to their location.

An idea simmered in Fitz’s mind.

He grabbed an oxygen tank from their HALO equipment and moved toward one of the broken open windows. He heaved the football-sized tank as far as he could. It sailed silently over the heads of the Variants before thudding into the ground.

The noise drew their attention and several creatures galloped over.

Taking a breath, Fitz raised his rifle and moved his finger over the trigger.

“Everyone down,” he whispered.

The team crouched, and Fitz fired.

A round flew from the suppressed barrel and hit home, puncturing the oxygen tank and sparking against its shell. The spark was enough to ignite it, and the tank ruptured, exploding.

A low boom echoed over the park. The fireball bloomed overhead. Flames rolled over the bodies of the Variants, burning away their flesh.

“Open fire,” Fitz said.

Team Ghost angled their suppressed rifles out the window, and they slaughtered the rest of the beasts. As the last of the Variants hit the ground, Fitz motioned for the team to abandon their shelter.

“All it takes is all you got,” Fitz said. “Good luck, Bravo team.”

“Good luck,” Rico responded back.

Fitz suddenly experienced the same dread that came on every mission where they had to split up. Watching her venture out into enemy territory without him now was one of the hardest things he’d had to do on any mission.

While her skills in the field were unrivaled by most soldiers, all it took was one mistake, one errant Variant claw, and that was it. All he could do was hope for the best and trust she would make it back alive.

“Let’s move,” Lincoln said.

Fitz nodded and set off with Ace and Lincoln in the opposite direction of Rico and Dohi. It wasn’t ideal, but it would hopefully save Mendez’s life.

An old military adage surfaced in his mind as Fitz ran on his carbon fiber blades.

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he whispered.

— 17 —

Normally the underground laboratory on Peaks Island smelled strongly of antiseptic cleaning solutions and crisp filtered air, but not today.

Instead the air had an almost tangy, gamey bite to it and with Kate’s full white bunny suit, it seemed as if Kate were running a full-scale butcher shop in a fabrication cleanroom.

A surgical mask clung to her face and goggles pressed against her forehead. She leaned over a laboratory bench in the cell culture room. Beside her was Doctor Carr.

The scientist hemmed and hawed as he peered over the acrylic cylinder nearly a foot in diameter lying between them. A mess of smaller tubes hung off the end of the clear cylinder, providing the nutrient-rich media that kept the tissues inside of it alive.

To the untrained eye, the mass of red inside looked like chopped up hamburger meat, which might have been horrifying to someone like Big Horn, but Kate found it fascinating.

“You think this bioreactor is enough to contain these tissues?” Carr asked, pointing to the acrylic tube.

“Nothing’s escaped yet,” Kate said. “And it’s not like these tissues have a mind of their own.”

“They grow extraordinarily fast, though. How long until they outgrow the bioreactor?”

Kate glanced at the window separating the cell culture room from the main portion of the lab. The handful of techs Carr had brought with him were working in there. Some peered through microscopes. Other pipetted samples into tubes for PCR or other quantitative analyses.

“The cells, as fast as they grow, still obey the basic laws of physics and nature,” Kate said. “They only grow so long as we’re feeding them. If I cut off their nutrient supply, they go dormant.”

“Dormant?” Carr asked. “Not just into a senescent state?”

“From my observations, that’s not the case with these things. It seems like there’s nothing they like to do more than divide, and they’re damned hard to kill.”

“Strange. Almost as if they’re cancerous.”

Kate pressed a finger to the acrylic tube with the cells throbbing inside it. The acrylic was warm to the touch. “All the phenotypic analyses I performed before you arrived confirmed my initial suspicions. These cells are a mix of white blood, nerve, and muscle cells.”

“Did you test for any cancer markers?”

“No,” Kate replied. “Didn’t have the bandwidth by myself.”

Carr’s brow furrowed beneath his goggles. He seemed agitated. “I suppose I can allocate one of our team members to look into it.”

“I’d appreciate that. Knowing what kind of cells we’re dealing with is great, but there’s something else beyond cell phenotype that we need to figure out.”

“I am already one step ahead of you, Doctor Lovato.”

Carr wheeled over a cart from a corner of the cell culture room. He pulled back a blue sheet covering the top.

“This is from the autopsy,” Carr said.

He waved a hand over a long slice of tissue from a metal tray. The tissue had been isolated from one of the spindly growths jutting out of the Alpha’s spine.

“Excellent,” Kate said. “So far, every cell culture that I’ve grown looks like this.”

She gestured to the mess within the bioreactor.

“Once I grow these cells on their own, even if it’s a piece of intact webbing obtained from the field, they invariably grow into a blob of tissue with no organization.”

“These tumorous monstrosities look nothing like nerve cells or the webbing,” Carr said. “I suspect it has something to do with a lack of external stimulus.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Kate rotated the bioreactor to get a view of the chunky tissue floating around within. “Normally, the cells in our body depend on microenvironmental cues to direct cell behavior. The cells I’ve been growing in here have no directional cues.”

“Yes, yes, this is very basic biology.” Carr picked up the tray with the Alpha spindle and placed it next to the bioreactor. “And that’s all correct, I have the key to this dilemma right here.”

Carr held up a small box-shaped device with dials. A few wires stuck out of the sides attached to metal clips.

“My hope is to show you how we can induce the web-like growths you’ve seen with the external stimulus missing from your cell cultures,” he said.

“And how is that?” Kate asked.

Carr began attaching the metal clips to the exposed nerves in the Alpha spindle. An electric wire then went between another batch of nerves, and he handed the free end to Kate.

“Connect this to the webbing samples within your bioreactor,” he instructed. “It should stimulate an electrical signal.”

Kate wormed the wire into a valve and pushed it through the liquid media until it made contact with the tissue mass inside the bioreactor. She could’ve sworn the tissue recoiled at the touch.

But that was impossible.

This thing couldn’t feel or react, right?

It was just a bunch of mindless cells.

“Is it embedded in the tissue?” Carr asked.

Kate jostled the wire. She was feeling more like an assistant than a full-blown scientist with Carr demanding these things of her.

“Cut the suspense and tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

Carr started to mess with the dials on the box. “This here is a controller. I’ve attached electrodes to one end of the Alpha spindle. I’m hoping to apply an electric stimulus to it.”

Now Kate could clearly see where he was going with this. Her eyes traced the spindle then the wire that led into the bioreactor. “You’re going to stimulate a nerve response from the Alpha into the tissue.”

“Precisely.” Carr smiled confidently. “I believe that these Alphas exude the electrical stimuli necessary to direct the proper hierarchical growths of the webbing. The spindles and growths jutting out of the Alpha’s spine likely serve as antennae.”

Carr initialized the controller. It buzzed to life.

“From those antennae, I believe the Alpha spreads a signal that tells the webbing to grow, using it to communicate with the Variants around it,” he said.

“How did you get all that from one autopsy?” Kate asked, unable to contain her skepticism on this simple solution.

If she had learned one thing from the Variants, it was that the more you thought you knew about them, the less you actually did.

Still, she hoped Carr was right. Figuring out how this webbing worked and, most importantly, what the Variants were using it for would greatly help Team Ghost and all the others stuck in the field with these monsters.

“If this works, we should see the tissue begin to pulse, just like reports indicate in the tunnels,” Carr said. “And after that, the tissue will begin to self-organize into web-like formations.”

“Let’s try it out.”

Carr turned the dial on the controller. The Alpha spindle contracted. Clearly the electrical signal was having some effect.

The spindle soon began to shiver, and Carr had to grab hold of the tray to keep it from shaking the spindle off the lab bench and onto the floor.

“This is not exactly what I expected. The muscles within the thin spindle are reacting far more violently than one would anticipate. In fact, I wouldn’t have thought, given the proper connections, we’d see any reaction at all based off the footage of the Alpha.”

Kate monitored the cells within the bioreactor. They didn’t seem to be doing anything yet.

“Are you sure you have that wire connected properly?” Carr asked.

Kate adjusted the wire to ensure it was embedded deep within the mass of tissue. She could feel the resistance as she tried to push it through the robust cells.

“It’s definitely in there good.” Kate bent to eye-level with the bioreactor. “Wait, I see something.”

“What? Are they forming webbing already?”

Kate narrowed her eyes. The tissue was pulsing. But the cells weren’t forming webbing. Instead, the tissue seemed to be bulging. Almost like a flexing muscle.

“It’s not thinning out and forming a spider web,” Kate said. “In fact, it looks like it’s doing the opposite. Something isn’t right.”

“Likely the electrical stimulus. I’m turning it up.”

“No,” Kate said. “I think—”

But it was too late. Carr had already turned the dial, increasing the voltage. The Alpha spindle thrashed like a snake missing the head. It bucked out of the metal pan as electricity flowed through it and into the bioreactor.

The tissue inside went wild. Sections ballooned and deflated, pressing against the clear acrylic walls containing it. Pieces of tissue spread out in jagged spikes, pushing into the tubes feeding the cells liquid media.

Kate turned off the pump, afraid adding pressure to the system would rupture it. But the tissue didn’t seem to care. Part of it migrated into the tubes leading into the main bioreactor.

The tubes popped off, unable to contain the intense pressure of the tissues pushing on the liquid. Pink cell media sprayed over the lab bench and floor.

Fractures spread through the acrylic. Before Kate could do anything, the plastic split and the throbbing mass of red tissue expanded.

“Turn off the controller!” Kate yelled at Carr.

He didn’t react in time.

The tissue inside exploded, sending red globules throughout the space. The meaty hunks smacked against the walls and peppered the scientists.

Frozen in place, Kate simply stared. Then she reached up to wipe off the chunks from her goggles and the front of her suit.

Carr did the same thing, cursing.

“Next time, maybe you should be a little more cautious, and listen to me,” Kate said somewhat angrily.

If Carr had heard her, he didn’t seem to react.

“Doctor?”

She turned to see bits of tissue dripping off him.

“I’m just trying to think of where I went wrong,” he said quietly.

“I think you had the right idea, but you can’t rush science. You should know that.”

A few of the lab techs were gawking at them beyond the window to the cell culture room. Carr waved them in and ordered them to start assisting the cleanup. Kate and Carr exited the room to exchange their lab garments for clean suits, goggles, and gloves while the techs worked.

When Kate and Carr were changed, they reentered the cell culture room.

“Instead of going big right away, we need to start small and work our way up,” Kate suggested. “Something definitely happened with the electrical signal, and I want to figure out if we can control it.”

Carr slid the controller over to her on the table. “I’ll let you drive this time.”

Kate prepared smaller plastic plates full of tissue to scale down the experiment. This time, even if there was an accident, there wouldn’t be much more than a tiny splash. She attached the spindle and the electrical wire to the small tissue samples.

They slowly went through the samples, testing different voltages and amperages. But each time, all they succeeded in doing, if the tissue reacted at all, was frying the cells within the plate.

“Something isn’t right,” Kate said, after running through another exhaustive experiment. “We’re missing a key component. Not a single tissue has formed a webbing of any kind. And in fact, they all seem to be reacting negatively to the external stimuli.”

“I must admit, I’m completely stumped,” Carr said.

Kate stared at the last plastic plate full of barbecued tissue. The tiny cells held so many secrets, and still she couldn’t unveil them.

With Team Ghost in the field and the threat of more raider and Variant attacks looming over her, she knew she didn’t have the luxury of time now. She had to solve this mystery.

Slowly or quickly.

It had to be done.

The question was how.

***

Fischer had spent much of the day out in the field, sweating away with his men on their hunt for the Variants. He had come back for supper to find breaking news on his laptop. Having internet access had cost him a hell of a lot of money, but being up to date on things going on across the country was worth every penny.

The attempted attack at the New America Coalition rally in Outpost New Boston was shocking even with the other attacks on safe zone outposts. The thwarted assassination attempt in plain daylight was the most brazen thing he had seen in a while.

Such an incident proved to Fischer yet again that President Ringgold and Vice President Lemke did not have even their own security under control. If collaborators could sneak into an event like that, Fischer wasn’t sure there was any safe place left in the country.

At least not under the leadership of the New America Coalition.

He closed his laptop and grabbed a cigar. Moving over to the windows, he glanced out at the star-filled night sky.

In a strange way, he was surprised that out in his little corner of Texas, it looked just as pretty tonight as all those nights before the Great War of Extinction. Back then, he didn’t have to compete with the light pollution of a big city clotting his view of the Big Dipper and all the other constellations swirling above.

Now he didn’t have to compete with anything at all.

It was just him, mother nature, and the monsters.

He lit his cigar and took the first puff as several pickup trucks drove away from the compound, their lights chasing away the darkness. Chase and Tran were heading out with Sergeant Sharp to use the infrared scanners now that it was dark in one last attempt to locate the monsters.

All the money he’d paid for good intel on the Variants’ whereabouts might as well have been burned in an open field.

The pesky fuckers seemed to have abandoned ship. Fischer Fields had lost enough guards and workers to the beasts, not to mention costly equipment. All of it had set back their operations considerably.

Fischer blew out a puff of smoke, hoping that maybe those creatures were smart enough to know he was hunting them now. That maybe they’d run for their lives.

But that was probably being too optimistic.

Optimism had never served him nor his fields well. Realism was much better.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, he thought.

That was why he was skipping whiskey with his cigar tonight. Until his teams returned with an all clear, he wasn’t going to crack open a bottle. The Variants were as sneaky as they were deadly, and he wasn’t going to assume that they’d simply run off without a fight.

A knock on his door sounded, and he turned to see Maddie holding a plate and a glass of water. The fifty-year-old housekeeper doubled as a cook, maid, and friend. She had taken damn good care of him over the past two years.

“Good evening, Mr. Fischer,” she said. “Would you like to eat in here or in the dining room?”

Fischer gestured toward his desk. “I’ll eat in here tonight. Thank you, Maddie.”

He almost always ate at his desk when he didn’t have company. Sitting in the large dining room by himself was damn depressing and reminded him of how much he missed his wife.

Maddie set the food down and he took a seat at his desk.

“Thanks,” he said again.

She nodded and closed the door behind her quietly.

Although he didn’t feel much like eating tonight, he dug into the warm meal of mashed potatoes and broiled chicken. Food wasn’t just for pleasure. It was for fuel. And if he had Variants to deal with, he was going to need a hell of a lot of fuel to keep him fighting.

He continued reading more reports on attacks at other outposts as he chewed.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

By the time he finished eating, he had read about another six attacks.

He stood and looked outside.

What the hell is happening out there?

He took his plate back to the kitchen and set it in the sink.

“Thank you,” he said to Maddie, who was washing the rest of the dishes.

“You’re welcome, sir.”

The news of the Variants had him on edge. He took another cigar out from his humidor and looked out the window.

A carpet of moonlight spread over the fields and the livestock barns on the eastern edge of his property. Opening the window, he lit the cigar and took a deep inhale. Then he blew the smoke outward. The breeze rustled his sweat-stained fatigues. Crickets chirped outside, their calls rising into a steady chorus.

He loved that sound.

Fischer took a seat in his leather recliner, putting his feet up when the insects were silenced by a gunshot.

He froze.

Two more gunshots pierced the night.

Something was wrong.

A siren blared from the guard post on the south side of the property. He got out of his chair and walked to the windows holding the smoking cigar.

The radio on his desk crackled behind him.

“Mr. Fischer, this is Tran. Do you copy?”

What the Sam Hill is going on?” Fischer replied.

“Where are you, sir?”

“In my goddamn office. What’s going on?”

“You need to get to the bunker as soon as possible,” Tran said. “We think we found the Variants, sir.”

Before Fischer could reply Tran added, “They were underground all along.”

“Underground? Where?”

“Here, sir! The guards at the livestock barns were the ones who reported it, and now they aren’t responding.”

“Turn on the floodlights,” Fischer said.

The lights clicked on one at a time, and Fischer’s cigar fell from his mouth at the sight of a fight.

No…

A slaughter.

Dozens of Variants streamed out of a broken-down side door in one barn, chasing cows into the grass. The screams of the livestock filled the night as the monsters tore them to pieces and fed on their fattened flesh.

Other beasts ripped apart the guards that had been patrolling outside. The men hadn’t expected an attack to occur from within the barns and were completely unprepared.

A man was retreating into the eastern corner of the electric fences. He backed up, trying to reload his rifle.

“Oh my god,” Fischer whispered.

A Variant dropped to all fours and bolted after him. The man climbed the barbed wire fence. He managed to get over the top but so did the Variant.

With nowhere to go, the soldier chose the electric fence over claws. It fried him and sent him flying backward into the livestock fence.

The beast dug in on the smoking flesh.

“Sir, we’re almost back!” Tran said on the radio. “If you’re not in the bunker, you need to go. Now!”

Fischer smelled smoke and looked down, seeing the cigar had burned into the carpet. He picked it up and smothered it in a glass ashtray. Then he hurried over to grab his M4. He slung it over his back and then went to his cabinet. Opening the doors, he pulled out his Remington 3200 double-barreled 12 gauge.

With his .357 already holstered, he was ready to go.

Two pickup trucks pulled up outside, skidding to a stop. Men jumped out and fired at the beasts around the barns.

“Son of a bitch,” Fischer said. He hurried out of his office and into the hallway.

“Maddie!” he yelled.

The woman stumbled into the hallway. “Sir, those things are out there!”

“Grab the rest of the staff and take them to the bunker right now!”

She nodded and took off down the hallway toward the basement. The bunker there was built to survive a chemical, biological, or nuclear attack. There was enough food and water for his whole staff to live on for a year or more.

Fischer had spent almost a year inside it when the Variants had first overwhelmed the country, and he didn’t like the idea of returning to it now.

Halfway down the hall Maddie stopped and turned.

“Aren’t you coming?” she said.

He plucked another cigar out of his breast pocket.

“I’m not comin’,” Fischer said. “I’ve got some unfinished business with these bastards.”

“But sir!” she called out.

“Go to the bunker, and don’t come out until you’re given the all clear!” he yelled over his shoulder.

He took off in the direction of the gunfire. The wail of the siren, chatter of automatic weapons, and pop of small arms reminded him of the first days of the Great War of Extinction.

He promised himself if this happened again, he wouldn’t run and hide. If he was to die, he wanted to do it standing up, not crouching like a coward.

Bringing up his shotgun, he ran through the living room and to the back doors. He opened it with one hand and stepped outside on the deck, his ears assaulted by the sounds of battle.

“Sir, what are you doing?” someone called out.

Chase ran up the wood steps, his baseball cap splattered with blood. Tran was right behind him, his bicep slashed open. The rest of the men were still holding position near the pickups.

“Mr. Fischer, we need to get to the bunker,” Tran said. “There are too many of them.”

“And leave these men and my livestock out here to die? Hell no,” Fischer said. He moved over to the railing of the deck and set his shotgun against the side. Then he unslung his M4 and palmed in a magazine.

“Fall back!” he shouted. “Everyone, fall back to the deck!”

Tran and Chase both reloaded their weapons, trying to convince him to change his mind, but nothing they could say would work.

The other men all ran up the steps and joined them on the deck. Fischer lined up his scope and zoomed in on the closest fenced off area, about fourteen hundred feet away. It was quite the distance, but he was a good shot and there were enough targets he figured he would hit something.

He centered the sights on a beast with its maw buried in the belly of a squirming cow. He pulled the trigger, firing off a burst. One of the rounds found a home in the creature’s neck.

The monster skittered away a few feet and then crashed to the ground limp. Two other Variants tried to drag a calf away. Fischer killed one with a headshot and then aimed for the other beast, trying to get a clear shot.

He found it a beat later and pulled the trigger. The second Variant slumped to the ground, and the calf pushed itself up and huddled behind another cow.

Fischer sighted up a third creature and brought it down with a shot to the leg. He finished it with shots to the back and side.

The men next to him took down several more, but the rest of the Variants ripping his men and livestock apart behind the first barn were too far to hit.

The beasts retreated back into the barn with their kills. Several more shots rang out from the men around him, but they became more sporadic until finally stopping. After a few seconds, the only noise was that of the wailing siren.

“Shut the thing off,” Fischer said.

Tran brought up his radio and called their command post. The noise rose and fell one last time. Fischer brought the scope to his eye and zoomed in on the distant fences, seeing the Variants had also retreated in those areas.

Soon the screams of the massacred animals and men went quiet and the chirp of the crickets resumed.

“Anyone got eyes on those shits?” Fischer continued to scan the area.

Everyone reported they saw nothing.

“Think they went back underground?” Chase asked.

“We’ll have to send a couple scouts to find out,” Tran replied.

“Where is everyone else?” Fischer said, looking around. He didn’t see Sergeant Sharp or any of his soldiers. He didn’t see his trackers, Galinsky or Welling, either.

“They went to help put the fires out,” Tran said. “The Variants attacked several of the derricks, too.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that earlier?” Fischer said with an angry snort.

“I’m sorry, sir, but my goal was to make sure you were safe,” Tran said.

Chase nodded. “We figured Sharp had that under control.”

“I highly doubt that,” Fischer stated.

He didn’t want to believe it, but there had to be another Alpha out there. Something smart enough to have coordinated this multi-location attack. He cursed through gritted teeth, trying to think of what to do.

The livestock were obviously lost, but maybe he could still save the derricks. One thing was certain: if he didn’t do something, Fischer Fields wasn’t going to make it through the night.

— 18 —

Dohi had spent the better part of the night slowly working his way toward Gold Medal Park in Minneapolis with Rico. The last report from Mendez confirmed he was still holed up in the condo.

But now Dohi was starting to worry. He hadn’t heard anything from Team Alpha either. They were supposed to be working their way across the other side of the city to the University of Minneapolis.

The good news was the team had prepared to be out here for at least two or three days. As long as they didn’t go beyond that, they would be fine.

He took a drink of water and followed Rico through a burned-out pub with exposed brick walls. Charcoaled stools and tables littered the floor. Shards from broken bottles and the bar mirror hid under the debris, making each step dangerous.

Progress just to get to this pub had been painfully slow. They had taken a detour much further south than Dohi would have liked before they had headed north again. Prowling Variants had forced them inside. Even from their hidden location, he could hear their clicking joints and howls as they hunted.

Dohi tried to drown out the noises and the smells.

The rotten fruit odor wasn’t the only thing contributing to the malodorous, bombed-out city. Mold climbed up the walls from puddles of stagnant water along the floor.

In the back of the bar, a refrigerator lay open, its contents a mess of black fur and spiky growths. Crumpled beer cans were adhered to the floor in sticky piles of unrecognizable brown gunk.

At Rico’s command, Dohi positioned himself near a back door and snapped his night vision goggles back on. According to his map, this exit led to an alley. The main thoroughfares were too dangerous, and Bravo hoped to avoid some of those monsters by creeping along in the shadows instead as they made their way to Mendez.

Rico shouldered her M4A1 and gave him a nod. Dohi wrapped his gloved hand around the handle and twisted it, pushing the door open a couple of inches.

Distant growls of Variants filtered in, but none sounded close. He waited there to be sure, counting the passing seconds, not making another move. Just peering into the darkness outside with his NVGs, studying the green and white sliver of alley.

Shadows moved in the street beyond the carcasses of cars and trucks.

Dohi signaled to Rico and she gestured back for him to exit. He eased the door open further and stepped into the alley, clearing both sides before signaling for Rico to follow.

She moved and they navigated the scree from devastated buildings side by side. A cool wind cut into them and another distant Variant howled. More of the beasts answered the call, the shrieks rising into the night like a flock of birds taking to the air.

Every hair on the back of his neck stood straight. A single mistake would bring the hordes on them. There was no way he and Rico could survive that.

He swallowed his fear and pushed on, squeezing between an overturned dumpster and a brick wall. Scattered bones lay on the other side, blackened and broken.

Once he got to the end of the alley, he knelt behind the bumper of a car that had slammed into a nearby wall. Inside the front seat sat a picked-over skeleton.

All around him came the scrapes and scratches of other beasts searching the picked-through graveyard. Most of the creatures were starving and desperate, which made them even more dangerous.

Rico pointed at a rusted Humvee. It took him a moment to spot the Variant. It crouched nearby, angling a wart-covered nose in the air.

Dohi rotated so he had the creature in his sights. A suppressed shot now would rupture the silence of the night unless it was timed with a howl. If not, it would draw every Variant within the neighboring blocks on his position.

He waited, hoping that it would simply go on wandering listlessly into the night.

But he had no such luck. The creature seemed to catch a whiff of something and dropped to all fours. He moved his finger to the trigger, waiting for a shriek or howl to mask his shot.

The creature bounded across and he prepared to squeeze the trigger, but the Variant seemed to drop through the street.

Dohi eased off the trigger.

It took a moment for him to realize what had happened.

There was an open manhole in the middle of the street. From there, an animalistic cry exploded. The clicking of joints grew louder, and other cries from Variants responded.

The starving, filthy beasts began to pour out of shops and skittered down the sides of buildings. Others leapt from broken windows.

They rocked into each other as they stormed toward the open manhole. One by one, they squeezed into the hole, vanishing into the darkness.

All Dohi and Rico could do was press themselves against the wall, shrinking behind the car while the stampede rattled the ground. It might have only lasted a minute, but to Dohi it felt like an eternity.

Eventually the last of the beasts made it into the underground hell.

Dohi made a mental note of their position. Once he made sure their path ahead was clear, he led Rico away.

They began winding their way over the sidewalk, avoiding other corpses and ducking between crashed vehicles. The area had been hit hard, most of the buildings were nothing but husks or crushed piles of debris.

But there was still one building standing. US Bank Stadium towered over the block in the distance, standing between them and Mendez. Jagged panes of black, grime-covered glass stood around the top of the once enclosed stadium.

The roof had been entirely blown away, and chunks of melted scaffolding jutted down from the opening. A low moan seemed to radiate out of the stadium like the building was groaning in pain.

Dohi balled his fist and listened.

The sounds definitely seemed to be coming from inside the stadium.

“Sounds like people,” Rico said quietly.

Images of the tunnels in Outpost Turkey River surfaced in his mind.

These sounds were all too familiar. One din of countless voices blended together in a macabre soup. The cries from people who were in so much pain, they would beg for death.

Rico set off toward the rusted cars, buses, and military trucks in the parking lot. The moaning grew louder, almost as if they were approaching a waterfall in the jungle.

On the other side of the abandoned vehicles was a quarantine and evacuation checkpoint. Decaying fabric still flapped from huge collapsed tent poles. The canvas on the rusted cots in the lot had mostly rotted away, and boxes of military first aid supplies lay on their sides, their contents long since raided.

Dohi snuck through the area until he reached one of the wide-open gates of the stadium. Rico joined him, roving her rifle back and forth for contacts.

Once inside, they crept between piles of debris littering the corridors. Dohi imagined what it had once looked like with vendors selling cold beers and hotdogs in the wide hall. He could almost smell the popcorn and peanuts in the air and hear the cheerful chatter of throngs heading for a Vikings game.

Now the place was anything but celebratory.

Gloom filled the dark passages. Long dark stains painted the walls. Everywhere Dohi looked was another sign that the civilization he had grown up in no longer existed.

The groans and moaning became louder.

Rico motioned for Dohi to hurry up.

They prowled up stairs that would take them to the seats overlooking the arena floor. Near the top, a sudden clink of talons against concrete sent them both ducking into the shadows.

Pale flesh from a Variant streaked past.

Dohi slipped into a stairwell and took it to the entrance of a seating area marked 211. He stopped in the open corridor, the moaning echoing off the walls.

Rico took point and crouched at the end. Dohi followed her, heart flipping when he got a view of the field.

Much of the roof had caved in, dumping bent scaffolding onto the football field. Holes leading to underground tunnels littered the space like oversized ant colonies and flowing from the black lips of earth were dozens of Variants.

They used the scaffolding that had fallen from the roof into the center of the stadium as a ladder to move around the stadium.

Red webbing covered the metal platforms. Those pulsating vines stretched out of the network of tunnels and straight up to the scaffolding. Humans consumed by the growths hung from the spider web of metal.

Dohi zoomed in with his rifle at webbing growing from eye sockets, open mouths, and virtually every orifice of their bodies. Most of the people appeared to be utterly desiccated, looking like browned and leathery mummies.

But others retained some color to their skin. They were still breathing and writhing ever so slightly.

Alphas like the one he’d seen in the tunnels climbed up the network, their tendrils dragging along the organic cables. They pawed at the humans, opening up new wounds. Red webbing extended from the wounds of the weaker-looking prisoners.

Dohi swallowed the bile climbing in his throat and knelt behind the seats, trying not to throw up. This was Outpost Turkey River all over again, only worse. The nightmarish tableau had him wanting to hide.

A tap on his shoulder brought him back to attention. Rico pointed to the top of his helmet, and he nodded back.

They stood to capture the scene with their cameras. Dohi raked his back and forth to get a sweeping view of the place before they retreated to the outer corridors.

The hallway around the stadium’s perimeter took them to the north side where they would continue on to find Mendez. As much as Dohi knew he needed to focus on the path ahead, he couldn’t get the sounds or images out of his mind. They were like tattoos seared in his thoughts.

We will save them, Dohi thought, trying to reassure himself.

But in his heart, he knew most of those people were beyond saving. Bombing the stadium would have been more merciful than unhooking them from the network of red webbing.

He finally managed to get his wits and made it to the north side of the stadium without encountering any of the beasts. Only a block or so separated them from the condo building Mendez was waiting inside.

Thinking of his brother did help Dohi refocus from what he had just seen, but with every step away from the stadium, he felt like a magnet was tugging on his bones.

There was no denying the connection he felt to this place. While it was probably just in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel like he was a prisoner to the nightmarish webbing just like the people in the stadium.

Rico suddenly yanked on his arm and pulled him behind a car. As soon as they ducked down, Dohi saw why.

An army of monsters were huddled down on the next block, surrounding what had to be a fresh kill. He zoomed in with his rifle, his heart thumping at the possibility it was Mendez. The bodies of several humans came into view through the mass of diseased flesh.

From what little clothing these people still had on, he could tell they weren’t soldiers. Probably more of the prisoners that these Variants had plucked from the webbing. He was surprised he hadn’t seen more of this.

The Variants swarmed, fighting over the scraps, and tore the three humans apart frantically. Screeches sounded over the squawking beasts, but they weren’t coming from down the street.

Dohi glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled.

Rico turned to see what had him spooked.

Hundreds of Variants flooded out of the stadium and around the quarantine area. Their numbers were so great, the ground rumbled beneath them, their clawed hands pounding the cracked concrete.

“We have to find cover,” Rico whispered.

Dohi nodded and followed her toward the closest building. They ducked inside, and moved behind the booth of an old pub. The stampede grew louder, and he poked his head up for a glimpse of the beasts, freezing when he saw their armored flesh.

The sight of these monsters sparked a memory. These were no ordinary Variants…these were juveniles, a new generation of monsters.

But how was that possible?

There had been no reports or sightings of more than a few juveniles over the years.

“Hell…” he whispered.

Rico pulled on him and keeping low, they bolted for a bathroom while the ground vibrated from the heavy armored feet of juvenile Variants.

“What did you see?” she whispered.

Dohi shook his head. This nightmare kept getting worse. Seeing the offspring of the monsters meant the beasts were doing something no one believed they were still capable of doing.

Breeding on a mass scale.

“Dohi,” Rico whispered.

“Juveniles,” he said. “Those were all juveniles.”

Rico’s jaw hung open. “You’re sure?”

He nodded. “Should we break radio silence and tell Fitz?”

“He probably already knows,” Rico said. She pulled the gum off her helmet and plopped it in her mouth, chewing as the tiles rumbled under their boots.

“Mendez isn’t the only one that needs rescuing now,” she whispered. “We’re screwed, too.”

***

President Ringgold changed her mind about their destination as she boarded Marine 1 from Boston to the Greenbrier.

“Take us to Peaks Island instead,” she ordered.

COS Soprano gave her a confused look, but he knew better than to argue after almost eight years of service. The Secret Service agents, however, protested the change, saying it would be too difficult to secure the area in time.

“I think we’re good,” Beckham said. “We have Lieutenant Niven and the Iron Hogs on the ground. They’ll make sure the LZ is secured.”

The lead Secret Service agent approved the plan after Ringgold agreed to call in a second team of Marines, and the VH-60N White Hawk helicopter took off for the island.

After the events in Boston, Ringgold wanted to see some friendly faces and learn more about the work being done in the lab there. If anyone could figure out what kind of strange biological phenomena were taking place in those tunnels, it was Kate Lovato.

Ringgold tried to relax on the flight, but her mind and heart were with the men and women on dangerous missions across the country. In six major cities, teams had deployed to gather intel and, if history repeated itself, many of them would not come back.

She prayed for their safe return. All of the men and women had the skills and experience to accomplish their goals, but she couldn’t shake the worry that she’d sent them on a suicide mission.

The pilots received the all clear at a few minutes past eleven in the evening. They’d been hovering off the shore at Peaks Island, and now Marine 1 lowered from the sky.

A few minutes later, they touched down in an open field. Ringgold looked outside to see the silhouetted Marines had formed a perimeter. There were probably more prone in the weeds and in the tree line, their sniper rifles ready to fire on any threats.

Beckham hopped out first, and then offered his prosthetic hand to her. She took it and, keeping low, followed him and the rest of her team across the grassy field.

Several Humvees waited for them. Ringgold climbed in one with Beckham and three Secret Service agents. The convoy tore down a dirt road toward the healthcare center that doubled as a bunker and a lab. If she recalled correctly, this was where the raiders had concentrated their attack.

“The facilities survived?” Ringgold asked.

“Mostly,” Beckham replied. “All the supplies we lost were replaced. But we can’t replace the lives we lost. Jake Temper died trying to protect people there.”

“I’m sorry, Reed,” Ringgold said.

She had met the New York Police officer and his son Timothy a handful of times. Her heart hurt just thinking about all the deaths in the past week. In the past, heartbreak had proved to be good motivation, but her aging heart couldn’t shatter much more without giving out entirely.

“This is it,” said the driver. He parked the vehicle outside the health center, and a group of Marines fanned out to form a new perimeter.

Once it was secure, a Secret Service agent opened her door and led her toward the building. Another agent moved next to her, his eyes roving at all times. Beckham joined them, moving fast.

At the side door to the building, a large man stood with a machine gun resting on his shoulder and a cigarette in his mouth.

“Guess your first political rally didn’t go so well huh, boss?” he said to Beckham.

“It could have been worse,” Beckham replied.

The man tipped his baseball cap up at Ringgold. “Madam President, very nice to see you tonight.”

It was then she saw the face of Master Sergeant Parker Horn.

“Good to see you, too, Master Sergeant,” she said with a faint smile as they strode past.

Horn patted Beckham on the back, but stayed outside, smoking his cigarette and watching the surrounding darkness for threats.

The two Secret Service agents continued into the building, leading Ringgold and Beckham into a well-lit hallway. The top floor was being used as a command post for the Iron Hog team of Army Rangers. Crates and boxes were stacked neatly in the hallway.

She passed a room they had turned into an operations center.

Backtracking, she stopped in the doorway. The former office was full of radio and surveillance equipment. Screens glowed blue over the faces of soldiers sitting there. They were so intent on their work that it took a moment before one of the officers noticed her and shot up at attention. The others all burst up from their seats and stood stiff as boards.

“At ease, everyone,” she said. “I wanted to thank you. I really appreciate you working overtime tonight to make sure the island is secure.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” replied a sergeant.

“How’s it going, Ruckley?” Beckham asked the woman.

“Island’s locked down, Captain,” she said. “No one is getting past our defenses.”

Ringgold was accustomed to the tired looks of warriors, but there was clearly some resentment in a few gazes tonight. Not that she blamed them. What was happening across the country was too reminiscent of the final nightmarish stages of the Great War of Extinction.

Almost as startling, half of the Rangers in this room were in their early twenties, which meant they were hardly even teenagers during that first war.

First war, she thought.

She backed out of the room. Soprano and one of the agents went inside the office, but she followed Beckham and the rest of the security detail down the stairs to the lab.

Until Boston, she hadn’t really thought about the possibility of another full-fledged war again.

Considering this new reality made her heart thump.

She had to find out what was going on, and stop it before it was too late.

“This way, Madam President,” Beckham said. He gestured through an open steel door to the bunker and a living area. They crossed the space and moved into a passage. At the end, glass walls provided a glimpse into a full lab.

Kate was working behind the protective glass with Carr and the technicians. But Ringgold’s eyes gravitated instantly to a clear fish tank full of what looked like a living hunk of meat in a pink bath of liquid.

The red, squirming tissue looked like the heart of a monster.

“What in God’s name is that?” she asked.

“Good question,” Beckham said. “Kate tried to explain it to me, and I still don’t think I understand.”

He hit a button on the wall, buzzing the lab.

Everyone inside turned around toward the glass walls. Kate smiled behind her visor and raised a finger to indicate they should wait one moment.

Ringgold continued scanning the room. Technicians worked at all kinds of equipment, their faces buried in what they were doing. She recognized the microscopes but was less familiar with the contraptions that had hoses sticking out of them or the large racks of devices with blinking lights that seemed to be humming.

Atop a cart in a corner of the lab, a woman sliced into the exposed muscle of a monstrous limb from an Alpha. The technician then took a chunk of what looked like muscle and deposited it into a glass jar.

Footsteps sounded back in the bunker hallway and Ringgold turned to see Soprano speed walking through the hallway.

“Madam President,” he said, panting. “I’ve got news about that collaborator we took into custody at the rally.”

“What is it?”

“He gave us the potential location of other collaborators.”

“Where?” Beckham turned to join in the conversation.

“Luray Caverns in Virginia,” Soprano said. “SOCOM is already putting together a strike team to check it out.”

Beckham looked at Ringgold. “I want on that team. That bastard called me out by name. If this is something personal, I need to be there to stop it.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Ringgold replied. “Chances are this is a trap. Those caverns could be filled with Variants or who knows what else.”

Beckham stood straighter and drew in a breath.

“Madam President, you asked me to run for Senate to protect my country,” he said. “I can’t do that without knowing who these collaborators are.”

“There are other soldiers to do that, Reed, you already gave more than enough of yourself,” Ringgold said.

“Please, I promise no live fire. I just want to go for support. I’ll bring Big Horn with me.”

She had never heard Beckham so insistent on something before. That only reinforced her feeling this was a bad idea. But she trusted him. When it came to military matters, he knew what he was doing.

“Okay,” she agreed.

More footsteps echoed at the end of the hallway drawing her attention to what was probably another problem. Two more Rangers joined them, including Sergeant Ruckley.

“Madam President, we have Vice President Lemke on a line for you,” she said, handing over a satellite phone.

Ringgold took it in a tired hand. Another call this soon after the first couldn’t be because the vice president wanted to chitchat.

“Talk to me, Dan,” she said.

“Got more bad news. Fischer Fields is under attack.”

Ringgold looked back over the lab, the news sinking in. She was hoping for the tycoon’s support but doubted she would get it now.

“How about the reinforcements we sent them?” Ringgold asked.

“I’m not sure they will be enough,” Lemke replied. “Sounds pretty bad.”

“Keep me updated.”

“Yes, Madam President.”

Ringgold shook her head and handed the phone back to the Sergeant.

She had to stop what was happening out there before it spread to every free inch of the Allied States, and they lost everything she had spent the past eight years trying to rebuild.

— 19 —

The sun dipped on the horizon, disappearing behind the overgrown trees along the Mississippi River. Fitz looked out the window of the Walter Library at the University of Minnesota campus, eyeing the packs of Variants hunting outside.

Hours ago, the creatures had swarmed the streets, forcing Team Alpha to take cover here. He set up guard shifts, so they could all get some sleep while they waited, but Fitz hadn’t been able to rest. From the looks of it, his men hadn’t fared much better.

Ace leaned against the wall next to the window, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open as he watched for threats. Lincoln lay nearby, his head propped up behind his hands on the floor.

Fitz wasn’t happy about hiding in the mildew-covered building full of rotting books. They needed to get out there and identify the location of the Variants and any prisoners. But roaming packs had forced them into shelter.

Added to that, Fitz was on pins and needles not knowing how Team Bravo was doing. He still didn’t know if Rico and Dohi had linked up with Mendez yet, or if they were even still alive for that matter.

This was the most difficult part about dating Rico. Not knowing how she was, or if she was hurt. Sometimes he could block out the worry by keeping himself busy. But when the only companion in his mind was boredom, he couldn’t help thinking of all the terrible things that might have happened to her.

Every second that passed, he considered breaking radio silence. But he decided to trust Rico would transmit if there was an emergency.

He checked the window again as the last of the packs moved out of the area. Ace nodded from his location at another window.

It was time to move.

Fitz nudged Lincoln with a boot. They gathered their gear and headed toward the entryway to the computer lab. Ace led them into the main corridor of the library, passing toppled shelves bleeding soggy, mold-covered books. Leaking water from the ceiling pinged on the floor.

Somewhere ahead came the scratching and growling of Variants. Their rotten fruit odor rose over the pungency of the rotten books.

A chill ran through Fitz, and he held up a fist.

He suddenly got the sense he made a vital error in judgment, and the Variant packs had flanked them. Shadows stretched over the library’s floor as several beasts sniffed their way into the room.

Lincoln and Ace took cover next to Fitz behind a standing bookshelf. He watched through a gap in the books as three of the thinnest Variants he had ever seen prowled through the shelves, looking for something to eat.

They hadn’t caught the team’s scent yet.

Fitz motioned for Lincoln and Ace to hold their fire.

One of the creatures picked up a book and then tossed it aside, hitting a second beast. It snapped back and growled, an eye seeming to bulge from a sunken socket.

The third beast had stopped to chew on an arm covered in open wounds oozing blood and pus. The creatures were all covered in bite and scratch marks.

They were cannibalizing one another, he thought.

Fitz maneuvered for a better look, his right blade letting out a slight creak.

The munching Variant glanced up. The sucker lips snarled back, rows of needle-sharp teeth glistening in saliva.

Fitz waited a beat, hoping that the Variant would write the noise off and turn away. But he had no such luck.

The growling Variant crept toward the team. Fitz looked for a quick escape but, with the beasts around them, there would be none.

They didn’t have any way out of this mess except—

Fitz signaled to Lincoln.

“Fuck this,” Lincoln growled. He stepped out from their hiding spot and fired a burst. Rounds punched through the creature’s chest, sending it spinning backward. It crashed in a tangled mess of limbs.

The remaining two bounded over to their dead comrade, each letting out a furious shriek. Lincoln ended their short-lived assault with two more bursts.

All three beasts bled out into the pool of rain water and wet pages of novels that would never be read again.

But the damage had been done.

The suppressed shots and screeches had attracted the attention of another pack. Fitz didn’t need to tell his team to run. Fighting inside the close quarters would be suicide. If they were going to make a stand they needed a better vantage.

Or you could hide, Fitz thought.

A pair of Variants exploded out of a doorway ahead of Ace.

Fight it is, then.

The older man blew off their heads with perfectly aimed shotgun blasts. Other shrieks came from the hallway behind them. Lincoln laid out a wall of cover fire.

The crash of metal clanged from the hallway. Fitz followed Lincoln and Ace out to see three more Variants vaulting out of a doorway.

Windows cracked in the back of the library as other creatures flanked their position.

Team Alpha was already surrounded.

Ace took on the Variants in front, and Lincoln focused on those in back with Fitz. A few got close enough they managed haphazard swipes. Bullets chewed into the diseased flesh of the monsters, dropping them easily.

Once they were all down, another flurry of screeches filled the halls.

“Changing,” Fitz said.

Lincoln slapped in a new magazine, and Ace reloaded his rifle.

As Fitz charged his rifle, he noticed broken-open ceiling tiles and the red webbing they had seen in the tunnels. He signaled for Lincoln and Ace to continue down a stairwell.

The group headed toward the bottom floor of the library where manmade tunnels would lead to other buildings on campus. These had preceded the Variants, built for students to transit in warmth during harsh Minnesota winters.

Red webbing covered the walls down here and the scent of carrion intensified. The Variants had made themselves at home.

Fitz ran onto a dirt-covered floor and looked over his shoulder at the stairs. They had to flick on their tac-lights to pierce the suffocating darkness. The roars of the Variants boomed from the upper floors of the library. He whirled to scan the basement.

Growls and grunts came from across the dark space. The noises sounded like there was something more than the garden variety Variants occupying this area. He identified the familiar high-pitched staccato notes and an ear-splitting clicking that the Alphas made.

Now he wondered if it was the noise they had made that drew all of the packs, or if it was this creature commanding them like some crazed conductor.

If that was the case, then they wouldn’t be able to escape the constant barrage of attacks until the Alpha was dead. They had to take it down.

Fitz signaled toward the manmade tunnel that led from the bottom floor of the library to neighboring university buildings. The webbing was dense here, some of it stretching across the passage.

Other Variant-made tunnels branched off the main passage, more of the webbing coating the dirt and rock walls like cobwebs. Clicking joints echoed, preventing Fitz from getting a good read on the location of the other packs. He knew one thing—they were coming for Alpha Team.

The soldiers pressed deeper into another passage where he finally saw movement. A massive shape lumbered down the dark corridor.

“That’s the Alpha,” Fitz whispered to his team members.

Lincoln aimed his rifle but the abomination rounded a corner. A flood of smaller Variants suddenly rushed in to cover their leader’s escape.

Lincoln took a knee, and Ace hugged the wall. Fitz moved between them to get an open firing zone in the narrow passage. The sinewy monsters crashed under the wave of gunfire, clogging the tunnel with bodies.

“Conserve your ammo!” Fitz yelled. He had already gone through several magazines, and only had four left, plus his sidearm, and they still hadn’t collected the intel they needed to relay to command.

They had to get out of here.

He turned, seeing more shadows moving in the space.

Dread filled his gut.

In an effort to try and escape, he had trapped them down here in a network of Variant-infested tunnels.

Shit, shit…stay focused, stay calm. All it takes is all you got, Fitz.

As the Alpha Variant escaped, it seemed to be sending more Variants at Team Ghost. Suddenly one of the creatures pounced from a branching tunnel and rammed into Lincoln. He crashed to the ground pushing up at the beast as the wormy lips peeled back, saliva roping off its teeth onto Lincoln’s face.

Fitz grabbed its head and twisted it with a violent snap. The claws meant for Lincoln’s face slid along the floor, tearing into the pulsing webs of tissue.

“Thanks,” Lincoln said, as he rose with Fitz’s help.

Turning to fire, rounds and shotgun blasts chewed into more Variants advancing on them.

Almost as soon as they finished off that batch, another creature exploded out of the darkness. Lincoln cut it down with a flurry of rounds that sent it sliding across the web-covered floor.

Fitz motioned for them to head into a branching tunnel, trying to find a way out before the Alpha could send another wave.

They needed something to change the paradigm. It took him a few minutes of running for his mind to think back to Outpost Turkey River, and that gave him an idea.

The R2TD system had attracted the Alpha, which had seemed more interested in destroying that piece of equipment than any of the humans around it.

From what Fitz knew, the beast used echolocation to navigate through its environment. Those huge bat-like ears were hypersensitive to sound. And the pings of the R2TD device must be in the right frequency range for the beast to pick up.

More Variants hurled themselves out of neighboring tunnels ahead, and Fitz stopped to take them down. He yelled while firing, “Activate the R2TD system.”

“What?” Ace shouted back.

“Turn it on!” Fitz screamed. “Lincoln and I will lay down covering fire.”

“You fucking crazy?”

“If you want to get out of here, do it!”

Ace took off the device and flipped it on. A low hum emanated from the machine as they waited for the next pack of monsters.

Instead of the squawks from the grunts, a roar blasted from one of the nearby tunnels. The sound of footsteps echoed as the creature was drawn to the machine like a bug to a light.

“Where’s it coming from?” Lincoln said.

Fitz turned just in time to see a giant shape filling the wide corridor.

“Behind us,” he said.

The Alpha ran at a hunch, bat-like ears fanning out the sides of its head. The muscular arms pumped as it moved and the spindles of tissue stuck out of its spine toward the surface of the webbing on all sides of the tunnel.

The three men opened up on it with their weapons. Rounds blew out hunks of meat, slowing the advancing monster. It stumbled under the hail of lead, letting out a series of pained screams.

It made it a few more strides before collapsing to the ground. Using its claws, it dragged its broken body toward them.

Fitz lined up his aiming reticles over the creature’s bulbous head. A final shot blasted away the bone and flesh of the creature’s blind face.

For a moment, Fitz thought he had a chance to gather his breath again, but new sounds boomed down the tunnels.

More Alphas.

A new trickle of adrenaline surged through his vessels. Fitz signaled for Ace to set the R2TD system down. The device would attract all the nearby Alphas. He had only intended to eliminate the one, but if they could clear out more, then he would take that opportunity.

The questions were how many more they would have to take out, and did they have enough ammo?

Another beast lumbered into the tunnel with hands clamped over its ears. It let out a pained howl that was answered by the boom of Ace’s shotgun.

The abomination crashed not far from the first.

Another Alpha joined the fight, then a third and a fourth.

Holy shit, Fitz thought. He hadn’t expected so many of the beasts to be prowling these tunnels under Minneapolis. It only proved to him that this place was important, undoubtedly an epicenter of Variant activity.

By the time Fitz directed Ace to turn the R2TD off, seven corpses clogged the tunnels. The clicking of joints and shrieks seemed to retreat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Lincoln whispered.

Ace picked up the dormant R2TD system, and Fitz used the back of his hand to clean flecks of blood from his face. He took point and led them back to the main tunnel system.

Other tunnels intersected with the sides of the main corridor. Fitz spotted the desiccated remains of animals in several of them. Everything big and small had been strung up, sharing a fate like those deer they’d seen in Duluth.

In some instances, Fitz even saw dead Variants hanging from the red webbing.

Whatever this stuff was, it pulsed more wildly here. Fitz could practically feel the electricity coming off it and into his own skin. The deeper into the main tunnel system they went, the faster his heart beat, as if his own body knew what he was heading into before he did.

After using the R2TD weapon like that, he was certain that they had taken out all the Alphas within a generous area from their location.

If his memory served him correctly, they were nearing the Northrop Performing Arts Center. The air became more humid the deeper they moved.

Advancing through these tunnels seemed like walking through the blood vessels of some giant beast. Fitz realized that wasn’t so far from the truth.

The tunnels were, in a way, part of a living monster, and the Delta Operators were like parasites. These growths of living tissue seemed to be the way the monsters organized themselves, creating a kind of hive mind network.

He didn’t know exactly how it worked, but he had a feeling they were getting close to uncovering that secret based on the ferocity of the Variant defenses they had encountered.

He balled his fist as a deep roar boomed in the distance. The thunderous voice rattled his bones, resonating in his marrow.

Lincoln and Ace both had their hands on their helmets, staggering back and forth until the sound died away.

Fitz brought up his rifle, trying to blink away the stars bursting before his vision.

“What was that?” he stammered.

Ace shook his helmet. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”

Lincoln shrugged and shouldered his rifle. “If something’s going to try to kill us down here, I’d rather get this shit over with.”

***

Kate rolled over in bed, instinctively reaching out for Beckham, and feeling nothing but sheets. She shot up, remembering that he had left shortly after midnight for the USS George Johnson.

“I’m just going to monitor the mission and will only go in after the team has confirmed it’s safe,” he had said.

Horn had gone with him, entrusting her security, and the kids, with Sergeant Ruckley and her Army Rangers, as well as the Marines.

Kate got out of bed and walked over to the window, taking in a deep breath of the crisp morning air drifting into the temporary housing.

Letting out a yawn, she went to her bag of clothes. She had slept, but not well, since Beckham was gone.

With the end of the Great War of Extinction, she had gotten used to seeing him every day and feeling the warmth of his body at night.

For the past few weeks, she hadn’t seen much of him at all, and she feared that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Especially with the new scientific studies she was embarking on and his decision to take on a role with the government.

It seemed their quiet lifestyle on the island had come to an end.

“Mom,” Javier said, rubbing his eyes in the doorway. “Do you have to work again?”

“Yes, honey, I’m sorry.”

Javier frowned. “When is dad coming back?”

“Soon.”

“I want to go home,” Javier sighed. “I don’t like this place.”

“Don’t you like hanging out with the other kids?”

“I guess, but Timothy seems really mad and so does Bo.”

“I imagine it’s going to be hard for Timothy for a while. Just keep trying to be there for him, okay?”

Javier nodded. “He does like playing with Ginger and Spark.”

“Good, you guys should take them to the park and play today.”

“Okay,” Javier said, his spirit lifting. “As long as Tasha and Jenny are cool with it. Maybe they’ll want to play soldier with me.”

Kate nearly winced.

“Why don’t you play scientists instead?” Kate asked. “You know, some of us are quite happy as scientists.”

Javier sunk his hands into his pockets. “If I don’t become a soldier, then I’ll be a scientist,” he said. “I just want to help people when I get older.”

Kate smiled at that.

“You can start by helping Timothy and being there for him in his time of need.”

“I know, and I will.”

Javier went back to his room to get ready for the day.

When she was good to go, she started a pot of coffee. While she waited for it to brew, she watched Javier eat his breakfast, wondering what his future might hold. Her gut told her his future might very well be decided in the next several days by scientists and soldiers.

One of them waited outside her door now.

“Morning, Doctor,” said Michael. The fit young soldier raised a fist and Javier pounded it.

“Hey, Mikey,” Javier said.

“Sup, champ?”

“Not much, just another boring day ahead.”

“Tell me about it.” Michael glanced at Kate. “No offense, doctor.”

She smiled and walked down to Donna’s room, stopping to knock. Turning back, she kissed Javier and gave him a hug.

“Have a good day, honey.”

Donna stepped out of her room, at that moment, with a smile aimed at Kate. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take good care of him.”

“I know you will, thanks, Donna,” Kate replied.

Michael led her downstairs where a full escort of soldiers waited in the hotel lobby. Security had been tight since the raid on Peaks Island and Portland. Because Ringgold had identified her and Carr as VIPs, they could barely use a bathroom without having to check in with someone.

A Humvee took her to the piers, and a private boat took her to Peaks Island and the lab. Carr was already working, his eyes pressed against a microscope within the cell culture room.

Kate donned a white bunny suit, mask, and goggles, then stepped into the lab. The familiar chorus of chirping and humming laboratory equipment greeted her.

Lab techs filtered in and out. The team that Carr had arrived with was big enough to keep the place staffed twenty-four hours a day. It bumped up their productivity and allowed Kate a night of rest so desperately needed without feeling too guilty.

One of the techs handed Kate a summary of the experiments they’d conducted through the night.

“Anything particularly interesting I should be looking at?” Kate asked, beginning to skim the report.

“The cells tested positive for cancer markers,” the tech replied.

“Ah, that certainly helps explain the unrestrained growth of the cells and why the vessels feeding the tissues are so patchy.”

The tech nodded and walked away.

Kate took the report with her to where Carr worked, trying to wrap her mind around the implications of these new findings. Oftentimes in tumors, blood vessels grew too fast to form properly. Instead of allowing blood to flow through them normally like a garden hose, vessels growing in tumors acted more like those sprinkler hoses with all the tiny holes in them used to water lawns.

But that didn’t help her to understand why they couldn’t get the masses of tissues in their bioreactors and cell culture plates to form the same organized webbing structures that Team Ghost had seen in the tunnels.

“Good morning, Doctor Lovato,” Carr said, when she joined him at the microscope. “I trust you’ve read the most recent data.”

“I have, and what it tells me is that we’ve still got a long way to go.”

“That we do.” He sighed and turned to look at her. “I’ve tried making sense of the phenotypic data in comparison with the abhorrent bulk behavior of the tissue, but it just doesn’t fit together.”

“What have you tried since I was gone?”

Carr pulled out the cell culture plate he’d been examining on the microscope tray. “I’m incubating tissue samples from the autopsied Alpha with the webbing samples.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Be my guest.”

Carr replaced the cell culture plate, and Kate pressed her face to the eyepieces. The nerve and muscle cells from the webbing were a disorganized mess. They certainly looked like the cancerous mass that the tech had reported they were.

But on the other side of the dish, separated by a thin semi-permeable membrane, the cells isolated from the autopsied Alpha spindle were still growing. They appeared neat and organized, stretching in long networks like the nerve and muscle cells Kate would have expected in mature healthy tissue.

The cells appeared to be doing exactly what they were supposed to do. As if something was directing their growth. It hit Kate maybe that was exactly what was happening. If so, she had been looking at things backward.

“Let’s have the team run GTPase activity assays on these samples,” Kate said. “I want to know the signaling activity levels in both cell populations.”

“I don’t know if—”

“We ran your experiments with the Alpha spindle, and they didn’t work,” Kate said, looking over at Carr who stood by her shoulder. “It’s time to try something else.”

Carr gave the order to the techs. They started running the assays in the other part of the lab. If the results proved her instincts right, then they were going to have to adjust their understanding of the cellular interactions they thought had been dictating the tissue behavior so far.

It took a couple of hours, and once the experiments had completed, Kate and Carr studied the results on a computer monitor. The staff had already analyzed the data and transferred it to graphs that showed the relationship Kate had been expecting.

“My goodness, this is…not what I expected,” Carr said.

“Increased GTPase activity indicates higher levels of cell signaling with an especially high concentration going on in the webbing cells,” Kate stated.

“I can see that. What’s strange to me is that there is far less signaling going on in the spindle cells.”

“Precisely,” Kate said. “My guess is that the cell signaling is stronger in the webbing because the Alpha spindles function differently than we expected. The spindles are more like an old TV’s antenna than a radio station’s antenna.”

“You mean they are meant for receiving signals instead of transmitting them?”

“Yes, the GTPase activity is just as high in the webbing in dishes that both have and don’t have the spindle cells,” Kate continued. “If you look at a cell culture that only has spindle cells, there is very little GTPase activity, meaning the Alpha spindle cells don’t do anything without signals from the webbing cells.”

“That certainly supports your hypothesis.” Carr gestured to one of the larger bioreactors with the masses of tissue growing in them. “Guess it’s time to take these tests to the next level.”

Kate nodded and helped carry one of the football-sized clear tanks with the webbing tissue to a table in the middle of the cell culture room. Carr set up one of the Alpha’s spindles like they did last time, complete with a controller to apply voltages to the tissue. This time, he set the electrode to apply an electrical field to the webbing tissue instead of the Alpha spindle.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded.

He turned on the controller.

Kate held her breath, anxious to see if she was right.

The invisible current of electricity passed through the mass of webbing tissue and, unlike the other tests, it didn’t bubble or expand. Instead, it pulsed evenly like a heartbeat. At the other end of the bioreactor, connected to those webbing tissues, was the Alpha spindle attached through a port in the bioreactor.

The spindle seemed to contract smoothly and didn’t quiver or jump around like a fish on land. Even when Carr pressed their luck by increasing the voltage, the tissues continued to perform the same way. There appeared to be little difference in the behavior of the different tissues.

“It’s working,” Carr said, as a smile slowly started to spread across his face. “You’re right. Whatever signals are being transmitted through the webbing are passing through the Alpha spindle. And this time, nothing appears to be going crazy.”

“This is how the tissues are supposed to behave.”

“So the Alpha is taking signals from the webbing, but the webbing tissues haven’t changed form at all. It’s still a mess instead of self-organizing into the spider web tendrils.”

Kate frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. We’ve only got half the equation here.”

“There must be something else that transmits commands through the webbing…” Carr seemed to think on it for a moment before turning to look at Kate. “I don’t think the Alphas are at the top of the food chain, Doctor Lovato.”

“I think you’re right. All this reminds me of the monsters from Europe that had morphed into bug and reptile-like creatures. They had fairly complex social structures.”

If there was something else out there that could control the Alphas, and coordinating Variants and collaborators, it had to be more intelligent and frightening than anything they had encountered yet.

Her stomach sank.

Team Ghost was out there in enemy territory. They could come face to face with this monstrosity and, this time, there was nothing she could do but warn them. If she wasn’t already too late.

“Come on,” she said, turning toward the exit. “We have to notify command.”

— 20 —

Two elements of a platoon from SEAL Team 3 sat inside the briefing room of the USS George Johnson listening attentively to General Souza and his LNO, Lieutenant Festa, discuss their mission, dubbed Operation Renegade.

Beckham and Horn watched from the back of the room, their backs to a bulkhead.

The eight SEALs sat ramrod straight, faces covered by black paint, only the whites of their eyes showing. Horn, on the other hand, was slouched and staring off into space. Beckham gave him an elbow to the side.

That did the trick.

Horn stood up straight and folded his arms over his chest.

“The drone we sent over the target shows no recent Variant activity,” said General Souza.

Beckham had already studied the maps and satellite imagery, but this new image on the wall-mounted monitor was much more recent. He took in the fiery canopy of trees and the mostly abandoned parking lot outside the Luray Cavern buildings.

“Infrared scans came back negative for human and Variant contacts,” Souza added. “However, these scans can be unreliable. Past experience shows Variants can mask their heat signatures, and there is evidence to suggest recent human activity in the area.”

Lieutenant Festa brought up a new picture of two roads leading to the caverns.

“Fresh tracks indicate vehicle movement on both Highway 340 and Cave Hill Road,” he said.

“If our source is telling the truth, this could be one of the most important missions in figuring out the collaborators’ connection to the Variants and their attacks on the outposts,” Souza said.

Malcom Winters, the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the SEAL team, cleared his throat. “What about other human populations in the area?” he asked. “Any friendlies we should be aware of?”

“This is Variant territory, so anyone out there is living off the grid and should be considered hostile until proven otherwise,” Souza replied.

“Roger that,” said the chief.

“Any other questions?” Souza asked.

The SEALs shook their heads.

“Beckham, Horn?” Souza looked to the back.

“No, sir,” Horn said.

“Not right now, sir,” Beckham added.

“Good, let’s get topside. I want to bag and tag these fuckers before sunset.”

The SEALs filed out of the room. Beckham and Horn started to follow but, before they left, Souza called out to them.

“Hold up, Captain,” he said.

The general directed his LNO to shut the hatch, indicating whatever he had to say wasn’t good. Beckham’s thoughts instantly went to Team Ghost.

“We just got word from Doctor Lovato before this briefing,” Souza said.

Beckham’s heart flipped. He pictured another raid on Peaks Island sweeping away Kate and Javier and the other kids.

“What’s wrong?” Horn got out before Beckham could respond.

“Nothing’s wrong at the outpost. It’s what Doctor Lovato found in the lab. She thinks she’s figured out what the red webbing is for.”

Beckham knew she would come through.

“It’s some sort of communication network,” Souza said. “They think the Variants are using it to coordinate the attacks by sending signals to the Alphas we’ve seen.”

“If this is true, then maybe the collaborators are tapped into this network, too,” Beckham said.

“It’s unclear if humans can tap into this network or if they’d be relying on communication through Variants. Either way, we need an immediate answer to this,” Souza said, crossing his arms. “That’s why Festa is coming along on this mission.”

“Sir…” Beckham’s words trail off, realizing he would be out of line to tell the Commander of SOCOM that it was a bad idea to send his LNO.

Instead, he said, “Have you heard anything from Team Ghost?”

“Negative, they’ve been radio silent since the HALO jump,” Souza said. “Hopefully, we’ll hear something soon.”

“I hope so, too, sir.”

“I need to get back to command to monitor Operation Shadow,” Souza said. “Good luck out there.”

Festa opened the hatch, and Souza hurried off in the opposite direction. The rest of them took ladders to the deck of the destroyer. The SEALs were finishing up their gear check outside the open troop hold of a V-22 Osprey.

Clouds crossed over the morning skyline, blocking out the sun. Beckham didn’t like going in during daytime, but they didn’t have a choice.

There was no time to waste.

A group of ten Marines filed out of the hatch in full combat kit, carrying suppressed M4A1 carbines. They loaded straight into the Osprey.

“We got more people joining the party out there?” Horn wasn’t very good at hiding the skepticism in his voice, and Beckham shot him a look.

“They’re going to help with intel extraction and prisoners,” Festa said. “And they’ll make sure I don’t become Variant feed.”

Beckham cracked an uneasy grin as he grabbed his M4 and Horn picked up his M249. They followed the Lieutenant into the troop hold where they took seats and waited for the SEALs.

If all went well, the support crew wouldn’t have to fire a shot while the SEALs cleaned house.

Horn settled into the seat next to Beckham.

“Reminds me of the day this all started, riding one of these to San Nicholas Island,” he said.

Beckham swallowed and looked down at his boot and blade. The memories brought back physical and emotional pain.

“Sorry, boss, I know you remember,” Horn said, resting a hand on Beckham’s shoulder. “We lost a lot of our brothers that day.”

“Hard to fathom what’s happened since then.”

“Tell me about it. I think of Sheila every damn day and what could have been.”

“She would be damned proud of how you’ve raised your girls,” Beckham said, looking up. “You’re a hell of a father. The best.”

Horn drew in a breath and forced a smile.

The SEALs moved into the hold and sat down. Some of them traded looks with Beckham, but nobody spoke. The V-22’s engines growled to life, and the rumble vibrated through the bulkheads. Beckham put on his headset and closed his eyes. The flight would take three and a half hours, plenty of time to get some desperately needed shuteye.

A nudge to his arm woke him up sometime later. He blinked away his grogginess.

“Better wake up, boss,” Horn said. “Command is reporting contacts in the drop zone.”

Horn tapped his headset, and Beckham snapped alert, listening to one of the pilots over the channel.

“Please advise,” the pilot said.

“Standby for orders,” was Chief Winters reply.

Across the troop hold, Festa was talking on another channel.

Beckham couldn’t hear what the LNO was saying over the engines. He strained to look out the windows, seeing nothing but clouds.

“We’re ten minutes from target,” said one of the pilots over the comms.

“Alright listen up,” Festa said. “Our drone operators are reporting movement in the area. Two pickup trucks and a van.”

“Are they headed to or from the target?” asked Winters.

“To the target,” Festa said.

“If you don’t want them to hear us coming, we better put down far outside the DZ,” Winters said.

Beckham agreed.

“Moving in on foot is risky, but it’s your call, Chief,” Festa said, looking to Winters.

“Why not just land and go in guns blazing?” Horn rumbled.

“That’s not how we do things, Master Sergeant,” said the SEAL Chief.

“He’s right,” Beckham agreed. “We haven’t even confirmed they’re collaborators.”

“Who the hell else would they be?” Horn said. “You heard what General Souza said. Anyone out here has to be treated hostile until proven otherwise.”

“I’m all for lighting up these bastards if they are collaborators, but I don’t want to kill some random stranded survivors,” Winters spoke.

“Me either,” Festa said. “Plus, we need the collaborators alive for intel.”

The voice of a pilot came back over the open channel. “Sir, we need to make a decision soon.”

“Let’s go low and sweep them,” Beckham said. “See if we can get them to stop. If they aren’t collaborators, they might still have good information for us.”

Winters agreed after a short pause.

“Let’s get it done,” Festa said with a nod.

He went up to the cockpit to talk to the pilots while Winters relayed the plan to his team and the Marines. The nervous sounds of pre-combat stretches and gear checks echoed through the space as the craft lowered through the cloudy sky.

“I don’t like this boss,” Horn said. “What if they are collaborators and start shooting?”

“Then we take them out,” Beckham answered.

Horn looked at the M240 near the back of the aircraft.

“Targets in sight,” said the primary pilot. “They are heading north on Cave Hill Road.”

The Osprey continued to descend and the back door opened. A crew chief grabbed the M240 and set it up, manning the weapon.

“They spotted us,” confirmed one of the pilots. “One pickup just veered off onto a dirt road through that forest, but the van and other pickup are still heading north.”

“Cut ’em off,” Festa replied.

“Stranded survivors my hairy ass,” Horn snorted.

The Osprey curved through the sky as it moved to intercept the vehicles. Beckham glimpsed the sea of orange and red leaves in the forest canopy. A brown road curved through it like a polluted river.

The crew chief on the M240 aimed the barrel downward and Horn moved over, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Step aside, bub.”

The crew chief gave him a glance, but a nod from Festa made him get out of the way, allowing Horn to grab the weapon.

“Both vehicles just turned off the road,” reported the primary pilot. “They’re still heading for the target area.”

The aircraft turned again, cutting low over the trees. They were close enough Beckham could see the truck and van driving perpendicular to the Osprey.

“Fire a warning shot,” Festa told Horn.

Horn squeezed off a burst in front of the pickup, but instead of stopping, two men stuck rifles out of the windows and opened fire.

The M240 barked to life in Horn’s grip.

As the Osprey curved with the vehicles, Beckham caught a better view of where they were headed. They sped toward a parking lot outside the various buildings once used for cave tours. Beckham figured the collaborators were using them as housing now.

Horn fired another burst from the M240. Sparks and smoke exploded from the front of the pickup truck. The vehicle jerked, grinding to a stop from blown tires. The van swerved around, slamming into the ditch.

“Take us down,” Festa said over the comm. “Get ready, everyone.”

The aircraft’s wings tilted up as it slowed, and the Osprey began a vertical descent toward the road. The wheels thumped against the asphalt.

“Go, go, go!” Winters yelled.

The SEALs stormed down the ramp and fanned out with their weapons shouldered. Beckham joined Horn who was aiming the M240 at the van.

As soon as the SEALs were out, the Osprey lifted back into the sky, circling overhead. The SEALs spread into a wide semi-circle around the vehicles, and gunfire quickly rang out.

Several rounds slammed into the bulkhead and Beckham ducked down.

“Eat this, assholes!” Horn yelled as he fired at the vehicles. Beckham straightened to see multiple hostiles had jumped out of the truck and van. The men were clumped around the damaged vehicles, shooting at the SEALs.

Gunfire lanced across the road, and Horn rained more rounds down at two men kneeling in the ditch. They both collapsed, blood painting the grass.

“Nice shooting, Big Horn,” Beckham said.

The collaborators outnumbered the SEALs, but they were no match for the warriors and Horn on the M240.

One by one the bastards hit the dirt.

“Fox 1, this is Eagle Eye 1, all hostiles down,” Winters reported over the comm channel. “Requesting permission to proceed to target.”

“Permission granted, Eagle Eye 1,” Festa replied. He ordered the pilots to put them back down a safe distance from the vehicles. The wheels touched the pavement again, and this time most of the Marines piled out to help secure the area.

The SEALs advanced toward the caverns and the buildings, veering off into two smaller elements to explore both locations. Horn gave up the M240, and the crew chief took over.

“On me,” Festa said.

Beckham, Horn, and two Marines walked down the street with the Lieutenant after a perimeter had been set up. Within five minutes, the entire scene had been locked down.

One of the Marines jogged over to Festa.

“Nine hostiles dead and one alive, sir.”

Festa gestured toward the Osprey with a thumb. “Get the bastard into the troop hold.”

Two Marines dragged a man out of the ditch. His pants were stained red from a wound. A cobweb of a beard clung to his grime-covered face and dreads hung over his shoulders.

The collaborator snarled like a Variant as the Marines hauled him off. Even from a distance, Beckham could smell the man’s fetid odor.

Festa motioned for Beckham and Horn to join him and their Marine escort. They set off for the parking lot the SEALs had crossed, toward the entrance of the caves and the buildings surrounding it.

The Osprey took off again, pulling away to avoid any potential enemy fire. Beckham kept his rifle cradled, scanning the forest, buildings, and surrounding areas for any hostiles.

The crisp autumn air rustled the hair sticking out under his helmet. He filled his lungs as suppressed gunshots sounded in the distance.

“Eagle Eye 1 engaging two hostiles,” Winters reported.

Festa balled his fist. Beckham took cover behind an abandoned car with Horn and waited while the SEALs raided the buildings across the parking lot.

Cleaning house, he thought.

And clean house they did.

Winters came back online a moment later. “Fox 1, Eagle Eye 1. All hostiles eliminated. We’re checking for booby traps.”

“Fox 1, Eagle Eye 2, we’ve cleared the building,” said the SEAL in charge of the second team. “It’s a freaking gold mine. Better have a look, Fox 1.”

Festa stood and nodded. The Marines took point, weapons at the ready. They moved into the building and found the room where the SEAL fire team waited.

Computers, radio equipment, and crates of supplies were stacked against the walls across from bunk beds.

“Get it all on the Osprey,” Festa ordered.

“Guess that prisoner wasn’t lying,” Horn mumbled.

“Yeah but how did he know my name?” Beckham moved to a table with maps to start the search for any connection they had with him or Kate.

“Pack these up,” Horn said to one of the Marines.

“Fox 1, Eagle Eye 1, we found some of that red webbing in the caverns,” Winters said.

“Copy that, Eagle Eye 1. I’m on my way,” Festa said.

Beckham scanned through the maps and papers as quickly as he could.

“Captain, I’d like you to join me,” Festa said.

“Big Horn, you keep going through these,” Beckham said.

“What, and let you have all the fun?” Horn snorted. “Y’all got this under control, right?”

The Marines nodded.

“Come on then,” Beckham said.

A SEAL led them out of the building to the entrance of the caverns. They hiked down a stairwell into the underground lair. A brick path led them into a damp open area with huge stalactites.

It took them another ten minutes to get to the other SEALs.

“Should be right up here,” said their escort.

Beckham examined the red vines stretching across the walls and hanging from the jagged ceiling. He continued around a corner and spotted Winters and another SEAL with their weapons raised upward.

“Look at this shit,” Winters called out.

Festa halted in front of Beckham, both of them looking up.

Strapped inside the webbing were four Variants, their flesh shriveled and eye sockets sunken. Even their sucker lips looked deflated, but their chests slowly expanded and deflated.

They were still alive.

“What the hell are they doing up there?” Horn asked.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Winters said in a low voice.

Beckham didn’t quite understand it, but maybe this was how the collaborators were communicating with the other locations. Through the monsters.

“I think I have an idea…” he was cut off by a distant boom.

The men all turned back the way they had come.

“What the hell was that?” Horn asked.

“Eagle Eye 2, this is Eagle Eye 1, what’s happening up there?” Winters said into his headset.

“The van!” came the reply. “It blew!”

“Winters, take care of these Variants and meet us topside,” Festa said.

Winters aimed his suppressed rifle and fired off bursts into the heads of each beast while Beckham, Horn, and Festa took off with the SEAL that had led them into the cavern.

It took them ten minutes to get back to the road. When they did, they were greeted with billowing smoke and the scent of caustic acid.

The scene of chaos seized the breath Beckham held in his lungs.

A Marine limped away from the road, his flesh melting off his bones. SEALs ran over to help drag the injured men away from the destroyed vehicle. It hadn’t just been packed with explosives; it had contained a major supply of Variant acid.

The sizzling fluid had hit four Marines. Their skin bubbled and sloughed off their muscles as they writhed on the ground. A SEAL helped pull an unconscious Marine into the grass. When he got there, he suddenly let go of the body and held up his hands, screaming in horror as his gloves melted.

Beckham and Horn ran over to help.

“We need evac, Lieutenant!” Horn yelled.

He bent down with Beckham next to a Marine that had lost his legs in the blast. Beckham immediately tied tourniquets around the shredded stumps of the man’s thighs while the injured man mumbled about his mother.

“It’s okay, we’re going to get you out of here,” Beckham reassured the unfortunate man. He looked up for Festa. The lieutenant appeared paralyzed a few feet behind them.

Beckham gave the order for evac into his headset, but the pilots wouldn’t authorize the landing without Festa.

“Snap out of it, Lieutenant! We need your authorization!” Beckham shouted.

Horn grabbed Festa by the arm and squeezed. That got his attention. He spoke into the comm, and the Osprey came swooping back down to the ground.

SEALs, Marines, and the two crew chiefs helped haul the injured into the troop hold. Others carried equipment and boxes of documents from the building.

Beckham and Horn carried the man that had lost his legs. They set him down gently on the deck.

The screams of the injured echoed as the door clicked shut. A medic hurried over and set down a pack.

“Hold on, brother,” Beckham said. He looked over his shoulder as the medic worked to dress the wounds and improve Beckham’s hastily applied measures.

At the back of the aircraft, the collaborator rocked back and forth, chained to the bulkhead. The filthy man watched the chaotic scene with a satisfied smile behind his crusty beard.

Winters stormed back there and wiped the grin off his face with a punch to the jaw. Then he pulled out his MK3 knife. Horn joined him, rolling up his sleeves on the way.

“The son of a bitch had a detonator on him,” said the medic. “Blew up the van when we went to search it.”

Beckham gripped the injured Marine’s hand, squeezing and trying to help him stay conscious while the medic worked to stop the bleeding.

“Where are the Variant leaders hiding?” Winters yelled. “Tell me their fucking location.”

The collaborator spat blood into the SEAL’s face and smiled again.

“I will tear your fucking eyes from your face,” Winters yelled, angling his knife at one of the man’s eyeballs. The collaborator twisted away and Horn grabbed his chin to push it back toward the blade.

“Tell us where the Variant leaders are!” Horn shouted.

Winters pushed the blade against the man’s cheek, drawing blood. His eyes flitted from Horn to Winters.

“Captain, can you help me with this?” said the medic.

Beckham helped him wrap a dressing around one of the bloody stumps, but a thud drew his eyes up for a moment.

Horn grabbed the guy by the neck, squeezing, and slammed the collaborator’s head against the bulkhead again.

The man’s eyes bulged and his lips spread to reveal his black teeth. He said something and Horn loosened his grip.

The man coughed, and then looked in Beckham’s direction with blood shot eyes.

“They’re everywhere!” he yelled. “You can’t stop their reckoning!”

— 21 —

Dohi took a sip of water and brought up his binos to focus on the condo where Mendez was holed up.

“You see him?” Rico whispered.

“Negative,” Dohi said quietly.

Two scraggly Variants prowled around the abandoned cars in the parking lot separating them from the building. He saw more moving inside.

Dohi was worried they were never going to find Mendez. Not alive anyway. It had taken them an entire day and night just to get here. They had spent the previous evening inside a bathroom after the juvenile hordes had funneled out of the stadium to feed on the humans that the older Variants had brought home for dinner.

He had never seen Rico pray before, and he had a feeling Mendez was doing the same thing.

The Variant activity was worse than a cockroach infestation in the slums, and the presence of juveniles changed the entire game. But at least they had all returned to the stadium for now, leaving only the diseased and starving older monsters out here.

Rico signaled for Dohi to advance across the street. He snuck between the cars and behind a bus resting on deflated, rotted-out tires. The entrance to the condo building lay only a few yards away. Beyond the broken doors was a lobby filled with ornate columns and a dried-out fountain.

Dohi peered through his optics, glassing the lobby. Two starving Variants meandered around a stairwell, but otherwise the coast was clear. Those dying beasts would be no obstacle. He motioned to Rico, and then began creeping toward the condo’s entrance, passing several vehicles.

A hiss broke the silence. He swiveled to his left, but was already too late. The Variant leapt out of a vehicle with a tongue slithering around its sucker lips. Dohi barely dodged the attack and brought his rifle up to parry a set of claws.

A pop sounded from above. Blood painted Dohi’s face and helmet. He blinked and used a sleeve to wipe the gore off his face as the creature crumpled at his feet. He spotted a rifle barrel sticking out of a condo window on the fifth floor.

Guess that answers whether Mendez is alive.

Dohi didn’t waste a beat. He charged into the condo lobby, taking out the two lethargic Variants with single shots. Rico followed him up the stairs, but a pack of emaciated Variants came leaping down toward the landing.

“Move,” Rico said.

Dohi jumped to the side as she fired two bursts, splattering the wall with gore.

Four more Variants staggered in the hallway on the fifth floor, moaning like the undead. They could have been mistaken for zombies. Their bodies appeared to be more skeleton than flesh.

Dohi took them all down with single shots to the head before they got close enough to swipe with a claw.

A door swung open down the hall, and Mendez stepped out, looking at the corpses and then smiling his handsome grin.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “I was starting to think you guys left me for dead.”

“Been hell getting here,” Rico said, picking up her step as she headed toward him.

Dohi sounded relieved when he said, “Good to see you, brother.”

“I don’t think you know how good it really is,” Mendez said. “Thought I’d never make it out of this shit hole.”

“Frankly, it’s still going to be tough with us three,” Dohi said.

“I think I should break radio silence now,” Rico said as she grabbed her radio. “See where Alpha Team is.”

Dohi nodded. “I agree.”

“Don’t let me hold you back.” Mendez and Dohi stood guard while she bent down to transmit a message.

“Ghost 1, this is Ghost 2,” Rico said. “Ghost 3 is safe and sound. Over.”

The reply came a few beats later.

“Good to hear your voice Ghost 2,” Fitz replied over the channel.

Rico smiled at his reply.

“Rally point is the Northrop building at the university campus. Meet us…” Fitz paused. A moment later he added, “Meet us in classroom B2 on the basement level.”

Rico glanced at her watch. “Copy, Ghost 1. On our way. ETA two to three hours if all goes as planned.”

She let out a sigh of relief and patted Dohi on the shoulder.

In that moment, he envied what Rico and Fitz had. A relationship they could cling to and find comfort in. Love in a world filled with horror and loss.

But then again, Dohi didn’t want the worry of a relationship. He saw how Fitz and Rico loved each other, but he also saw how they worried about one another.

The only woman he had ever loved had died during the war eight years ago, and he had never allowed himself to get close to anyone again. Fearing he would lose them, too.

Another sip of water, a hand signal from Rico, and Dohi went back to business, taking point out of the rear entrance of the building. They crept down the stairs and out into an alley that would take them straight toward the riverside.

As soon as he opened the door, Dohi picked up the rotting fruit scent.

A platoon-size group of Variants digging through the scattered trash looked up from their search. Each snarled, revealing a mouthful of teeth evolved to shred flesh.

Dohi and Rico strode out, unleashing suppressed fire into the ranks of the beasts. Mendez joined the fight on their left flank.

Most of the creatures went down easy, but the healthier beasts moved fast.

One flung itself up onto the alley wall, then lunged, throwing itself through the air. Dohi caught it in the chest with a burst, killing it before it even landed.

The remaining Variants scattered, making single shots difficult. Dohi switched to automatic to keep them back. By the time they were dead, he had burned through two precious magazines.

“How much ammo you got?” Dohi asked Mendez.

“I only fired the shot that saved your ass.”

“Good, we’re going to need it,” Rico said.

The trio set off between rusting vehicles and piles of debris from battle-damaged buildings. They didn’t stop until they got to the steel fences of the St. Anthony’s Falls Visitor Center.

The center overlooked the rumbling falls in the middle of the Mississippi. Mendez and Rico took seats, both covered in sweat. She lifted her binos and scoped the dormant black smokestacks of the University of Minnesota steam plant across the river.

After a brief rest, Dohi again moved in front of the group. He traversed a stone arch bridge leading Mendez and Rico toward the opposite shore. Dark bloodstains covered the bridge halfway across.

Crossing here was already dangerous with no cover, and seeing others had died trying made him jumpy. The group ran all the way across and bolted for the shelter of trees in the park on the other side. From there, they cut through the area and used the cover on the side of a rough asphalt road to advance.

Distant howls cut through the morning.

Dohi balled his hand into a fist, and all three of the soldiers crouched down in the swaying grass. He waited there for several minutes listening to the wind, sensing something out there.

But nothing moved.

Traipsing around in Variant territory had him on edge every second, and his frayed nerves were paying the price.

Rising to his feet, Dohi motioned for the team to continue. They jogged to train tracks covered by mud and foliage until the University of Minnesota campus buildings sprouted into view. Blackened husks of vehicles clotted the streets between the brick-faced buildings. Variants climbed over fallen trees leaning over the roads. Normally the limbs might have cracked under the weight of a beast, but not these famished creatures. Their wart-covered faces were sunken around their skulls, and their eyes bulged, scanning frantically across the ruins for food.

Through his binos, Dohi spotted more of the thin red spindles stretching out of the debris in the distance. The scree framed the road, some of it scattered over the asphalt. In the center of the street, red vines curved out of an open manhole.

If the webbing aboveground here was any indication, then he had a feeling they were about to uncover more of what he had seen in the stadium when they went underground.

He led the team around several Variants fighting over rats. Some had reverted to chomping on their own flesh. The variety of scents helped mask Team Ghost as they made their way toward the rally point with Team Alpha.

A Variant sat perched in front of the theater like a statue. Dohi considered taking it out but decided in favor of stealth, heading for the side entrance. He made his way to the loading docks where two semi-trucks were parked. The back doors were open as if someone were still moving cargo in and out of the building.

He stopped to listen and then gestured for the others to join him. They hurried around the trucks, up a ramp, and into the Northrop building.

From there they crossed a storage room full of soggy, collapsed cardboard boxes and wooden crates nearly devoured by termites. He moved through an open door into a hallway where his hair stood on end, energy practically radiating off the red webbing growing on the walls.

He stepped onto the tissue and continued forward. Skeletal remains hung from the walls. From the looks of it, these animals and humans had been dead for a long time.

A quake suddenly vibrated through the building. Dohi shouldered his rifle, ready for something to come charging but, after a few seconds, the quaking stopped. The webbing contracted and relaxed, seemingly beating in concert with his heart.

Clicking joints echoed down the corridors along with the tapping of claws against tile. Intense waves of a fetid odor swarmed into the passage.

The sounds faded away and Dohi signaled for the others to duck low. They found shelter behind a door leading to a dressing area furnished with broken chairs and powder stains. Shattered mirrors lay amid a pile of rotting costumes, webs growing over the once colorful outfits.

A few more seconds of silence passed.

“What are we doing?” Mendez asked.

Dohi couldn’t explain why he took cover here. Something felt off, and his gut told him to wait. Rico went to move, but Dohi stopped her.

“Hold on,” he whispered.

Mendez and Rico both crouched and brought up their rifles, clearly on edge now. They remained there for several minutes, listening, but the beasts remained silent.

Dohi finally decided he was being paranoid and went to give the forward signal when a vicious roar exploded through the corridors. The thunderous voice seemed to rattle through the webbing and right through Dohi, awakening feelings of primal fury and hunger. Adrenaline churned through his blood vessels.

What is happening to me?

The roar subsided with the vibrating.

Dohi blinked away sweat dripping into his eyes. That ungodly roar must have had something to do with whatever Fitz had discovered down here.

Rico gestured for them to advance. They crept past a few corridors filled with sleeping Variants. Another turn into a wider corridor, and then a final door led them to the rally point.

They entered a classroom where Fitz, Ace, and Lincoln huddled in the darkness. The men all rose, and Fitz strode across the room and wrapped his arms around Rico, pulling her close to his chest. The others greeted each other quietly with smiles.

After the short reunion, Fitz signaled he would take point.

“Wait,” Dohi whispered. “Do you know about the juveniles?”

Fitz raised a brow. “What juveniles?”

“We saw them last night at the stadium,” Rico whispered. “Hundreds of them.”

Lincoln and Ace both stepped closer.

“Hell no,” Lincoln muttered. “I don’t believe it. No way those diseased fucks are breeding again.”

“It’s true,” Dohi said. “I saw it.”

Lincoln shook his head, and Ace did the same.

“You’re sure?” Ace asked.

Dohi and Rico nodded.

“Do you have footage for command?” Fitz asked eagerly.

“No, we hardly escaped,” Rico said.

“But you know they’re in the stadium?” Fitz asked.

“Yes,” Dohi responded.

“Fuck,” Fitz said. “I think this is worth breaking radio silence for, but first I want to show you guys what we found. Might as well send it to command, too.”

“What did you find?” Rico asked.

“Something more unbelievable than the juveniles. You’ll have to see it yourself.”

He led Team Ghost out of the classroom and up a set of stairs to the main auditorium. The scattering of Variant claws came from all directions. Squawks and shrieks filled the performing arts center.

Team Ghost crept behind the back row of seats, staying low in the shadows. Webs covered the stage and roped down from the ceiling, stretching from the balconies above them toward a monstrosity on the stage.

Holes in the ceiling let the meager moonlight bathe a monster unlike any Dohi had ever seen. Hundreds of vines connected to a bulbous red abomination on the stage.

The body looked somewhat humanoid, with limbs as big and wide as a redwood tree. Flesh drooped over its body in huge pink folds, making it look like a gigantic brain.

Dohi assumed the creature’s real brain was located somewhere in a squat and flat head with unblinking eyes the size of a giant squid’s.

The creature moved, pulling on the hundreds of red fibers and stretching them like cords. It let out a long groan while the webbings attached to its chest contracted. The movement caused a chain reaction among the vines stretched out into the auditorium.

Variants suddenly burst onto the stage and swarmed the monstrosity’s body like worker ants on a queen. They shoved hunks of flesh into the open massive maw with fanged teeth.

An old Native American saying came to Dohi’s mind.

No river can return to its source, yet all rivers must have a beginning.

He had found the beginning of this river in the tunnels below Outpost Turkey, and now he saw the source was more terrible than he could have imagined.

The abomination seemed to be the ultimate evolution of Alpha Variants, a creature so powerful and strangely intelligent it had spread itself across the country through the growths of those webs, devouring every living thing in its path.

“That’s what we came here for,” Fitz whispered. “We have to get this info back to command and Doctor Lovato.”

“Fuck that, I say we kill it,” Ace said quietly.

“How we going to kill that thing?” Lincoln whispered. “It’s got a freaking army protecting it.”

Dohi agreed with Ace this time but, he knew if they did kill it, there was no way Team Ghost would get out of here alive.

***

A gunshot split the Texas sky, and a Variant making a run for the hills hit the dirt in a puff of dust and blood splatter.

Fischer lowered his rifle and took in a breath of smoky air.

“That’s the last one,” said Tran.

Fischer scanned the area around the derrick to confirm he was correct, and then motioned for his men to gather around. They had held the beasts back from this derrick, protecting it for the past few hours while the sun rose over the burning Texas oilfields.

The exhausted team of eleven men huddled in the dirt like a football team that had just lost a game in overtime. The face of every soldier was covered in streaks of soot and blood from the ten-hour battle.

Fischer reached up and wiped his cheek clean, his hand coming back with blood. He wasn’t even sure if it was human or monster. The fighting had killed many on both sides.

While his men had cleared this area, there were still Variants out there threatening the other derricks. He feared his engineers would stop the burning oil only to have the beasts come back at night to attack them again.

Assuming the engineers would even risk their lives to do that.

He no longer blamed his men for fleeing.

Fischer scanned the bodies sprawled in the dirt and grass around the derrick they’d saved. Protecting this one had cost them gravely. Amongst the corpses of the beasts were several people that had succumbed to their wounds. Fischer and his men hadn’t been able to reach them to provide aid.

One of Sergeant Sharp’s men lay on his back, his hands still around his neck where a Variant had ripped open his jugular vein. Lifeless eyes stared up at the oily black clouds streaking the light blue sky.

Fischer bent down to close his eyelids.

He stood and faced the others after letting out a quiet sigh. The fatigued and injured men awaited his orders. The way he saw it, he had two options.

Tell them to retreat to the ranch or continue hunting the beasts.

If they chose the latter, they would likely be on their own from here on out. Sergeant Sharp had fought valiantly and impressed Fischer in his commitment to the oil fields, but his request to command for reinforcements had been delayed multiple times, despite losing half his men.

“Any word on those reinforcements?” Fischer asked, just to be sure.

Sharp frowned. “They said they’re working it, but that it’s a shit sandwich out there.”

Fischer had a feeling that was going to be the response.

We’re on our own, indeed.

“What do we do now, sir?” Tran asked.

Fischer took another moment to think before replying.

“These attacks aren’t random,” he said. “We’ve known that for a while now. I thought we killed the Alpha causing most of our problems, but now I’m certain there are multiple Alphas. We’re going to have to kill them all if we want to save Fischer Fields.”

None of the men replied, and even Chase, who was normally gung-ho for whatever Fischer suggested, looked at the dirt. The two engineers, armed with weapons instead of tools, both avoided eye contact.

“I’ll understand if you want to stand down,” Fischer said. “But I’m going out there to find and kill them. I haven’t given my blood, sweat, and tears for this land to let it be taken over by the beasts.”

He walked over to the truck, ignoring the hushed conversations behind him. If no one came with him, he wouldn’t be surprised, nor would he be mad.

These men had already proven their loyalty and bravery by standing with him for the past ten hours.

“I ain’t letting my men die in vain,” came a voice.

Fischer turned back to the group.

Sergeant Sharp stepped forward. “I’ll keep fighting, but we’re going to have to get dirty if we want to find those Alphas.”

Several other men exchanged glances.

Tran wiped grime off his face with a sleeve. “I’m with you, sir. I got nothing else to lose.”

“Me, too,” Chase said.

“You’re probably going to need our help,” said someone at the back of the group. The two-man team of trackers Fischer had hired also stepped out.

“That is, so long as you keep payin’,” said Eric Welling. He brushed his long hair from his eyes to look at his partner, Aaron Galinsky.

The former Israeli military soldier chomped on tobacco. He spat a glob in the dirt. “We’ll find the beasts in the tunnels,” said Galinsky.

“Hell yes,” Fischer drawled.

He pulled a cigar out of his vest pocket. While he had been saving it for a victory, he decided to go ahead and smoke it just in case he never returned from the tunnels. He knew the odds of coming back out weren’t good.

“Grab some food, water, and ammo,” Tran said. “How about we move out in fifteen minutes, sir?”

Fischer nodded as he lit the cigar and took a puff. He shed most of his gear into the back of his pickup truck, keeping only his body armor and the vest. Then he stuffed fresh magazines into the slots.

He looked back at the bed of the truck for the crate of TNT. He placed a few clusters of sticks into his vest, and Chase did the same.

“Here, sir, better have a drink,” Tran said. He offered a bottle of water, and Fischer downed half of it.

“Thanks.”

The men loaded up the bodies of the fallen into the back of one of the other trucks. Fischer walked over to help Sharp and two of his soldiers pick up the private with the torn neck. They gently put him into the back of a pickup.

“RIP, kid,” Sharp said. He crossed his chest and looked up to the sky before heading over to his Humvee.

Fischer stayed there a moment, looking down at the young man that had given his life in the fight for the oil fields.

“I’m sorry,” Fischer whispered.

Sharp patted the side of his Humvee, indicating he was ready to roll.

“Alright, let’s move!” Chase yelled.

Welling and Galinsky climbed into their rust-pocked Toyota pickup. The oversized tires kicked up dirt as it peeled away.

Fischer followed in his pickup, leaving behind the grisly scene of the battle. He glanced over at Tran and then back at Chase.

“I appreciate you boys sticking with me,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re rewarded for your loyalty.”

“I appreciate that, sir, but what I really want is a vacation,” Tran said, with a slight smile.

Chase smirked at the suggestion. “The Caribbean sounds pretty damn nice right about now.”

“Hell, I’d be happy going anywhere there aren’t monsters,” Tran said.

“Once we get rid of them here, I’ll take you boys on a nice trip in the private jet and we can be on the beach.”

“I’m assuming this is a BYOB beach?” Tran said.

Fischer chuckled.

“I almost feel bad for the beasts now,” Chase said. “Any monsters standing between me and an ice-cold beer with sand between my toes is going down faster than a ten-dollar hooker.”

Fischer laughed again, but the laughter trailed off faster this time. He gripped the wheel tighter and turned onto another road. The lead truck gunned it toward the livestock barns.

The trucks drove past the ranch and Fischer snuck a glance, almost too scared to look at his house. But it didn’t appear to have sustained any damage.

He would check on Maddie and the rest of his staff later in the bunker. If they had stayed inside, they would be fine. For that he was at least thankful. But his prized herds of cattle and other livestock were likely all dead by now.

The three trucks parked on the dirt road outside the fenced off barns. Fischer hopped out, and grabbed his rifle from the bed of the pickup. Sharp walked up to the fence, staring at the blood-stained grass on the other side.

Not a single animal or human was left inside.

“Where did all the bodies go?” Tran asked, looking back.

“Variants took ’em all underground, of course,” Galinsky said.

“Let’s go,” Fischer said. He led the way to the open gates and moved toward the first barn. The side door was broken off and laying in the dirt.

Chase and Tran shouldered their weapons and slipped inside the dark barn. Fischer went next, using a hand to swat away a swarm of flies. The buzzing sound echoed inside the hot room, and he brought up his bandana to keep out the reek of rotting flesh.

It hardly helped.

Crimson blots of gore marked the walks, and blood pooled across the dirt.

Just like outside, Fischer didn’t see a single body.

Welling and Galinsky moved ahead of the group toward the tunnel opening at the far side of the room. They passed several pens, the troughs red with blood and the hay speckled with dried flesh.

Galinsky bent down at the edge of the tunnel and spit out another glob of tobacco. Then he looked up and motioned for Fischer.

Keeping his bandana over his face, Fischer stepped up to the edge of the tunnel that sloped downward. Red webbing grew on the walls inside, but it was the limbs, hunks of meat, and a full calf stuck to the wall that caused him to rear back.

“What in the holy hell,” said Tran.

Chase bent down, a sleeve covering his face from the smell.

“Jesus Christ,” Sharp said.

Fischer looked down at the red sticks of TNT in his vest. His gut told him to just toss them inside and blow the hole, but in his head, he knew the only way to prevent another atrocity like this was to find the Alphas and make them pay.

“Mr. Fischer.” Sharp looked over at him before he tossed a pair of night vision goggles over. “You’re going to need these, sir.”

Fischer tightened the bandana around his face, put the goggles over his eyes, and then pulled out his .357, taking a second to look at the barrel. It was time to hunt some monsters.

— 22 —

Ringgold had returned to the White House after leaving Peaks Island. For the past day, most of her time had been spent in the PEOC with her staff, monitoring Operation Shadow and the attacks across the country at places like Fischer Fields.

There simply weren’t enough soldiers or resources to support every request for reinforcements.

Those requests were taking up the majority of her attention since most of the teams in Operation Shadow were still radio silent, including Team Ghost. The only good news so far was from SEAL Team 3. They had just wrapped up their mission in Luray Caverns in Virginia. But even that mission had come at a cost.

She took the elevator up from the PEOC to meet with Captain Beckham and Lieutenant Festa for a full briefing on the raid. From the sounds of it, they had a lot of wounded in tow and a prisoner.

Her heart raced to know what else they had found in the caverns.

The elevator doors opened, revealing Vice President Lemke waiting in the hallway with his Chief of Staff, Elizabeth Cortez.

“Good afternoon, Madam President,” they both said.

“Walk with me,” Ringgold replied.

Lemke and Cortez took off on her flanks down the carpeted hallway.

“The Osprey just landed,” Lemke said. “All wounded are being treated, but we lost a Marine on the flight and another three back at the target.”

The news stabbed at her.

“What else do we know?” she asked.

Lemke shook his head. “Not much, but Captain Beckham and Lieutenant Festa will be here shortly for a briefing.”

Chief of Staff James Soprano marched through an intersection at the end of the hallway at a brisk pace.

“The situation room is ready,” he said. “Elizabeth, I could use your help with something.”

“We’ll be there shortly.” Ringgold halted at the row of bulletproof windows framing the hallway. The view revealed the lawns and the Osprey that had landed on the other side of the gardens. A medical team carried the wounded off in stretchers.

A pair of Marines hauled off a man in brown clothing, his hands cuffed beyond his back. Lemke stepped up for a better look.

“That must be the collaborator,” Ringgold said.

“The team also extracted communication equipment and other intel,” Lemke pointed out.

She followed his finger toward a group of Marines unloading crates from the troop hold.

“Maybe something in there will give us the key to how the collaborators and the Variants are connected,” Ringgold said.

She turned away from the windows and hurried to the situation room, anxious to see what the team had discovered at the caverns. Most of her staff was already at the long table, but Brigadier General Lucas Barnes and National Security Advisor Ben Nelson entered a moment later.

“Any updates from Operation Shadow?” Ringgold asked.

“None of the six teams have reported in yet,” Barnes replied. “I’ll be frank. I would have expected one of them to have made it out by now.”

The door opened again, and a short man in fatigues with puffy thin hair entered.

“Lieutenant Festa,” she said.

“Madame President,” he said politely.

Beckham and Horn followed him into the room, both of their fatigues soiled in blood. She skipped the formalities and cut right to the chase.

“What happened?” she asked.

Beckham and Horn both looked to Festa.

“The collaborators were working with the Variants out of the Luray Caverns,” he said. “But it wasn’t like collaborator dens we’ve discovered in the past, ma’am.”

“I think we finally know what the red webbing is used for, but we need to talk to Kate to confirm it,” Beckham said. His hard features had new creases, and that made Ringgold worry.

“See if you can get her on the line,” she said to Soprano. The COS nodded and moved out of the room.

“We went through some of the intel on the flight, but the collaborator isn’t saying much,” Festa said.

“Has he said anything helpful?” Lemke asked.

“Just that the Variants are everywhere and something about a reckoning,” Festa replied. “Whatever the hell that means.”

Beckham cut in. “We know more about the collaborators from the maps and plans we recovered, and it’s not good, Madam President.”

“They have been planning all of this for a while,” Horn added.

“Planning what exactly?” Ringgold asked. “Do you mean the attacks on the outposts?”

From the looks on their faces, she could tell that was not the case.

“Hitting the outposts was just the beginning,” Beckham said.

“The van we stopped outside the caverns was packed with explosives and Variant acid,” Festa said. “We recovered a map that had Outpost Norfolk circled.”

“That’s where my next rally is going to be,” Ringgold said.

“Was,” replied Beckham. “We’re calling it off.”

“Holy shit,” Barnes said. “You’re sure about this?”

Festa nodded again. “Positive, General. The time and date of the rally was found scribbled on a piece of paper taped to that map. This isn’t a coincidence.”

Barnes straightened his collar, clearly nervous. “Madam President, if this is true, I would highly advise canceling all future campaign events and going underground until we know for sure what the Variants and their puppets are planning.”

“Absolutely not,” Ringgold said. “I’m not spending my last few months in office by hiding in a bunker. I will never do that again.”

She thought back to the Raven Rock complex when she was still Secretary of State. There were days she never thought she would see the sun again.

No, she would not be going back into a dark bunker to ride out whatever the hell the Variants were scheming.

“I will not sit by and watch them destroy everything our administration has worked so hard to rebuild.”

“All due respect, Madam President, but they are already destroying it,” Barnes said. “We need to consider a new strategy, depending on what the teams find…assuming any of them survive their missions.”

Beckham glanced at Ringgold, fear in his gaze.

“I will authorize the use of low-yield nuclear weapons before I let this country fall,” she said. “I won’t let the Variants destroy us again, but I’m not ready to make that call. I want an Option B, C, D, E, and so on before nukes.”

The room went silent.

The fact she had even considered nukes caught everyone off guard, including herself. She took in a breath, realizing her words equated to a knee jerk reaction.

“If we use nukes, then we are no better than Cornelius,” Lemke said. “I will not be party to that, I’m sorry Madam President. I won’t nuke our soil. There has to be a better way.”

“I don’t know,” Barnes chimed in. “I think it might be time to consider making it option A.”

“I agree,” Festa said. “Especially after what we heard from that collaborator about the Variants being everywhere.”

“They can’t possibly be everywhere,” Lemke said.

“No, but maybe there are more than we thought,” Nelson said. “If they’ve all been tunneling and hiding underground, our counts could be wildly inaccurate. Perhaps it’s time to call in help from Europe.”

“They’re in no position to help,” Lemke said. “Half of the continent doesn’t even have lights.”

The conversation grew more heated, her staff arguing. Even Cortez was red in her freckled face, clearly wanting to interject her opinion.

But there was one opinion Ringgold respected more than any. She looked to Beckham who stood in the back of the room, his prosthetic hand at his side.

“Silence everyone,” Ringgold said firmly. “I want to hear what Captain Beckham has to say.”

The sudden summoning might have caught him off guard, but he didn’t hesitate stepping up to the table.

“I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I don’t think we should jump to any conclusions yet,” Beckham said. “Let Team Ghost and the other teams do their jobs before we make any rash decisions.”

Cortez and Lemke both nodded in agreement.

“What we do know is that red webbing may be part of a biological communication network,” Beckham continued. “We have to figure out a way to disrupt it before the next phase. Before they use it for something worse.”

“Like what?” Barnes asked.

“I think the Variants are preparing a full out invasion. Those maps had other outposts marked. Every single safe zone was documented in there. They even mapped out routes into our strongholds. To me, that reeks of a plan of attack. Something we couldn’t have fathomed. And if that’s the case, then nukes won’t stop them.”

A red phone rang next to Barnes. He picked it up and held up a finger.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you, General.”

Barnes hung up the phone, his eyes going straight to Ringgold.

“Madam President we just got word from Team Ghost, they discovered something at the University of Minnesota,” he said. “Some sort of mastermind creature.”

Nelson looked at his computer screen. “I’ve got the footage here.”

“Me too,” Soprano said.

“Bring it up on the main screen,” Ringgold said, turning around.

Horn and Beckham both stood for a better look but, before it came online, Barnes added something he had left out earlier.

“Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick said they found something else out there, Madam President.”

She narrowed her brows at the General.

“What?” Lemke asked.

Barnes swallowed before responding. “Juvenile Variants.”

***

The video footage from Team Ghost had Kate wondering if she was living in a nightmare. It certainly took her mind off Beckham and whether he had returned safely from his mission.

But it wasn’t just the beast on the monitor, it was the report that the creatures were breeding again. How, she wasn’t sure, but she knew Team Ghost wouldn’t lie.

She took a step closer to the monitor to study the creature they had discovered. Carr and a couple of the lab techs huddled around her, just as transfixed as she was.

“You were right,” Carr said. “There was something else sending signals to the Alphas and Variants across the webbing network.”

Kate could only imagine what General Souza and President Ringgold were thinking. She was surprised she hadn’t gotten a call from them yet.

“We have two problems,” Kate said. “Now that we know the Variants are breeding and digging tunnels in select locations, there’s no telling how many of them are underground.”

Carr nodded, still looking sick as the video continued playing over the monitor. Variants climbed around the huge beast connected to all the webbing tendrils.

“Let’s focus on this new monster first and what we know,” Kate said. “We know that the webbing relays signals much like the nerves in a human’s body. Those signals can be passed directly into the Alpha’s with their spindles. And the Alpha’s can, in turn, coordinate with the lesser Variants.”

“It’s a complicated hierarchical system,” Carr said. “Just like how a human body functions. The nerves send signals to muscle cells, which then react in kind, propagating signals to other cells and tissues but, in this situation, it’s in the Variant network.”

Kate tapped on the computer monitor. “It’s like one monstrous brain. The puppeteer behind all the Variant and collaborator attacks.”

Carr nodded. “A mastermind.”

“Even the pink folds across the body are reminiscent of a human cortex.”

“Those would dramatically increase the surface area of the monster if it was in fact some kind of central processing node. Maybe this specimen is like an enormous living computer.”

“A monster coordinating attacks across the country with Variants and collaborators would definitely need a huge amount of processing power.”

“If that’s the case, then destroying it will disrupt the entire nervous system,” Carr said.

Kate nodded. “We need to talk to President Ringgold immediately.”

She shed her white coat as she headed toward the exit of the lab, hoping to also get word about her husband. Carr tailed her out the door with the techs looking on. They took the stairwell to the command center for the troops stationed on the island.

Sergeant Ruckley sat with a group of enlisted men and women around a bank of radio equipment.

“Doctor Lovato,” Ruckley said, turning on her heels.

“I need to get ahold of President Ringgold immediately,” Kate said.

Ruckley’s brow furrowed. “I can patch you into someone else at the Greenbrier, but Ringgold’s likely—”

“Ringgold. It has to be Ringgold.”

The Sergeant looked ready to protest again, but she must have recognized the fire in Kate’s eyes.

“You heard the doctor,” Ruckley said “Call the emergency line.”

The sergeant handed Kate a handset.

“Talk to me, Doctor,” Ringgold said. “Preferably with some good news.”

“Madam President, I’m afraid I don’t have any good news. I think this creature is a brain, for lack of a better term, and it’s coordinating the attacks across the country.”

“I had the same thought, and I’m afraid they are planning something even bigger, especially with the discovery of juveniles,” Ringgold said, pausing before she added, “I take it you haven’t spoken to your husband?”

Now Kate was thrown off. “No, why? Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine, but what I’m about to tell you goes no further than this conversation, okay?”

“Of course,” Kate replied.

“Operation Renegade uncovered intel that leads me to believe the Variants may be launching a larger offensive. Bigger than anything so far. Possibly an all-out invasion, and I have a feeling this monster is going to coordinate it and send out the juvenile hordes.”

Kate’s stomach dropped. Her thoughts flew to Javier and Donna and Bo and Timothy and Tasha and Jenny. All the people that had just endured hell only to realize that it might not be long before the world was upended again.

“Operation Renegade also confirms your theory about the webbing functioning like a communication network,” Ringgold said.

“After this footage from Team Ghost, I’m even more certain that’s the case,” Kate paused to think, but had no doubt she was relaying accurate information.

“A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed any of this, but…”

Kate felt the eyes of the men and women in the command center on her, but she kept her focus on the radio equipment, and tried to still her breathing.

“The studies Carr and I have run are pretty conclusive,” Kate said. “We’re dealing with nerve and muscle cells that replicate at rates exceeding the most malignant of cancers.”

“So that’s how the webbing grew so fast?”

“Yes, and we also know from our cellular studies, the growth of the webbing consumes energy at an alarming rate. It requires an enormous amount of food matter to fuel the expansion of the network.”

“How much are we talking?”

“I’m not sure, but Team Ghost reported that most of the Variants they encountered in Minneapolis appeared to be starving, despite the number of civilians that they’d kidnapped,” Kate said. “To be able to keep Variants from fresh prey requires a vast amount of control. The webbing and the mastermind must have more power than we could have imagined.”

“In your opinion, if we kill this brain, will it shut down the entire network?” Ringgold asked.

The president was a smart woman, leaping to a theory that Kate had just formed herself. But she hesitated, considering her response, knowing what she said next could cause or save countless lives.

She thought back to the images of the webbing at the stadium in Minneapolis and elsewhere in the country. She had seen so many horrific pictures of humans and animals strung up within the webbing. Many of which were still alive.

“Unfortunately, without biological samples from this mastermind and some live Variants to test, I’m not sure. If our theory is correct, destroying the mastermind will be like destroying the head of the snake,” Kate said. “Cut it off and the Variants will lose all coordination and everything attached to the webbing will die.”

“But will it stop the invasion from happening?”

“I believe so,” Kate said.

There was no hesitation from Ringgold. “Then that’s what we must do, Doctor. I know this is a longshot, but do you have any recommendations on how to destroy something composed of the tissues you’ve studied?”

“Again, it’s hard for me to say, but burning that thing to the ground is a surefire way of destroying the tissue,” Kate said. “I wouldn’t delay, either. We have no idea if it can move or if it has detected Team Ghost’s activity in Minneapolis. It may very well be able to use the tunnels to travel.”

“Understood,” Ringgold said. “We’ll need a confirmed kill. In that case, it looks like we’ve got only one good option.”

“Team Ghost,” Kate said.

“That’s right. We’ll have bombers on standby, but if this thing is half as powerful as you’re telling me, I want hard evidence that we’ve killed it before we can call this mission a success.”

“And what about the juveniles?” Kate asked. “Team Ghost reported they could be living in the stadium where they discovered hundreds of human prisoners.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“My gut says blow it to hell but, I haven’t decided yet, I need to talk to my generals and staff first, and perhaps your husband.”

“Okay,” Kate said. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news.”

“Me too, Doctor, but this is the reality of our situation and we must face it head on and not give an inch. Good luck with your research.”

“Good luck as well, Madam President.”

With that, the call ended and Kate was left holding the handset while Carr and the others watched her.

She prayed that she was right about this creature and what would happen if Team Ghost destroyed it. But just like the past, thousands of innocent lives hung on her scientific judgment.

— 23 —

Fitz surveyed the dirt- and grime-covered faces of Team Ghost. The group had taken refuge in a building a block away from the Northrop Performing Arts Center.

Not more than a decade ago, the place had been one of culture and learning. Humans had evolved far enough to appreciate things in life beyond simple survival, valuing things like the arts and the sciences.

Ways to explore and explain life.

The Variants had evolved in their own way to destroy those things, but Team Ghost had another chance to turn the tables on the monsters.

“Ghost 1, you are to destroy the target and confirm it is destroyed,” came the voice of General Souza.

“Copy that,” Fitz replied. “We’ll get it done.”

His heart climbed to his throat as realization set in.

There would be no bombers raining hell down on the Northrop Performing Arts Center. Command wanted Team Ghost to take this beast out and then confirm it was dead.

“I can’t believe this shit.” Lincoln said. “Why the fuck we got to do it?”

“We’re the guarantee,” Rico said.

“It’s a suicide mission if you ask me,” Ace grumbled.

Dohi didn’t make his opinion known, but Fitz could tell he didn’t like it either. Hell, Fitz didn’t like the orders, but he understood why Team Ghost had to bring the beast down.

They couldn’t risk the strange monstrosity relocating and sprouting new roots. If they waited on a bombing run, the thing might simply disappear into the tunnels. It was like a cancerous tumor that they had to stop before it became malignant and spread further.

“Get your heads on straight,” Fitz said. “This is our chance to bring down the network and stop an all-out invasion that could destroy the country and everything we have worked to rebuild. We can’t let that monster live or escape.”

“You know I’m with you, Fitzie,” Rico said, forcing a pretty smile.

“Me too,” Mendez said.

The others nodded.

“How much ammo do you all have?” Fitz inventoried the few magazines and then distributed them evenly. Everyone would get two for their primary weapon. It wasn’t much, but this mission was supposed to be for recon—not to fight full-fledged battles.

Fitz had learned long ago that improvisation was the best tool for a soldier.

Tonight, improvisation came in the form of grenades. The team had six total among them. Fitz took two, and Mendez and Lincoln took the others.

“Take in some nutrition and water,” Fitz said. “I’ll go over the plan and then we move out.”

Rico brushed a strand of pink hair back under her helmet as she sipped from her bottle. Ace bit off the end of a power bar. Dohi closed his eyes to meditate. Mendez crossed himself, praying, and Lincoln chewed noisily.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Lincoln said with his mouth open.

“Plan’s simple. Mendez, Lincoln, and I will blow this thing back to hell with grenades while the rest of you keep the Variants off our hides from the catwalk over that stage. Clean, fast, and no mistakes. We’re all going home. Got it?”

“Hold up,” Dohi said. “I’m not sure the grenades are going to do the trick. We might need something else.”

“C4 would be nice,” Ace said.

“What you thinking, Dohi?” Rico asked.

“Those semi-trucks we saw at the loading docks. I could try and siphon out the diesel fuel. Even degraded diesel is combustible. Once a diesel fire gets going, it’s pretty fierce and lasts a long time.”

Lincoln shook his helmet. “So we can all burn in that place? Hell no.”

“And siphon it with what, and into what?” Mendez asked.

Dohi used a knife to cut the straw off his camelback. “I just need something to dump it into.”

Fitz liked the idea. “I think we can find something.”

Lincoln grunted and turned away.

“Let’s do it then,” Mendez said.

Everyone but Lincoln nodded back, but he finally came around. Together, Team Ghost set off for the same entrance they had used to get into the building the first time.

On the way they found several plastic jugs in a pile of trash Fitz had spotted earlier. Dohi picked them up and moved over to the tankers while the rest of the team stood guard.

A single Variant spotted them while he filled the jugs. Lincoln threw a knife that hit the beast in the head before it could sound the alarm with a shriek. It crumpled against a curb and Mendez helped him drag it away.

“I’ll carry those, you take point,” Ace said. He picked up the full jugs of fuel.

Getting inside was easy with Dohi leading them safely back to the dressing room they had first taken refuge in. Fitz took a moment to get his bearings and to listen for hostiles. Then he directed the team toward the auditorium.

The sounds of clicking joints and squawks traveled down the webbing-covered passages along the way. Variants rushed in and out of the shadows, but the team used the jumbles of bodies hanging from the red vines and rotted furniture for cover, advancing slowly.

After fifteen minutes of creeping and even crawling, they reached the stairs. Fitz flashed hand signals. They split up toward the entrances to the auditorium. Rico, Ace, and Dohi continued up the stairs.

Once again Fitz watched Rico venturing away from him.

Keep yourself safe, he thought.

She looked back before she went out of sight, offering him a slight wave. Just enough to let him know she was thinking of him, too.

Once she was gone, Fitz entered the back of the theater to await their signal. He crouched on his blades and gestured for Mendez and Lincoln to spread out.

Then he reached toward his helmet to make sure the cam mounted there was positioned correctly. He wanted to capture every single second of what was about to happen.

Pale beams of moonlight bled through the decayed holes in the roof, bathing the whole chamber in soft illumination. A group of ten Variants lurked on the stage, some of them lying down, others perched like birds.

The giant beast they guarded remained in the same spot, webbed tentacles of tissue sprouting from its gargantuan body and stretching across the auditorium. Several Variants used the strands to climb like freakish children on a nightmarish jungle gym.

Another pack entered from the back stage and clambered up to the bulbous abomination with chunks of rotting corpses. They transported meat in a single file line, each of them dropping scraps into the beast’s gullet before departing to find more food.

Dohi was going to dump a bucket of diesel down the same hole and then Fitz was going to lob a grenade inside. He glanced up at the stage using his night vision goggles, seeing the infrared tags from the other three members of Ghost perched on the catwalk.

He flashed his IR tag on his NVGs at them, and then grabbed one of his grenades.

The show was about to begin.

Another Variant climbed down the red tendrils overhead, and Fitz ducked down. Bones protruded from the monster’s sickly, wart-covered flesh. The Variant dropped to the stage with a chewed-up human arm and jammed it into the abomination’s mouth.

The crunch echoed through the auditorium.

Ace and Dohi both stood on the catwalk and dumped the diesel as the last of the Variants finished the feeding. The fluid rolled down the sides of the pink tissue and pooled around the monster.

Immediately, two Variants holding sentry craned their necks upward, eyes glaring around wildly.

They homed in on a match glowing in Rico’s fingers.

One of the Variants shrieked in alarm.

“Eat this, fuck wad,” she said, tossing the match down.

The abomination also looked up as the match hit the pink folds of its body, igniting upon impact. The flames cast the whole place in a ghoulish orange glow. Nerve tendrils recoiled and broke, crisped by the fire as Dohi and Ace finished dumping their jugs.

An ear-shattering roar exploded from the beast.

Fitz nearly drew back from the overwhelming sound.

“Now,” he said to Mendez and Lincoln.

“Fire in the hole!” Fitz shouted.

They tossed their grenades onto the stage while Dohi, Rico, and Ace moved away on the catwalk.

The three men all ducked as the explosions rocked the stage, shrapnel lancing across the auditorium. Fitz got up with another grenade, but had to switch to his rifle as Variants bounded up the stairs toward his location.

Suppressed gunfire came from above. Rico, Ace, and Dohi firing to keep the beasts back and give the men a chance to lob their grenades.

Fitz fired a burst and glimpsed the burning monster behind the curtain of smoke. It had pulled back one of its flayed arms, snapping more of the spindly growths. For an enormous, bulbous creature, it seemed fairly agile, smacking at the blaze with its huge, deformed hand.

The space filled with the stink of barbecued flesh, and the enormous monster roared again. Variants flooded inside the auditorium, scaling the walls and webbing toward the end of the catwalk.

Dohi, Rico, and Ace held their ground, firing calculated single shots.

The fire spread across the stage to the seats, choking the air with smoke. They were running out of time, and the beast still wasn’t dead.

Fitz sighted up the first Variant ready to pounce from the wall to the catwalk. A round punched into its flesh, knocking the monster down. Flames from the burning seats swallowed its corpse.

Dohi and Ace followed up with a volley of cover fire, picking off the advancing beasts. Another grenade sailed away from Mendez. This one smacked against the side of the creature’s head. Its huge claw slapped it away, and the blast blew several Variants to pieces.

Burning flesh sizzled and popped on the stage.

The abomination pushed itself up on its feet. Fitz’s initial impression that this was some lazy queen that relied on its workers to keep it alive disintegrated at the sight of the standing beast.

Another grenade arced through the air from Lincoln.

The beast swatted it away with a burning hand. The grenade sailed right for the seats in front of Mendez and Lincoln.

“Back!” Fitz yelled.

They dove to the ground, and Fitz took cover behind a pillar. The explosion rushed past him, the noise so loud his ears seemed like they were going to burst. He staggered around the pillar, bringing up his rifle in shaking hands to fire at monsters loping up the stairs.

Everything seemed to freeze as Fitz coughed on smoke.

Mendez and Lincoln were both on the ground, hardly moving, their bodies likely torn up from shrapnel. Chunks of steel catwalk fell to the stage and cables snapped from the ceiling.

The rest of the platform tilted. Dohi slipped, sliding down. The monster reached up at his boots with a burning hand.

Fitz grabbed the final grenade, but he couldn’t throw it with Dohi right there. Instead, he brought up his rifle to fire at two beasts making a run for Mendez and Lincoln.

He scored two headshots and then aimed for the abomination on the stage still reaching for Dohi. Adjusting his aim, he lined up the crosshairs and fired at one of the creature’s large eyeballs.

The beast let out a vicious roar and stumbled backward, groping at its face. Dozens of Variants had surrounded their leader, using their bodies to absorb rounds from Rico and Ace.

Even more creatures poured into the burning auditorium, now racing in from behind the stage and dropping from the holes in the ceiling. One of them used the writhing leader as a ladder to climb up toward where Dohi was dangling.

Rico inched out, the catwalk sagging slightly under her weight.

The Variant looked ready to pounce on the two of them. A three-round burst to the center of the Variant’s back dropped the beast, and Fitz moved to another target. He pulled the trigger but the weapon had run dry.

Rico stretched out a hand, grabbing Dohi’s and pulling him to safety. Ace fired to hold back the monsters climbing the walls, but it wouldn’t be long before they were overwhelmed.

Team Ghost simply didn’t have enough rounds, and in a few minutes the fire and the smoke would be too intense to escape. They had to get out now.

“Mendez, Lincoln, get up!” Fitz yelled. He coughed and ran over to them. Mendez had pushed himself up and managed to raise his rifle but Lincoln was limp on the ground.

The mastermind held one paw over its bleeding eye socket. As it struggled, more of the nerves pulled taut, then broke away.

“Mendez shoot it!” Fitz yelled.

The beast roared in pain, opening its maw wildly as gunfire painted the bulbous flesh. Fitz used the opportunity to lob his final grenade like a baseball into the black hole of its mouth.

“Down!” Fitz yelled. He shielded Lincoln’s body with his own as the explosion boomed on the stage. Ears ringing and lungs choked with smoke, Fitz pushed himself up to confirm the beast was dead.

The rest of the auditorium was a hellscape, the conflagration enveloping the rotten curtains on the stage and the neglected auditorium seats. It took Fitz several scorching blinks to find the headless monster burning on the floorboards.

Tendrils of webbing popped around it, melted and charred by the flames. The creature seemed to deflate as the fire consumed the folds of its flesh.

Fitz made sure his helmet cam was broadcasting the entire thing. He wanted command to see this thing was dead. After holding the view for a moment, he helped Mendez pick up Lincoln.

As soon as Fitz picked him up, he felt blood soaking into his gloves.

“Get to the evac point!” Fitz yelled into the channel.

Dohi, Rico, and Ace disappeared from the catwalks, but Fitz could hear the suppressed gunfire as they escaped back down the stairs.

Part of the ceiling dumped into the auditorium, feeding the crackling fire. Sparks flew upward as a column collapsed, one of the balconies crumbling over the body of the mastermind.

Variants shrieked as they were caught in the flames.

Fitz and Mendez carried Lincoln into the lobby where Ace and the others were waiting.

“Birds on the way,” Rico confirmed. “I called it in.”

Fitz nodded just as fire burst out of the theater doors. A burning Variant skidded across the carpet, writhing in pain.

“Go, go, go!” Fitz yelled as more burning Variants burst through the flames.

Dohi and Ace led them out of the front doors to an overgrown lawn bulwarked by brick-faced buildings. Holes littered the area from Variant tunnels.

Team Ghost didn’t have far to go, but they might as well have been trekking halfway around the world. The holes vomited up more of the bastards in front of the team and even more came from the inside of the buildings, surrounding Team Ghost.

The Black Hawk scheduled to pick them up was supposed to meet them in the middle of this grassy field. He strained his injured ears to listen for the telltale thrum of the rotors, but he couldn’t hear shit besides the monsters pursuing them.

Fitz loaded his final magazine and began picking off beasts on the lawn. Rico and Mendez were down to their sidearms, firing at the beasts coming from the performing arts center.

Ace and Dohi fired their final rounds at Variants flooding away from adjacent buildings. Several threw themselves through windows, glass shards flying. Others parted through overgrown grass on all fours like sharks surging through the surf.

Fitz worked his way from one target to the next until his bolt locked back. He let the rifle sag over his chest and drew his Beretta M9.

Flames from the performing arts center spread to another neighboring building. Fitz looked past the columns of smoke choking the sky for the chopper, but it still wasn’t in view.

“Where is it?” Fitz yelled to Rico.

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “They said fifteen minutes!”

The ground tremored violently beneath his boots, and he went back to firing his pistol. Pillars on the front of one building crumbled. Bricks fell next, crushing a handful of Variants.

“What’s happening?” Rico shouted.

Part of the lawn caved in. Other canyons formed, trailing alongside the older holes.

“The tunnels are collapsing!” Fitz yelled back. He changed the magazine of his pistol, his heart leaping as Variants closed in all around them.

Lincoln continued to bleed out on the ground, both of his pant legs saturated with blood.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Fitz said. The team crowded around Lincoln, forming a circle to protect their fallen comrade.

“Our six!” Dohi yelled.

“Three o’clock!” Rico shouted back.

The beasts were coming from all directions.

“I’m out!” Ace said. He switched to his shotgun, blasting a beast that leapt through the air at them. The corpse landed on the ground in front of Fitz, sliding to rest just in front of his blades.

Flashes suddenly lanced from the heavens. Fitz heard the unmistakable bark of an M240. The sounds of gunfire had never seemed more beautiful.

A Black Hawk lowered out of the darkness, a crew chief sweeping the door-mounted weapon at the Variants leaping over corpses to get to Team Ghost.

“Let’s go!” Fitz commanded.

The team formed a cordon around Lincoln as Ace and Dohi carried the downed operator to the chopper. They piled in with the help of a second crew chief and gently put Lincoln’s limp body on the deck.

Fitz was afraid to check his pulse.

“Get us out of here!” Dohi yelled.

The chopper lifted as another building succumbed to the quaking earth. Fitz bent down next to Lincoln and pushed his finger against his neck.

The beat was weak, but it was there.

Rico was already digging through her medical pack, and Dohi had wrapped a tourniquet over a wound on Lincoln’s thigh that was dark from arterial blood. She handed Dohi a pair of scissors to cut away his pants.

“What are those Variants doing?” yelled a crew chief.

Fitz looked down at the field below. The beasts had all stopped moving below. They appeared to tilt their heads like they were looking or listening for something.

The chopper continued to pull into the sky, but Fitz could still see the ground as the Variants suddenly funneled toward the holes in a mass exodus.

“Where are they all going?” said the crew chief. “It’s like they just got an order to retreat. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Fitz focused back on Lincoln, trying not to worry about what was happening on the ground. Team Ghost had come close to the brink on Operation Shadow and had barely made it out of the city alive.

The bird curved through the sky.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Rico said. “We need to get him to a field hospital, ASAP.”

“We’ll take him to the closest outpost,” said one of the pilots.

Fitz gripped Lincoln’s gloved hand, wet with blood while Dohi finished cutting off the pants and exposing the wounds. He bent down with the rest of them to start working on Lincoln.

“Hang in there, brother,” Fitz said.

Even with the tourniquet in place, Lincoln had already lost so much blood. The fluid pooled across the deck.

Mendez swallowed hard and looked up at Fitz.

“Something isn’t right,” shouted one of the pilots. “I don’t see a single Variant on the streets below.”

Fitz kept his focus on Lincoln.

Tonight’s mission was supposed to have killed the queen bee of this Variant hive, disrupting the whole colony and causing them to scatter. But that wasn’t happening, and he suddenly couldn’t shake the feeling that all Team Ghost had done was disturb the nest.

“Fitz,” Rico said.

He looked up to see her eyes glazing. She had a finger against Lincoln’s neck.

“I don’t feel a pulse,” she said.

— 24 —

“How far do these damn things go?” Chase mumbled, gesturing down the blackness of the web-covered tunnel.

“Let’s rest a few minutes,” Fischer said.

The team halted, taking in water and the protein bars from their packs. Fischer had experienced fighters with him, from his personal security team and the hired trackers to Sergeant Sharp. Yet these tunnels still sent shivers through his flesh.

He used the stolen moments to study the webbing in the green hue of his night vision goggles. Two horns protruded out of the mass. He stepped closer to the wall and examined what was left of one of his bulls. Red vines webbed across the rest of the severed head, pushing out from its empty orbital cavities and roping out of the beast’s nostrils.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered.

You have to get out of here, whispered a voice.

Fischer didn’t turn to look for the source. No one else reacted.

This voice wasn’t real. It was the same voice he kept hearing as they advanced deeper into the humid darkness. A voice he hadn’t heard since before the Great War of Extinction.

The voice of his dead wife.

He ignored it. This place was making him crazy, and the exhaustion didn’t help.

Fischer pulled down the bandana to take a breath of sultry air. He stifled a gag at the unobstructed odor. Then he forced down a gulp of water. Sweat dripped down his forehead, carrying with it a mix of black grime and dirt. He used the back of his hand to wipe it away.

They had been searching the tunnels for hours, plunging deeper and deeper into the vast network that stretched beneath his oil fields. He hadn’t anticipated these Variant-made cavern systems to be so massive. And all this time they had spent down here, they still hadn’t spotted an Alpha or any other Variant for that matter.

The only creatures they had discovered were more of his poor livestock massacred and dismembered by the ravenous beasts.

President Ringgold’s administration had left him, his men, and his animals to die out here at the hands of the hordes. When he got back to his ranch, he was going to call up President Ringgold and tell her she had lost more than his vote.

If you get out of here.

That damn voice again.

“Let’s keep moving,” Galinsky said quietly.

“Hey, look at that,” Chase said pointing up at a small hole at the top of the tunnel ahead, looking barely large enough for a Variant to slip through.

The hole let in a beam of waning sunlight. Seemed like the sun was setting.

He shuddered at the thought of being down here at night.

“Sir, we need to move,” Tran whispered.

Fischer nodded and set off with the team.

Welling took point with Galinsky right behind him. The two hired trackers moved slowly down the tunnel, their rifles up. Tran and Chase kept on Fischer’s flanks while Sergeant Sharp held rearguard. The rest of the men, led by the sergeant’s surviving two soldiers, had veered off a few hours earlier to search another network of underground passages.

Their reports were no more helpful than what Fischer had seen—dead animals and zero signs of the Alphas.

The group pushed on for another ten minutes, not stopping until Sharp’s radio crackled. He turned down the volume and then whispered a response.

“The other team find something?” Fischer asked in a whisper.

Sharp looked up and shook his head. “I think it’s command, but I can’t make out the transmission.”

They pushed forward, ignoring the radio. Fischer had a feeling it was just more bad news from the outside. The only thing that mattered now was what was happening at Fischer Fields, not where the current administration and brass was watching safely from their bunkers and warships.

He was really starting to hate President Ringgold and all of the elites back east. She had spent the first few months of the war underground in a bunker like he had. And here they were again, both underground.

But this time the circumstances were far different. Only one of them was putting their life on the line to kill the Variants. Ringgold was safely protected in a bunker and surrounded by men and women armed to the teeth with all the country had at its disposal. Fischer was risking his rear to wipe out the beasts ravaging his fields.

Galinsky halted and gestured for Sharp. The sergeant squeezed past Fischer and his two guards. Being near the end of the line gave him the creeps.

The tunnels weren’t just dark and hot—they stank of rotting flesh that his bandana couldn’t mask. On top of that, the fatigue was starting to get to him, and hearing the voice of his dead wife wasn’t helping matters.

You have to get out of here, she repeated.

Another voice sounded, but this one was real.

Sharp spoke quietly to Galinsky and Welling before making his way back to Fischer and his guards.

“Well?” Tran asked.

“There’s some sort of chamber ahead, and they think they saw one of my men,” Sharp reported. “There are two confirmed Variants.”

“Alphas?” Fischer asked.

“Maybe. Galinsky is going to go check it out,” Sharp said. “I’m going with. You guys stay here with Welling.”

Fischer thought about arguing but decided to let the best hunters do the hunting. Especially if he was going crazy. The smartest man knew his limits, and the strongest wasn’t afraid to admit them.

He brought up his rifle and waited while the men crept down the passage toward an intersection. Galinsky turned around the corner, and Sharp followed at a hunch. They vanished around the bend.

“I don’t like this,” Tran said quietly.

Chase also seemed nervous. He kept turning around to check the tunnel behind them. When he twisted back, Chase staggered slightly.

Looks like I’m not the only one exhausted, Fischer thought.

“Fuck, I need fresh air,” Chase muttered.

“Hopefully we’ll be out of here soon,” Tran said.

Movement flashed at the end of the passage. Fischer raised his rifle but quickly lowered the barrel when he realized it was Sharp and Galinsky dragging an injured soldier.

As Fischer hurried over to help, he could tell right away the man was barely hanging on. Gashes crossed his face, oozing pus. His left leg was definitely broken, a bone protruding from his pants.

“I’ve got to get him topside,” Sharp said. “I’ll use that passage a few turns back, but I’m going to need some help.”

Fischer looked at Chase. “You go with Sergeant Sharp.”

Chase hesitated at first. “No, sir…”

“You need some fresh air, son,” Fischer said.

“Yeah, but so do you, sir.”

“I’m good.” Fischer patted Chase on the shoulder and then nodded at Sharp.

The team split up again. Fischer and Tran followed the two trackers around the next corner where they had cut the soldier from the webbing.

Leave, came his wife’s voice. Leave now!

Fischer ignored her, salty sweat stinging his eyes. The chamber came into view around the bend. The wide bowl was covered in red webbing and strung up animals. A Variant across the open space chewed on what looked like a…

Oh hell no, Fischer thought.

There wasn’t much left of the carcass, but he could tell it had been one of his calves. The beast pulled a string of flesh off a leg.

Another creature buried its face into the open belly of the dead animal, pulling out intestines like spaghetti and slurping them through its gruesome lips. It bent over for another bite, exposing a back of hardened flesh.

Both the Variants were barely bigger than the dead calf.

Holy shit, those are children, Fischer realized.

He hadn’t seen juveniles in years.

Welling raised a suppressed rifle, but Fischer put his hand on the barrel.

“I’ve got this one,” Fischer whispered. He crept toward the entrance to the chamber. Just shy of the opening, he shouldered the rifle and aimed for the back of one of the heads. Past experience had taught him juvenile Variant armor was thick, but it wouldn’t stop a bullet from this range.

He pulled the trigger and fired a shot into the head of the beast chewing on the leg. The whistle sounded, followed by an echoing from the crack of a bullet through skull. He took out the second beast with another burst to the head.

It slumped onto the carcass with a wet slap.

Fischer looked for other targets, and seeing none, he moved into the chamber to look at the dead Variants with grim satisfaction. Welling followed close behind.

The satisfaction was short lived.

An explosion of dirt came from the earthen walls behind him. Bursting from the webbing came a hulking figure with taloned claws the length of buck knives. This wasn’t an Alpha like Fischer had seen before.

The ape-like face had huge nostrils and large, bat-like ears hanging from the side of its pointed features.

Fischer swung his rifle toward the beast as it lunged across the chamber and grabbed Welling by an arm. It pulled the limb from the socket. Welling screeched in agony. Then the monster ripped his arm clean off and threw it at Galinsky who was already firing at the bastard.

The shots boomed in the enclosed space, rounds punching into the monster’s barreled chest. Fischer switched to automatic and opened fire. He had no time for shooting discipline with this monstrosity rampaging around the tunnel.

Blood squirted out of Welling’s arm socket as he fell to his knees. He looked at Fischer just as the Alpha grabbed his head and popped it off like a cork. A geyser of blood splattered the dirt ceiling.

The whole chamber began to vibrate. Dirt rained from the ceiling.

Another Alpha bounded through the tunnel they had used to enter the space. Tran turned to fire, scoring a blast directly into its face. A hunk of the Alpha’s pointed jaw blew off in a spray of red mist. The twisted remains of the jawbone hung off by a few strands of gristle.

The beast smacked him in the chest, sending Tran tumbling past Fischer. His rifle flew in the opposite direction.

The other Alpha that had killed Welling was on the ground now, bleeding out from multiple rounds while Galinsky approached, rifle blazing.

“You like that, motherfucker!?” he yelled.

It groaned and swiped at him from the dirt, bullets tearing through its flesh.

Fischer retreated toward Tran, still firing at the creature missing half a jaw. Several hits to the chest sent it staggering.

The creature on the ground swiped again at Galinsky’s boots while he fired several bursts into the flaps of flesh over its back. The creature finally went limp, letting out a long moan.

Fischer bent down to Tran.

“You okay?” he asked.

Tran nodded, and Fischer helped him to his feet. He fired a series of bursts to keep the beast across the chamber at bay. It gripped the loose flap of jaw on its face and hunched down, screeching so loud Fischer winced in pain.

Drawing his pistol, Tran fired.

Fischer grabbed a fresh magazine from his vest and slammed it home.

Galinsky nudged the other beast in the head with his barrel while Fischer aimed at the deformed face of the one across the chamber. He emptied most of the magazine into the Alpha by holding the trigger down. The hail of gunfire sent it stumbling into a wall of webbing.

A human scream sounded in between the gunshots.

You have to get out of here! came the voice of his wife.

Not until I kill these bastards, he thought.

The second Alpha that Galinsky had thought was dead bit off his leg under the knee. He crashed to the ground, screaming in pain and gripping the gushing wound.

The monster grabbed his other leg as he turned and tried to crawl away. It yanked him backward and crunched down on his ankle with a maw-full of jagged teeth.

Another guttural scream sounded from the tracker. Fischer turned his aim on the creature but couldn’t get a shot. With a sickening snap, the tracker managed to jam his buck knife into the skull of the monster. The monster collapsed again, blood pouring from its twitching jaw.

Fischer finished off his magazine into the beast against the wall and then drew his .357. He strode across the chamber toward the Alpha. Blood drooled from dozens of wounds, but it was still alive, and managed to reach out. He fired a bullet through the palm.

The hand fell away, and he fired shots into the cavities where a normal creature’s eyes would be.

That did the trick.

The monster thumped to the dirt. He put another bullet into the skull, blowing a hole in one of the bat-like ears to be sure and then hurried over to Galinsky.

By the time he got there, the tracker was dead, a lake of blood pooling around him and the Alpha. Despite having a knife in its skull, the creature’s back rapidly rose and fell in shallow breaths, its limbs shaking.

Tran limped over and aimed his pistol. He and Fischer fired their remaining bullets into the Alpha’s ugly face.

Fischer lowered the smoking barrel of the Monster Killer. His stomach rolled at the gory sight of the dismembered bodies of the men he had hired to find these beasts. If they had families, he would find them and give them the money he owed them for today’s job.

“I’m sorry,” Fischer said, bending down. He closed Galinsky’s eyes and then plucked the extra magazines from his torn vest.

Tran changed the magazine in his pistol and limped over to his dropped rifle.

“You good?” Fischer asked.

Tran winced, but nodded.

They set off across the chamber and out into the passage they had entered through. The webbing on the walls seemed to pulsate the farther they walked. Halfway back to the exit Sharp had taken to get topside, the ground and walls trembled again.

“Another Alpha?” Tran said.

This felt different. Fischer shook his head. It reminded him of something from when he was a boy and, for a second, he struggled to put his finger on it. The trembling grew worse.

Then realization hit him like a cold rain. When he was a boy, he’d been out on the ranch far past sunset. The cattle had been off in the distance, and he’d fallen asleep, passed out under the stars.

But the ground had shaken him awake. The cattle had been in a panic, running straight toward him. Spooked by a group of coyotes. Thousands of hooves slamming against the ground rolled over him like never ending thunder.

“Stampede!” he bellowed. “Run!”

They hurried toward the dying rays of sunlight streaming in through the opening in the tunnel. When they got there the rumbling ground grew into a full-on quake. Hunks of dirt broke from the ceiling, and webbing whipped loose from the walls. The entire tunnel system was coming apart.

Fischer helped Tran climb up into the opening and pushed him out. As soon as his boots were up, Fischer pushed his night vision goggles away from his eyes, grabbed the webbing, and started climbing.

He froze halfway up when something exploded into his periphery. From both sides of the tunnel, Variants flooded like a tidal wave of white flesh.

“Good Lord in Heaven,” he said.

Fischer kicked out of the hole and onto a weed-covered field. Only a sliver of blood-red sun peaked over the horizon.

He heard what sounded like a helicopter over the screams of the Variants.

“Over here!”

Fischer searched for the voice. Sergeant Sharp and Chase were waving next to the body of the injured soldier near a fort of trees.

Tran limped toward the men and Fischer followed. He looked over his shoulder as the chopping sound grew louder. A trio of helicopters descended toward their position, rotor wash bending dried grass and pushing up billowing clouds of dust. Instead of the normal Allied States insignia painted on the choppers, Fischer spotted blue circles with Orca Whales on them.

He wondered for a moment if they were real or if this was a figment of his imagination like his wife’s voice.

Fischer blinked hard several times, but the birds were still there. He slowed as he approached Sharp who had run over, panting.

“Where are Galinsky and Welling?”

Fischer shook his head.

“What the hell happened?” Chase asked.

“The Alphas…,” Tran began.

“Are dead,” Fischer added. He looked toward the choppers.

Fischer and his team hadn’t been the only ones to notice the choppers’ entrance. Variants began to pop out of holes around the field.

“Form a line!” Sharp yelled.

The men raised their rifles to hold their ground. But instead of running toward them, the creatures scattered, spreading out like a swarm of locusts. That didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense to Fischer, but he wouldn’t question their luck if they escaped tonight.

“So President Ringgold finally sent us help. I guess it’s better late than never.”

“Those aren’t Ringgold’s soldiers!” Sharp yelled over the noise.

Two of the birds curved away, the mounted machine guns blazing. The third chopper continued forward and lowered toward Fischer and his men.

The soldiers that jumped out wore blue armbands with the same Orca insignia painted on the side of the birds.

“That radio transmission I got below ground was from a platoon under the command of General Cornelius!” Sharp yelled over the noise. “These are his troops!”

Fischer watched the birds spewing rounds over his fields, slaughtering the monsters before they could escape. Now this was what his tax dollars and donations were supposed to be used for. He wanted to revel in the sight, but could hardly find anything worth gloating about now.

Fischer Fields had survived, but just by a hair.

“Guess that makes it easy on who I’m voting for in the presidential election,” Fischer said.

“Sir, after what I just heard, I doubt there’s even going to be an election,” Sharp replied.

— 25 —

The table in the PEOC was packed full with military officers, cabinet members, staffers, and the President and Vice President, all of them reacting to the news from Team Ghost. Beckham bowed his head, his heart aching at the report.

Specialist Will Lincoln had passed on the flight from Minneapolis to Scott AFB.

Another member of Team Ghost, lost in the line of duty.

Beckham could sympathize well with how Fitz must have been feeling. He had been there many times as the former lead of Team Ghost.

“I’m sorry about Lincoln, but his sacrifice could very well end this new Variant threat,” said Brigadier General Barnes.

“He was a good man,” Horn said. “One of the best soldiers to fight on Team Ghost.”

Lincoln’s death wasn’t the only one.

Casualty reports flooded in from FOBs across the country.

Flashbacks to Operation Liberty and the other major operations during the Great War of Extinction played in Beckham’s mind.

Operation Shadow was supposed to be different.

Team Ghost had destroyed the beast that Kate and Carr believed was controlling the Variant communication network. He had seen the footage of the grenade that blew the mastermind to pieces.

Now it was a waiting game on whether this would really end the threat of invasion. If it didn’t, the military was preparing to face the beasts again.

In a matter of twenty-four hours, command had redistributed resources to protect outposts as well as distributed twelve thousand troops to the ninety-eight outposts. But with sixty thousand plus Variants out there and an unknown number of juveniles, Beckham was sweating missiles.

“Even without a mastermind coordinating them, we need to stay on alert for a full-fledged attack,” Beckham said. “The Variants and collaborators are still out there, and we have no idea how many juveniles there are.”

“We’re ready, Captain,” Barnes said confidently.

Beckham hoped Barnes was right about that and about Lincoln’s sacrifice disrupting the invasion.

“I’ve just got confirmation that the final troops have arrived at their destinations,” Barnes continued. “These additional forces combined with the existing fortifications at these outposts should withstand anything the Variants throw at us, especially since we’re ready for their tunnels.”

Side conversations continued as staff and officers went back to their jobs of monitoring the missions. Beckham sat listening to reports. From what he had gathered, Team Ghost was the only team that had made it out of the target cities so far.

Two of the six teams were confirmed KIA, and two of the remaining three were radio silent. SEAL Team 5 in Chicago had broken radio silence and Beckham was anxious to see the footage from their helmet cams.

Even though they had been retired for eight years, Beckham and Horn were used to being in the fight. It never got easier sitting by while other men and women did the dirty and dangerous work.

Worse, Beckham hated that he was waiting here without his family. He tried to reassure himself that Peaks Island was well guarded.

But none of that helped his frayed nerves.

The voice of General Souza at SOCOM came over the conference phone in the center of the table.

“Surveillance aircraft are moving in on the following targets for observation,” he said. “Minneapolis, Minnesota; Chicago, Illinois; Lincoln, Nebraska; Kansas City, Missouri; Indianapolis, Indiana; and Columbus, Ohio.”

President Ringgold got up and paced while they waited for live footage, fidgeting with her collar. Beckham hadn’t seen her this anxious in a long time. But he knew part of this had to do with the decision she was going to have to make about the US Bank Stadium in Minneapolis.

She still hadn’t given the order to bomb it and destroy the Variants there, and if she did, she would end the lives of hundreds of human prisoners, if not more.

Maybe it’s giving them mercy. Beckham thought back to the footage from Dohi and Rico. There was almost zero chance the military could save those people now, and they were all suffering unimaginable hell.

Beads of sweat dripped down Beckham’s forehead. He wiped them away with a sleeve.

“Madam President,” Barnes said. “I just received confirmation on the extraction of SEAL Team 5 from Chicago. We should have that footage soon.”

Beckham exchanged a glance with Horn. The big guy was nervous, too, his right leg rocking under the table.

Lemke stood from his chair and joined Ringgold while Barnes spoke on his headset. The brigadier general’s face suddenly turned white.

“What’s wrong?” Ringgold said.

Barnes cleared his throat and pointed at the wall-mounted screen.

“We just received SEAL Team 5’s footage.”

Beckham strained for a better look at the images that came online, but it only took a moment to recognize the ugly beast as one of the brains.

“There’s another one?” Horn said, eyes widening.

“If there are two, there could be more,” Barnes said.

Lemke cursed and brushed his hair back. “I don’t believe this.”

Beckham couldn’t believe it either. Their mistake could doom the country unless they located every one of the abominations and eliminated them before the creatures could coordinate a massive attack with their Variant and collaborator hordes.

The thought chilled Beckham to his marrow. He resisted the urge to get up and board a bird right back to Peaks Island and Outpost Portland.

They’re well protected, he reminded himself. They’re fine.

“I think it’s time to consider taking drastic measures,” Barnes said. “I can have all six of these targets destroyed in fifteen minutes, Madam President.”

“There has to be another way,” Beckham said. “Nuking the cities will mean our country never recovers. Plus, we just sent troops to outposts around those targets and, the fallout, even from low-yield nukes, will cause severe radiation poisoning.”

“What other options do I have?” Ringgold asked.

Beckham hadn’t been privy to all of the strategic planning at command but he had a feeling Barnes wanted to test the limits of the damage they could inflict.

He was right.

“MOABs then,” Barnes said.

Mother-of-all-bombs, Beckham thought. One of the most powerful non-nuclear options they had at their disposal.

“Drop MOABs on every site and send those monsters back to hell,” Barnes said. “Starting with US Bank Stadium. It’s not as much a guarantee as nukes, but it might do the trick.”

“We could also send in troops to clear the cities afterward, but that would pull them away from the outposts,” Lemke said.

“General Souza, are you listening?” Ringgold asked.

The voice of the SOCOM Commander crackled from the speaker in the center of the table. “Yes, Madam President, I’m listening.”

“What do you propose we do in light of these new developments?”

“Problem is we don’t really know where the other masterminds are and, from the footage Team Ghost sent, they clearly have the ability to move. If we did know their location, then I would say drop MOABs, but if we don’t know, then we’re just wasting ordnance.”

“Good point,” Lemke said. “Even if we wanted to, we don’t have enough MOABs to level every potential nest for these masterminds. I think we’re going to have to send teams back in to track them.”

Barnes grunted. “How many Special Op teams do we have available?”

A knock came on the door and a Secret Service agent stepped in.

“We have a problem.”

Beckham gripped the table, preparing to stand.

“Something’s tripped the sensors about three miles from the perimeter,” he said. “We sent out a team of Marines to check it out. Probably nothing, but I wanted you to know.”

Ringgold looked to Lemke.

“We’re safe here,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Beckham had a feeling she was thinking the same thing as he was about the fate of the Vice President’s predecessor. George Johnson had died in this very room at the hands of Variants.

“Sound the alarm,” Beckham said.

Barnes didn’t seem to like that idea. “All due respect, but that could…”

“Save lives if there is something out there,” Ringgold said. “Go ahead and do it.”

The agent nodded and closed the door. As soon as he left, the debate over what to do next continued.

“I’m going to check this out,” Horn said quietly.

Beckham shifted uneasily in his chair as Horn ducked out. His gut told him something was happening out there that no one understood, not even his wife.

“Madam President,” Beckham said, interrupting the conversation.

All eyes were on him.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I’d like to propose something.”

Lemke studied Beckham as he stood in front of the table.

“Go ahead,” Ringgold said.

Before he could say anything the voice of General Souza came from the speaker.

“Madam President, our surveillance aircrafts are sending back some disturbing footage.”

Barnes turned on the wall-mounted screen with a remote. The screen divided into sections, each with the view from one of the aircrafts in the target cities.

“We’re too late…” Lemke said.

“Variants are pouring out of the tunnels in these areas,” Souza said. “We’ve scrambled bomber squadrons, but I need your authorization.”

“There are so many,” Barnes’ face drained of color. “How is this possible?”

“They have been breeding,” Beckham said. “They’ve been so far out of surveillance this whole time. Underground. In those tunnels. We underestimated their numbers.”

“Do it,” Ringgold said firmly. “Drop bombs on the hordes, and take out US Bank Stadium. Reduce it to ashes. I don’t want any chance of anything surviving.”

“Understood,” Souza said.

Beckham swallowed hard and blinked from sweat stinging his eyes. He said a prayer for the people that were about to die, but knew the president was making the right choice.

The door to the room suddenly swung open, and Horn burst inside, his eyes wide.

“We’ve got hostiles moving toward our location.” That Marine team was just ambushed by a pack of Variants.”

Barnes shot up. “You heard him! Let’s move, people!”

The room quickly emptied, everyone joining officers, staff, and soldiers in the open space of the PEOC command area.

Beckham went to look at the monitors. It wasn’t just Variants out there. Several trucks had broken through the outer perimeter.

“Collaborators,” Horn grumbled. “We got to get everyone the hell out of here, boss.”

“It’s safer down here,” said Barnes.

“You sure about that?” Beckham asked.

On screen, hundreds of Variants stormed the machine gun nests and guard towers along the perimeter. The hordes stormed through the hail of fire, tearing apart soldiers on the front lines.

Barnes went quiet. Reality seemed to be sinking in. He snapped out of it a moment later and began barking orders.

Ringgold stood next to Beckham, her jaw clenched and face pallid.

“How did this happen?” she asked in a low voice.

“All this time we thought they’d been living like animals outside our safe zones, barely scraping by,” Beckham said. “But they must’ve been preparing for this. Growing their numbers and keeping their children away from our drones, underground.”

“My God, how do we stop them?”

Beckham didn’t have an easy answer.

“We fight,” Horn said in a gruff voice.

Barnes hurried over to them. “Air evac is ready. Madam President, things are beginning to look uncertain here. We need to get you to the USS George Johnson.”

“Horn, Beckham, I want you to join me,” Ringgold said.

“All the way out there?” Horn asked. “Something else going on we don’t know about?”

“We’re getting reports of Variants attacking most every outpost,” Barnes said. “At this point, the safest place from these tunneling bastards is at sea.”

“What about Outpost Portland?” Beckham said.

A vein bulged in Horn’s neck as he waited for a response.

“No report of an attack yet,” came a voice from an officer monitoring the radios.

“I don’t know about you, boss,” Horn said, “but I’m not running off to some ship while our families are out there.”

“Madam President,” Beckham began, “I’m sorry, but I can’t abandon my family.”

Secret Service agents huddled around the group, waiting to evacuate the president and vice president.

“We’ll stop at Peaks Island and Outpost Portland first,” Ringgold said.

Barnes looked ready to protest.

“We need to get Doctor Lovato and Doctor Carr to safety if we have any hope of winning this fight,” Ringgold said.

“I agree,” replied Lemke said. “I’ll inform General Souza and have him send some extra birds to extract the doctors and their staff and equipment.”

“What about civilians?” Horn demanded.

“Evacuation will have to be on a case by case basis, but we will make sure your families are safe,” Ringgold said.

Horn jogged to one of the weapon racks at the back of the PEOC and grabbed his M249. Then he grabbed Beckham’s M4 and tossed it to him. They surged through the crowd as officers rushed to organize the chaotic defense and evacuation efforts.

Ringgold was waiting with one departing group in front of the elevator. Beckham and Horn met up with them.

“I’ll hold this position, Madam President,” Barnes called out. “Good luck!”

“You too, General,” she said. “Give these bastards everything you’ve got.”

“You can count on that.” Barnes turned back to the screens.

The elevator doors opened, and Beckham squeezed in with the others. By the time they unloaded and got to the front entrance, the Variants and the collaborators had broken through the first line of defenses.

Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like fireflies.

A LAW rocket streaked through the night, exploding against a guard tower.

“Holy shit!” shouted Horn.

A team of Marines and Secret Service agents led them through the gardens of the Greenbrier and headed for Marine One and Marine Two.

The rotors were already churning when Beckham saw the choppers. Several Marines formed a perimeter around the area.

Floodlights flicked on, illuminating the grounds around the White House. One of the Marines opened fire into the forest beyond the gardens.

Beckham couldn’t see anything through the fence of trees and kept running, but Horn suddenly stopped and brought up his M249.

“Six o’clock!” he yelled.

He fired at what looked like ghosts moving into the floodlights. Beckham aimed at the camouflaged Variants and squeezed the trigger. Blood sprayed from wounds that sent the monsters tumbling.

An explosion boomed behind them, but Beckham kept firing at the flanking beasts. Ringgold and Lemke ran with their staff, protected by a dozen Marines and Secret Service agents. The group fired as they advanced, taking out creatures bounding out of the forest on all fours.

Beckham jammed in a new magazine and snuck a glance over his shoulder at the side entrance to the White House. A burning pickup truck had slammed into a pillar of stones, and two collaborators smoldered on the pavement. More soldiers spread out to secure the grounds.

“Boss, behind us!” Horn yelled.

Beckham squeezed off two bursts to take down a pair of monsters that had made it onto the lawn. Horn killed their comrades and then took off running with Beckham.

They had fallen behind the others. Lemke and half of the staff had already boarded Marine 2 while Ringgold and the other half piled into Marine 1.

Beasts flooded toward the grounded choppers. Horn stopped to lay down covering fire. Beckham did the same, scoring a headshot that took off the top of a creature’s skull.

“Come on!” shouted Ringgold. She waved from the open door of the chopper before two guards pulled her back.

Beckham patted Horn on the shoulder and they took off running toward Marine 1. When they were fifty feet from the troop hold, a group of armored Variants burst from the bushes.

The choppers started to lift from the ground.

Horn fired at the pack of juveniles.

“Big Horn, let’s go!” Beckham shouted. He grabbed him and pulled him toward the bird. One of the young beasts made it past the hail of rounds, losing half an armored limb in the process, but charging the two men anyway.

A shot to the head from the chopper took it down. Lemke was watching out from the open door, directing his agents to cover Beckham and Horn.

They reached to help Beckham and Horn into the chopper as it hovered just a few feet off the lawn. They crawled in just as a pack of Variants filled the open field.

Gunfire cracked all around. The Marines and Secret Service agents fired at the armored beasts reaching up with clawed hands as the chopper pulled away.

Panting, Beckham rose up on his knees.

“Thanks,” he said to Lemke.

Horn lay on his back, his chest heaving. “Man, that was too close.”

“Way too close,” Beckham said.

This must have been it. The start of the invasion. If the attack on the White House was any indication, the Variants and their collaborators weren’t pulling any punches.

A Marine shut the door and Beckham stood with the others to look out the windows.

All hell had broken loose across the former Greenbrier resort. Muzzle flashes cut through the night like miniature lightning strikes, and orange blasts bloomed from explosions.

“Barnes will hold them,” Lemke said. “We won’t lose the White House again.”

Beckham had faith in the men and women down there, but it was going to be a tough and bloody fight. He didn’t like abandoning them, but his family came first.

“Where are we headed?” yelled one of the pilots.

“Peaks Island!” Ringgold shouted back.

“Thank you,” Beckham said.

“Yes, thanks,” Horn added.

Beckham took a seat, trying to catch his breath and calm his thumping heart. Horn sat next to him, his big arms brushing up against Beckham.

“Everything’s going to be okay, boss,” he said. “We’ll get through this.”

Beckham wanted to believe that, but an update from one of the pilots shattered his hope.

“I’m hearing a ton of radio chatter,” said one of the pilots. “Sounds like the Variants are pounding the outposts.”

The reports continued to stream in over the seven-hour long flight to the island. By the time they were narrowing in on the location, outposts around the target cities were drowning in the masses of Variants descending on them.

“Change of plans,” said one of the pilots. “The science team and families have been evacuated from Peaks Island and are meeting us at Outpost Portland. So far the Variants are still being held back further west.”

Horn’s leg went back to rocking and Beckham closed his eyes, in an attempt to focus his mind and keep calm.

When they touched down, a group had gathered in the landing zone. Daylight had flooded over the outpost. Dozens of people waited outside, many of them children. Even more were trying to get through a wall of Marines that held them back.

Beckham could tell they weren’t going to be able to extract all of these people. Beckham and Horn jumped out into the cool morning air, navigating the thronging people as they hurried toward Sergeant Ruckley and a team of Marines surrounding the medical staff.

Army soldiers unloaded crates and boxes from several trucks. They carried them into the troop holds of other choppers that General Souza had sent. Several Black Hawks and even an Osprey had touched down.

“Javier! Kate!” Beckham yelled.

“Tasha! Jenny!” Horn shouted.

“Dad!” the girls called out, slipping between people.

Ginger and Spark barked and ran to Horn, their tails beating the air, oblivious to the threats closing in.

Beckham saw Javier next. His boy ran and wrapped his arms around him. Kate was talking to a Marine and pointing at the crates. When she finished giving orders, she hurried over and embraced Beckham and Javier.

Civilians began boarding the other birds, but combined with the equipment from Kate’s lab, they were already filling up. Marines fanned out to help hold back the growing crowd pressing against those already holding onto the perimeter.

Beckham looked for Timothy, Bo, and Donna. He spotted them in a group on the other side of the Marines.

“Take Javier to the chopper,” Beckham said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Kate asked.

She followed his gaze to the crowd.

“I’ll see if I can get them on one of the choppers,” Beckham said.

Kate nodded and pulled Javier away while Beckham ran to the Marines running security. The crowd was shouting now, pushing at the Marines even more fervently.

In the background, he heard another shout. A glance over his shoulder confirmed it was Horn arguing with a Marine about allowing Ginger and Spark on the bird.

“They are coming with!” Horn yelled. He picked up Ginger under one arm and Spark under the other. “We’ll hold them to save space!”

The dogs barked, clearly distraught. They weren’t the only ones. Tasha and Jenny both cried even as the Marine gestured them all into the belly of the chopper.

Beckham continued to the gathering group of civilians the soldiers and Marines were fighting to keep at bay.

“Timothy, Bo, Donna!” he shouted.

They squeezed their way over to the other side of the crowd.

“They won’t let us through!” Donna said.

“Get back!” yelled a Marine.

“Let them through,” Beckham said. “They’re with me!”

Two of the Marines looked back at him, but they shook their heads.

“Sorry, Captain,” one said. “We have strict orders.”

An engine fired behind him, and rotors beat the air. He had just seconds to get on the bird himself. Donna stared at him, fear in her gaze.

“Please, Reed!” she cried. “We need to get out of here!”

“It’s going to be okay. This outpost is safe…” his words trailed off because he knew that was a lie.

No outpost was safe anymore.

“There will be another chopper,” Beckham said. “I’m so sorry.”

His heart kicked as he back peddled away, Donna, Bo, and Timothy all staring at him as he retreated.

“I’ll be back for you, I promise!” he shouted.

The guilt burned deep in his chest. He felt like he was abandoning them and running to hide like a coward as he turned to run toward the chopper.

The rotor wash whipped against his body. He looked over his shoulder one last time at the growing crowd of screaming civilians. Then he climbed inside and the crew chief shut the door, blocking the view of the friends he was leaving behind.

Beckham found his wife and son, and Horn and his girls. The dogs were squirming in their grips, but putting them down wasn’t an option in the tightly packed chopper.

“Timothy,” Tasha cried. “We can’t leave him!”

She grabbed Horn’s sleeve. “Dad, we can’t go without Timothy and the others.”

“Why can’t the others come?” Javier asked.

“There isn’t room in this load,” Beckham said.

Tasha wiped a tear from her eyes and turned away to get a view out the windows.

“We’ll go back for them, I promise,” Beckham said.

“Are they going to be okay, Dad?” Javier asked.

“Yes, sweetie,” Kate said. She looked at Beckham, but he couldn’t hold her gaze and he didn’t know what to say to his son. Instead of responding, he turned to the window as the chopper moved over the ocean and into the morning sky.

While they flew to safety, the country was collapsing. He could almost see the flames of burning outposts in the distance.

The monsters had emerged from the shadows in the Allied States with their new ranks, overwhelming and destroying what humanity had worked so hard to rebuild.

Spreading like an inferno.

This time, Beckham feared the human race wouldn’t be able to stop them. That they had only delayed the inevitable eight years ago.

One thing was for certain—humanity had entered another dark age of extinction.

o—o—o

EXTINCTION INFERNO

For all that serve or have served in the United States Military, thank you for the sacrifices you have made to protect our freedoms. We are forever grateful.

“The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender, or submission.”

John F. Kennedy

— 1 —

The Black Hawk circled low over Scott Air Force Base (AFB) ten miles east of the apocalyptic ruins of St. Louis. A crew chief opened the side door, revealing the sight of Variants darting down the streets toward the walls of the forward operating base (FOB).

“Jesus, they’re everywhere!” the crew chief yelled.

Master Sergeant Joe “Fitz” Fitzpatrick leaned out, one hand on a rail, his prosthetic carbon-fiber blades creaking. The rest of Team Ghost sat impatiently behind him.

Sunlight pierced the sporadic clouds, illuminating the horrifying tableau spreading toward the Air Force base. The armored flesh of juveniles glowed in the light. The monsters galloped on all fours like a pride of starving lions.

Some of the beasts had already made it to the base’s perimeter where they slammed into the chain-link fences tracing the border. HESCO bastions and guard towers provided another layer of defense. But the first line had already fallen.

Columns of smoke rose from fresh craters in the ground left by mines and other explosives. Hunks of shredded meat and bone smoldered in the dirt. Injured beasts crawled through the fields, some missing legs, others missing arms. None giving up on their pursuit.

Machine gun nests blasted sweeping waves of fire, and explosions bloomed across Fitz’s view.

Specialist Justin Mendez crossed his chest in prayer. Sergeant Yas Dohi stared like a statue, his rifle cradled over his armor.

“How the hell are we supposed to stop that many?” Sergeant First Class Jenny Rico yelled.

Corporal Bobby Ace pulled at the bottom of his gray beard, looking over at Fitz for an answer.

“Doctor Lovato is gonna have to come up with another bioweapon,” Ace said. “Might be the only cure for this outbreak of freaks.”

“I got the cure right here!” Mendez shouted, patting his rifle.

Fitz had served with the Hispanic man long enough to know his brave words and Ace’s dark humor masked the pain they carried and the fear seeping into their bones.

As much as Fitz didn’t want to admit it, they couldn’t wait on another miracle from Kate and her science team. The only way to stop these things was to kill them the old-fashioned way with bullets and blades.

Or at least slow them down… he thought.

The fresh ammunition and grenades the crew chief had distributed to Team Ghost would help.

“This mission is for Lincoln!” Fitz yelled.

Mendez crossed his chest again. The rest of the team simply uttered quiet acknowledgments as they looked out the open door at what they were about to face. They all had bags under their eyes and blood smeared on their clothing and flesh.

Only a few hours had passed since their extraction from Minneapolis, and they hadn’t had a chance to recover mentally or physically.

On the deck behind them was the covered body of their deceased brother-in-arms, Specialist Will Lincoln. The chopper had changed course after he had bled out. Instead of heading home, they had flown straight to Scott AFB to help save it from the Variant attack.

There was no time to grieve, no time to put Lincoln to rest, and no time for the team to rest.

It was straight back into the fray.

“Ghost,” the primary pilot of the Black Hawk said over the comm channel. “I’m going to get you over the parking lot outside HQ.”

Fitz identified the command building in the center of the base. The square structure stood out among the others around it with a white roof and a huge parking lot filled with Humvees and troop transports.

Speaking to his team, Fitz said, “We’re assisting with the defense of Scott’s command building. We got VIPs galore down there, civilian and military. They’re organizing the evac.”

Fitz gestured further out. Buses and transport vehicles rushed toward the runways where aircraft waited to take off.

“Our mission is two-fold. First, we ensure as many people get out of here as possible. We’ll drop in between the evac lines and the Variants, buddy up and provide covering fire,” Fitz said. “Second, we keep this base from falling under Variant control. Questions?”

Mendez lifted his hand. “If the whole point is preventing Scott from falling, why are we evacuating people like it’s already lost?”

“Because the brass already thinks Scott is lost,” Fitz said. “We’re going to prove them wrong.”

“All it takes is all we got!” Rico shouted.

The motto from their fallen brother Sergeant Jose Garcia continued to motivate the team through tough missions, and those words never felt so true.

The chopper lowered toward the parking lot, and the crew chief gave the signal for Ghost to jump out the open door.

Fitz looked one last time at Lincoln’s body and the jacket over his face.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, brother.

“Go, go, go!” yelled the crew chief, waving the team out.

Dohi went first, followed by Rico. They hopped out and took off in a crouch, heading for a row of Humvees and personnel vehicles. Just as Fitz went to jump out, the chopper jerked and pulled up. He lost his balance and crashed to the deck.

“What the hell!” he shouted.

Ace helped him up and Mendez shouted, “Tunnel!”

The chopper pulled up from a bulge in the parking lot. Asphalt broke away from an opening. From a cloud of dust and debris, emerged a huge beast with sinewy arms and bat-like ears. Long ropey tendrils jutted out of its back. It surveyed the surroundings with milky white eyes as it let out a high-pitched, clicking shriek that pierced the whoosh of the chopper rotors.

“Alpha!” Ace yelled.

Dohi and Rico took shelter behind a car, firing into the Alpha’s flank. More Variants churned up from the fresh hole in the ground, spilling from one of the many tunnels the monsters must have used to invade the base.

“Get us back down there!” Fitz shouted.

“Hold on!” yelled one of the pilots.

The chopper lowered over a cluster of abandoned cars. Fitz jumped out, his blades hitting the roof of a van. Mendez and Ace leapt out after.

Fitz opened fire on the Variants climbing out of the tunnel, but had lost sight of the Alpha.

Tendrils of the red webbing stuck up from the tunnel like shredded blood vessels in a wound. Those bloody-looking vines were transmitting signals to the beasts now attacking Scott. Team Ghost had killed one of the masterminds in Minneapolis, but there were more.

Another Variant climbed those red ropes and stuck its ugly, wart-covered head out of the hole, tongue whipping against wormy lips.

Fitz squeezed the trigger and blasted its face off.

A horrifying shriek ripped through the air next to him. The Alpha suddenly slammed into the side of the van, knocking Fitz off. He crashed onto a car and hit the pavement hard.

Fitz rolled to his back and fired as the Alpha leapt to the van above him. The heavy beast crunched the roof of the van inward. Rounds lanced into its chest, punching through gray flesh.

It let out a series of clicks and jumped to the ground. Fitz emptied his magazine into the Alpha. Blood sprayed from the monster’s wounds as it stumbled forward and reached toward him.

A shotgun blast boomed.

Part of the Alpha’s shoulder blew off, painting Fitz with gore.

“Move it!” Ace yelled.

Fitz didn’t waste time. He turned and scurried between the vehicles for cover. Another blast thundered behind him. When he finally got his legs under him and spun to face the Alpha, it had collapsed.

“Thanks!” Fitz yelled.

Ace pulled hunks of gore off his beard. Then they both ran back to find the others. The Variants continued to pop out of the tunnel. Another beast’s reptilian eyes caught Fitz’s, and its lips curled back into a snarl, revealing a maw full of jagged teeth.

“Fire in the hole!” Mendez yelled.

He lobbed a grenade into the hole as the creature dragged itself out. It didn’t make it far. The ground lifted up behind it, dirt and rock exploding. The blast blew the abomination in half.

Another rumble shook through the ground, and the asphalt around the tunnel cracked, dropping into the hole.

Dust billowed up as part of the tunnel collapsed in on itself.

“Hell yeah, boyyyyyy!” Mendez yelled.

The remaining Variants dropped from concerted fire as Team Ghost formed up.

More choppers descended toward the command building. Soldiers and Marines hopped out, quickly running for the front entrance.

Fitz gave the signal for his team to fall back to command as well. Setting off in combat intervals, they moved cautiously around the holes between them.

Closer to the building, another razor wire-topped fence surrounded command. Machine gun nests had been set up to cover zones of fire around the entrance.

On the roof, snipers perched, their barrels flashing with calculated shots. Beside them crouched men with AT-4s, concentrating their shots on the strongest of the monsters.

A .50 caliber machine gun blazed to life from a third-floor window.

Over the gunfire came a message on the comms.

Fitz strained to listen.

“All units in command vicinity respond,” came the voice. “Variant tunnel identified directly on the west-side of command. Requesting immediate response. Over.”

Fitz waved the rest of the team toward the road crossing and closed gate in front of the command building. The third-floor gunner fired on a stream of Variants coming from a hole in the street just beyond the fencing.

Already there was a pile of corpses—human and Variant—around a hole that had exploded inside the border.

Another hole swallowed the asphalt in the middle of a group of soldiers defending the southern side of the building. An Alpha lunged out right into a stream of gunfire. Rounds punched into its flesh until it collapsed in a heap of bloody limbs.

The ground rumbled again a moment later.

It didn’t take long to see that the fences and thirty some soldiers holding back the hordes would be overrun. Fitz knew they had to do something drastic to keep command from falling, but the only thing he could think of was a long shot.

“Command, Ghost 1,” he said over the public channel. “We need access to an R2TD system now!”

From past experience, they knew the rapid reaction tunnel detection system was perfect for hampering the Alpha’s echolocation abilities and driving them mad. Sowing chaos among the Alphas would put the Variant attack in disarray.

The response was impossible to hear over the gunfire.

Fitz led the team to the gate on the eastern side of the building. Two Marines held sentry behind a secondary fence. They opened both gates to let the team inside the secure area.

“Go, go, go!” one of them yelled.

Fitz grabbed the guy’s arm. “We need an R2TD unit!”

“The hell is that?” the man said.

Letting go of the man, Fitz marched toward the sealed off doors of the command building. Team Ghost followed him through a maze of sandbags. They ran toward the west side of the building where most of the soldiers and Marines were holding back the attacking beasts.

Fitz repeated his request for an R2TD system over the channel, and this time he heard the response.

“Copy that, Ghost 1. What’s your location?”

“We’re outside the west entrance of the command building!” he shouted.

“Copy, Ghost 1. Hold your position!”

Fitz and the rest of the team took up position behind a mound of sandbags. He spent two magazines on the incoming Variants before the sliding metal door opened behind them.

A soldier carrying an R2TD system hurried outside Ace slung his shotgun to take the unit.

“Plant that in one of the tunnels!” Fitz yelled.

“Let me take it,” Rico said. “I’m faster.”

“You sayin’ what I think you’re sayin?” Ace said as he started to turn on the device.

“Yes, you’re too damn slow,” Rico said.

Fitz didn’t intend to see either Rico or Ace play martyr.

“We’re all going out there,” Fitz said.

He brought up his rifle as Ace primed the device. Hundreds of Variants had already reached the fences on the west side, climbing the leaning sides and reaching the top to tear off coils of razor wire.

Sending anyone out there sure looked like a death sentence.

But the beasts had ignored the area that Fitz and his team had entered. Instead of asking for covering fire from other soldiers, Fitz gave the advance signal to Team Ghost, hoping to go unnoticed.

They set off for the gate they had entered through.

One of the two Marines still standing sentry held up a hand.

“Where the hell you think you’re going?” he asked.

“We have to get this device in one of those holes,” Fitz said, pointing.

The Marines both followed his finger.

“You fucking crazy?” the other man said.

“Crazy will keep us alive, so move it,” Ace said.

The Marines opened the gates without more protest, and Ace charged toward one of the holes with Team Ghost covering him along the way.

Variants had already emerged from another hole and rushed toward the gates, scaling the fences. Several made it over the top, dropping into the secure area, only to be cut down by gunfire.

A Black Hawk circled, raining fire from the sky at the devilish army.

Another hole burst open, unleashing more of the monsters and one of the larger blind Alphas. The beast let out its staccato shriek and twisted toward Team Ghost just as Ace lobbed the activated R2TD into a hole.

While the sound waves it emitted were too high for the human ear, they were perfectly suited for hammering the sensitive ears of the Alphas.

The creature let out a shriek, attracting the attention of the hordes attacking the western gate. Many of them turned away from the fences.

“Oh shit,” Mendez stuttered.

An entire group peeled off, falling to all fours, some of them tripping and falling over each other as they changed directions.

At least forty beasts charged Team Ghost.

“RUN!” Fitz yelled.

The team bolted away from the hole back toward the gate where the Marines were shouting and waving. A hail of bullets chewed into the Variants pursuing Team Ghost, cutting some of them down, but the meat of the pack ran faster.

Fitz was the last one in the gate. The Marines sealed it behind them and everyone backed away. The wave of Variants slammed into it seconds after.

“Back!” Ace shouted.

Fitz retreated from the barrier, scanning for the Alphas. He finally spotted one lumbering toward the R2TD system.

Another Alpha climbed out of the newest hole and ran toward the abandoned R2TD equipment. Fitz waved at the soldiers with AT-4s on the rooftop.

“Hit those Alphas!” he shouted.

Fitz brought up his rifle and fired bursts at the Variants still slamming into the fences. A grenade sailed overhead and exploded behind one of the Alphas, smearing the beast across the asphalt. Another explosive round slammed into the parking lot between two vehicles. The fuel tanks ruptured, and the resulting inferno consumed the beasts.

But another Alpha pushed its way through the charred corpses of its brethren, bullet holes weeping blood across its body. It reached the R2TD system, smashing the cylindrical machine with its clawed fists. The equipment broke into pieces, but not more than a second later, a rocket tore the Alpha into just as many chunks of bloody flesh.

“Wooooo!” Mendez wailed. “That’s how we do this shit!”

The remaining Variants flagged in their assault, turning and squawking like disoriented beasts at the death of their monstrous leaders. They scattered as the soldiers and Marines fired into their fleeing ranks.

“Parking lot clear,” came a voice over the public channel. “All units near the parking lot, fall back to command.”

Fitz retreated with Team Ghost, listening to the rattle of gunfire. Some of it came from the airfield where people still rushed through nearby streets, streaming toward the planes waiting to evacuate them.

Two helicopters circled, their door gunners firing bursts to keep back the Variants.

An officer moved onto the landing of the command building.

“Fine work, everyone!” he yelled.

Several grunts and “Oorahs,” roared from the men.

“Don’t celebrate yet,” the officer said. “We have another group pinned down. We need volunteers to extract them. The rest of us will stay here and hold this post.”

“Where are they?” someone asked.

The officer pointed toward a cluster of buildings about a mile away from the command building.

“Damn,” Mendez muttered.

Fitz looked at his team in turn. There was no way they could stand idly by while those families were stuck out there. But at the same time, they were needed here to help defend the command.

“Dohi, Rico…” Fitz said. His words trailed off. Could he really send his girlfriend out there? He hated doing it, but she was the second in command. When Ghost split into Alpha and Bravo teams, Bravo was always hers.

He had to trust her like she trusted him.

“We got this, Fitzie,” she said, chewing on her gum. She jogged with Dohi toward a group of volunteers gathering in front of the officer, apparently not even thinking twice about heading behind enemy lines.

Fitz swallowed hard and looked out from the base wondering how long they could hold back the beasts. If the previous night’s attack was just the beginning, the next time the Variant hordes returned, they would crash over the Allied States’ defenses.

— 2 —

Marine One and Marine Two flew north to the USS George Johnson. The choppers hugged the eastern shore close enough that Captain Reed Beckham could see the fires on the horizon.

An inferno blazed in Outpost New Boston.

After eight years of peace and reconstruction, everything was falling apart. If they didn’t stop this invasion soon, the Allied States would be nothing but ashes.

“Must be collaborators,” said Master Sergeant Parker Horn.

“Yeah,” Beckham agreed.

Variants didn’t use guns, but the collaborators and their raiding parties were well versed in guerrilla warfare, utilizing everything from C4 to the acid produced by Variants.

Almost every face in Marine One was turned to the windows. Kate had Javier wrapped up in her arms next to Beckham, and Horn watched the fires next to Tasha and Jenny. An unlit cigarette wobbled between his lips as he cursed under his breath.

“We shouldn’t have left Timothy,” Tasha said, wiping her eyes.

“He’s going to be okay,” Horn replied.

Beckham nodded back. He wanted to believe they could stop the invading monsters and collaborators, but with the addition of juveniles in their army, he wasn’t so sure.

Command didn’t even know the Variants’ strength anymore or where the masterminds controlling the hordes were located.

For a split-second back in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center (PEOC), Beckham had given some thought to Brigadier General Lucas Barnes’s suggestion to nuke the cities where they suspected the masterminds might be. But even using low-yield nuclear weapons was no guarantee they would stop the masterminds, and it would guarantee the death of any human prisoners there along with the people in the surrounding outposts.

Evacuating those outposts by land would be nearly impossible now that the Variants were attacking and surrounding them. It would be almost as difficult by air, given the dearth of resources currently available to the Allied States and the sheer number of people who would need to be transported.

The numbers simply didn’t add up, and places like Outpost Boston only had one option right now.

Stand their ground and fight.

“We should have evacuated before,” Beckham said quietly.

“Do you think Portland is going to be okay?” Kate asked.

Javier glanced up to his dad for an answer.

“Portland is a long way from the main target cities and it’s well-defended,” Beckham said. “They should be fine.”

He said it as much to reassure himself as the others.

“I’m worried about Donna, Bo, and Timothy.” Javier’s gaze flitted from Beckham to Kate and then back again. “They’re going to get on another helicopter, right, Dad?”

“If we think they’re in trouble, we’ll get them out of there,” Beckham said.

He exchanged a glance with Kate, seeing the extreme worry in her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

“Where are you going?” Javier asked.

“To talk with the president.”

Kate pulled Javier closer while Beckham made his way through the technicians, soldiers, and others occupying the troop hold between the leather seats. The helicopter was packed to the limit.

Standing between Beckham and the president was Doctor Jeff Carr and two lab technicians. The group was talking about the mastermind Variants and juveniles.

Beckham squeezed past them, more interested in what the president’s team was talking about. They huddled in seats near the cockpit. Chief of Staff James Soprano and National Security Advisor Ben Nelson shared reports with President Ringgold and Vice President Dan Lemke, while Chief of Staff Elizabeth Cortez spoke on a satellite phone.

Judging by their dour looks, the reports coming in were anything but good.

Once he made it directly behind Nelson, Beckham picked up a few things from the conversation. Cortez said something about the US Bank Stadium in Minneapolis being destroyed and the hordes being pushed back from the walls of Outpost Chicago.

“Our forces have repelled the attack at the White House, too,” said Lemke. “The area is being secured.”

“Thank God,” Ringgold said, breathing an audible sigh of relief.

“We dodged some bullets tonight, especially at Portland,” Cortez said.

Ringgold spotted Beckham and waved him over.

“Captain Beckham, join me,” she said. “How much of our situation did you overhear?”

“I heard the White House has been secured,” Beckham said.

Ringgold nodded. Her expression softened. “Team Ghost made it to Scott AFB, and they’ve helped hold back the Variant hordes, but I’m afraid I have bad news about Outpost Portland.”

Beckham’s stomach curdled.

“An assault started a few minutes ago,” Lemke said.

“Reports indicate the collaborators hit from the inside,” Nelson said.

Beckham’s mind raced with thoughts of Donna, Bo, Timothy, and everyone else.

He should never have left them.

He should have stayed to fight.

But once again, he had fled the fighting to protect his family.

“There must be a collaborator sleeper cell involved,” Nelson said. “These assholes made it into the outpost far too easily.”

“Based on what we’re seeing, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true for many of the outposts,” Lemke said.

“That would explain how the first raiders on Peaks Island knew where the lab was,” Beckham said. No, he knew they weren’t simple raiders.

They were collaborators.

In his mind’s eye he saw the pair of would-be assassins back at the campaign rally. Before one had died, he had said, “Adios, Reed.” He couldn’t help wondering if there was something personal about this. Almost as if the collaborators and Variants held a grudge against him.

Couldn’t be, though. Could it?

He tried to shake the idea, turning his thoughts back to who might be working with the collaborators inside Outpost Portland.

Was someone he called a friend actually a traitor?

Chances were good the culprits hadn’t betrayed their neighbors purely out of evil. It was more likely the collaborators had threatened their family or held some kind of leverage over them. Maybe they had convinced them that a Variants victory was all but assured and the monsters would spare their lives if they cooperated.

Whatever they had done to seduce people within the outposts, Beckham knew one thing: It was all lies.

“How long until we land?” he asked.

Nelson peered at his watch. “About thirty minutes. Maybe a bit less.”

Beckham looked over his shoulder at his family. He saw Big Horn leaning over to talk with Tasha and Jenny, too. Horn had to have identical thoughts as him—that returning to fight risked condemning their kids to the same fate as Timothy Temper.

Fatherless.

Just like Timothy, Tasha and Jenny would become orphans.

Beckham wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t bear the thought of Kate raising all three kids on her own. But they couldn’t just abandon Bo, Donna, and Timothy to the monsters and collaborators. He would never be able to live with himself.

“Madam President, would you consider sending Marine One and Marine Two back to Portland to evacuate more people?” Beckham asked.

“Already planning on it,” Ringgold said. She narrowed her eyes, studying Beckham. “I hope you’re not thinking about going back with the helicopters though. We already have plenty of boots on the ground.”

Beckham gathered his thoughts for a second.

“Outpost Portland is my home,” Beckham said. “It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least help manage the evacuation.”

“I wish you would reconsider your position,” Ringgold said. “There are others more than capable of helping your friends and neighbors.”

Cortez finished up another call, then turned to the others, interrupting the conversation.

“I just received an update on the outposts around the target cities,” Cortez said. “Our bombers are going back for another run.”

No one said a word as Marine One curved away from the shoreline and headed farther out to sea. The dark gray shapes cutting through the water confirmed the rest of the 1st Fleet had gathered around the USS George Johnson.

Nelson broke the silence. “You sure it’s safe out here?”

“Unless the collaborators have also commandeered a warship,” Lemke said.

“It wouldn’t be the first time one of our enemies have,” Ringgold said.

Beckham guessed she was thinking about Resistance of Tyranny (ROT), and how Lieutenant Andrew Wood had managed to gain control of Navy warships to launch a coup against Ringgold’s administration.

“Even if we think we’ve got control over all our ships,” Beckham began, “what if a collaborator has infiltrated our ranks and made it on one?”

“That is highly unlikely,” Lemke said. “Every sailor on the 1st Fleet has been thoroughly vetted.”

“Highly unlikely is what we would have said two weeks ago about the attacks around our country,” Ringgold said. “But Captain Beckham has a point. We underestimated the monsters and their collaborators. Now we’re paying the price.”

Lemke didn’t look pleased, his lips curving into a frown. Finally he said, “You’re right. I’ll have General Souza dedicate a team to investigating everyone on those ships.”

“I’d advise sending the USS George Johnson to a covert location, isolated from the other ships, until we can confirm there are no collaborators among the rest of the Fleet.” Beckham said.

Ringgold looked at Lemke, prompting him to speak first.

“That doesn’t sound like a half-bad idea,” he replied.

“Then let’s make it happen,” Ringgold said.

She gestured at Nelson who took the satellite phone from Cortez to call in the order.

“Prepare for landing,” said one of the pilots.

The bird dipped through the choppy air, preparing to touch down on the sternward helipad of the Zumwalt Class Destroyer. Beckham retreated to his family. Javier latched onto him as the chopper landed.

“It’s okay, bud,” Beckham said. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

A Marine opened the side door, and a cold wind blew inside. The passengers filtered out, starting with the president and vice president. Beckham glimpsed a scene of organized chaos on the decks of the ships flanking the stealth destroyer.

Groups of Marines and soldiers were gathered, waiting to board flights that would take them back to the land for missions around the country.

Several F-22 Raptors took off and rose into the sky from an aircraft carrier, their tails glowing as they tore across the horizon. They would join the bombers to pound the Variant hordes.

Beckham helped his family onto the deck and herded them toward a hatch where Marines were waving people inside.

“Civilians this way!” yelled one of the men.

“Science team follow me!” shouted another.

Kate and Beckham stopped inside the passage with Javier, letting others pass them.

“You have that look, Reed,” Kate said. “What are you thinking?”

Horn paused beside them, stepping out of the flow of people. Tasha and Jenny stood beside him as they held the collars of their German Shepherds, Ginger and Spark.

“Are you going to save Donna, Bo, and Timothy?” Javier asked.

“Please,” Tasha begged. “Please bring them here.”

Beckham and Kate exchanged a look.

“Mom, you’re going back to the lab to save people, right?” Javier asked. “Well, Dad’s a soldier and he’s got to go back to fight to save our friends.”

“Yes, he does.” Kate reached out and hugged Beckham. “I love you, Reed.”

“I love you, too.”

“You aren’t doing this without me, brother,” Horn said. “Plus, Tasha told me that she’ll kick my ass if I don’t get Timothy.”

“I didn’t say it like that.” Tasha’s face warmed, then looked sorrowful. “Please don’t let anything happen to him, Dad.”

“We won’t,” Horn said.

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Horn kissed Tasha on the forehead and bent down to Jenny. “I love you both. When you see me next, I’ll have Timothy, Donna, and Bo.”

The girls joined Kate and Javier while Beckham and Horn took off for the chopper. A team of Marines joined them. A crew chief closed the doors behind them, and Beckham grabbed a handhold with his prosthetic.

Looking out the window, Beckham saw their families in the open. Tasha, Jenny, and Javier waved at them. Kate looked sternly up at the helicopter, her hair dancing about in the wind and rotor wash.

“You ready for this shit, boss?” Horn asked.

Beckham nodded. “It’s about time we got back into this fight.”

***

A man crawled forward over the dirt in the dark chamber, dragging two shredded legs behind him. Blood streaked away from the strands of muscle and grit hanging from where his feet should be. He reached up with a trembling hand for S.M. Fischer.

“Help… me…” the man stuttered through quivering lips.

Fischer recognized the man’s face in the darkness. It was Aaron Galinsky, the former Israeli military soldier that he had hired to track down the Variants on his property.

A hulking Alpha emerged from the shadows beyond Galinsky.

Fischer raised his rifle and aimed.

He pulled the trigger, but the magazine was spent.

The beast grabbed Galinsky by the head and stabbed his eyeballs, popping them with a sickening squelch.

The scream that followed sounded inhuman. More animalistic than from a man.

Fischer pulled out a new magazine, his fingers shaking, and palmed it into the gun, pulling back on the charging handle. Then he aimed and pulled the trigger.

Another click.

The gun wouldn’t fire.

Fischer fumbled to replace the magazine again. But when he looked down, all his magazines were empty.

What in the Sam Hill?

The monstrous Alpha tossed Galinsky aside and reached for Fischer. Claws wrapped around his head, squeezing his skull, pain blinding him.

He woke up in a dark bedroom.

A moment of paralyzing terror gripped him as he tried to remember how he had gotten here. The events over the prior few days surfaced in his mind. Those nightmares weren’t just dreams. They were real. All those memories came crashing down over him: the attacks on his oil fields, the loss of his livestock, and the death of so many of his men.

He snatched his wristwatch off the bedside table. It was the morning after he had climbed out of those tunnels, and the events of the previous day still haunted his mind.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He pulled on a pair of pants, put on a shirt, and grabbed the .357 Magnum he had under his pillow. The M4 he had killed dozens of Variants with rested against the wall. He slung it over his back.

Descending the stairs, he entered the communications hub that had been set up in his living room. A group of soldiers worked at the tables with enough satellite phones and computers for a platoon of soldiers guarding his oilfields. The lieutenant in charge was following orders from General Cornelius to protect the oil fields.

He had effectively turned Fischer’s ranch into a forward operating base (FOB) overnight. All of the soldiers wore normal fatigues and gear but one thing set them apart from the military Fischer was used to working with—blue armbands with the insignia of an Orca whale.

It wasn’t surprising to Fischer that the General had picked the super intelligent predators to represent his army, and frankly, he was damn glad to have them on his property.

“Sir,” came a familiar voice.

Tran waved from a desk. Chase was also there. Both men had on fresh clothes, their faces clean from the blood that had soaked them last night, but neither appeared rested.

“Sir, did you get some sleep?” Tran said.

“A few hours,” Fischer replied. “You two are looking rough. Didn’t you get any?”

Tran nodded. “I slept an hour.”

“How’s that injury?”

A shrug from Tran. “I’ll be fine.”

“And you?” Fischer asked Chase.

“I slept, and I’m fine, but I got to be honest; I’m ready for that private jet ride to a beach.”

Fischer forced a grin, trying to ignore the nightmares still playing across his mind. “You and me both, son.”

Another voice boomed across the room.

Sergeant Ken Sharp made his way through the maze of metal tables and communication equipment with Lieutenant Marcus Dees, the man in charge of the platoon. Dees had a graying mustache that looked similar to Fischer’s.

“Lieutenant,” Fischer said. “Can I have a word?”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Dees said. He continued to another table.

Fischer wasn’t used to being brushed off like that. Especially in his own home. But he did appreciate having the military here, finally, to protect his fields.

Sergeant Sharp emerged from another hall. He nodded a greeting at Fischer before joining Dees.

“Sir, it’s worse than we thought out there,” Sharp said. “Variants and collaborators attacked over half of our outposts.”

“Half the outposts?” Fischer said. “I’m surprised General Cornelius sent us a full platoon with those numbers.”

“Your oil is necessary to sustain the war effort,” Sharp said.

War effort…

“So we’re at full-blown war now?” Fischer muttered.

“The diseased freaks have been breeding underground,” Sharp said. “Brass says they have these masterminds controlling the smaller monsters with some sort of network. The science jockeys think they use the webbing we saw in the tunnels like a freakish internet.”

Fischer felt like he had woken from one nightmare into an even more terrifying one. The beasts organizing themselves like that was something he never could have fathomed before.

“We’ve cleared out most of the Variants from this area,” Sharp continued. “They seem to be heading roughly southeast.”

“Toward Outpost Houston?” Tran said.

“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” Fischer said. “Houston should have nearly a week before the Variants reach them.”

“A shit ton of juveniles are already attacking there,” Sharp said. “Not sure the forces can hold them back. Outpost Houston might be long gone before the other monsters even get there.”

“Mr. Fischer,” a female voice called out. Fischer turned to see his maid, Maddie, standing between a few tables in the center of the room, arms wrapped around her chest like she was giving herself a hug. Still, she trembled.

“I’ll be right back,” Fischer said.

He motioned for her to head back into the hallway.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Mr. Fischer, pardon me, but I heard what you were talking about,” she said. A wet sheen formed over her eyes. “My family is at Outpost Houston.”

Shit that’s right…

“I’d like to go there and be with them,” she said. “Is there any way I can get on a flight?”

Fischer waved Sergeant Sharp over.

“Do you have any birds going to Outpost Houston anytime soon?”

“In the morning, sir,” Sharp said. “Of course that’s assuming it will be there in the morning.”

Maddie put a hand over her mouth, tears flowing freely now.

“Shit, sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean to upset you,” Sharp said.

Fischer put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”

Dees spoke up. “He’s right, ma’am. We’re evacuating everyone from the worst hit outposts. Chances are good your family is already being relocated. No need for you to go to Houston.”

Maddie managed a slight smile through her tears. “That’s good to know, sir.”

“I’ll try to squeeze out some information through our friends here,” Fischer said. “If we find anything out about your family, I’ll let you know.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fischer. I would greatly appreciate that.”

“You bet. Now go get some rest.”

She left to join the rest of the staff in the kitchen cooking meals for the soldiers. The aroma of barbecue drifted down the hall.

It was the last time he would smell it here for a while now that his livestock had all been slaughtered by the monsters.

Fischer returned to Dees. He needed to try a different tack to get the lieutenant to open up to him.

“Thank you for everything you’re doing, sir,” Fischer said. “I’m grateful your platoon showed up when they did.”

“General Cornelius sees this real estate as very important, Mr. Fischer,”

“I certainly agree. This land is my life’s work.”

“Well, you’re going to have to trust your life’s work with me for a little while, then,” Dees said. “General Cornelius has requested your presence at Outpost Galveston.”

Fischer paused before responding.

“All due respect, Lieutenant, but can’t we do a meeting over the phone or radio?” he asked.

“General Cornelius wants to talk to you in person,” the lieutenant said firmly.

“Sir, I don’t think it’s safe for you to be traveling all the way across Texas in the middle of this shit,” Tran said.

Dees arched a brow at Tran before returning his gaze to Fischer. “This isn’t a request, Mr. Fischer. It’s an order from General Cornelius. Remember, he graciously sent me and my boys to protect your oil.”

“My oil for you to use as you see fit,” Fischer said, eyes narrowing.

“I expect you to be on the next flight to Galveston,” Dees said before walking away.

Fischer waited a moment, then gestured for Tran and Chase to join him in his office. He shut the door.

“I don’t like this,” Tran said. “I have a bad feeling about that guy.”

“You don’t succeed in the oil and ranching industry through ignorance,” Fischer said, taking a seat at his desk. “I’ve learned a thing or two over the years. I can handle men like Dees who think they own the place, swinging around their rank and ego like a hammer.”

Fischer stroked his mustache. “To be honest, I’m more worried about the Variants right now than the military taking over my land. Long as they protect it, I can live with them shipping some oil to protect the country. If we’re all dead, doesn’t matter who the oil belongs to.”

“So we’re going to Galveston?” Tran asked.

Fischer nodded.

“Guess this means I’m going to that beach after all,” Chase said.

“I’d settle for a warm shower and a long nap over the beach,” Tran said.

“Screw that, I want my girlie drink and some babes to look at,” Chase said with a shit-eating grin.

Fischer chuckled. He grabbed the whiskey bottle off his desk and poured them all a drink. “This ain’t no margarita but it’s the best I can do for now.”

“Thank you, sir,” Chase said.

The men all took their glasses and raised them toward one another.

“It’s been wilder than a buckin’ bronc’,” Fischer said. “And it’s going to get even wilder still.”

They clanked their glasses together, and Fischer filled his gut with warm whiskey, wondering where this crazy rodeo was going to lead them next.

— 3 —

Dr. Kate Lovato stood at the entrance to a lab on the USS George Johnson. Tasha, Jenny, and Javier were off in their quarters, playing with the dogs and resting. Boxes of lab equipment lay in stacks against the bulkhead. A cylindrical plastic centrifuge tube had somehow gotten loose from one of those boxes. It rolled back and forth over the deck as the ocean swells rocked the ship.

“It’s going to take some work to get up and running,” she said to herself.

She would have liked nothing better than to sit back in their cramped cabin with the children and dogs. Her body demanded it, nearly sapped of energy, especially with her husband and Horn out in the field, and the fate of Donna, Bo, and Timothy uncertain.

Yet just like Beckham and Horn heading back to Portland, she had duties. Obligations to protect the ones they loved and their fellow man. Despite her emotional and physical exhaustion, she had to carry on.

For now, she had to compartmentalize. Focus on one thing at a time. She tried to push thoughts of her family and the war from her mind as she began unpacking lab equipment.

Her muscles and back protested. Maybe it was her exhaustion. Maybe it was something psychosomatic, telling her this was ridiculous to once again be setting up a lab on the high seas hoping that this time they would finally stop the Variants.

She had to wipe away the sheen of wetness forming over her eye.

“Doctor Lovato,” a voice said. “Sorry I’m late. I slept a bit longer than I would have liked.”

Kate straightened and looked at Doctor Carr with his greasy dark hair.

“At least you got some sleep,” she said. “One of us needs to be rested.”

He helped her lift a heavy box onto one of the lab benches. She could feel him studying her from the side.

“What?” she finally asked.

“Nothing, I just hope you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “We’ve got a lot left to figure out. But it’s tough to focus on science when I’m more concerned about all those people we had to leave behind.”

“I know what you mean.”

That surprised Kate. Carr was usually all about science and to hear him express emotions like that caught her off guard.

“Without as many lab techs, we’re going to have more work to do ourselves,” Carr said.

Oh, so is that it? Kate thought. He’s just concerned about not having enough help.

She thought to ask him to clarify his statement but decided it would be better not to have a definitive answer. For now, she would rather assume he actually had concern for people’s well-being.

They began unloading liquid reagents and pieces of equipment.

“I know we still have some work left to do to understand the communication network and the masterminds,” Kate said, “but I’m certain we’re on the right track now.”

“Yes, I’m pretty confident you’re right.” Carr paused, his hand atop a box. “One thing I don’t quite understand is how the Variants were breeding all this time without us knowing.”

“Nature always finds a way,” Kate said. She had a difficult time trying to keep the Jurassic Park line from her mind. But the saying had never felt so appropriate.

“Right you are. Mother Nature can be a, shall we say, stubborn bitch.”

Kate almost smirked.

“The juveniles must’ve been breeding in those tunnels and within the cities right out of reach from our surveillance,” she said. “The masterminds and the collaborators probably took great pains to keep the Variants’ offspring hidden.”

“Most definitely. And if our theories are correct, the Alphas digging those tunnels between masterminds and Variant hives weren’t just creating lines of attack.”

“No,” Kate said. “They’re like an ant-colony. Masterminds as queen ants, and underground chambers for breeding, feeding, and transportation, kind of like what we saw in Europe with the mutations there.”

“Indeed.”

They worked in silence for a while. A knock at the hatch caught Kate’s attention.

A tall, willowy man with a mop of shaggy blond hair held out a hand toward her. “I’m Sean McMasters. I’m one of the new lab techs.”

“Good to meet you, Sean,” Kate said. “We’re just setting up.”

Sean directed a cadre of other lab techs to help place some of the heavier equipment like PCR machines and microscopes in their new homes within the lab.

The space was crowded, even with only Sean and a few other lab techs. It couldn’t have been more than 900 square feet, perhaps the smallest laboratory Kate had ever worked in.

Sean carted in another dolly full of supplies.

“Where should we put these?” he asked.

“What’s in them?” Kate replied.

Sean examined one set of boxes. “Looks like some biopsy samples.”

“They’ll need to go in the freezer then,” Kate said.

“It’s already stuffed.”

“Then figure out how to make more room. Consolidate samples. Whatever we’ve got to do.”

Carr looked around at the space. “This is smaller than my first studio apartment in Boston during my post-doctoral study days. I don’t know how we’re going to get much work done within these confines.”

“We don’t really have a choice,” Kate said.

The lab was beginning to look like a lab finally, but Kate didn’t feel any more prepared to start their research.

She kept thinking about Beckham, Horn, Donna, Bo and Timothy and all the other thousands of people trapped on the mainland while she had the luxury of being far away from the most immediate danger drifting on a stealth US warship.

“Maybe you should get some rest,” Carr suddenly said.

Kate glanced over.

“I don’t mean to tell you what to do, but a good bit of honesty between lab mates makes the work easier. I can tell your mind and heart are back at Outpost Portland.”

He was right about the latter.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” she said. “Trust me, I’ll get my head in the game. I just need time. The way I get past my worries is busying myself with work.”

“Well, yes but…”

Kate turned her back to him and flipped on their computers. She missed Doctor Pat Ellis more than ever. Carr wasn’t just odd; he didn’t seem to have normal human emotions.

Maybe that was a good thing, Kate said. He could work without worrying.

It took her a while, but with Carr and the other lab techs working beside her, she finally managed to lose herself in her work at one of the computers.

The goal of deciphering the language of the masterminds motivated her to forget the other worries outside of these secured bulkheads. Any advantage the Variants had would be nullified if they could win the battle inside the lab.

But, as always, time was not on their side. For the second time in a decade she was fighting against the doomsday clock, only this time the human race was much closer to eradication than before, and there were far fewer people to stop it.

***

Taloned footprints crossed front lawns of the Shiloh Housing neighborhood area on Scott AFB. They led away from cratered asphalt holes where Alphas had broken through the middle of the street.

Dohi crouched behind a Humvee with Rico, scanning the rows of nearly identical houses for any sign of survivors. Another dozen soldiers were spread out behind them. Brave men and women that volunteered to sneak behind enemy lines.

“That looks like it might be it,” Rico said, pointing to a house down the block. It had blue shutters and beige siding, just like they’d been told by command. Bushes lined the front yard and stretched into the back.

They’d been forced to come out here on foot, so what normally would have been a five-minute drive had taken the better part of the morning. Vehicles would have attracted every Variant straggler that hadn’t gone back underground.

There were still a good number prowling in the sunlight. The team of volunteers had engaged multiple packs through the blocks from command to the northwestern corner of the base, losing one soldier along the way to a Variant hiding under a car.

Dohi spotted a pair of beasts perched on rooftops ahead. He pointed them out to their snipers.

Two suppressed shots punched through the monsters’ wart-covered skulls. Both corpses slid down the roofs and crashed to the grass.

Rico gave the advance signal, and the team snaked down the road between the houses.

Some had broken windows, and others had doors torn down. Smeared bloody handprints covered the driveway of the house to Dohi’s left. Those streaks of blood led straight to a tunnel.

He took point again and the volunteer team set off for the target house, weapons roving for beasts. When he got to the front door, he slammed into it, knocking it inward.

Checking his near corner, he then ran down a hallway that led to a large carpeted living room. Glass shards sparkled on the carpet alongside muddy footprints. Two large windows in the living room were broken. Wind tugged at the curtains.

Rico signaled half the team to clear the first floor, then gestured for Dohi to lead the second team upstairs. He picked up the scent of rotting fruit on the first step.

Shit, we’re too late…

Dohi quietly ascended the carpeted stairs. At the top, a gruesome sight awaited. Gore splattered the walls, ceiling, and carpet. He followed the bloody mess to a bedroom where the remains of two men and a woman lay spread behind a broken-down door.

Two Variants sat hunched over the corpses, peeling away muscle and flesh, and stuffing them into their mouths. They chewed noisily, lips smacking together as bloody ligaments hung around their necks and chests.

Dohi let his slung rifle sag, then pulled out his knife and hatchet. The starving creatures continued to feed, unaware of his presence.

He lunged forward and brought the hatchet down on the head of the larger creature, burying it deep in the beast’s skull. Then he jammed the tip of his knife into the eye of the other.

Both monsters slumped to the ground with a dull thud. He wiped the blood off his weapons on the carpet and walked back into the hallway.

Several of the soldiers stared at him as he and Rico led the way to another room where they found more corpses, nearly picked to the bone.

“Down here,” came a voice.

A soldier stood at the top of the stairwell waving at them. The team followed the man down the stairs.

“We found six kids in the basement,” said one of the men who had cleared the first floor.

Dohi’s heart flipped at the sight of the children being led out of a doorway.

“Thank God,” Rico whispered.

“How’d they survive?” Dohi asked.

“The adults must have hidden them,” the soldier said.

Most of the kids appeared catatonic, but one girl around the age of eight broke into hysteric screams when she saw the blood covering the walls.

“Where are my parents?” she cried. “I want to see my parents!”

Rico tried to quiet her, but it was already too late.

An inhuman shriek sounded outside.

A soldier pulled back the drapes to look out over the lawn.

“We got company,” he said.

Dohi’s heart pounded as he surveyed the kids. There were two that weren’t older than four. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“You all have to be super quiet, okay?” Rico said to the children.

A couple nodded, eyes wide and faces pale, but most of the kids still seemed completely in shock.

“Hurry,” Dohi said. He signaled a team of soldiers to guide the children, then led the way out the back door into a yard lined with bushes. Over the spindly branches he saw neighboring backyards.

The sounds of clicking joints and growls came from the street.

“Watch our six,” someone called.

The soldiers holding rearguard aimed at the back door of the house they had just left. The armored flesh of a juvenile exploded out a moment later.

Gunfire rang out, punching into the armored coat around the Variant. The creature stumbled a few feet before collapsing like a turtle with a broken shell, blood oozing out of its wounds.

Two more juveniles bolted out, sheering off the frame and barreling into the gunfire from the four soldiers at the rear of the group. Their rounds fractured the monsters’ armor, and both beasts crumpled into a pile of tangled, bleeding limbs before they could reach the children.

The distant cries of other hunting monsters rang out. Several more shrieks answered their call.

A soldier with a crooked nose shook his helmet. “We ain’t going to make it back with these kids. Not without a ride.”

Another soldier slung his rifle over his back and picked up a sobbing young girl. She clung to him with her arms wrapped around his neck.

“Jim’s right,” the man said. “No way we walk all the way back to command like this.”

The group hunched down as another Variant cried from the street in front of the houses. The beasts were definitely searching for them.

“Rico, see if we can get air support,” Dohi whispered.

A nod, and she bent down.

“Command, Ghost 2,” she said. “We need exfil, ASAP. We have six kids at the target. Over.”

“Copy, Ghost 2,” a voice replied over the channel. “Hold tight. I’ll try and get you a Black Hawk.”

Dohi’s gut twisted while they waited.

The chorus of Variants swirled around the neighborhood, each voice representing a beast calling its brethren to join the hunt for fresh prey. These were the stragglers, the ones that hadn’t yet retreated into the tunnels and back into the darkness.

From what Dohi had seen, they were desperate and hungry enough to risk everything in the intense sunlight for a meal.

The operator came online a few moments later.

“Got two birds in the air for you, Ghost 2. On their way to your location, over.”

“Hell yeah, thanks,” Rico said.

She smirked and nodded at Dohi.

“We’re in business,” he said. “Everyone, keep the kids quiet and we might just make it back to command in one piece.”

The beat of chopper blades thrummed somewhere to their east, rising above the din of the monsters. It wouldn’t be long before the Black Hawks arrived. But their loud engines would also alert other Variants to their position.

“We can’t wait here,” Dohi said.

“No cover,” another soldier carrying a boy said.

Dohi was also worried about a tunnel opening up.

“There,” said the soldier with the crooked nose said. He pointed to another house directly across from them through the backyard. “That deck. It’s not much, but it gives us some shelter and gets us off the ground.”

Another Variant wail punctured the steady thrum of the choppers.

Dohi walked at a hunch, scanning their surroundings. Two other soldiers followed him on his flanks. The rest carried or helped the children. The frightened kids weren’t old enough or aware enough to stay in line on their own.

Past a line of bushes that separated the two backyards, Dohi followed a set of wooden stairs that led to a deck standing almost four feet off the sloping ground of the backyard.

The team brought up the children and set them down in the middle of the deck. He and two soldiers leading the group carefully moved the metal deck furniture against the wooden slats along the deck’s perimeter.

The location wasn’t ideal, offering little protection, but the raised position provided firing zones through neighboring backyards and houses—most importantly, a direct line of sight to the house they had come from only fifty yards away.

“Keep them away from the sides, but be ready to run as soon as the choppers touch down,” Rico said.

Another howl exploded from the home where they had found the children.

A juvenile stuck its face out one of the windows, blood dripping from its putrid lips. Brown nostrils flared as it sniffed the stink of its dead brethren lying nearby in the grass.

Dohi lined up his sights and pulled the trigger. Crimson splashed from a fresh hole in the monster’s forehead, and it slumped out of view.

For a moment there was complete silence, but Dohi kept his rifle steady, waiting. Something was coming.

He was right.

The quiet was shattered all at once with full-grown Variants bursting through the bushes lining the backyard. The sinewy beasts galloped over the grass. Several juveniles joined the mix.

Armor piercing rounds speared through the plates bulwarking their organs. Monster after monster fell, sliding over the lawn now wet with their own blood.

The beasts became more incensed, swarming toward the deck. One lunged from a bush and made it through the fire on Dohi’s right. It got all the way to the handrail and slashed at a soldier trying to change his magazine.

Dohi turned to help, unleashing rounds that chiseled into the monster’s side. It squawked in pain and tumbled backward, but the damage was already done.

The soldier dropped his rifle and magazine to hold his neck, arterial blood gushing between his fingers. Red bubbles popped out of his mouth as he tried to say something.

Screaming children snapped Dohi away from the horrific sight. Two of the soldiers had to retreat from their firing positions just to keep the kids from scattering.

“Son of a bitch,” Dohi said.

He tried to reassure himself with those words Fitz so often repeated to them.

All it takes is all you got.

But this time it wasn’t just his life or Team Ghost’s he was trying to save. They had six children with them.

Another minute passed with straggling Variants hurtling through the wide-open yards and filtering out of houses. They came in spurts, drawn from every direction. Not like the relentless waves they had fought upon arriving at Scott AFB, but still with a ferocity that chilled Dohi to his core.

That minute dragged on into a small eternity until one of the soldiers, covered in blood, pointed to the sky. Two black silhouettes contrasted sharply against the sea of blue.

The thump of helicopter rotors and the bark of M240s rose over the Variants’ cries. Rounds tore up the yards around the deck cutting down stray monsters.

“Gather up the kids, and get ready to move!” Rico yelled.

The first of the Black Hawks touched down, and the second circled to provide covering fire.

“Now!” Rico shouted.

She and a squad of surviving soldiers scooped up the children and ran for the bird.

A few remaining juveniles charged for their position, but a crew chief quickly picked them off with the mounted M240.

Dohi was the last one inside. As soon as his boots hit the deck, the chopper lifted off.

The Black Hawks climbed into the air, leaving the carnage-filled neighborhood behind. A handful of Variant latecomers gathered in the grass, staring up for a few seconds. They soon disappeared into the holes that scarred the neighborhood like pustules from hell.

The ride back to command provided a chilling view.

Towers of smoke rose across the base. Streaks of red and brown painted the sidewalks and driveways of houses with broken windows and busted-down doors.

Rico plucked the piece of gum she’d stowed in her helmet and began chewing nervously.

“Hey, look at that!” the soldier with the crooked nose. “There, on that rooftop!” He pointed at a square office building below. Blocky white letters had been haphazardly painted across its flat roof, reading HELP.

Dohi considered asking the pilots to set down, but as they flew closer, it was clear that whoever had painted that SOS was long gone. Variants in the street chewed on bodies they had pulled from the buildings. Others dragged corpses into a tunnel.

“Oh, shit!” yelled another soldier. “That guy’s still alive!”

Dohi raised his rifle and zoomed in his Elcan SpecterDR optic on a man who was being pulled into one of the tunnels. He gripped his abdomen, but his hand fell away, revealing glistening exposed organs. This man wasn’t long for the world, and he was suffering.

You can’t save him, but you can end the torture.

Dohi lined up the sight, thinking back to the tunnel he had been a prisoner in, and what awaited this man.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The prisoner went limp in the grips of the Variants. Those monsters glanced up at the bird as it flew over, then went back to feeding. He lowered his rifle and turned away from their feast.

Several of the soldiers in the troop hold stared at Dohi.

Rico patted him on the shoulder, and then went back to helping the shell-shocked kids. Dohi was proud they had managed to save these children, but today sure as shit didn’t feel anything close to a victory.

— 4 —

“I think we’re getting close,” Beckham said.

Next to him, Horn twisted to look out the window of the helicopter.

The bright light of the afternoon sun filled the cabin with a yellow glow as the chopper curved through the air. Marines sleeping in the leather seats stirred awake. Others were already alert, checking their weapons and gear.

Nearly sixteen hours had passed since the collaborators hit the White House, and in that time over half of the ninety-eight outposts had suffered devastating attacks. Outposts near the target cities were on the brink of falling.

Beckham had spent most of that time in the air. First traveling from the White House to Outpost Portland, then to the USS George Johnson, and now back to Outpost Portland.

He was anxious to get on the ground and join the battle, but feared he’d already lost his chance to make a difference.

The Marines looked ready to jump back into the fray as well. Their leader was an eager sergeant named Buck with big eyes and a thin mustache.

“What’s the latest, Sergeant?” Beckham asked.

“There’s still fighting on the ground according to aerial surveillance, sir,” Buck replied. “I haven’t heard from Lieutenant Niven’s team for over an hour, so there’s no telling how bad it really is.”

Beckham stood and walked to the cockpit.

“How much longer?” he asked, hoping for more information.

“About ten minutes,” said a pilot. “We’re working on identifying a secure LZ. Sounds like command wants us to put down at the University of Southern Maine.”

Beckham brought a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. He leaned forward for a better view as they closed in on the shoreline. Thick columns of black smoke billowed away from the center of the outpost. Most of that smoke rose from two specific locations within the city.

No flames chewed through Peaks Island, and Beckham didn’t see any charcoaled buildings or pillars of smoke. The island might have been spared from the fires, but Beckham knew he wasn’t returning home there anytime soon.

Radio chatter crackled from their contacts on the ground.

One of the pilots replied, “Roger that.”

“Prepare for landing,” the other pilot said over the internal channel.

Beckham returned to his seat. The bird lowered over an abandoned part of the city. Then they flew over the first line of defense: blocked off streets and a wall of razor-wire-tipped fences.

Soldiers manned machine guns in the guard towers. Other groups patrolled the FOB’s perimeter, weapons in hand. One soldier raised a hand into the air as the chopper passed over.

“Get ready, everyone,” Buck said. “We’re headed straight to the FOB for assignments.”

The Marines all finished their final preparations as the chopper descended toward the lawn of the university. It touched down with a slight jolt, and the crew chief opened the doors.

Beckham and Horn followed the Marines out and marched toward a group of soldiers holding a perimeter. Even from a distance Beckham could see the bags under their eyes and the glassy expressions of exhaustion they wore. Splotches of blood covered their fatigues.

Sergeant Candace Ruckley was one of them. She limped over with a bandage covering her right arm and another wrapped around her thigh.

“Good to see you, Sergeant,” Beckham said.

Horn looked her up and down. “Looks like you took a hell of a beating.”

“Never thought I’d see the sun again,” she said. “Also didn’t think I would see you two back here so fast.”

“We came to help and get our friends,” Horn grunted.

“Kind of late for the fighting,” Ruckley said. “A few collaborators are pinned down toward the southeastern edge of the city, but they won’t last another hour.”

She jerked her helmet, indicating for them to follow her. “I’ll take you to the information tent first. We can check on the location of your friends while our teams mop up the rest of those animals.”

“What the hell happened last night?” Beckham asked.

“The collaborators hit us from inside the outpost, sir. Not long after you took off,” Ruckley said.

She pointed to the plumes of dark smoke.

“The sons of bitches blew up the water tower, took out the power station, and tore through our checkpoints,” she said. “All right behind our backs. Someone in here was definitely coordinating with them.”

The guilt of not seeing this coming ate at him. He could stomach their failure to predict the monsters breeding and scheming beneath the cities, but this?

The collaborators had been under his nose the entire damn time.

“Do we know who yet?” Horn asked.

Ruckley shook her head. “Unless we got a good forensic analyst in town we’re not going to.”

“What do you mean?” Horn asked. “They escaped?”

“Blew themselves to bits,” Ruckley said sourly.

Beckham halted. “It was a suicide bomber?”

“The one in the power station was,” she replied. “That set everything off. The rest of the damage was from LAWs and AT-4s.”

Horn’s lip curled into a snarl. Beckham felt the same surge of anger.

“Don’t worry,” Ruckley said. “Most of the people are fine, just a bit frightened.”

Hearing that helped quell the rage a little, but most didn’t mean all. Beckham wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew that Donna, Bo, and Timothy were among the safe ones.

“I have a hard time believing someone we know could’ve helped the collaborators last night,” Horn said. “I can’t think of anyone that would do something like this.”

“What’s hard to believe is how they could have access to such powerful weapons,” Ruckley said.

“Is it though?” Beckham asked. “We thought the Variants were dying off under the cities, and seeing as how they were thriving, it makes sense the collaborators were too.”

“He’s right, and there could be a lot more of the assholes,” Horn said. “We have to start searching.”

“Already working on it,” Ruckley said. “We’ve been interviewing witnesses, tracking down anyone who is remotely suspicious, and reinforcing checkpoints to prevent more collaborators from sneaking into our borders.”

“Good,” Beckham replied. “We’ve got to focus on stomping out any final collaborators and securing the outpost before the next wave.”

Ruckley stopped in her tracks and winced as she rotated her injured body. “Next wave?”

“This looks like it’s just the beginning to me,” Horn said. “They’re trying to destroy our resources and infrastructure while they probe our defenses to prepare for the real attack.”

“Let them come.” Ruckley spat on the ground. “We’ll be ready.”

Beckham had other thoughts on the matter but kept them private for now. He wanted to evaluate the situation first.

The trio crossed the dry brown grass between the university buildings to the information tent.

A young woman with curly hair sat behind a folding table. She looked up from an open ledger.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“We’re looking for Donna and Bo Tufo, and Timothy Temper,” Beckham said.

“Going to take a bit to locate them,” she replied. “We moved a lot of people around today. Come back in twenty or thirty minutes, and we’ll have better information.”

“Thanks,” Ruckley said, then turned to Beckham. “I’ll take you to the roof of Corthell Hall. It has the best views of this area. You can see the damage from there.”

Beckham followed her with Horn through the campus. They entered the hall that was now serving as makeshift barracks for the soldiers deployed to protect the outpost.

When they made it upstairs, three snipers were camped out on the roof. Sleeping bags, MRE wrappers, and gear littered the space.

Ruckley pulled out her radio. She called her platoon officer, Lieutenant David Niven, as they walked over to the ledge. “Sir, I have Captain Beckham here if you have updates for him. We’re on top of Corthell.”

“Hold tight up there,” Niven replied. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Copy that, sir,” she replied.

Horn sidled up near one of the snipers. “Where are the collaborators?”

They all pointed toward a building across the interstate near West Bayside, not far from the hotel where Beckham had spent several days with his family after the first attack.

Ruckley handed Beckham a pair of binoculars. He took them and zoomed in on M-ATVs and Humvees surrounding the structure. A group of soldiers hugged the eastern façade, waiting to storm the building.

Beckham had wanted back in the action, but here he was again, watching from a distance. Still, there were other things he could do to help.

“Where are the checkpoints the collaborators hit?” he asked.

Ruckley pointed toward the northwestern side of the city.

“They tried to take out another checkpoint there, but we stopped them,” she said.

He centered his sights on a blackened vehicle on a road leading west. Concrete barriers blocked off the road, and a team of soldiers stood behind sandbags.

“Captain Beckham, Master Sergeant Horn,” came a voice.

Lieutenant Niven joined them at the edge of the rooftop.

“LT,” Horn said.

They exchanged formalities.

“Hell of a night. Day wasn’t much better. But we stopped them and are in the process of relocating most of our resources,” Niven said. “Still got about half of our people in West Bayside, but the area will be secured soon.”

Beckham moved the binos back to the building surrounded by armored vehicles. Soldiers were already walking out of it, carrying bodies between them.

“Who’s in charge of the outpost now?” Beckham asked.

“That would be me,” Niven replied.

“Good. As native to this place, I’ve got some suggestions.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’d recommend moving everyone from West Bayside to the campus,” Beckham said. “We were telling Ruckley that we think the attacks on those checkpoints were just the enemy testing our defenses.”

“They cut the power, took out the water tower,” Horn said. “They’re going to be back. Maybe it’ll be tonight. Maybe tomorrow night. They’ll hit harder, and I’ll bet you dollars to donuts they come back with Variants, too.”

Niven looked out over the campus. “Pulling the non-combatants here might not be a bad idea. It would at least cut down on the real estate I need to protect. But this thing about Variants. You really think they’d come all the way out here?”

“Based off the experience of other outposts, I wouldn’t be surprised if the beasts show up sooner rather than later,” Beckham said. “How many troops are stationed here?”

“One hundred and fifty, plus the two hundred strong local militia,” Niven said.

“Sounds like a lot, but not against hundreds of Variants,” Beckham said. “Not to mention we’ve gotten reports across the Allied States that armored juveniles are joining in the assaults.”

“Then we’ve got to move fast,” Niven said. “Sergeant Ruckley, give the order.”

Ruckley started relaying the command over her radio.

Niven turned back to Horn and Beckham. “I take it you two didn’t come all the way back here just to offer a little advice. What brings you back?”

“We came to finish the fight, but it looks like things are under control,” Beckham said. “We should’ve stayed last night.”

“It’s still good to have you here now,” Niven said. “And besides, the President needs you more than I do. Your families need you, too. Time to let people like me and Ruckley do our share.”

Ruckley cracked a grin. “Everything’s taken care of. We’re going to start the evac. Permission to check on their friends, sir?”

“Go,” Niven said.

Beckham and Horn followed Ruckley back down to the campus grounds. The young woman at the information tent was still looking over the ledger when they got there.

Her eyes caught Beckham’s on their approach. “I found Donna and Bo Tufo, but Timothy Temper has left the outpost.”

“What?” Beckham said, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m still trying to figure out where the militia group he’s with went,” she said.

“Hold on. Militia?” Beckham asked, heart pounding.

“That’s got to be wrong,” Horn said. “Timothy’s no militia soldier. Check again.”

The girl looked back down and then back up again. “Timothy Temper?”

“Yeah…” Horn said.

“He went out with a group of militia soldiers.” She jabbed her finger on the ledger. “Says so right here.”

“Can you tell us where they went?” Beckham asked.

“Not exactly. All I know is they’re out west hunting a truck of those collaborators.”

“That’s Variant territory!” Horn said, face turning red.

Beckham couldn’t imagine what would have compelled the militia to head out there when the outpost was in jeopardy like this, but he did know what had compelled Timothy to go with them.

A memory surfaced of Timothy’s father, Jake, bleeding out back on Peaks Island after the raider attack—no doubt the same group affiliated with these collaborators.

Timothy wanted revenge.

“What should we do, boss?” Horn asked.

“Timothy’s not ready for this. He has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”

“You’re not actually considering going after them, are you?” Ruckley asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m considering,” Beckham said.

“We’re considering,” Horn corrected. “You ain’t going out there alone.”

***

Timothy thought back to the hunting trips he had taken with his dad when he was younger. In a way, this wasn’t that different, aside from the prey they were tracking.

At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

But deep down he knew that was a lie.

This was very different.

And the farther away they went from Portland, the more he felt like the prey.

He marched with a group of twelve militia soldiers carrying M-16s down a dirt road about twenty miles away from the outpost. Two trucks trailed them.

They had chased a Jeep Cherokee until the vehicle had run out of gas and the collaborators inside disappeared into the forest.

The militia soldiers had lost the trail and were back on the road on foot. Timothy was in the middle of the group, his father’s Remington 870 Wingmaster twelve-gauge shotgun cradled in his arms.

Several of these men had known his father, but none of them seemed to know who Timothy was. The group leader was a guy named Stephen Rhodes, a guy about as old as Timothy’s dad. Stephen was in good shape. He wore green fatigues with a baseball cap and scarf to match. He hadn’t even questioned Timothy when he claimed he was eighteen years old and wanted to join the militia right there and then.

“Get in the truck if you’re coming,” Stephen had said.

Timothy had hopped into the pickup’s bed, and they had raced out of the city. The only regret he had was not dressing a bit warmer, especially now with the late afternoon sun behind the trees.

He shifted the weight of his shotgun and scanned the forest. They were on the border of Variant territory now. Maybe even inside it for all he knew. In his mind’s eye, he could picture his dad yelling at him about how dangerous this mission was.

Beckham and Horn would have something to say about it too, but Timothy didn’t care. He didn’t want to sit back in the outpost, scared and crying. He wasn’t afraid of dying.

Without his father, he was already dead.

The dread returned, filling his chest and gut. Anger replaced it from time to time, but right now he just felt… empty.

His dad had been his world.

Stephen balled his fist, and the group halted.

The trucks behind them crunched over the dirt road before coming to a stop. Silence passed over the road. The two drivers stepped out of the trucks, joining the huddled group.

“We definitely lost the trail,” Stephen said in a gruff voice. “We can turn back or head into these woods to try and pick up a new one.”

The men around Timothy looked at each other as if gauging what their comrades wanted to do.

Timothy raised his chin, trying not to show any fear. “I say we keep going.”

“Me too,” said another.

“I won’t lie to you: the sun sets early and night will be here before we know it,” Stephen said. “We aren’t prepared to hunt in the dark and we could very well run into a pack of Variants.”

He shrugged. “On the other hand, if you’re like me, I’m guessing most everyone in this group lost someone to those bastards or you wouldn’t have volunteered. This could be our best chance of catching up to them.”

Timothy thought back to what Big Horn and Beckham had told them about the Army Rangers giving up the chase when they literally had the collaborators in sight.

“Military sure as hell ain’t going to do it,” Timothy said. “They had their chance once, and let them get away.”

“How about this,” Stephen said. “Half of us will continue on, the rest will head back to the outpost just in case we need backup.”

Six of the militia soldiers climbed into a truck with one driver, and the engine rumbled back to life. The departing truck did a U-turn and headed back. The remaining five soldiers, including Stephen, fanned out into the forest as the driver of the second truck waited in the cab for their return.

Timothy walked into the weeds along the side of the road, following the other men into the woods. He was definitely the youngest here. Several of these guys were old dudes. Too old to join the military even with their relaxed requirements.

They set off, and Timothy scanned the hilly woods, breaking the area down into a two-dimensional canvas just like his dad had taught him. Surveying it from left to right, and then back again, looking for any sign of movement.

The beasts could easily camouflage themselves to blend in with the terrain, but they were easier to spot when they moved.

Leaves and twigs crunched under the weight of their boots as they marched deeper into the forest, the trees swallowing the group. Timothy made his way closer to Stephen, trying not to make too much noise.

“You’re a brave kid,” Stephen said quietly.

“Not a kid,” Timothy whispered back.

Stephen’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Bullshit. I knew your dad. You aren’t eighteen. I just figured if you’re anything like your old man, we could use your help.”

So he did know…

Timothy simply nodded.

They walked for the next thirty minutes into the forest, searching for any sign of buildings, tracks, or a trail. He wasn’t the best tracker, but he could have spotted human footprints had they come across any.

Stephen halted and pulled out a compass. Then he put it away and pulled out a bottle of water. He handed it to Timothy.

Timothy brought the bottle to his lips and downed a third of it. His stomach growled. They hadn’t come prepared for being out here so long. This was supposed to be quick.

“Thanks,” Timothy said, handing it back.

An older man with glasses stood and pointed. “I think I see something.”

Timothy brought up his shotgun, but he didn’t have a scope to zoom in on whatever it was this guy was pointing at.

“I don’t see shit,” Stephen said.

The older man looked away with a frown. “I’m sorry, my old eyes must be playing tricks on me.”

Stephen slowly lowered his rifle and picked the bottle of water off the ground.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said. “If we don’t—”

Crows burst from the trees to the east, filling the late afternoon with their caws. The men all aimed their rifles in that direction.

Timothy moved his finger to the trigger. After blinking away the sting of sweat in his eyes, he searched the carpet of leaves littering the forest floor for movement and then the phalanx of trees around them.

He saw nothing out there but skeletal branches shedding more leaves.

The crows flapped away, silhouetted against the blue sky, their cries fading.

Silence again shrouded the group.

They remained frozen for what felt like an hour. One of the men tried to keep his rifle up, but it wobbled in his grip, the weight too much for his old muscles to support.

Stephen took a few steps, his boots making a faint crunch over the leaves.

He gave the advance signal toward where the birds had taken off. Timothy fell in next to him. They walked slowly toward a cluster of massive trees that towered into the sky. The older man with glasses turned to wait.

A flash of movement in the branches far above the man’s head caught Timothy’s attention. The few remaining leaves rustled on one particularly large branch. This one looked different than the others, like it had something clinging to it.

Two reptilian eyes suddenly focused on him. Before he could raise his shotgun, the camouflaged Variant let go of the branch and pounced.

The beast slammed into the guy with the glasses. Leaves and dirt exploded into the air. Timothy aimed his shotgun, but before he could get a clean shot the beast dragged the man around a tree.

“Help me!” he wailed.

A second militia soldier slammed into the ground with a thud, a Variant standing atop his chest. He fired off a burst, but the rounds hit the dirt.

All at once, a dozen beasts poured from between the tree trunks. They had all taken on the colors of the forest. Timothy fired on the beast straddling the second downed soldier just as it slashed the guy’s throat open.

The shotgun pellets hit the creature in the chest, punching into vital organs.

The crack of automatic gunfire came from both sides as Stephen and the two remaining militia soldiers fired on the encroaching monsters. Timothy pumped his shotgun and fired at the creatures.

Stephen dropped several beasts with headshots. Timothy’s aim wasn’t as good. His shots harmlessly hit trees and dirt. In less than a minute, he was out of shells. He back pedaled as he struggled to pull more from his sweatshirt and load them into the shotgun.

He dropped one in the grass, fingers trembling, but managed to load the next two.

“Run!” Stephen yelled over the gunfire.

Timothy took off with the other two soldiers. Stephen led them, turning every few moments to shoot off a burst or two.

Turning, Timothy did the same, firing the two shells.

“I’m out!” Stephen said, grabbing a new magazine.

Timothy was out, too. He reached into his sweatshirt pocket. There were no more shells there. He threw his shotgun away and snatched his pistol from his holster. He twisted to fire wildly behind him while Stephen reloaded.

In the seconds it took to fire, Timothy glimpsed at least a dozen of the sinewy beasts moving between the trees. They were on all fours, but they were slinking in and out of cover rather than running straight into the gunfire at full speed.

A hidden Variant lunged and took down the soldier running behind Timothy and Stephen. The talons slashed his face off. His screams faded as the beast dragged him away.

“Come on!” Stephen yelled.

Timothy bolted after him. The man paused and fired until his bolt locked back, and he was forced to replace the magazine.

They ran like that for almost ten minutes, covering each other to hold the beasts at bay. The Variants grew more desperate, their screeches closing in.

Stephen and Timothy let loose a flurry of gunfire. The rounds dropped some of the creatures still pursuing them.

“Move it, kid!” Stephen shouted.

They couldn’t be far from the road now. Timothy spotted two hills he thought he recognized. The road was just on the other side.

Stephen stopped again to lay down more covering fire before leading them down the first of the two hills. Timothy kept his balance, but Stephen tripped and fell. He got right back up and kept running.

Timothy charged ahead, trying not to slide, and then ran across a creek, his boots splashing up muddy water. He bolted up the next slope with Stephen close behind. Halfway up, a shriek sounded from the crest of the first bluff.

“Keep going!” Stephen shouted. He turned to fire, giving Timothy time to get to the top. When he reached the crest, Timothy turned with his pistol, aiming at a pack of Variants loping down toward the creek. Three of the creatures jumped into the water with a splash.

Stephen stood his ground, firing bursts with his rifle. Timothy squeezed his trigger as fast as he could. Most of the wild shots missed, but a few made their mark.

The creatures that were brought down were replaced by more barreling down the hill. They were no longer held back by caution now that it was only Timothy and Stephen left.

Stephen turned and locked eyes with Timothy just as the beasts swarmed him.

“Run!” he screamed. “RUN, KID!”

The beasts pulled him to the ground, ripping through his clothing and flesh with their claws. Timothy took a step backward, nearly frozen by fear. It wasn’t until one of the beast’s locked eyes with him that he snapped out of it.

Turning, he ran onto the road, looking left and then right. The truck was still there.

“Help!” he shouted.

Waving his hands, he ran toward it.

A Variant screeched behind him, bursting onto the road. It dropped to all fours and bounded toward him. There was no way he would make it to the truck in time.

Halting, he closed one eye and then fired at the beast.

The first two shots missed, but the third and fourth clipped the monster in the upper chest. The fifth shot punched into the skull, finishing it off. It crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Timothy ran, not stopping until he got to the passenger side of the pickup. He opened the door and jumped into the cab.

It was empty. The driver was gone.

Blood soiled the driver’s seat. The window was broken, pebbles of safety glass spread over the floor. Timothy climbed into the driver’s seat and reached down to start the engine, but the key was missing.

He looked up as two Variants skittered onto the road in front of the truck.

Heart pounding, Timothy ejected the magazine of his pistol and slapped another one home. It was his last. Not nearly enough for the rest of the Variants that would be on him shortly.

Without the keys, he was going to die.

He thought he wasn’t afraid of death, but the icy grip of fear washed over his muscles as the Variants charged.

Timothy raised the gun in a shaky hand and pulled the trigger.

— 5 —

The USS George Johnson sailed farther away from the 1st Fleet, putting distance between President Ringgold and the majority of their remaining Navy. Everything she had worked so hard to achieve had become an inferno back on the mainland, and this time she feared she couldn’t put out the flames.

She sat in her new office that doubled as what would be her quarters for the foreseeable future. The small space had belonged to a dead officer, and the evidence of his life still haunted every corner. An empty picture frame that read, Dad, was adhered to the bulkhead, and a Bible with dog-eared pages rested in one of the drawers.

It hadn’t felt right to remove those little memorials to the man’s life.

The dimly lit, cold room felt more like a prison cell than home, but it still beat being underground.

You’re safe here, she thought.

Repeating those words didn’t relieve her anxiety. In fact, the more she reminded herself of her own safety, the more guilty she felt. Hundreds, if not thousands of people had perished over the past twenty-four hours, and she had fled just like she had done during the first war.

The country—and the world—had already lost so much to the monsters. Almost an entire generation wiped out, and the youngest generation of adults that had survived the first war now faced another.

She dreaded the thought of sending youth out there to fight the monsters or to eradicate American history by destroying what was left of their cities with bombs.

But now she wasn’t sure she had any other options.

One thing was certain…

We have to fight.

She took a moment to look at herself in the mirror before setting off for her next strategy meeting. Her dark skin had more wrinkles than she remembered, and deep bags hung under her eyes. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. She had only slept a few hours.

A splash of water on her face helped snap her alert. She repeated something she had said to Doctor Kate Lovato near the end of the first war.

“There is always hope…”

She drew in a deep breath, straightened her back, and pushed open the hatch. Marines posted outside threw up salutes. She returned the salutes and hurried through the passages to the Combat Information Center (CIC). Most of her staff and the officers were already there. Some looked like they had been there since the night before.

They all rose from their chairs and stations to salute and greet her.

“Good morning, President Ringgold; I hope you got a few hours of sleep,” Vice President Lemke said.

“Madam President,” said General Souza.

Judging by the glassiness in his eyes, he hadn’t slept in days. His LNO, Lieutenant Festa, also looked equally exhausted.

“Lay it on me,” she said.

“The good news is that we haven’t lost any more outposts,” Souza said. “Even the ones around Minneapolis, Chicago, Lincoln, Kansas City, Indianapolis, and Columbus survived last night.”

He passed her a briefing folder.

“Casualties at those outposts, however, are very high. In some cases, over half the defense forces were wiped out,” Festa said.

Cortez crossed her chest in silent prayer, and Soprano looked at the deck.

“We’re in the process of evacuating people by air and pulling them to more protected places, including locations where it will be more difficult for the Variants to tunnel under our defenses,” Souza said. “I have a list of outposts for you to review later.”

Festa handed a second folder across the table. She took it but didn’t want to look right now; she was having a hard enough time keeping it together.

This all felt like a bad dream.

“Do we know enemy numbers yet?” she asked.

“Early estimates project somewhere in the hundreds of thousands with the addition of the juveniles,” Festa said. “We gave them a good pounding last night, but most returned to their hives before we could get accurate estimates.”

“That could make sending in any teams to find the remaining masterminds a suicide mission,” Souza said, clenching his square jaw. “But we did it before, and we can do it again. We have teams on standby, waiting for your orders.”

She glanced at Lemke. “What do you think, Dan?”

“We’re trying to come up with other ways to find the mastermind Variants,” he replied. “I’m hoping Dr. Lovato and Dr. Carr will eventually help us locate them through the webbing in all those tunnels, but so far they haven’t come up with anything we can use.”

Souza cleared his throat. “All due respect to Dr. Lovato and her team, but we’re running out of time for science. And something tells me we haven’t even seen the full power of the Variant army yet. Last night was merely the vanguard to what I expect will be a more powerful assault than we’ve seen before.”

The implications chilled Ringgold to her core. She couldn’t shake the fact they hadn’t seen this coming over the past eight years. While she partially blamed her advisors and generals, she also felt the heavy burden of failure herself.

“How did we miss this?” she said, exasperated. “We monitored all six target cities and sent missions into Variant territory. We didn’t see any evidence of juveniles or the masterminds.”

No one had an answer.

“I’m sorry,” General Souza said. “If you would like my resignation, I have already drafted it.”

She thought on it, but shook her head. “We can’t dwell on failure; we have to focus on saving our people.”

“We’re already fortifying all of our outposts,” Souza said. “We’re withdrawing from those around the target cities to concentrate our forces. That will also give you the option of nuking them if you so choose. And finally, we’re requesting armed support from Europe.”

“They aren’t experiencing attacks like this?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Nelson said. “All our requests for support have been received lukewarm at best. They fear helping us will leave them vulnerable.”

“Has anyone promised anything?”

“The French, Russians, and Brits have sent us a few aircraft,” Nelson said.

“How many?”

The National Security Advisor tightened his red tie.

“How many, Nelson?” Ringgold repeated.

“A total of ten planes, Madam President…” He swallowed. “Not fighter jets, these are jumbo jets to help evacuate people.”

She sighed. “I’ll talk to my counterparts directly today. You keep pressing your contacts.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I will.”

Ringgold didn’t expect much but they needed more than ten extra planes to repel this invasion. She had opened the doors to refugees from other countries, feeling responsible for the virus that the military had unleashed on the world. But she wasn’t exactly surprised the leaders of other countries were reluctant to help the Allied States now.

“What else do you all have for me?” Ringgold asked.

“By sunset, we hope to have most fortifications complete,” Souza said. “We’ve also got a fleet of private planes and helicopters that have been serviced and put back into commission. But even with those, it won’t be enough to complete the evacuations from the worst hit outposts by then, and if the Variants do attack again…”

Another shiver coursed through Ringgold’s body.

“What about evacuations by land?” she asked. “We could try to pull people back in convoys.”

“That’s already happening in some places, but anyone that leaves in a convoy risks being attacked on the road,” Festa said. “People are too afraid of driving in Variant country.”

“We really need more help to win this fight and get everyone to safety,” Lemke said. He raised his chin slightly. “If our international allies can’t offer that support, I suggest turning inward.”

He paused, and then said, “Madam President, I think we should consider reaching out to General Cornelius. He’s got two thousand men and a load of aircraft and vehicles at his disposal. Plus, he’s already arrived at Fischer Fields to secure the petroleum supply.”

Ringgold looked at the man who she had hoped would succeed her as president. He was suggesting she ask his political opponent for help, which wasn’t all that shocking considering their situation, but it still took her slightly off guard.

“The election doesn’t matter now,” Lemke continued. “Saving our country and our people is all that I care about. If Cornelius can help us, I say it’s worth setting aside differences.”

“You’re talking about negotiating with your opponent,” Ringgold reminded her vice president. “If we ask him for help, he will in turn ask for favors, some that we’re not going to like, and some that I can’t accept, like nuking the cities and conscripting our young people.”

Lemke nodded. “I know, but we might have to negotiate if we want to save what’s left of the Allied States.”

She used a moment to think. Lemke was right about needing Cornelius. She just hoped the general was more reasonable than he had been in the past.

“Okay, Dan, talk to General Cornelius and inform him that we’re officially putting the election on hold,” Ringgold said. “It’s time to try and work together.”

***

Fischer would have preferred his private jet and the luxuries that came with it, including a cold brew and fresh steak from his ranch. Rare, of course.

But those days were over.

He sat in the belly of a V-22 Osprey. It was certainly a fine piece of machinery, though “luxurious” was definitely not the word he would use to describe it or the flight from his ranch to Galveston.

The thrum of the engines reverberated straight into his bones. He was strapped into a seat along the bulkhead of the tiltrotor aircraft beside his most loyal men, Tran and Chase. Sergeant Sharp sat close by. He had insisted on coming even though he wasn’t assigned to Cornelius’s private army.

The six soldiers that wore Orca badges didn’t seem to trust Sergeant Sharp or appreciate his presence. But Fisher sure trusted him, especially after Sharp had risked his life to protect Fischer Fields.

Their priority had changed overnight from saving the fields to saving what remained of the Allied States. From the reports still coming in, salvaging what was left of the country was going to take more than oil from his fields.

They needed a bigger army.

Fischer’s stomach twisted as the Osprey began to bank slightly northeast. He tried to focus on the purpose of this meeting, and although he had his suspicions, he wasn’t sure why they needed to meet face-to-face.

Being in the oil business and defending his fields against the Variants, he had come to expect all kinds of nasty surprises in life. He wouldn’t be shocked if this upcoming meeting with the general was one of them.

“Got about twenty minutes before we touch down,” Sharp said.

“Any hostiles we should worry about?” Tran asked.

“Nope, and once you see this place you’ll understand why.”

It didn’t take long before Fischer saw for himself.

Galveston Island stretched below them, basking in sunlight. Murky brown waters lapped against yellow sandy shores on the eastern side and piers to the west. The long land mass trailed south, but most of the activity was contained within the northern city limits of Galveston.

The Osprey curved through the sky, providing a closer view of the outpost. Thick concrete walls traced the perimeter. Guard towers crested multiple positions, giving sweeping views over the water and the rest of the island.

On the eastern shore, walls overlooked beaches of razor wire. Fischer had once heard of Variants that had evolved gills and were capable of amphibious assaults. Cornelius clearly had seen the intel and was not taking any chances with his defenses.

Another group of soldiers piled corpses on a pier at the end of the beach past a ruined Ferris wheel.

The only way to the island by foot was via the heavily garrisoned port or the long bridge connecting Galveston to the mainland. Concrete barriers and mounds of sandbags were set in various locations to slow attackers, providing ample opportunity for the machine gun nests to riddle hostiles with bullets.

Heavily armed patrols and armored vehicles were posted along the docks. Another set of gates there would thwart any waterborne invaders mistakenly looking for an easy entry.

“Impressive,” Fischer said.

“Yeah, but I see a big problem, sir,” Chase said.

“What would you have added?” Fischer asked.

“I would have left a small section of beach for laying out, but with all that razor wire, it doesn’t look like soaking in the sun with any babes is in the cards.”

“Galveston’s fun in the sun days are over for now,” said one of the soldiers across the seats.

The guy sitting next to him joined in and said, “There used to be an Ironman triathlon here. I finished it once, but the only swimming, biking, and running people are doing here now is to get away from the monsters. Not exactly the kind of stuff that makes you want to lounge around.”

“Man, you’re killing me,” Chase said. “Can I at least find a place that serves cerveza?”

The Osprey’s engines roared as the tiltrotors turned vertical. They descended toward a makeshift heliport on a large parking lot abutting the wall overlooking the beach.

A jolt shuddered through the aircraft when the wheels touched asphalt. The crew chief lowered the rear ramp, and Sharp led the group out into the salty breeze that also carried the acrid scent of petroleum. Vacation homes on stilts and restaurants surrounded the parking lot.

Most of the homes had been transformed into barracks or offices now, but the restaurants appeared active—or at least the kitchens were. Lines of soldiers and civilians stretched out the front of a few seafood joints that had busy patios.

Across the parking lot, two Black Hawks had set down. These didn’t look like the military craft Fischer had seen at other outposts. Graffiti covered the hulls with call signs.

The troops milling around the choppers all wore blue armbands with the Orca insignia that Dees had worn. Flapping in the wind high above the parking lot was a flag with the same logo.

“Welcome to Outpost Galveston,” said the triathlete soldier. “We got a limo waiting. Follow me.”

Fischer let out a low chuckle when he saw a Humvee parked nearby.

The ride took them through a residential area with a view of the beach. Most of the people out here were soldiers. He saw very few civilians.

From their hurried actions and constant arrival and departure of aircraft, Fischer got the feeling that this place operated like a well-oiled machine. There was no hemming and hawing, politicking or bickering.

There was a singular mission here, and everyone on Galveston shared in it: defend the outpost from the monsters.

But it hadn’t always been this way. Fischer had heard Outpost Galveston was a slum four years before General Cornelius arrived.

“Cornelius built all this?” Fischer asked the driver.

“Yes, sir. He brought this place back to life and managed the construction of the fortifications himself. If it weren’t for him, no one here would have survived.”

“I see,” Fischer said, fidgeting with his mustache.

He was beginning to respect Cornelius more and more.

The streets passed by in a blur of motion. Everyone had a job ranging from putting up fresh razor wire to cleaning weapons.

It struck Fischer then.

This was the future of the Allied States.

The Humvee ground to a halt in front of what once had been a fancy hotel neighboring the port. A pair of guards opened the door to the Humvee and gestured for Fischer and his men to follow. Sharp went with them into the lobby of the hotel.

Desks had been set up around the ornate space. Chandeliers cast white light over men and women carrying on trenchant conversations at scattered tables.

“This way,” said a guard. He led them to the back of the room where two double doors were shut.

Tran and Chase stepped up, but the guard shook his head. “Only Mr. Fischer is allowed inside.”

Fischer exchanged a glance with his men and then nodded.

“I’m with Mr. Fischer,” Sharp said.

Fischer took off his ten-gallon hat.

The guard nodded and let them into the room.

General Cornelius sat behind the table talking with two officers. As soon as the doors opened, he rose from his seat and walked briskly from behind the table.

“Mr. Fischer, so glad to have you join us,” Cornelius said, clasping his hand. “I appreciate you making the journey.”

“And I appreciate you saving my oil fields,” Fischer replied. “You got quite an operation set up here.”

“All the better to prepare for the next stage of war.” Cornelius glanced over to Sharp. “And you are?”

“Sergeant Ken Sharp, United States Army, sir,” Sharp said, snapping to attention.

“He’s with me,” Fischer said. “Sharp gave a lot to protect my fields before your men showed up. Lost all but one of his own, too.”

“Thank you for your service, Sergeant,” Cornelius said. “Please, make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Fischer and Sharp sat down as the general went to the other side of the table.

“I take it you didn’t bring me here just to convince me to support you for the election,” Fischer said.

Cornelius smirked. “No, Mr. Fischer. If we don’t act soon, we won’t have a country left. And without a country, I see no point in having an election.”

“No thanks to President Ringgold,” Sharp muttered.

Cornelius didn’t respond to the comment.

Realization hit Fischer. He got the sense Sharp hadn’t come here to help; he had come here to switch sides.

“I’ve asked you here for your support, but not the political kind,” Cornelius said. “Earlier, in fact, I got off a call with Vice President Lemke. We’ve come to an agreement that we’ll work together for the better good of the country. The election is on hold.”

Fischer wasn’t completely shocked to hear that, but the agreement did take him by surprise. He guessed there was some intense negotiations going on to get a guy like Cornelius to team up with the president and vice president.

“You saw our defenses,” Cornelius said.

Fischer nodded.

“All have been effective against the Variants until now… monsters that tunnel underground and appear beneath and behind walls that have kept them out for eight years have changed the game.”

“Indeed.”

“Our scouts can’t find them. Even our choppers and drones can’t spot them before they hit us.”

“Right, and that makes this outpost a damn fine choice,” Fischer said. “The Gulf on one side and bay on the other will ensure this place is hard to hit. The sandy soil on the neighboring mainland makes it hard for beasts to maintain the tunnels’ structural integrity, too.”

“Exactly. I figured you would notice. Any man worth his salt in the oil and gas industry has at least a basic understanding of geology.”

“More than just a basic one.”

“You and your engineers are some of the best petroleum producers in this country and we need you for more than that now.”

Fischer braced himself.

“I could use someone like you for a special project that could change the tide of this new war,” Cornelius said. “Someone with your experience with all the gizmos and gadgets used to find oil deposits to help us identify Variant tunnels on a large-scale basis.”

Fischer stroked his mustache, listening.

“We’ve reached somewhat of an impasse. Our R2TD systems work well at identifying Variant tunnels. But their range is extremely limited, and they can’t cover much area effectively.”

“You’re looking for something more efficient,” Fischer said. “Something that can defend a whole outpost. You’re talking about seismic vibrations, aren’t you?”

“Precisely, and here’s the deal. We’ve located a few vibroseis trucks from some defunct oil and gas companies outside Houston. They’ve already been moved out to El Paso. But what I really need are men that know how to work this equipment. Men like yours.”

Fischer’s mind swam back to the destruction of his fields and the casualties he endured. Before he’d been swept away to Galveston, his staff was still tallying up the dead and missing.

“How many you reckon you’ll need?” he asked.

“Just one team to start. Maybe eight or nine engineers.”

“Last count I made, we might only have twenty left. That’s barely enough to run and repair the oil fields.”

“I have a feeling you’re a man who knows how to make limited resources work. Can you spare even a handful?”

“For this project, I’ll find a way to make it happen,” Fischer replied.

“Well then if you agree, I’ll call in an airlift to move your engineers from Fischer Fields to El Paso right now. They can be there before you arrive tonight.”

Fischer wasn’t sure he had a choice in the matter.

“We need to prove that this tunnel identifying technology works,” Cornelius said. “I’m counting on you and your team to make that happen.”

“Point of clarification, sir.”

“Go ahead.”

“When you talk about the entire Allied States, I do want to be clear that my handful of engineers and whatever equipment you’ve moved to El Paso isn’t going to be enough to take care of a hundred other outposts.”

“Of course not. I’ve got a plan for that, Mr. Fischer. One that involves some technology that we’ve neglected for far too many years. But you don’t need to worry about that for now. Think of El Paso as a trial run. An experiment to show this strategy is worth pursuing. If all goes well, we will change the tide, like I said earlier.”

An end to those vile beasts that had taken so much from him and his men was an opportunity Fischer simply would never pass up. He stood and reached across the table to shake Cornelius’s hand.

“Sir, you’ve got yourself a deal. Fischer Fields is up for the challenge.”

“Glad to hear you say that, because this work in El Paso isn’t exactly going to be safe.” Cornelius sat back down in his chair. “You will be well protected, but you might have to get up close and personal with the Variants for this to be a success.”

— 6 —

The exodus into the University of Southern Maine was well underway by late afternoon, and Timothy still wasn’t back. Beckham and Horn stood in the back of a parked pickup truck outside the campus.

People streamed by on their way to the garrisoned campus in preparation for what Lieutenant Niven and Beckham believed could be an imminent Variant attack. Beckham couldn’t help but wonder if any of these people were collaborators.

Paranoia set in as they passed. Some glanced up, but most kept their gaze downward, trudging along like so many refugees Beckham had seen in war-torn countries trying to escape bloodshed. They carried suitcases, backpacks, and rolled up sleeping bags.

He didn’t see collaborators here—he saw innocents looking for refuge.

For now, all he could do was trust Ruckley and Niven had the situation under control and find his friends.

He searched the slow-moving group of hundreds for Donna and Bo. Horn nursed his last cigarette. For the first time in a while, Beckham felt like taking a drag. He needed something to take the edge off. He was trying not to worry about Timothy. That proved difficult considering the kid had taken off after the collaborators straight into Variant territory.

For now, there wasn’t anything Beckham and Horn could do but wait. They’d asked Lieutenant Niven for help, but Niven wouldn’t commit any forces to going out into the field.

Frankly, Beckham didn’t blame him for not wanting to send out any spare men. In truth, there weren’t any spare men. They needed every person that could hold a weapon to stay stationed at the campus for whenever the collaborators and Variants struck next.

If the monsters’ behavior in the past was any indication, the beasts would send everything they had in the next attack and it would come soon.

Come nightfall, Beckham worried they would face an army no one even knew existed until recently—an army that had hidden in the shadows, biding its time as it grew to horrific numbers.

“Hurry up, folks,” a Ranger said.

“Almost there. Keep moving,” said another.

Sergeant Ruckley and her twelve-person team of Rangers from the Iron Hogs helped keep the mess of people moving. They patrolled the sidewalk, keeping an eye on the masses and encouraging them to keep going forward.

Beckham scanned the dreary faces again, but still didn’t see Donna and Bo. All he knew was that they had hunkered down at a hotel with the other survivors of Peaks Island the night before.

The plan was to get them back to the USS George Johnson, and this time Beckham vowed not to leave them behind. He figured he and Horn could stay in the field to help for at least a few more hours.
No way they were going to abandon the outpost this time, especially without knowing Timothy’s fate.

“Yo, boss,” Horn suddenly said.

Beckham glanced over. “Do you see Donna and Bo?”

“Nah, but I was thinking… You know what the good news is about the world falling apart again?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“I don’t have to listen to you giving some silly ass campaign speech.”

Beckham couldn’t help but smirk. “True. You know what else is good news?”

Horn blew smoke skyward and shrugged.

“I don’t have to see your donkey ass try and squeeze into a suit.”

“Donkey ass?” Horn spat onto the pavement. “You haven’t called me that for a really long time.”

“That’s what Panda used to call you, isn’t it?”

“Man, I miss that big son of a bitch.”

“Me, too.”

“And the kid.”

Beckham thought of Alex Riley, the Delta Force Operator that had become wheelchair bound after breaking both legs in New York City. He had later lost his life to the Bone Collector Alpha on Plum Island. It was one of the deaths that had sent Beckham close to the edge.

If it weren’t for Kate and Horn, he would have lost it back then and probably gotten himself killed. But people like them and Fitz had kept him sane. They had motivated him to keep his head on his shoulders instead of doing something rash. Something like what Beckham feared Timothy was doing.

“There they are,” Horn said, pointing with his smoldering cigarette.

Donna winced with each step as she leaned on her son. Both had their eyes on the road.

“Come on,” Horn said.

He hopped out of the pickup bed to the street. Beckham wasn’t as agile with his prosthetic leg. He sat down on the liftgate and slid down.

“Reed!” came a voice.

Bo worked his way through the throng, helping his mom. She hobbled on a bandaged ankle, but her eyes brightened when she saw them.

“You came back,” she said.

“We shouldn’t have left without you,” Beckham said. “I’m sorry. It was chaos last night.”

“You had no choice,” Bo said. “But I almost punched one of those soldiers holding me back.”

“Good thing you didn’t or we’d be bailing you out of the stockade,” Horn said.

“Have you guys seen Timothy?” Donna asked. “He took off after the helicopters left, and we haven’t seen him since.”

“We heard he went out with the militia,” Horn said. “We’ve been waiting for him to come back, but…”

Beckham glanced at his watch, and then looked at the skyline.

They only had a couple of hours of light left. If Timothy didn’t come back before then, the chances of him coming back at all would be close to zero.

“Hey, you found your friends?” came a voice.

Ruckley made her way over the sidewalk and stopped near the pickup.

“This is Bo and Donna Tufo,” Beckham said.

“Nice to meet you,” Ruckley said. “Hate to break this up, but you really should get moving so we can assign you a room or a tent…” She eyed Bo. “You should have a weapon.”

“Aren’t we leaving with you?” Donna asked Beckham.

“Soon enough, but we might stay the night yet,” Beckham said. “I wanted to wait and see if—”

“I say we stay here and fight,” Bo interrupted.

Donna looked at her son. “What?”

“I don’t want to run,” Bo said. “We did that eight years ago, and look where that got us. The monsters are back. It’s time to fight, Mom.”

“We’re survivors, not fighters. Your dad tried to fight and died as a result. So many other people did too. I can’t lose you now Bo.”

“She’s right, kid,” Horn said. “You don’t have any combat training.”

“I’ll learn,” Bo said.

“You sound like Timothy,” Donna said, her face growing red. “Where do you think he is now?”

The words silenced all of them.

Even Ruckley looked at the ground until her radio buzzed and she held up a hand, excusing herself. She walked away for some privacy.

“Bo, I’m begging you, please don’t do this right now,” Donna said. “Let’s just get to the campus for now. We can talk more later.”

Bo held his mom’s gaze.

“All right,” he said finally.

Beckham placed a hand on Bo’s shoulder. “You’re making the right choice.” Then he looked to Donna. “Come on. We’ll give you guys a ride.”

Donna wrapped her arm around Bo’s shoulder. He helped her into the passenger seat of the single cab pickup. Horn took the wheel, and Beckham climbed in the bed with Bo.

“Hold up,” Ruckley called out.

By the look on her face, Beckham could tell she had news for him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I told my team to keep an ear out for word on Timothy. A corporal just found out one of the two militia trucks returned to campus an hour ago,” Ruckley said. “From what the militia told us, your friend Timothy is part of another group that stayed out there to hunt down the collaborators.”

Beckham growled out a curse.

“Did they say where Timothy’s group was last seen?” Horn asked.

“No,” Ruckley said. “But they’re still at the staging area. You can ask them yourselves if you want.”

A loud voice called out behind her. One of the other Rangers was arguing with the straggling crowds.

“Keep moving,” he said in a tone just shy of a shout.

“We need a ride too,” a woman said, pointing at the truck. “Why do they get one?”

“I better handle this,” Ruckley said. “The staging area is between Woodbury Campus Center and Masterton Hall. I’ll meet you there.”

Beckham nodded and tapped the side of the pickup. Horn pulled onto the curb and over the grass to another road curving through a residential area. Then he turned onto Bedford Street and headed for the checkpoints.

Ahead, soldiers and civilians worked together to create sandbag fortifications for machine gunners, and forklifts moved concrete barriers. Razor wire torn down from other areas of the outpost was being redistributed. Snipers and machine gunners perched on the top of the buildings.

The university was quickly transforming into a fortress.

Horn parked in the lot between Masterton Hall and the Woodbury Campus Center. Lines of people snaked away from tents set up in the lawn for temporary housing assignments.

More lines had formed outside a shipping container on the back of a flatbed truck. Soldiers handed out weapons and ammunition to anyone that appeared capable of fighting.

Bo jumped out of the pickup and helped Donna down from the cab.

“You guys go get your temporary assignment for now,” Beckham said. “We’re going to find these militia guys. I’ll come back for you later, okay?”

Donna hesitated, uncertainty crossing her face.

“We promise,” Horn said.

Beckham jerked his chin, and Horn followed him toward a cluster of pickup trucks and Jeeps where about a dozen men in camouflaged fatigues had gathered. They were clearly militia judging by their shotguns, non-military clothing, and unkempt beards.

“Were you the ones chasing the collaborators?” Horn called out.

The men turned from their conversation to look at Beckham and Big Horn. A heavyset bald man with a long goatee hanging to his chest walked over.

“I was part of that group,” he said. “You got a problem?”

“Yeah, we got a problem,” Horn started.

Beckham put a hand on Horn’s arm, trying to coax the man’s burly aggression down a notch. “Problem is we need to know what happened to the other truck. One of our friends was with them.”

“They ain’t back yet,” the militiaman said.

“No shit,” Horn said. “Show us on a map where they went.”

“I can do y’all one better,” the man said. “I can take you there.”

Horn and Beckham exchanged a glance.

“Just a thirty-five-minute drive,” the man said. “My boys and I were thinking about going back out there in the morning. How about we wait until then?”

“We were thinking today,” Beckham said.

The man looked at the sky, eyes narrowed. “We can manage a short trip, but we got to move fast if we want to be back before we lose the light.”

“What do you think, boss?” Horn asked.

“I think this is our best chance,” Beckham said. “Niven made it clear he isn’t sending anyone anytime soon.”

“Better stop wasting time then,” Horn said. He pointed at the man with the goatee. “You driving or you want me to?”

“I’ll drive,” the guy said. “Anyone else coming?”

The other men avoided his gaze.

“The rest of you boys scared of the dark?” the man said, then shrugged. “Guess it’s just us three. Name’s Sam, by the way.”

“Captain Reed Beckham, and Master Sergeant Parker Horn,” Beckham said.

“Nice to meet you, fellas,” Sam said, shaking both their hands. He led them to a single cab Toyota pickup with a mounted M240 in the rusted bed. Beckham went for the passenger side door, and Horn climbed into the back.

The diesel engine of a Humvee roared behind them, and the vehicle pulled up alongside them.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ruckley growled.

“Timothy was our responsibility,” Horn said. “We promised his dad we would look after him. That’s what we’re going to do.”

“Team Ghost does not break promises,” Beckham added.

“That lady back there—Donna, right?—she was right about Timothy,” Ruckley said. “I hate saying it, but we all know he’s probably already dead.”

“Probably doesn’t mean one-hundred percent,” Horn said.

“Sergeant, I know you regret letting the collaborators get away during that first attack,” Beckham said. “This is your chance to get revenge.”

“Vicariously, through us,” Horn said, leaning on the pickup’s cab.

Ruckley clenched her jaw, fists trembling for a second. “God dammit. You’re putting me in a really shitty position here. If Niven finds out I let you go at this hour, my ass is toast.”

“We’ll be back before he even knows,” Horn said.

“You fucking better be, Master Sergeant,” she said. “All due respect, and all that other crap.”

“Can’t hear you,” Horn said. “Because you were never here and didn’t see me leave.” He grabbed the machine gun and tapped the top of the cab.

Sam started the engine, and Beckham closed the door. He kept his window rolled down and charged his rifle as Sam drove out of the lot and through the city. The soldiers manning checkpoints all gave them the same look as if to say, You guys crazy?

It wasn’t the best of plans, but Beckham and Horn couldn’t just leave Timothy out there.

The sun continued to lower in the sky on the ride. Sam didn’t talk much and Beckham kept quiet. They both clearly had one thing on their mind—finding the militia soldiers.

Thirty minutes later they pulled onto a gravel and dirt road.

“There,” Sam said, pointing.

He eased off the gas as they approached an idle truck.

“Stay here and keep it running,” Beckham said. He opened his door and motioned for Horn to stay on the mounted machine gun.

Beckham shouldered his M4A1 as he approached the truck. Bullet holes had fractured the windshield, and the driver side window was shattered, revealing torn seats covered in blood that gave him a pretty clear mental image of what had happened.

He halted when he saw long scratches marred the door.

It wasn’t the collaborators that had attacked the militia.

Variants had done this.

He cautiously opened the truck door to look inside. A pistol with a bloody grip rested on a floor mat, surrounded by empty bullet casings.

Beckham picked the familiar gun up, confirming it was the same pistol Jake Temper gave his son for his sixteenth birthday by the engraving on the barrel.

Never Stop Fighting.

He remembered Kate insisting on holding the party at their house. The memories sparked a wave of dread that washed over Beckham, deflating him like a punctured tire. He wiped the pistol handle against his pants to clean off the blood, then stuffed the gun in his waistband.

As he made his way back to the pickup, he scanned the woods. The autumn colors glowed in the final hours of sunlight in what might have been considered a divine view before the age of monsters.

But Beckham knew evil dwelled in those woods and wouldn’t hesitate to show itself once they’d turned dark.

Ruckley was probably right. By all odds, Timothy was likely dead. But there was a chance, however small, that the young man was still alive. If he was, then he was almost certainly a prisoner to the beasts. A fate even worse than a quick slash of a claw to the throat.

He walked over to the side of the truck and looked up at Horn, then pulled out the pistol. “It was his.”

“I could tell by the look on your face,” Horn said quietly. He clenched his jaw, face turning red as he looked out over the forest.

They stood in silence for a moment before Beckham gave an order that almost physically hurt. Timothy’s trail ended here. Coming out here had been a big enough risk. Searching for Timothy now would be suicide.

“We have to get back to the outpost for now,” he said.

Horn didn’t protest. The brash man knew they had no choice. Instead his eyes went low, and he kicked at the pickup bed, muttering a stream of curses.

Beckham got back into the cab.

“Either the guys that stayed out here are all dead or they’re prisoners now,” he told Sam.

The old militia soldier didn’t seem too surprised. “I see. We calling off the search then?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Sam put the vehicle into drive. Beckham kept his rifle on his lap as they drove away. They wound back down the road, surrounded by the hilly forest rising on either side. Shadows enveloped them as the sun began its descent beyond the trees.

“Lost some good men out there,” Sam said, nose twitching. “Men I called friends. Stephen was one of the best I ever had.”

“I’m sorry,” Beckham said.

“Me—”

The M240 barked the same second Beckham saw the men emerge from the woods. Muzzle flashes came from the foliage, rounds peppering the passenger door and shattering the window.

“Floor it!” Beckham yelled. He leaned down, barely avoiding a volley of bullets meant for his head. They sliced past him, but still found a target.

Hot blood splattered his neck as he remained hunched. Beckham glanced to the side. Sam had been hit across his shoulders and chest. Despite the injuries he kept his hands on the wheel and foot on the pedal.

Sam tried to open his mouth to talk, but only blood came out.

The crack of the M240 exploded again.

Return fire punched through the passenger door, letting in rays of light. Another bullet clipped Sam in the neck, blood spraying out. He reached up to staunch the wound, and Beckham grabbed the wheel.

Sam slumped forward onto the wheel, breaking Beckham’s grip.

The truck swerved into the ditch and down an embankment that ended at a cluster of large trees. Beckham sat up. In the side mirror, he saw Horn jump out of the bed and roll into the foliage. The pickup jolted violently at the bottom of the ditch.

There was no time for Beckham to brace himself. Crunching metal and shattering glass sounded when the hood of the truck crumpled against a tree. Beckham’s head snapped into the dashboard. There was pain, but then only darkness.

A voice stirred him awake some time later.

Beckham groaned, his head pounding.

He opened his eyes to a view of overhead branches. Leaves fluttered down behind over a blurred face.

“Boss, you got to wake up,” Horn said.

Beckham’s vision cleared enough to see Horn, a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth.

“There you are, brother,” Horn said. “Can you sit up?”

He grabbed Beckham under the arm and helped him up. Beckham reached up to touch a tender gash on his head, blood still trickling from it.

“Reed, say something,” Horn said.

“Where are the fuckers that ambushed us?”

Horn grinned. “Dead. All four of ’em; I fucked ’em up good. We got to move before more come.”

Beckham saw Horn had already gathered their weapons and added a backpack to the mix. He guessed that’s where the new cigarette came from too.

“Can you walk?” Horn asked.

“I think so. You got the radio?”

“Yeah… but it’s broke dick,” Horn said. “We’re on our own, boss.”

— 7 —

Spotlights snapped on around Scott AFB as the horizon swallowed the last drop of sunlight. They flitted back and forth over the terrain as the soldiers prepared to defend the base for a second night.

Beyond the defenses, smoke still drifted away from smoldering buildings and houses. The crack of gunfire echoed through the early evening as the final hunter-killer teams finished picking off the rogue Variants still prowling for food.

Fitz carried a box of explosives out of the command building. The rest of Team Ghost was working to put up a third fence surrounding the building. The front gate to the first layer of defenses opened as the armored vehicles returned from their missions.

About one hundred soldiers had remained behind to protect the command building from the Variants now that most of the non-combatants had been evacuated. The sounds of hammers and shouting voices echoed over the parking lot.

Fitz was glad that command had decided to try and hold this position.

“Hurry up!” someone shouted.

The urgency was shared by every soldier and Marine working near the command building. They were all exhausted, and Fitz wasn’t sure when any of them would get to rest.

He handed his crate of explosives off to a Marine and then joined Rico who was working on piling up sandbags in the glow of portable lights.

She dropped another onto a small pile and wiped the sweat from her forehead. Both dimples widened when she saw him, but quickly turned to a frown. “You doing all right, Fitzie?”

“Yeah, I’m good, how about you?”

“Glad we saved those kids but worried about what the night brings.” She turned to look out over the defenses. “I got a bad feeling we might have just been delaying the inevitable.”

“I know what you mean,” Fitz said.

She gave him another sideways glance. “Seriously, you sure you’re good? If you need to grab thirty minutes of shuteye, I can pull double duty.”

Fitz nearly laughed. That was one thing he could never fault Rico for. She would look out for everyone else at the sacrifice of her own needs.

“No way,” he said, almost calling her babe. If his teammates heard him call Rico that he would get more shit than a Kandahar porta potty.

Ace, Dohi, and Mendez were working on another mound of sandbags nearby but they didn’t seem to be listening.

“What I would do for a few hours of sleep,” she said. Then she playfully hit him in the arm. “And a little of you know what…”

“Get a room, kids,” Ace said.

Fitz’s cheeks warmed. Apparently they were listening.

“I wish,” Rico chuckled.

Mendez joined in. “Does fucking up Variants get you all as hot as it gets me?”

“Christ, man,” Ace said. “You’re a nut.”

Dohi didn’t react. The stoic man grabbed another sandbag and placed it on top of the mound.

“How you doin’, brother?” Fitz asked him.

Dohi shrugged. He always had a way of keeping his emotions and thoughts close. Trying to get at them was like prying at a crate with a plastic shovel to see what was inside.

“I heard what you did in that chopper,” Ace said. “You did the right thing.”

Fitz recalled what Rico had said—that Dohi had shot a man being torn to shreds by the Variants. His silence made even more sense.

“Pops always taught me to put an animal out of its misery, and the same goes for humans,” Ace said. “He also told me to always know more than the name of the guy on your left in the assembly line.”

“I track things and I shoot things, what else do you want to know?” Dohi asked.

Ace looked like he was about to try again when a Marine jogged over from an M-ATV holding another rocket-launcher-shaped R2TD device.

“Master Sergeant Fitzgerald!” the man called out. “We’ve got new orders for you.”

Fitz had been waiting on those words, and for the R2TD. Several other teams were already using the surviving devices command had on hand to mark tunnels around base.

Now Fitz had a feeling Team Ghost was going to help beyond the walls again.

They had danced with death too much lately, and although Rico was a skilled soldier, he couldn’t help the anxiety that coursed through him when she was out there on her own.

Of course that was the life they had both chosen, but the past few days were different than the past few years of missions. This wasn’t just hunting down an errant Variant or two. This was all out war.

“Any word on enemy movement?” Fitz asked the Marine as he took the R2TD unit.

“The only activity in this area are the rogue Variants still scrounging for food, but most of them have been eliminated by our hunter killer teams.”

“So no indication that they might attack again tonight?”

“And no sign of the hordes?” Ace asked.

“Not yet,” said the Marine.

Fitz stamped the ground with one of his blades. “They’re still down there. They have to be.”

“Guess it’s a good thing we still have a couple R2TD systems,” Rico said.

“No kidding,” the Marine said. “We’re lucky we got this one. It was on the chopper dropping off those kids y’all rescued.”

“Glad to hear they were evacuated,” Rico said.

“Them, and the rest of the people here. Just us jarheads and our brothers… and sisters left now.” The Marine unslung a pack and handed it to Rico. “These will help the demo teams collapse any tunnels you locate.”

“Thanks,” Fitz said.

The Marine nodded and jogged back to command.

Inside the pack was a jumble of stake flags—plastic flags on small metal posts that looked like they could be used for marking electrical lines under a lawn.

“Not the most sophisticated way to do this,” Rico said.

Dohi shrugged. “Sometimes sophistication is just unnecessary complication.”

Ace flicked on the R2TD system, and the equipment buzzed to life.

“Let’s get this over with,” Fitz said.

He led the group through the soldiers working overtime to make final preparations. Most of the men and women didn’t even look up.

Spotlights guided the way to the fences. The fact snipers and machine gun nests had their backs reassured Fitz as he made his way beyond the secure zone. But despite the firepower, stepping outside the wire sent a chill through Fitz.

He battled his fatigue and kept his rifle at the ready.

Not long after leaving the barriers, Ace signaled he’d found part of a Variant tunnel beneath their feet. Rico placed a flag in the soil.

They moved on and Fitz watched the scanner for contacts. “Still no signs of life down there?” he asked Ace.

“Nothing heading towards us,” Ace replied.

“Probably running away ’cause they smell your sweaty fat ass,” Mendez said.

“If that’s true, then you’re welcome,” Ace replied.

Dohi smirked for the first time in… Fitz wasn’t sure how long.

But all trace of jocularity vanished at the sound of an explosion from a grenade. Dust bloomed across the parking lot to the east where Army engineers had detonated C-4 in a tunnel, closing it off so the Variants couldn’t reuse it.

In his mind’s eye, Fitz couldn’t help seeing that horrific theater at the University of Minnesota and the explosions that had taken Lincoln’s life.

He would never forget that moment. It was always like that when you lost a brother or sister. The death playing like a nightmare on a loop that you can’t stop.

Fitz turned at the sound of footsteps pounding the pavement.

A team of Rangers fanned out across the lot. “We’re here to relieve you all from R2TD duty,” said a Sergeant in command of the group.

“Already?” Mendez asked. “We were just getting started, and I’m ready to do some damn work!”

The sergeant nodded. “Command says they’ve got something else for you. Didn’t tell me what it was, but they said to tell you all to get ready to ship out. You’re going back out in the field.”

Rico gave Fitz that look, the forlorn one that said rest and whatever else would have to wait. Their job at command was done; the place was secure, and ready for the next Variant assault. But for some reason, Fitz had a feeling wherever they were heading was going to be far worse than another attack on Scott AFB.

***

It was going to be a long night, and thanks to her advisors’ input, President Ringgold feared it would be a deadly one. Across the Allied States the outposts had spent all day refortifying their defenses to prepare for the next phase of Variant attacks that they believed was imminent. A few furtive warnings had been sent to outpost leaders that collaborators may have infiltrated their ranks, just as they had in Outpost Manchester. So far, Ringgold hadn’t heard of any traitors that the military had identified or captured. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or if these human monsters were waiting in the shadows like the Variants had for eight years.

“Last night was a test…” she kept hearing.

If that were true, then tonight could be the worst night of her administration. Everything and everyone in the Allied States was at risk.

She took a short, but necessary shower, then finished getting ready for her next briefing. Leaving her private quarters, she found Chief of Staff Soprano waiting outside her hatch with a cup of warm coffee.

“Thought you might need some caffeine,” he said.

“You know me too well,” she said.

Two Secret Service Agents led them through the bowels of the stealth warship. Sailors backed against the bulkhead as they passed, saluting.

She saluted and tried to nod at each one, but her mind was a tangled mess as she pieced together her next steps.

Ringgold was doing everything she could to keep it together.

Plan. Organize. Achieve goals.

“And never lose hope…” she whispered.

By the time she arrived at the CIC, she had focused her mind and was ready to face whatever reports awaited her inside.

A Marine opened the hatch. The space buzzed with activity. Officers worked at stations monitoring everything from troop movements and evacuation routes to the arrival of support from other countries.

“This way, Madam President,” Soprano said.

She followed him into a briefing room already filled with staff. LNO Festa, General Souza, NSA Nelson, and Vice President Lemke, among others helping strategize the war efforts.

Soprano handed Ringgold a briefing folder and then joined Cortez near a bulkhead. She sat at the head of the table. She took a sip of coffee, set the cup down, folded her hands, and nodded.

“Outposts outside the primary target cities of Minneapolis, Chicago, Lincoln, Kansas City, Indianapolis, and Columbus are all bracing for attack,” Souza said. “We’re still sending air support to help evac the civilian populations, but we’re losing daylight quickly.”

Souza gestured toward a wall-mounted monitor. “These are the remaining outposts across the Allied States.”

Ringgold already knew how many were left.

Eighty-four.

Eighty-four of the ninety-eight that the country had labored over for almost a decade, struggling against setback after setback to create a new, safe civilization after the Great War. She was relieved to see that number hadn’t dropped since she had taken a shower.

But night hadn’t even begun.

“What about other countries? Did your calls or mine help?” she asked Nelson. He had helped arrange most of the support and aid after Ringgold talked to her counterparts in each country.

“Page twenty summarizes our current levels of support, Madam President,” Nelson said. “We just updated the responses.”

She opened up to page twenty and scanned the report. “This is…”

“Afraid so, Madam President,” Nelson said. “The European Union, Mexico and the Central American Coalition, the Southeast Asia States, and most of our other strongest allies seem to be sitting on the sidelines to see how bad this is.”

“French President Morain promised me he would send us more than this,” Ringgold said. “Am I reading this correctly?”

“Yes, Madam President. Instead of sending troops, he has sent one hundred consultants that will help with the detection of tunnels. They come from private sector, government, and military roles with experience combating those worm Variants that dug underground in Europe.”

Ringgold managed her disappointment with a breath. “That’s good, but we don’t just need help finding tunnels. We need help destroying them. That means more than just sending people over.”

“We can win this fight without them, especially with the help of General Cornelius,” Lemke said.

“He called not long ago with an idea he wants to discuss,” Soprano said. “I said you would call him back as soon as you had some free time.”

Ringgold nodded. “Get him on the phone now.”

Cortez left the room with Soprano.

In the meantime, General Souza went over other updates.

“Doctor Lovato and Doctor Carr are still figuring out how this webbing network works,” Souza said. “We’ve got multiple Special Op teams preparing to track down new masterminds. Team Ghost is on standby for a mission to New Orleans where we’ve identified one. At your orders, we’ll deploy them.”

She thought on it a moment. They had no choice. The masterminds had to be destroyed.

“Permission to proceed,” she said.

Souza nodded at Festa who left the room to give the order.

“We’ve done everything we can to prepare with the time and resources we have,” Lemke said. “If the Variants do come tonight… our outposts are as ready as they can be.”

Ringgold noticed Cortez making the sign of the cross. Praying was one of the only things they had left at this point, although with the way things had gone lately, God didn’t seem to intervene in their affairs as much as the devil did.

The hatch opened and Soprano walked back in with a satellite phone. “Madam President, I have General Cornelius on the phone.”

Ringgold took the phone to another office where she could speak in private.

“This is Jan,” she answered.

“President Ringgold, it’s good to get ahold of you. I want to discuss something beyond my initial conversation with Vice President Lemke.”

“If it’s nuking the outposts, then I don’t have the time.”

“No, it’s something else that doesn’t require nuclear weapons.”

“Then I’m all ears, General, go ahead.”

“You know S.M. Fischer from Fischer Fields?”

“I do.”

“He has agreed to help me test some equipment to detect Variant tunnels as they form in El Paso,” Cornelius said. “If it works, then we can not only locate them, but destroy them before the Variants surface.”

“That sounds like a winning proposition.”

“Exactly,” Cornelius said. “Problem is we don’t have the people to run the equipment. I may have some ideas on how to get more and better equipment that the military abandoned out west, but first and foremost, we need the manpower.”

“Do you know if it even works?”

“We’re testing it tonight, Madam President.”

Ringgold thought about the consultants from France. Perhaps they would be more useful than she had originally thought, but first she wanted to ensure Fischer could do what Cornelius hoped he would.

“If the test is successful, then we’ll help get you whatever you need,” she said. “In the meantime, while I’ve got you, I could use your assistance with something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You have two thousand soldiers at your disposal, and I respectfully would ask if you would deploy some of them to the outposts,” she said. “We think last night’s attacks may only be the beginning of something bigger.”

“So do I, but I’m curious if you can share any intel?”

“Let’s just say we believe collaborators have attempted to infiltrate more than a few outposts and we might be dealing with sleeper cells.”

“I see… And how many troops do you need?”

“As many as you can spare to bolster our defenses.”

“Madam President, with all due respect, I don’t think being on the defensive constantly is going to win this war.”

“Of course not,” she said. “We’ve got plans to launch a counter strike and we have a team of scientists working on ways to locate the masterminds and tap into their network. If they are successful, it will lead us right to them.”

There was a brief pause on the other line.

“I may not agree with the way you’ve protected our country, Madam President, but we’re in this together now,” he said. “I’ll coordinate with your people to send some of my troops where they’re needed the most.”

Ringgold almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, General.”

“I’ll let you know how our test goes.”

“Good luck.”

“And to you as well.”

She hung up and almost smiled for the first time in days. Hearing the general was willing to commit some of his personal troops was great, but hearing he was also working on testing out equipment that could help was even better.

When she got back to the CIC, Souza was on a call with the commander of Outpost Kansas City.

Soprano pulled Ringgold aside and whispered, “We just got a call from Lieutenant Niven at Outpost Portland.”

“What now?”

“Apparently Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn went on a manhunt for one of their friends, and now they’re missing, Madam President.”

All the optimism she’d felt after getting off the phone with Cornelius evaporated.

“What? How?” she stammered.

“They went to find Timothy Temper and some militia that went missing but never returned,” Soprano said.

“Does Kate know?”

“Not yet, we just got this report.” Soprano scrunched his brow together and paused. “There’s a lot riding on her work. Maybe we should wait to tell her when we know more.”

Telling Kate that Beckham and Horn were missing could throw off everything, but this wasn’t something she could keep from the doctor for long.

“Wait until we know more,” she said reluctantly.

Souza raised his voice at the table as Soprano walked away.

“Give ’em hell,” said the general.

“Wilco,” came the reply from the speaker.

Ringgold walked over. Souza palmed the table and kept his head bowed as if in defeat. When he looked up to meet her gaze, she saw a cold look of fear that she had never seen in the SOCOM chief before.

“That was the Commander at Outpost Kansas City,” he said. “The second wave of the attack has begun, Madam President…”

— 8 —

Timothy woke to the sound of dripping water. He cracked an eye open. His head pounded, confusion muddling his thoughts. Most everything was bathed in darkness, but a single shaft of moonlight streamed through a hole in the ceiling to reveal he was in some kind of round, concrete structure.

Something that looked like veins hung from the opening above.

Where the hell am I?

It took him a few moments to realize he was actually in a standing position against a wall. He tried to move his arms, but something pressed against them. When he tried to look down, something pulled against his forehead.

Whatever had him pinned to the wall was out of view.

He strained to remember something, anything, but his brain wouldn’t work normally. All his thoughts felt just out of reach, like he was stuck in a pit of tar reaching for purchase.

One thing was certain…

He wasn’t alone.

Several other people were against the wall across from him, slightly off to his left and right. He could barely see their blurred figures in the pervasive dark beyond the moonlight.

“Help…” he tried to say.

The word came out muffled, trapped in his mouth. Something sticky covered his lips when he tried to open them. Cold panic gripped his body as he took in another breath through his nostrils.

He squirmed in the restraints, trying to twist and turn, fueled by adrenaline. His frantic movements did nothing to break his bonds. If anything, it just made things worse. His skin tore under the rope, tape, or whatever had him stuck to this wall.

He snorted, frustrated and terrified.

A squawk answered the noise.

Timothy froze.

Memories flooded his brain of the ambush in the forest. He had made it to the truck, only to be pulled out and dragged here by a pack of camouflaged Variants.

But they hadn’t killed him like the other men.

For some reason he was still alive.

Popping joints commanded his gaze across the chamber. A shadowed figure moved on all fours across the floor, stopping in the beam of moonlight.

The sinewy Variant snarled in the eerie glow. Blue veins webbed across its pale and hairless flesh. The beast reeked of sour, decaying meat.

Wormy sucker lips smacked as it studied him with reptilian eyes. It let out a low growl and took another couple of steps closer.

Timothy fought violently to get free; turning, twisting, and pulling up with his chin. He winced in pain from the struggle, as more skin and hair pulled away under his restraints.

The Variant stood and the yellow-slotted eyes met his. Timothy winced as swollen lips peeled back to expose jagged, chipped teeth. It tilted its head, showing a hardy black collar wrapped around its neck.

Leaning in, the beast sniffed him, nostrils flaring. He closed his eyes as the monster’s rancid breath rolled over him.

The Variant shrieked into his face, splattering him with saliva.

Timothy knew what was coming next.

Unable to scream, he gritted his teeth and waited for the beast to tear open his guts and feed on his intestines. It was their favorite part of their prey.

The beast noisily ground its teeth together.

Timothy forced his eyes open when the creature didn’t immediately sink its claws into his flesh. He could see every pulsating blood vessel in the creature’s eyes. Something compelled him to watch, like this was a nightmare that might end if he willed himself to wake.

But this wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

This was real.

He was about to join his dad.

The monster’s mouth opened wide to release another long shriek.

Timothy’s muscles locked up like a boxer preparing for a punch. The animalistic cry echoed through the chamber, but another sound rose above it.

A human shout.

Timothy snapped his eyelids open to the sight of three figures striding into the chamber. An electronic click sounded, almost like a buzz.

The beast wailed in pain and reached up with a clawed hand to grab at the black collar around its neck.

“Back you, filthy shit!” a man called out.

Three men appeared in view, all carrying rifles. Timothy’s heart flipped. The militia had come back for him after all!

The Variant bolted away, passing the men, frightened like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. It curved far around the militia soldiers, and none of them gave chase. They stopped in the center of the chamber, directly under the moonlight.

Timothy didn’t recognize any of the dirt and grime-covered faces. Their camouflaged clothes appeared no cleaner.

Stark reality struck Timothy like a claw to his guts.

These weren’t militia… they were collaborators.

The smallest of the three stepped out in front. He was in his fifties and had a thick head of gray shaggy hair pulled back with a black bandana. Dark eyes drilled into Timothy.

The other two were both muscular and about six feet tall. They were younger than the leader. The man on the left wore a stocking cap, and the guy on the right had a thick beard and wore a Boston Red Sox hat with a frayed bill.

Timothy gritted his teeth again, rage boiling inside of his veins. He bucked against his restraints, desperate to get free.

The men all laughed.

“Got a real squirmer,” said the short guy in a Brooklyn accent.

“I’ll kill you!” Timothy tried to scream. “I’ll kill all of you!”

The trapped words came out an indecipherable gargle, prompting more guffaws from the collaborators.

Timothy thrashed harder, fueled by the cruel laughter. This time part of his shoulder ripped free and the restraint on his forehead came loose, allowing him to move his neck. He saw then what had trapped his body.

White glue cocooned him from the chin down.

He had once heard about these Variant excretions used to keep human and animal prisoners like a spider with its prey.

Now he was one of them.

The men stopped laughing as Timothy craned his neck enough to get a good look at the other prisoners. His heart caught in his chest at the gruesome sights.

The man to his left didn’t look human anymore. A Variant had chewed off most of the face, including the nose, eyes, and lips. Long bangs hung over what was left of his cheeks.

Past the hanging corpse, two women hadn’t fared much better, their features erased by claws and teeth. Flags of red flesh hung from their torn skin. One of them still had her eyes, and Timothy sucked down a horrified breath when he realized they were focused on him.

No… she can’t be still alive, he thought.

He forced his gaze back to the collaborators.

“Damn,” said the guy with the Red Sox hat. “Never seen one break free like that.”

The short guy walked over to Timothy and then reached out with a knife. He angled the blade toward Timothy’s eyes, but Timothy kept them open, glaring at the abominable man.

Using the curved blade, the collaborator punched a hole in the glue covering Timothy’s lips. Timothy let out a scream as the knife cut through his upper lip.

“Oops, sorry about that, kid,” the man said. He stepped back and studied Timothy like the Variant had earlier.

Blood gushed from the cut in his lip and into Timothy’s mouth.

“You are one lucky son of a bitch,” the short man said. “Everyone else ended up as snacks. Wouldn’t have been long before you became one, too.”

He looked from left to right before focusing back on Timothy.

“I would’ve liked to keep the others around, but it’s okay,” the man continued. “Our pets need the energy for tonight.”

Timothy glared, resisting the urge to spit in his face.

“Not going to say anything, huh?” asked the short man. “No?”

He raised a remote in his hand. Timothy figured that was what had set off the shock in the Variant’s collar.

“Soon as I press this button, I send that monster into shark mode,” he said.

The man in the Red Sox hat chuckled, his beard parting over his lips. “And you know who the chum is, don’t you, pal?”

The man in front of Timothy stepped closer. His lips spread in a lop-sided smirk, exposing yellow and rotting teeth that smelled as bad as they looked.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” Timothy said. “Go ahead. Kill me. You’ll be doing me a favor if I don’t have to smell your rotten breath anymore.”

The guy chuckled and then looked over his shoulder at his men. Timothy used the opportunity to throw a head butt that almost connected. He strained, his neck extending as he spat and snarled.

“Well shit, you are a rabid little fucker, aren’t you?”

“Maybe he could come in handy,” said the guy with the stocking cap. “Tough guys are hard to find.”

The short man held up the remote so Timothy could see it.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll end up bait, all depends on tonight.”

“What’s happening tonight?” Timothy asked.

“You’ll see,” the man with the stocking cap said.

Then the collaborators filed out of the room, leaving Timothy in the darkness with the dead and dying prisoners. His pounding heart slowed and after a few minutes he finally relaxed in his restraints, saving his strength for later.

A screech broke the silence, and another answered the first.

The chamber darkened as a cloud passed over the moon.

All at once, many shrieks sounded outside, rising into a chorus like a pack of werewolves howling at the moon.

Only it sounded like an army.

***

Beckham’s head still pounded with a fiery agony. He figured he was suffering a concussion.

Two hours had passed since the ambush. They were still another fifteen minutes from the outpost by car, and probably two hours or more on foot. At this rate, they wouldn’t be back until midnight.

Not only had they failed to find Timothy, they might not return in time to defend the outpost from another attack. Kate was probably worried sick, if she even knew he was out here, and he had no way of telling her what was going on.

You really screwed things up this time, Reed, he thought.

Night had fallen, and Beckham and Horn weren’t prepared to fight in the dark. With the radio broken, they couldn’t even call for help.

They were on their own, but they had plenty of ammunition. Beckham carried an M4A1 and a vest full of magazines, plus his sidearm. Horn grabbed the M240 from the pickup truck and two belts of rounds, now draped over his chest. His primary rifle was also slung over his back, and he had a pistol if it came down to it.

Beckham also carried Timothy’s pistol.

They salvaged grenades and a backpack of explosives from the dead collaborators. Even more importantly, they had snagged FLIR thermal binoculars off one of the assholes.

Beckham had a feeling the explosives he carried were intended for Outpost Portland.

“How you doin’, boss?” Horn whispered over his shoulder. “Want to stop and rest?”

“I’m fine. We need to keep moving.”

Grogginess clouded Beckham’s head, but he did his best to stay alert. Collaborators lurked out there. Variants too.

They crept through the trees and light foliage at the edge of the road. Beckham stopped every now and then to scan the forest with the thermal binos. The monsters could camouflage their bodies and mask their heat signal a little, but the optics were still better than his naked eyes.

Crickets chirped in the underbrush, and the caw of crows echoed through the forests. Beckham searched the darkness for moving shapes, but could hardly see anything. If not for the moon, he would be blind.

For the second time, he tripped and fell to the dirt.

Horn helped him up, and they kept walking. With his head aching, Beckham felt like a drunk. He did his best not to stumble on roots or rocks.

An hour later they made it back to the main road.

They crossed over the intersection to survey the muddy field framing the paved road. A crunching in the distance drew Beckham’s gaze to the woods at the edge of the field.

“If we’re lucky, that was just an animal,” Horn whispered.

“Maybe.” But Beckham didn’t believe in good luck anymore. “Let’s pick up the pace and keep to the shoulder.”

If they encountered any hostiles they could always veer off and find cover, but this way he could run without worrying about falling on his face.

They jogged for half an hour before finally stopping to rest.

Beckham took a sip of water, and listened. He half expected to hear the distant sound of gunfire and explosions, but the night was still as the surface of a frozen lake.

“How far are we now?” Horn asked.

“At least another hour if we keep up this speed,” Beckham said. “Hard to say.”

“I hope my girls don’t know we’re out here.”

“Same with Kate and Javier. Chances are good they think we’re still at the outpost, unless Ruckley got in contact with them.”

“Ruckley probably thinks we’re dead. Hate saying it, but maybe she was right about coming out here.”

“At least we killed some collaborators,” Beckham said. “Four less assholes with explosives to use on the outpost or elsewhere.”

“True… I lit those fuckers up, man. Wish you could have seen it.”

“I wish I could have helped.”

“All that matters is you’re alive.”

Beckham took in more water before pressing onward. The moon climbed higher into the sky, a carpet of white pushing the shadows away.

He was thankful for the brightening glow. If it had been overcast, or even a half moon, they would have had to hunker down for the night.

Fatigue really set in over the next two miles of the journey. Lactic acid built up in Beckham’s muscles, his stomach growled, and his head felt like it was inside a slowly closing vice.

Horn was slowing down too, the heavy machine gun definitely taking a toll.

It was pure luck that Beckham glimpsed the movement of diseased flesh in the woods to their left. Freezing, he watched a group of Variants sneaking through the tree line.

Horn saw them too and went low as he followed Beckham into the ditch on the right side of the road. They ran into the woods until they were safely positioned on the crest of a small hill overlooking the road.

“Did they spot us?” Horn whispered.

Beckham stared into the forest where he had seen the pack of Variants. These creatures weren’t camouflaged and their sallow flesh almost glimmered in the moonlight.

He counted six but when he raised the thermal optics to his eye he saw there were many, many more.

Most were camouflaged after all.

“Holy shit, there’s a small army,” he said.

A hulking figure strode along the smaller beasts. Beckham couldn’t see it well, but knew enough about the Alphas to identify them.

Horn reached out, and Beckham handed the binos over.

“Judas Priest,” Horn mumbled. “There’s got to be more than a hundred and is that a…”

“An Alpha, the new kind, I think. They’re going in for round two tonight.”

“We have to do something,” Horn said, handing the binos back. “Warn LT Niven somehow.”

“How? Even if we open fire we’re too far away. No one will hear our shots.”

“Yeah, but they might hear those,” Horn said, pointing to the pack of explosives Beckham wore.

He considered their options as he looked out with his thermal optics again. The beasts were moving fast, but not as fast as Beckham and Horn could move if they really hauled ass.

All the pain in his skull was nothing compared to imagining what those Variants would do to the outpost if they made it in unannounced. If he and Horn could get ahead of them, maybe they could lay an ambush and take most of them down.

An explosion and fire might also attract attention from the outpost. Hell, maybe Niven would even send a team to figure out what was going on.

Or maybe it’s suicide, Beckham thought.

He explained his idea to Horn, and the big guy agreed.

“Sounds like a Kamikaze mission, but you know I’m always down for some fireworks, boss.”

“Good, then let’s move.”

Beckham followed Horn this time, hoping the bigger man would be better able to carve a path through the woods. Even with Horn ahead, Beckham fell several times. He pushed himself up each time, unwilling to fall behind.

Within fifteen minutes they had put themselves a good distance ahead of the Variant horde. They found another embankment overlooking the road protected by trees. From there, Beckham spotted the perfect place for the ambush: an abandoned van.

He told Horn to plant C4 on the gas tank, set off the car alarm if possible, and then retreat back to a hill where Beckham would be camped out with his rifle.

Once the horde came, they would detonate the C4, toss their grenades, and open fire before retreating to the road toward the outpost.

“It really is full blown Kamikaze mode,” Horn said. He set up his M240 and laid out the belts of ammunition. Then he unslung his rifle, ready to go.

Beckham brought up his thermal binos again to make sure the path was clear.

“Ready when you are.” He patted Horn on the shoulder. “Be careful.”

Horn sprinted down the side of the hill and then bolted for the van. When he got to the road he kept low, but fast.

Beckham continued surveying the area. He still saw nothing nearby but his friend’s heat signature. Horn bent down to setup the C4.

Across the road, in the woods, the Variants were advancing. Horn’s estimate of a little over a hundred seemed about right. Trying to take them all on at once would be difficult. He hoped their explosives would be enough to thin their ranks.

Horn was now at the van’s driver side door and was working on setting off the alarm. The wail sounded a beat later.

An animalistic shriek answered, different than a normal Variant.

This had to be the Alpha.

“Run, Big Horn,” Beckham whispered. He picked up his rifle and pressed the butt against his shoulder as he settled into a prone position. The beasts were on the open road now, their pale, almost translucent skin captured by the rays of moonlight.

They streamed out toward the screaming vehicle. Horn made it back up the hill and got down on his belly. He handed Beckham the C4 detonator and then prepared the grenades.

Beckham waited until the front of the horde had reached the van. Several of the beasts broke the windows and tore at the car’s interior.

“Barbecue time,” Horn whispered.

Beckham clicked the remote, then grabbed his rifle again.

The explosion lifted the van off the ground, metal and glass bursting outward in the fiery blast. Hunks of shrapnel peppered the surrounding Variants that weren’t immediately consumed by the inferno.

Horn raised a hand to shield his face and then stood to toss the grenades one at a time. They were close enough that both men hit the dirt again to avoid shrapnel. The explosions rocked the road and the ditch. From his prone position, Beckham glimpsed the mangled beasts cartwheeling and flying into the air.

Body parts thumped back to the ground while Beckham opened fire with his suppressed rifle, picking off the ones that had escaped the flying debris and flames. He worried they would find his position anyway, but the beasts were too disoriented to figure out what was happening.

It wasn’t until the throaty wallop of Horn’s M240 joined the fight that the creatures homed in on their position. Horn raked the weapon back and forth, cutting down the abominations with bursts of gunfire as they scaled the embankment.

“Changing,” Beckham said. He heard the shriek of the Alpha and finally saw the beast lumbering behind a pack of others across the road, beyond the blazing van.

Horn covered both of their firing zones as Beckham reloaded. By the time he brought the rifle back up, the Variants had started to scatter to flank their position and the Alpha had vanished.

“Let’s go,” Horn said.

They left the hill, leaving a surprise behind.

After sliding down the other side of the embankment, Horn led them into the forest. Beckham could hear the snap of joints and shrieking of furious monsters as they closed in. The dying wails of others faded away as Beckham and Horn added distance between them and the battlefield.

The first of the creatures reached their former sniping position a minute later. The fuse on the small chunk of C4 Beckham had left behind went off, detonating the explosive, and erasing more of the monsters.

They ran harder, headed toward the road. A glance over his shoulder and Beckham confirmed the creatures were on the pavement too, running like wild animals on all fours.

He halted and shouldered his rifle, firing off a couple of bursts. Horn did the same thing, taking down five of the beasts. They crumpled in bleeding tangles of limbs and claws.

“Go, go, go!” Beckham shouted.

They ran like that for the next ten minutes, stopping only to take down the creatures drawing too close. But it was the hostiles bolting through the woods on both sides of the road and the missing Alpha that had Beckham worried.

Horn switched back to his M240 to finish off the rest of the ammo while Beckham took a knee by his side and reloaded his M4.

Rounds lanced across the road and into the ditches as dozens of Variants exploded out of the trees toward their position.

Beckham was on magazine three of six now.

Horn’s M240 went dry a few minutes later. He switched to his M4A1 and turned to keep running.

This wasn’t the first time the two men had fought off overwhelming numbers. Back at Fort Bragg they had been down to just their knives as Variants closed in.

As they slowly burned through their ammo, it seemed like they were heading for the same fate.

There were still at least twenty or thirty Variants pursuing and the Alpha still held back. Waiting to make its move.

Beckham turned and ran again, seeing a single light spearing through the dark in the distance. The spotlight glowed like a beacon, but it was still impossibly far.

A high-pitched screech erupted through the chorus of the monsters. The beasts all stopped their pursuit, but Beckham kept firing calculated shots, killing three before they darted away and vanished into the night.

Horn, panting, stepped over to Beckham, pistol in hand.

“Sounds like the Alpha,” he said. “Maybe it’s calling a retreat.”

“Or reorganizing. I don’t want to wait here to find out.”

They fought against the exhaustion choking their muscles, running with all the vigor they could muster until more lights blazed across the road ahead. Horn pulled Beckham to the shoulder out of view as an armada of vehicles sped toward them from Outpost Portland.

“Think those are our friends?” Horn asked.

Beckham squinted, but couldn’t tell. “Don’t want to chance it in case they’re not. Get in the ditch.”

They lunged for cover as the growl of diesel engines grew louder.

The vehicles ground to a halt and a spotlight clicked on, sweeping over the ditch until it hit the two men.

“Fuck,” Horn muttered, holding up his hand to keep the light out of his eyes.

“Get up!” someone yelled. “We know you’re out there.”

Beckham squinted into the beam.

A familiar voice called out. “Captain Beckham, Master Sergeant Horn!”

Beckham started up the side of the ditch with Horn. At the top, Ruckley stood looking down with a scowl.

“You two got more lives than a pack of feral cats,” she said.

Horn laughed and helped Beckham up the ditch. Something shot high above them like missiles. They both spun to look as a rumbling sounded.

“What the…” Beckham began to say.

The scream of fighter jets roared through the night. A second later, explosions boomed in the woods miles away, lighting up the sky in an apocalyptic glow.

They dropped payloads on more targets beyond that, the ground trembling with each impact. The jets came back for a second run, raining more bombs in brilliant explosions.

As the vibrations and noise of the aircraft faded away Ruckley clapped Beckham and then Horn.

“Thanks to you two, we were able to go on the offensive tonight,” she said. “The explosion on the road helped us ID exactly where those Variants were with a drone.”

Horn grinned proudly.

“Thermal vision identified the location of several other hordes, and we called in those F-35s from an aircraft carrier off the coast. If you hadn’t set off those explosives, that drone would still be going around in circles searching all the wrong areas for those things.”

“Glad our crazy plan paid off,” Horn said.

Beckham stared at the flames raging in the distance. He didn’t hear any cries or wails from the beasts. Not even the Alpha had survived.

He wanted to feel the same joy as the others celebrating the victory, but he couldn’t help thinking that, if he was still alive, Timothy might have been in the path of these bombs.

— 9 —

The abandoned cup rolled back and forth on the mess hall deck of the USS George Johnson. White light flooded the space, belying the black night that had settled outside the stealth warship. Kate marched through the mess and scooped up the cup while Carr kept walking.

They had been working in the laboratory almost nonstop. Now that they had an idea of what the webbing in the Variant tunnels was used for, they had changed gears to focus on experiments to uncover the molecular mechanisms by which the webbing worked.

So far, none of it had been helpful in translating the signals passing through the webbing into information that they could interpret and understand.

They had reached an impasse and needed a new revelation. A breakthrough to push them beyond what they already knew. Being confined to that claustrophobic laboratory with a half-dozen technicians working shoulder-to-shoulder had been suffocating Kate’s mind.

Sometimes a brief break from her routine allowed her to think outside of the box. Coffee didn’t hurt, either.

“Back in my MIT lab, I told my graduate students that if they left their lab benches a mess, I would expel them from the program,” Carr said.

Kate deposited the cup in a sink filled with other dirty dishes soaking in soapy water.

“Did you ever have to follow through?” she asked.

Carr let out a chuckle. “No, thankfully they always kept everything clean. I’m pretty sure they assumed I was serious.”

“Were you?” Kate asked.

“Of course not,” Carr said. “But I didn’t mind that they thought I was.”

He reached up to a cabinet and pulled out a tin of coffee. From another drawer, he took out a spoon and scooped a pile of the grounds from the tin into the coffee maker.

“I’m surprised they bought that,” Kate said. “It would’ve been an extreme response.”

“Very true. Not to mention replacing a graduate student isn’t easy or cheap when you’re trying to secure new grant funding.”

Kate chuckled at Carr’s dry humor. The man was finally beginning to seem a bit more human around her despite his rough edges. She still didn’t envy any of the former students that had studied under him.

The gurgle of the coffee maker filled the silence between them, along with the aroma of the fresh brew. Once the pot was full, Carr removed it and poured a mug for each of them.

Kate took a cup, closing her eyes and breathing in the aroma.

“Pulling all these long shifts is getting to me,” Kate said. “Pretty soon all the coffee in the world isn’t going to keep me awake.”

“Me, too.” Carr took a sip. “It doesn’t help that we’ve only got access to subpar beans. I miss good coffee. Colombian used to be my favorite.”

“Ethiopian for me.”

“The things we’ve lost…”

“I wish coffee was the least of our worries.”

Kate motioned for him to follow her back to the tables in the mess. They slumped into seats across from each other in the otherwise empty room. A sudden smack of an opening hatch caught their attention.

The lanky form of technician Sean McMaster came through the opening.

“Hey, Sean,” Kate said. “We just brewed some coffee. Would you like some?”

He nodded almost sheepishly, shuffling off to the mess, then joined them at the table with a mug.

“We’ve got caffeine now, and a new location,” she said. “Is it enough yet to inspire any new ideas on how we can tap into the Variant webbing network?”

Sean took a sip, watching them both, but he didn’t reply.

Carr furrowed his brow in concentration, the steam from his coffee swirling up toward his face.

“It might take all day running chromatography and fluorescence spectroscopy tests,” Carr said. “But we’ll identify every single molecule that passes through the webbing.”

“That’ll take a lot of time,” Sean said. “I’m not sure how helpful it’ll be. What do you think, Dr. Lovato?”

“I agree. None of that will help us understand what those masterminds are telling the Alphas and other Variants. It’s like having a whole pyramid of hieroglyphics in front of us with no Rosetta Stone.” Kate traced a finger around the lip of her coffee mug. “Might as well be a bunch of gibberish.”

“Gibberish,” Sean repeated. “Maybe it’s just not something we’re supposed to figure out. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree?”

Carr shot him a bemused look. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know,” Sean said.

Kate’s thoughts drifted again, and she looked through one of the portholes. A river of white stars studded the night sky, unobstructed by light pollution or clouds out here.

Beckham was still at Outpost Portland, with Donna and Bo waiting at the University of Southern Maine campus. She hadn’t heard anything from him since he left this morning, and she was starting to worry.

If there was another wave of attacks, Outpost Portland would likely be one of the targets, putting her husband and her friends in danger.

“I guess we’re truly stuck,” Carr said, snapping Kate out of her thoughts.

“There must be a way…” she said.

“If only I was back in Cambridge, I could just send an email off to my students and”—Carr snapped his fingers—“by the end of the day, I would have a new report in my hands just in time to cross the Charles River and go into Boston for happy hour.”

“We’ve got plenty of help here,” Sean said.

“Yes, you’re certainly talented, and so are the others, but the students and post-docs in my MIT lab were top-notch.”

“Oh, did you say you used to work at MIT?” Kate asked, getting slightly annoyed by his repeated mention of the institute.

“Did I not say that before?”

“I heard you say it several times,” Sean said.

Kate let out a laugh.

Carr shook his head. “Oh, I’m sorry. I missed the joke.” He sighed, staring at his coffee. “Used to be that academic pedigree was as important in science as was having a good microscope. But now, none of that really matters, does it?”

“No, not as much as it used to,” Kate said. She studied Carr. He really was a tough son of a gun when it came to the techs, but…

Then it hit her.

Kate leaned forward in her seat. “That thing you said earlier… the emails…”

“What about it?” Carr asked.

Kate stood suddenly, her coffee splashing onto the table.

“The computers from Virginia,” she said. “The ones Beckham and Horn recovered. From what I heard, Ringgold has intel experts poring over them. Computer scientists. But they’re not the ones that should be doing it.”

“They seem to me to be the most qualified,” Sean said.

A puzzled looked crossed Carr’s face. “Hold on a second. I want to hear what she has in mind. Who should be looking at them?”

“We should.”

“I have a PhD in Bioengineering,” Carr said. “Not in Computer Engineering.”

“I know, but hear me out. We can solve all of this much faster.” She took her coffee mug to the galley and left it there without refilling the mug. She didn’t need more caffeine to help her focus.

Work. She needed to work.

Carr and Sean followed.

“What are you thinking?” Sean asked.

“The Variants were communicating with human collaborators. And we’re presuming those computers have all the information the collaborators sent. If we can hook those computers up to the webbing we have in the lab, we might be able to simulate those signals and decode how the webbing-computer interfaces work.”

“That sounds like it might be out of our wheelhouse,” Sean said. “Maybe we should just let the computer people do their thing.”

But Carr’s eyes lit up as they left the mess and marched through the passages. “You’re right, Dr. Lovato. The computer scientists might miss something that we could see, especially if there’s a strong biological connection between the nerve cells in the webbing and the computers.”

“Exactly, and this neural-computer interface technology is nothing new,” she replied. “Not by a longshot.”

She took a turn in the corridors than started up a set of ladders.

“Not new?” Sean asked. “What do you mean?”

“I think it was 2004 or 2005 when researchers connected rat brain cells in a plastic culture dish to a flight simulator. The cells were actually trained to carry out basic maneuvers.” She stopped to look at him on the landing. “And think of all the more recent advancements in computer-nerve interfaces for advanced prosthetics.”

Sean simply nodded.

“Good Lord,” Carr said. “This could all be explained away by existing technology.” An incredulous expression crossed his features. He took off his glasses.

“That’s even more disturbing if you consider the implications,” Sean said.

“Computer-brain or computer-nerve interfaces make sense,” Kate said. “It’s technologically possible. But just because it’s possible doesn’t mean it’s easy. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Carr rubbed his eyes before putting his glasses back on. “These interfaces take a lot of scientific know-how. In other words, there are some very smart collaborators out there.”

“So the Variants don’t just have mindless collaborators working for them as grunts,” Sean said.

“It might be the opposite,” Kate replied after a swallow. “What if the monsters are working for the collaborators and scientists, and what if these collaborators are every bit as intelligent as the people on this ship?”

Sean shrugged but Carr shook his head.

“You really think that could be true, do you?” he said.

Kate hadn’t even considered the notion earlier, but the thought chilled her to the core.

“If it is true, then we’ve got to hurry and connect those computers to the webbing samples in our lab,” Carr said. “If we can decode the messages they’re sending, we can unravel everything.”

***

Night dragged on over Scott AFB. Team Ghost waited on the tarmac as the cold fingers of the late autumn breeze brushed over them. Stacks of ammo cans formed a fort around Dohi and the others waiting for a V-22 Osprey.

A pair of loadmasters waited beside them, ready to prepare the bird for Team Ghost’s departure as soon as it landed.

So far, all Team Ghost knew was that the aircraft would take them to New Orleans where they were tasked with destroying a mastermind suspected of organizing some of the Variant and collaborator activities. Beyond that, they didn’t know much about this new mission.

A distant pop like the sound of gunfire rattled somewhere far from the command building. Dohi tensed, waiting for the chorus of gunfire and Variant shrieks to erupt in response. Beside him, Mendez and Rico both readied their suppressed M4A1s.

“Maybe just another straggler,” Fitz said.

Ace lowered his shotgun and tightened the strap on the M4A1 slung over his back. “All this waiting has me on edge, man. And I need to take a damn shit.”

“Makes two of us,” Mendez said. He smirked. “I mean, on edge. Took care of my business earlier, old man.”

The team turned as soldiers rushed out of command between the razor wire and fences surrounding the building. Some lugged heavy machine guns into new positions; others carried ammo cans and crates of supplies to defensive positions. The patter of boots against pavement drilled the ground around them like a rainstorm.

“Better clench your cheeks,” Mendez told Ace. “Shit’s about to go down.”

“Ghost!” a voice called over the tarmac.

Lieutenant Mark Forster jogged toward them, a glowing tablet cradled in one arm. Two men flanked the officer.

“The Osprey is en route, ETA ten minutes,” Forster said.

He was out of breath, and Dohi didn’t think it was because of the run.

“The Variants are beginning their assault, mostly concentrated around the target cities,” Forster added. “Most aircraft were diverted to evac missions.”

Dohi thought of all the innocents in harm’s way, and the man he had put out of his misery. The image wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Three additional teams are already on their way to other mastermind locations,” the lieutenant continued. “With any luck, their success and yours will disrupt the Variants’ communication networks enough to hold back the hordes so more people can reach safety.”

The staccato burst of automatic weapons filled the night. Forster turned toward the direction of the gunfire. Once again, it settled without resulting in wailing alarms announcing a true attack.

Forster held out his tablet. “Gather around. We’ve got a lot to cover and not a lot of time to do it.”

The screen showed an aerial view of New Orleans. Most of the city looked flooded, each block and building its own island in a sea of muck-strewn water. At the center of the image was a large white dome, its roof fractured and missing in places.

“Earlier today, one of our drones captured an image of the mastermind in the French Quarter of the city.”

He showed the screen to the members of Team Ghost in turn. They all knew what they were looking at from their experience in Minneapolis.

Huge folds of tissue hung from a monstrosity with a face that looked like it had been melted in a nuclear explosion. Long tendrils of red webbing stretched from its flesh as it navigated between ruined hotels and restaurants.

“Why the hell didn’t you destroy it already?” Dohi asked.

“We tried, but the damn things are faster than they look,” Forster replied. “Still, we have reason to believe it isn’t far from the French Quarter. That’s why we’re sending you.”

“We’ll burn this bastard to a crisp, sir,” Mendez said.

Rico nodded while chewing her gum.

Forster’s radio buzzed and a voice came in clear after a burst of static. He pressed it to his ear to hear above the din of soldiers preparing the base for attack.

“Osprey’s on its descent,” he reported.

Dohi scanned the night, looking for a glimpse of the aircraft in the moon-soaked sky. He heard the roar of the craft’s engines before he saw it.

As soon as he began to point the Osprey out to the rest of the team, another chorus of gunfire blazed from a pair of machine gun nests and a guard tower not more than a mile north of their position.

This time the gunfire settled into a constant flurry.

Spotlights lanced through the darkness, illuminating wide swathes of the base outside the defensive barriers.

Forster stared for a beat, and in that moment Dohi almost felt bad for the man. In a few minutes, the terror from the night before would commence again.

The two soldiers accompanying Forster aimed their rifles toward the sounds of war, and the lieutenant drew his Sig Sauer M17.

“Form a defensive perimeter around the LZ!” he ordered. “Keep this area clear until Team Ghost is away.”

One of the two loadmasters trembled near the stack of ammo cans. He looked over at the Delta Force Operators, his lip quivering at the sound of the advancing monsters.

Dohi shared that fear though he worked to repress it. He couldn’t help but think of a quote that his father had told him.

A brave man dies but once, a coward many times.

“Look out!” a voice cried from one of the barricades.

A rocket streamed from somewhere beyond the fence. It slammed into one of the guard towers. A soldier flew backward from the tower, his limbs separating from his torso. Another fell out, fire coursing over his body.

“Collaborators!” Ace yelled.

More howls and screams erupted between the waves of gunfire.

The ground rumbled beneath their feet. One of the ammo cans fell from the stack, clinking to the tarmac with a metallic ring. A loadmaster bent to recover it.

Behind him, a hole appeared in the ground, asphalt and dirt giving away. An Alpha clawed itself up, its bat-like ears twitching, nostrils flaring, body covered in soil. The monster let out a roar followed by rapid clicking.

“Open fire!” Fitz yelled.

Rounds lanced into the Alpha’s flesh. It let out a screech as it dragged itself toward the loadmaster, blood spraying out of the bullet holes. Despite the storm of gunfire, it lifted a claw into the air, ready to slash down across the loadmaster’s chest.

Dohi aimed for the creature’s face and fired a burst, shattering bone. Blood gurgled out of the beast’s nostrils and mouth, and it finally collapsed.

“Osprey incoming!” Forster yelled. “Ghost, get ready!”

The aircraft came into view, lights glowing from the fuselage. It made a vertical descent toward them, the rear ramp already opening to allow a quick getaway.

Smaller beasts began climbing from the hole the Alpha had broken through. Their joints clicked, and their teeth gnashed together. Everything blurred around Dohi as Team Ghost sent a fusillade of rounds tearing into their ranks.

This was not the only hole that had opened up behind the defensive lines.

Others appeared across the airfield, swallowing asphalt and even people rushing to new positions. Alphas emerged from the earthen craters, shaking off dirt from the long tendrils snaking over their bodies. Legions of armored juvenile Variants followed behind them.

A loud thump sounded as the Osprey’s wheels touched down.

“Good luck, Ghost! Kill that motherfucker for all of us!” Forster roared.

The loadmasters and Ghost rushed onto the aircraft, carrying their supplies. A pair of crew chiefs helped throw the ammo cans onto the deck. The activity attracted the Variants like bugs to a light.

Even with the gunfire resounding from other units scattered around the airfield, the beasts were almost within striking distance. Forster fired his M17 into two of the monsters that came bounding on all fours. His guards continued to flank him, their rifles blazing to keep the monsters at bay and buy Ghost time.

One of the loadmasters ran back to the stack of supplies for another crate. Before he made it, a lunging Variant tackled him and sunk its claws between his ribs.

Dohi killed the beast, firing from within the Osprey, but the damage was done. The loadmaster took a final breath before going limp.

The other man hefted on a final ammo can. As soon as he did, a Variant wrapped its claws around him, pulling him backward.

“No!” Dohi yelled. He tried to get a shot but it was too late. The beast sunk its teeth into the man’s neck and ripped out a chunk of flesh and artery. Blood sprayed across the interior of the Osprey.

The aircraft lifted off as a swarm of the beasts consumed the dying loadmasters while Forster and his men retreated. Team Ghost continued to fire at the advancing beasts from the troop hold next to a crew chief on a mounted M240.

Creatures threw themselves at the tiltrotor craft, raking their claws along the outside. Dohi trained his fire on the diseased beasts now surrounding the lieutenant and his two soldiers. One of the men went to change his magazine and was shredded by a pair of deadly claws.

Forster and the other two men disappeared under a wave of gray flesh.

Dohi choked out a breath, watching again from the sky while men died below. Once again, there was nothing he could do to save them. He couldn’t even end their misery with a bullet.

Fitz bowed his head, and Rico put a hand on his shoulder as they retreated into the Osprey with Ace. Mendez remained at the rear lift gate with the crew chief, raining fire into the hordes.

Dohi brought his rifle back up with a new magazine and joined them. He fired where he had last seen the three brave soldiers that had given their lives for Team Ghost.

“Incoming!” one of the pilots yelled.

Dohi spotted the cloud of smoke from a launched LAW rocket. With a lurch, the craft suddenly decelerated hard and then descended just enough for the rocket to careen overhead.

The rear ramp was almost closed as the pilot started to pull them back into the sky. But now they were within an arm’s distance of the monsters again.

A juvenile leapt and thrust itself through the gap between the rear ramp and the fuselage. It bristled with claws and flesh covered in tough armor. Slotted yellow eyes fixed on the crew chief as it let loose a screech and slammed into the man.

Wild gunfire in a space like this was far too risky, but Dohi refused to let another man die for them tonight. He drew his hatchet and slammed it into the armored skull. The monster crashed against the bulkhead.

Dohi ripped the blade out and brought it down again. Bone split, flesh peeled, and blood poured from the gaping skull wounds. It still managed to snap at him, and he brought the hatchet down again, and again, until he had opened up a red canyon in the skull.

Brain matter sloshed out over the deck.

“Ace, Rico, help him,” Fitz said.

The duo began tending to the crew chief’s lacerations. The man writhed on the deck. None of his wounds appeared fatal, but he was definitely hurting.

All things considered, he was lucky to be alive.

Team Ghost was just as lucky.

Dohi stepped back to a window for a view of command. The base had quickly transformed into a war zone, leaving the soldiers in the path of the monsters.

Through a window, Dohi saw the flicker of dozens of rifles around command.

One by one, the glimmer of muzzle flashes disappeared.

A few sparks of gunfire cut out from a final guard tower, but it too vanished in a bright explosion from a LAW rocket. The resulting fireball illuminated a landscape covered in crumpled bodies.

Variants stormed the base, skittering up the main building and consuming the final defenses like an angry colony of ants.

Dohi tried to comfort himself with more words that his grandfather had passed onto him from their tribe.

There is no death, only a change of worlds.

But from what Dohi had seen in the tunnels, from what he had seen down there, he could not find solace in those souls “changing worlds” when the transition looked so terrifyingly horrible.

Accompanied by the collaborators, the horde of monsters had easily overrun the final defenses of the base and consumed the command building.

“Lord have Mercy on their souls,” Ace said.

“They didn’t stand a chance,” Rico said.

“I hope their sacrifice was worth it,” Mendez said.

“That depends on us now,” Fitz replied. “I just hope the other outposts and bases fare better than this one did.”

— 10 —

Fischer never got the opportunity to share a drink with Tran and Chase in Galveston. Instead, they were already on their way to work to Outpost El Paso in a C-23 Sherpa with Sergeant Sharp and a few of Cornelius’ soldiers. The propellers buzzed as they began their descent.

Coming in at the dead of night, Fischer was thankful he had grabbed a couple hours of shuteye on the flight. He had a feeling he was going to need it with this new mission. General Cornelius had given him no easy task.

Moonlight illuminated the craggy Texas landscape, nearly silhouetting the Franklin mountains overlooking the Briggs Army Airfield within the outpost.

“Almost there,” Sharp said. He rotated for a better view, his new blue armband showing.

Fischer valued loyalty. Chase and Tran had proven their fealty to him time and again. Usually he would be skeptical of a man like Sharp who so quickly abandoned his post to join another’s army. But as the Sherpa’s wheels touched down on the runway, he couldn’t blame the sergeant for joining up with Cornelius.

The retired general knew how to get things done and might be one of the best hopes the Allied States had of surviving the Variants.

The plane’s prop engines wound down, and it taxied to a stop. As soon as the side door opened, the chilling night air flooded the plane’s interior. Fischer stood, following Sharp and the soldiers out.

A large man in military fatigues waited on the tarmac.

“Welcome to El Paso,” he said in a gravelly voice.

The soldier offered a hand to Fischer as he spoke with a strong northwest Texas drawl that might’ve been shared by one of Fischer’s neighbors.

“Pleased to have y’all here. I’m Lieutenant Riggs, in charge of organizing defensive operations. Born and bred right here in El Paso.”

“Good to meet a fellow local,” Fischer said.

“I know the city and the land around it like the back of my hand. Still, I can’t tell you how glad we are to have your boys working with us.”

“Honored to help with the war efforts,” Fischer said. “Anything I can do to kill some Variants is all right by me. Have my men already setup the prospecting equipment?”

“Yes, sir. Follow me.” Riggs motioned to a pair of Humvees idling near the airstrip.

The two-vehicle convoy took off, racing away from the airfield. They passed through darkened city streets; their headlights illuminated craters in the ground. Those craters looked like Variant tunnels that had recently been filled in. Scree piled up next to broken adobe houses, and bullet-hole pocked cars lined many of the streets.

“We took a beating last night,” Riggs said without turning.

“We did too,” Fischer said. “Lost a lot of good men myself.”

“Cornelius warned me you didn’t have enough to adequately outfit these trucks. But he promised you’d make do. Seems like your men have done just that.”

Spotlights from guard towers probed the darkness. Banks of floodlights hooked up to rumbling diesel generators provided a wall of light over the huge concrete ramparts topped with razor wire looping around the outpost.

“We’re headed straight into Variant country at the foot of the mountains,” Riggs said.

“With all these tunnels, seems to me like everything’s become Variant country now,” Fischer said.

“If this works tonight, we can start reclaiming what’s rightfully ours.” Riggs held up his radio. “Bravo 1, Echo 1 actual. We’re approaching the gate now.”

The radio crackled with a reply. “Copy, Echo 1. You’re clear to proceed. Good luck out there.”

A huge steel gate rolled back with the assistance of a growling motor. Heavily armed guards stood outside the entrance.

“Lost about a quarter of our men last night,” Riggs said.

“But no contacts yet tonight?” Tran asked.

“Not out here,” Riggs replied. “As late as 1800 we were still dealing with a few stragglers that hadn’t retreated. They were mostly hanging around the mountains.”

“How are the other outposts faring?” Chase asked.

“We’re receiving reports the Variants have launched attacks,” Riggs said. “Size and scope vary, but safe to say, if that’s any indication, we’ve got to be ready for anything. This will be the ultimate testing ground for the equipment.”

“From the sounds of it, we don’t have time for testing and we need to get this tech deployed around the outposts ASAP,” Chase said.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Riggs rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “Got to prove it works though, and to do that, we got to go where the beasts are.”

“Trial by fire,” Fischer said.

A rooster tail of dirt kicked up from the first vehicle as it tore over the dusty terrain beyond the walls. The Humvee bucked as they rumbled off-road and the headlights captured dried tumbleweeds and prickly cacti.

Farther ahead a series of mobile light posts had been setup. Beside them was a truck that looked like a militarized RV with long arrays of netted cables stretching across the ground.

“Ah, the geophone truck,” Fischer said.

While most of the netted cables stretched into the darkness, he knew sensors were scattered along them, capable of picking up vibrating seismic waves coursing through the ground.

Five men were already stationed around the vehicle with weapons, patrolling the rock-strewn landscape. A machine gunner lay prone atop the truck.

The two Humvees filed in next to the mobile unit. Fischer opened the door to let himself out. Tran and Chase trailed him into the rocky landscape with Riggs.

“We’ve also got scouts posted with NVGs and thermal binos around each of the trucks,” Riggs said.

He gestured to another three trucks scattered in the distance, each with their own set of floodlights. They appeared to be a cross between a lunar buggy and a Soviet-style Katyusha multiple rocket launcher truck. Those were the vibroseis trucks, each equipped with a large piston-driven shaker capable of generating seismic waves.

“You think one squad per truck is going to be enough to protect them when those monsters attack?” Fischer asked.

“It’ll have to be,” Riggs said. “We can’t divert more manpower from base given the reports of attacks elsewhere.”

“Seems pretty risky for valuable equipment like this,” Chase said, eyes narrowed. “Especially if you’re expecting an attack.”

“Worst case, we call in air support and hightail it out,” Riggs said. “I’d rather lose equipment than men. It’s not ideal, but it’s what we’ve got to work with.”

“Then let’s not waste any time huffing about it,” Fischer said. He set off for the geophone truck, spotting familiar faces working at the instruments inside the back cabin. He raised a hand in greeting, and they waved back.

Green screens glowed in front of each. Soon those monitors would come to life when the thumper trucks activated, generating vibrations deep into the ground.

Depending on how those seismic waves bounced toward the geophone truck’s sensors, the engineers could identify the density of rock and earth beneath their feet. That meant it could also detect the hollow cavities where there was no rock. Exactly the kind of signal they expected from tunnels dug by the Variants.

“If we can prove this system works, then we can save a lot of lives by tracking Variant tunnels before they burrow under our walls,” Riggs said.

“And when we detect burrowing Variants, I’m assuming you have the means to deal with them?” Fischer asked.

Riggs cracked a cocky grin. “We’ve had the past few decades to perfect bunker-busting bombs. You sure as hell bet that if we find the monsters underground, we can blow them sky high.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Tran said.

Fischer grabbed a metal bar on the back of the geophone truck and hoisted himself into the open back door. He slid in beside the two engineers, and Riggs climbed in with him. Sharp, Tran, Chase, and the others formed a perimeter around the vehicle to reinforce the meager security forces.

“Good to see you all made it out here safely,” Fischer said to the engineers.

“Likewise. We’re glad to have you with us, sir,” the nearest engineer said, a portly man in his early fifties with a crown of graying hair. “Everything is ready to go when you are.”

“Time’s already ticking by, so tell the thumpers to start pounding ground.”

“Yes, sir,” the engineer said. He relayed Fischer’s commands to the other trucks, and the burble of their engines echoed over the bleak landscape. Each time the thumpers slammed against the ground, Fischer could feel the tremor pass up through the geophone truck and into his bones.

“Strange sensation,” Riggs said. “I feel like a T-Rex is running at us.”

The thumping continued as if the trucks were playing the Earth like a bass drum. Fischer looked over the engineers’ shoulders, watching the resulting signals passing to the geophone truck.

“What can you see?” Riggs asked, squinting at the screens.

“Sure ain’t any oil down here,” Fischer said. “No natural gas deposits, if I’m reading it right.”

“Yes, sir,” the graying engineer said. “Nothing so far. No aberrations to indicate tunnels.”

“Better not be,” Riggs said. “We collapsed the ones we found earlier. Took more effort than I’d like to admit since we relied solely on the holes the Alphas left behind. If Variants are coming back to attack El Paso tonight, they’ll still have to pass back this way.”

“Your men did a damn fine job then—” Fisher stopped, spotting something on the screen.

Lines bounced around, indicating varying depths and densities of the ground. One of those lines had suddenly dropped. That meant there was a void there. A sure sign of a natural gas deposit if it had been hundreds of feet deeper.

But at only a few feet beneath the earth’s surface, he knew better.

“Is that one of them?” Fischer asked.

“It’s an anomaly, certainly,” the engineer said. “But there are also a few small caverns around these parts. Nothing unusual.”

The thumper trucks continued sending seismic waves coursing through the Earth. Fischer blinked at the lines zig-zagging across the engineers’ screens. The shapes became mesmerizing, almost hypnotic as the engineers surveyed the land.

He thought he heard a howl break through the night air. But the diesel engines and thumping from the machines made it difficult to tell whether it was real or not. He looked around at the others. Their attention remained on the screens.

Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. His exhaustion was getting the better of him, like it did in the tunnels back under his fields. He could still hear his wife’s voice now, warning him danger was at hand.

“Keep an eye on that so-called cavern,” Fischer said.

Their efforts continued for another thirty minutes as they identified potential sites to investigate, but nothing that leapt out as Variant activity.

Then the first engineer leaned back, mouth open, his fingers frozen at his keyboard. “Sir, the anomaly. It’s growing… and… and it’s headed straight toward us.”

Riggs started barking orders into his radio, telling his men to be on alert.

“We’ve detected the formation of what looks like five tunnels in total. The Variants must be burrowing as we speak.”

Fischer turned to Riggs. “We got the tunnel locations you wanted. Now how about sending them all to a fiery hell like you promised?”

“You give me the coordinates, I’ll send the bombs,” Riggs said.

“We’re tracking them now,” the engineer said.

Riggs called in the coordinates as the engineer relayed them. The tunnels crawled forward, drawing ever closer to the trucks and Outpost El Paso. Fischer couldn’t help but wonder if this was happening across the country.

“Where’s that fire support?” he snapped.

Riggs twisted his wrist and looked at his watch. “Thirty seconds.”

Those seconds passed by agonizingly slowly. Fischer waited for the ground to open before them, Alphas pushing out followed by a horde of wart-covered Variants clawing for fresh meat.

A voice sprang in his mind.

Leave! Now! Go!

It was his wife’s voice again. More adamant now. He had failed to heed her warning back in the tunnels under Fischer Fields, and it had nearly gotten everyone on his team killed.

You can’t stay here.

The tunnels grew slowly. Fischer’s heart thundered. To him, watching the screens was like witnessing the mushroom cloud of a distant atomic bomb, seeing the devastation that would soon overcome them. But he was unable to do anything to stop it except to pray.

Leave!

He considered telling his men to stop. To retreat, but he held steady.

Another few seconds passed, and a sonic boom tore overhead. Fischer nearly jumped at the roar. Somewhere above them, like dragons in the night, the fighter jets tore through the sky.

A flash of light exploded over the horizon.

Another four followed in quick succession, more blinding than any of the floodlights around the trucks. The ground rumbled violently.

The relentless sound blasted over the truck, assaulting Fischer’s eardrums. He stood tall, watching the screens. The vibrations from the bunker buster bombs sent a crash of signals through the ground and into the geophone truck, throwing off their tunnel detection abilities.

Fischer waited for the signals to settle. The engineers stared at the monitor, neither of them blinking.

Ten seconds passed before the seismic waves from the bombs dissipated, leaving only the heavy smack of the thumper trucks to shake the ground. On the screens, the five tunnels appeared again.

But this time they were much larger.

Fischer stroked his mustache nervously, anticipating movement from those new caverns in the ground. But the earth beneath them remained lifeless.

“Sir, I think we’re clear,” said one of the engineers, in a surprised voice as if he didn’t believe it himself. “No indications of anomalies. No expansion of the original tunnels.”

“I’d presume them Variants are all crispy critters now,” Fischer said.

“You’re sure?” Riggs said.

Fischer leaned over the engineer’s shoulder to study the screen. “Dead as door nails, Lieutenant.”

“Ho-ly shit,” Riggs said, looking away from the screen. “Sir, I have a feeling you and your men are going to find yourselves very busy over the next few weeks. If this technology works this good all the time, it could very well be the thing we need to win this war.”

“Maybe,” Fischer said. “I sure hope you got a big supply of those bunker busters, ’cause we’re going to need a hell of a lot of them.”

***

“Our F-35s have eliminated the targets outside of Outpost Portland,” reported General Souza.

Victorious cheers and applause filled the briefing room. President Ringgold wanted to share in the celebration with her staff and the officers, but the leaden weight of dread held her back.

For every victory, they had ten more setbacks, and she still hadn’t heard anything new about Beckham and Horn since their disappearance.

Not to mention the reports of new Variant attacks at other outposts. The news kept hitting like a relentless hailstorm.

Scott AFB was already gone. Wiped off the map just hours earlier.

Her eyes darted back to the wall-mounted monitor where a digital map of the Allied States displayed the now remaining eighty-three outposts. The six main target cities of Minneapolis, Chicago, Lincoln, Kansas City, Indianapolis, and Columbus were again under full-scale attack.

But at least Team Ghost had escaped Scott’s collapse. By now they would be closing in on their new target to find another mastermind.

She had to keep reminding herself that while the Variants were on the offensive, so were the brave men and women of the military.

Tonight she felt a desire to be out there, fighting alongside those who placed themselves in harm’s way.

“Sometimes it’s better to craft a strong strategy for the troops on the ground rather than standing there with them and pulling a trigger. A good leader knows the difference,” Beckham had told her during the first war.

Remembering those words helped assuage the guilt she felt. After all, she had a plan. She had a way that humanity could survive this mess.

The science team just needed to tap into the network of the masterminds. If Kate and Carr achieved that and if the tunnel detecting equipment worked for Fischer and his men, then they had a chance at stopping this madness before it consumed the Allied States. Especially if General Cornelius pulled through on his somewhat mysterious promise of potentially having access to even more powerful technology to bolster their defenses.

“Madam President, I just got a report that the final defenses of Outpost Kansas City have fallen,” announced General Souza. “We’ve got live footage from one of our teams in the air.”

The words made Ringgold’s stomach knot.

Lieutenant Festa turned on a wall-mounted monitor. The view came on screen with an image of the interstate. Hundreds of headlights from evacuating vehicles glimmered on the road. The footage turned dark as the pilots circled for a better vantage point.

They had established this outpost six years ago after the military cleaned up the area. Its strategic location on the Missouri River made transportation of resources easier. The vast network of sheltered limestone caverns also proved useful for storage for so many local businesses.

By almost all measures, it was the biggest outpost in the Allied States with multiple districts, including clearly demarcated residential, business, and industrial zones. The river and roadways provided multiple convenient routes to transport resources.

“Please tell me we got everyone into the caves,” Ringgold said.

“Most of them, and the outpost commander has dedicated a good chunk of forces to protect the caves,” Festa said. “We’ll evacuate more of them tomorrow when daylight drives the beasts back.”

“Tomorrow…” Ringgold whispered.

For much of the country there wouldn’t be a tomorrow.

“Who has a SITREP on the other outposts? I want to know if we have identified or captured collaborators,” she said.

Festa held up a marked-up map. He was helping oversee the prioritizing of outpost defenses and evacuations.

“The few that have been captured have committed suicide, and we haven’t identified any new cells,” he said. “But we’re working hard on this, Madam President, I assure you.”

“Redouble your efforts on that front,” Ringgold said, holding back a sigh. “Now how about the physical threat of an attack?”

“As you know, we’re moving more of the survivors east as the outposts around the western target cities are overrun,” he said. “While the current attacks are mostly centered around these six targets, there are smaller Variant hordes that seem to be working alongside collaborators to hit places like Outpost Portland, Outpost Boston, etc.”

“The safest places to move these people are locations with geographical or geological attributes that make it difficult for Variants to tunnel under,” Lemke said.

The vice president noted outposts including Norfolk, Kent Island, and Manchester.

“We’re going to start evacuating more people to these areas and concentrating our defenses there as a last resort,” he said.

The aerial footage came back online. This time, the helicopter was flying over the outer defenses along the banks of the river. The fences and walls had collapsed, and the minefields were nothing but smoking craters. Dark holes with halos of fresh dirt and rock marred the inside of the outpost where Variants had burst through the ground.

The chopper turned back to the interstate. Muzzle flashes sparked from people abandoning their vehicles and trying to hold back the hordes of beasts.

Cortez put her hand over her mouth.

Armored juveniles raced down the road, chasing helpless people fleeing the devastation. Suddenly a section of the interstate burst with the bright glow of explosions. Fighter jets had dropped their payloads to buy the survivors time. For those already captured by the juveniles, it was a swift and merciful end to their suffering.

Another round of bombs burst across the interstate and then the chopper turned away from the view.

As the hours passed, the other six outposts around the target cities crumbled, their defenses failing, and the Variants spreading like a virus.

The irony wasn’t lost on her.

Festa and other officers worked to keep the map updated, but by two in the morning, almost every outpost in the Allied States was under some degree of attack.

A surprise call came just when Ringgold felt her brain boiling with frustration and fear.

Soprano handed her a satellite phone.

“Ringgold here,” she said.

“Madam President, it’s General Cornelius. I have an update on our work in El Paso.”

“I could use some good news. What’s going on, General?”

“It is good, ma’am. The technology works. Fischer and his men were able to not only detect tunnels, but we also used that data to destroy them before the monsters could even surface.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to hear this. How soon before we can start deploying these measures?”

“I’m going to need help getting this equipment to the outposts where it’s needed most. I think we can also locate better technology to augment these defenses from some old Department of Defense laboratories in California.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Time is what I need most, and I’m afraid we don’t have that.” The General paused and then said, “I’ve got five hundred of my troops ready to deploy where you see fit. What I don’t have is the aircraft to make all this happen.”

“I think we can handle that,” she said. “Let me speak to my team. I’ll call you later when we’ve decided on our course of action.”

“Okay. Thank you, Madam President.”

“Talk soon,” Ringgold said. She set the phone down and described the request to everyone in the room.

“I won’t be able to identify the outposts where we need those troops the most until sunrise,” Festa said.

“Not until we know which ones are left…” Ringgold said, realization hitting her like a brick.

“If this strategy works as well as General Cornelius claims, then we need to make that a priority mission,” Lemke said.

“That will require rearranging our resources and aircraft,” Souza interjected. “Which means pulling some off evacuations.”

Being president for almost eight years had taught her she often had to choose the greater good over individuals, but in this case they were talking about leaving thousands of people stranded in order to save tens of thousands.

“If we don’t get that equipment where we need it, then all we’re doing is prolonging the inevitable by evacuating people,” Lemke said. “I’m afraid we have no choice but to resource aircraft for this new mission.”

Ringgold knew the guilt would crush her later, but for now, there was no other choice in her mind.

Lemke gave her a hard nod of approval.

“Authorized,” she said.

The room broke into a bustle of activity as the staff and officers erupted in conversation. Ringgold sat watching in silence, considering the implications of her orders.

“Ma’am,” came a voice.

Cortez bent down next to Ringgold. “We just got word that Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn have made it back to Outpost Portland safely.”

“Thank God,” Ringgold said. She welcomed the additional good news.

“Lieutenant Niven said they took on an entire horde of Variants…” Cortez said. “That’s how the Iron Hogs knew where to call in the air support.”

Ringgold twisted to look back at the younger woman.

“Guess those two aren’t so retired anymore,” Cortez said, flashing a smile.

Ringgold smiled back and then got out of her chair. She walked over to the hatch, a voice calling out after her when she reached it.

“Madam President, where are you going?” Soprano asked.

“To see Doctor Lovato to let her know her husband is safe. At the way things are turning out, hopefully she’ll have some good news for us.”

“All the science in the world won’t save us if there are more collaborators out there ready to unleash hell,” Lemke said.

The vice president was right, and Ringgold knew it. At this point, she wasn’t sure there was anything that could save the Allied States, but she would rather die than hand it over to the monsters.

— 11 —

The thuds from the not so distant explosions had passed over an hour ago, maybe longer, but the group of collaborators were still fuming across the chamber from Timothy.

They stood near piles of collapsed ceiling. Several of the pieces had landed on human prisoners, tearing them from the wall and crushing them to pulp on the concrete floor.

It was a mercy, Timothy thought.

“He’s going to be furious…” said the short man in his Brooklyn accent. “We got to blame someone for this. Pete seems like the logical choice. You boys got to back that up, okay?”

He paced in front of the passage that the men had entered through. The other two collaborators, one with a Red Sox hat, and the other wearing a stocking cap both sat on crates.

A radio crackled across the space, but Timothy couldn’t make out the transmission. He strained to listen, but he was still groggy. He had passed out earlier, and had been jolted awake by those explosions. All he heard was the response from the short collaborator.

“Oh man, this is so fucked up,” he said. “Everything has gone to shit, and someone is going to have to answer for this… one of us… one of us is going to be fed to them…”

The other two men got off their crates and paced nervously. From what Timothy had gathered so far, a group of their soldiers had engaged a truck back on the same road he was kidnapped.

But those collaborators had never returned. Someone had killed them and apparently taken off with explosives meant to be used on the outpost.

Not only that, but the Variant hordes they had deployed to attack Outpost Portland, had been destroyed—probably by whatever had caused those explosions Timothy had heard.

Someone had severely messed up the collaborators’ battle plan, and Timothy couldn’t be happier. He held back a grin.

In the past he might have thought something like this was Beckham and Horn’s doing. But they had abandoned him, Bo, Donna, and everyone else they had sworn to protect.

Someone else… someone with real balls was responsible for the badass attack that had killed those raiders and resulted in the utter demolition of the Variant horde.

Another man suddenly walked into the chamber wearing camouflage and a black ski mask. He stripped the mask off, and long dreadlocked hair fell over his shoulders.

The other three collaborators all took a step backward.

This must be the real leader, Timothy thought.

The man they all feared.

“The attack on the outpost failed,” said the new man, almost calmly. “We lost one wave of beasts and two demo crews. I’ve called back the other teams, and the rest of the beasts are safe for now.”

He looked away from his soldiers to scan the crushed prisoners.

“What a fucking disaster,” he said. Anger rose in his voice in his next words. “The master’s wrath is going to come down hard.”

“Master will want a head,” the short man said in his Brooklyn accent. “It’ll be one of us, won’t it?”

“Don’t be such a pussy, Vin,” said the man with dreadlocks. “The only way our heads don’t end up on pikes is if we show strength.”

“I’m no pussy, Pete,” said Vin.

“You’re sure acting like one,” Pete said. He flipped his dreadlocks over his back and looked to the other two collaborators. “With tonight’s fuckup, we got to show we still have plenty of meat to draw from at the outpost.”

Vin looked across the room, and Pete followed his gaze to Timothy. The dreadlocked man took a step forward.

Timothy squirmed in the restraints, sensing whatever happened next wasn’t going to be good.

“Check the others,” Pete instructed.

The four collaborators fanned across the space but Pete stopped a few feet in front of Timothy.

“He’s a real wiggler,” Vin said. “Like a worm.”

“Only one to survive the Variants in the forest,” said Red Sox hat.

“So he’s a fighter,” said Pete. He leaned forward. Once again, Timothy was being studied and scrutinized by a monster in the chamber.

Judging by the way the collaborators kept their distance from Pete, even they were scared of him. This guy was not someone Timothy would want to be in a room alone with. He exuded confidence and terror.

Maybe he was the one that had led the attack on Peaks Island.

Maybe he killed my father.

Rage warmed his chest. A spike of adrenaline helped him fight harder against the glue holding him in place.

“Yeah… he’s a fighter,” Pete said.

“That’s right, and I’ll kill that wannabe gangster over there if you let me go,” Timothy said.

For a moment Pete simply glared at Timothy, but then his face twisted into a grim smirk. “You got balls, kid.”

“Not a kid,” Timothy said. He directed his eyes at Vin. “And that guy is a real fucking coward if you ask me.”

He raised his voice and added, “You should have heard what he said before you got here.”

“What the fuck!” Vin yelled, his voice echoing.

He ran over, clearly caught off guard. Before he could get to Timothy, Pete stuck out his arm to hold Vin back.

“He’s lying, Pete,” Vin said. He spat on Timothy. “He’ just a lyin’ little rat.”

Pete pressed his arm harder against Vin’s chest.

“Get back,” Pete growled. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

“He was going to throw you under the bus for whatever is happening out there,” Timothy said.

“That’s a fucking lie,” Vin protested in a nasally voice.

Timothy would have shrugged if he could have. “Just ask the other two guys if you don’t believe me.”

Pete looked over at Red Sox and Stocking Cap. “Well, boys? Kid telling the truth?”

Neither made a move.

“I find out you are lying to me too, all three of you are being fed to our fanged friends. So again, the kid telling the truth?”

They both nodded, nearly cowering as they did.

Vin looked at them both, and then turned back to Pete who had drawn a knife. Before he could so much as mutter a word of protest, Pete sliced Vin’s neck from ear to ear.

Blood gushed from the wound. Vin reached up to stop the flow, mouth opening like a fish on land, and dropped to his knees, eyes pinned on Timothy.

Timothy smirked at the dying collaborator, hoping he suffered as he crumpled to the floor. Blood spread around him like a broken shadow as he writhed.

Pete leaned in close to Timothy.

“So you are part of the militia at Portland?” he asked.

A nod.

“You were part of it,” Pete corrected. “You’re the type of dumb kid thinks he’s invincible, aren’t you?”

Timothy didn’t reply.

“That’s why the military has always had an age limit and recruits from high schools. I know. I was one of them kids…” Pete snorted. “Somehow you got lucky to survive this far… Or, maybe not, maybe you can fight and know how to stay alive.”

Timothy raised his chin slightly. He didn’t want this guy’s compliments. He wanted to kill the fucker. But if sucking up gave him an opportunity to do just that, he’d take it.

“I respect that, but I don’t like rats,” Pete said. “Still, some rats are bigger than others. Especially the kind that try to stab you in the back.”

He again looked at Vin. The man was twitching, his face bleach white as the final seconds of life faded away.

“Guess our team has a new opening.” Pete returned his gaze to Timothy. “You might be lucky enough to join our army if you play your cards right.”

The guy with the Red Sox hat took it off. “The most powerful in all of history—the army that the military only dreamed of when they created VX-99.”

“An army of super soldiers and genetically superior beings,” said Pete. “Come over here, Alfred.”

The man with the stocking cap joined Pete. He took it off, exposing a balding head with long thin hair. He pushed the cap to his chest, and reached out with his other hand to Timothy’s forehead like a priest might during a blessing.

“You’ve been saved to help with the great reckoning,” Alfred said in an almost soothing voice. “To help fight for the Land of the New Gods.”

He let his hand fall away from Timothy’s forehead but held his gaze for several long beats before stepping away.

“Get him down from there, Whiskey,” Pete said.

The man with the Red Sox hat put it back on and moved over with a knife. He used the blade to start cutting Timothy out of the glue prison.

“My name’s Nick,” he said. “They call me Whiskey sometimes.”

The man’s breath sure smelled like his nickname.

When Timothy was free, his numb body fell forward. He crashed to the ground in front of Vin’s corpse, the man’s dead eyes staring up at him.

In time, Timothy knew all the collaborators would be doing the exact same thing. This was his chance to get in his enemy’s head. He would have his revenge, and he would become the soldier his father would be proud of.

The men surrounded him and dragged him up to his feet. He staggered but kept his balance as his vision cleared. Nick pulled out a water bottle and handed it over.

Timothy didn’t want their charity, but he needed it to survive. He snatched the bottle and gulped it down until he choked. When he finished coughing, he took another sip, this time slower.

“Easy, kid,” Nick mumbled in a deep voice.

Wiping droplets off his chin, Timothy handed the bottle back.

“Let’s go,” Pete said.

The dreadlocked man led them from the chamber.

Timothy stumbled several times, his muscles weak from neglect and his legs numb, but he managed to keep going. As he passed the crushed and mangled prisoners, he kept his eyes forward.

The circular room emptied into a long passage way. Candle wax bled from sconces along the concrete walls and pooled on the floor.

Pete led the way with Alfred and Nick following Timothy.

They passed multiple steel doors, all of them rusty. Several were open, and Timothy glimpsed living quarters, pantries, and supply rooms.

Finally, they came to the entrance of another chamber, sealed off with mesh wire. Pete flipped on a flashlight. The beam penetrated the inky black beyond the wiring and hit a concrete wall covered in dark stains.

“Come here,” Pete said, jerking his chin.

Timothy stepped up to look into the chamber. This one was deeper, like a silo that plunged so far into the Earth he couldn’t see the bottom, even with the light angled downward. Pete pulled out a remote that looked like the one the men had used to control the Variant that had nearly eaten Timothy’s face.

A rustling sounded, followed by what sounded like gusting wind. A shiver coursed through Timothy’s flesh. He wanted to back away but a hand on his back kept him in front of the mesh wire.

Pete clicked a button on the remote.

A shriek exploded up the silo, echoing loudly. It faded away, replaced by the rustling that quickly grew to a strong din like a tornado rising up through the chamber.

Timothy couldn’t remember ever hearing anything like it.

All at once, hundreds of birds surged upward, flocking around the exterior of the mesh, some of them flapping into the wire.

Timothy flinched, but the collaborator’s hand kept him where he was. Pete tilted the flashlight to illuminate the creatures. The glow revealed these weren’t birds.

They were bats.

Both Nick and Pete laughed, but Alfred remained silent.

“This… this is your army?” Timothy asked.

“Not exactly,” Pete said.

He pushed Timothy against the wire.

“Have a good look, kid,” he said.

Bats screeched in his face, their wings beating the air.

“Cross me, and I promise I won’t slit your neck like Vin,” Pete said.

Pete removed his hand from Timothy’s back. Timothy staggered back a few feet to put distance between him and the wire, watching the colony of twisted creatures rattling the mesh wall.

“Ever seen hundreds of starving bats infected with VX-99 swarm a human?” Nick asked.

Timothy shook his head.

“Cross me, and you’ll find yourself on the other side of this wire, kid,” Pete said. He turned away and nodded at Nick.

“Get our rabid little friends ready, Whiskey, it’s time for round two,” Pete said.

***

Beckham and Horn sat in lawn chairs outside of Corthell Hall at the University of Southern Maine. At four in the morning, they were both exhausted, but Beckham couldn’t manage a wink of sleep. His head pounded from his injury, making it all the more difficult.

Knowing Timothy was still out there, or more likely dead, dragged heavily on his mind. He had failed in his promise to Jake that he would look after his son. He had failed Timothy.

Those thoughts haunted him. When he had made a call to the USS George Johnson, he was almost glad that Kate had been in the middle of an experiment. As much as he wanted to talk to her, he didn’t want to admit he had let Timothy down. Instead, he’d just made sure that someone would tell her that he and Horn were okay.

“His sacrifice helped protect the city, at least,” Horn had said earlier. “If it weren’t for us going after him, those Variants might have made it to the outpost.”

Horn was right, but that didn’t make Beckham feel better.

He massaged the knot on his scalp and looked at the tents spread out across the campus lawn. Somewhere in one of those tents, Bo and Donna were sleeping.

While Beckham couldn’t see them, there were snipers on every rooftop watching over these people like angels in the night—angels with M107A1 fifty caliber rifles and a few M72 LAW rockets.

Snoring that sounded like chainsaws chewing wood distracted him from his thoughts, ensuring he wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon. He glanced over at Horn. The big man had finally managed to drift off.

It wasn’t surprising. Big Horn could sleep through a firefight.

Beckham closed his eyes, hoping for some sleep too, but it simply wouldn’t come. Besides the snoring, he was too worried about things outside of his control, including Kate. He worried about what he would say to her when he returned and what their next steps would be.

He got up from his chair, deciding to head back up to the rooftop of Corthell Hall. That’s where he would find Ruckley.

When he got there, she was standing near the edge of the roof with a pair of FLIR BN-10 thermal binoculars scanning the city. One of the snipers glanced back at him as he approached, but then turned back to his scope.

“How’s it look out there?” Beckham asked.

He approached Ruckley as she lowered the binos.

“So far no sign of another attack,” she replied. “We’re lucky. Sounds like outposts are still being hit hard.”

Another voice came behind Beckham.

“You trying to sneak away from me, boss,” Horn grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t want to wake you,” Beckham said.

Horn shrugged and walked over to the edge with him.

“At least it’s quiet now,” Beckham said.

“I’d say we got lucky for tonight being quiet,” Ruckley said, “but luck has nothing to do with it. That was all thanks to you two.”

“Wish Lieutenant Niven would have sent scouts out to look for the collaborators after those airstrikes,” Beckham said. “Now is the perfect time to hunt those assholes and look for their rat nests.”

Ruckley frowned. “Look, I want to find the collaborators as much as you guys do, but we’re on defense right now. We simply don’t have enough people to risk missions without better intel.”

She was right, and while Beckham knew that, he also remembered the risks they took during the first war against the Variants. Some were stupid, but others paid off. Tonight was stupid and had paid off.

Ruckley sighed. “Glad you guys came up here, because I got some news.”

“Good, I hope,” Horn said.

“Afraid not,” Ruckley replied.

Beckham braced himself.

“Scott AFB fell a few hours ago,” she said. “The Variants hit them hard and fast, overwhelming the command building in less than an hour.”

“What about Team Ghost?” Beckham stammered.

“They made it out. They were launching a new mission when the attack came.”

Hearing Fitz and the remaining team members were alive was a relief, but finding out they were being tossed into the fray again was another gut punch.

“Where?” Horn asked.

Ruckley shrugged. “Not sure. It’s classified.”

Horn cursed and muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry…” Ruckley said.

With everything going on tonight, the chances of Team Ghost surviving this new war weren’t good.

Then again, the chances of the Allied States surviving weren’t good either.

“I hope wherever they’re going will help put an end to all of this,” Ruckley said. “Someone far above my paygrade better have a plan, because sitting here waiting for the bastards to attack again feels like we’re waiting for a bomb to drop on us.”

Beckham knew all too well that part of the plan would include Team Ghost, but he didn’t reply.

“So what’s your plan?” Ruckley asked. “I sure hope it doesn’t include pulling any more stunts like tonight.”

“No more stunts,” Beckham agreed. “I think we’ll get Bo and Donna back to command tomorrow, and then figure out how we can help with the war effort.”

“What are your orders?” Horn asked Ruckley.

She looked out over the city. “For now, the Iron Hogs are digging in and holding this outpost. Portland has been designated one of the safer zones. We’re supposed to get refugees from places that were hit harder than us. Like Kansas City, maybe Houston.”

The sniper Beckham had noticed earlier got up and walked over. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant,” he said in a timid voice. “But I overheard you say something about Kansas City. My sister is there. Do you know how they’re holding out?”

The sniper was young, probably only nineteen or twenty, with a baby face and scared blue eyes. He reminded Beckham of Alex Riley.

“Things aren’t good, Johnson,” Ruckley replied. “I’m sorry but last I heard their defenses had fallen and people were being evacuated into the nearby caverns for shelter.”

Johnson’s eyes dropped in despair.

“We’ve been written off a lot of times, brother,” Horn said. “And we’ve made it back each time.”

“You just got to have a little faith,” Beckham added.

“Damn straight,” Ruckley said. “Hell, I thought you were both dead tonight, and you ended up taking on a horde of Variants one hundred strong. Alone.”

Johnson let out a light huff. “Yeah, but you guys are legends.”

“Nah, we’re just normal guys that don’t give up when shit hits the fan,” Horn said. “Try not to worry too much, and focus on taking each day one at a time.”

“Thanks,” Johnson said. He returned to his post not looking convinced.

An eerie quiet hung over them for a few minutes. If Beckham closed his eyes and forgot about the past several hours, he could almost be at peace, listening to the chirp of a few nocturnal animals and feeling the gentle caress of the breeze.

But even if he tried to forget it all, the world seemed intent on reminding him this was no time for letting down his guard.

The handset radio crackled on Ruckley’s vest.

“Iron Hog 2, go ahead, over,” she said.

“Iron Hog 2, Raptor Eye 3, we’re picking up movement on the north edge of—”

A blinding explosion suddenly erupted in the distance.

It had come from Peaks Island.

The Raptor recon team was camped out there to watch for collaborators, and something had just blown them to pieces.

Horn readied his rifle.

“Raptor Eye 3, do you copy?” Ruckley said.

She tried again and again, receiving only static.

Another flash lit up the island. One by one, blasts rocked the terrain, geysers of smoke and fire gushing up from the impacts.

“Is that artillery?” Horn said.

A siren wailed, and people emerged from the tents, dazed, and groggy. Soldiers ran out to escort them into the buildings, but chaos quickly broke out, people tripping and falling in the darkness. Frightened screams carried through the makeshift campgrounds as people stampeded for shelter.

“What the hell is that?” Johnson said. The sniper lowered his rifle from the skyline and pointed.

Ruckley brought up her thermal binos.

“Looks like birds,” she said. “The blasts must have scared them.”

“Let me see,” Beckham said. Ruckley handed him the binos. He used his good eye to focus on the red dots flocking across the view. There were hundreds of the creatures, a dark undulating cloud traversing over the horizon.

But they weren’t scattering like Beckham would’ve expected a flock of frightened birds to do. They were heading right for the campus.

He lowered the binos to look at the fires now dancing across Peaks Island.

These weren’t just birds.

When strange things like this happened, Beckham didn’t believe in coincidences. Something about those birds hurtling toward them set his nerves on fire.

“We have to get everyone inside now!” he yelled.

Then he pointed to the unmanned spotlight on the rooftop next to Johnson.

“Get that light on those birds!” he commanded.

Johnson did as ordered.

Ruckley brought her radio to her lips. “Turn all spotlights to the sky. Target those birds.”

The spotlights on the other roofs turned skyward to the formation of black. The creatures didn’t soar, but zigzagged and swooped through the sky, their wings moving in a blur.

“Ho-ly shit,” Horn said, drawing out the syllables. “Those aren’t birds. They’re bats, and they’re coming straight at us!”

“Shoot them!” Beckham yelled. He didn’t know why the little flying mammals would be coming at them, but he knew it wasn’t for anything good.

He raised his rifle and flicked off the safety.

Muzzle flashes came from the other rooftops as the order passed over the comm channels. The bats dipped lower, some diving and flapping through the rounds. They were nearly impossible to hit, flickering through the gunfire. An explosion rocked the first building across the campus, sending soldiers cartwheeling away from the roof.

Beckham changed his magazine and watched in horror as the creatures dove for the tents and the fleeing innocents. Something detonated, spitting up fire so bright he had to shield his eyes from the glow. Even from the rooftop, he could feel the heat.

More bats crashed into the ground and surrounding buildings, blowing up upon impact. Beckham might have brought down a couple, but he could quickly see they weren’t going to stop this destructive force of suicidal creatures.

A formation broke off and flew toward their location.

“Run!” Ruckley shouted.

The team retreated back inside the building, as blasts shook the rooftop. Retreating soldiers tumbled from the concussive force, falling against the stairs. Heavy booms rattled the structure, and ceiling panels collapsed, breaking over the floor.

Beckham tripped on a landing and fell, only to be yanked up by Horn.

When they got to the bottom of Corthell Hall, the thunderstorm of explosions ceased, replaced by the agonized screams of the injured and dying. Beckham saw the surviving creatures peeling away, disappearing almost as fast as they had attacked.

Civilians flooded through the doors. Some of them had devastating burns and bleeding shrapnel wounds. One man had lost an arm and staggered, eyes staring blankly ahead with shock. Another man’s face was partially burned away, his ear and nose darkened into crisped flakes.

Soldiers helped carry in the injured. The shouts and cries of horror filled the night. Beckham looked for Bo and Donna in the masses of panicked people, wading through with Horn.

“Bo! Donna!” Beckham cried. Smoke burned his eyes, and the scent of charred flesh filled his nostrils.

Horn coughed, deep and hard.

Dark columns of smoke rose from dozens of craters. Bodies lay strewn across the field of destruction.

Beckham only knew they had reached Bo and Donna’s tent because it was the center of the camp, and strips of burned red plastic had survived the inferno.

He didn’t see any bodies in the remains, but corpses lay twisted in one of the nearby craters. Most were mangled and burned beyond recognition, but one of the victims was still moving.

Beckham ran over and bent down next to the man. He was hurt bad, his legs charred. Most of his hair had been singed away, leaving a glossy, red and black scalp.

“Medic!” Beckham yelled. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder hoping it wasn’t Bo. The man turned, but he had no eyes left to look at Beckham.

My God…

Beckham felt guilty when he felt a wave of momentary relief that it wasn’t Bo.

“Hold on, man, help is coming,” Beckham said. “Just stay still, okay?”

A soldier came running over with a medical bag and crouched next to the injured man. Beckham nodded at the medic and then ran to Horn.

He knelt next to a victim draped over another body.

The big guy looked up at Beckham, tears running down his eyes.

“Bo…” Beckham said quietly.

The teenager had valiantly shielded his mom’s body with his own. But his heroic efforts had been futile. A touch to her burned neck confirmed they were both gone.

— 12 —

Kate walked side by side with Carr and Sean down a passage of the USS George Johnson. Accompanying them now was a computer engineer named Sammy Tibalt, a former military contractor specializing in cyberwarfare and technology. The war had brought her back to helping the Allied States. She was whip-smart and had helped with testing their neural network hypothesis.

Sammy had a tangle of tattoos, dragons, phoenixes, and lions interwoven in a colorful tapestry along her arms. Kate didn’t bat an eye at the ink, but Sammy’s long dreadlocks did catch her attention.

A bit unconventional, Kate thought. But she knows what she’s doing.

Carr, Kate, and Sean had spent the night locked away and working in the lab with Sammy, oblivious to what was happening outside the airtight fish bowl until Ringgold had come to check on them earlier.

The president had informed Kate that her husband and Horn had gone out on a mission, and had returned.

“I’m sorry for not telling you sooner, but I wanted to wait until I had better intel,” Ringgold had said.

Kate’s first reaction was anger, but that had passed. All she cared about was that Reed and Horn were okay. Knowing that had helped get her through the early morning hours. Aside from that, she had no idea how the other outposts had fared during the night.

Exhaustion and worry weighed on her, but the knowledge she carried with her after a night of experiments was enough to keep her going. They now better understood the role the red webbing in the Variants’ tunnel played in their communications with the collaborators. It had also led them to an insurmountable roadblock and they needed the president’s help.

Sailors and other crew members flowed past them until they reached a hatch with two Marines standing guard.

“Dr. Lovato, Dr. Carr, Sammy Tibalt, and Sean McMasters,” Kate said, holding up an ID card. “We’re here to meet with President Ringgold.”

One of the Marines squinted at her ID before locking eyes with her. He then opened the hatch. They stepped into a space with a U-shaped table. Chairs lined each side, and a large monitor was mounted to the bulkhead.

Already seated were President Ringgold, Vice President Lemke, General Souza, and Lieutenant Festa. Chief of Staff James Soprano stood in a corner with his arms folded.

The dark circles under Ringgold and Souza’s eyes showed Kate she wasn’t the only one who had missed out on some shuteye. No doubt, the attacks last night had kept them occupied.

“Did you bring me some hope?” Ringgold asked.

“Yes, but we need your help, Madam President,” Kate said. “Starting with some coffee.”

Soprano disappeared out of the briefing room.

“Have a seat, please,” Ringgold said.

Kate suspected she was about to get some very bad news as Sammy, Sean, and Carr dropped into seats beside her.

“There was another attack on Outpost Portland after I saw you,” Ringgold said. “Beckham and Horn are still okay, but we lost a lot of people.”

“No,” Kate stammered. “How? I thought…”

“The collaborators used bats strapped with explosives to attack the outpost,” Souza said.

“Bats?” Kate was taken completely off guard.

“How in the world could they control them?” Sean asked, face going pale.

“It could be any number of things,” Sammy said. “Some kind of implanted micro-electrodes. Radio-telemetry systems that deliver microcurrent pulses, maybe. There’s so much documented research in this area to draw from.”

“If they can control bats, think about what else they can control,” Carr said. “The scientific implications… they’re frightening.”

“The result was certainly devastating,” Festa said. “Whoever was responsible might’ve been inspired by the experimental bat bombs developing in World War II.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Kate said. “More alarming is that these bats could be mutated by VX-99.”

Carr put a hand on his chin, deep in thought. “That would explain how those animals could carry payloads with such catastrophic effects.”

“Every time we take one step forward, the Variants and collaborators push us one step backward,” Lemke said with a shake of his head.

“How about the other outposts?” Kate asked.

Souza looked to Festa for a report.

“It was a tough night,” said the lieutenant. “Three of the six outposts around the target cities have fallen completely. I’m still going through all the data to figure out which are the safest outposts to evacuate survivors to.”

“This is why your work is so crucial,” Ringgold said, her eyes looking between each of the researchers. “We need to intercept the messages being sent on the webbing network if we have any hope of organizing our defenses appropriately.”

“Right now, we’re just evacuating people toward the Atlantic coast and hoping we can stop the advance of the creatures,” Lemke added.

“I think we’re close to a breakthrough.” Kate set up her laptop and synced it with the briefing room monitor.

She clicked on her touchpad. An image of the red webbing within a beer can-sized bioreactor appeared on the screen. Next to it was one of the computers that had been recovered from the collaborators at the Luray Caverns in Virginia.

“What are we looking at now?” Lemke asked.

“We successfully recreated the webbing network,” Carr said.

“The connection between the computer and the neural cells was made with a flexible microelectric array.” Sammy swept her dreads over a shoulder. “It’s very similar to a design documented as early as 2006 by Dr. Simon Wong at the University of Florida.”

“Without getting into specifics,” Kate said.

“Right,” Sammy said. “Bottom line, Dr. Wong showed that a group of rat neurons could be successfully paired with a fighter jet simulator program.”

“I remember that,” General Souza said. “The DOD discussed investigating these topics to create better artificial intelligence for drones.”

“Did they?” Sean asked, leaning over the table.

“Yes, in fact,” Souza replied. “The DOD picked up many of the researchers involved in these efforts and hired them to continue their work on these subjects.”

“By chance, are any of these scientists still employed by the Allied States?” Kate asked.

Sean nodded. “If we knew who they were and had their help, they might be very useful.”

“I’ll look into it,” Souza said. “But I can’t promise anything.”

“For now, let’s assume you are the best minds we have left. Please continue,” Ringgold said.

Soprano returned and passed out hot cups of coffee as Kate moved on to the next slide. A graph showed the electrical output from the webbing. Next to it were screen captures from the collaborators’ computers that displayed a jumble of words.

“We connected the wires from the collaborator’s computer to the neural network contained within the webbing,” Kate said. “Sammy’s help was instrumental in this part.”

“By stimulating the cells, I recorded output signals from the webbing that were translated into inputs readable by the computers,” Sammy added.

Carr motioned at the screen with his coffee cup. “As you can see, while the computers could detect a signal, we couldn’t produce anything that made a lick of sense.”

Sammy agreed with a nod. “I’ve got the best computer scientists on my team, but even we can’t do anything to turn these messages into something understandable. It’s all just a bunch of gobbledygook.”

“How long do you need to decipher this?” Ringgold asked.

“What we have now is a slate full of hieroglyphics,” Sammy explained. “The symbols and the words are there. The message is there. But it’s hidden. We need our Rosetta Stone to translate this.”

Ringgold raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, then… What is your Rosetta Stone?”

Carr glanced at Kate while Sean rocked a leg.

They all knew what the request meant.

More soldiers were going to die.

“It’s a mastermind,” Kate said. “We need to connect the computers and neural network to one of those monsters in order to get a proper input signal. With that, we might get what we need.”

“You might?” Souza asked.

“Our team agrees this is the best option,” Sammy said. “This should be enough to complete the circuit, so to speak, and decode this language the Variants are using.”

“There’s really no other way,” Sean said emphatically. “No intel could be better than working directly with a mastermind.”

Lemke shook his head. “I don’t like the uncertainty, especially if you’re asking what I think you’re asking.”

“This information will be invaluable to predicting their movements and tapping into their networks.” Kate tapped on her laptop, and the monitor showed the collaborators’ computer systems again. “With it, we could even send signals of our own through the webbing. We could weaponize the enemy against themselves.”

Ringgold looked to Souza. “That’s something our troops could use. Imagine the possibilities.”

“Our job would be a lot easier if we knew the Variants’ plans,” Festa said.

“Think about the lives we could save,” Sean said.

“I don’t disagree,” Souza said. “But this requires us to locate a mastermind, secure the area, and connect your computer contraption up to it.”

“That would be one method,” Carr said. “But not what we’d recommend. Science is best done in a controlled environment. In a place where we can modulate all the external stimuli to ensure that the language we decode is uncorrupted.”

“You want us to capture a mastermind and bring it in?” Souza asked.

“I know it sounds insane,” Kate replied. “But we’ve done this before to study the Variants and Alphas. There’s nothing like having that kind of research subject to ensure we succeed.”

“We suggest isolating and moving a mastermind to a defensible location with a large-scale laboratory infrastructure,” Carr said.

“Have you identified a place?” Ringgold asked.

Sammy leaned forward in her seat, her tattoos peeking out from her cuffs. “That’s where we were hoping you all might come in.”

Festa nodded right away. “I think I know a place. Outpost Manchester in New Hampshire might work. There’s a cluster of manufacturing buildings there where they used to research and produce tissue engineered organs. This is exactly the type of facility we could reuse for the mastermind.”

“That sounds ideal,” Carr said.

“They have had zero successful Variant attacks due to their defenses,” Festa continued. “It’s protected by bodies of water, rocky outcrops, and water-logged topsoil that is nearly impossible for the beasts to tunnel into. The commander is a decorated veteran from the Great War of Extinction.”

The room was silent for moment.

“I know what you all might think. Capturing a mastermind, relocating it, hooking it up to a bunch of machines in some outpost,” Kate said. “It’s a huge commitment with resources we are desperately low on.”

“We understand what we’re asking sounds ambitious,” Carr said. “Even foolhardy. But if we want to win this war against an enemy like this, we need to take big risks.”

Ringgold stared at the computer monitor with the garbled message. “If we do this, if we can actually figure out how to bring in a mastermind and tap into their network, you truly believe we can not only intercept their messages but also send signals to disrupt their communications?”

“Yes,” Sammy said. “Working firsthand with a mastermind will tell us what we need to know from a data perspective.”

Kate sat straighter. “With these revelations, we can eliminate the advantages the Variants have over us.”

Sean continued rocking his leg and nodded enthusiastically.

“And with the new equipment S.M. Fischer and General Cornelius are bringing to the table we can add a stronger layer of defenses to the outposts still standing,” Ringgold said.

Kate thought of Beckham and Horn and their children. In her mind’s eye, she saw all the other people they had left behind in Outpost Portland, like Donna and Bo and Timothy. All who could be dead now. They were among tens of thousands of people driven from their homes across the Allied States or dying at the claws of Variants.

“This plan might not be perfect, but it’s the best we have, and we have to do whatever it takes to stop these monsters,” Ringgold said.

“I can get behind it,” Lemke added.

General Souza sat quietly, seeming to contemplate all they had presented. He finally stood and let out a brief sigh.

“It’s a risky plan, but you’re right; it’s the best we have and fortunately for us, Team Ghost is already on their way to kill a mastermind. Lieutenant Festa, contact them and tell them their orders have changed from kill to locate and secure.”

***

Team Ghost trekked through the outskirts of a flooded New Orleans. A chopper had dropped them off the night before under the cover of darkness. Since then, they had moved slowly to avoid enemy contacts.

Fitz held point, listening for hostiles in Louis Armstrong Park as they approached the large white arch marking the entrance. The sun hid behind a blanket of dark gray clouds, and the city was quiet.

Somewhere in the city a lone rogue beast screeched, and a flock of birds exploded into the sky. Judging by the distance, they were out of the monster’s scent range. Hopefully, the rub Team Ghost had used to mask their scent would protect them.

Fitz gave the order to halt in front of the white arch that had “Armstrong” welded to it in big, blocky letters. His blades creaked as he stopped in front of a thin film of murky, brown water.

The levees had failed years ago, and swamplands had reclaimed most of the terrain. He looked at Rico. Stains climbed up from her boots to her knees showing the depth of the waters they’d had to pass. Soon they would have to cross more.

“The French Quarter is only a block away. Keep your eyes peeled for any sign of the mastermind,” Fitz said. “Once we find it, we keep an eye on it and stay hidden until air support and backup arrives. When they do, we’ll help hogtie that bastard and get it out of here for the scientists.”

“Hogtie,” Mendez said. “Personally, I’d prefer to barbecue the damn thing and turn it into Carne Asada.”

“Don’t disrespect Carne Asada, brother; that shit is good,” Ace said.

“True,” Mendez smirked. “I still can’t believe they want us to capture this thing.”

“We won’t be alone,” Rico said in a low voice.

“This should be easier than killing it, actually,” Fitz said.

“Nothing involving Variants is ever easy,” Dohi said, eyes narrowed and tone gravely serious.

“You’re right about that, amigo,” Mendez said.

Fitz pictured the last time they had come face-to-face with a mastermind. It had only been a couple days, yet it felt like eons ago. In that time, they had lost Lincoln and watched hundreds of good men and women die at Scott AFB.

Snap out of it, he thought. You’ve got a mission to complete.

“You good, Fitzie?” Rico asked in a whisper, as if she could sense his thoughts.

“As good as I could be after wading through polluted floodwater in the middle of Variant territory,” he said. “You?”

“Fine, but I sure as hell wish Variants didn’t know how to swim.”

She stared out over the rippling brown water filling the streets between the park and the French Quarter.

“I always wanted to come to New Orleans,” she said. “Thought it would be romantic, like Paris or some shit.”

“Someday we’ll go somewhere nice,” he said. “A beach, or the mountains. Wherever you want.”

Ace snorted. “All right kids, let’s focus.”

Fitz nodded and scanned the terrain one last time.

To avoid ambushes from the floodwaters, they had picked routes over higher ground, staying to decaying houses, restaurants, and bars as much as they could. The buildings were set nearly half-a-foot higher than the street, meaning that while the streets were flooded, there was usually no more than a couple inches of water in the buildings.

“Dohi, you’re on point,” Fitz said. “Keep us on dry ground or shallow water as much as possible. Find us a trail to that monster, and from here on out, cut the chatter.”

The team set off through ankle-deep waters to cross the street from the park. Then Dohi led them through a cemetery with raised stone graves. A crumbling angel statue with outstretched wings shadowed them, its head long gone as tendrils of green and brown vines grew over it. Water flowed around the graves, running toward the southern exit of the wrought-iron fence tracing the cemetery’s perimeter.

Fitz took every step slowly, probing beneath the water with his blades to ensure he didn’t trip on some tangle of trash concealed by the murkiness.

Caught against the fence were coffins that had been freed by the floodwaters. They had popped open like ruptured boils. Their skeletal contents were picked bare, all the leathery or decayed flesh had been snacks for desperate monsters.

Dohi held up a fist, and the rest of the team froze. He used two fingers to indicate he had spotted a potential contact toward the west.

Through his Leupold Mark 8 optic, Fitz scoped in on the movement. Near the stone steps leading to a mold-covered house with broken windows, the water rippled as if something swam just beneath the surface.

He held his sights on the movement and waited.

The creature was drawing near, but Fitz gave the order to hold fire, not wanting to draw attention unless absolutely necessary.

An elongated skull surfaced, and two beady black eyes surveyed the cityscape for prey. Those eyes sat atop a long maw full of needle-sharp teeth.

Fitz lowered his rifle.

It was just an alligator, far less dangerous than a Variant with gills. Never in his life had he been so thankful to see the huge predator this close.

He signaled for the team to stay put as the alligator propelled itself lazily down the street-turned-river, its tail slowly undulating. Once it had moved out of sight in the opposite direction, they advanced again.

Their route took them between buildings disintegrating from the unforgiving humidity and water lapping at their baseboards. Piles of debris lay strewn at the foot of the structures.

They passed through the shadow of a hotel with wraparound cast-iron balconies, looking for any sign of the mastermind’s presence. In the distance, the cries of hunting Variants wailed through the city again.

Dohi thrust his fist into the air.

A chorus of clicking joints sounded to their south. Fitz strained to see the source of the noise, but saw nothing.

The chatter and squawk of Variants erupted again from a different direction. This time a scream—all too human—pierced the din.

The agonizing cries continued for a few seconds before going silent. It had definitely come from the center of the French Quarter.

Maybe there were still people alive. People they could save with the airlift. Fitz found new motivation to find their target. If they could secure the area, they might be helping more than just the science team today.

Dohi waved them onward. He guided the team through a series of restaurants and into a bar. At the back exit, Fitz gave him the order, and Dohi opened the door to a flooded alleyway.

This time Fitz stepped down a short set of stairs and waded into water that came up to his naval. Dohi suddenly grabbed him and yanked him back up the stairs and into the door as a splash exploded from behind a mostly submerged dumpster. The scaled body of an alligator shot through the water, headed toward the two men like a living torpedo.

Dohi aimed his rifle right at the animal’s center of mass as Fitz scrambled back inside, dripping wet. Before Dohi could squeeze the trigger, another creature burst from the water behind the gator. The yellow eyes of a Variant glowed as the creature wrapped its sinewy arms around the alligator and chomped into the beast’s armored neck.

The animal rolled in the water, writhing desperately to shake itself loose from the Alpha predator.

Fitz and Dohi moved back into the shadows as a second Variant surfaced, water sluiced down pale, veiny flesh. It waded over, claws extended, waiting to strike.

Shrieks called out from a nearby shop.

Fitz held the team there, waiting with his rifle aimed at the creatures in the flooded alley. The alligator finally stopped thrashing and a circle of water turned an even darker shade of brown.

The two Variants ripped the alligator apart. Seeing no other beasts, Fitz ordered Dohi to take the two monsters down with his hatchet.

Fitz pulled out his knife. They moved into position and then tossed the sharp blades. The hatchet found a home in one of the Variant’s skulls, but Fitz hit his target in the back.

Dohi threw his own knife before the creature could let out a shriek. Both monsters slumped into the water, floating next to the disemboweled remains of the gator.

Fitz waited another moment, then gave the advance. They moved out into the water, retrieved their weapons and pushed on until they reached a street that had been spared from the floods.

Red webbing plastered the sides of buildings framing the road. The organic ropes imprisoned the bodies of enough creatures to make Noah’s Ark seem like a miniscule collection. All evidence of food that the mastermind would need to create its organic central command of the webbing network.

“We’re getting close,” Fitz whispered.

Suddenly Dohi took shelter behind the charcoaled husk of a delivery truck. The others sheltered behind the wall of a nearby building.

Fitz tried to settle his thumping heart.

A horde of Variants surged through a water-filled street ahead. Fitz counted their numbers, watching them hurtle by. Some ran, splashing through the street, on their way to the alley the team had just left behind.

“Go, go, go!” Fitz whispered after the monsters passed.

Team Ghost ran across the street, fighting through deeper water.

Clicks from snapping joints and far off screams of prowling Variants haunted the city.

Fitz’s blade suddenly snagged on something before he made it to the other side of the street, stopping him in the middle of the open water. Rico halted and reached out to help.

Mendez, still on rearguard, paused beside them, scanning the water.

Fitz twisted his blade, bending down to remove it from whatever garbage it had gotten jabbed into. As he did, something burst from the water to his right.

The armored flesh of a juvenile barreled toward Fitz. He couldn’t move out of its way with his blade caught, and there wasn’t time or space for a clear shot.

Rico swung the butt of her rifle into the creature’s face, then delivered a heavy kick into the monster’s side that knocked it off course again.

Blood gushed from the monster’s crushed nose.

Fitz swung his rifle up as the Variant turned on Rico. It raised its claws as bullets lanced through the creature’s chest, chewing through the bone and organs at near point-blank range.

The choof-choof-choof of the suppressed rifle reverberated over the water, but the splash the dead monster made was even louder. It sank in front of Rico.

If the rest of the Variants hadn’t known more than alligators were in their midst, they did now.

Rico bent down, reaching into the water, to help Fitz pry his blade loose. As soon as he was free the shrieks of a dozen monsters rang out.

They poured from the darkened buildings to the north and south.

“Run!” he ordered.

The team sprinted onto another soaked street as the monsters pursued them. A half-crumbling spire of the St. Louis Cathedral speared the gray sky nearby. Dohi pointed to a museum across from Jackson Square in the center of the French Quarter.

The team stormed past, rifles up as they moved into the lobby of the building. Rotting furniture and broken display cases lay in the water.

The team splashed across the room toward the ticket counter where they took shelter. Red webbing grew across the walls, even denser here than when they’d seen it before outside. He crouched next to a pile of brown bones loosely wrapped in tendrils of red tissue.

They were close. Fitz could feel it in his gut.

Outside, the clamor of the Variants went on for what felt like an eternity.

But slowly the monsters scattered, their wails becoming more sporadic, more distant, and their clicking joints fading as they searched for their lost prey.

Fitz waited, letting the furor of the Variants die down. Their angry voices were replaced by the drone of human voices in agony, sounding all too similar to the pained cries and moans the team had heard in other Variant tunnels and Minneapolis.

He had a feeling that those voices would lead them to the mastermind—or, if not the beast directly, then at least to its lair.

Fitz signaled for the team to move back out toward Jackson Square. There, Dohi pointed out a path that led into the St. Louis Cathedral where the water began to recede.

More red vines of tissue stretched out of the thin layer of water along the streets and grass up to the steeples of the church and into half-broken stained-glass windows.

The team skirted between the overgrown trees and bushes of the square, making their way to the former place of worship. As they closed in on the cathedral, moans traveled out of the broken windows.

Fitz indicated for everyone to stay put except for Dohi.

Together, the two men climbed a short set of stairs and clung to the shadows until they made it into the nave.

The missing roof allowed shafts of light that played across puddles of water between rotting pews covered in red webbing. Tendrils rose to the pillars in the middle of the space and clung to the stained-glass windows.

Cocoons of the red tissue pasted decaying corpses along the walls. Many were nothing but skeletons and flags of leathery brown flesh. The bodies of different native wildlife were there; fish, birds, even a gator.

Other long strands of tissue dangled from the ceiling like bloody icicles. At the bottom of those macabre vines hung more bodies; these were all human, wrapped up like a spider’s prey.

Dozens of Variants climbed up and down those growths, picking at the animals and people suspended in them. Many of the victims moaned in agony.

At the rear of the cathedral, past the sanctuary and altar was a massive creature that stood nearly four times Fitz’s height. Large, pink folds of skin covered the beast, and its stygian eyes peered around at its surroundings.

It stuck to the shadows, apparently wary of the light plunging in through the massive holes in the ceiling.

Fitz slowly backed away with Dohi. They hurried down the stairs and joined the team back on Jackson Square.

“Rico,” Fitz whispered. “Radio command. We found the ugly son of a bitch.”

— 13 —

The cool morning air reeked of death and suffering. Beckham and Horn waited outside the maintenance warehouse on the University of Southern Maine campus. Lawn mowers and equipment sat outside to make room for body bags.

The inside had been turned into a makeshift morgue for the victims of the attack. Like so often before, Beckham wondered why fate had chosen to take Bo and Donna. So many other innocent men, women, and children had perished, gone in an instant or cursed to horrific burn injuries, their moans still haunting the campus.

And somehow he had once again been spared. Left alive to watch all these people suffer.

Beckham looked up to the sky, but he didn’t curse God nor did he question why God might allow atrocities like last night. He had always believed that if there was a God, he had nothing to do with what happened on Earth.

Humans had to live with the consequences of their actions, good or bad. Lately, Beckham had seen too much of the bad.

Especially this morning.

Soldiers and volunteers continued to carry body bags into the warehouse.

In some cases, the bags looked light. Not much remained of the deceased. The real weight was on the minds and hearts of the survivors.

Another pickup truck pulled up. Civilian volunteers lowered the lift gate to reveal more bodies, these ones without the luxury of body bags. People who had likely died in triage.

In the past, with the proper treatment, some of them might have survived. But out here, the medical staff simply didn’t have the supplies or equipment needed to treat them.

Beckham still didn’t know how the collaborators had controlled the bats or what type of explosives they were rigged with, but he had a feeling this was just one of many tricks they would use to win the new war. Between those new weapons and the conspirators within their ranks, he feared the enemy was far stronger than anyone realized.

“Fucking animals,” Beckham growled.

First Jake, then Timothy, and now Donna, and Bo.

All killed by the collaborators. Those people were worse than terrorists. They were demons. He gritted his teeth and punched the side of the metal siding, denting it with his fist. Blood filled the cracked skin over his knuckles.

It wasn’t his hand that hurt the worst though. His head still throbbed from the truck wreck. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath to manage the pain until it passed.

Horn didn’t say anything. The two men had barely slept in twenty-four hours of hellish insanity, and they were at their wits’ end.

A side door to the maintenance building opened and a soldier stepped out, gesturing for them.

“Captain, Master Sergeant, the bodies are ready for you to identify,” said the young man.

Beckham and Horn followed him inside. The door clicked behind them a moment later, sealing them in the long space. Eighty some corpses lay on the concrete floor in zipped up black body bags.

Another soldier with a clipboard walked up and down the aisles, checking off names on his list.

“Captain Beckham and Master Sergeant Horn are here to confirm the identity of the deceased, Donna and Bo Tufo,” their escort said to the soldier with the clipboard.

He glanced at his board, and then looked across the room. “Please, come with me, sir. Master Sergeant.”

Beckham and Horn followed the soldier until he stopped at two body bags.

“These are them,” he said.

Horn bent down and unzipped the bag on the left, the odor of charred flesh exploding out.

“Christ have mercy,” he muttered, covering his face with his wrist.

Bo Tufo’s face was hardly recognizable. Scorched and disfigured, his features had melted into a hideous sight.

Beckham pictured the young boy he had rescued during Operation Liberty. He had survived the monsters and grown up into a young man only to die at the hands of humans.

Bile rose in Beckham’s throat.

“This is Bo Tufo,” Horn managed to mumble.

The soldier with the clipboard nodded, and Horn unzipped the second body bag.

Donna didn’t look as bad as her son. Partly due to the fact Bo had shielded her from the blasts. Despite his sacrifice, he hadn’t saved her.

And maybe that was for the best, Beckham thought. The two were so close that they wouldn’t have survived without each other.

Beckham stood, his blade creaking.

“This is Donna Tufo,” Horn said.

“Thank you,” said the soldier. “From my records, they don’t have any other kin here, is that correct, sir?”

“Yes,” Beckham said.

“Would you like us to take care of the burial or…”

“We’ll do it,” Beckham said. Donna and Bo deserved to be buried together on Peaks Island where they had enjoyed a hiatus of peace in the middle of this endless war.

The soldier nodded and stepped away.

Beckham began the short walk to the exit of the maintenance building. Each step felt like a mile. His head spun. The black body bags stretched in all directions.

It was too much, even for him; when he got outside, he vomited into a bush.

Horn patted him on a shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

“I’m good,” Beckham said, wiping his lips. He drew in a breath and started back to the campus with Horn.

Chimneys of smoke rose from the damaged rooftops where suicidal bats had flapped into the sides. Soldiers had reclaimed some of the positions, but what could they do against another attack like that?

Beckham started the march to the command tent on campus.

“Are we going to head back to the George Johnson after we bury our friends, or do you want to keep looking for Timothy?” Horn asked.

Beckham drew in a breath. They both knew the odds of finding the young man alive were slim to zero. “If we go back out there looking for him, we’re not comin’ back, Big Horn.”

Horn rubbed his neck, wincing at the reality. They fell into silence until they got back to the command tent. Beckham pushed past the flap to go inside where Lieutenant Niven was going over maps with Sergeant Ruckley. They both stood at the table.

There were no good mornings or salutes. Only the hard looks of soldiers that had just gotten their asses handed to them and fully expected more.

“Have you heard anything from SOCOM?” Beckham asked.

“We spoke to Lieutenant Festa, but our orders have not changed,” Niven said. “We are to hold this post at all costs.”

Ruckley raised her chin a bit, clearly wanting to say something. If Beckham had to guess she didn’t like those orders.

“People are being evacuated across the Allied States, and we’re expecting to receive over a hundred refugees by tonight,” Niven continued. “We’ve been marked high on the safe list.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Horn muttered.

“I guess command thinks since we don’t have issues with tunneling Variants we’re safer than other outposts.”

“Yeah, but those bats might be worse,” Horn said. “Plus, we got sleeper cells wreaking havoc inside our borders. Tunneling Variants aren’t the only damn issue we should be worried about!”

“All I know is that I’m staying put until command says otherwise,” Niven replied.

“How about you two?” Ruckley asked. “What’s your next move?”

“We’re going to bury our friends on Peaks Island and then return to command,” Beckham said.

“We’ll see if we can get you some extra support,” Horn said.

“The Iron Hogs are grateful for whatever we can get,” Niven said. “I’ll get a bird ready for you after you’re finished with the burial.”

“Sir, permission to accompany them to Peaks Island,” Ruckley said.

Niven paused, seeming to think on it.

“It won’t take long, sir,” Ruckley said. “They’ll need some help. And besides, it’s the least we can do.”

“Approved, Sergeant, but make it fast, okay?” Niven said.

“Yes, sir,” Ruckley said.

“Thank you,” Beckham said.

“I’ll meet you in the staging area,” Ruckley said. “Give me ten minutes.”

“I’m very sorry about your friends,” Niven said.

“Me too,” Beckham said. He walked away with Horn while Ruckley made a call over to the morgue requesting Bo and Donna’s bodies be prepared for their arrival.

“You want to call Kate about Bo and Donna?” Horn asked.

“I don’t want to give her the bad news until I can do it in person. Besides, she’s got so much on her plate already, and Niven already informed SOCOM last night we’re okay.”

“Good point…” Horn wagged his head. “Man, Tasha is going to be a wreck when she hears about Timothy. I promised her I would…”

Beckham put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

On their walk to the staging area between Woodbury Campus Center and Masterton Hall, a line of military transport trucks passed by. The beds were filled with equipment and soldiers. Many of them looked no older than Timothy had been.

The staging area, too, was a flurry of activity between stacks of shipping containers. Militia and soldiers listened to orders from their leads. People in civilian clothing lined up, too, joining the call to arms after witnessing yesterday’s events.

“Jesus, that kid looks like he’s ten,” Beckham said nodding toward one.

The cost of the war was never more evident. While he and Horn had saved Tasha and Jenny from the fighting, Bo had lost his life and Timothy had almost certainly lost his against the collaborators and Variants. Now kids younger than eighteen were joining up to fight.

That was something Ringgold had fought so hard against. And now they had no other choice as those men and women of fighting age perished in the Variants’ attack.

Ruckley showed up with a truck a few minutes later. Two body bags were in the bed, along with shovels.

They took the truck to the shoreline where a speedboat was tethered to a dock. Four soldiers standing guard ran over to help them unload the body bags and joined them in the boat.

The ride to Peaks Island was quiet. Horn and Beckham watched the horizon in a trance. They had both dreamed of returning home, but doing so like this was more nightmare than dream.

The island loomed ahead of them, and Ruckley looked back from the wheel.

“Which way?” she called out over the motor.

Horn pointed toward the shoreline where they had all lived. The boat curved over the water, thumping against the waves.

Beckham’s heart accelerated with the engine when he saw his home.

Or at least what was left of it.

Charred skeletal boards and a brick foundation were all that remained.

Beckham grabbed handholds on the gunwale as he climbed toward the bow for a better view. The boat passed houses on the shore, none of which had been hit. The only destroyed home was the one Beckham had shared with his family. He was too upset to consider the implications.

“Damn, boss,” Horn said.

“Is that your house, Captain?” Ruckley asked as they pulled up to the dock.

“It is… was my house,” Beckham said.

The four soldier escorts jumped out and tied the boat off on the dock’s pilings. Then they got the body bags out and hauled them to the shore with Horn and Beckham.

“Where to?” one of the soldiers asked.

“This way,” Beckham said, leading them to the tree where a stone marked Apollo’s grave and the grave of his female companion. The branches creaked in the breeze, saved, thankfully, from the flames.

“Here is good,” Beckham said.

Ruckley instructed the four soldiers to start digging with her while Beckham trudged over to look at the remains of his house.

“I’m so sorry, man,” Horn said.

Beckham stopped just outside where the back door had been. A metal picture frame had melted on the remains of a metal bedside table, the picture erased into ash.

They walked around the crumbled side of the house together to the front when Horn suddenly halted.

“FUCK!” Horn yelled.

The soldiers all came running, shovels discarded, and rifles shouldered.

“What? What’s wrong?” Ruckley said.

Horn stared across the street at the remains of the house where he had raised Tasha and Jenny for the past eight years.

For a moment no one said anything, but realization hit Beckham when he scanned the rest of the road. The other houses on the block were spared from the explosions and flames.

“This isn’t a coincidence,” Ruckley said.

“We were targeted,” Beckham said.

Beckham thought back to the collaborator in Boston that knew his name, and then the attack on the lab that nearly killed Kate.

There was no doubt in his mind now.

“Someone in Portland is compromised,” Beckham said. “And this was a message.”

“Why not just shoot us?” Horn growled. “Least then I could see the slimy fuck’s face and fight back.”

Beckham grabbed his rifle, a chill running up his spine. The other soldiers raised their weapons again, slowly turning.

“It’s not safe here,” Ruckley said.

“Fuck this, I’m going to skin the little prick alive,” Horn said. “Or pricks. Hell, I’ll take on an entire fucking ARMY!”

“Calm down,” Beckham said.

Horn kicked a burned board.

“This is our goddamn home, boss,” he said. “They killed our friends, destroyed our houses. They’re after our whole damn country. I want to find the motherfuckers and kill them all.”

Ruckley spat on the ground. “You’re welcome to stay here and help me find them.”

Beckham tried to bite back his own fury. Revenge could wait. There were more important matters at hand.

“First we bury our friends so they can rest in peace,” he said.

***

Hours ago Fischer had left El Paso, Texas. He and his men had left Sergeant Sharp behind with Lieutenant Riggs to guard the seismic detection trucks. Sharp would then oversee the deployment of a seismic detection truck near Outpost Galveston. But what they needed now was a way to deploy this technology across the Allied States.

Cornelius had requested Fischer to come to Outpost Manchester in New Hampshire to focus on a new mission implementing seismic detection defenses.

Fischer wasn’t sure yet how they were going to do it with limited manpower, and the equipment they had scrounged up wasn’t enough for more than a few outposts. The trucks were already being deployed, but simply couldn’t cover the ground they needed to adequately defend the Allied States.

Apparently, Cornelius had something else in mind for Manchester.

The town had once been a mill town bisected by the Merrimack River and later evolved into a center for high-tech startups and niche businesses. The place appeared to Fischer as if it was on the next stage of its life, currently occupied and defended by a combination of General Cornelius’ army and the Allied States’ military.

At Cornelius’ behest, Fischer had gone with Chase and Tran to an office building overlooking the Merrimack for a meeting and call with the president. He entered a conference room with his two guards.

“Mr. Fischer, it’s good to see you again.” General Cornelius said. He was polite but he remained seated behind a long mahogany table, a laptop resting in front of him. Not rising was a reminder who was in charge here.

Four officers wearing the Orca badge and blue armband of his private army also remained seated in brown leather chairs. Three empty fabric-covered chairs stood nearby, looking out of place. Fischer shook hands with Cornelius across the table and then took a seat with Tran and Chase.

“You all outperformed my expectations in El Paso,” Cornelius said. “We’ll deploy this strategy across the Allied States as soon as possible. Hopefully this will buy us the time to destroy the brains of the Variant network. But unfortunately we are running out of time.”

“Some outposts have already ran out,” Fischer said. “I heard we lost eight last night.”

“Actually, ten,” Cornelius said.

Tran and Chase exchanged a look but Fischer remained stern-faced. The losses were hard to stomach, but he couldn’t let himself dwell on them. They had to focus on preventing further damage.

“Our enemies unleashed a new weapon,” Cornelius added. “Somehow, they rigged bats with explosives and set the damn things loose on Outpost Portland.”

“Good God,” Fischer said, unable to contain himself.

“We thought by moving to places like Manchester we would be safe from the tunneling Variants, but the bats have added another threat into the mix,” Cornelius said. “Fortunately, we have a secret weapon of our own.”

Fischer leaned forward, curious.

“SOCOM is helping organize the evacuation and defense of strategic bases around the Allied States, and we’ve been asked to help with Manchester’s defenses,” Cornelius said. “This city was once the site of advanced biotechnological research. It will make a perfect research space for Dr. Lovato and her team.”

“Research space for what, exactly?”

“As we speak, teams are working to capture a mastermind and bring it here for the scientists to study.”

Chase laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

Cornelius didn’t laugh.

“Wait, you’re really not joking?” Chase asked.

“Not at all,” said the general. “They have the beast surrounded right now.”

Fischer stroked his mustache nervously. Then realized what he was doing and stopped. “What in the Sam Hill are they thinking bringing one of those creatures here?”

“The scientists think it will allow us to tap into the Variant communications network. Needless to say, we have reason to believe the Variants are going to want it back. It’s up to us to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

Cornelius rotated his wrist to check his watch.

“It’s about time to call President Ringgold.” He turned to one of the officers next to him, who in turn used a satellite phone.

“What I’ve been investigating will provide us unparalleled defenses in Manchester and the rest of the country,” Cornelius said. “Better than the trucks you used in El Paso.”

Fischer was anxious to hear what that might be when a voice came over the phone’s speaker.

“President Ringgold here.”

“Madam President, this is General Cornelius. I have S.M. Fischer with me in Manchester.”

“Hello, gentleman, I’m with Vice President Lemke, General Souza and Lieutenant Festa.”

“Before I begin, I just want to express my sympathy for everyone and everything we lost last night,” Cornelius said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“Thank you, and frankly, we’re running out of time to save everyone else,” Ringgold said.

Fischer thought he detected Ringgold’s voice shaking slightly. He had once thought that she was a coward running off to a ship, far from land, but he knew she cared deeply for the people of this country.

“I’ll get right to it,” Cornelius said. “Mr. Fischer has proved seismic detection allows us to accurately detect and locate Variant tunneling activities in El Paso. I’ve identified a location with technology even more advanced than what Mr. Fischer used. When I was involved with the Department of Defense, one project I encountered consisted of advanced detection systems for tsunami and earthquake activity.”

General Souza came back on the line. “I vaguely remember that. Wasn’t that one of the DARPA-funded environmental warfare projects near Stanford?”

“Yes, it was called Project Rolling Stone. Researchers at the National Accelerator Laboratories were devising a system to detect seismic aberrations that might lead to a catastrophic environmental event. But that wasn’t the only use they saw fit for this program.”

Fischer raised a brow, intrigued by where this was going.

“North Korea has a long history of attempting to tunnel under the Demilitarized Zone,” Cornelius explained. “South Korea needed something to detect those tunnels before they hit Seoul, and they reached out to us. Hence Project Rolling Stone took on a new goal.”

“Pardon me, but if this project already exists, what did you need the vibroseis equipment for in El Paso?” Fischer asked.

Cornelius gave Fischer a knowing nod.

“The answer is two-fold. First, the technology developed in Project Rolling Stone is still out in California, deep in the heart of Variant-controlled territory. Second, if I was going to even suggest we consider retrieving it, we needed to show that seismic detection and location works.”

“We don’t have nearly enough of those vibroseis trucks for every outpost. How will we guarantee there’s enough of this Project Rolling Stone equipment? And even if we have the equipment, how do we find the people to help run it?” Ringgold asked.

“When I retired, we had enough equipment to deploy all over the DMZ, plus surplus to detect environmental seismic events across the Pacific Northwest,” Cornelius replied.

Fischer was impressed with the idea so far and listened anxiously.

“We can deploy this new technology in Manchester as soon as it arrives with Mr. Fischer’s help, but in the meantime we will deploy the few vibroseis trucks we have at outposts they are needed the most,” Cornelius said. “Then we’ll roll out these Rolling Stone technologies to outposts all around the country.”

“General,” said a new voice. “This is Lieutenant Festa. France has sent us 100 consultants—engineers, soldiers, and more—with experience finding and fighting the monsters that dug through the ground in Europe. I believe that should help with the manpower issue.”

“Then we have the people and enough equipment to cover far more ground than the vibroseis truck setups we used last night,” Cornelius said. “One Seismic Detection System—or SDS—from Project Rolling Stone can cover a radius of approximately 200 to 500 square miles depending on geological factors. In other words, it will be more than enough for the outposts you decide to…”

“To save,” Souza cut in. “We’re abandoning outposts in the Midwest and continuing to pull people back east.”

Festa spoke up again. “That’s great that we might be able to scrounge up this equipment, but our aircraft are at their limits of use right now. What exactly does this SDS stuff look like? Is it hard to transport?”

Cornelius unfolded the laptop in front of him. “I’m sending you schematics of what this is so you know what to expect. Goes without saying, this was a highly classified project beforehand, and I think we need to keep this intel amongst ourselves for the time being.”

The general twisted the laptop enough so that Fischer could get a look at the images on the screen. On it, Fischer saw an array of metal-encased sensors, all of which looked similar to the small coin-sized sensors civil engineers used on bridges to detect stability issues and potential damage from traffic and floods. Each sensor could easily fit in the palm of his hand.

“As you can see, the sensors are quite small. It’s no problem to scatter these around an outpost.” Cornelius opened another image. “This is our signal processing unit.”

A backpack-sized metallic device with a computer screen and an array of antenna came on the screen.

“Remember, these were only meant to be passive detection systems—not active like the equipment we used in El Paso,” Cornelius said. “All they’ve got to do is receive even the most minute of signals from tunneling activity, and you can get an accurate read on any tunnel-making. Like I said, perfect for the DMZ between North and South Korea.”

“That certainly exceeds my expectations if it works how you promised,” Fischer said.

“Me, too,” Ringgold said. “This sounds like something we can’t pass up. Let’s get it done.”

“It’s not that easy,” Cornelius replied.

“Tell me what you need.”

“My troops are made up of mercenaries, retired soldiers, and a lot of brave men and women, but these are not Special Op soldiers, and that’s what I need to help locate the tech before our people can get it out of there.”

Hushed chatter came over the other line.

“Anything could have happened to the SDS equipment since I last heard about it. The facility may have been inadvertently destroyed in the bombing campaigns in the war or marauders may have sacked the National Accelerator Labs,” Cornelius said. “We need a team with the experience of working behind enemy lines.”

“I know of just the one,” Ringgold said. “Unfortunately, they’re busy trying to secure a mastermind.”

“A mission to locate and retrieve this technology is imperative to protect the mastermind while the scientists research it,” Cornelius replied. “This location is one of the hardest to get at, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done if the Variants try.”

There was silence on the phone for a few seconds.

Fischer had made some tough decisions in his time, but he did not envy the president’s position now. Every soldier they had left was a valuable asset from a dwindling pool of resources.

“General Cornelius, I want you to send myself and General Souza all the intel you have on Project Rolling Stone,” Ringgold said. “We’ll need it if we’re going to send a team out looking for it.”

“Uploading now,” Cornelius said.

“Thank you, we will be in touch shortly. Until then, stay safe.”

“You too, Madam President.”

The call ended and Cornelius stood.

“I’m counting on you now, Mr. Fischer,” he said. “As soon as the SDS equipment arrives, I want your men ready to deploy it. In the meantime, I’ll be heading back to Galveston.” He crossed around the table closer to Fischer. “There’s something else I want to warn you about.”

“What?” Fischer asked.

“We have good reason to believe most of these attacks have been aided by collaborators within and outside of the outposts.”

Fischer furrowed his brow. “You’re telling me there are traitors in our midst?”

A firm nod. “What you and the rest of the people are doing in this base is extremely important. Between the mastermind and the SDS equipment, these are perhaps the most crucial missions if we’re going to beat the Variants and their allies.”

“I’m all too aware of it.”

“There very well could be people at this outpost that are compromised. You might run into some of these collaborators here on base and not even realize it. I want you to be vigilant, and I trust you can make sure the SDS equipment is safe when it’s brought here.”

Fischer swallowed. “I’m a good judge of character, but…”

“Stay frosty at all times and keep all classified intel quiet. The collaborators might be planning something even more sinister, and we can’t afford any of our plans to fall into their hands.

“That sounds like you don’t think our military and its scientists can keep a secret,” Fischer said.

“Unfortunately from what I’ve heard and seen, it sure as hell seems like we’ve got compromised people who have sufficient security clearance to intercept classified data.”

“Then who do I trust out here?” Fischer asked.

Cornelius drew in a breath. “Wish I could tell you exactly who to trust and who not to. But if we’d figured that out already, I wouldn’t have to give you this warning, would I?”

Fischer swallowed even harder.

“All I can say is use your brain, use your gut, and trust basically no one,” Cornelius said. He gave Fischer a nod and then exited with his team behind him.

— 14 —

“Ghost, Falcon 1, ETA five minutes,” came a voice over the channel.

Dohi and the rest of Team Ghost had been patiently waiting for this moment, all of them spread out and hidden in vantage points covering Jackson Square around the St. Louis Cathedral in New Orleans.

After calling in the mastermind’s location, they had retreated to observe the beast through the cracked and broken stained-glass windows. Dohi watched the abomination with a growing dread. He had grown up listening to Navajo folklore about many different demons, and had always believed them to be more fantasy than fact, but this beast proved his ancestors were right.

“Eyes on target,” Fitz responded over the channel. “Awaiting orders.”

“Four birds incoming, two to touch down,” Falcon 1 called back. “Confirm LZ clear?”

The channel went quiet. Dohi scanned the flooded terrain filled with debris and charcoaled vehicles around Jackson Square.

“Negative,” Fitz finally replied. “Not enough room to land you, Falcon 1.”

“Understood, Ghost 1. We’ll find an alternative.”

The distant whir of the helicopters rose over the clicking of joints and the moans of the monsters’ captives inside the cathedral. A howl burst over the din—the Variant version of an air-raid siren sounding the alarm over the helicopters.

From his position, Dohi could see the beasts cease feeding their master. Several of the smaller monsters skittered over the webbing toward the broken windows and doors.

“Eyes on movement,” Fitz said over the private channel.

“Six… no, seven hostiles from the south,” Rico reported.

Next came Mendez. “Got a pack of juvies streaming out of the apartments to our east.”

“Four more around the museums to the northwest,” Ace chimed in.

The whoop of the chopper blades cut them off. Dark silhouettes appeared in the rolling gray clouds.

“We’re drawing heat,” Falcon 1 said over the comms. “Got a horde growing in our wake. Ghost, you’ll need to clear the pickup zone.”

“Wilco,” Fitz said. “All right, boys and girls, you heard him. We keep this square clear, then move inside and secure the cathedral. On my mark.”

There was tension in his voice.

Dohi was nervous too. They were about to attempt something no other team had tried and he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy, even with the air support en route.

The other members of the team shouldered their rifles, standing amid the overgrown bushes and masses of webbing. Dohi spotted an armored juvenile Variant with roving, saucer-shaped eyes.

“Execute,” Fitz ordered on the comms.

Dohi pulled the trigger and suppressed rifle shots choofed all around the square. Their targets crumpled, red holes weeping from heads and chests.

The next volley punched through the flanks of the Variants drawn out of the cathedral by the noise.

Through the gaping holes in the windows of the cathedral, Dohi saw the mastermind go mad behind the altar where it stood. The hulking red form shook, the vibrations traveling through the folds of tissue that covered the monster. It reached out with huge, glistening claws and yanked on the tissue vines attached to its body like it was orchestrating a sickening puppet performance. Multiple cocooned bodies were slashed open by the raging beast, dumping the contents to the floor.

“South square clear,” Rico said.

“North clear,” Ace said.

Fitz gave the advance signal.

Dohi got up and walked at a hunch past the foliage and webbing he’d sheltered behind, moving across the lawn toward the cathedral. A clearing in the clouds let sunlight wash over the choppers. Their shadows surged over the hellish cityscape.

Screaming Variants chased after them on all fours. It wouldn’t be long before the reinforcements arrived. Team Ghost had to move fast.

Keeping low, Dohi took point with Fitz and Ace converging on him at the Cathedral. At the south entrance, Rico and Mendez had joined up.

One of the stained-glass windows suddenly burst into rainbow shards. Dohi brought an arm up to shield himself from the hailstorm of glass as a Variant lunged through.

A suppressed burst took it down, and Fitz patted Dohi on the back.

“You good?” he asked.

Dohi wiped fresh blood off his cheek where a shard had opened his flesh. He managed a nod and followed Fitz and Ace into the nave of the cathedral. The mastermind thrashed around, knocking into the webbing-wrapped bodies dangling from the ceiling as it tried to separate itself from the organic netting in an effort to escape.

The few remaining Variants in the cathedral launched themselves off the rafters and webbing-covered walls. Calculated shots dropped them all before they could get within striking distance.

Rico and Mendez joined the team in the nave, and they slowly surrounded the writhing beast.

“Falcon 1, Ghost 1,” Fitz said into his headset. “We’re inside. Mastermind is alone now, but trying to escape.”

More webbing snapped from the mastermind. A gaping maw opened as it let out a roar so powerful its breath hit Dohi like gale force wind.

Fitz flashed hand signals for the team to spread out and cover the entries and exits. The team spread out behind the pews, facing the mastermind as if the creature was a demonic priest and they had come to worship.

Rotor wash cascaded through the missing chunks of the cathedral’s roof. The Chinook blocked the sunlight as it managed a dangerous hover. Ropes uncoiled, and Marines fast-roped down. The men landed amid the puddles of water between the pews.

“Move, move, move!” a sergeant shouted as they rushed into positions, scattering among the pews, and securing the entryways throughout the cathedral.

One skinny Marine slid next to Dohi, carrying a tranquilizer rifle fit for taking down an elephant.

The sound of the horde increased, the ground rumbling from what sounded like hundreds of clawed feet and hands pounding the concrete outside.

The Marine with the tranq rifle didn’t waste time. He aimed and fired at the mastermind. Several other Marines did the same. The feathered metal rounds plunged into the folds of the mastermind’s tissue.

Explosions boomed outside as Hydra 70 rockets from the Apache helicopters slammed into the advancing beasts. The chainsaw growl of the Apaches’ 30 mm M230E1 chain gun burst to life next, spewing rounds into the onrushing horde.

Another deafening shriek escaped the mastermind. It lashed out at the nearest Marines, tearing away more of the webbing. The Marines backed away, letting loose a second volley of darts.

The mastermind recoiled; its movements were clumsier, slower.

A pair of Marines cautiously approached it.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Dohi asked the Marine next to him.

“Don’t know,” the man said, sounding a bit desperate. He loaded in another tranquilizer round. “We’ve never done this before. They don’t work instantly either!”

The resonating blasts of bursting rockets shook the walls. Several of the red vines snapped, releasing shriveled corpses that crashed to the ground.

“Falcon, requesting a SITREP,” the Chinook pilot said.

Dohi heard the worry in his quivering voice. Things must not be looking so good from the air. The machinegun fire continued, and another blast from a rocket thumped into the concrete.

Over the noises, came the angry shrieks of beasts.

They were getting closer.

But finally, the mastermind grew still, its eyes rolling in its gargantuan skull. It slumped against the back wall, knocking a lopsided crucifix from the wall.

“Falcon 1, slings now!” the Marine sergeant shouted.

Slings and nets unfurled from the Chinook, hanging like tentacles in front of the mastermind.

The sergeant stood from his hiding spot behind a pew and waved for his men to follow. “Move it, Marines!”

The men rushed the giant monster as it blinked slowly like it was struggling to stay awake. Teams of the Marines threw the heavy slings and nets around the creature’s limbs, securing its bulbous feet and clawed hands.

A door suddenly exploded off the hinges and the first Variant staggered into the cathedral with a missing arm and blood cascading from multiple shrapnel wounds across its chest. It sucked in one last breath and then slumped to the ground.

But more creatures stormed over the corpse.

Dohi swiveled and squeezed the trigger, releasing a burst that blew off an armored hunk of a juvenile’s head. His bolt locked back after taking out three more of them that had climbed through windows.

The Apaches circled outside, their chain guns still cutting through the mass of beasts. Survivors bounded through the open door where they were cut down by Team Ghost and the Marines.

Within minutes a wall of the dead had formed.

And still they came, trying to save the mastermind. The Marines worked fast and Team Ghost provided covering fire, but the Variants had made it into the nave.

A sinewy female launched herself into the air and careened down the aisle, headed toward the men struggling to secure the mastermind.

The beast turned toward Fitz, ducking under his fire. Magazine dry, Dohi pulled out his hatchet and let it fly. The blade landed squarely in the middle of the creature’s face, splitting its nose.

“Step away from it! Step back!” someone yelled.

When Dohi looked, the mastermind’s eyes had opened and bloody red lips peeled back into a snarl. The cornered animal, desperate, thrashed against its restraints as men threw the slings around its limbs like lassoes.

It fell again, pulling on the slack sling roped around its limbs. Panicked screams rang out. The creature fell on three of the Marines trying to secure the slings, silencing their screams with a loud crunch.

Dohi rushed over with Ace and Mendez while Fitz and Rico continued to lay down covering fire.

The beast got up again, revealing the mangled, broken limbs of the crushed Marines. One of them was still alive, but his legs were twisted beneath him.

Dohi helped pull the groaning man to safety.

Ace and Mendez helped the other Marines. While they worked to secure the monster, a transmission fired over the channel. “Ghost 1, we got a problem,” the Chinook pilot said. “More hostiles headed our way.”

“You got a count?” Fitz asked.

“A few dozen Variants and what looks like two fan boats full of collaborators,” replied the pilot.

“Send an Apache to intercept and eliminate,” Fitz ordered.

Dohi got the injured Marine to safety. “Hang on man, we’re going to get you out of here.”

One of his eyes bulged from the socket, but despite his injuries, he still pulled out his pistol.

A massive hole in the side of the church provided a window to the skyline. Dohi saw the Apache fly to take out the fan boats. He went to turn away when he noticed a stream of white smoke in his peripheral. Before he could turn, an explosion bloomed across the sky.

The chopper went into a spin and vanished from view.

“Gun bird down!” cried the Chinook pilot.

Now it was all too clear what the mastermind had been doing when it tugged on the vines and thrashed around. It was calling for reinforcements, buying time for itself as its Variant and collaborator allies descended on the unwary Marines and Team Ghost.

It had sprung a trap.

The surviving twelve Marines and Team Ghost all exchanged looks, each of them knowing the implications.

“Keep working!” Fitz yelled.

The Marine Sergeant barked at his men, and they went back to securing the beast again. The creature’s eyes fluttered closed again from a new round of darts sticking out of its pink folds.

Dohi knew what was at stake, and the rest of the team would, too. Even if the team finished securing it, there was no guarantee of their success if the collaborators brought the other Apache down before they could leave New Orleans with their catch.

“We have to go back outside and take out those collaborators,” Dohi said.

“Let’s go, bro!” Mendez yelled. “I’ll fuck ’em all up!”

“You’ll get yourselves killed,” Ace grumbled.

“Dohi and Mendez are right,” Fitz said. “We have to buy these Marines time to get the target out of here.”

“Good luck!” yelled the skinny Marine.

Dohi nodded at the young man and took lead back into Jackson square.

From there, they rushed eastward past the vine-covered bushes and wall, then around the square, and back to the flooded streets. He navigated through the water-filled craters left from the Apache’s rockets and dodged past the red and crispy corpses of Variants. Smoke still shifted off their smoldering bodies.

Dohi paused at a street corner as the howl of Variants wailed over the square behind them. Another thunderous storm of Variant shrieks erupted from near the cathedral. The beasts were closing in around Jackson Square.

Geysers of dirt and water exploded around the monsters as the single remaining Apache struggled to keep them back. Chain gun fire cut through their ranks, but they gushed forward.

The monsters were mostly coming in from the north, where they had followed the choppers. Their attention was almost entirely on the carnage around the cathedral as they rushed to the mastermind’s rescue.

If Team Ghost had delayed another minute, they wouldn’t have made it out of Jackson Square.

Ahead in the flooded street, the glint of the abandoned fan boats caught Dohi’s eyes. The burning wreckage of the Apache sizzled on top of a mountain of debris, sending up a column of oily black smoke, not far from the boats. A few Variants prowled, but these were the diseased, starving beasts, the ones too timid to charge into battle.

Dohi ignored them and searched for the collaborators. He saw no clear trail here except for their boats.

Another thump of rockets against the ground drew his eyes back westward where the cathedral was.

One of the Chinooks hovered with it slings hanging through the open hole in the cathedral’s roof. A crew chief on the other big bird manned an M240 on the open rear gate and two door-gunners unleashed hell from the M60s mounted on the side doors.

Despite their air superiority, the choppers were sitting ducks to the collaborators’ rockets. The traitorous shits were definitely preparing another shot. They would be looking for the best spot to bring the birds down, and that’s exactly where Dohi had to search, too.

He searched the roofs that weren’t yet covered in flames from the burning Apache. Most of the apartments, restaurants, and bars had collapsed in on themselves.

He spotted a three-story nightclub covered in red webbing. At the top floor was a railing around an open-air bar.

It was the optimal location to launch a couple of rockets at a vulnerable Chinook.

Dohi pointed toward it.

Fitz nodded, signaling for them to head into the nightclub.

Inside, they navigated a floor littered with broken glasses and upturned tables. Footsteps led through the muck and grime coating the floor leading to a stairwell.

Dohi’s pulse accelerated with each step.

“Ghost, Falcon 1, the mastermind is almost secure,” said the pilot. “We’re nearly ready to go, but—”

Something cut off the transmission. Dohi ran up the rest of the stairwell until he made it to the top, outdoor level. After opening the door, he sheltered in an alcove on the rooftop patio overlooking the street and Jackson Square beyond.

A violent storm of fire and noise bloomed from above the cathedral.

“Second bird down!” the Chinook pilot said.

Frantic cries surged over the channels, about Variants invading the cathedral.

Dohi tuned them out, focusing only on the world directly in front of him.

Laughing came across the rooftop patio.

The sounds fueled Dohi’s anger. Thoughts of the people buried in tunnels, of Lincoln dying in the chopper, of all the children now orphaned because of these bastards.

Rico, Mendez, Fitz, and Ace all fell into line, their chests heaving with the rushed charge they had made to get here. With a hand signal, Fitz gestured forward.

Dohi went first, keeping low as he moved between chairs and tables. Then he hurdled over a bar covered in black mold.

Six collaborators were positioned on the other side of the roof, stabilizing their LAW rockets on the railing. Three handled the launchers as the other three prepped the next set of weapons.

One of the collaborators looked over his shoulder with a mangy beard dangling from his mud-covered face. Dohi halted and aimed his rifle as the man reached for a sidearm.

A squeeze of the trigger dropped the man with a round punching between his widening eyes. Dohi kept moving, firing as he did.

The others started to turn, scrambling for weapons. More shots lanced into their flesh. Only the sixth collaborator managed to let loose a final rocket. It was a Hail Mary that punched wide through the air, slamming harmlessly into the cathedral, sending bricks tumbling from a cloud of gray.

Dohi let his rifle sag and threw his hatchet. It found purchase in the man’s back, sinking deep. He screamed in pain, dropping the launcher, and reaching behind him to try and grab the blade. Then he fell to his knees, still screeching.

“Falcon 1, Ghost 1, collaborators are down,” Fitz reported on the comm.

“Copy, Ghost, good work out there,” the Chinook pilot said.

The big bird with the sling-loader lifted into the air with the red, listless form of the huge mastermind dangling in its nets. The second Chinook flew into position, the rear ramp still open. The crew chiefs had exchanged the fast-ropes for rope ladders to load the Marines back inside.

Hundreds of Variants swarmed the streets below, shrieking in a desperate din that chilled Dohi to the core.

The M240 and M60s from the lead Chinook rattled, beating back the crowd that finally scattered in defeat.

Rotor wash blasted Team Ghost as the second Chinook came to a hover above them. Fitz got Rico up first, and then the rest of the team climbed to the safety of the troop hold. Only then did Dohi collapse against the bulkhead of the aircraft, sweat pouring down his forehead.

“We did it,” Mendez huffed. “We actually pulled that loco shit off, man.”

Ace clapped his shoulder, slumping beside him. “Nice work, amigo.”

“Gracias, hombre.”

Dohi surveyed the Marines around them.

Many hadn’t made it back, including the man with crushed legs that Dohi had pulled to safety. He walked over to the skinny Marine who trembled. He balled his fists as Dohi approached, trying to hide his fear, or perhaps, his anger.

“Good job, kid,” Dohi said. He took a seat next to him, resting his back on the bulkhead. The Marine Sergeant walked through the troop hold, checking his remaining men.

Fitz went over to the man, wiping blood from his face.

“I’m sorry about your losses, Sergeant,” Fitz said. “Their sacrifices might have changed the direction of the war in our favor.”

— 15 —

The conference room in the packed quarters aboard the USS George Johnson broke into applause as soon as General Souza finished speaking.

“The mastermind is secure and en route to Outpost Manchester,” he said.

President Ringgold nodded, but didn’t allow herself to celebrate.

“That was the easy part,” she said. “Now the real mission begins.”

“Indeed,” Souza replied.

He continued debriefing, and when it finished, she marched straight to the lab. There she found the science team busy working behind glass windows on what looked like a lump of bulbous brain matter inside a clear plastic drum the scientists had called a bioreactor.

She jabbed the intercom, letting it buzz, and the scientists all looked up.

Kate hurried over, pressing a button to return the call.

“Is everything okay? Are Reed and Parker back?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled behind her clear face mask.

“They’re fine and should be here soon,” she replied.

Kate deflated, the anxiety draining from her.

“Would you like to join me on the deck for some fresh air while we wait?” Ringgold asked. “I do have some good news.”

“Fresh air sounds great, and so does good news, just give me a second.”

After Kate changed, she met the president in the narrow passage outside the lab. Several sailors walked past, so Ringgold stayed quiet, not wanting a single word of the classified information to find itself in prying ears.

At this point, leaked classified information spread like wildfire across the ship and it was imperative for morale to keep some things as tight as an airlock.

“Madam President, you have my curiosity piqued, what’s the news?” Kate asked.

Ringgold looked up and down the passage as they strolled on. “I just want to make sure we’re alone first.”

They halted outside an exit hatch to the small flight deck. Two Marines standing sentry saluted, and Ringgold returned the gesture.

“It’s a little cold out there today, Madam President.” One of the Marines motioned toward the general use parkas kept by the exit.

“Thank you.” Ringgold took one, slipping it on. “Let my agents know I’m about to go above deck. I have feeling they wouldn’t be happy if I met the incoming chopper without them.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” one of the Marines said, before picking up a handset for intraship comms.

Her security escort team arrived a few minutes later. The group of Secret Service agents and Marines accompanied the two women onto the sternward deck.

Gusting wind beat against them outside, chilling Ringgold despite her layers of clothing. Bulky clouds rolled across the darkening horizon.

A scan of the vast sea dotted with white caps confirmed they were alone.

Marines and Secret Service agents fanned out across the deck nonetheless, prepared to defend her against any unforeseen enemies.

While the men spread out, she and Kate waited anxiously for the first view of the helicopter carrying the heroes that had helped save them during the last war.

Both women were worried for different reasons.

For Ringgold, she waited to hear more about the strange bat attack that had claimed the lives of so many in Outpost Portland, fearing this was yet another weapon that they weren’t prepared to fight.

For Kate, she likely knew the reunion after days of being apart from her husband would be short-lived.

She would be right.

The same chopper would be taking Kate away from the stealth warship on a new mission, very soon.

Now that Ringgold was alone with Kate and out of earshot from the security team, she broke the news.

“The good news is that Team Ghost secured the mastermind in New Orleans, and it’s on its way to Outpost Manchester,” Ringgold said.

“Is everyone okay?”

Her response was typical Kate, always concerned about the men and women of the mission.

“Everyone on Team Ghost survived, but there were multiple casualties,” Ringgold said. “Their sacrifices won’t be in vain, and I know you’re going to make sure of that.”

Kate narrowed her blue eyes. “I take it that means I’m going to Manchester right now, too.”

“I’m sorry, I know you’re just about to see Reed—”

Kate drew in a breath and looked back to the ocean, determined. “I have to finish what we started. The future of the Allied States and, for that matter, the entire world might depend on our work.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Ringgold. Once again, the fate of the world rested on the shoulders of Kate Lovato and a handful of scientists.

“We’re taking every precaution to keep your work and Outpost Manchester secure, but General Souza warned the Variants might try to recapture their leader,” Ringgold said.

“We better work quickly then.”

Ringgold had a feeling Beckham wouldn’t want Kate to go to Manchester alone. She didn’t plan on standing in their way, either.

“An advance team arrived at the facility earlier today and will be preparing the lab for your research,” Ringgold said.

“Great. With the team we’ve got, I’m sure we’ll crack the webbing’s code in no time.”

“Incoming!” shouted a Marine.

The man pointed at a black aircraft lowering through the cloud cover.

Another Marine with a handset confirmed the incoming Bell UH-1Y Venom was cleared to land. From what Ringgold had been told it was one of only four the military had left.

She backed away with Kate from the flight deck until they were safely against the bulkhead. The pilots put down in the center of the helipad, and the side door slid open.

Horn jumped out first, followed by Beckham, who held a hand to a bandage on his head. Even from a distance Ringgold could tell they were exhausted.

Rotor wash whipped their blood-soiled fatigues as they trundled over.

Kate ran to Beckham, and they embraced while Horn stood watching. He glanced at Ringgold almost with a rueful gaze.

As the rotors slowed to a stop, Kate pulled away and Ringgold joined them.

Beckham nodded at Ringgold. “Madam President.”

“Good to see you both,” she said.

Horn offered a brief, but pained smile.

Kate looked back at the helicopter.

“Where are Donna and Bo?” she asked. “I thought you were bringing them…”

Her words trailed off when she saw the troop hold was empty save for a crew chief. Beckham didn’t respond right away, and when Kate looked to Horn, his eyes glazed with tears.

Their friends weren’t coming home, Ringgold realized.

“Timothy?” Kate asked.

Beckham shook his head. Kate covered her mouth with a palm to hold back a gasp. She took a step back, and he reached out to her.

“The collaborators killed them,” Beckham said. “They destroyed our home last night, too.”

Ringgold stepped forward, unsure if she had heard the last part right.

“The collaborators used some kind of explosives on Peaks Island before the attack on the outpost,” he continued. “Might’ve been the bats there, too, for all we know.”

“Hit my house too,” Horn said. “From everything we heard, they’ve infiltrated Outpost Portland.”

“I don’t understand,” Kate said. She shook her head like she couldn’t believe it, and Beckham wrapped her up in another hug.

Ringgold was equally dismayed. She had underestimated the Variant enemy. Everyone had. But it was the collaborators that the military had really underestimated.

The underground group was far more organized than she could have fathomed. In some ways, they were worse than the mutated monsters.

“Let’s go inside,” Ringgold suggested.

They went back into a passage, and she told the security detail to wait at the exit hatch. Then she took the others deeper into the passage where they could speak alone. She explained what she had told Kate about the mastermind being transferred to Manchester.

“And Team Ghost?” Beckham asked. “What are their new orders?”

“They’re going to assist in finding some technology in California that can better protect our outposts,” Ringgold said.

“What?” Horn blurted.

“The frontier?” Beckham said, sounding equally as shocked. “That’s no-man’s land.”

“Worse,” Horn said. “It’s Variant land.”

“We have no choice,” Ringgold said.

Beckham and Horn exchanged a look, and Beckham shook his head.

“We’ve got so much to talk about with everything going on, and I want to see the kids,” he said.

“We don’t have much time,” Kate said. “My team is heading to Manchester ASAP to begin studying the mastermind.”

Ringgold wished she could let them take their time, but time, as always, was not on their side. Every minute they waited was another minute that the enemy drove humanity closer to extinction.

“No need to say goodbye,” Beckham said after a brief hesitation. “We bring Javier and the girls with.”

“You sure about that, boss?” Horn asked.

“I sure as hell ain’t letting my wife go out there alone,” Beckham said. “If you’d prefer to stay—”

“I go where you go, boss.”

Beckham checked with Ringgold for her approval.

“Of course, you have my blessing.”

She knew them all well enough to know there was no debating this. And deep down, she agreed it was best if they were all together. She just wished she could join them. These people were the closest thing to a family she had left in this world.

***

Timothy had spent the past twenty-four hours watching, listening, and learning. Those three words were all things his dad had taught him when he was growing up to survive in a world of monsters.

The collaborators had confined him to a small holding cell with a sink, toilet, and bed. It was disgusting and claustrophobic, but it beat being plastered to a wall.

He wasn’t the only one here.

This wing of the makeshift prison held other people. Women mostly, at least he thought so. They all looked haggard and moved like they were drugged.

A young woman occupied the cell across from him. Since he’d noticed her, she hadn’t moved from her position, lying face-down on the concrete floor. He guessed she was in her thirties, but it was hard to tell with the deep bags under her eyes and the way her nearly translucent skin clung to her bones.

He wanted to ask one of the other prisoners what in the hell was going on, but he didn’t want to piss off the guards stationed nearby.

So he simply listened and waited.

As time wore on, he tried to distract himself with hopeful thoughts. Daydreams that would transport him from this misery.

He recalled afternoons hiking with his dad, and stories about his mother. Days at the beach with Tasha, throwing sticks into the rolling tides for Ginger and Spark to fetch.

He longed for those moments again, and he hated the collaborators for taking them from him.

They were talking again and he pushed his thoughts away to listen.

The guards discussed payback on Outpost Portland for the death of their comrades and the loss of so many ‘thrall’ Variants.

None of what they said helped much. Timothy still didn’t know where the compound was, nor how many collaborators and Variants it held.

The guards had said something earlier that sounded important—something about a secret weapon that Pete had been saving. They had decided to use it early after so many of the Variants and the raider demolition parties had been killed.

Timothy prayed that secret weapon hadn’t hurt any of his friends. Donna and Bo were still at the outpost.

At some point, Timothy finally succumbed to his exhaustion and fell asleep in his cell. He awoke to the sounds of a key jingling against the iron bars.

A man stood in the hallway outside, with his back to Timothy. He opened the door to the woman’s cell across from him. Her eyes opened slightly, and she tried to squirm away. She raised a trembling hand and moaned when the man bent down with a syringe in his hand.

He made a cooing sound, like he was trying to get a child to relax. But the woman resisted, struggling sluggishly as he poked a needle into her arm.

“No,” she mumbled. “No…”

“It’s okay,” he said, reassuringly.

The man remained crouched while her body relaxed. Moments later, her head slumped back to the floor and drool slid down her chin.

When the man turned, Timothy saw the Red Sox baseball cap and the dirty smirk of Nick, the collaborator his friends called Whiskey. He slipped the dirty needle back in a pocket of his black vest. Then he put his hand on the grip of a holstered pistol and turned.

“What did you do to her?” Timothy asked.

“She’s one of the special ones,” Nick said. “Pete likes to keep them quiet until they’re ready for the great awakening. The New Gods will want them to help us propagate our lands.”

He shut the gate, locked it, and then crossed over to Timothy. For a moment he just stood there stroking his beard.

Then he reached down to his vest. Timothy feared it was for another needle, but instead, he held out a plastic bag.

“Better eat somethin’. You’ll need your energy for later.” Nick ripped open the bag and handed it through the bars. Timothy reached out for what smelled like beef smothered in gravy, but then Nick held it back.

“That was quite the performance last night in front of Pete,” he said. “You got Vin killed, and while I was no fan of that douche, he deserved better than getting a new pair of gills like a stupid perch.”

“Then he shouldn’t have…” Timothy let his words trail off.

“Shouldn’t have what?” Nick pulled the bag containing a still warm meal away from the bars. “Finish what you want to say.”

Timothy considered his words carefully, reminding himself that his goal was to get these men to trust him. His opportunity for vengeance would come only then.

“Vin would have thrown you under the bus next,” Timothy said. “I heard what he was saying about pinning whatever happened on that Pete guy. You can’t trust a guy like that.”

Nick furrowed his bushy black eyebrows.

“I did you a favor, man,” Timothy said.

“Favor.” Nick chuckled while scratching his beard. “A favor is giving me a bottle of aged whiskey.”

Timothy eyed the bag, his stomach growling.

“You know… before all this?” Nick said. “Before the monsters, the war… you know what I did?”

You were a drug dealer or an ambulance chaser? Timothy thought.

“I was a dentist with a wife I adored and two kids that would be your age now,” Nick said. “I lost everything. You want to know why?”

Timothy stayed quiet. It was hard to believe this man could be anything but a traitorous animal.

“Because of our corrupt government and some fringe scientists that created the monsters,” Nick said. “So I decided, you know what… why fight them?”

He raised his lip, exposing a rotted tooth.

You sure you were a dentist? Timothy wanted to say.

“Why not use those beasts against the government that created them?” Nick continued. “Why not take down the cog that keeps this war turning?”

“Maybe because the beasts will kill all of us if we don’t stop them,” Timothy said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. He managed his tone. “They aren’t pets to be controlled. They’re apex predators designed for the single purpose of killing.”

Nick snorted. “Figured you’d say that, kid. You’ve got a lot to learn if you want to survive the reign of the New Gods.”

Again, he reached into his pocket.

Nick pulled out a key chain and unlocked the cell. Then he handed Timothy the plastic bag full of mushed food. “Eat and come with me.”

Timothy took it before Nick could change his mind again. They set off down the passage side by side. He was so hungry that he didn’t bother looking at the people in the other cells while he downed what tasted like leathery roast beef and gravy. The lukewarm food filled his gut, and for the first time he felt a flood of relief.

By the time they arrived in the lobby of the prison wing, he had finished off the last of the food and was digging inside with his fingers to get the last drops of gravy.

Two guards sat at a card table with mugs of coffee and eggs over easy. They glared at Timothy while he passed.

The exit door of the lobby opened to a passage lined with closed doors. Nick kept his hand on the grip of a pistol while they walked.

Timothy wanted to ask where they were or what this place was, but he didn’t want to sound like a cop. He let his eyes do the investigative work.

There were no windows. Everything was basically concrete and steel, which told him it might be some sort of old military bunker.

But that didn’t quite explain the first chamber where he was pasted to a wall or the silo where the bats were stored to feed the beasts.

He got another look at that silo a moment later. The hallway came to an intersection. The passage on the right ended with the mesh wire that held back the bats.

This time he didn’t hear any of their fluttering wings.

Nick went left, toward the sound of footsteps. Several guards with slung rifles walked toward them. Both men nodded at Nick who dipped his baseball cap.

Two more intersections later, and he stopped outside a door with a rusted radiation sign on it.

“Go inside,” Nick said, opening the door.

Hanging lights guided the way up a steep ladder of rungs built into the wall. Another radiation sign marked a hatch at the top.

By the time Timothy got to the top he was out of breath.

“Open the hatch,” Nick said.

Timothy hesitated, then twisted the wheel handle until it popped open. Another long hallway greeted them with a single door at the end.

When Timothy turned for orders, Nick had his pistol pulled and pointed at him.

“Walk,” he said in a completely different tone. His features hardened as he pulled the hammer back.

Timothy’s stomach dropped.

“What’s going on?”

“Kid, I see right through you. You think you’re smarter than us. Thought you were smarter than Vin, too.” Nick jabbed the pistol forward. “But I ain’t Vin, now move it.”

Timothy set off down the passage toward the rusted door at the end with a third radiation sign. Each step felt more like his last, and he braced himself for the bullet to the back of the head. He cursed himself for not making a move earlier when he had noticed the gun. It could have been his way out.

But how could he take down Nick with a gun aimed at his head?

There was no way he could fight back. He had to try and talk Nick down.

“I can help you guys,” Timothy said. “You need me.”

Nick didn’t reply, and Timothy kept walking all the way to the door.

“Open it,” Nick said.

“I…”

“Open the goddamn door.”

Timothy grabbed the wheel handle and twisted it, expecting to see a room full of starved Variants that would eat his corpse after a bullet blew out his brains.

But there were no Variants inside.

He walked onto a platform overlooking a massive room with a high ceiling that reminded him of a hangar. Huge banks of lights illuminated the concrete walls ribbed with iron beams.

“Look,” Nick said.

“What?”

“Look below you.”

Timothy drew closer to the platform’s edge. Dozens of tents and other temporary shelters were pitched on the ground below. People, many of them women and children, walked about casually, some of them talking.

At first, he thought the people were prisoners like him, but most seemed happy, and a few even shared smiles as they went about their day. Some ate off plastic plates gathered around crates serving as makeshift tables. Others waited in a line for food outside a shack centered in the large hangar style room.

Nick grabbed the back of Timothy’s neck, forcing his head down over the edge of the platform. Timothy’s palms sweated as he knelt at the platform’s end, his fingers gripping it tightly.

“You see those people?” Nick said.

Timothy nodded.

“I lied before… my family didn’t die during the war,” Nick said. “My family is here, protected from the new corrupt government and military.”

“And you’re not afraid of the Variants?”

“Fear isn’t the word I would use to describe it,” Nick said. “You were right, kid. The monsters will take over everything if we don’t join them.”

He eased the gun back a little. “The New Gods want the same thing as us. To end the very government responsible for their miserable existence, and I’m one of the warriors that will help them achieve victory on the battlefield. You can be too…”

Footsteps sounded behind Timothy and Nick lowered the gun.

“There you are,” someone called out.

Timothy turned as two men with weapons slung over their shoulders walked through the hatch out onto the platform.

“Want to tell me why you brought him up here?” asked Pete. “We’ve got a briefing to get to.”

Alfred stood next to him, staring at Timothy and sizing him up.

“I wanted him to see the truth,” Nick said.

“You sure he’s ready?” Alfred asked.

“I’m the one that gets to make that determination,” Pete said.

Nick fidgeted, like he had done something wrong.

Timothy already knew Pete was the leader, and Nick seemed to be the second in command. Alfred… Timothy wasn’t sure what the hell his job was. He acted like a religious freak the way he’d offered Timothy that strange blessing the night before.

After a moment of silence Pete shrugged. “Guess now is as good a time as any to introduce Vin’s replacement to the others.”

Nick pushed Timothy toward a ladder leading to the ground.

Once they were on the ground-level with the tents, the three collaborators flanked Timothy. Women and children watched them go, and one kid no older than eight waved.

The kid actually looked happy.

Nick stopped and rustled the kid’s hair, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. The kid grabbed it, a grin spreading across his face.

Timothy tried staring straight ahead until they got to a door that opened to another vast room like the one with the tents. Inside, were all sorts of vehicles and equipment, but most of them looked old, maybe Cold War era.

Only a few lights glowed over the space, but it was enough to see they were heading toward another door.

Two guards waited there, cradling rifles. Both came to attention.

The next room was smaller with a flag hanging over an entire wall. A symbol resembling a misshapen skull was emblazoned on it.

It looked almost alien.

Metal tables furnished the center of the room and lockers lined a wall. About twenty men wearing military-style clothing sat in chairs facing a podium.

Pete walked in front of them and they all abruptly stood. Their eyes flitted to Timothy; scrutinizing him, some sneering, others with clenched jaws.

“Everyone, I want you to meet Timothy,” Pete said. “He’s going to help us get back into Outpost Portland.”

— 16 —

Four Outpost Manchester soldiers headed toward a red-brick building that had been converted into apartments long before the war. Behind them, trailed Kate and her family, along with Horn and his girls.

“Don’t give them too much leash,” Horn kept saying.

Tasha and Jenny tugged against Ginger and Spark as the dogs pulled on their leashes, sniffing the new ground curiously.

The entire area was guarded by men wearing uniforms. Kate noticed a white Raven stitched onto the breast of each uniform, the symbol of the outpost. Few outposts had made the effort to give themselves an identity people could unite under. That kind of tactic, though seemingly minimal, was a surefire way to give people a sense of belonging and stoke their loyalty.

Sometimes winning hearts and minds was just as powerful as providing people with weapons.

Of course weapons were crucial, and Manchester had plenty.

Razor wire fences surrounded the streets. Armored vehicles passed by with soldiers in the turrets. Outpost Manchester was the most protected place Kate had seen yet, which was another reason why it was selected for researching the mastermind.

The soldiers were taking them to the new home they’d all been promised. It stood a little way down from a similar building that housed the laboratory Kate would be working in.

“This is it,” the security guard said. “I’ll take you in.”

The other guards stopped outside as the guard took Kate, Beckham, Horn, and their children inside.

Their footsteps echoed eerily down empty, tiled hallways to a set of creaky wood stairs. They climbed these to a landing in a dimly lit hallway with antique sconces glowing over exposed brick walls.

“I don’t like this building,” Javier said.

Ginger and Spark both stopped, letting out low growls.

“Apparently they don’t either,” Kate said.

“This place is definitely on the creepy-side,” Tasha said. “I wish Timothy was here; when is he going to join us?”

Kate and Beckham shared a quick look. They still hadn’t told the kids what had happened.

“I don’t know,” Horn replied when Beckham and Kate didn’t.

Jenny stopped to look at a cobweb. “I’d be surprised if it isn’t infested with roaches,” she said.

“Spiders aren’t cockroaches,” Javier said. “But I agree, this place is nasty.”

“We’re not going to be here that long, but at least we’re going to be together,” Beckham said. “Try to make the best of that, okay, buddy?”

Javier shrugged.

Kate was glad to have them together again, but she dreaded telling the kids about everything that had happened. She and Reed had decided to wait until they could all have some quiet time together. And that hadn’t happened since the rush of packing and leaving the USS George Johnson to travel here.

In truth, she wasn’t sure when they would ever find enough downtime to have those tough conversations. They had arrived only an hour earlier, and as soon as they got settled, she would be off to the lab to see the beast Team Ghost had captured.

“This is it,” said the security guard. He pulled out a key and unlocked the door. “I’ll wait in the hallway for you, Doctor Lovato.”

“Thanks…” Kate said.

“Oh, and ma’am, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve been ordered to get you to the lab as soon as possible,” said the guard.

“She’ll be just a few minutes,” Beckham said.

The man nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” He stood against the hallway wall while Kate followed her family and Horn’s inside. The dogs took off, probing the place with their noses and taking in all the new scents.

Kate followed Jenny and Tasha through while Horn and Beckham rested their cleared rifles against the wall.

The apartment was covered in dust. Cobwebs clung to the corners. A wide kitchen opened into what had been a plush living space. Panes of sunlight filtered in through windows to illuminate the dust motes floating in the air.

“This place has to be haunted,” Javier said. “I mean, look at it!”

He swiped a hand through one of the cobwebs.

“It’s not haunted,” Beckham said. “This used to be the penthouse suite of the whole building. Five bedrooms, more than enough to go around. Just needs some cleaning up. I’d say we’re pretty lucky.”

Ginger and Spark barked at a corner and then jumped back as a cockroach skittered away.

“Gross!” Tasha yelled.

“What did I tell you?” Jenny said, turning around toward Horn.

Horn smashed the insect with a boot, then picked it up and dropped it into a trash can while the dogs sniffed the ground.

“Ain’t haunted, just got a few bugs,” Horn said.

Jenny wrinkle her nose. She sneezed and wiped her face with her sleeve. “Dad, I really wish we could just go home.”

“Yeah, when do you think we can go back home?” Tasha asked. “I really miss Timothy and all our other friends.”

Horn winced at the question. That was another thing they hadn’t told the kids about. Kate still couldn’t believe the collaborators had destroyed their houses.

She pushed aside the depressing thoughts and toured the apartment. Back when this place was new, it probably cost nearly a million dollars. The expensive furniture was now coated in dust, but at least the place didn’t smell moldy like so many other abandoned homes.

The kids all moved to the windows with the dogs to look at the Merrimack River, but Beckham directed them to get back.

Kate recalled the bats from Outpost Portland, and suddenly didn’t feel safe at all.

“Exactly how long do we have to stay here? One week? One month? A year?” Tasha asked, looking back at her dad.

“We won’t be here that long,” Kate said.

“All that matters is we’re together again,” Horn said.

Jenny hugged her dad’s side. “I missed you, Dad.”

Javier plopped down on a couch, dust puffing out.

“Well that’s just great,” Beckham said.

“Sorry…” Javier said.

Kate pulled Beckham aside into the kitchen. “I’ve got to get to the lab, and I know you have a meeting with the outpost commander. Who’s going to stay with the kids?”

Beckham gestured for Horn.

“You’re on babysitting duty first, Big Horn,” Beckham said. “Keep the kids away from the windows, okay?”

“Why?” Javier asked.

“Just do what I say, please,” Beckham said.

Tasha looked to him and then Kate.

“You’re leaving already?” she asked.

“Kate and I have work to do,” Beckham said.

“Horn, see if you can find some cleaning supplies in the closest,” Kate said. “Girls, Javier, maybe you can help him?”

They groaned, and Horn grumbled.

Kate and Beckham said their goodbyes. He grabbed his rifle and opened the door. The guard led them down the hall and stairwell back to the ground level.

It felt almost odd being with her husband again. Kate wanted to take his hand in her own, but he was distracted. Probably with the same worries and heartaches about everything they had lost and everything that was still at stake.

“Let’s try to meet up for dinner,” Kate said.

Beckham nodded. “Nothing short of a Variant attack is going to stop me from sharing a meal with the family. Let’s plan on eight o’clock.”

They headed outside where they were greeted by the growls of vehicle engines and barking orders of soldiers rushing to reinforce the barricades and weapons around the wall protecting the outpost.

People in civilian clothes walked around, but there weren’t many of them. The biggest group was a line gathered outside a building where recruits were being processed for the military.

Weeks ago, there might have been a farmer’s market set up there. Kate could almost picture the smiles, the laughs, and the peace of mind. The Allied States of America under the Ringgold Administration had been, for a while, a place of hope.

So much had changed in such a short amount of time.

“Captain, command is that building,” said the guard, pointing. “Doctor, if you would follow me, I’ll take you to the lab.”

“Sure you’ll be all right?” Beckham asked Kate.

“There are plenty of people to keep the lab secure,” she replied. “You go meet with the commander.”

He nodded and planted a kiss on her lips. Then he pulled her into a tight hug, and she lingered there for a second, wishing they could stay like that longer, letting the world around them fade.

But duty called. For both of them.

She let Beckham go and then followed the guard. They navigated through the busy groups of mostly uniformed men and women working to set up defenses and help refugees move into their new homes.

Kate followed the guard toward a long parking lot between all the converted, red-bricked buildings that lined the river. They didn’t stop until they reached a sign that read, Organ Innovation Technologies.

That company had disappeared during the war, but the facility remained standing.

Two more soldiers in black fatigues waited outside.

“These men will take you to the lab,” said her guard escort.

“Thank you,” Kate replied. She showed her identification to the soldiers standing at attention.

One of them looked it over, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized it. He then used a keycard to open the front door.

“This way, Doctor Lovato,” he said.

The halls inside were nearly empty with only a few laboratory techs milling about the place. Overhead fluorescent lights lent the place a sterile, bureaucratic feel with plain white walls and laminate floors that creaked when she walked. Smaller offices furnished with desks lined the passage.

The accompanying soldier took her to the manufacturing room once used in the nascent fabrication of artificial organs made from live cells. It was hard to believe the space had gone from being used to create life-saving medical treatments to housing a creature designed to help eradicate the human race.

The soldier used his keycard to open a door to the large chamber. He gestured for her to enter but she hesitated, a breath held in her lungs at the monstrosity inside.

Giant squid-sized eyes closed as nostrils flared with each huffing breath. Wrinkled pink flesh covered muscular limbs, and tendrils of red webbing hung off its bulbous shape.

The enormous beast was secured by chains to iron columns erected specifically to keep it imprisoned. They stretched from the grated stainless-steel flooring all the way up to the high ceiling where air ducts and filtration systems wormed through the air.

Despite the expensive system, she was still struck by a stench like an unearthed landfill and the sour rot of lemons.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” the guard said. “That thing isn’t going anywhere.”

A dozen other soldiers with automatic weapons patrolled the area. But she still didn’t feel safe. The monster was well over four times the size of a man, and its bulk looked like it could take plenty of damage.

She set off into the vast space cautiously, guided by the hanging banks of fluorescent lights. In the white glow, the monster’s gigantic chest rose and fell in deep heaves. It was still fast asleep.

Kate searched for Carr among the technicians preparing an arsenal of equipment to run the analyses they would perform. Huge silver bioreactors lined both sides of the chamber behind the laboratory benches.

She spotted Carr supervising a pair of lab techs hooking IV lines the size of garden hoses into the creature’s arm.

“Don’t worry. It doesn’t bite,” someone called out.

Sammy walked over in a white bunny suit.

“How are things going?” Kate asked.

“Good so far… did you get your family settled?”

“Yes, and I’m ready to get to work.”

“Follow me,” Sammy said. She crossed the room toward a lab bench on the other side of the mastermind. Kate stopped about ten feet away, still struck with awe by the monster.

“It’s okay,” Sammy said. “We have it completely sedated.”

They walked in a wide arc around the creature to lab benches where Carr worked quietly.

“Good to see you, Dr. Lovato,” he said. “Are you ready to get started on this beauty?”

“Absolutely,” Kate said, trying to disguise her trepidation.

Another lab technician stepped up next to Carr, his hands behind his back. It was Sean, but Kate almost didn’t recognize him at first. He was so thin, he looked like a broom wearing a tarp in his bunny suit.

Sean welcomed her and then gestured to a clear, aquarium-like chamber that had a mess of red webbing growing in it. Wires and a microelectrode array connected the webbing to a nearby computer on one end.

“This is our setup,” Sean said, excitedly. “Exactly what our team requested.”

At the other end of the bioreactor chamber, tendrils of webbing still attached to the mastermind stretched from the monster and were secured by clamps to the tissue within the chamber.

“Looks good,” Kate said.

She grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves from a box beside the computer. She slipped them snugly over her hands, then walked toward the behemoth, determined now that she had buried her fear.

“All right you ugly son of a bitch, time to figure out how you work,” she said.

***

The four-story command building was a former library retrofitted into a modern-day fortress. Two guards stood at the white pillars of the colonial brick building. On the roof, machine gun barrels and even flamethrowers protruded out.

Beckham stood in the sunshine observing the defenses on the other rooftops.

So far, not a single clawed foot or hand had touched this place.

But that didn’t guarantee the base would remain safe. Beckham had lived through attacks where the Variants managed to get into top-secret and well-guarded facilities deep underground. He had also seen how the collaborators could infiltrate safe zones and if they had sleeper cells in Manchester, then it could already be too late.

Eventually an attack would happen.

The enemy proved they were adaptable and smarter than Beckham could have ever predicted. His only hope was that they didn’t know the mastermind had been taken here. If they did, he had no doubt the Variants would send an army to rescue the beast, especially if it was as important as Kate and Dr. Carr insisted.

The doors behind the pillars of the command building finally opened. The two guards came to attention as an officer in black fatigues walked out. He wore a Raven symbol and a colonel’s rank insignia. The dark-skinned man had a neatly trimmed mustache and salt and pepper hair.

“Captain Reed Beckham,” he said in a deep voice.

The man instantly reminded him of Lieutenant Colonel Ray Jensen, one of the best men he had ever known. A man who had sacrificed himself for his country. Beckham had carried the lieutenant colonel’s pistol, a gift, for many years before regretfully losing it on a mission that had nearly claimed his life.

“I’m Colonel Presley,” the officer said. “Honored to have you at Outpost Manchester, Captain. Last time I saw you was during Operation Liberty.”

Beckham paused for a moment, not remembering the man at all.

“Sorry, sir, but you were in New York?”

“Yes, Captain, I was one of the few that made it out before the bombing began. I’ll never forget you staying behind.”

More painful memories surfaced, but Beckham pushed them aside.

He shook the colonel’s hand. “Looks like you learned from the mistakes we made since. You’ve done a great job securing this place, sir.”

“We’ve certainly done our best,” Presley said. He gestured for Beckham to follow him through the open front doors. The click of boots from officers and staff down the tiled floor echoed through the hallway.

Presley led them to a stairwell that took them to a second floor of open space. The bookshelves had all been removed, replaced with tables and storage for equipment along with a few cots.

Another stairwell took them to a hall of offices. Presley’s was the last one on the left. Two men in black fatigues stood guard outside. They looked oddly familiar, but Beckham couldn’t figure out where he had seen them before. Neither wore a Raven badge or an Orca badge, making it difficult for Beckham to guess where their allegiance lay.

He walked through the open door of the office. A man sat in a chair in front of his desk, holding a cowboy hat. He turned to reveal a bushy-mustached face and grinned.

“Ah, Captain Beckham, we meet again,” the man said in a southern drawl, standing.

Beckham recognized S.M. Fischer, the oil tycoon he had met at the White House. The men in the hallway must be his bodyguards.

“You’re a long way from Texas,” Beckham said.

“A lot has changed since we last met,” he said. “Fischer Fields’ operations have expanded more than I expected.”

Presley gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. Beckham took a seat and Fischer sat back in his, placing his ten-gallon hat on a crossed leg.

“When I was told you were coming here, I kept thinking about how small the world really is,” Fischer said. “But then I realized it’s not as small as we think.”

“How do you mean?” Beckham asked.

“We were just talking about Team Ghost,” Fischer said.

Presley leaned forward on his desk.

“You must already know that Ghost is headed to California to locate equipment from Project Rolling Stone,” he said.

“Our world is expanding even as our country is shrinking,” Fischer explained. “It’s been a long time since anyone dared venture west again.”

“The trek will be worth it,” Presley said. “Mr. Fischer and his men are going to set that equipment up once it’s retrieved to help protect outposts and refugees while buying time for SOCOM to mount an offensive.”

Fischer gave a short briefing on Project Rolling Stone and how the SDS equipment would locate Variant tunnels that the military could then destroy before the beasts surfaced. This, he argued, would protect the base from all underground attacks.

It sounded great, but none of that addressed a key problem.

“Those machines won’t do shit against attacks like the one I lived through last night,” Beckham said. “The collaborators aren’t just using the Variants now. They’re using bats, rigged with explosives. God only knows what they’ll roll out next.”

“We’re well aware, and we’re preparing for aerial attacks,” Presley said.

“With flamethrowers?” Beckham asked.

Presley stood and walked to the window, hands behind his back as he scanned the rooftops for a few seconds.

“You can’t see the other defenses, but the flamethrowers are just part of our overall strategy,” he said, returning to his desk. “You might have seen the snipers from the street earlier. We also have scouts with FLIR MilSight T90 thermal scopes to watch for anything in the air miles out. Not only will we know if bats or other airborne threats are coming, we have M134 Miniguns on the rooftops to eliminate them before they get close.”

Beckham hadn’t seen all of those defenses on his way in, and if someone of his experience hadn’t seen them, it was a good sign. The Variants and collaborators wouldn’t see them either.

“Part of what makes this place easy to defend is the terrain,” Presley said. “We have bedrock called granodiorite not too far below the topsoil. That has prevented the Variants from tunneling deep into the safe zone.”

“Outpost Manchester is situated with a river on one side, and a lake on the other,” Fischer added.

“The beasts aren’t tunneling under the water or through the rock, I promise you that,” Presley said.

“All due respect, I already know that,” Beckham said. “It’s not just the monsters I’m worried about getting in, sir.”

“You’re worried about collaborators?”

“Worried?” Beckham with a snort. “Sir, I’m more than worried after what I’ve seen in the past few weeks. We might have an underground network of collaborators working to destroy the Allied States. For all we know, we could have a mole or an entire network of moles in our midst, and I’m afraid we’ve just seen the tip of the iceberg when it comes to these lunatics.”

Presley opened his mouth to speak but Beckham kept going.

“They have attacked our outposts, tried to kill President Ringgold and Vice President Lemke, and are working with the monsters in a way I don’t think anyone has fully realized yet,” Beckham added. “So yeah, I’m damn worried about the collaborators.”

“We don’t have any collaborator problems here. Trust me.” Presley stood again. “I want you to see something.”

He got up and motioned for Fischer and Beckham to follow him out of the office.

“Stay here,” Fischer instructed his guards. Tran and Chase remained outside the office while Presley took Beckham and Fischer down the hall to a stairwell that led to the rooftop.

Snipers and soldiers manned positions across the vantage point.

Presley went to a wall that overlooked a parking lot lined with black M-ATVs and other armored vehicles.

“We have a dozen hunter killer teams like that one strategically located across the outpost. They’ll respond to any collaborator attack, and while you can’t see it, we also have two Apache helicopters and some damn fine pilots,” Presley said. “If the collaborators do try some shit here, they will find themselves up against some of the best trained and best equipped soldiers the Allied States has left.”

The group crossed the roof to a railing overlooking a lake in the distance.

“We have mines in the water and on the shores,” Presley said. “If the Variants or collaborators make it through that, then they have thousands of rounds of ammunition in their way before they can get close to our fences.”

“This is all to buy us time,” Fischer said. “Once Team Ghost finds that equipment, we’ll expand our borders, bringing in more refugees to protect while General Souza will be free to go after whoever or whatever is behind this.”

Beckham took in the sights, impressed.

“You run a tight ship here, sir,” he said. “But if the monsters and collaborators find out what Team Ghost dropped off to the science team, we can expect more than some rogue attacks.”

“We’re ready for a full-scale assault,” Presley said.

“I appreciate you taking the time to show me,” Beckham said. “But how do you know you don’t have a problem with collaborators that might have already infiltrated Manchester?”

“We’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that isn’t possible,” Presley said. “Besides, if we did, don’t you think we would have had an attack by now?”

Beckham raised a brow. In war, sometimes silence wasn’t a good thing. Sometimes it meant the enemy was scheming, like the Variants and their human allies had done for the past eight years.

“Captain, you aren’t a guest here. You’re a partner,” Presley said. “If you have anything else on your mind, just let me know. I’ll be as transparent as possible.”

Beckham smiled kindly at that. He liked this man already, and not just because he reminded him of Lieutenant Colonel Jensen. Presley was truly an intelligent leader.

“You mentioned scouts earlier. Do you have any outside the walls right now?” Beckham asked.

“Drones in the sky and my best men on the ground at all times,” Presley replied.

“Good, that’s the one thing we really failed at back in Portland, but resources were also a lot tighter.” Beckham stepped to the side of the rooftop. “If the Variants do come, we need plenty of warning to get people into shelters.”

“Agreed,” Presley said. “I’ll see if we can widen our scouts’ range.”

Beckham nodded again. For the first time in weeks, he felt like his family was relatively safe. Even with the mastermind here.

“If you’ll accept a compliment from a company grade officer, this is good work, sir,” Beckham said. Presley clapped him on the shoulder and smiled.

“Anything else, Captain?”

Beckham glanced at his watch. It was already late afternoon. “If you’d excuse me, sir, I’d like to go see how my wife and the science team are doing.”

“Let me know if there is anything we can do for your family while you’re here,” Presley said.

“Likewise, sir,” Beckham said. “I’m here to help.”

He gave a nod to Fischer, but Fischer followed him away from the railing.

“Mind if I join you, Captain?” Fischer asked. “I want another look at that ugly bastard.”

Beckham didn’t really want company, but he also didn’t want to disrespect a person so crucial to the war effort.

“Sure,” he replied.

They went to the street and walked to the lab building, accompanied by the two guards that Fischer had brought with them, Tran and Chase. Neither of the men spoke other than to say hello to Beckham. They scanned the streets and people for threats, clearly taking their job protecting Fischer very seriously.

“Your family is here?” Fischer asked.

“Yes, we decided to bring them along. I worry less when they’re close, and President Ringgold assured me this is one of the safest outposts.”

Fischer put on his cowboy hat. “General Cornelius did a good job making Outpost Galveston pretty damn secure, too. I was there not long ago.”

“That’s good to hear, and especially since he’s working with President Ringgold, even though he’s retired—”

“He’s not retired. General Cornelius is doing more to save the Allied States than you might know.”

“I’m aware of his commitments—”

“I need to be honest with you,” Fischer interrupted again. “A war hero like you probably has a better perspective on this than me, but I was always taught to back the best horse in a race, and that is, without a doubt, the general.”

Beckham halted and faced Fischer. The two guards moved away to give them some space.

“The only race right now is the one for survival, Mr. Fischer,” Beckham said. “I’m not interested in talking politics or who to support now that the election is on hold. I’m interested in saving our country, so that maybe someday we can have that conversation.”

“Fair enough, but I urge you to make some time to talk with General Cornelius. Your talents might be better spent keeping a closer dialogue going with him than you’d expect.”

“I work for the president.”

“Of course. I mean no disrespect.”

Beckham kept walking, slightly frustrated. Fischer kept up and his guards closed back in around them. The sound of diesel engines provided a welcome distraction to the awkward silence that passed between them on the rest of the journey to the lab.

People walking on the street moved to the side as a convoy of armored vehicles turned down the road and raced past Beckham and Fischer. Soldiers gripped machine guns in the turrets of Humvees.

Beckham looked toward where they were heading, and a dark pit formed in his stomach. The first Humvee had already stopped right in front of the lab, and soldiers had piled out.

Tran and Chase both cradled their rifles, looking around, clearly nervous by the commotion. They weren’t the only ones caught off guard.

The security Beckham felt slipped away at the sight of a strike team speeding to the location where his wife was working.

It reminded him that the biggest threat from an enemy wasn’t always from the outside; sometimes it came from within.

— 17 —

Team Ghost had slept on the C-130H flight to Palo Alto, California, refueling their energy reserves after their successful mission to New Orleans. Eight hours ago, Dohi and the team had changed aircraft at an FOB in Alabama.

Now Dohi sat in one of the mesh jumper seats against the plane’s sand-colored fuselage beside Ace, who was still snoring on his left with his arms folded over his chest and belly. Mendez was another seat down, clutching a rosary. Rico and Fitz were on his right, talking quietly amongst themselves.

She smiled, dimples forming at something he said.

Dohi usually envied them, but not today—today he needed the silence.

He surveyed the Orca soldiers across the tracks and bolts of the deck. The Wolfhounds, a platoon-sized group of twenty soldiers led by Lieutenant Singh were all seated along the opposite bulkhead.

The team was a hodgepodge of former mercenaries and militia who had joined General Cornelius’s private army. Another group of soldiers with Orca badges sat near the cockpit, but they would be staying back to guard the plane during the mission.

Dohi had listened to them talk on the long trip across the country. From what he gathered, the Wolfhounds had spent most of the past eight years working in the field on missions hunting collaborators and Variants outside of Galveston.

But this mission had pushed them out of their element, and Lieutenant Singh had made it clear Fitz was in charge. Their rank meant nothing because the Orca soldiers weren’t part of the Allied States army. And so long as they were out in Variant territory, the Wolfhounds would defer to Team Ghost.

Dohi just hoped their new friends lived up to their namesake, but he wasn’t impressed. The nervous tap of boots echoed in the aircraft while the soldiers looked out the windows.

They were beginning their descent over the coast of California. A low-lying fog blanketed most of the landscape. A few skeletal skyscrapers pierced the gray like broken bones through flesh, some of their upper levels sheared off.

“It’s a graveyard down there,” said one Singh’s men.

Ace stirred awake, pulling his folded arms away from his chest.

“Is that… is that San Jose we just passed?” asked one of the Wolfhounds.

“Yeah, I think so,” answered the first soldier.

“We haven’t seen anything yet,” said a Wolfhound soldier with a spider neck tattoo. “The shit at the ground level is the really bad stuff. I heard there are mutant animals out here with the Variants.”

“Martin, what did I tell you about sharing conspiracy shit?” Singh asked.

“LT, it ain’t conspiracy shit,” Martin replied. He toyed with a gold chain that had a gold AK-47 pendant on it.

The young man was another example of a former merc turned soldier.

A man with a scraggly beard and deep-set green eyes chuckled. His name-tape read Hopkins. “You got to learn the difference between reality and your damn nightmares.”

“Shit is real, brah,” Martin added. “I heard ’bout a guy that saw some dogs that looked half-zombie. That VX-99 stuff can make animals crazy.”

“That was just a rabid dog,” Hopkins said. “Not VX-99. You do know the difference, don’t you? The shit doesn’t work on animals.”

“You sure about that?” Martin asked, one eyebrow raised.

Ace leaned over to Dohi and whispered, “These guys are like puppies at a fireworks show. Nervous as hell.”

Dohi gave a half nod.

Truth was, the Wolfhounds weren’t the only nervous ones.

The difference between Ghost and these guys was that Dohi and his teammates knew how to control the fear. Countless missions behind enemy lines had taught them to handle their fear and use it to their advantage.

Newbies like Martin and Hopkins didn’t.

And that’s what made Dohi really nervous.

“Mios dios, if this is Cornelius’ best, we’re fucked,” Mendez said quietly. He slipped his rosary back in his chest pocket.

Rico narrowed her eyes, leaning in so the Wolfhounds wouldn’t overhear. “Come on, amigo. You don’t remember your first drop into uncharted territory?”

Ace chuckled again. “I heard you pissed yourself.”

“That’s a damn lie,” Mendez said. “Stepped into a creek. Sure smelled like piss though.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Rico said.

Fitz shook his head. “Guys, come on.”

San Jose disappeared into the distance, and Dohi turned back to the troop hold as the plane descended toward the coastline. Dark waves lapped over a wide, pebbly beach beneath sheer cliffs.

“All right, listen up,” Fitz said. “Our mission is to infiltrate the National Accelerator Laboratories and retrieve all the SDS equipment and available intel on Project Rolling Stone…”

He paused a moment. “We’ll move in two units, with members of Team Ghost leading both. Lieutenant Singh has command of the Wolfhounds, but for the purposes of this mission, I’m top dog. We get in, find the material we need, bring it back to the plane, and we’re out of here. If you listen to orders, stay frosty, and keep your eyes open, we’ll all go home. Understood?”

Most of the soldiers nodded. It was clear they looked up to Team Ghost, which was good, because that hopefully meant they would listen to them in the field. But there were a few that didn’t seem to appreciate the ad hoc rank structure.

“What about enemies?” Martin asked. “You going to tell us what to expect down there?”

“SOCOM doesn’t have much intel on this area,” Fitz said.

“What’s that mean?” Hopkins asked. “They have to know something.”

Rico plucked a piece of chewed gum from her helmet.

“There could be collaborators. Could be Variants. Could even be some invaders from another country looking to take some land when we’re not looking,” Fitz said. “We’re prepared to face any threat. Anything with a weapon should be considered hostile, but you do not engage unless fired upon. Stealth is our primary weapon here.”

“I heard all the collaborators moved east,” Martin said. “Same with the Variants. After all, that’s where all the food is.”

“Martin, shut your trap and listen,” Singh said.

“For all we know, Variants have been camping out here underground for the past eight years just like they were back east,” Fitz said. “Maybe breeding too.”

Dohi was prepared mentally for anything. After all, the one thing he had learned in the apocalypse was that unpreparedness was the worst enemy.

“Once we reach the freeway outside the National Accelerator Campus, we split up to cover more ground,” Fitz said. “Lieutenant, you and ten men are with me, Rico and Ace. Dohi and Mendez, you take the other ten.”

Fitz finished his orders as the plane dipped. There were no other questions, just solemn looks, and whispered prayers.

One of the Wolfhounds leaned down, and Dohi thought he was going to puke, but he managed to keep all of the food in his gut.

“Get ready!” Fitz yelled.

The big airplane touched down, the troop hold rattling. When it eased to a stop, the crew chief lowered the rear ramp.

“Go, go, go!” Fitz yelled.

Dohi immediately took point at Fitz’s signal, spearheading the group as they charged out into the sand, rifles at the ready to set up a perimeter.

As soon as the last soldier was out, Dohi took point. He found the remnants of a trail that had once been a hiking path marked with rusted signs. It was now overgrown with weeds and brambles, but it would be no problem for him to find his way through, even with the fog.

It took an hour of hiking in silence through the muck and tall grass shadowed by trees before Dohi paused at the crest of a wooded hill. The higher ground, too, was suffocated by the ominous fog.

He was unable to see more than the trees clawing through the gray a few dozen yards in front of him. The other members of Team Ghost gathered beside him to figure out their next move. Several of the Wolfhounds trailed behind them, all organized into combat intervals.

The chirp of birds was reassuring. It meant there probably weren’t Variants in the area. For now, Dohi would take this as a good omen. But he didn’t like the fog.

Fitz didn’t either. “We’re only a few miles out from our target, but we could be walking into an ambush set by anything or anyone that saw the plane,” he said.

“You want to hold here a bit and see if the fog clears?” Singh asked.

Fitz thought on it, shooting Dohi a glance first.

“We need to keep moving,” Fitz said. “Dohi will make sure we don’t wander into a trap. Tell your men to keep frosty and report anything suspicious.”

“You got it,” Singh said, before turning back to his platoon.

Fitz signaled to move out.

A cold wind blowing in from the west sent chills up Dohi’s flesh. He kept his ears perked for the singing birds, letting them know that they were safe.

But he knew they weren’t safe by any means—they were in Variant country now. The deepest anyone had been in years, and the question wasn’t if they would encounter the beasts. It was when.

Coyote is always out there waiting, and Coyote is always hungry.

More words from his grandfather haunted his thoughts.

The soldiers speared through the fog behind Dohi, and he guided them deeper into a field blackened by fire. Skeletal trees twisted out of the ash covered dirt.

The birds had stopped chirping, but he saw no tracks from animals, Variants, or humans. Nothing living at all.

Fitz gestured for Dohi to keep pushing forward, and Dohi brought his rifle back up to his shoulder, scanning the haze for hostiles. His boots crunched over branches that fell away into dust.

Somewhere a crow cawed.

A breeze rustled over the crisped plants. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight.

From the tendrils of gray fog emerged a cluster of living trees. Not much grass grew along the ground, but leaves covered it as densely as the fog choked the landscape.

Something about those leaves looked wrong to Dohi. Kind of like he was looking at a forged one-hundred-dollar bill.

He stopped and thrust his fist in the air, trusting his gut.

“What’s up?” Fitz whispered.

Dohi jerked his chin toward the leaves.

Fitz gave him a cockeyed gaze at first, seeming to be confused. Then realization dawned over him, too.

The leaves only rustled a little when the wind blew over them, but never flew away. They were too perfectly dispersed along the ground. Dohi knelt and peeled back some that were stuck to the ground.

Instead of coming up separately, they came up in one big carpet, exposing a pit nearly six-feet deep. Punji spikes jutted up from the dark soil at the bottom. The chamber spread along to the north and south, bordering the burned down woods, nearly twenty feet in length.

A rotten odor drifted up from the freshly revealed booby trap; they hadn’t been the first to discover it. But those that came before had seen it when it was too late.

Dohi crouched for a better look at the bodies impaled by the spikes. Two of them had grown leathery and dry. A fresher corpse was covered in white maggots crawling out of a misshapen skull.

It took him a moment to realize they weren’t humans.

The corpses were Variants.

Someone had set a trap for the monsters.

Dohi rose to his feet.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend, he thought. Maybe the adage would prove true. But something told him these people, whoever they were, could be just as big of a threat as the monsters.

***

Two guards wearing black fatigues with the Raven logo stood outside another entrance to the laboratory. A line of armored vehicles and Humvees were parked in a semi-circle in the parking lot, providing a second line of defense around the building housing the mastermind.

Fischer and his guards had waited outside with Beckham for over an hour, trying to figure out what was going on. But even after telling them who they were, the heavily armed guards would not grant them access to the lab.

Every minute that passed, Beckham grew angrier. Fischer had a feeling things were about to get heated.

“This is such fucking bullshit,” Beckham said.

Tran and Chase looked at Fischer, but he shook his head to keep them from getting involved.

“Screw this,” Beckham said. He set off for the vehicles.

The soldier in the closest turret shouted, “This is authorized access only!”

“My wife is inside!” Beckham yelled. He marched toward the line of armored vehicles; gun barrels rotated toward him.

“Stop, sir!” yelled the same soldier in the turret.

“Ah, horse shit,” Fischer said. He walked after Beckham despite protests from Tran and Chase.

“I said halt!” the soldier yelled.

“You’re going to have to shoot me!” Beckham shouted back.

Fischer twisted toward the sound of squealing tires. A Humvee came to an abrupt stop in front of the parked M-ATVs and other armored vehicles forming a barrier in front of the lab facility.

The soldiers in turrets pushed their barrels up as the passenger side door opened. Colonel Presley got out and hurried over to the entrance.

“What the hell is going on?” Beckham asked. “If my wife is in danger, I…”

“She’s not,” Presley said. “My men are just following strict orders to keep this place secure. Your wife is safer in there than out here, Captain. I need you to come with me.”

Fischer wasn’t sure what in the Sam Hill was happening now.

The sun was already going down on the horizon. Soon darkness would swallow them, bringing with it the evil monstrosities it concealed. His fingers caressed the handle of his holstered pistol.

Tran and Chase picked up on his worry, shifting their rifles up out of relaxed mode.

“Captain, let’s go with the colonel,” Fischer suggested. “Assuming, that is, my men and I may also join. I have enough manners to bow out of a dinner party I’m not invited to.”

“Of course.” Presley nodded. “You’re free to come with us, Mr. Fischer, as are your men.”

Beckham looked back at the lab entrance and then reluctantly walked over to the Humvee with Fischer and his guards.

“You need to promise me the lab is safe,” Beckham said.

“Safest place here with all this security,” Presley said gesturing. “Now, you coming with me or not?” He hopped into the front passenger seat, not waiting for an answer.

Fischer got in the back with Beckham and his men.

“Our scouts spotted packs of juveniles on the outskirts of the outpost,” Presley said as the truck pulled away. “About two clicks out from the main wall. They’re small packs, the equivalent of a recon unit.”

“How many of these packs have you spotted in the past?” Beckham asked.

“None. This is the first time we’ve seen Variants so close.”

“They know the mastermind is here, don’t they?” Fischer asked, cold realization hitting him like an unexpected blizzard in Texas.

Beckham cursed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

“I’m hoping that’s not the case, but either way I’m not taking any chances and don’t believe in coincidences any more than you do,” Presley said. “I’ve got all hands on deck, and we’re moving civilians into the shelters for the night.”

“My family,” Beckham said. “That apartment had glass windows, if we’re hit with bats—”

“The building has a shelter in the basement,” Presley reassured him. “There are guards on the roof; the street is completely blocked off; and our aerial defenses are locked, cocked, and ready for any threat.”

Fischer could tell Beckham wasn’t convinced.

“Sir, all due respect, but are you sure you don’t have any collaborators in your midst?” Beckham asked. “How else could the Variants know about the mastermind?”

Presley didn’t hesitate even a second in his answer. “Captain, I told you that we do not have a collaborator problem here.”

“That’s what we thought in Portland.” Beckham ran a hand through his hair, pulling it back. “We underestimated them… I underestimated them, and I’ve lost a lot of friends and my home because of it.”

“I’m sorry for your losses, but this isn’t Outpost Portland,” Presley said.

Fischer turned to look out the windows on the drive. They sped through empty streets in silence, the fiery glow of a sunset retreating on the horizon. He re-positioned his holstered .357 Magnum, fearing that the silence was about to be shattered by the screech of monsters.

He had listened quietly back at the command building while Presley explained how safe this place was to Beckham, and all of the things they had done to ensure it never fell.

And while Fischer wanted to believe the defenses were as good as Presley kept saying, he remembered Cornelius’s ominous warning about not trusting anyone.

The driver steered the Humvee toward a cluster of tents at the far reaches of the walls. Soldiers hurried back and forth, carrying equipment from a stack of crates being unloaded from the back of a flatbed.

Others worked at tables under a camouflage tent that shielded computers and electronic equipment from view and rain. Swollen clouds rolled in from the west across the purple skyline, threatening storms.

“This is it,” Presley said. “Won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”

Fischer put on his hat and stepped out of the vehicle. He followed Beckham and Presley into a tent furnished with metal tables with computer monitors. A young female officer with short hair and blue eyes stood to attention, then backed away to give them all room.

“Colonel, this is live footage from our scouts,” she said.

Fischer leaned down to look with Beckham and Presley.

At first glance, Fischer didn’t see anything. That wasn’t entirely surprising. The beasts were probably camouflaged.

The officer that had brought up the live feed used a finger to point at the hilltop. There the weeds moved back and forth, and Fischer glimpsed a flash of gray armored flesh.

“They’ve just been sitting there for the past hour,” she said. “And we’ve picked up more units like this at two other locations.”

She went to a mobile board with a map of the outpost. Using a pen, she noted spots on all sides of the perimeter.

“We’re being surrounded,” Presley said.

Beckham stiffened and wiped sweat from his brow. “They’re definitely scoping out the defenses.”

Fischer had personal experience with the depths of their organized intellect but this was on an entirely new level.

“Colonel, we have more movement,” said another officer. The man walked over with a handset. “Just got word some of the juvies are taking off.”

“Follow them with a drone or a recon team… your best team,” Beckham said. “We need to know where they’re going. If we can, then we locate the horde or hive, or whatever is out there.”

Presley acted slightly annoyed by what sounded like orders, but he agreed and nodded at the officer with the handset.

“Anything else I should know?” Beckham asked. “I’d like to personally make sure my family is safe before shit hits the fan.”

“No, Captain, thank you,” Presley said.

“Keep me updated on things, please.”

“Of course, I’ll get you a radio before we have someone drive you back to the building so you don’t find yourself waiting again.” Presley looked Beckham in the eye. “Sorry about what happened outside the lab; it was a misunderstanding.”

Beckham nodded and left the tent.

“Thanks for the updates,” Fischer said. He followed Beckham and joined his men outside, feeling completely useless. Waiting on Team Ghost and the SDS equipment was really starting to make his visit here a drag. He hoped whatever was taking Ghost so long would be resolved soon.

“Mr. Fischer, I’d suggest going to one of those shelters, if you want a ride,” Beckham said. He walked toward a pickup truck where a soldier waited.

“I have a feeling tonight is going to be a long one,” Beckham added.

Fischer tipped his leather hat. “I appreciate the advice, Captain. But I’m not the kind of buck that goes scampering at the first sign of danger.”

“Suit yourself,” Beckham said. He got inside the truck and the driver pulled away.

Fischer watched him go, hoping the Captain was wrong. One thing was certain, Fischer wasn’t going to cower in some shelter.

He was done hiding a long time ago.

— 18 —

Timothy sat quietly in an exam room that looked like it had been pulled straight from the doctor’s office he used to visit as a kid. It was even furnished with a table that had bedding on it.

But there weren’t serene pictures of mountains or rivers on the walls. The only decoration was a banner hanging over the closed door with a misshapen skull. The same banner he had seen in the briefing room.

Alfred had brought him here and told him to get into the green scrubs he wore now. According to the tag, the scrubs were supposed to be size medium. A size that had once fit snugly on Timothy’s frame. Now it hung as loose as a sail.

His stomach growled. He was hungry again.

No… he was starving.

He had hardly eaten in the past few days.

Food wasn’t the only thing on his mind. He had sat there for hours with nothing to do but worry and try to figure out why the hell they had brought him down here. Thoughts of his father, of Tasha, and all the people back in Portland haunted his mind. He tried to conjure happy memories, anything to assuage the ball of dread growing in his stomach, but he failed every time.

All he could do was stare at that strange skull on the banner.

Now he was more sure than ever that he knew what it was.

The thing was a damn Variant. It had to be, and it made sense after his conversation with Nick. The man had sold his soul to the monsters. Everyone down here had.

While he had figured that much out, there was still so much that didn’t make sense.

Normally, at least from what he had heard, collaborators worked for the monsters. But the ones here controlled them. The shock collar… the concerted attacks…

Timothy didn’t see how that could be possible. There had to be something he was missing. The collaborators his dad had told him about worked for powerful Alpha Variants. Monsters that were both twisted and intelligent in their own strange ways. Maybe there was an even more intelligent Variant out there working with the collaborators now.

Some beast that Nick, Alfred, and Pete had sworn loyalty to.

Timothy grew more anxious as he waited for the men to return. He got off the table and walked over to the door, trying the knob. It twisted, but a click confirmed it was still locked from the outside.

Was this some kind of test? Were they watching him through a hidden camera, seeing if he was smart enough to escape—or loyal enough to listen?

He glanced at the banner again as he stood in front of the door. These men must have some awfully good reasons to swear fealty to monsters that wanted to kill so many people. Or maybe everyone down here was just batshit insane.

But there was an even bigger question that Timothy couldn’t bury. One that emerged from the emotions roiling in his chest.

A question he wondered every time he looked at Nick, Alfred, and Pete.

Had they been there the night his father died on Peaks Island? Had one of them pulled the trigger?

In time, he would know. That was what mattered most. Once he figured that out, he would happily return the favor and put a bullet in that man’s brain, then everyone else loyal to the monsters.

He returned to the table, fists clenched. Maybe they were watching him. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of going nuts.

Taking long, deep breaths, he tried to force himself to remain calm. But the longer he sat there, the more he boiled over, until he found himself pressing his fingers into his palms with his filthy overgrown nails.

You’re going to get yourself killed, he thought to himself.

The only way he was going to get revenge was if he played it cool. If he did that, then he had a chance to bring down this entire shadowy organization.

Watch, listen, learn.

The words his dad had taught him echoed in his mind.

Timothy let his hands relax and closed his eyes, counting to ten.

When he hit ten, he took a deep breath, then counted to ten again. Over and over, a silent meditation. He tried to think of good thoughts. Like what it had been like to be back on Peaks Island. The trees and water surrounding him. Being able to spend time with Tasha, running off together with their friends to go hiking and explore the landscape, spending long nights on the shores.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the door finally clicked and slowly creaked open. Timothy tensed, sitting as straight as he could.

A balding doctor, maybe fifty years of age, walked into the room wearing a white lab coat and holding a clipboard. Behind him, two bearded men wearing fatigues stood guard with machine guns.

They remained in the hallway, and the doctor kept the door open.

“State your full name,” he said.

His eyes may as well have been pools of darkness, not the kind that Timothy remembered on his doctor at home. This man had seen too much death.

“Your full name,” the doctor entreated.

“Timothy Lance,” he lied.

The doctor looked down at his clipboard and scribbled something onto the paper. Then he moved over toward the table.

Timothy flinched when he reached out for him.

“Relax. I’m going to do some basic tests to make sure you’re healthy.”

Timothy wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he decided it didn’t matter. The two guys with machine guns in the hall gave him no choice but to obey.

For the next thirty minutes, Timothy endured many of the same tests he remembered from his normal physicals with his physician. The doctor took his blood pressure, listened to his heart and lungs. He even made him stick his tongue out, using a wooden depressor to see the back of his throat.

When he finished, he scribbled some more on his clipboard and left without saying another word, closing the door behind him.

Timothy tried to relax on the cold seat. All he could do was wonder what the hell all that had been about.

When the door opened again, the doctor returned and gestured for Timothy to follow him into the hall.

The two guards accompanied them down the narrow passage with a tiled floor and white walls. The air carried a sterile smell, like a laboratory.

They took a right at an intersection and entered a hall with glass windows. More armed guards stood outside a set of doors with biohazard signs.

On the other side of the glass windows, scientists in bulky hazmat suits worked inside an open laboratory with metal tables. Several of the workers surrounded a clear plastic container with some sort of rodent inside.

Timothy slowed to get a better view.

“Move it,” said one of the escort guards.

They passed another lab where a monkey with bandaged legs screeched inside a cage, rattling the bars with its hands while a scientist watched.

What the hell were they doing down here?

His mind raced…

He had assumed they were checking his health, like the doctor said. Now he wondered if he was about to become a test subject.

They continued past more labs, but these were empty and dark inside.

Not completely dark, Timothy realized.

He stopped, squinting to try and make out what looked like glowing eyes. The eyes belonged to a bulky animal that trotted on four legs, moving toward the window.

“What in God’s…” Timothy whispered.

The doctor turned and walked back to Timothy while one of the guards laughed.

“You aren’t afraid of dogs, are you?” he asked.

This was no dog inside the dark room. Not anymore. The beast was a monster with thick muscles and a spiky back. Veins bulged from light brown skin.

“Let’s go,” said the other guard. He elbowed Timothy hard in the back, pushing him forward. They didn’t stop again until they got to another wing of labs. The doctor stopped at a door and opened it with the flash of a keycard.

“Come with me,” he said to Timothy.

They walked into a white laboratory, the guards staying outside.

At the center of the room was a single person in a white coat. He had his back turned and was working on something on a metal cart next to a chair with leather straps.

Timothy’s eyes turned to the cart, inspiring a pang of nausea. On the top sat two long needles, a black collar, and an open tool kit.

“Sir, I’ve brought the recruit,” said the doctor.

“Ah, Timothy,” said a familiar voice, as the man in the white coat turned.

Dread snaked its way through Timothy’s insides.

It was Nick.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward a chair.

Timothy hesitated at the sight of the open leather straps on the arm rests.

“What are you going to do?” Timothy asked. He shivered, unable to hold back his fear or his thoughts. “You going to turn me into one of those creatures?”

“Wow, you must really think I’m the monster, huh?”

Timothy didn’t reply, and Nick followed his gaze to the metal cart with the tools and the needles.

“Oh, those…” Nick said. “Well, you didn’t think we were going to induct you into our army without some insurance, did you?”

He laughed.

The doctor picked up the collar.

“We didn’t live in the shadows all this time because we’re stupid,” Nick said. “We’ve planned every move.”

“You’ll wear this until you can be trusted,” the doctor said.

“Now have a seat,” Nick said, his voice deeper.

Timothy did as instructed. His mind whirled trying to figure a way out of this. But he came up with nothing. The doctor walked around the chair and started tightening the leather straps around his arms and legs.

“This one’s a healthy young man,” he said.

Nick nodded and patted Timothy on the shoulder. “That’s good, because you, my friend, are going to be very important to our master. I’ve been told he has special plans for you.”

“Master?” Timothy asked.

“In time, you’ll learn more,” Nick said. He grabbed a syringe with a long needle and held it up toward a light.

Timothy recoiled.

“Don’t worry.” Nick flicked the syringe, loosening a couple bubbles. “I didn’t just lie about my family being dead. I also lied about being a dentist. I was actually a lab technician. Something that’s come in very handy for our plans.”

Timothy swallowed hard, wondering what else Nick had lied about.

There was one thing he knew for sure.

The collaborators were far better organized than anyone on the outside had imagined.

Nick stuck him in the arm with the needle, and a wave of heat rushed through his veins. Then came a feeling of cool relief and exhaustion.

Timothy tried to keep his eyelids open, but they grew heavier by the second. His vision started to blur as he watched the two men prepare the collar and what looked like a small microchip.

Any illusions he had about escaping vanished.

As he drifted off, he thought of his dad. He knew in his heart that his father would have wanted him to forget about revenge and focus on stopping whatever these men had planned.

You are the only one that can stop them now, he heard his father say. I trained you for this.

And then there was only darkness.

***

“I’m moving the kids to a shelter just in case,” Beckham said through the intercom.

Kate stood on the other side of a glass window in the laboratory trying to make sense of what he had just told her about the juvenile scouts. She was alone in an antechamber to the larger lab, trying to keep calm.

All of a sudden, she felt trapped, like the mastermind in the main chamber. And the thought of Javier and the kids hiding in a basement shelter in a place she told them would be safe sent a pang of regret through her.

“Don’t worry, Kate,” Beckham said as if he could read her thoughts. “Horn and I’ll make sure the kids are okay. You just focus on your work.”

“I’m trying but…”

“Really, everything will be fine, I promise.”

She wanted to believe that, but if the Variants really knew the mastermind was here, there would be hell to pay. Her husband helped make her feel a little better, but still there was the burning question about the juveniles and how they would have known the beast had been brought here.

They hadn’t connected the creature to the external webbing network, and the top-secret landing during the dead of night had only been known by the science team and trusted military members.

She hit the intercom button. “Do you think Colonel Presley has taken care of any collaborators here?”

“The colonel is confident we have nothing to fear.”

“But you aren’t.”

Beckham hesitated. “No, I’m not.”

Sammy entered the room behind her and said, “Doctor Lovato, we need you back in the lab.”

“Just a moment,” Kate said.

Sammy nodded and exited back to the main lab.

“Go,” Beckham said. “I’ll take care of things. The kids, collaborators. I can handle it.”

She looked at the clock. It was seven thirty-five.

“I still plan on taking my break to see you all if I can,” she said.

He put a hand on the glass and she matched it with her gloved hand.

Kate returned to the lab, trying to manage her heartbeat. She was shaken up by the news that juvenile scouts had been spotted around the outpost, but decided to keep it to herself for now. Saying anything could throw off her team, and she trusted they would be alerted if it was absolutely necessary, by staff or by her husband.

Focus, Kate, you have to focus.

She and Carr had to unravel the mystery of the mastermind network. There was no room for failure. As soon as she reentered the chamber, she spotted Carr hunched over a lab table. By him was Sammy and another computer engineer engrossed in their work.

All around, she noticed the same determination in the other scientists, engineers, and lab technicians. Dressed in white cleanroom suits and masks, they worked hurriedly at the banks of computer terminals and filtered between the huge iron columns in the center of the three-story room. Others carted supplies and samples to different lab benches.

The twenty-person team was a significant upgrade from when it was just her and Dr. Pat Ellis in the early days of the war. But while she had not grown as close to Dr. Carr as she had been with Ellis, at least she respected the man’s work and drive. It would be people like him, intelligent and steadfast, that enabled them to survive the coming days and weeks, the crucial tipping point of the war that they were currently losing.

Kate crossed the lab to Doctor Carr and Sammy, navigating the maze of lab stations and bustling staff.

While she had grown accustomed to working with this large group and this enormous space, there was one thing she would never get used to. The constant odor of rot and sour trash that her bunny suit couldn’t mitigate.

The beast responsible for that smell lumbered in the middle of the room like a huge lump of crumpled red tissue. Snores that sounded like horrifying growls echoed through the room.

Long red tendrils, some as thick as anchor chains and others as thin as spaghetti, hung off the creature. Those were the remnants of the webbing network that had secured the monster to the cathedral back in New Orleans. Steel chains held it in place, attached to iron columns stretching from floor to ceiling.

“How are we looking?” Kate asked when she reached Carr.

He turned in his full white bunny-suit and facemask. “I think we’re about ready to bring you in. Follow me.”

Sammy joined them as they went to a bench filled with computer terminals and sat about six-feet from the creature’s restrained claws. Two other computer engineers worked at the keyboards.

Next to them was a clear bioreactor about the size of a football. A series of micro-electric arrays connected the blob of red webbing tissue growing inside the bioreactor.

Sammy gestured to the bioreactor. “The connections are complete.”

“Good, then the last thing we have to do is connect the webbing to the mastermind,” Kate said.

Carr stood next to the bioreactor with another micro-electric array in hand. The device looked to be nothing more than a series of circuits and metal prongs that Kate didn’t know much about. She certainly wasn’t the expert in brain-neural interfaces, but people on the team around her were.

Sean joined them with his arms folded across his chest.

“We’ve prepped the connection tendril,” he said.

“Bring it over, please,” Kate said.

Sean walked over to the beast’s open palm, approaching fearlessly. Kate was a bit shocked to see him acting with such confidence. It was almost like the imminent threat from outside had sparked new courage in the young tech. From the mastermind’s hand, he dragged a red vine of tissue.

It looked like an enormous piece of stringy, chewed bubble gum.

Sean clamped the tissue into a vice on the table right next to the bioreactor. Carr then connected the micro-electric array.

Next, Sean moved a large surgical lens into place above the vice gripped-tendril.

“Okay,” Sean said.

Carr bent down and peered through the lens to help him surgically attach the probes from the array into the tendril. Connecting nerve bundles one-at-a-time required expert precision.

To an outsider, what they were doing might have looked like nothing more than connecting some wires to a few chunks of meat. Kate’s nerves were alive with coursing electricity, adrenaline pumping through her vessels.

This was the ultimate experiment, connecting a mastermind to computers loaded with the programs the collaborators had been using to communicate.

No one in the Allied States had ever done this—and it could change the course of the war in their favor.

Carr pulled away from the tendril and nodded. “It’s connected.”

Sammy leaned toward the monitor on her bench. A moment later she looked up. “Holy shit, I’m already getting something,” she said. “An electrical pulse.”

A long groan escaped the monster’s bulbous lips.

The click of weapons being shouldered echoed around the room from the soldiers standing guard.

Kate tensed up, but the monster quieted once more.

“What else are you seeing?” she asked.

“I’m getting a constant pulse,” Sammy said. “It looks to me just like a repeated signal to let the collaborator software know that the beast is connected.”

“Hmm,” Carr said, twisting to look at the beast. “Nothing in English yet?”

“Not yet.” Sammy typed something on the keyboard. “Let me adjust something on our end.”

Text scrolled on her screen. A series of 1s repeated over and over. Like they were appearing at the beat of the drum.

“I think I’ve got this tuned right.” Sammy pointed to the screen excitedly. “The ‘1s’ appear in the collaborator program when the mastermind is present, but not actively communicating. Kind of a neutral state.”

“So how do we get it to a non-neutral state?” Kate said.

Sammy gulped, locking her gaze with Kate. “I think it’s waiting for an input. We need to experiment with it.”

“You can type a query that’ll be translated through the webbing to the beast, right?” Kate asked.

Sammy nodded.

“Ask it: What are our commands?”

Sammy typed the words onto the computer terminal and hit the enter button. Everyone moved closer to the screen.

For a second, nothing happened. Just a series of more 1s and the low rumble of the comatose mastermind’s breathing. Then the beast started twitching. Some of the severed tendrils draping off its body whipped like live electrical wires fallen from a power line.

The lab technicians retreated behind the iron columns. The soldiers around the perimeter advanced toward the center, their weapons trained on the monster. The giant’s eyes fluttered open, and its yellow reptilian pupils flicked back and forth, surveilling its surroundings.

The soldiers closed in while the science team backed away.

Kate held up a hand, hoping to keep the soldiers from acting too hastily. “Don’t fire!”

“Increase the anesthesia!” Carr ordered.

The beast pulled its legs and arms toward its body. Then it started to stand. Metal protested as the columns and chains resisted the strength of the monster. Pops like rivets breaking loose sounded from where the columns met the ceiling.

“We’re losing it!” Sean yelled.

The soldiers moved closer, weapons up.

“Hold your fire!” Kate yelled.

“More anesthesia!” Carr snapped at Sean.

Kate watched Sean work quickly to increase the dose. She could feel the tension striking like lightning between the soldiers and the research team.

If the beast broke free, it could kill everyone here. But if they killed it, they would lose everything they had fought for. This was their only chance at uncovering how the Variants and collaborators were coordinating their attacks.

The beast took a faltering step, fully upright now. It let out a bellow that shook the ceiling, releasing dust. A few bolts fell free and clanged on the floor.

Researchers scattered as it took another step, dragging the huge IV lines attached to its body.

Kate moved away from the beast, stumbling into a lab station.

“What do we do?!” one of the soldiers yelled.

“Light this motherfucker up,” replied one of the men.

“NO!” Kate shouted.

The soldiers moved closer, hunched, weapons aimed at the head.

“Not yet! You can’t!” Sean cried, adjusting the dosage on the IV. He moved slightly to obstruct the target.

“Out of the way,” said one of the soldiers.

Defiant, Sean remained in place.

Kate started to walk toward him when the creature staggered. The guards moved for a better vantage, but all halted as it slumped to the ground between the iron posts with a thud.

The rifles remained aimed at the beast, but the soldiers calmed down.

“Dr. Lovato, I think…” Sammy said in a quiet voice. “I think it worked.”

Kate went back to look at the screen, her nerves still frayed. Words scrolled across the monitor.

Command? Command? Where am I? What is happening? Who are you? What is this place? You are my enemy!

The mastermind had spoken through that neural-computer interface, and they had been able to listen. Kate found herself smiling, such a rare reaction she hardly recognized it.

They finally had their key. Soon they would have full access to the Variant-collaborator network.

This was the beginning of the end for the Variants.

— 19 —

Fitz had prepared mentally for a lot of different things, but finding traps built for Variants was the last on his list. Coupled with the heavy fog, the traps and terrain made their advance extremely dangerous.

Fitz was grateful now more than ever they had Dohi to guide them. If it weren’t for the Navajo tracker, half of Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds following them would have been impaled by now.

Dohi bent down to look at a snare trap they had just discovered. He glanced up at the tree and raised a brow.

“These guys are good,” he whispered.

Fitz relayed the location of the trap to the others and then gave the advance.

For the next hour Dohi navigated the terrain expertly, uncovering more pits. The putrid odor of Variants drifted out of some, but others were empty. They found a skeletal Variant dangling from a snare in the trees, and another beast whose leg had been clamped nearly in two by a bear trap.

Most of the fog had thankfully lifted, replaced by pale moonlight when they finally made it to a tree line. An unobstructed highway appeared before them. Beyond it were the scattered buildings of the National Accelerator Laboratory campus.

Weeds had grown through the cracks in the broken asphalt of the road. Fitz crouched out of view to scope the area, searching for hostiles, human or monster.

He didn’t see anything alive, but he did see evidence of life. The roads had been cleared of charred and rusted vehicles.

But when?

His stomach dropped. If the pits were any indication, the people out here were organized and intelligent. They’d made this place their home and defended it.

The real question was whether these would be the type of people who invited their guests in to share a meal or the kind that made their guests into the meal.

Dohi pointed to something a few hundred meters away. Fitz used his NVGs to search the darkness. In the green hue, he saw a tall fence barricading part of the town. Atop each post was something that confirmed these weren’t collaborators.

Collaborators didn’t mount Variant skulls on fence posts, and trap the beasts in pits.

But Fitz still didn’t know if these people were allies or hostile, and there was only one way to find out.

He gave the advance signal.

As they crept through the overgrown grass leading up to the fence around the facilities, Fitz halted to scan parking lots containing rusted vehicles and shipping containers.

It was a huge area to cover and he split the team up with more hand signals. Normally he would have sent Rico off with another team, but this time he sent Dohi and Mendez. He wanted that group to focus on tracking down the equipment while he surveyed what they were up against with his team.

The men nodded back and set off with ten Wolfhounds around the north side. They headed toward a series of warehouses and neighborhoods that had mostly been taken back by nature.

Singh took the remaining ten men and followed Fitz, Ace and Rico southward.

If anything went wrong, they were to meet back near the freeway, their designated rally point. It was always hard seeing his team split off, but this was worse than normal. They were being dragged down by inexperienced soldiers.

A harsh wind carrying the faint scent of a bonfire pulled him from his thoughts. The scent vanished as quick as it had emerged.

He moved along the fence until they came to a corner concealed by a thicket of trees. Even here, among the foliage, the metal post sticking above them had a Variant skull stuck on it.

Fitz crouched down beside the fence and signaled to one of Singh’s men. The one called Hopkins moved over with a pair of bolt-cutters. He went to work snipping through the chain-links. Then a pair of Wolfhounds pulled the puckered chain-link fence back.

Rico ducked through, followed by Fitz. Then came Ace and Hopkins.

A wall of trees demarcated the end of a parking lot and Rico took them past those trunks. She halted on the other side, crouching. Fitz held his fist up to the Wolfhounds and then joined Rico and Ace.

Rows of white buildings with tinted windows towered above a cracked asphalt parking lot. Through those fractures grew a mess of plants taking back the land. Shipping containers rose like small houses out of those tangled yellow weeds.

Rico pointed at the west end where tarps and tents rippled in the wind. Clotheslines were hung between the containers with clothing flapping like tattered flags.

Fitz gazed through his rifle’s optics, glassing the makeshift village. In areas cleared of weeds, he spotted empty chairs and tables with plates and cups.

It all looked recent, but where were the people?

Everyone had just disappeared.

He wondered if they would find Variant tunnels or the site of a massacre on the other side of those big white buildings. If only they had been here a few hours earlier, maybe a few days, they might have been welcomed into this place.

They could’ve entreated these people to help them with their mission and even bring them back into the fold of the Allied States.

Rico and Ace waited for orders. As much as Fitz hated sending them straight into this eerie setting, he had no other choice.

Fitz took point with Hopkins, leading the team into the camp.

New scents danced on the air like the charcoaled smell of grilled meat along with something more putrid. An odor he had long grown used to. The scent of decaying flesh.

They passed a shipping container with a door ajar. Fitz signaled Hopkins to open it and allow Ace inside. He aimed his weapon at the container, and with a gesture from Fitz, Hopkins pulled open the steel door.

Before Ace could go inside, a wave of bones rolled out, rattling noisily against the patchwork pavement.

Fitz flinched at the noise, anticipating a howling Variant to call out.

But it appeared most of the beasts around here were dead or too far away to hear the noise.

He counted off twenty seconds in his mind before examining the bones.

“Something is wrong with these,” Rico whispered.

She was right. The ribs were thick. Some even looked plated. The finger bones he saw were elongated, as were the femurs and arm bones. All the skulls looked smashed and malformed, but not because they had been damaged.

“Sweet Jesus! Those are Variants!” Hopkins said in a raised voice.

Fitz whipped around. Singh was already staring daggers at Hopkins.

The lack of discipline made Fitz worry about stepping another foot into this gruesome place, but he had no choice.

He gestured for Rico and the others to get back in formation and waited a few minutes to allow everyone to have a breath. The smell of death was more potent, and Fitz fought to contain the disgust welling up in his stomach.

Another open shipping container lay ahead, one door open.

An incessant droning buzzed from inside.

Clouds of black flies swarmed the place.

Fitz held in a breath and flicked on his infrared illuminator and laser designator to check the inside. He almost let out a gasp at the ghastly tableau.

Meat hooks hung from the ceiling. Beastly carcasses dangled from those hooks, chunks of meat missing from their haunches and ribs.

There was no mistaking it: the monsters had been slaughtered and were in the middle of being butchered.

Fitz didn’t want the Wolfhounds to see this, especially Hopkins. He closed the door slightly and whispered to Rico.

“Over here,” came a voice.

Singh pointed around the container.

Fitz rushed over with Rico to see a firepit and a spit roast. The embers beneath the roast were still glowing slightly. All around the firepit were abandoned bowls and silverware.

The source of the scent he had smelled earlier.

If those past couple of sights hadn’t already confirmed Fitz’s suspicions, this one did. The Variant being barbecued on the spit roast had been cut like a tender hog.

A chill shot down his spine. The chances of these people being friendly and hospitable were dying with each gristly find.

He brought up his mini-mic, deciding this was worth breaking radio contact.

“Ghost 3, Ghost 1. Do you copy?” he whispered over the comm.

He was met only with the constant sizzle of static.

“Ghost 3, Ghost 1. Do you copy?”

Again, nothing.

Three more times, and still no response.

When Singh tried to ping his men, none of them replied.

“I can’t get through,” he said.

Fitz’s guts tangled as he studied the charred Variant.

If these people ate monsters, then what would they do with humans?

He prayed to God the other team wasn’t in danger of finding out, but with the lack of radio response, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were next on the menu.

***

“Boss, this is some bullshit,” Horn said.

“Relax, Big Horn,” Beckham said. He eyed the children and their dogs clustered around cots with folded blankets. They had gone from a luxury apartment to the damp, claustrophobic ancient bomb shelter. Ironically, the shelter was cleaner than the apartment, despite the dust.

There were dozens of people here. Families. Single people. Most were either too young or old to fight. Those that weren’t were supervising gaggles of children.

“I thought this place would be safer,” Horn said. “And now we’re in a Cold War bunker with a bunch of civvies that are lookin’ at me like I’ve got a Variant head growing from my stomach.”

Beckham turned to see if he was exaggerating, but a quick scan of the wide room proved he was telling the truth. Everyone around the shelter snuck furtive glances their way—some were far more obvious, openly gawking at them.

His eyes gravitated to a middle-aged man in a wheelchair wearing an Army Veteran hat. He held a shotgun and watched the steel door that was guarded by two outpost soldiers.

“I don’t like feeling like a zoo animal, boss,” Horn growled.

“You’re definitely not helping matters by glaring back, man,” Beckham said. “They’re probably worried you’re going crazy in here. Now calm down, and let’s talk to the kids.”

Tasha and Jenny were each reading a book, but Javier was tapping his foot; he was bored and anxious. Beckham knew it wouldn’t be long until the boy started asking more questions about why they were down here.

Tasha surprised Beckham and beat Javier to it.

“Dad, you going to tell us what’s really going on?” she asked. “This isn’t just a safety drill, is it?”

Jenny looked up from her book. Her freckled nose twitched as she prepared to sneeze. It came out in a blast of snot.

“Come on, Jenny, you’re not a little girl!” Tasha said. “Cover your nose!”

Jenny dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief Horn gave her.

“I can’t help it,” Jenny said. “There’s so much dust down here. It’s probably my allergies kicking in.”

Another person sneezed across the room, and a cough followed, the sounds echoing off the concrete walls and low ceiling like a chain reaction.

A conversation broke out near a column where a family sat.

“Why’d they bring us down here?” asked a woman holding a baby. She rocked it back and forth. “Are we in danger?”

“I heard they spotted Variants,” replied another woman.

“Just a matter of time before they hit us,” someone called out.

“It’s because of those scientists,” said a husky woman with a rough smoker’s voice. “They brought something in during the dead of night. I heard the commotion. Whatever they’re doing is probably not something the monsters like.”

The first woman with the baby spoke again. “We were fine before. Now we have all these scientists and… these guys,” she said, nodding her head in Beckham and Horn’s direction.

A man with a hunched back walked over to Horn and Beckham. A woman with braided red hair stood by his side, one arm tucked through his to help him stand.

“You all know something about that?” she asked them.

The man in the chair wheeled over, readjusting his shotgun when he arrived alongside the other two.

“You’re new here,” she said. “You know what they brought in, don’t you?”

“Ma’am, we’re sheltering down here just like you,” Horn said. “Why don’t you go sit down with your, uh, entourage?”

“Don’t try and dismiss me,” she snapped. “I’ve had enough of that. I want some damn answers.”

“And I’m telling you we don’t have them,” Horn said in a deeper voice.

Some of the people got up from their cots and chairs, forming a tight circle around Beckham and Horn. Those that remained sitting turned their attention on the group.

“Great,” Horn muttered.

Beckham considered telling a lie to get them off his back and make them relax, but these people weren’t stupid. Plus, that would only come to bite him in the ass later. Better to be honest, but sparing in the details.

“It’s true.” Beckham held out his hands in a placating gesture. “A few Variants were spotted far outside the outpost perimeter. We’re just taking a precaution, but there’s no sign of any immediate attacks.”

Hushed voices broke out. A couple of loud curses, too.

Javier, Jenny, and Tasha didn’t seem disturbed by his raised voice or the news. Spark and Ginger moved closer to the gathering crowd, curiously. They were a welcome distraction to some of the spooked children that came to pet them.

“I promise we’re safe here,” Beckham said.

The promise didn’t seem to help the red-haired woman to relax. She shook her head and muttered something to the old man leaning against her for support.

“We haven’t had a beast set foot in this outpost for eight years,” said the veteran in the wheelchair. He narrowed his eyes, looking between Beckham and Horn like he was studying them. “Seems awfully strange that you all show up and that happens now, doesn’t it?”

Beckham got the feeling the man was trying to place them in some memory.

“These fine gentlemen are here to make sure the beasts don’t get inside,” said a voice in a refined Texas drawl.

Beckham turned to see Fischer entering the shelter with his two guards. The two soldiers standing guard parted to let them through.

“If I were y’all, I’d be thanking these two war heroes. They’re trying to keep you and their families safe,” Fischer said as he approached. “The reason everyone here is still alive is because of the sacrifices they made in the Great War.”

“This dude again,” Horn whispered to Beckham.

Beckham nudged his friend discreetly to indicate he needed to be polite.

Fischer took his cowboy hat off and exchanged a nod with Beckham and then Horn.

“You can all go back to your seats,” Fischer said. “You’re safe down here.”

Everyone turned away except the woman and the two older men.

“Come on, Sally,” said the guy with the hunched back.

Sally held her ground. “My father fought in the Great War too, when he was sixty years old. He spent his golden years fighting the beasts and knows a thing or two about sacrifice.”

Beckham gave the guy a once over again. He didn’t look a day younger than eighty with wrinkles, liver spots on his bald head, and thin, wispy hair. Maybe her math was off.

“Honey,” said the man. “Please…”

“My father’s name is Lieutenant Frank Rodman,” she said. “He has stage three bone cancer from the chemicals he was exposed to in the war, so maybe you should be thanking him.”

The retired Lieutenant waved a hand. “Sally, dammit.”

“And this is Sergeant Christian Brown, also a veteran of the Great War who broke his back and lost his family,” Sally said, gesturing to the man in the wheelchair.

Brown took off his baseball cap, revealing a bald skull with scars across the top that looked to be from Variant talons.

“Nice to meet you,” Beckham said to them in turn. He reached out and shook the lieutenant’s hand, then the sergeant’s.

“Sally, you’re absolutely right. These men do deserve our thanks and respect,” Beckham said. “Without men like them, none of us would have been able to start our lives over after the war.”

“We should be thanking you,” Rodman said. He squinted at the fatigues Beckham and Horn both wore. “I thought I recognized you both. Sally, I’d like to introduce you to Captain Beckham, and Master Sergeant Horn. True heroes.”

“Wait, you know them?” Sally asked, skepticism clear in her voice when she looked at Brown.

Both men nodded.

Sally pursed her lips, looking between Beckham and Horn. Then she frowned, and said, “I’m sorry for coming off a little hot.”

“Skepticism isn’t the worst thing we’ve faced,” Beckham said. “You’re just trying to look out for your friends and family. Trust me, I can understand that.”

Horn just grumbled.

“I don’t mean to sound so standoffish, but I know the military brought something here,” she said. “It can’t be a coincidence that the beasts showed up now.”

Sally still didn’t look like she was going to back down, and as much as Beckham respected that, he also couldn’t spill classified intel just because she was someone willing to fight for it.

“Ma’am, if you were in danger, I would tell you. I believe we’re all safe down here,” Beckham said. “I wouldn’t put my family in harm’s way, or yours.”

Sally nodded, but didn’t seem satisfied.

“Let’s leave these men and their families alone now,” said Rodman.

Brown nodded and turned his wheelchair, returning to his spot along the wall.

“All right, Dad,” Sally said. She turned back to Beckham, but then reached out to help her dad.

Beckham also reached out to assist.

“Sir, if I may,” he said.

Frank nodded and his daughter and Beckham helped get him back to his cot.

“Thank you,” Sally said.

Beckham nodded and returned to his family where Fischer was talking to Javier.

“Your son was just telling me how he hopes to be a soldier or a scientist someday,” Fischer said. “I’m trying to convince him being an engineer—especially a petroleum engineer—isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Good luck with that,” Beckham said.

Fischer smiled and Beckham smiled back.

“Your wife is still in the lab, I take it?” Fischer asked.

“She is,” Beckham replied.

“When do we get to see Mom again?” Javier asked.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Beckham said.

The dogs wiggled their way through the throng of civilians. Fischer crouched and petted Ginger.

“Good lookin’ dogs,” he said. “I sure miss having one.”

Beckham also bent down, tousling the fur behind Spark’s ears. In a quiet voice, he said, “Want to tell me why you came down here?”

“To tell you something I didn’t earlier,” Fischer said. “This room isn’t exactly fit to talk candidly about certain subjects, though.”

Beckham checked to make sure the kids weren’t listening. Javier had gone back to tapping his foot, bored. The girls were talking to Horn.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Beckham said.

Horn frowned and mumbled something about being a babysitter.

“Kate should be here in about half an hour,” Beckham said. “Why don’t you guys get out some food?”

Javier went to their bags and started digging in.

“Thanks, buddy,” Beckham said. He left with Fischer and his guards before Javier could protest.

The soldiers standing at the shelter door opened it to let them out. They walked up the basement stairs and into the chilly night. Smoke fingered away from chimneys across the outpost skyline.

Beckham pulled his collar up and looked to Fischer.

“All right, so what is it?” he asked.

“There’s something I want to tell you that I would regret too much if I didn’t, Captain,” Fischer replied. “I was told to keep this quiet, but my conscience kicked in and my gut tells me you’re someone that I can trust. In a world where even the crack of a branch might mean something’s trying to kill you, that means a lot to me.”

“And?” Beckham looked at his watch. It was already eight o’clock, and Kate was supposed to be meeting them any minute for her short break.

Fischer looked around like he was making sure no one was listening. Tran and Chase moved outward to give them some space.

“I think this place is compromised,” he whispered. “And I think Presley knows it but won’t admit it.”

“You mean there are collaborators here?”

Fischer nodded. “We believe there are cells at virtually all the outposts.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t suspect the same thing now,” Beckham said. “But I wanted to trust Presley that he had this place locked down.”

“He sure thinks he does, but General Cornelius warned me I needed to be cautious. He fears that the collaborators know far more about what we’re up to than we could have ever predicted. We need to be vigilant.”

Beckham cursed his decision to bring the children here. If there were collaborators here, then Manchester was a ticking time bomb. Especially with the mastermind here.

“Reed!”

The sound of Kate’s voice snapped Beckham from his thoughts. He saw his wife jogging down the street with two soldier escorts.

“We’ll talk more later,” Beckham said to Fischer.

Kate ran to meet Beckham.

“What are you doing outside? Where are the kids?” she asked.

“With Horn. Don’t worry, I was just talking to…”

“S.M. Fischer,” he said, holding out a hand. “Doctor Lovato, I presume.”

“Oh, pleased to meet you,” she said, her gaze flitting to Beckham. “I’ve only got a few minutes. We’re making headway, and I need to keep at it.”

Beckham nodded and looked to Fischer.

He had an almost wistful look in his eyes as he said, “Go be together with your family, Captain.”

“Nice to meet you,” Kate said. She gave Beckham a look that told him she knew something was up. He surveyed the quiet outpost one more time, hoping he and Fischer were both wrong about the collaborators.

— 20 —

Dohi stood beneath a line of trees inside the National Accelerator Laboratory campus. A full moon burned away some of the darkness enveloping the scattered buildings and trees.

If he were alone, he would have no issues infiltrating a place like this. There was plenty of cover and shadows to conceal his search for the SDS equipment. But with Mendez and ten Wolfhounds following, sneaking was far more difficult.

He held up a fist to halt the team.

From their vantage in the trees, he surveyed a row of four warehouses lining a road. A large office building loomed on the opposite side of the street. Nearly a dozen SUVs and trucks were parked in a line along the curb.

Mendez paused beside him, and the ten Wolfhounds took shelter between the tree trunks. Using his scope, Dohi glassed the vehicles.

As he suspected, these didn’t have rotted tires or rust tracing up the side panels. More telling of recent activity were the pair of Humvees at the end of the line. An M249 was mounted atop each with ammo belts trailing inside.

“People with firepower like that aren’t fucking around, amigo,” Mendez said.

“Best we don’t piss them off then,” Dohi said.

“We’re already sneaking around their backyard. That would piss me off.”

Martin moved up next to them, fidgeting with the AK-47 necklace hanging from his neck. He pushed it back behind his armored vest. “Think we should call this in?”

“What don’t you understand about radio silence?” Mendez asked.

Martin shrugged.

Dohi remained prone, considering everything he had seen so far. The people who used those vehicles couldn’t be far. Normally he could tell if he was being watched. This felt different. It was like these people had disappeared in a hurry.

Maybe the people had seen Ghost and the Wolfhounds, then bailed, he thought.

But why would they leave behind these vehicles?

“Martin, you wait here with the rest of your team,” Dohi ordered. “Stay hidden, okay?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Mendez, you’re with me,” Dohi whispered.

They peeled away, creeping around the north side of the warehouses through the underbrush. Dohi normally didn’t like splitting up, but Martin was clueless. Leaving him behind was better than dragging him along.

Dohi scanned the rooftops for contacts, expecting someone to pop up with an RPG or a machine gun. He used the cover of the vegetation until they made it past the fourth warehouse.

That’s when he heard it. Muffled footsteps and the clink of weapons. Someone was headed toward them.

He motioned for Mendez to get down, and they dropped to the grass. Dohi kept his barrel just high enough to fire should they be spotted.

Two men in black fatigues walked through the woods at a hunch. They were no more than a half-dozen yards from Dohi’s position. Further north, Dohi spotted another pair. Then beyond them, another.

Mendez tapped Dohi on the shoulder, then pointed toward snipers that had appeared in the windows of the office buildings rising above the trees across the street from the warehouses.

“What are we going to do?” Mendez whispered as they watched the mysterious soldiers continue onward.

Dohi took out his radio. “We should let Fitz know.” He opened a private channel. “Ghost 1, this is Ghost 3. Do you read?”

No reply.

“Ghost 1, Ghost 3. Contacts spotted.”

Still nothing.

An icy vein of anxiety wormed through Dohi.

“What’s the matter?” Mendez asked in a low voice.

“Radio isn’t going through.”

Dohi tried to open a channel to Martin.

“Wolfhound 2, Ghost 3. Contacts headed your way.”

Again, he got no response.

These people had set up an ambush that, thankfully, Dohi had discovered. But they must have a Warlock system operating, which made Team Ghost’s comms broke dick.

The implications were nerve wracking. Fitz, Rico, Ace, and all the others were out there, potentially headed straight into another ambush.

“What’s our move now, jefe?” Mendez asked.

Dohi shook his head, unsure.

“Maybe we should just shoot our way out of this,” Mendez suggested. “I can get a drop on those two, you get the other pair. That leaves just two more.”

Dohi thought about it but there were too many contacts to take on without suffering major casualties.

“I say we try making contact,” he said. “If nothing else, we’ll learn their intentions.”

“How about contact with bullets, not words? We got the drop on them. Couple of clean shots, and we got ourselves an escape path.”

“And a gunfight. I want to avoid that. Follow me.”

They stood quietly and snuck through the trees. Dohi was close enough to the first pair of contacts that he heard them breathing.

With a hand signal, Dohi gestured for Mendez to take the one on the right. He would take the other. The men moved like jaguars through the forest toward their marks.

Mendez slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of his target’s head. The man fell unconscious instantly. Dohi took out his buck knife. He locked one hand around his target’s mouth and pushed the blade against his throat. The man froze in Dohi’s grips.

Pulling him tightly against his body, Dohi took him back into the woods while Mendez dragged his guy. When they were safely out of view and away from the other patrols, Dohi loosened his grip around the man’s neck.

“Listen good,” Dohi said. “I’m Sergeant Yas Dohi with Delta Force Team Ghost, and I’m not here to harm you. Nod if you understand.”

His prisoner hesitated, then nodded.

“We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here for some old equipment in those warehouses,” he said. “That’s all we want. Nothing else.”

The man didn’t reply.

“I’m taking my hand away from your mouth but if you scream, I’ll trace this knife across your throat. Got it?”

Another nod.

Dohi turned the guy around enough so he could see the fear in the man’s eyes. He trusted that meant the prisoner wouldn’t do anything stupid. Then he slowly removed his hand, but kept the blade pressed against his flesh.

“How many of you are there?” Dohi asked.

The man kept his lips tightly closed.

“Seriously, we don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated. “We want equipment and that’s it. If you help us, we’re willing to pay.”

The man snorted. “Fuck you and whatever you have to offer.”

Mendez glanced over, but Dohi kept his gaze on the man.

“You abandoned us out here,” he said. “My people have survived on our own, and we aren’t giving you shit.”

Dohi wanted to curse, but remained calm. “Look, we’ll give you whatever you want.”

“We want to be left alone,” the man snarled. “You’re better off leaving and pretending you never set foot here.”

Dohi kept the knife at the guy’s throat, trying to figure out what to do.

“Who’s in charge here?” Dohi asked. “Maybe he’ll—”

Muzzle flashes suddenly lit up the night, and bullets plunged into the tree behind him, sending a shower of bark over his back.

Mendez squeezed off a burst of return fire.

The captive held Dohi’s gaze, eyes burning with rage. Dohi knew if he took the knife away the man would try to kill him.

But he wasn’t about to execute the guy in cold blood either. Instead, he gripped the man’s neck with his free hand, taking him in a sleeper chokehold. The man soon fell unconscious.

Dohi got up and set off with Mendez the way they had come. Rounds chipped at the bark and whistled by their retreat. Keeping low and running fast, they made it back to the Wolfhounds unscathed.

Martin stood suddenly, pointing his barrel at Dohi.

“Friendly!” Dohi hissed.

“What the hell is happening?” Martin said, lowering his rifle.

“Talking with those assholes didn’t work,” Mendez said.

“We need to fall back to the rally point,” Dohi said.

“All the way back to the freeway?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Dohi said. “Now go!”

Mendez still looked like he wanted to stand and fight, but Dohi knew very little about the enemy numbers. They already had entrenched positions in the buildings. The last thing he wanted to do was be flooded by a veritable army with the ground advantage and cut off from the rest of their team without radio contact.

He led his team away from the trees around the warehouses, charging back toward the rally point. They ran through areas that had taken them a couple hours to infiltrate when they’d been sneaking through.

Now Dohi didn’t care about stealth. Just about keeping the team alive. The only way to do that was retreat as fast as possible.

A cacophony of curses and hollers rose behind them. Gunfire lanced into trees and lit up the darkness like fireflies.

The group broke from the cover of the trees and dashed across an open field. Then they passed along a road that took them another half-mile to the parking lots filled with vehicles, apartments, and other buildings they had first seen when approaching the laboratories. They finally made it to a street that would take them another fifty yards to the freeway.

One of the Wolfhounds went down and slid across the asphalt.

Dohi stopped and went back to check the guy, but he was gone, his forehead destroyed by an exit wound. More rounds bit into the ground, and Dohi rolled away, keeping low behind a few cars parked along the street.

On his feet again, he bolted for the highway, hoping Fitz and his team would be ready for them.

Mendez and the others made it to the freeway and started across. They crossed the first few lanes, then dove over the concrete wall of the center median.

“Friendly!” shouted a familiar voice on the other side. Fitz.

The crack of gunfire continued.

A second Wolfhound dropped to his knees, clutching his throat.

“Find cover!” Dohi yelled.

Half the team had made it across the center median and into the ditch where Fitz and Singh were waiting. Fitz’s team provided covering fire, and Dohi used it to cross the road, keeping low as possible. Martin and the other half of the Wolfhounds were still crossing the freeway.

Muzzle flashes sparked from some of the vehicles in the parking lots and from the windows of the apartments and buildings adjacent to the freeway where a second group of hostiles had set up firing positions.

The Wolfhounds stuck on the road were in the middle of an open killing field. Dohi was right there with them, crouched next to Martin against the center median wall.

“Over here!” Martin yelled.

Another Wolfhound made a run for their position but was cut down. Dohi moved out to help drag him, but rounds peppered the pavement around the man’s body.

“Come on!” Dohi said to Martin.

Dohi and Martin climbed over the center median just as a flurry of rounds slammed into the other side. He hit the ground. Ace was standing in a ditch in front of him.

“Run, Dohi!” he shouted.

Martin ran for cover but tripped and went down.

“Shit,” Dohi grumbled. He hunched down and went back to help him up.

“Grenade!” someone yelled.

Dohi had just enough time to help Martin to his feet when a fiery blast threw chunks of hot asphalt into them. The concussive force sent him flying forward, and Martin tumbling into a ditch.

Ears ringing, Dohi pushed himself up, engulfed by a cloud of dust. He and Martin scrambled into the ditch. One of the Wolfhounds lay on the slope, chunks of shrapnel jutting from his face.

Ace was sprawled at the bottom of the ditch, coughing. Blood streamed from his nostrils. Rico ran to the older operator, and he threw his arm around her shoulder, limping away.

Martin turned and drained his magazine into the distance.

“Fuck you, assholes!” he shouted.

Dohi grabbed him and yanked him down. The rest of the team was retreating into the woods, helping the injured get away. Fitz remained there, waving.

“Let’s move!” he shouted.

Dohi and Martin hurried after. But the Wolfhounds were moving too fast, and he could hardly keep up.

A body suddenly flung into the air up ahead, dangling by a rope. He screamed for help but was silenced by a sniper’s round to his chest. He spun, limp, and dead.

“Watch out for the traps!” Dohi yelled.

Having fallen back to help Martin, he couldn’t guide the group through the forest. Most of the Wolfhounds started to slow, ducking low as the gunfire blasted into tree trunks, but most kept running.

A scream rang out, fading as a pit swallowed the man.

Dohi barreled ahead, surveying the place for traps as fast as he could, yelling at the Wolfhounds to fall in line. The gunfire soon quieted, and Dohi looked back, expecting to see their ambushers flooding across the freeway.

But instead, only a high-pitched chanting followed them.

Screams, like victorious war cries.

As the team faded back into the forest, terror filled Dohi to his very core. This enemy was more dangerous than the Variants. They were organized, knew the terrain, and were well armed. And they were standing in the way of the SDS equipment that could help prevent the entire Allied States from collapse.

One way or another, Team Ghost would have to make it onto that campus again.

***

Timothy sat on the bench inside his cell, rubbing his neck where Nick had implanted a chip under his skin. The tracking device, along with the collar around his neck made it pretty much impossible for him to escape.

That meant it would be even more difficult to bring this place down and kill the collaborators. From what he had seen over the past few days, he doubted even the president knew just how well prepared these people and the monsters were for war.

He had to expose this place and these people.

He couldn’t do it alone. He needed help.

Not from people like Beckham and Horn though. They had abandoned him and let his dad die.

What Timothy needed were people who were dependable and brave.

“Hey…” mumbled a female voice.

Timothy got off the bench he was sitting on. He went to the bars of his holding cell. The woman who Nick had drugged earlier was standing on shaking legs and looking at him from the opposite cell.

“Hey,” Timothy said back. “What’s your name?”

“Lilly,” she said.

Her sickly pallor was set off by a face that looked like it had once been pretty before the collaborators had gotten here. He feared that was why they’d kept her prisoner.

A frightening thought wormed through his mind. He wondered what the collaborators would do with Tasha if they’d captured her like they had this poor woman.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

She looked down the hall but didn’t respond.

“How long have you been in there?” he tried.

She looked at the ground, and then shook her head.

“You don’t know?” he asked.

“No, only that it’s been a very long time.”

Timothy figured that meant at least a few months.

“You have to help me get out of here,” she said.

Now he said nothing. This wasn’t part of his plan.

Her dark eyes pleaded for help. “I can’t live another day like this.”

She seemed sincere, but he didn’t want to blow his cover. Didn’t want to reveal his false allegiance to the collaborators. This could be another test from Pete, Nick, and Alfred.

“I can’t,” Timothy said. He sat down again and looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“Please,” she begged, gripping the bars. “They do awful things. They use me like…”

Timothy swallowed hard as he listened.

Everything that he suspected in the back of his mind was true.

But he knew conspiring with her would get them both killed and ruin any chance of carrying out his plan of bringing down the entire organization. That was the only way to truly help her. Until this place was discovered, and shut down, her nightmares wouldn’t end.

He focused on coming up with his next steps as the poor woman sobbed.

Pete said Timothy was going to get them into Outpost Portland. Again, he would have to watch, listen, and learn once he was out there. Then maybe he would find an opportunity to fight back or escape.

First, he needed to figure out where this base was located. Then he could tell someone when he was in Portland.

A growling voice snapped him from his thoughts.

“Shut up!” yelled a guard.

The man marched between the cells and hit the bars of Lilly’s cell with a baseball bat. She jumped away and then hurried back to her bed, where she squeezed her legs against her chest and hid behind her knees.

“Stupid bitch,” growled the man. “You’re too damn loud.”

Timothy wanted to say something… no, he wanted to take a knife and stick it in the man’s neck.

But instead he just sat there, biding his time. Listening to the helpless woman whimper. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.

The only thing holding him back from yelling at the guard was his thirst for revenge.

Finally, the guard retreated to the other room.

An hour or so later the door to the brig opened and more footsteps echoed. Pete was the first man Timothy saw. Nick and Alfred followed, all three dressed in fatigues, armored vests, and duty belts with holstered pistols, sheathed knives, and extra magazines.

They stopped outside his cell.

“You ready to prove yourself?” Pete asked.

“Yeah, it’s about fucking time,” Timothy said.

Pete nodded to Alfred, who unlocked the cell.

“Come on,” Nick said.

Timothy stepped out and followed the men away from the cells. Lilly gazed up and locked eyes with him, but he didn’t give her anything. Not a wink, or a friendly smile, or a nod. Nothing but pity.

Pete took them down a wing of the bunker Timothy hadn’t seen before. Most of the paint had flecked away on the walls that were now covered in grime.

Two more men waited at the end of the next corridor armed with M-16 rifles and dressed in fatigues. It took both men to pull open the steel door at the end.

Beyond the door, a mezzanine stretched across a chamber illuminated by lights built into the walls of another silo. Nick went first, his boots clicking on the metal surface. Alfred and Pete escorted Timothy next. He froze in his tracks halfway across, his eyes locked on something below that couldn’t possibly be real.

“Move it, fuck head,” said one of the guards behind him.

Timothy felt the cold touch of a gun barrel prodding his back, but he didn’t move. Even in the dim lighting there was no mistaking the massive missile below the walkway.

Nick twisted back to face him with a wry grin.

“What?” he asked. “Never seen a ballistic missile before?”

“The government lied about a lot of things before the war,” Nick said. “The world thought the only nuclear missile silos were in North Dakota and Wyoming.”

The butt of a gun slammed Timothy in the back, forcing him forward. He followed Nick to another steel door that the group opened to a narrow metal stairwell.

His mind spun with questions each step up.

Did the missile work?

Were there more?

Was this part of their plan?

The implications nearly took his breath, but he kept his composure. None of that mattered if he screwed up now, and this gave him even more reason to find a way to expose this place.

Alfred opened the door at the top of the stairs, letting in moonlight. This was the first Timothy had seen in days. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness until he could make out a field of knee-high weeds rustling in the cold wind.

The men set off across the clearing toward warehouse-style buildings tucked away in a wooded area.

Timothy covertly studied his surroundings, trying to identify the location. But he didn’t recognize this place and had no idea where they might be.

“Eyes ahead,” said a guard. He gave Timothy the butt of his rifle again.

Timothy winced.

Heat rose to his face but he couldn’t let himself lose control now.

“You don’t like that, do you?” the man said. He rammed the rifle butt into Timothy’s back again.

This time Timothy couldn’t help it. He turned and glared, teeth gritted.

“You better fucking look forward or I’m going to break your face,” the man growled.

“Keep walking and don’t do anything stupid,” Alfred said.

Timothy hesitated just long enough to memorize the man’s face. He was going on the list of collaborators he would kill first.

They continued until they got to the warehouses. A tall canopy of trees, some still with their leaves, protected the buildings from a bird’s eye view. Camo tarps also helped disguise vehicles and equipment outside.

The double doors to the first warehouse were wide open, revealing another small fleet of vehicles. Pickups, mostly, but a few military-style trucks and a Humvee. There was also a black muscle car.

The collaborators Timothy had seen in the briefing were working inside. Others had joined them. All wore fatigues and body armor with slung rifles and holsters on their hips.

The only man not armed was another guy wearing a collar like Timothy’s.

He was on both knees next to a pickup truck, his gaze on the floor. Timothy was brought over to him and instructed to sit.

The collaborators loaded gear and weapons into their vehicles over the next hour. By the time they had finished, ominous storm clouds rolled over the sky, masking the stars and moon. The first clap of thunder sounded, rattling the metal walls of the warehouse.

“All right, listen up,” Pete said.

The collaborators clustered around him.

“We’re headed back to Outpost Portland to finish the job,” Pete said. “We’ve softened their defenses, and now our job is to blow holes through what they have left so the beasts can get in.”

Several hollers broke out.

“Burn it to the fucking ground,” one of the men said.

“The heretics deserve to die,” said another.

Pete raised a hand, and the space quieted.

“Once Portland is gone, we will all be rewarded with a visit from our master,” Pete said. “No more mistakes. Our time is almost here, and once this is complete, we will be headed into the final reckoning.”

The men’s features transformed from excitement to fear, shadows playing over them with each distant strike of lightning.

“This has been a long time coming,” Pete said. “Years of planning have led to this. And we’re not the only ones. All across the Land of the New Gods, our brothers and sisters are rising up.”

The hollers and hoots came again, their voices rivaling the rolling thunder.

Pete motioned for Nick who walked over to a side door. He opened it and stepped back. Guttural barking sounded outside.

A man wearing what looked like a riot suit entered holding a chain and a club with barbwire wrapped around the shaft. The slack in the chain straightened out, rattling from whatever it was attached to.

The guard yanked on it and in came a muscular beast with a maw covered by a muzzle. It was another freak dog like the one Timothy had seen earlier. Only this one had a collar around its neck.

The creature growled, spine going rigid and hairs spiked like arrow quivers. Saliva dripped out of the muzzle onto the ground.

“It’s time to unleash our new weapons,” Pete said.

A second guard in riot gear followed the beast into the room. Muffled barks escaped from the muzzle until the man clicked on a remote, zapping the dog into submission. Several more genetically modified canines were brought in and loaded into cages in the backs of pickup trucks.

“Mount up,” Nick called out. “We move out soon.’

The men fanned out into vehicles while Nick walked over to Timothy.

“You, my pimple-faced friend, are going to help us get inside the command post,” he said.

The man who had hit Timothy with his gun barrel withdrew a black bag and pulled it over Timothy’s face. A hand grabbed him and pushed him into a truck. Motors growled to life.

Over the noise came the barking of the dogs in the back of the pickup trucks.

They sounded nothing like Ginger and Spark, even when the dogs were angry. These canines were starving, anxious to feast on flesh.

Timothy’s stomach curdled with the thought of just whose flesh they would be dining on tonight.

— 21 —

Beckham had done exactly what Fischer had expected any hard-headed Delta Force Operator would. He had marched to the forward command point to discuss security again with Colonel Presley. This time Master Sergeant Parker Horn accompanied him, too.

Fischer had joined the meeting, but kept his mouth shut. His men were holding security outside a tent functioning as their command point outside the area where Presley had his desk and war tables.

Beckham was determined to root out the issue immediately as soon as Fischer told him about Cornelius’s worries that collaborators had infiltrated Manchester.

“Captain, I understand your concern, but we do not have a collaborator problem,” Presley said. “The problem we’re facing right now isn’t some boogeymen hiding in our base. The problem is finding those packs of juveniles we spotted before. Their trail disappeared an hour ago, and we need to pick it back up. Not waste our time throwing around crazy allegations.”

Presley was trying his best to hide his frustration, and Fischer didn’t want to add fuel to the fire, but he had no choice.

“Colonel, I regret not bringing this up earlier,” Fischer said. “But it seems too much of a coincidence that the juvenile scouts showed up right when work began on the mastermind. Now I’m not a military man, but I’ve been around long enough to run into my fair share of company spies looking for the next oil or mineral rights to pull a land grab right under my nose.”

“This place isn’t an oilfield,” Presley snapped.

“No, it’s not, but I’m telling you that my experience and recent events sure get the gears in my head turning.” Fischer gestured toward Beckham. “When I mentioned this to Captain Beckham, he insisted we come back to you, because we both respect what you’ve done at this outpost.”

Presley clenched his jaw. He set the folder he was holding down on a table and motioned for Horn to shut the tent flaps.

“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this tent,” Presley said.

“Understood,” Beckham said.

Fischer and Horn nodded in turn.

“A little over a year ago we discovered a group of terrorists planning to poison our water treatment plant,” he said. “They were collaborators, but we never found out much more than that.”

“Poison with what?” Beckham asked.

“Poison isn’t exactly the accurate word.” Presley hesitated, apparently considering his words carefully. “They were planning on infecting the water with VX-99.”

“What?” Beckham said.

Fischer was equally surprised to hear this. Horn’s brow creased, nostrils flaring like a bull ready to charge.

“Why wasn’t President Ringgold informed of this?” Beckham asked.

“I informed the proper people,” Presley said.

“The president is the proper person, sir,” Horn growled.

Fischer had to admit he agreed. “It seems to me the administration of this country has the right to know about terrorist activity involving VX-99.”

“Look, I’ve taken care of my people here.” Presley shook his head. “We don’t need any local problems blown out of proportion. If you think back two months ago, even before those attacks, local economies relied on trade between all the outposts. Who wants to trade with an outpost that has a collaborator problem?”

“The president had a right to know,” Beckham repeated.

“And I had a right to protect my people. Both from physical and economic harm.”

“How can you be sure you’ve actually protected them?”

“Since those arrests and the following executions, we have not had any problems.” Presley shrugged. “Burning people alive in the town square has proved to be a good deterrent. I’m a big believer in making my actions count more than my words… Any potential collaborators knew from then on we meant business, and I made a promise that if we caught more, I would do worse to them than the Variants would.”

“You never found out who they were working with?” Horn asked.

“No, none of them would talk,” Presley replied. “We used every technique we could and got absolutely nothing from the bastards.”

Beckham and Horn exchanged a quick glance.

“If the juveniles know the mastermind is here, it’s not because anyone within our walls leaked that intel,” Presley said in an argumentative voice. “You might want to take your search for collaborators elsewhere.”

“I don’t buy it,” Beckham said. “I still have more questions.”

Presley let out a grunt. “Captain, your concern is noted, but we need to find those juveniles.”

“I agree, but they might not be the biggest threat. And I need to ask a few more questions. Sir.”

Presley looked exasperated but gave Beckham a nod.

“How many people have gone missing from Outpost Manchester in the past few years?” Beckham asked.

“I… I’m not sure, Captain… We don’t exactly keep a running census.”

Fischer found himself wondering the same thing Beckham probably was thinking. How could the colonel not know?

“You don’t have any idea? Not even a range?” Beckham asked.

“It’s a low number, I know that. Less than thirty. I would have to check with my staff for a better total.” Presley was agitated.

He walked around the table and called over one of his officers. Then he turned back to Beckham.

“You going to tell me why this information is important?” he asked.

“It’s important because collaborators use people by kidnapping their family members and forcing them into serving the Variants,” Beckham said. “Or other times, they simply brainwash them. Think Stockholm Syndrome on steroids.”

“Happened at our outpost,” Horn grumbled.

“I’d recommend putting together a list and checking with the family members of the people still living here,” Beckham said. “That’s one way to see if there’s anyone who might be connected.”

A female officer opened a tent flap and saluted. Presley spoke to the woman quietly but suddenly went rigid after she said something in response.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. He went outside and continued talking with the woman in trenchant voices for minutes.

“That doesn’t seem good,” Fischer said.

The tent flaps opened again, and Presley walked over to a table with maps draped across the surface. He pulled out a pen and circled a spot.

“We lost a scout a few minutes ago,” Presley said. “But we now know where the juveniles are.”

Fischer surveyed the location. It was to the east, not even five miles from the outpost perimeter.

Presley looked up from the map. “I recommend getting back to your shelters and hunkering down for the night. Captain, for your benefit, I also charged a team to start looking into what we discussed.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Beckham said.

Presley sighed. “I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me, too,” Beckham said.

Fischer followed him and Horn out of the tent. They cradled their rifles as they walked into the street to join Tran and Chase.

“Any update on that monstrosity your wife is working on?” Fischer asked.

“She didn’t say much,” Beckham said.

“Better get back to the kids,” Horn said. “I don’t trust that redhead lady we left them with.”

“We better try and snag some sleep,” Tran said.

“No way I can sleep with everything going on.” Chase spat onto the ground. “I’d go for a beer instead.”

“I wouldn’t say no to one,” Horn said with a chuckle.

“We can drink when we win this war, boys,” Fischer said.

“Agreed,” Beckham said. “Until then, I’m staying frosty.”

The group set off down the empty streets, quiet with the curfew imposed by Presley. When Beckham and Horn got back to their building, they parted ways and headed for the shelter.

Fischer continued down the road with his men, walking for close to an hour. They were almost back when the sound of diesel engines rumbled through the night. A convoy of M-ATVs cruised through the empty streets, stopping at the shelter Fischer had been assigned.

Men in riot gear jumped out of the vehicles and rushed inside. Fischer moved aside with both Tran and Chase getting in front of him when more soldiers hurried over, shouting for their IDs.

“What in the hell are you idiots doing out after curfew?” a guard asked.

“Take it easy,” Chase said. “We were just talking to the colonel.”

“No need to go Gestapo on us,” Tran said.

“Shut the fuck up and show me your ID. Now,” said one of the guards.

Fischer understood the value of intimidation, but these guys were pissing him off. He and his men hadn’t done anything to deserve this kind of treatment.

When he got his ID back, shouting came from the front entrance. The men in riot gear pulled people out, their panicked voices filling the otherwise quiet night.

“Where are you taking me?” one of the men said.

“We didn’t do anything!” shouted the woman.

Fischer had expected to hear the shrieks of monsters tonight, but he didn’t expect to hear the cries of terrified people at the hands of the base’s own guards. He didn’t exactly regret going to the colonel about collaborators, but now that he’d seen the results, he worried paranoia and rumors would add a dangerous, unforeseen threat to Outpost Manchester’s existence.

“Get inside,” said the guard standing by them.

“Calm down, bro,” Chase said.

The guard grabbed him and shoved him hard. Tran stepped between the two. “Don’t you fucking put another hand on him.”

Fischer found his hand inching toward his holstered .357.

Another voice rang out.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

An officer walked over, a vest full of magazines, and a helmet over his black face mask.

“These men were out during curfew,” said the soldier who had pushed Chase.

Chase stood next to Tran now, both tense and ready to fight.

“We had a meeting with Colonel Presley, you dumb shit,” Fischer said.

The officer motioned for the soldier to return to the truck. After he left, the officer said, “Get back inside the shelter. It’s not safe out here.”

Fischer glared at the officer but said nothing. Instead, he motioned for his men to move inside. Once they were through the door, the guards locked it, leaving them only a window’s view to the street.

The officer got back into an M-ATV and the armored vehicles pulled away, speeding to the next location.

“I was about to break that dude’s face,” Chase said.

“Me too,” Tran said.

Fischer watched the vehicles round the corner.

“What do we do now?” Tran asked.

“We wait, and we pray I’m wrong about the collaborators,” Fischer said. “And if I’m not, we get ready to fight.”

***

“Our test today is the most important yet,” Kate said. “If we’re successful, we can actually figure out what in God’s name the Variants are planning.”

The mastermind let out a long exhale that rushed over Kate like a storm-born wind, carrying with it the rotten stench of a garbage dump. The two giant, muscular limbs trembled, and its eyelids fluttered.

Nothing Kate had studied during graduate school had prepared her for a test subject like this. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anyone in the massive laboratory at Outpost Manchester had ever thought they would be experimenting on a giant monster that wanted nothing more than to have them all killed.

She turned from the half-sleeping beast and joined Sammy, Sean, and Carr at a nearby laboratory workstation. On it lay the bioreactor with a chunk of pulsating red tissue inside of its clear plastic drum-like container. One of the mastermind’s tendrils was attached through a port via micro-electric array. On the other end of the tissue, another array connected to Sammy’s computer.

Sean looked between the computer and the beast, his right foot tapping the ground. His fingers traced across the regulator for the monster’s sedative IV drip. “Are you sure we have to keep that thing half awake?”

Kate appreciated Sean’s caution, but his wariness was holding back their research. It almost seemed like he was purposely trying to slow things down, but they were all tired, and she wasn’t working as quickly as normal.

Sammy responded as she typed at her keyboard. “If we put it to sleep, then I’m just talking to a comatose blob. The thing didn’t respond last time until we woke it up with enough prodding.”

“And we’re not going to make any progress if we don’t get an actual response from the beast,” Kate said.

“We won’t be doing ourselves any favors if we’re scared to confront the mastermind.” Carr leaned over the bioreactor chamber, scrutinizing the tissue within.

Nodding, Kate pointed at Sammy’s computer. The technician had done a great job adapting the collaborator’s software so they could translate an input signal. That should help them intercept any communications in the Variant network once they hooked up their own computer systems to the webbing.

“We can’t just be reactive anymore. We have to be proactive. The way to do that is to send our own signals through the network,” Carr said. “Signals that can interfere with Variant-collaborator communications or even lure them into a trap.”

“First things first,” Sammy cut in. “What kind of messages do we want to send it now?”

“Maybe we should try to trick the monster into thinking it’s tapped into the actual Variant network,” Kate said. “That might get it to open up more and give us a chance to test how well our messages pass for the real thing.”

“Why don’t we just tap into the real webbing network?” Sean asked. “We can circumvent the mastermind. Wouldn’t that be safer and quicker?”

Sammy laughed, swiveling in her seat. “No way. Not at all. Look, we’re trying to play biological hackers here. If we don’t know what we’re doing and we send a message that makes it obvious it’s coming from the outpost, then the Variants will rain hell on us. But if we can fool the mastermind, then maybe we can use what we learn to trick the rest of the Variant network.”

“Exactly,” Kate said. “So long as we’re only connecting the mastermind to this secured bioreactor, it’s like we’re operating a computer at home with no Internet access. But as soon as we connect to the internet—or in our case, the Variant network—then any beast or collaborator could connect right back to us. Not a good idea.”

The mastermind shifted in its restraints. A long growl escaped its bulbous lips. Kate eyed it suspiciously, waiting to see if it would make another move, but it settled back down, its head rolling on its shoulders.

“I really don’t like this.” Sean tapped on a gauge measuring the sedatives pumping in through one of the massive IV lines into the mastermind. “It’s unpredictable. We’re playing with fire, just guessing how much we think it needs.”

“I trust you’ll keep the beast under control, but if all else fails, you have my permission to knock it out,” Kate said.

Sean kneaded his fingers together nervously, taking a step back from the lab bench.

“Just focus on taking care of the lab equipment and connections to the mastermind,” Kate said.

“Sure,” Sean replied.

Truthfully, Kate didn’t feel safe either. Not with a monster that could destroy her entire team with a single swipe of its scythe-like claws. Even the dozen soldiers along the walls of the massive lab didn’t make her feel much better. She couldn’t help but think of Javier and Horn’s girls in addition to all the other people sheltering at this outpost.

If the abomination escaped and started attacking from within, she worried how many would fall before they could stop it.

But worries like that wouldn’t solve the challenge they faced now.

“Sammy, re-open the connection with the mastermind,” Kate ordered.

A few keystrokes and numbers scrolled across the computer monitor. The mastermind’s tendrils squirmed like long red snakes slithering from its body.

All around the laboratory, Kate watched technicians and scientists stop what they were doing to watch the giant.

“Connection confirmed,” Sammy said. “Ready to proceed on your mark, doctors.”

The monster’s tendrils undulated as Sammy performed some basic checks.

She input simple commands checking the status of the mastermind.

“Alive?” she typed out.

The response came back, “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Location unknown.”

“Identify yourself.”

“Bio-node Twenty-Two.”

From their work with the mastermind, they had determined that the masterminds called themselves Bio-nodes, though they were still unsure who had given them that name.

“Network connection with other Bio-nodes?” Sammy probed.

“Unavailable.”

In its half-sedated state, the monster continued to respond robotically. None of the dramatic anger filtered into its responses. For that, Kate was optimistic. It meant Sean had to have dialed down the sedatives at just the right level.

But for the next part, they needed a stronger response from the beast.

“Sean, reduce the sedatives,” Kate said. “We need the mastermind in a higher state of consciousness.”

Sean’s fingers shook as he adjusted the regulators on the IV lines.

The mastermind’s eyes blinked, and its arms started to lift, yanking on the thick chains attached to the iron scaffolding.

Simple inquiries like the ones Sammy had tried so far were easy.

But if they were going to disrupt the Variant-collaborator communications, if they were going to send bad intel to compromise the enemy’s strategies, then they would need to create significantly more complex messages that would fool even the mastermind.

Now was the moment they had been waiting for. The final test that would determine if they had figured out how to do just that.

To accomplish it, Kate had to rely on Sammy’s computer genius to translate regular language through the collaborator’s software into signals that the mastermind could understand and react to.

“Let’s put your work to the test,” Kate said. “Ready, Sammy?”

“Ready,” she replied.

“I want to see if the mastermind will listen to our commands. Tell it to stand.”

Sammy’s fingers worked across the keyboard.

For a second, nothing happened. Then the monster began to push itself up, eyes still roving back and forth like it was drunk. It managed to stand, wavering as it did.

“Damn, I didn’t think it would actually listen,” Sammy said.

“Tell it to walk forward,” Kate said.

Sammy typed in the command, and the monster shivered, huge saucer eyes pulsating, searching around the chamber. Saliva dripped from its toothy maw.

“I think I let the sedatives off too much,” Sean said, beginning to twist the regulator.

“Hold on.” Kate put up a hand to stay him.

The mastermind took a stumbling step forward. Its eyelids peeled back a little more, and its lips shook into a snarl as it continued to walk forward until the slack in the chains started to disappear, straining against the scaffolds.

With a snarl, the beast reared back one of its claws. Messages scrolled across Sammy’s computer screen.

Where am I? What’s going on? Enemies everywhere! Where is master? What does he command?

But this time, Kate didn’t signal for Sean to knock the creature out.

“Sammy, tell it to stand down. Tell it we are the master.”

The beast pulled against its restraints. Chains clinked together, and dust fell from the ceiling; iron groaned, echoing around the cavernous room. Sammy’s fingers worked across the keyboard.

With a final lurch, the beast stopped and stood, relaxing its limbs.

Master? came the message back on the screen.

“Yes,” Sammy typed back. “Sit down.”

The beast dropped immediately, a long sigh coming from its flared nostrils. A tremor rocked through the laboratory.

“See?” Sammy asked, looking at Sean. “We got this under control.”

Kate nodded. “Good work. What else should we tell it?”

The team began a more complicated conversation with the mastermind, asking about the number of Variants back where they had extracted it in New Orleans and how many other masterminds were out there. It knew pitiful little intel; it was more of a tool than a real ‘mind’ at all.

Sammy let out an exasperated sigh. “I guess we can think of this Bio-node thing as more of a Wi-Fi router that merely transmits and receives complicated signals. It’s not like a hard drive that contains and stores a bunch of data.”

While they couldn’t drag out more useful intel from the monster, they had at least managed to fool the mastermind into thinking they were on its side. That was good news for weaponizing their technology, Kate thought.

“We should be able to load this software onto other computers,” Carr said.

“Then we can install the same language processing applications on other computers. This is our Rosetta Stone,” Kate said excitedly. “Wherever Ringgold’s armies go, they can hook those computers up to the Variant network to monitor and disrupt communications.”

The other scientists and engineers around them nodded in agreement, looking pleased with their victory. But Kate noticed one who was not.

“Sammy, what’s wrong?” Kate asked. “Is something not working?”

“No, it’s all working… Quite well in fact. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t follow,” Carr said.

“Think about it.” Sammy nodded toward the mastermind.

“Someone or something not only created creatures like this one, but they perfected the webbing network and a neural-biological interface to go along with it,” she said. “All in a matter of years. That person, this master that the beast mentioned, must be more intelligent and powerful than these beasts.”

“That person is the true mastermind,” Kate said. Realization seized all sense of accomplishment.

Sammy nodded. “That’s who we have to find and destroy for this nightmare to end.”

— 22 —

Daylight glowed over the pine trees casting their shadows across the makeshift camp. Dohi and Mendez were out searching the area, but Fitz, Ace, and Rico were seated around the tree trunks. Dirt covered their fatigues, and deep bruises underscored their eyes, evidence of the lack of sleep they all suffered from.

But exhaustion was the most innocuous thing they had to endure.

Fitz stood, his blades creaking. Rico followed. They walked past a couple of men with bloody bandages. A few Wolfhounds secured the perimeter, their rifles probing the shadows among the woods.

Singh was leaning against a tree with a canteen in his hands, head bowed, either in prayer or asleep.

“Lieutenant,” Fitz said.

He looked up and cleared his throat. “Master Sergeant,” Singh replied. “Do we have a final head count?”

“Two dead, another six injured. And… three missing.” Fitz gritted his teeth together, imagining what had happened to the three who were missing.

Neither of the men needed to think too hard about their fate assuming they’d fallen into those crazy people’s hands. These demented, sick people devoured Variants in some ironic twist of fate, and if they did that they would savor the flesh of a normal man.

Singh tugged at his beard, gazing up at the blue sky between the tree branches as if he was looking for an aircraft to come rescue them.

“How long are we going to sit here?” Singh asked. “It can’t be safe.”

“I’ve got Dohi off making sure we’re not being tracked,” Fitz said. “He’s also looking for any injured that may have been lost during our retreat.”

“We’ll know if someone’s coming,” Rico said, joining them.

“Your man basically walked into a trap before, what makes you think he will…” Singh let his words trail.

But he was right. Dohi had seen this coming too late. If he had failed, that meant these men were damn good.

“We stay here, and stay frosty,” Fitz said. “We won’t make the same mistake again.”

“What about calling in reinforcements?” Singh asked.

Rico let out a wry chuckle. “Reinforcements? What reinforcements? Hate to break it to you, LT, but we’re on the other side of the country. We’re it. This is on us now.”

“Afraid that’s true,” Fitz said. “When we left for this mission, our defenses around the outposts were already stretched thin. We were the only teams that Cornelius and Ringgold could spare. Even if they changed their mind and granted us reinforcements, it’s not going to happen soon enough for Hopkins or the others, especially with all the attacks happening around the outposts.”

Rico spat on the ground. “And frankly, I don’t want to be responsible for sapping vital defensive forces away from those outposts. They need to be defending the families and strongholds we’ve got left in the Allied States.”

“I agree,” Singh said.

Fitz shifted on his blades, happy to hear the Lieutenant was on the same page about that. “We’ll get your men back, and in the process, we’ll secure the Rolling Stone technology. I’m not leaving California until that happens.”

“Future of the Allied States is relying on us,” Rico said. Then she leaned forward a bit, a shock of pink hair coming loose. She brushed it back. “You ever seen the tunnels those Variants and Alphas create?”

That caught Singh off-guard. His brow scrunched, and he shook his head.

“You ever see what they do to people in those tunnels? How the beasts string them up to die?” she asked.

Again, Singh shook his head.

“Then count yourself lucky,” she continued. “It’s a sight that’ll haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. But if we retrieve the SDS equipment, we can make sure those tunnels are a thing of the past.”

“Once Dohi returns we’ll come up with a game plan to get your men back and get inside this AO,” Fitz said.

Singh nodded. If he hadn’t been convinced earlier, he was now.

Fitz motioned to Rico, and they joined Ace back under the wide branches of a pine swaying in the wind, isolated from the Wolfhounds.

For a few long moments, the camp was quiet except for the groans of the wounded.

Ace went to get up when Fitz and Rico walked over.

“Sit and rest,” Fitz said.

Ace used his finger to comb some of the dirt from his white beard that was also stained from a bloody nose.

“How you doing, brother?” Fitz asked.

“Like I just woke up after drinking the rest of the beer in the Allied States,” he grumbled. “And then got hit by a Humvee.”

Rico let out a low chuckle, and Fitz grinned.

He sighted movement through the tree line and pointed.

“Dohi’s back,” Fitz said.

Mendez accompanied the tracker.

“Well?” Fitz asked.

Dohi wiped sweat from his face. “I didn’t find any of the missing men, but I did spot some scouts,” he said. “They’re on the other side of the freeway for now, but come night, I bet they head our way.”

“Then we just need to wait and mow those fuckers down,” Mendez said. “They caught us with our pants down, and now it’s their turn to get ambushed.”

Dohi’s face appeared mostly expressionless when he replied. “That won’t work.”

“I agree,” Fitz said. “They know we’re out here. They’ll expect us. We already lost our element of surprise.”

“We lost a hell of a lot more than that,” Rico said.

“These guys aren’t what Cornelius promised,” Mendez said. “We need to roll in by ourselves and give these assholes a good taste of their own medicine as mi madre used to say.”

“Cool it, bro,” Ace said.

Mendez cursed to himself and gestured toward the Wolfhounds.

“Cool it? These guys are like zombies now,” he said. “Useless to us.”

“They lost some of their brothers today and they trusted us to keep them safe. What do you expect?” Fitz said.

Lincoln, Tanaka, Stevenson, and so many other fallen soldiers flashed through his mind. For a fleeting moment, Fitz felt a white-hot ball of rage.

“So what do you want to do?” Mendez asked. “You trying to say we call this off? That we abandon the mission because they can’t handle it?”

Rico kicked at some of the leaves on the ground, shaking her head. “No, that’s not what he’s saying, Mendez. We’re saying to chill out.”

“Impossible for me to chill when we’re chained to these guys,” Mendez replied. “They’re a mission hazard. Might as well tie an anchor around our feet and throw us in the damn Pacific.”

“What about the men we got back at the plane?” Ace asked. “That might be the next best thing to reinforcements we can get.”

“No can do,” Rico said, apparently thinking along the same lines. “Imagine that those cannibals find the C-130 without enough of Cornelius’ men to defend it.”

“They’re cannibals?” Dohi asked. “Thought you said they were eating Variants.”

“Variants are just very sick, mutated humans,” Ace said. “Until ya’ll come up with a better word for people that eat Variants, Rico’s right on the money. Those people are cannibals with a twisted palate.”

“Cannibals or not, we’re royally screwed if they take the C-130 or destroy it,” Rico added.

“Agreed,” Fitz said.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Ace asked.

Fitz looked between the team. “Mendez isn’t totally wrong.”

“Seriously?” Rico asked.

Mendez patted his rifle. “Hell yes, I’m right.”

Fitz looked to Dohi.

“You’re going to find us a way into that base and into those warehouses without the cannibals following us,” Fitz said. “The Wolfhounds will hold security near the freeway and cover our escape.”

“They’ll be waiting for us,” Dohi said. “It won’t be easy.”

“No, it won’t be easy, but I think we’ve got a way we can get it done without losing more lives.”

Fitz hashed out the details with Team Ghost before he would bring the idea to Singh. As they planned, a piercing cry erupted over the woods.

“What the hell was that?” Ace asked.

“Sounded like a Variant,” Mendez said.

Dohi shook his head. “No, that was human.”

The voice blasted over the trees once more, a strangulated yell of tortured agony. All around the camp the Wolfhounds got to their feet and readied their weapons.

The screech sounded closer the next time it rang out.

Fitz steeled himself, imagining what terrible things the cannibals were doing to the missing men.

The Wolfhounds all froze in place, as more pained screams traveled through the woods like spirits haunting the forest.

Fitz had promised Singh he would help find his men, but he feared now it was going to be too late. If they were to escape with the SDS equipment from Project Rolling Stone, they couldn’t delay much longer.

He left his team and returned to the lieutenant.

Singh stood stiffly in front of Fitz. The man was different now, his jaw clenched tightly and his face a mask of determination as a result of those screams.

“Those are my men, aren’t they?” he asked.

Fitz nodded. “They’re trying to frighten us.”

“It’s working,” Singh replied, glancing at his surviving soldiers. “But we didn’t come out here to turn tail and run.”

The agonized wails echoed once again.

“Good, because tonight my team is going back in, and I need your boys to watch our back,” Fitz said.

“Oh, we can do that, brother, and more,” Singh said. “I’ve got an idea on how to keep those cannibals occupied for a while.”

***

A cool wind cut through Outpost Manchester’s town square. The fiery leaves littering the ground rustled, and the breeze plucked other dead leaves off spindly tree branches.

“Watch this,” Horn said to Javier and his daughters. He tossed a stick like a boomerang. It sliced through the air. Ginger and Spark exploded toward it, racing to find it in a pile of leaves.

Beckham and Kate hung out behind a park bench, watching Horn and the kids play with the dogs. Beckham was feeling a bit better after an uneventful night and a quiet morning. A brief phone conversation earlier with President Ringgold had confirmed no other major attacks had occurred elsewhere.

But he wasn’t fooled by one peaceful night. He knew the enemy was out there, scheming and waiting to strike like they had for eight years.

The citizens of Outpost Manchester were out this afternoon and didn’t seem to be concerned. A glance around the town square and surrounding streets might have looked almost normal to an unwary onlooker.

A long line of people waited patiently for food outside townhall. The sporadic laughter of children and even some adults filled the afternoon with rare sounds of joy.

Kate drank from a mug of steaming coffee, enjoying a brief respite from lab work.

“How’s your head feeling?” she asked.

Beckham shrugged. “Just a bump, could have been a lot worse… How are things going in the lab?”

Kate took another sip. “I think we’re going to crack the code by tonight.”

“That’s great. President Ringgold said she’ll have a bird ready to evacuate us as soon as you’re done.”

“And go where?”

Javier tossed a stick, and Ginger leapt into the air, catching it in her teeth.

“Good catch, girl!” Jenny cried out.

Javier smiled proudly and looked to his dad who smiled back.

“I don’t know,” Beckham said to Kate. “Maybe back to the Johnson.”

“We have to tell the kids about Timothy, Bo, and Donna soon… But I’d rather wait until we leave this place.”

“Agreed.” Beckham hated the idea of going back to the warship. And he hated having to tell the kids their friends were dead and their home destroyed.

“Any updates on Fitz and the others?” she asked.

“Nothing new, and the longer we don’t…” He let his words trail off. They both knew the more time Ghost spent on the frontier, the less likely they would come home.

Jenny laughed, then threw another stick. “Go get it!”

Both dogs bolted after it, exploding through the piles of leaves while the kids laughed.

“What about the juveniles?” Kate asked quietly, her eyes pinned on the kids.

Beckham kept his voice even lower.

“They took out two Raven scouts. The team that went to locate the Variants didn’t find any tracks. It was like they’d vanished into thin air.”

Kate kept staring at the kids.

He said what they were both probably thinking.

“This place is a ticking time bomb, Kate. I want to get out of here as soon as you finish your work.”

“Me too, and that’s a good reminder that break time is over.”

“I didn’t mean this second…”

“It’s okay, Reed.” She planted a kiss on his lips and walked over to the kids. “I’ve got to go, guys, give me a hug.”

Javier came running, along with the dogs wagging their tails.

“Good luck,” Horn said. He offered a brisk salute.

“Take care of my family,” she said to him.

“Always, Kate.”

She smiled at Beckham and then returned to the sidewalk where two soldiers were already waiting to escort her. Beckham watched her go before joining the kids.

“Mom sure works a lot now,” Javier said.

“I know, buddy, but she’s almost done,” Beckham replied.

“Awesome. Then do we get to go home?”

“I miss Timothy,” Tasha said. “Wish I could at least give him a call.”

“And I miss my bed,” Jenny said.

Horn raised an eyebrow. “How old are you again?”

Jenny laughed. “Not an old fart like you.”

A pair of black Humvees with the Raven logo pulled up outside of the park, a welcome distraction from the questions.

Two men wearing black fatigues got out of the lead Humvee. Several people in the food line watched, others put their heads down, clearly afraid. Not that Beckham blamed them, after last night’s raids.

But instead of going toward the line, the soldiers aimed their path at the park.

“Captain Beckham,” one called out.

“Yeah…”

“Who’s asking?” Horn said.

The men jogged toward him as Horn led the kids over with the dogs.

“Colonel Presley,” a soldier said. “He wants to see you.”

“About what?” Beckham asked.

“Please, come with us,” the other said. “We’ll have you back to your family shortly.”

“Dad, why do they want you to go again?” Javier asked. He eyed the soldiers suspiciously.

Beckham crouched down on his prosthetic in front of Javier. “I’ll be right back.”

“I want to come,” Javier said.

“Sorry, bud, but this is official business.”

Javier frowned and Beckham gave the boy a playful tap on the shoulder. “You stand guard with Big Horn, okay?”

The boy lit up at that. “You got it, Dad.”

Beckham nodded at Horn and then went with the Raven soldiers. They drove to a brick complex surrounded by twenty-foot tall metal fences topped with razor wire. Two armored vehicles were parked outside a gate, machine gun turrets occupied by men wearing black face masks.

The gate rolled back, and they drove inside to a parking lot with squad cars sitting in a neat row. Beckham spotted a Raven sign hanging over the main entrance where a police station sign had once been.

“Let’s go,” said one of the escorts.

Beckham got out of the vehicle.

“Rifle, please,” said the other soldier.

Beckham unslung his M4A1 and handed it over. Then he followed them into the building. He was led down a flight of stairs into a basement. From there, they took him to a jail with two dozen cells. Each had only a small window to see through the heavy metal doors. As they walked past, Beckham stole glances into those small windows, surveying the cells’ inhabitants.

Realization set in.

Presley wanted to show him the men and women they had taken into custody. People who had probably lost loved ones over the past few months or years that Beckham suggested they investigate.

The two soldiers turned down another wing and stopped to throw up salutes. Colonel Presley stood reading a document with a female staff member in uniform. A second soldier, about a foot taller than Beckham with muscles like Horn’s was looking into one of the cells. A black t-shirt clung to his bulging frame and a face mask covered his features. His knuckles were cracked and bloodied, as if he’d just been in a fight.

Presley acknowledged Beckham’s escorts with a nod and then handed the document to the woman.

“Captain Beckham, thank you for coming,” Presley said. “I need your help. We have someone in custody who we found with this.”

Presley held out a small vial.

Beckham leaned closer to look at what appeared to be juvenile acid. The sight of a substance that had all but destroyed his body, leaving him with a prosthetic hand and leg during the great war, made his blood boil.

“I thought you didn’t have a collaborator problem,” he said, angrily.

“I may have been a little too confident, Captain.” He gestured toward a cell door. “We found this on a young man last night.”

The guard with the face mask stepped aside so Beckham could look. Inside, a man knelt on the floor, his head hung low. The prisoner must have sensed him and glanced up with a bruised and bloody face.

Beckham turned away from the view. “He’s just a kid.”

“And he’s a stubborn one at that,” Presley said. “We can’t get him to talk. I thought someone with your experience might have better luck.”

“My experience?”

“Before the war, Team Ghost spent time in hot spots around the world. Don’t tell me enhanced interrogation techniques were off the table.”

“Like I said, that’s just a kid,” Beckham said. “We never tortured kids. Even in war.”

Presley frowned and handed the vial to a guard. “This isn’t the same type of war. Our enemies are monsters.”

“You don’t fight monsters by becoming one.”

“Maybe not. But if we don’t try, we might not win this war.”

Presley motioned for the man in the t-shirt to open the door. He went inside with the colonel. Beckham followed, instantly smelling urine and body odor.

The kid was maybe twelve. Not that much older than Javier, and much younger than Timothy and Bo. He was kneeling, his hands cuffed behind his back and his feet held to a chain connected to the wall.

“This is Captain Reed Beckham,” Presley said. “Sounds like he doesn’t want us to hurt you. Unfortunately for you, he’s not in charge.”

The boy looked up with one eye swollen shut, glaring at Presley.

“Tell us where you got the juvenile acid or things are going to get a lot worse,” Presley said.

The boy, quivered, his cracked lips trembling. His brown eyes flitted from Beckham to Presley, and then to the guard with bloody knuckles.

“You know what we did to the last collaborators, right?” Presley asked.

The kid managed a slow nod. “You burned them.”

So much for that working, Beckham thought.

“Tell us where you got the acid, or we’re going to put you in a barrel of it,” Presley said.

The boy glanced down.

Presley sighed, then nodded at the big guy.

“Wait…” Beckham said.

It was too late. The man kicked the kid in the face with a sickening thud that echoed in the small cell. His head jerked back, nearly snapping his neck.

“Stop!” Beckham shouted as the guard went to throw a punch.

Presley hesitated, then jerked his chin back.

“Tell us where you got the acid,” said the colonel.

The kid spat out a tooth onto the concrete floor. Blood drooled from his mouth. He grunted and mumbled something that sounded like a curse.

Presley shrugged. “Okay then.”

The soldier walked around the boy and then swung low, hitting him in the ear so hard it split the top.

The boy wailed and then shouted, “You bastard!”

“You will talk,” Presley said.

Beckham stepped forward and crouched down to meet the kid’s gaze.

“Hey,” he said. “Look at me.”

The boy glanced up.

“Look, whatever the collaborators did to you, whatever they told you they would do, we can help you,” Beckham said. “You just have to tell us where they are, and we’ll make sure they never hurt you again.”

“That’s what you don’t understand,” he grunted. “They didn’t hurt me. He did.”

Beckham glanced back at Presley.

“I wanted to help them,” the boy said, staring at Presley. “To kill people like this piece of shit.”

“See, Captain, he’s one of them and there’s only one way to deal with the enemy,” Presley said.

Beckham stood.

The boy spat more blood. “The brotherhood is right… The Variants are the future. Places like this are meant to burn.”

“See what we’re up against?” Presley asked.

He nodded at the guard again. This time Beckham closed his eyes as the guard went to work on the kid. Several smacks, wails, and cracks sounded.

Over the noise came a distant wailing sound, but the impact of knuckles on flesh and the kid’s yells made it difficult to hear.

“Let me out,” Beckham said. He looked at the boy one last time before leaving, his heart breaking at the sight of his bloody features. Collaborator or not, he was just a damn kid.

Beckham walked into the wing to the sound of footsteps. Over the click of boots came the same wail again.

A siren, he realized.

Two guards ran toward the open cell door.

“What the hell is going on?” Beckham demanded.

Neither answered.

“Colonel Presley,” said a guard. “You better get to command. We have a problem.”

“You want to know where I got the acid?” mumbled the boy.

The guards, colonel, and Beckham all looked in the cell.

The kid glanced up with a twisted, bloody smile.

“You’re about to find out…” he said.

— 23 —

The sun had set around six o’clock, forming a golden glow across the horizon. Team Ghost prepared their night vision goggles as they approached their target.

Dohi had spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening leading them into position behind the trees overlooking the easternmost side of the National Accelerator Laboratory Campus. The long circuitous route ensured there were no Variant-eating hostiles lying in wait.

He had already stepped into one ambush. He wasn’t about to walk into another.

But what if he was losing his touch?

Back at the freeway the Wolfhounds had been entrenching themselves to the west of the campus, setting up both a covering position and distraction. It was working.

Dohi had spotted dozens of enemy forces moving that way. If all went well, the cannibals would divert most of their forces to defend against the perceived assault.

From what Dohi had seen through, their enemy didn’t have near enough to cover the wide swathe of campus, and Team Ghost was using that to their advantage.

Fitz crawled up to Dohi’s side to peer over a fallen log.

“Anything?” Fitz whispered.

Dohi shook his head.

Another agonized scream wailed into the night. It drifted over the buildings like an angered spirit. Dohi tried not to imagine what horrors Hopkins and the other Wolfhounds were enduring at the hands of these cannibals.

The breeze suddenly shifted and cold air swept over Dohi. With it came something else. The distinct smell of a bonfire.

“Anybody else smell that?” he whispered.

“Sure do, bro,” Mendez said.

The others nodded.

Strangely, Dohi didn’t see the flicker of a fire. The low hanging clouds and dark sky masked most of his ability to see any rising smoke. Maybe these people were using a wood-burning oven or something else to conceal the light of the flames.

But either way, if they had a fire going, then that meant they were cooking. Dohi had no illusions about what was on the menu tonight.

He rose to his feet, keeping low, and signaled for the others to follow. They drew further south, slinking through the trees, closer to the buildings. Dohi halted at a clearing near the parking lot filled with shipping containers.

“This is where my team was before,” Fitz whispered to Dohi as he signaled the rest of the team to find cover.

Dohi spotted a flicker of light flaring across his NVGs from the shipping containers. He flipped his goggles and lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

Sure enough, in one container with its doors opened, a fire burned with a spit roast above it. Pipes had been fitted to the top of the container to disperse the smoke, making it less likely to raise in one huge column.

A foot was slowly being rotated above the fire by a child. Nearby, women and children gnawed on pieces of meat, ripping at the barbecued meal.

Dohi swept the binos over the containers until he saw a man chained against the wall inside one of them. A woman prodded at him with a knife as his face contorted in pain.

A face Dohi recognized.

“Hopkins,” Dohi whispered.

Two other Wolfhounds were prisoners in the container. One was either passed out or dead. Probably the latter, Dohi thought when he saw his lower legs were gone. The stumps were blackened and cauterized.

The other prisoner writhed in his chains.

Dohi glassed the rest of the compound until he spotted two men marching between the containers. He used a hand to signal the contacts.

They waited a few more minutes in silence, scoping out the area. Dohi counted another four more men patrolling with rifles. Nothing that Team Ghost couldn’t handle, especially if they were the ones doing the ambushing this time.

He continued to survey the cannibals, searching for signs of another trap. But no one appeared in the windows of the adjacent office buildings or in any of the other patches of trees surrounding the complex.

Then something caught Dohi’s attention. Two of the patrolling soldiers met each other between the containers. They appeared to be talking in frantic voices, gesturing wildly.

The two men jogged to a squat, square building with antennae protruding out of its roof next to the shipping containers. More guards met them there, opened the door, and were swallowed by white light, leaving the shipping containers patrolled by only a pair of soldiers.

Another scream shot from the shipping container.

“Dohi, I want you and Mendez to take care of the remaining guards, then save Hopkins and the others,” Fitz whispered. “The rest of you, follow me. We’re going to take that communications post and see if we can destroy their jamming equipment.”

Dohi and Mendez split off from the group. They descended from the grass-covered hill maintaining eyes on the two oblivious patrolling guards.

Once they reached the edge of the parking lot, the odor of burning flesh grew sickeningly strong. Dohi could hear laughing in the distance.

Time was running out for Hopkins and the others.

As soon as they were out from cover, Dohi and Mendez rushed toward the shipping containers. The two guards marched their way between the containers, still unaware of Team Ghost.

This time, the cannibal assholes would be the ones walking into an ambush.

Dohi let his rifle fall on its strap and pulled out his knife and hatchet. Mendez unsheathed his knife. They pressed themselves flat against the side of the shipping container.

The two guards passed in front of them. At Dohi’s nod, the two operators lunged like wolves, pulling the men into their grasp. Dohi’s knife bit into the first man’s throat. He felt a bit of resistance as the blade cut through the cartilage and muscle. Then with a swing of his hatchet, he finished the job.

Hot blood poured from the slit in the dying soldier’s throat and bubbled between his filed-down teeth. The man crumpled, clutching at his throat.

Mendez dropped his target.

As the two men bled out into growing pools, Dohi and Mendez dragged the bodies into one of the shipping containers that had been turned into a living space. Using a blanket, they covered the two dead soldiers.

Another scream echoed from the container holding the three Wolfhounds.

With the guards dispatched, Dohi hurried to the container with the hostages. The women and children cooking their meals started to stand, a few screeching at the sight of Dohi and Mendez. One dropped a plate of meat, and another backed into the rotating spit, knocking it over into the flames.

“Don’t say a word or we’ll blow off your fucking heads,” Mendez said.

The people grew quiet, shrinking into each other and trembling with fear.

Dohi strode over to the other shipping container and aimed his rifle at a man and woman inside. One held a cleaver and the other a bone saw.

“Drop the tools,” he said.

The man hesitated.

Dohi didn’t. He dropped him with a suppressed shot to the head. The woman went to her knees, raising her hands, and Dohi knocked her out with a butt to the temple.

He entered the container and held up a hand to signal for Hopkins to be quiet. Tears rolled down his blood-soaked face as he hung suspended by cables. A dirty, blood-soiled cloth covered his ankle stump.

Hopkins groaned in pain.

“Quiet,” Dohi said. “We’re getting you out of here, brother.”

Hopkins grunted something incomprehensible as Dohi undid the restraints.

When Dohi lowered the wounded man gently to the floor, he heard charging footsteps behind him. He swung his rifle up and prepared to fire.

But it was just Fitz.

“We cleared the comms post,” he reported. “No luck on the radio jammers, but we did hear they’re preparing to attack across the freeway.”

“Good, the plan is working,” Dohi said. “Now’s our chance to find that equipment.”

Rico moved in with Ace to help Dohi release the other two Wolfhounds. They had both passed out from the pain. When they were done, Dohi handed the cables that had been restraining the Wolfhounds to Ace.

“Use these to secure the people Mendez is guarding,” he said. “Lock ’em in another container but keep the door open. I don’t want them to suffocate.”

Ace nodded and left with the chains.

Fitz bent down with Dohi to help bandage up the Wolfhounds. The man who had lost his legs was in bad shape, but the bleeding had stopped. Fitz whispered to him and took special care when dressing the cauterized wounds.

Dohi imagined doing so brought back some horrid memories of his own injuries from Iraq.

“No way we can move them,” Fitz said. “We’ll have to leave them here while we continue the search.”

“No, please,” Hopkins pleaded, his voice weak. “You can’t leave us.”

Dohi propped Hopkins into a sitting position against the wall of the shipping container. “Take it easy, man. We’re not going to leave you for long.”

Ace returned to the front of their shipping container.

“All the women and children are tied up and locked away,” he said. “You guys, ready?”

“Don’t fucking leave me,” Hopkins begged. He grabbed Dohi’s sleeve as he went to stand.

“We’re not going far,” Fitz said. “And your comrades are drawing out the rest of the enemy.”

Rico suddenly looked to the sky.

“Do you hear that?” she said.

Dohi strained his ears to what sounded like the thump of helicopter blades in the distance. He pulled free from Hopkins and joined Fitz outside.

Ace stood with his rifle cradled.

“Did someone call in reinforcements?” he asked.

Dohi searched the sky with his binos. Seeing nothing, he pushed his NVGs up to scan the black.

“There,” Mendez said. He pointed to the east where helicopters flew low on the skyline.

“They’re heading toward the freeway,” Dohi said.

“I didn’t think reinforcements were coming,” Rico said.

“They aren’t,” Fitz said. “Those aren’t ours.”

He raised his rifle and took off.

“Where you going?!” Dohi called out.

“To help the Wolfhounds,” he said. “They’re going to be slaughtered.”

Dohi hesitated for a moment as realization sank in. The enemy must have called in reinforcements, and they were headed right for the Wolfhounds.

“Don’t leave me,” Hopkins whimpered.

Dohi helped him up, and the team followed Fitz away from the containers. They didn’t get far before the choppers came in low over the campus, rotor wash blasting the trees as they hovered above the freeway.

Barking machine guns rang out. Gunfire flashed like miniature lightning strikes as tracer rounds lit up the night.

The choppers flew back and forth, pounding the ground with fire, but they weren’t just firing at where Dohi judged the Wolfhounds’ positions were in the forest. The tracer rounds were cutting into buildings inside the campus, presumably where the cannibals were posted.

What the hell… Dohi thought.

One of the Black Hawks launched a blistering volley of rockets into an office building, tossing huge balls of fire into the sky.

For those few seconds, the campus was illuminated like it was the middle of the day. Dohi had never felt so helpless. He crouched with Hopkins, setting him against the side of a container.

If they tried running now and attracted the choppers’ attention, they would be shredded. All Team Ghost could do was shelter in the shipping containers and wait for the attack to finish.

The group took cover in the container with Hopkins and the Wolfhounds as the ground thumped from explosions. Dohi remained at the open door, peering out. He raised his rifle at a figure fleeing the battle. The man ran at a tilt, favoring his left leg, long skinny arms pumping.

Dohi moved his finger to the trigger, ready to fire.

But as the man drew closer, he recognized the frightened eyes and lanky body along with the AK-47 necklace dangling from his neck.

“Martin!” Dohi hissed.

The soldier didn’t respond and kept running. Dohi let his rifle drop on his sling and jumped out of the container, tackling Martin. He glanced up to make sure the choppers hadn’t seen the man sprinting.

Then he dragged Martin into the shipping container. Writhing, Martin tried to escape, clearly in shock.

“Calm the fuck down,” Dohi said.

Martin suddenly froze, staring at Dohi with frightened eyes.

“Where are the rest of the Wolfhounds?” Fitz asked.

Martin’s gaze flitted to Fitz.

“Martin,” Rico said. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Where the hell were you?” Martin said, his voice shaking. “You guys left us there. The lieutenant… my brothers… all of them are dead.”

***

The convoy had driven for what felt like hours and stopped a few times. Timothy couldn’t see what they were doing with the black bag over his head, but he could listen. So far what he had heard allowed him to figure out two things about the collaborators.

The first was they definitely had multiple encampments in Variant territory that they used to refuel and get updates from guards posted there. Timothy had no idea how they still had access to fuel, but he guessed they were stealing it from outposts. It was as if they had developed their own network of resources just like the Allied States.

Another thing he had figured out was that Outpost Portland wasn’t very close to the missile silo that the collaborators had turned into a base. Judging by the time that had passed, they were hundreds of miles away.

Rustling sounded in front of him, and his blindfold was suddenly ripped away. Timothy blinked, trying to get his eyes to adjust. Outside, the world was bathed in darkness except for where the moonlight illuminated the convoy.

He sat in the backseat of a dual cab pickup with Alfred on his left, and another prisoner scrunched against the passenger side door.

Timothy looked out the windows, trying to get a sense of where he was, but Nick snapped his fingers from the front seat of the truck to command his attention.

“Here,” Nick said. He handed Timothy a water bottle. “Drink.”

Holding up his handcuffed hands, Timothy took it and downed a quarter of the bottle.

“Easy,” Nick said.

Timothy caught his breath, then drank more before handing the bottle back. Nick fished into a bag and pulled out a couple of sealed energy bars.

“Eat. You’ll need your energy,” Nick said.

Timothy took a bar, but ate slowly, trying to bide his time to see where they were headed. He couldn’t see much in the darkness, especially without the lights on.

The driver wore night vision goggles to see the road.

Smart, he thought.

The convoy turned again, and Timothy got a better view of the truck ahead. Cages were secured to the back of the pickups. Inside each stood the silhouette of a muzzled mutated dog.

He took a bite of the energy bar and chewed for a while, but his appetite was gone. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the collaborators had done to these poor beasts. Just like the bats that had been infected with VX-99, these mutant dogs had also been infected with a hybrid variant of the bioweapon.

Timothy forced himself to finish the energy bar, taking the nutrition not because his appetite had returned, but because Nick was right—he needed the energy.

But Nick didn’t know what Timothy was going to use it for.

The convoy moved onto a gravel road, and the driver slowed.

Nick turned around with the black bag in hand.

“Bend down,” he said.

Alfred took it and just as he was about to slip it over his head, Timothy spotted a sign for Highway 295. The road led directly to Outpost Portland.

Then Alfred secured the bag over Timothy’s head and the world went dark again.

Timothy closed his eyes, using the time to think of his dad. He was going to make his old man proud.

The next time the convoy stopped and Timothy’s bag was removed, the moon had risen higher into the sky.

It took a few blinks for Timothy’s eyes to adjust where he could see enough to know they were in a large park. There was a forest to his left and buildings to the right.

He recognized one with a steeple that stood out under the crescent moon.

They were here.

Outpost Portland.

Armed soldiers popped out of the vehicles and spread out to set up a perimeter while Pete spoke to Alfred. They were on the outskirts of the city.

Nick opened the door and Timothy got out, standing next to the other prisoner, who still hadn’t said a single word.

They waited near the truck while the other men unloaded vehicles and prepared their weapons. The growls of the caged dogs filled the night, rising over the low chatter of the soldiers.

Timothy shivered in the cool air. He was freezing even with the sweatshirt they had given him.

There was almost no light pollution over Outpost Portland. Only a few stubborn lights burned away the dark.

By this time tomorrow night, he had a bad feeling there wouldn’t be a single light left. If the collaborators were successful, it would be a scrapyard of the dead, torn apart by the mutated dogs.

At least Tasha won’t be there, he thought.

Using the weak glow of the moon, he counted thirty-one soldiers and twelve dogs. There were six trucks and the black muscle car with oversized tires.

Nick, Alfred, and Pete walked over to Timothy.

“All right, kid, listen up,” Nick said. “We’ve got a job for you.”

“I’m ready,” Timothy said confidently.

“Once we attack, you’re going in with us,” Pete said. “We’ll face a lot of resistance from the Army Rangers here. That’s where you come in.”

Alfred folded his arms over his chest, watching Timothy.

“All you got to do is tell them who you are when you get to the gates,” Nick said with a wide grin.

“What do you mean tell them who I am?” Timothy asked.

Nick spat on the dirt. “Don’t play me for a fool.”

“I’m not,” Timothy said. “Why do you think I could get us in?”

Reaching into his pocket, Nick pulled out a wallet.

“We found this on you when the Variants brought you to us,” Nick said. He tossed the open wallet at Timothy’s feet, exposing his ID that had his full name and address at Peaks Island.

“We know all about you, kid,” Nick said. “We know who your dad was and who your friends are.”

“Including your little sweetheart Tasha,” Pete said, puckering his lips and making a kissing sound.

Timothy boiled with anger, his face warming. The ID, he understood. But Tasha? How in the hell did they know about her?

“You know the soldiers at the command post, too,” Pete said. “We heard they even tried looking for you.”

Timothy wanted to rip their throats out with his bare hands, but he managed to keep still.

“They’re here,” someone called.

The welcome distraction got the men to leave Timothy with the other prisoner. As they walked away, the man spoke for the first time.

“Do what they say or they will kill that Tasha girl,” he mumbled. “They will kill everyone you love.”

They already killed the most important person in the world to me, Timothy thought.

“There is only one way to stop them,” the man said. “Destroy Mount Katahdin.”

“What?”

Timothy kept his eyes forward, trying to act like he wasn’t talking to the other prisoner.

“That’s where their base is,” he said. “Mount Katahdin. A top-secret nuclear silo that they took over after the war.”

Several soldiers walked close by and the man fell silent.

“Get the dogs ready,” one yelled.

Timothy tried to process what the prisoner had just told him. If true, he had the location of the collaborators. Something more valuable than their lives.

The dogs growled louder, snapping, saliva spraying from their snarling mouths until they were shocked into submission.

A driver got into the black car, and three men holding rocket launchers piled into the back of a nearby pickup. The two vehicles took off down the street and rounded a corner.

About half of the remaining men marched toward another street and fanned out, jogging toward the city and disappearing into the darkness. The rest of the men waited with the dogs.

“There.” A soldier pointed to the tree line.

The other soldiers all watched silently.

Timothy didn’t see anything at first. Then he heard the crunching joints, like snapping twigs and popping sucker lips. A pack of Variants bounded through the forest.

Not a pack…

In the moonlight, Timothy saw a small army of the beasts. Cold terror seeped through Timothy’s bones, but the beasts ignored the humans. They flowed through the collaborators like a river between stones.

Only one stopped, crouching, and then leaping to the top of a pickup truck. It dented the hood, claws scratching the metal.

Yellow, reptilian eyes darted back and forth in its sunken skull. Bulging lips opened, exposing jagged teeth.

The beast rose, sinewy muscles flexing across its pale, veiny flesh.

A roar sounded from the trees and Timothy saw the source—an Alpha Variant unlike any he had seen. Matted fur covered the monster, chunks of dirt crumbling off it.

It had huge ears that twitched when it let out a clicking sound. Unmoving, milky white eyes adorned an ugly vaguely ape-like face. Scything black claws curved out over its palms.

The creature on the hood looked over, screeching. Then it jumped to the dirt and bounded away with the other monsters.

“Stupid beast,” Alfred muttered.

Pete pointed a remote at Timothy and then pushed the button. A shock brought Timothy to his knees, his body convulsing.

Alfred helped Timothy back up a moment later.

“That’s on low,” Pete said. “I turn this baby up to high and you’ll cook from the inside out.”

Timothy shivered, electricity still coursing through his body. He lost control of his muscles, and his bladder voided itself.

Pete put the remote away and then got into the same pickup.

“Let’s go,” Alfred said.

He grabbed Timothy and the other prisoner, tossing them back in the truck. Nick hopped in the front and looked back.

“Put up his hoodie to surround the collar,” he said.

Alfred covered the shock collar while Timothy tried to calm his thumping heart. The rest of the collaborators moved out.

When they were gone, Nick looked at his watch. They waited for a few minutes, then drove onward, winding through abandoned streets. Timothy spotted the old fences that had once been the first layer of defenses protecting the outpost. They had collapsed in the road, and the metal crunched under the truck’s tires.

Timothy saw collaborator soldiers marching on the roads and then a pickup and the muscle car hiding out in an open garage. The other teams appeared poised for the attack.

Seconds ticked by, each one getting them closer to their target. Timothy gave up trying to control his rapid breathing and racing heart. Adrenaline and fear had taken control.

Nick turned from the front seat when the pickup stopped outside a warehouse.

“The first standing gate is about a quarter of a mile away,” he said. “Go there and get them to open the main gate.”

“You try anything, and I’ll make sure Tasha dies a very slow and brutal death while her sister watches,” Pete said. “Or, you help us, and we’ll spare most of the people here. Then you can be with your little girlfriend again.”

Timothy nodded. They certainly knew more about him than they had initially let on.

But there were some things these men didn’t know.

Tasha wasn’t here anymore, he knew where their base was located, and he didn’t have a damn thing to lose.

— 24 —

“Go back to your shelter,” Presley had said to Fischer in the command tent. “Let us handle the defenses.”

That had settled it for Fischer. He was sick of doing nothing and waiting for Team Ghost and the Orca soldiers to return with the Project Rolling Stone tech.

For centuries, older men had sent young men off to war. To fight their battles and die on the front lines. He used to be a coward like that, but not anymore. So long as he could wrangle cattle, he could fight for humanity.

So he had marched to the westernmost buildings on the border of Outpost Manchester, and climbed to the top of a twelve-story structure where he stood now with Tran and Chase. They had even managed to get two scoped M4s from the outpost’s armory.

If there was one thing they weren’t short of here, it was weapons.

Two Raven soldiers manned M134 Miniguns on pedestal mounts.

They didn’t seem to mind Fischer’s presence. He figured none of them would turn down an extra set of eyes or rifles tonight, and with Chase and Tran, he’d brought them three extra sets.

Sporadic gunshots echoed into the night, making one of the guards flinch. The bursts were followed by an animalistic scream.

Fischer’s nerves felt like icicles under his flesh as he searched for the source of the screams beyond the razor wire fence stretching across the streets below.

The noises faded into silence again.

Command had ordered the sirens off after the regular folk were moved to their shelters. The quiet gave the guards a better opportunity to locate and identify the juveniles that had been spotted earlier, but it also made every scream all the more horrifying.

The silence now was eerie. It was the calm before the storm that he had experienced so many times before.

“You boys see anything?” Fischer asked.

One of the Raven soldiers, a bulky middle-aged man named Amir shook his head. “We’re still getting mixed reports of juvies. Sometimes I hear two or three packs of no more than five.”

“Other times, it’s fifty juveniles, all flowing through the trees like ghosts,” said Sherman. The blond bearded man grinned. “All I know is I got five thousand rounds a minute to unload on the fuckers.”

“They took out two of our scout teams so far, and the rest are pulling back now,” Amir said. “Should be heading our way soon.”

Fischer glassed the swaying grass and shadows beneath the tree-covered hills again. Occasional spotlights from other rooftops swept over the darkness, dispersing the shadows momentarily.

For several long minutes, they waited in tense silence. Fischer nearly forgot to breathe, trying to remain quiet enough to hear a crunching footstep in the foliage.

“I’ve got movement,” said Amir. He directed the M134 toward the tree line where a shape burst out.

Fischer nearly pulled the trigger, but then recognized the distinct shape of a human.

“That’s one of ours!” Sherman said.

Two more people followed after the first. All three limped and stumbled forward. Only the lead soldier seemed to have any weapons. He kept a rifle trained on the woods as he backpedaled to cover the other scouts.

The men stumbled into the street. Spotlights hit their blood-soiled fatigues.

“Open the gate!” one of the men yelled. “They’re right behind us!”

Amir grabbed both handholds of the mounted M134 and rotated it into position. “Get ready.”

“Contact at three o’clock!” Chase shouted. He fired a burst at something Fischer only glimpsed.

A second later, he too saw movement in the forest. Fischer aimed at a misshapen skull with bulging eyes. Long ropy muscles coursed along the body of the beast stalking the retreating scouts.

Fischer squeezed the trigger as more of the creatures spilled out of the woods, charging after the injured Raven scouts.

Amir and Sherman opened up with the miniguns. The engines whined as the rotating barrels painted the wooded area with rounds. Branches and leaves rained down under the spray.

They eased up and Sherman somewhat calmly spoke into a radio. “Command, Tower 21. We have contacts. Six—no, ten, maybe more.”

The two men went back to firing into the forest as the beasts emerged. Gunfire lanced from other rooftops into the incoming monsters. The heavy whoomph of a discharging explosive erupted into the night, accompanied by a ball of flames that lit up the landscape.

In that brief second, Fischer caught the explosion reflecting off the eyes of dozens upon dozens of starving Variants streaming out of the woods. Wrinkled flesh-covered bodies with protruding bones.

Something within his guts sunk at that sight, dropped by the leaden weight of fear. Those were just the beasts he could see, and judging from the sound of gunfire, the monsters were attacking multiple positions.

The M134 rounds chiseled through the juveniles below, sprays of hot red mist exploded from their broken armor. That bought enough time for the three fleeing scouts to finally make it to a nearby gate.

But the soldier that had been manning the gate wasn’t there when Fischer looked.

“Son of a bitch, Reynolds must have run! That pussy!” Sherman yelled. He turned to Fischer. “Get down there and open the gate while we cover you.”

“You got it,” Fischer replied.

The gunfire rattled above them and the sirens blared again as Fischer descended the stairs from the rooftop with Chase and Tran following.

They hit the ground and split up with Tran going to grab their truck while Chase and Fischer ran to the gate.

“Let us the fuck in!” yelled one of the soldiers on the other side. The man with the rifle fired into the distance. The third scout held onto the thick bars of the gate to support his body on his shredded leg.

Fischer unclasped the locks and yanked on a lever that released another locking mechanism. The gate raised up with a clank, pulled by an internal counterweight.

Chase helped the injured man through, blood weeping from long gashes along his right leg that revealed muscle and tendon. It was only sheer adrenaline and fear that had gotten the man this far. The last soldier was still firing, half his face melted away by Variant acid.

Fischer looked away and kept his rifle up to cover them. The growl of the truck engine announced Tran’s arrival. As soon as the scouts were through, Fischer slammed the gate down and locked it again.

Tran hopped out from the cab and helped Chase load the men into the bed. Fischer stayed in the pickup bed to help.

“Go, Tran! Now!” Fischer shouted.

The truck peeled away, tires screaming.

Fischer secured a tourniquet on the man with the shredded leg, and Chase cut off parts of his jacket sleeves to use as bandages for the man with the acid-burned face.

Every bump and jostle of the truck made the men groan in pain. The remaining scout sat against the back of the pickup’s cab, a thousand-yard stare masking his face.

“They’re coming… and we can’t stop them,” he mumbled.

Fischer saw more clearly the wet sheen soaking through the man’s fatigues. The darkness had helped conceal it before, but half the jacket was torn.

Tran called back through the open window of the cab. “We’re almost there! Just hang on!”

“I need to look at your side,” Fischer said. He slowly pulled the torn jacket back, trying not to gawk at exposed ribs. The man’s abdomen had split open, revealing hints of glistening organs.

He tried to look down but Fischer covered the wound.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said. “We’re almost back.”

The soldier exhaled, and stared at the sky.

A convoy of armored vehicles screamed past them on their way to the border. Tran took a right, and sped toward the main command building.

“We need medics!” Chase yelled, standing up in the pickup bed. Men and women in scrubs were waiting outside the adjacent hospital with a group of soldiers listening to orders.

Among those people Fischer spotted a familiar face with a lump on his head.

Beckham. The ‘retired’ Delta Force Operator just couldn’t stay out of the center of action, and for that, Fischer was more than grateful.

“Fischer!” Beckham yelled. “What the hell happened?”

“Juveniles.” Fischer looked back to the soldier with the torn abdomen. The young man’s grip on his hand had loosened, fingers slipping away.

The medics had climbed into the pickup and others waited at the bed to carry off the first two men, but by the time they got to the man with Fischer, he was gone.

Chase reached up and helped Fischer out of the back while they carried the lifeless body away on a stretcher. For a moment, Fischer stood there staring, hands covered in blood.

Distant gunfire filled the night, and the shouts of the medical staff and the cries of wounded joined the din.

He could almost hear his wife’s voice in his head again. Just like back in the tunnels under his fields.

Get out! Get out! No one will survive tonight!

Fischer did his best to repress the storm of emotion coursing through him. He had to keep his wits.

“Captain,” Fischer said. “What are you doing here?”

“To see what’s going on… How bad is it out there?”

Fischer shook his head. “Not good.”

They entered the command building together and then went up to the second floor to talk to Colonel Presley.

Inside what had been turned into a CIC, officers relayed reports streaming in from the outpost. Presley stood in front of his war table, eyes darting back and forth. They flitted to Fischer first.

“I told you to get to your damn shelter,” Presley said. “And Captain…”

His words trailed off as an officer whispered something to him.

“God dammit,” Presley said, upper lip curling. “Deploy all of the strike teams. We have to make sure not a single Variant gets in.”

“What about the team guarding the mastermind?” asked an officer.

“All the strike teams,” Presley repeated.

“No,” Beckham said. “You can’t do that.”

The commander glared at Beckham.

“You aren’t in charge here, Captain,” Presley said. “I’ve got the situation under control, and frankly I’m getting sick of you interjecting.”

“You also thought you had the collaborator problem under control.”

“All due respect, but Captain Beckham’s right,” Fischer said. “If what I just saw is happening around the outpost, then things aren’t even remotely under control. We’re straight up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

Presley stiffened, raising his jaw proudly. He motioned to two guards standing at the doorway.

“Get these men out,” Presley said. “They’re no longer authorized to be inside any military facility.”

Beckham looked at the two guards, then back to Presley.

“You’re making a mistake, Colonel. We have to protect the science building at all costs!” he shouted.

Presley nodded at the guards who grabbed Beckham by his upper arms. He shook out of their grip, glaring at Presley.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Presley said.

Beckham marched out and Fischer followed him. The door shut behind them, sealing them outside with Tran and Chase.

“What the hell just happened?” Tran asked.

“I reckon the end of Manchester,” Fischer said with a sigh.

Beckham was already walking away.

“Captain, where are you going?” Fischer called out.

“To protect my wife and make sure she finishes the job we came here for,” he replied. “You’re welcome to join me. I might need some help.”

After what Fischer had just seen, he had no doubt that the Variants were coming for the mastermind now. He just hoped the scientists had enough time to finish their work before the beasts infiltrated the outpost.

He tapped his holstered .357 revolver.

If it turned out that the scientists didn’t have enough time, he would buy some for them. Even if it meant he didn’t make it out of here alive.

***

Kate could only hear the chirp and hum of laboratory equipment, but she knew from the reports, there was a battle going on at the border. She had expected as much, but knowing her family was out there put her on edge.

She wasn’t the only one.

Guards nervously shuffled around the perimeter of the massive space. They weren’t just concerned about keeping the mastermind in here anymore—they were afraid of what might try to make its way in from the outside.

Several of the soldiers had already left to guard the passages and entrance to the lab. Only four remained in the space. The sergeant in charge assured the science team they were safe.

He stepped over to Kate. “Colonel Presley just told me he’s handling the situation, and to keep working.”

“What exactly is happening out there?” Carr said. “We deserve to know.”

“Just a few isolated attacks,” replied the sergeant.

“Get back to work,” said another guard.

“Back off with those machine guns, and we will,” Carr said firmly.

The sergeant motioned his men back, and Kate huddled with her staff.

“Should I try and get in touch with Reed?” Kate whispered. “He’ll know what’s really going on.”

“They said they have it under control,” Sean said.

Kate was surprised by the normally timid lab technician’s response.

“We’re almost done,” Sammy said. “I just need a bit more time to focus.”

“We need you here, Doctor Lovato,” Carr said. “Trying to track down your husband will take far too long. Besides, he’s probably in the shelter with your family, where they’re safe.”

He was right, and Kate trusted Beckham to show up if there was an issue. He had never let her down in the past.

“Let’s finish the job,” Kate said.

The other lab techs and engineers scattered throughout the room back to their assigned stations. Kate went with Sammy, Sean, and Carr back to a computer terminal.

They were so close to finalizing the lexicon they would need to seamlessly communicate between the masterminds.

Kate did her best to concentrate on work and remind herself that Beckham and Horn were looking after the kids, but it was almost impossible.

Sweat dripped down Sammy’s forehead behind her plastic mask.

“Okay, my natural language algorithm is in sync with the collaborators’ software,” she said. “We really just need to run through a few more commands, and then I think we can have the algorithm figured out.”

As if in answer, an animalistic howl rumbled from the abomination.

“There isn’t a word that this thing has uttered now that I haven’t been able to decipher,” Sammy said. “I’m operating at one-hundred percent translation success now.”

“Good,” Kate said. She peered into the bioreactor with the red webbing that was transmitting their signals from Sammy’s computer to the tendrils attached to the mastermind.

“What’s the current success rate for communicating back?” Carr asked, holding up a tablet to document the data.

“About eighty percent of my commands are being understood successfully,” Sammy replied. “The simpler stuff is no problem. More complicated inputs are proving difficult.”

“Give me an example.”

“Complex information about enemy movements. Sometimes it believes me, sometimes it realizes we’re actually the enemy. I’m not quite sure what the difference is between those instances, but with a little more time—”

The mastermind moved again, rattling its chains. The four soldiers paced, watching the beast.

“It’s acting like it knows what’s happening outside,” Kate said.

“How?” Carr asked. “The beast isn’t connected to the Variant network, and no way this thing has ESP.”

“It can’t know,” Sean said, nervously eying the IV lines with the sedatives. “It’s just agitated.”

Kate narrowed her brows at the uncharacteristically overconfident young technician, but then went back to examining the shackled beast. Huge muscled arms dangled slackly against its bulbous sides. The monster’s eyes were still half-closed beneath the folds of pink flesh covering its ugly head.

“Just keep the thing under control, okay, Sean?” Kate asked.

Sean glanced between her and the monster.

“We’re running out of time,” Carr reminded everyone.

Kate checked the attachments on the micro-electronic array attached to the bioreactor. “Re-check everything. Make sure nothing is interfering with Sammy’s work.”

“And the sedatives?” Sean asked. “Do you think they’re holding things back?”

Sammy looked up at him from her computer. “Honestly, maybe. If the thing’s brain isn’t functioning at full capacity, that might be an issue.”

Kate didn’t like the idea of pulling back on the sedatives and was surprised Sean suggested it, but they all wanted to finish. Anything to expedite their research now might be worth the risk.

“If you think it can help, then do it,” Kate said.

Sean nodded, adjusting the dials on the IV drip.

“What are you doing?” asked a guard.

Kate explained, and the men moved closer, their weapons cradled.

“Please, back up,” Sean said as they circled around. “I need some room.”

Kate turned her attention back to Sammy’s monitor as the computer engineer typed out a few more queries to the mastermind. It took several minutes, but sure enough, the responses started to come back slightly faster, and clearer.

“Ask if it has identified any enemy contacts in its location,” Kate said.

Sammy typed in the request.

“I am uncertain of my current whereabouts,” said the mastermind’s computerized reply that came over the speakers. The monster’s eyelids suddenly flipped open and swept the room. “Unfamiliar contacts are holding me prisoner. Hostiles. Ten of them.”

Sammy looked up at Kate with a proud grin.

“Now, let’s see if this thing really believes we’re its master or not,” Kate said.

“Those contacts you see are your allies,” Sammy typed.

The chains holding the mastermind rustled as it rotated slightly.

“Some are allies, true,” came the reply over the computer screen.

“See?” Sammy said, her grin widening.

Kate was too nervous to smile. Her family was out there, in the middle of an attack, and she had no idea what was happening behind the lab walls.

The sound of distant gunfire reverberated, but how was that possible?

The lab was basically soundproof. It had to be her ears playing tricks on her. They would know if there were hostiles in the building.

Kate returned her attention to Sammy. The young technician stared at the computer screen, her smile gone.

“Something isn’t right.” She tapped at the keyboard. “It just said the connection has been terminated.”

The chains rattled again, the clank echoing. The soldiers closed in.

Sean walked over to the sealed door and used his keycard to open it. Before Kate could ask him what he was doing, the door opened, and another soldier walked in.

He handed Sean a rifle. Both men aimed their weapons at the other guards. None of the four soldiers even had a chance to raise their rifles before they crumpled under a spray of automatic bullets.

The gunfire echoed in the space, nearly deafening to Kate. Sammy screamed, and the other techs darted for cover. Carr was the only one that remained standing by Kate.

“What are you doing!” he yelled at Sean.

Sean swung the rifle at Carr. “Shut the fuck up, and don’t move.”

The soldier that Sean had let in hurried toward the shackles holding the mastermind in place.

“No,” Kate said. “You can’t do this.”

Sean laughed. “You’re more naïve than I thought, Kate Lovato.”

“Sean, please,” Sammy begged. “It’s not too late to stop whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Shut up, you dumb bitch,” Sean said, angling the weapon at her.

The soldier used a key to unlock the first of the shackles on the mastermind.

“Neither of you get it, do you?” Sean said, his voice booming. “You used science to try and save us, but all you did was make them stronger.”

He angled his weapon at Kate. “You created the Variants. The new gods.”

“That’s not true,” said Sammy.

“I said shut your mouth!” Sean said.

Kate reached out to the technician just as Sean fired. Sammy slumped to the ground, holding her stomach.

“NO!” Kate shouted. She glared at Sean, nerves firing with anger. “You monster.”

“Call me what you want, but you created the real monsters.” Sean shrugged. Then he backpedaled to the mastermind, holding a gun on them.

Carr and Kate bent down next to Sammy.

“What do we do?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Kate said.

She put pressure on Sammy’s wound, the only thing she could do.

The other technicians and engineers hid behind their stations, trembling. They could all storm Sean and the soldier but she wasn’t sure they could get there without all being killed.

Kate knew there was no way they could talk Sean and his partner out of what they were doing. The only way to stop them was to fight or hope the rest of the guards got here in time. She thought back to the gunfire she heard earlier.

It must have been real after all.

The man with Sean had killed the other guards. There probably weren’t any other men left out there.

“We have to do something,” Carr said. He stood and faced Sean again. But before he could even open his mouth Sean shot him through his face.

He hit the ground next to Kate, his eyes still open.

— 25 —

Beckham stopped at Outpost Manchester’s civilian shelter on his way to the lab. People clustered around, asking questions about what was happening outside. He waved them off and pushed through the crowd until he found Horn trying to keep the kids calm.

“Dad!” Javier shouted. “Please don’t leave again.”

“Sorry, buddy,” Beckham said. “I promise everything’s going to be okay.”

“So you’ll stay?”

Beckham hesitated, but his son was tough. He would understand. “I’ve got to go check on your mom. Once she finishes her work, we’re all going to leave this place.”

“Good,” Tasha said.

“Can’t wait,” Jenny said with a snort.

Once the kids returned to their cots and chairs, Beckham pulled Horn aside. He found a corner they could whisper in without the kids overhearing.

“How bad is it out there?” Horn asked.

“We got hit by a bunch of rogue juveniles. Seems like they’re really pressing the defenses now, and Presley kicked me out of the command building.”

“That son of a bitch weasel. I had a bad feeling about him.”

Beckham thought back to the kid collaborator in the jail. He had a feeling there were more of them out there, waiting to strike.

“I’ve got good reason to believe this is going to get a lot worse,” Beckham said. “We have to get out of here.”

“Jesus.”

“President Ringgold will send an evac as soon as we call for it,” Beckham said. “If things go south, and I can’t get back here, you take the kids and the dogs to the tarmac, okay? Leave without me if you have to.”

“Screw that,” Horn said. “We ain’t going anywhere without you.”

Horn had a look in his eye that Beckham recognized. Like he wanted to roll outside with the M249 and mow everything down.

“The kids, Big Horn. You’ve got to stay with them and stay calm.”

Horn clenched his jaw, but nodded, finally relenting. “Fine. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to the lab to make sure Kate’s good. She told me they were almost done.”

“Okay,” Horn said. He put a hand on Beckham’s shoulder. “Be careful, boss.”

“You, too.”

Beckham said goodbye to the kids and dogs before returning to the street where Fischer waited with his men. The sound of distant gunfire rattled in the night, but it was more sporadic now.

“Everyone okay?” Fischer asked.

“For now.” Beckham jerked his chin. “Let’s go.”

They set off with Tran and Chase down the empty road. Even the routine patrols had been called off to other areas.

When Beckham reached the lab building, it wasn’t guarded by a single vehicle or soldier. He wanted to march back to the command post and knock Presley out.

Chase halted on the sidewalk. “They didn’t even leave a single damn guard outside?”

“That stupid son of a gun,” Fischer said. “What in Sam Hill was he thinking?”

“He’s lost control, and shits about to hit the fan,” Beckham said. “Come on. Let’s find a way in.”

They tried the front entrance, but it was locked. Knocking didn’t help. Beckham cupped his hands over his eyes to peer through the windows in the door. No one stood guard inside either.

He circled around the building and found a side door, but it too was locked and no one answered his knocks.

“I know Presley’s acting like a dumbass, but it’s still strange no one is in there, right?” Chase asked.

“Sure as hell seems strange to me,” Tran said.

“Think you can pick it?” Fischer asked him.

“If by pick you mean shoot, sure,” Beckham said. He motioned for them to get back. Then he aimed his M4 and fired at the lock. The well-placed round did the trick, and he kicked the door open.

Tran went in first, keeping his rifle angled at the ground, just in case there were friendlies inside. He stopped right in the entrance.

“Why are the lights off?” he asked.

Beckham moved inside. “Something’s not right.”

Shouldering his rifle, he took the lead. Emergency lights glowed in the nook of the ceilings, providing just enough light to guide him down the hallway.

Every step he took, his pulse raced faster.

God, even Presley wasn’t actually bullheaded enough to leave this place completely unguarded. Something was definitely wrong.

Very wrong.

Please be okay, Kate.

He stopped at an intersection and held up his prosthetic hand. Then he checked the leftward hallway. Seeing it was clear, he looked to the right.

His stomach flipped. Two bodies lay crumpled. Dark blood pooled over the tiled floor, but he didn’t see any sign of gashes or torn flesh to indicate Variants were inside.

“Collaborators already got here,” he whispered.

Fischer came up next to him to have a look.

“On me,” Beckham whispered. “Tran, watch our six. We’ve got at least one hostile shooter.”

Without hesitation, Beckham led the way, his rifle up and finger hovering over the trigger. The lab entrance was at the end of the passage, not far from where the soldiers had fallen.

He kept low, hugging the wall, barrel aimed at the door to the lab. When he reached the bodies, he halted to examine them.

The men had both been shot in the back. They probably never saw the attack coming. One of their weapons was gone, which told Beckham the shooter had probably taken it to give to someone else.

Judging by the looks of things, the shooter had taken the extra weapon straight to the lab.

Beckham swallowed hard and kept walking. A tremor shook the ground as he passed the dead Raven guards. He almost stopped, but pressed on to the windows.

As a defense mechanism against any potential mastermind escapes, the glass to the lab had been made bulletproof. That ruined any plans of shooting the hostiles from behind. They had to get inside if they wanted to take these assholes down.

He crouched under those windows as he made his way to the door.

A roar from the monster confirmed Beckham was going to have more than men with guns to worry about.

He held his breath and got up to scan the room. A cluster of scientists huddled behind lab benches, but he didn’t see Kate.

Two men stood near the mastermind, one in a white lab coverall. The man pointed a rifle at another person in the lab. The other gunman was dressed in fatigues and appeared to be unlocking the shackles on the beast.

Shit, shit, shit.

Beckham ducked down before either collaborator could spot him. The creature roared inside the lab again. Fischer crouched next to Beckham.

“What do we do, Captain?” he asked.

“Hold here.” Beckham risked another glance to search for Kate. His heart thumped when he saw her. The floor around her was covered in blood from two fallen scientists. She was crouched beside the bodies, crimson staining her white coveralls.

Beckham whispered what he saw to Fischer, Tran, and Chase.

They needed to get in there. Fast. He crawled back to the guards’ bodies to search for a lab key card. He found two. He handed one to Fischer.

“There is another entrance on the other side of the lab,” Beckham said quietly to Fischer. “You go there with Chase. Tran, you’re with me.”

Another guttural roar sounded followed by the clanking of chains.

They were running out of time.

Beckham held his position to give Fischer and Chase time to get to the other entrance. The wait was agonizing. Every passing second the beast grew louder and more enraged.

“You take this,” Beckham said. He handed the keycard to Tran. “Open the door on my mark. I’ll go in first.”

A nod from Tran.

“Our targets are at the north side, near the beast. You shoot them, but don’t shoot the creature unless I tell you, understood?”

“You got it, Captain.”

Beckham waited another beat, then peeked to confirm the gunmen hadn’t moved. They were still in the same spot. He glimpsed a blur of motion behind the other door across the lab. Fischer and Chase must have been in place.

“Go time,” he said.

Tran moved into position, and with a nod, Beckham gave him the order. He flashed the keycard over the door, and it slid open.

Beckham brought up his rifle, aimed, and fired a shot into the scientist’s neck and then two to his chest. Fischer and Chase opened fire across the lab. Their shots lanced into the soldier working on the mastermind’s locks. Bullets peppered his body as he tried to rise to his feet with his rifle.

The beast screeched and stomped the floor, a miniature quake vibrating through the floor. Fischer and Chase turned their rifles on the monster, but a scream rang out behind them.

“Don’t shoot it!” Kate yelled, streaks of blood over her face. “We haven’t finished our work!”

“Get that thing secured!” Beckham shouted.

Tran, Chase, and Fischer approached the loosened shackles cautiously as the monster swiped at them with a free hand.

Fischer fired, painting the clawed hand with bullets. The creature shrieked in pain and lashed out at the final chain holding it in place.

“I said don’t shoot!” Kate shouted.

Fischer glanced over with a crazed look. “We have to disable those limbs if you want us to secure the damn thing!”

“Okay, but don’t kill it,” Kate said.

Beckham hurried over to her, looking between her and the two shot scientists. He recognized the first. It was Carr.

The woman was still alive. She had one hand pressed down over a red spot on her white bunny suit, and her eyes blinked lethargically, her gaze unfocused.

“We need to get her to the hospital,” Kate said. “Ron, Leslie, get over here!”

Two technicians bolted over from their hiding position and bent down next to the injured woman while Beckham embraced Kate.

“Are you okay?” Beckham asked.

“The blood’s not mine.”

He looked her up and down just to be sure. There was no time for hugs or to talk about what happened. “We have to get out of here, Kate. The outpost’s under attack. Variants are on their way.”

“We’re almost done with our work.” Kate used the back of her gloved hand to wipe some of the blood from her face. “We’re so close. We really can’t leave yet. Too many people have already died for this research. It can’t be in vain.”

Tran, Chase, and Fischer circled the monster, firing at the limbs with short bursts. Blood wept from the dozens of inflicted wounds, its claws starting to twitch uselessly. The enraged creature screeched with each searing round.

Two more shots crippled its knee, and the creature finally collapsed to one leg. That gave the men a chance to yank the chains back in place and secure them to the scaffolds.

Beckham waved Fischer over.

“Have your men hold sentry in the halls,” Beckham said. “We have to buy Kate and her team time to finish their work.”

“How long is this going to take?” Fischer asked.

“Not long,” Kate said. “But I need Sammy.”

The other technicians were patching the injured computer scientist up, but Beckham could tell she was in bad shape. She had taken a bullet to the gut. One of the most painful—and potentially deadly—places to be shot. If her guts had been pierced, the resulting bleeding and infection would be devastating.

“I can work,” Sammy croaked. “Just help me up.”

They got her into a chair after finishing the bandages.

Her face continued to lose color as she tapped at the computer. “We… we about had my algorithm tuned.” She looked over at the monster. “Just give me… give me five minutes with this bastard.”

“Are you sure you can do this?” Kate asked.

“I have to do this.” Sammy grimaced. “The thing is agitated which means we’re going to get better results… There’s no better testing ground for my language processing software.”

Beckham kept his rifle up while the injured scientist finetuned her code with repeated queries and answers from the monster. He looked out at the lab’s doors with every passing minute, waiting for the eruption of more gunshots.

Fischer joined him there and they spoke quietly while they waited.

Finally, maybe fifteen minutes later, Sammy slowly pushed back from her computer. The bandage around her abdomen had already bled through.

“Done,” she said.

“Great work,” Kate said. She helped Sammy to her feet.

“We have to call in an evac now, get this data somewhere safe,” Beckham said.

She motioned at a phone on the wall. “Ron, see if you can get command on the line.”

Kate bent down next to Carr and put a hand on his back.

“We finished the job,” she whispered. Then she bowed her head. “I’m sorry you couldn’t be here to see it.”

“I can’t get a signal,” Ron said from the phone.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Fischer said, called from the door he was guarding. “I’ve already got a private plane on the tarmac. We can take it anywhere you want to go.”

“Anywhere is better than this place,” Beckham said. “Get ready, everyone, we move out in five minutes.”

He looked at the beast as he waited for the science team to gather up their gear and move Sammy.

Countless soldiers and multiple scientists had already sacrificed their lives for the intel they had gotten from this abomination, but something told him this was far from over.

***

Timothy hunched behind a shed outside the border of Outpost Portland, trying to find the courage to fight his handlers.

Me or them… he thought.

From his vantage, Timothy saw a blockaded road with a machine gun nest and patrolling guards. Snipers had to be on the adjacent rooftop watching the walled campus.

A second gate blocked off another road with a few guards just beyond it.

The buzz of his collar hit his ears before he felt the pain. The jolt nearly dropped him to his knees. Scorching pain flamed across his neck. When it passed, he took in a deep breath, tears brimming in his eyes.

Time to move.

The collaborators were watching him and if he didn’t get going, they would shock him again.

Keeping his hoodie cinched above his neck, he walked out from behind the shed and started off down the road, his hands by his side. He made it three strides before a spotlight hit him.

“Contact!” shouted a soldier.

Timothy raised his hands in the air.

“Get on the ground!” yelled another guard. “And don’t fucking move!”

He dropped to his knees. “It’s me, Timothy Temper! I live here!”

Footsteps echoed down the street. He blinked to see through the intense light. Two soldiers made their way toward him.

“I live on Peaks Island,” Timothy said as calmly as he could.

“All the way on the ground!” shouted one of the soldiers over Timothy’s explanation. “Hands behind your head.”

Timothy slowly put his hands on his head and went down to his belly.

“Keep your head—” one of them yelled.

Before the soldier could finish, his head flew back from a bullet that blew out the back of his skull. Two rounds hit the other in the chest. He slumped next to Timothy, still alive, gasping for air.

Screeching tires tore down the road. The black muscle car turned a corner. A pickup followed, and a rocket streaked from the bed.

Timothy rolled off the street and into the ditch as the grenade slammed against a mound of sandbags. Another projectile hit two concrete barriers blocking the gate. The explosions shook the ground, and the gate collapsed, clanging against the pavement.

He crawled back up as the muscle car sped toward the flames. It thumped over the fallen gate, and the passenger tossed something out the window. Several soldiers at the secondary checkpoint vanished behind a fiery blast.

The car raced around the wreckage followed by the pickup truck, their tires squealing.

Timothy rose to a kneel. The dual cab pickup that Pete drove pulled up. Alfred jumped out and aimed his rifle down the street. Then he grabbed Timothy.

“Get in,” he said, opening the back door.

The other prisoner was gone. Timothy was afraid to ask what had happened to the man who had told him the location of the collaborators’ base.

Pete drove toward the sound of gunfire and sparkling muzzle flashes from the rooftops deeper within the outpost.

The high-pitched shriek of a Variant pierced the chaotic noise.

Several of the beasts leapt from the shadows and took to the sides of buildings, scaling them like demonic lizards. Near the monsters, a patch of grass and soil gave way. A hulking monstrosity pushed itself from the crumbling soil, and Timothy nearly gasped at the abomination with wide, bat-like ears and a scrunched face. Fangs hung from its mouth.

It raised its muscled arms, and long tendrils along its back stood straight like the spikes on a porcupine. Red vines clung to parts of the creature’s body as it hoisted itself from the earth.

A high-pitched clicking noise sounded and the other Variants burst from the ground where the monster had tunneled, each squirming past the red vines.

Collaborators, Alphas, and all their thralls were descending on Portland.

Timothy couldn’t save the outpost, but he could still get the enemy’s location to soldiers here.

Nick drove down a side street littered with twisted and torched bodies. The pickup thumped over one with a sickening crunch.

As the truck sped closer to the university campus, an army of Variants bounded along the roads to either side of them. Another Alpha exploded from the ground, rallying the smaller monsters and charging toward the heart of the garrisoned outpost.

“You’re going to let the beasts kill them all?” Timothy asked. “You told me if I got you in, you would spare them.”

Nick and Pete exchanged a glance, but didn’t reply.

“Those that respect the New Gods will be spared,” Alfred said quietly. “But first the blood of the heretics must be spilled.”

Explosions bloomed ahead.

Timothy tried to think of a plan to stop the madness, but the faster they raced into the outpost, the more muddled his mind became. If the attack continued at this rate, Timothy wouldn’t have anyone to tell about the base.

“It’s almost over,” Pete said with a crooked grin. “Soon we’ll own this outpost, and our thralls will feast.”

The truck stopped at the next intersection with a destroyed checkpoint.

Timothy could see the campus now.

“This is the spot,” Pete said. “The others should be here soon.”

Fiery blasts and gunfire cut through the night while they waited. It wasn’t long until the trucks with the dogs arrived. The guards let the dogs out of their cages, and the abominations took off down the main road into campus.

Alfred opened the truck’s door, gesturing for Timothy to get out. Agonized screams wailed between the staccato sound of gunshots and the chorus of mutant hounds.

They set off toward the battle with six other armed collaborators.

Two pickup trucks followed the group as they made their way toward the dormitories.

More shrieks split the air.

As they got closer, Timothy wanted to close his eyes when he saw the scattered bodies. The collaborators were proud of the macabre scene. They watched in silence, their features stoic.

Timothy held back the bile in his throat.

Variants and mutated dogs fed on people who had been caught during their retreat.

An Alpha tore one of the bodies in half and sucked at the corpse’s insides. Nearly a dozen people fled in that direction from a side road, oblivious to threats waiting.

He wanted to scream and warn them, but it wouldn’t matter.

In the distance, Timothy spotted more people climbing out of windows to escape Variants that had made it into the shelters. A woman jumped from the second floor, only to be torn apart by a pack of prowling beasts outside the building.

A man with a pistol fired at four Variants surrounding him and two women in the parking lot. They backed toward a parked car. A monstrous dog leaped around the bumper and tackled the man. Its teeth tore into his neck, pulling out sinew as the two women screamed in terror.

Pete held a walkie-talkie up to his ear.

Sniper rifles cracked in the distance. The heads of several Variants burst in sprays of bloody mist. One of the Alphas turned in the direction of the gunfire. Bullets plunged through its body, but still it advanced, roaring and gathering a cadre of smaller monsters.

The Rangers were still in this fight.

There might yet be hope to turn the slaughter around.

“They’re retreating to the command post.” Pete pointed the remote at Timothy. “You’re up. The faster you do this, the faster we call off the beasts.”

Timothy nodded and set off down the road, doing his best to ignore the mangled and shredded bodies littering his path. He turned into a parking lot. If he remembered correctly, this one led to another where more dormitories were. Command was located between those buildings.

Several Variants and hounds sprinted toward the increasingly sporadic sounds of gunfire. Two diseased dogs ripped apart dead bodies, spilling the organs of carcasses across the asphalt. A few gaunt Variants fought for scraps nearby, shoveling mangled flesh into their mouths.

Why weren’t they attacking him?

A bony beast straddling a dead man glanced up at Timothy as he neared the tree line separating the parking lots. Intestines hung from its maw like noodles. But it didn’t seem interested in him. Nor did the other creatures.

They simply looked at him and then looked away. He didn’t hear the pop of the creature’s collar zapping him. No way the beast knew that he was one of their allies yet, right?

It struck him then. The chip that Nick had implanted in his neck. That had to be it. These beasts probably had them too, and they were all connected somehow.

Timothy started searching for a weapon as he walked. Several soldiers had fallen in the trees. He spotted a rifle and ran over, fully expecting a zap from his collar.

But none came.

He was out of sight from the collaborators now. They would catch up to him again soon, but for now, he was free.

He picked up the rifle and grabbed another magazine off the vest of a dead soldier. Then he took a knife and slipped it in his waistband. With the blade, he could excise the chip.

That also probably meant the creatures would turn on him if he no longer had it implanted in himself. He stood, armed for the first time since his captivity, conflicted.

Part of him wanted to go back and mow down Nick, Pete, and Alfred. But he also knew there was something more important at stake than revenge. The intel he had about Mount Katahdin, if true, could save other outposts from Portland’s fate.

That was his mission now.

He took off for the command post, keeping low until he spotted the building.

Several Army Rangers fired rifles from the rooftop at the monsters surrounding it. He spotted more guns in the windows.

He slunk past the Variants closing in on the building, coming so close to the monsters he could smell their sour flesh and sweat.

They continued to ignore him, and Timothy made his way to a clearing. He thought about calling up to the Rangers, telling them who he was. They probably wouldn’t be able to hear him and that might only get him shot in all the chaos.

Two Variants threw themselves at the reinforced door ahead. Another began scaling the wall toward the roof.

Gritting his teeth, Timothy took aim and fired. Bullets stitched up the side of the climbing beast. The other two at the door turned toward Timothy.

They too jerked and collapsed as he unloaded the rest of his first magazine into their bony bodies. Then he rushed between their corpses and started pounding on the door.

“Please, let me in!” he yelled.

He looked over his shoulder for the collaborators. If they were watching now, maybe they would think this was all part of his ploy to get them into the command post.

But even if the collaborators were convinced, six Variants prowling along the edges of the clearing didn’t seem to be.

One took a step forward, dropping to all fours.

“Please, help! I’m Timothy Temper! Jake Temper’s son!”

He slammed his fist against the door.

The pack of Variants moved in closer. More gunfire rang out from the rooftops. Screams erupted from the parking lot where the monsters feasted.

Timothy levered his hand back, ready to pound again. One Variants twitched its head as it looked between him and the dead monsters at his feet. It looked as if it was figuring out whether he was an ally or traitor.

Then the door flung open.

“Get in, kid!” someone said, grabbing his shoulder.

The door slammed shut behind him, and he was suddenly assaulted with a chaotic din. Down the halls people ran shouting orders. He saw one soldier covered in blood, gashes along both of his cheeks. Somehow the man was standing, but there were many others slumped against the walls. Several looked dead, with bullet wounds or terrible lacerations from Variants covering their bodies.

People in civilian clothes were among the dead and dying. Their wails and pleas for help echoed in the hall.

Timothy staggered forward, trying to look for someone in charge. Lieutenant Niven or Sergeant Ruckley. Someone who he could tell about Mount Katahdin.

He rounded a corner, the tile slick with blood. The trail led up a stairwell to the higher levels where the boom of gunfire echoed against the walls. A door suddenly opened behind him and screaming echoed deeper in the building.

Turning, he saw two soldiers carrying wounded inside. People pushed and shoved their way into the passage. A female and male soldier came inside last, both carrying children.

He recognized the woman. “Sergeant Ruck—”

A zap from his collar made him drop his rifle.

Another shock burned into his neck. He gritted his teeth, gripping the collar. The new group of Rangers and civilians made their way toward him. He reached up toward them, but they all passed him by.

“Ruckley!” Timothy wailed.

She suddenly stopped, handing the child off to another soldier. Then she made her way over to him. A soiled bandage was wrapped around her right arm and blood streaked down her chest.

“Sergeant,” he said. “I have information that…”

A third shock dropped him to the ground.

Timothy’s eyes teared up as he battled the pain. The collaborators wanted him to open the door, let them in. This was their reminder.

“Mount… Mount Katahdin,” he managed.

“Slow down, kid, where are you hurt?” She reached down and saw his collar, rearing back at the sight.

She screamed for back up while pulling out her pistol and aiming it at his head. Several soldiers ran over, rifles pointed down at him.

Outside, the creatures’ howls came in during the respite of gunfire.

Another electric shock coursed through Timothy’s body. Ruckley bent over him with her pistol.

“Mount Katahdin,” Timothy mumbled. “That’s where the collaborators are… that’s where their base is.”

“Hey, isn’t that Jake Temper’s son,” someone said.

Ruckley looked over her shoulder, then back to Timothy. She moved her gun away from his head.

“Jets are inbound, Sergeant!” shouted a deep voice. “Everyone, find cover!”

“Get him in the shelter,” Ruckley said.

Timothy felt people lifting him up. They carried him down the hall, and then down into a basement filled with frightened civilians. He was put up against a wall as another shock coursed through his body.

His vision blurred.

“Timothy, you still with me?” Ruckley asked.

He tried to nod but his muscles were locked rigid, and the pain was too much. Tears streamed over his eyes.

“Incoming!” shouted a voice.

Timothy thought he heard jet engines. He definitely heard the explosions and then felt the floor rumbling from impacts.

Cries. Maybe triumphant. Maybe out of pain.

The electric shocks came again.

Over his own agony, he suddenly focused on one thing—the image of Pete, Nick, Alfred and the other collaborators burning on the ground with their thralls.

Dust rained from the ceiling and the lights winked off, casting darkness over the shelter. The screams that followed were far from triumphant. These were pained wails of agony.

They faded away, but he heard one last thing before he passed out—the shriek of a monster.

— 26 —

Fitz crouched inside the shipping container with Team Ghost and the injured Wolfhounds that had nearly been butchered alive. The gunfire around the National Accelerator Laboratory had grown more sporadic.

But like vultures hovering over carrion, Black Hawks circled the base, their rotors beating the air with a vicious growl. From Fitz’s observations, he noticed the birds rotate out, presumably to stay fueled while maintaining eyes in the sky over the base.

It made no sense to Fitz.

Black Hawks were rare for the military, and how the hell did they have fuel?

The collaborators and Variants must have been more organized than command had realized out here.

He shook those concerns aside to focus. Those questions would have to be answered later. For now, he had to keep his team alive.

If he had kept track of the choppers accurately, there were only two now. The third had departed a few minutes earlier. That meant whoever these people were, they had a place to refuel in range.

Fitz risked peering out the cracked-open door. Using his night vision goggles, he spotted a chopper circling nearby, machine guns trained on the ground. He turned back to Rico and Ace who were crouched next to Martin. The Wolfhound still seethed in anger from the massacre he’d witnessed, his jaw clenched.

Mendez and Dohi were in the back of the container taking care of Hopkins and the other two injured Wolfhounds. The man with the missing legs had woken and groaned in pain. Dohi bent down to keep him quiet.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Rico said. “What’s the plan, Fitz?”

Fitz knew when she used his real name she was worried.

He was too.

The radios were jammed, they didn’t have the Rolling Stone tech, and with the Wolfhounds mostly dead and a new enemy out there, he wasn’t sure what the right move was.

“Your last plan got all my brothers killed,” Martin muttered.

“This ain’t our fault, amigo, and you’re starting to really piss me off,” Mendez said.

“Cool it,” Fitz said to Mendez. Then he looked at Martin. “You want to blame us, fine, but if you want to survive, you got to work with us.”

“So what’s your brilliant plan then?” Martin asked.

“Shoot those choppers down,” Mendez said. “I could plug ’em with a couple good shots.”

“Don’t think so,” Ace said. “Unless you got something more than that M4.”

“Look we still don’t even know who they are,” Rico said. “We don’t know what they’ve got in store for us.”

A chopper boomed overhead, flying in low as its spotlights traced over the ground. The light flashed inside the shipping container door.

“My guess is collaborators,” Dohi said. “Someone compromised our mission.”

“I have a bad feeling you’re right,” Fitz said.

Rico shook her head, like she didn’t believe it. “You ever seen collaborators with Black Hawks? Not me… Hell, the Allied States is low on those birds.”

Fitz started to reply, but then he heard the crash of metal.

The cannibals they had imprisoned in another shipping container had escaped.

He pushed open the door a little wider and saw the cannibals streaming toward a thicket of trees to the southeast.

The two Black Hawks trained their spotlights on the people and flew over to intercept them.

We might not get a better chance, Fitz thought.

He rose on his blades and looked at Hopkins. The man’s eyes were barely staying open.

“Martin, grab Hopkins,” Fitz said.

Martin looked ready to protest, but then grabbed his comrade under an arm.

“Mendez and Dohi, you carry those two,” Fitz said. “Rico, rearguard. Ace, on me. We’re moving. Now.”

Mendez hoisted the Wolfhound missing his legs into a fireman’s carry, and Dohi gave the other soldier his shoulder, helping the man stand.

Fitz slipped out of the container, hesitating outside. The two Black Hawks soared above the trees where the cannibals had run.

Using the distraction, Fitz led the team away from the containers. Dohi and Mendez managed to keep up, but Martin lagged slightly behind as he helped Hopkins. Rico reached out to assist.

All around the campus, fires raged through the buildings from the attack. Oily smoke covered the stars and moon.

Fitz signaled to an office building blazing with flames. If his memory served him correctly, going inside and out the back would take them to the warehouses with the Project Rolling Stone tech. With every other route vulnerable to an attack from the choppers, he hoped the structure and the smoke would provide some cover. They would have to cross a wide-open space to get there first.

Dohi jogged next to him, practically carrying the injured Wolfhound. “I saw some Humvees earlier that had M240s behind those warehouses. If I can get to them, I might be able to take out those choppers…”

“Do it,” Fitz said. “You too, Mendez. Take those two Wolfhounds with you and get them secured.”

Dohi and Mendez took off.

A sudden blast of gunfire made Fitz twist. One of the choppers unleashed a storm of rounds into the trees. Screams sounded, but were quickly silenced.

The other Black Hawk peeled off from the woods and started toward Team Ghost and their injured comrades. Its spotlight raked over the ground, just a few dozen yards from lighting up Martin, Rico, and Hopkins. Those three would be the first to be smeared across the pavement.

The last sputters of the second chopper’s machine guns dissipated.

Fire churned through the top of the building ahead. Bricks and chunks of the walls from the crumbling upper floors littered the ground outside the office. Ace was the first there, and crouched with his rifle up. Fitz arrived a moment later and knelt behind a pile of bricks adjacent to Ace.

Dohi and Mendez had already disappeared through the blazing building with the other two Wolfhounds, but Rico, Martin, and Hopkins were still running to catch up.

They weren’t going to make it.

Rotor wash blew dust and cinder around the hapless trio.

In mere seconds, they would be dead.

Fitz brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired a burst at the cockpit of the Black Hawk. The bullets sparked off the metal and glass. The 5.56 mm M4 rounds couldn’t bring down a chopper. If he was lucky, the best he could do was score a shot that brought down a door gunner.

None of that was the goal, though.

The chopper swerved hard to its right, spotlight sweeping away from Rico and the others. Fitz ran before the light could hit him, using the smoke and scree for cover. Sweat poured down his face as he unleashed another salvo of frantic fire.

Bullets painted the office building in response, trailing after him. He rolled away from the spray, got up, and kept running. Ash and embers lifted into the air above when gunfire raked into the building again.

The second chopper soared far ahead, looking to cut him off. Caught in a pincer movement, he had nowhere else to go but into the building. He lunged sideways, throwing himself through one of the busted windows on the ground floor.

Jagged fragments of glass tore into his flesh like the teeth of hungry Variants. He slammed against a desk, then scrambled over broken glass with his gloved hands and knee pads.

Bullets punched holes into the floor and drywall. Some lanced dangerously past him, close enough he could hear them whooshing past. Dust sprayed from their impact, kicking up a foggy screen.

Fitz scrambled to stand on his blades. Smoke drifted along the ceiling, and he heard the sizzle of burning fire chewing through the building.

Coughing, he stumbled into a hall, ducking under a fallen ceiling beam still smoldering. The choppers were strafing the building, sending in gouts of random gunfire. He might’ve escaped their sight, but he wasn’t safe yet.

Fitz finally made it to the main hallway.

“Fitz!” Rico said.

To his surprise, she now had Hopkins on her back in a fireman’s carry. Martin was beside her, chest heaving. Ace had his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Soot covered their fatigues and flesh.

Fitz joined them and took point.

They jogged down the hall, all coughing through the smoke. Behind them, something crashed through the ceiling. Blackened ceiling beams and ash poured through a hole, along with furniture and dry wall still aflame.

“Go, go, go!” Fitz yelled to be heard over the inferno.

They made it to an exit that butted up against a street. Charred cars lined the road. Papers, still burning, fluttered over the asphalt.

Fitz cautiously stepped outside. He spied one Black Hawk patrolling on the southern edge of the building. The other bird sounded like it was on the opposite side of the office building, but he couldn’t see with the smoke blocking his view.

The third chopper hadn’t yet returned.

He signaled for the others to follow. With Rico now lugging Hopkins on her back, they moved faster, straight toward the building across the street.

The growl of helicopter engines suddenly grew louder. Dark smoke parted with a wave of rotor wash. The first Black Hawk appeared above, spotlights probing the ground.

“Move!” Fitz yelled.

They made it across and into the other building before the helicopter opened fire. Rounds pounded into the doorway, kicking up bits of floor tiles and breaking windows.

Fitz didn’t stop until they got to the opposite exit. Through the windows he saw cars parked in front of the warehouses where the SDS equipment should be. The Humvees Dohi had mentioned were farther down the road, but he didn’t see Dohi or Mendez.

“Master Sergeant!” a voice shouted.

Fitz turned to his right. Through a doorway leading off the hallway, he saw one of the Wolfhounds.

“In here!” Fitz called to the others as he jogged toward the injured man.

The Wolfhound was propped up behind a desk, his eyes glazed over. Next to him was his comrade, passed out from the agony of his severed legs. The rest of the room was covered in heavy desks and tipped over chairs.

“Dohi… and Mendez ran to the Humvees,” the conscious Wolfhound said. “They told me… they told me to tell you they’d be ready when you got here.”

Fitz squeezed the Wolfhound’s shoulder, kneeling in front of him. “Thanks. You hold tight, and we’ll get you guys out of here soon.”

Rico lugged Hopkins into the office. She was breathing heavily when she laid him down behind another desk. Martin settled in beside his brothers, and Fitz crouched next to a fallen cabinet.

Ace aimed his rifle out a window.

The helicopters lowered toward the street, spotlights searching the office windows, lighting up the hallways. They were low enough now Fitz could clearly see the forms of the door gunners and the soldiers working the spotlights.

The choppers hovered down the road, passing in front of the warehouses and vehicles, hunting like beasts. But they were hunting in the wrong place.

Down the road, Fitz saw Dohi and Mendez emerge in the turrets of the Humvees. They grabbed the mounted machine guns and fired on the choppers.

Bullets sprayed through the open side doors and into the door gunners. One tumbled out, falling to the street.

The spotlights sparked and burst with incoming gunfire, going dark. Chunks of the glass in the cockpit gave way, fracturing and exploding. The Black Hawk tilted sideways, the pilot dead. The rotor blades broke against the ground, kicking up a wave of sparks as they fractured.

The bird erupted into flames, grinding across asphalt until it slammed against the side of the building. Smoke wafted from inside the other helicopter as it lifted away.

Dohi and Mendez swiveled their M240s and caught it in their stream of tracer rounds. The bird made it out over the trees past the warehouses before it suddenly dropped, disappearing beneath the canopy. An explosion burst from the woods.

Fitz motioned for the team to move out. Rico, Martin, and Ace helped pick up the Wolfhounds. They hurried past the wreckage of the first chopper. Judging by the mangled debris, Fitz doubted anyone had survived, but he kept his rifle up anyway.

Dohi waved from atop his Humvee. Mendez was propped up at the gun of the other. They were about twenty yards from the entrance to the office. Past where those Humvees were parked were the warehouses where Team Ghost would find the SDS equipment. Finally, they could finish their mission and go home.

Then a familiar sound boomed over the horizon.

The sound of another helicopter.

“Oh, shit,” Martin said, halting.

Fitz tugged Rico down against the ground. The rest of the team took cover next to them.

“Dohi, Mendez, get the hell out of there!” Fitz yelled.

The third Black Hawk raced over the burning woods, launching a volley of Hydra rockets that streaked through the smoke, and slammed into the warehouses.

Heat crashed into Fitz, and the concussive force from the exploding rockets swept over the group in a scorching wave.

Moments filled with thuds and explosions passed by in what felt like slow motion. Fitz couldn’t do anything but crouch down and pray.

Once the bird had expended everything it had, it tore away again.

As the smoke cleared, Fitz got up. It wasn’t just the warehouses destroyed. Both the Humvees were nothing but scrap metal.

Fitz’s ears rang as he tried to call out to the others. But he saw nothing except rolling smoke.

Their mission had ended, swept away by a deadly inferno. And now, Dohi and Mendez had vanished in the flames. There was nothing left but the smoldering remains of failure.

***

Beckham hated sitting in the comfy leather seat in the private jet while others were dying on the ground.

Fischer had the same guilty look in his eye, and so did Horn. They watched as Kate and a medic tended to Sammy, who had passed out from the pain.

In a separate closed-off section of the plane, Javier, Tasha, Jenny, and the dogs were resting—or were supposed to be. Beckham heard nervous chatter coming from the area.

He peered out of the window as they flew away from Outpost Manchester. The landscape was consumed in darkness except for the orange flashes of gunfire and flames now far in the distance.

After getting the rest of the technicians into another aircraft, Beckham had gladly taken Fischer’s offer to take the private plane. But he couldn’t help feeling like he was abandoning the people still down there. Just like when he’d been forced to leave Portland.

On another day, he would have considered staying, but Presley didn’t want to listen to reason or advice. The colonel wanted to do things his own way, and Beckham could see where that was leading now.

He would be surprised if there was anything left of Outpost Manchester by the time the sun rose again.

Tasha peeked out of the doorway in the back half of the plane. “Are we headed home?”

“Not right now,” Horn said. “Can you please go watch Jenny, Javier, and the dogs?”

Tasha looked like she was about to refuse.

“Please, Tasha,” Horn said softly. “I need your help.”

“Okay.” Tasha disappeared into the back of the plane again.

Horn looked at Fischer expectantly. “So, do you know where we’re going?”

The grizzled older man merely shrugged. “We still haven’t received the exact coordinates. Ringgold’s security forces won’t give them to us until the last minute to be sure no collaborators intercept our comms.”

“We have absolutely no idea?” Beckham asked.

“I’ve got a trajectory,” Fischer said. “Headed south toward Long Island until we’re told otherwise.”

Horn folded his muscular arms over his chest.

“Ringgold’s right to be cautious,” Beckham said. “We just saw what happens when we underestimate the traitors in our midst.”

The pilot’s voice broke over the intercom. “Mr. Fischer, we’ve got an incoming satellite video call.”

“Patch it through,” Fischer replied.

A screen on the front bulkhead of the passenger cabin sizzled to life. The picture was grainy and the sound filled with the bite of static. To Beckham, that meant the incoming call was being heavily encrypted to prevent prying ears and eyes.

When the image settled, President Ringgold appeared. The wrinkles around her eyes looked especially pronounced, shadowed by dark half-circles.

Beckham had never seen her more exhausted.

“I’m glad to see you…” she started to say. “Where’s Dr. Carr and the kids?”

Kate bowed her head. “Carr didn’t make it, but the kids are safe.”

Ringgold lowered her eyes a moment.

“We completed our work,” Kate said. “We now have everything we need to tap into the collaborator and Variant network.”

“I’m happy to hear some good news,” Ringgold replied. “I just hope that after the night is over, things aren’t worse than we predicted.”

Beckham felt dread pooling in his stomach.

Ringgold’s voice sounded shaky when she spoke again. “I’m afraid Outpost Manchester wasn’t the only place that has been hit hard. Just as we’ve suspected, our enemy’s initial attacks were only testing our defenses. Combined with the collaborator attacks from the inside, we’re losing everything.”

She used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. Beckham could see a layer of tears forming.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Outpost Portland is gone. Lieutenant Niven called in an airstrike to take out the collaborators, and a small army of Variants that surrounded the outpost earlier tonight. That was pretty much the end of it, but they had no choice.”

“God, no,” Horn said, bowing his head.

“Timothy…” came a voice.

Horn looked over his shoulder at Tasha who stood cupping her mouth. He got up and hurried over to her. Beckham felt a tear of his own forming.

“How many outposts are left?” Kate asked.

“General Souza believes we will lose half by morning,” Ringgold said.

Beckham wiped at his eye, and kept it together, knowing despair would get him nowhere.

“What about Team Ghost?” he asked. “If they got the SDS technology from Project Rolling Stone, we could hold out, right?”

Ringgold’s pause told him all he needed to know.

“What?” he asked “Did something—”

“We lost all radio communications with Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds,” Ringgold said.

“How the hell did we lose contact?”

“There seems to be something interfering with radio signals around the lab campus, and we lost contact with the C-130 and the remaining group of the Wolfhounds guarding it about an hour ago.”

“They’re all dead?” Beckham’s insides twisted.

“We’re not sure,” Ringgold replied.

Beckham slammed his fist against one of the armrests.

Raised voices came from the back of the plane where the kids were with Horn. Beckham should have been back there to console them, but he remained seated to finish the call with Ringgold.

“Without the Rolling Stone technology, the Variants will destroy what’s left of civilization wherever they can tunnel,” Fischer said.

“There are other threats than tunneling Variants now,” she replied. “We’re getting reports of animals the collaborators have infected with VX-99. Dogs, the bats… it’s a horror show. My advisors are telling me they must have been working on this for years.”

“How?” Kate whispered incredulously.

No one had an answer for Kate. It was something Beckham desperately wished he could answer. Trying to figure out how they had missed all this would not help them bring back the outposts or all the thousands that had died.

For now, all they could do was focus on moving forward.

“From what we saw, from everything you’re telling us, we need to do something quick, but I’m not sure that tapping into the Variant network will give us the upper hand,” Beckham said. “We need something bigger.”

“I agree, even if we somehow deployed the SDS equipment soon, there won’t be much left for us to defend,” Fischer said.

“You’re both right,” Ringgold said. “That’s why we’re ordering a mass retreat to concentrate our remaining assets. Air strikes around the country haven’t stopped them. Recent intel suggests we may have a better ID on some of their bases, but ultimately, according to our estimates, it won’t be enough.”

“Won’t be enough?” Fischer asked. “Then what in Sam Hill are we going to do?”

“General Souza and I have been in close contact with Cornelius. We’ve also tried to recruit more foreign aid, but we’re not getting much. Even France is calling back the consultants they offered.”

“So we’re alone,” Fischer said.

“It seems that way,” Ringgold said. “We’ve evaluated options, and there is only one that we keep coming back to. One that may be our Hail Mary, and up until now, one that I disagreed with.”

Beckham was afraid to ask what the President had in mind, although he sensed where this was going, especially if Cornelius was involved.

His gut was right.

“I agree with Cornelius now,” Ringgold said, lacing her fingers together. “As hard as this is for me to say, we need to deploy what’s left of our active nuclear arsenal to hammer the Variants where they are the strongest. Targets will include all major cities where hives are suspected and collaborator locations have been identified.”

Fischer tugged on his mustache, but didn’t say a word.

“I don’t harbor any illusions about what this great country of ours will look like if we survive,” Ringgold said. “We’ll be turning our cities into radioactive festering ruins, but there’s no taking them back from what’s there now.”

“All due respect, but we’re not just talking about radioactive craters,” Beckham said. “Don’t forget what happened in Europe when the Variants were exposed to radiation.”

“That was mostly due to fallout from nuclear power plants,” Kate said. “Nuking the bastards will kill them before they can mutate further.”

Initially Beckham was surprised at his wife’s tone. But after all they’d been through, he realized he shouldn’t have been.

“There are communities of people out there, living on their own,” Beckham said. “Not to mention refugees. The collaborators have taken our people captive, too. All of them will be condemned to die.”

Ringgold’s face fizzled in and out of existence. “Yes, I’m all too aware of the sacrifices that will be made if we choose this course of action, but we have given the stranded outside of our outposts every opportunity to join us in this fight.”

“You said this is the best option, but what are the others?” Beckham asked.

“One is to stay the course.”

“We already know where that one leads,” Beckham said, picturing the beasts swarming Outpost Portland and Manchester. “What else?”

“We try to evacuate whoever we can. Escape across the ocean.”

“Maybe,” Kate said. “But then we’re giving North America to these monsters. They’ll continue to propagate and grow in strength. Eventually they’ll make the journey, too.”

“It doesn’t sound like our so-called allies are willing to help us now, either,” Fischer said. “So why would they take us in, especially if there’s a risk we’re bringing along collaborators?”

“There is no guarantee,” Ringgold said. “That’s why I’m leaning toward the nuclear option.”

Beckham hated the idea of launching nukes on their soil and cities. The home he had fought for, that he had sacrificed so much for. The place where he had raised a family, where he had done everything in his power to protect his friends and rebuild a better and free civilization.

For eight years they had accomplished that. Creating outposts where citizens could live in peace after a lifetime of violence.

But as soon as they launched those nukes, the country as he knew it would permanently be gone. The United States and now the Allied States would be just a memory.

“If we do this,” Beckham said finally. “Everything we know will be left in ashes.”

There had to be a better way.

He took a moment to think.

“What if we attack the major hubs, but hold back most of our nukes?” Beckham asked. “Maybe we give Team Ghost a chance to complete the mission, pull everyone back to the safest and most defendable outposts. Then, if Ghost fails, we launch everything we’ve got at those animals?”

“What do you think, Kate?” Ringgold asked.

She managed a nod and then reached out for Beckham’s hand.

“Okay,” Ringgold said. “By the time you reach our secured location, the nuclear weapons will be deployed on select targets.”

“And then we’re back to where we started nearly a decade ago,” Fischer said. “Back underground, hiding from the monsters.”

Ringgold grimaced as she turned her eyes downward. When she raised them, Beckham saw a new wave of confidence.

“No,” Ringgold said. “We’re not launching these weapons just to hide.”

She unfolded her fingers and sat up straighter, staring at the camera with raw determination.

“We’re launching them to fight back. Once the smoke clears, and the ashes settle, we return to the battlefield and throw every last man, woman, and bullet at the beasts to save what’s left of our country.”

o—o—o

EXTINCTION ASHES

They sent forth men to battle,

But no such men return;

And home, to claim their welcome,

Come ashes in an urn.

AESCHYLUS, Agamemnon

To Colonel Olson (RET) and Master Sergeant Hendrickson (RET) for serving our great nation and for providing vital feedback that has immensely improved the Extinction Cycle novels.

— 1 —

“What is that?” Javier Beckham asked. He pressed his face against a window of S.M. Fischer’s private jet.

Captain Reed Beckham looked over his son’s shoulder, watching in disbelief at something he never thought he would see.

A nuclear-tipped missile launched from a submarine roared through the night, leaving a billowing white vapor trail cutting through the sky. Even as the missile vanished, the shock made him grip the hand of his wife, Doctor Kate Lovato, even tighter.

She was just as awestruck, staring in disbelief.

“That’s no tactical warhead,” Beckham said through clenched teeth.

“I thought President Ringgold said…” Kate began to say.

“Something must have changed,” Beckham replied softly.

“Was that a space rocket, Dad?” Javier asked.

“No, it’s a missile,” Tasha said, her face painted in fear. She and Jenny had clustered around Beckham’s son.

Computer engineer Sammy Tibalt craned her neck from her lie-flat seat. Sweat dripped down her forehead, and she could barely open her eyes. The bandages covering the bullet wound in her abdomen had bled through.

“Stay still,” Kate said.

The engineer was lucky the bullet seemed to have missed any vital organs. It had gone clean through, skimming her side and causing mostly superficial damage.

“You don’t want to reopen that wound,” Kate said.

“Ah, shit this hurts,” Sammy said, grimacing.

“We’ll get you more painkillers soon.”

The other ten passengers watched out the starboard windows as a brilliant light bloomed somewhere on the east coast. They included Master Sergeant Parker Horn and his girls, S.M. Fischer, Fischer’s men, and a few lab technicians, plus the two German Shepherds Ginger and Spark. A flash of white burned away the dark night, followed by a growing orange fireball.

How close was that to their plane’s destination?

Truth was, he had no idea where they were going. They had spent the past few hours in the air, and now it was nearly midnight. Their first landing zone had changed last minute after the pilot received classified coordinates for a second location on an encrypted line. He had told them he’d been ordered not to share them with anyone.

Beckham wasn’t bothered by exactly where they were headed. He only cared that his family was headed somewhere safe.

If a safe place even existed now.

“The EMP from the nuke won’t affect us, right?” Kate asked, returning to her seat.

“Most aircraft are equipped to handle an EMP blast,” Beckham said. “I’m assuming this one is, too. And even if it’s not, we should be far enough to be safe.”

He was more worried about the effects of radioactive fallout. The radiation around the impact site could poison everything for years or decades depending on the altitude of the burst.

“Let’s get back to your seats,” Kate said to the kids. Her voice was surprisingly calm, but Beckham knew she was concealing her fear.

Ginger and Spark swarmed around Javier and the girls. Horn stood and herded them behind a curtained partition near the tail of the plane.

As soon as they were gone, Kate nervously tapped her heel against the deck. Dried dark-red blood splatter painted the white shoe. None of them had had a chance to clean up since the disaster at Outpost Manchester. The blood on Kate’s shoe was from Doctor Jeff Carr, who had been shot in the head by a traitorous collaborator in their laboratory.

“Kate,” Beckham whispered.

She stopped tapping her foot. A tremor shuddered down her body.

“Are you…” he started.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “We completed our mission, and I can still stop this.”

Beckham had known her long enough to sense her uncertainty. She didn’t quite believe the words she said, still trying to come to terms with their harsh reality. He felt the same, but sometimes a little bit of a white lie was good, if not necessary, for sustaining morale.

“We’ll save the Allied States, and we’ll rebuild again,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Boss,” Horn said, taking a seat next to him. “You got a minute?”

“I’ll give you two a chance to talk.” Kate got up. “I’ll check on the kids.”

She kissed Beckham on the cheek, then disappeared into the back of the plane. Horn waited a few seconds before speaking.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

There were a lot of words in Horn’s vocabulary, many borderline obscene. But “scared” was one Beckham had never heard from his best friend.

“I’m scared that we can’t protect our families once we land, that this is only going to get worse until it’s so bad there will be nothing left,” Horn said.

“Me too,” Beckham admitted.

“We might think wherever we’re landing is safe, but shit…” Horn took a deep breath, his barreled chest expanding. “The enemy is stronger than we ever imagined. I don’t know if this is a fight we can win.”

“We can. We have to. There’s no other option.”

They were both in shock. After eight years of peace, everything had come crumbling down like a house of cards in a tornado.

By the time the sun rose, Beckham wasn’t sure what would even be left of the Allied States. What he did know was several of the great cities of what had been the United States would be smoldering radioactive craters.

“When are we going to tell the kids about Outpost Portland?” Horn asked, reminding Beckham of their home that had been devastated by their enemies.

“When we get settled, we’ll break it to them.”

“I’m not sure we’ll ever be settled anywhere again,” Horn said, looking through a window. “And what about Timothy?”

“Tasha should know the truth,” Beckham said. “But I’ll leave that to you.”

Horn nodded.

“Nothing in our future will be easy,” Beckham said. “Not for a long time. But we’re the glue that holds everything together, and I need you to be the rock you’ve always been.”

Horn met Beckham’s gaze.

“You can count on me, boss.” He puffed up his chest. “I ain’t no rock… I’m a motherfucking mountain.”

Beckham smirked and patted Horn’s shoulder. The shared moment of jocularity passed when the pilot announced they were beginning their descent.

Fischer went to the cockpit but his guards, Tran and Chase, remained behind.

Ginger and Spark suddenly came bolting down the aisle to Beckham. He couldn’t help but smile when they started licking him.

“Dammit.” Kate marched toward them and grabbed the dogs by the collars.

“I’ll help,” Horn said. He took the dogs to the back, and Beckham joined him.

“Where are we landing?” Javier asked.

“Yeah, is someone going to tell us what’s going on?” Jenny asked.

“That missile…” Tasha said quietly. “That means the war is getting worse, right?”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Beckham said.

Kate and Horn exchanged a quick look before sitting down again.

Beckham snagged his seat and hoisted Spark onto his lap. Horn took Ginger.

Turbulence rattled the bulkheads, and Spark whined.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Beckham said.

Another pocket of turbulence shook the aircraft, resulting in cries of surprise from the kids. Sammy wailed in pain. Ron and Leslie, two of the technicians that had come with them, helped brace her.

The first sign of the ground came into focus out the window. A single cluster of lights shone below. Beckham squinted, trying to make out anything that might give him an idea of where they were.

The rest of the terrain was so dark he couldn’t tell if it was flat, hilly, or mountainous. Glowing lights flared below in what appeared to be explosions.

Then came the lancing pulse of tracer rounds.

“You got to be fucking kidding,” Beckham whispered.

The plane turned away from the battle and curved through the sky.

He tried to calm himself, not wanting to scare the kids any more than they already were. He squinted, trying to make out the ground. It took him a moment to realize they weren’t above solid ground after all.

It was water.

A single light sparked in his view, illuminating an arm connected to a statue. Not just any statue—the Statue of Liberty. An eternal flame the Allied States had installed burned on the torch.

Seeing the beacon of freedom filled Beckham with pride and hope.

The plane finally leveled out over what had to be Long Island judging by the proximity of the statue. That made sense to him now. The location would be one of the most fortified and relatively easy to defend.

The tracer rounds and explosions must have been coming from the small outpost in Lower Manhattan.

He prayed they would last the night.

The plane jolted down hard a moment later. With the thrust reversed and spoilers out to slow them down, the plane shuddered noisily. Sammy cried out again but the kids kept quiet.

As soon as the jet stopped, Fischer’s guards palmed in magazines and opened the door.

Fischer joined them and held up a hand to the rest of the passengers. “Everyone, stay put for a moment.”

“Keep your belts on in case we’ve got to fly again,” Beckham said to the kids. “Just precautionary. Nothing to worry about.”

Beckham and Horn grabbed their rifles. The kids were smart enough to know that wasn’t just precautionary.

“Is it not safe here?” Tasha asked.

“Of course it is,” Horn said. “You’re with your old man and Reed.”

The door opened again, and Fischer stepped inside, waving. “All right, let’s go.”

Beckham herded the kids together, while Ron and Leslie helped carry Sammy. Tran and Chase stood guard on the tarmac below the short exit stairs.

A single M-ATV and a military cargo truck waited outside. Two soldiers wearing fatigues and helmets sporting “four-eye” night vision goggles stood beside them.

“Everyone this way,” said one of the men. “We need to get off the tarmac ASAP.”

Beckham helped the civilians and kids into the back of the truck. He scanned their surroundings while they were climbing inside. The tarmac was in the middle of an area with mostly warehouses and factory buildings. He didn’t see any sign of military presence besides the truck and two soldiers.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Horn asked the men.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said one of the soldiers with NVGs.

Once everyone was loaded in the cargo truck, they followed the M-ATV toward the factories.

Jenny nudged her dad’s arm. “I know we’re not going home now, but do you know when we can?”

Horn drew in a deep breath and then shook his head. “I’m sorry, honey, but I’ve got to be honest. I don’t think we’re ever going back.”

***

A dull ringing reverberated in Sergeant Yas Dohi’s ears. Throbbing agony swam across his body like he’d been pummeled by an Alpha Variant and then thrown into a tree trunk. Everything hurt.

Trying to remember what happened, he blinked, hoping his surroundings would jog his memory. But shadows blotted his vision and he only saw vague skeletal shapes.

Most of his senses were dull, except for his sense of smell, which was overwhelmed by the odor of charred wood and burning plastic.

Those scents slowly got the gears in his head turning, and an image of an inferno exploded in his mind. The events since they had landed in the C-130 on the California beach replayed, all the way up to the choppers.

He flinched at the memory.

The birds had fired on him and Specialist Justin Mendez outside the warehouses that were supposed to hold the seismic detection system equipment for Project Rolling Stone.

“Mendez,” Dohi mumbled. He couldn’t remember if the operator had escaped the Humvee before the rockets hit.

“Fitz,” Dohi whispered into his headset.

There was no response, and he remembered the damn thing was broke-dick, jammed by the comms equipment.

A surge of fear masked his pain when he thought of his team.

Master Sergeant Joe “Fitz” Fitzpatrick, Sergeant First Class Jenny Rico, and Corporal Bobby Ace had been with the injured Wolfhounds when the choppers attacked.

His stomach lurched, and Dohi twisted his head to the side, the movement painful. The contents of his belly came spewing up. A sour taste filled his mouth.

Slowly the blackness in his vision dissipated. Orange tongues of flame illuminated the area. Blurred images coalesced enough for him to see why he had trouble moving and his body ached. He was trapped under the tangled, charred branches of a fallen tree, only able to move his head and neck.

He used all his strength to push the branch from his chest. His ribs burned with every breath, bruised no doubt, but he could move now. That was good. With a grunt, he squirmed out from under the heavy branch.

Smoke drifted over the burned terrain, casting everything in a ghoulish gray haze. The flicker of fire danced sporadically in the woods. Not more than a couple dozen yards to his right, he saw the decrepit remains of a warehouse smoldering in gobs of melted plastic and bent metal.

Somewhere along the way he had lost his rifle. He searched the rubble and trees, dropping to a crouch when he heard faint low growls and the popping of joints.

As his hearing returned, the noises grew louder, and he found the source among the broken trees. Three Variants scrabbled through the limbs. Their ribs protruded against their gray flesh, and their joints appeared swollen against their shrunken muscles and skin.

Eyes bulged from their misshapen heads, and their tongues lashed out around their wormy, cracked lips.

Starving Variants.

They had come here at the promise of food, probably attracted by the cacophony of the battle and the smell of burned flesh.

And if they had found food, Dohi worried he knew what they were digging at.

Mendez.

Stalking them at a hunch, Dohi navigated the jumble of trees and smoldering plants, pushing his way through the smoky fog. The snap of breaking branches and popping joints filled the night.

What he didn’t hear gave him hope. No slurps of tearing meat, no human wails of agony.

Dohi grabbed his hatchet with his right hand and slipped out his KA-BAR in his left. Another two steps and he made it directly behind the first of the three Variants. He swung the hatchet into the back of the closest creature. An audible pop of tendons and bone sounded.

The other two turned.

Dohi threw his KA-BAR. It thudded into an eyeball with a sickening pop. The monster staggered forward, then collapsed.

Before he could pull the hatchet from the first Variant or retrieve his knife, the remaining Variant coiled to pounce. Normally he could take a starving creature like that with his fists, but his body had taken a beating.

The Variant launched itself at Dohi. He braced himself, still struggling to pull out the hatchet. He abandoned his attempt to recover the blade and ducked as the Variant’s gnashing jaws snapped next to his face. He stumbled backward and fell into more chunks of busted trees.

Bending, he picked up a broken branch nearly the size of his arm and held it up as the beast slashed at his face. The monster pressed against the branch, snapping.

Saliva sprayed his face.

Dohi’s muscles strained as the monster slammed him against a tree trunk. He wasn’t going to beat this creature through strength alone. Not with his body this battered.

He rolled away, and then made a play for the hatchet sticking out of the dead monster. Grabbing it, he used all of his strength to yank it free.

Then he turned and swung wildly. The blade found a home in the center of the final creature’s face, splitting through a wart-covered nose.

Dohi ripped it away with a slurp. Then he retrieved his KA-BAR. He sheathed the knife and gazed blearily at his surroundings, chest heaving. No other diseased monsters careened out of the smoke, and he didn’t hear their clicking joints.

Safe enough for now, he could finish the job the Variants had started: unburying whoever had been trapped by these trees. The Variants had already done most of the work, shredding the branches to splinters.

A surge of adrenaline flowed through Dohi when he saw Mendez’s face reflecting the firelight, dark brown eyes blinking slowly under the stack of branches pinning him to the ground. He let out a few wheezing coughs as Dohi tried to pull the branches off. Unable to move them, he used one to lever them off, but it snapped.

“Son of a bitch,” Dohi said.

He feared for a moment he couldn’t free Mendez. That Mendez would die right in front of Dohi because he wasn’t strong enough to help.

Hell, no. That’s not going to happen.

Dohi got down and started tearing branches off one at a time. Mendez’s wheezing got worse for a few minutes, but lessened as Dohi cleared the tree limbs.

“Hang in there, man, I’m getting you out,” Dohi said.

Mendez moved his lips but Dohi didn’t hear a response.

He dug and dug, sweat dripping off his face, ears still ringing. He never heard the person approach before a hand grabbed his shoulder.

Dohi spun, reaching for his weapons to face a figure covered in ash and soot.

“Easy, brother.” It was Fitz. He waved to two more figures in the smoke.

Rico and Ace ran over, dodging past crackling fires. Ash and dirt smeared their faces and fatigues, too. Suppressed M4A1s hung over their chests, and all kinds of twisted metal junk protruded from their packs.

Dohi didn’t ask any questions and went back to pulling branches and debris off Mendez. The group spread around the main trunk that had pinned him down. Together, they heaved it off, and Ace dragged it away.

Dohi bent beside Mendez, checking him over. “You okay?”

Mendez took in a few final gasps and managed a nod. “Think… I…cracked a rib.”

“Can you move your toes and fingers?” Dohi asked.

Mendez did both.

Rico bent down to help Mendez look for more serious injuries.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you both alive,” Fitz said. “Are you hurt?”

“Just rattled,” Dohi said.

Ace handed Dohi a rifle. “Found this a few yards back.”

“Thanks.”

Rico and Ace helped Mendez to a sitting position.

“Martin is with the other Wolfhounds, waiting in the office building,” Fitz said. “Comms are still down, and with nothing other than our tactical radios, we can’t contact command anyway.”

“So what next?” Dohi asked, sticking a knuckle in his ear. Trying to equalize the pressure so he could hear better.

Fitz looked at the smoke and fires devouring the warehouses.

“When we were looking for you two, we grabbed a couple of computers and other things from the debris,” he said. “I want to make one more pass, just in case some of that SDS tech is still intact, but we don’t have a lot of time. Those hostiles could return.”

“Then we head back to the C-130?” Dohi asked.

“Correct,” Fitz said.

“Assuming it’s even there,” Rico said with a snort. “I got a bad feeling we’re on our own for the long haul.”

— 2 —

Timothy Temper ran from a muscular Rottweiler infected with VX-99. The snarling mutated beast chased him through a forest. It barked viciously as it gained ground. His lungs burned with every step, and his muscles felt heavier, slowing his gait.

He had no weapon to defend himself and nowhere to hide. There was only one option: keep running.

Skeletal branches reached down. He ducked underneath them, jumped over fallen logs, and burst through bushes that tore at his flesh.

A steep slope dropped away into a shallow valley on the other side of a tree line. He slid down the muddy embankment until his shoes hit the rocky ground.

Water snaked through the center of the valley, trickling over rocks. He crossed the creek, the cold water filling his shoes as he carefully navigated over the slick rocks.

At the other side, he stole a glance over his shoulder. The Rottweiler crested the hill he had just slid down, letting out a ferocious bark.

In the moonlight, the bulging muscles of a second Rottweiler emerged between a pair of oak trees on the other slope.

He was trapped.

The only way to escape was through the creek. But as soon as he turned to run, his foot snagged on something and he went down hard. His head slammed into a rock, and icy water splashed over his frozen body.

The first dog was on him in seconds. It sunk its teeth into one of his arms, ravaging his flesh.

He let out a howl of pain, twisting to break free. The bloodshot eyes of the dog drew closer. It let go of his arm and lunged toward his face.

Timothy woke to darkness.

Smoke filled his lungs.

This time, he wasn’t dreaming. Lucidity burned through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Another odor drifted in the air, a smell he recognized.

Burned flesh.

He tried to stand, but he was too weak. He fell back to the cold concrete floor.

“Hello…” he tried.

The words came out in a croak.

He reached up to his throat, probing tender flesh from a burn.

It was then he remembered.

The collar. It was gone.

Memories of his captivity crashed over him like a tidal wave. He recalled the bombs that had fallen over Outpost Portland in a last-ditch effort to destroy the Variants and collaborators.

“Hello…” Timothy said again.

Moaning came from the shadows, but it was all muffled. Then he heard what sounded like someone crying across the room.

The darkness obscured almost everything, but a few weakening flames cast ghastly shadows over hunks of fallen concrete. Moonlight streamed into another corner where a wall had collapsed.

The images transported his mind back to the chamber where the Variants had slung him up on a wall inside the hidden collaborator base. Pete, Nick, and Alfred had decided then to spare Timothy and induct him into their twisted army of the New Gods.

Most of the other people in that chamber had become Variant food or died when the roof partially collapsed.

As his eyes adjusted, Timothy saw people crushed under blocks of rubble. Beams had fallen over him, protecting him from the same fate.

He crawled out from under one, making his way into a space covered in jagged boards and broken bricks.

Navigating through the debris, he made it a few feet before hitting something wet and sticky. He felt around just to confirm it was a body.

The cold flesh told him the person was long-dead, which meant he had been unconscious for a while.

Putting his wrist over his nose, he continued toward the sound of sobbing and moans. The closer he got, the more bodies he hit, and the worse the stench of urine and feces became.

The center of the basement was a mass grave. Chunks of ceiling had rained down on the people that had hidden here for safety.

A beam of light suddenly burst from near the wall across the room. It shot across the rubble and raked over the dead.

Was it a collaborator?

Timothy ducked behind a body.

“Anyone alive?” came a voice.

“Help…” someone replied.

Timothy rose above the corpse. Two figures were standing behind the collapsed wall, peering into the basement.

“Over here,” someone else called out.

The light turned on the first person, and then came a burst of gunfire. A second burst peppered the debris in the other direction, silencing the sobbing.

Timothy went back down, flattening his body, heart hammering.

More gunfire pinged into the space, a few stray rounds punching into the body Timothy hid behind. Bullets hit the walls and corpses around him.

Finally they stopped, and the two flashlight beams probed the basement again.

In the glow, he saw another person on their stomach about five feet away. They put a finger to their mouth.

It was Sergeant Ruckley.

She held a pistol in one hand that she aimed at the men. Another Army Ranger lay prone next to her with a shotgun pressed against his shoulder.

There was no more sobbing or moaning. The two collaborators whispered to each other, and Timothy held his breath, waiting to see what they would do.

After what seemed like an eternity, the flashlight beams pointed away, leaving the basement bathed in darkness again. The sound of scuffling boots faded as the men retreated.

Ruckley crawled over and handed something up to him. Timothy felt the metal grip of a knife handle.

“We have to get out of here,” she whispered. “Follow us.”

As soon as she started to get up, she froze.

Timothy didn’t hear anything at first, but then came the snapping of joints. He lifted his head. Two new figures stood on the collapsed wall. This time, they weren’t men.

Moonlight glowed over the charred gray flesh of Variants. They scuttled down the scree of bricks and wood into the basement.

Timothy tightened his grip on the knife.

Ruckley backed up next to him. “Can you fight?”

“Yes,” Timothy replied.

“We need to kill them quietly so we don’t attract attention from the collaborators,” she said.

The other Ranger joined them. He was a young Asian man, probably not much older than Timothy.

“Neeland, you take the one on the right,” Ruckley said. “I’ll take the one on the left. Timothy, if we screw up, you help. Follow me.”

Timothy and Neeland crawled after the sergeant. The Variants were feasting on one of the people the collaborators had just shot. Snapping gristle and the crack of a bone echoed in the room.

Ruckley was almost to her mark when Timothy hit a piece of loose debris. The concrete clunked on the floor, and the Variants spun. One jumped to a mountain of rubble on Ruckley’s left.

She slashed with her knife while the second Variant scampered toward Neeland.

Timothy tackled the beast. It opened a needle-toothed mouth that reeked of dead fish. He raised the blade and brought it down through the monster’s nasal cavity. It crunched through cartilage and bone before hitting the soft brain tissue.

The creature went limp, falling over Neeland.

Ruckley plunged her blade into another monster’s flesh over and over. Timothy helped her, jabbing his knife into the Variant’s side. The beast crumpled, but Timothy didn’t stop until the Variant let out its last breath.

Ruckley twisted toward him, panting, her uniform covered in blood. Timothy was drenched, too. He wiped his forehead off with a sleeve.

“You okay, Neeland?” Ruckley asked.

“I think so,” he said.

She put away her knife and pulled out her pistol. “Follow me.”

“Did you reach Command and tell them about the collaborator base at Mount Katahdin?” Timothy asked.

“Not yet.” Ruckley shook her head. “I didn’t have time before the attack. We need to find a radio.”

“Shit…” Timothy said. He wanted to scream, but he whispered instead. “They have a nuclear weapon and labs and…”

“I can’t do anything without a radio. We’ll find one and then get out of here.”

Timothy pictured Nick and Pete, too. “Not before we kill the collaborators.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “What?”

“I have to find those collaborators,” Timothy said. “I’m not leaving this place until they’re all dead.”

***

Despite all the warnings from her military advisers and staff, President Jan Ringgold had moved central command back to the mainland. This was where she wanted to be, with her people suffering the onslaught of the Variants and their collaborator allies.

She knew it was risky, but that’s why she had ordered Vice President Lemke to stay on the USS George Johnson.

Her rise to the presidency had been utterly unexpected and sudden when the president and vice president had died along with most of their cabinet during the Great War of Extinction. Circumstance and fate had given her no choice but to rise to the occasion.

So when Lemke had told her he was going with her to Long Island, she had been blunt about him staying on the ship. If she died, they needed a clear line of succession to continue the fight.

Two guards escorted her down the hallway of the underground bunker where they had set up their temporary command. They took a right at an intersection and then stopped outside the blast door that led to the emergency operations center (EOC) and the living quarters. The guards stopped there.

This was the new White House.

Instead of hallowed halls filled with historical paintings and antique furniture, there were corridors ribbed with steel columns and girders rising from cracked concrete floors.

The bunker had served as a Cold War-era bomb shelter, its location stuffed away in government files to only recently be rediscovered. It was one of a handful of places she and General Souza had in their back pockets to serve as a safe house when things got grim.

Ringgold couldn’t think of a time when things looked grimmer since the first war.

She walked to her temporary quarters, stopping first in a bathroom that wasn’t much larger than a coffin. A showerhead on the ceiling sprayed directly onto a tiled floor with a drain in the center. Next to it was a toilet and a stainless-steel sink.

After splashing a little rust-colored water over her face, she took a deep breath.

This is it, Jan, she thought.

After she tied back her hair, she walked back to the EOC doors. The guards opened it, immediately letting out the chaotic noise.

Voices clamored across the open space as officers spoke with representatives from other outposts. People rushed back and forth carrying computers and satellite phones, radios and boxes of supplies. They needed to modernize this place in a matter of hours to continue their operations.

Ringgold could feel and see the tension in the raised voices and hurried movements. Everyone here knew how desperate the situation was.

She made her way through the sea of officers and staff gathering intel from the outposts across the Allied States.

Her briefings would come soon, but first she wanted to see the newcomers that had arrived an hour earlier.

She made her way into another narrow passage, the sound of dogs barking down the hall. The noise guided her to an open door in another claustrophobia-inducing room. Inside, Horn was telling the two German shepherds to sit, while his daughters stowed their meager belongings in a small closet.

Horn seemed to sense her presence and turned. “Madam President.”

The dogs wagged their tails as he held them back.

“Good to see you all have settled in,” she said. “Where are Kate and Reed?”

“Just down the hall,” Horn said.

Ringgold stepped into the room and bent down to pet the dogs. She glanced up at the girls. “Tasha, Jenny, how are you two?”

Jenny looked down. “Dad said we won’t be going back home.”

“Is Outpost Portland really destroyed?” Tasha asked.

Ringgold stood and looked to Horn who gave her a subtle nod.

“I’m afraid so,” Ringgold said. “I’m very sorry.”

Tasha’s bottom lip quivered, and she put a hand over her eyes as if to hold back the tears. She wiped them away as Jenny sat on a cot, nose sniffling, eyes watering. The dogs both looked at the girls, their tails going limp.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Ringgold said. “We’ll rebuild, and we’ll make sure you get a new house.”

“But you can’t bring back Timothy or any of the others,” Tasha said.

“No, we can’t, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that,” Ringgold replied. “But Timothy and your friends would want you to keep moving forward with your lives.”

“Girls, let’s get unpacked and let the president get back to work,” Horn said.

The young women turned away looking devastated. It added to the guilt already consuming Ringgold.

When she returned to the hall, Beckham was standing there.

“Madam President,” he said.

Ringgold gave him a hug without saying a word.

“Are you okay?” he said quietly.

She pulled away and nodded. Seeing Captain Beckham always gave her strength. “Where’s Kate?”

“In the EOC conference room.”

“Let’s go then.”

She turned and they walked toward the conference room. Beckham opened the door when they got there.

At a round table in the center of the room sat General Souza, Lieutenant Festa, Dr. Lovato, and S.M. Fischer. They all stood to greet her.

These were her most trusted allies. People who had stood by her through the worst patches of the war. All were here because they believed in the Allied States—and because this was their only chance of survival.

Motioning for them to sit, she joined them at the table. The clamor in the hallways quieted with the closed door, and she steepled her fingers together on the table. Behind them was a wall of old CRT monitors that hadn’t yet been replaced. Souza and Festa each had a bulky laptop, but that was all her team of advisors had for communications for now.

“Let’s hear it,” she said, bracing herself for the bad news.

General Souza cleared his throat, then spoke. “All our warheads have been deployed, and we launched selective airstrikes at suspected Variant and collaborator targets.”

“How many outposts have we lost?” Ringgold asked, bracing herself for the answer.

“We’ve lost communication with seventeen,” Souza replied coldly. He checked his notes on the table. “Another seven reported heavy casualties and persistent Variant activity as recently as fifteen minutes ago. That brings us to forty-one remaining outposts as of thirty minutes ago, but many are close to radiation zones.”

The cold fingers of fear curled inside Ringgold’s chest, squeezing her lungs as Festa listed off the cities hit by the nuclear warheads. “Philadelphia, Chicago, Minneapolis, Denver, Kansas City, Dallas, New Orleans, Pittsburgh.”

Beckham’s jaw gritted at the report, but he said nothing. Fischer nervously pulled on his mustache. Kate stared ahead blankly.

“We hit them hard,” Souza said. “I’ve deployed a handful of recon teams in armored scout vehicles, but only time will tell if the brains of the operation are dead. I firmly believe destroying them is the only way to win this war.”

“Fighting on the ground out there, I can tell you from battle experience that things aren’t like they were eight years ago,” Beckham said. “There’s something more powerful controlling the masterminds.”

“It could be a well-connected human collaborator,” Fischer said. “Spies, military weaponry, newly developed weapons. It all smells like someone with firsthand knowledge of top-secret operations.”

“Have we heard anything from Team Ghost?” Beckham asked.

“Negative,” Festa said. “We lost contact.”

Beckham wrinkled his brow but retained his composure.

“So the SDS equipment is a loss?” Fischer asked.

“Don’t write them off yet,” Beckham said firmly.

Ringgold turned to Kate. “Right now, we need to fight this unconventional war with unconventional means, and Dr. Lovato, you might hold the keys to that. Can we move forward with the communication software your team developed to tap into the Variant network?”

All eyes turned to Kate.

“Before the insurrection at Manchester, the communication software worked on the mastermind,” she said. “However, that was a very controlled study. We didn’t have much time to finish it before…” She paused. “We lost Dr. Carr and Sammy Tibalt is severely injured, which means any further testing will be difficult.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about Dr. Carr,” Ringgold said. “He was a talented scientist, and his sacrifice will not be in vain. How’s Sammy doing?”

“She’s stable,” Kate said.

“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I have more questions,” Ringgold said.

“By all means, go ahead.”

“From your reports, I gather you can now listen in on the Variants organic network and potentially send messages through it, correct?”

“That’s what our preliminary results demonstrate,” Kate said. “Sammy is the genius behind the software portion.”

“Can you do what she did?”

“No,” Kate said. “Well…maybe.”

Ringgold thought about her next order, but she knew Kate would be up for the task. “I realize you’re all reeling from your losses, but I need you to test the technology you’ve developed.”

Beckham furrowed his brow. “In the field?”

“Yes,” Ringgold said.

Kate and Beckham exchanged a look.

“She’s not going without me,” he said.

“Of course not,” Ringgold said. “If you want to bring Parker, he can go or he can stay here with your children. I’ll leave it up to you. Either way, get some sleep. We move out when the sun is up.”

“I’ll go, too,” said Fischer. “On our way here, Cornelius and I organized a shipment of the seismic detection equipment I used in El Paso. I just need to know where to send it.”

“I know of just the place,” Festa said. “The outpost in lower Manhattan has repelled the most recent attack. It’s close to us, and they have access to tunnels with webbing you can tap into, Doctor Lovato.”

Fischer gave a nod and picked up his cowboy hat. “I’ll have the equipment shipped there immediately.”

“Good,” Ringgold said.

“Guess I’m going back to New York,” Beckham said. “Hopefully this time we’ll have better luck than we did with Operation Liberty.”

— 3 —

“We got contacts at our ten o’clock,” boomed Pete, his dreadlocks bouncing over his shoulder. He raised his gun.

Nick “Whiskey” Wisniewski stopped and turned toward his comrade. The man pointed into the darkness but Nick saw nothing. After leaving the University of Southern Maine, he and his crew of seven had trudged through the early morning hours on their way to the rendezvous point. They had already racked up five outpost soldier kills and still had a ways to go.

Despite the intensity of the bombings, there was a fair number of people that had escaped the blasts. His men were rounding them up now.

“There!” said Pete.

Nick spotted a man and woman dart out of a building. They started running. He took no pleasure in shooting them, but it had to be done.

He raised his M4 and lined the man up in his sights, then squeezed off a burst. The man went down still holding the hand of the woman. She tumbled to the ground next to him.

Then she let out an agonizing wail that was silenced when Pete slammed the butt of his gun into her forehead. Another man jogged over to retrieve her. With Pete’s help, they dragged her back to their gang of prisoners.

They already had ten rounded up and tied together in a line.

A man named Ray guarded them with a shotgun in one hand and a machete in the other. He had already hacked one man to death who tried to break free. The man’s butchered body was still tied to the line with the others, a reminder of what would happen if the prisoners tried anything.

Nick jogged over, changing his spent magazine as he ran. “Pete, we need to move. No more stopping to find people. Let’s get back to the vehicles before the military hits again.”

They had wiped Outpost Portland off the map, but it had come at a great cost. Over half their own soldiers were dead, and most of their vehicles destroyed.

The military had unexpectedly sacrificed their own in order to kill as many Variants and collaborators as possible. A ruthless act, which surprised Nick. Normally President Ringgold avoided collateral damage, but then again, maybe she hadn’t given the order.

Maybe there was someone else in charge of the war now.

Either way, this just proved what he already knew. The New Gods were winning, and soon the Allied States of America would no longer exist.

A Variant’s high-pitched shriek shattered the stillness of the pre-dawn hours.

The human prisoners huddled closer together. The sound might have bothered Nick, too, if the beasts weren’t still under the control of the Alpha in the area.

He wasn’t sure where the huge monster was now, but he had his remote to shock it into submission if it went rogue.

“Let’s grab Alfred and move out,” Pete said.

Nick returned to the place they had left Alfred a few minutes before. He had slumped against the car they had propped him against, unconscious from his burns.

The low rumble of a fighter jet forced Nick to scramble for cover next to his injured friend.

Scanning the sky, he waited for a glimpse of the jet, but the roar of the engines grew distant.

“Alfred,” Nick whispered, trying to rouse the older man.

“He’s in bad shape,” said Ray.

Nick reached down to check the bandages wrapped around Alfred’s right arm and his shoulder. Shrapnel had punched into his back. Those bandages were already soaked through with blood.

Pete pulled a dreadlock away from his face for a better look. Then he sighed. “He’s not going to make it.”

Alfred’s eyelids suddenly flitted open.

“I’ll make it,” he grumbled. “Don’t leave me behind.”

Nick bent down and scooped an arm under Alfred. He helped him stand, but Alfred winced in pain. He was a big man, and there was no way Nick could carry him all the way to the rendezvous point.

They set off with the other soldiers and their prisoners, moving slowly.

The next few city blocks had been hit hard by bombs. Foundations were all that remained of obliterated houses and businesses. Abandoned vehicles lay in the road, warped and charcoaled.

A graveyard of twisted corpses littered the asphalt of the next street. Clawed hands reaching skyward confirmed they were a pack of Variant thralls that had been caught in the inferno. Seeing the mangled corpses filled Nick with almost as much rage as seeing his dead brothers and sisters.

These were the creatures that were supposed to help them take back their land from the traitors, and every day more lost their lives to the very government that created them.

“We got a live one,” said Ray. He aimed his machete at a juvenile.

The armored shell had blackened, and its eyeballs had melted into gobs of mangled tissue. It growled and moaned, writhing in agony.

“Put it out of its misery,” Pete said.

Ray raised his machete. A crack to the skull ended the suffering. Its inhuman voice was replaced by a mechanical noise.

The thump, thump, thump of chopper blades.

“Contacts!” Pete said. “Everyone, off the road!”

The seven soldiers pulled the group of civilians into a ditch behind the remains of a collapsed building. Seconds after taking cover, two Black Hawk helicopters plunged through the smokescreen. They flew toward the city, door gunners opening up on targets Nick couldn’t see.

He started to raise his rifle but Pete held up an arm to stop him.

“Unless you’ve got an RPG I don’t know about, we don’t have the firepower to take those birds down,” he said.

“We can still take out those gunners…”

“Not without drawing them straight to us, we can’t,” Pete said. “This is not the time to make a move, so stand the fuck down.”

Alfred groaned in pain, and Nick crouched to check on him. Pete went around the side of the building with two other men for a better view.

A few of the prisoners mumbled to each other. Another three sobbed.

Ray held up his machete, still wet with blood. “Quiet, you fucking dogs. Another word and it will be your last.”

A woman sobbed, but Ray left her alone.

The choppers circled over the university campus for another five minutes before vanishing in the plumes of smoke. For another ten minutes, the bark of the machine guns and the howl of dying monsters filled the early morning.

Eventually the creatures quieted and so did the gunfire, leaving only the thump of the choppers. That too ended as the birds raced away from the campus.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves on the ground.

Pete returned and motioned for the group to keep moving. Nick helped Alfred up, but he was losing strength and blood. He leaned on Nick, heavier than before.

“Hang in there,” Nick said. “We’re almost back to the trucks.”

“I’m…” Alfred groaned and slumped, pulling Nick to the ground. They crashed to the dirt in a tangle of limbs.

Pete grabbed Nick and yanked him up. Alfred was lying on his side, eyes closed.

A touch to his neck confirmed his pulse was weak, and Nick could tell his friend was running out of time. If they didn’t get him medical attention soon, he would die.

“Leave him,” Pete said. “He’s not going to make it.”

Nick glared at Pete. “I’ll carry him.”

“You’d be carrying a corpse. He’ll only slow us down.”

“He’s still alive, man,” Nick said, trying to keep his voice low.

Pete gave Alfred a pitiful look. “Alfred’s service to the New Gods has come to an end.”

“Come on,” Ray said. “Those choppers might be back.”

Nick looked at the smoke-filled sky. They were right, but leaving Alfred felt wrong. The guy had been with them for years, serving with fierce loyalty.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Nick said. He patted Alfred on the shoulder and then stood. As he jogged away, he looked over his shoulder, watching Alfred’s chest move up and down slowly.

“Come on,” Pete said.

He led the group of prisoners and other soldiers through the burned streets.

Their trucks would hopefully be waiting at the rendezvous point about two miles away. For the next twenty minutes they jogged hard, stopping only once to help a female prisoner that had fallen.

Ray raised his machete to kill the woman but Pete stopped him.

“We’re almost back,” he said. “No more killing for now.”

Nick felt some relief. Too much of their own blood had been spilled tonight, and they had lost far too many potential converts.

Down the street, he noticed movement. A Variant climbed the side of a stone church. It skittered up a broken steeple and perched at the top, looking out over the ruins like a gargoyle.

Rearing back its bald skull, it released an unholy shriek. Dozens of its comrades answered the call, a message that they now controlled Outpost Portland.

“The New Gods will be pleased about tonight,” Pete said. “Very pleased, indeed.”

***

Beckham was lying in the creaking bed of the quarters he’d been assigned in the Long Island bunker. A pane of light slipped in under the closed door. Exhaustion gripped his body, but he couldn’t manage to stay asleep. By four in the morning, he had jerked awake multiple times from incessant nightmares.

At five, he gave up on even trying to close his eyes.

Kate rolled over on her back, staring at the cracked ceiling, unable to find sleep, too. Javier was the only one getting any shuteye in a cot across the room.

Beckham pushed his body up against Kate’s.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered.

She turned to face him. “You really believe that?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him in silence for a while before facing the ceiling again.

He wasn’t sure if she believed him, and hell, he wasn’t sure he believed himself. But he couldn’t lose hope. Confidence and optimism was a soldier’s surest path to victory, and as much as he had tried to retire, he was, and always would be, a warrior.

They finally got up an hour later, roused Javier, and told him they were being sent out again. He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes, his hair ruffled.

“Am I going too?”

“I’m afraid not,” Kate said.

“You’re leaving me again?” he mumbled.

“We won’t be gone long,” Beckham said. “You’re going to stay with Tasha, Jenny, Big Horn, and the dogs. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun?” Javier looked to his mom, completely alert now. “You want to tell Dad what fun means?”

She forced a smile.

“It will be more fun than where we’re going,” she said.

“I want to go with you,” Javier said. “I can help. I can fight.”

“Honey, it won’t be safe,” Kate said.

“You can protect the others here,” Beckham said. “Ginger and Spark need you, too. You can watch out for them, right?”

Javier shrugged, and Kate bent down to hug him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“New York City,” Kate replied.

An hour later, he and Kate were on a Black Hawk flying toward the city with S.M. Fischer, his guards, and four soldiers. Beckham dreaded going back to where he had lost so many of his brothers and sisters eight years ago in Operation Liberty.

The apocalyptic landscape was worse than he remembered.

Entire city blocks had burned to piles of ashen debris and the crumbled remains of towers. Mountains of rubble were all that remained of some of the city’s most iconic landmarks. The city’s bridges were mostly non-existent, blown apart before Operation Liberty to keep the infected from spreading. All that had done was trap the living in the city.

He remembered stories of people trying to swim across the river only to drown. And then there were the people who had leapt off the rooftops to avoid the slashing talons of the beasts.

Pillars of smoke rose from lower Manhattan, evidence of the battle from the night before. The bird went higher, giving Beckham a fleeting view of what was left of the New York Public Library. The stairs and the front columns remained, but most of the walls and roof had collapsed inward.

A memory surfaced in his mind of the Variant hordes that had turned the building into an extended stay hotel. But it wasn’t the battle that had occurred here that filled him with despair—it was the police officer and the boy that Beckham and Horn had found inside the Bank of America tower during Operation Liberty.

This was where he had rescued Jake Temper and his son Timothy.

Now they were both gone.

Beckham lowered his head.

“Reed,” Kate said. She squeezed his hand. Her strength helped him find the courage to face the future.

Two Apache helicopters suddenly flew on the flanks of the Black Hawk. They raced ahead, and the pilots of the Black Hawk turned to follow.

“Nice escorts,” Fischer called out.

“Haven’t seen one of them for a while,” said Chase.

“Waste of fuel if you ask me,” added Tran. “Unless the Variants can fly like those freaks in Europe.”

“There could be bats out here,” Kate reminded him.

“Well, look at that,” said one of the pilots. “The Brooklyn Bridge is still intact.”

They flew over it. The bridge had indeed survived the past decade, but it wasn’t unscathed. A few of the vertical cables had snapped and pieces of the road had broken through, dropping into the water.

Multiple ships were docked along the piers to the bridge’s south. One was an old destroyer turned into a museum. There was also a cruise ship that had slammed ashore, smashing its bow. Scattered across the deck were what looked like piles of bodies.

But it wasn’t all death and destruction below.

The first signs of life came into view. Four Humvees escorted an old UPS truck through a street littered with broken vehicles and debris. Soldiers in turrets raked their weapons over the road. One man raised a hand to the chopper before Beckham lost sight of them.

The Apaches turned toward the city and flew over Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange. Most of the massive towers here had sustained damage from rockets that had blown out the upper floors. The walls of the bottom floors were blackened from the firebombs that had almost killed Beckham in Operation Liberty.

“There it is,” said a pilot over the headset. “The 9/11 memorial is our LZ.”

The memorial was walled off along the streets from the debris of destroyed buildings.

As the chopper did a quick flyby, it became apparent the outpost survivors of the prior night’s battle had retreated block by block to a smaller, more defensible area. The smoke drifted from the east, rising from holes in the ground.

The outpost must have detonated bombs in the sewers and subways.

The Black Hawk descended toward the memorial. Two M1 Abrams tanks and Bradley Fighting Vehicles, both rare sights, were positioned at gates in the walls surrounding the site. Soldiers patrolled the platforms built behind the razor wire.

When the Black Hawk touched down, a crew chief opened the door. Beckham helped Kate out and away from the bird. Fischer almost lost his cowboy hat, but Tran snatched it and handed it back.

Three soldiers flanking a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked red hair waited across the lawn, their clothes whipping in the rotor wash.

The Apaches set down on rooftops nearby. The pilots climbed down from the cockpits and vanished from view as soldiers on the roofs stood guard around the precious birds.

“This way!” shouted the woman ahead. She led them through a maze of trees and past the dry memorial pools where they stopped.

The woman held out a hand and smiled, wrinkles forming next to her mouth that evidenced a lifetime of smoking. “Welcome to Outpost Lower Manhattan. I’m Commander Amber Massey.”

“Captain Reed Beckham.”

He shook her hand. He wasn’t surprised when he received a firm grip. Anyone who had held a place like this, in a city that had never been cleared of the monsters, was going to be strong.

“I’m Doctor Kate Lovato,” Kate said, introducing herself next. “My team is still in a classified location, but we’re here to do an advance inspection. We’ll need access to the closest tunnel with Variant webbing.”

Massey cracked a sly grin. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, Commander,” Kate replied. “My team is working on—”

Massey’s grin faded to a frown. “When I was told we were getting new people, I thought Command meant special forces and reinforcements, not a science team and…” Massey’s eyes flitted to Beckham and his prosthetic leg and arm.

“Captain Reed Beckham is special forces,” Kate said.

“I didn’t mean to offend anyone, but we were hit hard last night. Lost a lot of good men and women defending these walls.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Fischer said, tipping his hat.

“Um, who are you?” Massey asked.

“S.M. Fischer with Fischer Fields,” he said. “All due respect, but we’re here on orders from the president, and we’re one of the best things that could have happened for this outpost.”

Before Massey could respond, voices called out.

“Open the gates!” yelled a guard on one of the walls.

A barred gate rose. The two Humvees and the UPS truck Beckham had seen from the sky drove in from Greenwich Street. The vehicles stopped in the parking lot nearby. Soldiers hopped out and went to the back of the UPS truck to open the door. Then they helped civilians down, one by one.

Kids, women, and a few men. All of them wearing the same expressions of terror. One of the men still had red webbing attached to his arms and legs.

“My God,” Kate said. “They must have been pulled from the tunnels.”

“Those are the last of the survivors from an area outside the outpost,” Massey interrupted. “I thought there would be more…”

“This won’t happen again, ma’am,” Fischer said. “We’re here to protect them now. My engineers are on their way with equipment that will identify the Variant tunnels before they attack.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Massey said. “I’m sorry if I came off a little harsh before. My people are hurting and dying.”

“How many people are here?” Beckham asked.

Massey looked over her shoulder at a few of the buildings. “Five thousand. Maybe. We lost an entire building with five hundred people last night.”

“Weren’t there originally twenty thousand people here?” Kate asked.

“Yes,” Massey said coldly. “Like I said, we’ve been hit hard. We had to pull nearly everyone back behind these walls.”

“Sorry to hear about your losses,” Beckham said. “It’s been a tough few days for everyone.”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Can you tell me what all the smoke was we saw on our way in?”

“My demolition teams blew up a few tunnels and collapsed a subway last night. We set mines around other areas we suspect the Variants might come through.”

A pickup truck pulled in from another gate, this one had more wounded people in the back. Medics gently removed two soldiers with long crimson gashes splitting their skin and red webbing tied around their limbs.

“Jesus,” Fischer said, taking off his cowboy hat again.

“Jesus has nothing to do with this place,” Massey said. “Now follow me.”

She led them through the park, navigating past more until they reached a construction site. Only this wasn’t just an old site that was never finished before the war.

Massey put her hands in her hips and stood next to Kate. “So, you want access to the webbing?”

“Yes,” Kate replied.

“This is the one tunnel we’ve kept open,” Massey said. She pointed down metal stairs that led to a hole with twisted rebar. Tendrils of webbing hung off the concrete and metal.

“Where does it lead?” Beckham asked.

“To the sewers where many of our people were taken,” Massey said. “It’s secure right now, but we were setting charges to destroy it so the Variants can’t use it again. How long do you need access to it?”

“Hard to say,” Kate said.

“Guess.”

“A few hours, maybe half a day.”

“How about until dusk?” Massey asked.

Beckham stepped up to the fencing, his hand on his M4 strapped over his chest. In the depths of the darkness, he saw more webbing stretching out like hundreds of snake tongues.

If there was a gate to hell on Earth, this was it. And he and Kate were about to descend into its depths.

— 4 —

Dohi was on point, leading Team Ghost and the surviving Wolfhounds through the wreckage of the National Accelerator Laboratory Campus. Dark pillars of smoke rose from craters around the buildings, scars left by the attacks from those mysterious helicopters.

Anxiety ate at Fitz as he waited for those thumping rotors again. Any moment, those bastards might come sweeping down.

He carried a pack full of scrapped computers and other devices they had scavenged from the warehouses. As bad as this broken tech looked, Fitz hoped the engineers and scientists could still do something useful with them.

“That’s what so many of my bros died for, huh?” said Martin. The sole Wolfhound who hadn’t been injured was walking close by and helping one of his comrades, a blond-haired man named Lawrence. Blood-soaked bandages were wrapped around Lawrence’s arm where the cannibals had sliced off a piece of muscle and skin, then singed the wound closed.

“It’s going to work,” Lawrence said, eyes bleary. He still seemed to be in shock. “These guys know what they’re doing.”

“That butchered arm of yours is screwing with your brain if you think they got a single damn idea of what’s going on.”

“Quiet,” Fitz said. “We’re going to get you guys out of here, but you have to cooperate.”

Fitz took a moment to scan the rest of them.

A big dark-skinned man named Jackson was on Rico’s back in a fireman’s carry. Both his legs had been chopped off by the cannibals. The cauterized stumps leaked yellow fluids into sodden bandages. His face had grown a shade paler since they had begun their hike away from the warehouses, and Fitz wasn’t sure if he was going to make it. He’d been unconscious nearly the entire time.

Ace had a man with a scraggly beard and olive-green eyes, Hopkins, in a similar carry. Every bump, every jostle sent the man groaning in pain. His right foot was missing below the ankle.

Mendez was at least walking on his own, watching their backs on rear guard.

“Put me down,” Hopkins begged.

Fitz remembered the guy bravely working with them to infiltrate the cannibal’s base before, but all sense of bravery was gone.

“Put me down and leave me,” he mumbled.

For a second, Fitz thought that maybe they would be better off leaving the injured Wolfhounds behind and coming back for them. Team Ghost could make it to the C-130H faster without them. Secure it and then return…

He shook the thoughts from his head. That was just exhaustion speaking. The last dregs of adrenaline had burned off, and they were faced with a stark, demoralizing reality.

Leaving any Wolfhound behind was condemning them to death. Either to their own wounds, starving Variants, or to the unknown enemies that had tried to cut them down from the choppers. He already felt responsible for the extreme loss of life.

Fitz motioned for the group to gather around the charred husk of a delivery truck. He looked around at the weary, ash-covered faces.

“We’re almost to the edge of the campus,” Fitz said. “From there we hike straight back to the C-130. If the choppers come back, split and run. Rendezvous is the LZ. Clear?”

Several nods.

“Seriously, just leave me,” Hopkins said, eyes bleary. “You guys would do better without us dragging you down. You still got a mission, and we’re holding you back.”

“We ain’t leavin’ nobody,” Mendez grunted.

“Keep quiet,” Fitz ordered. “There might still be cannibals or Variants out there.”

Dohi led them down the street toward the freeway. The odor of cooked flesh drifted through the air. Rubble lay at the feet of the buildings. Flames still licked piles of debris.

The team passed melted vehicles scattered along the cracked parking lot. A cluster of corpses were just ahead, skeletal remains frozen in agony where they had fallen to gunfire or flames.

Fitz passed a truck with a missing windshield. A cannibal gunner had been posted inside. His rifle lay outside the driver’s side window, and his skeletal hands were stretched out as if he had been trying to escape when the rockets hit.

Charred muscles had shrunken into ghastly cables over his long bones. Not much remained of his face except his open jaw from when the man had let out a permanent, silent scream.

Fitz felt a hint of sympathy. The cannibals had been cruel, twisted human beings, but seeing even them slaughtered like this was hard to stomach.

That feeling quickly evaporated when they passed over the highway. He took the team past the location where Lieutenant Singh and the other Wolfhounds had been positioned.

“Oh, God, no,” Martin choked.

Lawrence leaned on him, face frozen in shock.

“You still think these assholes know what they’re doing?” Martin asked.

Lawrence didn’t answer this time.

At the edge of the woods, mangled body parts surrounded bloodied craters. Bullet holes perforated tree trunks. Other trunks had been turned into splinters by rockets.

“This is all your goddamn fault,” Martin mumbled.

Fitz heard it but ignored the man. He went to Mendez and glassed the freeway to make sure they weren’t being followed.

“We have to bury them,” Martin said.

Fitz turned to see him picking up an arm and a leg. That’s when he knew Martin had lost it.

“Come on, man,” Lawrence said, holding his wounded arm. “You need to trust them. We got to keep going. Got to get to that C-130.”

“He’s right,” Fitz said.

Martin glared at him, but then nodded, pulling himself together.

Rico lugged Jackson over.

“We got a problem,” she said.

“What’s up?”

“He’s burning up from an infection, and it’s bad. The antibiotics we gave him from the field kit aren’t doing anything.”

“We’ve got more on the plane,” Fitz said. “Come on, let’s move out.”

Rico took in a deep breath and then kept walking with Jackson on her back.

An hour of slow moving took them around the booby traps in the forest. When Fitz heard the popping of joints, he signaled the team to halt.

It sounded like it was coming from one of the pits.

He crept to the edge and peered over the side of it. A Variant writhed on a stake piercing its abdomen. Bloodshot, reptilian eyes locked onto his as its long tongue lashed the air.

He made sure the others saw it before moving on.

The message was clear: Variants were still prowling these woods to find scraps from the battle.

The team trudged onward as the early morning hours turned to noon. The sun hung high overhead. Eventually, they reached the beginning of the cliffside trail that would take them down to the beach-turned-landing strip. Fitz wanted to sprint ahead and search for the Wolfhounds defending the C-130.

“Hold up,” Rico said.

She gently laid Jackson on the ground. Fitz joined her after signaling to Dohi, Ace, and Mendez to hold security.

Rico knelt beside Jackson, her fingers against his wrist. His dark skin was covered in beads of sweat, and his lips were dry and cracked.

Fitz bent down.

“Pulse is weak,” Rico said. She tried to drip water from her hydration pack into his mouth. He choked on the dribble, erupting in a wracking cough.

“We’re almost there,” Fitz said. “Hang on, Jackson.”

A rotten odor drifted away from the bandages around his legs. No doubt from the festering infections.

Rico tried to give Jackson more water. A low noise gurgled at the back of his throat, like he was trying to talk. But then he went quiet, and his head tilted to the side.

“Almost there,” Fitz repeated to Rico, to reassure himself as much as her. “You need help?”

Rico shook her head, then loaded the man on her back again. “He’s not that heavy, to be honest.”

Dohi waited for Fitz’s signal before taking them to the edge of an abrupt cliff. The blue waves of the Pacific gleamed in the sunlight, and Fitz walked up to the edge.

Beneath them stretched the long, sandy beach where the C-130 and the Wolfhounds were supposed to be waiting.

A breath caught in his chest when he saw half-buried corpses and weapons scattered along the coast. The C-130 looked like a spent firecracker, half its fuselage torn open and leaking charcoaled supplies.

“Keep them away,” Fitz said to Ace. The Wolfhounds had been through enough, and he didn’t want them to lose hope. But Fitz felt defeated, like the eroding beach in front of them. Slammed over and over by waves.

Ace moved in front of Martin and Lawrence to keep them from looking.

“What?” Martin said. He had set his pack down again and was holding his gold necklace like it was the only thing keeping his mind in control. “What is it?”

Ace put a big hand in front of Martin’s chest. “Hold on, man. We’ve got to make sure things are clear.”

Fitz crouched next to Rico. She pointed to movement inside the cockpit.

He shouldered his rifle and peered through its optics, zooming in on the fractured plexiglass around the cockpit. Through one missing panel, he saw what had caught her attention.

A starving Variant tore at the neck of a dead pilot. Needle-sharp teeth came away from the flesh with strings of bloody sinew.

Fitz cursed their luck.

Everything that could have gone wrong had.

That’s not exactly true, he thought.

His team was still alive.

Bringing up his rifle, Fitz waited for a good shot, but Dohi grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Boss, you need to see this,” he said quietly.

Fitz followed him to another vantage point.

“Ten o’clock,” Dohi whispered.

Fitz used his scope again but all he saw were seagulls swooping in to feast on the dead. Then he saw a camouflaged Zodiac on the shore.

Using his scope, he followed footprints in the sand from the small boat to the plane.

Dohi held up a pair of binoculars, indicating a spot further out over the ocean. He handed over the binos, and Fitz zoomed in on a ship just barely visible on the horizon. When he squinted, he thought he saw the shape of two choppers resting on its deck.

Now he knew where the hostiles had refueled their birds. But how in the hell did they get a ship and equipment like this?

He handed the binos back and aimed his rifle on the C-130 when Rico stumbled over. She crouched down, shaking her head incredulously.

“Fitz, you’re not going to believe this…” she said.

Dohi and Fitz both looked at her as they crouched.

“What?” Fitz said.

“It’s a Variant…but it’s also a man…” Rico shook her head again. “Just look at the damn plane again.”

Fitz and Dohi both got back up behind the rock cover and used their rifles to view the figures that had emerged outside the destroyed aircraft. Not one, but three men walked out of the wreckage, blood dripping down their chins.

A deep pang of terror shot through him when he saw their yellow, reptilian eyes and maws filled with jagged teeth.

These weren’t men.

At least, not entirely.

These were some sort of Variant-human crossbreeds. And they were carrying rifles.

“They’re like… Chimeras,” Rico said. “Half-Variant, half-human.”

“Chimeras,” Fitz repeated, thinking of the horrifying amalgam of creatures that comprised the legendary monster in Greek mythology.

He thought he had seen the worst combinations of nature and science in Europe. But now he realized those mutated creatures paled in comparison to the things standing on the beach. These crooked half-beasts were exactly what the VX-99 program had set out to create all those years ago in Vietnam.

The perfect soldier.

***

Kate waited at the top of the metal stairs that would take her and her team into the bowels of Variant hell. A warm wind blew out of the hole at the construction site.

If she stared too long into the abyss, she could almost hear the whispers and moans of all the people that the beasts had taken down here. The scratch and click of scuttling Variants. The shrieks of an Alpha commanding the beasts.

Beckham stepped beside her, and the fear slowly subsided.

“Nothing we haven’t seen before, so try not to worry,” he said. “We got plenty of security, and I’ll be right here.”

Her husband was half-right about the first part. Kate had seen the creatures both in her lab and out more times than she cared to count. She had also experimented with the webbing and worked on a mastermind.

But she had never been inside one of their tunnels or lairs.

“It’s not just the beasts I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s what they brought down here.”

The thrumming chop of an incoming helicopter commanded her attention. Outpost soldiers posted around the construction site retreated to the wide lawn that had been serving as the outpost’s helipad. Fischer had been hanging out near them with his guards and walked over toward Beckham and Kate.

Kate shielded her eyes against the midday sun. The silhouette of a Black Hawk descended toward the memorial park.

“That must be my team,” she said.

Fischer joined them, dipping his cowboy hat.

“Just got word that my vibroseis equipment will be here in a few hours,” he said. “I’m going to take a ride outside the walls to scout locations for it.”

“Good luck,” Beckham said.

“You too,” Fischer said, dipping his hat again.

Kate watched the chopper disappear behind a line of trees. Only thirty seconds passed before it lifted back into the sky. The soldiers that had departed at its arrival returned now, escorting the technicians that would assist Kate in hooking up their computers to tap into the organic Variant network.

She recognized Ron with his buzzed head and bandages covering wounds from Manchester. Leslie was here too, her long blond hair tied in a ponytail. Between them walked someone Kate hadn’t expected.

“Sammy!” she yelled.

The computer engineer limped, one tattooed arm clamped over her abdomen. Kate ran to her.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be resting,” Kate said.

“We tried to tell her that,” Leslie said.

“She doesn’t listen,” Ron added.

Sammy cracked a pained smile. “You think I trust a bunch of biologists with my computer program?”

“Seriously though, are you sure you’re up for this?” Kate asked.

“Look, we need to infiltrate the Variant network as fast as possible,” Sammy said. “I developed the software, and I don’t think anyone here understands communication networks as well as I do.”

Kate sighed. She wasn’t going to argue with Sammy, because as much as she hated to admit it, the engineer was right. They absolutely needed her.

“Can we get some help with this stuff?” Ron asked, pointing to a few crates that the soldiers had helped carry from their chopper.

“What is all this?” Beckham asked.

“Splash suits and masks,” Leslie said. “We’re going underground. There might be contaminants, airborne and otherwise. This will help protect us.”

“Understood.” Beckham directed a few soldiers to open the supply crates.

“Wait, we’re going down there?” Ron asked, peering down into the pit.

Leslie stepped up for a look.

“We’ve got plenty of soldiers to protect us,” Kate said. “And my husband is taking the lead.”

“Good enough for me,” Sammy said.

Beckham gave orders to the other guards. There were twelve in total, all armed with rifles and decked out in body armor.

Kate looked to Ron. “Do you have everything we need?”

He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder and opened it to reveal its contents. “Two laptops—one spare—and a handful of flexible microelectric arrays.”

“Good,” Kate said. “Let’s suit up.”

Ron and Leslie helped the soldiers into splash suit coveralls. They taped their boots and gloves and fitted each with a full facemask respirator. Sammy gave Beckham a wrist monitor that reported oxygen and temperature levels to help gauge the tunnel’s environmental compatibility.

Once the soldiers were outfitted, the science team donned their protective gear, each strapping on wrist monitors of their own. Kate took in a breath, smelling the slight plastic odor of the rebreather system.

“After you, Captain,” Kate said.

Beckham led the way down the metal stairs into the old sewer line. Hot air emanated from inside like they were entering the throat of a giant beast.

“What’s with the heat?” Ron asked.

Kate threw up a finger at the technician. She wasn’t a soldier, but she knew the value of quiet when infiltrating unknown territory, even if you had been told it was likely safe. From all her time with Beckham, she had soaked in a few lessons. It was the only way to survive as long as they had.

Once they hit the bottom of the stairs, the tunnel curved into a relatively flat floor. Their boots slurped over fragments of the red webbing that had been destroyed by the demolition team prior to Kate and her team’s arrival.

A demolitions team had rigged C4 charges throughout the tunnels with lines snaking away to the detonators. Seeing the explosive charges didn’t bother Kate, but the rising temperature did. It was a good fifteen degrees hotter already.

Beckham flipped on his tactical light as they left the reach of the sun. Beams of white light with target designators speared the darkness from a dozen rifles.

Leslie gasped.

“Holy shit,” Ron said.

Hunks of Variant body parts littered the area beyond an iron gate that the outpost engineers had installed earlier that day.

Beckham and the other soldiers shone their lights through the bars. They raked the beams back and forth before unlocking the gate.

The passage was only about ten yards wide and another six tall, but it was one of the largest Kate had heard about. This old sewer line was a major artery of transport and communication for the Variants.

Exactly the kind of place they needed to tap into.

Much of the webbing on the walls had burned to a crisp. In other areas, crimson ropes hung loose as if they had been torn by claws and bullets. Tangles of the webbing farther down still pulsed on their own, tendrils squirming like worms cut in half.

While segmented chunks of webbing lined the walls and floor, Kate couldn’t be sure that they were connected with the main network. With the damage in this part of the tunnel, she had a hard time figuring out if any piece of webbing connected to the masterminds and other Variants miles from their location.

For their efforts to succeed, they needed an intact section, untouched by the demolition team. One that led to the larger network of tunnels and webbing that connected the masterminds. That was the only way to truly tap into the Variant and collaborator communications.

And that meant they had to go deeper.

Kate explained and Beckham took in a deep breath.

“Okay, follow me,” he said.

The further they traveled, the worse the stench grew. Somewhere in the distance water dripped from the ceiling.

Beckham stopped a handful of times, and Kate listened for the popping of joints or growls of the beasts. All she heard was the constant drip and trickle of water.

They pushed onward. Another gust of warm wind traveled through the passage a few minutes later. Kate shivered from a sound that came with that wind.

A slight rustling mixed with ghostly moans.

“I got movement,” said one of the soldiers.

Beckham signaled for two soldiers to follow him and investigate as the others held positions around the science team.

Kate froze and watched her husband move into the darkness.

The lights bobbed, chasing away the shadows as their guns swept across the tunnel. Beckham’s light landed on a long crimson tendril that strained and quivered slightly.

“Just the webbing,” said the other soldier. He pulled out a knife and touched it with the blade. As soon as he did, something dropped from the ceiling.

He nearly tripped, stumbling backward as he brought up his rifle.

“Hold your fire,” Beckham said. He trained his light on a cocoon of red that had dropped from the snapped webbing.

Kate took a few steps forward.

“My God,” Beckham said.

The soldier with the knife knelt next to the cocoon. Beckham bent down and took out his blade, too. They carefully cut at the fibers. The scarlet vines fell away to reveal a shriveled, skinny man with gaping wounds in his side. Teeth and claw marks covered his body, and he let out a long, agonized moan.

“Jesus,” said the soldier with Beckham.

The other guards advanced around them to hold security, and Kate moved over to help. She looked down the tunnel as the beams penetrated the inky darkness.

All along the ceiling and walls were other cocoons strung up in the webbing. People squirmed in a few of them. Others were completely still, the occupants unconscious or long-since dead.

Beckham pulled out his radio. “Command, Alpha One. We found some of your missing people. Requesting additional support. Medical included.”

The transmission didn’t go through, and he turned, giving orders for one of the soldiers to go back and get help.

Then he sent two of the other guards to clear more of the tunnel and free as many survivors as they could while they waited for backup.

Kate steeled herself as she heard the slurp of prisoners being let loose from the webbing. Beckham walked back over to her.

“Is this place good enough to tap into the network?” he asked.

Kate looked to Sammy. “What do you think?”

“This is as good as it gets in terms of network density,” Sammy said.

“Let’s try it,” Kate said, trying to keep it together. She tried to take her gaze from the human prisoners with their horrifying wounds, but it was almost impossible, and she pictured her friends and family strung up in tunnels just like this.

Of all the places she had worked in the past, this was the worst. But her team had no choice. If they wanted to ensure the future of the Allied States didn’t end up like this, they had to tap into the Variant network.

— 5 —

Dohi perched amid the windswept trees and bushes on a cliff overlooking the wreckage of the C-130. Past it, waves crashed over the shore. He watched three Chimeras sift through the ruins of the plane.

Outside the wreckage, two of the half-breed beasts fed on the corpses of the Wolfhounds scattered across the sand and rocks.

Mendez lay prone beside Dohi, surveying the macabre scene with his binos. Deeper in the woods behind them, the rest of Team Ghost monitored Hopkins, Lawrence, and Jackson. The injured trio continued to decline. Jackson was still unconscious, both of his injured legs looking worse.

While Hopkins could manage to stand on one leg, there was no way he could walk unassisted with his missing foot. He continued to beg Team Ghost to go on without the three of them, insisting they were nothing but a burden.

Even Lawrence with only an injured arm now looked pale as a sheet. His eyes had turned glassy, and he seemed in a constant state of shock. The trio needed antibiotics and better medical attention than Ghost could provide with their already depleted field kits.

“Looks like those things might be packing up,” Mendez said.

“Go tell Fitz,” Dohi whispered back.

Mendez nodded, then disappeared into the shroud of leaves and branches behind them.

Dohi watched over the beach. He still struggled to understand how these half-man monsters were even possible. When the Variants bred, they spawned armored juveniles.

But he’d never seen a juvenile that looked so human. These were something else—something more intelligent that could use a rifle and operate vehicles.

A terrifying abomination that the VX-99 had been designed for back in Vietnam.

Fitz crawled up beside Dohi.

“Where the hell did they come from anyway with that kind of firepower?” he asked.

“I noticed their ACUs had the California National Guard emblem on them,” Dohi replied.

Mendez got down next to them. “You think these things were guardsmen?”

Dohi shook his head. “No, but I think they ransacked the National Guard armories and bases around the bay.”

“Makes sense,” Fitz said. “We’ve neglected the West Coast for years. They must have been stockpiling supplies we abandoned out here.”

“If they were out here so long, why did they leave the cannibals alone until now?” Mendez asked.

“Because the cannibals weren’t the real threat,” Dohi said. “We are.”

Dohi brought his rifle up and peered through the scope. One of the Chimeras tied up a large canvas bag near the Zodiac, then heaved it on the boat.

“What did he take?” Fitz whispered.

“I don’t know,” Dohi said.

They watched for another few minutes until the answer became clear. A second beast emerged from the wrecked plane with another large bag and dropped it into the boat.

The third was crouched near a crater in the sand. He clawed through the mangled body parts, then picked up a charred leg. After sniffing it, he stuffed it into his bag.

“Dinner,” Mendez said. He crossed his chest.

Dohi felt a bout of nausea well up in his stomach.

“Act like soldiers, look like beasts, and eat like them,” Mendez said. “Worse than Variants, because they seem as smart as humans.”

“Someone must have still been developing VX-99,” Fitz said. “We’ve got to tell Doctor Lovato. This is more important than the SDS tech.”

Fitz was right. The creatures in front of them combined the worst of both nature and man in one biological package.

The beasts hoisted a couple more packs over their shoulders and then dragged their Zodiac back into the surf. Two hopped in while the third kept pushing the boat into the waves.

“Get ready to move,” Fitz said. “Mendez, stay on watch. Signal us if something’s wrong. Dohi, you and I will search the C-130 for a radio and medical supplies.”

Dohi led at Fitz’s command, and they crept down the trail until they reached the beach. Their boots crunched over the sand as they approached the aftermath of the carnage. Only a few Wolfhound bodies had been left behind, and they were already stripped of meat.

The wind had swept sand over a boot with half a leg sticking out. A helmet protruded out of a sand mound, the soldier’s mangled face partially exposed.

Dohi crept up to the fuselage of the C-130. Metal panels peeled off the side of the plane like a giant had slammed an axe into the hull.

Fitz gestured for Dohi to lead.

He entered the plane at a crouch, hit by the acrid scent of burned plastic that made his eyes water. The stench of carrion came next.

Dohi stepped over the melted jump seats and broken ammo crates. He kept his rifle shouldered, peering down the length of the C-130. When he was sure it was clear, he motioned to Fitz.

“See if you can find some antibiotics, I’ll check the radio,” Fitz said. He navigated the wreckage to reach the cockpit, pushing past a few tumbled crates.

Dohi stepped over a dead man lying in a puddle of dried blood. Chunks of flesh and muscle were missing from his neck, teeth marks scarring the bits of skin left under the shredded remains of his clothes.

The smell only grew worse as Dohi pushed aside a few half-eaten corpses in his way. He reached the tail of the plane. A metal crate was marked with a white cross over red paint. He unlatched the crate and opened the lid. There were a few rolls of gauze and bandages, but that was it.

No blister packs with pills. No antibiotic sprays.

“What the hell?” Dohi asked, examining the crate. Then he noticed the scratches in the paint. They looked like claw marks.

He started back up toward the cockpit, checking the ammo crates on the way.

They were empty, too.

The Chimeras had scavenged all these supplies. The only thing they seemed to have left were a couple self-inflating emergency life rafts. Probably had no use for them given they were motoring around in that Zodiac.

He reached the cockpit, where Fitz was trying the controls of the radio.

“Everything’s broke-dick,” Fitz said.

Dohi examined the radio. It was warped and melted. Bullet holes showed where the Variant soldiers had fired into it for good measure.

“No ride out of here, and no way to contact anybody back east,” Fitz said. “Did you find anything useful back there?”

“They took everything. Ammunition, extra weapons, medical supplies.”

Fitz cursed, hanging his head low. Then he glanced out the cracked window of the cockpit.

Dohi followed his gaze to the ship on the horizon.

“They may have taken everything, but they haven’t left yet,” Fitz said. “If we can find a way to get out there, then maybe we can steal what we need and get away without being noticed.”

“Maybe.”

Dohi knew it was a long shot, but they had no other choice.

“We have to warn Command about the Chimeras,” Fitz said. “They have to know.”

“It’s going to be a huge risk, even if we do find a way to get out there before they sail away.”

“We better get moving then,” Fitz said. “We have no time to waste.”

***

Fischer waited inside a large garage with Tran and Chase. Ten outpost soldiers milled around them, ready to head out with them into the city. The clank of tools and voices of mechanics working on two MATVs, a Humvee, and a pickup truck echoed throughout the cold space.

There were other vehicles, including a snowplow. The edges of the blade were covered in paint that looked like it had been scraped off other cars.

As soon as the vehicles were fueled and ready, they would head out to scout locations for the vibroseis trucks already en route from El Paso. The oil and gas exploration vehicles weren’t the sophisticated seismic detection equipment from Project Rolling Stone that General Cornelius had wanted, but it would have to do for now.

While Fischer waited, he loaded shells into his new tactical shotgun. Then he counted the bullets for his .357 magnum. He had only twenty left. There were only a few surviving outposts that manufactured ammunition, including Outpost Galveston under the command of General Cornelius. Even so, bullets were becoming rarer every day, especially with the threat of those outposts being lost as the enemy advanced.

That’s what scared him so much about the collaborators.

They seemed to have access to fuel, weapons, ammunition, and vehicles. There were rumors now they even had helicopters. If that were true, the traitorous bastards were in better shape than what was left of the Allied States.

Tran and Chase finished loading up extra magazines for their M4 rifles. There was still plenty of the 5.56 mm and 7.62 mm ammo left for now, but their stock would be gone in a few days if they didn’t get a resupply and the Variants pressed their attack.

If the outpost survives that long…

That’s exactly what Fischer and his men were here for—to make sure the outpost didn’t fall while Kate and her team tapped into the Variant network. As soon as they figured out where the real mastermind was, it would be the beginning of the end for the monsters.

“Good to go!” shouted a husky man with a long brown beard. “Let’s mount up!”

The vehicles growled to life inside the open garage, the noise rumbling like dragons waking from slumber.

“Wait up!” yelled a female voice.

Commander Amber Massey jogged over in fatigues. A duty belt holding a pistol, extra magazines, and a radio hung from her waist. She also carried an MP5 submachine gun.

As the other soldiers loaded up, the large man with the beard walked over to her.

“Commander,” he said in a deep voice.

“Sergeant Bonner, I’ll be driving them,” she said, gesturing toward Fischer and his men. “And we’re taking Black Betty.”

“You got it, ma’am,” said Bonner. He tossed her a set of keys. She caught them mid-air and jerked her chin for Fischer and his bodyguards.

They followed her to a black pickup truck on a lift with oversized tires. Bars covered the side windows, and a cow-guard with spikes masked the grill.

“Looks like something from Mad Max,” Tran said quietly.

Fischer grinned but said nothing.

Commander Massey climbed up to the driver’s side. The three men used the footholds to climb up into the dual cab.

Bonner drove the Humvee out first, and the MATVs followed with ‘Black Betty’ going last. The trucks slowly drove away from the building and down a street inside the perimeter of the outpost.

As they drove, Fischer spotted what looked like medical crews carrying stretchers away from the fenced off area around the construction site where Kate and Beckham were working.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Massey sighed. “The science team discovered survivors.”

“Survivors?” Tran asked.

She glanced in the rearview mirror. “If you can call them that.”

Her words were cold but he sensed the sorrow behind them.

“Some of our people have been taken underground over the past few weeks,” she added, her tone gravely serious. “The few people we rescued might be here physically, but their minds sure aren’t.”

Fischer swallowed hard, thinking about the horror these people had experienced. He recalled the tunnels at his fields.

I could have been one of them.

It hadn’t really sunk in until now how lucky he had been.

The clanking of a metal gate sounded over the rumble of engines. He turned to see the first gate in the outpost wall lifting. The convoy rolled forward, prompting the guards to open the second gate.

“You boys ready to see New York City?” Massey asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Fischer said.

Truth was, he had never really liked the city. Too loud, too dirty, and too muggy in the summer. But he would have taken it back then compared to what it looked like now.

Destruction surrounded them in all directions. Above, below, on the ground. And even with the windows up, they couldn’t escape the odor. The city smelled like death.

Mangled vehicles flashed by, blackened and crushed from firebombs.

Massey sped ahead of the convoy, taking the lead.

“All right, you’re the boss,” she said. “Tell me where you think the best place is for your trucks.”

She eased off the gas until they were cruising at about twenty-five miles per hour. The street was mostly cleared of debris and vehicles, probably from the plow he had seen back in the garage.

Plastic and broken glass carpeted the sidewalks outside storefronts where windows had been blown away. Most of the doors to buildings were gone.

Fischer pulled a map he had requested earlier from his vest pocket. On it, Massey’s people had marked areas indicating the sites of previous Variant attacks.

He ignored the subways and tunnels Massey’s people had already plugged and or demolished.

“Let’s start around City Hall Park,” he said.

She took a right and drove to the park. The few trees still alive had lost most of their leaves, giving him a view of City Hall.

The building had collapsed inward from an explosion, and the resulting mountain of debris blocked his view of the other side of the park. Still there was plenty of room for a truck in the closest section of the lawn.

“This spot is worth checking out,” he said.

The convoy stopped, and he opened the door.

“Whoa, I don’t think so, Mr. Fischer,” Massey said, reaching toward him. “Not safe to wander around right now. There could be Variants prowling.”

Fischer hesitated, one leg already out. “Well, how am I supposed to see if these locations are good if I can’t get out and survey them?”

“You can’t tell from the truck?”

“Not really,” he said. “I need to walk the ground a bit.”

She pulled out her radio.

“We’re getting out here,” she said. “Secure the area, then form a perimeter.”

Fischer stepped down to the pavement, his shotgun in hand. The park was bordered by a few major streets. Tunnels from subways, sewers, and waterlines stretched underneath them. This would be a likely route to the outpost. Having a truck positioned here would ensure they knew right away if the creatures were traversing those underground pathways.

First they would have to clear the intersection of Park Row and Broadway.

“Commander Massey, can you get your plow out here to move those?” he asked, pointing to the vehicles clogging the streets.

“Sure, I’ll call it in when we get back.”

“Good,” he said, marking his map. “This location is perfect.”

After scoping out the rest of the park, he went back to the convoy.

“Where to now?” Massey asked.

“Bogardus Garden,” Fischer replied.

They drove to a small park between Hudson and West Broadway. The trees were gone, destroyed during the war, leaving a wide space for another vibroseis truck.

“Looks good.” Fischer marked it. This time, his view was clear enough he didn’t need to get out.

An hour later, his map had been marked with multiple locations surrounding the outpost, forming a rough square. There was one location left to examine, and that was Pumphouse Park near the shoreline of the Hudson River.

They parked in a circle drive at South End Avenue, right next to the park. The trees here were all alive, though their branches were mostly naked from the changing seasons.

Fischer got out of the truck for a better look, and the outpost soldiers followed his lead. Commander Massey and Sergeant Bonner trailed him down a sidewalk.

“You sure this is a good place?” Massey asked. “So close to the shore and all?”

“It’s not ideal, but it’s the last blind spot—”

A scream cut him off, followed by the pop of a gunshot.

The team whirled around with their weapons aimed at the circle drive and their vehicles. Four of the soldiers ran toward Liberty Street where the screaming continued.

“Come on!” Bonner yelled.

Fischer spotted the source of the screams. A man was being dragged by a hulking Variant down the road. Gunshots rang out, and bullets punched into the bulky monster as it pulled him toward an open manhole.

The creature vanished down the manhole with the soldier.

A long scream echoed out of the opening. Two soldiers rushed toward the open hole, rifles shouldered. One flicked on a flashlight and shone the beam in. But instead of going down, the other guy pushed the cover back over the top.

“What are you doing?” Fischer asked.

“He’s gone,” Massey said. “Nothing we can do for him now.”

The rest of the team retreated to the convoy and Bonner waved for Fischer and his men to get back into the trucks. He stood there a moment, just staring, before finally retreating to the truck with Massey.

No one said anything until they were back in the cab. She grabbed the radio off the dashboard and brought it up to give an order. “Get the demo team to collapse that tunnel.”

“But that soldier might still be alive,” Fischer protested.

“We’re doing him a favor.” She put the radio down and placed the vehicle in gear. “When we get back, I’ll show you what’s left of the people we find down there.”

— 6 —

Timothy took a slug of water from a canteen they had scavenged. Every step he took, his body and legs felt weaker and heavier. Soon, he feared he would crash if they didn’t rest.

For the past ten hours he had followed Sergeant Ruckley and Corporal Neeland away from the Variant infested area around Outpost Portland. They hadn’t found a radio or any help.

The two Army Rangers were the only survivors from their platoon.

A few hours earlier, Ruckley had discovered soldiers that appeared to have survived the initial bombing, but bullet wounds in their temples indicated they had been executed in cold blood.

She was still reeling from the find, and Timothy had seen her shed a few tears.

The soldiers weren’t the only people they had found with bullet holes in their heads. Civilians had been murdered and left as scraps for the scattered Variants.

Evil ran deep through collaborators like Nick and Pete.

Timothy wondered if they were still out there.

A Variant’s long wail snapped him from his thoughts of revenge.

Ruckley waved for them to take cover. They took cover in the shade of a bridge extending over a creek.

Evading the random Variants during their escape wasn’t easy. The beasts were actively hunting for new prey.

“Why don’t we just kill them?” Neeland whispered.

“Because our gunfire will attract more,” Ruckley said.

Shit, even Timothy knew that.

“We’ve got knives,” Neeland said. “It would be quiet.”

Timothy shrugged but Ruckley shook her head.

“We wait them out,” she said. “We’re not going to take more risks than we have to.”

For the next fifteen minutes they remained under the bridge. Two of the creatures clattered over the pavement above. Timothy heard one pause and snort as it sniffed the air for human flesh.

He shouldered the M4 he had pulled off a dead soldier. There was a suppressor on the end, but he wasn’t sure that would matter. The monsters could hear a needle drop.

Timothy tensed at a distant scream. It was faint, almost like a whisper on the wind.

The sound wasn’t from a monster.

Ruckley perked up like she heard it too.

The frightened shriek came again. This time the two beasts on the bridge bounded away, claws scratching on the pavement.

Ruckley signaled for Neeland and Timothy to follow.

They climbed up the muddy bank back to the main road. The beasts, on all fours, took off onto a front lawn and into a backyard of a house along the street.

Ruckley started in the opposite direction.

“Wait, what about helping that person?” Timothy asked.

“We don’t know who they are, and chances are they’re already dead,” she said. “We got bigger problems.”

Timothy didn’t care who they were, friend or collaborator. If they were the latter, all the better.

Fuck it, he thought.

He took off running from Ruckley and Neeland. It took him a moment to realize they weren’t following.

But he kept going.

Another scream exploded from somewhere ahead, and a second voice called out.

This one a male. “Shelly!”

It didn’t sound like these were collaborators, but it could be a trap. If they were collaborators, he would try and take them alive. Maybe they could lead him to Nick and Pete.

He ran hard, his shoes pounding the pavement until he got to the front yard the Variants had cut through. The breeze rustled his sweaty clothing as he sprinted, but he had to slow down. All his muscles were locking up from dehydration.

A glance over his shoulder confirmed the two Army Rangers weren’t following. That surprised him, but they had made their decision, and he wasn’t bound by Ruckley’s orders.

He was driven by only one directive—doing what his father would have.

Shouldering his rifle, he followed the path the beasts had taken through the backyard. Another creek bordered the dying brown grass, separating the yard from two more houses up a hill.

He jumped over the creek and sprinted up the slope.

By the time he reached the front of the first house, the voices had quieted. He dropped low near the driveway to search the street to the left, then the right. Nothing moved except for shreds of torn clothing blowing in the parking lot of a church at the far end of the road.

Timothy remembered this place now.

A small community of people had survived off the grid here. Living off the land and sea.

The windows of the church were boarded up, but the front door was wide open. A sign in the front yard said, Sanctuary for those that trust in Him.

Long red streaks stained the sidewalk leading to the open door.

Timothy was too late.

Halfway there, he paused at the familiar sound of popping joints.

Then he heard the rip and crackle of tearing flesh, followed by the crack of bones.

All the sounds came from inside the church. He searched outside for any beasts that might be watching before advancing toward the building.

As he walked, he aimed his rifle at the open door, then peeked inside. In the shadows of the nave, he spotted a crouched figure, bent over a body.

Timothy moved his finger to his trigger, then squeezed off a burst of rounds into the Variant’s back. The monster let out a gurgling moan and collapsed.

He lowered his rifle and stepped forward. Bodies were scattered inside the church, many already shredded into bloody ribbons.

No matter how much death he witnessed, it would never get easier.

Timothy considered whether he should go inside further to see if anyone was still alive. The chances were slim, but he had to check it out.

There was a sound coming from near the altar…a low rasping, like someone having a hard time breathing. It grew louder as he approached between the pews. He aimed his rifle in the shadows until he saw red eyes glaring at him.

Oh, shit.

The rasping erupted into a vicious growl, then a guttural barking.

Timothy took a step back and tripped as a mutated dog barreled down the central aisle. He went down on his butt and fired a burst that went high, punching into a pew, splinters spraying from the impact.

Pushing himself up with one hand, he fired wildly with the other. Again, he missed the target. The creature followed him as he ran and leapt through the open door.

The beast launched itself into the air. He brought up his rifle to knock it away. It barreled into him, jaws snapping and saliva spraying across his face.

He hit the ground on his side, and the beast rolled onto the lawn. He managed to turn his rifle and fire. This time, the rounds blew off part of the hound’s jaw.

But the creature still came at him, blood whipping from its broken face, until he sent a second burst into its ribs, taking it down.

More barking sounded in the distance.

A second dog charged from the backside of the church. With only a second to spare, Timothy swiveled his rifle and pulled the trigger. His bolt locked back. The magazine was empty.

The creature jumped into the air. He only had a moment to bring up an arm to brace himself for the impact.

A gunshot cracked in the distance.

The monster crashed into Timothy, knocking him to the ground. He rolled away, ready to fight, but the abomination was already limp.

Timothy pushed himself up to see Neeland lowering his rifle. Ruckley ran toward the church. Her face burned red, and her nose twitched. She looked like she was biting back a mouthful of curses.

Neeland kept his rifle trained on the church door while she jabbed Timothy’s chest with a finger.

“You ever do that again, and I’ll leave you behind, you stupid shit,” she said through a clenched jaw. “You got it?”

“I’m sorry, but there were people…”

“They were already dead, and you know it.”

Timothy didn’t exactly agree but nodded anyway.

“I want to hear you say, ‘I will follow your orders, Sergeant,’” Ruckley said.

Timothy thought again about what his dad would have done.

“You listening to me?” Ruckley said.

“Yes.”

“If you’re with me, you follow my orders,” she said. “Those gunshots probably attracted more of the beasts.”

“Okay,” Timothy said.

“Let’s go,” Neeland said.

Ruckley turned and started walking.

“Where are we going?” Timothy asked.

“Outpost Boston, unless we find a radio and or a ride before that,” she said without turning.

Timothy followed her, relieved she hadn’t made him promise to follow her orders. If she turned her back on defenseless people again or didn’t go after the collaborators, then he would again do what he’d just done.

She had a mission and so did he. Hopefully they would both end with the same result—the annihilation of evil men like Nick and Pete.

***

The tunnels sweated with humidity. Water coursed over the webbing and the brick walls like tears. Beckham wished he could wipe the perspiration rolling down his nose under his full-face respirator mask.

It was a good twenty degrees higher than topside, and the mugginess made it almost unbearable. The plastic splash suit he wore was like walking around in a portable sauna. At least the mask protected him from the odor of death, trash, and waste this place must be filled with.

Three outpost soldiers and two soldiers from Command stood guard with him in the tunnel. A heavy-set corporal named Cotter looked like he was about to pass out, his face under the mask blanched.

“I’m sweating like a pig’s nutsack in the summer,” Cotter had protested.

“Suck it up, man,” Beckham had replied. “You’re not the only one hurtin’.”

He couldn’t wait to peel off this mask and suit.

Horn would have hated it down here. The big guy could deal with pretty much anything, but he despised humidity.

Then again, the retired operator probably didn’t like playing babysitter, either. He had been filling that role quite a bit lately. Beckham thought of Javier, Tasha, Jenny, and the dogs back in the command bunker. All cooped up with the president, her staff, military officers, and soldiers.

It beat being down here, but Beckham still worried about them. No place in the Allied States was safe now. At this point, he wasn’t even reassured although Horn, Ringgold, and the kids had a veritable army protecting them.

The enemy had a bigger one.

“You hear that?” asked Cotter.

“What?” replied another corporal named Daniels.

Beckham held up a hand to silence them. He listened for whatever Cotter thought he had heard. But the only sound was a distant dripping.

Cotter shrugged. “Guess it was nothin’.”

“Maybe it was your stomach growling,” Daniels said.

“Shut up,” Beckham said. He raised his rifle and directed his beam down the passage.

A faint moaning sounded.

The men backed up behind Beckham as he took a few steps ahead.

“Variant?” Cotter asked.

Beckham shook his head. “Sounds like another survivor.”

“God,” Daniels said. “Let me guess. We’re going to go rescue them.”

“Not yet. Stay here, and stay frosty,” Beckham said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where you going?” Cotter blurted.

“Before we do anything, I need to check on the science team,” Beckham said.

Beckham set off for Kate and her staff. They were located in a tunnel around the next corner, about a quarter mile from the entrance to the construction site.

The glow from the construction floodlights guided him, and he shut off his tactical light. The generators powering those lights thrummed as he rounded the corner.

Kate, Sammy, Ron, and Leslie hunched behind the laptops they had set up on a folding table like those the military used in their mobile outposts. It wasn’t an impressive mobile lab station, but it was all they had to work with.

“You guys making progress?” Beckham asked.

Sammy shrugged. “This isn’t as easy as I’d hoped.”

“I thought you had this all figured out.”

“In the lab, we did,” Kate said. “But this isn’t the lab.”

“We’re having trouble integrating the signals over the longer networks,” Sammy said. “The signal doesn’t amplify like I’d predicted. Worse, the signals we’re receiving are coming in at frequencies we didn’t experience with the mastermind.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

“It means, if we don’t get the frequencies just right and our first attempt to communicate with the Variants goes wrong, they’ll be able to find us,” Kate said.

That didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but Beckham trusted his wife.

“I have faith you’ll crack this,” he said. “But in the meantime, I’ve got to take a few men farther down the tunnel. Might be more survivors.”

She paused. “You…”

“I’ll be careful, don’t worry.”

Kate shot him a worried look, and he gave her a reassuring nod.

He returned to the soldiers and motioned for Cotter and Daniels to follow.

“Rest of you stay here and hold sentry,” Beckham instructed.

Their three beams penetrated the steamy darkness as they advanced into the subterranean labyrinth. Sweat bled down his forehead and stung one of his eyes. He blinked it away.

The moaning they had heard earlier seemed to have stopped. He kept walking, just in case they were still alive. His prosthetic blade clanked on the concrete floor as he scanned the tunnel with his light to make sure no threats hid in the shadows.

In the next passage, he cleared the way to another tunnel.

At the next intersection, he signaled for Cotter and Daniels to take the right side while he checked the left. When he looked back to the right, he found both soldiers angling their lights at the center of the floor where a volcano of webbing grew through the bricks.

“What in the hell,” Beckham whispered.

The tunnel below the sewer must have been dug by the Variants, which meant there could be other passages right below his boots.

Another long moan sounded, this time much louder. It sounded more like the hiss of air escaping a leaking tire. Beckham walked past the other two soldiers.

He flicked his beam over the walls until he saw the source.

On the ceiling above the broken floor, his light captured a human face. Bloodshot eyeballs protruded from their sockets. He ran the light down the webbing, expecting to see the rest of the body covered in a cocoon of webbing.

But there was nothing under the neck.

No chest, torso, hips…

Not even any bones.

“Holy…” Beckham whispered.

“What is it?” Cotter muttered.

Daniels took another step forward, then started to wretch. He pulled up his mask and vomited.

Beckham froze, his brain unable to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

Of all the horrors over the years, this took the prize.

He finally managed to break from the shock. The vines had somehow become part of the head, feeding it like blood vessels nourishing an organ.

How in the hell was this possible?

The eyes seemed to watch him, and the lips moved. Air pushed out of the mouth, making that horrible hissing sound. Beckham wondered if the person was asking to die.

Cotter raised his rifle, looking as if he would grant that wish.

The lips opened wider to reveal a jaw rimmed with jagged, broken teeth. The head pushed forward, propelled by some of the vines, almost as if it was lunging at the soldiers.

Before Beckham could say anything, Cotter squeezed his trigger. A suppressed gunshot rang out. The ravaged face burst. Flecks of gore and bone painting the soldiers.

“God dammit,” Beckham grumbled.

Cotter lowered his rifle.

“You stupid asshole,” Beckham said.

“Dude, that was—”

A vine suddenly wrapped around his ankle and pulled his leg out from under him. Cotter screamed and dropped his gun. Flailing his arms for help.

Beckham pulled out his blade to free him, but crimson tendrils wrapped around his limbs too, yanking him against the wall.

Daniels was suddenly lifted to the ceiling by a rope of webbing that curled around his neck and arms. He also dropped his rifle, kicking as the webbing choked him.

It happened so fast, Beckham didn’t even have time to save himself. The vines wrapped around him, pressing him harder against the wall. Webbing around their necks tightened, silencing any calls for help.

Beckham wiggled a hand free and reached for his radio. The vine around his arm squeezed, and he dropped it.

A draft of warm wind burst through the tunnel as he fought to free himself.

As the webbing tightened over their bodies, the carpet of vines coursed over the tactical lights on their rifles.

Darkness flooded the tunnels.

Something rumbled beneath them.

Paralyzed by the strength of the webbing, Beckham could only think about Kate. He had no way of warning her… Something was coming.

— 7 —

Kate took a seat next to Sammy at one of the tables. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She suppressed the urge to scratch it. The combination of the splash suits, respirator masks, and intense humidity and heat of the old sewers made their work nearly unbearable.

Thoughts of her family helped her persevere. The future of this country relied on the scientific experiments they carried out down here. Temporary discomfort was nothing compared to what was at stake.

Even more distracting than the heat was knowing Beckham was somewhere deep in the tunnels searching for more survivors. He hadn’t been gone long, but she had started to worry. And while she admired his bravery and would never fault his courage, sometimes she wished he would play it safer.

But without courage like his—or really anyone’s who was in the tunnels today—the Allied States would have perished long ago. All it took was for brave men and women to falter in the face of fear, and evil would triumph.

And that means you, too, Kate, she thought.

She snapped out of her thoughts and focused on the lines of text scrolling across Sammy’s computer screen. Ron and Leslie crouched nearby, monitoring the microelectric array connections between the laptop and an organic cable of webbing.

Kate wasn’t a programmer like Sammy, but she was beginning to learn how to interpret the various signals they received from watching the laptop’s screen.

“How’s it coming?” Kate asked.

“I think I’m ready to interact locally with the webbing,” Sammy said. “Ron, check that laptop over there.”

Sammy pointed to a computer on a different table thirty yards away.

“That means our signals are completely separate from the main network, right?” Kate asked. She worried an errant signal might put Beckham at risk.

“Whatever I send through this webbing won’t pass beyond the network Ron and Leslie isolated,” Sammy said. “We’ve got physical microelectric arrays that we can control in position to gate the communications.”

Kate nodded.

“If we do our job right, no one but us will know we’re interacting with the network,” Leslie said.

Ron bent over the laptop. “My computer’s ready.”

“I’ll send a test phrase,” Sammy said. She typed the command.

“Got it, but…” He leaned closer to his screen. “I’m seeing something else, too.”

“What?” Sammy asked.

Kate went for a look.

“I don’t know…” Ron said. “External communications, I think.”

“What are they saying?” Kate asked.

Leslie joined Ron, looking over his shoulder. “Looks like some of the signals are coming in clear,” she said.

“I see one reporting ongoing Variant casualties,” Ron said.

“That definitely isn’t local,” Kate said. “There haven’t been any battles in Manhattan since last night. Can we determine where that signal originated?”

Sammy tapped on her keyboard and brought up the signals that Ron and Leslie were seeing. “You’re right. This is coming from further north. Let’s see if I can triangulate it.”

A second later, a map appeared on her screen. Her software gave them a rough estimate where the signal had originated.

“That’s near Outpost Manchester,” Kate said.

The others paused. The terror they had experienced there was still fresh on their minds, and while they had escaped, thousands of innocents had perished.

“Can you confirm that’s the right location?” Kate asked Sammy.

“Yes, the signal we’re getting about the casualties from Manchester is from a mastermind.”

“Then what are these other signals Ron and Leslie saw that we can’t understand?”

Sammy shook her head. “If we were only interested in mastermind communications, we would be good. But this noise is indecipherable.”

“Why?” Kate asked.

“We’ve tuned the software to listen into the voices of the masterminds, but not for other sources.”

“But these other signals aren’t directly from a mastermind?” Kate asked.

“No,” Sammy said. “They’re something else.”

“Not sure I follow.”

“The best way to describe this is that the masterminds’ are one frequency on the radio. We have the software to listen to that frequency, I think. But the other signals we can’t read are other radio channels. Maybe even AM instead of FM.”

“So how do we tap into those?” Kate asked.

“That’s the problem with working in the lab. We didn’t get to see what this looks like in real life before deploying it.”

Kate cursed. Not only could they not interpret all the signals, but her plan to send messages through the webbing and confuse the Variants had to be put on hold, too.

“How long before you can translate these other signals?” she asked.

“Hard to say,” Sammy said, looking down. “We’re starting at scratch for each unique messaging modality. I’ll probably need the next couple days to interpret them.”

“Massey won’t be happy, but she’ll have to understand,” Kate said. “We need to do this right.” She paused to think about something else bothering her. “Sammy, if the incoming messages we received aren’t localized like we thought, does that mean the output from our computers…”

She let the words trail off.

Sammy clutched her side where she’d been shot. “Oh, my god. I… I…the meds must’ve gotten to me. I wasn’t even thinking right…”

She sat straight again, her fingers working furiously across her keyboard.

“Sammy?” Kate said, fear rising in her own guts.

“Fuck.” Sammy froze, staring.

“What?” Kate asked.

“All our test signals leaked from the webbing we tried to localize,” Sammy said. “And every time we sent a signal, we got a bunch of responses. I missed them because we can’t understand them.”

“But that type of activity means they definitely received our test messages,” Kate said.

Sammy nodded slowly. “They’ve probably been sending signals asking what the hell our messages meant.”

“And when they couldn’t understand them…” Leslie started.

“They would’ve reacted,” Ron said. “Sensed danger.”

Kate grabbed a radio from the table. “Reed, this is Kate. Do you copy?”

No response.

“Reed, are you there?!”

It hadn’t been that long since he had departed. Maybe half an hour, but with the network activity and Beckham’s silence, fear sent a chill through her body.

Something was wrong.

“I’ll be back,” she said to Sammy, starting to jog down the corridor.

“Wait!” Ron called out.

Kate ignored them and turned a corner, her boots slapping against a carpet of red webbing. The three soldiers guarding the area turned to her.

“Where’s Captain Beckham?” she asked.

“He took Cotters and Daniels to check out some noises,” one of the men said.

“And he hasn’t returned?”

The man shook his head. He was an outpost soldier. One Kate had been introduced to before.

She tried to recall his name. “You’re Parrish, right?”

The man nodded.

“Look, Parrish, Commander Massey told me I would have everything I needed for my mission here. That means you need to help me find Captain Beckham now!”

“He said to secure this area,” a soldier said. “We’re not—”

“I don’t care! Come with me right now!”

The three soldiers stood there for a few seconds, staring at each other.

“Fine,” Parrish finally said. “I’ll go with you.”

Kate looked at the other two men. “If you aren’t coming, then give me a rifle.”

“Hell no,” replied one of the guys.

“You want to go then?” she said.

The man huffed and handed his rifle over. “If Commander Massey hears—”

“Tell her,” Kate said. “I don’t care. This is more important.”

She set off, leading Parrish as fast as she could jog. Their flashlight beams guided them down the steamy tunnel.

They rounded a corner, and then another when she heard slurping and creaking. The sounds sent another chill through her limbs. Her grip tightened on the rifle as they advanced.

All the nightmarish things that could’ve happened to her husband flashed through her mind, and she struggled to dispel them.

Please be okay, Reed. Please.

They turned at another intersection, their meager lights piercing the dark. Rustling and snapping echoed down the passage. Then she heard something smack against the wall.

She sucked in a gasping breath when they neared the next corner, steeling herself for the sight of Variants tearing Beckham and the other men apart.

Parrish curled around another corner, and she followed, rifle raised.

Shapes squirmed in the darkness.

“Hold your fire,” Kate whispered as her flashlight beam revealed the source of the ominous movement.

These weren’t monsters. Vines covered the forms of the outpost soldiers and her husband, holding them against the wall.

“Reed!” Kate ran to him, pulling at the vines to free him. Parrish joined her, slashing at the webbing with his knife.

Beckham fought the rest of his way out of the prison. He almost fell on Kate and she helped him stand as his chest heaved for air.

“We have to go!” Beckham said between gasps.

Something rumbled in the distance. The webbing on the walls trembled.

Cotter threw a piece of webbing still stuck to his arm to the ground. “Now something worse is coming this way.”

“We need to go, Kate!” Beckham said. “Run!”

***

The afternoon faded away. Soon the sun would retreat over the horizon, and the temperature would plummet as darkness covered the land.

Nick was prepared for the cold night, but most of the prisoners in the back of the pickup were not. A few wore only t-shirts, and even those with more substantial layers had rips in their clothing that exposed their flesh to the elements.

An icy wind battered them as Nick drove toward their checkpoint to refuel. Riding shotgun, Pete had dozed off, his head slumped against the window. His dreadlocks hung like beaded snakes over his face.

Nick looked in the rearview mirror at the SUV and pickup following them.

In the truck’s bed, Ray gripped a mounted machine gun that he angled at the prisoners in Nick’s truck. It was overkill really. The prisoners were tied to the same rope in the back. If someone jumped out, they would pull everyone with them.

Nick checked the sky for choppers. Since escaping Outpost Portland, they hadn’t encountered any enemies, but he knew the military would be looking for them after their attack.

Thinking of the battle reminded him of how much taking Outpost Portland had cost them. Over half their soldiers had died, and the surviving thralls had mostly scattered. All the dogs he had spent months perfecting were missing or dead.

But their victory helped justify the losses. Soon he would be home with his wife and two daughters. If all went as planned, he would have a brief reprieve to spend time with them before they carried out the next orders from the New Gods.

An hour later, the fuel outpost appeared along the side of the road, providing a much-needed stop for Nick to stretch his legs and shake the fatigue from his head.

“Pete, wake up,” he said. “We’re here.”

Pete sat up straighter and yawned as he looked out the window.

“Good. We’ll stay here the night,” Pete said.

“What?” Nick asked. “I thought we were heading straight back to Mount Katahdin after refueling.”

“Too dangerous to keep driving. We hunker down here. We’ll hit the road again when we’ve got better cover.”

The trucks following them pulled up. One of their comrades jumped out and opened the warehouse door. Nick parked his truck in the garage and killed the engine as the other vehicles slid in beside him.

By the time Nick got out, Ray had already jumped down and was waving his machete at the prisoners.

“Get your asses off and go to the back of the warehouse!” he yelled.

A frail bearded man was the first to step down. He turned to help the woman behind him. The Portland survivors kept their eyes down, avoiding contact with Ray and Nick.

“Set up a perimeter,” Pete ordered the other men. “Get a drone in the air. I want eyes up ASAP.”

One of the soldiers jogged over to a locked room where they had stored a basic drone and other tech gear. Equipped with infrared and night vision, the drone was their way of seeing any rogue Variants or hostile humans in the darkness.

“Fucking freezing in here.” Ray rubbed his hands together. “I’ll start a fire in the barrels out back.”

“Hell no, you won’t!” Pete yelled.

“But it’s colder than Alfred’s dead ass in here.”

Nick glared at Ray.

“I don’t give a shit,” Pete said. “Get yourself a damn blanket or something, but don’t be a dumb pussy.”

Ray frowned and walked away, twirling his machete. The guy had an attitude and made Nick miss Alfred even more. He regretted leaving his old friend behind. He deserved a proper burial instead of rotting and decaying out in the cold.

Shouting suddenly came from the back of the warehouse where the prisoners were being rounded up. Ray swung his machete again. He hacked at the air in front of the only two male prisoners. The old guy with a long beard and a balding man missing his right eye both backed away.

The bearded guy was maybe in his seventies, and the one missing an eye looked to be in his fifties. Both had faces weathered by the outdoors. Their features were drawn tight, not from rage—but terror.

Nick felt the tickle of sympathy for these people, but he buried it almost as soon as it appeared. These heretics had made their choice. They had sworn fealty to an Allied outpost and support to the corrupt government, tying their lives to a traitorous lot.

If they were lucky, they would have an opportunity to atone for their sins and join the New Gods. And if they weren’t lucky, their corpses would prove useful as Variant fodder.

The ten women and children behind them would have the same chance. The group sat on the floor, huddled together, shaking in the cold. Most had stopped crying, but one of the little girls sobbed into her mother’s shoulder.

“Please,” said the guy with the missing eye. “My wife needs water, and the kids do, too.”

The old guy with the beard reached out with his bound hands. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Fucking right you will,” Ray said. He eyed one of the women and licked his lips.

Pete walked over and gestured for Ray to back off. “Get them some water and food. Show them some New God hospitality.”

Ray looked at him with a tilted head. “You serious, boss?”

“If you make me repeat myself, I’m going to hack off your dick and feed that to them,” Pete said.

The other guys laughed, including Nick. Pete started to lead them away to the barracks and storage rooms.

“This is fucking bullshit,” Ray mumbled as he cracked open a crate of supplies. “Neither of those guys can fight. They’re deadweight. We should just kill ’em and toss ’em outside.”

Nick was getting sick of hearing Ray talk.

“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies,” he said.

Ray looked up.

Pete stopped in front of the barrack door. His dreadlocks bounced when he turned. “Truth be told, that dumbass Ray is right. They’re deadweight.”

He sighed and walked over to the supply crate. Pete dug inside for something to eat while Nick sized the two male prisoners up.

Both were sitting on the floor now, looking at the ground. But not everyone appeared as defeated. A thirty-year-old woman with short hair glared at Nick with fiery rage—a look that told him she wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat if she had the chance.

That steely gaze reminded Nick of Timothy, the kid they had lost during the bombing. He was a firebrand. Nick had some grand plans for the young man, and it stung that they’d lost a potential warrior like that. But in the end, Timothy had played a useful role, providing the distractions that ensured the success of their attack.

Nick smirked at the woman still staring at him, and she raised her lip in a snarl.

“Man, I’m starving,” Pete said. He pulled out some food and scarfed a few bites down. Then he pried the cap off a bottle of beer they had brewed back at the base.

“I’ve got an idea,” Nick said. He held a hand out to Ray who was stacking packaged food. “Give me your machete.”

Ray tilted his head. “Why?”

“Just give it to me,” Nick said.

“I ain’t just giving you my damn machete.”

Pete took a drink, watching curiously.

“Hand it over,” Nick said, eyes narrowing.

“No, not until you tell me—”

“Motherfucker!” Nick screamed.

Anger from their losses and from Ray’s constant bullshit boiled through his veins. He grabbed his comrade by the throat and started squeezing, then he balled his right fist and slammed it into Ray’s nose.

The impact knocked Ray backwards, and he fell to the ground with Nick on top of him. The prisoners at the other end of the room cowered as he pounded Ray’s face over and over.

The thud of the portly man’s skull hitting the concrete echoed in the enclosed space.

A few shouts of encouragement joined the din, but there were also voices telling Nick to stop. He ignored them and crushed Ray’s already bleeding nose with an elbow. The satisfying crunch eased some of the anger, but not enough.

Nick continued punching Ray until someone pulled him off. He didn’t fight back when he realized it was Pete. There was one thing that could get you killed faster than a pack of wild Variants attacking you, and that was laying a hand on their leader.

“STOP!” Pete shouted.

Panting, Nick lowered his bloody fists. “Sorry, boss.” The anger subsided and his vision cleared.

Pete let go, and Nick raised his hands in the air, palms up.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Ray held his broken nose, still sitting on the ground.

“We’ve lost enough men,” Pete said. “I don’t need you dumb shits killing each other.”

“That’s why we need new recruits,” Nick said. “And I know how we’re going to get ’em, if Ray would just give me his fucking machete.”

Nick picked up the weapon. Then he walked back to the prisoners, most of whom were gawking at him. He pulled his knife out with his other hand and then pointed at the woman with the short hair and the man with one eye.

“Stand,” he ordered.

The other men huddled behind Nick. Pete stepped up, and Nick looked at him for approval. A shrug told Nick he was free to continue.

Ray stumbled over, blood trickling down his face, mumbling under his breath. A single blazing look from Pete got Ray to stiffen and shut his mouth.

Now that they had peace and quiet, Nick spoke.

“Get those two out of the rope,” he said.

Two of his comrades untied the one-eyed man and the woman from the long rope. The man trembled with fear. The woman’s fiery look had faded too as she shivered. Nick wasn’t sure if it was because she was wearing just a t-shirt and jeans, or if it was from fear.

Probably both.

“You want to live?” Nick asked them.

Both managed nods.

He tossed the weapons on the ground between them.

“Everyone gets to eat,” he said. “But only after one of you dies.”

“But—” the man started.

“And the winner gets to join us.”

Both prisoners looked back at the group. Almost all of them had stood to watch.

“Please,” the man begged. “Don’t make us do this.”

“Don’t hurt him,” said a woman in the group. Maybe his wife.

The firebrand woman who had glared at Nick earlier studied the knife and machete. Her gaze flitted to the one-eyed man.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The woman took a step closer to the weapons, her hands shaking.

“No,” he pleaded, but stepped forward anyway.

“One of you kills the other,” Nick said. “Or I kill both of you. What’s it going to be?”

A fleeting moment passed before they burst forward and scooped up the blades. The man got the machete, and the woman got the knife. She wasted no time thrusting it toward his chest.

He backed away, trying to parry her blows, but refrained from going on the offensive.

“Please,” he begged again. “I don’t want to hurt you! There has to be another way.”

“There is no other way,” Nick said.

The woman lunged and stabbed at his ribs. This time her blade sliced into his flesh, opening up a deep red gash in his side. He stumbled and gripped the wound.

Any semblance of pity the man had once exhibited disappeared. Now raw anger warmed his face, and his fear turned into desperation.

Nick grinned. These people had just learned what survival was. They no longer had the protection of the Allied States. They had only themselves to rely on.

The one-eyed man screamed and slashed out with the machete. She hopped back to avoid the blow. He swung again, too hard this time, stumbling.

The woman seized on his mistake, managing a clean slice across his neck.

Blood sprayed out, and he reached up to clamp his hand over the wound. She circled like a lioness over her injured prey.

In a swift movement that surprised even Nick, the one-eyed man swung the machete from the side, slicing a perfect cut across her neck.

She staggered backward, mouth gaping as blood sprayed from the injury.

“Oh shit,” Pete said. He let out a soft chuckle.

The woman’s fingers groped the wound.

Nick knew she was dead, but she fought for every last breath. She took another step forward, then dropped her knife, collapsing to a knee.

The man dropped his bloody machete, his own wounds weeping as his face turned pale from the blood loss. He reached out toward the woman with his free hand.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, blood bubbling out of his mouth. “I’m…”

Both crashed to the ground.

Blood pooled out toward the other prisoners who stared in horror.

“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Pete said with a frown. “But since they’re both dead, I guess we’ll keep our promise.”

He glanced back at Ray. “Feed them and give them their water.”

This time Ray didn’t protest.

Nick watched him hurry back to the crates as Pete walked to the barracks door.

“Wake me up if the drone picks up anything,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

— 8 —

Fischer shivered from a blast of cold wind. He couldn’t do much but turn his back to the icy air. The collar of his jacket was already zipped up to his chin, just under three days-worth of facial hair that did little to shield his face from the frigid air.

The temperature wasn’t the only thing causing him to shiver. He was scared and not too proud to admit it.

It wasn’t just his life or the lives of his men that he worried about, but the five thousand lives sheltering around the World Trade Center memorial. The vibroseis trucks and the bravery of those defending them would determine whether they survived the next few nights.

That terrified Fischer. Terrified him to his very core.

He looked to Commander Massey who didn’t seem to show a shred of fear. She was a leader, and a damn good one for keeping her people alive under such conditions.

They stood with Tran and Chase at the edge of City Hall Park. The vibroseis trucks had arrived. One was stationed on Park Row and another on Broadway. Fischer’s engineers had worked all afternoon to set up the trucks with the help of the outpost mechanics.

They all knew it wasn’t just a cold front blowing in tonight.

The Variants were already moving underground, according to the science team. Something had gone wrong down there. Fischer didn’t know the entire story but had heard the webbing had attacked Captain Beckham and a pair of soldiers.

He wasn’t sure how that was possible, but he didn’t doubt it had happened.

Massey squinted at the sunset. “They usually attack a few hours after dark. Unless we get lucky tonight.”

“I’d go for a little luck right now and a case of cold beer,” Chase said. “Hell, I’d even settle for warm beer. I’m not picky.”

“We’re out of beer, but there’s some champagne sitting in crates back around the memorial,” Massey said over her shoulder. “If we survive tonight, I’d be happy to bust them out and—”

The rhythmic beat of a chopper’s rotors cut her off. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch a bird cutting through the sky.

“There they go,” Massey said. “In and out faster than a bad one-night stand. I guess I should have expected that from Command.”

Fischer studied the Black Hawk as it shrank in the distance. Beckham and the science team were on board. He didn’t exactly blame the commander for feeling like that, but he didn’t like her tone.

“Captain Beckham was nearly killed today,” he said. “And the science team will be back to finish the job, but they can’t risk staying here tonight.”

“Instead of running, I thought you guys were going to shore up our defenses,” Massey said.

“That’s exactly what we’re doing,” Fischer said. “These trucks will help us identify the Variant tunnels so you can blow ’em to hell.”

“We’re very good at blowing ’em to hell, Mr. Fischer. You just keep your end of the bargain and let me know when and where to blow them to hell.”

She walked back toward the lifted pickup truck, leading them toward their next destination, Zucotti Park. Fischer confirmed the trucks there were ready too, before they moved to the final spot, Bogardus Garden.

This was where Fischer planned on spending his night.

The green space was the smallest and only had one truck. But it was guarded by an M1 Abrams. If he had to fight tonight, he wanted to be with the tank.

Massey parked her truck on the sidewalk behind the M1 Abrams and climbed down. Fischer and his men met her around the front of the pickup, all pausing to admire the massive tan tank with its cannon pointing down Broadway.

Concrete barriers stretched across Reade Street. Two machine gun nests perched on the rooftops of adjacent buildings to fire on any collaborators that might drive in.

Screeching metal over concrete came from Chambers Street where a city truck plowed demolished cars into a wall to block off the intersection. A crew of soldiers with razor wire waited nearby to add it to the top of the improvised barricade.

Somewhere on the taller buildings, the Apaches were on standby.

Hunkered down behind the open windows of apartments and offices were teams of snipers. Massey had told Fischer there were over thirty posted throughout the sites to provide another layer of defense.

Overall, he felt damn good about the defensive forces assembled here, but urban combat was a world apart from the battle in El Paso. Concrete didn’t react the same way to the vibroseis trucks as packed dirt and loose rock did. But at least it would be harder for the Variants to tunnel through, which would buy them more time to deal with any threat.

“Anyone hungry? We got sandwiches,” said one of the outpost soldiers.

“Starving,” Chase said.

Fischer walked over to the center of the park. Two of his engineers were already there grabbing food. A soldier passed Massey a sandwich and she took it to a bench to sit by herself.

Fischer walked over to see if she wanted company.

“You mind if I sit?” he asked.

She gave her answer by patting the empty spot beside her.

“I figured you’d be heading back to the outpost,” he said.

“And I figured you’d be heading back with the science team.”

Fischer took a bite of the sandwich. It was surprisingly better than he had expected. He chalked it up to the fresh tomatoes. There was never anything better than homegrown veggies from the farm or garden, and it made him miss Fischer Fields even more.

“You always been a city gal?” he asked her.

“I’m from Alabama, born and raised. Came here for a job. Fell in love…”

He shot her a look.

“With the city, not a guy,” she clarified. “Never thought much about going back south.”

“To be honest, I never did care for this city.”

“It wasn’t for everyone, but I do miss it. Not all of it, but the food, culture, and parks in the summer. God.”

“How about Alabama? You miss it ever?”

“Not a lick.”

Fischer figured there was a story there but didn’t ask. Instead, he thought of Texas. He would have given up just about anything to be watching a Texas sunset right now, but like New York, his homestead was probably never going to return to what it had been to him— home.

“You really think these trucks will save us tonight? Or for that matter, tomorrow, or the night after that?” Massey asked. “And even if they do, when does this end? We can’t keep fighting forever.”

“The president and her people are working on something,” Fischer said. “That’s what Doctor Lovato was here for.”

“I know, but science? Science got us into this mess in the first place.”

Fischer understood the doubt, but he had learned to trust Kate and Beckham. It hadn’t taken him long to see they were doing everything they could to save what was left of their country.

Darkness stretched over the cityscape. Generators rumbled to life, powering the industrial lights that clicked on across the site. In the past, he might have worried about attracting Variants with the rattle of the machines. The sound and vibrations through the ground would draw every damn Variant here like a moth to a flame.

But tonight, that was the idea.

Distract the beasts away from the outpost and destroy them before they could surface.

“Commander, I got some final checks to do,” Fischer said, standing. “Pleasure talking with you.”

Massey got up too. “If you and your men do what you have promised, I look forward to enjoying a glass of champagne with you later.”

Fischer tucked the rest of his sandwich into his pocket and dipped his cowboy hat at her. Then he went over to the vibroseis truck where one of his longtime engineers, Brian Meyer, sat drinking a coffee.

“Everything good to go?” Fischer asked.

“Yes, sir.” Meyer adjusted the Fischer Fields baseball cap over his balding head.

Fischer did one last lap around the site, joining Massey. Tran and Chase trailed them. It was going on seven o’clock and darkness flooded the city. Guards and workers spoke in hushed voices as the temperature dropped.

Minutes ticked by, and Fischer grew more anxious. A glass of whiskey and a good cigar would go miles at cooling that anxiety right about now.

Fischer adjusted the sling holding his shotgun over the front of his jacket. Tran and Chase readied their M4A1s. All across the site the demo teams and soldiers prepared their weapons.

For a fleeting moment the wind ceased, and silence fell like a veil over the site.

The quiet lasted long enough for Fischer to think that maybe it would be like this all night—that maybe the monsters would rest instead of attack.

But the demons rarely slept. Especially at night.

The radio crackled on his belt, making him flinch.

“We got movement, sir,” Meyer said over the channel.

“I’m on my way.”

Fischer and his guards ran for the truck with Massey close behind. Her radio came alive with reports from other sites.

“Christ, they’re advancing on all fronts,” she said.

They reached the truck, and Fischer stepped up to the cab where his engineer was working. “What do you see?”

Meyer tapped on his screen for the geophone readings. Lines bounced up and down, spiking faster in coordinates where the tunnels were forming or filled with Variants. His engineer matched those readings with a map of the surrounding streets.

“They’re right below West Broadway and Reade,” Fischer said. “Move the Abrams and troops to Chambers. Judging by the direction of their tunneling, that’s where I think they’re going to break through.”

The tracks on the M1 Abrams crunched over the concrete. The cannon roved toward Chambers.

Fischer watched the monitor. The geophone went wild, mountains of spikes crossing the screen. The Variants were nearly beneath them now.

“Get ready!” Fischer shouted.

Massey gave orders over the radio as the tank and soldiers moved into position. The tunneling suddenly slowed to stop, and the geophone’s readings flatlined.

“What in the Sam Hill…” he said.

Fischer slowly got out of the truck and walked a few steps for a better view of Chambers Street. Floodlights illuminated the cracked concrete. The demolition team waited behind the soldiers and concrete barriers topped with razor wire.

Massey instructed everyone to get back now that the Variants had tunneled under their defenses. Silence once again reclaimed the night, but this time it was filled with palpable tension.

Fischer swallowed. Seconds later he heard the clunk of metal against pavement.

Something suddenly shot into the air from the street.

It was a manhole cover.

The metal disc crashed back to the asphalt. A moment later, concrete and dirt bulged around the manhole opening. Fischer’s pulse quickened as he waited for the first sign of a beast crawling from the earth.

The tank cannon lowered, centering on the undulating street.

“Everyone back!” Massey yelled.

Once the men retreated to a safe distance, she called into her radio. “Fire!”

Fischer clamped his hands over his ears. The high explosive round erupted from the barrel of the tank and exploded into the pavement. A deafening roar shook over the street, and the burst showered the area in fire and dust.

Everyone crouched to avoid the shrapnel. Part of the street collapsed. Fractures fissured through the broken asphalt, chunks falling into the abyss below. But the creatures didn’t erupt from the hole like Fischer had expected.

Massey motioned for the soldiers to advance, their rifles at the ready. Fischer followed Tran and Chase toward the curtain of smoke and dust drifting across the road.

He moved his finger to the trigger of his shotgun. His ears still rang from the explosion. A faint screech broke through his muddled hearing.

Another beast answered the call.

“Get ready,” Massey said into her radio, a hint of fear in her voice.

A single Variant rose from the gaping hole in the road using long, muscular arms to pull its bony body out. It let out a howl and all at once, a swarm of beasts scurried from the hole.

“Open fire!” Massey shouted.

Gunfire cracked from all directions, and a fierce volley cut down the vanguard of monsters. One of the beasts escaped the dying masses of its brethren. Fischer fired at the charging beast, sending the monster back to the hell from where it had come.

The other creatures scattered, dropping from the torrent of rounds. Sniper fire took down the beasts escaping the slaughter.

More starving creatures streamed out of the sunken street. Fischer let loose another round. The buckshot tore a Variant off its feet.

A loud clicking noise cut through the gunfire. Fischer knew the sound well. It was one he would never forget from the horrors at his ranch. He spotted the source—an Alpha emerging from the dust and smoke, its batlike ears twitching, huge shoulders coursing with muscle.

“Kill the Alpha!” he shouted.

Tran and Chase followed him for a better firing position. They stopped near a parked Humvee and opened fire at the monstrous creature as it advanced with a pack of sinewy Variants toward the tank.

Fischer squeezed the trigger again, sending a round into the Alpha’s back. Blood sprayed from its devastated flesh, but it wasn’t dead yet. It spun toward him, milky eyes seeming to stare right at him. He pumped in another shell and fired. The beast’s ugly face disappeared in a spray of blood, bone, and brains.

“Demo team, now!” Massey yelled.

Two of the men threw grenades into the opening. Another threw what looked like a satchel charge. Fischer, Tran, and Chase dove to the ground and covered their ears.

Tremors rumbled through the ground as the explosives detonated underground.

He uncovered his ears as the smoke dissipated, revealing a grotesque scene of dead and dying beasts. Bodies littered the street and pavement with body parts scattered in pools of blood.

Massey reached down to Fischer, and he took her hand, rising to his feet.

“They’re done,” she said. “Reload and get ready, because that was just the first wave.”

***

The moon hung full in the sky, accompanied by a spray of white stars. Fitz and Rico hid behind the large rocks jutting up from the sandy beach. He pressed a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

He didn’t need NVGs to scope the ocean. The moonlight was more than enough to reveal the silhouette of the ship still adrift. On board was everything Team Ghost needed, from medicine to a radio. And maybe even more importantly, answers about the frightening Chimeras.

Dohi prepared the life raft they had salvaged from the C-130. The raft itself didn’t have a motor, but Mendez and Ace had spent the day fixing it with one. The duo had tracked down an old dockyard with a dozen broken boats, most in catastrophic disrepair. But they had managed to find a small rotted fishing boat inside a shed.

The hull was damaged which was likely why it had been in the middle of repair in the shed. Its attached outboard motor was in better shape and had appeared promising to Ace. He had employed his mechanical aptitude and restored the old motor just enough that it worked on their life raft.

Even better, it was a four-stroke outboard fishing motor compatible with kerosene fuels. Ace had explained they could use fuel still in the C-130.

The old motor wasn’t silent, but quiet enough to get them close to the ship without being spotted. They had also scrounged up enough old netting and dark paint at the dockyard to conceal the bright-yellow of the rubber raft.

Rico reached over and squeezed his hand, an unusual display of affection in the field. They both knew how dangerous this mission was.

“You need me out there,” she said.

“Dohi and I will be faster on our own. I’ll spend too much time worrying about you if you’re with us.”

“And you think I won’t worry here?”

Fitz sighed. “There’s no one I trust more than you. I need you to keep the injured Wolfhounds safe and…”

“Don’t even say it, Fitzie.”

“If we don’t make it back by morning, you have to go on without us. Get up to San Francisco or something,” Fitz said. “Reaching command, even if that means leaving the Wolfhounds behind, is our mission now. They need to know about the Chimeras.”

Rico gave him that look that told him she wanted to argue. To his relief, she said nothing.

One of the three helicopters suddenly lifted from the ship. Another followed, pulling into the star-filled sky and heading northeast.

Two less choppers also meant less troops aboard the ship.

“Shit, now might be our best chance,” Fitz said. “I’ve got to go.”

He pulled Rico close to him. He felt her warmth, the emotion flowing between them until he drew away.

“Come back to me safe, Fitzie,” she said.

“I will.”

Dohi pushed the camouflaged raft out into the surf. Fitz hopped in and Dohi followed. He started the small motor while Fitz prepared his gear.

The motor jostled around on the improvised attachment Ace had rigged up. But it worked, pushing them out to the ocean.

Fitz checked over his suppressed M4A1, then patted his tac vest. Only two magazines remained besides the one in his rifle. They were desperately low on ammunition. But if he could help it, he didn’t plan on firing a single bullet.

Doing so was a last resort.

The craft advanced into the inky night as Fitz studied their target. The ship appeared to be an old freighter that had been retrofitted into a war vessel of sorts. Machine guns were posted along the gunwales. Most of the shipping containers had been cleared from the decks, making room for the helicopters.

He didn’t see any patrolling guards, which was odd.

Normally Team Ghost didn’t get this lucky. He pointed to a maintenance ladder rung. Dohi motored over to the hull. They quickly tied the craft to a rung.

Dohi scaled the ladder, and Fitz followed to the top deck. They climbed over the edge near the remaining chopper. The imposing superstructure loomed near the stern, opposite where they had boarded the vessel.

Fitz spotted two guards who patrolled near the structure with rifles. Neither seemed particularly anxious, strolling in an almost relaxed manner between the shipping containers.

If they were Chimeras, Fitz wondered if they had enhanced smell and hearing like a Variant. All the more reason to be cautious.

He signaled Dohi to start toward a hatch in the superstructure. They used the rows of shipping containers along the deck for cover. Fitz did his best to keep his prosthetics from tapping too loudly against the slick deck.

Both men crouched when footsteps sounded on the other side of the shipping containers. Dohi drew his blade and Fitz did the same.

His heartbeat pulsed loudly in his ears. He wondered if the hyper-predator soldiers could hear it.

The sound of the footsteps changed direction and Fitz gave Dohi the order to head for the hatch. Both got there without being spotted. But the hatch resisted, screeching slightly as Dohi opened it.

Fitz winced and shouldered his rifle, waiting to see if anyone outside had heard. When no one responded, Dohi pried the hatch open further, and they squeezed through.

The deck inside was illuminated in red lights, bathing the place in a hellish glow. Fitz took lead this time. He didn’t know exactly where he was going and proceeded slowly.

He cleared two passages before the sound of boots came again. The noise echoed behind them.

Or was that in front of them?

Fitz continued down the passage that abruptly ended at a large hatch. A sign above read CARGO BAY in half-peeling big black letters. The sound of boot steps came again, louder now. Definitely coming from the corridor behind them.

They had no other choice but to go forward. Fitz opened the hatch.

What they found inside was not a cargo bay. Clean white walls and benchtops furnished the space, looking eerily like a lab. Huge silver drums that looked like bioreactors stood in the middle of the room.

Equipment buzzed between banks of microscopes and computers.

Fitz heard voices at the end of the vast room along with the squawk of a radio. He and Dohi snuck that way using the shelter of the lab benches.

When they reached the other end, Fitz saw two men with surgical masks and scrubs covered in blood.

A man with gray skin lay sprawled across an operating table between them.

Not a man, Fitz realized.

Claws and bony features told him the patient was a Chimera. An endotracheal tube attached to a ventilator was jammed into its open mouth.

Fitz leaned in for a better look, seeing clamps inserted between the creature’s broken ribs, holding the chest cavity open. One of the doctors reached through the opening.

The patient twitched slightly, and his eyes blinked.

Somehow, the patient was wide awake. He squirmed slightly each time the doctors prodded an organ. Metal restraints kept him in place and some sort of muzzle had his jaw locked around the endotracheal tube.

Reptilian eyes flitted toward Fitz, and before he could back away the Chimera started shaking. The surgeons turned toward Fitz.

He crouched back, but it was too late.

One surgeon started to run across the room toward an intraship telephone on the bulkhead.

“Stop him,” Fitz said.

Dohi ran down the man and tackled him.

Fitz slammed into the other. The surgeon opened his mouth to scream, but Fitz yanked the scalpel from his grip and slid it across his neck. Blood bubbled from the fresh wound, and Fitz dropped the man to the deck.

The man writhed, grasping uselessly at the deep gash.

On the table, the patient fought the restraints.

Fitz hurried over, catching a drift of the terrible odor leaking from the beast’s open chest. The half-man, or whatever he was, chewed through his endotracheal tube, then started to rip the tube out. Fitz brought his blade down hard into the skull.

Dohi wiped his hatchet on the scrubs of the other dead surgeon.

“What is this black magic?” he muttered.

“Don’t know, but we need medicine, a radio, and then we need to leave,” Fitz said.

After finding antibiotics, they moved to another hatch. It opened to a dark, narrow passage framed with clear acrylic walls. Fitz hit a switch, light blooming over the cells behind the translucent partitions.

He flinched when he saw the half-man creatures imprisoned in each. Two of the beasts slapped the clear plastic like primates. Other Chimeras mashed their sucker mouths against the partitions, leaving trails of saliva.

“These bastards must be testing VX-99 again, but how?” Dohi said.

Fitz didn’t plan on sticking around to find out. Eventually someone would check on those surgeons. He left the lab and led the way to another corridor lined with hatches.

Dohi pointed at one that said ARMORY.

As soon as he opened it, both men stumbled back. A Chimera soldier stood guard inside. The monster looked equally as shocked.

Fitz put a suppressed burst into the chest, painting the bulkhead with blood. The beastly man slumped to the deck.

Dohi moved around the body and went to the weapon racks of rifles.

“Jackpot,” he said.

“Holy shit,” Fitz said.

Crates of supplies, grenades, and ammunition rested against the bulkhead. Stacks of body armor, MBITRs, and a few satellite phones were stored on shelves. For the first time since they had arrived in California, Fitz felt a glimmer of hope.

They scooped up the sat phones and batteries first, then shoveled magazines and grenades into their packs.

“Rig the C-4,” Fitz said. “We’ll need a distraction.”

They set a few charges in the armory, then backtracked through the lab, placing explosives there, too. If this lab was vital to their enemies, it was even more vital that he and Dohi destroyed it.

Then they took off through the corridors the way they had come, quietly as possible. Boot steps and voices stopped them. Fitz listened, his heart racing until he realized they were talking casually, their voices coming out in growling rasps.

He continued, finding another intersection to take a new route back to the top deck. As he went to open the exit hatch, he heard the thump of chopper blades. It might be the last one finally leaving—or maybe the others had returned.

There was only one way to find out.

He yanked the lever handle and opened the hatch, his heart skipping a beat when he saw it was the latter. The side door opened, disgorging a half-dozen troops.

Fitz thought for a moment about finding a route below deck to the ship’s aft, but Dohi tapped him on the shoulder. More soldiers were coming from behind them in the passage.

An alarm suddenly blared.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion after that.

There was only one way out of this mess—to fight.

Fitz nodded at Dohi who launched a grenade down the passage. Then he raised his rifle and followed Fitz onto the deck. The hatch clanked closed, commanding the attention of the six soldiers that had gotten out of the chopper.

Fitz open fired, and Dohi did the same. Three of their targets went down right away, and two more dove for cover. Only one brought up a weapon to fire, but Fitz put a bullet between the Chimera’s reptilian eyes before the beast could squeeze off a shot.

An explosion boomed from the grenade.

Dohi tossed another grenade near the chopper as he ran with Fitz between the shipping containers. Bullets sparked over the deck.

The second grenade boomed, drowning the chatter of gunfire.

“Go, go, go!” Fitz yelled.

They sprinted the rest of the way over the deck until they reached the gunwale. He tossed the bags of supplies into the boat, but there was no time to climb down the maintenance ladder.

Instead, Fitz threw himself over the side. He fell, arms wheeling before splashing beneath the frigid water’s surface. He kicked back up, gasping for air. Grasping the life raft, he pulled himself in. Dohi plunged into the water afterward, and Fitz helped yank him in.

Fitz untied the boat as Dohi tried to start the motor, but it wouldn’t turn over.

Raising his weapon, Fitz prepared to fire.

They were sitting ducks now.

“Come on,” Fitz said.

“I’m trying,” Dohi grumbled.

Cursing, Fitz saw the glint of rifles as soldiers lined the gunwale taking aim. He fired a burst to keep them back. Then he pulled out the C4 detonator and squeezed the trigger.

The first series of explosions sounded like the clap of distant thunder. More explosions followed, a chain-reaction from the ordnance stored down there.

Fitz hit the next detonator. Another fiery blast tore up from the belly of the ship. Pieces of flaming debris were thrown into the sky as Dohi finally started the motor.

Shrapnel and flaming hunks of metal fell around them, sizzling when they hit the water. Fitz aimed his rifle again at the gunwale just in case any of the beasts reemerged.

As they motored away, a few of the beasts jumped, their bodies flaming.

Fitz finally started to relax as the boat sank.

When they finally made it back to shore, Rico ran to meet them. Fitz jumped out of the life raft and wrapped her into his arms. For the first time since they had landed in this God-forsaken place, he felt Team Ghost had finally pulled off a real victory.

And they finally had a chance to change the course of this war.

— 9 —

At midnight, President Ringgold sat alone in the EOC’s briefing room in the Long Island bunker, waiting for her next SITREP. She longed to see her friends, Beckham and Kate, but after a rough day, the duo was resting with Javier. She had no desire to interrupt their hard-earned family time.

She sighed. The thought of coffee or some caffeine to keep her focused danced over her mind, but supplies here were meager. While she had avoided looking at mirrors too much, she’d stolen a glance at herself in her quarters before she had come up here.

The new wrinkles, bags under her eyes, and gray in her hair had made her wonder if she was becoming a different person.

Long before the war, she had seen how the stress of a presidency aged a person. With everything she had endured in her tenure as president, it was no surprise her body had suffered.

She quickly realized how selfish it was to worry about herself like that.

So what if she looked older?

You’re alive. That’s more than can be said for thousands and thousands of your people. People that you’re responsible for.

She shook her head. The exhaustion and the fear of what her team was about to report had her on edge.

Someone rapped on her door.

“Come in.”

Chief of Staff James Soprano entered. “Madam President, General Souza and Lieutenant Festa are here with a SITREP.”

“Thank you.”

The duo walked in, and Soprano closed the door, waiting outside.

“Madam President,” they greeted her in turn.

“Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

They took spots across from her at the table.

General Souza shuffled a few papers in his hands. “I’ll begin with the most pressing. Minutes ago, we received word from Team Ghost in California.”

Ringgold’s heart nearly leapt from her chest. She had been all but certain they had been lost, but Beckham was right in not counting them out. Team Ghost always found a way to survive. “That’s excellent news. Did they retrieve the SDS equipment?”

“We’re not quite sure yet,” Souza said.

Ringgold frowned. “Not sure?”

Festa took over. “The laboratory campus was taken over by what they believed were hostile independent colonists,” he said. “Team Ghost also encountered a powerful paramilitary group which we believe are connected to the Variants and collaborators.”

Ringgold rubbed her temples, trying to understand how these paramilitary groups had survived on the West Coast.

“Team Ghost was able to recover some equipment with the help of the Wolfhounds, who took heavy casualties, but it’s unclear if the technology works,” Festa said. “Most of it was damaged in an attack by this unknown paramilitary group.”

He went on to brief her on all the events that had transpired from the moment Team Ghost had infiltrated the National Accelerator Laboratory to the mission to raid the freighter anchored off the coast.

“Team Ghost is with the surviving Wolfhounds now and waiting for evac,” Festa said.

“There’s something else,” Souza said. “The paramilitary group consists of hybrid soldiers—half man, half Variant.”

“Chimeras is what Master Sergeant Fitz called them,” Festa said.

Souza nodded. “Whatever we end up calling them doesn’t really matter. What matters is someone has continued the VX-99 program all this time, and for all we know these new soldiers will join the fight.”

Ringgold wanted to slap the table out of anger. She simply couldn’t understand the evil behind these masterminds who had reignited the nightmarish VX-99 program.

She let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry, Madam President.” Festa said.

“There’s more?” she asked.

Festa swallowed.

“We have footage from the scouts I deployed after the nuclear attacks,” Souza said. “Bring it up, Frank.”

Festa set up his laptop so Ringgold could see the screen. “This is from a recon unit in Saint Louis.”

With a click on the keypad, the video sprang to life. The feed seemed to be recorded on a camera from the front passenger seat of an armored scout vehicle.

“Holy shit,” a recorded voice said.

The vehicle was driving over a highway, crossing the Mississippi River. Fires blazed across what had once been downtown, evident only by the skeletal scaffolding of towers that hadn’t yet collapsed.

Ringgold noticed the famous Gateway Arch—or at least what was left of it. The middle of the arch had collapsed. All that remained were the hooked bottom halves of the landmark. Each looked like an enormous Variant fang jutting from the earth.

“Wait, wait!” one of the voices behind the camera said. “Zoom in!”

The camera’s view of the arch magnified toward one of the remaining halves of the arch. Shapes scaled the structure, illuminated by the fires flickering over the park below.

“Variants,” Ringgold whispered.

The camera finished zooming in. The monsters crawled over the remnants of the arch. Fresh red webbing covered the structures, too.

“How did the webbing survive the bombing and fires?” Ringgold asked.

“It didn’t,” Souza said. “The webbing you see is all new growth.”

Ringgold’s stomach churned. “So our sacrifices here were for nothing.”

“The nukes killed countless Variants, but enough survived to start over,” Souza said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “But there’s more.”

Festa clicked the keypad again. “This is Chicago.”

Images of broken and smoldering skyscrapers flashed over the screen. Variants crawled over the massive Ferris wheel on Navy Pier. It was completely covered in new, throbbing red webbing.

“Kansas City,” Festa said next.

The Heart of America Bridge had snapped and collapsed into the Missouri River. But that didn’t bother the Variants who had reconstructed their own rope bridge consisting of webbing between both sides of the ash-covered city.

“Dallas,” Festa said.

Downtown was nothing but ruins. The videos showed a Texas thunderstorm squashing the scattered fires. Between flashes of lightning, Variants scrambled over the streets, unperturbed by the deadly radiation undoubtedly seeping into their flesh.

“The scenes are the same all over,” Festa said. “Our smaller outposts haven’t fared much better. Outpost Portland was completely leveled in the bombing run. We haven’t found any survivors.”

Ringgold’s heart sank at the terrible news. She listened as he listed off other outposts they had lost, too. All of them wiped out.

“We hit them hard, but the Variants don’t retreat and regroup like a normal enemy,” Souza said. “They keep hitting us before we can recover.”

“Our recon teams are working with whatever tech is still available in the field to track collaborator and Variant movements.” Festa spread a map between them with arrows. “I haven’t updated this map for a few hours. By morning, it’ll likely change.”

Ringgold was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “After the nukes, what kind of numbers are we facing?”

“Our analysts are having a difficult time getting an accurate count,” Souza said coldly. “But if I had to estimate, I would put the collaborators at around a few thousand. The Variants could number twenty thousand. But with their offspring, it could be triple that.”

“We want to be clear these numbers are not accurate,” Festa said. “The only way to know for sure is if the science team can get us access to their communications.”

Ringgold didn’t want to bother Kate and Beckham after everything they had endured, but she needed them. She gave the order to retrieve them and Festa left her with Souza.

For a moment they sat in silence. She liked the general, but she couldn’t help but feel like he and much of the leadership in Central Command had let her down. But then again, they probably blamed her for what was happening, too.

Right now, blaming others was not going to solve anything. Blame would be useless if they were all dead. Learning from their mistakes and moving forward was the only thing keeping them alive.

A couple minutes later, Kate, Beckham, and Horn entered and joined them at the table. Ringgold listened as Festa and Souza brought them up to speed on everything that had occurred over the past few hours.

Beckham was relieved to hear the team was alive, but after the relief, there was shock, and questions.

“I don’t… I don’t believe it. Or maybe I just don’t want to,” Kate said. “Variant hybrids—Chimeras—that can fire a gun and talk?”

“I’m afraid so,” Souza said.

“Christ,” Beckham said.

“You sure Fitz isn’t seeing shit?” Horn asked.

“The whole team backed up his report,” Souza said.

Horn shook his head. “I know, it’s just…”

“If these Chimeras can fire weapons, then they are far more dangerous than any Variants we’ve fought,” Beckham said.

Kate agreed with a nod. “First masterminds, bats, hounds, and the webbing network. Whoever’s behind all this has been busy over the past decade. Creating Chimeras is perhaps the most logical next step—blending the best of humankind with the worst of the monsters.”

“We have to find out who is behind this madness,” Beckham said. “That’s the only way to end this.”

Ringgold looked to Kate. “I know your work was interrupted, but how close are we to locating the actual mastermind responsible for all of this Variant-collaborator organization?”

“I’m afraid we’re much further from that than I initially thought.”

A flush of frustration jolted Ringgold. “I thought everything we did with the mastermind in Manchester was supposed to be enough.”

“It was enough for the mastermind in the lab, but the Variants and collaborators are passing all kinds of communications through the network we didn’t anticipate. We can hardly listen and understand them, much less disrupt their messages.”

“So how do we then?”

“It seems the masterminds transmit on one frequency, while the smaller Variants and collaborators use others. We were trying to translate them when we were extracted.”

“So you need to go back to the tunnels.”

Kate pursed her lips, looking at Beckham. “Yeah, that’s the only way.”

“Assuming the tunnels are even still there,” Festa said. “Lower Manhattan is taking a beating tonight.”

“When it’s clear, we’ll need all the time we can get,” Kate said. “Sammy estimates another day or so at least. It could be more if we run into trouble like today. Whatever it takes, we have to get back there or somewhere with the webbing to do this.”

“I’ll support your mission with as many resources as we can spare,” Ringgold said.

“Thank you,” Kate replied. “I promise we’ll do as much as we can here with the sample signaling data we recorded from the field.”

“In the meantime, we’ve got another important matter.” Ringgold turned to the retired operators who weren’t so retired after all. “Captain Beckham, Master Sergeant Horn, Team Ghost is stranded with valuable intel and our SDS equipment. We need to evac them.”

Kate looked at Beckham again. They exchanged a quick nod.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

***

Beckham sat in the troop hold of a Black Hawk, ready to go back to war.

Across from him, a strike team of six Army Rangers slept. Horn had dozed off too, his head bumping up and down slightly from the unsteady ride. His snores sounded like a chainsaw.

It was two in the morning, and the pilots were flying dark to avoid detection by collaborators. With talk of super-soldier Chimeras and the advanced weaponry they had at their disposal, it was the safest way to cross enemy territory.

Enemy territory, Beckham thought.

He looked out the cockpit, seeing nothing but darkness. They had truly entered the dark ages broaching extinction now, and humanity was to blame—not the monsters.

Men were the monsters. It was men who had developed VX-99 in the first place, and it was men now aiding in the resurgence of the beasts.

He closed his eyes, but he was too angry to sleep.

They were somewhere over Pennsylvania, heading toward Outpost Cleveland. The outpost was on the frontlines. From what Beckham had heard, it was hanging on by a thread. The LZ would be dangerous, especially with the reports of ongoing attacks. They had no choice but to land there to transfer to an available C-130 that would take them the rest of the way to California.

Most other aircraft were being used to evacuate civilians to safer outposts on the Eastern seaboard. This particular plane had taken damage the night before and had subsequently been stranded in Cleveland. Mechanics were supposed to be finishing up repairs now. Beckham hoped it would be ready when they landed.

Any delay in getting to Team Ghost could cost them their lives.

Lights on the horizon caught Beckham’s attention. He leaned closer to the window. His vision blurred in his injured eye again, partially due to exhaustion.

But he didn’t need perfect vision to make out the inferno in the distance. The blaze stretched across miles of terrain.

He put on a headset, got up from his seat, and made his way to the cockpit. “What’s burning?”

Both pilots had pushed up their night vision optics as they looked at the glare to their south.

“That was Pittsburgh,” said a pilot. “Hasn’t stopped burning since the nuke hit.”

A lump formed in Beckham’s throat. Hearing that Pittsburgh was hit by a nuclear strike had been disheartening enough. Seeing it in reality after it had become hell on earth was worse.

He stayed in the cockpit, watching as they flew closer.

A crater in the middle of the city showed where buildings had been swept away in the tidal wave of fire. Flames consumed the land around the impact zone, chewing through old neighborhoods in another of America’s most iconic cities.

Having seen enough of the horrific sight, Beckham returned to his seat. Most of the Rangers were still sleeping but Horn was awake now.

“’Sup, boss?” he asked, stretching his big arms.

“We’re passing Pittsburgh.”

Horn looked toward the cockpit.

Big white flakes now plastered the plexiglass.

“That snow?” Horn asked. “Bit early, isn’t it?”

“Too big to be snow,” Beckham said.

He checked the window behind them. The flakes left a black powder.

“That’s ash,” came a voice across the troop hold.

It was Sergeant Gray, a hulking dark-skinned man who reminded Beckham of a long-deceased Ranger that had fought with Team Ghost during the first war—a man named Tank because of his size and strength.

Horn sat up straighter, fully alert. He drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “Jesus.”

“People and monsters,” said another Ranger wearing eyeglasses named Nathan Brooks.

“Huh?” Gray said.

“The ash,” said Brooks. “It’s not just the buildings and trees. It’s the remains of humans and Variants, too.”

Horn ignored the Rangers and nudged Beckham’s arm. “You get any shuteye?”

“Not really.”

“You’ll need it for Cali.”

“I know.”

Horn was right, but closing his eyes felt like a betrayal to the people who had died from the nuclear blast and the all-consuming flames. The military hadn’t been able to evacuate everyone here in time when the bomb dropped.

“Seriously, boss, get some sleep,” Horn entreated. “You used to nap in the shittiest conditions.”

“That was before I had a family and the entire world was teetering on extinction.”

“Yeah…and that’s why you need your sleep.”

Beckham nodded. “You win.”

Sleep would help him save people.

All it takes is all you got, he thought.

The Marine Corps quote helped ease that burden slightly. He repeated those words in his head like a mantra until his mind cleared. Fatigue sucked him in, and he drifted off.

A voice jerked him awake sometime later.

“We got a hot LZ!” shouted one of the pilots.

Adrenaline cut through Beckham’s groggy mind.

The Rangers were already slamming magazines into their rifles as the bird began its descent. Brooks, the corporal with the glasses, pumped shells into a shotgun.

Beckham glanced out the window behind him. He couldn’t see much, but the apocalyptic urban landscape unfolding before him must have been Cleveland—or at least what was left of it.

“Captain Beckham, I’m not sure putting down is a good idea,” said the primary pilot.

Beckham stood and went back to the cockpit. Flames scraped toward the sky from piles of rubble and toppled buildings.

Tracer rounds split the darkness.

Scanning the ground, Beckham saw the freeway that had been cleared of vehicles. The C-130 sat there, waiting.

“Our ride’s still there,” Beckham said. “Did they finish the repairs?”

“Yes, but I really don’t want to drop you boys off in that shit show,” the primary pilot said. “Some of the guards are already retreating with the mechanics.”

He could have been pissed at them for running from the fight, but looking at the destruction surrounding them, it was hard to blame them.

A handful of military vehicles on the makeshift runway fled the defensive perimeter set up around the LZ. In the glow of industrial lights, Beckham spotted two small single-prop planes waiting to take off.

Muzzle flashes sparkled across the road as shadowy figures advanced on the vehicles.

“We have to get on the C-130,” Beckham said. “We’ll clear a path so you can take us down.”

“Captain…” said the pilot.

“That’s an order,” Beckham said.

He returned to the troop hold and directed the other soldiers to put on their night vision goggles.

“Change of plans,” Beckham said, shouting to be heard over the blast of the bird’s rotors. “We’re going to clear the LZ so the pilots can touch down.”

The Rangers all nodded, and Horn stepped up to the crew chief who was preparing the M240 in the open door.

“Step aside, buttercup,” he said.

The crew chief backed away, and Beckham handed him a spare rifle to use instead. They opened the opposite door, and the Rangers moved into firing positions.

Even in the past few minutes, monsters had streamed toward the airfield. On both sides, they slammed into the fences. One section had already come down.

Creatures trampled over it, bolting toward the meager defenses. It was hard to see much, despite the optics. But Beckham spotted a few brave remaining soldiers, three armored vehicles, and two mobile trailers set up on the shoulder of the freeway.

Half the convoy had already fled. Those vehicles had pulled some of the Variants away from the C-130, but more monsters descended from the surrounding neighborhoods toward the broken fence.

The chopper circled, giving Beckham a better view from another angle. He flipped up his NVGs. The generator-run floodlights on the ground illuminated a group of at least ten soldiers fighting back the beasts approaching the tail of the C-130.

A massive fire ball suddenly blasted out of a building in the center of the outpost, distracting Beckham for a moment.

Maybe the collaborators had hit the outpost from the inside too, but he couldn’t worry about that now. Their job was to clear this area, get on the plane, and retrieve Team Ghost.

The chopper lowered and Beckham gave the order to open fire.

The bark of the M240 rang out as Horn went to work, raking the barrel like an artist. He painted a group of Variants that were still climbing a fence, then turned his aim on a group that had already climbed over and were making a dash for the armored vehicles.

Everyone in the Black Hawk who had a firing zone squeezed off calculated shots, picking off the Variants. The dying creatures flopped over the highway, but more surged over the collapsed fence, rushing in from the ruined city surrounding the interstate.

“Keep them away from the plane!” Beckham shouted.

The chopper lowered as the Rangers fired. Targeting the moving beasts from above wasn’t easy, especially in the dark. But the men had experience, and with Horn’s help, they cleared a wide enough swathe to ensure a landing site.

In the distance, Beckham noticed a swarming cloud against the moon and starlight. Distant fires bloomed on the top of buildings where this erratic cloud touched.

Bats.

“Incoming!” Beckham shouted. “Bats headed our way!”

He retreated into the troop hold and grabbed Horn. A wave of explosive-laden, VX-99 modified creatures slammed into the cockpit, splattering blood on the plexiglass. The pilots screamed in shock and pushed the chopper down toward the ground to avoid the cloud.

“Bail, bail!” someone shouted.

Alarms blared throughout the bird. The voices of the pilots and panicked Rangers were silenced in a sudden eruption of fire. An explosion ripped through the plexiglass and metal.

Adrenaline churned through Beckham, making the world seem to slow around him.

He was still holding onto Horn, and together they jumped, plummeting toward the concrete. They fell nearly six feet before slamming against the pavement.

The impact knocked the wind from Beckham’s lungs. Pain shot through his joints. He rolled, stopping on his back.

Fighting through the agony, Beckham pushed himself to his knees, keeping low. Horn lay prone, blood running down his nostrils.

They watched as the burning chopper spun out of control, the cockpit completely enveloped by flames.

Two Rangers jumped out before the bird slammed into the shoulder of the road, exploding in a fireball. Shrapnel seared through the air.

Beckham turned from the catastrophe when he heard the fearsome growls of Variants. Gunfire lanced into the charging monsters.

A hand grabbed Beckham, pulling him up. The group of soldiers defending the C-130 had come to help, laying down covering fire.

Muddled voices came from all directions, but Beckham couldn’t make them out due to the ringing in his ears.

In partial shock, he stumbled forward like a drunk, trying to follow the soldiers up the ramp and into the belly of the aircraft. Horn turned and helped Beckham inside.

Brooks and one other Ranger had already made it into the troop hold.

The outpost soldiers standing guard all piled in, shouting things that Beckham still couldn’t hear. He felt the rumble of the engines as the plane pulled forward.

Variants flooded the freeway. They raced after the plane on all fours. Their sucker lips tore back into snarls as they dashed after the plane, only to be blocked out with the rear ramp clicking shut.

Panting, Horn collapsed on the deck.

“Jesus,” he groaned.

Beckham could hear that. He rolled over to Horn. “You okay, Big Horn?”

“Yeah, I think so. You?”

“I’m alive,” Beckham replied.

The outpost soldiers dropped into jump seats as the plane climbed from its improvised runway. Many of their faces were painted in horror. Horror that Beckham knew all too well. Escaping death wasn’t new to him or these men, but losing brothers never got easier.

He pulled himself into a seat, and Horn followed suit. The engines roared as the plane pulled away from the carnage.

It was a while before anyone spoke.

“I… I lost my glasses,” came a voice.

Beckham looked over to see Brooks.

“Least you made it out,” said the other surviving Ranger. “What the fuck were those things?”

“Bats,” Horn said. “Rigged with explosives.”

“They didn’t look like bats,” the man replied. “They were huge!”

“The monsters are mutated by VX-99,” Beckham said. “They’re larger and far more aggressive than normal bats.”

A few curses and angry voices followed. Beckham rested his head against the bulkhead. Something told him this was the easy part of what lay ahead.

He closed his eyes, and this time, he fell right asleep.

— 10 —

The roar of fighter jets woke Timothy violently. He shot out of his sleeping bag. Ruckley was already at the window with her rifle, peering at the sky through the cracked glass of the abandoned farmhouse they had found.

Moonlight glowed on her face as she looked out over a field overgrown with weeds. He searched the stars for the fighters but didn’t see them. The growl slowly faded, until it was nothing but a low rumble.

“At least we’re still in the fight,” Timothy said.

“Of course, we are,” Ruckley said.

She sounded confident, but after Outpost Portland, she had to know the Variants and the collaborators were winning this war.

Timothy sat back on his sleeping bag and took a sip of water from his bottle. They had been lucky to find a few camping supplies and other necessities stocked in this house. It had offered a refuge for the night, giving them the time to plan their next steps.

Ruckley looked at her watch. “I better relieve Neeland.”

The young Ranger was holding watch in the living room downstairs. Timothy had already served his rotation. He had spent most of the time staring out the windows at the field, picturing Variants prowling through the tall weeds.

He had imagined every rustling stalk of grass might be a monster. It had been unnerving waiting for an attack.

He was glad his shift was over.

“See you in a few hours,” Ruckley whispered.

Timothy rested on the sleeping bag and a pillow he had found. His body was dog-tired, but the sound of fighter jets meant he wasn’t falling back asleep any time soon.

He found himself thinking of how nice it would be to sleep on a real mattress again. Every bed in this house was covered in dark stains and mold from water leaking through the ceiling.

He propped the pillow under his head and tried to think of happy memories, goading his mind to relax. Times when he and his father had spent their nights on Peaks Island fishing or those hot summer days diving for lobsters with spearguns.

He missed those moments of peace so much. More than anything, he just missed being with his father. Feeling his presence, knowing he was always there with words of reassurance or a long conversation when Timothy needed it.

Darker images flooded his mind.

That last night on the island, running through the woods. The gunshots. Returning to the bunker to see his father cold, lifeless. Pain turned to fear, forcing his eyelids open.

He should have stayed in that bunker with his dad. He would have rather died then by his father’s side. Fighting instead of running with only decaying memories to hold onto.

Anger and guilt tore at his insides, a monster more powerful than a Variant. Sleep would be impossible now.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then heard a creak in the stairwell outside the bedroom.

Must be Neeland, he thought.

Timothy watched the open door, waiting for the young Army Ranger to appear.

But it wasn’t Neeland who entered.

Ruckley stepped into the room, a mask of worry on her face.

Timothy instinctively grabbed his gun. “What is it?”

“Neeland’s gone,” she said. “Something might be wrong. Grab your things.”

“Are we leaving?” Timothy asked, confused. “Maybe he’s taking a shit.”

None of the toilets in the house had been working, and they’d been forced to use a spot in the backyard.

“Maybe, but we can’t risk it. Let’s go.”

Timothy stuffed his meager belongings into his backpack and heaved it over his back. He left the sleeping bag and pillow. Then he followed her down the stairs.

At the ground floor, she raised her rifle and strode out, clearing the room.

Timothy followed, bringing his gun up.

Two couches and a broken coffee table furnished the living room. There was no sign of Neeland. The weak moonlight streaming through the windows didn’t reveal much. He didn’t see any broken glass, blood, or trampled carpet to indicate a struggle or forced entry.

If there had been, Timothy would have heard it.

Ruckley led them through the living room into the kitchen. The curtains around an open sliding door blew in the breeze. That door led to the deck and Timothy joined her out there in the cool night.

The backyard was an acre of trees and grass that bordered an old farm field filled with weeds almost as tall as Timothy.

Branches from the trees groaned and snapped in the breeze, masking any popping joints of prowling Variants.

Ruckley took the stairs down to the grass, using her night vision optics to check the area. Clouds passed over the moon, leaving Timothy nearly blind. He waited for it to pass, squinting to make out the shadowy shapes around him.

He briefly considered calling out for Neeland. But if the Ranger was taking a shit, he would return. If he wasn’t, then yelling for the man was tantamount to calling all the Variants lurking in the area to dinner.

The clouds rolled away, and the moon again spread a carpet of white over the terrain. Timothy caught up to Ruckley and walked beside her. She suddenly stopped before a line of trees fencing off the property from the fields.

The tall weeds swayed in the wind like waves, back and forth. Almost hypnotic.

Timothy aimed his rifle over the field, waiting for Variants to come bounding out. His finger went to the trigger, and he steadied his breathing.

Ears strained, he listened for the noises of the beasts. Instead of snapping jaws and nightmarish screeches, all he heard were the rustling branches and the whistle of the wind.

“Where the hell did he go?” Ruckley whispered.

She turned, then froze, staring at the house through her NVGs.

Timothy didn’t see anything. “What?”

Ruckley took a step forward and aimed her rifle at the barns on the eastern side of the property about twenty yards from the main house.

“Someone’s watching us,” she said. “Get ready to run.”

Timothy felt a ball forming in his throat. It wasn’t just Variants out there. As the implications crossed his mind, he found himself almost hoping it was collaborators.

No, not if they have the drop, he thought.

He would get his revenge, but not tonight—tonight he had to survive.

Something whizzed past his head as he took a step toward Ruckley.

“Go,” she said firmly.

He turned and ran, seeing an arrow sticking out of a tree. It was still quivering from when it had stabbed into the bark. Another whistle of an arrow cut through the air. It lanced into Ruckley’s arm, and she cried out in pain.

Timothy stopped to fire a burst, but his shots were wild. Without any night vision, he couldn’t see the shooters wherever they were. He turned and ran for the fields, not slowing even when he pushed through the tall weeds.

The rough blades scratched at his bare face, but he kept going. He couldn’t see Ruckley, but he heard her breaking through the plants behind him.

Voices yelled in the distance.

One was familiar.

It was Neeland. “Help me!” he shouted. “Please, help me!”

Had these people kidnapped the poor bastard?

The end of the field came into focus. A dense forest covered a hill not too far away but Timothy decided to crouch instead of making a run for the cover.

“Ruckley,” he said quietly.

No response.

He waited a few moments, listening for her movements.

Only the wind swayed the grass. The distant shouts had stopped too, and he didn’t hear Neeland anymore.

A chill of fear shivered through him. What if he was all alone now?

He refused to believe it. Ruckley was still out there, and he couldn’t just sit here and wait for her. Cautiously, he advanced with his rifle ready to fire at anyone on the other side of the weeds.

A moment later he reached the edge of the field and scanned for contacts through the shifting blades. He didn’t see anyone out there. Darkness had swallowed much of the landscape, and these people seemed to be expert hunters.

Suppressing his fear, he strode out of the foliage, staying low. The forest growing along the hilly terrain stretched before him. He ran low for cover.

“Timothy,” came a voice.

He froze.

“It’s me, Ruckley.”

She was crouched behind a tree, waving with her good arm. The arrow jutting out of her other arm was broken.

Timothy joined her and hunched down.

She winced as she aimed her rifle at the farmhouse and the two barns. A fire had started in a pit on the gravel drive, the glow flickering on the faded paint of the bigger barn.

Timothy zoomed in on a pole sticking out of the firepit, flames licking the sides.

He spotted movement in the glare and moved his scope to the right. A figure dressed in camo was strung up on a cross. It had to be Neeland. His legs and arms were bound, and his mouth was now taped shut.

A group of four… no… five people circled around, all holding crossbows.

“Collaborators?” he whispered.

“I don’t think so,” Ruckley said. “I’ve never seen collaborators use crossbows. These freaks must be some sort of cult.”

“We got to do something. All they got are bows. We can take them.”

He pictured how she had let that couple back in the church get slaughtered, how she was ready to give them up so they could continue their mission. Would she do the same to Neeland?

“There could be more,” Ruckley said. “They’re crazy, but they don’t seem dumb. This is probably another trap. We go down there, thinking it’s an easy shot, then they jump us from the weeds and fields.”

“We’re talking about Neeland, though,” Timothy said. “We can’t let them roast the guy.”

“I know,” she replied.

Timothy scanned for more targets but saw none. The farmland was simply too dark.

“We have to be careful,” Ruckley said, grimacing through her pain. “If we’re doing this, you take the ones on the left, I’ll take the right. Then if there are more in the fields, we’ll flush them out. Conserve your ammo, and make each shot—”

Before she finished her sentence one of the figures ripped the tape off Neeland’s mouth, then plucked a flaming stick from the firepit and tossed it into the wood under Neeland’s boots. The flames leapt up Neeland’s body.

“HELP ME!” Neeland wailed. “Oh, God! Ruckley! Help me!”

Flames devoured his clothing and flesh. An agonizing wail filled the night. Neeland shrieked the entire time, his voice erupting in an animalistic cry of agony.

“Go,” Ruckley snapped.

“What?”

“Go, I’ll catch up.”

Timothy hesitated, then started walking away.

A single gunshot rang out, and then faded.

He didn’t need to turn to know the target had been Neeland. To put him out of his misery.

Ruckley caught up a few seconds later. She breathed heavy, like she was trying to hold back tears from putting her friend and brother out of his misery.

Timothy didn’t even try to hold back his own tears. He had hardly known Neeland, but the man had deserved better. And so had his dad.

Tears ran from his eyes.

Timothy wanted to think there would be justice for Neeland and his father, but he knew in this new world filled with monsters and war, nothing was fair. Justice was nearly as extinct as good people.

***

Dohi crouched at the edge of a hiking trail covered in long weeds, sweeping the path ahead with his night vision goggles. Behind him, he heard the crunch of Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds’ boots over twigs and dry grass. After escaping the enemy vessel, their advance to the evac site ten miles from the C-130 was painfully slow, in part due to the Wolfhounds.

The damaged freighter had sunk, but one of the birds had escaped. Dohi knew it was searching for them.

That’s why he had selected a straightaway section of I-280 outside Redwood City for their evac.

They were only a few miles away now, just north of what had once been El Corte de Madera Creek Reserve, surrounded by massive trees.

Almost there, Dohi thought. Keep pushing.

They had given Jackson, Hopkins, and Lawrence their first round of antibiotics. But the medicine didn’t work instantaneously, and they needed real medical professionals.

Lawrence managed a steady gait, cradling his wounded arm. Dohi admired his fortitude. Martin was the only Wolfhound who had survived both the cannibals’ and Chimera attack unscathed. Now he helped Hopkins, who was missing one foot below the ankle.

Despite Hopkins protests, Rico carried the man, occasionally letting him lean on her shoulder as he walked with his remaining leg.

Jackson remained unconscious, the stumps at both ankles still smelling slightly with necrosis. He was now on Ace’s back, who walked with sweat trickling down his head.

The occasional distant screeches of Variants haunted them with every step. Somewhere amid the hilly, forested landscape, the beasts lurked. It wasn’t just the monsters Dohi was worried about. There was no guarantee more Chimeras from the freighter weren’t trawling the woods. And for that matter, the settlement of cannibals they had discovered in the National Accelerator Laboratory might not have been the only one.

Another howl pierced the night. This one was closer.

Dohi signaled for everyone to get down. Fitz came over to him and took a knee while Rico and Mendez held security.

“How many do you think are out there?” he whispered.

“Sounds like a pack,” Dohi replied. “Judging by the frequency of their calls, they’re hunting us.”

He studied the trees and the undergrowth of the forest. He didn’t see any trampled vegetation. No claw marks. Nothing to indicate any Variants had been here recently, which meant to him these beasts hadn’t randomly showed up to this park.

They had Team Ghost’s scent.

He took a deep breath, peering through his NVGs at the green and black landscape. The team was relying on him to guide them safely through this unknown land to the rendezvous point. He couldn’t mess up like he had at the National Accelerator Lab.

Dohi gave the advance signal into the dark woods, cautiously approaching every gurgling stream and patch of bushes under the redwoods. Jackson’s groaning got worse, and his breathing was ragged.

“He ain’t going to make it much further,” Ace whispered, his voice strained. “We need to put him down and change these bandages.”

Ace was right. Dohi could smell Jackson’s festering wounds. If he could smell it, that meant the Variants could, too.

Dohi checked his watch. They still had a couple hours before evac. More than enough time to change Jackson’s bandages, but they couldn’t do it here.

He surveyed the road ahead. Abandoned cars littered the cracked asphalt. A couple were nothing but charred husks, but it gave him idea. This place had once been a campground, too.

“Look,” Dohi said, pointing up the road. “This place has an RV park. We might find some shelter there.”

Fitz gave a nod.

The group marched along the road. Another Variant shrieked, and a second beast answered the call. Dohi thought they sounded closer, but maybe it was just the acoustics of the open road now.

The faster they took care of Jackson, the sooner they could get out of here. And if all went well, changing Jackson’s bandages would cover the scent better, but they had to be fast.

He increased his pace, seeing a sign with paint peeling away in big flakes.

A short driveway led to an open space filled with wild grass. Nearly a dozen hookup spots for power, water, and sewer lines sprouted from the field. Of course none would work, but Dohi had hoped to see a few RVs and trailers here, abandoned during the first war.

All that was left was a single camper-trailer with broken windows. The door was crumpled on the ground. Silver scars marred the paint, showing where Variants had clawed their way inside.

Fitz gestured for Dohi and Mendez to clear it while the others waited at the entrance to the RV park. The two operators flitted through the grass, then paused in front of the open door.

Dohi listened for breathing or the snap of Variant joints.

With a nod, he entered. Mendez fell in behind him. Broken glass covered a built-in table and bench. Mold had crept over the kitchenette, and ragged curtains flapped at the back of the trailer where the bed was. Atop that bed was a skeleton, leathery flesh hanging off in ribbons, bite marks covering the bone.

“I’ll take care of Jackson,” Dohi said.

“I can help,” Hopkins said.

“Yeah, put us to work,” Lawrence added, gesturing with his good arm. “We’re happy to do something.”

“Right now, just focus on getting those bandages changed,” Dohi said. “The smell of those things are going to attract every damn Variant around.”

“Ace, Rico, you’re on security,” Fitz said. “Mendez, get Hopkins and Lawrence comfortable on that bench.”

Fitz dug into his pack and tossed them a first aid kit. “Replace their bandages. Martin, take Jackson to that bed with me and Dohi. We need to clean him up fast before the Variants are drawn to the scent.”

Ace carried Jackson to the back and waited to unload him onto the bed.

“Hurry,” he grumbled.

Dohi removed the skeleton and took the bony remains outside, but he didn’t have time to worry about honoring the dead with a burial when it was the living that he needed to take care of.

He went back inside, and Fitz took out more of the medical supplies they’d scavenged from the freighter to help Jackson.

Dohi examined the soiled bandages. Martin looked over his shoulder, muttering a prayer that was cut short by a Variant howl in the distance.

Dohi tried to ignore the sounds, but having Martin hovering over him and muttering in his ear wasn’t helping matters.

“Be careful,” Martin said.

“I know what I’m doing,” Dohi said.

Jackson was unconscious, but his face contorted in pain when Dohi began unwrapping the bandages. They pulled away with a slurp from the bloodied stumps, tearing some of the diseased tissue.

Dohi unraveled the last bandage. The odor of death filled the trailer. Pus and blood leaked out of cracked, blackened flesh.

Martin retched and bolted outside to vomit.

Fighting his own instinct to recoil, Dohi examined the wound. The cannibals had screwed up when they had tried to cauterize the flesh.

Between the survival techniques his grandfather had taught him and the first aid skills he’d honed as an operator, Dohi knew this wasn’t going to be an easy fix.

“I need to debride this wound, clean it, then reapply the bandage,” he said quietly. “This necrotic tissue is going to get worse if we leave it, and the smell is going to keep those Variants on us until we take care of it.”

“Do what you have to,” Fitz said.

Martin walked back inside, wiping off his mouth.

“You good?” Dohi said.

A nod from Martin.

“Good, because I need your help. Put a cloth between Jackson’s teeth. This is going to be painful, and he needs something to bite down on.”

“And try to keep him quiet,” Fitz said.

Martin tore a piece of old sheet from the bed and stuffed it between Jackson’s teeth.

“Here we go,” Dohi said.

He took out his utility knife and scraped at the dead tissue, periodically washing it with fresh water. The dead flaking skin peeled away to reveal raw, red infected tissue.

Jackson groaned louder.

“Oh, shit, what’s going on?” Martin asked.

Blood started to spray from the wound, soaking into the bed like a dark shadow.

“Shit,” Dohi said. “I think he had a nicked artery or something. The cauterized tissue was helping block it, but…”

Fitz dug through the first-aid kit for clotting gel, a hemostat, and sutures, handing the supplies over.

Dohi cleaned away as much of the blood and dead tissue blocking their access to the artery, then tried dousing the wound with the clotting gel. The bleeding didn’t stop, and the artery had retracted deeper into Jackson’s leg.

“This is going to hurt bad,” Dohi said, pausing. “A lot. Martin, hold him down. Fitz, I need your help.”

Martin’s dark skin seemed a shade lighter, a quiet terror evident in his face. Fitz came over with Martin to hold Jackson down.

There was no way around this. Blood pumped from the wound. Jackson would be dead in minutes, and the smell of this blood would be worse than Jackson’s wounds at attracting the monsters.

Dohi quickly probed through the infected tissue, pushing past the fat and skin.

Jackson snapped awake, eyes bulging from their sockets. He was fully conscious now. He screamed into the cloth, and Martin held the guy’s head, trying to reassure him.

But even with the cloth between his teeth, Jackson’s scream was loud.

“Hurry, Dohi,” Fitz said.

“I’m working as fast as I can.”

Dohi’s heart thundered in his ears. He tried to ignore Jackson’s screams and Martin’s reassurances, the din filling the trailer. They might as well hang a flashing sign outside that advertised Variant food here.

“I got it!” he said, catching the artery with two fingers and snapping the hemostat on it. “Sutures, now!”

He tied off the vessel, blood pouring over his hand. Jackson still screamed in pain, writhing. Fitz and Martin struggled to hold him in place.

And then it was finished.

Dohi poured more clean water over the wound. No more blood gushed out.

Jackson sobbed, muscular chest heaving in gasps, before passing out again.

The bed and floor were soaked with blood. The guy had lost so much.

Dohi started wrapping Jackson’s legs with fresh bandages.

A chorus of Variant shrieks came from outside. This time there was no mistaking their proximity. They knew Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds were here.

Rico came into the bedroom and said in a low voice, “We got multiple contacts.”

“We’re almost finished,” Fitz said.

Jackson’s unconscious moaning faded into a rattling sigh as Dohi finished the last bandage. The man was quiet now. Too quiet.

Dohi checked his wrist. His stomach plummeted through the floor. “He doesn’t have a pulse.”

“What? No, come on, Jackson,” Martin said. He bent down to pump on the soldier’s chest with his skinny arms.

Another howl screamed outside. This one sounded closer. Two more inhuman voices answered it.

“Movement at our six, and ten, and…” Ace said. “Shit, they’re coming from all directions.”

The shrieks grew louder even though Jackson had gone silent. The blood-soaked room had brought all the ravenous monsters to their position.

Dohi looked at the lifeless man.

All this effort, all this risk for nothing. Jackson was dead, and now they were trapped in a trailer, surrounded by beasts being drawn to his corpse like hyenas around a wounded gazelle.

— 11 —

The wails of the injured and dying punctured the crackle of the flames dancing over City Hall Park. A tree buckled as flames devoured it. Ash and embers swirled in a harsh wind coursing down Broadway, carrying the stink of charred flesh and the rotten odor of dead Variants.

Fischer stood in the vibroseis truck near the courthouse with his engineer, Brian Meyer.

The engineer touched the blood-soaked bandage on his cheek. He needed stitches, but for now the bandage would have to suffice.

Frankly, he was lucky to be alive. So was Fischer. Tran and Chase had saved them from a pair of Variants that had managed to break through the other defenses and get to the truck.

After the first wave of beasts, they had lost too many men in Bogardus Garden to hold the position. They had been forced to move and consolidate their defenses around City Hall.

“How’s it looking?” Fischer asked Meyer.

The engineer studied the geophone readings across his monitor. “So far, no activity to indicate new tunnels.”

“Let’s pray it stays that way. Shout if you see anything, even if it’s so much as an earthworm coughing down there.”

Fischer got down from the truck and joined Massey. Chase and Tran shadowed him, each looking nervously around the carnage.

“The vibroseis truck is ready for the next wave,” Fischer said.

Massey nodded and let out a long exhale. “We lost nearly a third of our men in that last attack. Even if the Variants are weaker, it’s going to be hell.”

“We’ll keep a close eye on those tunnels to ensure they don’t catch us with our pants down.”

“The M1 is ready to go again as soon as you spot something. It might be our saving grace.”

“What about the other M1 I saw back at the outpost?”

“It stays there, to protect the civilians as a last resort.”

Fischer looked up at the tall buildings around them for the helicopters.

“And the Apaches?”

“Running low on fuel,” Massey said. “Trying to keep them as a last resort as well.”

Fischer hated seeing them hold back on their most powerful weapons, but he decided it was a good plan.

Last resort, he thought.

“Radio if you need me,” Massey said. “I’m going to check the defensive barricades again.”

Fischer took a long swig of water, then looked between Tran and Chase. “You boys doing all right?”

“Remember how you promised a drink on the beach when this is all over?” Tran asked.

“Of course.”

“I’m thinking a luxury cruise now.”

“You both deserve it,” Fischer said. “I know you didn’t sign up for this when you joined Fischer Fields, but I have to commend you for stepping up when the country called for us.”

“We go where you go, sir,” Tran added.

Meyer called from the truck. “Mr. Fischer! I’ve got activity!”

Adrenaline flooded Fischer. He ran as fast as his old bones would take him back to the engineer.

Spikes of activity bloomed across the monitor. Seismic waves bounced around the neighborhoods surrounding City Hall Park.

Fischer grabbed his radio. “Commander Massey, they’re on their way. I’ve got confirmed activity about six blocks north. Looks like they’ll be inbound at Centre and Chambers.”

“Copy, we’re moving the M1 now,” she replied.

The tank’s diesel engines growled to life and the treads crunched over the disheveled street. Men followed behind it as they found new positions, aiming toward the intersection at the corner of City Hall Park.

“Four blocks now,” Meyer reported.

Fischer gripped the barrel of his shotgun.

“Three blocks now!”

Ten minutes passed before the ground started to crater around a manhole on Centre. Fischer watched through the windshield of the truck. Tran and Chase got beside the vehicle, aiming at the shifting and cracking pavement.

For a moment, only the crackle of fires in the park and abandoned buildings nearby could be heard. Then the asphalt fell away in a loud crash.

A Variant climbed from the freshly formed pit, rearing back on its legs, muscles pulsing under sickly gray flesh. It opened its mouth, saliva spraying from its teeth as it screamed. A pack of monsters erupted from the tunnel behind it, a mix of armored juveniles and the sinewy adults.

“Open fire!” Massey yelled.

The concerted boom of rifle and machine gunfire exploded across the block. Tracer rounds cut from the machine gun nests in the neighboring buildings. Even as the first wave of monsters perished under the onslaught, others squirmed between the dead bodies of their brethren, climbing onto the street.

Grenades sailed toward them. Blasts sent chunks of singed meat smacking against asphalt and clouds of smoke blooming from new fires.

The M1 fired with a deafening boom. A geyser of asphalt and dirt burst from the hole with a resonating boom. The beasts’ bodies were thrown into the air, then came down in a gruesome rain of mangled body parts. A wave of dust billowed from the impact site.

“They’re still coming!” Chase said.

Fischer moved past Meyer and aimed out the open window of the truck. He sighted up one Variant galloping out of the rolling cloud of dust and debris.

With the butt of his shotgun tight against his shoulder, he squeezed his trigger. The blast tore through the monster’s chest, sending it tumbling over itself.

“Shit, sir. Shit!” Meyer said. “We’ve got more activity under the park.”

Fischer turned back to the screen. “Under us?”

“Yes! The beasts are digging a new tunnel.”

Screams echoed outside as a Variant lunged at a soldier, tearing into him with claws and teeth. Another man went down as juveniles piled on top of him, ripping him apart like a pack of dogs.

Fischer held up his radio. “Commander, the Variants are attacking from Elk and Chambers!”

“That’s near the M1,” she replied.

The tank fired another round that decimated the entrance of the tunnel. A group of beasts disappeared in a violent inferno.

Fischer expected that to be the end of them, but more monsters squeezed out from the cracked slabs of asphalt and rubble, bloody and burned.

Sniper rifles cracked from above, like angels of war, protecting the men on the ground from the creatures getting too close.

“They have stopped right below us,” Meyer said.

“Get out of here,” Fischer said. “Retreat to the main defenses and stay there.”

“But sir…”

“Do it,” Fischer said. “We can’t hold this position.”

Another pair of Variants made a break from the broken entrance of the tunnel. They rushed at the vibroseis truck. Fischer hopped beside Tran and Chase while Meyer ran.

They brought down the first monster, but the second ran low, ducking behind the bodies of its comrades. It coiled and jumped, soaring toward Fischer. He clenched up, watching in what seemed like slow motion as the beast descended on him, claws extended.

Suddenly the beast’s mouth disappeared in a blast of pink tissue and bone spreading. Tran kept his rifle aimed at the creature when it crashed to the ground, finishing it with a shot to the back of the head. Blood pooled away from the beast to Fischer’s boots.

He tried to control his breathing.

“Fischer, where are those monsters on Elk?” Massey called over the radio. “I can’t spare my men there if they aren’t actually coming.”

“They’re beneath the street,” Fischer replied.

Suddenly part of Chambers street cracked. The monsters had stopped climbing out of the hole on Centre. A loud roar carried up out of the fissures across Chambers.

But this was not the cry of a monster. It sounded like rushing water.

The heavy weight of horror plunged through his insides at the implications.

“Massey, pull your men off the streets!” Fischer yelled over the radio. “Get them away from the buildings and move that tank back to the park! NOW!”

Dirty brown water exploded out of the cracks in Chambers, pouring through the streets. Soldiers backed away from it like it was poison. It wasn’t the water itself Fischer was afraid of. It was what that rushing water meant.

The tank growled as it rotated and then powered down Chambers toward the park. The asphalt buckled under its tracks, crumbling away in an instant. A massive hole ripped down the road, swallowing men and vehicles.

The tank crashed through the collapsing earth, followed by the second vibroseis truck. It took Fischer a second to realize what had happened. New York City’s famous water system was fed by gravity, meaning the huge tunnels that had once transported tap water to buildings throughout the city were still filled with stagnant water.

“The Variants burst a water main!” Fischer shouted. “We all have to fall back!”

Variant shrieks echoed up from the splashing untreated water filling the tunnel they had dug. Human screams followed, giving Fischer no illusion of what was happening in this freshly formed canyon. He looked back into his vibroseis truck and saw more seismic activity on the screen.

Another sinkhole formed under a building where machine gunners and snipers were roosted. One of the Apaches was stationed atop it. The building started to quiver, cracks tracing up its side. The Apaches blades started spinning, but it was too late. The building collapsed inward, and a huge cloud of dust rolled over the park.

Panicked voices exploded over the radio.

“We’re pulling back from Pumphouse Park!” someone yelled over the radio.

So it’s not just here, Fischer thought.

His mind thundered with questions on how this could be happening. The Variants had pulled a tactical maneuver, distracting the defensive forces and striking in a way no one could’ve predicted.

A second building collapsed into the growing sinkhole. Water flooded the streets, and a debris cloud rolled over the defensive forces. Soon the gray and brown haze was too much. Fischer could only see shadows moving in the dust.

Screams and the sound of gunfire split the air.

Tran and Chase pressed up against the back of the truck, fighting off monsters emerging out of the haze. The truck’s geophone monitor burst with more activity as sinkholes sucked in men and spat out more Variants.

There was no way he could hold the truck with just Tran and Chase. This station was already lost. There was nothing they could do but retreat.

Cracks formed in the ground around them, the earth trembling.

“Massey!” Fischer yelled into his radio. “We’re abandoning the vibroseis truck and headed your way!”

“Alpha!” Tran yelled.

His rifle burst to life as a creature barreled through the fog toward them. The monster let out an ear-splitting shriek, muscles rippling under its fur.

Bullets plunged into its flesh, blood spraying from the wounds. But the monster kept coming with a tide of Variants following in its wake.

“Move!” Fischer yelled.

Tran and Chase led the way, stopping every few strides to lay down covering fire.

The Alpha slammed into the vibroseis truck behind them, pushing it over. Variants scaled the toppled vehicle, jumping over it and chasing after Fischer and his men.

Fischer slowed when he saw a monster feasting on a body ahead. He fired a buckshot into the ugly creature, knocking it off the victim. A second passed before he realized the shredded body was Meyer.

Most of the engineer’s face had been mauled off, and Fischer only recognized him by the Fischer Fields logo emblazoned on his coveralls.

“Goddammit!” Fischer shouted.

Gunfire cracked behind him as Tran and Chase back peddled while firing at the Alpha still hunting them.

“Run!” Chase yelled.

Fischer pumped another shell into his shotgun and brought the weapon up to blast a Variant in their path. Tran and Chase took measured shots at the other creatures, cutting down the Alpha’s forces. They hit the bigger beast with periodic bursts and it finally started to slow.

“Reloading!” Fischer said as he plucked new cartridges from his vest.

Tran’s rifle bolt clicked back. “Me too!”

The Alpha seemed to sense their momentary weakness and barreled forward, knocking aside smaller Variants. Chase fired, but the beast was too fast. It grabbed Tran, then yanked him backward, disappearing back into the dust cloud.

“Tran!” Fischer shouted. He pumped his shotgun and ran after the beast.

“Wait!” Chase yelled.

Fischer strode out into the dust cloud with Chase by his side.

“Tran!” they both yelled.

More explosions burst behind them, screams piercing the crack of increasingly sporadic gunfire. Fischer saw almost nothing through the rising dust cloud as other buildings collapsed.

He continued yelling for Tran, but the man was gone, taken underground where he would suffer a worse fate than being torn apart up here.

“Sir, we have to go,” Chase said.

The roar of a diesel engine sounded in the distance, and Fischer followed Chase toward the noise. They broke through the dust to find a black four-by-four pickup with a group of soldiers in the bed, and another climbing up.

“Get in!” Massey yelled from the driver’s window.

Fischer looked back toward the dust cloud one last time, praying Tran wouldn’t suffer long.

A hand grabbed Fischer by the arm. Chase helped him up into the bed of the truck as they abandoned their friend to the monsters.

***

In the troop hold of the C-130, Beckham stared out one of the small windows. The first molten rays of the sun climbed above California. The pilots had said they were only about ten minutes out from Team Ghost’s evac site. The morning light washed through the aircraft as the crew and a handful of soldiers in the jump seats made their final preparations for landing.

None knew what to expect.

This was enemy territory.

Horn clicked a drum into his M249 SAW. Then he reached inside his vest and pulled out a black bandana emblazoned with a skull, an old memento of his time on Team Ghost. He tied it around his neck.

Nathan Brooks, the Army Ranger who had lost his glasses, had offered to help, but like the other injured Ranger who had survived the crash in Cleveland, he couldn’t do much. The kid was practically blind without his glasses, and the other Ranger had broken an ankle after jumping out of the Black Hawk.

“Once we land, everyone who can will hold security,” he said. “This area is going to be hot, and we know there are hostiles, both human and Variant. But we want to go in and out quick and quiet. Do not shoot unless you’re given the order. Got it?”

Nods all around.

The plane dipped lower and Beckham started toward the rear door when a message hissed in his earpiece.

“Captain Beckham, we just got a message about Ghost,” said the primary pilot. “We need you up here.”

Beckham hurried to the cockpit.

One of the pilots turned to him. “Command just pinged us. Ghost called them on the sat phone a while ago. They’re surrounded by Variants about a mile from the rendezvous coordinates.”

Beckham clenched his jaw.

“How do you want us to proceed?” asked the pilot.

With only moments to decide, Beckham scanned the sky for aircraft and the freeway below for contacts.

He didn’t see any hostiles yet. “Take us down. Horn and I will go in on foot to clear their escape.”

Beckham made his way back to Horn.

“Trouble?” Horn asked.

“Plenty.”

“You know I’m always ready for trouble, but what does plenty mean?”

“Ghost is pinned down by Variants. We’ll need to extract them.”

Horn pulled his skull mask up. “Then that’s just what we’ll do.”

“Prepare for landing,” said the primary pilot.

A few moments later the plane touched down on the interstate, wind rushing over the spoilers as the engines applied reverse thrust, and they decelerated hard into a stop.

A crew chief pushed a button on the bulkhead, opening the rear ramp.

“Back into the fray,” Horn grumbled.

He strode down the ramp with his SAW shouldered. Beckham raised his M4 and loaded a grenade into the barrel-mounted M203 launcher. He followed Big Horn into the morning sunshine.

“Good luck,” came a voice.

Beckham glanced over his shoulder. Brooks raised a hand from the troop hold.

All but two of the thirteen soldiers and the crew streamed down the ramp past Brooks to hold security.

Beckham jogged toward the coordinates where Ghost was supposed to be waiting. Maybe after their sat phone batteries had drained, they had actually made it there on their own, escaping the monsters.

But Ghost and the injured Wolfhounds were nowhere between the trees and grass where they were supposed to be. They might not have escaped the position where the Variants had first surrounded them.

The team’s last known location was only a mile away. Beckham started running, Horn following. They could make it in under eight minutes if they ran hard with their gear. Maybe less, but they weren’t the same men they were back when they had been on Ghost.

They got through an open field in a few minutes but slowed on approach to the tree-covered hills. The terrain provided cover, which also meant shelter for a hostile ambush.

Horn held up a fist.

The chatter of small arms fire echoed over the hills.

“Sounds like one, maybe two guns at most,” he said.

Beckham didn’t like what that might mean and started running again. He didn’t stop until he got to the crest of a hill. Navigating through the trees, he took a knee on an overlook of an RV park.

These were the coordinates where Ghost had reported they were being surrounded.

Corpses lay scattered across the grass. The ground was so soaked with blood that the dirt had turned to mud in some spots. But the bodies weren’t human—they were naked beasts, flesh riddled with bullet holes, spread around a camper trailer.

Beckham zoomed in on the open door. The echoing pop of a gunshot pulled his gaze away from the scope.

Horn pointed to the edge of the forest.

Beckham led the way cautiously down the hill and across the corpse-strewn park.

One Variant was still alive. Partially buried in a crater of dirt from a grenade. The upper torso was still connected to the bottom by thick strings of gristle, somehow keeping it alive.

It reached up and took weak passes at them with a claw.

Beckham didn’t waste a bullet or slow to pull his knife.

The beast wasn’t going anywhere and wasn’t long for this world anyway.

Shrieks sounded from the forest as they approached, and another gunshot answered. Then three more pops.

Beckham and Horn bolted toward the sounds. A trail of corpses took them through the forest and along a road.

Streaks of blood painted the asphalt. Empty bullet casings and shotgun shells lay scattered across the cracked street that traced up another hill.

Horn caught up to Beckham, breathing heavily, and they approached the top side by side.

They heard snarling and cracking, then a sickening crunch followed by a shout.

“You want more, puta?”

The familiar voice had to be Mendez.

Another voice, this one female, came next.

“Keep them back!” yelled Rico.

Beckham and Horn neared the top of the hill. Sweat drenched their fatigues.

About two hundred feet away, a group of ten Variants prowled around Team Ghost, circling and waiting to pounce.

Ace had a metal garbage lid that must’ve been from the RV park with claw marks across it in one hand, and the butt of his shotgun in the other. Dohi tossed his hatchet at the closest Variant, scoring a hit to the neck, then he jabbed another creature with his knife.

Rico and Fitz used their blades to parry and strike a beast lunging at them.

Mendez slammed the butt of his rifle against a Variant’s face. Cartilage and bone cracked at the impact, blood sloshing out of its slitted nostrils.

Team Ghost had formed a ring around two injured soldiers wrapped in bandages. They must be the surviving Wolfhounds. A third Wolfhound stood beside Ghost, fighting alongside them.

Beckham raised his rifle, centering it on the first target. “Ghost!”

Fitz glanced his way, then signaled for the team to close in around the injured as Beckham and Horn fired on the surrounding creatures. Blood gushed from monsters’ new wounds, and wails of pain filled the morning. Three beasts made it out of the gunfire and started up the hill toward Beckham.

“I got this!” he yelled as he palmed in a new magazine.

Beckham cut the three creatures down with calculated bursts. Their bodies rolled back down the hill. Before anyone could celebrate the narrow victory, shrieks of more creatures rose in the distance.

Covered in dirt and blood, Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds looked like they had been through hell and back.

The group of battle-fatigued soldiers marched up the hill with Rico at the lead. She reached out like she was going to give Horn a hug, but then fingered at his vest.

“We need magazines,” she said. “For the way back.”

Horn and Beckham distributed ammo.

“Damn good to see you, Captain,” Fitz said as he graciously accepted a magazine. “Wasn’t sure we were going to make it out of here.”

“We’re not out yet, brother,” Beckham said.

“What the fuck took you guys so long?” said one of the Wolfhound soldiers, a guy with a bloody nametape that read Martin.

“Give it a fucking rest,” Mendez said.

“They’re here, aren’t they?” said another Wolfhound. The guy’s nametape said Lawrence. He helped another injured Wolfhound who only had one foot.

“We need to move,” Beckham said. “Keep close, and tight.”

He took point through the forest, scanning for any camouflaged Variants lying in wait.

The pace back to the C-130 was agonizingly slow because of the wounded Wolfhounds that needed help walking. Dohi came up next to Beckham and they exchange a nod.

Shrieks of hunting Variants followed the group. Beckham checked their six. Horn signaled to him he’d spotted three hostiles. Variant scouts shadowing their retreat.

The beasts were like wolves, waiting for the rest of their pack before they would move in for the kill.

Beckham spotted salvation ahead. The big body of the C-130 on the freeway was surrounded by a dozen soldiers that had spread out to provide cover.

The sight gave the exhausted team the energy they needed to make the final stretch. As the Variants closed in, Beckham led them straight up onto the freeway toward the C-130’s open troop hold.

Soldiers holding security jogged over to help take the wounded.

“Hell yeah,” Mendez said. He turned to look at the road behind them. Taking a hand off his rifle, he crossed his chest and kissed his fingers, head angled toward the sky. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Lord Jesus.” Then he paused, tilting his head. “Aw, shit, not now.”

Beckham followed his gaze.

A transmission crackled in his earpiece just as he saw the black aircraft against the blue.

“We got incoming, Captain, get your people inside, now!” said one of the pilots.

Beckham swallowed hard when he saw that contact was a Black Hawk.

“Go, go, go!” Horn shouted, waving for everyone to run.

They were sitting ducks on the interstate, and they had very few weapons capable of taking down that helicopter barring an extremely lucky shot.

As the team raced for the open hold, Beckham raised his rifle with its barrel-mounted M203 grenade launcher and Horn aimed his SAW, covering the others.

The engines on the C-130 thrummed to life, drowning out the panicked voices of the retreating soldiers.

Ace carried the Wolfhound with only one foot, and Rico helped the one with bandages across his arms into the plane. Mendez and Fitz stayed outside with Beckham as the chopper closed in.

“Fire!” Beckham shouted.

Rounds lanced into the bird. A door gunner on the Black Hawk opened fire with a mounted machine gun. Rounds tore into the belly of the C-130 and raked over the asphalt, sweeping toward Team Ghost.

Beckham launched a grenade, hoping for a lucky shot. But the grenade sailed wide, landing amid the trees and kicking up a fiery cloud of dirt.

Another soldier from the Black Hawk knelt at the open side door. He leveled an M72 LAW at them. All it took was one good hit, and their plane would be grounded, just like the C-130 that had initially taken Ghost here.

“Take him down!” Beckham shouted.

Bullets slammed into the side of the chopper. Horn unleashed his SAW at the man with the rocket launcher, and Beckham launched another grenade.

This one slammed into the troop hold as the LAW rocket streaked away. It missed the plane and exploded somewhere behind Beckham. The resulting wave of heat threw him off balance.

The chopper came screaming down toward them.

Beckham ran out of its path as it slammed down sideways on the right side of the road, skidding across the grass. Fire spewed from its engine as its blades split and flew off its rotor.

He stopped running, chest heaving as he scanned the road to make sure everyone was okay. Fitz, Dohi, and Horn were aiming their rifles at the downed bird in case anyone had survived.

Ace was screaming from the troop hold, and Rico came running out. She stopped near a smoking crater, hand covering her mouth.

When Beckham saw the twisted remains of a rifle, blood-soaked asphalt, and chunks of a torn boot he realized why he hadn’t seen Mendez yet.

There wasn’t anything left of him to see.

— 12 —

Kate sat at the edge of the cot after a night of tossing and turning. Thoughts of Beckham braving newfound dangers on the West Coast had kept her up despite being exhausted.

Carefully as she could, she maneuvered through the cramped room, careful not to wake Javier yet. He had been excited to see her again, not quite grasping that she hadn’t meant to return to the Long Island bunker so soon.

The last report she had heard before retiring to her quarters was that Lower Manhattan had been hit hard. It pained her to think of the lives lost, and she couldn’t help thinking this was even more devastating than one night of casualties.

She and Sammy needed to work in those tunnels again. If they couldn’t, that meant extended delays in their efforts to decode the new signals from the Variant network and locating the hub responsible for the attacks. That also meant it would take even longer for them to observe how the Variants communicated so they could replicate their signals and disrupt their communications, hopefully fighting back with information warfare.

She splashed some cold water on her face from the stainless-steel sink in the bathroom, then she got changed. When she was ready for work, she went to Javier’s cot where she tousled his hair.

“Javier,” she whispered. “I’ve got to do some work, okay?”

He rolled on his back, peering at her through half-opened eyes. “Is Dad back?”

“Not yet.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Javier sat up. “Will Connor be watching us again today?”

“Yes.”

Ringgold had assigned the kids a Secret Service agent named Connor to watch over them since Beckham and Horn were in the field.

Kate appreciated the gesture. It gave her the ability to perform her work knowing someone was keeping Javier, Jenny, Tasha, and the dogs safe.

That fact also made her feel guilty. Their children were being protected by the president’s own people, snug and safe in a bunker, while so many other parents were literally dying to save their children outside these walls.

“I’ll be in the lab,” she said to Javier, then stood. “You can always call if you need me.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

She left her quarters as quietly as possible while Javier fell back to sleep. Connor sat on a chair outside, dozing. As soon as she closed the door to her room, he woke and stood. Long scars crossed his face, evidence of a Variant attack.

“Good morning, Dr. Lovato,” he said.

“Thank you again for watching Javier and the girls. I truly appreciate it.”

“Doctor, it’s my pleasure.” Connor said. “Children are our future.”

He locked his gaze with hers. She sensed pain behind those brown eyes. Maybe a lost child in his past.

She nodded and then started the lonely march toward the lab setup in the bunker. The halls were mostly quiet. A few hushed voices leaked from offices and rooms as leaders worked around the clock.

She caught only snippets of conversations, listening for any word about Team Ghost or Beckham and Horn.

President Ringgold came around the intersection, then offered a sorrowful smile when she saw Kate. “Dr. Lovato, just the person I wanted to see.”

“Madam President, what is it?” Kate asked, her heart thumping.

Ringgold took Kate’s hand, clutching it. “Your husband and Parker found Team Ghost. They’re on their way out of California now.”

“Oh, thank God!” Kate felt like a pressure valve had been released on her heart. “So they’re all right?”

Ringgold bit the inside of her lip. “There were casualties, and I don’t know all the details. But I do know Reed and Parker are okay.”

She was relieved, but Kate’s chest still tightened again. “Where are they going?”

“They’re headed to Canada to refuel, and we’re working with our counterparts north of the border,” Ringgold said. “They’ll also look at the damaged SDS equipment that Team Ghost and the Wolfhounds retrieved.”

Kate only managed to nod as Ringgold continued.

“In Lower Manhattan, the Variants surged through the vibroseis locations and our forces retreated into the 9/11 memorial outpost,” she said. “Between the Variants, bats, hounds and collaborators, we’ve lost communications with four more outposts, including Cleveland where Beckham and Horn boarded their C-130.”

The president paused and put a hand on Kate’s arm, gently. “How are you?”

Kate took a moment to compose herself. “I’ll be fine. Are you okay?”

“I have to be,” Ringgold replied. “They have us beat in numbers, but even the biggest snake can’t bite if you cut off its head. Once we find it, that’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

“And I’m going to help you find it.”

They parted ways, and Kate continued to the laboratory. She dreamed about a cup of coffee right now but realized she didn’t really need the caffeine. Ringgold had given her all she needed to fuel herself through today’s experiments.

Inside the lab, Sammy was already hunched over a laptop, the blue screen glowing on her face. Kate flicked on the lights, bathing the place in a yellow glow.

“Jeez, Sammy, have you slept at all?” she asked.

Sammy clutched her injured side and looked up from the laptop. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Not really.” Kate pulled up a seat next to Sammy.

“I made a mistake in those tunnels,” Sammy said. “And it almost got your husband and those soldiers killed. I won’t fail again.”

“Failure is an unfortunate part of science. We have to face the risk of failure before we stand a chance of succeeding. No one knew what we were dealing with.”

Sammy nodded.

“So what are you working on?”

“I’m running a few scripts to parse the signals we recorded from the webbing. My natural language processing algorithms should translate some of it for us.”

A few progress bars slowly climbed across the monitor, pixel-by-pixel.

“That’s going to take a while,” Kate said. “I’ve got a way to keep us busy in the meantime.”

“What’s that?” Sammy asked.

“We never had a chance to examine those VX-99 infected bats used at Outpost Portland,” Kate said. “We received a couple of specimens here. Maybe we can find a clue in them that might help.”

“I’m no biologist, but I’m happy to assist.”

Kate led the computer engineer to a freezer where they had stored their samples. She took out a small object wrapped in plastic and foil.

Once she placed it on a stainless-steel table, she pried the wrapping off to reveal a mutated, large brown bat with a body slightly larger than her fist. Protruding vessels crisscrossed its wings. Patches of fur clung to nearly translucent flesh. Even in death, the little monster’s overgrown muscles bulged under its thin skin.

Sammy placed a tray of dissection tools next to the bat. “What next?”

“It’s easy enough to verify these bats were modified by VX-99, but that doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know.”

“Okay, so what do we do?”

“A full autopsy,” Kate said. “I want to know how these things were controlled.”

She used a biopsy punch to extract small chunks of skin, muscle, and organ tissue, depositing each into separate vials. At Kate’s direction, Sammy froze them down for Leslie and Ron to analyze later.

Moving the bat onto its stomach, Kate noticed a bulge on its neck. She cut through its leathery flesh with a scalpel.

A glint of metal shone under yellow tissue and red blood. She pulled out what looked like a computer chip with a pair of forceps. With it came a pair of tiny silver wires.

After Kate cleaned the small rectangular object off with saline, Sammy deposited it under a dissecting scope.

“Holy shit,” Sammy said. “I can tell you exactly what this is.”

“What?”

Sammy turned away from the scope. “It’s a microelectric array like the devices the collaborators were using to communicate through the webbing network.”

“All of these technologies, from the bats to the webbing, and the masterminds, share common connections,” Kate said. “They must come from the same source. A source that knows how to engineer electronics and computers.”

“Yeah.” Sammy swallowed. “Someone who knows this science inside and out. Biology, electrical engineering, all of it.”

Kate thought of the similarities to the Department of Defense projects they’d discovered and the military tactics that their enemy had employed recently. “And someone with a military background.”

“Jesus,” Sammy said.

“We need to figure out the final pieces of this puzzle quickly.”

“We will, and I won’t mess up again. I swear to you.”

Kate wanted to feel a sense of satisfaction at these new revelations, but finding the missing links meant more men like her husband and Team Ghost would need to return to hell to destroy the demon behind it all.

A demon with unmatched resources and intelligence, weapons that were as powerful, if not more, than any army of monsters.

And Kate had a feeling it wasn’t a Variant Alpha or an abomination like a mastermind—it was a human. Someone like Colonel Gibson who had started the VX-99 program back during the Vietnam War.

President Ringgold had been right. The science team’s work might be the key to any chance of victory. And judging by what they had just uncovered, the chance of victory was growing smaller by the hour.

She examined the microelectric array. An idea struck her.

“Sammy, the tech for these arrays came from that scientist investigating neural-digital networks back at the University of Florida. Do you remember his name?”

“No, but I’m sure we have that somewhere.”

Kate joined her at the computer. “Please look it up. I want to know exactly what DOD programs the guy was involved in.”

“You think he’s the real mastermind?”

“I don’t know,” Kate said. “It’s a longshot.”

Sammy went to work.

“Dr. Simon Wong,” she said a few minutes later. “He was recruited by the DOD in 2006 after his work using microelectric arrays to connect rodent brains to various software.”

“Can you find out where in the DOD?”

Sammy’s fingers worked across the keyboard. “Says here he joined the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He was a project manager, overseeing the funding and execution of nearly a dozen separate projects.”

“How long?”

“Until about 2013. Then…he died.”

Kate felt the ribbons of her conspiracy theory start to float away. “If that’s true, then he’s not our guy.”

“Then again, those secret government types have a habit of disappearing and reappearing all over.”

“Can you find which projects he administered? Maybe there’s a link there.”

Sammy nodded, scanning through the various projects. “Woah, look at this. It’s Project Rolling Stone. The seismic detection systems that Team Ghost went after.”

“Dr. Wong specialized in digital and biological networks, so that makes sense,” Kate said. “Did he manage any projects related to bioweapons or medicine? Anything involving cell culture or bioengineering?”

It took Sammy only seconds to skim through the list. “I found a few potential matches. There’s the Center for Engineering Complex Organs, or CECO. It was funded by a few pharmaceutical companies, too, up in the Seattle area.”

She looked at the list again. “There’s also HumoSource, which developed medical products from donated tissues derived from cadavers. A third one is Memnet in San Francisco, a company that DARPA was interested in for neural networks.”

“If we use these three locations to narrow down where those communications from the tunnel originated, would that help?”

Sammy thought on it before nodding. “That’ll reduce the time it takes to confirm if these signals are coming from those locations rather than me trying to probe every single spot in North America.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Only a few seconds passed as Kate watched Sammy work her magic.

“Boom, done,” Sammy said.

On the screen, a heat map of the former United States revealed two locations glowing red.

“With about a ninety-five percent probability, these signals seem to be coming from near CECO in Seattle and HumoSource just outside Denver,” Sammy said.

Kate sucked in a breath. “Time to tell President Ringgold. It looks like we just figured out where we send…”

She almost didn’t want to say it, but she knew the team headed out there would be Team Ghost—or whatever was left of them.

***

Fitz sat between Rico and Beckham in the C-130. It felt good to be back with his friend and the former leader of Team Ghost, but the pain of losing another member of Team Ghost plagued Fitz.

They had lost so many friends over the years. But it wasn’t just their friends. They had also lost parts of themselves.

He looked down at his prosthetic legs, and then over at Beckham’s prosthetic limbs.

They had given so much to these two wars. Fitz wasn’t sure how much either had left to give.

Closer to the cockpit, a pair of medics sat next to two stretchers bolted to the deck. Hopkins and Lawrence lay on them with IV tubes stretching from their arms. They were finally getting the medical attention they needed, and Martin was there watching over them, fingering his necklace, his lips moving in prayer.

Knowing they had saved three of the Wolfhounds helped ease some of the loss Fitz felt, but what about all the other lives? Their absence gnawed at his conscience.

The two Army Rangers who had come with Beckham and Horn sat next to the rest of the plane’s crew closer to the tail, yet another team that had suffered heavy casualties.

“I’m sorry,” Beckham said, seeming to sense Fitz’s hurt. “It never gets easier, but this wasn’t your fault.”

Fitz looked at Dohi who had his head down. It wasn’t just Fitz feeling guilty for losing Mendez. The rest of the team felt it, too.

He shifted his gaze to a small window. A snow-covered mountain range snaked over the earth. Ice across the rocky landscape reflected the glint of the morning sun. They were headed to Banff National Park to refuel and find out where they were headed next.

“I know Mendez and Lincoln didn’t die in vain,” Fitz said. “Their sacrifices will help us win this war.”

“That’s right,” Beckham said, then sighed.

Fitz turned back to him. “So, tell me everything I’ve missed.”

Beckham summarized the events over the past few days. The longer Fitz listened, the more he wondered what a path to victory even looked like.

Nuclear bombs had decimated cities. More outposts and bases had fallen. Each night was a battle to survive. The war had cost the Allied States territory, resources, and most importantly, tens of thousands of lives.

“Kate and her team have been trying to use the webbing network to track down where all the messages to coordinate the attacks are coming from,” Beckham said. “There’s someone, or something pulling the strings.”

Fitz wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure if science could save them this time, if he was being honest, but he kept that to himself.

The news was far worse than he had thought. For the next few hours he sat next to Beckham in silence. Rico put her head against his shoulder. He tried to sleep but couldn’t keep his eyes closed.

Every time he shut them, he kept replaying everything that had happened out there. All of his moves, all of his mistakes, and all of the soldiers who hadn’t come home.

Turbulence snapped him from his thoughts. The plane shuddered, and the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

“We’re beginning our descent,” he said. “The winds are a little choppy, so hold on.”

The medics each grabbed the handholds on Hopkins’ and Lawrence’s stretchers, bracing them when another patch of turbulence rattled the C-130.

Rico leaned against Fitz as they dropped past the mountain tops, snow and ice blowing over the plane. Through the gray and white shroud, Fitz spotted the aquamarine glimmer of the national park’s famous lakes and rivers. Between the mountains, he saw the town itself, surrounded by walls made of timber.

At the center of the outpost stood a tall building that looked like a castle. All the vehicles traveling around the outpost seemed to be going to and from that building.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Banff,” Rico said. “It’s beautiful.”

This place was once a symbol of humanity’s close connection to nature. Now it was a handhold for mankind’s survival against the worst Mother Nature had to offer.

“Brace for landing,” the pilot said.

A moment later the plane landed hard on a strip of the Trans-Canada Highway. The engines roared as they applied reverse thrust, slowing them to a stop outside Banff.

“Get ready to move out!” a crew chief said. He stood at the control panel near the plane’s tail and started lowering the ramp.

Blustering cold wind whipped inside, blasting Fitz. He grabbed Rico’s hand as they stood against the fierce, freezing gusts. The team gathered their weapons and packs full of scavenged equipment from the National Accelerator Laboratory.

“This way!” the crew chief yelled.

Snow swirled past as Beckham led the group to the asphalt. Already more white snow encroached on the cleared improvised runway.

Four armored personnel carriers waited with the rear passenger doors open. Canadian soldiers waved at them to hop inside. Team Ghost piled into the first APC with Beckham and Horn. The Rangers and Wolfhounds were loaded into another.

A Canadian soldier with a mottled gray uniform and the red-and-white Canadian flag on his shoulder closed the door, shutting out the snowstorm.

“Welcome to Canada,” he said, reaching out to shake their hands. “I’m Sergeant Carter Prince.”

“Thanks for hosting us,” Beckham said.

Fitz also gave his thanks. He had worked with foreign soldiers before over the years. More often than not, non-Americans showed resentment for the monsters the United States military had created almost a decade earlier.

Not this guy. Prince seemed sincere.

“Bet you’re not used to the cold,” he said.

“No, Sergeant,” Rico said. “Not like this.”

“Mendez never did like the cold,” Ace murmured. He wiped at his eyes. It wasn’t the first time Fitz had seen the big guy cry, and it wouldn’t be the last.

“Eh, it’ll get colder,” Prince said. “But don’t worry. Where you’re going, you’ll have a chance to get some warm drinks and chow.”

The APC’s tires crunched over piles of snow as they entered Banff. Fitz looked out one of the ballistic glass windows. Besides the natural protection the rugged mountains provided, the Canadians had constructed walls around the town topped with barbed wire and guard towers. Men in white parkas guarded each station.

Prince saw Fitz surveying the defenses. “The cold season slows the Variants down. The ones that aren’t adapted, that is. It also means there isn’t a lot of food out there, so a lot of them have starved off, but there are still creatures that show up from time to time.”

“The cold might slow the Variants down, but the beasts hitting us to the south will come this way eventually,” Fitz said. “And I promise you, the cold isn’t going to stop them.”

The APC skidded to a stop outside the front of a towering castle-like hotel. An old sign read, Fairmont Banff
Springs.

Spotlights shone from various locations in the parking lot, illuminating machine gun nests poking out of the balconies, and snipers on the rooftops. The former luxury hotel had been turned into a modern-day fortress.

“Welcome to Western Canada Defensive Forces’ HQ,” Prince said. “Or what they used to call, ‘The Castle in the Rockies’.”

He opened the back door and led the others through the biting cold. While they unloaded their equipment, a group of four medics ran to another APC and took the Wolfhounds with them.

“Where are they going?” Fitz asked.

“We’ve set up another building as our infirmary,” Prince said. “I can guarantee you those men will be well taken care of.”

Fitz watched them race away, hoping Prince was right as the sergeant led Ghost and the others into a lobby with crackling fireplaces. Tables and chairs furnished the timber plank floors carpeted partially with furs.

Canadian soldiers and civilians were stationed at computers or circled around maps, immersed in conversation.

“Those are the engineers we scrambled to examine that equipment you brought from California,” Prince said. “They’ll start working immediately.”

“Thank you,” Fitz said.

Prince gestured toward a hall and opened a door to a conference room.

“This is where I leave you,” he said. “Nice to meet all of you.”

“Appreciated,” Horn said.

The rest of the team gave their thanks and filed into a room.

Long tables had already been set out with food and hot cups of tea. A bald man with a tawny face, chiseled and sharp, stood at the end of the table.

“I’m General Kamer,” he said. “Please, have a seat and start eating. We’ve got a lot to go over, and I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

Fitz was happy to accept the invitation after making their own introductions. He found a seat next to Rico and dug into the still-steaming mashed potatoes and roast beef. Eating the warm food filled him with more than much needed nutrition. It also filled him with the guilt for those who weren’t here to enjoy the meal, and his appetite started to wane.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors during the winter,” Kamer said. “I’ve gathered a few officers to listen in. I want to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

“That sounds good, sir,” Beckham said. “I’m not sure how much the president already told you, but I can bring you up to speed.”

Kamer took a sip of tea. “I think I know everything that’s happened up until right before you landed. The most important matter at hand isn’t what we’ve done, but what we’ll be doing to move forward.”

“You spoke to President Ringgold?” Beckham asked.

“Yes,” Kamer said. He put his cup down. “I was moved by her resolve to fight back, and the Western Canadian Prime Minister feels similarly. We’ve also been in contact with the Mexican president to discuss the events plaguing the Allied States.”

Fitz was thrilled to hear the other countries were finally talking, but he hoped it meant action and not just words.

“We’re all in agreement,” Kamer said. “This is not just a domestic matter for the Allied States. This a conflict with the potential to devastate North America, and the rest of the world for that matter.”

“I wish Europe felt the same way,” Beckham said.

“They should, but they were more devastated than we were here in Canada,” Kamer said. “My impression is their struggle was worse than ours.”

Flashbacks of the war in Europe surfaced in his mind, but Fitz suppressed them.

“Canada and the Federation of Mexican States, stand with you… We’re in this fight together now,” Kamer said.

“Thank you, sir, it’s great to hear you say that,” Beckham said. “How exactly will you be helping us?”

Kamer broke out a business smile. To Fitz, it looked almost like the patronizing grin of a politician. He didn’t like that.

“Supporting your next mission and repairing that SDS technology to start,” Kamer said. “We’re also shipping ammunition and medical supplies to the Allied States.”

“We’re going to need more than that,” Fitz said, unable to contain himself. “We’re talking about threats unlike any the world has seen. We need men, aircraft, and weapons.”

Beckham’s face was red with frustration too. “Please, sir, as you said, we’re in this tragedy together. But the only way we win together is if we actually fight together.

Kamer held up a hand to stay their protests. “At this point we are not able to commit soldiers. We’ve lost too many of our own.”

Fitz and Beckham exchanged a glance.

“You hear about them Chimeras yet, General?” Horn asked.

Kamer looked uncertain. “I have a hard time believing such beasts exist. Variants with the brains of soldiers?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t take your word about this without more concrete proof. As you know, the stress of battle can cause some intense visual phenomena that aren’t necessarily real.”

Horn clenched his jaw, which Fitz knew meant he was about to blow a gasket. Beckham noticed too and put a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

“I know what I saw,” Rico said. “And I saw monsters carrying rifles.”

Kamer looked at her but didn’t reply.

“You’re making a big mistake,” Beckham said. “All due respect, sir.”

“I’d suggest you focus on your next mission, Captain,” Kamer said. “Since you only have the one plane, we’ll be lending support for these missions.”

Fitz perked up, anxious to hear what came next, despite his frustration with Kamer.

“Team Ghost will be headed to Seattle to investigate a research site formerly known as the Center for Engineering Complex Organs, or CECO,” said the general. “Captain Beckham, Master Sergeant Horn, you will be leading another team to investigate a site in Denver called HumoSource. I am told that Sergeant First Class Jenny Rico will be joining you.”

Rico grabbed Fitz’s hand under the table and squeezed. It was tough enough going into the field with her, knowing she was in danger. And now, she would be out of sight, far from him, venturing straight back into enemy territory.

“We will provide aircraft for both missions, but due to a shortage and ability of able planes, I’m afraid we can only take Captain Beckham and his team as far as Wyoming,” Kamer said. “There you’ll be met by another Allied States team and will board a helicopter better fitted for the conditions in Denver.”

“Understood,” Beckham said.

“Before we go anywhere, I want to make sure the injured Wolfhounds are taken care of,” Fitz said.

“Rest assured, they will be,” Kamer replied.

“I’d like to see to that personally,” Fitz said. “I was responsible for getting them back here, and I want to make sure they make it home safe.”

“Not a problem.” Kamer passed out briefing folders so they could study their upcoming mission. “In regard to the business at hand, I was also informed a science team tracked down the Variant-based communication signals originating to these points. Your teams are to infiltrate both locations and identify any potential targets. The objective is to find this Master the Variants and their collaborators are taking their orders from.”

Fitz looked over at Beckham and Horn. They didn’t seem shocked by the mission, but they did seem surprised to be joining it. While he was glad to have them back with Team Ghost, Fitz knew this was bad news.

It meant the Allied States was running out of soldiers. And with every passing hour, they were losing more. Men like Mendez and Lincoln. Canada didn’t seem willing to step up as much as Fitz had hoped.

Before the war was over, there would be more devastating losses.

Fitz just hoped it would all be worth it—that they would be victorious. But from the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure victory was possible.

— 13 —

Timothy was out of water and food. The only thing he had left was ammunition, but there wasn’t much of that left between him and Ruckley.

For the past day, they had trekked across southern Maine into New Hampshire, trying to find refuge. Ruckley had pushed on all the way to Newburyport. They had hoped to find an old military depot the Allied States had used to store ammunition and equipment outside the city, but they never made it. Her injuries and their exhaustion had gotten the better of them. They were so close, but Ruckley simply couldn’t take another step.

Timothy had discovered an abandoned United States Postal Service building to serve as their temporary refuge. The windows and doors were still barricaded by plywood from the first war, but he found a way in through the service garage with two mail trucks.

Evidence of the last war still remained in the dusty space. Broken ventilation vents showed where Variants had dropped inside. The twisted skeleton of a Variant and scattered bones from a human lay strewn across the floor.

Timothy stood outside the open doors of one of the mail trucks. Ruckley slept inside the vehicle on a sleeping bag Timothy had found deeper in the facility.

Removing the arrow had damaged her muscle, and she had lost a lot of blood. Timothy had cleaned it up the best he could to keep the scent from the Variants.

Still, he knew they were out there. He kept his rifle close, and his eyes on the bay windows of the garage.

It wasn’t just the beasts he had to watch out for now. Collaborators and other dangerous groups like the cult that had burned Neeland alive would kill Ruckley and Timothy without a moment’s hesitation.

He checked on her again. This time she was shaking, pallor in her face. He examined her bandage. The skin around it was tender and red, definitely inflamed and probably infected.

That wasn’t a surprise. They had lost their field kit when they fled the farmhouse. That would’ve made stitching her up and cleaning the injury easier, but they had to rely on cloths and sewing needles he had scavenged.

None of that would save her. They needed real medicine, water, and a radio.

“Sergeant,” Timothy said, nudging her gently.

She groaned, then swung the pistol still gripped in her hand at his face.

“Easy, easy!” Timothy said.

Realization passed over her eyes, and she lowered the gun.

“What?” she muttered, sweat dripping over her forehead. “Someone coming?”

“No, no, I just… You’ve got a fever. Seems like it’s getting worse.”

She sat up and drew her back against the inner wall of the truck. She started unwrapping her bandage.

“Christ,” she grumbled. “Of all the injuries, I never thought a stupid arrow would be the one to take me down.”

“You’re not down yet.”

Timothy leaned closer for a better look. The flesh around the wound had festered fast.

“We need to get you antibiotics,” he said.

“And where do you think you’ll find those?”

“Maybe they have some at the depot. I can go look while you rest.”

“You’re not going alone.” She swung her legs out of the back of the truck. “I’ll go with you.”

She stepped out, wobbled, and then reached out for Timothy. He helped her sit back down.

“You were saying…” he said quietly.

Ruckley put a hand on her head. “I… I’m dizzy.” She sighed. “You’re right.”

“You’re not going anywhere. I’ll do a supply run. It’s our only shot of getting to Boston alive.”

She reached for her water bottle, and he helped her drink what was left. Then he helped her lay down in the truck and then closed one of the doors.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

Timothy grabbed a map they had found and his gear. Rifle in hand, he crossed through the garage and then peered out the window of a side door to check the parking lot for hostiles. Finding it clear, he went outside, the cold afternoon wind numbing his exposed face.

He scanned the buildings and houses down the street, but nothing in the ghost town stirred.

According to the map, the depot was three miles away. Three miles wasn’t a terribly long distance, but Timothy’s feet were already swollen and sore. He was exhausted from the hours they had already been hiking.

Plenty of large million-dollar houses lined the streets but searching them would be futile. All the broken windows and busted doors told him any useful supplies were already long gone.

Rifle at the ready, he started down a road toward a bridge over the Merrimack River. Moving during daylight was risky if there were collaborators out here, but night wasn’t that much better with Variants hunting in the dark.

Besides, Ruckley might not have until nightfall.

He spotted a bicycle on the side of the road, but the tires were flat.

So much for luck today.

When he reached the bridge, he scoped the other side. Seeing nothing, he ran across as fast as he could. A few damaged boats were still in slips at the harbor, and there was a sailboat that looked in pretty good shape.

At one mile under his belt, he stopped to catch his breath and check his map. The depot was two miles to the west on a peninsula.

He crossed a street and headed into another neighborhood rife with more abandoned mansions. Trash and abandoned cars littered the road ahead.

Empty suitcases were open on the front stoop and driveway of one house. Evidence of a failed exodus from the first war.

With a sigh, he continued. The wind died down, and he suddenly felt an odd sensation. As he neared the depot, he stopped, listening.

There didn’t seem to be anyone or anything out here. Not even Variants.

An overwhelming sense of loneliness gripped him. Like he was the last man on Earth.

He pressed on until he saw the depot. Using a car for cover, he crouched and pressed the scope to his eye.

There were two connected buildings at the depot. One was an older structure made of brick. The other was a longer warehouse. Both were enclosed by a razor wire-topped fence that had crashed down in a twenty-foot section.

A bulldozer and a Jeep Wrangler with flat tires were parked outside the closed warehouse garage doors. At the front entrance of the brick building, he saw a dirt bike on its side.

Timothy set off for a better view of the back, only stopping when he saw bodies across the corpse-covered asphalt. The back loading bay into the building was open. There were more bodies inside, some wearing fatigues.

Whatever had happened here hadn’t been too recent, judging by the smell of rot wafting in the cool air.

He headed over the toppled fence, careful not to snag his clothing on the razor wire. After hopping over the wire, his boots hit the pavement with a thud.

The sound sent a chill through his body.

He froze, waiting for the shriek of a beast to answer. When it didn’t come, he crept toward the loading bay, passing the bodies. The recent rains had mostly washed the blood away in the parking lot, but the inside of the garage was speckled with dried pools around the corpses of both men and monsters.

Timothy navigated the graveyard and looked for a door into the offices and supply rooms. There were two. One was open, and the other closed.

He tried the closed one first. It clicked, locked.

Then he entered the opened door and followed a carpeted hallway, boots crunching over spent casings. Light streaming through open doors guided him, revealing a blood trail across blue carpet.

It streaked off into the second open doorway leading from the hall.

Timothy checked the first room, an office furnished with a handful of metal desks, a few chairs, and rows of file cabinets. But no medicine or water.

He continued to the next doorway. It led to a supply closet where the blood streaks pointed to the body of a Variant. He nudged it with a boot, finding it was as stiff as a board.

The closet contained only cleaning and office supplies.

His thoughts turned back to Ruckley, wondering how long she would make it by herself. Would it be the Variants or infection that got her first? Either way, he needed to hurry.

Timothy continued down the hallway, clearing each room. Blood spatters marred the interior all the way toward the doorway connecting the brick building to the warehouse.

He opened it and aimed his rifle into the heart of the depot. The windows were all covered by boards or metal plates, blocking out the sunlight. He turned on his tactical light and swept it over the space, revealing a large room with shelves of supplies and closed doors with signs showing they led to the barracks.

This place was a treasure trove.

He set off into the rows of shelves to search for medicine, sifting over the shelves with his light, examining the crates and boxes.

Nothing in the first aisle grabbed his attention. But a rustling noise stopped him mid-stride. Then silence. He waited for the sound again.

He heard it again, this time more clearly.

Just the wind on the side of the building.

Timothy continued his search until he found a shelf of medicine. Someone had already raided it, leaving bloody handprints on the boxes.

But there was still plenty left. He scrounged through the cardboard boxes until he found a handful of packets filled with antibiotics. He stuffed them into his pack. Then he grabbed a field kit that had everything he needed to clean Ruckley’s wound.

Hell yes, finally some decent luck, he thought.

When he turned to leave, a figure stood in the open doorway of a side room. They were shadowed but it looked like they had a gun pointed at him.

“Don’t shoot,” Timothy said. “I’m just here for medicine to help an injured Army Ranger.”

The figure kept the gun on him for a moment.

Was this a collaborator? Maybe another cultist?

The guy had the drop on him, and Timothy knew he couldn’t bring his rifle up in time to fire.

Running wasn’t an option either.

He had been caught dead-to-rights.

“Please, I don’t want trouble,” Timothy said. “I just need medicine and water and I’ll leave.”

The figure lowered the gun and leaned against the wall. Timothy raised his rifle just enough to let his tac light illuminate the figure.

It was a soldier.

The bearded man slumped against a wall, gripping a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his gut.

Timothy rushed over and set his rifle down. He caught a whiff of something putrid as he leaned down.

“Sir,” he said.

The man grunted and pushed at the ground to sit up. That’s when Timothy saw everything from his ribs to his crotch were soaked with blood.

Jesus Christ, how is this guy still alive? Timothy thought.

“Who are you?” the man whispered.

“I’m from Outpost Portland,” Timothy replied. “I escaped a few—”

“What happened to Portland?” the man interrupted. Desperation filled his eyes.

“It was destroyed, sir.”

The man loosened his grip and let out a whimper.

“My family…” he said. “My family was there.”

Timothy put a hand on the man’s shoulders as tears streamed over the man’s face.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I lost my dad and friends, too.”

The guy looked up, blinking past the tears.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “This wasn’t supposed to happen…things were supposed to get better.”

Timothy felt this man’s raw pain. Reaching down, he grabbed his hand, connecting with a soldier he didn’t even know.

“Let me help you,” Timothy said. “I’ll get those bandages changed.”

“No… My family’s gone. No point in fighting anymore.”

He pulled his hand away from the bandage. Then he reached into his vest and fingered around before pulling out a key.

“There’s a dirt bike outside,” he said. “Got some juice left in it. Take it and get those meds back to your friend. There’s water inside the room behind me and some ammo.”

Timothy took the key. “I can’t take your water and ammo.”

“You need it more than me.”

Timothy hesitated. He hated asking this man for anything else, but he had to. “What about a radio?”

The soldier shook his head. “Long story, but there was another survivor. He took it with him when he left.”

Timothy wasn’t sure what to say, so he gave the man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re sure about all this?”

“Yes, kid. Now go.”

He helped the soldier readjust his body so he was resting against the wall comfortably.

“Thank you, I won’t forget this,” Timothy said. He left the man and grabbed the water bottles from the room. Then he grabbed some ammo and made his way outside, not looking back.

He stood the bike up, then hopped on with his backpack full of gear. As it rumbled to life and he drove away, a gunshot cracked from inside the depot.

Timothy said a prayer for the man as he scanned the road for hostiles and twisted the throttle to go faster. The motor was loud, but he made it back to the bridge without being noticed.

Glancing down, he checked the gas gauge.

There wasn’t enough to get to Boston, but there was another way…a dangerous way, but a way nonetheless. He eyed the boats in the harbor off the bridge.

Screw walking the rest of the way, once he got Ruckley cleaned up, they were going to sail to Boston.

***

Nick saw the mountains on the horizon under the gray sky. He could smell the rain in the air, though it hadn’t hit them yet. After a long journey, they were almost back to base.

He couldn’t help but feel like they were limping home, and after leaving the fuel outpost, things hadn’t gotten any better. One of the female prisoners had escaped their ropes and jumped out of the pickup truck.

Nick had asked Pete if they should turn around to look for the prisoner, but Pete had shaken his head.

“If she survived, then she deserves to live,” Pete had said. “Can’t waste the time on one person.”

Then, an hour from the base, the right front tire on the pickup went flat, forcing Nick to stop and change it for the final leg of the drive.

The convoy navigated through a hidden entryway to the forest skirting the mountain. Storm clouds rolled overhead. Lightning forked over the peaks, followed by the growling roll of thunder.

Nick eased off the gas and turned on the wipers as sheets of rain slammed into the windshield.

He knew some of the history behind the place that had become his home. This was one of the most pristine nature preserves in Maine, and the isolated mountain had become part of one of the United States government’s most secretive projects. Only the top officials had even known of the bunker and the single missile silo built during the Cold War.

There was only one missile here for a reason. The nuclear warhead was a prototype that rivaled the Tsar Bomb, arguably one of the most powerful weapons ever created. This was a deterrent the government had created and hidden away, almost lost to time.

And now it was a secret weapon of the New Gods.

For Nick, this place had protected his family since the end of the Great War of Extinction, when he had first joined the army of the New Gods after hearing a radio message broadcasting the existence of a safe and powerful community.

He had been hiding in a cabin about fifty miles from here with his wife and two daughters. They had been running out of food and were slowly wasting away. They had had no choice but to risk the long journey through Variant-filled territory to get here. Coming to Katahdin was the best decision he had ever made.

The bunker was more than a refuge. It had symbolized the start of a new way of life.

And Pete was the reason for it all.

Nick looked over at the man with dreadlocks. The former defense contractor had known about this base because of his classified work keeping it updated at the turn of the century before it was almost all decommissioned. There were multiple former military officers who had worked here, defected from the military, and now called this place home. They had handed over the authenticator codes for the silo to Pete years ago.

Pete had then introduced this base to the human allies of the Variants, long after those in the government who had known about it died during the war.

Now it was one of a handful of forward operating bases they were using to support their offensive to secure the Land of the New Gods.

“Can’t wait for a shower,” Pete said.

“And a warm meal,” Nick said. But what he really looked forward to was seeing his family.

He pulled onto a steep dirt road leading to the bunker’s entrance. The tires thumped over the rocky ground now wet with rain-soaked mud.

The prisoners in the back of the truck ahead huddled together, enduring the full brunt of the cold rainfall like livestock might. But Nick didn’t feel any sympathy for them.

These people were still the enemy. He wouldn’t worry about their comfort until they swore allegiance to the New Gods like he had.

He slowed the truck as they came around another muddy bend. A figure emerged from behind a cluster of rocks on the side of the road carrying a sniper rifle. The man raised a hand as they passed. He was one of many lookouts around the bunker.

Nick probably passed a half-dozen more snipers without even knowing it. Even he didn’t know exactly where all their scouts were positioned.

The road twisted through a thick slope filled with pine trees. It ended as the canopy thinned out at the base of the mountain. Wooden beams blocked off an old mining shaft that dated back to the Prohibition era.

All sorts of tunnels snaked through the mountain that had once been used to store and brew bootleg booze during the early nineteen-hundreds.

The trucks stopped and two more guards showed up to move the beams, allowing them to pass into a narrow corridor. Headlights from the trucks washed over the thick concrete walls of the tunnel.

This was the side entrance to the base, but there were other exits and entrances across the mountain, including those that housed the ballistic missile.

Nick parked in a bay where other vehicles like Jeeps and pickups were lined up in neat rows. Four guards stood sentry outside a steel door.

“Welcome back,” said one of the men.

“Get these prisoners inside,” Pete said. “Rest of you, unload the trucks. Nick, meet me in the command room in thirty minutes.”

The men did as ordered. Nick used the brief break to find his family. He took a stairwell down twenty stories, stopping once to catch his breath. Normally he could handle the stairs, but now he was completely drained.

This attack had rattled him to the core, and after losing Alfred, he was feeling slightly defeated and hadn’t caught a wink of sleep, even when they’d stopped at the fuel depot.

When he saw his wife and daughters eating at a picnic table in the massive living space the families all shared, his fatigue vanished.

“Diana,” he called out.

His wife stood and turned. When she saw Nick, she smiled the same smile he had fallen in love with twenty years ago. Their younger ten-year-old daughter Lily had just shoveled a spoonful of beans in her mouth.

She jumped up, grinning and rushing to hug him.

Freya, their thirteen-year-old, didn’t seem as excited. She swept her frizzled brown hair away from her face and smiled, but it seemed forced.

Nick gave Diana a hug and then pulled Lily in tight. Freya joined them but kept her distance.

“Hey, Dad,” she said coolly.

“How’s everyone?” he asked.

“Good now that you’re home,” Diana said. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving, but I got a meeting in a few minutes. I just dropped down to say hello.”

“You aren’t going to stay?” Lily asked.

Freya looked away, clearly agitated. She had an acidic teenage attitude, and she frequently let out spiteful diatribes about how she hated it here.

Nick could handle her bullheadedness, but it was her questioning the New Gods that had caused the most tension.

The last time she had done that was a month ago.

He still felt bad about slapping her across the face during that outburst, but it had been for her own good. Her protection, in fact. At least she hadn’t spoken out again. That single slap was nothing compared to what the other men would do if they heard her.

Pete would have no problem punishing a teenager by death, even if it was Nick’s own daughter, for the words of a heretic.

“Dad, are you going to be home for a while?” Lily asked.

“Hopefully for at least a few days,” he said.

Lily looked down in despair.

It took him a few seconds to realize she was staring at the bloodstains on his pants and boots. Her gaze flitted to the blood on his chest.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

Nick sighed. His daughters and wife knew he was a soldier. They understood what he did, but it didn’t make what he had to say any better.

“I’m okay,” he said. “But Alfred didn’t make it home this time.”

Diana gasped. “What?”

“I tried to save him, but…” Nick said. “He was too hurt. There wasn’t anything we could do.”

Or was there? Nick wondered.

The memory of leaving Alfred on the road replayed in his mind.

He checked his watch. “I’m sorry, we’ll talk more later. I’ve got to go now.”

Nick hugged his wife and told his daughters he would be back soon. Then he headed for the command room. Pete was already there with a few other staff members in charge of the comms and security.

“Got some good news,” Pete said. A shit-eating grin formed on his face. The biggest grin Nick had seen in all the years he had been here.

“A New God general is coming here,” Pete said. “Together, we’ll prepare for the final stage of the war.”

— 14 —

The afternoon sun glinted off the names inscribed on the bronze parapets surrounding the deep pools of the 9/11 memorial. Standing around the memorial were some of the veteran outpost soldiers and about one thousand of the civilians they were trying to protect. The other four thousand had remained in their buildings and underground.

Everyone outside hung their heads for a moment of silence and prayer at Commander Amber Massey’s request.

She stood in the bed of her black pickup truck. Her red hair danced in the cool wind blowing over the crowd.

Fischer and Chase were among the mourners. The irony that they were around this hallowed memorial to honor the dead of last night’s battle was not lost on them.

So many had given their lives in such a short amount of time. The Allied States was like a puddle in the Texas desert. It grew smaller and smaller with each passing second, and there was no rain or respite on the horizon.

Massey scanned the tear-streaked, exhausted faces. “I know you’re all tired, and I know some of you want to abandon the outpost and try your chances out there.”

Fischer saw some people nod.

“You are free to leave if you’d like,” Massey said. “This is still the Allied States, a place built on the very Constitution and Bill of Rights that gave us the United States of America. That makes you free men and women.”

Chase shot Fischer a glance, perhaps wondering if Fischer wanted to try their luck leaving.

“I, for one, haven’t fought and bled for this outpost to give up,” Massey said. Her voice boomed with the self-assuredness of a seasoned military commander. “I plan on staying, to the end, whatever that may be, fighting for the sacred ground we stand on today.”

“New Yorkers don’t run!” one man shouted.

A few heads bobbed in agreement.

“That’s right,” Massey said. “New Yorkers are some of the toughest people on the planet! When the terrorists hit the towers at whose bases we stand at now, what did people do? They ran back in to help the trapped and the injured!”

“We always help our neighbors, even if we don’t like them!” a woman yelled.

A few people laughed.

Massey smiled at the woman. Then her expression grew serious. “Make no mistake. The enemy will return and they will hit us hard, but we will beat them back again and we will find a way to win this war.”

Fischer thought of Tran and Meyer as the crowd held up their weapons into the air. The guard and engineer joined a long list of men in Fischer’s employment who had given their lives.

But Tran was more than just an employee.

He was a friend and confidante. Someone who had stood by his side since the death of his wife, serving him in his greatest time of need.

“Stand with me and fight!” Massey yelled.

The cheering grew louder. Outpost officers dispersed through the crowd, organizing teams to bolster the razor wire-topped walls and move weapons to new positions. Snipers marched off to the skyscrapers surrounding the outpost where they would find perches to give them a bird’s eye view of the apocalyptic urban ruin.

“Do you think Tran’s still alive?” Chase asked.

“I sure to God hope not,” Fischer said.

“If he is, should we…” Chase spat on the ground. “I know finding him would be nearly impossible, but I would feel like a coward if we didn’t try.”

“Me too, but we have no idea where to even start looking. The best thing we can do to honor Tran is keep fighting.”

Chase dipped his head.

Fischer put on his cowboy hat. “Let’s go see where we can help.”

Massey had dismounted from the truck and stood at the end of a row of white oak trees with her back turned, looking out over the skyrises.

“Commander,” Fischer said.

She turned to face him and wiped at a tear rolling down her face.

“We’re with you, Commander,” Fischer said.

“I knew that already,” she said with a smile. “You’re a Texan. Texans don’t back down from a fight either. Remember the Alamo?”

“Once again, our backs are up against the wall, but we either hold what we have left of this country or else we run across the Atlantic,” Fischer said. “This country, no matter what it’s been through, is my home and we’re happy to help where you need us.”

Massey looked over her shoulder. “My people retrieved one surviving vibroseis truck, but we don’t know how to use it.”

“What about the SDS equipment? Do you know if Team Ghost ever located it?”

“I’m not sure.”

The words filled Fischer with worry. Not only were they down to one truck, he wasn’t sure of the status of the SDS equipment that General Cornelius believed could change the war.

“So just one truck left?” he asked.

She nodded.

Chase looked at the ground. He was the only man from Fischer’s company still with him. All his engineers had died in last night’s attack. His stomach felt weak when he thought about what he was agreeing to do. His engineers were far better at operating the trucks, but they now had no choice.

“I’ll operate the truck myself,” Fischer said.

“Thank you.” Massey put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad we have you with us.”

Fischer heard his wife’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him they should leave Lower Manhattan. Even in death, she was looking out for him. Every time he had heard her voice, he had almost died.

“I’ll show you to the truck,” Massey said.

She started walking, leading Fischer and Chase toward the northern wall.

The outpost around them was alive with workers. Men and women sat at tables cleaning weapons. Others loaded magazines, and an assembly line hoisted crates of ammunition to machine gun nests.

Fischer wondered how many bullets they actually had left.

At least they still had the Bradley Fighting Vehicles positioned at the corners of the outposts. He saw an Apache, too, roosted atop a building just outside the memorial. They might have lost one of the M1 Abrams and an Apache last night, but they still had one left of both.

She stopped when they reached the vibroseis truck. Fischer stepped into the filthy open cab of the truck, still stained with blood. It was a shitty place to die, but if this was his destiny, so be it.

Better than being taken to the webbing-covered tunnels.

And at least if there was anything left of him, they could always bury him in Texas.

Massey stepped away to listen to a call on her radio while Fischer prepared the electronics in the truck. Chase leaned in.

“Anything else I can do to help?” Chase asked.

Fischer shook his head. There wasn’t anything more Chase could do.

This was on Fischer.

A few minutes later Massey returned.

“Got some interesting news,” she said.

Fischer looked up from the controls. Maybe the SDS equipment was on its way here.

“We’re going to have some company,” Massey said with a sly grin. “Might actually get some reinforcements after all.”

***

“I knew when we found those locations, there would be a chance you would be investigating one.” Kate’s voice crackled over the satellite phone. “My work is putting your life at risk again.”

Beckham stood in the lobby of the Fairmont Banff Springs hotel, thinking of what to say. Team Ghost was packing up their gear around him and making final preparations for their missions to search for the Master behind the monsters’ resurgence.

“Reed?” Kate said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t know any other way. Team Ghost needs help. We lost Mendez, Kate.” He paused, watching the disastrous chopper attack in his mind. “He was there one second, and then…gone.”

A moment of silence passed between them.

“I’m so sorry, Reed,” she said.

“It’s time for Horn and me to really step up and fight in the stead of those who have fallen. Meg, Riley, Davis…now Mendez, Lincoln, Jake, Timothy, Bo, Donna…and so many others who have given their lives.”

The list went on and on, dragging all the way to the first war, and Beckham let his words trail off. “If we don’t step up now, there won’t—”

“I know,” Kate said, cutting him off. “The only way we can live together like a normal family again is to win this war. We all have to be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.”

Beckham knew this wasn’t going to just be him at risk, but hearing Kate acknowledge that made his heart flip. For that matter, she had put herself in harm’s way to complete her scientific work.

“Are the kids okay?” Beckham asked. “And the dogs?”

“They’re fine. They just miss you and Parker.”

Beckham choked up a bit. God, he just wanted to hug Javier and Kate and Horn’s girls, who might as well be his adopted daughters. He wanted to toss a ball for Spark and Ginger to chase, and sit out on their deck at Peak’s Island to watch the sunrise while enjoying a coffee.

But the only way to realize that kind of future was to face the evil lurking out there.

“Trucks are coming,” called a Canadian soldier from the lobby entrance.

A convoy of vehicles drove toward the circle driveway outside the hotel.

“I got to go, Kate,” he said. “Be safe. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He almost hung up, but then heard her speak again.

“Wait, Reed, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“When this is over… I was thinking… Javier could use a brother or a sister.”

Beckham smiled. “Yeah, he’d like that. So would I.”

“Then make sure you come home in one piece. That’s an order, Captain.”

He smiled wider. “I’ll see you soon, my love.”

She hung up and Beckham handed the phone back to the Canadian officer who had lent it to him. Then he walked back to Team Ghost.

“How is everyone?” Horn asked.

“Good. The kids are doing just fine.”

“And Kate?”

“Okay.”

“She doesn’t want us to go, does she?”

Beckham shook his head.

“I don’t blame her,” Rico said. “You guys already put your time in.”

“Yeah, well, things have changed,” Beckham said. “You guys can’t get rid of us that easily. You’re stuck with me and Big Horn now.”

Fitz glanced over as he packed his ruck, but he didn’t say anything.

The team strapped on their packs and then huddled behind the big glass front door to the hotel. Snow fell in a blizzard-like torrent outside. Already a foot of it had accumulated on the hotel grounds.

“God, I hate the cold.” Horn shoved his hands in his parka’s pockets.

Beckham wrapped a scarf around his face, then zipped his parka up to his chin.

For the past few hours they had rested and filled their stomachs, but there was one last thing to do before they once again parted ways: honor Specialists Lincoln and Mendez.

“Everyone ready?” asked Prince. He had been on the radio making sure security was tight for the ride that would take them to their planned stop before heading to the aircraft that would take them back to the States.

“Let’s go,” Fitz said. He opened the doors and stepped outside, a gust of wind slamming into the team.

Beckham tried to keep his scarf up but the wind blew it loose, frigid air slicing through his beard. He pulled the scarf back up and followed Fitz down the stone steps to a convoy of three armored trucks and a white SUV with a brush guard. All the vehicles had chains over their tires.

Team Ghost piled into the white SUV with Prince.

The Canadian soldier behind the wheel drove down a road curving through the snow. With the sun hidden behind dark clouds and the relentless snowstorm, visibility was limited.

Dohi had insisted they go somewhere where they had an expansive view of the mountains, lake, and forest surrounding them to say some final words for their fallen comrades.

Prince said he knew just the place for a short ceremony, and it wasn’t far from the runway. They might not be able to find a view because of the snowfall, but all the same, Beckham thought it was important they found a decent spot to pay their respects.

Lincoln and Mendez deserved a proper burial, but like so many others who had died in the line of duty, that just wasn’t possible.

The Canadians were providing extra security for the ceremony and the takeoff, hence the three APCs driving along with them.

The convoy drove over a road framed by six-foot-high snowdrifts.

“Going to be twice as high by the time winter ends,” Prince said.

A thick forest of pines appeared in the distance through the haze of snow. The mountains behind them cast a foreboding skyline. Jagged peaks lined the horizon like the teeth of a gigantic prehistoric animal.

“This is the turn off,” Prince said.

The driver followed the APCs. Through the screen of snow, Beckham could make out a lookout over a frozen lake. Picnic tables covered in snow protruded out of the drifts.

Beckham imagined what this place was like in the past, when families came to enjoy a weekend or day in nature. But like most places in the world, this was now enemy territory. No one would eat a sandwich enjoying the view anytime soon, and that wasn’t just because of the snow.

“Dohi, let’s make this quick, okay?” Beckham said. He didn’t want to be insensitive, but he had to say what needed to be said. They couldn’t afford to delay the mission or expose themselves to undue threats out here.

“Understood,” Dohi said.

The team stepped out into the howling wind. Canadian forces formed a perimeter around the picnic area with their rifles cradled. Prince remained close, but kept enough distance to give them some privacy.

Dohi went to the edge of the lookout and bent down. He cleared a spot in the snow with a glove and then picked up some dirt.

Beckham and Horn stood between Rico, Fitz, and Ace. They formed a half circle around Dohi. He rose to his feet and looked at the lake, then the mountains.

“Before we part ways again, I wanted to spend a minute to honor the lives of Lincoln and Mendez,” he said. “My people are of a different faith, but we all share one very special thing—we come from the same place, and we return to the same place—ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as my Christian brothers might say.”

He crumbled the frozen chunks of dirt in his hands and let them fall to the ground.

“Amen,” Ace said.

“Today I pray that the souls of our brothers reach whatever afterlife they believed in, far from the demons that ail Mother Earth,” Dohi said. “And with the aid of Mother Earth and Father Sky and all of the Holy People, I pray they find peace and sanctuary.”

Dohi said something in Navajo, then fell into silence. When he finished, he performed a traditional ritual, pounding his chest, gesturing to the sky. Almost all of it was done in silence.

Beckham bowed his head and prayed.

A few minutes later, after dead silence, Dohi turned away from the mountains.

“Thank you, Dohi,” Beckham said. “Anyone else want to say anything?”

Fitz took a step out from the half circle. “Losing a brother or sister is what every leader fears. Mendez and Lincoln weren’t just brave warriors. They were loyal friends who sacrificed their lives so we could keep fighting.”

Beckham knew exactly how Fitz felt, having experienced it countless times.

“And that’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Fitz said, then looked to the sky, snow piling at his blades. “Until the end, and until we meet again.”

“Damn right,” Rico said.

“Mendez and Lincoln were just kids,” Ace said. “I’ll miss them breaking my balls and their jokes.”

“I got this gut feeling they’re looking over us right now,” Rico said.

Beckham brightened at the thought. He often felt his friends and loved ones were doing just that. Knowing they might still be watching out for him had gotten him through some very lonely, dark times.

Prince walked over, his radio crackling.

“Hate to interrupt, but…we got an issue near the highway,” he said. “Two bears have been spotted.”

“You talking polar bears or some shit?” Ace asked.

Prince shook his head. “Polar bears would be less of a threat. These bears are just the names we gave the Alphas. These beasts have adapted to the snow and cold. They’re as big as grizzlies, hairier, smarter, and a hell of a lot meaner.”

“Damn,” Ace said.

“Best to beat them to the aircraft,” Prince said. “You guys ready?”

“Yeah,” Fitz said.

Beckham gave a nod. He looked at the mountains again, taking solace in the pristine view for one last moment. The snow, as bad as it was, gave it a decidedly peaceful look.

He turned away and returned to the vehicles with the other soldiers. Once back in their seats, Dohi kept his head bowed and Ace wiped at his eyes.

The drive to the highway only took ten minutes. Three APCs were parked around the fuel tanker and two aircraft, soldiers encircling them for added protection. The C-130 was being de-iced, and a small single-prop plane was facing the opposite direction.

“That’s our ride?” Horn asked.

“What do you want, a luxury jet?” Rico asked.

“That looks like a bush plane for a hunting trip,” Horn said.

“This is a hunting trip,” Beckham said.

Horn shook his head. “As long as it doesn’t crash before it gets us out of this cold.”

The whine of other, smaller motors growled over the highway. A group of Canadian soldiers on snowmobiles drove toward them. The soldiers on the snowmobiles had what looked like harpoon guns.

“Okay, let’s go!” Prince yelled over the chorus of different engines.

Team Ghost got out of the SUV and huddled together, waiting to board. Fitz faced Beckham and held out a hand.

“I guess this is goodbye again,” said the younger soldier.

“It’s more like see you soon,” Beckham replied. He shook Fitz’s hand and then pulled the man into a hug. As they embraced, Beckham said, “Honor the ones we’ve lost by fighting for the ones we can still save.”

“I will, Captain.”

Fitz moved on to Horn, who picked the smaller man up in a bear hug.

“Good luck, Big Horn,” Fitz wheezed.

“You too, brother.”

Rico went up to Fitz next.

Beckham turned to give them some privacy. He adjusted the straps of his pack and rifle as he watched the snowmobiles at the edge of the road. There were two more in the distance, the engines rumbling faintly.

Prince and Horn stepped up next to Beckham.

A guttural growling came from the direction of the distant snowmobilers. The riders shot toward a beast barreling through the snow. Beckham had to use binoculars to see the creature.

Already two long harpoons stuck out of the furry bear-sized monster with a humanoid face. The snowmobilers chased it with a mesh net they held between each other.

The creature flailed as the men trapped it. Several of the riders fired with rifles into the monster’s flanks. But it still slashed at the net, forcing the snowmobilers to stop.

One of the men hopped off and aimed his harpoon gun. He fired straight into its neck. The creature let out a monstrous roar damn near loud enough to cause an avalanche.

“Ugly bastard was trying to sneak up on us,” Prince said.

“Man, I really, really do not like it here…no offense,” Horn said, shivering.

“None taken.”

“Didn’t you say there were two?” Ace asked.

“Yeah, so that’s another reason to get moving, eh?” Prince said.

Fitz and Rico had parted, and she walked over to Beckham and Horn.

“Ready to board?” she asked.

Beckham finally said goodbye to Dohi and Ace before they departed. Fitz followed the two larger men to the C-130, looking back over his shoulder, his eyes glued on Rico.

“See ya’ soon,” Fitz called out.

Beckham watched what was left of Team Ghost split to take separate paths. For the second time that day, he prayed they would all see each other again.

— 15 —

The roar of the engines rumbled through Dohi.

Once again, Ghost was about to be dropped into enemy territory. The team was smaller than ever with the devastating loss of Mendez, and Rico taking off on another leg of the mission with Beckham and Horn.

Dohi felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness, especially poignant in the huge empty belly of the C-130 even with Fitz and Ace nearby.

Fitz rested his chin against his chest as he tried to grab a few moments of sleep. Ace had his arms folded, head back against the bulkhead. His eyes were closed, and Dohi could hear him snoring over the engines.

Besides the crew chiefs, it was just the three operators. The huge airplane seemed like overkill for the small group, when so many people were still needing evac back at the outposts.

In the center of the plane was a rigid-hulled inflatable buoyancy (RIB) boat that the Canadian forces had lent them for their incursion into Seattle. Kamer had seemed proud to offer it to them, but to Dohi, it was just another reminder of the minimal support their neighbors in the north were offering.

This was supposed to be a stealth mission, perfectly suited for Dohi’s unique abilities. He was anxious to find the Center for Engineering Complex Organs, assuming it still existed.

If it did, then their mission would morph into one of intel grabbing. They would scout out the premises and identify any leaders involved with the attacks on the Allied States, determining if the enigmatic Master called this place home.

To Dohi, the plan was like shooting an arrow in the dark and hoping it hit something. But with no other leads, this was the only shot they could take.

Fitz looked up, blinking away his sleep.

Dohi saw the worry in his eyes now that Rico had gone off with Beckham and Horn. He tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t come up with any reassuring words that seemed appropriate.

All he could manage was, “How are you doing, brother?”

“I’m okay,” Fitz said. “You?”

“Ready for whatever comes next. You think this could really lead to something, though?”

“If we can find evidence of CECO’s involvement with the Chimeras and all these recent attacks, yeah, I do,” Fitz said. “We bring that kind of intel back, and I have a feeling the Canadians will join this fight.”

“Kamer already knows about the collaborators and the losses we’ve taken. Why would this mission change his mind?”

“All they’ve seen are the normal hordes of Variants and those ‘bears’. This war must seem like another world to them, and they probably don’t believe it’s as bad or organized as we say it is.”

“They’ll think differently when the Chimeras are in their backyard with an army of Variants, too.”

“By then, it’ll be too late.” Fitz paused. “For all of us.”

One of the crew chiefs near the rear ramp spoke over the open comms.

“We’re approaching the drop zone!” he said. “Get ready!”

Ace woke with a start, grumbling and checking over his suppressed M4A1. He stood and checked the straps on his chute. Dohi and Fitz made their final preparations.

“Five minutes,” said the crew chief. He hit a button, activating a sling that dragged the RIB on its drop platform toward the rear ramp.

Dohi slipped on his chute. Using the handholds hanging overhead, he waddled toward the rear of the plane with Fitz and Ace, each holding their gear.

“Back into the belly of the beast,” Ace said.

The crew chief hit the lever to lower the rear ramp. Howling wind filled the fuselage. Cold air tugged at Dohi despite the thermal underwear and ACUs he wore under his dry suit.

Leaning forward slightly, he peered over the open ramp.

Beneath them lay a thick carpet of gray. By now, they should be somewhere over the Puget Sound, but he couldn’t see the water nor the islands dotting the vast body of water through the fog. Their ultimate destination was Seattle. Toward the southeast, it was also concealed by haze.

“We’re almost over Marrowstone Island,” said the crew chief. “That’s going to be your drop zone and your rendezvous point. Remember, this is low-altitude, so pull those chutes right away!”

Fitz dipped his helmet.

A few pangs of sunlight shone behind the fog, making it grow a slightly lighter shade. Team Ghost didn’t usually execute missions in the daylight, but this fog provided better cover than even the dark of night.

The normally nocturnal Variants would be lying low, and any Chimeras, collaborators, or other hostile contacts would suffer from the low visibility that even NVGs or thermal imaging couldn’t pierce.

“Deploy the drogue!” shouted the crew chief at the rear ramp.

Two other crew chiefs pushed the RIB and its platform onto the rear ramp. The olive-green drogue parachute burst from the back of the platform and caught in the wind. It dragged behind the plane, pulling the RIB to the end of the rear ramp.

“As soon as the boat drops, you boys are next!” the crew chief said. “Wait for my signal!”

Dohi felt the tingle of electricity coursing through his nerves. With all the fog, he could barely see thirty feet around the plane, much less the ground and water below. He had to trust the pilots, their instruments, and his own wrist-mounted altimeter that they were being dropped at the right place.

Father Sky, look out for us, he prayed. And Mendez, if you’re watching, this one’s for you, brother.

“RIB, out!” the crew chief said, hitting another button.

The drogue chute yanked the RIB and platform out into the fog. A second later, the set of five parachutes secured on the RIB exploded outward, big canvas domes catching in the wind. The launching platform separated from the boat and plummeted, its drogue parachute twirling away into the fog.

“Go, go, go!” the crew chief shouted.

Ace hurtled out of the plane, followed by Fitz. The gray fog swallowed them and the RIB. Dohi flipped down his night vision goggles and leapt into the abyss. He spread his arms and legs out to control his descent, letting the air batter his body for a few seconds while he maintained an arch position.

Twisting his wrist, he checked his altimeter, then he pulled the strap on his chute. It burst open, his body whipped forward by momentum.

As the canopy lowered him, he tracked his descent with the altimeter. The NVGs couldn’t see through the fog at what awaited him below, but they did let him see the white glowing blink of the infrared tags on Fitz and Ace’s NVGs refracting through the mist.

It took him a few seconds to locate them drifting beneath his location. Another couple hundred feet beneath the operators was the RIB with its own IR tags flashing around its gunwale.

Dohi toggled over, following the others, just a few dozen feet above them. A loud splash sounded over his rippling chute. He presumed it belonged to the boat hitting the water.

Another few seconds later and he hit the cold water.

Dohi cut off his chute and paddled toward the IR signature from the RIB.

Silver waves crashed over him as he swam, finding the gaps around his neck in the dry suit. By the time he drew close enough to see the RIB, Ace and Fitz were already aboard and had the motor started.

Fitz reached down to help Dohi climb into the craft. Ace cruised away, plowing through the fog at half-throttle to reduce their noise.

The nearly two-hour long trip was spent in relative silence. Ace occasionally glanced at a handheld GPS to navigate.

As they continued their journey, the fog lifted enough that they no longer relied purely on the device. Dohi flipped up his NVGs to the gray-green of the rising bulk of islands. To the southeast, the looming shapes of Seattle started to coalesce.

“Almost there,” Fitz said. “Dohi, keep an eye out for a good place to pull in.”

“I think—”

He never completed the sentence.

A monstrous creature burst from the stormy water’s surface and landed in the boat. Water sluiced off a Variant with webbed feet and hands. The beast roared and slashed at Ace. The big operator fell back against the gunwale.

Dohi reached for his hatchet, ready to cleave off the creature’s grotesque face. But it lunged first, slamming into his chest. He tumbled over the gunwale and into the water.

The freezing cold stung his face as he tried to see through the murk, panic swelling through his chest. He clawed his way back up to the surface, but before he could gasp for breath, something sharp tightened on his ankle, yanking his foot down.

He twisted his neck enough to see a sinewy arm stretch from the darkness. The Variant’s claws had wrapped around his boot.

Dohi struggled, the weight of his gear and the monster’s strength pulling him deeper. With gills, it didn’t need to kill him with claws. All it had to do was hold him under until he stopped breathing. Then it would tear him apart and feed.

But the beast didn’t seem patient enough for that.

Instead, it maneuvered around him using its webbed hands to shoot through the water. Even with the silt obscuring his vision, Dohi saw a mouthful of jagged teeth.

His muscles started to burn, desperate for oxygen.

The monster bit at his face, and Dohi did all he could to try and keep away from the maw. Over and over it snapped as it pulled him down.

Through his panicked brain, he tried to free himself from the strong grip. He and the monster became a tangled mess of limbs and claws.

He reached for his knife, finally slipping the blade out of its sheath. With the weapon in hand, he stabbed at the ribs of the monster. Dark clouds of blood punched out of the wounds.

But the lack of oxygen had taken its toll. Dohi’s muscles began to lock.

Another stab, and the creature pulled back, bubbles streaming from its mouth as it let out a muffled roar. More blood mixed with the silt as the Variant thrashed.

The glint of metal flashed through the water, cutting across the beast’s gills. Letting out a gurgle, the creature went listless, sinking.

Dohi’s consciousness started to fade just as hands grabbed him, pulling him again. This time, toward the surface.

He broke through a moment later, sucking in the frigid air. Fitz surfaced next to him, also gasping.

Ace reached over the gunwale of the RIB and dragged them both on board.

Then he returned to the motor and sped away. Faster this time in case more Variants were skimming underwater after them.

Dohi lay on his back, still heaving. His muscles were tingling, but his head no longer pulsed from oxygen deprivation.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “Thank you for saving me.”

Fitz patted him on the shoulder and turned as Ace took them closer to shore. They would have more cover there and could find somewhere to stash the boat while they continued on foot.

Ace finally found shelter for the boat near Smith Cove Park, just north of downtown Seattle. As they pulled in, the sun emerged, providing a clear view of the city.

“Holy shit,” Ace bellowed.

Dohi lifted his binos to his eyes, taking a minute to soak it all in.

Piles of rubble along the harbor where abandoned ships and boats had rammed together formed a monstrous island of flotsam.

Farther inland, half the skyscrapers were nothing but blackened husks, burned out from past fires. The iconic Space Needle reached like a finger toward the gray sky, half its saucer-shaped observation deck gone.

But it wasn’t the destruction of the city’s skyline that had caused Ace’s reaction.

Vines hung from the tip of the Space Needle down to the park around it and other neighboring buildings. Dohi saw specks moving on those vines, which he assumed were Variants.

Dohi passed the binoculars off to Fitz.

“If we don’t find the real Master here, then God help us,” he said.

Dohi recalled his original fear going on this mission. They might have shot an arrow in the dark, but the arrow had hit a target. The question now was whether they could handle what they discovered in this new hell.

***

President Ringgold entered the lab at the Long Island bunker with a backpack over her shoulder. The four Secret Service agents shadowing her waited outside with her chief of staff, James Soprano. None of them were happy with her decision, but she wasn’t out to make them happy.

Inside the laboratory, she found Kate and Sammy helping their assistants, Ron and Leslie, load the rest of their gear.

“Are you all ready to head out?” Ringgold asked.

Sammy turned in her direction, wincing in pain.

“Are you good?” Ringgold said.

“Yes, we’ve integrated all of the unprocessed natural language signals we derived from the Variants’ communications and—” Sammy started to explain.

“I mean, do you feel okay?” Ringgold asked.

“Oh,” Sammy said, embarrassed.

“Yes, I’m okay.”

Kate smiled. “We’re ready, Madam President.”

The doctor’s tone was confident and helped reassure Ringgold.

“Good, the helicopter is waiting for us,” she said.

“What do you mean ‘us’?” Kate asked, confused.

“I’m coming with.”

“Is it safe?” Ron asked, timidly.

“If it’s safe enough for all of you, it’s safe enough for me,” Ringgold said.

“Ma’am, the people there are going to go nuts when they see you,” Sammy said.

“She means that in a good way,” Leslie clarified.

“I guess we’ll find out soon,” Ringgold said.

As they exited the lab together, the agents and Soprano surrounded their small group and escorted them outside the bunker. The cold afternoon wind greeted them on the walk to the helipad. Marine One waited, engines already fired up, and Marines had already formed a perimeter around the bird.

Ringgold saluted the Marine guarding the chopper. She climbed into the cabin with Soprano taking a seat next to her. The science team and her four Secret Service agents all piled in next.

The crew chief closed the door to seal out the cold, and Ringgold relaxed in the leather seat as the cabin filled with warm air. The pilots wasted no time getting them airborne.

Ringgold spent the ride to Lower Manhattan discussing Kate and Sammy’s plans for the tunnels, along with the unfolding implications of the sites in Seattle and Denver that Team Ghost was investigating.

She knew the country’s situation was dire, but now they had a real lead on who their enemy was and where that enemy was likely hiding. Before it seemed like they had been shipwrecked, flailing to stay afloat in rough seas, but now she saw the shoreline on the horizon.

A pilot’s voice interrupted their conversations. “We’re approaching Lower Manhattan, prepare for landing.”

Long columns of dark smoke snaked up across the city from the battle that had gone through the night. Embers smoldered where towers had collapsed, and dark, oily water flooded the streets around the crumbling remains of City Hall.

Never in her long tenure of public service had she expected the horror that had gripped her people like it had over these past few weeks.

The only sight that gave her hope was the Statue of Liberty, still intact, the eternal flame burning on her torch. She took a mental photograph of that image, stashing it into her memory. The statue represented the ideals they were fighting for—the ideals she knew they would realize again.

“Beginning our descent now,” the pilot said over the intercom.

The chopper swooped between the skyscrapers, avoiding the remnants of scaffolding and frames that stuck out like busted bones breaking through flesh. They lowered to the LZ and hit the ground with a soft thud.

A cold breeze swam through the cabin after the crew chief opened the door. The four Secret Service agents hopped out first. One ducked and beckoned for Ringgold and Soprano.

“It’s clear!” he said.

Ringgold let the science team exit first, then followed behind them, Soprano following her. She took the first steps out of the chopper, the rotor wash from the winding down blades kicking up her hair. With one hand, she shielded her eyes from the midday sun as her pupils adjusted.

After she brought her hand back down, she was greeted with a welcoming party led by a woman with red hair. She had the straight poise of a seasoned commanding officer. A handful of other military officers in uniform stood alongside her.

The female commander snapped into a brisk salute. “Madam President, welcome to Outpost Lower Manhattan.”

Ringgold saluted back. “Thank you,” she said. “Good to be with you.”

“I’m Commander Amber Massey, and…well, it’s an honor to meet you.” She broke from formalities and extended her hand.

Ringgold exchanged greetings with Massey and the other military officers, and the civilians who had come to introduce themselves to her as well. She was prepared to be bombarded with demanding questions and perhaps angry words, but the faces around her seemed grateful.

“Thank you all for the warm welcome,” Ringgold said. “I want to talk more with each of you to see how we can help, but first Dr. Lovato and her team need to get to the tunnels to begin their work.”

“Of course, we’re finishing our final security sweeps,” Massey said. “In the meantime, we can help you prepare your equipment and suit up.”

She turned to a thin man in olive fatigues. “Daudelin, can you show them the new staging tent?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Dr. Lovato, please follow me.”

Kate and her team followed the soldier toward a tent set among the white oak trees lined in rows around the outpost.

Ringgold and Soprano stayed with Massey as the crowd dispersed.

“James, I want you to start meeting with officers in the command center,” Ringgold said. “We should go over aid shipment logistics and evacuation rates.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Soprano said.

Another soldier stepped up to guide the chief of staff into the outpost.

“Where would you like to go first, ma’am?” Massey asked Ringgold.

“I’d like to visit your medical facility.”

Massey’s brow furrowed at that request, and she paused.

“That bad?” Ringgold asked.

“There are some horrific injuries, Madam President.”

These were the people who had been willing to sacrifice their lives to protect this country. As their leader, she figured she ought to understand what she had asked of them in defending outposts like this.

“I’m prepared,” she said.

Massey led Ringgold toward the museum at the 9/11 memorial.

Ringgold noticed people around the base pause their work, looking toward her as they passed. She saw a few whisper to each other, as if they didn’t quite believe the president was on the ground in their midst.

The Secret Service agents followed closely, scanning the civilians and soldiers. She couldn’t help but wonder if any were collaborators.

A soldier held open the door to the museum. Immediately the smell of antiseptics hit her. The moans and whimpers of the injured filled the first room she entered. Medics, doctors, and nurses treated patients wrapped in bandages laying on cots set up in rows along the museum floor.

Ringgold went to the first cot she saw. A Hispanic woman in her thirties lay on the cot. Bandages covered her chest and left arm.

“Is it really you…” the woman started to ask, squinting.

Ringgold offered a warm smile and knelt by the woman, placing a hand on her uninjured shoulder. “I’m with you,” she said. “And it’s an honor to be next to someone as brave as you.”

The woman’s eyes focused. “My brother died to help save this place from the monsters we were told were gone.”

Ringgold had prepared for this.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’re doing everything we can—”

The woman turned away, and Ringgold stepped back, sighing.

Determined to continue, she went between the cots, shaking hands and listening to the stories of the injured. Some doled out criticism; others, praise.

Regardless of what they said to her, she thanked each and every one of them. She made no excuses for underestimating the power of the Variants and didn’t make empty promises to them.

Soprano would have cautioned her about what she should say to these people. Sure, this might be political suicide to confront the truth like this, but politics didn’t matter anymore.

Her goal was to simply show her people she was there for them. That she would always be there for them, and that she was one of them.

“We have more people waiting outside,” Massey said after Ringgold had visited nearly everyone in the museum.

They went back to the memorials. The sun had since vanished behind dark, rolling storm clouds. A cold sprinkle fell over them as she greeted more outpost civilians.

“Ma’am, we better find shelter,” said one of her agents. “The storm looks like it’s getting worse.”

Massey directed Ringgold to a wide canvas tent. Inside were a few tables that were laid out with maps and computers. Nearly twenty soldiers and officers were hard at work, Soprano among them.

Thunder boomed outside, making most of the people look up.

“It looks like I brought the bad weather with me today,” Ringgold said.

“At least you’re here,” Massey said. “Your presence is going to help motivate people and reassure them we can get through another attack.” She paused, looking concerned. “But I’ve got to be honest…”

Ringgold steeled herself.

“We can’t take much more,” Massey said coldly. “What you saw today is all we have left.”

— 16 —

“You sure you can sail?” Ruckley asked.

She sat in the back of the mail truck parked in the post office garage. The color had returned to her face, and her fever had broken.

In just half a day, she had perked up. The antibiotics had worked. Now that her wound dressings were clean again, they were ready to continue toward Boston.

“My dad taught me how to sail,” Timothy said. “Our biggest problem today is going to be whether the boat is in good shape. Sailboats don’t do well if they’re neglected. If we can find a good boat, then we’ll just have to hope we’re not spotted on the way to Boston.”

“Variants can swim, you know.”

“Yeah, and they run, too. Fast. Wherever we go, they’re out there. But how many are really going to be out in the ocean, when there’s plenty of available food on land right now?”

She shrugged. “I guess it depends on if they want surf or turf for dinner.”

Timothy smiled. “All I know is I don’t plan on sticking around here until they make us dinner. I just want to get to Boston, radio command, and blow Mount Katahdin sky high before the collaborators do anymore damage.”

“Sounds like a plan, kid.”

He finished packing the rest of their gear. They had discarded some things they didn’t need so they could move faster, keeping just the necessities like medicine, food, water, extra ammo, and warm clothing. He had also cleaned their rifles.

“The river is only about a mile away,” he said. “You ready?”

She jammed a magazine into her rifle and chambered the first round. “Lead the way.”

Timothy opened the garage’s back door, did a scan of the parking lot, and then walked out into the cold evening. With only a few hours of light left, he wanted to move fast and launch the sailboat as quickly as possible.

If all went to plan, they would be in Boston by morning.

But it looked like that would have to happen in the rain.

Ominous storm clouds loomed from the east, rolling in their direction and releasing the first sprinkles that splattered on Timothy’s coat.

By the time they had made it just a block, the sky opened up, dropping water on them by the bucketful.

Just our luck, he thought.

He could endure the cold rain, but Ruckley wasn’t in the clear yet. Her immune system was probably still weak from the infection, and coming down with pneumonia wouldn’t do her any favors.

If Ruckley was uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She walked fast, not far behind him, eyes ahead, and scanning for hostiles.

They pushed on for a good fifteen minutes, clearing street after street in the rain. Eventually, he spotted the bridge over the river.

But this time it wasn’t empty.

A black SUV was parked in the middle. He didn’t remember it being there before.

He motioned to stop. Then he snuck behind the cover of a wide tree trunk in a front lawn. Ruckley took shelter behind an adjacent tree.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“I didn’t see that SUV on the bridge earlier,” he said quietly.

He went prone and pressed the scope of his rifle to his eye. Rain pattered his body as he lay under the leafless branches and zoomed in on the bridge.

Rust covered the SUV’s wheel wells, but otherwise it looked to be in good condition. The tires were aired, and the windshield and windows were all intact. They were tinted, preventing him from seeing inside.

He glassed the rest of the bridge and its vicinity but saw nothing to indicate suspicious activity besides the new vehicle.

“Screw the boat,” he whispered to Ruckley. “Maybe we can get a good car.”

She put a finger to her mouth, and Timothy soon heard why.

A second vehicle rumbled toward the bridge, this one a pickup. Unlike the black SUV, he saw men in the front cab and more in the bed.

Way too many to risk opening fire.

But if they were collaborators…

Timothy zoomed in to see if he recognized them, but none looked familiar.

“Maybe they’re friendlies,” he said.

“Or maybe they heard your motorcycle earlier. They could be looking for us.”

A deep chill ran through Timothy. He centered his crosshairs on a figure in camo.

“Wait until they leave,” Ruckley said.

Timothy nodded.

Twenty minutes passed. The men stood on the bridge as puddles formed around them. Timothy wondered if they were waiting there to stop someone or something.

Another forty minutes went by, cold water puddling around Timothy. It soaked his clothes and turned the overgrown lawn into a muddy mess. His feet went numb, and he wiggled his toes to keep the blood flowing.

Ruckley had hardly moved, but her face had drained of color. She was shivering.

He prayed she wasn’t getting sick again. He doubted her body could take another viral thrashing.

They had to get out of the rain.

“Maybe we should go back…” he started to say.

She shook her head.

Another ten minutes ticked by until they heard the thump of a helicopter. Timothy tilted his head to the gray sky. The noise came from the northeast. He spotted the chopper that seemed to be headed southwest toward Boston.

An engine roared to life on the bridge. Loud voices called to one another as the men pointed at the incoming bird. Timothy could now see it was a Chinook. The man in camo climbed back into the pickup’s bed.

“Now’s our chance,” Ruckley said. “Get ready to move.”

Timothy pushed at the ground, his freezing muscles numb.

As he stood, the men still on the bridge spread out, crouching, rifles aimed at the sky. The man wearing camo pulled a LAW rocket from the truck bed. He too directed the weapon toward the clouds.

“Shit,” Ruckley said.

Shit was right, Timothy thought.

These guys were trying to take out the chopper. They must be collaborators after all.

The black SUV peeled away, and suddenly came tearing down the road as the Chinook grew closer. Maybe the bird was carrying evacuees to safety or hauling reinforcements to bolster an outpost’s defenses.

A rocket streaked away from the LAW launcher. The pilots didn’t even have a chance to maneuver. The rocket slammed into the Chinook’s belly, exploding on impact. Fire and smoke bloomed around the bottom of the big bird.

Gunfire erupted from the Chinook, tearing into pickup truck.

While he and Ruckley had refrained from blowing their position before, now the stakes had just gotten higher.

She gave the order to fire.

Timothy aimed at the guy with the rocket and pulled the trigger. The top of the man’s skull exploded in a spray of red. The other three men looked around, confused.

Ruckley squeezed off a burst into the mid-section of one man. Timothy took out another with two bullets to the stomach. The third man ran but didn’t make it far.

The pickup suddenly exploded, and the resulting inferno swallowed the running man.

That left only the SUV.

The driver did a U-turn and sped away. Timothy fired a few shots but then decided to conserve his precious ammunition. He turned to watch the distressed Chinook.

The pilots somehow had managed to stay in the air so far. Smoke billowed away from the fuselage. But a second fire erupted from its engines, and the tail rotor stopped working, putting the bird into a tailspin.

Timothy and Ruckley watched it pass overhead as it spun wildly.

“Down!” she shouted.

They both ducked down as it rammed into a riverside mansion, exploding into a blinding burst. Timothy shielded his face with a hand, and a wave of heat rolled over him as he hugged the mud.

For a moment he just stared in shock until Ruckley grabbed his shoulder.

“Get to that boat before the SUV comes back,” she said.

Timothy jogged down the riverbank as flames licked the sky. Dark oily smoke drifted away from the crash site. No one could’ve survived that crash, and Timothy felt a pang of regret that they hadn’t acted sooner to stop that man with the rocket launcher.

But all he could do now was focus on getting out of here.

As soon as they got to the sailboat, he untethered it and then started raising the sails. Ruckley followed his instructions, and in a few minutes the sails filled with wind from the dissipating storm, carrying them down the river.

The small white craft sailed past the burning wreckage on the shoreline. The charcoaled cockpit of the Chinook was visible, sticking out of a collapsed brick wall of the house it had slammed into.

Once they hit the ocean, Timothy never looked back, focused only on steering the boat. If the brief battle was any indication of what this night had in store for them, he wondered what Boston would be like when they pulled into port.

Assuming they even made it.

***

The pilot of the single-prop plane was a Canadian man named Liam Tremblay. He had spent most of the long flight asking Beckham what was happening in the Allied States and telling him a bit about the cancer that was slowly killing him.

Before they even took off, he had warned them he was sick, which explained why he was so thin and gaunt. While Liam hadn’t said how advanced it was, he assured the team he could pilot the plane.

Flying into enemy territory while suffering from tragic disease told Beckham all he needed to know about Liam’s character. The man wasn’t just brave. He was a determined and caring soul despite the dire circumstances.

In the back seats, Horn and Rico were sleeping hard. Beckham had stayed awake to keep Liam company. He had always wondered what their northern neighbors thought of the Allied States. After all, the United States military had created the monsters now plaguing the world.

Surprisingly, Liam didn’t hold a grudge.

“If it wasn’t Variants, it would have been another virus or something that nature cooked up,” he said. “Maybe even an asteroid, or super volcano, or aliens, eh?”

“Not sure about the aliens, but I get your point,” Beckham said.

“To be honest, most Canadians don’t feel the same. They blame your government and are skeptical about helping your new government. Took a while to even find someone willing to take you guys back to the States, but I volunteered when I heard about the mission.”

Beckham realized now why they were flying in a bush-plane with a guy dying of cancer. The Canadians must have thought this was a suicide mission. They didn’t mind sending a guy who was not only willing to take on this assignment, but also might not have much time left on this earth.

He had hoped General Kamer would reconsider how much he was willing to help the Allied States, but this confirmed the reality of the situation. Kamer had a long road ahead of him before he would be convinced.

“Looks like we just cleared Montana,” Liam said. “We’re in Wyoming now.”

Beckham leaned to see out the side window, but there was too much thick cloud cover to make out anything below.

Their destination was an abandoned Air Force base in Cheyenne. Once they landed, they would switch to a helicopter that Command had sent along with a team of recon Marines. Their next destination would be Denver.

“I still don’t understand how the Variants could have gone undetected for so long,” Liam said. “I thought you all were watching the border.”

“We were, but the beasts were mostly underground. North America is a big continent, especially when your military is a fraction of the size it used to be and you don’t have all the resources you used to. Even more importantly, the Variants had human help. Collaborators were planning this attack for eight years.”

“Human collaborators?”

“Yes.”

Liam sighed and shook his head, but his focus seemed to drift from the conversation. He grimaced and then took a drink from his thermos.

The plane shook and raindrops pattered the windshield.

“Going to try and take us under this,” Liam said. “Hold on.”

Beckham watched as Liam punched a few controls. Then the pilot maneuvered to start a descent that lasted a few minutes. The plane shuddered the entire way before evening out.

Liam started their conversation off from where he’d left it. “But you can stop them, right? The Variants and their human allies? There’s no way they can take over the Allied States, destroy all your outposts, and then march north, eh?”

It was amazing to Beckham that their neighbors didn’t realize the full brunt of what was happening to the south. Then again, it had happened so fast sometimes even people in the States had trouble wrapping their minds around it.

“We’ll stop them,” Rico said from the back seat.

She was sitting up now. Horn was awake too, scratching his unkempt, long red beard.

The plane trembled again from another pocket of turbulence.

“Are we almost there?” Horn asked, looking out the window with wild eyes. “I can’t stand much more of this shit…”

“About forty-five minutes to go,” Liam replied. “The Marines should already be on the ground, unless they’re late, too.”

“Nah, the Devil Dogs are never late,” Horn said.

Beckham was glad to be linking up with the Marines. He was always honored to fight with the warriors.

“Beginning our descent,” Liam said.

The plane vibrated violently as he flew lower through the thick clouds. A few agonizing minutes later, the nose broke through the gray screen.

Beckham got his first look of the Wyoming city where they were headed.

Empty roads wound between buildings, not a moving vehicle in sight.

“Prepare for landing,” Liam said.

The plane dropped lower to the brown terrain, and now Beckham saw a more detailed picture of this city. Nature had regained control. Weeds and overgrown prairie grass sprouted over lawns and covered parks.

To the east, a few blocks of houses and buildings were burned to their foundations. It took him a moment to realize their LZ was in the middle of the charred wreckage.

The wheels lowered toward an air strip at the Air Force base, now nothing but a few buildings standing amid a sea of rubble and flattened hangars.

“Touching down,” Liam said.

The plane bounced slightly when it hit the airstrip as Liam fought against a choppy side wind. As they slowed, Beckham searched for the Marine recon team and their chopper.

“Anyone see ’em?” he asked.

“There they are,” Rico said, pointing.

Beckham twisted and followed her finger toward a mountain of rubble. A stealth Black Hawk sat nearby. Liam directed the small plane toward the bird. When they reached it, he killed the engine, and leaned over.

“Best of luck on your mission,” the grizzled pilot said.

“Thanks for the lift,” Beckham said, reaching over to shake Liam’s hand. “It was great to meet you, my friend.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t as bad as I thought,” Horn said. “I didn’t throw up.”

Liam chuckled. “Good because then I’d have to charge you for cleanup.”

The team and Liam hopped out into the cloudy, cold afternoon.

Beckham cradled his rifle, looking around the base. A breeze rippled his fatigues. He started toward the Black Hawk.

Rico picked up her bag and started off for the bird, but Beckham held out his prosthetic hand.

“Hold on,” he said. “Where the hell is everyone?”

Something was off.

The Marines and pilots were nowhere in sight. While Beckham wasn’t expecting a welcome party, he thought they would be greeted with more than stone cold silence.

“Get down!” an unfamiliar voice shouted.

Rifle fire cracked through the air, and Beckham’s prosthetic leg kicked out from under him. He hit the pavement hard, on his side. At that angle, he spotted a Marine in a prone position on the other side of the Black Hawk. The man was gesturing for Beckham to take cover.

Horn pulled Beckham back behind the plane where Rico and Liam had already taken cover.

Another round split the air, and a bullet lanced into the engine, oil spilling out.

“Son of a bitch,” Liam said. “Where the hell is that coming from?”

Beckham looked down at his shattered prosthetic. The bullet had blown off the bottom half. It definitely had to be a high-caliber rifle.

Another one punched into the plane with a crack.

Liam cursed. “Where is he?”

“Twelve o’clock, on the roof of that radio building,” Horn said. “Cover me, and I’ll distract him.”

“I’m faster,” Rico said. “Let me do this.”

Beckham pushed his rifle scope up and zoomed in on the building. He couldn’t see the sniper, but he could see the rooftop.

“Okay,” he said. “Rico, you go.”

“You head left, and I’ll blow this fucker’s head off,” Horn said.

“I’ve got you too, Rico,” Beckham said.

She crept toward the tail of the plane as Horn counted. On three, she took off running. A shape pushed up over the lip of the roof, and Beckham fired a concerted burst.

Horn let loose a spray of bullets from his SAW. A cloud of red mist exploded upward.

Beckham lowered his rifle and searched for Rico. She had made it behind a concrete barrier. Relieved, he looked back through the scope and waited for another shot.

“Contact!” Horn shouted.

“Friendly!” someone yelled back.

Horn aimed at a Marine gripping his shoulder, blood soaking through his fatigues. Beckham hopped and Liam reached out to help him amble over to the Marine. He was short with a five o’clock shadow, brown eyes, and a cleft chin. Maybe twenty-five or thirty years old.

“Damn good to see you,” he said, his voice wheezing. “I’m Sergeant A.G. Parnell.”

“Any more snipers out there?” Horn asked.

Parnell shook his head. “That was the last one.”

“Where’s the rest of your team?” Beckham asked.

The young man looked down. “I’m it.”

“I’m sorry,” Beckham said.

Liam helped Beckham sit on a pile of rubble. As soon as he did, Beckham felt the deep dread of the pointless losses. The men who had been willing to risk their lives, hardened warriors, had been cut down before the mission even got off the ground.

“About an hour after we landed, three snipers opened fire. Must’ve seen us or heard us when we flew in,” Parnell explained. “We took cover behind that rubble. We got two, but they flanked us and took out everyone but me. That guy had me pinned. Couldn’t even stick out my head without him cracking shots.”

“Rico, Horn, go make sure the snipers are actually dead,” Beckham said.

“You got it,” Horn said, already running off with his SAW. Rico stayed close behind him.

“I’m going to check the plane,” Liam said. “One of those shots hit the engine.”

“Bring us a field kit, please,” Beckham said.

Liam left Beckham seated on the rubble and returned with the kit before heading back to check the plane.

Beckham looked at Parnell’s wound. The top of his shoulder was a bloody mess. The Marine was definitely not in fighting condition.

“Have a seat so I can help,” Beckham said.

“I’m fine,” Parnell said.

“Bullshit, Sergeant. Sit down.”

Parnell finally complied, and Beckham went to work.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you can still stand,” Beckham said. “How bad’s the pain? Do you need anything for it?”

Parnell shook his head. “I already took what we had in our field kits. The pain’s barely a dull throbbing.”

“You’re going to want more when that wears off.”

He applied antibiotic gel and wrapped the wound in quick-clotting combat gauze. By the time he finished, Horn and Rico had jogged over.

“Dead?” Beckham asked.

“Dead as rocks,” Horn said.

“Were they collaborators?” Rico asked.

“Not sure,” Horn said. “They didn’t have radios, and I didn’t see evidence of Variant activity nearby like that nasty red webbing stuff. These guys might’ve just been some desperate bandits.”

“Bandits who knew how to shoot,” Parnell said, grimacing. “I still can’t…”

His words trailed as he looked out over the airstrip where his brothers were dead.

“Can you bring them here?” Parnell asked. “I don’t want them out there, just rotting.”

“Yeah, man,” Horn said ruefully. He walked off to retrieve the bodies with Rico.

Liam returned from examining his plane and let out a long sigh. “The plane is done. I had a feeling this was a one-way ticket.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh?”

“Can you fly a chopper?” Beckham asked.

Liam shrugged. “I haven’t for years.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to try.”

Rico helped Horn finish dragging over the bodies of the Marines. Together, they laid the men beside the chopper and covered them with jackets.

Parnell went over and knelt, whispering prayers under his breath.

On both flanks, Beckham was joined by Rico and Horn.

“We got to get going,” Rico said quietly. “No time to bury them.”

“Bring them with,” Beckham said.

They started to load the bodies while Beckham searched the troop hold, trying to figure out how he would carry out this mission with his busted prosthetic leg.

There were crates of gear, including CBRN suits and masks to protect against the radiation in Denver, but he didn’t see anything to fix his busted prosthetic. Nothing in there could help him walk, let alone run if he had to.

Parnell watched Horn and Rico carry the last of the bodies into the troop hold.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Beckham said.

Parnell nodded and wiped at his face with his bandaged shoulder.

Beckham looked to the cockpit where Liam was still going over the controls while stroking his bony chin.

“We good?” Beckham asked.

“I think so, but you better all hold onto something,” Liam replied. “This is going to be a rocky ride.”

“Before we get into the air, put one of these on,” Rico said. She held up a CBRN suit to Liam. “You won’t have a chance if you’re flying.”

Liam waved the suit away. “I’m not going to live long enough for it to matter anyways. And if we’re going in dark, I can’t wear night vision goggles with that.”

Rico held the suit back.

“Seriously, I’ve got death inside me,” Liam said. “This is my last hurrah.”

Beckham felt his heart crumble. This man was the best of humanity, in a time where the best were needed more than ever.

It was a rough lift off, but Liam got them in the air. Beckham looked over at something else humanity desperately needed. Marines. The five brave warriors were no longer in the fight.

— 17 —

Dripping water echoed throughout the webbing-covered tunnel. Kate listened for the telltale scrapes of claws against walls or the rasping growls of a stalking Variant under the hum of the generator.

Floodlights illuminated their rudimentary workspace, casting the tunnel in a brackish glow. The light reflected off the thin layer of water rising just under their ankles. Water from a broken main.

Her team was spread between heavy black folding tables like those Command used in their forward operating bases. Ron, Leslie, and Sammy each wore splash suits and respirators to protect themselves from any potential contaminants, which was even more important with the dirty water.

The more she listened to the creaks and groans of the tunnel, the more every creeping sound reminded her of clicking Variant joints. Every shadow seemed to move, like a monster preparing to strike. Even with the four outpost soldiers holding security, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.

This place was frightening enough on its own to inspire nightmares.

She shook away her fear and pictured the hope she’d witnessed with President Ringgold’s arrival. Sure there were people who didn’t want her here—people who blamed her for the new war. But most were just glad to have their president with them.

“Sammy, get the computers set up,” Kate said. “Ron, Leslie, hook up the microelectric arrays to the webbing. This time, we won’t be gating them.”

The lab techs started opening the packs and boxes they’d brought. Sammy slipped a pair of laptops from her pack and placed them on a table.

Sweat trickled down Kate’s nose as she worked. She resisted the urge to lift her mask and wipe it away. Instead she checked her wrist-monitor. The temperature was nearly ninety-degrees.

Sergeant Nguyen, the outpost soldier leading the escort team, saw her glancing at her monitor. “Why’s it so damn hot?”

“The webbing,” Kate said. “It has a very high metabolism. It’s kind of like a warm-blooded animal producing body heat.”

“So this shit is living?”

“Absolutely. It burns through a ton of calories to produce that kind of heat and keep itself nourished.”

Nguyen tilted his mask at the wall to examine the webbing. “That means the damn stuff needs a lot of us to keep it fed.”

Kate nodded. “Aside from us, they eat every animal the Variants can find. Even bugs are absorbed.”

“Connections are ready,” Leslie said.

Ron traced a network cable over the tables. The cable connected to a microelectric array clamped to a segment of webbing. He handed the end of the cable to Sammy, and she plugged it into her computer.

“I think we’re ready to go.” Sammy stood at a table as Kate joined her. “Just give me the word and I’ll tap us in.”

“We can decode everything, right?” Kate asked.

“The code worked on all the signals we recorded before. So unless the Variants and collaborators are using new modes of communications, we should be good, but…”

“It’s okay,” Kate said. “You can do this. Decode the signals, and if it actually works, we can move on to trying to communicate with them.”

Sammy had promised Kate she wouldn’t make a mistake again, and now Kate could tell she was nervous.

“I need to sit,” Sammy said, gripping her side.

Ron set up a folding chair for Sammy, plopping it into the water. Sammy clutched her injury as Ron helped lower her into the chair. The way Sammy worked, Kate sometimes forgot it hadn’t been that long since the engineer had taken a bullet to her abdomen.

She was extremely lucky it hadn’t caused any significant organ damage.

In fact, they were all lucky.

Without Sammy, Kate had no idea where they would be with this research.

“Okay, I got this,” Sammy said with an exhale. She tapped at the laptop. “I’m engaging the connection.”

Nguyen shifted nervously. “Anything we need to prepare for?”

“Not if we’ve done our job right,” Kate said.

“And if you didn’t?”

“Then get ready to run.”

Nguyen turned slightly to look down the corridor.

“All systems are booting,” Sammy said. “The processing algorithm is reading incoming signals.”

A flurry of text scrolled across the computer screens, each color-coded to represent different signals.

Hundreds of messages scrolled before the team.

“Prisoners incoming,” one said.

“Squads requesting access to transport tunnels.”

“Supplies requested for forward operating units.”

Everything was in decipherable words, although the meanings weren’t perfectly clear. Kate assumed squads referred to human collaborators, and supplies meant weapons or food. Finding the information they were looking for was like trying to keep her eye on a single rock in an avalanche.

“Sammy, is it possible to isolate signals with keywords?” Kate asked. “We need the most important details first.”

“Just give me a few words. I can narrow it down right now.”

Kate thought about their most pressing concerns. “See if you can narrow down the next outposts they’re attacking.”

Sammy typed a couple commands into her program. Seconds later the clutter on the screens cleared to reveal a few select communication intercepts.

A stab of fear coursed through Kate when she saw the messages isolated by Sammy’s filtering. One stood out to her.

It was their location.

They all knew that another attack was inevitable but seeing the outpost in Lower Manhattan as an immediate target chilled her to the core.

“Sergeant Nguyen, radio Commander Massey,” Kate said.

“And say what?”

“That it’s time to leave,” Kate said. “We’re a target and there’s no telling when this attack will happen.”

“Shit…” Nguyen hesitated.

“Go,” Kate said.

He nodded and went topside to deliver the news. Kate continued to work with the team.

“We could try sending out a message to stop the attack,” Leslie offered.

Sammy shook her head. “We’re still trying to make sure we understand all the signals. If we try communicating back now, it’ll be a red flag to them. I need more time.”

Nguyen returned twenty minutes later.

“Uh, Doctor Lovato,” he said, sounding nervous. “The president said she isn’t leaving without you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kate said.

“She said she knew you would say that.”

Kate looked over her shoulder. “What else did the president say?”

“That she won’t evacuate until she’s sure there’s an imminent threat. And if you think it’s safe enough for your team, it’s safe enough for her.”

Ron, Leslie, and Sammy all looked at Kate for orders.

“Keep working,” Kate said. “Sammy, any evidence of when this attack is expected?”

“I can scan for more info, but it might take a bit.”

For the next fifteen minutes they collected more data, but some of it was difficult to decode. Just when Kate felt they were about to get a real answer, a loud thump resonated through the tunnel.

Dust and dirt fell from the ceiling plopping into the water. Strands of webbing broke free, hanging like dead snakes.

“What the hell was that?” Nguyen said.

More loud thumps shook the tunnel. These were more powerful. It sounded like boulders slamming on the surface above.

“I don’t…” Kate was interrupted by a cacophony of explosions above ground. Cracks formed in the ceiling. Dumping dirt in torrential columns.

“Move!” Nguyen grabbed Kate.

The rest of the soldiers backed away, their rifles aimed at the dark passage.

Sammy grabbed a computer, then hobbled to scoop up the microelectric arrays.

“Sammy, leave them!” Kate yelled.

Ron and Leslie helped the injured engineer and together, the team hurried the best they could through the shallow water. But their speed was hampered by Sammy’s wounded gait.

Explosions boomed above the tunnel as they moved. The webbing recoiled, as if the throbbing tissue itself was trying to retreat.

Kate reached the entrance of the cavern just as the thuds tapered off. Shaking, she looked back into the tunnel. Piles of dirt and rock protruded from the shallow water, but it hadn’t collapsed.

Nguyen aimed his rifle at the steps leading out of the hole. “Clear.”

The science team and soldiers made their way up the stairs to the sight of fires raging across the former construction site.

Screams sounded in the distance, and Kate spotted figures running from the flames. Black smoke plumed away from tents and buildings.

Nguyen guided them forward cautiously, around blackened craters pocking the memorial site. Trees burned, their branches raining embers.

Kate’s respirator started to fog up. She took it off. The odor of charred flesh and smoke stung her nostrils. She coughed as she followed Nguyen.

“We’ve got to find the president,” Kate said.

Nguyen pulled out his handgun. “You know how to use this?”

“Of course.”

He handed the sidearm to her. “Just in case. Follow me and stay close.”

“Sammy, Ron, Leslie, stay here with the other guards,” Kate said.

Nguyen led Kate around the fires sizzling across the memorial. Several trucks and cars were destroyed. Twisted, simmering metal was all that remained of the vehicles. She paused when she saw the mangled rotors of a helicopter.

Not just any helicopter.

Marine One was a flaming heap of debris.

“There!” Nguyen shouted.

He sprinted toward the command tent where Commander Massey stood outside, trying to organize the emergency response on a radio. Flames danced on top of the tent as four Secret Service agents pushed open the flaps to escape. Two aimed at Nguyen and Kate as they approached.

“Easy!” Nguyen said. “I’ve got Dr. Kate Lovato with me.”

“Kate!” a voice cried.

President Ringgold pushed out from behind the agents. Part of her suit coat was torn, and ash covered the side of her face. S.M. Fischer and a few other familiar faces streamed out of the tent.

“Are you okay?” Ringgold asked Kate.

“I’m fine,” Kate said. “Are you?”

Ringgold nodded. “Scared, but not hurt.”

“What happened?” Kate said, looking around in shock.

“Bats,” said one of the agents. “They came out of nowhere, an entire swarm packed with explosives.”

Kate raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the late afternoon sun. She slowly turned to look at the rooftops around the memorial, most of them burning or destroyed. Her heart sank when she saw the last Apache helicopter. Smoke drifted away from the destroyed machine.

It wouldn’t be long before night set in.

And now they were stranded.

***

By the time Nick returned to his two-bedroom apartment, his wife and two daughters were asleep. Only a meager yellow glow bled under the door to the apartment from the outer corridor. He used that weak light to cross the otherwise dark living room and nudge open the door to his bedroom.

“Nick,” Diana said groggily. “Is that you?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to wake you.”

He slid into bed and kissed her cheek.

“You were gone longer than you said.”

“We had to run some new security ops,” he replied.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

She turned slightly. “We’re safe?”

“Yes.”

It was the same thing she always asked when they went to bed, and his response was no different than before. After so much time living in the wild, on the run and trying to survive, she still hadn’t grown accustomed to the safety this base provided.

He hadn’t either.

This base was one of the most protected and largest in the Allied States territory. His side was also winning the war. But he never forgot they were still located in enemy territory.

Living here had perks, though. Their own apartment for one. Almost every other family lived in tents in the open hangar-style chamber a few floors above. Many of the rank-and-file soldiers did too, including Ray.

Diana took a deep breath, and Nick drew closer to her.

He hadn’t slept for a full night in days. Feeling the warmth of his wife and the comfort of a mattress and blankets made sleep come quickly.

He slept until the sound of voices jerked him awake. Reaching out for Diana, he found her side of the bed empty.

Blinking, he shot up, trying to see in the dark, windowless room. Light filtered in under the closed door. He put on his pants and scooped up his pistol. Then he opened the door.

His family was seated at the kitchen table. They weren’t alone. An ugly grin from Ray’s battered face greeted him. The man was standing in the living room with his characteristic unsheathed machete hooked to his belt.

Not exactly the face he wanted to see first thing in the morning.

Nick looked to his daughters and forced a smile. “Good morning, girls.”

Both Lily and Freya were drinking fresh-pressed apple juice and eating breakfast. Diana drank a mug of coffee.

All benefits from his job as the second in command.

Diana handed him a thermos of coffee.

“Good morning, Dad,” Lily said with a wide smile.

Freya avoided his gaze.

Nick was tired, but he wasn’t too tired to see Ray stare lustfully at his wife for more than a beat.

“What are you doing here?” Nick growled at Ray.

Ray flitted his gaze to Nick and smirked. “I came to get you.”

“Why?”

“You’re late.”

Nick looked at his watch, cursing under his breath. He was already half an hour late to the command center. Pete would chew his ass out if he didn’t hurry.

Rushing back into his bedroom, Nick changed into his fatigues. He brushed his teeth at the sink. Then he took a swig of water, grabbed his duty belt and went back to the living room.

“Leaving again?” Freya asked, rolling her eyes.

Lily frowned when Nick nodded.

“Got work to do, but I’ll be home for dinner,” he said. “Be good for your mom, and study hard.”

Diana slipped a homemade granola bar in Nick’s vest and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“See you tonight,” Nick said.

As he embraced his wife, he saw Ray looking at Diana again.

Son of a bitch!

Nick let go of Diana and followed Ray out of the room into the empty concrete hallway, his heart racing with anger. He knew the guy was trying to piss him off, but Nick was having a hard time not taking the bait.

It didn’t help that Ray immediately started running his mouth. “Hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep. ’Cause Pete’s pissed.”

Ray was definitely baiting him, obviously still mad about when Nick had used his face as a punching bag.

“Guess that’s what happens when people sleep—” Ray started to say.

Nick halted in the hallway. “You don’t learn, do you? It’s almost like you want to get your ass kicked again.”

Ray raised his cut chin in anger.

“We’re down on men,” Nick said. “That’s the only reason you’re still alive. And while Pete might not let me kill you, that doesn’t mean he won’t let me take your tongue.”

“You—”

Nick stepped up to him. “Look at my wife again like that, and I’ll cut your eyes out, too.”

He kept walking, leaving Ray to think about the threats. The click of boots sounded as Ray finally started to follow Nick to the stairwell.

They took the ten flights up to the command center. By the time Nick reached the top he was only slightly winded. He took a sip of his coffee as he waited for Ray. The guy was in worse shape and still a full two flights below.

His machete clanked on the railing repeatedly. The dipshit must have thought it was extra badass to have it hanging from his belt without a sheath, but now he sounded like a dinner bell.

Nick ate his granola bar as he waited.

They didn’t really need this guy. He was a piece of shit, and not much of a soldier. They were probably just wasting resources keeping his fat ass fed.

Would anyone really miss Ray if the guy tripped and took a tumble?

Nick tucked his granola bar away and took another drink of coffee. Ray finally emerged on the landing below. Sweat beaded across his forehead.

Halfway up, he stopped to catch his breath.

“I wish the fucking elevators worked in this shit hole,” Ray said.

“Hurry,” Nick said, cracking a smirk. “Don’t want to piss Pete off more, right?”

Nick watched Ray climb the steps.

With his head down, Ray sort of reminded Nick of his old deceased friend Alfred. But then Ray looked up with that crooked gaze he had directed at Diana.

“Want some coffee?” Nick asked.

“From an asshole like you?” Ray replied, his face drawn in disgust.

Nick dangled the thermos in front of Ray’s face. Ray swatted at it, then took a step back at the edge of the landing.

“At least I have a reason for being late now,” Nick said.

“What?” Ray tilted his head.

Nick kicked him square in the chest as hard as he could.

Ray grunted and flew backward, arms flailing. He hit the stairs on his back and then rolled down them on his side. A sickening slurp sounded as his machete cut into his body.

He tumbled down the rest of the stairs, smearing a trail of blood until he had come to a stop on the landing.

Nick watched with grim satisfaction as Ray squirmed in a pool of blood.

“That was an unlucky tumble,” Nick said, taking the stairs down.

Ray lay there, gripping his side, staring at the wound in horror.

Nick crouched next to him and smiled.

“You’re…you’re…” Ray stammered.

“You should have kept your mouth shut and your eyes to yourself, you piece of shit.”

Ray gurgled, trying to speak again.

“What’s that?” Nick asked.

He leaned closer and cupped an ear to try and make out the words.

Despite the horrendous injuries, Ray managed to speak clearly one last time.

“I fucked your wife,” he said.

— 18 —

The streets of Seattle stank of rotting fruit. Fitz crouched next to a counter at an old food stall in Pike Place Market. Rays of waning sunlight fell through holes in the roof, illuminating long green vines.

Mold and mildew grew up the walls of the abandoned market, plants reclaiming the food stands and souvenir shops. Ace and Dohi moved with Fitz between the plants sprouting from cracked floorboards.

For the better part of the day, the trio had crept through the city toward their destination. Nature had almost completely reclaimed Seattle. And so had the Variants, in parts like the Space Needle.

But so far, the three-man team had only encountered a few starving monsters daring to prowl in daylight, desperately searching for food.

The soldiers had dispatched them quickly with hatchets and blades, but as they drew closer to CECO, Fitz didn’t expect things to continue this easily.

The center was located a block north of Seattle University on East Pike Street. If all went well, they could simply take East Pike from their current location straight to the laboratory facility.

Fitz walked through the dense plant matter, leaves and stems squishing under his blades with each step. Ahead he saw an old bakery. The shelves inside had collapsed in a jumbled mess. A scratched and broken sign advertised fresh cupcakes.

He thought of Rico, as he often did in places like this, wondering what it would have been like to visit this marketplace sampling foods with her. They would only worry about what they were going to eat next, rather than what was trying to eat them.

He prayed she was safe with Beckham and Horn. The fact she was with them helped put his mind at ease.

A distant howl wailed over the ruined city.

He held up a fist, and the other two froze.

Another Variant shriek echoed through the empty streets outside the market.

Had they been detected?

Fitz counted the seconds, waiting for a third cry.

It didn’t come.

After another minute, Fitz signaled for Dohi to take point. They exited back outside, staying behind abandoned cars lining the curbs. Shattered glass from the vehicles and storefronts sparkled on the concrete between the plants growing out of the street and sidewalk.

Dohi advanced under the crumbling buildings. Scattered bones from animals and humans lay in clumps. Marred by teeth marks and sun-bleached. Almost all of them appeared to be old skeletons that spoke to the slaughter that had taken place years ago during the first war.

The team was halfway to the CECO building when another chorus of Variant cries exploded somewhere to their east. Fitz shrank into the shadows of a storefront with Dohi and Ace.

Clouds drifted across the sky, blotting the sun as they waited. The scratch of claws bounced against the walls of the neighboring buildings. Soon the scraping faded, and silence reigned again.

Fitz waited another ten minutes just to be sure. Again the team advanced in combat intervals, moving slow and low.

The closer they got to the CECO, the more often they heard the shrieks of Variants and the popping of their joints. Fitz guessed they were drawing close to a pack.

Dohi paused behind a moving truck with flat tires. Fitz lifted his rifle and zoomed in on a building three blocks away at the corner of Pike and 11th Avenue. All the black windows of the modern structure appeared intact, but red vines roped over the sides of it and out of its open doors.

This was the CECO facility.

Cocoons of red tissue covered what looked to be prey, humans and animals, suspended off the side of the building. A few Variants crawled along the webbing, sniffing at their prey.

But it was the five Chimeras standing at the front entrance of the office that gave Fitz pause. They had a variety of weapons that included AK-47s, M-16s, and shotguns.

The monstrosities gazed about the street with their reptilian eyes.

Fitz lowered his rifle and shared a knowing look with Dohi. This certainly confirmed something important was going on in CECO. But before they could figure out whatever it was, they had to get past the guards or find an alternative entry point.

At their current location, he didn’t see any.

“Got any ideas on entries?” Fitz whispered.

“Go in through the back?” Ace said quietly. “Might be a loading dock we can use. More cover there.”

“Not a bad idea, but we’re going to want cover to get there.”

Across the street from CECO was a six-story apartment building. It wasn’t covered in webbing and looked like it had a great vantage.

Fitz thought about their options. He didn’t like what he had come up with, but it might be their only choice to proceed.

“Dohi, take position on the top floor of that apartment complex,” Fitz whispered. He hated sending the man up alone, but someone was going to have to go solo so they could split up. “Cover Ace and me. We’ll search for another entrance.”

“Copy that,” Dohi said.

He took off into an alley, then disappeared into the apartment building. Fitz waited nearly ten minutes.

“I see him,” Ace said, pointing up to a balcony.

Dohi was flat on his stomach, just barely visible over the edge. He flashed them a hand signal, indicating they were clear to move.

Fitz took Ace across the street and headed north. They took a right when they reached a park overgrown with swaying wild grass. Then Fitz led him toward the back of the CECO building.

Another Variant howled from somewhere to their north, maybe inside the park.

Ace and Fitz took shelter behind a burned-out vehicle halfway down the block. Rustling sounded somewhere on the street. Ace moved over to a van to cover them from the other direction.

Birds suddenly exploded from nearby trees, tearing into the sky.

Fitz saw the tall grass in the park shift as something moved through it. He prepared his rifle as a muscular Variant burst out of the weeds, stopping to sniff the air and search the block with narrow yellow eyes.

Ace peered out, rifle at the ready.

Fitz waved him off.

Not yet, he thought. No need to blow their cover.

The creature caught a scent and dropped to all fours, skittering toward them. It paused halfway there, twisting to look over its spiny back.

The grass shook, disgorging two more Variants. They too dropped to all fours, spreading out over the street.

Fitz’s brain raced, trying to figure out what they had done wrong. Had the rub they had used to mask their scent worn off already, weakened by their boat trip through the Puget Sound?

The beasts drew closer, no more than twenty yards away, their eyes raking across the trash strewn over the street. Fitz leveled his rifle, ready to fire if the beasts got too close. His heart pounded so hard he wondered if the creatures could hear it.

Ace kept his rifle trained on the filthy monstrosities. If it came to a gun battle, at least they had the drop.

Claws scraped over asphalt. The pack slowly made their way toward Fitz, now only ten or so yards away. They were so close he smelled their sour flesh.

Ace shuffled at the side of his moving van, crouching for a better vantage. The closest beast approached Fitz, lashing a long tongue over sucker lips.

It reared up on its legs, then let out a long howl.

Fitz sighted the monster’s head, sucking in a breath, ready to squeeze the trigger.

A whistle came from the front of the CECO building. The small pack of beasts tilted in that direction, and then like dogs, took off together. They disappeared down 11th, toward the CECO entrance.

Fitz waited for their howling to abate, and Ace signaled it was clear.

The duo followed the street to the corner of 11th, giving them a good view of the back side of the building. The monsters that had run down the street were gone, leaving the doors along the back unguarded.

Ace had been right—there was a loading dock, but the large garage door was shut. Trying to gain entry would almost certainly attract the monsters they’d just seen.

Fitz pointed to a fire escape tracing up the side of the structure. It led to several more doors and the flat roof. That might give them a way in.

Fitz started to sneak toward the fire escape. Another whistle sounded from the front of the building. His earpiece burst to life, forcing him to stop and listen.

“Ghost One, contacts headed your way from the park and from the CECO entrance,” Dohi said.

Ace ducked behind a dumpster, and Fitz dove next to him.

Variants exploded from the park, their voices raised in a demonic chorus. The tap of claws against asphalt clattered down the street.

Fitz and Ace pressed their backs against the dumpster, trying to remain hidden. They heard the clatter of galloping monsters careening toward their position, joints clicking.

Then another pack flanked them from the south of the street, forcing the men around the side of the dumpster to hide.

Soon the meager shelter they had found would be worthless when the monsters stormed over their position.

“We got to move,” Fitz whispered to Ace.

He ran to the fire escape and scaled the ladder, his prosthetics clanging on the iron rungs. Ace followed him up.

The monsters barreled down the street beneath them, heading in the direction of the whistling. Fitz couldn’t tell who was calling the Variants, but they had the monsters trained like disciplined hunting hounds.

A loud shriek burst from the street. One of the Variants froze amid the flow of the others. The diseased face turned up toward Fitz, and it wasted no time letting out an ear-shattering screech.

The rest of the pack paused.

The first time they had managed to evade the beasts, but not now.

“Faster,” Fitz said.

He kept climbing as the Variants jumped to the side of the building, ascending like spiders on the brick and using the webbing as a ladder. Dozens of jaws snapped and lips popped.

One of the beasts jumped to the fire escape and leapt at Ace. He kicked its snarling face with a crack that knocked the beast backward.

Fitz looked back up. They were almost to the top, but if there wasn’t an escape door on the roof, they would be forced to engage the monsters.

Maybe it didn’t matter. By now, whoever controlled the beasts would have noticed them chasing after fresh prey.

A chilling message hissed into his ear.

“Ghost One, hostiles on the roof,” Dohi said over the comms.

Fitz got to the top of the roof to find four Variants lingering between the thick vines of red webbing. He slid over the lip of the roof and fired a suppressed burst into the closest creature, then a second, and third. Another shot, and the fourth was dead.

He turned back to the stairs as Ace reached up. The sight below filled Fitz with cold terror.

The entire side of the building was covered in crawling monsters. Fitz helped pull Ace over the side and then started to back up looking for an escape. He saw a rooftop door, but another pack of Variants had emerged behind it.

Heads exploded in sprays of mist as Dohi picked them off.

Fitz turned back to Ace and gave the order to open fire.

The Variants poured up around all sides of the roof, surrounding them. They fired calculated burst after burst, knocking the creatures backward.

But they kept coming, like always, they surged forward. Driven by hunger and the desire to kill.

The bolt on Fitz’s rifle locked back. He ejected the magazine, grabbed a new one, and jammed it into place.

Before he fired again, another shrill whistle sounded.

The Variants froze, nearly two dozen of them forming a circle around Fitz and Ace. The rooftop door burst open, and a Chimera strode out, leading a squadron of ugly half-beast soldiers with faces covered in crooked scars. Evidence of brutal surgeries to construct their frightening visages.

Their reptilian eyes radiated a cold hatred, and their thin, gray lips peeled back to reveal teeth that looked eerily similar to a normal Variant’s. Most had stubby claws at the end of their fingers, and their noses were squashed, nothing more than a pair of snake-like slits.

They growled and spoke in gravelly voices commanding Fitz and Ace to get down.

The two operators came back to back.

“Boss, what do we do?” Ace asked.

Fitz’s heart sank, fear wrapping its chilling fingers around his insides.

Fighting would get them killed. Surrendering might, too. It was either die now, or take their chances, and hope Dohi got away.

“Drop your weapon,” Fitz said.

He lowered his rifle, and Ace did too.

As soon as they did, the Chimeras descended on them.

***

The air reeked of melted plastic and burning oak. Ash fell over the outpost like snow as the last remnants of daylight faded over Lower Manhattan. The few surviving firemen struggled to put out the flames smoldering on what was left of the canvas tents and buildings.

Fischer waited outside the 9/11 museum that served as the infirmary. With the command tent burned down, it now housed the temporary CIC. He took a deep breath, then removed his cowboy hat and shook some of the ash off the brim.

He had stepped out of the museum for a breath of fresh air before his next strategy meeting. But like one of those brutal dog days of Texas summer, there was no cool fresh air to be had.

A glass of whiskey to take the edge off sounded like heaven right now. His old body wasn’t used to the sheer volume of adrenaline that had been rushing through his blood vessels this past week.

He checked his watch. It was time for his next meeting.

Carrying his hat, he walked back into the museum toward the offices that had become the center of defensive operations.

The groans of the injured filled the long makeshift hospital. Precious little medicine remained for those people. Fischer had heard that they would run out of the antibiotics and painkillers before the next morning.

Seeing the suffering and knowing another Variant attack would come sooner than later hit him harder than an angry bronc. But like trying to tame a wild stallion, the only way to beat past those thoughts was jumping back in the saddle.

He stepped aside to let a pair of medics past. They hurried down the rows of patients suffering gruesome burns.

God help their souls, Fischer prayed.

Seeing the injured reminded him of his wife’s worst days when she’d been ill. How she had moaned and writhed, and how he had desperately wished he could change places with her to ease her suffering.

There was nothing he could do for her then and nothing he could do for these people now besides prepare to defend them from the next attack.

The sound of raised voices echoed out of the offices. Fischer left the medical ward and went to the temporary CIC for the imminent meeting. Officers sat around communications gear and computers.

At one conference table, President Ringgold sat with Commander Massey. Chase and Chief of Staff James Soprano were busy helping a few officers set up new equipment.

Fischer sat, placing his hat in his lap.

“Madam President,” he said politely.

A deep sadness filled her eyes, but it passed and she turned to Commander Massey.

“Let’s get started,” Ringgold said.

“I’ll start with some good news,” Massey said. “Thanks to the president, we have a resupply coming.”

“Resupply?” Fischer asked.

“General Cornelius is sending air support and vehicles to assist with evac,” Ringgold said. “It’ll take some time to organize but should be here tomorrow.”

“Good,” Fischer said. “That means he can get the president to safety, too, right? Or do we have another chopper on its way from command?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ringgold said.

“Pardon me?” Fischer said, trying to conceal his shock.

“I’m not abandoning the outpost,” Ringgold said. “Even if I wanted to, it’s too dangerous. There might still be bats out there to take out air support.”

“Cornelius is sending advanced thermal detection systems complete with automated turrets, kind of like what the Navy uses in their automated Phalanx CIWIZ systems,” Massey said. “With a little work, we can modify them to fire shotgun shells. Might be our only chance at preventing those suckers from tearing us apart again.”

“That takes care of our threat in the air, but we still have to worry about those on the ground,” Soprano said. He looked to Ringgold. “Souza and Festa said they could send a boat, but…”

“No choppers, no boats,” Ringgold said.

Massey took a deep breath. “Now for the bad news. After last night, we only have about two-thirds of our remaining forces in combat ready condition.”

Fischer had thought it was worse than that.

“That’s where you come in,” Massey said, turning to Fischer.

“We need that early warning system back in place. I’ve got to organize the defenses here, but I trust you to find a good spot for the vibroseis truck. I’ll send out a group of my best with you, and we’ll reinforce whatever position you choose with everything we can spare.”

Fischer stood. “You can count on me, ma’am.”

Massey waved over a group of soldiers led by a stocky, bearded man who had a thick head of dark black hair. “Sergeant Dwyer, Fischer’s ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dwyer said. “Follow me, sir.”

“Good luck,” Ringgold said.

He tipped his hat at her, then waved at Chase. They tailed Dwyer out of the museum. A concrete pathway covered in ash led them between blackened trees.

The vibroseis truck waited for them in the next street behind a Humvee and a repurposed Marine MRTV. The big Marine transport truck was already loaded with crates of weapons and materials for barricades to reinforce defensive positions.

Two Bradleys idled behind the other three vehicles, and twenty soldiers stood around them carrying weapons. Some wore military ACUs, but others looked like civilians. Some of those civilians appeared too old or too young to fight.

Dwyer gestured to the forces. “We’re ready to defend that truck with our lives.”

“Me too,” Fischer said.

The sky had turned a shade of purple, darkness on the horizon. Deep in his mind, Fischer heard his wife’s voice telling him to leave, to escape while he still could.

It’s too late for that, he thought.

He wasn’t going to cut and run now. Tran had given his life for this place, and Fischer planned on doing the same if it meant saving the people hunkered down here.

Chase split off and hopped into the cab of the vibroseis truck. Fischer followed Dwyer to the lead Humvee and stepped into the front passenger seat.

“Where to?” Dwyer asked.

“Start driving north.”

Fischer pulled a map from his vest. He tugged his overgrown mustache as he studied candidate locations he had considered earlier.

Guards opened the gate ahead. The convoy drove out, once again, into enemy territory. Now getting closer and closer to the memorial.

Fischer studied the past locations he had used. Bogardus Garden and City Hall Park were perfect locations, but the sinkholes and rubble of the previous attacks had ruined them.

“We should pick a spot close to the outpost in case they need our help or we need to retreat,” Fischer said. “A relatively open space would be best. Somewhere that doesn’t have a jungle of waterlines running under it if we want to prevent another sinkhole disaster.”

“How about Battery Park?” Dwyer asked. “Specifically, the ballfields.”

Fischer looked at the map, pressing his finger on the spot. “Not a bad idea.”

The caravan navigated between the burned-out vehicles and debris littering the streets. Heading farther away from the memorial.

“Always liked baseball,” Dwyer said. “How about you, sir?”

Fischer smiled. He appreciated the sergeant shooting the shit with him.

“Good American sport,” he replied. “I loved the Astros.”

“I worked out of Quantico for a long time before the Great War. Loved my Nats.”

“Maybe someday we’ll see a game again,” Fischer said.

“Never count us New Yorkers out.”

Fischer had been so focused on getting through the next couple of hours and mourning the death of Tran, he hadn’t considered what might happen after the war.

Hope was important. Even if it was just a couple of men making idle chatter.

As dusk settled over the city, any hope of a bright future seemed less and less likely.

They arrived at the fields as the sun dipped behind the skyrises. The last rays of light cut between the buildings and retreated over the muddy, overgrown fields that had once been two baseball diamonds.

The land was flat enough for the vibroseis truck, and the towers around it would be perfect for sniper positions. And with the open ballfields, there was plenty of room for evacuation routes and space for all their other vehicles.

“Good suggestion, Sergeant,” Fischer said. “This will do.”

“I’ll start the barricades.”

Dwyer relayed orders on the radio.

The vibroseis truck was parked between the two unkempt baseball diamonds, and the other vehicles circled around it for protection.

Soldiers piled out and started setting up defensive positions. Others set off into the neighboring buildings to help the snipers find the best vantages.

Fischer walked over to the vibroseis truck as Chase stepped out.

“You ready for this, son?” he asked.

Chase sighed. “There are a lot worse places to die than on a baseball field, sir.”

— 19 —

Dohi perched at the edge of an apartment balcony. The sun was hidden behind dark clouds, and shadows cloaked Seattle.

He peered through his binos at the Variants crawling over CECO like ants, using the webbing covering the building as scaffolding.

On the ground, a group of Chimeras held a tight perimeter.

An hour had passed since the bastards captured Ace and Fitz. Dohi’s pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. He couldn’t have saved them without being made.

Right? he thought.

He had constantly second-guessed himself, wondering if there was something he could have done differently. A shot he could’ve taken or an opportunity he had missed to distract the Chimeras and their monsters.

You can still save them.

Dohi retreated into the rooms covered in dust and mold. He considered his options again in the apartment. Trying to gun down the guards to get into CECO wouldn’t work.

He did not even have the ammunition to wage a one-man war against the forces he’d seen. Sneaking in through the roof would be a terrible decision too, given that’s where the enemy had captured Fitz and Ace.

If going above ground wouldn’t work, that left one option.

Dohi gathered his pack along with a few useful items he’d scavenged from the apartment building, stuffing them into his pack. He thought about the surrounding city block as he crept down the stairwell, boots smashing the layers of dust and mildew as he made his way to street-level.

The webbing draping off the CECO building didn’t spread past the surrounding block. For the facility to connect with the Variant’s communication network, the webbing had to go somewhere.

The obvious answer was underground.

Dohi navigated around the human bones and skulls littering the lobby. He stopped when an idea formed in his mind.

Bending down, he carefully grabbed a few long bones and a couple smaller ones, stuffing them into his pack before pushing open the back door to the alley.

From the alley, he couldn’t see the CECO building, but he listened for the calls of the Chimeras and the Variant packs.

When it was all clear, he maneuvered past a dumpster. Then he set out along the cracked asphalt until he reached a manhole. He pried it open as quietly as possible.

The sour scent of rotting fruit escaped the tunnel.

He flipped his NVGs down, then slowly lowered himself inside.

The dark subterranean world came alive in a flood of green, white, and black. A current of fetid water flowed a couple inches deep in the middle of the tunnel.

Webbing stretched over the concrete walls of the tunnel. A net of vines bridged over the surface of the water.

Memories of being trapped in a tunnel like this surfaced in his mind.

The webbing crawling over him, probing at him, worming its way around him as if it were trying to pierce his flesh.

With a deep breath, he descended into the darkness, counting the steps and intersections to estimate his position under the apartment building. He headed toward where he presumed the CECO building would be.

The echoing chatter of a pair of Chimeras in the tunnel told him he was on the right path.

He stopped as the webbing suddenly pulsed, throbbing as if it was pumping blood through a giant creature. If he made a misstep now, it wouldn’t just be him strung up in this webbing. Fitz and Ace would share a fate worse than death as permanent captives of these Chimeras.

The chatter grew louder. It seemed to be coming from a lit up T-intersection.

Next to the corner of the intersection, Dohi flipped up his NVGs. He snuck a glance around the corner. Two Chimeras stood at the end of a twenty-yard stretch of tunnel in front of a steel door. Their reptilian eyes shimmered in the glow of lights hanging from the cracked ceiling.

Webbing protruded through ports in the wall around the door. The door appeared to be secured by a keycard slot next to the handle.

Dohi knew he couldn’t sneak up on the two guards.

Shooting them was an option, but even a suppressed shot would resound noisily in this enclosed space. Whoever was on the other side of that door might hear and lockdown the facility, spoiling his plans.

The only easy way in, Dohi figured, was drawing them away from their position and into his clutches.

He had come prepared and retreated deeper into the dark corridor off the T-intersection. From his pack, he drew a small penlight and a length of long black ethernet cable. He recalled the words of his grandfather as he set up the trap.

Distraction is your enemy on the hunt. But it is also your best tool. If you cannot catch your quarry unaware, catch them confused.

He used the ethernet cable to create a snare, placing the loop under the slow-moving water. Then he stuck the longer bones from the building into the netting.

Next to them, he flicked on the penlight and directed the small light over the bones.

The Chimeras’ eyes would be drawn to the penlight when they rounded the intersection, blinding them. Then he could take them out silently.

But before that, he had to draw them away. He wasn’t sure if he could get both to move, but he was certain he could draw at least one away.

He snuck to the other darkened side of the T-intersection. There he positioned himself in the shadows so that the corridor with the soldiers ran off to his left and the penlight was in view in front of him, just past where the Chimeras’ corridor intersected.

Shedding his pack, he took out a smaller bone, holding it between his hands.

The two beasts finally stopped talking, and he bent the small bone. The snap echoed down the corridor. He pulled out his knife and hatchet and crouched in the darkness.

For a moment, he heard nothing. Then, a few trenchant whispers. A knock on the steel door, and it creaked open.

Dohi’s heart hammered. He heard the voice of a third Chimera joining the other two.

That hadn’t been part of the plan.

Footsteps splashed through the water toward his trap.

The soldiers were close enough Dohi could hear them more clearly.

“Probably just a rat,” one said in a gravelly voice.

“I’ll split it with you,” said the other.

Dohi listened for the third soldier. He only had one chance, and this last-minute variable added to his plan might screw it up.

The splashing footsteps grew louder as Dohi waited. The first Chimera finally rounded the corner, leading with his rifle. His eyes immediately shot to the penlight and the bones.

The second Chimera appeared, eyes drawn to the light, too.

Keep going, Dohi thought. The first was almost to the snare, just another—

When he hit it, the Chimera didn’t notice. He started to move his foot until the snare tightened around his boot. He fell forward onto the walkway.

Dohi didn’t know where the third Chimera was, but he had no choice but to act now. He lunged from the shadows on the walkway. He wrapped a hand around the standing beast’s mouth and sliced through the mutant’s throat, letting him down slowly.

As the fallen Chimera pushed himself to his feet, Dohi jabbed his knife through its neck. Blood sloshed out of the beast’s mouth.

Footsteps splashed down the corridor as he twisted the blade.

Dohi turned with his hatchet in hand to face the final monster. He swooped around the corner and launched the weapon.

The blade hummed through the air and cracked into the forehead of the monstrous beast. It sprawled backward into the murky water with a splash.

Dohi hurried over, patted the beast down, and found a keycard.

For good measure, he dragged the body around the intersection with the other two, then stripped one of the creatures.

The filthy fatigues fit Dohi better than he expected. He pulled a mask off another dead guard and then set off for the door with the keycard.

The disguise wouldn’t pass muster if anyone actually got close and caught him, but he hoped it would be just enough to cause confusion or doubt, giving him the extra second he might need in any future encounters.

He reached the steel door and slid the card over the slot. A green light appeared, and the lock clicked back. Dohi slowly pushed open the door to the CECO facility.

He was in.

Now he had to find Fitz and Ace.

***

Timothy watched the water from behind the wheel of the sailboat, searching for the gray flesh of Variants cutting beneath the waves. The trip had gotten off to a rocky start. After seeing a pack of the beasts on the shore, they had been forced to slip into a cove where they had waited for two hours in dense cover before the monsters moved on.

Then the rain had picked up, soaking Timothy and Ruckley again as they struggled to relaunch the sailboat. Normally Timothy wouldn’t even consider sailing in a storm, but they hadn’t really had much of a choice—not with the thought of Mount Katahdin weighing heavily on his mind.

Eventually the storm had finally settled, and the waves had calmed. Their journey had gone more smoothly for the past hour.

Now Timothy kept the sailboat close enough to shore to keep an eye on the land, but far enough to be out of the immediate grasp of any threats.

Their luck, like the weather, could change at any moment, and he stayed vigilant, scanning for enemies.

Ruckley was doing the same. The infection from her wound didn’t seem to bother her now that the medicine had kicked in full-force, but the damage to her muscle made it hard for her to hold a rifle.

“Any idea how long until Boston?” she asked.

Timothy looked at a map he had in a clear plastic Ziploc bag, then searched the distant shore for landmarks that might line up with it.

“Maybe another few hours at this speed,” he said. They were hardly moving now that the wind had died and the gray clouds from the storm were finally parting.

Ruckley switched positions to the portside gunwale to look out to sea. He figured she was searching for swimming Variants. She raised a pair of binos to her eyes.

“I think I see something,” she said.

“What is it?”

“A ship. Looks like an old cruise liner…” she paused, not taking a breath. “Oh, shit…”

“What?”

She hurried over and handed him the binos.

When he took them, he saw what had her disturbed.

Smoke billowed off the starboard side of the ship. The storm had concealed it before, but now he could clearly see it.

He could even make out the small shapes of people on the top deck. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of them. These were some of the ships the government had used to help evacuate people from other outposts.

And they were in major trouble.

Life rafts were being lowered into the water, but there didn’t seem to be enough to hold everyone.

“That’s not the only ship,” she said, pointing.

Timothy scanned the water. Sure enough, there were two more farther away, both burning. He handed the binos back and started to turn the wheel to the port.

“What are you doing?” Ruckley asked.

“We have to help.”

“Help? How are we going to help?”

“We can take a few people on board. Surely they have a radio, too.”

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Ruckley said. “And our mission hasn’t changed. We go to Boston, and we find a radio there, without risking our boat and our lives.”

Timothy stared at the ships, conflicted. There were thousands of innocent people out there and, if he was estimating generously, maybe enough life rafts for a quarter of them.

“If we go, we risk being overwhelmed,” Ruckley said. “And how will you pick the few people from the thousands to save?”

She looked at him, waiting for an answer.

He gave it by twisting the wheel back toward the shore.

She was right.

While thousands of refugees burned and drowned behind them, he stayed the course for Boston. This was war, and they were losing. Every choice from here on out would be difficult.

Anger replaced the hollow sense of horror at the senseless act that had led to all those deaths. This had to be the work of the collaborators. There was no doubt in his mind.

“Here,” Timothy said, handing Ruckley the map. “Maybe you’ll have better luck than me figuring out exactly where we are.”

She looked out at the shore as the sun dropped toward it.

In the final hour of sunlight, Ruckley figured out their location.

“If that’s what I think it is, we’re about five miles from Boston,” she said, pointing to a peninsula. “Better start taking us closer to shore.”

Timothy nodded. A cool sense of relief filled him as he guided the small boat back toward land. By the time they got within view of the houses along the shore, darkness was setting in, making it impossible to see.

Waves lapped at the hull as they bobbed blindly in the ocean.

There wasn’t a single light in the distance where Outpost Boston should be.

The moon emerged from behind the clouds, its reflections sparkling on the choppy water.

“Do you see anything?” Timothy said.

“Negative,” Ruckley replied.

His stomach started to twist. “We should see the lights from Outpost Boston by now.”

A cold wind blasted over them, and he shuddered.

He was starting to worry the outpost had been destroyed, but as they sailed closer, a faint glow sparked in the distance.

“There,” he said.

Ruckley stood, using her binoculars again.

“Is it Boston?” he asked.

She stared through the lenses, saying nothing.

“Sergeant,” he entreated, feeling afraid. “Is it Boston?”

Lowering the binos, she walked back to the wheel and grabbed it.

“Have a look yourself,” she said, handing him the binos.

He aimed them at the glow on the horizon. It flickered, orange and red. The light was definitely from Outpost Boston, but the glow wasn’t from electricity—it was from fires.

It was destroyed. They were too late.

Timothy didn’t want to believe it. He kept his eyes pressed to the lenses, hoping to see tracer rounds or hear the crack of gunfire. Anything to let him know the outpost soldiers were fighting back. That someone out there was still alive.

But as they closed in, he only saw flames and sporadic explosions.

Then he saw something swarming in the air, silhouetted by the bright tongues of fire.

“Bats,” he said.

It was then he realized what had happened to the ships. The collaborators had used their VX-99 infected bats to attack them.

Ruckley steered them toward the burning outpost.

“You up for this?” she asked.

“I’m not running.”

“Good, because there isn’t anywhere else to go.”

Timothy took the wheel on the final stretch. Ruckley stood at the bow, helping guide them into the harbor. Other boats in the docks burned. Flames danced over debris and floating patches of oil.

He navigated past the wreckage, careful to avoid embers swimming on updrafts of the air so they didn’t catch the sails. An empty pier ahead seemed like the ideal place to dock, and Timothy pointed to it.

“Take in the sails, then grab some rope,” he said.

Ruckley followed his instructions, grunting as she strained her damaged arm to lower the sails. She went to the bow as he turned them. They gently hit the side of the pier. She jumped out and tied them to the cleats on the dock.

After grabbing the meager amount of gear they had left, Timothy dismounted and followed her down the dock. An explosion boomed into the air a few blocks from the harbor, the fireball rolling upward into the sky.

Embers rained down as Timothy ran with Ruckley through the devastation. He inhaled smoke, then began coughing. Ruckley was coughing too as she looked for another route.

Finally, she pointed toward a yard filled with shipping containers. The smoke wafted overhead from the buildings on the other side.

Timothy ran through the maze of containers using the glow of the fires.

A howl sounded somewhere above the crackle of fire.

The shrill shriek didn’t stop them from pushing onward.

Ruckley led them around the containers until they reached a parking lot with a view of the razor wire-topped fences surrounding the outpost.

On the other side, cars burned on the streets and bodies lay sprawled in torn heaps. A group of three Variants hunched around a burned corpse, tearing pieces off like they were a pack of wolves.

One looked in Timothy’s direction, ropy meat hanging from between its teeth.

Ruckley pulled on his vest, and Timothy shrank back into the shadows.

“Can’t go that way,” came a low voice thick with an Irish accent behind them.

They both turned and Timothy leveled his rifle at a man with a mutton-chop beard. A baseball cap was pulled low over his face, shadowing his eyes.

He held a submachine gun hanging from a strap over his chest.

“You’re pointing those cannons in the wrong direction, friends,” he said.

Timothy kept his gun up, but Ruckley lowered her rifle.

Behind the man was a group of children and a few women peeking out of an open shipping container. The soldier waved them back inside.

A loud cracking sounded in the distance.

Timothy turned back to the outpost. A building nearly ten stories tall began to collapse. As it fell, a furious cloud of dust and embers erupted from its base. The resulting shockwave sent a wave of smoke rolling over the feasting beasts.

The creatures scattered, squawking as their popping joints carried them away.

Timothy and Ruckley dodged around the shipping container. The man with the submachine gun jumped inside with them, closing the door to seal out the rolling cloud of debris pounding against the container.

The metal sides trembled as Timothy scanned the inside of the long container. There were ten people in here, huddled together, shaking with fear.

The Irish guy was the only soldier.

“We need a radio,” Ruckley said. “You got one?”

“Afraid not…” he leaned down to look at her name tape. “Sergeant Ruckley.”

“Why are you still here?” Ruckley asked.

“The last ship pulled away before we could get aboard,” the man replied.

“He came back for us,” said a woman.

Timothy pictured the ships burning out at sea. “It’s probably better you didn’t make the ships.”

“What do you mean?” the soldier asked.

“They didn’t make it very far,” Timothy replied.

The Irish man hung his head. “Goddamn bastard collaborators.”

“So what’s your plan now?” Ruckley asked.

“We hide. You?”

“We need a radio,” Timothy said. “Which means we’ve got to search the outpost.”

“You’ll die,” said the man. “Variants are everywhere. Only way to escape them is by sea. Getting into Boston on foot would be hell, unless you’ve got a set of wheels.”

“Did any survive the attack?” Timothy asked.

The Irishman stroked his whiskers, thinking. “I have a truck.”

“Where?” Timothy asked.

“Where’s your boat?”

“Not far,” Ruckley said. “But it’s just a small sailboat.”

The man seemed to brighten. “Why don’t you give up on that radio and take us all out of here on that boat?”

“No way,” Timothy said. “I’m not leaving until we get a radio.”

“Look, I need to get these people out of here. We can’t hide forever.” The guy reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “So how about this? I’ve got a truck. Might’ve survived, but I can’t guarantee it. I’ll trade it for the sailboat, if you want to take the chance.”

Timothy reached for the keys but the man held them back.

“I’m telling you that you’re going the wrong way,” the man said. “It’s suicide.”

“I’ve been told that before,” Timothy said, taking the keys.

— 20 —

“Holy fucking hell,” Parnell said.

He was jacked up on morphine by the time they saw Denver from the stealth Black Hawk. Liam piloted the craft with the night vision optics from one of the former pilots. They were flying dark toward their target outside the city, hoping to avoid anyone or anything that might still be alive.

As they drew closer to their LZ, Beckham had a hard time believing anything could have survived down there.

Moonlight illuminated enough of the city that the sight was breathtaking. But not in a good way.

Command had fired one of the most advanced nuclear weapons left in their arsenal on Denver.

A crater had swallowed the center of the city, demolishing the buildings and streets that had once crisscrossed the terrain. Instead of the normal airburst detonation, this nuke had targeted the Variant hives and tunnel networks beneath the city. That had required subsurface targeting, resulting in the terrifyingly large crater.

“You sure anything is going to be left of this site?” Rico asked. “Maybe it’s not even worth the risk of investigating.”

“Good question,” Beckham said.

He tapped the deck of the helicopter with his new leg, a contraption made of a metal rod, duct tape, and plastic debris that Horn and Rico had secured to his busted prosthetic. The result resembled a peg-leg that a pirate might have sported centuries earlier.

But as long as he could walk, Beckham didn’t give a shit. Walking meant he could fight. Although hostile forces weren’t the only threat here.

The entire city was radioactive from fallout.

To protect his body, he wore one of the CBRN suits like the rest of the team. But Liam had refused to put one on.

“You really don’t want a suit?” Beckham asked the pilot.

“No, I can’t use the night vision with the suit and visor on.”

“Radiation is still going to be at lethal levels.”

“I understand the risk, but if I can’t fly with NVGs and we all crash, then none of us survive.”

“At least nothing’s left to eat us down there, right?” Horn said, his voice slightly muffled behind his mask and respirator. He checked the tape over his gloves and sleeves before opening the side door.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Rico said. She got up for a look outside.

“No, but it’s better than Seattle,” Horn said. “That place must be a nightmare.”

He froze, probably realizing his insensitive remark.

“Fitzie can handle it,” Rico said.

“I know. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

“It’s all good, big guy,” Rico said. She slapped Horn on the shoulder.

Beckham checked over his suit again as they prepared for landing.

“Hold on tight, okay, eh?” Liam said.

“Parnell,” Beckham said. “You good?”

The injured recon Marine looked over from his seat.

“Yeah,” he replied, giving a nod that rustled his suit.

Parnell had insisted on joining them, but the Marine was loopy from the meds. Even if Beckham trusted the guy to shoot straight on those painkillers, the injured Marine would slow them down more than Beckham with his peg leg. He had finally convinced Parnell to stay and guard the chopper with Liam.

The bird lowered over the destroyed city streets, flying over mounds of collapsed buildings and a disintegrated highway overpass where chunks of concrete had smashed a convoy of vehicles.

“Oh, my God,” Rico said.

“What?” Beckham asked.

“That’s the former outpost,” she said.

Beckham didn’t see what had caught her attention. The city looked the same here as it did everywhere.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“See all those cars and trucks around the interstate?” she asked. “Looks like a convoy, either trying to escape or looking for shelter.”

In the pale moonlight, Beckham surveyed the remains of the caravan. Every car represented a family or group of neighbors who had been fleeing when the nuke had landed.

These refugees had died partly because of him. Because he had agreed with the order to drop the bombs and fire the missiles that had destroyed so much of their own country.

An overwhelming sense of regret washed through him.

“Lord have mercy on us,” Beckham whispered.

Parnell made the sign of the cross with his good hand.

Another few minutes passed by in silence, everyone in the troop hold shocked by the destruction.

“Here we go,” Liam said.

He prepared their final approach on the outskirts of the city. Beckham looked for their target—Golden, Colorado. The facility that had once developed medical therapeutics from donated human tissues.

Now Beckham feared it was being used to make monsters from those tissues instead.

“Looks clear,” Liam said. He circled on the first pass. “I don’t see any hostiles.”

“Take us down,” Beckham ordered.

“Copy. Everyone hold on to something.”

Beckham grabbed a handhold as the chopper descended. They landed hard, slamming the wheels on the pavement, and Parnell whimpered in pain from the restraints pressing on his wound.

Rico and Horn hopped out to secure the area. Beckham stood next to Parnell. Snow fell around them, mixing with the carpet of ash on the ground.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Beckham asked the Marine.

“I’m good.” Parnell grabbed an MP5 submachine with his good hand. “Long as I can reload.”

Beckham held up his prosthetic hand. “Take good care of Liam and the chopper.”

“You got it, Captain.” Parnell stood and stepped outside. He wobbled slightly until he leaned against the hull of the bird.

Beckham hobbled over to the cockpit. “This could take a while. If we’re not back in a few hours—”

“I’ll wait as long as it takes. I don’t have to be anywhere else.”

“Thanks, Liam. You’re a good man.”

Beckham lowered himself carefully out of the chopper and joined Rico and Horn. The town of Golden had been far enough from the nuclear blast it had mostly survived. By the looks of it, their target, HumoSource, had too.

But the entire place looked like a ghost town.

The team advanced through the darkness, flakes of snow falling lifelessly from the sky. It was like entering a post-apocalyptic wintery wasteland.

Filthy snow covered the streets and rooftops. The rectangular HumoSource building wasn’t far and Beckham saw it a moment later. He had expected it to be covered in red webbing, but it too was painted in the dirty snow.

“Rico, take point,” Beckham said.

She took lead, her suit crinkling as she cleared the sidewalk in front of the building. Snow and ash fell around her, filling her footsteps nearly as soon as she left them. The doors to the lobby were open.

She peered inside using the light mounted on her rifle, then gestured it was clear.

They advanced inside. Shadows smothered the interior. Beckham and Horn flicked on their tactical lights.

Their beams revealed a lobby furnished with tables and chairs covered in dust. It appeared this place hadn’t changed since before the Great War, and Beckham had a hard time believing the intel Kate and Sammy had provided.

The only evidence of life here were boot prints in the dirt covering the floor. Those could’ve been from bandits or civilians. He saw nothing that led him to believe there was a mastermind or even Variants around.

Beckham gave Rico an advance signal. Despite his reservations, they had to make a comprehensive sweep to ensure they didn’t miss anything.

Rico led them down a corridor framed with large-glass windows that revealed vast cleanrooms. Large stainless-steel tables were lined up in rows, and industrial refrigerators and cabinets full of glassware were pressed against the walls.

They passed a door that led to an anteroom into the cleanroom. Pegs on the wall inside held ragged-looking coverall suits and boxes of rotting latex gloves lay on a table beside them along with stacks of cleanroom booties to cover shoes.

The layers of dust were thick here too.

Rico took them past another set of glass doorways, each leading to a room filled with cubicles. Beckham limped up to one of the glass doors and shone his light through. It fell on desks filled with old computers and telephones, boxes of papers stacked next to them.

The thought that this was another dead-end was hard to swallow, especially with the sacrifices of the Marines who hadn’t even made it here.

Rico took another corner, locating something Beckham hadn’t expected—a blast door to an underground shelter. The wall that had blocked off the door was broken open, drywall and boards ripped apart.

Even more surprising, the blast door was open.

More footprints tracked through the dust. These went both in and out of the door.

Rico looked back for orders.

Beckham paused, then gave her the nod to continue. She went through the shelter door using the tac light to illuminate a pair of massive elevator doors with a mirrorlike finish.

Two buttons next to them operated it, but the power was out.

Beckham found the entrance to a stairwell. Horn went first with his SAW shouldered. Rico followed and Beckham went last. He took each step carefully, his damaged prosthetic ringing on each step, making his descent difficult.

By the time they hit the bottom of the five flights, he was sweating inside his CBRN suit, and pain throbbed up what remained of his leg.

Horn stopped at another steel door, and Rico joined him. It was slightly ajar, and Horn used his body to press it open, the sound echoing in a cavernous space.

The trio slipped inside, their flashlights piercing the overwhelming black.

An incessant buzz filled the long room, almost like they had entered a beehive. Beckham nearly took a step backward when his light hit a swarm of flies.

He kept walking, ignoring the insects that could only mean something dead was down here.

In the middle of the room were examination tables and rolling carts full of bone saws, dissection tools, and more. Against one wall were rows and rows of smaller doors that appeared to be part of a massive morgue cabinet.

Horn went to one and slid it open. Then he stepped away to flash his light over the remains of a corpse. There were so many squirming maggots inside that the rotting flesh looked like it was moving.

Beckham pulled open another to find the same morbid sight.

Each mortuary drawer was stuffed with decayed bodies.

The nuclear attack had cut the power. Without electricity, the morgue cabinet had stopped working, letting the corpses rot away. Judging by the maggots chewing through their flesh, the corpses hadn’t been left alone all that long ago.

That meant someone had been storing these bodies, but the question was why?

The images of all those horrifically decayed people lingered on Beckham’s mind as they entered another chamber in this subterranean hellhole.

This was worse than the first.

There were six surgical tables, each topped with a bloated corpse. Behind the tables were lab benches covered in microscopes and other equipment. Freezers and refrigerators stood next to them.

Beckham walked in slowly, stomach churning as his light fell on the decomposing cadavers. They were all in various stages of dissection. Cut open chests and stomachs revealed leathery organs twisted in rot. But these bodies weren’t like the ones in the morgue cabinets.

Even with their putrefied flesh, Beckham noticed the claws at the end of their fingers. Their lips had dried out, peeling back to reveal pointed teeth.

Horn and Rico spread out to sweep the rest of this macabre lab.

“What is this place?” Horn asked.

“The morgue from hell,” Rico said.

“Gather any intel you can find,” Beckham instructed.

They scrounged through the plastic vials they found in the thawing freezers and the refrigerators. A pair of computers lay in another corner. These weren’t covered in dust like the ones they’d seen upstairs. Beckham pried out the hard drives from each.

“Got everything?” Beckham asked.

Rico nodded.

“Let’s go then.”

“Good,” Horn said. “I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.”

The team made their way topside.

Beckham hobbled out of the open lobby doors with his rifle shouldered, scanning for targets. The chopper was still there, and two figures were standing in CBRN suits in front of it. Parnell must’ve finally convinced Liam to don a CBRN suit. Beckham was glad to see it.

“You changed your mind?” he asked, lowering his rifle as they approached.

Liam raised a pistol and pointed it at Beckham. Parnell raised his MP5.

Beckham froze.

“What are you doing?” he stammered.

Liam walked forward with the gun trained on Beckham. Three more figures in CBRN suits suddenly came from around the chopper. Two had hostages—Parnell and Liam, still not wearing a suit.

Realization set in. These people must have ambushed the pilot and Marine, then stolen those suits and weapons.

“Take it easy,” Beckham said, his mind racing, trying to figure out if these were collaborators or someone else.

“Give me the word, boss, and I’ll light these fucks up,” Horn said.

Rico roved her gun from target to target. “I got a full magazine with hollow points for you assholes, just try me!”

“No,” Beckham said, holding up his prosthetic. Even if they took out a couple, these people would take out at least one of his team members.

That was a risk he was unwilling to take.

“Everyone, put down your weapons,” Beckham said. “Let’s figure this out and talk. No one needs to die.”

“We just want a ride out of here,” said the person with the pistol pointed at Beckham. The voice was female and she sounded sick, her voice crackling.

If these people had just put on the suits, they were probably already suffering the first symptoms of radiation poisoning.

“We can help you,” Beckham said. “Just put your guns down.”

“Take us somewhere safe,” said the woman. “Promise us that, and we’ll put down our weapons. I swear that’s all we want.”

Rico let out a huff and lowered her rifle slightly.

“Ain’t no place safe anymore, lady,” she said.

***

Kate surveyed the networking station in the tunnels beneath Lower Manhattan. The temperature was high as usual, and sweat trickled down her neck under her splash suit. It was almost as bad as the stale filtered air in her mask.

Besides a few piles of loose rock and dirt in the ankle-deep water, nothing in the tunnel looked amiss. The equipment was still here, and aside from a knocked over floodlight, it was all unharmed.

The generator had still been running when they had returned, casting the space in a blinding yellow glow.

Nguyen and his three soldiers had taken their sentry positions. Ron and Leslie checked over the network cables connected with the webbing, monitoring the physical connections with the red growths covering the walls.

“How’s everything look?” Kate asked.

Sammy sat in a chair behind a computer station and checked the monitor. “We’re in better shape than I thought we would be.”

“Good. Go ahead and open the signaling gates,” Kate instructed.

Sammy’s fingers worked across the keyboard. Then she sat back as her programs loaded.

“You okay?” Kate asked, noticing Sammy clutching her side again.

“Yeah. I don’t think we’ll have any major problems decoding the Variants’ signals now. It won’t be long before we know enough to send signals of our own.”

“I’m not talking about the software. I’m talking about you.”

Sammy paused. “I’m hurting, but I won’t let that stop me.”

Kate placed a hand on her shoulder. “That’s admirable, but don’t push yourself too hard. Ron and Leslie have been keeping pace with our technical work. They can step in if you need a break.”

Sammy’s programs reported the computer had a complete connection with the Variant network.

“You want me to search for keywords again?” Sammy asked.

Kate nodded. “See if there are any other attacks planned for our location.”

They searched through the cascade of signals pulsing through the webbing into Sammy’s computer. It took a few minutes for her natural language processing algorithms to decode the messages and provide them a report.

“That’s strange,” Sammy said.

“What?” Kate asked.

Sergeant Nguyen walked over, cradling his rifle. “Something wrong?”

“No, it’s working,” Sammy said. “We got hits for keywords like ‘attack’ and ‘New York.’ None of them mention another attack tonight in this vicinity, though.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Leslie asked.

Nguyen adjusted the strap on his rifle, stepping closer. “Yeah, why do you think it’s strange?”

“Because the monsters haven’t given us a break since they started this war,” Sammy said. “It’s odd that they would send those bats and nothing else.”

Kate worried they were missing something. A piece of the puzzle that wasn’t obvious. “We’re only looking at real-time messages, right?”

Sammy nodded. “That’s correct. Everything we see is being intercepted right now.”

“If the Variants already sent the orders to attack the base, then we may have already missed it,” Kate said. “We need to monitor this station 24/7. We might’ve missed vital information since the last attack.”

“Shit,” Sammy said.

“So there might be another attack, after all?” Ron asked nervously.

“I don’t know, but I want to download all incoming signals from here on out,” Kate said. “We can’t afford to miss a single second of Variant messages. That means we’ll need a remote server and extra drives. The hard drives on these computers can’t store everything.”

Kate turned to Ron. “I need you to help set that up, okay?”

Ron nodded.

“I’m sure we can help find that for you in the CIC,” Nguyen said. “I’ll send one of my men back with Ron. Is there anything you else you need?”

“Not yet, but give us a second,” Kate said. “Maybe we can send some useful intel back to the CIC with them. Sammy, see if there are reports of any attacks planned for other outposts.”

Moments later Sammy had a list of outposts that had come up in her queries.

Kate thought of all the men, women, and children at those outposts. They had to warn them.

“Sammy, make sure this list of outposts is comprehensive,” she said. “Sergeant Nguyen, Ron and your man can give President Ringgold this list when they go back to the CIC.”

Nguyen sent Ron and a soldier off to the CIC.

At least now the people in those outposts would have a fighting chance at escaping, even though she wasn’t sure if there was anywhere to escape to.

But Kate was no longer content with learning how to listen to the Variant communications. They had designed this software for another purpose, and now that Sammy had cracked the code on all the monsters’ signals, they would put it to the real test.

“You designed this software for communicating with the masterminds, too,” Kate said. “I don’t want to just be passive observers. I want to be pro-active. We need to disrupt their communications. It’s time to send some signals of our own.”

Sammy took a deep breath and nodded. Her fingers danced across the keyboard as she prepared to send out the signals.

“I’ve already identified the source nodes for the masterminds where most of these signals originated from. We now have a complete range of signals we can deliver thanks to our work in the bunker,” Sammy said. “If we try to spoof them, we should be able to route a message through the masterminds that can be disseminated to the other nodes and the end-user Variants and collaborators.”

“English?” Nguyen asked.

“We can tell the Variants what to do,” Kate said.

“That means, if it works, we can call off the attack,” Leslie said.

“Maybe,” Kate replied. “Okay, Sammy, where do we begin?”

“We have comprehensive examples of the language the monsters use to give each other commands now. All I have to do is model our signal off that…” Sammy said. “And when you’re ready, I’ll send it.”

Kate read over the command. It mirrored the cadence and manner of text-based messages they’d seen the masterminds send to each other.

Delay attack on Danbury until tomorrow night.

This is what they had been working for. Kate had hoped they would be able to test this in a laboratory setting, but as they had learned when they first tried observing the Variant signals out here, a laboratory setting just wasn’t good enough.

She tried to take solace in the fact that they now had a full library of signals from Variants and sources of all sorts. Hopefully this time they would do better than when their failed experiments resulted in her husband and the other soldiers getting attacked by the red vines.

If this succeeded, they could change the face of this war. They could interfere with the commands between Variants, and even if they couldn’t get the masterminds to do exactly what they wanted, they could sow confusion in their ranks.

But it could also backfire spectacularly, Kate realized.

She thought they had all the data they needed this time to make it work.

With no other choice, Kate gave the order.

“Send the message,” she said.

Sammy pressed a single button that could change everything. The rest of the team gathered around. All of them no doubt feeling their kicking hearts as they waited to see if the Variants would acquiesce.

A computerized reply from a mastermind appeared on their screen a moment later.

Kate clenched her hands together and bent down to read it.

Message unclear. Biological signature indeterminate. Suspected error.

“What does that mean?” Leslie asked.

“I’m not sure,” Sammy said.

She sent a few more inquiries, and the responses all came back the same.

“It’s not working…” Sammy leaned away from the computer. “Why isn’t it working?”

She sounded desperate.

“This biological signature thing doesn’t make sense,” Kate said. “What’s it asking for?”

Sammy read the text again. “I think I know what’s going on. We’re sending messages through a computer. Everything we’re reading is actually coming from masterminds, though, not computers.”

“I thought the software was ready,” Leslie said. “Did we do something wrong?”

“The truth is, my algorithms do a good job translating the signals into a language we can understand. Think of it like a computer dictation program. For instance, when you dictate something, your computer transcribes the words you say into text on your screen.”

Nguyen sighed. “So? What’s the problem with that?”

“When the computer transcribes all that, you lose things like tone and volume. All those subtle clues that tell you whether a person is sarcastic or angry or serious, for instance.”

“Well, how do we do that?” Leslie asked.

Kate had kept quiet to consider the implications of what Sammy had said. She didn’t like what she was about to say, but there was only one way Kate could think of to inject the biological signature their messages were missing.

“We need to connect with the webbing,” Kate said.

“I thought we already were,” Leslie said.

“No,” Kate said. She put a hand over her chest. She recalled the story she heard of Dohi being captured. How the webbing had subverted his consciousness. And how the webbing had captured Beckham and those outpost soldiers elsewhere in this tunnel.

The webbing wasn’t just capable of connecting to the network—it was designed to integrate with human and Variant bodies.

“We need a biological connection,” Kate said.

“Jesus, are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Leslie asked.

“She’s right, we need a person instead of just a computer to connect to the network,” Sammy said.

“That’s insane,” Nguyen said.

Once again Kate imagined the families like hers that were out there frightened in the face of unimaginable horrors.

“I’ll do it,” Kate said.

Sammy hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“There’s no other way.”

Nguyen looked between Kate and Sammy. “Use me. You’re too important, Doctor Lovato.”

“Which is why I need to do it,” Kate replied. “I have the most experience interacting with the masterminds. Throwing you in there would be like dropping someone who can’t speak Spanish into Mexico City and telling them to blend in. It simply wouldn’t work.”

Nguyen didn’t argue with that logic.

“Leslie, cut off a piece of the webbing, and bring me one of the microarrays,” Kate said.

Using a knife, Leslie cut off a foot-long length of red webbing from the wall. It pulsed in her hand like a worm as she brought it back to Sammy with the microarray.

The computer engineer clipped the microarray to the webbing and attached the microarray to her laptop.

“You’re just going to use this to plug into the webbing?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah, basically,” Sammy said. “We learned from the webbing when it attacked our people and from the mastermind when we had it in our custody back in Manchester that these red vines can pierce a person or Variant’s skin. It can connect directly to their nervous system.”

“My husband saw the head of a Variant in the tunnel when he was captured,” Kate said. “It was still alive, even without a body.”

“Because of the webbing?” Nguyen asked.

“I believe so. We accidentally activated the webbing before, and because of our mistakes, it tried to integrate him and a few other soldiers into the network.”

“Shit, so you’re going to try to do that again?” Nguyen said. “You’re not going to test this out on mice or something first?”

Kate shook her head. “There’s no animal model for this, and it’s too late. We simply don’t have the time.”

“Leslie, hold the webbing at the base of Kate’s neck,” Sammy said. “We haven’t run into any contaminants yet, but I want to minimize the amount of Kate’s skin exposed to the air just in case.”

“Understood,” Leslie said.

Kate sat down on a chair and felt the wet warmth of the webbing against the base of her neck.

“I’m going to try the commands that triggered the webbing when it attacked your husband,” Sammy said. “If it works, you’ll be connected straight to the computer and the network almost immediately. The computer should still be able to translate the signals’ words so you can understand them, but now we’ll also have your additional tonal and contextual input.”

Kate mentally steeled herself. She wasn’t sure she ever could prepare for something like this, but she did her best to manage her breathing and heart rate.

“Do it,” she said.

A click on the keyboard was the last thing Kate heard.

Electricity jolted through her nerves, and her vision darkened. Pain swam through her body, filling her vessels with fire. She vaguely recalled Beckham saying he had experienced a similar sensation.

Suddenly, she reached a strange clarity. The pain dissolved, and she heard voices in her mind.

She was connected.

Kate focused on the words they’d sent before.

Delay attack on Danbury until tomorrow night.

Over and over, she repeated those words in a commanding tone as the darkness in her vision filled with wild sparks.

Countless voices chattered in her consciousness, some angry. Some in pain, others in shock.

Suddenly another voice boomed past them.

Confirm attack delay on Danbury?

It was directed at her.

Yes, confirm, she thought.

The pain started to overwhelm her again, distracting her. The fire in her veins was too much, and she let out a scream.

Her vision suddenly returned, and she opened her eyes to the web-covered tunnel. A masked face hovered in front of hers.

It was Sergeant Nguyen.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Kate’s head throbbed, but she nodded. “I think so. I heard the voices. Thousands of them, like a hive of trapped minds.”

“You sounded like you were being tortured,” Sammy said quietly.

Kate sat straighter. She had never felt so exhausted. “Did it work?”

“I…” Sammy turned to her computer to read the messages flickering over the screen.

Leslie and Nguyen helped Kate to stand. She leaned down to read the text.

Squinting, Kate read the last words that Sammy had intercepted from a mastermind.

Attack on Danbury cancelled.

It had worked.

— 21 —

Nick followed Pete under a canopy of pine trees outside the mountain base to greet the general of the New Gods. Now that it was dark, they expected the convoy to arrive soon, but they hadn’t heard anything from their contacts on precisely when they would arrive.

Using his flashlight, Nick carefully made his way down the steep trail. As much as he wanted to meet one of the leaders responsible for planning this war over the last eight years, he had been distracted by thoughts of Ray and his wife.

While his mind had drowned in those thoughts, Pete had hardly spoken about what happened in the stairwell. That changed now that they were alone outside.

“Ray didn’t just trip down those stairs, did he?” Pete said. He brushed his dreadlocks over his shoulder and turned slightly for an answer.

Nick opened his mouth to speak, but Pete held up a hand.

“Don’t lie to me, Nick,” Pete said. “You know I hate liars.”

Nick had seen Pete kill for less.

“Ray said he fucked Diana,” Nick said. “I kicked his ass where he belonged, into a puddle of his own blood.”

Pete reared back slightly.

“Well, did he?”

Nick swallowed hard. “I don’t know… If he did, I’ll…”

“What you’ll do, is focus on our mission with the New Gods,” Pete said. “That’s an order.”

“I know. I’m focused more than ever before.”

“I told you I hate liars.” Pete stared at him. “You don’t seem focused. Ray didn’t exactly die on the stairs. He’s haunting your thoughts.”

Nick held Pete’s gaze.

“Fuck Ray,” Pete finally said. “We won’t need him for what’s next, especially if I’m right about the last part of this war.”

He patted Nick on the back.

But that didn’t help him feel any better. He couldn’t fathom Diana betraying him with Ray of all people. What could possibly be the reason?

Focus, Nick. Focus.

He pulled his coat hood up over his cap. As the minutes ticked by, the temperature continued to drop.

Pete led them between the dense trees over a hidden trail until they reached an overlook. There was a sniper there in a ghillie suit.

The sniper looked away from his scope, but remained in position.

“You see anything yet?” Pete asked.

“Nothing on the road, sir.”

Nick stepped up to the edge of the rocky outcrop. A dirt road snaked through the valley below. That was where the general’s convoy should be coming from.

They endured the cold in silence, waiting. Nick wiggled his toes and curled his fingers repeatedly to keep the blood flowing. A light drizzle made it worse. The cold rain stung his bearded face.

The more time that passed, the more his mind drifted back to his wife and Ray. Had she really touched that filthy piece of shit?

The thought broke his heart. Everything he had done was for her and their girls. Everything!

He had risked so much to give them a life better than wasting away in that cabin, fighting to build a life for them here.

A distant hum snapped him from his anger.

Pete heard it too. He shouldered his rifle and looked to the sky.

Had the military found them? They had been close before, bombing the exterior of the mountain where they kept some of their prisoners.

“Get down,” Pete ordered.

Nick scanned the clouds for an incoming drone, but spotted a small black helicopter. He recognized it as it grew closer. It was a Little Bird that Special Operators had once used. Figures rode on the platforms.

“Oh fuck,” Nick said.

He aimed his rifle, his heart pounding. If the military had brought one chopper, there would be more. While their small army here was well-armed, a Delta Force or Navy SEAL strike team landing in full force could be devastating.

Pete’s radio buzzed.

“We just received a message that the general is landing,” a voice said.

The report sent a wave of relief through Nick. He lowered his rifle and exhaled.

“Shit, let’s go,” Pete said. “We can’t be late.”

“Watch the road,” Nick said to the sniper. “Make sure no one followed them.”

The man nodded. Pete started back over the path, running fast. Nick followed, his flashlight bobbing. They took another rocky trail that was guarded by two sentries who saluted when they passed.

Pete ignored them and continued until they came to a clearing. Lungs burning from the cold, Nick tried to catch his breath at the edge of the forest.

The chopper had already landed, its rotors idle.

A group of people entered another hidden opening into the mountain, this one meant for vehicles. Pete and Nick ran to catch up before the blast doors closed. Sporadic banks of overhead lights cast the corridor in a dim glow.

Guards posted along the sides of the blast doors were on their knees, heads bowed at the envoy of five men dressed in black fatigues. It didn’t take long for Nick to spot the leader.

The general was nearly a foot taller than his men and much wider.

“Welcome to Mount Katahdin,” Pete said. “I’m Commander Pete…”

The general turned, his face no longer concealed by the shadows.

Nick risked a glance, expecting the man to be part Variant.

But this creature was all monster.

A black robe covered the beastly frame of an Alpha Variant that looked as if he had survived from the first war. Nick hadn’t seen one for years.

Before he could get a good look, Nick went down on a knee next to Pete, both bowing.

“Show me…” said the general in a deep, crackly voice. It cleared its throat before continuing. “Show me the weapon.”

“Yes, General,” Pete said.

“Now,” the general boomed.

Pete and Nick stood and hurried around the Alpha Variant and its entourage. The escorts walked like humans, but behind their masks Nick saw the golden eyes of the Scions. He had only seen a few of the biologically engineered super soldiers the New Gods had created, and being in their presence now was thrilling.

The beasts cradled automatic rifles and had saw-toothed cutlasses strapped over their backs. These biologically engineered Scions were the apostles of the New Gods and the secret weapon that was winning the war.

And the Allied States hadn’t even seen their full potential yet.

VX-99 had indeed created the super soldiers it was designed to—and Nick was in their presence. He couldn’t help but feel some pride. After all, it was partly thanks to his research that they had found a way to use VX-99 on other creatures, like bats and dogs.

But he couldn’t take credit for these men. That was done out west.

Pete took them into the silo, passing down the corridors until they got to a blast door. He used a keycard to open it and then stepped onto a platform.

“This is it,” he said.

Nick followed him over the metal catwalk, keeping his gaze down.

The general stepped onto the platform. His armored, reptilian feet and claws clicked on the metal. Pete turned on the lights, and Nick got his first good look at the creature examining the missile.

Standing seven feet tall, with shoulders as wide as two men, the size alone impressed him, but it was the horrific face that made this Alpha a truly remarkable beast.

His crocodile-like jaw cracked open as he breathed through long slitted nostrils and exhaled through thin sucker lips. Sunken eyes flitted up and down at the missile.

The general whirled toward Nick and Pete, robe whipping behind him as he strode over.

Nick lowered his eyes as it scrutinized him and Pete. Hot breath washed over them as the creature exhaled.

“Look… at… me…” it hissed in a scratchy voice.

Nick stared at the slotted yellow eyes that seemed to stare into his heart. Like all of the Alphas, this one could hardly speak without its voice crackling.

“Our enemies are infiltrating the network…” the general said. “We must find out where they are doing this.”

It took a moment for Nick to grasp those implications. How in the hell had their enemies gotten into the network?

Pete nodded. “Yes, General, I’ll radio my team right away.”

He pulled out his radio, but the creature gestured to the nuclear missile.

“Prepare the weapon,” he said. “We must proceed with the last stages of our plan. The infiltration of these heretics won’t matter then.”

Pete bowed. “It will be my honor, General.”

The creature snorted at Nick. “You, take me to feed.”

Pete exchanged a glance with Nick.

“Take them to the prisoners,” Pete said. “I’ll prepare the missile.”

“Right away,” Nick said. “Follow me.”

He led them through the tunnels and toward the entrance to the chambers where they had fed their thrall armies in the past.

When Nick stepped into the first chamber, he recalled Timothy, the young man they had brought here. New fresh meat was pinned on the walls, strung up by the few remaining thrall Variants roaming the foothills.

“There,” Nick said.

He pointed to three humans, their heads drooped, sleeping or unconscious.

The general ducked into the chamber, but his men stayed back, holding guard.

Nick felt the icy stab of fear as the Alpha descended toward the three prisoners. He wasn’t sure why, but being so close to such a remarkable monster was both terrifying and humbling.

One of the prisoners, a female with long hair slick with blood, looked up and moaned. Her eyes cracked open in the moonlight.

The Alpha ripped her neck with a slash of his claws before she could scream. Blood sloshed out onto the ground.

It leaned down to feed, opening its long reptilian jaw. The lips bloomed open like flower petals, extending over her face and clamping down. The beast slurped and sucked off the flesh for a few long moments. When it was done, it pulled away, leaving glistening bone and muscle.

A long tongue whipped out of the sucker lips to lick the blood off its face.

Most people would have turned away in horror, but not Nick. He watched the beast that would help lead them to victory with a grim fascination.

***

A voice pierced Fitz’s mind from a pool of blackness. It sounded like it was calling to end the attacks on all the outposts.

Was that… Kate? he wondered dreamily.

It couldn’t be Kate. Even in his dream state, he knew that wasn’t possible.

An agonized scream snapped him awake.

His eyelids flipped open, but the world around him was a crimson blur. A sickening odor of rotting fruit and putrid meat filled his raw nostrils.

He reached instinctively for his rifle, but his hands were stuck.

Memories crashed down around him like an avalanche.

He recalled the Chimeras swarming him and Ace. He remembered their hunger-filled eyes. He had expected claws and teeth to sink into his flesh, but the monsters had taken him and Ace prisoner.

The last thing he recalled was a Chimera slamming the butt of a rifle into his forehead in some sort of lab.

Now questions broke through the haze of pain.

Where was he?

What were they going to do to him?

And where was Ace?

He tried to twist his head to get a better look at his surroundings, but something tugged against it. His legs and arms, too, were completely secured.

He bent his head forward just enough to see he was cocooned in crimson webbing. That same webbing had punctured his fingers, squirming just beneath his skin.

The more he blinked, the clearer his vision became until he could see a wide room the size of a basketball court with a ceiling nearly twenty feet high. Thick red webbing, throbbing and writhing, covered every surface including him and other prisoners.

The scene reminded him of the cathedral in New Orleans and the theater in Minneapolis where they’d encountered the masterminds.

But there didn’t seem to be a mastermind here. Just tables filled with laboratory equipment and a row of three huge silver cylinders. Fitz vaguely recalled Kate calling these machines bioreactors.

He struggled to get free, but the webbing tightened with each thrash until he could hardly breath.

Another yell wailed across the room.

It sounded terrifyingly familiar.

“Ace!” Fitz yelled.

“Don’t…aaaargh!”

Fitz tried to push his head against the webbing to look for the man. “Ace! Where are you?”

“You want to see your friend?”

The voice came from below, but Fitz couldn’t see the source.

Suddenly the webbing lifted him like an octopus grabbing prey. It deposited him into the center of the room. A few tendrils remained wrapped around his torso and limbs, probing painfully at his nerves.

Fitz saw the source of the voice—a bald man who looked to be in his sixties wearing a white lab coat. Acne scars pocked his upper cheeks, and a ragged beard hung under a pointed chin. He had one blue eye and one brown. Both were wild, like those of a crazy person.

The scientist or doctor, appeared human, but his skin was almost translucent. Blood vessels pulsed and protruded against his flesh. Fitz guessed the man hadn’t seen daylight in years.

The man walked to a lab station where he stopped at a computer that was connected to the webbing. With each stroke of the keyboard, vines rustled above Fitz until a writhing mass of vines lowered next to the scientist.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the scientist said. “I’m Doctor Lloyd, welcome to my office…”

Fitz said nothing.

“Not quick to talk, are you?” Lloyd said. “Your friend hasn’t been very talkative either.”

He typed again, and a few vines of webbing recoiled in the wall, revealing Ace. Dark bruises covered his face and arms. Blood streamed from his nostrils, dripping into his beard. One of his eyes was swollen shut.

“Don’t…” Ace mumbled, his cracked, bleeding lips barely moving.

“Let him go,” Fitz said.

Lloyd glared at him with those wild eyes. Then he stepped over a vine of webbing on the floor. “You don’t come to the Land of the New Gods and give me orders. You’re weak, a slave.”

“Weak?” Fitz asked. “Let me out of this webbing, and we’ll see how weak I am, you fucking coward.”

“If that’s what you want…”

Lloyd tapped on the keyboard, and the webbing loosened, whipping from his fingers. Fitz fell a few feet, crashing to the floor. He immediately tried to stand, but instead fell forward.

He had no way to stand.

The Chimeras had taken his prosthetics.

All he could do was crawl toward the twisted scientist.

Before Fitz made it two feet, Lloyd tapped on the keyboard and the webbing wrapped around his thighs and chest, pulling him upright in their putrid grasp.

“Your friend Ace wouldn’t answer my questions,” Lloyd said. “If he won’t, maybe you will.”

Fitz said nothing.

“Let’s start with how you found this place.”

Ace grumbled, drooling blood.

Lloyd smiled a grin as yellow as a Variant’s eyes. “Is it just you and this man that came to the Land of the New Gods? Or are there more out there?”

Fitz looked at the ground.

“Make this easy on yourself.”

“We came alone,” Fitz replied.

“I think you’re lying.” Lloyd raised a brow, his ugly face scrunching into a forest of wrinkles. “Are you?”

Fitz spat but the spit didn’t make it far, and Lloyd simply grinned and retreated to the keyboard. “Have it your way, slave,” he said.

“We ain’t going to tell you shit,” Ace mumbled.

“I wasn’t asking you, old man,” Lloyd said.

He tapped on the keyboard and the red vines around Ace twisted, pulling his arms behind his back. Ace clenched his jaw, trying to hold strong and fight, but eventually it was too much, and he let out a scream of agony.

Anger ripped through Fitz as he watched his brother-in-arms writhing in pain.

“Stop,” he shouted. “STOP!”

Finally, at the tap of a key on the computer, the webbing loosened.

Ace spat out a mouth full of blood, then gasped for air.

“That… that… the best you got?” he grumbled.

Lloyd shook his head, then turned away from the older operator.

“Even if I believe you were dropped here alone, the Allied States’ military is much bigger than one old man and a crippled soldier. So tell me, how many soldiers does President Ringgold have?”

“Enough to fuck you up,” Fitz said.

The vines around his chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe. Seconds ticked by, his lungs burning worse. His vision swam with red as he neared unconsciousness.

His captor finally tapped the laptop again, and the webbing loosened.

Fitz sucked in a deep breath, his mind whirling.

How the hell was he going to get out of this?

All he could do was hope that Dohi was out there, planning, coordinating their rescue. If he could just buy more time…

“I’ll ask you one more time, how many soldiers are left?” Lloyd asked.

“I don’t know,” Fitz stammered.

Lloyd hit the keyboard, and the vines squeezed again. Once more Fitz approached the edge of unconsciousness before the webbing released its hold.

He tried to breathe but his lungs and ribs ached.

“Last chance,” Lloyd said.

Fitz tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. He was too weak. All he could do was shake his head.

For a third time, he suffocated under the strength of the vines.

The man walked over, focusing his blue and brown eyes as he hunched down. “You really won’t like what happens next if you don’t answer.”

Fitz decided the only way to survive was to prolong the interrogation.

When the questions ran out, so would his usefulness. They would be discarded just like any other human. Probably strung up for the beasts to feed on.

“I’m getting bored with this game,” Lloyd said. “But I’ve got other methods…”

All it takes is all you got, Fitz thought.

The motto helped ease some of the pain.

Lloyd grinned again, a crazed look passing over his blue and brown eyes.

He returned to his computer. Fitz stiffened, preparing for the vines to renew their assault. But this time they didn’t tighten.

Ace wailed in agony. The webbing pulled at his arms and legs, stretching him like he was on a medieval rack torture device. Sweat coursed over his bruised face, and a sickening pop echoed from what was probably a dislocated shoulder.

“Fuck you!” Ace yelled.

Fitz tried to stay strong. He could take all the physical pain in the world, but watching his friend, his brother like this… A dislocated limb was painful, but not ultimately debilitating. But if the vines kept stretching, to the point of no return, it wouldn’t just be Fitz missing limbs.

“Stop!” Fitz said. “I’ll tell you! Just stop, and I’ll tell you.”

Lloyd tapped a button on the keyboard, and the vines let go of their iron grip.

Ace panted, wincing. “Don’t tell him anything… brother… don’t…”

Fitz ignored him. He had to prolong their lives.

“Ringgold has about thirty thousand troops left,” Fitz lied. “All spread out between the Air Force, Navy, and Army.”

Lloyd ran hand over his bald, pale head, seeming to mull the answer over.

Ace looked at Fitz but hopefully he understood what Fitz was doing.

Thirty-thousand was a gross overestimation. They had nowhere near those numbers, but if this man wanted answers, Fitz would provide them. They just wouldn’t be the truth.

Lloyd didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but he moved on to other questions.

The cycle repeated. Over and over. Fitz did his best to endure the interrogation. Ace was tortured, cursing and pleading with Fitz not to say another word.

And Fitz gave the crazy scientist some answers, almost all lies and exaggerations, sprinkling just enough truth to make it sound believable without compromising the country he had sworn an oath to protect.

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep doing this. How long before this hell-on-earth ended.

Lloyd resumed torturing Fitz, the webbing yanking on his limbs, squeezing until he was certain he had a few cracked ribs.

Please, Dohi, help.

But nothing changed. No one broke in to stop the torture. No explosions brought down the facility, and Dohi didn’t show up with guns blazing.

The pain finally stopped hours later when Lloyd yawned, cupping his mouth with a palm.

“I’m not stupid enough to believe everything—or most—of what you told me, but we’ll have another chance to talk,” Lloyd said. “And if I find out you’re lying…well, I have plenty of mouths to feed around here.”

Fitz said nothing, struggling merely to retain his consciousness.

“I’ll get everything I want eventually,” the scientist said with a yellow grin. “In the meantime, I need to rest.”

Ace tried to spit, but the bloody spittle ended up mostly on his hairy chest.

That got a laugh out of Lloyd. “You’ve both seen the godly warriors we’ve created. Scions. Men with the power of the creatures you call Variants.”

He strode toward Fitz, getting close enough that Fitz could smell his stinking breath.

“I personally helped perfect the process of turning men into monsters, and if you’re lucky, you’ll both join our ranks like the other slaves I’ve captured,” Lloyd said. “If you’re not lucky, you’ll end up as food for my army.”

He tapped Fitz on the chest. “Your choice, slave.”

— 22 —

Timothy and Ruckley hid behind a pile of rubble outside of an abandoned two-story building. Embers drifted lazily around them, singeing against their fatigues.

They were crouched, waiting for a chance to get to the parking lot past the still-standing walls of a lobster shack with an interior that had been gutted by fire. At the parking lot was the truck the Irishman had traded for their sailboat.

A pack of Variants prowled the street, hunting for survivors. The popping of their joints grew distant and Ruckley got up.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s go.”

Timothy got up, but a high-pitched shriek forced him back down.

Ruckley turned and pointed her rifle at a filthy Variant cresting the mound of rubble, her aim shaky due to her injured arm. With no other option, Timothy fired into the beast’s chest. It slumped, tumbling over its own limbs.

Two more Variants skittered down the rubble, pouncing at Timothy. He didn’t have time to shoot and instead smashed one of the creatures in the sucker lips with the butt of the rifle, breaking out a mouthful of jagged teeth.

The monster recoiled, giving him just enough time to blast a shot through its broken jaw. Then he turned to help Ruckley.

The second ash-covered creature had wrestled her to the ground, making it difficult for Timothy to find a clear shot. It snapped at her face, and sunk claws into her already injured arm. She let out an ear-splitting scream.

Timothy let his rifle drop on its sling and pulled out his knife. He jammed the blade into its hairy flesh, tracing a deep crimson line over the black, diseased skin until it let Ruckley go.

The Variant flopped to the side, wailing until he silenced it by slitting its throat.

He reached down and helped Ruckley stand.

“We have to move,” he said.

She stood there dazed, holding her injured arm. Blood soaked over her bandages.

“Come on,” he said.

They staggered into the street, the shrieks of other Variants calling out.

The truck was only about three hundred feet away, but they had to pass through the smoke drifting across the road.

Timothy aimed his rifle at two more beasts that hung back in the cover.

He waited for a clear shot, unsure of how much ammo he had left. One of the beasts went down on all fours and started toward him in a gallop. He fired a shot that hit it in the neck. The other creature took off to flank, but he took it down with a shot to the knee and then another to the back.

Ruckley was struggling to walk and he went over to her to help.

“Almost there,” he said.

She put her arm around his shoulder, and he guided her the rest of the way to the truck, scanning for more hostiles in the curtain of smoke. With her safely inside, he closed the passenger door and then went to the rear bumper.

Using his rifle butt, he smashed out the brake lights to better conceal their drive out of town. Another quick scan of the area was clear, and he got into the driver’s side, inserting the key and praying it would work.

The truck fired right up.

Finally, some good luck.

He just hoped the rust-pocked Ford pickup was faster than it looked. The fabric seats were torn, and the dashboard was cracked. It had to be twenty years old.

A glance at the full fuel gauge at least confirmed the Irishman hadn’t lied.

“Go,” Ruckley groaned.

Timothy pulled out of the lot and sped away from the burning outpost. Variants gave chase on the sidewalks. One creature leapt from a building at the truck, but Timothy turned sharply. It crashed against the asphalt, rolling over and over.

Another creature barreled down the road beside them. It reached out to grab onto the vehicle and this time, Timothy slammed it with the side of the truck, sending it skidding into a light pole.

Ruckley winced as she gripped her arm. Blood poured out between her fingers.

“God,” she said.

“You have to stop the bleeding,” Timothy said. “The med pack is…”

His heart fluttered when he realized he had left it at the debris pile when they were attacked by the Variants.

“Shit!” Timothy said, pounding the wheel.

“I have some bandages in my pack.”

Her voice sounded weak. He debated pulling off, but that would be suicide.

He had to keep going until they were clear of the city. Finally, he flipped on the headlights. He didn’t like driving with the lights on, but he couldn’t see shit out here. The cover of dark wouldn’t matter if they ran into a tree or pile of rubble.

In the rear-view mirror, he saw the burning outpost, but looked away to focus on the road and the future. On people he could save.

And those that he was going to kill.

They had to get to a radio, and if he couldn’t find one, then fuck it, he would just do what he should have done before—drive to Mount Katahdin. Even if it meant driving a hundred miles per hour all night to get to the base, he would gut Nick and Pete before they could launch that nuke.

Timothy pushed the pedal down. The engine rattled in response. The beams illuminated abandoned vehicles pushed up along the median and shoulder of the two-lane highway.

The headlights would make them a target to any waiting ambush, but it was impossible to maintain any speed without them. He just hoped the speed would make them less of a target if anyone, or anything did decide to try and stop them.

“Goddamn,” Ruckley said as she cut away her shirt to reveal the wound.

The gashes were long and deep.

She grimaced and then closed her eyes, taking in deep breaths.

“I have some antibiotics in—” she stopped. “Timothy, watch out!”

He looked back at the road and swerved just in time to avoid a crashed motorcycle. The side of the truck ground against the median until he pulled them back into the left lane.

He eased off the gas to about sixty miles an hour, his heart rate returning to normal.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Ruckley said before returning to wrapping her arm, using her teeth to hold one end of the gauze.

By the time she finished, the glow of the fire behind them had vanished over the horizon.

From the corner of his eyes, Timothy saw Ruckley wincing. She was clearly in a lot of pain. There wasn’t much he could do without stopping, but at least she had slowed the bleeding.

The next hour passed by relatively quickly. It was almost nine o’clock, and Ruckley seemed to be doing better.

At this speed, he wouldn’t get to the base until three in the morning. That was assuming they didn’t run into any trouble, which seemed unlikely.

Especially when he spotted a roadblock formed by burning cars ahead.

“Shit,” he said.

Ruckley pulled out her pistol.

Timothy turned off the headlights and pulled off to the side of the road.

“I’ll check it out,” Timothy said.

“I’m covering you,” Ruckley said.

“No way. You’re hurt.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Timothy relented, and got out. Together, they approached the wreckage from the right side of the road. The heat of the fire rolled over the pair. The closer they got, the more flaming debris he noticed.

A tire burned in the middle of the two lanes.

He crouched when he saw a charred body.

“I’ll check it out,” he said. “Cover me.”

Timothy ran toward it with Ruckley holding up her pistol.

As he moved, he caught the strong scent of charred flesh and burned hair. The glow of the burning vehicles revealed what remained of the clothes on the corpse. It looked like a standard-issue combat uniform.

This was a soldier.

He looked back up at the wrecked cars. This wasn’t an intentional roadblock. This was the site of an ambush.

They advanced toward two pickup trucks.

The vehicles were torn open like they’d been caught in an explosion. More smoking bodies were scattered in the dirt on the side of the road and across the median.

They navigated past the two trucks to find a Humvee. Its back tires were flat, and the rear bumper was scorched, but it wasn’t burning.

Timothy hurried to the front of the truck. The windshield was splintered from an onslaught of high caliber rounds. Blood had splattered the glass of the side window.

He opened the door to find the driver dead, punctured by multiple bullet holes. The passenger was slumped over against the door, his upper body covered in blood and riddled by gunshot wounds to his chest.

Timothy turned on his flashlight and directed it at the dashboard.

His heart kicked at the sight of the radio.

“Does it work?” Ruckley asked.

“Let’s find out,” he said.

Timothy gently pulled the dead driver out and put him on the ground next to Ruckley. She watched the road with her pistol in her good hand.

Sliding into the blood-stained seat, Timothy grabbed the receiver. With a twist of the channel-selection dial, it buzzed to life.

They had finally done it! They could warn command about Mount Katahdin!

A flood of relief poured over him until he heard another voice.

“Drop your weapons!”

The relief turned to shock.

There was a working radio right in front of him, something he had been fighting to find for days. And now, right after they had found it, the collaborators had spotted him.

He reached for his pistol, but the same voice came again. “Don’t touch that.”

“We’re friendlies,” Ruckley said.

Slowly, Timothy turned to see two soldiers wearing night vision goggles standing in front of the Humvee. They approached cautiously carrying suppressed M4 rifles.

Not collaborators after all.

Survivors of the convoy.

Timothy raised his hands and backed out.

“Easy,” he said. “We have an important message to send to Command. We just need to use the radio.”

Ruckley introduced herself and Timothy.

The two bearded soldiers, a Corporal Winslow and a Corporal Carey with the US Army, had been on their way to Outpost Boston to help when they were hit by an IED and then ambushed by collaborators who had taken off after the attack. Their fatigues were covered in dust, oil, and the blood of their brothers.

When the corporals finished explaining what had happened, Ruckley gave a rundown of their journey from Outpost Portland and the intel on Mount Katahdin.

“A nuke?” said Corporal Carey. “No way the collaborators have a nuke.”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Timothy replied. “I was a prisoner at Mount Katahdin.”

“Fuck,” said Corporal Winslow.

“I have to radio this in,” Ruckley said.

“Yeah,” Winslow said.

She picked up the receiver and dialed the encrypted channel for Command. She got through to a comms officer and used her authentication codes to finally reach Lieutenant Festa. Once she had him on the line, she relayed the intel.

Finally, Timothy felt some real consolation that they might have actually succeeded.

But his mission wasn’t over. Not until he was sure the collaborator base was destroyed.

“We need evac,” Ruckley said to Festa.

His response wasn’t surprising.

“I’m sorry,” Festa said. “I’m not sure that will be possible right now.”

There wasn’t any to give. It was too dangerous with the bats and other anti-aircraft weapons the collaborators had, and the military was running low on aircraft. They couldn’t even confirm if they were able to attack the collaborator base.

Ruckley stepped back out when the line went dead.

All the relief Timothy had felt melted away.

Had things gotten so bad that Command couldn’t even authorize an attack on a damn nuclear silo?

Maybe they didn’t believe his intel or maybe they really were worse off than he’d thought. Or maybe they were afraid to announce their plans over the open channel in case the collaborators overheard. He hoped it was the later.

Still, not knowing worried Timothy.

“The hell are we going to do?” Winslow asked.

“We ain’t got nowhere to go,” Carey said.

“We do have somewhere to go,” Timothy said, “and we’ve got a truck to get us there.”

Ruckley and the other two soldiers both looked at him.

“We have to make sure that base is destroyed,” Timothy said. “Stock up on weapons and ammo, and give me some NVGs. We’re going in dark and fast.”

***

President Ringgold finished off another cup of coffee in the temporary CIC within the offices of the 9/11 Memorial Museum. The chatter of officers coordinating defensive operations, triage, and other outpost duties buzzed alongside computers and radios.

At nearly two in the morning, this was her fourth cup, and so far, the caffeine had done little to assuage the suffocating grasp of exhaustion. But at least she had some. Coffee, like bullets, and people, were in short supply.

Of the original five thousand people who had come to shelter in the walls around the memorial outpost, there were only four thousand left. All holed up in the buildings within the final defenses.

Their only saving grace was that they hadn’t been hit by another attack after the bats. The streets around the outpost were silent, and their remaining brave warriors were watching the darkness for monsters.

It wasn’t just trained professionals that had answered the call of duty.

Fischer was one of many civilian volunteers on guard tonight, sitting in his truck, watching for enemies underground.

And soon, Captain Reed Beckham, Master Sergeant Horn, and Sergeant Rico would arrive in the stealth helicopter from their mission in Denver.

She prayed the quiet lasted, but her gut told her the Variants were planning something for tonight.

Commander Amber Massey sat at the head of the table next to her communications team. She looked up when an officer came in with a SITREP.

“Fischer still hasn’t detected any tunneling Variants or other subterranean Variant activity,” said the officer.

Massey simply nodded.

Next came Dr. Lovato’s assistant, Ron. A soldier assigned to Sergeant Nguyen’s team accompanied him.

“How are things going down there?” Ringgold asked.

“A bit crazy,” Ron said. “Kate connected to the Variant network using the webbing.”

“Connected how?” Ringgold asked.

“With her body,” Ron said.

“What?”

Ron nodded. “Good news is it worked. She stopped an attack on Danbury, and prevented others. Judging by the signal activity, we’re optimistic that things are going in our favor.”

Ringgold didn’t exactly celebrate. She didn’t like Kate playing with fire, especially when she was using her own body.

“Tell Kate to be careful,” Ringgold said. “I don’t want her taking any unnecessary risks by tapping into the network.”

“Understood,” Ron said. He slipped away with the soldier.

Soprano came in from the other room with a piece of paper. Ringgold prepared for more news but found herself thinking more about Kate and what she was doing down there. She prayed the doctor wasn’t going to sacrifice herself.

“Just got this from Vice President Lemke,” Soprano said. “It’s a list of outposts reporting no contact with hostiles tonight.”

“Danbury, Providence, Allentown, and Freehold,” Ringgold said. “Ron’s right. Their plan is really working. They are convincing the Variants to stop attacks.”

“Let’s hope it holds for us, too,” Massey said.

Ringgold scanned another list of outposts being evacuated.

“Civilians are being flown out, driven out, or escaping in boats where they can,” Soprano said. “Everything is going as planned. Most are on their way to Texas and Florida, but some are being taken to the classified location where Vice President Lemke and the fleet have been transferred.”

Only a few people knew about the location Ringgold had chosen—Puerto Rico.

“Soprano, get me General Cornelius on an encrypted call,” she said.

“Yes, Madam President,” Soprano said. He pushed a conference phone into the middle of the table and dialed in the direct command number for General Cornelius.

One of his officers answered. Ringgold requested to speak to the general. She didn’t wait long before his grizzled voice sounded over the phone.

“President Ringgold, good to talk to you,” Cornelius said.

“And you, General. I’ll get right to it—what’s the status of the SDS equipment.”

“I’m moving the functioning equipment from Canada. As soon as the sun rises it’ll be on its way to the outposts you noted for protection.”

Ringgold was relieved to hear that. She would have ordered the movement earlier, but the air threats made it too much of a risk. And with other outposts under attack there simply wasn’t any way to get it installed.

“I have good news, too,” Ringgold said. “Our science team’s efforts to disrupt some of the Variant attacks seem to be working.”

Ringgold continued the conversation to coordinate how they were going to share the strategies with Cornelius. The general was still holding onto Galveston with his forces, and they could use the break from attacks as much as the people Kate had helped.

But before they could settle on logistics, Soprano returned to the room with a satellite phone.

“President Ringgold, I’m very sorry to interrupt but I just got an urgent call,” Soprano said. “It’s from General Souza, and he says it’s an emergency.”

Her heart thudded. “General Cornelius, I have to go. I’ll contact you again as soon as I can,” Ringgold said.

“Good luck,” he said.

“You, too.”

She ended the call and Soprano handed her the phone.

“Talk to me, General,” she said.

“Madam President, I’ve got a credible report that the collaborators have a nuclear warhead mounted on a ballistic missile at Mount Katahdin in Maine,” he said. “We have reason to believe they’re planning to use this nuke in the near future.”

Everything around Ringgold seemed to fade into the background when she heard those words. The urgent chatter, the noise of footsteps on the tiled floor, the odor of smoke still hanging in the air. None of it stood out to her now that the words ‘nuclear weapons’ resonated in her mind.

Souza went on to explain the history of the facility and the ominous threat they now faced.

“My God, we have to stop them,” Ringgold said.

“You need to get out of here and take the science team with you,” Massey said.

“What?” Ringgold asked, still partly in shock.

“The collaborators could erase an entire outpost at any given moment,” Massey continued. “If they find out you and the science team are both here, where do you think they’re going to launch that nuke?”

Ringgold stood, feeling light-headed.

Just when she thought the nightmare couldn’t get worse, it did.

“As soon as Beckham arrives, we’ll retrieve the science team and depart for Command,” Ringgold said.

Massey nodded and Soprano assembled the Secret Service agents. By the time they were outside, a helicopter was already touching down.

“That must be Captain Beckham,” Ringgold said.

She jogged away from the 9/11 Memorial Museum.

To help mask their position from threats, they had turned off all the floodlights and spotlights around the interior of the outpost. But with the still glowing embers of the burning oaks and the moonlight, they had enough light to guide them toward the open lawn where a helicopter sat on the charred grass, blades winding down.

From out of the side door, Captain Reed Beckham limped toward her with Master Sergeant Parker Horn beside him. A group piled out of the chopper next, none of whom Ringgold recognized. Several of them had their arms tied behind their backs.

“Madam President,” Beckham said saluting.

She saluted back, looking at the improvised prosthetic he wore. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Commander Massey stepped up and Beckham gestured toward the group behind him. “We have people that need immediate medical attention. It’s a long story, and we’re not quite sure if they’re friend or foes yet.”

Beckham pointed toward a skinny older man and a Marine. “These two are definitely friends. They’re the only reason we made it back here. They’ll need all the medical attention you can spare.”

Massey gave orders and a few of her people ran over to help.

“Where’s Kate?” Beckham asked.

“In the tunnels, but before we get her, there’s something you should know,” Ringgold said.

As quickly as she could, Ringgold explained the report about Mount Katahdin.

“A nuke? How’s that possible?” he stammered.

“How is any of this possible?” Horn said. “The collaborators have been planning for almost eight years.”

“Jesus,” Beckham said. “Once we get you and the science team out of here, we have to take out that base.”

“Agreed,” Ringgold said. “We don’t have much time. Now come on.”

In a matter of minutes, they were descending the stairs into the tunnel where the science team was working. Their escort soldiers and Secret Service agents guided their journey through the humid, webbing-covered tunnels.

Ringgold thought over every communication she’d had over the past several hours. They had been careful to encrypt every message, every call. But what if a prying collaborator had intercepted a single message and knew she was here?

For that matter, what if collaborator scouts had spotted Beckham arriving?

The nuke might take flight any second.

Once they rounded another turn in the tunnels, they saw the floodlights where Sergeant Nguyen and his men were guarding the science team.

The soldiers parted as the president’s team approached. Behind them, Ron and Leslie worked beside Sammy and Kate at their computers, all wearing splash suits and respirators.

Kate stood at their arrival.

“Kate!” Beckham said, limping ahead.

She ran to embrace him. “Reed! What are you doing down here?”

“Evacuating you. We have to leave right now.”

“What?” Kate looked to Ringgold. “You need to be in splash suits.”

“No time,” Ringgold said. “The helicopter is waiting for us.”

Kate looked back at her team. “We’re actually stopping attacks. We can’t leave now. We can still save more outposts.”

“Kate, we have no choice,” Beckham said. “Pack up your gear, and let’s go.”

“There isn’t another incoming attack,” Kate said. “Everything we’ve intercepted indicated the bats were it.”

“Kate, the collaborators have a nuke. If they find out about your work or that the president is here, they will turn this place into what I saw in Denver.”

Kate stood silently for a second.

“It’s true,” Ringgold said. “We can only save more lives if we survive.”

Kate finally nodded. “Get everything packed up now.”

Ringgold retreated from the tunnel to wait at the chopper as it was refueled. The shock of this new intel helped expel the exhaustion clouding her. Now a plan began to coalesce. No doubt the collaborators thought they were a step ahead of the Allied States.

She planned to prove them wrong.

From what Souza had told her of Mount Katahdin, it was a Cold War era nuclear weapons facility that was supposed to be top secret. Simply ordering an airborne attack would not guarantee they could stop the nuclear facility buried deep underground.

In fact, the base had been built to withstand a nuclear weapons attack, so there was very little they could do with the meager Air Force they had left.

A special forces team that could go in quiet to pull off a surgical strike and sabotage the facility from the inside was a much better option.

She turned as Beckham, Horn, and Rico helped Kate and the science team toward the chopper.

They were the perfect soldiers for the job.

— 23 —

The Battery Park ballfields were as quiet as a church during Sunday prayer. S.M. Fischer rested in the cabin of the vibroseis truck, praying that he would see another Sunday.

The seismic monitors glowed across the dashboard, silent.

A cold, dry wind curled through the open window and rustled the long dry grass around the vehicle. It reminded him of those chilly winter nights in the Texas panhandle. He longed to be back at his ranch, riding through his fields in his pickup or on a horse to check on his grazing cattle.

But those days were almost certainly over.

“It’s quiet,” Chase said just outside the door. He leaned against the truck, cradling his rifle. Moonlight glowed over the other soldiers guarding the truck.

“I’ve been praying for the quiet to last the night,” Fischer replied to Chase.

“Me too.”

A soldier jogged over and Fischer swung his legs out of the truck. It was Sergeant Dwyer stopping to do his rounds.

“See anything?” Dwyer asked.

“Nothing so far,” Fischer said.

“Good,” Dwyer said. “Only four more hours till sunrise, then I get to thaw my frozen balls.”

Chase chuckled. “I never looked forward to being awake for a sunrise as much as I have over the past few days.”

“Every day we’re alive is another to thank God for,” Fischer said.

“Yeah, well, tonight I’m thanking you for sticking with us, and watching over the outpost,” said the sergeant. “We’re more grateful than you know.”

“It’s our privilege,” Fischer said, downplaying the man’s compliment. He wasn’t one to readily accept high praise.

“This is our home, and these are our families, and neighbors,” Dwyer continued. “You could’ve cut and run like the others, but you didn’t.”

“We’re with you till the end,” Fischer said. “I just wish I had cigars and whiskey to offer you and the rest of the brave souls out here tonight.”

Dwyer smiled, but then his expression turned sour. “Morale was good until the president left, but we’ll make do.”

“She had no choice. If we lose her and that science team, the war is over.”

“Yeah…”

“We just got to hold out a little while longer,” Chase said.

Fischer didn’t want the conversation to sidetrack into something negative so he checked the vibroseis monitors for good news. The monitors revealed no sign of activity.

“Still nothing,” he said. “The science team must have done something remarkable down there.”

Dwyer shrugged. “I’ve heard too many promises of a cure or a new biological agent to stop the monsters. But every time we launch something like that at the enemy, they come back stronger than before.”

His radio crackled, and a voice broke over it.

“Delta One, this is Echo One.”

It was Sergeant Nguyen, who was now assigned to patrol outside the outpost.

“Go ahead Echo One, this is Delta One.”

Nguyen sounded out of breath. “We spotted contacts. Potential hostiles, and they’re headed—”

Static buzzed over the line.

“Echo One, do you read?” Dwyer asked.

Fischer’s heart pounded.

Dwyer spoke again, his tone more urgent. “Echo One, do you read? What’s going on?”

Still no response.

“So much for no activity,” Dwyer said with a grunt. He depressed the call button on his radio. “All Delta units, make ready. Potential hostiles in the area.”

Fischer scanned the monitors in the vibroseis truck. “I’m still not seeing anything.”

“Maybe it’s bats,” Chase said, scanning the sky.

“I don’t see shit,” Dwyer said.

Fischer grabbed a pair of binoculars from his dash and searched their surroundings. He checked the sniper nests and then searched the starlit bowl of black above, but saw nothing.

“Anyone got eyes?” Dwyer asked over the radio.

The replies all came back negative.

Chase nervously aimed into the distance with his rifle. Men along the barricades stood up at the ready.

“Come on, Echo One,” Dwyer tried again, pacing next to the truck. “Tell me—”

A crack split the air.

Dwyer’s face disappeared in a spray of broken bone and blood. His body slumped to the ground, twitching.

Fischer stared for a moment, trying to process what had just happened. Everything around him seemed to slow. Adrenaline thundered through his vessels as flashes of gunfire exploded from the rooftops where the snipers were perched.

Soldiers on the ground scrambled to take cover from bullets lancing into their positions.

Rounds punched into the truck, forcing Fischer down.

For a moment, he lay crouched beneath the dash, trying to make sense of things.

Had their own snipers turned on them?

Were there collaborators in their midst all this time?

He snapped from the shock and grabbed his rifle. Carefully, he rose to scope the buildings. He quickly noticed the snipers firing on them were different than the ones he had seen earlier. And the positions where the outpost soldiers had been were dormant.

It was then he realized what was happening.

The collaborators had infiltrated the buildings, killed the outpost snipers, and were now raining hell down on the field.

More bullets slammed into the truck. Cracks spread through the windshield.

“Mr. Fischer!” Chase shouted.

“I’m okay, stay down.” Fischer grabbed his radio. “Command, this is Delta Two. We’ve got hostile contacts hitting our position from…everywhere!”

Another volley of bullets hit the truck. Smoke hissed out the hood as rounds punched into the engine block. The smell of oil and burning plastic filled the air.

Get out of there! A voice called in his mind.

It was his wife.

The bright glare of rockets flared from a building. Fischer watched them smash into the Bradley Fighting Vehicles. Balls of fire erupted from the two vehicles, flames billowing from the gaping wounds in their sides.

The staccato bark of the machine guns sounded as the outpost soldiers fought back. Tracer rounds cut through the black of night.

“Sir, we need to move!” Chase said, yelling above the din.

Fischer checked the dashboard.

The seismic monitors were still calm, belying the attack outside. They had been so concerned with a Variant attack that they hadn’t expected collaborators to infiltrate their defensive positions.

He considered abandoning the post, but his job was to watch for Variant attacks.

“Get in here,” Fischer said to Chase.

The soldier climbed inside, keeping low. “Sir, all due respect, but what the hell are we doing?”

“We aren’t running, that’s for sure,” Fischer said. “Now help me identify some of those targets.”

Chase aimed his rifle at the buildings, looking for hostiles. He reported them as he saw the muzzles flashes.

Fischer, in turn, reported them over the radio. “Contacts on the sixth floor of the Grayson apartment building.”

A wave of tracer rounds sprayed into the windows. The gunfire stopped, but the flash of another rocket flaring from an apartment pierced the dark above the sixth floor.

The rocket narrowly missed the vibroseis truck, bursting on the ground and sending up a geyser of dirt. Then came the gunfire.

Rounds punched through the metal. The glass shattered, spraying over Fischer.

Chase cried out in pain, gripping his thigh as blood pumped between his fingers. Pieces of glass rained down on Fischer as he crawled over to his wounded friend.

Chase tried to scoot closer.

“Stay down!” Fischer yelled.

He reached into one of his vest’s pockets, scrounging around for hemostatic bandages.

“Move your hand,” Fischer said. “We got to stop the bleeding.”

Fischer pushed down on the wound.

More bullets broke through the door, punching into Chase.

In the glow of the dashboard, Fischer saw the wild fear in his friend’s eyes. He choked something out, then fell to his side and pinned Fischer down.

More rounds hit the truck. Chase’s limp body jerked several times as bullets pierced his flesh.

“No,” Fischer sobbed.

Fischer stayed there for a moment in shock, staring in horror at his dead friend covering him like a human shield.

Get out of there! RUN!

The voice of his wife didn’t snap him from the shock.

It was a bullet to the arm. He used his shoulder to push Chase off and then scooted across the blood-soaked floor of the truck.

Fischer tried to push himself against the dashboard, but another round hit his back, slamming him down. Despite the two injuries he couldn’t feel much pain. That was a bad sign.

When he tried to move his legs, he realized it was worse than he had thought. The round to his back had hit his spine.

This was the end of the road for him.

Alarms went off across the dashboard. He tried to crawl back toward it, realization hitting him as hard as those two bullets.

The collaborators had softened their defenses, and now the Variants were on their way. Tunneling underground to finish the outpost off.

Fischer struggled to breathe.

His mind swam, and he remembered that day before the war, back when he’d first visited President Ringgold to figure out if he would support her in the now-suspended elections.

He had been hesitant, seeing her as a leader who had ignored the Variants.

Now he realized he’d been wrong.

There was nothing they could have done to prevent this evil. What was happening wasn’t her fault. It was the fault of the evil men who had created the monsters.

The country was lucky to have a leader like Ringgold to make the tough decisions, to know when to fight, when to retreat, and when to rethink their strategies. Hopefully, she would work with General Cornelius to find a way to beat back the monsters.

But the fight for Fischer was over.

“Godspeed, Madam President,” he whispered. He crawled over and put a hand on his dead friend.

Using his other hand, he pulled out his revolver. His fingers brushed over the words engraved on the barrel, Monster Killer.

The alarms in the vibroseis truck blared again, and somewhere in front of the truck, the ground gave way. Clods of dirt exploded upward, showering the cracked windshield.

A demonic shriek erupted from the hole.

Fischer repositioned his body just as the door to the truck was ripped off and tossed aside. An ape-like face with milky white eyes looked inside. Ropey muscles bulged across the body of an Alpha.

Fischer aimed his gun, his shoulder screaming in agony. He pulled the trigger, firing into the creature’s chest. It staggered back with each shot, screaming in rage.

He fired again and again until the gun clicked, empty.

Blood poured from bullet holes in the barreled chest of the beast, but the abominable creature remained standing. It took a step forward, opening a mouthful of fangs.

Fischer reached for more bullets in his vest.

The Alpha took another step, reaching out for him when it was struck by a bright light. The beast looked to the left just before it vanished in a blur of metal.

Fischer lowered his gun and rested his head on the dashboard.

Voices called out among the gunfire.

One of them was familiar.

Commander Massey climbed inside the cab of the truck. Two men followed, and they carefully picked Fischer up. He was carried to the back of her pickup and gently put into the back of the bed.

He lay there, looking up at the dazzling sky, wondering if he had earned a spot up there, or if he would be going to hell.

No hell can be as bad as the one I’ve experienced here, he thought.

Fischer closed his eyes, and let the dark take him.

***

Making progress through the Center for Engineering Complex Organs facility was agonizingly slow for Dohi. Trying to watch his own back while sneaking through a building filled with enemy forces had required every ounce of focus and skill he had developed over the years.

So far, there were no clues leading to Fitz and Ace. And he knew he was running out of time—and so were they.

He had left a trail. Of bodies. They were scattered in the tunnel beneath the CECO and in the hallways where he had encountered more Chimeras.

Dohi increased his pace through a hall, keeping low, hatchet in one hand and suppressed pistol in the other.

The facility had once belonged to a normal medical therapeutics company. Filled with laboratories, offices, and manufacturing facilities. All lit in a sickly yellow glow from lights peeking out beneath crimson vines covering the walls and ceilings.

The pop of Variant joints clicked down a corridor, and Dohi shrank into a doorway. Using his shoulder, he nudged open a door with a dirty window to reveal what had once been a large office.

While the room wasn’t covered in webbing, the stench of sour fruit radiated off the carpet. Blankets and dirty fatigues were strewn on the floor. He tried to adjust the stolen mask from the Chimera, but it did little to relieve the putrid smell.

Clicking joints grew closer and with them came grunts and snarls.

Dohi knelt next to the door, watching from the side.

An elongated shadow moved in front of the window in the door. He pressed himself against a wall, sucking in his breath. The Variant paused outside, sniffing the air.

Another growl sounded.

Dohi tightened his grip on the hatchet.

Then he heard a shrill whistle, and the gruff voice of a Chimera. The Variant left the door, scampering down the hall.

Dohi watched two more humanoid silhouettes pass by the grimy window.

As their footsteps faded, he snuck out into the web-covered hallway. Other doors led to more offices turned into barracks.

He tried not to look at the vines covering the walls like spider webs, but once again, a memory of being strung up in the webbing sent a cold wave of fear through his bones.

Ace and Fitz were probably cocooned in that webbing somewhere. All he had to do was follow the network, and eventually he would find them.

Dohi cleared another corridor. This one led to smaller laboratories. Expansive windows provided a look into mostly empty spaces.

Microscopes and other equipment rested on lab benches. He didn’t see any dust or webbing on them. Someone must still be using them.

Voices echoed somewhere behind him.

He crept ahead, taking another corner toward a stairwell. The deep voices continued behind him, but there were more coming up the stairwell.

Footsteps clanged up the stairs. With no other choice, he retreated to the hall and ducked into a lab. There, he crouched under the windows.

The group of soldiers in the hall marched past.

Dohi crawled under the shelter of the lab benches. He didn’t stop until he got to the back of the room. There were two doors. One was labeled, Chemical Supplies. The other was made of stainless-steel and appeared to be to a walk-in cooler.

Keeping low, he snuck a glance above a lab bench filled with various glass apparatuses. The two separate groups of Chimeras had stopped in front of the windows, their backs mostly turned.

He ducked back down.

Judging by the way their weapons hung loose on their straps and their casual hand gestures, they didn’t know he was here.

The beasts chatted for another minute. They didn’t seem intent on leaving any time soon. Dohi looked around the lab, just as the walk-in cooler cracked open.

A man in a white lab-coat started to step out carrying a box full of supplies.

Dohi didn’t hesitate.

He charged the man, shoving him back inside the walk-in cooler, knocking the box from his hands. Plastic vials spilled across the floor.

The door closed shut, sealing them inside.

Before the guy could scream, Dohi punched him in the neck. He crumpled into a shelf, knocking off plastic bottles that broke open on the floor.

Dohi holstered his pistol and pulled out his knife, bringing it to the man’s throat.

In the dim light of the walk-in cooler, he saw this was no man.

Golden reptilian eyes glistened at him. A flat nose with slitted nostrils sniffled. Scars ran down the length of his face and an underbite of sharp teeth protruded out of his sucker lips.

Dohi pushed his knife against the mutant’s throat. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The beast wasn’t dressed like a soldier. He wore a lab coat.

“Where are the prisoners?” Dohi asked. He pressed the blade deeper until a dribble of blood trickled out.

“Prisoners?” the mutated scientist seemed confused. Then he took a long sniff, his lips peeling into a snarl.

“I’m only asking you one more time,” Dohi said.

“You’re a dead man.”

Dohi rotated the scientist and slammed him against the back wall. This time the creature resisted and turned, snarling.

He had no choice but to punch the creature in the face. That did the trick, dropping the hybrid to the ground. Dohi got down, pushing a knee on the scientist’s chest to keep him down. Then he pressed his knife against the creature’s throat again.

“Try anything else and I’ll fillet you,” Dohi said.

The creature went limp under his knee, reptilian eyes locked with his. There wasn’t the raw anger he had noticed before—there was something else.

“Where are the prisoners?” Dohi entreated.

“They’re…they’re…upstairs. The vivisection labs.”

“Vivisection?” Dohi asked.

The scientist managed a nod, blood dripping away from the knife. “The place…where they do the experiments…on us…”

Dohi recognized what he saw in those yellow eyes now.

Not anger.

Fear.

Dohi sensed there was no more information he could gain from this man. Interrogation like this only worked if the subject thought there was some hope for them, some chance they might make it out alive.

But now the Chimera seemed resigned to his fate. He knew death was coming. Dying at Dohi’s hands was probably better than at the hands of the wicked people that had made him into a monster.

Dohi thought about what he could do.

He was sick of killing. Sick of hunting. And sick of hiding.

Maybe there was another option.

Dohi knocked the creature out, then tied him up with supplies he had found inside the cooler. After taping the scientist’s mouth shut, he patted him down, withdrawing another keycard and ID badge.

It wouldn’t be long before his handiwork was discovered, and Dohi hurried back to the lab. The Chimeras that had been talking outside were gone.

He snuck back to the stairwell and took it up a flight of webbing-covered stairs. Idle voices and footsteps echoed in the distance, but they seemed to be coming from below, not above.

The next floor stretched out into long corridors. Old signs peeked out from behind the tendrils of red. One read, Executive Offices. The second read, Product Testing Facilities.

He followed the second sign all the way to a pair of large steel doors secured by a keycard slot. Unlike the other laboratories, this one didn’t have glass windows leading into them.

From what Dohi knew about buildings like this, that usually meant the company didn’t want the average person to see what was going on inside.

In the days of medical therapeutics testing, this was where they would hide the animal testing labs.

The low growl of voices forced him to shrink into a doorway. Two soldiers on patrol walked down the corridor. He had to figure out a way past them and into those labs—and do it quickly before the monsters saw or smelled him.

He tried to formulate a plan as he hid, but when he heard an all-too human scream of agony, he clamped up.

The scream came again, and Dohi recognized the voice.

It was Ace, but it wasn’t his normal scream of fear—it sounded like he was being torn apart.

— 24 —

Beckham was almost halfway to Mount Katahdin when the primary pilot of their chopper broke the news.

Lower Manhattan had fallen.

“Did anyone escape?” Rico asked.

“There was an evacuation,” replied the pilot. “But they said it happened too fast to save everyone.”

Beckham listened to the story of how the collaborators had ambushed the defenses at Battery Park before Variants flooded the outpost. His gut clenched at the thought of Fischer and his team being overwhelmed by the enemy forces.

“They must have found out the president and science team were there,” Horn said.

Beckham agreed, but he was surprised the collaborators had used ground forces instead of the nuke.

Then again, why waste a nuke when your army is so powerful?

If the collaborators were saving that nuke, that meant his family was still in danger and so was the president, no matter where they decided to go.

Leaving them back at command had been one of the hardest things Beckham had done. He had hugged Kate for over a minute, praying this wasn’t the last time. He did the same thing with Javier.

Then Beckham had said the rest of his goodbyes and boarded the Black Hawk with a new primary pilot. Liam joined them as the secondary. Four Marines were also assigned to the mission. They sat in the seats next to Beckham, along with Rico and Horn.

In the past, Beckham had known his team well, but the four newcomers were men he had just met.

They at least looked rested, which was more than Beckham, Rico, and Horn could say. The operators had been on the move for the past two days, only grabbing brief reprieves here and there.

Beckham was used to fighting exhausted, but this was different. He was almost a decade older and his body was battered. He couldn’t see well out of his right eye, and the new prosthetic leg they had grabbed at the bunker wasn’t properly fitted.

All it takes is all you got, he thought.

“It’s on us now,” Beckham said. “We can’t fail.”

They went over the plan. Two more teams would carry out their own strikes on Katahdin to ensure better odds of success. Each team was a failsafe in case any of the others were killed or captured.

The only intel they had on the site was an old Cold War map that General Souza had scrounged up from classified archives.

Beckham held it up and searched for insertion points. There were multiple ways into the base, which meant they would have to split up.

“We’re passing Boston now,” Liam said.

Putting the map aside, Beckham turned to look out the window. A huge section of the city burned on the horizon.

Another outpost utterly wiped out.

Anger boiled inside of him as he watched the flames.

Nearly an hour later, when they flew past Portland that anger boiled over into unbridled fury. Remembering his former life, the peace they had for eight years—it was all too much.

The Variants and their human allies had returned like a cancer with an insatiable appetite, killing everything in their path.

“Ten minutes to LZ,” said Liam.

“The other two strike teams have landed,” said the primary pilot.

Rico bowed her head. She hadn’t said much for the past hour, but Beckham knew she was worrying about more than this raid. Fitz was still out west with Dohi and Ace. So far, no one had heard anything from them.

He looked at his watch.

Three in the morning.

“This may be the most important mission of our life,” Beckham said. “And I don’t say that lightly.”

He paused to sweep his gaze over the warriors in front of him.

“No mistakes, we keep it tight, and fast,” Beckham said.

“And we send these assholes to hell,” Horn added.

“Oorah!” said the Marine sergeant.

The other Marines finished checking their NVGs and gear, and began loading their weapons.

“Horn, you got point, Rico, rearguard,” Beckham said. “Radio silent from here on out, we’ll meet at the blast doors. Watch for traps and sensors.”

Horn pulled his skull bandana up over his mouth and tied it behind his head. Beckham snapped his NVGs down.

The bird lowered over the forest, whipping the branches of the pine trees.

“Looks good!” said the primary pilot.

Rico placed the braided rope onto the hook. One-by-one, the Marines and soldiers fast-roped to the bed of pine needles below.

Beckham was the last to go.

“Good luck!” Liam said.

Beckham nodded at his new friend, then slid out into the cold early morning.

The chopper pulled up and disappeared over the trees. They would put down and wait until the mission was complete.

The Marines spread out, heading east to ensure if one team was ambushed, another might have a chance, in addition to the other two teams that had landed in other locations.

Horn led the way and Beckham scanned the black and green hue of his night vision. He searched the pine trees and ferns growing along the base of the mountain that could hide snipers or other traps.

Horn moved fast, his SAW roving for targets. Beckham alternated between his NVGs and the thermal detection on his M4A1. Every time they paused, he flipped up his NVGs and scanned for heat signatures.

It might not pick up the beasts if they had thermally camouflaged themselves, but it would pick up any collaborators.

Horn started up a hill, keeping low. Beckham went next, and Rico followed close behind. At the crest, they moved out in combat intervals through a forest.

Beckham held up a hand, then stopped to scan their surroundings.

Sure enough, there was a heat signature in the rocks. Someone was lying prone on a ledge. He motioned to the outcropping. Rico and Horn took cover.

Beckham kept his scope up as he searched for a better vantage, making sure the sniper didn’t move. Finding a rock cluster of his own, he aimed at the suspected collaborator.

If he missed, the sniper would sound an alarm.

He was only going to get one chance.

Lining up the sights, he held his breath, and then squeezed the trigger.

The body of his target jerked, then went still.

Beckham sighed with relief.

Horn and Rico fell in line with him, and they worked their way up another hill. Halfway up, Beckham heard footsteps over the rustle of the wind through the trees. He searched for heat signatures, but saw nothing.

Maybe it was just in his mind.

As they advanced, loose rocks and mud made progress difficult, but the new blade, uncomfortable as it was, still performed better than the improvised junk prosthetic they had put together on the last mission.

He balled his hand when he saw movement ahead.

A look through his scope confirmed the heat signatures of two men patrolling a path.

Beckham, Horn, and Rico slipped off the side of the path and into the trees to flank the collaborators.

When he was in position, Horn burst onto the trail, tackling one of the men into the brush. Rico took her knife to the other man’s throat, sawing his neck open.

Beckham spotted a third soldier further down the trail and fired a suppressed burst into his chest. The team pulled the corpses off the path before continuing up the trail.

A few minutes later they came to a clearing where they spotted an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter. Beckham took cover behind the brush on a side of the clearing with a road leading right through a set of open blast doors.

This was their target.

He scoped out the area, but saw nothing.

Had the Marines already beat him here?

Cautiously, he started toward the blast doors with Rico and Horn flanking him.

When they reached the tunnel, they found spent shell casings littering the ground and the scent of cordite drifting through the wide corridor. But there was no sign of the Marines or any hostiles.

Maybe one of their other teams had reached this place first and engaged the collaborator guards.

Horn took the lead with his SAW down a passage wide enough for a truck. Overhead lights guided them to another smaller door that had been left open.

They cleared the tunnel and entered a narrow concrete corridor. An intersection gave them two options. Beckham paused to get his bearings. The missile silo would be further from the mountain where the ground was flatter.

He headed down the left passage that he thought would take them away from the mountain. They didn’t find any guards, which made Beckham uneasy.

If the Marines or one of other teams were inside, then the collaborators knew they were here. Their cover might already be blown.

A trail of blood supported that theory.

Beckham increased his pace. The concrete tunnels led to more doors. He didn’t bother trying to clear the rooms. They didn’t have time. With no signs pointing to a nuclear silo or any other leads, Horn simply followed the blood.

The trail continued around a corner until it stopped outside an open door to another chamber. Moonlight streamed through an open roof. Beckham could smell the forest and something else…

The stench of death.

Rifle up, he slowly entered. Another step and he stopped to flip up his NVGs. Cast in moonlight were bodies centered in the concrete chamber.

Not bodies…pieces of bodies.

The Marines, he realized. The men were nothing but shreds of ragged flesh and bones. He only recognized them because of their scattered weapons.

A growl sounded and Beckham turned to look for the monsters when a beast knocked him to the ground. Horn and Rico fired, blasting two men before a group of collaborators in black fatigues overwhelmed them from the shadows.

Beckham tried to push himself up, but his captor pressed down on his back. He twisted to try and grab the neck of the Variant.

But it wasn’t a monster. Not fully.

This creature was half Variant, half man.

The beast held a saw-toothed cutlass to Beckham’s neck and snarled. The scarred face was similar to the corpses he had seen in Denver, and just like the ones Team Ghost had reported on the West Coast.

Chimeras, Ghost had called them.

They weren’t alone.

Two actual men walked over, one with dreadlocks and the other with a thick beard.

The guy with dreads knelt in front of Beckham with a smile.

The monster with the cutlass applied pressure, drawing blood as the blade bit into Beckham’s neck.

“Holy shit,” the dreadlocked man said. “You’re Captain Reed Beckham, aren’t you? I wasn’t expecting to see you, but I should have known.”

Beckham looked for a way out. But there were four of the Chimeras. Rico and Horn were already pinned against a wall. A fifth beast writhed on the ground, groaning, but still alive. Only one of the creatures was dead from a bullet to the skull.

“Get him up,” said the man in front of Beckham.

Beckham was yanked up by his captor and joined his friends against the wall. For the first time since they had entered, he got a good look at his surroundings.

Other prisoners were trapped by Variant glue across the room, but most appeared to be dead. Only a few other soldiers fought against their organic restraints. They had to be the other teams Ringgold had sent.

“I’d like to introduce you to someone,” said the guy with dreads. He gestured to a shadowed corner where blood had pooled out into the moonlight.

Out of the black strode an Alpha bigger than Horn. Blood dripped out of the corners of its elongated jaw.

The beast approached slowly. Black eyes flashed yellow as they roved from Beckham to Horn and then to Rico. The monster went to her first and licked his lips with a lizard-like tongue.

“Beautiful…” he said in a gravelly voice. Spittle and blood painted her face as he breathed in and out with deep gasps.

The abomination of nature leaned closer, its jaw widening. As the lips parted, the gums burst open like a blooming flower.

But this was no flower.

The fleshy petals were ridged in tiny sharp teeth. Hundreds of them.

Rico squirmed, trying to get away.

“Our general likes females the best,” said the man with dreads. “They taste better.”

Horn broke away from his captors, throwing one to the ground. He rushed the general. A Chimera slammed into him before he could get close. They hit the ground, rolling while Beckham and Rico shouted.

Horn managed to knock the beast out with an elbow to the head. As soon as he got up, a second Chimera tackled him. Then a third helped hold him down.

The Alpha remained next to Rico, licking its lips. Long webs of saliva stretched across the red petal-like gums.

Beckham fought against his restraints, his veins and eyes bulging as he tried to get free.

“HORN!” he screamed.

Rico shouted and squirmed too, trying to get away from those sharp, red petals.

But none of it mattered.

There weren’t any allies left to hear their screams.

Beckham hadn’t led his team to the nuclear silo; he had led them straight to a feeding chamber.

He watched in horror as the Alpha leaned in to feast on Rico. She twisted and tried to pull back, whimpering in agony.

The petals opened wider as it prepared to clamp down on her face.

But the beast suddenly tilted his head, ears perking. It looked toward the opening in the ceiling, sniffing the air through slitted nostrils.

All of the meaty flaps covered in teeth retracted. The Alpha snarled at Rico then directed its wild eyes at the collaborators.

The beast growled.

“We’re not alone,” he said. “Send out the thralls.”

***

Fitz lay naked on the cold surface of a surgical table, his arms buckled in place by metal clasps.

On an adjacent table, Ace was also secured. His naked body was bruised and swollen from the torture they had endured. Blood dribbled from his busted nose.

Fitz moved his head just enough to see a few other bodies on surgical tables.

But these were not men. They were Chimeras with gray flesh and clawed hands. Each one long dead, their bodies cut open to reveal glistening insides.

The door to the macabre operating room opened and footsteps echoed through the space.

Lloyd walked up to Fitz.

“I think we’ll start with this one. Get over here, Corrin,” said the scientist.

Someone else joined Lloyd. As Fitz strained to see the assistant, he noticed Corrin wasn’t a man. Reptilian eyes peeked over a surgical mask. Half-Variant and half-Human. A Chimera, just like the dead specimen scattered on the other tables.

In clawed hands, he carried a scalpel and a drill.

Ace bucked against his restraints, grumbling and cursing.

Lloyd peered over his surgical mask at Fitz. He tapped a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

“What is that?” Fitz asked.

Lloyd grinned his yellow smile. “An improvement to VX-99. The first of many doses.”

He set down the syringe on a metal tray next to the table and took a scalpel from Corrin.

“We’ve found the process works faster if we can replace some of your organs with those of an evolved Variant,” Lloyd said. “Primes the pump, if you will.”

“It won’t work on me,” Fitz said. “I’ll never fight for the New Gods.”

Lloyd laughed. “Corrin thought he was a rebel once, too. Now look at him.”

Corrin said nothing. He just stared blankly at Fitz with those yellow eyes.

“Our formulation—we like to call it VX-102—ensures the neurological changes you’ll experience are just enough to keep you from retaining any self-will. Most importantly, you’ll become the perfect predator Colonel Gibson tried to create all those decades ago in Vietnam with Lieutenant Brett.”

“Don’t,” Ace said. He let out a long groan. “Don’t hurt Fitz.”

Lloyd walked over and put a gloved hand on Ace. “You’ll make a good soldier for the New Gods, too. But it’s the cripple’s turn first.”

He returned to Fitz and picked up the scalpel again.

“We can make you whole again.” He glanced at Fitz’s thighs. “Don’t you want that?”

“I’m not broken,” Fitz said. “I’ve always been whole, and I’ll fight for the Allied—”

Lloyd pressed the scalpel against Fitz’s chest without warning. The scorching electricity of every breaking nerve ripped through his body, and he let out a long howl of pain.

“No!” Ace shouted. He squirmed back and forth, rocking the table slightly.

Lloyd handed the bloody scalpel to Corrin.

Wincing, Fitz glanced down to see a red line where Lloyd had started the first incision. Blood started to spread over his flesh.

Lloyd had promised to keep them awake throughout the surgery, saying it would help him keep tabs on their mental status as he applied his diabolical treatments.

Now Fitz found himself wishing to be back in the webbing, being pulled apart instead of cut apart. In seconds, Lloyd would start tearing his organs from his body.

Suddenly, muffled sounds and a bang against the door to the operating room broke Lloyd’s focus. The crazy scientist furrowed his brow, then turned toward the door.

“What’s that all about?” he asked. “Distracting from our experiments again, those Neander—”

The door burst open before he could finish his sentence, and two Chimeras strode in wearing dirty fatigues covered in blood. One of the mutant soldiers held the other hostage with a pistol.

Fitz tried to understand what was going on. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one confused.

“What are you doing?” Lloyd asked. “This is authorized access only, and you—”

The soldier fired, and the hostage crumpled from a bullet to the skull. Then the soldier aimed the smoking gun barrel at Lloyd.

“Stop this!” screamed the scientist, holding up his hands. “You must stop!”

The soldier fired.

A bullet punched into Lloyd’s upper chest. He looked down in shock as blood blossomed in the neat hole. He put a hand over the wound and looked up at the Chimera. The creature fired again.

Lloyd fell back against the wall, sliding down, blood streaking down the clean white. His wild blue and brown eyes lowered as he wheezed.

Then the gun went to Corrin.

“Patch them up now,” said the soldier.

Corrin hesitated.

The Chimera pulled off his mask to reveal his face. It was Dohi!

“You made it…” Fitz stammered.

Corrin still didn’t move.

“Patch them up!” Dohi commanded again.

The beast man finally moved to a cabinet. Then he went to work on Fitz with surgical glue, quickly closing up the cut.

Fitz blinked through the exhaustion and shock, his battered body aching everywhere as the Chimera cleaned him up.

Dohi watched, holding a gun to Corrin’s head.

“Get me out of here,” Ace grumbled.

“Hold up,” Dohi said.

“You’ll never escape,” crackled a voice.

It was Lloyd, somehow still alive.

“We will, but you won’t,” Dohi said.

Lloyd chuckled, and then started coughing.

“The New Gods have already won,” Lloyd said. “This land…is theirs.”

While keeping the gun trained on Corrin, Dohi went over to Ace and undid the restraints. Ace was slow to move, but he managed to sit up, his naked body trembling.

Dohi withdrew a syringe. “You’re going to need this.”

“What…is it?” Ace asked.

“Adrenaline.”

He jabbed the needle into Ace and depressed the plunger. The big operator gasped and gripped his chest. While he recovered, Dohi gave Fitz another shot. Then he told Corrin to follow him into the hall.

Ace stumbled over to pick up a drill while Fitz sat up on the table. The scientist looked at both of them in turn.

“Ah man, I’ve been waiting for this,” Ace said. He limped to Lloyd and kicked him with a naked foot.

In his weakened state, Ace couldn’t even summon enough strength to knock the dying man over from his position against the wall.

Lloyd merely huffed, his skin growing paler. “This war…is already over… The Master will…”

“As long as I’m still alive, it ain’t,” Ace said. He bent down, grimacing, then he drilled a hole through Lloyd’s ear as he screamed. The sound lasted for a few moments before he finally went limp.

Corrin and Dohi returned with some of the gear and clothing Ghost had brought on the mission. Best of all, they had the prosthetics Fitz would need to get out of this place.

Dohi simply stared at Ace.

“What?” Ace said.

“Nothing.” Dohi helped Fitz put on the prosthetics and then helped him off the table.

“How do we get out of here?” Fitz asked.

“There’s a garage,” Dohi said. “Our new friend, Corrin, is taking us there.”

The beast glanced at Fitz with yellow eyes, but then looked away sheepishly. He didn’t protest or exhibit the brutal aggression the other Chimeras did. He seemed more like a slave instead of a soldier.

Fitz glanced down at Lloyd’s body on the floor before they left. Blood drizzled out of his ear.

Dohi led the small group into the hall where he switched his handgun for the suppressed M4 slung over his vest.

Blood pooled over the floor from the Chimeras Dohi had already dispatched in the corridor. Fitz grabbed an MP5 off one and extra magazines. Ace found an AK-47 and loaded up on ammo.

They were both in bad shape and plodded along slowly. Fitz did everything he could to stay focused, but even with the adrenaline it was tough. His laceration felt like it would split with the gentlest exertion, and the bruises across his body burned with even the most careful of movements.

Dohi opened a door and swept his rifle over the landing and stairs.

“Clear,” he said.

They went down the stairwell.

By the time they reached the bottom, Fitz gasped for air. Each breath set his lungs on fire again, his ribs throbbing with pain. Already he could feel the temporary bandages over his chest working free. Blood started to drip into his fatigues.

The howl of a Variant took his mind away from the pain.

Dohi looked back to Corrin. “Which way to the garage?”

The beast growled out the directions.

Dohi aimed his gun at Corrin’s face. “You telling the truth?”

Fitz squinted at Corrin, trying to figure out if the half-man behind those monstrous features was walking them right into a trap.

“Doctor Lloyd was lying to you,” Corrin said. “My mind isn’t theirs. They took me as a slave. They threatened to turn my family into monsters like this too if I didn’t help.”

“Collaborators lie all the fucking time,” Dohi said.

“Fine. Kill me,” Corrin said. “It’s better than living like this…like an experiment…”

Howls and shrieks of more Variants echoed into the stairwell.

“Lead us to the garage,” Fitz said.

Dohi kept going down the stairs until they reached a door that opened to the parking garage Corrin had promised. Two Humvees with National Guard logos on the sides were parked here. A pickup truck and two sedans were next to them between concrete columns.

At the other end of the garage, a ramp with a gate arm across it led directly to the alley behind CECO. Four Chimeras stood guard outside, hardly visible.

“Quiet and quick,” Fitz said.

They snuck through the garage, hiding behind the pillars until they reached the first Humvee. Unlike most in-service military vehicles, this one didn’t have a cable wrapped around the steering wheel to lock it in place.

Fitz helped Ace into the back of the vehicle, and Dohi stuffed Corrin in next to Ace.

“You’re coming as insurance,” Dohi said. “Ace, keep him secured.”

“All right,” Ace mumbled.

Fitz looked through the windshield at the four guards standing at the exit.

All they had to do was get past them and then drive to the boat in the cove. If they made it to Marrowstone, they would be free, ready for pickup by the Canadians.

All it takes is all you got, Fitz thought to himself.

He didn’t have much left, but he did have something—the will to survive and the heart to keep fighting so he could see Rico again.

With a flip of the ignition switch, the engine roared to life. The four Chimeras at the exit swiveled, throwing their hands up to shield their eyes from the headlights.

Fitz mashed the pedal, and the big tires squealed for a second before the Humvee launched forward. One of the soldiers fired a burst of gunfire that ricocheted off the vehicle and cracked the windshield.

“Down!” Fitz yelled.

He ducked as they smashed into two soldiers. Their bodies crunched under the tires. The other two Chimeras continued firing, bullets riddling the back of the Humvee.

The gate arm snapped as Fitz blasted through it and took them into the alley. He swerved onto a street, then drove straight down Pike Street.

Variants took to the road in pursuit, galloping on all fours. Some jumped out in front of the Humvee, but Fitz kept his foot on the gas. The heavy vehicle flattened them, hardly even jolting over each beast.

Fitz swerved past debris and charred vehicles until he got to an open stretch. He pushed the pedal down again, accelerating away.

Bullets pinged against the Humvee as Chimera soldiers stormed the street from CECO.

He took a right turn. A clang on top of the Humvee caused him to duck. A Variant pried open the hatch on top. Dohi brought his rifle up and fired.

The surgical glue had come loose, and more blood trickled through his fatigues, but Fitz kept driving. He took side streets, doing anything he could to throw the Chimeras and their beasts off his tracks.

His heart finally started to calm when he saw Smith Cove Park. He drove straight over the curb and only slowed to a stop in the overgrown grass when they reached the tree where they had hidden their boat.

Dohi leapt out and sprinted to the RIB, then dragged it toward the water. Ace lumbered over, favoring his right leg, as he took Corrin with him. Fitz followed, his muscles protesting with every step.

“On our six!” Ace yelled as Dohi shoved the boat into the water.

Fitz went to a knee, joints protesting at the movement. He sighted up a monster lunging from behind them in the moonlight and squeezed the trigger. Rounds blasted through the wart-covered face. It tripped over its own limbs, sliding across the grass.

Two more creatures bounded around it.

Dohi started the RIB’s motor, and Ace pushed Corrin over the gunwale before stumbling in himself. Fitz picked off the two remaining creatures, riddling them with three bullets each.

He lowered his gun and hobbled over to the boat, sliding over the side.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said.

Dohi motored away from the shore as other creatures swarmed toward their position, running on all fours from the surrounding streets.

A few jumped into the water, trying to swim after them, their armored flesh reflecting the moonlight. But with the boat going full throttle, they couldn’t keep up.

Fitz took a long, deep breath. Ghost had escaped CECO, thanks to Dohi’s heroic efforts, and now with Corrin’s capture, they had the crucial evidence they needed for General Kamer and anyone else who questioned the evil here.

A single look at the Chimera was a powerful reminder that this war wasn’t for the fate of the Allied States. Even General Kamer would have to recognize what an army of these creatures could do to Canada.

— 25 —

The drive to Mount Katahdin had taken less time than Timothy had anticipated. He chalked that up to driving well-above normal, safe speeds, making it in a little over seven hours. The only time they stopped was to fill up with the gasoline they had taken from the ambushed convoy.

Wearing night-vision goggles had helped him navigate the dark route.

Ruckley had dozed off for part of the ride. Timothy didn’t blame her, given her injured arm. She was wide awake now, staring through the windshield. Fresh bandages covered her injuries, but with all the muscle damage, she couldn’t even lift her rifle.

By the time Timothy saw the mountain in the moonlight, it was nearly three-thirty in the morning.

“Why don’t I see any fire?” she asked. “The military should have leveled this place by now.”

Timothy eased off the gas. The tires crunched on the wet, rocky country road.

“They got our message,” Ruckley said. “You sure that is Mount Katahdin?”

“Yes,” Timothy said. The images of his time underground here and his captivity were seared into his memory.

The two corporals, Winslow and Carey, offered no explanation.

“Maybe they’re still preparing an attack,” Ruckley tried.

“We radioed it in like six hours ago!” Timothy said. “They could’ve leveled this place if they wanted.”

Ruckley squirmed, a grimace on her face under the NVGs. “I don’t think it’s a question of if they wanted to or not. What if they couldn’t?”

The implications chilled Timothy to his core.

“She’s right,” Winslow said. “There might not be any aircraft left. God, for that matter, maybe there isn’t anyone left to take this place out.”

He said what they all didn’t want to admit.

But Timothy knew it wasn’t entirely true.

“I’m still breathing, and I see three soldiers who can still fight,” Timothy said. “If it’s only us, then so be it. I’m ready to destroy this place.”

Ruckley let out a half snort. “I wish I could have met your old man. Guy must’ve been one tough son-of-bitch and a hell of a warrior to have a son like you.”

“He was,” Timothy said. “Like our new friends.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he looked at Winslow and Carey. The bearded men were battle-scarred veterans. Not only had they served in the first war, but they’d been deployed to Afghanistan before the Variants had surged across the Earth.

“Y’all ready?” Ruckley asked.

Two nods from the back seat.

“Pull off ahead,” Ruckley said. “Let’s take the rest of the way on foot.”

Timothy slid the truck between the trees, ensuring their parking spot was well-concealed, then killed the engine. All four hopped out and began hiking into the woods. Winslow and Carey took the lead with Timothy in the middle and Ruckley hanging back. She was armed with only an M9 and a few hand grenades.

Taking cautious steps, Timothy swept his NVGs back and forth over the trees. He thought back to his captivity, trying to remember anything that might give him a clue how to get into the base. While he hadn’t spent much time outside the base without a blindfold, he remembered the camouflaged staging area where the collaborators had taken him when they launched their mission to destroy Outpost Portland.

Back then, he had studied his surroundings to try to figure out where he was.

If he could just recognize the same view he’d seen that night, then he could lead the group into one of the base’s entrances.

The trek out of the valley toward the mountain was painfully slow, especially with Ruckley. Timothy glanced over his shoulder, watching her injured gait. Her wounds weren’t just slowing them down. They put the entire group at risk. The blood saturating her bandages would call any prowling Variants from a mile away.

Roving his rifle, he searched for any sign of motion. Rippling grass or the flash of pale flesh. He saw nothing out there.

Maybe the beasts were too far tonight. Otherwise, he suspected they would have already attacked.

The team went up a slope, boots squishing in the mud. Timothy was the first to crest the hill. He slipped through a maze of towering pine trees, the scent of their needles drifting on a cold wind.

Carey bent down a few feet away. Timothy stopped when the corporal motioned for the rest of the team. They gathered around his position, and he pointed to tracks in the mud.

Most looked like they had come from boots—collaborator or military, Timothy couldn’t tell. But there was one set of prints that appeared different from the others.

Half the tracks were from a boot and the other half was simply a flattened, square-shaped divot in the mud.

Winslow and Carey pushed on, but Timothy hesitated. He couldn’t help but picture Fitz and Beckham. The strange print looked like it might have come from someone with a prosthetic.

Those two might be alive somewhere in the States, but after everything that had happened, he doubted it. Even the experienced operators were no match for an enemy as ruthless and powerful as he had seen.

“Keep moving,” Ruckley said.

He walked next to her through the woods, still thinking of his old friends. When Timothy lived on Peaks Island, he had viewed Beckham and Horn as uncles. They had always looked out for him like he was part of their family.

He had loved them, and he had thought they loved him, too. But apparently he had been wrong. They had abandoned him the night Outpost Portland was hit by collaborators.

Remembering the past reminded Timothy of something his father used to say.

Anger eats our insides like cancer. You need to learn to let it go.

His dad had told him that when Timothy was upset with Bo over some stupid thing he couldn’t even recall.

Now, his dad and Bo were both gone.

Anger had done nothing to fill the void they had left behind.

His dad was right.

Timothy needed to let go of his anger. He needed to forgive Beckham and Horn. They hadn’t killed his dad. In fact, they had saved his dad and him almost a decade ago, risking their own lives for people they didn’t even know.

He was no longer the naïve child who thought they would just leave him at Portland for no good reason. They couldn’t possibly have known what would happen to him.

Instead of ascribing his rage to Beckham and Horn, he focused on who really deserved it: The collaborators.

He hurried to keep up with the other three soldiers.

Not ten minutes later, they discovered another set of tracks. A single set of shoeprints headed in nearly the opposite direction of the first tracks. These looked fresh, which meant there might be patrols or snipers out here.

Timothy moved his finger to his trigger, ready to blast the first one he saw.

They soon reached a rocky overlook. Timothy started to walk toward the side with Ruckley, but she halted and knelt. He dropped beside her to examine a body.

It was a man in a ghillie suit, a bullet hole in his neck and cheek. In rigor mortis, he still held a sniper rifle aimed at the valley where they had parked below.

“Someone’s here after all,” Winslow said.

“Thank God for that,” Carey said. “This guy would’ve had the drop on us.”

Ruckley nodded. “You think the military sent in a tactical team instead of bombing the place?”

“I hope so,” Winslow said.

“If they did, wouldn’t we hear voices or gunshots?” Timothy asked. Then he got a sick feeling in his gut when he started to answer his own question. “Unless we already lost the fight…”

Ruckley exhaled, her breath misting.

“If that’s true, we shouldn’t follow the same tracks the other strike force did,” Carey said. “We need a different way in.”

“Agreed,” Ruckley said, beginning to retreat.

Timothy looked over the ledge. He noticed a flat area where swathes of trees seemed to have been cut down in the distance. When he squinted, he thought he could see some kind of camouflage netting draping over where the trees had been.

It struck him then.

That was the area above the chambers where he had been kept with the other prisoners—and those trees had been destroyed by bombs.

“Hey, hold up,” Timothy said. “I think that’s where they held me prisoner.”

Carey scoped the section of burned forest.

“There’s a back way into the facility from there,” Timothy said. “I remember it well. Plus, the bombs left holes in the ceiling. There might be more ways in.”

Winslow looked for a way down. He found one a moment later and motioned for the team to follow him down the steep hill.

At the bottom, they continued through the dense forest. A chill ran through Timothy as they got closer to the chamber. Memories of the horror came back to him. The dead bodies, the Variants feeding.

Timothy pressed his rifle against his shoulder. He stayed close to Ruckley. She had taken point and Winslow and Carey were on rearguard to cover their tracks.

Fifteen minutes into the march she held up a hand at the edge of the forest. Creaking tree branches sang through the cold morning like a gust of wind had suddenly swept through the woods.

But Timothy only saw the rustling branches in a slight breeze.

Ruckley paused beside him, both scanning the white trees in the green hue of their optics for contacts.

A cracking sounded behind them.

Timothy checked over his shoulder to look for Winslow and Carey.

His heart sank.

Both men were gone.

“Sergeant,” Timothy whispered. His shaking voice caught when he saw a flash of white dart between the trees.

“Ruckley,” he whispered again.

He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to make sure she had heard him. He focused solely on the woods where the seemingly camouflaged Variant had flanked them.

Was this the only one out there? Had it taken both corporals alone?

Heart pounding, Timothy aimed his rifle over the shadowy forest.

Still he saw nothing.

The beast had vanished liked a ghost.

A hand clenched his shoulder, and he flinched, biting the inside of his cheek.

“When I say run, you run,” said Ruckley.

Timothy gave a nod.

Before she could give the command, figures seemed to melt out of the trees, their eyes glowing. Half of the camouflaged beasts moved on all fours over the ground. Others leapt between branches.

Timothy counted ten, but there had to be more. There was no way to win this fight, and running wouldn’t get them far.

The creatures closed in. Lips popped, and joints cracked. He heard the noises from behind him and Ruckley.

He knew that as soon as he squeezed the trigger, they would all rush him, tearing him into ribbons. Pulling the trigger would also alert the collaborators to their position.

“What do we do?” Timothy asked.

There must be a way out. Some way to save themselves.

Ruckley pressed her back against his. She gave her only answer by firing a gunshot. Timothy fired a burst from his rifle, blowing off the top of a skull.

“RUN!” she shouted.

He turned and bolted after her, dodging past a pair of swiping beasts. He let his rifle fall on its sling and held it against his body with one hand. With the other, he pulled out his pistol. He needed as much speed as he could get.

They raced for the clearing where the prison chambers were. Beasts ran alongside them, darting around the trees. He let loose a few rounds to keep them back. Bullets punched into trees and flesh; splintering bark and bone.

Angry howls pierced the night.

Timothy sucked in deep breaths, his lungs burning. They were almost to the chamber. He could see the hole in the ground.

Turning, he fired at a beast galloping to catch up. A bullet punctured its shoulder, driving into its chest. The monster tumbled into a bed of pine needles.

Ruckley screamed as a beast tackled her. It hopped up and dragged her away from the pack and into the woods at a remarkable speed.

“Ruckley!” he yelled.

“RUN!” she screamed back.

And then she was gone, her cries escaping from wherever it must have taken her underground.

Timothy ran over the splintered trees and ravaged landscape. Three Variants cut him off from going after Ruckley. Moments later, the ground shook once, then twice. The explosions were coming from underground, and his heart sank. Maybe that was Ruckley setting off her grenades, sacrificing herself to stop the monsters.

He was truly alone now. His head swiveled as he searched for an escape. Finally, he spotted another beast running for a hole in the ground where moonlight flooded a chamber.

There! He thought.

He sprinted toward it, his muscles screaming for oxygen, his body at its limits, his mind still trying to wrap around what had happened to Ruckley.

The Variants circled between the fallen and shredded trees, trying to surround him as he neared the hole. But they were hanging back now, almost like they were afraid of this place.

He stopped, sucking in air to catch his breath as he watched the beasts cautiously prowl the perimeter. They stayed close to the cover of the trees and rocks, saliva dripping from the corners of their sucker lips.

“Drop your weapon,” came a voice.

A group of four men in fatigues appeared from behind the trees surrounding the entrance to the chamber. All carried machine guns, and they were all pointed at Timothy.

He prepared to fight back but froze when he recognized a man with dreadlocks.

It was Pete.

The leader walked over with a gun aimed at Timothy. Another man Timothy recognized joined him. Nick, the manipulative asshole and Pete’s right-hand man.

“Lower your weapon,” Nick said.

Timothy’s heart kicked. This was his chance. He could kill them both here and now. Sure, he would die, too, but he would get his revenge.

What he wouldn’t do, was stop the nuke. Countless innocent people would perish.

Then again, when they realized who he was, they would probably kill him anyway.

It was now or never.

He brought his pistol up to fire. A bullet slammed against his chest before he could squeeze the trigger. Shock dulled his senses, and he dropped to his knees. The pistol fell from his grip. He looked down at his chest, patting it and wheezing until he felt the hole in his vest.

Red crept over his vision. He tried to suck in a breath, but his lungs felt like mush, exploding with agony when he did.

A pair of boots stomped toward him and kicked away his gun.

Then someone bent down and pried off his night vision goggles.

“I’ll be damned,” said Nick.

“What?” Pete asked.

“You got to see this,” Nick replied.

Two faces hovered over Timothy. He could smell their breath, and he tried to reach out, to choke one, maybe. But he was too weak, the pain too much to fight back. He slumped over, still gasping.

“Well shit, the world’s way smaller than I thought,” Pete said. “The New Gods really blessed us tonight. Not only do we have Captain Reed Beckham, but now we got the prick kid who betrayed us.”

***

“Let Timothy go…” Beckham stammered. Slung up on a concrete wall, he was suspended in a mixture of the slimy glue from the Variants and webbing.

Nick couldn’t believe it. The famous heretic and traitor, Captain Reed Beckham, had walked right into their clutches. And the young guy who Nick had thought died in Outpost Portland had wandered back too.

All in the same night.

Even crazier, the two traitorous assholes knew each other.

The sound of a chopper thrummed in the distance. Nick looked up through the jagged moonroof in the chamber ceiling as a Little Bird crossed the moon.

The general had called off his trip early and was returning to their Master. It was no longer safe for him at Katahdin now that this location had been compromised. Soon Nick and his comrades would follow.

The general’s business here was finished anyway. But there were still some things to wrap up before Nick and Pete left.

“Let him go…” Beckham said. “My life for his.”

Nick smiled as Timothy bucked against his restraints. The kid was secured next to the famous Captain Reed Beckham and his ginger best friend, Master Sergeant Parker Horn. Another operator named Rico had joined them on the mission.

Beside them, two male soldiers, Winslow and Carey were imprisoned. The corpses of the other soldiers captured in the woods were on the cold ground or strung up on the wall.

Not really corpses, mostly just spindly bits of gristle left on the gnawed-over bones.

Nick appreciated that the military had sent foot soldiers instead of bombs. Bombs probably wouldn’t have worked anyway, but this failed attack gave the followers of the New Gods time to evacuate the facility and still launch their nuclear weapon.

Plus, their corpses had kept their visitors and the thralls well-fed.

“You failed,” Nick said to Beckham. “Do you know what happens now?”

Beckham ignored him, looking at Timothy.

“I’m sorry,” Beckham whispered. “I’m sorry we left you that night in Portland, Timothy. If only we could’ve known… I’m so sorry.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, heretic,” Pete said. He punched Beckham in the face. The impact cracked his nose, the sound echoing.

“I’m going to kill you both,” Timothy said through clenched teeth.

Pete laughed. “I’ll give you credit for making it this far, but how are you going to kill any of us tied up like that?”

Nick studied the young man. His bullet-proof vest had stopped a bullet meant for his heart. He was a lucky son of a bitch, and Nick was honestly surprised to see he had returned after Outpost Portland.

Most sane people would have run and never looked back. But not Timothy.

“It’s a shame,” Nick said. “A kid with guts like yours would have made such a good soldier for the New Gods.”

He looked up at the hole at the top of the chamber. Four sets of yellow, hungry eyes stared down. The crouching thralls licked their sucker lips, anxiously waiting to feed on the captured soldiers the general and his guards had left.

But Nick wasn’t quite ready to give up these prisoners yet. This was too satisfying, finally pressing their heels against the faces of legends like Beckham and Horn. War ‘heroes’ that had fought so long to sabotage their efforts.

“You wanted to know how we recognized you?” Nick said to Beckham. “How we knew where you and this big redneck asshole lived? We’ve been watching a very long time. It hasn’t been nearly as hard as you might think.”

Horn lifted his battered face. He let out a muffled curse behind the glue over his mouth.

“I’ve seen your daughters,” Nick said to Horn. “Very pretty. I have two of my own, and they’ll survive this war…unlike yours. It’s truly a shame.”

Horn pushed against his restraints, his jugular bulging and his eyes going wild as a monster’s.

“Don’t worry,” Pete chimed in. “Unlike yours, their deaths will be quick.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that. We’re going to launch our nuke at President Ringgold’s little bunker. Your kids won’t even know what hit ’em.”

Nick folded his arms over his chest.

“You on the other hand…” Pete said, pointing at the prisoners. “You all will feel every bite.”

Horn finally stopped struggling, his head sagging to his chest.

“I didn’t really ever foresee this as the end for Captain Reed Beckham,” Pete said. “Did you, Nick?”

“Nope,” Nick said. “We watched, planned, and waited for our chance to strike back and destroy the Allied States. I never thought it would be you who came to us like a bug flying into a spider’s web.”

Beckham glared as they spoke.

“And all that time, while I watched and waited, I wondered…” Nick stepped closer and lifted Beckham’s chin with his hand. “I wondered why Captain Reed Beckham fought with a military and served an administration that had all but destroyed his life.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Beckham grumbled. “You have no honor.”

“Honor is what losers cling to when they want to fool themselves into thinking defeat is acceptable,” Nick said.

Pete smiled at that and punched Beckham in the gut. Horn and the other prisoners squirmed like pigs realizing they were being led to slaughter.

Again and again, Pete hit Beckham.

Nick watched, but his mind drifted to what was happening outside this chamber. The families were already being loaded onto a convoy for evacuation. He couldn’t help but think about his wife, and despite it all, what Ray had told him.

Voices broke him from his thoughts. A guard who had been holding sentry entered the chamber.

“Sir, we’re ready to evacuate on your order,” he said.

“Get started,” Pete said. “We’ll be there soon.”

The guard left, and Nick stepped up to Beckham. This was the hardened warrior who had led Team Ghost into Building 8 during the early days of the first war. His team was the first to bear witness to the result of the new VX-99 that the Medical Corps had created.

“You have seen the worst of Mother Nature and man created by a corrupt government, but you still fight under the same banner,” Nick said. “You’re defending the very people who made the things you think are evil. If you can’t tell me why, then I guess we don’t have anything left to discuss. I’ll let you explain your motives to the thralls as they feed on you.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Pete said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Nick reached up with the remote that controlled the collars of the thralls, but Beckham opened his bloody lips.

“Because freedom is worth fighting for, and you…” his eyes went from Nick to Pete, then to the beasts above. “You think you’re saving the world by giving your allegiance to those things. You’re nothing but their slaves. When they’re tired of you, you’ll end up like us.”

Beckham coughed, blood-tinged spittle flying out of his mouth.

“You’re not saving humanity,” Beckham continued. “You’re ending it. You’re no better than Colonel Gibson or any of the other war criminals who created VX-99 during Vietnam.”

“After all this time, you still don’t understand.” Nick snorted and walked away.

The captain was a lost cause. He made his way down the row to Horn, then Rico. He stopped when he reached Timothy.

“Sorry, kid, wish this would’ve turned out different,” Nick said. “You had a lot of potential.”

Nick and Pete left the room, leaving the prisoners unguarded. But that wasn’t a concern. The shrieks of the Variants blasted from the chamber as soon as they closed the door.

Raising the remote, Nick clicked the button, releasing the thralls to feed. Then the two men hurried back through the halls until they reached an intersection.

Nick stopped and Pete grabbed his shoulder. “Focus, Nick. We’ve almost reached our goals, everything we’ve planned for. Forget about Diana and Ray. All that matters is the New Gods.”

Nick nodded.

“Don’t bother with her until we leave,” Pete added. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

That was a lie.

He was absolutely dealing with his wife right now, because if she had indeed betrayed him, she wasn’t leaving the mountain. He would leave her in this tomb with Ray’s corpse forever.

Pete ran toward the console where he would enter the launch codes. The powerful missile would launch straight toward the president’s bunker in Long Island that some allied scouts had discovered when they had seen Marine One flying to Lower Manhattan.

Nick wasn’t sure hitting command with the powerful nuke was the best use of it, due to the size of the blast that would occur. But he wasn’t in charge, and he had other things on his mind right now.

He headed for his family through the empty halls to the garage. There, people were loading up into the trucks with the few remaining guards. They had lost more soldiers than Nick dared count in the surprise attack from the various strike groups.

Some of the frightened people sobbed from the news of lost brothers, fathers, and sons, but Nick ignored them. His mind was dead-set on only one thing.

His wife and their daughters were in the back of the line with their bags. Nick grabbed Diana’s arm and pulled her to the shelter of a doorway while his daughters called out.

“I’ll be there in a minute!” Nick yelled back.

He took his wife through the door and shut it.

“Nick, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“Were you with Ray?”

She squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

“Did you sleep with Ray?”

She didn’t answer and he leaned in closer, until their noses nearly touched.

“I’m only going to ask you once more,” he said. “Did you sleep with Ray?”

She turned and went for the door, but he pushed his hand against it.

She slowly turned toward him, tears welling around her eyes. “He listened to me. After you hit Freya…and… He wasn’t gone as much as you…it was wrong, I didn’t want to…”

Her gaze suddenly left his, and she cowered, mouth dropping open like she was afraid he would hit her too.

“Can’t look me in the eye and tell me, huh?” he said. “You can’t—”

Footsteps clattered behind him.

He turned to find a gun pointed at his face. Behind the barrel was Timothy. Another unfamiliar soldier with bandages over her arm stood beside him. She wasn’t one of their prisoners.

“Don’t fucking move, asshole,” Timothy said.

“How…” he started to say.

“You should have made sure everyone was dead. Meet my friend, Sergeant Ruckley.”

“Your pets don’t do well against grenades,” Ruckley said.

Behind her in the hall was Beckham. But Nick didn’t see Rico or Horn.

“Listen, you can still join us,” Nick said. “You can—”

“Don’t say another goddamn word, you piece of shit,” Timothy pressed the barrel against his temple, pushing his head slightly. “Take me to the nuke.”

“Go, Diana,” Nick said, regret tingeing his voice. He might not stand a chance, but revenge wasn’t worth sacrificing his daughters for. “Get the girls out of here.”

“But…”

“Do what your asshole husband says,” Timothy said.

As much he despised his wife now, Nick was thankful Timothy was soft. His girls would need their mother if he died.

“Get the kids out of here,” Nick snapped when she didn’t move.

“You tell anyone you saw us, and he dies,” Timothy said.

Diana opened the door and left before Nick could look at her one last time.

“Take us to the missile, and I promise they’ll leave safely,” Timothy said.

Nick did as instructed, thinking only of his daughters now. They were the reason he had even answered the call on the radio that had led him to Pete and Katahdin. Everything he’d done was for them, for a better future where they lived free from the tyranny of a diabolical government masquerading as a democracy intent on subjugating mankind.

Sucking in a breath, he led them to a stairwell that he knew ended at a locked door. When they reached it, Ruckley moved past him and tried the door. “It’s locked.”

Nick tried to come up with an idea to escape. Maybe he could push them down the stairs, just like he’d done to Ray, and make a run for it.

“Give us the key,” Beckham said.

Nick reached into his pocket, pretending to fish around and buy some time.

The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against his head dispelled any notion of escape.

“You try anything stupid, and I’ll splatter your brains all over,” Timothy said. “Try me. I’d love to end you right now.”

Without another option, Nick took out the key and handed it to Ruckley. She unlocked the door. Beckham raised his rifle, advancing as soon as the door cracked open.

The operator fired two times, then kept his rifle pointed.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Timothy pushed Nick inside. Two officers lay sprawled, face-first on the floor. Pete stood in front of an office chair, his hands in the air. He glared at Nick, eyes burning with rage.

“The hell did you do, Nick?” he growled. “The HELL did you do?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ruckley said. She held a pistol with one hand, trying to steady it with the bandaged arm.

Nick wasn’t sure earlier how she had survived against the thralls. But his mistake had cost them all.

Beckham pushed a comm piece up to his lips and spoke quietly.

A few minutes later, Horn and Rico showed up, panting. They explained the other soldiers were holding security and mopping up the final guards.

“You won’t make it out of here,” Pete said.

“Neither will you or your family,” Beckham said. “Unless you give me the location of your other bases. Then we’ll bring you in, and you can live your life in a cell.”

“Bring me in where?” Pete grinned. “You’re delusional. You’ve lost this war, and I’ll never—”

Rico shot him in the neck. He staggered backwards, blood gushing out as he reached up and then fell, knocking over the chair. He tried to speak, crimson bubbles popping from his mouth. He finally slumped to the floor.

Nick swallowed hard as Rico pointed her gun at his chest. He was next and he knew it.

“You just killed the only person that knows the other bases,” Nick said, holding his hands up defensively.

“Fine, I guess you and your family aren’t worth anything to me either then,” Beckham said. He nodded, and Timothy aimed the gun at his head again.

“Wait!” Nick said.

“Tell me where they are,” Beckham said. “Tell us or your family gets to experience what it was like for all of those people in Outpost Portland. All those kids, mothers, husbands, and neighbors who died because of you!”

“I don’t know where all our bases are,” Nick said, “I do know a place where we turn men into warriors for the New Gods.”

Beckham narrowed his eyes. “Warriors?”

“Half-man, half-Variant,” Nick said. “Or what we call Scions.”

This was intel the Allied States already had according to allies out west who had told Pete and Nick about a military team that had infiltrated Seattle. Nick wouldn’t dare give them something actually useful, if he could help it.

“What else?” Beckham asked.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you. They keep us in the dark, every cell operating independently so we can’t give each other up.”

Beckham looked to Horn who shrugged.

“Okay, I believe you,” Beckham said. He nodded at Timothy.

“For my dad,” Timothy said.

He stowed his pistol and took out a knife. Stepping forward, he jabbed it in Nick’s gut and twisted. He yanked it out and wiped the blood off on Nick’s shirt. Then he put it back in the sheath and walked away as Nick gripped his stomach and stumbled.

Horn motioned to Beckham with one hand pressed to his ear as he stood over a console. “Command just gave me the authorization codes that will permanently disarm this whole base and the nuke. What do you say, boss?”

“End this fucking nightmare,” Beckham said.

Nick watched in horror as the big man entered the commands, watching the power drain from the base. He would never get to see the missile fly.

Beckham, Horn, Rico, and Ruckley left the room without saying another word, leaving Nick to bleed out over the concrete floor, pain wracking his insides. Their boots clanked down the stairs.

Nick crawled toward the door, stopping briefly at Pete’s corpse before continuing. His mind flashed with worry as his life pumped out of him, sloshing over the floor.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the mental anguish of knowing he and Pete had lost. Somehow…despite all odds, despite all their planning, Captain Reed Beckham and a kid had beat them.

Holding his slashed abdomen, Nick stumbled down the steps, leaning on the handrail. He almost fell to the landing where Ray had bled out and died.

But Nick managed to make it back to the garage. His vision had blurred but he could tell it was empty. His family was gone with the rest of the convoy.

But then, through his fading vision, he saw someone had stayed behind. Maybe someone that could help him!

It cleared enough to see it wasn’t someone.

Something…

The thralls had returned.

Ten of the beasts skittered into the room. He reached for his remote, but it was gone. Lost somewhere in the facility. And these filthy creatures didn’t have collars to control them.

He fell to his knees and looked out the open garage to see the first rays of sunlight peak over the horizon. As the monsters narrowed in on him, waiting to strike, the light turned into bright blooms.

This wasn’t the sunrise.

This was a bombing run.

The convoy was being destroyed.

— 26 —

Waves rolled into the Galveston shore, sun glinting off the whitecaps in the afternoon glare. Razor wire-topped fences lined the beach, and soldiers patrolled the sand, leaving long trails of footprints.

Compared to the shores of Peaks Island, this beach wasn’t particularly scenic, but to Beckham, it felt like paradise with his son and wife next to him.

The fences and the raw firepower gave him hope that they were safe for now.

But there was no time for strolls on the beach. Everyone had work to do in the war efforts that had brought them here.

Beckham walked along a sidewalk away from the shoreline with his family. The path took them past boarded-up buildings and old hotels transformed into barracks. The base was alive with activity as soldiers marched between posts, and vehicles chugged along the street to deliver crates of supplies.

Kate squeezed his hand as Beckham winced from pain. The Chimeras had beaten him good, leaving deep bruises across his body.

The mission to Mount Katahdin had been a success, but it was one of only a few. He still didn’t know the total number of outposts lost across the Allied States or the total death count. And while the nuke had been stopped, the military was on the run.

Vice President Lemke had set up a new central command in Puerto Rico, with General Souza and LNO Festa joining him there.

It was no surprise that President Ringgold wasn’t with them. He spotted her in the distance standing at an airfield with an entourage of guards and soldiers.

“How long are we going to stay here?” Javier asked.

“I’m not sure,” Kate replied.

“I kind of like it,” Javier said.

Kate shared a look with Beckham. Her time in those humid tunnels had been its own grueling ordeal, and he knew she was thankful to be aboveground, away from that nightmarish world for a while.

But her work was far from over.

Beckham didn’t have the heart to tell his son that right now. Although, Javier was starting to understand his parents had chosen a lifetime of service to a calling greater than either of them. If men and women like them hadn’t stepped up to defend this country, then the monsters would have won the first war.

“Hey, boss!” Horn said. He waved a big arm, jogging down the sidewalk to catch up. Tasha and Jenny led their two German shepherds on leashes, but Ginger and Spark pulled free when they saw Beckham and his family, rushing toward the group with wagging tails and slobbering kisses.

Horn scratched at his overgrown beard that hid some of his bruises and cuts. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and he limped over with a hand on his back.

“How are you feeling today, Big Horn?” Beckham asked.

“Like I fought a gorilla, and he beat the shit out of me, but I got in a few good licks against the son of a—”

Kate shot him a look, gesturing toward their son. Beckham held in a laugh. After everything they had endured, it was refreshing to cling to some sense of normalcy, even if it was just a failed attempt to shield Javier’s ears from a curse word or two.

“Sorry, Javier,” Horn said. “Let’s just say I’m glad to be in one piece.”

“Amen to that, brother,” Beckham said.

The familiar sight of S.M. Fischer’s private plane came into focus. The jet was parked on the runway as the crew prepped it for its next flight.

Silence hung over the group as they approached the side of the jet. A small group had already gathered beside the plane in a semi-circle. Beckham spotted Ruckley right away with her arm wrapped up in clean bandages. Rico was here too, and jogged over to say hello.

She had a big smile on her face now that she knew Fitz and the rest of Team Ghost were safe. Beckham gave Rico a hug and so did Horn.

The three Delta Operators and their families stood back as President Ringgold and her staff prepared to honor a selfless patriot.

General Cornelius stood nearby, the wind tugging at his white beard. Sergeant Sharp, a soldier who had fought with Fischer during the first days of the war was also here to pay his respects.

Beckham saw many familiar faces, but there was one missing—Timothy Temper.

Everyone else had gathered here today to pay their respects to a man who the Allied States owed an enormous debt—a man who had been called out of a rather comfortable position heading a wealthy company both before and after the Great War of Extinction.

Mr. S.M. Fischer.

From what Beckham had learned, Fischer had sustained multiple injuries by the time Commander Amber Massey reached him at Battery Park in Lower Manhattan. She had promised the man he would make it back to Texas.

And she had made good on that promise, delivering Fischer to an evac that got him to Long Island where President Ringgold and the science team had taken him to Galveston. But despite round-the-clock medical care, even the strength Beckham had seen in Fischer wasn’t enough to overcome the damage to his body.

Now the cowboy oil tycoon was in a closed, narrow wooden box.

“Everyone, please gather around,” said President Ringgold.

She waited for the group to form a circle around the casket.

“Thank you all for joining us today,” she continued. “S.M. Fischer impacted each and every one of us. He was a talented businessman who brought out the best in all those who worked for and with him. He had a storied career in ranching and oil.

“But the businesses that Fischer built with his own two hands isn’t all that defined him. What defined Fischer was his devotion to protecting this country when Lady Liberty called for his assistance. He had every reason to run and more than enough means at his disposal to hide somewhere safe, but he decided not to hide, and not to run—he decided to fight.”

She shook her head, a sad smile on her lips.

“By utilizing his knowledge of geoengineering and applying it to our defenses, he saved countless lives. Even in those last moments at Outpost Lower Manhattan, he stayed beside his men, doing his duty until the very end. His sacrifice and the sacrifice of his engineers and guards ensured that we had time to evacuate as many people as we possibly could.”

Ringgold looked over to another familiar face. Commander Massey from Outpost Lower Manhattan stood at the back of the crowd. She stepped forward and Ringgold gave her a nod to speak.

“I didn’t know him long, but he was a kind man. And a strong man,” Massey said. “The type of cowboy who would look a bull right in the eyes and send the bull running from him.”

That got a couple of soft chuckles and a “damn right” from General Cornelius.

“Thank you,” Ringgold said. “Now it is with great honor that I bestow Mr. S.M. Fischer with the Presidential Medal of Freedom. And it is my hope that he’ll get to finally be at peace in his beloved Texas.”

Beckham looked at the casket and the plane. He was told that General Cornelius was sending supplies out to Outpost El Paso, another place Fischer helped save. His remains would be laid to rest with his beloved wife, in a cemetery outside El Paso, not too far from his old ranch.

“Please take a moment and pray for him and the countless citizens and soldiers across the Allied States who have made the ultimate sacrifice for our country,” Ringgold said.

A moment of silence passed as people bowed their heads to reflect and pray. She then brought the brief ceremony to a close and one-by-one, people went up to the improvised casket, offering brief prayers.

As the crowd dispersed, Ringgold joined Beckham and Kate. She said hello, but he could tell the president was ready to discuss business. A short walk, and the celebration of life for Fischer was the only reprieve they would be getting.

“Why don’t you go play with the dogs a second?” Kate said to Javier.

He bobbed his head and bounded off to where Tasha and Jenny were trying to keep Ginger and Spark occupied, playing fetch with the dogs.

To Beckham’s surprise, Ringgold gave Kate a hug, and then gave him a hug, too. He embraced her back, exchanging a glance with Kate while he did.

“Your family gives me so much hope for this country, and seeing the kids like that gives me an idea of what our future looks like,” Ringgold said. “I look forward to the day we can go back to living in peace again.”

“We’ll get there,” Kate said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Me too,” Beckham said.

“I’m afraid we have a lot of work to do,” Ringgold said. “What are the next steps?”

“Now that we’ve cracked the code of communicating through the Variant network, I think we can make some real progress disrupting their plans,” Kate said. “I’m told there are some candidate sites around Houston that have direct webbing access, and I’ve already started making arrangements with my team.”

“Great, I have faith in you,” Ringgold said.

“Thank you, Madam President.”

“Captain Beckham, we’ve been relocating our defenses and routing evacuations to focus on the remaining twenty-five outposts we have, mostly concentrated in the southeast, from Florida to Texas,” Ringgold said. “I’m meeting with my advisers in a couple of hours, and I want you to be there.”

“Yes, of course, Madam President,” Beckham said. “Whatever you need.”

“In the meantime, spend time with the kids and try and get some rest,” Ringgold said. “You’ll need it.”

Soprano and a couple of Secret Service agents whisked her away, her shoes tapping on the pavement back toward the center of the outpost.

Kate grabbed Beckham’s hand in her own. “What do you say we get something to eat with the kids and Big Horn?”

“Sounds great,” Beckham said.

They started off back to Horn, the kids, and the dogs, and then made their way back to the beach where a row of food stands were serving seafood and other meals.

Beckham paused when he saw a figure on the beach, not far behind one of booths.

“Give me just a minute,” he said to Kate.

“Okay,” she replied.

Beckham hurried over to the sand where he found Timothy standing alone, staring off over the waves past the chain-link fences and guard towers. The young man didn’t look like the teenage kid he remembered from Peaks Island. His cut and bruised face was confident like that of his deceased father, Jake Temper.

“Mind if I join you?” Beckham asked Timothy.

Timothy shrugged.

For a few moments, they stood silently, taking in the view. Beckham had considered giving Timothy space in case he harbored ill-will toward him after all that had happened, but there were some things that needed to be said.

“I’ll never forget the day I met you and your dad,” Beckham said. “I had never seen anyone fight so hard against all odds, like your father. Everything he did was to protect you.”

Timothy nodded.

“I didn’t know Jake before the first war, but I’d bet my life he made a great police officer. Back on Peaks Island, there was no one else I would trust more to protect our community than your father, and that’s why he stayed behind that night, to save you and the kids, and my wife.”

“He was a brave, good man,” Timothy said.

“He was a brave, great man. And he would be proud of you beyond words. In fact, I am certain he is proud. You helped save my life at Mount Katahdin and you also helped save countless others.”

“Someone had to do it.”

“Just because someone had to do it doesn’t mean just anyone would. But you stepped up. You risked everything to stop the collaborators.”

Timothy brushed away a tear with the back of his hand. “I miss him. I miss my dad.”

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

Beckham put an arm around Timothy, and Timothy didn’t pull away.

“I’m so sorry for leaving Outpost Portland that night,” Beckham said. “When we came back for you and you had gone off, I…”

“You came back for me?”

Timothy looked over at Beckham and he loosened his grip so he could face the young man.

“Yes, Horn and I both came back, and then we went out and looked for you,” Beckham said. “A team of collaborators hit our truck and killed our driver, nearly killed us, too.”

“I… I didn’t know.”

“How would you have known? All that matters is that we’re here now, standing on this beach with a second chance to keep fighting.”

“I’ll never stop,” Timothy said.

“Me either.”

They embraced, and Beckham patted the kid on the back.

“Your old man isn’t the only one who’s proud of you. I’m so proud, Timothy, and I think there might be an opportunity for you on Team Ghost.”

Timothy brightened at that.

“But first, let’s eat,” Beckham said. “There’s plenty of time for fighting. For now, let’s spend some time with family.”

***

Fitz woke up to find his ribs burning with every breath, and his limbs scorching with electricity. He couldn’t remember being in this much pain since he had lost his legs. Every muscle in his body felt like it was going to tear from his bones.

With a gasping heave, he pushed his prosthetic blades over the side of his bed at the Banff Fairmont Hotel. They clanked against the timber floorboards as he made his way to the bathroom. There was still dried blood in the sink from earlier.

He glanced at himself in the mirror. The bruises mottling his body had grown dark purple and blue, covering nearly every inch of exposed flesh. The cut on his chest was now covered in clean bandages and properly sewn up by the Canadian medics. Just another scar to add to his collection.

Despite his pain, the past few hours of sleep had been one of the deepest in recent memory. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in a bed like this. Now it was his turn to watch their prisoner and give Ace a chance to catch some shuteye.

When he, Ace, and Dohi had arrived with Corrin, the first thing he’d wanted to do was to talk to General Kamer, not trade shifts watching the Chimera in a hotel room. He had been ready to give Kamer a piece of his mind and explain exactly why Canada needed to join the fight with the Allied States.

But General Kamer had been called away in the night to Valemont, another Canadian frontier base for a meeting with other military leaders. Apparently, the general was there to discuss provisions and supply routes before they settled in for the harsh winter.

Fitz grabbed his rifle, left the room, and went a few doors down to where four Canadian soldiers stood outside. This particular room had been transformed into a holding cell for the Banff base.

Team Ghost had told Kamer’s men they wanted to personally stand guard over the Chimera. The Canadian soldiers hadn’t seemed offended. None of them wanted the job of watching such a monstrosity.

The Canadian soldiers outside the room stiffened when they saw Fitz headed their direction. One of them unlocked the door and let Fitz in. The soldier then closed the door and relocked it with a heavy click behind Fitz.

Ace and Dohi stood in one corner, both cradling their weapons as they faced Corrin. Bars covered the windows and heavy iron shackles were wrapped around the Chimera’s ankles and wrists. Chains secured the shackles to bolts in the heavy timber floors.

The half-man stared up at Fitz with narrowed yellow eyes, his breathing coming out in rasps from his slitted nostrils.

“You get some rest, boss?” Ace asked. He tugged at his beard and leaned heavily against the wall.

Fitz nodded. “I’ll take over now. You two can go get some sleep.”

Ace limped out of the room, but Dohi stayed behind.

“I’m good,” Dohi said.

Corrin seemed unperturbed by their presence. Fitz studied him, wondering if this creature really was who he said he was—or just cooperating so the New Gods could use him as spy.

“You need the break,” Fitz said. “I got this.”

“All due respect, but I want to personally keep my eyes on this thing until Kamer gets back,” Dohi said.

The door opened again, and Fitz turned expecting to see Ace had changed his mind. But it was Sergeant Carter Prince who walked in with two guards.

“General Kamer’s back,” Prince said. “He’s ready to talk to you if you’re ready.”

“We were ready last night,” Dohi said.

The soldiers unlocked Corrin’s chains, freeing them from the bolts in the floor. They kept the chains attached to the shackles and held them like a pair of heavy leashes. Then they ushered the Chimera out.

Fitz followed, keeping his rifle trained on Corrin in case he tried anything. Dohi knocked on Ace’s room’s door. The older operator answered, his shirt already off and sleep already fogging his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he grumbled.

“Get your clothes on, we’re meeting the general,” Dohi said.

Ace cursed and went back inside to change before hurrying after them.

Soldiers milling about in the corridors or rushing through the base stopped and stared as the group made their way down the hall and stairwells. A few cursed under their breaths, and others turned white, pale with fear.

Good, Fitz thought. Let them see what awaits them.

Prince took Corrin through the main lobby. A few officers stood from their desks, gawking at the monster.

“Why the hell did you bring a Variant in here?” one officer asked.

“Ain’t no Variant,” Ace said.

The officer shrank back to his desk.

Most of the men and women here hadn’t been on shift when Ghost had brought Corrin in. The few soldiers who had seen the Chimera had been told to keep their lips sealed until General Kamer arrived. Ghost didn’t want to cause a scene, just like this, before they had a chance to introduce Kamer to the Chimera.

After they passed through the lobby, Prince took them to the conference room where they had first met General Kamer. Seated at the oval table in the center of the room, the general had his head down, studying some papers spread before him.

A half-dozen officers were gathered in the room with him, their eyes on their computers and briefing folders.

Prince knocked on the door. “Team Ghost is here to see you, sir.”

“Bring them in,” Kamer said, finally looking up. He stiffened in his seat when Fitz entered.

“You look like hell, Master Sergeant,” he said.

Fitz got out of the way to let him see Corrin.

The general slowly rose out of his chair.

“This is the face of the new war,” Fitz said. “We call them Chimeras. They’re smart as humans but have all the twisted mutations of Variants. And that’s why we’re losing.”

Kamer stared for a moment, blinking a few times like he didn’t believe what was standing in front of him. But if his eyes wouldn’t believe it, Fitz knew his nose would.

Corrin stank like a rotting fish and fruit market in a blazing sun.

A moment of tension passed, and to the surprise of Fitz, the first words came not out of Kamer’s mouth but of Corrin’s.

“The New Gods want to transform every man, woman, and child left in this world,” said the Chimera. “They want to turn them into…things like me.”

“That’s impossible,” Kamer said in a shaky voice.

“It’s not, and those they can’t transform, they’ll kill,” Corrin said.

Kamer looked to Fitz.

“These monsters are coming for you,” Fitz said. “They’re coming for all of us, whether you believe Corrin or not. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Trust me,” Ace said. “It ain’t pretty, and the only way to stop what’s coming is to work together.”

Kamer stepped from behind his table, approaching Corrin cautiously.

“We nearly gave our lives to bring this monster to you,” Dohi said. “Take a damn good look at him.”

“We were wrong when we thought the human race was going to go extinct.” Fitz paused, sucking in a breath that pained his agonized lungs. “The abominations we fought want to force human evolution, and right now, you’re looking at our future if you don’t step up with your forces and team up with President Ringgold.”

“We can hardly feed our people, Master Sergeant, how do you expect…” Kamer began to say.

The Chimera growled out what sounded like a laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about food. If the New Gods have it their way, there won’t be any human civilization left in North America by the New Year.”

Kamer took a few steps closer, stopping in front of the beast. For a few seconds he said nothing. Fitz knew this general wasn’t a coward. He had the scars of a veteran who had fought the beasts for almost a decade. And he had done a good job keeping his people safe.

For that, Fitz respected him.

But sometimes a warrior needed to see the enemy up close to understand the threat they posed, and that’s exactly why Fitz had brought Corrin here.

Kamer finally stepped away and sighed. He jerked his chin at a lieutenant hanging back in the shadows.

“Get me President Ringgold on the phone immediately. It’s time we start planning together,” Kamer said.

The lieutenant hurried away.

Kamer looked at Fitz, Dohi, and Ace in turn.

“Thank you for risking your lives to show me the truth,” he said. “The Canadians are with you.”

Fitz couldn’t help but grin as he held out his hand to shake. “Welcome to the fight, General.”

o—o—o

EXTINCTION DARKNESS

All it takes, is all you got. Never quit. Never surrender.

To the legion of Extinction Cycle readers, this book is for you. Thank you so much for following Team Ghost and all of the Extinction Cycle characters over the years. This series would not be what it is without the support of the fans, and I am eternally grateful for each and every one of you.

– Nicholas Sansbury Smith

— 1 —

Azrael walked quietly on taloned feet, surveying the corpses littering the streets of Outpost Tulsa. The stench of death and rot carried on the crisp evening air. His men, Scions and humans both, reveled in that smell of victory, but he could not.

To him, one defeated outpost was not a real victory any more than a single step was a marathon.

His conquest was only just beginning.

One of his Scions, a creature named Jonah, bowed low in front of him.

“Prophet, we have him,” he growled, his voice scraping up from his gullet.

Jonah was one of the oldest of the Scions from the first batch of successful experiments. He had loyally served since his transformation from a weak human into the demigod he was today.

“Take me to him,” Azrael said with a snarl.

“Yes, Prophet.”

Jonah turned on his heels. He walked with the gait of a human, but his physique bore the fruits of over a decade of scientific research. Yellowed, needle-sharp teeth jutted from behind his sucker lips, and slitted nostrils were carved into his face where his nose once was. Golden eyes like a bird of prey scanned the road for any threats. Scything claws hooked from the ends of his fingers, filed down enough so he could use a rifle.

His body was much like Azrael’s. Only Azrael, the Prophet, was larger, the bones in his shoulders pushing against his flesh like an ancient knight’s armor, ominously protruding under the long black cloak he wore.

Underneath that cloak, body armor pressed tight against his flesh. He was strong, but he did not like to take unnecessary risks. A well-aimed bullet could still kill him.

Jonah stopped to sniff the air, then continued down another street.

Darkness had settled over the fallen outpost, but Azrael and his Scions didn’t need lights like humans. Those poor primitive great apes had weak eyesight, unlike the vision Azrael had bestowed on himself and his most ardent followers through genetic engineering. They could see as easily in the dark as they could in the middle of the day.

Black smoke drifted from craters in the asphalt, swirling on the cold wind. Charcoaled vehicles lined the streets between war-torn buildings and piles of scree. The glow of dwindling fires flickered over pale-fleshed Variants feeding on their human trophies.

“Our Thralls will eat well tonight,” Jonah said. A twisted grin formed over his beastly face. “The heretics are no match for the New Gods.”

“That’s because they chose the wrong path,” Azrael said, his clawed fingers curling into a quaking fist. “They misplaced their faith. They have wasted so many lives that could have been used to serve us.”

These heretics had been deceived by the false promises of a government that had betrayed them, mindlessly following sacrilegious leaders like President Jan Ringgold.

She told the nonbelievers that there was hope for humanity and promised victory. But the only hope for humanity was by joining the New Gods.

Slurping sounds filled the air as a pair of scrawny Thrall Variants dug into two dead soldiers near a machine gun nest. One of the monsters lifted its head, ropey entrails hanging from between its teeth.

The beasts were single-minded predators, but even they could be trained. If only the Allied States could be bent to his will as easily.

Sporadic gunshots echoed in the distance. The howls of hunting Thralls rose like the calls of demonic spirits. A human scream rang out and faded.

Each time the Prophet heard those terrorized screams of fear and pain, he felt a twinge of revulsion.

“I wish it did not have to be this way,” Azrael said.

“I know it pains you, Prophet.”

“They could be Scions of the New Gods. Just like you. Instead of death, I could give them new life.”

“Someday, they will understand what your promise brings them.”

Azrael held the keys to unrivalled technology and an army unlike anything the world had seen. And these so-called Allied States citizens could choose to follow him, never living a day in fear for the rest of their lives.

If only they would listen.

Jonah pointed a crooked claw at a large church between two tall office buildings. “The commander is in there.”

Half of the steeple was gone, and one of the pinnacles was nothing but a pile of blackened rubble. The jagged remains of colorful stained-glass sparkled in the firelight.

Azrael walked through the shattered wooden doors into the dark recesses of the former place of worship. Past the broken pews and a handful of corpses, a group of six Scions holding saw-toothed cutlasses gathered around the nave with five prisoners strung up by ropes against the wall at the back of the church.

Jonah bowed, pausing in the aisle, and Azrael continued to the nave. Spent brass bullet casings littered the floor, some lying in puddles of blood. He stepped around the toppled altar to get closer to the prisoners.

A pane of moonlight bled in through the broken stained-glass windows above the humans hanging from the beams across the ceiling.

The golden eyes of Scions followed Azrael as he studied the prisoners. He could smell their festering wounds and their fear.

The first was a man in a military uniform, stubble lining his scarred face. Next to him was a woman, also in a combat uniform. A long gash leaked blood across her cheek. She moaned, her head rolling on her shoulders, barely on the edge of consciousness.

At the end of the line was a second man in a combat uniform. The insignia on his shoulder signified he was a colonel. His head was shaved clean, and from where he was strung up, he alone looked at Azrael in defiance. Tears in his jacket showed where a Variant had clawed at his chest.

This is the outpost commander, Azrael thought.

“The fuck you looking at?” the man grumbled.

One of the Scions moved toward the colonel with his blade. “You insolent heretic.”

Azrael held up a hand, and the Scion let out a growl. But the faithful servant lowered his weapon and retreated.

“You were in charge of this outpost,” Azrael said.

The commander’s eyes narrowed. “I still am.”

Azrael shook his head. “A good leader knows when to admit defeat.”

“We will win. Maybe not today, but we will destroy you and your disgusting mutants.”

With a snort, Azrael took a deep breath, smelling the pheromones leaching off the weak man. He had seen humans act courageous like this before, even in the face of certain death. It was admirable, but ultimately foolish.

“You have already lost,” Azrael said.

“Fuck… you…” said the woman with the gash on her face. “You are—”

Before she could finish, Azrael spun away from the commander and slashed her neck, claws tracing her flesh. Blood gurgled out of the wound, and her head fell to the side.

Azrael turned back to the commander and licked the blood off his claws.

The old military man’s eyes glistened from the pain of seeing her killed. His bottom lip trembled, even though he tried to clench his jaw.

Azrael wiped his claws clean across the commander’s coat, spreading the soldier’s blood. “Tell me where President Jan Ringgold is.”

“I have no idea.”

Azrael wrapped a clawed hand around the commander’s neck. “I think you do.”

“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I want to end this war. I want President Ringgold’s surrender. And if she does the right thing, I will allow everyone who is willing to join the army of the New Gods. You too can become a Scion.”

“We would rather die than become freaks.”

“Freaks?” Azrael tightened his grasp around the commander’s neck. To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch. “This is what your military set out to create when they first made VX-99. I perfected it. My people implemented it. We’re stronger than you. Smarter. Better in every way. This is evolution.”

“You’re a science experiment gone wrong. Nothing more.”

A red-hot heat washed through Azrael. He wanted to tear into the commander, stab his claws right into his meaty gut. He sensed his Scions watching, waiting to see how he would react to the insult.

Azrael exhaled, letting the anger go. His ego was not important. He had to control himself if he wanted to know where the new Central Command was located.

“Tell me where Ringgold is and I will spare you all,” Azrael hissed.

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Azrael stared at the commander. He noticed the small pulsing red vessels in the man’s sclera and the way the pitiful human’s nostrils flared slightly, twitching with each labored breath.

This man was terrified.

Judging by the way his pupils dilated and how he bit back his tongue, he was lying, too. Azrael could sense it just as easy as a wolf detected frightened prey.

But there was another thing he knew. Something he did not need his senses to tell him. This commander would endure untold amounts of physical pain and still he would not give up the president.

Azrael grinned, lips snarling back to reveal his fangs.

He took his claws from the commander’s neck. The commander was so insolent he even sighed in relief.

His mistake.

Azrael swiftly slashed at the commander’s stomach, tearing open four gashes. Blood drooled from the wounds. The man let out a long groan, sweat rolling down his pallid face.

“I… won’t… tell… you,” he said.

“I know,” Azrael said. “That was for my own satisfaction, but I’m afraid it wasn’t satisfying enough.”

He heard the snarls of the six Scions waiting around the human prisoners.

“Feed, but leave the commander for me,” Azrael said.

Jaws snapping, the Scions lunged forward and tore into the other human prisoners as the commander watched. The sounds of ripping tendons and snapping bones echoed through the church. Organs slurped and smacked against the stone floor, the sounds masked by agonized screams.

The commander’s lips quivered. He no longer forced a veneer of courage. A dark stain spread down his pants as he pissed himself.

“You can stop this,” Azrael leaned in close, whispering into his ear. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to hear.”

“I… I… I…”

“Talk.”

More tearing flesh. Blood spilled on the floor, and the stench of voided bowels filled the air.

“I…” the commander’s face was still pale, shock hijacking his brain. “Puerto Rico… I think… they’re setting up another…” Then his mouth shut, and he locked eyes with Azrael. “That’s all I know… all I heard… please stop this!”

“Of course.”

Azrael traced his claws over the man’s chin, leaving crimson trails. Then he snapped forward and bit hard into the man’s neck, chewing into the flesh and gristle.

With the back of his clawed hand, Azrael wiped the blood from his lips, watching his Scions feed on what was left of the prisoners. If the government of the Allied States was retreating all the way to Puerto Rico, then victory was even closer than he had anticipated.

He looked at the dead body of the commander. A waste of a brave man who could have served the New Gods.

At least it would not be a wasted meal. He gave in to the animal instincts ingrained in his genetically engineered body and fed.

***

A cool salty breeze snaked through Galveston. Only a few days had passed since they had held a funeral to honor oil tycoon and rancher S.M. Fischer. Fischer was just another life tragically lost in a war that Captain Reed Beckham had thought was over.

Before this new conflict had erupted, government estimates had reported there were only scattered pockets of Variants left after the Great War of Extinction, most of them living in the abandoned cities.

Beckham had believed them, and he regretted that now more than ever.

Humanity was paying a devastating price for that mistaken belief as outposts and bases fell in droves. Now, while Vice President Dan Lemke was establishing a Central Command for the Allied States government on Puerto Rico, the remnants of the Allied States’ civilians and armed forces had retreated to the American Southeast.

General Souza and his LNO Lieutenant Festa had temporarily returned from Puerto Rico to the continental Allied States. With their help, President Ringgold had set up the United States Special Operations Command in Galveston to run special ops missions.

Galveston was one of a handful of bases still standing, especially thanks to General Cornelius who had fortified the island. The city now served as a temporary home for Beckham and his wife, Dr. Kate Lovato, along with their son Javier. Likewise, Master Sergeant Parker Horn and his girls, Jenny and Tasha had relocated here with their dogs, Spark and Ginger.

The kids loved the beaches and the sun, but Beckham knew this idyllic lifestyle would not last long. Soon the Variants and collaborators would advance on this base, too.

But when the enemy arrived, the outpost would be ready.

He stood at the front of a parking lot beside his best friend and brother-in-arms, Horn, who wore a tank top showing off the tattoos adorning his muscular arms. They watched over the training of over a hundred volunteers who had stepped up to defend the walls. Most of the recruits looked beleaguered, covered in sweat. Some could barely stand.

They suffered from exhaustion and hunger, but Beckham knew those conditions would be no better now than when they had to face the Variants in the field. These greenhorns needed to learn the value of perseverance.

“Just one more drill, you maggots!” Horn shouted.

Beckham gave him a look.

“What?” Horn asked. “I always wanted to say that.”

“Take it down a notch, man… Jesus.”

Sergeant First Class Jeni Rico jogged over. “Yeah, Big Horn,” she grunted. “Half of these people are malnourished. Cut ’em some slack.”

Horn shrugged. “Being soft gets people killed.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Line up, everyone!”

A few groans came from the recruits and volunteers, but one of the new soldiers stepped up, ready to go. Timothy Temper wore a stern look, much like his dad Jake had once donned in the line of duty. The kid was looking more like a man every day.

Timothy motioned for some of the straggling recruits to get into line.

“Almost done, then we get some chow,” he said encouragingly.

“Chow for those that put in the effort,” Horn said.

Rico shot him a glare.

“Just kidding!” Horn called out.

Every time Beckham saw Timothy, he felt guilty about what had happened at Outpost Portland, not only to Jake, but also to Timothy in the fallout of the outpost’s destruction. But he couldn’t change the past. All he could do was push forward, just like Timothy was doing.

“The Variants don’t care if you’re tired or hungry or how old or young you are,” Timothy said. “They are the predators and you are the prey until you decide to change that.”

A few of the weary recruits straightened.

“He’s good,” Horn said quietly.

“He’s been out there,” Beckham said. “He knows what it’s like firsthand.”

“He’s lucky, but he’s also got skill, unlike most of these people.” Rico sighed. “We got our work cut out for ourselves, my friends.”

Horn clapped his hands together. “Get moving, and you will all be soldiers in no time!” He looked at Rico for approval. “That better?”

She smirked and led the recruits with Timothy toward a maze of abandoned buildings that simulated the wastelands and what they would face.

Gunshots rang out at a separate part of the drilling field. It didn’t make Beckham happy to be using precious ammo, but these people needed to learn how to shoot or they would waste even more in battle.

Rico signaled for her team to move to an obstacle course. Beckham watched Timothy deftly scale a rope net, then army crawl under a series of low-hanging barbed wire strands. The young man cleared the obstacles and vanished into the old buildings.

“Best soldier of the bunch,” Horn said. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Maybe someday he’ll even find a place on Team Ghost.”

The last thing Beckham wanted to imagine was the young man spending even more time out in the field on exceedingly dangerous missions. But there might not be any other option with the way the war was going.

A C-130 flew overhead, engines roaring over the parking lot. It dipped beyond the buildings to land on the makeshift runway along Seawall Boulevard.

“More refugees?” Horn asked, using a hand to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.

“I didn’t think we had any more coming today.”

The drills continued in the distance, but Beckham turned to look at a Jeep that squealed to a stop beside them. A man with a black mustache hopped out.

“Captain Beckham,” he said.

Beckham recognized him. It was Sergeant Ken Sharp, a soldier who had helped protect S.M. Fischer’s ranch, before joining up with Cornelius.

“General Cornelius sent me,” Sharp said, out of breath. “He’s requesting you in the CIC now.”

“Is there a problem?” Beckham asked. He guessed it had something to do with the plane.

“It’s better if I let Cornelius and Ringgold explain. We don’t have much time.”

Beckham turned to Horn. “Big Horn, you finish training. I’ll meet up with you and Rico later. And for God’s sake, before we do, take a shower.”

Horn lifted his arm and sniffed under his pit. Then shrugged.

Beckham got into the idling Jeep, and they took off for the old Harbor House Hotel along the docks of the northwestern side of the island. Cornelius had turned the building into his command information center (CIC).

Sergeant Sharp jumped out first, followed by Beckham. They entered the hotel lobby where officers milled around desks filled with computers, radios, and mounted recon images from drones and scouts.

“This way, Captain,” Sharp said.

He took Beckham into a wide room with a large rectangular table lined by dozens of chairs. Maps of the United States, Texas, and other regions where the Allied States still had outposts were posted on the walls, along with various screens showing live feeds from those outposts.

Seated around the table were familiar faces like General Cornelius with his white mustache, President Ringgold, as well as General Souza and his LNO, Lieutenant Festa. A few of their support staff, including Chief of Staff James Soprano, were also at the table.

Those that Beckham did not recognize wore military uniforms with the red and white flag of Canada emblazoned on their shoulders.

“Captain Beckham, thank you for joining us with such short notice,” General Cornelius said. “Our brothers from the north have arrived bearing gifts. This is Colonel Maurice Stilwell from the Canadian Armed Forces.”

A man in his early sixties with black thick-rimmed glasses and a square face stood and shook hands with Beckham.

“Pleased to meet you, Captain,” Stilwell said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Stilwell introduced the rest of his officers and the political dignitaries who had joined them.

“Please, everyone, take a seat,” Ringgold said. Beckham found one next to General Cornelius. “We’ve got much to discuss. First matter of business, Colonel Stilwell brought the seismic detection system equipment that Ghost retrieved from California.”

Beckham’s heart lifted at that. The technology that Team Ghost had fought so hard to recover had finally made it into the Allied States. Deploying the devices would help them detect incoming Variant forces and defend against them before they tunneled under outpost or base walls.

“How’s Team Ghost?” Beckham asked.

“I’ve heard they’re doing well,” Stilwell said.

“They’re still stationed at Banff,” Ringgold said. “Since we’ve lost all our bases up north, we’re keeping them in Canada.”

“That way we have someone who can respond to threats quicker in those regions,” Souza explained.

“In exchange, we’ve brought some reinforcements,” Stilwell said. “Most importantly, we have engineers to help install the SDS equipment you requested.”

“We’ll be sending half the engineers and SDS equipment to Outpost Houston,” Ringgold said. “Houston was nearly destroyed from their last attack, and they’ve consolidated into an area roughly ten percent the size of the initial outpost. They’ll need everything we can send them. The other half will stay in Galveston.”

She gestured to the soldiers. “Captain Beckham, you, Master Sergeant Horn, and Sergeant Rico will help set up the defenses around Houston. We want to keep what little is left of the outpost. It’s our first line of defense against attacks headed to Galveston.”

“We also brought two platoons of soldiers who are willing and ready to assist in the fight against the Variants and Chimeras,” Stilwell added. “We can assign them to your defenses or scouting parties as necessary.”

Beckham tried to hide his disappointment. Two platoons would be nothing against the coming storm.

“The Mexican President also vowed to commit forces,” Souza said. “In total, we’re looking at coordinating the deployment of two-thousand additional men and women to assist the Allied States.”

Beckham liked the sound of that better, and he saw the worry in Ringgold’s features seemed to fade for a moment, too.

“We’re grateful for Canada and the Mexican Federation’s assistance. It’s good to know that the Allied States is no longer in this fight alone,” she said. “With our joint forces and the tireless efforts from our scientific community, I am confident this is the turning point in this war.”

The conversation continued for nearly an hour as they discussed the logistics of the incoming reinforcements. When the meeting finished, the group began to disperse, but Ringgold stopped Beckham before he could leave.

“Reed, I know you only just got to the island, but you and Horn will need to start preparing immediately to escort the Canadians to Houston with the SDS equipment,” she said. “Now that we have it, I don’t want to spend another day without being tapped into the Variant network, either. Kate and her team will go with you.”

“When do we leave?” Beckham asked.

“In two hours.”

— 2 —

Doctor Kate Lovato picked up a box of laboratory supplies from the warehouse floor and carried it to the back of a waiting transport truck parked next to an Interim Armored Vehicle (IAV) Stryker. Her lab assistants, Ron and Leslie, situated the box among the other crates and supplies in the back of the truck destined for Outpost Houston.

Beckham, Horn, and Sergeant First Class Jeni Rico from Team Ghost were helping load equipment. Even Javier and the girls lugged smaller pieces of lab equipment into the truck, eager to spend as much time with their parents as they could before they left.

Sammy Tibalt, their resident computer engineer, picked up a small crate with a groan and waddled toward the truck, a grimace on her face.

“Sammy!” Kate scolded her. “Let me take that.”

She took the crate.

“I’m fine,” Sammy said.

There was a slight bulge under her shirt where bandages protected the entry and exit wounds of the bullet that had cut through her abdomen. Sammy had been lucky it had not hit anything vital, but she seemed to press that luck every day, trying to overextend herself.

She sighed. “I hate being useless.”

“You’re anything but useless,” Kate said. “It’ll be better if you’re well-rested anyway for when we get to Houston. We need you.”

“Now you’re just trying to prop up my ego.”

“Is it working?”

Sammy gave her a knowing grin.

A group of six Canadian engineers joined them, carrying metal containers with the SDS equipment.

“That’s it, huh?” Beckham asked, hopping down, followed by Horn.

“I think so,” Kate said.

Javier stood near the back of the truck with them. “Are you sure I can’t come too?”

“It’s safer here,” Kate said.

Javier met her gaze. “But I can fight.”

“You can do your part by looking out for Galveston,” Beckham said. “Watch out for Tasha and Jenny.”

Javier frowned.

“That’s right,” Tasha said, playing along. “Someone’s got to protect us.”

“You’ve already got Timothy,” Javier said.

Tasha blushed, and Jenny let out a soft laugh.

“Don’t you get any ideas now that I’m leaving,” Horn said with a slight scowl. “I’m telling Connor to keep an eye on you.”

Connor was the Secret Service agent who had watched the kids back in Long Island. With Ringgold’s blessing, he was once again looking out for them while Kate, Beckham, and Horn went out into the field.

“Truth is, Timothy isn’t staying behind anyway,” Tasha said. “He told me he’s headed to Houston.”

Horn looked at Beckham. “He’s going with us?”

Beckham nodded. “Timothy and Sergeant Ruckley are being sent with a platoon of new recruits to help defend Houston.”

“He hasn’t even finished training,” Tasha said.

“I know, but we’re so short on men and women, and he’s one of the best.” Beckham said. “Truth be told, Ruckley also asked for him. She likes Timothy as much as we do.”

Tasha looked at her dad. “Can you look out for Timothy? Make sure he’s safe?”

“Of course,” Horn said.

“Captain, we better get moving,” a soldier called from the cab of the transport truck.

Beckham gave him a nod, then bent to one knee and pulled Javier in tight for a hug. “Listen to Connor and be good, okay?”

“I will,” Javier said.

Kate took her turn with Javier, squeezing him tightly. Saying goodbye to her young son never got any easier, no matter how many times she had to do it.

“I love you,” she said, brushing back some of his hair. “Don’t you ever forget that.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

“Soon this will all be over, and we won’t have to go anywhere without each other again.”

The soldier in the cab of the truck leaned out the open window again. “Captain, sorry to interrupt, but we’re losing daylight.”

Kate gave Javier one last hug, and Horn returned from saying goodbye to his girls. Rico was already in the back of the Stryker staring off into space, indicating to Kate she was probably thinking about Fitz.

“I’m sure Fitz is fine,” Kate said.

“Yeah, for sure.”

She didn’t sound convinced.

The diesel engine chugged to life. Kate, Horn, and Beckham waved to the kids from out of the open back hatch until the warehouse was out of sight.

Beckham closed the hatch, and a few minutes later, the Stryker joined a convoy of other transport trucks and Humvees at the outer gates for the bridge leading to the mainland. Soldiers atop the wall opened the sliding metal gate, and once again, the convoy was off, driving into the wastelands.

They passed by abandoned homes lining a marina. Boats rotted in their slips, many half-sunk. Paint on the houses flaked away like the dead skin off a corpse.

As they left the coast behind, sunlight waned over the Texas horizon, falling in orange hues through the slightly open hatch on the roof and the hatch over the driver. They drove through the outer suburbs of Houston, which looked no better than the neighborhoods closer to Galveston. Charred houses were nearly buried from where they had fallen into sinkholes formed by Variant tunnels.

Kate squeezed Beckham’s hand at the shriek of a Variant.

The convoy suddenly slowed to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?” Ron asked.

“Got a roadblock,” the driver said. “Bunch of abandoned cars.”

Leslie cowered next to Sammy and Ron looked at Beckham.

“Captain, we can’t stay here,” Ron said.

“I know.” Beckham pushed open one of the slotted panels for a look. “Horn, get topside.”

“You got it,” Horn said, pushing out the roof hatch with his M-249.

“Hunker down and stay inside,” Beckham said, turning back to Kate and the others.

“Shit, we got contacts at our three!” the driver suddenly shouted.

Kate peered around the driver to see a glimpse out the front hatch. She saw the shadows of skeletal creatures running at their Stryker. The chatter of Horn’s M-249 came to life above, resonating inside the Stryker.

Beckham spoke to the driver and Kate tried to listen. Judging by his cursing, they were in deep trouble.

“We got to clear the path,” he said.

“Can’t we just ram whatever’s blocking the road?” Ron asked.

“There are too many cars ahead,” Beckham said. “But we got guys from the transport truck working on clearing it.” He went to the rear hatch. “Rico, on me. Rest of you stay inside, no matter what happens.”

He gave Rico a nod. Then they jumped outside. Gunfire cracked immediately from both sides of the Stryker, joining with the chainsaw bark of the M249 topside.

Screams rang out, some of panic, others yelling orders, and then a cry of pain. Not Beckham, or Rico, from what Kate could tell.

“Contacts on our six!” someone shouted.

Something slammed the back of the hatch, and Leslie screeched. Ron pulled her close, and Sammy sat trembling.

“It’s okay,” Kate said. “We’re going to—”

Small arms fire drowned out her voice.

“Timothy!” came a scream.

That was Beckham.

More gunfire cracked, followed by a chorus of Variant shrieks and howls.

“Roadblocks are clear!” the driver yelled.

The back hatch opened, and Beckham hopped inside with Rico, their ACUs painted with blood. Horn dropped down from the top hatch.

“Go, go, go!” Beckham shouted.

The convoy rolled forward, chugging along once again.

“Is Timothy okay?” Kate asked.

“Yeah, he’s the reason we’re moving again,” Beckham said. “Took a big risk, but it paid off.”

He let out a sigh and rested his back against the bulkhead.

The scientists from Kate’s team simply stared.

The rest of the ride fell into solemn silence. Kate kept expecting another roadblock or for screeching Variants to descend on them, but the ride was smooth. When they finally made it to the outskirts of Outpost Houston, the sky was turning purple and the first few bright stars were beginning to show in the descending darkness.

“We’re here,” the driver said.

Beckham nodded. “SDS crew, with me and Horn. Everyone else is moving out to the tunnels.”

Horn stood, stretching his arms, then patted his belly. “Wonder if they prepared that good old Texas barbecue for us? I’m hungry as hell.”

Beckham tossed him an energy bar. “There. That’s dinner.”

A Ford pickup pulled up toward them. Kate shielded her eyes from the beams until the truck killed its lights. Six soldiers sat in the pickup’s bed.

“That must be the welcoming party,” Horn said.

Beckham led the group out of the Stryker, and a man stepped out of the pickup to greet them. He was tall and muscular. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal arms rippling with what looked to be burn scars. When he approached, Kate saw that half of his face shone like it was plastic from more burns.

“I’m Commander Leo Jacobs,” the man said. He stretched a hand out to Beckham.

“Captain Reed Beckham.”

“I know who you are. Practically a celebrity.” Jacobs nodded toward a group of men that had jumped off the bed of his pickup. “We don’t have much left of the city, but I take pride in what little we’ve managed to cling to. My boys will get you and your team oriented with the base so you can set up that SDS equipment and consult with our defensive operations.”

“Yes, sir,” Beckham said.

The six soldiers split up to help the Canadian engineers offload the SDS equipment into the pickup.

“You better go with them,” Jacobs said to Beckham.

“Yes, sir.” Beckham turned to Kate. “I love you. Be safe.”

“You, too,” she said.

Beckham, Horn, and Rico took off in the pickup with the engineering team, disappearing into the base.

“You must be Dr. Lovato.” Jacobs extended a hand to Kate. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for hosting us,” she said, shaking his hand.

He climbed into the Stryker. Kate and her team jumped into the back again. This time, six of the commander’s armed guards joined them.

Once again, they passed through a steel-paneled gate, this time taking them outside the protection of the walls. A single hospital was to their right surrounded by crumbling apartment buildings. Unlike the apartment buildings, the hospital looked mostly intact.

The soldiers hopped out of the truck first, forming a perimeter.

“All clear!” one said.

The group exited the Stryker with their computers in tow.

“Alpha Security, Jacobs here,” the commander said. “Light the place up.”

A buzz like a gigantic hive of bees coming to life grew from the hospital. Lights flickered on inside the cracked windows, glowing as the last remnants of daylight faded from the Texas sky.

“The last time the Variants hit us, they tunneled into this hospital’s parking garage,” Jacobs said.

As they walked up the sidewalk toward the hospital, Kate noticed dozens of soldiers posted in windows, silhouetted against the light. Jacobs led them down stairs in the hospital’s lobby to a cavernous underground parking garage with an entrance ramp sealed by rubble.

Banks of lights illuminated the space, and twenty soldiers surrounded the far side. There, a handful of spotlights shone into a sight that had become all too familiar. Pulsating red vines roped out of a tunnel, spreading from the dark soil and over the concrete. Kate’s stomach lurched. It wasn’t just the sight of the webbing network, but the overwhelming odor of death that came with it.

“This is the tunnel the beasts used when they nearly destroyed us,” Jacobs said. “We’ve got generators down here to keep the lights on and power your equipment. We also requisitioned a clinical laboratory upstairs you can use if needed.”

“Excellent, thank you,” Kate said. She wasn’t used to military commanders anticipating all her scientific needs like this.

“I’m heading back to base. If you need anything—more men, more computers, more generators—don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Thank you very much, Commander,” Kate said.

The commander retreated, leaving behind the soldiers who had carried down the scientific equipment. Kate immediately began directing her team to set up near the tunnel. It took them a half-an-hour to prepare.

“All the software is ready,” Sammy reported, sitting at her station.

“I’ve got the microarrays prepped,” Leslie reported.

“Initiate the computer connections,” Kate said.

Sammy nodded, fingers typing on her keyboard as Leslie inserted the connector.

“I’ve established an active connection,” Sammy said. “We just need you to plug in.”

This was the part Kate hated. They had discovered computer communications alone with the Variant network were inadequate to sabotage the messages being sent between enemy forces. Like the difference between a computerized operator on the telephone and an actual human customer service representative, the creatures on the other end of the webbing preferred to talk with “biological” voices.

In other words, they could tell when Kate’s team was using solely the computer, which would blow their cover.

“This one’s for you.” Ron held a piece of webbing in one hand and motioned for Kate to take a seat with the other.

She did as instructed, trying to keep calm and preparing for the voices transmitting over the networks. Hundreds of them, some calling out in horror, others giving orders. Filtering through them was how they had learned the master of the New Gods they were seeking was actually called ‘the Prophet’, something she had discovered during the last time she connected.

Ron placed the webbing on the back of her neck, and she felt the familiar, sickening warmth of the tendril.

She clenched her jaw, nerves tingling. Soon her mind would be swimming in the crazed voices of monsters across the country.

And she would be the lone person infiltrating their ranks.

“Ready,” she said. “Connect me.”

***

Ringgold heard gunshots and screams, the cries of her people rising in the night. Galveston was losing to a fresh siege of Variants, and her people were dying.

Soldiers. Civilians. Women. Children.

She wanted to fight, but she had no weapon, nothing but her hands.

Two gunshots popped in the hallway outside her room. Voices called out, then a scream of pain and the crunching of bones and teeth tearing flesh.

“No,” she muttered. “God, no.”

Ringgold froze.

A long, deep scratch came on the door. Blood pooled underneath it, soiling the carpet.

She scrambled backward into the corner of the room, cowering.

The Variant outside slammed the door hard, nearly breaking one of the hinges.

She pressed her hands over her ears to block out the screams of people being torn apart. The banging on her door grew into a violent cacophony, broken only by a loud voice.

“Madam President, please open the door.”

She jolted awake, sweating where she lay in bed panting.

Get ahold of yourself, Jan.

It was just a dream. Just a nightmare.

But the truth was reality was just as much of a nightmare.

“Madam President,” the voice at the door said, followed by another knock.

“One moment,” she replied.

Ringgold splashed water on her face in the Galveston hotel room, exhausted as usual. The tasks of organizing the streams of refugees, reinforcing surviving outposts, and strategizing military actions were like throwing a jigsaw into the air and trying to put all the pieces together before they hit the ground.

The burden of all the lives lost, all the people without homes, the prisoners taken by the Variants who might still be alive out there crashed over her like a violent avalanche.

She drank a glass of water and opened the door to find it was Chief of Staff James Soprano waiting outside.

“Madam President, I’m sorry to bother you, but your call with the vice president is in a few minutes.” He held out a coffee. “I thought you might need this.”

Ringgold took the cup, savoring the aroma. “James, you’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Soprano said. Then he shot her a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“Just trying to catch some shuteye.” Ringgold stepped out of her room, quick to change the subject. “Any word from Outpost Houston?”

“Yes, we just received a message from Commander Jacobs. The science team initiated their connection with the Variant network and are currently monitoring all communications.”

“And Captain Beckham?”

“He’s consulting with the Canadian engineering team and Commander Jacobs on how best to reinforce Outpost Houston’s defenses. They have also set up the first SDS sensors around the outpost’s walls.”

“Very good,” Ringgold said.

The hotel corridors took them through the second floor that Ringgold had turned into her latest version of the fabled West Wing. As they walked, she tried to count the times she had relocated the country’s capitol. No other president in history had moved it as many times as she had.

She and her administration had constantly been trying to stay one step ahead of the New Gods.

This time, she vowed, her administration would not be running anywhere. The truth was, they hardly had anywhere left to run.

While Lemke was setting up a new, safer Central Command in Puerto Rico, she wanted to stay with her people for as long as possible.

Soprano led them down to the first floor to the conference room where she had met with Beckham and Kate several hours ago. General Souza and Lieutenant Festa were already there, ready for their first in-person meeting since arriving from Puerto Rico.

General Cornelius sat across from them at the otherwise empty table, his face buried in a briefing.

They all stood when Ringgold entered, and she nodded a greeting at them before taking a seat at the head of the table. Soprano placed a conference phone between the four leaders and dialed into an encrypted line.

“Lemke here,” a voice crackled over the speaker.

“This is Jan,” Ringgold said. “How are things?”

“President Ringgold, good to hear your voice. Things are moving along here. The port was a mess when we arrived, but we’ve cleaned things up enough to dock a few of the fleet’s ships. We’re transporting supplies to and from the island by tender for those ships that can’t dock.”

“Any reports of hostiles?” General Souza asked.

“Only a few Variants,” Lemke said. “Nothing’s changed dramatically since you and Festa returned to the States. We’ve taken precautions against the seaborne variety as well, but we haven’t faced anything that can’t be dealt with easily.”

“What we have seen in PR aligns with our intel,” Festa said. “It seems the New Gods activity is strictly in the Allied States for now.”

“What about human survivors?” Ringgold asked.

“There weren’t any in San Juan,” Souza replied.

“But there could be pockets of survivors we haven’t encountered yet deeper in the island,” Lemke said. “We’ve sent out a few scouts to check likely locations.”

“I see.” Even more pressing was a question that had pained Ringgold ever since she had left the First Fleet. “Have you found any collaborator infiltrators in the fleet?”

“No, Madam President. Thanks to General Souza’s help, we’ve secured the entire fleet, and I’m confident we’re free from any collaborator moles.”

Ringgold wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but she knew not to be too optimistic. “Stay vigilant. We cannot take anything for granted anymore.”

“Rest assured, I haven’t taken our search for traitors lightly. How are things in the States?”

“We’re down to twenty-three outposts as of today, almost all located within the American southeast.”

The line went quiet.

“Dan, are you still there?” she asked.

“I am… it’s just… my God, only twenty-three?”

“Yes, but I do have some good news,” Ringgold said. “Canada and Mexico are committing their first two-thousand troops to the cause. That puts us at nearly nine-thousand men and women fighting against the evil plaguing our country.”

“I’m confident we’ll retake the States,” Cornelius said. “We just have to keep working together.”

“You’re right, but in the meantime, I’m afraid we have a refugee crisis. Lieutenant Festa has been coordinating our evacuation operations, so I’ll let him continue.”

Festa took a deep breath, his chest rising. “As more outposts fall, we’re approaching the limit on how many refugees we can fit safely in our surviving bases. Everywhere from Outpost Pensacola to Houston are bursting at the seams with incoming refugees. Unfortunately, it’s not just a space issue, but also one of resources.”

“Organizing resupply lines is becoming almost unmanageable,” Souza said. “We’re having trouble both securing them and rerouting them as each outpost falls.”

“Not only that, but every time we try to relocate people, we’re expending fuel, ammunition to secure them, and vehicles that would be useful on the frontlines,” Festa said. “Simply put, trying to evacuate people and find them new places that are safe is becoming a losing proposition.”

“That’s why I need you to ensure Puerto Rico is a safe haven,” Ringgold said. “Not just for command, but also for the people of the Allied States. My hope is that we can start sending refugees down there. That way, people will not have to keep moving from outpost to outpost.”

“I can start reallocating a few of my private military’s planes to help with the evacuation, but we’re going to need a place to land,” Cornelius said.

“Understood,” Lemke said. “How many people are you looking at relocating down here?”

“We have at least forty-thousand people that we’re trying to find a secure location for in the immediate future, but if we fail to take back the states…” Festa let his words trail off.

“We won’t fail,” Ringgold said.

“Ma’am, I hate to say it, but we’re losing the war. We need to consider the possibility of losing the country,” Souza said. “We may need to evacuate every soul.”

The entire room was silent.

“We’re not retreating yet,” Ringgold said. “There’s plenty of fight left in us.”

“Indeed.” Cornelius stood. “Don’t forget where you are, General Souza. Texans don’t know how to retreat.”

— 3 —

Master Sergeant Joe “Fitz” Fitzpatrick crouched between two pine trees outside the town of Banff, Canada. He was cold, tired, and he missed Rico more than ever before.

His emotions were getting the best of him today, and his prosthetic blades didn’t help. Each step, he slipped in the white fluff. He felt like he was shoveling a pile of snow with the blades. Because of the effort it took to walk, the shirts and pants under his outerwear were soaked in sweat despite the cold.

Even the oldest member of their team, Corporal Bobby Ace, seemed to be moving faster.

Sergeant Yas Dohi was ahead of both of them. All three men used night vision goggles and walked with their rifles at the ready. The delicate swirl of falling snow in the green hue gave the cold night a sense of quiet serenity. That peacefulness belied the reason for Team Ghost’s mission tonight. They were tracking one of the deadliest Variants of the north. A giant beast that the Canadians called a bear had been spotted lurking outside Banff.

When the scouts who spotted the creature had lost track of it in the mountains just southwest of the Fairmont hotel serving as Banff’s command center, General Kamer recruited Team Ghost to do what they did best: track down a monster. About ten yards south and parallel to their position was a four-person squad of Canadian special forces nicknamed Team Spearhead. Fitz was glad to have them along. They had joined primarily for support and education, staying within a dozen yards in case Ghost needed backup.

Fitz sucked in a deep breath. His ribs still ached from the injuries he had sustained in Seattle, but his muscles had recovered some. A little rest and medical attention had gone a long way for him and Ace.

But memories of the deranged Doctor Lloyd brutalizing them haunted him every time he closed his eyes. As tortured as he was by those memories, he could not help worrying about Rico. How was she doing in Texas? And when would he get to see her again? Team Ghost felt emptier without her by his side.

He shook those thoughts away.

Now he needed to focus.

Fitz flipped up his night vision goggles and peered into his scope, surveying the spindly trees ahead. “Contacts?”

“Negative,” Dohi whispered.

Sergeant Lucas Neilson shook his head as he led his squad closer to Ghost. “Damn thing disappeared.”

Fitz gave Dohi the signal to advance. They followed the massive footprints left behind in the snow from the huge bear.

As much as he disliked being cooped up in the stuffy hotel, he didn’t like leaving their prisoner, the Chimera named Corrin, back in his makeshift prison cell alone. After all they had gone through, Fitz preferred that he or someone on his team kept watch over him at all times.

Dohi held up his fist, and Fitz paused, bringing up his rifle once more.

“I see another set of tracks,” Dohi said. “Must be two of them.”

“You’re sure?” Fitz asked. The thought of another massive beast made him pause.

“Yeah,” Dohi said. “In fact, there might be more than two. But the falling snow isn’t helping. It’s covering their trail, making it difficult to tell.”

Fitz hesitated for a few seconds. The threat to their teams just increased two-fold, but it also put the base at risk. He radioed the new information to the lead of Spearhead and then motioned to keep moving.

Dohi stalked the trail between the trees. A freezing wind howled overhead, shaking loose snow from the branches. The resulting rattle sounded like bones knocking together.

The further they delved into the woods, the more Fitz felt like he could feel the eyes of predators watching them. The tracks they followed were not fresh. They led down from the mountain, into a valley, heading northwest toward the Bow River. Dohi had estimated the beasts had been through likely a few hours ago, and they had a long way to go before they caught up to them. Still Fitz could not shake the feeling of anticipation coursing through him. At each turn, he expected to hear an ear-shattering roar as one or both of the monsters charged.

The Canadians had told Fitz that the bears usually ran straight at Banff. They were attracted by the sights and sounds of human activity, all too eager to feast when the opportunity presented itself.

Yet for some reason, the original bear they were tracking had turned away from the sounds of snowmobile and truck engines near the base. And to make matters stranger, the second beast seemed to be headed in the same direction away from Banff.

Fitz had long since learned that whenever Variants acted outside their normal behaviors, they had to be extraordinarily cautious. Usually that meant there was something more nefarious going on, generally involving collaborators or the New Gods. Either way, Ghost needed to find the bears to find out what was happening.

Dohi knelt next to one of the footprints large enough to fit a human skull.

As the Navajo tracker followed the rapidly disappearing tracks, Fitz and Ace scanned their surroundings. Dohi picked up his pace, skirting quicker between the trees as they climbed an incline. The light snowfall had almost buried the tracks.

After another twenty minutes of desperately following the dwindling footsteps, Dohi finally stopped. Fitz watched him search the snow before standing and letting out a defeated sigh.

“We’ve lost the footprints,” Dohi said.

“I say we keep going,” Ace growled. “Got to be another way to find them.”

The Canadian special forces trudged through the snow toward Ghost.

Neilson paused next to Fitz, his three team members standing behind him. “We should call this off and head back. It’s going to be like trying to find a snowball in an avalanche now.”

“No,” Dohi said, scanning the trees. “Footprints are the easiest way to follow the beasts, but they aren’t the only way. I can find their trail again.”

Neilson looked at Fitz as if he wasn’t sure.

“If he says he can find them, he can find them,” Fitz said. “You want to turn around, go ahead. But we’re not going back until we find those bears. Rather we find them, than they find us.”

Neilson shrugged, and for a second, Fitz thought the Canadians would start back to Banff.

“Well, we aren’t leaving a bunch of Americans out in the Canadian wilderness,” Neilson said. “If you stay, we stay.”

A large, gruff Canadian named Corporal Sherman stepped up. He had a thick black beard poking out of his parka that bobbed as he talked.

“If your man can actually find these monsters, then all the drinks you want are on me when we get back,” Sherman said.

“Sounds like a deal,” Ace said. “You heard him, Dohi. Work your magic.”

“It isn’t magic,” Dohi said. “And if you all are coming with, I need you to be quieter than the dead.”

“Consider me dead,” a skinny man with bright green eyes named Corporal Daugherty said.

The third team member, a woman with raven-black hair named Private Lauren Toussaint nodded.

The Canadians fell in line with the Americans. Fitz signaled for Ace and Sherman to take rearguard. Neilson, Daugherty, and Toussaint watched their flanks as Dohi led the group through the snow.

He did so with deft surety, seemingly following invisible clues. Fitz watched the man trace his gloved finger over a tree, then pause as if he was sniffing the air like a hunting wolf.

In reality, he knew that Dohi was not preternaturally gifted. He had just honed a set of skills that others neglected. The tracker stopped and pinched a single white piece of fur between his fingers, then changed direction.

More and more frequently, Dohi stopped to take in their surroundings. The more they slowed, the more Fitz worried they had indeed lost the trail. Maybe his confident assurance to Neilson had been foolish. Maybe the tracker had finally met his match thanks to Mother Nature.

Then Dohi held up a fist.

The team froze.

Dohi looked back at Fitz, signaling to his eyes, then flashed two fingers.

Two contacts.

He gestured for Dohi to lead them on the invisible path he had uncovered.

They traveled only a few hundred yards to the edge of the forest. There the snow-covered trees gave way to a steep drop-off over a frozen stream. The ice was punctuated by jagged rocks. Between the rocks, Fitz finally saw their targets.

Just as Dohi had estimated, two massive Variants with shaggy white fur were walking on all fours across the frozen water. Judging by their slow gaits, they did not know they were being followed.

Fitz lined up his rifle, tracking their movements. He was still too far to ensure a clean kill shot, especially with the cover of the trees below.

Before Fitz could give the order to advance, Dohi put a hand on his shoulder. Then the tracker pointed to another clearing between the trees.

Fitz’s stomach sunk, fear creeping through his insides. They had anticipated running into the two bears.

But those giant beasts were nothing compared to the sight before them.

Neilson audibly gasped.

Fitz peered through his rifle scope, counting each of the bears in the clearing.

Six of them. Six abominations the size of the fabled Yeti with all the strength and power of a tank. They snarled at each other with long fangs protruding from their humanoid faces. Their white fur was long and clumped-together with dirt. Dried blood stained their chests from past kills.

One bear posed a threat to an entire team, but this many, especially if they were working as a pack was dangerous as hell. The thought sent a chill through Fitz colder than the freezing snow.

The last time he recalled Variants working in an organized fashion, far more dangerous and evil forces had been behind them.

“What do we do now?” Ace said, sounding uncertain.

Dohi directed his goggles at Fitz for orders.

“We keep our distance, stay out of sight,” Fitz whispered. “We have to figure out what they’re up to.”

“Bears aren’t smart enough to mount a coordinated attack or anything,” Neilson said. “They are mostly just mindless beasts.”

“Don’t look like mindless beasts to me,” Ace said.

Dohi snorted out a puff of misty air. “It’s not the bears I’m worried about. It’s whoever or whatever has brought all of them here.”

***

“Bet you thought you could get rid of me, huh, Temper?” said Sergeant Candace Ruckley.

“Nah, after everything I’ve seen you go through, I know better than that,” Timothy said. “And honestly, I appreciate you letting me join your team. I know I didn’t exactly follow your orders in the field.”

“Yeah, but you learned how to handle yourself and kept my ass alive.” She gave him a playful punch to the arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

Sitting in the back of a moving Humvee, he checked over his M4A1 rifle and pulled on its sling to ensure everything was secure. Tonight was his first official mission as an enlisted soldier in the Allied States Army. Training in Galveston had only lasted a few days, but Beckham and Horn had agreed the experience he had in the field was even better preparation.

They are short on soldiers, he thought.

Most everyone was dead or injured like Ruckley.

She rubbed her healing arm. Her standard issue ACU-jacket covered the bandages wrapped around the stitches tracing up her biceps.

“How’s that feeling?” Timothy asked.

“Fine,” she said. “Infection is gone.”

Timothy wondered if she should even be on a mission out here. If the outpost doctors weren’t already stretched so thin, worried about patients in worse shape than her, they might’ve even forced her to stay behind. But Timothy had learned that Ruckley, like him, wasn’t the type of soldier who sat on the sidelines. She had sweet-talked her way straight out of the hospital and while she couldn’t carry an M4, she still gripped an M9.

“Closing in on our target, Sarge,” said Corporal Boyd. The middle-aged man with sharp features drove the Humvee with his eyes glued to the road. He had served in the defensive forces of Outpost Chattanooga before the Tennessee town had been overwhelmed by Variant forces.

“Locked and loaded, and ready to go,” Corporal Mark Wong said. The Asian-American man was a Houston native who had volunteered to join the scouting mission given his knowledge of the area.

“Good,” Ruckley said. “This should be routine. We go in quiet for recon.”

“What are we looking for?” Boyd asked. “Couple of gators? Bunch of empty houses?”

“Hopefully more of the latter and none of the former,” Ruckley said. “The SDS equipment Captain Beckham and those engineers set up haven’t detected any Variants tunneling, but Northside units reported straggler Variant activity just outside the I-610 loop.”

“That’s a little too close to the outpost for my comfort,” Wong said.

“Then hopefully all we see are gators,” Ruckley said. “Maybe we can make some good gator fritters if someone’s got a decent recipe.”

Timothy looked at Wong.

Wong laughed. “What, Temper, you think just because I’m from the south I eat gator? How about you, Boyd?”

“Only time I touched it was when I was in New Orleans,” Boyd said, downshifting as they pulled off the empty highway and into a neighborhood. “Kinda tasted like chicken.”

“Really?” Timothy asked.

“Well, like really fatty chicken. Not my favorite, but not bad.”

Boyd turned the Humvee down a suburban street lined with dark houses, drawing closer to their target. All the yards were covered in wild flowers and tall grass.

“Almost there,” he reported.

“Just remember, the beasts out here might be nothing but normal, dumb Variants, but when they’re hungry, they’re desperate, and we’re the snacks,” Ruckley said.

Wong leaned forward in his seat and clapped Boyd on the shoulder. “Some of us are more than just snacks.”

“Not going to let a Variant get close to me,” Boyd said, slowing the Humvee as they entered a neighborhood. “You know how fast you need to be to outrun a hungry Variant?”

Wong rolled his eyes.

“How about you, Private Temper?” Boyd asked.

“Don’t have any idea. I shoot them.”

Boyd laughed. “Good answer. But the real answer is you don’t have to be fast. You just have to run faster than your buddy. And I happen to know Wong is slow as shit.”

The Humvee slowed in front of a house with broken windows.

“All right, boys, get your shit together, because it’s serious from here on out,” Ruckley said. “Remember, recon only. Got it?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Timothy said.

Boyd and Wong each nodded.

The humor they used to mask the fear and tension disappeared.

Ruckley opened her door first and slipped out into the night. Boyd and Wong went next, followed by Timothy. Each flipped down their night-vision goggles.

The humid night air brought with it a cool breeze. Not nearly as cold as it had been in the northeast, but Timothy still shivered. He tried to pretend it was just due to the wind, but he knew better.

Ruckley signaled for Wong to take point, and Boyd fell in on rearguard. They carried their weapons at the ready as they walked down the middle of the street. Much of the road was covered in mud, splashing under their boots.

Vegetation grew along the exteriors of the abandoned houses with mold and mildew creeping up the sides. The sight was a reminder that Houston had been built on swamps and marshland, and nature was quick to reclaim civilization.

Wong paused at a T-intersection. He gestured for them to take a left down a street where half the houses were nothing but blackened beams and a few lone walls. Trees sprouted from what had once been living rooms, showing this fire had been years ago, likely during the first war.

Wind rustled over the structures and rippled the blades of overgrown grass.

Timothy kept his rifle pressed tightly against his shoulder. While the other soldiers wanted to avoid the beasts, he wanted to find and kill them. The more dead Variants, the faster the war would be over, and then maybe he could have a life, maybe even with Tasha.

He thought of her as he walked, recalling the moments they had managed to steal away together on Galveston. Soon he would be back to the island, and with Horn gone, he didn’t have to worry about her dad breathing down their necks every second.

The team continued through the street, prowling through the darkness. They found no animal carcasses or misshapen footprints in the mud or grass, nothing that would indicate any monsters had been here recently.

Wong took them down another boulevard into the second neighborhood they were assigned to clear. The once-picturesque street was lined with the arching branches of southern live oak trees.

A light tapping noise made Timothy halt.

Wong continued forward but Ruckley stopped.

“What?” she asked.

He listened but heard nothing.

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Then he heard the tapping again.

He held up a fist.

Wong and Boyd stopped and crouched.

Timothy pointed to his ears, then started a hand signal when a shape burst from the grass, exploding toward them.

All four of them spun, but not fast enough.

Before Timothy could fully understand what had happened, Boyd was down on his back. On top of him was a skinny Variant with gray flesh and dilated vessels pulsating over its muscles.

Boyd swung his wrist up to block a snapping bite from the Variant, then let out a cry of pain as it ripped into his flesh.

Timothy rushed forward, letting his rifle fall on its sling. He could not risk taking a shot, and instead he took out his knife and threw his shoulder into the creature’s exposed ribs. It reared up, and he jabbed the knife deep into its guts.

The beast let out a pained squeal as Timothy dug the blade deeper, warm blood spilling over his hand. With a kick, he shoved the Variant off Boyd. It scrambled back on all fours, facing Timothy, grotesque face drawn in an aggressive snarl.

Timothy put himself between Boyd and the starving abomination. A suppressed shot burst through its forehead a moment later. Two more shots tore into its chest, and the monster crumpled.

Ruckley stepped beside Timothy, aiming her M9 down the street.

“Thanks, Temper,” Boyd said. He winced, holding his bleeding wrist.

“Quiet,” Ruckley said. “Might be more.”

Wong swiveled on his heels, rifle roving over the empty lawns. No other creatures howled or pounced from the tall grass. Timothy knelt next to the fallen monster to check out something around its neck. He reached down to find a black collar like the one the collaborators had used on their Thralls in Maine. Boyd and Wong appeared confused, but Ruckley knew exactly what the collar represented.

Somewhere to their south, they heard more rustling grass and another growl.

“Quick!” Ruckley whispered. “Get to cover!”

Wong helped Boyd up, and they sprinted the opposite direction, running straight for a house toward the end of the street. Timothy was the last one inside, his boots splashing over soggy, mildew-covered carpet. He followed the team upstairs where they spread out inside a bedroom with broken windows.

They each took a spot along the wall and Timothy snuck a glance out the window while Wong helped Boyd clean and bandage the bleeding wound from the Variant bite. The scent would draw the beasts if they didn’t hurry.

“Command, Recon Sigma One,” Ruckley whispered over the radio. “We have multiple contacts, standby for location.”

“Copy, Recon Sigma,” replied the operator. “What’s your location?”

Ruckley looked at Wong.

“Riverbend North, Nail’s Creek,” the Houston native whispered.

Ruckley relayed the answer.

Outside, the sound of gruff voices grew closer, along with another howl. Timothy went still, and Ruckley turned off the radio, silently observing the unfolding scene.

Another Variant ran to the dead one. It paused at the corpse, sniffing at the dead monster, then looked back over its shoulder, teeth bared. Cranking back its head, it let out a short howl.

Timothy expected to see collaborators emerge from the grass with a remote control like Nick and Pete had possessed at Mount Katahdin. Sure enough, three humanoid shapes walked out carrying rifles.

But these weren’t men.

The hybrid beasts had scything claws protruding from the ends of their fingers, and their faces were flat and scarred with golden eyes.

They were Chimeras.

Deadlier than normal Variants and collaborators. These were the infamous Scions of the New Gods, the ultimate combination of manmade science and Mother Nature’s evolution.

And now they were just outside Houston.

— 4 —

Beckham finally had a chance to grab some shuteye in the Outpost Houston apartment he and Kate were given when frantic knocking jolted him awake. A glance out the window showed it was still dark. Maybe three or four in the morning, if he had to guess.

Kate turned over in bed, planting her feet on the floor. “Wonder who it’s for this time.”

Together they wandered toward the front door and opened it. Outside was a big red-haired man with a shit-eating grin.

“Morning, boss,” Big Horn said with a yawn. “You’ll never guess what the cat dragged into Houston.”

“Guess it’s for me,” Beckham said. “You can go back to sleep, Kate. You need it.”

“I’m already awake. Might as well go to work.”

She disappeared back into the bedroom to change.

“What’s going on?” Beckham asked Horn.

“We found some enemy scouts.”

All the exhaustion and stupor of being woken up in the middle of the dark early morning hours disappeared in a blast of adrenaline. It took only a couple minutes for Beckham to slip on his ACUs, grab his rifle, and say goodbye to Kate. He followed Horn down the stairs from the apartment to the street where three Humvees waited.

Beckham hopped into the back of the lead vehicle with Horn, and they took off.

“Where are these scouts?” Beckham asked.

“I’ll let her explain,” Horn said, nodding to a soldier in the front seat.

Rico turned to look at him, a shock of pink hair poking out from below her helmet. “Good to see you, Captain. I’ve been up all night helping with security detail.”

Then she pointed at the driver, a man with sandy blond hair.

“This is Corporal Max Lindquist. He’ll be on Team Reaper for the rest of the morning. We’ve been organizing tonight’s scouting and security ops. Recon Sigma ran across some starving Variants about twenty minutes ago.”

“You got us up for that?” Horn asked. “Can’t they handle some—”

“There are Chimeras in the area, too,” Rico said.

Beckham cursed under his breath. He had thought they might have a few more days to prepare the outpost for a potential attack. But hearing the beasts had come all the way down here to Houston dashed those hopes.

“Ruckley’s team tracked them to an encampment,” Rico said.

“So we’re rolling in and carpet bombing them, right?” Horn asked. He rubbed his big hands together. “That’s worth getting up before the ass crack of dawn.”

“No, command wants one of them alive,” Rico said.

“Jesus, command’s never going to learn,” Horn said.

Rico ignored him. “Since we have so much experience in the field, Jacobs wanted you to lead tonight’s snatch-and-grab.”

“You got a map of the area?”

Rico passed one back to Beckham. She leaned over her seat, circling the neighborhood where Ruckley had last reported their location and the Chimera encampment.

“Tell Ruckley to maintain her position,” Beckham said. “The four of us in this Humvee are Reaper. Humvee two, Bravo. Three, Charlie.” He laid out on the map where he wanted each Humvee to park and how they would approach the encampment to give each team clear firing lanes while surrounding the Chimeras.

Rico relayed it over the radio.

After another fifteen minutes of driving they pulled off the highway and wound through roads littered with abandoned cars. The other two Humvees peeled off down separate roads. They killed their headlights, and Lindquist pulled down his night vision goggles, slowing so the engine noise didn’t give away their position.

When they finally parked behind a two-story house for cover, Beckham got out first, stepping out onto the pavement with his prosthetic blade. He dropped low immediately, signaling for Horn to take rearguard. Rico and Lindquist took the flanks, and together they prowled through the overgrown grass like sharks after prey.

They followed a creek, staying close to the grass for cover. According to the map, the waterway would take them straight to the camp.

If they had timed everything right, they would converge there the same time Bravo and Charlie did. Then with the help of Recon Sigma, they would ambush the Variants and Chimeras.

As they approached the target, Beckham paused. A park with a rusted playground and several picnic shelters protruded from the unkempt weeds. At one of those shelters, he noticed three Chimeras talking and sharing food.

Even from his vantage behind a thicket of trees and bushes, Beckham could hear the tearing of flesh and meat. He counted another four Variants circling eagerly around the Chimeras, waiting for a morsel.

Where were their lookouts? He didn’t see any scouts or guards.

The Chimeras were smarter than this.

Rico knelt beside him, with Horn and Lindquist watching their backs. Across the park, in another backyard lined with trees, Beckham noticed four infrared tags in his NVGs. That was Bravo. To the east, he could see the IR tags glowing from Recon Sigma’s NVGs from their position near an abandoned RV.

He didn’t know which one, but one of those tags represented Timothy. He knew the young man would be fighting Variants again, but the thought of him facing even the deadlier Chimeras filled Beckham with dread.

Toward the west, he studied the lines of trees next to a pond. That was where Charlie was supposed to be. But no IR tags glowed.

Maybe the team was just slower or ran into some unexpected obstacles. But the fact that a Chimera and two Variants were missing, too, was not a good sign.

Beckham considered breaking radio silence to get a sitrep, but making any noise now, so close to the enemy, could ruin their cover.

Each second without seeing Charlie passed as its own agonizing eternity. The other team had to be out there. No one had called for assistance or reported any issues. He hadn’t heard any gunshots either.

Another two minutes passed.

Horn suddenly pointed as two Chimeras appeared from between a couple houses. Each lugged a body over their shoulders. A pack of Variants followed on all fours, snapping and snarling at each other. Then came a second pair of the hybrid soldiers with two more human prisoners.

Beckham took his binoculars from his tac vest and pulled them up to his eyes, zooming in for a better look, confirming his worst fears.

“Son of a bitch, that’s Charlie team,” he said quietly.

The Chimeras carrying the dead soldiers dumped them on the ground and the Variants dove in for the feed. The two surviving Charlie soldiers squirmed to get away. One thrashed himself free from the grip of a Chimera, only to have his throat slashed.

The Thrall Variants surrounding the shelter dove into the fresh corpses, teeth and claws ripping into the dying soldier.

“We have to do something,” Rico said.

The Chimeras tied up the last surviving soldier to a post of the shelter.

Horn wedged up next to Beckham with his M249 SAW, ready to let some lead fly. “Let me at ’em, boss.”

One Chimera stuck its nose into the air, freezing, bloody entrails still dripping from its mouth. It sniffed, then signaled to the other monsters. The starving Thralls even stopped feeding for a moment.

Beckham knew this was their only chance to save the final survivor of team Charlie and capture a Chimera, but it would put them all at risk. A long moment passed, the tension nearly palpable as his team looked at him for orders. He squeezed the call button on his radio. “All teams, go!”

Horn practically jumped up to fire, tracer rounds splitting the darkness. The beasts scattered in all directions.

Reaper pushed forward through the tall grass, disappearing into the foliage. Beckham looked for the telltale shifting of blades that would show where the other Variants were. He listened for the clicking joints or growls.

A deep boom shook the ground, halting Beckham. Horn stopped firing for a beat.

“That came from Bravo’s position,” he said.

Gunshots barked from across the park, followed by the pained howl of a Variant. Beckham pushed through the grass, his vision blocked by the foliage. He took the team closer to the creek that they had initially followed.

That was when he felt it. A slight tug on his prosthetic like he’d run into a fishing line, providing just a modicum of resistance. Then he heard a whir, like a spring releasing.

“Get down!” he roared.

Beckham dropped to the ground, Rico diving next to him. Horn threw himself down onto the edge of the stream.

Lindquist was too slow.

A bounding mine launched from where it had been planted, spraying shrapnel in a wide disc about five feet off the ground. The shrapnel cut into Lindquist’s arms and chest, tearing into his neck. He didn’t have time to scream before his body hit the ground.

Almost as soon as the mine exploded, Beckham heard a roar to his left and rolled just in time to bring his rifle up. A Variant burst from the grass, claws extended, sucker lips popping. A trigger pull peppered the beast with three rounds.

Gunshots exploded around the park along with the roars of other Variants. Horn pulled on Lindquist, trying to drag him to safety, but the man was dead, his head practically severed from his neck.

“Leave him,” Beckham said.

“Chimeras are moving!” Ruckley’s voice burst over the radio. “They’re splitting up!”

Beckham’s heart raced. This wasn’t just a chance for the Chimeras to feed. It was a damned trap. Things were quickly falling apart, and he couldn’t help but think of Timothy. He couldn’t let the young man die out here.

Other voices over the radio cried for help, reporting more men down as the Variants tore into the teams. Gunshots were interspersed with the boom of anti-personnel landmines.

Beckham recalled Outpost Turkey Creek and all those other frontier outposts that had secured their lands against Variant attacks using mines. Now those weapons were being used against them.

“Reaper, Recon Sigma One here!” Ruckley said. “Variants headed your way!”

Beckham stood, trying to watch for monsters and mines all at once.

“Horn, Rico, on me!” he yelled.

They advanced into the darkness, following the creek. Another two Variants exploded from the grass around them. Rico shot one, and the second slammed against Horn. The big man clenched his fingers around the Variant’s neck as the beast snapped at him.

He let out a roar, cranking back the creature’s neck, followed by a resounding crack. The creature went limp in his grip, and he dropped it to the ground.

Rifle up, Beckham went into the clearing where the picnic shelters were. Toward their south, two Chimeras engaged in a gun battle with Bravo. Recon Sigma had descended from the RV and were at the edge of the park. He spotted Timothy next to Ruckley, both still alive and unhurt.

Thank God, Beckham thought.

Beckham spotted two Chimeras sprinting northward, straight toward his position. The ghastly soldiers saw him, too, and brought up their rifles, firing. He threw himself to the side as bullets stitched the ground, kicking up a spray of mud.

Another roar sounded behind them as Variants pounced at Rico and Horn again.

Beckham kept his focus on the Chimeras. He centered his sights on the first Chimera and pulled the trigger. Rounds punched into the half-man’s chest, blood spraying out the exit wounds.

The second beast leapt over the new corpse, firing wildly mid-jump. Beckham had to duck, pressing himself into the side of the creek as the Chimera retreated northward on the other side of the creek.

“Chimeras down!” a voice from Bravo reported. “Engaging Variants now!”

That left this single running Chimera alive.

“I’m going after him!” Beckham shouted as Horn and Rico battled a pair of Variants.

He ran as hard as he could, his prosthetic threatening to slip on the muddy shore. The Chimera turned back only to let off another series of wild shots.

Beckham pushed harder, accelerating, but the creature was far faster. He stopped and aimed his rifle, aiming for a leg.

The shot hit the back of its knee, sending the half-man tumbling.

Beckham kept his rifle up as he approached. The Chimera tried to drag itself away.

Pulling out his combat knife, Beckham ran toward the injured monster. The mutant creature turned and sliced with clawed hands as he approached but he managed to drive the blade hard into his shoulder.

The Chimera roared and slammed its skull into Beckham’s nose, knocking off his night vision optics.

Dazed, he fell back, warm blood oozing out of his nostrils. He tried to scramble away to give himself some room to recover.

Footsteps sounded, followed by snarling and a crack.

Vision blurred, Beckham pulled out his pistol and swung it toward the noise, ready to pull the trigger and kill the Chimera.

“Boss!” Horn yelled. “Don’t shoot!”

The stars cleared and Beckham saw his friend in the moonlight, wrestling the Chimera on the ground. Rico joined them to help secure the creature. Timothy ran over a minute later, and relief swelled through Beckham when he saw the young man.

“Area is clear,” Timothy said, panting.

Beckham put a hand on his nose. “Damn, that hurt.”

“At least it’s not broken.” Horn chuckled. “Kate wouldn’t be happy about that.”

A little laughter was a good thing, but it didn’t last. They had lost a lot of good soldiers tonight and were returning home with fewer men and women to defend what was left of the Allied States.

***

Azrael marched down the long corridor of the Citadel, the command center of the Land of the New Gods. Red tendrils of webbing covered the glass walls like oversized spiderwebs. Scions walked up and down the hall, and a few Variants crawled between them, some traversing the walls or ceilings, using the webbing as handholds.

Across the webbing, cocoons writhed, filled with prey the Variants or his Scions had brought back to feed the organic communication network.

Azrael took his time admiring the ecosystem on his way to the throne room. Two Scions bowed, then stepped aside so he could enter what had once been a lecture hall.

In his past life, he had attended a multitude of scientific presentations here. This had been a place of technological progress. A place where the greatest minds in the world had gathered to exchange ideas and build a brighter future for humanity.

The atmosphere had changed significantly.

Long ropes of webbing hung off the ceiling beams nearly three stories high. Two gigantic masterminds sat on either side of the stage at the back of the hall, their massive pink bodies appeared like brains that escaped from enormous skulls.

Tendrils stretched from their folds and into the network surrounding the throne room. All along the walls, Scions stood guard. Each with the face and gray flesh of a Variant, but the burning intelligence of human beings behind their golden, reptilian eyes.

Azrael ascended the steps to the stage, adjusted his black cloak, and took his seat at a throne made from the red vines of the organic webbing. Within the throne, a few humans were cocooned and imprisoned in the crimson tendrils, their low moans muffled by vines snaking through their mouths. Those insolent animals were now batteries for his network.

It was all a fitting reminder that he alone was the greatest achievement of nature and science, a being who would literally and figuratively sit atop all these mortals. He created and altered life. Death was just one of his instruments.

Yes, this place had once been a place of learning, the pinnacle of humanity’s innovation.

The labs within this facility had housed the development of some of humanity’s greatest achievements—and weapons.

Now he had created the greatest one. It was only right that this place served as the capitol to the New Gods.

He curled his clawed fingers around the armrest of his throne and surveyed the room. All the chairs that had once been lined in neat rows were covered by vines. The loud, gasping breathing of the masterminds filled the place, and their rotten stench swirled amid the odor of the vines.

A skinny silhouette appeared at the entrance to the throne room. One of the human faithful.

“Enter,” Azrael said.

Murphy, an old doctor wearing a white coat walked forward with a slight hunch. His fingers were crooked and knotted in arthritis, but still he dropped to one knee when he reached the throne. “Prophet, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have news about the Northeast Operation.”

Azrael grunted in disgust at the memory of what had happened. The Northeast Operation was supposed to have ended the war by launching the nuke from Mount Katahdin. But the former leader of the infamous Team Ghost and some other heinous traitors had managed to destroy the base and sabotage the weapon.

“Speak,” said Azrael.

“Our Scion scouts discovered a survivor at Mount Katahdin after the heretics sabotaged the base. He was barely alive when the airlift brought him here, but I managed to save him.”

“Save him?”

“Yes,” Murphy said, his eyes finally rising to meet Azrael’s. “And I made him better. Really, I had no choice. His human body was too damaged.”

“Did you give him my latest version of VX-102?”

“Yes, Prophet.”

“Good. I want to see how well the new formula reacts to the human genome.”

Murphy nodded and backed up slowly, never rising above his hunching bow until he had left the throne room.

While Azrael was pleased with the old man’s work, there was another who was responsible for this failure in the Northeast Operation whose work he had been less fond of.

“Bring me the general,” Azrael rumbled, his words echoing in the vast chamber.

The masterminds both quivered, their fingers twitching and curling, sending signals through the communication network.

Minutes later the general squeezed through the main entrance, bowing like the old man had. His cloak flowed behind him, and he kept his crocodile-snout aimed toward the ground. The bulging muscles along his arms rippled against his flesh, and his massive claws scraped the floor with every step.

“Prophet…” the Alpha Variant said, his voice coming out in a choking rasp.

He was a prime specimen of unrestrained evolution and adaptation, thanks to the impact of VX-99 on his body. His physique was that of a powerful predator, and his aggression on the battlefield had no match. But he was also a glaring example of why Azrael had worked so hard to better blend human intelligence with the body-altering epigenetic changes in the original bioweapons that had warped humanity.

This creature had too many faults. He could barely choke out his own words, and now Azrael feared the general’s mind wasn’t as developed and intelligent as he’d once thought.

Azrael had trusted this beast with a mission that he realized now was only truly suited for one of the New Gods. One of his creations. Azrael stood from his throne and stepped down the short stairs from the stage to the floor where the general knelt.

“You,” Azrael said, drawing closer.

The general, still towering above Azrael even as he knelt, flinched. “It was—”

“You ran like a scared rat,” Azrael interrupted, keeping his voice calm. “You should have stayed and fought to the death like a wolf.”

The general kept his head bowed. “I’m sorry—”

Azrael snapped his fingers, summoning red tendrils along the floor that rose like cobras. The vines snapped around the general’s wrists and legs. They pulled him into the air until he was suspended three meters off the ground.

“The Allied States should already be ashes and President Ringgold should be dead,” Azrael said. He let out a snort. “For nearly a decade, I’ve been patient, living in the shadows while creating this new world and now I have to wait longer…” He looked at one of the masterminds controlling the tendrils. “Tighter.”

The webbing pulled harder on the general, and the monstrous variant groaned, his bones snapping, popping out of their joints.

“You failed, despite all evidence that you should have succeeded,” Azrael said. “You defied every probability analysis I ran. It’s as though you intended to lose. You sicken me.”

Azrael looked at the other mastermind and made a simple waving gesture with his claws.

Red tendrils wormed into the general’s mouth and nostril, squirming through his body like parasitic worms. His agonized scream was muffled by the vines stretching down his throat.

Azrael snapped his claws again, and the vines retracted suddenly, letting the general’s joints pop back into place. The monster fell to the ground, landing with a sickening smack, then slowly pushed himself back up to one knee, his huge chest heaving.

Blood dribbled out his nostrils.

Azrael approached him, then put his claws under the general’s long chin, lifting his face to catch his gaze.

“You will not fail me again, will you?”

“No, Prophet, I will… die before… I fail you again.” Each word came out forced, rasping.

Azrael gestured to the two masterminds at either corner of the throne room. “We have detected human interference within our network. They are trying to sabotage our communications.”

“Let me find them,” the general choked out. “Let me prove myself…”

Azrael retreated to his throne.

“Yes, find these humans, and bring me Captain Reed Beckham,” he said. “Or next time I will pull off your limbs myself and feed you to the Thralls.”

— 5 —

The light snowfall came down more steadily over the wilderness outside Banff. Cold wind cut into Dohi’s parka, finding every entryway to scrape over his flesh. His fingers were beginning to numb, and every breath of air seemed to freeze the inside of his lungs.

He wouldn’t let Mother Nature convince him to turn back though.

With the rest of Teams Ghost and Spearhead on his tail, he had only one singular thought: Follow the bears.

They had to figure out why they were organizing, especially if someone was using them for an impending attack on the Canadian base.

Dohi and the others were perched at the rim of the ravine, watching the bears follow a frozen stream nearly twenty meters below to the west. The beasts were heading directly northwest toward the Bow River.

“Where the hell are they going?” Toussaint asked.

“No idea,” Fitz whispered back. “That’s why we need to follow them.”

“I’ve been in this area long enough to tell you when a blizzard’s coming,” Daugherty said. “Even the best tracker can’t follow his prey when he’s frozen solid and buried under a ten-foot snow drift.”

“As much as I like solving mysteries, I like staying alive and killing bears more,” Sherman said. “Let’s just kill these ugly assholes and be done with it.”

Dohi lifted his binos and stared as far down the ravine as he could see, trying to find some clue as to where the monsters were headed.

“Dohi, what do you think?” Fitz asked.

Neilson was right, and as much as he hated to admit it, sometimes there was no advantage to being stubborn.

“The weather’s going to make it impossible to follow them,” Dohi said. “There’s no point in going on.”

“If we’re calling off the pursuit, I’d rather take these beasts down tonight so they’re not tomorrow’s problem,” Neilson said.

“Exactly,” Sherman said. “We didn’t follow these guys all the way here for nothing. Let’s make this count.”

Fitz nodded. “You’ve got a point, but damn, I really want to know what they’re doing.”

“Weather is shit, boss,” Ace said. “We’ve got the jump on them now. Better than them ambushing our guys later.”

“True, but…”

“He’s right,” Dohi said. “We really should take them down now, while we can.”

The bears were still marching in a line at the bottom of the ravine against the unrelenting snowfall.

“Okay, let’s do this quick, but safe, and then get our asses back to base,” Fitz ordered. “Ghost will run along the ravine to get ahead of the pack. Spearhead, you stay at their rear in case they turn tail. Radio silence from here on out until I give the go ahead.”

Dohi took off between the trees, taking the Delta Force operators slightly away from the ridge to stay out of the bears’ sight.

Once he judged they had run far enough ahead, he held up his fist. He, Fitz, and Ace then dropped low and crawled back to the edge of the ravine.

Sure enough the bears lumbered along next to the frozen stream, nearly one-hundred yards away. Dohi peered down the lip of the ravine to see the IR tags from Spearhead’s night-vision goggles as they too watched from their vantage points nearly fifty feet up from the bears. Spearhead was about twenty yards to the rear of the monsters.

Their positions would not get much better than this. The giant creatures had nowhere to hide along the stream except for a few lone trees and large rocks. But even that shelter was too meager for the hulking monsters.

Dohi raised his rifle and sighted up the first monster. Ace and Fitz mirrored his movements, each picking their targets. Everyone had already palmed in their magazines with armor-piercing rounds. It was their best and only shot of tearing through the thick hides of the beasts.

“Execute,” Fitz whispered over the radio.

Dohi squeezed his trigger. Rounds lanced into the chest of the lead bear, punching into its flesh. The creature staggered.

Other suppressed shots echoed from up and down the ravine as the operators joined in the fusillade, painting their targets with the AP rounds.

The bear Dohi had shot stumbled forward when more shots stabbed into its flank. But the big beasts were like walking battleships, huge muscled limbs covered in dense fur. They weren’t so easily dispatched. The monster let out a vicious roar that rivaled the bark of gunfire, and its eyes found Dohi.

It charged, opening a mouth full of curved fangs.

Three more bullets crashed through its mouth and forehead, breaking through bone and puncturing one of its eyes. The monster tripped and slid through the snow, pushing up a mound, steam rising from the fresh holes in its still body.

Fitz and Ace worked to take down another, and the Canadians began mopping up the monsters at the rear of the pack with headshots.

Dohi found his next target and unleashed a few controlled bursts into the monster’s side to get it to turn, then he sighted the head and fired.

The massive beast galloped on all fours straight for its attackers.

Dohi managed to take down the creature, and it slid across the ice. Another bear leapt over its dead brethren, then scrambled up the side of the ravine. Packed snow gave way under its claws, and it slid back to the rocky bank of the creek.

He fired again and again as the monster tried to barrel up the side of the ravine. A well-aimed round buried into an eye socket, and the creature collapsed, slipping back down over the ice, leaving a trail of crimson.

The last two made it further up, their claws finding purchase in the rock and ice, pulling themselves ever higher and closer to Team Ghosts and Spearhead.

They were nearly on Spearhead, just a few feet from the lip of the ravine. In seconds, they would be within striking distance. Spearhead fired desperately at them, but the thick hide of the beasts slowed the damage being done to them. Desperation and rage fueled them.

Dohi adjusted his aim, sighting up one of the monsters with blood dripping down its side. He fired at the skull and took off the jaw in the blast of rounds. It fell backward, crashing into the last creature.

The two beasts tumbled back toward the floor of the ravine, cracking against rock on the way down.

A final gunshot echoed and faded away. Dohi listened for the sounds of other howling Variants in the distance, waiting to see if something else would attack in response to the commotion.

He heard nothing except for the quiet of the falling snow.

“Clear,” Neilson reported.

“Clear,” Fitz said. He waited a beat, then added, “Let’s head back.”

The accelerating snowfall was beginning to bury the dead bears by the time Ghost caught back up to Spearhead.

“We aren’t going to make it back up the way we came,” Neilson said.

Daugherty nodded. “Hiking straight uphill in a snowstorm like this is suicide.”

“What do you propose?” Fitz asked.

“We can head north until we hit Bow River, then follow it back to base. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier than trying to climb straight up the mountain, and it’ll save us time.”

“Sounds good to me,” Fitz said.

They began their trek back toward Banff. Dohi checked his watch under his thick sleeve. By the time they made it back to base, it would be morning.

They marched as fast as they could through the increasingly deep snow. Dohi’s muscles burned with the effort to push through it. Neilson had been right. If they had continued following the bears, they would’ve been stranded in the arctic conditions.

For another hour they pushed through the ice and snow.

“Not too much longer,” Neilson said.

“Thank, God,” Ace said. “I got to take a shit.”

Dohi noticed something different about the path ahead. He held up a fist and the team paused. Then he ducked down into a hunch and pushed through the snow about twenty yards through the trees toward the south.

Ghost and Spearhead were not the only ones who had planned on following the river.

In front of him, long swathes of snow had been pushed aside as if a group of people had come marching through. Given the intensity of the snowfall, it hadn’t been long since these people had passed.

Dohi hurried back to join Ghost and Spearhead, lungs burning from the frigid air.

“What’s up?” Fitz asked.

“Looks like someone was here.” Dohi panted. “Maybe… maybe a group of ten people or so. Are there other patrols out here?”

Neilson shook his head. “Let me find out.” He called command on his radio. “Command, Spearhead One. Are there other patrols in our vicinity?”

“Negative, Spearhead One. All other units were recalled about an hour ago.”

Dohi directed his NVGs at Fitz. Someone else was out here, and judging by the direction, they too were headed straight for Banff.

“Command, be advised, we found tracks,” Neilson said. “And they’re headed your way.”

***

“You’re too exhausted,” Leslie said. “Time to let someone else take over communicating with the network.”

Kate groaned. She had only managed a few hours of sleep. When Beckham had been called to the field, she knew she had missed her chance at rest. Instead, she had gone directly back to the tunnel entrance in the Houston hospital just outside the outpost gates.

Her staff was here now too, and Leslie had taken the chair, ready to connect. Ron reluctantly held a writhing tendril of webbing at the back of her neck while Sammy watched.

A team of soldiers stood guard over the research site, several of them watching.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kate said. “I’m fine, really.”

“You can’t be the only one,” Leslie said. “Someone else needs to learn how to communicate with the network like you do.”

Kate wasn’t sure what the long-term ramifications of connecting to the network like this were, but inwardly, she was glad Leslie had offered to help. All she knew was that each time she did, electricity seemed to pour through the vines of tissue and into her. From her basic studies, the tendrils acted like electrodes against the skin, reading signals passed between her nerves and sending electric signals back into her tissue as feedback.

“When I’ve learned, we can teach Ron, too,” Leslie said. “That way we all share the burden.”

Ron looked to the side as if he wasn’t sure about that.

“It’s okay,” Leslie said with a smile.

Kate couldn’t help feeling protective over the slightly younger lab tech.

“When you’re ready,” Sammy said, “I can initiate the connection.”

“Let’s do it,” Leslie said.

Sammy pressed a button on her keyboard, and the tendril went wild, adhering to the back of Leslie’s neck. Leslie’s eyes closed, and her face set in a grimace.

“Is she okay?” Kate asked.

Sammy nodded. “This is exactly what happens to you each time we—”

Voices echoed down into the parking garage, and a few of the soldiers standing on guard perked, shouldering their rifles.

Kate walked over to one of the guards. “What’s going on?”

One of the soldiers on guard put his radio to his ear. “Sounds like Captain Beckham and the scout teams are back. They took some casualties.”

“Is Reed okay? Did they say Captain Beckham was hurt?”

“I, uh, don’t—”

Kate looked back to Sammy and Ron. “Take care of Leslie.”

“Wait, Doctor Lovato!” the soldier said running after her.

Kate took the stairs two at a time with the guard following. She didn’t stop until she got to the hospital. Combat medics ran down the hall with soldiers on stretchers. Voices called out orders and requests for help.

Ruckley and Timothy were the first familiar faces she saw. They were helping another soldier whose wrist was covered in bandages. A fourth soldier Kate didn’t recognize was with them.

Timothy caught her eyes as he helped his teammate into a chair where medics began examining his wounds.

“Beckham’s all right,” Timothy called to her. “Horn, too. They’re just behind us.”

Kate didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until she saw Beckham, Horn, and Rico enter a few seconds later with a prisoner. An entire phalanx of soldiers surrounded them, and she quickly saw why.

The prisoner wasn’t a collaborator—it was a Chimera.

Beckham limped away from the group when he saw Kate. He was covered in grime, smelling of sweat and blood, but she didn’t care. They met in a long embrace.

Horn joined them, wiping his face with the back of his big hand.

“How bad is it?” Kate asked.

“Six of ours dead, and three injured,” Beckham said.

“How?” Kate asked.

“They set a trap,” Beckham said, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand,” Kate said. “We haven’t intercepted any messages that they were planning an attack on Houston.”

“That’s why we brought him here.”

Kate watched as the soldiers led the creature into a room and shut the door.

“Rico, call Jacobs and tell him we’ve got the prisoner secure,” Beckham said. “I want to have a talk with the bastard while we wait to see what Jacobs wants to do with him.”

“I was hoping you’d let me be part of this ‘talk’,” Rico said, eyes narrowed.

“Me, too,” Horn said. His barreled chest expanded as he took in a deep breath. “A talk he won’t forget.”

“Go tell Jacobs we’ve got him first,” Beckham said.

Rico left, and Beckham started toward the room where they had the beast secured.

“Wait,” Kate said. “I want to watch.”

“It’s not safe, Kate,” Horn said.

“I need to know more about these creatures,” Kate said. “Besides, there’s just one of him and plenty of us.”

Beckham and Horn exchanged a glance.

“Fine,” Beckham said.

They went into the room where three soldiers had bound the beast to a chair.

The Chimera glared at them with his golden eyes, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. His muscles tensed across his scarred body. Flat slitted nostrils flared with each breath. The sour lemon scent of a Variant drifted off his sweaty flesh.

Kate had to remind herself that this twisted body contained the brain of an intelligent being.

“We’re going to ask you a few questions, and you’re going to answer,” Beckham said. “Nod if you understand.”

Surprisingly, the beast did just that.

“What in the hell were you doing outside Houston?” Beckham asked.

The Chimera said nothing, pressing his thin wormy lips tightly closed.

“Hey, asshole, do you not understand English now?” Horn said.

He reached into his vest and pulled out brass knuckles that he slipped over his fist.

“Know what these are?” Horn asked. “I pulled ’em off a collaborator. They’ll make your ugly face even uglier.”

“Why were you outside Houston?” Beckham entreated.

The Chimera said nothing.

Beckham nodded at Horn, and the big man let loose a haymaker of a punch that would have laid any normal man flat on his back. It connected with a sickening crunch that made Kate flinch, and she had to look away momentarily.

When she faced the Chimera again, she saw him staring defiantly back up at Horn and Beckham. Blood gushed from the split above his eye.

He hissed at them. “Why would I tell you anything?”

“Depends on how much pain you can endure,” Horn said, shaking out his fist. “Because that was just a warning shot.”

Beckham tried another question. “How many other groups are out there?”

Again, the Chimera didn’t answer, and again Horn whacked the creature in the face.

Kate cringed at the crack.

The interrogation continued, but no matter how they tried to convince the half-man, half-monster to talk, he said nothing. The guards in the room watched with their rifles cradled.

A knock on the door sounded, breaking Kate from her trance watching the beast, and she opened it. Commander Jacobs and Rico stepped inside with another four men.

“I’ll take it from here,” Jacobs said. He nodded at his men.

The soldiers started untying the ropes on the Chimera and placed heavy steel shackles over his limbs to prevent their prisoner from running. They prodded the Chimera to stand and forced him to shuffle toward the lobby door.

Kate wasn’t sure what the commander planned to do with the Chimera, but she doubted he would have any better luck.

“Wait a second, sir,” Kate said. “I have another way we can get some information from him.”

Jacobs ordered his men taking the Chimera outside to pause. “What’s that, Doctor Lovato?”

“He might not be willing to talk, but that won’t stop any analyses I can run on his tissue.”

The Chimera glared at her with golden, inquisitive eyes.

She decided to step into the hall to tell Jacobs her plan.

“Sedate him and let me take a few biopsies,” Kate continued. “I can analyze his blood and other tissues to figure out how beasts like this came into existence.”

Jacobs looked back at the door, then shrugged. “Make this quick.”

Kate retreated to the lab that Jacobs had set up for them on the second floor of the hospital and returned with a handful of plastic vials and needles. The creature was already out from the sedatives when she returned, but she still approached his scarred body cautiously.

“Be ready for anything,” Beckham said to the soldiers standing guard.

Six of the men surrounded the metal table, checking the straps around the creature’s legs and arms.

Beckham and Horn flanked Kate as she slowly walked up to him with her biopsy needles. She had a mask on now, but she could still smell the awful scent. After she prepared the first needle, Horn cut off the Chimera’s coat and shirt, revealing his twisted body. She was amazed and sickened at the amount of work it must have taken to design such an abomination.

Part of her couldn’t help but feel pity for this thing.

She wondered if it was more man than monster. But that was a question for another time.

When she found a good spot on the arm, she jabbed a biopsy needle into the flesh. Piece by piece, she took more tissue samples, depositing them into the plastic vials. Then she used another needle and tube for a blood sample. Finding an accessible vein was no problem with the beast’s vessels pushing up against his gray flesh.

“That’s it,” she said when she finished the blood sample.

“Good job,” Beckham said.

“Gross shit,” Horn muttered.

She took the samples back to the laboratory. They were just small hunks of flesh and muscle and blood, but it helped inspire newfound confidence. Not only were they now capable of tapping into the New Gods’ communications through the organic network, but she had the first usable samples of Chimera flesh.

With these, she could unlock the secrets to the origins of these monsters. Maybe those revelations would even lead them to the Prophet she kept hearing about on the network.

Either way, Kate was certain the small plastic vials with bits of gore she held now would only improve the Allied States’ chance of finally turning this war around before it was too late.

“If it’s not already too late,” she whispered.

— 6 —

Early morning light permeated the dense cloud cover, giving the world a slightly gray glow. Cold still seeped through Fitz’s body. He fought the fatigue in his muscles and the biting cold. Thoughts of Rico helped him carry on.

Hopefully Ghost would be sent south soon, and he could finally see her again.

At least the snowfall had temporarily abated. The brightening sun helped him see the tracks of whoever had been following the river before them.

Dohi examined the trail while Fitz surveyed the snow between the trees. It looked as if a couple platoons had marched through here. By the looks of the prints, they were human.

“Jesus,” Ace said. “Who the hell are these guys?”

“How many do you think we’re dealing with?” Fitz asked.

“Thirty, maybe more,” Dohi replied coldly.

They followed the tangled tracks to a clearing in the forest that led to a frozen lake already covered in snow. Once again Dohi was on point, but the footprints were deep enough to lead the way.

Ace and Fitz followed close behind Dohi with Spearhead on the rearguard. They crossed so many intertwining trails that he figured they would have run into them by dumb luck, even if they hadn’t found the first set.

Fitz motioned to Dohi to pick up the pace as they continued through the forest, following all the winding paths, until they reached the edge of a frozen lake. Mountains loomed beyond the lake, with pine trees covered in white, looking as if they were giant stalagmites.

The trail they had been following continued over the snow-covered ice and straight toward the opposite side of the lake nearly a half-mile away. Fitz and his team remained in the shadows of the trees as they surveyed their quarry. He lifted his binos to where Dohi pointed.

“My God,” Fitz whispered. “Looks like we found where those bears were going.”

While most of the contacts were sheltered in the forest, he estimated at least sixty or seventy that he could see, all wearing white coats or camouflage and carrying weapons. They were too far for him to tell if they were Chimeras or collaborators.

Between those soldiers, he saw another two dozen bears. They wore giant black collars, visible against their white fur. Not unlike the ones Fitz had heard the Thrall Variants had worn outside Outpost Portland.

“They’ve come for Corrin, haven’t they?” Neilson asked.

“Hell if we know,” Ace said. “Maybe they’re just pissed after Seattle.”

Toussaint eyed them suspiciously. “Did they follow you from there?”

“We flew,” Ace said. “How would they follow us?”

“I’m sure they have their ways,” Daugherty said.

“Or maybe this is the beginning of the invasion in the North,” Dohi said. “We warned the general about this.”

“Doesn’t matter why they’re here,” Fitz said. “Neilson, we should call it in.”

“I count twenty-five bears,” Dohi said. “Maybe seventy soldiers, but it looks like there are far more in the woods. It’s too hard to see from this far.”

“These assholes came in right during the storm, right when we pulled our scouts back,” Daugherty said.

Sherman leaned over to Neilson and Fitz, then pointed to a spot just north of the enemy. Groups of soldiers looked to be checking over their weapons. Others were lining up as if getting ready to march.

A pit formed in his stomach. These people looked like they were preparing to move, and he feared he knew where they were headed.

Neilson finished reporting the enemy count that Dohi had provided.

“Spearhead One, can you repeat?” replied comms officer back at HQ.

“Command, this is Ghost One. Hostiles are preparing to move. I repeat, preparing to move. You’ve got to prepare the defenses. Tell General Kamer immediately.”

“Roger that, Ghost One.”

“Let’s pick some of ’em off,” Sherman said. “We took out the bears. We can thin this herd, too.”

“Son, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Ace said. “We killed six bears. There’s damn near an extra twenty of those beasts over there, plus however many other assholes waiting in the woods.”

“Want me to get closer for better numbers?” Dohi asked.

“No,” Fitz said. “We stay here for a minute. I need to think.”

The most direct path to get a better view was across the open expanse of the lake. Otherwise they would have to circle around, which Fitz estimated would take the better part of an hour or more to do without being seen.

By then the enemy might already have started their attack. Fitz would rather be helping Banff survive than be stuck out here, half-buried in snow.

“We’re better off going back to base,” Fitz said. “They’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Somewhere across the lake, the roar of a bear shook over the ice. It was answered by several more of the bloodthirsty beasts.

Maybe it was already too late.

“Dohi, lead us back to base,” Fitz said.

They began the trek southeast, jogging through the snow. They didn’t have time to cover their tracks with how quickly the snow was falling. Fitz merely hoped they made it to base before the enemy did.

His breath plumed out in an icy mist as he ran.

Every step strained his already agonized muscles. They had been tracking through the woods all night, and now even the adrenaline of seeing the enemy could not assuage the exhaustion seeping through his injured body, conspiring to slow their retreat.

A gunshot suddenly cracked into the night, the sound ricocheting between the trees.

Fitz dropped low instinctively, his rifle rising immediately. The others sheltered behind the trees. More shots exploded from somewhere to their east, bullets punching into the wood. Bark sprayed over Fitz.

“Agh!” Sherman cried. He fell backward into the snow. Neilson began to crawl to him but more bullets tore into their position. Sherman jerked from the impacts, and the snow around him began to turn red.

Fitz swung his rifle around toward the gunfire. Between the shadows of the snow-covered trees, he saw two men or Chimeras—he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was they had his team pinned down.

“Dohi, cover me!” Fitz commanded.

Dohi put down a blanket of suppressing fire and Fitz hobbled to a better position, a few yards out from his team. He had a clear line of sight now into the flanks of his enemy. Both were still focused on the Canadians.

Fitz opened fire. The first soldier went down with a yelp of pain. The second started to turn, but Fitz caught him too. Blood sprayed from the man as bullets riddled his side and neck. His head flipped backward as he fell into the snow, and for the first time, Fitz saw the face of the scouts who had caught up to them.

His targets were monsters, but they weren’t Chimeras. They were men. Collaborators.

More gunfire rang out, somewhere just south of them. Fitz adjusted his aim and fired. Bullets pounded against the tree trunks where he spotted three more collaborators. They wore dingy gray and white clothes, a patchwork of military-issue uniforms and old fatigues that looked as though they had grabbed them from an apocalyptic thrift shop.

One of them went down, but the other two ducked behind cover.

Fitz couldn’t get a clean shot.

“Ace, flank them!” he called out over the comm.

Ace acknowledged the command with a curt affirmative.

Fitz trained his rifle on the three collaborators and squeezed his trigger, letting out a long burst. That gave Ace just enough time to rush to a new position between the trees. He opened fire and caught all three collaborators unaware.

They crumpled into the snow, steam rising off their still forms.

“Clear!” Dohi yelled.

“Clear!” Neilson replied.

They had killed the last of the collaborator scouts, but the short battle felt nothing like a victory. Toussaint and Neilson knelt next to Sherman, checking his pulse as if by some miracle he might still be alive. The vacant stare told Fitz that Sherman was gone.

Neilson started to lift Sherman with Toussaint’s help when a chorus of distant howls erupted into the night. There was no time to move the man.

“Run!” Fitz yelled.

***

The odor of death still lingered in Timothy’s nostrils from the brief battle in the Houston suburbs. Late-morning sunlight bathed the neighborhood. He had thought that after killing those Chimera scouts, his time outside the gates of Outpost Houston was done for the day. But he was wrong.

Once again, he found himself in the neighborhood where the battle had taken place with Ruckley, Wong, and Boyd.

This time, they were not alone in the ruined neighborhood. Four other teams of soldiers swept the fields and parks nearby for more landmines. They might be able to risk the additional abandoned explosives, but the team wasn’t here just to look for them. Their secondary mission was to search for more intel, anything that the dead Chimeras might’ve left behind.

Most of the men had bitched about coming back out here, but Timothy thought about what would happen when the outpost was safe again and expanded back into the rest of Houston. Maybe it was too soon, but he imagined a future where he and Tasha grew up down here and raised a family. How horrific would it be if one of their children wandered into this park, looking for a place to play without knowing what terrible traps were waiting just beneath the soil?

Wong swept a metal detector to locate any more planted mines. Timothy, Ruckley, and Boyd covered him while he searched in silence. They hadn’t slept much. Everyone was on edge because of the attack and the potential for more mines.

It didn’t take long for the metal detector to beep.

Timothy froze, holding his breath.

Wong bent down and picked up a spent shell casing, then flipped it to Boyd. The larger man stuffed it into a bag.

“So many false positives,” Timothy said. “This is going to take forever.”

“Better it takes forever now than the split second when one of these explodes again on a patrol, or a kid,” Boyd said. “If those Variants come back, I’d rather face ’em knowing we found all these things instead of trying to tiptoe around, hoping we don’t explode.”

A shout echoed across the park from near a rusted playground.

“Mine!” a soldier called, marking his position with a small plastic flag.

An explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) team rushed over from their position and began the delicate process of setting up a controlled explosive to detonate the mine. After they ensured everyone nearby was far enough away, the EOD team detonated the mine with a resonating thud, dirt and grass chunks puffing into the air.

Wong continued waving the detector over the grass. Timothy followed cautiously, stopping when his boots slurped over a mound of what he thought was mud. He looked down to find a sticky hunk of Variant flesh.

Slowly he roved his rifle over the empty houses and tall grass around the perimeter of the park. A few birds called out, their morning songs ringing in the stillness of the early morning.

The humidity began to climb with the temperature as the sun crawled into the sky. The resulting swampy smells made breathing a nasty chore.

Over and over, the team found spent bullet casings and other pieces of metal detritus that had ended up buried here. When the detector beeped again for after what felt like the thousandth time, Timothy clenched up, bored but still on guard.

Wong handed Boyd the detector and knelt for a better look.

“Shit, I think it’s a mine.” He stood and pointed at the spot.

The EOD team took control of the area and sent Timothy, Ruckley, Boyd, and Wong back a safe distance. Outside the park, groups of soldiers stood guard, watching for any threats.

“What the hell were those things doing here last night?” Timothy muttered.

“Scouting our defenses probably,” Ruckley said.

“Or maybe on their way back from doing that,” Wong said.

“You think they were already watching Houston?” Timothy asked. “Do they know what we’re doing in Galveston?”

“Relax,” Ruckley said. She patted him on the back. “Captain Beckham will figure out what they’re planning.”

The EOD team backed away from the mine that Wong had found, clearing a wide enough space to detonate it safely.

One of the men shouted, “Fire in the hole!”

Another loud bang tossed a cloud of dirt into the air. The smell of hot metal drifted from the blast site.

“Clear,” said the same soldier.

“You heard him,” Ruckley said. “Get to work.”

Wong picked up the metal detector again and started surveying the area where they had left off. The work was slow-going and tedious, and Timothy almost resented the effort. He would rather be out on patrol, searching for new signs of Chimeras or collaborators.

Ruckley was right. There would be more.

“Something else is bothering me,” Timothy said. “Why would they send Chimeras? Why not just a group of collaborators?”

“I think you and I both know why,” she answered.

“They’re closing in for the final blow.”

Ruckley confirmed the guess with a nod. The New Gods were constantly ahead of them.

The metal detector went off again, and Timothy halted.

“What is this?” Wong asked. He handed the detector off to Boyd again, before dropping to a crouch.

Timothy looked over his shoulder at a metal cylinder nestled in the grass.

“Looks like a smoke grenade,” Boyd said.

“That ain’t a smoke grenade,” Ruckley said.

Timothy noticed their position was ten yards from the picnic shelter where they had first seen the Chimera scouts camped out.

Boyd called over the EOD team.

One of the techs squinted at it, stroking his graying beard.

“Know what it is?” Wong asked.

The man stared, then gestured for everyone to move back. “I think it’s some sort of gas grenade.”

“So what?” Boyd asked. “Tear gas isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“We don’t know what’s in that grenade,” Ruckley said. “Could be tear gas, but we’ve never seen these monsters use nonlethal weapons. For all we know it could be some kind of chemical agent they planned to lob into base.”

Timothy shuddered. “After what we saw in Mount Katahdin, I’d bet you’re right.”

Ruckley squinted at the canister. “Maybe it contains a bioweapon. An engineered disease. God only knows.”

“Now I hope it’s just tear gas,” Wong said. “You guys are freaking me out.”

“Whatever it is, if the New Gods sent Chimeras to deliver them, it’s got to be bad,” Timothy said.

Boyd whistled. “Real fucking bad.”

“Get it secured,” Ruckley ordered. “We need to get this back to the science team.”

— 7 —

By the time Teams Ghost and Spearhead returned to base, Banff was already in a state of chaos. Late morning light bled through the dense cloud cover over the Fairmont Banff Springs hotel.

Dohi ran toward the first steel-panel gate outside the hotel. Razor wire spanned the walls, interspersed by wooden guard towers where snipers and machine gunners lay in wait. Guns pointed at them from the men along the walls.

“Spearhead and Ghost, requesting entry!” Neilson shouted into the radio.

The gate blocking the road to the hotel began to shift, snow shedding from the groaning metal. The teams ran inside, and the soldiers manning the gate quickly replaced it, shouting orders to take firing positions along the wall.

Inside the base, soldiers were already preparing snowmobiles and large transport trucks for what appeared to be a potential evacuation.

A man shoved through the heavy snow toward them. Dohi recognized him as Sergeant Prince, the man who had first welcomed him and Team Ghost to Banff.

“Neilson, get up on those walls!” Prince shouted. “Ghost, we need you inside!”

Dohi ran with Prince, Fitz, and Ace past the hotel toward a warehouse-like garage. Inside it, civilians were being loaded up into a bus and a pair of trucks as officers directed soldiers into snowplows.

“Are we fighting or retreating?” Fitz shouted over the din.

“Both,” Prince said. “Kamer will explain.”

They went to a dark corner of the garage past stacks of crates and supplies that hadn’t yet made it on the trucks. Kamer stood next to a group of four officers and a few soldiers, hidden from the civilians, but several children had come over to look at their prisoner.

Corrin was on the ground, limbs bound by chains, body trembling. Blood wept from wounds across his flesh. Kamer continued barking orders.

“What the hell did you do to our prisoner?” Ace asked, interrupting him.

“What you failed to do,” Kamer said, turning slightly. “But this asshole is full of lies.”

Corrin spat a glob of blood on the concrete. When the red saliva hit, one of his fanged teeth fell out. “I told you. I hate the New Gods as much as you do. They gave me this body. They threatened my family…”

“Bullshit,” Kamer said. “Your friends came for you.”

“We don’t know that,” Fitz said. “He’s worth more to us alive than dead, General.”

“I disagree,” Kamer said, pulling out his sidearm.

Ace’s cheeks flushed scarlet as he stepped protectively between Kamer and Corrin. “I, for one believe him, and I’m not going to let you kill him.”

“You believe this monster?” Kamer flitted the barrel of his pistol toward Corrin. “This freak of nature?”

“I do,” Ace said. “He could’ve given us up in Seattle. Probably would’ve been rewarded for it. Instead, he got us out of that hellhole.”

“He brought this attack on us!”

“Sir, we need to move the civilians,” an officer said. “The enemy is getting too close.”

“Fine,” Kamer said. “Tell the drivers to go out the back.”

The pop of small arms fire echoed outside the garage. Dohi instinctively lifted his rifle, waiting for more. Distant shouting and a few voices crackled over the radios of the officers, but the gunfire waned.

“He might have more intel we can use,” Dohi said. “For that matter, we might be able to use him as a spy.”

“He probably is a damn spy!” Kamer yelled. “You spent a little time guarding this thing, and he’s already corrupted your minds.”

“I could help you fight…” Corrin said, glaring up at Kamer.

“Right…” Kamer snorted. “If this beast didn’t draw the enemy here, then who did?”

Dohi tried to come up with an answer, but the truth was, he didn’t know.

“The only logical answer is Corrin,” Kamer said.

The rattle of gunfire sounded again, this time longer. Cries came from the buses already packed full of civilians, and the people still waiting to board dropped low, covering their heads or huddling with loved ones.

“With respect, sir, right now, it doesn’t matter,” Fitz said. “What matters is we fight back.”

“That’s exactly what we’re doing out there,” Kamer said. “Fighting, and dying, all because this piece of shit brought the enemy to our doorstop.”

A loud boom echoed outside. This time when the gunfire started, it didn’t stop. Frightened screams rang out, followed by the shouts of soldiers directing people into the transport vehicles. At the back of the garage, a single big door opened, and the first bus rumbled to life.

One of the officers held his radio to his ear. “General, they’re at the gates!”

“Sergeant Prince, evacuate all of the civilians now!” Kamer shouted.

At the beginning of the war, Dohi would’ve thought the order was foolish. That sending their civilians fleeing just as an attack set in was too rash, too reactive. However, he had seen what the collaborators and Variants did to all those left behind when they conquered a base.

The snowplows and buses revved their engines, leaving the back of the garage one at a time.

Kamer lowered his pistol and shook his head at Corrin. “You’ve doomed us.”

Ace backed away, and Dohi stepped up to Fitz.

“Go with the evacuees,” Kamer said. “There are a couple of trucks waiting outside behind the garage. I promised your president I’d get you back to the Allied States, and I intend to do just that.”

Shouting sounded outside, but a blast silenced the voices. A current of loud booms rumbled the ground, the unmistakable sound of grenades.

One of the comms officers turned toward Kamer and Ghost. “They’ve breached the gates!”

“Prioritize defense of the convoys,” Kamer said. “And get the hell out of here. Ghost, take that animal with you if you want it so bad.”

The bark of gunfire sounded somewhere just outside the garage. Dohi shouldered his rifle. He started to back up with the team toward the exit as the roar of a bear sounded outside.

A dent the size of a tire appeared in the two metal doors. Then claws ripped through. The beast on the other side pried the massive garage doors apart until a monstrous face appeared.

The white fur around its yellow eyes was covered in blood, and it snarled, baring fangs each the size of a long knife. It let out a roar that hurt Dohi’s ears, but he held his stance, firing a burst of armor-piercing rounds into its nose, eyes, and skull.

The monster slumped to the floor, halfway through the gap in the doors. Four collaborators climbed over it, firing wildly into the room.

Kamer ducked, but one of his officers was too slow. Rounds riddled his body and sent him sprawling over the floor.

“Free me,” Corrin growled. “I’ll help!”

Ace and Fitz exchanged a glance, and Fitz nodded.

“What? Hell no!” said the Canadian soldier guarding Corrin. “We can’t trust—”

A bullet punched through his throat and he slumped over, gripping his neck.

More collaborators climbed over the dead bear. Ace sent a torrent of fire their way while Dohi moved toward Corrin.

“Cover me!” he shouted.

Another collaborator with an M249 made it into the garage, the heavy gunfire echoing in the enclosed space.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Dohi said to Corrin. He picked up the keys and unlocked the chains.

“I won’t forget what you’ve done,” replied the Chimera.

For a moment, Dohi feared there was a terrible threat veiled behind those words. Bullets slammed into crates around him, not giving him a chance to think.

The last of the vehicles screeched out of the back of the garage.

“Cover them!” Fitz yelled.

Kamer and his soldiers fired from behind leftover crates to give the civilians a chance to escape.

“I’m out,” Ace said.

Dohi tossed him a magazine, then covered him, firing at the collaborators who had stormed the garage. Corrin hunched down next to Dohi, watching with his golden eyes like a predator waiting to make a move.

Behind the collaborators came another shape. This one a hulking figure wearing a frayed cloak. It kept to the shadows, but Dohi didn’t need to see the face or features to know it was an Alpha.

“General,” Corrin said, his voice dripping with fear.

Not just any Alpha, Dohi realized. This was the brute that had nearly killed Beckham, Horn, and Rico at Mount Katahdin.

Dohi switched on his tac light and directed it at the monster. The beam hit it in the face, and Dohi pulled the trigger as the creature opened its crocodile-like maw to let out a shriek. The beast was so fast only one of the three bullets thunked into its meaty flesh.

The bolt of Dohi’s rifle locked back a moment later. He was completely out of ammunition.

A torrent of fire forced Dohi back down, bullets punching into the crates and walls. He pulled out his M9 and looked over his shoulder to see Kamer had fallen. Corrin rushed toward where the Canadian general had fallen.

“No! Corrin!” Ace yelled.

Corrin grabbed the limp general, dragging him out of view. Dohi had to turn back and fire on two collaborators charging his position. The Variant general was out of sight, flanking to pick them off one at a time.

Everything had turned to shit in a matter of seconds. Dohi had made a mistake letting Corrin out of his locks, and the Alpha was preparing to tear them all apart with the collaborator soldiers.

Time seemed to slow as rounds slammed into the crate and whizzed past Dohi.

Turning, he saw Corrin standing now with fresh blood on his chest. No doubt the blood of Kamer. The Chimera raised the rifle and aimed right at Dohi. He had known for a long time he would die in battle, but not because of a stupid mistake like this.

He watched the muzzle flare and bullets lance overhead. But none of them pounded his body. He glanced around the crate to see two collaborators thump against the ground.

A roar sounded from the Variant general. He exploded through a wall of crates and pounded into Corrin, knocking the Chimera to the ground.

Dohi looked over to see Kamer was sprawled out behind the busted crates where Corrin had dragged him to safety. Ace ran to him and lifted the general into a fireman’s carry, running toward the back of the garage.

“Come on!” Ace yelled to Dohi.

Dohi watched Corrin struggling against the larger Alpha.

Damn it, he thought.

He couldn’t leave Corrin to die like this. He aimed his pistol, waiting for a shot. More collaborators stormed in the garage.

Pulling the trigger, Dohi put a round in the general. The giant beast reared back, and he put another two into the chest. Corrin pushed himself up and ran over to Dohi as the Alpha limped away in retreat.

Together, the Chimera and Dohi ran to catch up with the rest of the team outside the garage.

Behind them, the glow of bright orange spheres of fire lit up the sky.

The hotel was burning.

The snow was coming down heavily again, nearly blotting out their vision despite the light seeping through the gray clouds. Behind the screen of snow, he saw two big trucks with snowplows fixed to the front idling at an open gate.

Thank you, Father Sky, Dohi thought. The cover the snow provided might be what saved them today.

Dohi swung his rifle up at shapes approaching from behind the trucks. But they weren’t hulking bears nor did they wear the ragged white and gray clothing of the collaborators.

It was Neilson and the rest of Spearhead with Sergeant Prince.

“Get in!” Neilson said, motioning to the closest truck.

They all piled into the back, hunching down against the freezing metal. Ace lowered Kamer gently onto the truck bed. The man was unconscious, but alive.

Dohi looked out the back of the vehicle at a monstrous shape silhouetted against the fires. The general.

The monstrous Variant stood his ground, watching as the truck took off.

“What the hell was that thing?” Neilson asked.

“An Alpha,” Fitz said.

“The general,” Corrin said. “Leader of the New God armies.”

The group fell into silence as the truck raced away for safety far from the base.

Toussaint broke the quiet. “Is this what it’s like?”

“What?” Ace asked.

“The attacks, the monsters, out of nowhere?”

Fitz nodded. “Almost always, there’s little warning.”

“And most of the time, it’s a slaughter,” Ace added.

“Good God,” Toussaint said.

“I’m sorry,” Prince said. “We had no idea.”

“No more,” Neilson said. “We’re in this fight now.”

“Where are we headed?” Fitz asked.

“Calgary,” Prince said. “We’ll regroup there.”

Dohi took in a deep breath. He couldn’t help but feel Ace was right, and they were heading from one slaughter to another.

***

Beckham knocked on the door to the laboratory. Through a window, he saw Kate working in an isolated chamber. She wore a blue CBRN suit. Yellow biohazard signs hung on the wall near the chamber and above a decon anteroom leading into it.

Kate could not hear him through the double sets of windows, but her assistant Ron was working in the less-restricted BSL-2 portion and noticed him standing there. Ron nodded at Beckham, then went to an intercom connected to the interior of the isolated chamber. Kate turned and waved a gloved hand. She went through the decon process, then carefully removed her suit before finally exiting and meeting him outside the lab.

“Sorry, I know I’m late,” Kate said. “I got wrapped up with work.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Beckham held up a paper bag. “I brought lunch.”

“Great. I’m starving. Truth be told, I need some time away from the lab.”

They left the hospital and met four soldiers outside who had escorted Beckham there. Together they walked under the afternoon sun back toward the outpost gate.

“You know the hospital is only a five-minute walk from the gate,” Kate said. “I can make it there in broad daylight, especially with the men Commander Jacobs assigned to protect me.”

“I feel better walking you in myself.”

Kate wrapped her arm through his. “And that’s why I love you.”

Once inside the outpost, Beckham led them to the nearest park. Trees dotted the wide, rolling lawns around a long reflection pool leading to a lake. Ducks and geese squawked as they milled about the water, their calls mixing in with the chatter of all the refugees who had recently arrived at Houston.

Dozens of tents had been installed around the park to house the newcomers. The soldiers following Kate and Beckham watched them with suspicion.

“So many people.” Kate’s gaze followed a pair of young boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth. “And so many families.”

Beckham thought of Javier in Galveston with the girls, hoping they were doing okay.

“Maybe we can try and call Connor tonight,” Beckham said as they walked. “I’m sure he’s doing a good job taking care of them, but it would be good to check in.”

“I’d really like that.” Kate motioned toward a circle of benches under a roof of curving southern live oak tree branches near the reflection pool. “How about we sit down over there?”

Beckham dropped into one of the benches, then spread the bag’s contents between them. Their escort of soldiers fanned out, eying the refugees.

“PB&Js, apples, and a couple of waters,” Kate said. “Don’t tell me you made it all yourself.”

Beckham grinned. “As a matter of fact, I did. Hope it’s up to your standards.”

She took the first bite of her sandwich, then looked out over the reflection pool. “We started the analyses on that grenade Timothy’s team recovered.”

“Oh?”

Kate nodded, swallowing her food. “It appears to be a modified tear gas grenade.”

“Really? I thought it was some—”

“That’s not all,” she interrupted. “There wasn’t tear gas inside. I’ve already confirmed it has bacterial components, but we haven’t identified what that bacteria is yet.”

“Good God.” Beckham found his appetite was gone.

“I’ll know more soon.”

Beckham forced a bite down. “Any other news from the tunnels?”

“We’ve been monitoring all the channels, but we’re no closer to finding out where the Prophet is.”

“No indication of any upcoming attacks?”

“Nothing yet.”

Beckham suddenly went still. Kate’s eyes flitted to the ground, like she was recalling something horrid. He placed his hand on hers.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yeah…”

“You can tell me. It’s okay.”

“That network… every time I connect, I hear the voices of all the people attached to the webbing. I can hear the monsters communicating with each other, talking about killing people, ripping them apart. And there’s nothing I can do to save them.”

“Everything we’re doing is to save them.” Beckham squeezed her hand. He was glad Leslie had been trained on connecting to the network too. He could see his wife desperately needed a break from the immense mental toil that integrating with the network must cost her.

“Even if we eventually succeed, how many will die?”

“We’ll do our best to save everyone we can,” Beckham said.

“I know,” Kate said. “It starts here in this outpost. At least with you and Commander Jacobs on the job, the people here will be safe.”

“I’m not so sure.” Beckham picked up his apple but stopped shy of eating it. “The first wave of new reinforcements from Canada and Mexico have helped shore a few holes in our defenses. But some of the soldiers they’ve sent are more inexperienced than the greenhorns who trained with Timothy.”

“Then you don’t think we’ll be safe?”

She too had stopped eating and instead stared out at the reflection pool. A few children were chasing ducks with their parents watching.

“It’s not safe anywhere.” Beckham saw a couple of families in nearby tents looking over at him. They were too far to hear him, but he spoke in a quieter voice all the same. “The gas grenade you analyzed has me worried the enemy will try something different.”

“You’re right,” she said, starting to stand. “Maybe taking the time for lunch was a mistake. I need to focus on finding out what kind of bacteria was in that grenade.”

“You still need to eat.” Beckham looked up at her until she slowly sat back down.

Again, he looked around, making sure no one was listening in.

“I’ve been working with command to prepare rapid evacuation procedures for all the civilians at the first sign of danger,” Beckham said.

“You want to abandon Houston?”

“We have to consider a backup plan in case the reinforcements and defenses don’t hold.” Beckham’s fingers tightened around his water bottle. “I hate to admit it, but after the news we got about Banff, we can’t be caught with our pants down like they were. They barely got civilians out in time. And many didn’t make it.” Beckham looked his wife in the eyes. “If the enemy does come, I want you to be on the first truck out of here.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“You’ll have to,” Beckham said. “You’re the brains of the science operation.” He leaned closer. “Most importantly, you’re Javier’s mother. No matter what happens, he can’t lose both of us.”

“Don’t talk like that. He’s not going to lose either of us.”

“Kate, we have to be realistic. We have to consider everything.”

“Of course we do, but we’re not in Canada. We have an advantage they don’t have. We’re listening to the collaborator network. We’ll know before the monsters attack.”

Beckham started to nod, but realization stabbed through him of something he had missed. “Kate, you and your team never intercepted anything about the scouts around Houston, right?”

She shook her head.

“And this new grenade weapon—nothing about it?” he asked.

“No, unfortunately.”

“And Banff?”

“No, but…” Kate trailed off. “That’s all the way north. Maybe they didn’t communicate about the attack on our network.”

“Are you sure? Back in New York, you were able to intercept intel on attacks across the country. Why would that have changed now?”

Kate arched a brow. “Maybe we’re doing something wrong. Our communication efforts might not work as well as I thought—or we’re cut off from part of their network here in Houston.”

Two of the refugee children playing soccer looked at them, pointing at their food. They started to approach Beckham and Kate, but one of the soldiers stepped to block them.

“It’s okay,” Kate said. The boys were skinny and dirty. She waved them over and gave them the apples she and Beckham had neglected.

The boys ran away with the fruit, smiles spreading across their faces.

“You and Jacobs are working on a Plan B then,” Kate said. “If the communication intercepts aren’t working as well anymore, maybe it’s time the science team makes a Plan B of our own.”

— 8 —

President Ringgold walked down the sidewalk next to General Cornelius and Colonel Stilwell. The president’s Secret Service agents shadowed them.

They passed by the Galveston boardwalk. It stretched off the shore outside the fences and barricades lining the eastern side of the island. Once a popular tourist attraction filled with carnival rides, games, and restaurants, it had long since fallen into neglect. The Ferris wheel hung at a precarious angle, rusted and bent.

Ringgold couldn’t help but see the symbolism there, comparing it to civilization. But unlike that wheel, civilization still had a chance.

“Today is going to be a good day,” she said.

“I have every confidence that you are right, Madam President,” Cornelius said before looking toward Stilwell. “The reinforcements from our friends in the north and south will change this war.”

Stilwell gave a soft harrumph.

They continued walking side-by-side toward the makeshift airfield that had once been Seawall Boulevard to meet their new comrades. Men and women in uniform hurried between buildings and large olive-green canvas tents. Some wore the standard-issue ACUs of the Allied States; others had black uniforms with the Orca patch characteristic of Cornelius’ private army.

Ringgold twisted her wrist to see her watch. “The planes are a little late, aren’t they?”

Stilwell shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything about delays.”

“Hopefully, no news is good news,” Cornelius said.

The sun was beginning to set, disappearing beyond the neighborhoods to the west.

The distant roar of plane engines sounded to their north. Ringgold turned around and looked toward the fluffy clouds glowing orange in the last pangs of daylight. Silhouetted against them, she saw the outline of three C-130s descending toward Galveston. They flew past the city, curving in formation to make their final approach from the south.

“Just three?” Cornelius asked, looking toward Stilwell. “That can’t be more than a few hundred troops.”

“I thought you said all the troops were coming in tonight,” Ringgold said. “Is there another scheduled flight we don’t know about?”

“I told you everything I know,” Stilwell said.

Ringgold scanned the sky, looking for more planes. “You don’t think something happened to the rest of the planes, do you?”

“We would’ve heard something on the radio,” Cornelius said. “A mayday, at the very least.”

Ringgold picked up her pace, her heart thudding faster.

“They must still be on their way,” Stilwell said. “Maybe they just staggered their arrivals.”

“That makes sense,” Cornelius said. “They would want to throw off any enemy scouts.”

Ringgold would have to take their word for it.

The growl of the first C-130’s engines roared as the craft made its final approach. Its wheels touched down with a heavy jolt at the southern end of the airstrip.

Ringgold, Cornelius, and Stilwell made it to the guard station at the northern end of the strip. They waited under a wide canvas tent, with its sides rolled up, so they could watch the plane taxi toward their position.

Crew chiefs and soldiers waited around them, ready to tend to the plane and welcome the reinforcements to Galveston. The aircraft marshaller signaled for the plane to stop near the tent. Before anyone stepped off, a group of Marines boarded to ensure the aircraft’s passenger manifest was in order and to perform routine security checks.

The other two planes started their final approach afterward. As the engines wound down on the first plane, one of the lieutenants in charge of the welcoming operations signaled to Ringgold that the coast was clear.

Her Secret Service agents flocked around her, Stilwell, and Cornelius.

As her footsteps clicked across the asphalt, the rear ramp of the plane lowered. Ringgold greeted the soldiers as they streamed off the craft. They looked exhausted. That much was expected. But she also saw them hanging their heads low, their shoulders slumped.

Ringgold caught one of the soldier’s eyes. He was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He stiffened when their gazes crossed, and he readjusted the strap of the rifle over his back.

That fraction of a second when their eyes met was more than enough for Ringgold to see something was wrong.

They look defeated, she thought.

Ringgold searched the crowd for someone who could tell her what was going on. She spotted five men following the troops off. The epaulets on their shoulders and their stiff stances clearly told her they were in charge. She made a beeline for the officers with Cornelius and Stilwell on her tail.

One of the officers turned toward her, stepping away from the group. His head was shaved bald under his green cap, and deep bags hung under sharp blue eyes lined with wrinkles.

“President Ringgold,” he said, taking a step toward her. “General Andrew Vance.”

Ringgold shook his hand in a tight grip. “General Vance, welcome to the Allied States. We’ll see that your men are taken care of. This is General Cornelius. He’s in charge of the base here at Galveston. And I presume you already know Colonel Stilwell.”

“I trust he’s been serving you well,” Vance said.

“He has,” Ringgold said.

The other two C-130s had landed and were now taxiing toward them, preparing to unload.

“We were preparing for all six planes this morning,” she said. “When can we expect the arrival of the other three?”

Vance gestured toward the soldiers and Secret Service agents shadowing them as they walked back toward the tent. “I’d suggest we discuss this in a quieter, perhaps more private environment.”

The trip back to their CIC would be at least a twenty-minute drive and Ringgold didn’t want to wait any longer than she had to. She pointed at a nearby coffeehouse that had since been requisitioned as an office for some of the air traffic personnel.

When they entered, the Secret Service agents swept the room, ushering away the two officers working at computers on the desks. Cornelius drew the blinds, shutting out the last fingers of light from the sunset, and the room went dark until Ringgold flipped a switch.

Vance looked toward the four other Canadian officers. “I think it would be best if we keep this a closed meeting.”

Ringgold nodded to her secret service agents to wait outside with the other officers and soldiers.

“Madam President, I get the sense you don’t like to beat around the bush,” Vance started as they took seats around a small table, finally alone.

“I don’t,” Ringgold said. “Especially because we have no time for it.”

Vance steepled his fingers together. He looked as if he was searching for words. “There isn’t going to be another three planes.”

“Not tonight?” Cornelius asked.

“Not ever,” Vance said.

“Sir, I was told—” Stilwell began.

“Madam President, we had every intention to deliver our troops as promised, but after the attack on Banff, I’m afraid we realized that was no longer tenable,” Vance said. “We need every man and woman we can spare to defend our own country.”

Cornelius started to turn red. “We’ve been over this. Trying to survive this onslaught by hiding behind walls isn’t working.”

“The only way we’re defeating these monsters is with a concerted offensive strike,” Ringgold said.

“Our Prime Minister and Armed Forces Council disagree,” Vance said.

Ringgold clenched her jaw, trying to withhold the heat rising through her core. “You’ve been hit by one attack, and your entire country cowers.”

“All due respect, you brought these beasts on us,” Vance said. “Now you want us to abandon our homeland to help you fight them.”

Ringgold took a breath. As angry as she was, he was right. The Variants were a product of the United States government.

“I understand you’ve been hit hard,” she said. “We’ve endured battle after battle, and we’ve learned more in these past weeks about the enemy that will help us defeat them. But we can only do that by striking our enemy down together, not by hiding behind walls.”

Cornelius nodded. “The president is absolutely right. You have to tell your Council and the PM that they need to send the reinforcements they promised. Mexico is fulfilling their oath. Why can’t Canada?”

“I’m sorry,” Vance said. “We’ve sent what we can spare. If you want me and my people to pack up and go home, we will. You saw their faces. They don’t want to defend some foreign land while their wives and husbands and children and parents are back up north, unsure if they’re going to make it another day.”

“I don’t believe this,” Ringgold said.

“I really am sorry, but this is out of my hands,” Vance said. “Remember, you don’t fight with the army you want. You fight with the one you have. That’s what we’re doing—and that’s what you’ll have to do as well.”

Ringgold fumed at the last-minute change, but she understood Canada’s perspective. She should have seen this coming. “Cornelius, if we identify a target, does this change our tentative plans to destroy the Prophet?”

“It does,” he said. “We’ll have to consult with General Souza again, but by my rough estimates, any concerted attack, regardless of the Prophet’s location, will require at least another five-hundred troops to make up for what the Canadians aren’t sending.”

He shot Vance a look filled with daggers.

Ringgold knew that five-hundred troops could make or break their eventual assault. They needed the total number of armed forces properly trained and equipped for an all-out offensive. But she still regretted the solution that came to mind, hoping she would not come to regret it.

“General, you’ve been working closely with Captain Beckham to train our newest recruits,” Ringgold said. “How soon before you believe they’ll be prepared for an offensive strike?”

Cornelius was a staunch, confident man, but even he squirmed. “A few of their units have already seen action when we sent them to help reinforce Outpost Houston. They’ll be the best equipped in any offensive maneuvers. I can reassign them immediately and focus their training on offensive instead of defensive tactics.”

“Do it,” Ringgold said. “We might not have long. The final battle is coming, and we need every able-bodied person left to fight it.”

***

Azrael savored the smell of blood and antiseptic chemicals. This lab had kicked off his empire, from a single follower to an army on the verge of a decisive victory. Past rows of laboratory equipment was a space that Azrael had personally helped design.

The room used to be a special sterile environment suited for animal experiments.

Now it had been adapted for humans.

It was here, in this very room, where he had created VX-102 and started his initial human trials.

The formerly white walls were covered in a wallpaper of red tendrils from his organic communication network, another testament to the technological achievements he had accomplished with the help of his scientist cohort. Most of them had seen early on the success of VX-102, and they had chosen to elevate themselves to the status of Scions, like himself. He welcomed them into his fold.

Others who were not as mentally fit maintained their frail human bodies. The delicate, skinny fingers of humans were an abhorrent necessity to work with sensitive laboratory equipment, like some of the microscopes and analytical chemistry instrumentation that had been designed for their unevolved bodies.

Fortunately, the Scions’ clawed fingers were much better at other tasks. Especially the ones that Azrael cherished, like the one he was about to help with now.

Sporadic screams of horror and pained groans echoed from the test specimens behind the various partitions, all isolated by plastic curtains. The buzz of surgical saws cutting through bone and the slurp of organs sliding from bodies into metal pans was music to Azrael’s ears.

He peeled back a plastic blood-spattered curtain to reveal his faithful old doctor, Murphy, working over a humanoid body.

The wrinkled old man held surgical tools and prepared to replace some of the patient’s organs with transplants from a dead Variant.

“Is this him?” Azrael asked.

“Yes, this is the one we recovered from Katahdin,” Murphy replied. “The latest version of VX-102 has worked extraordinarily fast in him. I believe that with these final surgeries, he’ll be complete.”

“And his brain?”

“Fully intact, Prophet,” the doctor said. “When he isn’t passed out from the pain, he can talk coherently. He’s very, very angry about something, although it usually doesn’t take long for the pain to make him pass out again during my operations.”

Azrael traced his own clawed fingers over the long claws jutting from the patient’s fingers. “These transplants from Variant donors are truly improving the development of the Scions.”

“Yes, you made a wise decision adopting this practice,” Murphy said. “Not only do our patients immediately get the benefit of some of the physical attributes of the Scion, but the resulting inflammation and irritation from the surgeries help to activate the body’s healing response. All the resulting signaling cascades accelerate the VX-102 activity and enhance the epigenetic changes.”

Azrael narrowed his eyes and used a claw to pull down the doctor’s mask to reveal the man’s lips. The doctor trembled.

“You do not need to explain the science to me,” Azrael said. “I invented it. I know precisely what it does.”

The man bowed. “Yes, of course, Prophet. How foolish of me to assume otherwise.”

“How long until he’s complete?”

“He will need at least three more days, and more for recovery.”

“You have two,” Azrael said. “He will recover just fine.”

The Prophet left Murphy’s operating area and moved into another nearby OR.

There a single woman was strung up, red vines squirming into her nostrils, ear canals, and throat. She let out a whimper when she saw him.

“Please… help,” she managed to choke out.

“I am about to,” Azrael said. “You have been chosen.”

He glanced at a surgical tray beside where the woman was suspended. Everything had already been prepped by his assistants as instructed. The only thing he needed was the donor Variant organs, which were waiting on ice inside a cooler near the surgical tray.

“Chosen…” she said, coughing. “Chosen for—”

Azrael didn’t give her a chance to finish her words. He swiped at her abdomen with his claw. This was something human fingers definitely could not do. He relished the woman’s scream. Her face went white, and she squirmed a few moments before she passed out.

That was quicker than he would have liked. He began the tedious process of placing hemostats over severed vessels so she wouldn’t bleed to death. His preparations and the red tendrils roping through her body would keep her alive as he cut out a few of her organs to replace with the donor Variant organs his people had harvested.

After an hour of work, the curtains to his surgical room were peeled back.

“Prophet,” a rasping voice came. “You told me to meet you here, yes?”

Azrael didn’t have to turn his attention away from his patient to know who it was. He had told the monster to meet him here while he worked. “Yes, Elijah. I have a task for you.”

“I stand ready, master.”

“The general has failed me in Canada,” Azrael said, trying hard not to crush the woman’s intestines in anger as he extracted them. He finished pulling out a rope, snapped it in half, and flung it onto a metal pan. “Team Ghost escaped.”

“Shall I pursue them?” Elijah asked.

“No.”

Azrael licked the blood off his claws and turned to Elijah. The Scion was larger than most with bulging muscles pressing against the fabric of his dark clothes. He wore a ragged cape, and in one set of claws, he carried the front half of a human skull that he had fashioned into a mask.

He was one of Azrael’s first creations, a faithful servant, and had chosen the name Elijah after his rebirth.

Azrael picked up a small electric device from his surgical tray. “Do you know what this is?”

Elijah shook his head.

“It’s a GPS chip.” Azrael held the dime-sized device between his claws, rotating it to reflect the light. “The flexible microelectric arrays hanging off it harvest energy from the body to power it. This device helps me keep track of the faithful.”

He went back to the human woman. After cutting into her bicep, he sutured the device to the inside of her flesh and connected the array to her muscle.

“I have allies tracking our quarry up north, thanks to a device like this in one of our escaped Scions,” Azrael said. “So you will understand now why I’m less concerned about where these people go. We will always find them, so long as they have the tracked Scion with them.”

“Then what do you need from me?”

“I have different plans for you,” Azrael said. He finished suturing the woman’s bicep and turned toward her guts again. All this surgery was making him hungry, and he caught himself salivating.

“I live to serve,” Elijah said.

“You live because you serve.”

The woman started to wake, her eyelids fluttering. She groaned, blood dribbling down her open abdomen.

“Wha… wha…” she started to murmur.

She twisted her head enough against the tendrils holding her in place to see her stomach. Her mouth opened, and she let out a muffled scream.

This time, the pain wasn’t enough to make her pass out.

“You are almost there,” Azrael said. He placed a claw on her lips, and she writhed. “Patience.”

She thrashed against the vines holding her into place, moving enough that Azrael couldn’t continue the surgery.

No matter. It was time for him to eat anyway.

He picked up the length of intestine he had removed from her.

“Do you recognize this?” he held it up so she could see.

Her eyes bulged.

He took a bite of it, letting blood trickle over his chin. “You are delicious.”

She finally fainted again, and he finished his meal, throwing a scrap to Elijah. The Scion hungrily stuffed it into his mouth.

“I’m growing tired of these heretics,” Azrael said. “It takes too long to turn a person like her into a magnificent Scion like you.”

“Yes, yes,” Elijah said.

“Unfortunately, we have not located the humans who have infiltrated our network. They have built too many safeguards for our faithful to get past. I’ve been told it could take weeks to locate the humans. I fear that if we wait too long, they will regroup. And we have heard rumors that they have sought the assistance of other nations.”

“They will fail, master, we will stop them.”

“Indeed we will.” Azrael began suturing the woman’s abdomen together again. “I want the rest of the Allied States crushed before we have to deal with too many other nations of heretics.”

Azrael looped in the last suture and turned toward Elijah.

“What do you propose, Prophet?” Elijah asked.

“We have the advantage,” Azrael said. “The humans don’t know we’re aware of their activities infiltrating our communication network. It’s time that we use this against them. Instead of laboring to root out the heretics, we will bring them to us.”

“And then we will defeat them.”

Azrael turned and traced a claw along the neck of the patient, watching her sutured-covered chest rise and fall as she breathed slowly. “Then you will get your chance to bring in Team Ghost, Beckham, and all the rest of these traitorous bastards.”

“How, Prophet?”

“It’s easy. Just tell them exactly what they want to hear.”

— 9 —

Strapped to a chair in the parking garage outside a Variant tunnel, Kate’s head filled with a thousand pained voices crying out to be free. Men, women, children, all prisoners of the Variants, imprisoned in the webbing network. She wished she could send them some words of reassurance.

But a single moment of weakness would ruin all her efforts.

If she so much as sent them a single message, the masterminds would know she was a spy in their midst. She had to drown out their screams of agony and pleas for help.

The only way to help these people was to zero-in on what really mattered.

Finding the Prophet. Finding where the New Gods were. And sabotage any incoming attacks.

She had already missed the attack on Banff and the monsters’ communications regarding the scouts outside Houston.

The longer she remained hooked up to the network filtering through the messages, the more her head throbbed. Cold sweat dripped over her flesh, and she trembled as she listened to the terrified voices of people hooked up to the vines around the country, their bodies wasting away to feed the spreading network.

“Help!”

“Mom? Mom, where are you?”

“I can’t… breathe… I can’t…”

The voices overwhelmed her. She could hardly stand it.

Feed me. Feed. Food.

Kill it. It threatens us. Heretics.

Attack the camp. Kill the humans. Bring them to us.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

She tried to keep her mind focused. But the human voices won out again. Her muscles contracted and her skull flared with pain.

Suddenly all the voices disappeared. She blinked, her blurred vision clearing to Ron standing above her.

“Kate, you with me?” he asked, gingerly touching her shoulder.

“Yeah… How long have I been…”

“A few hours.”

“Felt like days.”

“Leslie just finished up a chromatography experiment upstairs. Maybe it would be a good time for you two to swap.”

Kate straightened in the chair. A few soldiers guarding the parking garage glanced at her, worry clear in their expression. She twisted to see Sammy at the computer behind her.

“Was it that bad?” Kate asked.

“You were screaming,” Sammy said, twisting one of her dreadlocks. “You sure you’re okay?”

Kate massaged her temples. “I need a break. Ron, you’re right. Where’s Leslie?”

“We just sent for her,” Sammy said. She walked over and handed Kate a towel for the sweat.

“Thanks,” Kate said. She felt a little embarrassed to have her assistants treating her so gently, but she couldn’t let pride get in their way.

“I can learn how to do this too, so it’s not just Leslie and you,” Ron said.

“We’ll see.”

Footsteps soon echoed down the stairs, and Leslie appeared.

“I’m ready to go,” she said. “And I’ve got the last bits of data processing upstairs for you. Took me nearly the entire day to get it ready.”

“Give me the rundown,” Kate said.

“Figuring out what was in the grenade was relatively easy. It took me a few hours to run through the basic battery of biological agent assessments, but since we knew it was bacteria, that made it easier.”

Kate braced herself. “It isn’t a new variation of airborne VX-99, is it?”

“No, actually, it contained anthrax spores.”

“Were they genetically modified?”

“Not according to the gene sequencing.”

“There’s something else this tells us,” Kate said.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“Anthrax isn’t hard to grow or distribute, but before the war, existing strains in the United States were tightly guarded,” she said. “Only a few national labs had access for testing and research purposes. Maybe that’s another connection we can exploit.”

“I can compile a list of all those laboratories and institutions,” Ron said.

“This might be a long shot, but we already know that the person or people responsible for the New Gods had access to several DARPA technologies. The high concentrations of activity in those former research labs in Denver and Seattle proved that.”

“But those labs only housed parts of the research for the microelectric arrays and the neural programming technology for the webbing network.”

“Exactly. And while Seattle turned out to be a site of Chimera research, there was no sign of the Prophet there. Based on the presence of anthrax in that grenade and all the crazy biological horrors like the bats, masterminds, network, and Chimeras, we need to be focusing on labs related to biodefense.”

“We’re looking for one sick former government biologist behind all this, aren’t we?” Sammy said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. It was a rogue military officer who led to the initial VX-99 outbreak, and with the number of technologies the New Gods have used, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that some traitorous Department of Defense scientist or an entire research group is behind all this.”

“But when we found out about Denver and Seattle, how would we have missed this place when we were tracking all that communication activity over the network?” Ron asked.

Sammy answered for Kate. “Firewalls, encrypted comms. Think basic cybersecurity, except adapted for a biological network. Whoever this Prophet is, he keeps proving himself smarter than we ever anticipated. If he was previously involved in national security, the guy would know to protect his digital and physical footprint.”

“Sammy, I want you to dig a little deeper in the network with Leslie,” Kate said. “See if you can find any dark corners of the network that might be protected by these firewalls. We need to redouble our search efforts.”

“I’ll get started now,” Sammy said.

Kate turned to Leslie. “How about the biopsied Chimera tissues?”

“The last of the chromatography and PCR runs were just finishing when I came down. Should be ready for you in less than half-an-hour.”

“Thank you,” Kate said.

“Anything else you need from me now?”

“Tap into the network when you feel up to it.”

“I’m ready.”

Leslie eagerly took the seat where Kate had been as Ron prepared the webbing for her to integrate with. Once she was in the chair, Ron glanced at his wristwatch.

“She can probably withstand listening for a good four or five hours,” Ron said. “I can join you up in the lab once we know Leslie’s connection to the network is stable.”

“Do it,” Kate said.

She headed straight to the lab. A few of the chromatography machines were still humming and clicking as the pumps and injectors siphoned various samples through their lines.

Ron joined her a few minutes later, and they reviewed the data Leslie had told them about.

By then, the last of the chromatography runs had finished, which would give them some insight into the properties of the compounds they had identified in the Chimera’s tissues.

“I want to cross-reference every active molecule and chemical compound we find in the biopsied tissues with a known list of pharmaceuticals and biological agents,” Kate said. “If you find any matches, let me know.”

“We’re going to see if any suspicious compounds help us pinpoint a research group responsible for developing them, right?”

“You’ve got it,” Kate said. She scrolled through the analytical results on the computer. “Any matches might tell us the original companies or institutions where these compounds were produced.”

“I’m on it,” Ron said.

They each worked at computers, side-by-side, poring over the results. It took several hours for the automated database search to return their queries. While Kate found matches for a few of the molecules, she discovered several with no known matches.

Ron came up with a similar list.

“Doesn’t look like anything we’ve seen before,” he said. “There’s no way to tell where they came from.”

Kate sighed. “I did find something interesting. See what you think.”

“I’m all ears,” Ron said, turning away from his computer.

Kate pointed to a pair of molecules on her screen. The long chain of lines and angles representing bonds between atoms was nearly indistinguishable between the two molecules at first glance. But Kate pointed to a smaller section toward the right end of the chain.

“The first molecule you see is one of the active components in VX-99,” Kate said. “It confers many of the epigenetic changes that lead to the aggressive nature of the Variants.”

“Following.”

“In this second sample, the one we extracted from the Chimera, the last chain of molecules is different,” Kate said. “It’s impossible to say exactly what it does without extensive computational modeling and cellular studies.”

“But you think that it could be enough to change the molecule’s function so it doesn’t alter the neurological activity of the Variants?”

“It’s all a theory, but bottom line, yes.”

She could tell from Ron’s expression that a light had gone off in his head.

“What you’re telling me is that someone modified VX-99,” he said. “This version turns people into actual super soldiers without destroying their intellect.”

Kate didn’t want to believe it, but it was hard to deny.

“This has to be someone who had access to the original VX-99 studies and samples,” she said. “Someone with intimate government connections.”

Kate tapped on the keyboard, clicking through to another molecule.

“There are a couple of compounds that look like they were adapted from other government projects. They have a sub-90% similarity match, but it’s certainly enough to connect a few dots,” she continued.

“Like what?”

“This one.” Kate pointed to her screen. “It looks similar to an active compound DARPA was working on that can be used in cell targeting for drug delivery. It homes in on very specific cell types, which means that this mysterious VX-99 variant could act much faster on its target.”

“VX-99 already turned people into monsters in days.”

“Expediting targeting efficiency could decrease the dosage needed in a host while increasing the targeted signaling pathways.”

“So a person would change in less than a couple days?”

“With the right conditions, the first changes would be nearly immediate.”

“Good God,” Ron said. He pushed away from his computer, slouching in his seat. “This is worse than a nightmare.”

“There must be some more commonalities we can identify to find out who is responsible.”

Ron swiveled his monitor back to face him. “I know you’re good with the molecular data, but I’m more of a big picture researcher. We already have tons of data from your past research on what VX-99 does to a human to turn them into a Variant, including anatomical studies. But we don’t have that kind of data for Chimeras.”

“You’re right. That could be just as helpful. Tell Jacobs we need a full workup on that Chimera they captured. MRI, CT, whatever they got. I want to know what that thing looks like under its skin.”

Ron picked up their radio to make the call.

“No, better to keep this one quiet,” Kate said. “Just in case anyone’s listening who shouldn’t be.”

“Yes, of course.” He started to head toward the door.

“Wait,” she said.

Ron looked back.

“The last report we got back from Ghost said they have a Chimera in their custody, too. See if we can get the same data from the Canadians. The more, the better.

Ron disappeared into the hall to relay the message, and Kate continued working for another thirty minutes trying to fit the pieces of this scientific puzzle together. She was certain that the spider web of connections they were making would lead to a clue.

The radio on the lab bench crackled. “Doctor Lovato, are you there?”

It was Sammy. Her voice was tinged with worry.

Kate grabbed the radio. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve got… we intercepted something. Leslie is headed in your direction right now.”

A minute later, someone pounded on the door. Kate opened it to let Leslie in.

The woman’s face was red. “We heard it! We finally heard it!”

“Heard what?”

Leslie took a deep breath. “They’re in Las Vegas.”

“Who? The collaborators? Another mastermind?”

“The Prophet. The New Gods, everything. They’re headquartered in Las Vegas.”

Kate nearly stumbled backward. “You’re sure?”

Leslie nodded. “Sammy recorded the transmission. We’re positive.”

“This could be it,” Kate said. “But you can’t tell anyone. We cannot let this get out.”

She hung up her lab coat and started to open the door.

“Go find Ron and tell him and Sammy to wait for me at the Variant tunnels.”

“Where are you going?” Leslie asked.

“I need to tell Reed,” she said. “And the president.”

***

Another long day in Calgary had passed without incident. The sound of water dripping echoed through the warehouse far outside the city limits. Banks of sodium lights hung overhead, and pipes ran along the ceiling. Team Spearhead was taking their turn guarding the place, while Dohi and Ace watched Corrin.

But that was not why Fitz had trouble finding some shuteye.

“Can’t get a lick of sleep?” Ace asked, his face ripe with bruises and exhaustion.

Fitz sat up against a crate. “Impossible.”

“Worried about an attack on Calgary?” Dohi asked.

Fitz gazed over at Corrin, who had somehow managed to nod off. The Chimera was in the corner of the warehouse, chained and shackled to a bolt in the concrete floor about twenty yards away from them. That was a result of the Canadians’ orders when they had arrived, before the medics had taken General Kamer elsewhere into the outpost for medical treatment with Sergeant Prince. They had left Spearhead and Ghost to watch Corrin out here.

“Worried about him,” Fitz said, gesturing toward the Chimera. “He got us out of Seattle and saved Kamer. I’m worried the Canadians are going to kill him.”

Ace flicked a cockroach crawling toward him. “Yup, and it’s a damn shame. I think the guy is being truthful with us, even if he is uglier than my ass.”

“The Canadians are right to be suspicious,” Dohi said, voice calm.

“What? You think he actually called the enemy in?” Ace asked, bushy gray brow raised.

“No. I just think there’s something we’re missing. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“If you figure out how they tracked him—or us—I’m all ears,” Fitz said.

“Maybe a GPS,” Ace suggested.

“We didn’t find anything on his clothes or on his body,” Fitz said.

“They might’ve forced one of those devices down his throat or something,” Ace said.

“No,” Dohi said. “The only GPS trackers small enough to implant in a person or ingest have batteries that don’t last more than a couple days at max, especially with the power required to transmit a signal from Banff to Seattle.”

Ace opened his mouth to speak, but the sounds of footsteps clattering toward them interrupted him. Fitz scrambled to stand on his blades, and the other two followed suit. Corrin jolted awake.

The steps echoed in the wide space, until Neilson appeared with Toussaint and Daugherty. Behind them were another ten men, all military. A few gasped when they saw Corrin. Others looked terrified, and Fitz noticed several lift their rifles slightly, like they were ready to shoot Corrin down.

Fitz swallowed, was this it? Had the Canadians decided to come deal with Corrin and get rid of him?

Corrin’s innocent, Fitz thought. But will you die trying to protect him?

“Master Sergeant Fitz,” Neilson said politely. “We got orders from your science team in Houston. They want a full-body workup on Corrin. Medical image, biopsies, all of it.”

“What for?” Fitz asked.

“Didn’t say. These men have a truck waiting to transport Corrin in the loading bay. They need to take him to a medical center in the city but want to keep him out of sight. You want us to help with escort duty?”

Fitz looked at Corrin, then the men. “Yeah, that would be good.”

He didn’t trust the other Canadians, but his gut told him Neilson was a good man.

“Brass is anxious to get this thing out of here,” Neilson said. He tossed the keys for Corrin’s chains to Dohi. The Canadians had not even trusted the Americans to hold onto the keys, they were so worried about betrayal. “They’re wondering how long it’s going to be before these New Gods attack Calgary too, especially with the beast so close.”

Dohi took the keys to Corrin.

“We’ve kept the guy locked down, under guard, and hidden since we got here,” Fitz said. “He hasn’t made a single call and hasn’t once been out of our sight.”

“I believe you,” Neilson said. “But it would make people feel better to have hard proof that this Chimera didn’t start the attack on Banff. And even more important, that he doesn’t bring the New Gods here, too.”

Dohi finished unlocking Corrin and helped the Chimera stand. Chains still shackled his wrists and ankles together.

“He helped us escape that attack,” Fitz said.

“Yeah, but he’s one of them, and all people know is the attack happened not long after that beast arrived at Banff.”

“And what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Neilson said. “All I know is that I watched most of our people die in a matter of minutes. And now all we can do is watch the walls around Calgary for another attack that you and I both know is inevitable.”

Fitz understood why the Canadians were nervous. Hell, he wasn’t sure how the collaborators had found Banff, but Dohi was right. Somehow it had to be connected to Corrin.

“Where are we going?” Corrin asked, a slight tremor in his normal gravelly voice.

He sounded nervous.

“We’re just doing some routine exams,” Ace said. “Science team back home wants to know what makes you tick.”

Corrin eyed the ten military men standing behind Team Spearhead. “You’re not just leading me outside and putting me down like a rabid dog, are you?”

“Just medical stuff,” Neilson said. “I promise.”

Corrin nodded, but remained tense. “Fine. I’m used to being a medical experiment.”

A minute later they were outside the warehouse next to the waiting truck. Ace helped Corrin inside, and Dohi and Fitz jumped up with them. The other ten soldiers piled in around them. Neilson patted the door and started to close it when Fitz reached out.

“Don’t fuck us,” Fitz said.

“We don’t betray people,” Neilson said. “You have my word, Master Sergeant.”

Fitz kept his hand on the door for a moment, then relaxed and Neilson sealed the door.

The vehicle took off through the streets.

Fitz peered up through the window to see the Calgary Tower after they passed through the gate into the city. Once a tourist attraction, the structure now served as a military observation deck to oversee the base and its surroundings. He hoped the Canadians would see an attack long before it hit Calgary, but he couldn’t help thinking that the tower could do nothing if the Variants decided to tunnel under the base’s defenses.

The truck eased to a stop. Fitz readied his rifle again, still suspicious that the Canadians might try something. The door opened, and Neilson gave them a nod to hop out. Ace helped Corrin back out of the truck, while the soldiers formed a perimeter around them at a back entrance to the hospital.

Standing outside the door, a doctor in scrubs with a head shaved bald looked at them, his piercing green eyes never leaving Corrin. For a second, he said nothing, clearly in shock.

“Doc, you all right?” Ace said.

“Jesus,” the doctor started, then blinked as if trying to dispel an illusion. “That thing… oh, God. I never imagined—”

“We going to do this or not?” Fitz asked.

“Ah, yes, of course,” the doctor explained. “First up is the CT scan.” He led them into the hospital, nervously glancing back at Corrin as they marched down the corridor, the soldiers flanking them. “We’ll get a three-dimensional look at his skeletal system, along with the anatomical layout of his soft organs. It won’t take very long, but…” The doctor studied Corrin. “Normally, I leave the patient in the machine alone. You don’t want an operator exposed to excess radiation, but is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Corrin said with a slight growl, shuffling after them.

The doctor looked at Team Ghost as if he didn’t believe the Chimera.

“It ain’t going to be a problem.” Ace tapped the side of his rifle for emphasis. “We’ll be right outside, and he won’t try anything, right?”

Corrin gave a sad nod.

The doctor took them into another room off the hall, and the Canadian soldiers waited outside. Inside were two imaging techs, a woman and man each wearing scrubs. Both took steps backward when they saw Corrin, shaking slightly.

“We’re, uh, going to have to remove those shackles to do this,” the doctor said.

Dohi followed the doctor’s orders.

The doctor still watched Corrin suspiciously. But the Chimera didn’t struggle when Dohi and the staff undid his wrist restraints and laid him on the scanning bed of the CT. Once Corrin was settled, they exited the room, joining Team Ghost behind the observation window.

Through the glass, Fitz watched the bed slide toward the huge donut-shaped CT machine. They waited for nearly fifteen minutes as Corrin’s body traveled through the scanner.

“We’re all done,” the doctor said. “Quick and, uh, painless, right?”

Corrin gave the doctor an unamused look through the observation window. The doctor’s two imaging techs entered the CT scan room and escorted Corrin back into the observation room with the rest of them. Ace and Dohi stood beside Corrin, ensuring he didn’t move.

Images started to populate on the doctor’s computer, processing in real-time.

“The next test is going to be a few biopsies,” the doctor said. “We’ll head down the hall to an exam room, and—”

“Wait,” Corrin said. “I want to see what those assholes did to my body. Can I see?”

The doctor looked at Fitz for approval, and Fitz gave him a subtle nod.

“Sure, it, uh, won’t take long. Just a couple more seconds, and the images will be done processing.”

A black and white three-dimensional model of Corrin’s body appeared on one of the monitors.

“That’s it,” the doctor said.

Corrin’s eyes roved over the screen, his bottom lip trembling slightly.

Fitz scanned the skeletal structure. It didn’t look too different from a normal human’s, except that the ends of each finger and toe were long and pointed and most of the bones appeared thicker. He could see the shadows of the Chimera organs.

“I’m no doctor, but his organs look pretty similar to a human’s,” Ace said.

“That’s right,” the doctor said. “Beside the structural differences in his skeletal system, I don’t see many differences.” The doctor traced his finger along the image of Corrin. “Except here. That’s odd.”

Fitz noticed what the doctor was pointing at. A bright white speck.

“The contrast indicates this is about the same density as bone, but it is embedded in his muscle,” the doctor said.

Fitz’s stomach twisted. He looked at Dohi and Ace. “Could that be…?”

Their expressions told him they all had that same thought.

“I thought you said a battery wouldn’t last,” Ace said to Dohi.

Dohi stroked his goatee. “A battery wouldn’t last. But then again, these people have made all kinds of strange biological weapons. Maybe…”

“It’s my fault,” Corrin grumbled. “Death follows me everywhere.”

He looked down at his arm, and before anyone could stop him, he tore his left claw into his bicep. Skin peeled away to reveal glistening muscle.

The doctor stumbled out of the room with his techs.

Corrin dug into his flesh, howling in pain as he plucked out a metal capsule and pulled it from his flesh. Two small wires snapped off from where they had been attached to his muscle.

“Stop, Corrin!” Fitz reached out to the creature. His touch seemed to calm Corrin, who wept for the first time since they had captured him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Saliva dripped off his fangs. “Just kill me… just get it…”

“I got a better idea,” Fitz said.

Corrin glanced up with his golden eyes.

“If they’re still tracking this thing, we can send it far from here. Send the New Gods on a wild goose chase and prevent an attack on Calgary,” Fitz said. He took the bloody device, holding it like a hand grenade waiting to go off.

“Patch Corrin, up,” Fitz said. “It’s time we use him to our advantage.”

Ace grinned and Dohi nodded.

“You good with that?” Fitz asked.

Corrin grunted. “If I get a chance at revenge, then I’m more than good with it.”

— 10 —

On the way to Galveston, Beckham had learned that General Hernandez had arrived from Mexico. Just like Canada, they had sent only a few hundred troops instead of what they had initially promised.

Now he sat next to Rico and Horn at a dining table in an opulent room of the Moody Mansion, a once popular tourist attraction and museum. The neglected informational plaques hanging from the walls or posted on stands were covered in cobwebs.

“Think this place is haunted?” Horn asked.

“Maybe,” Rico said. “You scared?”

“Nah, ghosts are afraid of me.”

Rico raised a brow. “Maybe it’s the BO, man. We do still have water at these outposts, you know?”

Footsteps echoed through the building before Horn could get off a retort. Three Secret Service agents entered, and Beckham rose instinctively, Rico and Horn doing the same.

Next came President Ringgold and General Souza.

“Thank you for making the trip back from Houston,” Ringgold said as they saluted her. She motioned for them all to sit back down around the dining table, then checked her watch. “General Cornelius and the others should be here soon.”

“Will General Hernandez or Vance be meeting with us?” Beckham asked.

“No,” Ringgold said. “As far as they and everyone else on this island knows, this meeting isn’t happening. There are too many people flooding into Galveston, and we don’t want to risk the chance that any collaborators are among them. Loose lips, you know?”

A few more officers from Cornelius and Ringgold’s armed forces filtered in before Cornelius arrived.

“That’s everyone,” Ringgold said, looking between them all. “We’re gathered today with intel that can change the war.”

Every exhausted face seemed to light up at the prospect.

“Until now, only a few of you were aware of the intel our science team recently recovered,” she said. “Thanks to their work with the webbing network, they identified that the so-called Prophet and the heart of the New Gods operation is in Las Vegas.”

“It is extremely important that you reveal this information to no one except those we’ve given prior clearance,” Souza said. “Initially, when we got this intel, we considered sending an offensive with our new allies, but the risk of the collaborators finding out is too great.”

So we’re sending in a few fire-teams, Beckham thought. Just like the past. A few good men and women to save us all.

He wasn’t sure it would be enough.

“If we don’t hit the New Gods hard with our allies, then how are we going to stop this Prophet and all their forces?” he asked.

“We still plan on launching a counter-offensive on the New Gods, but our tactics rely more on surgical precision than brute force for this mission,” Souza said. “We will distribute the other troops by priority to the outposts that need them the most.”

The mood in the room seemed to shift as the officers waited to hear this new strategy. Beckham could tell none of this was what they had expected, especially after Ringgold had been promising more extensive offensive action against the New Gods.

“I know you’re worried,” Ringgold said. “And you have every right to be.” She paused a second, as if bracing herself. “Last night we received word that our last outposts in eastern Florida were taken.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

“This is no longer a war of superior technology or weapons or even numbers,” Ringgold said. “We have to win by being smarter than our enemy with the forces we have left, and the people in this room are the best we have left. I’m going to let Cornelius and Souza fill you in on the details.”

Souza leaned forward. “From our best estimates, Las Vegas is a cesspool of Variant activity. The city served no economic or military purpose to the Allied States during our reconsolidation, so we abandoned it and the Variants must have moved in.”

Cornelius unrolled a map over the table. It was a satellite image showing the black and brown ruins of Las Vegas, dated from five years ago before they had lost contact with most of their reliable imaging satellites.

“Thank you,” Souza said. He looked at the map and then pointed at a location northwest of where the once-famous hotels like the Bellagio, MGM Grand, and the Wynn had been. “The science team triangulated the signals. Most of them propagate from here, the University Medical Center.”

He scanned the map and then tapped another location. “And while there aren’t as many signals coming from here, the Palazzo is our second guess. We believe one of these locations is likely to house the Prophet.”

“I take it he’s not alone out there,” Horn said.

“Intercepted communications over the network suggest the presence of at least four individual masterminds in the vicinity of Vegas,” Souza said. “From past experience, we know the infrastructure and number of minions required to feed those beasts means we’re likely looking at several hundred to a couple thousand Variants in the area.”

“These reports lead us to believe the New Gods have spread through the city like a bad cancer,” Cornelius said. “The science team also informs us the webbing network is unlikely to survive in the intense heat and sun exposure of the desert. That means it’s highly likely the monsters have taken advantage of the vast network of empty tunnels, drainage pits, and water lines beneath the city, not to mention all the massive abandoned casinos and hotels. That will be where you’ll probably find the highest density of webbing and monsters.”

“From previous attacks on Variant hives, we know that bombing these types of nests can be ineffective at best and give us a false sense of security,” Souza continued. “That’s why we’re relying on each of you to cut out this disease infecting Sin City at its roots, to ensure it never comes back.”

“So no air support?” Horn asked.

“Air support will be limited,” Cornelius said. “Not only are we limited by our diminishing stockpiles of ordnance, but the truth is our air superiority is ineffective at clearing out the vast, unknown networks of Variant tunnels underground. We can only truly cleanse this city of monsters by foot.”

Souza nodded. “Our actions will be swift and fierce, catching the Variants unaware. In order to do that, we will come at the city in two main task forces of approximately a battalion size each. Task Force Alpha will be hitting Vegas from the north, roughly following what was Interstate 15. Task Force Bravo will come in from the southern approach on Interstate 15. Each battalion will split their forces, infiltrating the city both aboveground and through the storm drains and sewers. Company Cos will go over specific routes in more detail later.

“Team Ghost will lead the incursion into the UMC, which we believe is more likely to house the Prophet. The only Canadians that will know about this mission are the ones escorting Ghost from Calgary. Captain Beckham, you and Horn will head into the Palazzo.”

Cornelius looked toward Beckham. “You will also be coordinating with TF Alpha and TF Bravo. Our goal is to distract the enemy with this larger force focusing on the main strip, drawing attention away from the special operations teams launching more covert attacks.”

“We only get one shot at this,” Souza said. “Once the enemy finds out we know they’re in Vegas, they’re liable to cut and run. So, we need to strike quickly, with both the task forces and special operations teams acting in parallel.”

Beckham put a hand over his prosthetic, remembering the mission where he had lost so much of his body and soul. Without a doubt, this would be another one where good men died.

He glanced at Horn. The big man was scratching his beard, probably thinking the same thing. But like so many other times in the past, they had no choice but to serve and protect those they loved.

“This mission is going to be a success,” Ringgold said. “We will cut off the head of this diseased snake, and the New Gods will wither and die.”

“There’s one more thing you all need to know,” Souza said. “As the war has raged, it’s always been our more experienced brothers and sisters putting themselves in harms’ way. Unfortunately, that means many of them have been lost to the Variants. The two task forces will consist of many men and women who have very little experience outside of defending our walls.”

Beckham thought of Timothy. He was one of the few recruits with actual experience outside the confines of their outposts. He had no doubt the young man would be sent away for this mission, but he held out hope that somehow Timothy would be safe.

“For now, I need all of you to make preparations to leave with your team,” Ringgold said. “You are to report to mustering stations around Galveston in three hours for immediate departure. Like I said, we don’t want to give the Variants any time to react or for any collaborators to send word back to the New Gods.”

The room slowly emptied at Ringgold’s dismissal, but she asked for Beckham and Horn to remain behind.

“The Allied States owes everything it has to you,” she said. “I can’t begin to tell you how frightened I am about the future, of losing you both, but this is it. If you can kill the Prophet, we can end this war.”

“We won’t let you down,” Horn said.

“You never do,” she replied.

Beckham simply nodded and left the room, more ready than ever before to fight the evil that had taken so much from them. It would be over soon, but before it was, he would have to kill a lot more monsters to keep the people he loved safe.

***

The heavy beat of the Black Hawk’s rotors thrummed through Timothy’s bones as he stared out the open side doors of the bird. Glimmering stars punctuated the night, and a full moon cast its glow over the desert landscape.

If he claimed he wasn’t scared, that would be a lie.

But he was also ready for this battle, knowing he was part of something that could end up in history books.

Depending on who won, he thought.

He had known something was up when his team was ordered to return to Galveston from Houston, but it wasn’t until he got his orders he realized how significant this mission really was.

Beneath them the world was a sea of black, barely visible. They had spent the past night and day on their way to the front lines, hopping between temporary encampments set up by scouts stretching from Houston to El Paso and then onwards to Vegas. His team, Recon Sigma, was assigned to Task Force Alpha, coming in from the north and clearing a route to their first objective, the Stratosphere Hotel.

While some of the other teams in the task force would take the storm drains and sewage tunnels underground, Timothy’s team would be one of the few scouting out the enemy territory aboveground.

Once they converged on the Stratosphere Hotel, they would follow the strip south toward the Venetian Hotel and Casino.

Discreetness was key. If the New Gods got any warning, the leadership would be gone before the Allied States’ forces reached the city.

Timothy could feel the tendrils of exhaustion wrapping his insides, but the adrenaline of closing in on their target had kept him awake the whole time.

“Almost there,” Ruckley said over the comm channel. She checked the glowing dials of her wristwatch and then pulled her sleeve back over the watch.

Wong checked his rifle, then nudged Boyd awake. “Hey, man, better get ready.”

Boyd jolted awake. “Shit, we’re nearing Sin City?”

Timothy nodded. “How the hell do you sleep over the sound of a helicopter?”

“It’s a gift,” Boyd said.

The other soldiers in the Black Hawk made final combat checks of their weapons as the chopper started its final descent. For a second, Timothy recalled those few minutes he had stolen with Tasha before leaving Galveston. He missed her and relished the moments they’d shared.

Reaching into his vest he pulled out something she had given him before he left—a bracelet of wooden beads. She had strung the beads over a piece of cloth cut from one of her shirts. It was meant to remind him she would be with him wherever he went, and she promised it would bring him good luck.

He slipped it over his wrist, hoping it would help him like she had said.

“Here we go,” Ruckley said.

Timothy clicked down his night-vision goggles. The black-and-green world around him was filled with other choppers coming in low toward Vegas. Humvees, Strykers, and other vehicles that had been transported via C-130s and other transport aircraft shadowed them on the ground.

He imagined how many Variants, Chimeras, and collaborators they would be striking down when they got to Vegas. Finally, he was a soldier fighting for his country, fighting to honor his dad’s sacrifice.

The copilot turned back to them and shouted over the thrum of the engines. “ETA five minutes!”

“Ready, Private?” Boyd said, leaning toward Timothy.

“Hell, yeah.”

He felt another flash of fear and wished he was back with Tasha for a moment. But as he looked around at the other men and women on the chopper, he realized this is where he belonged.

The chopper swooped in past hotels and casinos at the north side of the city. Many of the buildings were nothing but scaffolding and rubble. Timothy spotted a street covered in some kind of arched white roof, most of it bent and blackened. Next to it was a casino with only a few letters left on a sign that said “GOLDEN.” Nothing about it looked golden now.

Another casino across the street had been nearly leveled, but its front wall still stood, announcing “FOUR QUEENS.”

“Any sign of contacts?” Ruckley asked over her headset.

“Nothing yet! LZ is clear,” reported the primary pilot.

The chopper dipped toward a street lined with abandoned rusty cars and mountains of trash. Some of the debris whipped around as they descended.

The wheels of the bird hit the street.

“Go, go, go,” Ruckley said.

The soldiers jumped off the Black Hawk, ducking low under the rotor wash. Timothy followed Boyd and Wong, Ruckley tailing them. A half-dozen other choppers disgorged men and women into the empty street. The soldiers spread out into their individual squads, forming a perimeter around those still unloading.

Once the last soldier had his boots on the ground, the choppers took off. Their engine noise dissipated as they vanished back into the night. The squads spread into the ruined city, taking their individual routes as they began the advance.

Ruckley signaled for Wong to take point, and Boyd took rearguard. They filtered past an old semi, its tires rotted and deflated. Timothy roved his gun barrel over their shadows, listening for any rasping growl, the clatter of claws, or clicking joints as they passed a couple of wedding chapels.

Ahead Timothy saw an enormous glass cone on a spindly tower, stretching far higher than the rest of the boulevard.

That must be the Stratosphere, he thought. Our target.

Timothy trained all his senses on their surroundings, looking for the predatorial eyes or snapping teeth of a monster. His skin crawled as he waited for one of them to shriek, announcing that the battle had begun in earnest.

All he heard was the soft pat of boots on the street and sidewalk, along with the distant engine noise from the vehicle convoys and choppers traveling elsewhere in Vegas. He looked toward the sky for a second. Additional troops would be parachuting into locations around the city, and he saw a few of their IR tags glowing in the night, signifying their successful descent.

Still, they saw no signs of the enemy.

The night’s still young, Timothy thought. And maybe the monsters are still all underground.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the beasts had received warning of the assault. Maybe they were preparing a massive defensive effort. He pushed those thoughts away and followed Wong, who led Recon Sigma down the street ahead of the main forces.

Glass shards covered the sidewalk, and Timothy peered inside an old diner with moldy booths and chairs. Plates and tables were broken and scattered inside. Among the debris, he saw a pair of old skeletons that had been picked clean, claw and teeth marks covering the bones.

But no recent signs of monsters.

Somewhere far across the city they heard the rattle of gunfire. Then a few more bursts.

Ruckley held her fist up, and the team paused. Other soldiers sifting through the street and nearby buildings found cover.

Timothy scoped the street, looking for movement near a manhole cover and storm drain. Then he adjusted his aim over the windows of a nearby hotel.

Nothing there either.

The gunfire quieted, and the teams began advancing again.

Wong took them the final stretch toward the Stratosphere tower. Skeletal branches from dead trees and bushes rustled in the wind. A few nearby buildings had crumbled into oblivion, their façades torn apart by the bombing and fighting that had taken place here nearly a decade ago.

They passed rusted out Humvees. A few skeletons lay around them, the rags of their ACUs flapping over their limbs next to weapons in utter disrepair.

Since they hadn’t run into enemy contacts, they were already ahead of schedule. Ruckley signaled for them to keep going, pointing toward the taller towers on the main strip. The closer they got, the more damage the structures had sustained.

Entire sides of buildings that were thirty, forty, or more stories tall were gone, revealing the guts of the former hotel rooms and restaurants inside. One hotel looked like some kind of circus tent, except half the tent’s roof was missing. A creepy looking clown stood above a sign, pointing toward the hotel.

Teams were spread out between the buildings and even delving into the tunnels. By now he would have expected more than the few scattered gunshots they’d heard.

A voice called over their channels. “All teams be advised, this is TF Alpha Command. Recon Teams Delta and Lambda have found evidence of webbing network in drainage tunnels located near the main strip.”

Wong navigated past a charcoaled transport truck, then past tables and benches scattered around a small restaurant advertising lobster rolls.

Then he froze.

Timothy swung his rifle around at the sound of rustling.

A shadow moved beyond a pile of rubble.

Recon Sigma advanced toward the chunks of concrete and pipes where Wong had spotted the movement. Ruckley signaled for Boyd and Wong to take one side as she and Timothy took another to flank their target.

As soon as Timothy crept past the broken concrete, a shrill cry erupted.

A creature with wormy lips shot toward him, claws outstretched. He squeezed his trigger, sending a burst of rounds toward the monster. The shots missed, sparking into the concrete.

Jaw snapping, the beast slammed into Timothy’s chest, catching his body armor. He fell backward, losing his grip on his rifle. His helmet smacked against the sidewalk, and his NVGs were knocked aside as the creature’s mouth snapped for his face.

His hand caught the monster under its wrinkled neck, and he pushed up, muscles straining. Saliva sprayed over his face as the creature’s teeth gnashed together. Gunfire cracked around him as the team took on a pack of the beasts.

He kept one hand on the neck of the Variant and reached toward his holster. Then he swung a fist hard into the face of the monster, connecting with a sickening crack. That did the trick. The creature reared back, and he reached back down and grabbed his father’s pistol—the one Beckham had returned to him from Portland.

One trigger pull put a bullet through the enraged Variant’s open mouth. A second took off half the jaw. The monster slumped over his chest.

He shoved it off, recovered his rifle, then put his NVGs back in place. Rushing over to Ruckley, he helped her finish off another starving beast. Then they turned their sights on the monsters after Boyd and Wong.

She pulled out her knife and stabbed the creature pinning Boyd down. Timothy sprinted to help Wong who was being slammed against the ground by a juvenile.

He strained to hold off the attacks, parrying with his rifle. Claws clanged against the weapon.

“Hold still, dammit,” Timothy whispered. He had to aim for a weak spot where its arm met its shoulder. Rounds lanced into the flesh, forcing it to turn. He put a burst into its face. The monster collapsed, letting out a long wheeze, and went still.

Timothy reached down and helped Wong up.

“Thanks,” Wong said.

“They know we’re here now,” Ruckley said in a low voice. “Back into combat intervals.”

Other gunshots far to their south sounded into the night as they spread out. Maybe TF Bravo squads, but no one in TF Alpha.

Timothy managed his breathing, his heart rate slowly returning to around normal. He made a goal of having it lower when they reached their first objective, the Stratosphere. More teams would rendezvous here as they prepared to take Vegas’ main strip.

The team closed in a quick clip, moving fast. Timothy prayed the gunfire had gone unnoticed by the other monsters in the area, but he knew that was wishful thinking.

He scoped the Stratosphere as they approached.

Timothy saw something that looked out of place, like a gargoyle. At first, it was hard to tell if it was his mind playing tricks on him through the spotty NVGS.

He gestured for Ruckley’s attention, then pointed up at the roof.

He flipped up his NVGs and used his scope to zoom in on a shape, twisted and malformed, like a Chimera or Variant, silhouetted against the stars.

It suddenly cranked back its head and let out a blood-curdling shriek.

Ruckley signaled for the team to find cover, but Timothy froze. The rest of the team ducked behind the rubble of a bombed-out restaurant, but he couldn’t take his eyes of the rooftops.

Another creature appeared, howling. Then a third and a fourth. Soon they stood in lines like an army of screeching statues, their cries forming an unholy chorus.

They were coming from behind too, and Timothy slowly turned at a view that took his breath. Every rooftop along his sightlines was covered by the twisted silhouettes of monsters.

— 11 —

Fitz led Teams Ghost and Spearhead along with Corrin out from the belly of the DHC-5 Buffalo they had taken from Calgary. A lone Black Hawk was parked in the desert. Command had said the bird would be waiting for them. Beyond it, a good ten miles away, he saw tiny pinpricks of light pierce the black of night.

“They know we’re here,” Ace said. “We have to hurry.”

Fitz picked up his pace. Getting to Vegas wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

As he neared the chopper, the side door open. A shorter figure stepped out.

“Fitzie!” Rico called out.

Fitz ran over to her and wrapped her in his arms, savoring the feeling of relief that her embrace brought. While they were only apart for less than a week, it felt like a year with everything that had happened.

“It’s so damn good to see you,” he said, pulling away slightly.

“You, too,” she said, leaning in for a quick kiss.

“Come on, guys, you’re going to make me sick,” Ace said.

Dohi cracked a half grin.

Fitz wished he had some alone time with her, even just five minutes. The look in Rico’s eyes told him she must be thinking the same thing. That brief embrace was not enough.

But professionalism and the seriousness of this mission nixed that opportunity.

“Let’s load up,” Fitz said.

A crew chief passed headsets to Ghost and Spearhead. The reverberations of the Black Hawk’s engines shook into Fitz’s core as they took off, headed straight for downtown. Rico popped a piece of gum into her mouth.

As she chewed, she narrowed her eyes on Corrin. “So that’s the Chimera? You sure we can trust him or it, or whatever you’re calling this thing.”

“Him,” Ace said. “And yes, he saved our asses more than once.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she said.

“He’s an asset,” Fitz said.

Daugherty took a seat next to Ace. “He’s also the reason Banff got attacked.”

Rico shot Fitz a hard look.

“The New Gods implanted a GPS tracker in him using some of their weird tech,” Fitz said.

“I assume it’s gone,” Rico said.

“Yeah, the Canadians sent some scouts out with it. Sent it far, far north into the mountains. It’ll throw the New Gods off our trail and should save Calgary.”

The chopper drew closer to the strip, and the team fell into silence, mentally preparing for action. Outside the open door, sparks of gunfire lit up the blanket of black canvassing the ruined city. Each flash was like a miniature lightning strike, illuminating the twisted ruins of what had once been Paris Las Vegas’ Eiffel Tower or the cratered dirt where the Bellagio’s fountains had long-since evaporated.

The crew chief guided the M240 back and forth, searching for a target, as the chopper soared over the apocalyptic landscape.

“Reaching LZ in two,” said the primary pilot over the comm channel.

Fitz checked over his weapons again. Rico stopped chewing and took out a wad of gum. She tucked it under her helmet and gave Fitz a dimpled smile.

Fitz smiled back and then scanned the team.

Ace seemed to be mumbling to himself. The older man wasn’t particularly religious as far as Fitz knew, but maybe after everything he had seen, he was warming to the idea. Dohi sat like a statue, calm and collected as usual. Next to Dohi, Corrin wore body armor the Canadians in Calgary had reluctantly given him. If he was nervous, he didn’t show it.

Neilson remained stoic, but Toussaint had her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in deep breaths as if she was trying to collect herself. Daugherty stared out the window, his hands pressed against the plexiglass, bottom lip shaking slightly.

Rico called over a private channel to Fitz. “You sure they’re up for this?”

She nodded subtly toward Spearhead.

“They haven’t been in the field as long as we have, but they’re up for the task,” he said.

Rico seemed to take his word for it. They both knew they needed the help with the loss of Lincoln and Mendez.

The chopper slowed and began its descent toward the University Medical Center.

This Prophet better still be here, Fitz thought.

After flipping down his NVGs, he saw the cubic shapes of one building with a sign announcing “Trauma” and “Children’s Hospital”. The second building they had been briefed on had once been the UMC’s burn center, but was reduced to piles of broken brick, twisted girders, and gravel.

“That’s one less place to check out,” Ace grumbled over the comms.

The pilot swooped in next to the Trauma and Children’s Hospital units.

Their primary LZ, the hospital’s helipad, was on top of a parking garage next to the building. But half the parking garage had collapsed, spilling concrete and rusted vehicles.

“Primary LZ is no good,” one of the pilots reported. “Headed for our secondary.”

The chopper banked toward the parking lot. Humvees, ambulances, military transports, and other vehicles were situated in mostly orderly rows around the asphalt. Between them was a wide space with the broken frames of tents and defunct air filtration units.

Fitz knew from their briefing this had once been a quarantine site during the beginning days of the first war.

The rotor wash from the descending chopper kicked up a few ragged chunks of tent fabric still clinging to the metal poles, and the wheels thudded onto the concrete. One of the crew chiefs waved them out while the other covered them with the M240.

“Radio silence,” Fitz said.

They fanned out between scattered cots and crates of abandoned medical supplies, taking firing positions. Fitz’s nerves sparked with electricity as the chopper lifted off, disappearing into the black of night. He searched the cars and vehicles parked around them, his eyes roving for a target.

As the thrum of the rotor blades disappeared with the bird, the echoing chatter of gunfire and low explosions from grenades boomed in the distance.

Fitz tuned into the public channels to hear frantic voices calling for reinforcements. Others requested medics. The fresh recruits that had joined the mission were having a hard time dealing with the sporadic skirmishes.

All the more reason for Ghost and Spearhead to find the Prophet quickly.

Fitz signaled to the others, gesturing to see if anyone had seen any contacts.

They shook their heads.

So far, nothing.

Fitz’s stomach tightened. He had expected some kind of welcoming party, especially with the intrusion of the chopper. Had the science team been wrong about the Prophet’s potential locations? Or had the New Gods’ leadership already escaped?

He signaled for Dohi to take point, then for Toussaint and Daugherty to take rearguard. The others fell in beside him.

They filtered between the abandoned vehicles and quarantine supplies left in the parking lot, making their way toward the entrance to the UMC. The tall glass doors and windows leading into the atrium had long since been shattered. Crystalline glass pebbles crunched under Fitz’s blades.

Dohi made it into the hospital’s atrium first, taking shelter behind a column. He signaled that he still had no eyes on hostiles, but the others needed to join him.

Ace and Rico hurried behind Fitz, escorting Corrin for the Chimera’s protection. Behind them came Spearhead.

When Fitz made it to Dohi, his NVGs adjusted to the low light inside. From instinct, he covered his nose with his wrist to mitigate the stench of death and sour fruit.

He pulled up his shemagh scarf to cover his face. Little good that did, but at least it made him feel like he was doing something.

Shouldering his rifle, he stepped into the vast two-story atrium. Long vines hung from the ceiling, pulsing and squirming. Webbing stretched along the walls as if it was the vascular system of some giant animal.

Vines snaked through skulls and ribcages of desiccated corpses that had long since drained of any living matter. Fitz scanned the escalators and stairs wrapped in webbing. This place was huge. It would take several hours to search the place from basement to top floor.

He turned back to Spearhead and the rest of Ghost. They would have to split up. It was the only way to find the Prophet before the battle being waged in the streets of Vegas cost the Allied States too much in lives and time.

Pointing to Spearhead, he gestured for them to start on the second floor, taking the stairs. Then for Ghost, he pointed to another stairwell at the back of the atrium. From the old building maps the science team had scrounged up, Fitz knew those stairwells would take them to the basement, where they would find the morgue, storage facilities, and research labs inside the hospital.

Neilson led Spearhead up the stairs. Their boots slurped on the webbing covering the floor.

Fitz followed Dohi toward the steps that would take them to the basement. He strained to listen for any growls or clicking joints. But all he heard was the drip of water and creaking in the walls between the distant sounds of the ongoing battle.

The team descended into the basement.

In the depths of the building, it was too dark even for their NVGs. No light penetrated the corridor, forcing Fitz to flip up his optics and turn on his barrel-mounted light. The others did the same. White beams of light pierced the cloak of black, revealing patches of webbing and the occasional knot of tendrils formed over a long-dead body.

Dohi halted, raising a fist, then signaled he had seen movement in a room to their left.

Fitz felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Corrin, eyes glued straight ahead. Corrin pointed toward the room Dohi had indicated, then at his flared nostrils.

You can smell them? Fitz thought.

As if reading his thoughts, Corrin nodded urgently toward that door, his limbs trembling.

At Fitz’s signal, Dohi went in low. Fitz followed, clearing Dohi’s blind spots.

A growl exploded from the back of the room. Fitz raised his rifle, the light revealing two beasts with wormy gray lips, yellow eyes, and bony armor.

Juveniles.

He blasted their armor, rounds punching into the flesh of the first monster. The second leapt out of Fitz’s aim, but Dohi unleashed a burst that took off a chunk of skull.

Clicking joints caught Fitz’s attention, and he aimed toward the webbing-covered ceiling. A third beast they had missed before crawled like a spider over the webbing, dropping toward them.

It landed between Dohi and Fitz. Dohi went for his hatchet, and Fitz slammed the stock of his rifle into the juvenile’s jaw, cracking bone.

Corrin lunged in from behind, using his claws to slit the sliver of unprotected flesh between the armor plates of the juvenile. Blood pumped out and the creature collapsed, jerking.

“They have a weak spot there,” he said.

“Damn,” Ace said. “I’m really starting to like this… guy.”

Fitz signaled to advance into the room.

Flashlight beams danced over the stainless-steel doors of body-sized drawers. Two huge metal slabs stained dark by blood were at the center of the space. Taut vines laced into the drawers, and Ace pulled one out to reveal a corpse that had fed those vines.

“Let’s get the fuck out of this hellhole,” he said.

Dohi was about to open the door leading out of the morgue when the comm channel crackled to life.

He signaled for Dohi to pause.

“Ghost One, Spearhead One,” Neilson said, his words firing quick as an automatic rifle. “We got contacts! Need backup! Now!”

***

Azrael walked through the lines of two-meter tall banks of supercomputers covered in red vines at his Citadel. The air was sweltering and choking with humidity. This had been the birthplace of his communication network, back when he had relied on manmade computers.

He no longer needed most of them, although they had kept a few personal computers around for pedestrian tasks. The world of information technology he had created relied not on silicon computer chips, but rather engineered neurons, such as those in the behemoths that towered at the end of the two-story computational lab.

The bulbous mastermind pulled on red vines and let out long, rattling breaths, filling the air with a fetid odor.

Scions and human faithful alike moved about the space, using a few of the personal computers that Azrael still needed operating. Loyalists monitoring the communication network relayed updates on the battle in Vegas as well as their operations elsewhere.

He clasped his claws behind his back, soaking in the musty, bloody smell of the place. Along the walls, a few human prisoners writhed in nests of red. Their pained moans filled Azrael with great pleasure.

A human kneeled in front of him. “Prophet, I have news of the special operations teams.”

“Speak.”

The loyalist bowed his head. “Our guards captured a group of soldiers infiltrating the University Medical Center.”

A jolt of shock shook through Azrael, but he refused to let it show. “Were they coming after me?”

“I believe so.” There was fear in the human’s voice.

“The humans listening in our network truly did track down those signals,” Azrael said. “But that is exactly as we had expected.” He placed a claw under the human loyalist’s chin, forcing the man to look up at him. “Was this the infamous Team Ghost that our guards captured?”

The human shook his head. “No, Prophet. It was another group with the Canadian flag on their uniforms.”

Azrael scratched at the scars along his jaw. “This is unexpected, but we may be able to use it to our advantage. Alert Elijah at once.”

“Yes, Prophet.”

Azrael lurked behind the other human loyalists and Scions monitoring battle reports.

“Prophet,” said a Scion named Gabriel. “The heretics are still flooding the main strip.”

Gabriel tapped on a monitor showing a map of Vegas.

“They are closing in on the Venetian. Should I execute the final orders for Operation Darkness?”

Azrael glanced at the monitor. Red blips showed where collaborators and Scions were reporting current enemy positions. He pictured the faces of those humans that had constantly stood in his way. Reed Beckham. Team Ghost. The infidels who refused to submit.

“Has anyone confirmed that Beckham and Team Ghost are here?” Azrael asked.

“Not yet, Prophet.”

“Then we must wait.”

“If we wait too long, the humans will—”

Azrael slashed out with his claws, drawing four scarlet lines down the side of Gabriel’s face. To the Scion’s credit, he didn’t flinch.

“If you hold the faith, you will abide my words,” Azrael said.

“Yes, Prophet,” Gabriel said, eyes lowered. “It was foolish of me to speak like that.”

One of the doors to the lab opened. Four Scions marched in with their cutlasses strapped over their backs. Between them limped a hulking form.

All the way from across the room, Azrael could smell the beast’s festering wounds in his diseased flesh. It was the general, finally returned from Canada.

The Alpha stumbled toward him. One of his arms hung useless at his side.

“I am sorry to… interrupt, Prophet,” the general said, dropping to his knees before Azrael.

His massive chest expanded and deflated in heaving gasps. Blood caked the rim of a bullet hole in his shattered elongated jaw.

Azrael looked at Gabriel, who was staring straight at him. “You have come at the perfect time. We are approaching victory in Vegas… and elsewhere.”

“Yes, Prophet.”

Azrael spun, holding his claws wide to the rest of the room. “Soon we will all taste victory! And even sweeter, we will feast on the flesh of our enemies.”

A few monstrous howls rose, and human loyalists cheered.

“But only those who do not fail me will feast.”

The general dared to look up at Azrael with eyes that sparkled with a hint of fear.

“Please, Prophet, I almost…” he began to say.

Azrael snapped his claws. Red vines from the floor and wall slithered around the general. They snaked into his nostrils, ear canals, and the bullet hole in his jaw, prompting the general to screech in agony. More vines wrapped around his wrists and legs, yanking him off the ground.

All the chatter in the operations center ceased, except for a few squawking radios. Even the mastermind was watching.

“You failed me once,” Azrael said.

He gestured toward the mastermind. The vines stretched until the general’s bones started to crack. The wounds he had sustained from his attack on Banff opened, fresh gouts of blood drizzling out.

Azrael snapped his claws together again. This time the vines continued to stretch, and the general’s roars shook through the room. A violent tearing sound ripped through the space as his limbs pulled free from their joints, bones and flesh torn apart by the gruesome contractions of the webbing.

The torso of the general dangled in the air, vines still holding him up by his head and neck. Rattling gasps escaped the creature as he let out agonized moans.

Azrael ignored the beast, facing his followers again. “We are close to destroying the Allied States. Do not let failure become a distraction. While the human armies are focused on Las Vegas, we will deliver a strike that will paralyze them forever.”

The final breaths escaped the general’s broken body, and the vines released him. His corpse slapped against the floor.

Azrael turned away from the dying creature. He had no more time to waste dealing with insolent fools.

He looked back at Gabriel and the others. “Bring me Beckham. Bring me Ghost. Bring me victory.”

— 12 —

Dohi crouched at the entrance to a windowless second-floor corridor. They had traveled back up from the morgue through the hospital when Spearhead had called for backup.

The shrieks of Variants had sounded throughout the climb, but now the beasts had gone quiet. There was no sign of the Canadians. No streaks of blood. No bullet casings. Nothing to indicate where the team had gone.

Dohi was no longer sure going after them was a good idea.

The mission to find the Prophet far outweighed the lives of a single team, including even Team Ghost. But Fitz believed finding where the beasts had taken Spearhead would lead them to the Prophet.

For now, that was their game plan.

Sweat matted his ACUs and saturated his gloves as he gripped his rifle. The temperature in the hospital seemed to be rising.

Dohi clenched his jaw, holding his breath, waiting for orders.

“Should we try them on the comms?” Rico whispered.

Fitz shook his head.

Ace surveyed the area with his rifle, cutting through the darkness with his barrel-mounted tac light.

Corrin sniffed at the air. He leaned in close to Fitz, then whispered, “Variants are close.”

The air only got hotter as they made their way deeper into the hospital. Dohi blinked the sweat from his eyes. He came up on a corner and put his back against the wall, then snuck a glance around.

The coast was clear, and he shot a gesture to the team to relay the info.

Fitz signaled to continue.

Striding out with his rifle shouldered, Dohi finally saw the first tracks from Spearhead across the webbing covered floor.

Bodies hung from vines on the walls. Most were nothing but ragged corpses, a few pieces of leathery flesh hanging over tooth-marked bones. One man moaned, somehow alive despite his shriveled body.

Dohi shuddered, remembering his own experiences in the webbing. This man wouldn’t survive being taken down from the vines, but Dohi couldn’t just let him suffer.

There was only one thing to do.

He pulled out his hatchet, but then decided not to spill blood.

“Do you want me to end this?” Dohi whispered.

Sunken eyes focused on Dohi, full of relief more than fear. He gave Dohi a nod.

“I’m sorry,” Dohi whispered. He held the man’s gaze as he pinched his nose shut and pressed his hand over his mouth.

Dohi waited a few moments to make sure it was done. The other soldiers didn’t say anything and continued past empty hospital rooms and gurneys left in the hall. A few windows allowed the team to flick off their tac lights and put on their NVGs.

Another dark three-way intersection waited for them at the end of the corridor.

This time Fitz motioned for Corrin to take point and listen. The Chimera exchanged places with Dohi who could already hear the soft squish of claws digging into webbing down the passage. The air reeked of rotten fruit.

Corrin sniffed at it, gesturing to confirm there were Variants nearby.

Leaning around the corner, Dohi saw the footsteps in the webbing led toward the end of the hall. Another set of stairs there provided access to the third floor.

In between his position and those stairs were six well-fed Variants. The beasts prowled along the webbing and pulled a few bodies from the tendrils.

Dohi focused on the faces of those human corpses, but their skin looked parched and curled off their bones. These people hadn’t died recently.

Spearhead might still be alive, and if they had made it to that stairwell, that meant their last calls had been sent from at least one more floor above them.

After signaling to the rest of the group what he’d seen, Dohi looked down the hall without any monsters. An elevator shaft beckoned to him. One of its doors was jammed open by a gurney. He could see that behind those doors, there was no carriage.

Fitz signaled for Dohi to go up first and check things out, while the rest of the team waited here to avoid making extra noise.

Dohi snuck down the hall and slipped into the shaft. As quietly as he could, he climbed inside and started the ascent up to the next floor, hearing voices near the top.

Human voices.

He stopped near the bottom of the next open doors, listening.

It sounded like just two men, posted somewhere down the hallway.

Collaborators.

They were discussing the Canadians and how easy it was to capture them. Dohi’s heart picked up a beat. The Canadians might still be alive.

“The Prophet is going to have fun with those heretics,” one of the men said.

An idea bloomed in Dohi’s mind, and he retreated down the shaft. By the time he got there, the Variants had moved on to sleep off their full bellies.

He explained what he had overheard to Fitz and the rest of the team.

“Let’s send Corrin to talk to the collaborators,” Dohi said. “See if we can find out where Spearhead is.”

Fitz looked to Corrin.

“I’ll do it,” the Chimera said.

“Okay, go up the stairs,” Fitz said. “We’ll cover you from the elevator.”

The team moved out. Dohi watched Corrin leave. In a few minutes, they would find out if the Chimera could truly be trusted.

By the time he got to the top of the elevator shaft, Corrin was already approaching the two collaborators at the nurses’ station. One was a man with a black baseball cap, and the other had a matted beard.

The collaborators bowed their heads, shrinking back at Corrin’s arrival.

“Sir, did Elijah send for us?” asked the man with the cap.

Dohi noted the name, guessing Elijah must be a Chimera leader.

“No, he sent me,” Corrin said. “I need to see the prisoners. Take me to them.”

The two collaborators exchanged a look.

“Take me to them,” Corrin said, this time a little more fiercely.

The man with the beard looked up. Suddenly, the look of fear melted into one of skepticism.

“Where’s your cutlass?” he asked.

The capped collaborator began to raise his rifle. “I’ve never seen you before.”

Dohi raised his rifle out of the shaft.

“Elijah sent me,” Corrin said. He growled.

“Prove it,” said the man with the cap.

Both pointed their weapons at Corrin.

Dohi sighted up the guy with the cap and blew it off, along with part of his skull. Corrin lunged over the counter of the nurses’ station and tackled the bearded man.

Glad we decided to let Corrin live, Dohi thought.

The team climbed out of the shaft and set up a perimeter while Corrin held the bearded man down, claws to his throat.

“Where’s the Prophet?” Fitz asked. “And where are the prisoners?”

The collaborator shook in Corrin’s arms. “If I tell you… if the Prophet…”

“The Prophet is the least of your concerns right now.” Fitz stepped close to the collaborator. “You won’t take another breath if you don’t tell me where the prisoners and your Prophet are.”

The collaborator raised a finger, pointing overhead. “We… we took the prisoners upstairs. Up where the Scions went.”

“Where upstairs?” Fitz asked.

“The lecture hall.”

“If you’re lying to us, this beast will rip out your throat,” Fitz said. “Do you understand?”

The collaborator gulped, but nodded.

“The Prophet is with the prisoners?” Fitz asked.

“With our prisoners, yeah. That’s right.”

The man’s eyes twitched, and he nodded a little too vigorously. But Dohi wasn’t sure if he was lying. He had already pissed his pants out of fear, which made it difficult to tell.

Corrin yanked him up.

“Take us to them,” Fitz said. “You scream, and you’re dead.”

Corrin started walking with the collaborator, holding the man by an arm.

When they reached the floor where the collaborator claimed the lecture hall was, Dohi took point again. The doors to the hall were wide open, and he snuck inside. True to the collaborator’s word, he spotted Team Spearhead, but the Prophet wasn’t here and the room was free of Variants.

All three of the Canadians were pasted on the walls above the seats facing a podium covered in webbing. Toussaint and Neilson were struggling against their restraints, vines covering their mouths. Blood dripped from Daugherty’s nostrils. His head hung limp. Dohi noticed his chest was still.

He wasn’t breathing.

Dohi waved the rest of the team in, and Fitz gave the order to Ace and Rico to set the prisoners free. They hacked away at the cocoons holding Spearhead in place, then gently lowered Toussaint and Neilson out first. The two fell to their knees, gasping for breath and retching.

Dohi checked on Daugherty, pressing two fingers to the man’s neck. He held it there for a moment, hoping to detect a pulse, but his heart had stopped.

“Damn,” he whispered. He looked to Fitz and shook his head.

Fitz snorted with anger.

“Where’s the Prophet?” he asked their prisoner.

“I…”

Fitz grabbed him by the neck, and Corrin tightened his grip on his arm.

“Tell me or I’m going to make you wish the Variants had feasted on you,” Fitz said. He kept his voice low, but the ferocity in it surprised Dohi. He rarely heard the master sergeant this angry.

Dohi’s aim roved around the room, waiting for a pack of Variants to descend on them or more collaborators to spring from the doors at the back of the room.

“I don’t know, he was here…” the man suddenly jerked away from Corrin and Fitz, running for the exit yelling, “Heretics!”

Corrin tackled the man and tore his throat out, but it was already too late. An undercurrent of electricity cut the air. It was as if the vines were suddenly coming alive, sending a pulsating tremor through the entire building.

***

Kate watched over Sammy’s shoulder at the signals and words scrolling across the computer engineer’s screen. They had spent the past couple days since Beckham and the others left in the parking garage of the hospital outside Houston, connected to the webbing in the nearby gaping tunnel.

“Woah, did you see that?” Sammy asked.

She pointed at a sudden spike in signaling activity.

“It’s all coming from Vegas,” Sammy said.

Kate thought of her husband and her friends on the mission. She almost couldn’t bear the thought of them out there risking their lives, but she had to focus and play her part.

“Reed and the others should be at the sites where we think the Prophet is by now,” she said.

“Yeah, seems like this influx of activity could be related.”

“What can you tell so far?”

Sammy pointed at some of the words scrolling across the screen. “It seems like we’re advancing faster than the Variants’ expected.”

“Maybe they weren’t ready for us,” Kate said. The unease in her stomach made her question whether she actually believed those words.

“There’s something bad here, though,” Sammy said. She pointed at another message. “Some collaborators are reporting they captured a special ops team.”

Kate resisted the urge to cover her mouth.

“A Canadian team,” Sammy said.

“Oh, God.”

“You okay?”

Kate stepped away from Sammy’s computer. “No… but I have to be. I will be.”

She turned from the monitor. Leslie was still strapped into the network. She and Kate had been taking two-hour turns for the past six straight hours, trying to disrupt the Variants’ communications in Vegas by sending fake messages and commands. So far, they had managed to divert a couple of packs of Variants and groups of collaborators, sending them into the outskirts of the cities where no Allied States troops were.

The more wild goose chases they went on, the better.

“The Variants sound desperate,” Sammy said. “They keep requesting reinforcements, and many have retreated out of the areas where our forces are pushing forward.”

A few guards situated around the parking garage were looking their way, sharing expressions of relief to hear the direction the battle was going.

“I think they might actually be scared,” Sammy said.

Kate hoped she was right.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs to the garage. Ron came running from the stairwell toward them, waving a notebook. “I found something!”

He was nearly out of breath when he slammed the notebook onto the table. On an open page were lists of names. Some were crossed out and others were connected by lines.

“I cross-referenced all the principal investigators of the biodefense and bioengineering related projects under DARPA’s umbrella,” he said.

“And you found a match to all the technologies we’ve uncovered?” Kate asked.

“Not exactly,” Ron said. “There were a few labs that worked with the strain of anthrax we found in that grenade. But there was no overlap with them and the neural engineering groups.”

Kate frowned. “Are you sure we aren’t missing a government lab from that list?”

“Positive,” Ron said. “Those labs in Seattle and Denver were the only places the computer interface and microarray research was taking place.”

“Damn. So how are they connected to DARPA biodefense research?”

“That’s the thing. They aren’t connected. Not really, anyway.”

“So the anthrax samples were—”

Ron flipped to another page in his notebook. “The particular strain we found was a lab-created strain that I tracked all the way back to a Soviet Union program—Biopreparat.”

“Wait, so this is some international plot now?” Sammy asked.

“No, no, no.” Ron waved his hands. “Not even close. Lab records indicate this strain was stored at Fort Detrick in Maryland with USAMRIID. The only people with access to it were biodefense specialists in the government—and a few federal contractor groups.”

“Which contractors?” Kate asked.

“All the usual suspects. Leidon, Blackwell, and BAH. But ignore those.” He jabbed his index finger at a single name on the paper. “Here’s the rub. This company, OrgoProct, was the only contractor I didn’t recognize.”

Kate narrowed her eyes, studying the name. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. “Where did you find all this stuff?”

“A mixture of public records and old DARPA archives.”

“What do we know about OrgoProct?”

Ron flipped to a page with a map. On it, he had circled various locations, including Seattle and Denver, that had names written next to them. “You remember Dr. Simon Wong from the University of Florida? Well, we already know he was involved in computer-neural interface research that took place in the California Bay area and Seattle.”

He moved his finger to Denver. “There was another research group here led by Dr. Jennifer Yeatts. They specialized in communication networks, mostly digital, cybersecurity-type stuff.”

Next he circled Portland, Oregon. “Dr. Bhushan Reddi had an academic group that focused on genetic engineering of viral agents here.”

“Is that our guy?” Sammy asked.

“I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think so,” Ron said. He continued, pointing to various locations around the former United States and listing names associated with projects investigating technologies that might’ve been related to the Chimeras, webbing network, masterminds, and more.

“All these people were doing DARPA-funded research?” Kate asked.

“Many, but not all.”

“Then how are they connected?”

Ron had never looked so confident and self-assured. “It all goes back to OrgoProct. Each of these people served as a scientific adviser for the organization at one time or another.”

Everything suddenly clicked together for Kate. “Good lord, if it wasn’t someone in DARPA, if it wasn’t some government scientist, their connection is through OrgoProct,” she said.

“Exactly,” Ron said. He rubbed his hands together. “This is what really tipped me off. Several of those unknown compounds we found in the Chimera’s tissues were residuals from the gene delivery system of the modified VX-99 administered to the Chimera. I found an exact match from that same viral vector delivery system in OrgoProct’s research reports that they submitted to the Department of Defense.”

“And what was that delivery system supposed to be for?” Kate asked.

“It was supposed to deliver a set of genes targeting specific human cells,” Ron said.

“Hold up,” Sammy said. “What kind of genes are we talking about?”

“The genes were made to reverse the effects of VX-99 and X9H9.”

“Oh, my God,” Kate muttered. Then she recalled where she had heard of the company before. “I remember OrgoProct’s reports years ago during the Great War. They were one of the many labs that tried to find a cure for X9H9 back when I was also searching for it. The government was enlisting every lab, every scientist they possibly could. But obviously OrgoProct didn’t succeed, did they?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “The last report was sent two days before you developed the bioweapon called VariantX9H9.”

Kate winced at the name of the bioweapon, guilt eating at her for what she had created. It was meant to destroy the monsters that X9H9 had created. It worked, killing most. But it also had unintended consequences, turning those that survived into the Variants that plagued the world today.

All of that seemed like a lifetime ago, but now it was more relevant than ever.

“Can I see that last report?” Kate asked.

She took the paper from Ron, skimming through the lengthy graphs and tables of data until she reached the final summary.

We’re losing time. Most of our staff has succumbed to X9H9, including myself. I don’t have the luxury to prepare for human trials, so instead I will try our cure on myself. I can already feel the fever settling in and the nausea. If this is the last transmission from us, you will know we failed. OrgoProct’s efforts to reverse the genetic effects caused by X9H9 will have failed. The angel of death will have swept through the final survivors in Los Alamos National Labs.

I only wish we could have had more time.

-Charles Morgan, OrgoProct Chief Scientific Officer

“Los Alamos?” Kate asked.

Ron nodded. “Like many research companies, they were frequent users of Los Alamos National Laboratories. Much of their early research creating computational models of X9H9 and VX-99 took place there.”

“I see,” Kate said. “So this Charles Morgan? Is he our guy?”

“Sounds like he might’ve died after he administered his own drug, huh?” Sammy said.

Ron shrugged. “There’s no way to confirm it.”

“But if he was trying to reverse the genetic effects of X9H9 at the same time we deployed VariantX9H9 across the nation, what if there was some kind of genetic interference?” Kate asked. “What if our bioweapon negatively interacted with the effects of his?”

Ron nearly stumbled. “You’re saying…”

Even Sammy followed their train of logic now. “Chimeras. His engineered drugs reversed some of the genetic changes as intended, but your VariantX9H9 made other changes.”

“It’s just a theory,” Kate said. “It might be entirely wrong.”

“But it fits, I think you might be onto something.” Ron looked at the ceiling as if deep in thought. “Maybe I can run some simulations, see if this theory holds any merit.”

“Okay,” Kate said.

Ron started to head toward the stairs.

Something else bothered Kate. Thanks to Ron’s list, they were able to explain the various hives of New God and mastermind activity they had discovered throughout the Allied States. But there was one city name that she hadn’t heard.

“Ron, wait,” she called out. “Was OrgoProct located in Vegas? Is that why there’s so much Variant activity there?”

Ron looked at his notebook. “No, OrgoProct was in Santa Fe, close to Los Alamos.”

“Were any of those research groups you mentioned in Vegas?”

“Not a single one.”

“Then why are the New Gods there, especially if OrgoProct was in New Mexico?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said.

Kate wanted to be satisfied with the revelations he had uncovered, but the fact they had found no connections between the New Gods, Vegas, and any of these researchers and their respective research groups nagged at her.

They were missing something, and there was almost no time to find out what.

“We’ve got to tell Ringgold,” Kate said. “I don’t know if this Charles Morgan is our guy or if OrgoProct somehow became the epicenter of the New Gods in Los Alamos, but soldiers are dying in Las Vegas and if the Prophet isn’t actually there, it’s all for nothing.”

— 13 —

Timothy crouched in the darkness. Gunfire sounded from nearly every direction. The flash of tracer fire coursed through the black night, and beasts howled and roared.

So far, the attacks had come in random intervals from packs of three or four.

Timothy glanced at the Wynn hotel though his NVGs. While the name was still visible, most of the front glass façade had shattered. Only sporadic panes of glass remained. Each of the dark rooms was a potential sniper position for collaborators or Scions.

Every step felt like it could be his last, his nerves tight from the potential of a sniper bullet.

While Wong was on point and Boyd watched their back on rearguard, Ruckley remained closer to him, watching the windows and rooftops.

Ahead he saw another hotel that had fallen into utter disrepair. The letters on the building’s side said “SURE ISLAND”.

Wong paused next to a military truck with deflated, rotten tires. Claw marks scarred the paint. He pointed to his eyes, then toward their right to what looked like the entrance to a mall nearly forty yards away.

Webbing stretched from the broken glass doors and windows, curling over the concrete. There was no mistaking the shadows moving within the structure. Pale creatures crawled over the tangled vines.

Ruckley pulled out her infrared binoculars and scanned the neighboring buildings. Then she gestured toward a sight that Timothy recognized from his briefings: The Grand Canal Shoppes at the Venetian.

That was their target.

Ruckley handed the binos to Timothy.

Another squad of soldiers was hunched down across the street. She exchanged hand signals with the other team lead.

Dozens of Variants crawled over the Grand Canal Shoppes. On the roof and in the darkened windows, he saw other moving shapes. It was difficult to tell if they were human or Chimera, but he could clearly see that they carried rifles.

“Looks like a hive,” Timothy whispered. “Just like the science team said.”

“We can’t go straight at the building,” Boyd said. “They’d cut us down before we got there.”

“You got that right.” Ruckley pointed to a panel of grating on the sidewalk that led to a storm drain. “That’s why we’re going underground.”

Another rash of gunfire echoed somewhere to the south. Probably TF Bravo caught in another firefight.

Timothy felt the smooth wooden beads of his bracelet. He found strength in the simple touch as he watched Ruckley exchange more hand signals with the other squad leaders. The teams both got up and started to move into position to provide a distraction.

As soon as the first gunshot rang out and the other squads were pounding the Variants roaming around the Grand Canal Shoppes, Ruckley gave the order to advance.

Keeping low, Timothy hurried across the street, again bracing himself for incoming rounds and dodging between debris for shelter. He made it across the street a minute later with the rest of the team.

Boyd and Wong lifted the grate from the sidewalk, heaving it to the side. It let out a jarring scrape against the concrete, and Timothy crouched instinctively, scanning their surroundings with his rifle.

All the beasts and collaborators were too distracted by the incoming gunfire from the other squads to notice. The distraction was working.

Ruckley signaled Wong down first. Timothy followed, then came Boyd and Ruckley.

The stench of the place slammed into Timothy like he had run straight into a wall. He pulled a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Goosebumps prickled across his skin.

Without any light deeper in the tunnel, they were forced to flip up their NVGs and turn on their tac lights. Slowly they navigated through the massive concrete tunnel. Webbing covered every surface, throbbing red in the pale wash of their flashlights.

Between the echoing fire aboveground, he listened for the scrape of claws down here, waiting for an ambush.

Keep moving Timothy, just keep moving.

Like his father had always told him, no matter what you did in life, you kept pushing forward.

He kept close to Ruckley, making their way past the rotting bodies of humans and animals stuck to the walls. Fissures in the concrete let through columns of shifting dirt and dust with each walloping boom of an exploding grenade above.

So far, it seemed the attack was working. The monsters were focused on the main assault force. Teams like his, Recon Sigma, and the others could move into position within the Venetian and set explosives.

Then once Beckham and Horn or Team Ghost confirmed they had caught the Prophet, they would bring this whole damn hive down.

The storm drain dragged on. Another heavy thudding explosion caused a violent crack in the ceiling. Small chunks of concrete fell over their heads.

As the blast settled, Timothy heard a loud thump.

Wong held up a fist, and they all dropped into kneeling positions, lights aimed down the tunnel. Something huge burst into an intersection about fifty yards ahead, white flesh with massive limbs and batlike ears.

The beast turned their direction, letting out a shrill series of clicks, its ears twitching.

Timothy sucked in a breath at the sight of the monster.

It was an Alpha.

Ruckley gave the signal, and they opened fire.

The beast ducked into their gunfire, bullets riddling its flesh and sparking against the concrete around it. It barreled ahead on all fours, letting out a guttural roar.

Other hellish voices echoed behind the monster. Another five Variants galloped behind the brute, stringy muscles rippling beneath their skin.

As rounds lanced into the Alpha, it shuddered, absorbing the impacts and slowing.

Timothy heard another series of shrieks coming from behind.

He twisted, his flashlight illuminating the tunnel they had already traveled through. A group of ten juvenile Variants with armored flesh chased after them.

“Ruckley, our six!” Timothy shouted.

She was probably doing the math like he was.

Those beasts were too close, too many of them. They couldn’t sustain a firefight without solid cover. Especially not against the armored juveniles.

Ruckley grabbed a grenade from her vest, motioning for Timothy to do the same.

Beckham had taught him that a concussive blast in a confined place like this was risky. The force would be concentrated by the walls, tearing them apart if they threw the grenades too close to their positions.

If the blasts didn’t destroy their organs, then it might bring the roof down on top of them.

From the front, the Alpha let out an angry yell, stumbling toward them, one of its legs limp. The other five creatures behind it rushed past. One fell in the gunfire. Another was shredded.

The ten juveniles were closing in from behind, too, jaws snapping, lips smacking together.

“Fire in the hole!” Ruckley said.

She threw her grenade like a major league pitcher. Timothy followed her lead.

The two grenades sailed toward the juveniles.

But the beasts were too fast. They surged past the grenades.

Timothy swung his rifle up, right when the first grenade detonated. The tunnel shook. Flames danced behind the monsters, swallowing part of the tunnel. Several juveniles were knocked off their feet. Then the second grenade exploded.

This time, the fissures in the ceiling spread with the expanding fire. More of the creatures stumbled. Timothy was knocked off his feet by the blast. He hit the ground hard, his ears ringing, head pounding.

Ruckley grimaced next to him, blinking away the pain.

More concrete chunks fell from the ceiling. Like an avalanche, the tunnel began collapsing behind them, swallowing the entrance they had come through with a monstrous roar.

Pieces rained from the ceiling on the dazed juveniles. They tried to stand and scramble away but falling concrete crushed their bodies.

The ceiling didn’t stop collapsing after the beasts were swallowed in the rubble. The tide of destruction came toward Timothy and Ruckley.

“Move!” Ruckley yelled. She jumped to her feet and grabbed Timothy, pulling him into a run.

Boyd and Wong were in the process of changing their magazines while two injured Variants and the hobbled Alpha stumbled toward them.

Timothy tried to keep his rifle steady, but he was too shaky and didn’t have a clear field of fire.

“Out of the way!” Ruckley shouted.

She stepped between Wong and Boyd and drained her magazine into the two beasts, then Boyd and Wong finished off the Alpha with bullets to its milky blind eyes.

The giant finally slumped forward, dead.

A cloud of gray dust and debris flooded around them as they rushed past the dead creatures.

Timothy tried to breath, but choked on the dust, coughing.

There was no going back the way they had come. There was only one direction to go now, just like his father had said.

Forward.

Covered in dust, Wong led them to a short ladder that took them to a loading dock for the Venetian.

A pair of Variants hunched near the entrance, on alert from the noise that had erupted from the tunnels. Ruckley and Timothy fired a few suppressed shots that killed the beasts, then hurried past the fresh corpses.

They followed the loading bay to the maintenance corridors that ran behind the shops and guest rooms. Wong took them through another door that opened into a wide space with a faux sky and false façades that made Timothy think he had stepped straight into Europe. Canals ran alongside the shops. The water had long since drained from them, and a pair of long gondolas lay sideways on the bottom.

Red webbing smothered everything, throbbing and squirming. More bodies hung from the walls and the ceiling, like a spider’s web filled with fresh prey.

Ruckley pointed at Wong and Boyd. They prepared the fuses and detonation charges for a pair of C-4 explosives and set them into the corners of the wide atrium, then started to move to the next space.

Before they climbed a short bridge over the dried-out canal, a rumble shook through the hotel. They froze as another quake shook the walls.

A low explosion sounded in the distance.

Had one of the other teams detonated their explosives early? Or had Recon Sigma missed the mark and set their explosions late?

Ruckley looked between them frantically and broke radio silence. “Command, Recon Sigma One. We heard explosions. What’s going on?”

“Recon Sigma, other units are reporting blasts from unknown sources.”

Another explosion boomed through the walls, this one sounding closer to the Venetian. Cracks formed in the ceiling and chunks of plaster rained down.

Somewhere deeper in the hotel, another blast went off. This one was nearly deafening, and the whole building quivered as if it might fall.

Timothy stared at the empty corridors, realizing suddenly why the only resistance they had faced was outside.

“Guys, what are those drums doing down there?” Boyd asked. He shone his flashlight over a cluster of barrels with wires coming away from them.

“Those aren’t ours,” Wong said.

“Run!” Ruckley shouted. “Go!”

They were nearly at the loading dock when an explosion ripped through the hotel and shops, fire bursting through the doorways and windows. Ruckley and Wong disappeared behind a screen of falling rubble.

“Ruckley!” Timothy yelled.

He rushed back to the mound of broken wreckage, choking on the dust and smoke. Another fissure ripped across the ceiling, spilling debris and fire that blocked his path.

“This whole place is going to come down!” Boyd screamed.

He grabbed Timothy and pulled him away from a fragmented hunk of ceiling that crashed to the ground. Another rumble tore through the building. The wall to the loading dock collapsed, and Timothy stumbled through a billowing cloud of dust and ash.

Lowering his helmet, he pushed through the grit. Boyd was just ahead, almost to the open loading dock. Another wall crumbled, coming down with the ceiling, and burying them feet away from exit.

***

“Hostile down,” Beckham said.

He lowered his rifle after dispatching a rogue Variant. It was one of the only creatures they had encountered so far. He was starting to worry Kate’s team had been wrong about the Prophet being located in the Palazzo. The booms and explosions from nearby blasts that had rocked the building worried him even more. If they were on the wrong track, it could prove deadly.

A few teams had reported seeing explosives that did not belong to the Allied States, and command had warned all ground forces to keep an eye out for improvised explosive devices.

He had heard Recon Sigma, Timothy and Ruckley’s team, calling command to request clarification on the explosions. Since then, they had been silent.

He hoped that was a good sign. That it meant they were still on target. But he could not help the worry filtering through his mind that maybe he was wrong.

Nonetheless, he continued to lead Horn through the Palazzo’s casino.

Webbing stretched from the ceiling between the slot machines and card tables. They sifted through a lounge with dusty booths and toppled tables and chairs.

A wave of explosions rocked through Vegas, small columns of dust falling from the ceiling. Their time to find the evil creature responsible for this madness was definitely running out, and his pulse thundered in his ears with each consecutive blast.

The radios came alive with the voices of frantic soldiers calling for help. Quakes shook the Palazzo.

Horn shifted around nervously. “That sounds close.”

Another boom shook the tower. This time it sounded like it had come from the Venetian, where the Recon teams were supposed to lay explosives to bring down the Variant hives.

That was the second blast near Timothy’s location.

“I’m breaking radio silence,” Beckham said, no longer able to contain his worry. “Recon Sigma, Reaper One, do you copy?”

No answer.

“Recon Sigma, do you copy?”

Come on. Come on.

Still no answer.

They had to move.

“On me,” Beckham said.

He took them back through the casino, smashing over the organic webbing. They raced toward the lobby just as another rumble tore through the building. Marble columns fell on either side of them, slamming into the floor.

“This way!” Beckham said, taking them out of the Palazzo and through the shops in front.

They raced between the stores, the whole complex quaking. Dark smoke clogged the corridors. Pieces of the ornate façades fell away in miniature rockslides. They were nearing the exit when cracks fissured through the ceiling and part of it came down in front of them. Pipes and support beams swung dangerously, just a foot or two from their faces.

Beckham navigated around the deadly obstacles. He struggled to breathe, the smoke filling his lungs as they advanced into another smoke and dust-filled atrium. A few columns surrounding an ivory statue toppled. Glass rained down from a dome in the roof, slashing at their ACUs and armor.

One large piece shattered on Horn’s helmet, but he barely flinched.

As Beckham ran, he thought of Timothy, praying the young man was out of the Venetian. But something had definitely gone wrong. The detonations weren’t supposed to happen for another hour and with Recon Sigma not responding, his mind filled with dark possibilities.

Had Timothy been trapped inside, buried under the rubble?

Beckham felt a chill trace his spine at the thought. He shouldered his rifle through a cloud of smoke, cautious of any ambushing Variants. He thought he heard the sound of clicking joints, but it could have been the structure coming down in all the chaotic clamor.

Finally, he saw the exit doors and rushed out onto a landing where he paused to stare in horror.

Up and down the strip, casinos were caught in rolling oily clouds of smoke and ash illuminated by ravenous flames. The biting air stung his eyes and lungs, harkening back Operation Liberty, back in those last days of the first war when he had run through New York’s streets as the entire city imploded, caught in a massive bombing run.

Only this time, it wasn’t his side doing the bombing.

Illuminated by the roaring flames devouring the city, the silhouettes of monstrous shapes flitted between the smoke clouds descending on scattered soldiers fleeing the destruction. TF Alpha was surrounded and attacked by Chimeras, collaborators, and Variants.

Other soldiers took cover behind burned out cars and trucks or slabs of concrete, only to be overwhelmed by gunfire or an Alpha erupting from a manhole, leading a pack of Variants.

Beckham desperately looked for a way he could turn the tide of this battle. But despite their experience in the field, he and Horn were just two retired operators. They were not equipped for this onslaught.

“Contacts on our ten!” Horn said.

He unloaded a hailstorm of lead, ripping into three charging beasts. Geysers of blood sprayed from where rounds tore into their bodies.

The monsters tumbled over their own dead limbs.

“Don’t fuck with the mountain!” Horn bellowed. He fired another burst at a pack, cutting all three down before they could get too close.

Beckham searched for a way out, but something held him in position. He had made a promise to Timothy, and now that it was clear the Prophet had laid an ambush, all that mattered to him was finding the young man and getting him out of here.

He wouldn’t leave Timothy behind a second time.

“Recon Sigma, please respond!” Beckham said.

Another explosion erupted behind them, heat rolled over them, searing Beckham’s skin. He urged them forward, heading south along the strip. The Palazzo trembled, large portions of the walls giving away, glass bursting from the windows. The entire tower fell into itself, letting out a grating protest of screeching metal and tumbling concrete.

Huge clouds of debris puffed into the air, mixing with pillars of flame and black smoke.

Beckham took to the sidewalk, ducking with Horn behind a wall as a wave of dust and grit surged over them. The tsunami of powdery air covered them, grit pelting them. Spikes of pain stabbed all over his exposed flesh. Despite holding his breath, Beckham still got some of it into his lungs, prompting a guttural cough.

A voice crackled over the main channel.

“All teams, be advised, air support and evac en route to extraction points. ETA fifteen mikes.”

Horn looked at Beckham for orders, coughing deeply.

“I’m not going to that extraction point now,” Beckham said, eyes watering from the smoke. “I’ve got to find Timothy. You can go if you want.”

“You think I want to leave without that guy? Hell, no. Let’s go get him!”

Horn led the way toward the Venetian where Timothy’s team would have set their charges. Beckham struggled to breathe as he moved, his battered muscles screaming for oxygen that wouldn’t make it to them. But the thought of finding Recon Sigma fueled him with energy.

“You okay?” Horn asked. He had stopped to let Beckham catch up.

“Don’t stop moving,” Beckham said.

Horn checked him with a quick flick of his eyes, then pushed onward, navigating the piles of scree toward what was left of the loading dock of the Venetian. An iron girder had smashed a semi-truck. Part of a wall had flattened another truck.

Dead Variants littered the ground, and others were crushed in the remains of broken crates and fractured concrete.

Beckham spotted an arm reaching out of a pile. The gloved hand told him it wasn’t a monster.

Horn and Beckham rushed over to the buried soldier. They heaved off the crates to reveal a torso and a head, badly burned. The face was nearly unrecognizable, charred and bleeding. His nametape read Wong.

“Hey, brother, are you with me?” Horn asked.

“Help…”

“We’re getting you help.” He hated lying, but he could tell the wounded soldier wasn’t long for this world.

Horn suddenly got up and ran over to a bundle of pipes.

A death rattle escaped the lips of the man Beckham was with. Beckham had seen this before. Sometimes soldiers hung on just long enough to not die alone. He closed the guy’s eyes, saying a brief prayer in his head, and hurried over to Horn.

He was already lifting pipes off Ruckley, tossing them like they were nothing but sticks. As he uncovered her, Beckham saw the extent of her injuries. Half the sleeve on her right arm was torn, her arm burned and blistered. Her left sleeve had been burned off too. The stitches from her injuries along her bicep had been torn open again, puckering to reveal the glistening red beneath.

“Ruckley,” Horn said, strapping his machine gun over his back. He started to lift her. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

Beckham kept his rifle trained toward the street. “Contacts back across the street.”

The cacophony of gunfire and flames nearly drowned out his voice.

He put a hand on Horn’s shoulder. “We need to get out of here.”

“We’re not leaving her here. She’s still alive.”

Horn cradled Ruckley in his arms. She groaned, eyes fluttering open.

“Master Sergeant,” she muttered.

“Where’s the rest of your team?” Beckham asked.

Ruckley winced. “I… I don’t know.”

— 14 —

“Everything’s falling apart,” Ringgold whispered as she looked over the report from the science team.

She wanted to throw her coffee mug against the wall of the war room deep in Galveston’s former Harbor House Hotel. Instead, she took a breath, trying to keep control while everything was spiraling away from her.

Once again, the New Gods had overwhelmed their forces in a matter of hours.

And like before, she was left wondering how.

She hoped someone on her team, anyone, could tell her something helpful. But so far General Cornelius, General Souza, and Lieutenant Festa didn’t know anything more than she did.

Her team wasn’t doing much better at keeping their emotions in check than she was. Festa and Souza both wore grimaces on their face like they had knives twisting into their sides.

“Someone, anyone, give me a sitrep,” she said. “What in the hell is going on?”

“Our teams are being routed and pushed back from the strip,” Souza said. “They’re taking heavy losses.”

“Then get them out of there now!” Ringgold said in a voice just shy of a shout.

“We’re trying to execute selective evacuation protocols,” Cornelius said.

“Everywhere we try to ID an LZ, it turns hot in seconds,” Souza added. “Primary and secondary LZs are occupied by hostiles. There are no clear evac sites.”

“Then make some,” Ringgold said, losing her patience. “We need to help these people. Can we reroute them somewhere we can secure?”

“We’re working on that, ma’am,” Cornelius said, face growing red with frustration.

He joined some of the officers huddled around the computers at the side of the room. They pored over the maps and monitors displayed in front of them, voices rising frantically.

Another team of communications officers manned computers coordinating the movements of the two task forces through the streets of Las Vegas. A fifty-five-inch monitor on one wall showed a map of the city, along with red blips to indicate where the ground forces had spotted hostiles. Green blips designated the locations of Allied States troops.

Too many of those green blips representing individual divisions and squads had already been crossed out as reports of confirmed KIAs filtered in. She watched another rash of green blips get crossed out, and an almost palpable pain struck through her gut.

“I’m getting confirmation that the explosions the teams are reporting aren’t from our demo crews,” Souza said. “The bombs going off were planted well before our teams got there.”

“What… but…” Ringgold began to say.

“This was a trap,” Cornelius said dryly. “They set enough explosives to bring down the whole damn city. They knew we were coming.”

“How?” Ringgold asked. “How are they ahead of us every single damn time!?”

No one had an answer and avoided her gaze.

Ringgold looked back down at the message Kate had sent her hours earlier. The doctor had reported a Santa Fe-based company operating out of Los Alamos National Laboratory called OrgoProct. Their science division was led by Charles Morgan, which seemed to link all the strange technologies of the New Gods. The evidence was circumstantial at best, but the story seemed to make more sense as Ringgold thought about it.

The most startling revelation was that the New Gods had no known ties to Las Vegas.

Was this a New Gods’ stronghold? Was it even an actual base?

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was all a façade.

One thing was certain, the Prophet was more intelligent than any Alpha she had faced in the past decade. She was going to have to think well outside of the box to beat the evil abomination.

“Have we found any of their leadership?” Ringgold asked.

“No,” Souza replied. “However, Team Ghost is still within the UMC where they reported strong resistance. That kind of resistance might indicate New Gods leaders are nearby.”

“So there’s still hope,” Ringgold said, clinging to any remote chance they might yet succeed with their initial objective. But that ephemeral hope was fading with every KIA reported on the monitor. “Have we heard anything from Ghost recently?”

“Not since they went radio silent.”

“Almost all other units, even those on the retreat, are still engaged in skirmishes,” Cornelius said, returning to the table.

He clicked a button on his keyboard, and the main monitor in the room shifted to the view from a helmet-mounted camera on a TF Bravo squad leader.

The rattle of gunfire sizzled over the speakers. Flames erupted over the parapets of the Excalibur hotel. A few of the towers on the castle had crumbled.

“Hostiles at our twelve and three!” a voice yelled over the speakers.

More flashes of tracer fire cut through the black of night. Ghoulish screams filled the comm as monsters swarmed from the flames, hurdling over the debris and ripping into the soldiers.

Ringgold turned away at the sound of tearing flesh and anguished yells.

“This is what the evac sites look like,” Cornelius said, voice weak.

Cornelius switched to a feed from a helicopter. A door gunner manned an M-249 as the chopper swooped low over the fires spreading through the Vegas streets. The gunner raked machine gunfire over a pack of Variants, riddling their diseased flesh with bullets.

Despite the gunner’s best efforts, a pack of the beasts broke into the lines of soldiers on the ground.

Ringgold’s stomach clenched, her mouth going dry. Any hope she had had that Team Ghost might still find the Prophet was overshadowed by the massacre unfolding on the Vegas strip.

The New Gods had set this deception perfectly, luring her people into their clutches like a trapdoor spider. But what was their goal? To slaughter her forces or was something else going on?

She looked around the room at the exhausted faces, scrambling to organize a battle that seemed to have already been lost. Grainy images of the Variants played across many of the screens, along with a few videos of collaborators. The maps of enemy units showed several collaborator units and plenty of Variants.

But no Chimeras.

That sent another wave of chills through her.

“How many Chimeras have been reported?” Ringgold asked.

“I’m not sure,” Souza said. “But not many. Maybe a few dozen. Initial reports of Chimeras turned out to be mostly collaborators.”

Ringgold looked at the ceiling, considering the implications, mind racing. “If this really were brains of the New God’s operations, we would have seen more of them, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I thought so too, but it’s possible they are all protecting the Prophet,” Souza said.

“Or they are preparing to launch an assault while we’ve got all our focus on Vegas,” Festa suggested.

“Send warnings to every remaining outpost immediately,” Ringgold said. “Every able-bodied man and woman should already be on the wall, but they need to know how serious this is. They must be prepared for anything. An attack tonight could be worse than anything we faced before.”

“Yes, Madam President,” Festa said.

He began making calls to the twelve outposts scattered between Houston and Key Largo, the last of the Florida outposts. A few of Cornelius’ comms officers came over to him, pointing at a map they laid on the table.

“We now have alternate evacuation routes set up for the two task forces,” Cornelius said. “They’ll be headed north out of the city, where parts of Las Vegas Boulevard are still intact.”

He used the map on the monitor to discuss the routes with Ringgold for a few minutes before Festa returned to the table. His face was awash in pallor.

“What’s wrong?” Ringgold asked. “Are there problems with the outposts?”

“Worse, Madam President,” he replied. “We just got a transmission from the First Fleet in Puerto Rico. Scouts have reported seeing vessels of all kinds and sizes headed toward them, like some kind of scrapped together navy.”

Ringgold didn’t need to ask who those vessels belonged to. “Put me in touch with Vice President Lemke now.”

Festa tried the encrypted line to Lemke, but no one answered.

Come on, Dan. Tell me what’s going on.

The line continued to ring.

“I’m getting a new signal from the USS George Johnson,” Festa said. He patched the line in.

“Command, this is Captain Harmon of the George Johnson,” the voice said. “The Variants—they just—they swam under us before we could spot them. Then they started climbing up the sides of our ships. They’re overrunning the George Johnson. We can’t hold them back for much longer.”

Festa spoke to the captain while Ringgold went to Souza, who was still trying to contact the vice president at Central Command.

“How could they have known about Puerto Rico?” Ringgold asked. She lowered her head in despair, trying to make sense of what was happening.

A few minutes later, the line with Captain Harmon had severed. They couldn’t reconnect.

The room fell into silence for several grueling moments.

“All this time we thought the science team was listening in on them,” Souza said. “Maybe they were the ones listening in on us.”

Ringgold looked at the two generals, feeling sick. “The Prophet got us to focus all our attention on Vegas, one big honey trap, while they swept through from the east.”

Cornelius shook his head. “I… I never saw this coming either, Madam President.”

“Is there anything we can do to help Central Command?” she replied.

“Nothing we send will arrive in time,” Cornelius said. “We don’t have the supply chains. Most of our surviving air units are focused on evacuating Las Vegas, and the few naval units stationed in Galveston couldn’t make it until at least a day after the enemy arrived.”

“We need to put everything we have into protecting what little assets we have left,” Souza said. He paused, appearing as if he didn’t like what he was about to say next. “Let’s hope the vice president can hold Central Command, because I’m afraid Puerto Rico is on their own, Madam President.”

***

Azrael crouched in the open door of the MH-65 Dolphin. The chopper had been recently acquired after one of their successful conquests on the east coast of Florida, yet another benefit of their dominance over the Allied States.

After dealing with the general, he had left Los Alamos almost immediately to personally join another mission crucial to crippling the Allied States.

He had not originally planned to go, but he could no longer rely on Scions or Alphas like the general to get things done for him. And this mission was too important to fail.

Fortunately, by the time his flight from the Citadel had gotten him to the transfer point for this chopper, the battle over San Juan, Puerto Rico was almost won. He had arrived just in time to join in the final destruction.

The former Coast Guard chopper took him and six of his best hunters over the remains of the ancient walls of San Juan, built during the Spanish-American War. Fires bloomed through the darkness and tracer rounds pierced the night across the city.

His forces had prioritized destroying their comms so the Allied States had almost no warning of the destruction taking place down here.

The Allied States military still stubbornly held a few strongholds, but their navy was crushed and soon he would unleash the beasts standing with him in the belly of the helo. These six represented one of his new death squads, hunters whose minds and bodies had been tuned for one thing: eliminating the most tenacious heretics.

In the port, smoke fingered away from a burning helicopter on the deck of the USS George Johnson. Azrael had never met the former Vice President that the Zumwalt Class destroyer had been christened after, but he was going to meet Vice President Dan Lemke very soon.

A pair of cruisers and a frigate were tilted at odd angles, smoke rising from their superstructures from the surprise attack hours earlier. They were half-sunk just off the piers near Old San Juan where cruise ships once docked.

The remaining ships represented the majority of the once dominant Allied States naval forces. A decade ago, an enemy helicopter would have been shot down before the pilots even saw the ships, but Azrael would be close enough to piss on them in a few moments.

He watched as more of his forces skittered up the hull of the warships from the smaller yachts and motorboats pulled up alongside them. Each of the smaller vessels had been filled with a mixture of Variants and Scions.

His faithful creatures now stalked the upper decks of the destroyer and the nearby escort ships, hunting down the scattered crew members. They had been preceded by seaborne Variants with gills and webbed claws and feet who had swum underwater, then overwhelmed the crews in a surprise assault.

A voice crackled over his headset. “Prophet, our forces are cleaning up the last survivors of the First Fleet crew.”

It was one of his faithful Scions.

“Very good,” Azrael said. “Have you located Vice President Lemke?”

“There’s no sign of him aboard the ships.”

“Alert all forces to focus their hunts. He cannot be allowed to escape.”

The chopper circled low over an aircraft carrier with a top deck puckered by ruptured metal. A single team of sailors held the bridge and fired at the deck where Variants advanced, using piles of debris for cover.

A few bullets pinged off the chopper, and the pilots pulled away.

Azrael took one last look as the chopper left them behind. Another explosion burst from inside the carrier, and it too began to list, no doubt taking on water. It was just a matter of time before Azrael’s forces took the final heretics.

The voice of another Scion commander broke over the comms. “Prophet, we believe we’ve identified the vice president’s position.”

“Where?”

“He was spotted in Punta del Morro. We believe there might be another sub positioned at that location.”

“Take me there,” Azrael said to the collaborator human pilot. He changed his headset channel to the Naval Commander. “The heretics are trying to escape with a sub at Punta Del Morro. Find it and destroy it.”

He turned to the six Scions in the helicopter.

Before they had been chosen, they had come from different walks of life. They had risen above their frail human pasts, cut up and put back together to become something far greater.

Azrael looked at the Scions in turn. “You are the best of my hunters, and tonight you get a chance to carry out your most important mission yet—find the heretic Dan Lemke.”

“We carry the faith,” the six death squad members replied.

“The first of you to find him will be rewarded with as much flesh as you can eat,” he said. “Whatever human prisoner you desire will be yours.”

The chopper descended over an overgrown grass field in front of the Castillo San Felipe de Morro. Layers of castle-like walls rose above choppy waves, bulwarked by towers between the gates. Azrael leapt out first, wielding his saw-toothed cutlass. The other six followed, each carrying a rifle, their swords strapped over their back.

As the chopper lifted off again, the thrum of the engines faded against the cacophony of the ongoing battle.

Azrael surveyed the open lawn behind them leading to Old San Juan. Human corpses lay strewn over the grass. Thrall Variants tore into them, devouring the corpses. Other prisoners were shackled by collaborators deployed to capture as many humans as they could. Those prisoners were taken to the Santa Maria Cemetery overlooking the sea to await their transport back to the Citadel. They were destined to become labor or food for his growing army.

One of the Scions near Azrael pointed a crooked, clawed finger to the gate leading into the castle. “I smell humans. Alive. They went that way.”

“Find them!” Azrael yelled.

The six soldiers rushed through the gate and entered a cramped courtyard filled with doorways under white arches. Azrael narrowed his eyes, studying each of the entries.

“That way,” the lead Scion said.

The beast led them into a dark corridor. Stone steps took them down into another tunnel. Azrael sniffed the air. He could smell the stink of humans, their pungent body odor and sweat.

They could not have gotten far.

Darkness filled the tunnel, far too black for a human to see, but Azrael and his augmented soldiers used their enhanced sight to scan for prey as they delved deeper under the castle, north toward where the point met the sea. If Lemke made it to those waters and into his sub, Azrael would fail.

He hadn’t come all the way to Puerto Rico while his forces fought the heretics in Vegas just to let one of the most powerful human beings left in the world slip so easily between his claws.

“We’re getting close!” one of the Scions said. “I can smell it!”

Sniffing the air, Azrael too detected the scent of flesh and fear.

Though their eyesight was preternaturally strong, even they couldn’t see as the final traces of surface light vanished in the tunnels. The death squad turned on the tactical lights fixed to the barrels of their rifles. Beams of white light probed the darkness, cutting through the black to reveal mold-covered stones and rubble.

They took a corner, raw adrenaline filling Azrael. He grinned imagining the fear that must be striking through Lemke at this moment. It had been too long since he had taken part in a hunt like this, and he had to hold in a primordial howl.

They came to another intersection, taking a sharp left, still following the scent trail. Between the sound of their claws on the stone, Azrael heard something else. The clatter of boots and shoes on concrete.

“They’re just ahead,” he growled.

The death squad charged, sprinting through the darkness, their lights bobbing.

Muzzle flashes lit up the passage, followed instantly by the sharp crack of gunfire.

One of the Scions yelled out in agony, her body crumpling. The other five took cover and returned fire, allowing two of the soldiers to advance.

More flashes of gunfire illuminated the tunnel in strobing blasts, and another Scion went down. Azrael sighted up targets and fired at them in turn.

Human cries sounded from the men caught in the hail of his bullets. Another Scion crumpled from a bullet to the head, leaving only two of his soldiers.

The smell of blood in the air was too strong, awakening the primal animal within Azrael.

“On me!” Azrael screamed.

The remaining two Scions let loose a salvo that lanced into a pair of soldiers. The rest of the group of heretics disappeared around another bend in the tunnel, and Azrael barreled after them with his Scions.

Starlight bled into the next section of the tunnel. They had reached the end under the fortress, and a salty seaborne breeze swept through the corridor. Three human soldiers waited with their rifles shouldered.

Azrael slid under the gunfire, but one of his loyal comrades was not quick enough. The beast was cut down in a spray of bullets.

He fired from the ground while the final Scion lay down covering fire. All three of the human soldiers slumped over, dead or dying.

The screams of agony were enough to fuel Azrael and the remaining Scion. He leaped over the soldiers, letting his final soldier finish them off with a cutlass.

Azrael ran out into the weeds and grass of a pathway overlooking the Caribbean.

Three men in ACUs ran, covering a man who had to be the vice president. The final Scion joined Azrael as they stalked the human prey toward a concrete platform.

Amid the choppy water crashing against the black rocks past the pathway, Azrael noticed a Zodiac bobbing. Three men waited in the rigid-hulled inflatable boat. Beyond the craft, a submarine had pierced the surface of the deeper waters.

“Do not hit the heretic,” Azrael said. He raised his rifle next to the final Scion and lined up the sights. Two of the soldiers collapsed under the well-aimed shots, but return fire from the Zodiac forced Azrael to roll away.

He got up and charged ahead, aiming toward the third soldier. His surviving Scion covered him, providing suppressing fire against the men in the Zodiac.

Unstrapping his cutlass, Azrael flanked Lemke and the final soldier, catching them off guard and stabbing the guard through the guts. The man slumped against Azrael, gurgles coming from his mouth.

Azrael used the man as a human shield as he strode toward the vice president.

“No, no, no!” Lemke said, still running for the boat.

Gunfire from the remaining Scion tore into the Zodiac, killing two of the three men. Azrael withdrew his cutlass and pushed the still breathing man to the ground. Slotted eyes on the heretic, Azrael bolted forward.

When he was just within reach, Azrael lunged toward him, snagging his claws through the back of Lemke’s shirt. A scream rang out as Azrael pulled the vice president to the dirt.

Several final gunshots rang out before the last Scion ran over.

“All hostiles eliminated,” he growled.

No longer masked by the sounds of gunfire, Azrael heard the churning engines of his fleet converging on the submarine still waiting for Lemke.

He yanked the vice president to his face, drawing him close, eye to eye.

There was certainly fear in the man’s gaze, but there was also an undeniable anger.

“You won’t win,” Lemke said, wincing.

“Oh, I have already won, “Azrael snarled. “You are just too naïve to see it. This is the end of the Allied States and the end of you.”

— 15 —

Dohi searched the patient rooms and offices on the fifth floor of the University Medical Center of Southern Nevada for some sign of the Prophet. He picked through the tangles of webbing lining a hallway as they made their way toward the administrative offices.

Distant booms from the main strip still sounded like thunder, and the UMC shook slightly with each impact. It sounded like the other teams were getting pounded out there, especially from the constant chatter over the comms.

Dohi had turned off the public channels to concentrate on his own team, Spearhead was in bad shape. Neilson could hardly stand and Toussaint had a swollen face, one of her eyes sealed shut by swelling.

Fitz stayed close beside Dohi with Corrin, while Rico and Ace watched their six.

No one dared speak. Too many monsters stalked the corridors, searching for them.

Sporadic shouts called up the stairwells. Howls and shrieks blasted through the elevator shafts. The collaborators and Variants were searching the building for them, and Dohi knew it wouldn’t be long before they caught up.

He just hoped they found the Prophet first, assuming the beast was even still here.

Every passing minute that seemed to be less likely.

But something was ahead. The webbing grew denser, clogging the halls. Dohi could almost feel the network pulsating. He hacked away at clumps of webbing blocking the passage with his hatchet. Fitz used a knife to saw through strands.

We have to be getting close.

Working together, they pushed through to an area with expansive windows that had once overlooked the surrounding medical center. Now those windows were mostly blotted with viny growths.

The stench of death grew stronger, bringing with it the telltale odor of rotten fruit.

His NVGs picked up what little light sifted through the windows, revealing a space choked in vines. Cubical walls and desks had been toppled, making space for dozens of cocoons where bodies rotted, their nutrients shuttled away by the vines snaking through the corpses.

Dohi breathed though his mouth, trying not to suck in the fetid odor, and continued past.

A flash of movement burst through a corridor ahead. He raised his fist, and counted at least five Variants, hunched. Most of them were feeding, but a few scanned the darkness for prey.

He signaled to the rest of Ghost. Fitz directed Ace and Rico to flank the Variants on the right side while he and Dohi took the left. Team Spearhead stayed behind with Corrin.

Dohi tried to mask the sounds of their approach but it was nearly impossible with the slurp of his steps. Their only saving grace was another rash of explosions in the distance and the overpowering odor of the dead and dying masking their own smells.

He held his hatchet at the ready, and Fitz gripped his Ka-Bar. The Variants stood in front of another set of wooden doors which were cracked slightly open.

If something was in there, maybe the Prophet, Dohi didn’t want to give any warning that they were outside.

He peeled back more vines until he was just a few feet from his first target Variant. The beast gnawed at a bone. Another two were focused on a cocooned body, pulling out stringy lengths of flesh and chewing them.

Fitz counted down with his fingers.

Three.

Dohi inhaled sharply, cocking back his hatchet. With his other hand, he pulled out his knife.

Two.

He took a step forward and aimed at the spine of the first Variant.

One.

Dohi lunged, swinging the hatchet. It cleaved into the creature’s diseased flesh and cut into bone with a sharp crack. Fitz attacked the second, catching it from behind and sawing his knife straight through the cartilage and flesh at its throat.

Ace and Rico engaged two others, leaving a final abomination that twisted toward Dohi with an open mouth, ready to let loose a shriek.

Dohi threw his knife into the black hole, breaking teeth as it plunged into the throat. The monster shuddered, then fell backward.

The others circled around the open doors, their targets down. Dohi wiggled his hatchet free and then retrieved his knife.

Fitz signaled for Team Spearhead and Corrin to join them. Toussaint and Neilson were in no shape to perform room-clearing maneuvers, but they kept close behind.

Dohi prepared to enter what he hoped would be the lair of the Prophet. All the dense webbings led to this spot. If someone or something was controlling the operations in Vegas, it would be orchestrating the monsters from this place.

He raised his rifle, heart climbing into his throat with anticipation.

A nod from Fitz and Dohi slipped into a vast room, zeroing in on movement at the opposite end. Past the stringy columns of webbing, shapes rushed their position, letting out growls and snarls. Behind them was a much larger creature, hunched to fit into the room, its flesh hanging in folds like the surface of a brain.

A mastermind.

But was this mastermind the Prophet?

Either way, it wasn’t alone. A group of Variants crawled around the room.

Fitz gave the order to open fire.

Dohi sighted up a Variant on the webbing, the others following his lead. Bullets lanced into the beasts, dropping them from the ceiling and walls.

In only a few seconds, several were bleeding out on the ground. Another group of four careened from a side door. More suppressed gunfire echoed in the room. Two monsters crashed forward against the webbing, dead. One of the survivors slammed against Rico, knocking her on her back.

“No!” Fitz charged the monster and grabbed its shoulders, trying to tear it off Rico.

The other Variant shouldered into Ace, knocking him flat on his back.

Dohi couldn’t get a clear shot without risking hitting Ace. Instead he tackled the monster, freeing Ace.

The creature hissed and snapped at him, teeth coming inches from his face. Dohi pushed the head back, but it was stronger than he was and inched toward him with jagged, yellow teeth.

A bulky shape lunged overhead.

Ace.

He wrenched the Variant’s head back, twisting it violently until a sickening pop echoed in the room. Ace gasped for breath, letting the monster drop, then offered a hand to help Dohi up.

Ten feet away, Rico and Fitz had recovered and approached the mastermind.

Only now, Dohi had time to see what kind of room they were in. Chairs were scattered throughout the space and a long table lay on its side. What used to be glass walls appeared to have shattered, letting the vines spill out from a neighboring corridor. Behind the mastermind were more sweeping views of the city covered in fire and smoke.

The beast was nearly twice as tall as any of the operators, but it seemed to cower at their approach. Using claws, it tugged on the tendrils of the network, undoubtedly sending messages for help.

“Ain’t no one coming to help you, sweetheart,” Ace said.

“This looks like the heart of the comms network,” Dohi said. “But unless that thing is the Prophet, I don’t see anything else.”

“This hunk of meat is the Prophet?” Rico asked.

Corrin squinted from where he stood near the entrance of the room, tugging on a few of the red vines. “No, this is just a normal mastermind.” He held the vine. “It’s scared of us. That’s why it’s sending all these messages.”

“You sure?” Fitz asked.

“Yes, the Prophet is not one of these organic computers,” Corrin said.

“Fine,” Fitz said. “Kill it.”

The group opened fire on the beast, aiming for its head. Bullets plunged into the flesh, drawing blood wherever they pierced. The monster writhed, pulling hard on the vines, backing away from the gunfire. One of its eyes popped, viscous fluid leaking out, and the monster let out a pained roar. It fell backward, arms still flailing, and broke the windows behind it.

Beaten back by gunfire, the mastermind plummeted out, snapping vines. A moment later, Dohi heard a sickening smack against concrete.

“Let’s move,” Fitz said. He pointed toward the corridor they hadn’t yet explored to their right.

Did the Prophet go that way before they had arrived? Were the other New Gods leaders waiting for them?

Before they moved, voices filled the first corridor where they had come from. Spearhead hobbled into the room, shutting the door behind them quietly.

Neilson signaled that they had seen more contacts.

Those voices grew louder, permeating under the door. There was no mistaking their rasping, crackly words. Chimeras were on their way. Dohi tensed, aiming his rifle at the door, waiting for them to burst through.

But the beasts went quiet.

Corrin sniffed at the air. “I smell something sharp. Like gun powder, except…”

“TNT,” Dohi said in a low voice. “They’re setting explosives.”

“Just like the rest of the city,” Fitz said. “We have to get out of here.”

They ran down the new corridor to their right.

A few lone Variants lurched at them from the shadows. They dispatched them quickly, then ran into a stairwell. Dohi looked down the winding stairs from the fifth floor. Monsters had reached the second floor and were climbing quickly. A few let out hunting cries when they saw Dohi.

He ducked back into the hall. “We can’t get down that way.”

A low explosion boomed behind them. Wood splintered, the doors to the conference room breaking. Smoke billowed down the corridor.

Fitz signaled for the team to take firing positions.

As soon as the first dark shadow moved within the smoke, Ghost and Spearhead unleashed a fusillade of gunfire.

But unlike the Variants before, this time their enemy fired back. Bullets punched into the walls and webbing around them. The team scrambled for cover, but there was nothing but knots of webbing and a few gurneys to hide behind.

“Keep low!” Dohi shouted.

From the smoke, collaborators emerged wielding rifles and pistols. The first few went down in a barrage of fire from Rico and Fitz. But then came the real threat, a group of Chimeras in armor, gripping machine guns and wielding saw-toothed swords.

Their golden eyes practically glowed in the low light environment, and they moved like professional soldiers, advancing on Teams Ghost and Spearhead.

The beasts outnumbered them three-to-one.

They couldn’t stay here. Running down the stairs back to the ground floor would be suicide too, which left one option.

“On me!” Dohi yelled. He fired a burst of suppressing fire and then ran for the stairs, bullets searing past him.

Fitz switched on the comm. “Command, this is Ghost One, we need immediate evac! Surrounded at the UMC!”

There was no immediate response and with the distant explosions, Dohi began to wonder if anyone was out there to answer.

“Command, this is Ghost One, do you copy?” Fitz tried again.

A familiar voice surged over the channel.

“Ghost One, this is Reaper One, report your position, over.”

“Beckham,” Dohi whispered. If anyone could save their asses, it was the former lead of Team Ghost.

***

A thud rang out from an impact against the locked door on the rooftop, rattling the crates and debris Team Ghost had stacked against it.

“Get ready,” Fitz said.

The team had already taken firing positions behind the ducts and rusted air-conditioning units around the rooftop. Rico was next to Fitz behind a unit near the cornice lining the perimeter of the roof.

“Stay close to me,” he said to her.

Corrin sheltered beside Ace and Dohi. Neilson propped up his rifle on a ventilation shaft, aiming at the doorway with Toussaint crouched nearby.

The roars of the beasts surrounding the building nearly drowned out the gunfire cracking through Vegas. Thuds continued on the door, each one knocking more of the stacked crates away.

“At least I got to see you one last time, Fitzie,” Rico said. “If I’m going to die, I want it to be next to you.”

“We’re not going to die,” Fitz vowed.

Shrieks of monsters from all sides of the buildings made it hard to believe his own words.

“Reaper One, Ghost One,” Fitz called over the radio. “Is our evac en route?”

“Copy that, Ghost One,” Beckham answered. The line crackled with static, interspersed by gunfire. “I’m trying to locate all members of Recon Sigma, but I called in a special favor. Hold tight.”

Fitz didn’t have time to guess what the favor was going to be. A pair of creatures clambered over the edge of the roof, their mouths opening to let out howls. Their muscles flexed as they leapt, and their tongues whipped over their wormy lips.

“Conserve your ammo, and watch your firing zones,” Fitz called out. The rooftop was wide, but the close proximity of the soldiers made firing extremely dangerous.

He switched to single shots and didn’t fire until he had a clear target. The first shot thunked into the closest creature’s muscled chest, knocking it off balance. The monster crashed next to the other beast that Rico dispatched with a head shot.

“Contacts!” Neilson yelled.

All around the roof, the Variants crawled over the railings. Gunfire lashed out from the two teams, taking down the first wave easily. Corrin hunched, growling, waiting to join the fight with his claws.

As a second wave emerged, he stood and let out a roar.

Fitz fired at the blurs of diseased flesh.

Each second turned into its own hellish eternity, and he resisted the urge to avert his gaze and check the smoke-clotted sky for a helo.

The door to the roof access stairwell finally exploded open. Fitz turned toward it as four Chimeras rushed out, slinging fire. Bullets punched into the air conditioning unit, forcing him down close to Rico, their faces nearly touching, eyes locked.

“Stay down,” he said.

He switched to automatic fire, knowing it would take more than a single well-placed round to kill these creatures. Holding in a breath, he popped up and fired a burst straight into the face of the lead Chimera.

Another was hit by a blast that crippled its legs.

Even as the two surviving beasts found cover, five more rushed out. Four ducked behind shelter immediately. The last one stood in the doorway, firing as rounds punched into its armor and flesh.

Fitz only got a glimpse, but he could tell the Chimera was larger than the others and wore a tattered cape along with the front of a human skull as a mask.

Could he be the Prophet?

Rico fired from around the air conditioner while Fitz reloaded. The beast zeroed in on them, returning fire.

Ace and Dohi continued to attack the monsters crawling over the edge of the buildings, while Toussaint and Neilson provided suppressing fire to allow Fitz to select his shots. He was easily the best marksman. It was on him to take the leader down.

The Chimeras pushed forward, their gunfire and growls growing closer. They outnumbered Spearhead and Ghost, and the ever-present threat of the Thrall Variants climbing the walls closed in.

Fitz needed to make a move soon or they weren’t making it off this roof alive.

“Rico, cover me!” he said.

“Wait…” she began to say.

Fitz bolted toward a vent stack closer to the Chimeras.

From his vantage point, the flanks of two of the beasts were visible. Corrin suddenly ran out to meet them, screaming, “ELIJAH!”

He slammed a fist into the skull mask, shattering it. The blow knocked Elijah to the ground. Fitz used the opportunity to put a burst of bullets into the face of another distracted Chimera.

Another Chimera turned and sprayed the vent stack he had moved behind with rounds. Fitz hunched down, bullets crashing against his position. Rico remained flat against the roof.

More Variants dragged themselves over the railings, snarling with rage and hunger. Neilson and Toussaint killed a swathe of them, but the monsters kept coming. They appeared to be thinner than those inside the building, clearly desperate for a fresh meal.

The Chimeras were just as determined. Fitz got up to see two of them had taken down Corrin while their hulking leader advanced with a saw-toothed cutlass in hand. Heading right for Rico.

“JENI!” Fitz yelled.

She turned with her rifle, bringing it up to deflect the blow meant for her head. The impact sent her sprawling backward. Her helmet thudded against the roof.

Time seemed to slow as Fitz tried to find a shot. Gunfire slammed his position, one round slashing his cheek it was so close. He tried to get up again, but more bullets streaked by.

“Dohi, Ace!” he bellowed, straining to be heard over the gunfire.

The pair reacted immediately, providing cover fire for Fitz. When the Chimeras recoiled from the concerted fire, Fitz rushed the leader that Corrin had called Elijah. The grotesque half-man swung toward Rico with his cutlass, knocking her rifle from her grip.

Fitz slammed into the massive creature from behind. A blow like that would be enough to knock the air out of a normal man and take him down.

Not this abomination.

Elijah dropped his cutlass and wrapped his arms around Fitz. Injuries from his torture in Seattle reignited, bruises and lacerations burning with agony. His teeth ground together, and he tried to kick at the Chimera as he lifted him off the ground, bringing them face to face.

Only part of the skull mask remained, but the rest of the scarred face was visible. Fetid breath puffed as Elijah began to crush Fitz’s ribs. Rico started to push herself up, but the creature slapped her down with its free arm.

She fell back, blood gushing from her nostrils.

Fitz reached for his blade, but his arms were trapped.

“I got other plans for you, Fitzpatrick,” the creature said in a crackly voice.

Elijah suddenly slammed Fitz to the ground. A sharp pain swam up from his spine into the back of his skull, and his vision went blurry, blackness threating to overwhelm his vision.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Elijah said. “The Prophet will reward me handsomely for your corpse.”

“Elijah!” another scratchy voice said.

Fitz blinked, seeing a second Chimera, but this wasn’t an enemy.

Corrin strode over, blood gushing from multiple wounds.

The half-man stood to face the Chimera, wielding the cutlass Elijah had dropped.

“So you’re the traitorous heretic?” Elijah said.

“This is not the path to your so-called salvation,” Corrin said. “You can still join us and end this evil.”

“Fool!”

Elijah let out a roar and stormed toward Corrin while Fitz scrambled over to shield Rico. By the time he got to her, Corrin was swiping at Elijah with the cutlass. Elijah blocked each blow with his claws.

Across the roof, Dohi, Neilson, and Toussaint had finished off the other Chimeras and were fighting the last of the Variants.

“I’m okay,” Rico said. “Help the others.”

He got up with his rifle, trying to get a clear shot on Elijah, but the creature had picked up Corrin, squeezing him and forcing the smaller Chimera to drop the cutlass. He swung Corrin toward the edge of the rooftop.

Fitz put a burst into Elijah’s back, knocking him forward. Corrin slammed into the railing, and then fell over the side.

“No!” Ace shouted. He let out an angry yell as he used the butt of his rifle to slam Elijah in his back.

A throbbing pain still beat at Fitz’s head, but he forced himself to stand. He pulled out his knife and stumbled over to help Ace. He lunged at Elijah with the blade. The creature knocked Fitz back with a swipe of his arm and scooped up his cutlass.

Ace pulled out a pistol and fired at Elijah, but the bullets hardly phased the beast. It brought the cutlass down on his wrists, severing them both in a single slice.

“No!” Fitz yelled. The creature hit him again, knocking him backwards.

Ace staggered, looking down at Fitz while blood pumped out of both wrists. They locked eyes as Elijah swung the cutlass again, straight at Ace’s neck. This time it didn’t cut all the way through, leaving Ace’s head hanging partly from his neck.

Elijah let out a roar that masked Fitz’s own scream.

Using his claws, he cut through the gristle, and held Ace’s severed head up, his voice rising into a war cry.

Fitz reached for his knife as Elijah strode toward him.

“You’re next, Fitzpatrick!” he shouted.

A flash of motion came from the railing. Corrin had climbed over. He lowered his shoulders like a linebacker ready to blitz and slammed into Elijah so hard that the Chimera went airborne, still holding Ace’s head.

Elijah hit the ground and turned. Fitz got up and Rico did too, firing her rifle. Elijah erupted in a frustrated screech and then bolted away into the stairwell leading from the roof.

Dohi ran over with his hatchet and blade in hand, and Corrin scooped up the dropped cutlass.

“On me!” Fitz shouted. The survivors all closed around him, preparing their weapons for the next wave. They could already hear them coming up the sides of the building.

Fitz held up his pistol in one hand and his knife in the other, trembling from the shock of losing Ace. Dohi was looking around, still unaware of what had happened to the older operator.

“Where is—” he started to yell.

The chainsaw roar of an M-249 cut him off. A Black Hawk rose over the rooftop, a crew chief manning the machine gun and firing into the climbing monsters. The rotor blades washed away the oily clouds of smoke rising around the building.

Once it had completed a full flight around their perimeter, the crew chief stopped firing and the chopper swooped in close to the roof, the side door open.

“Get in!” Fitz said.

Rico put an arm over his shoulder, and he helped her toward the bird. Once they were all inside, he stared at the bloodstained roof where the headless body of Ace lay sprawled.

“I’m so sorry,” Fitz choked out.

Climbing monsters continued to ascend faster toward the rooftop, driven by the scent of spilled blood.

The crew chief passed out headsets to them, and Fitz turned his on.

“You okay, Jeni?” Fitz asked.

A wet sheen covered her eyes. “Ace… he’s…”

Dohi looked over. “What happened to Ace?”

Fitz bowed his head, unable to talk.

Toussaint checked over her rifle, and Neilson peeled off some red vines still clinging to his ACU that he’d never gotten the chance to remove.

Dohi slammed a fist into the bulkhead.

“I promise we will kill Elijah,” Corrin said through clenched fangs.

“That beast wasn’t the Prophet, was he?” Fitz managed his voice still shaking.

“No,” Corrin said. “He’s one of the members of the Prophet’s Council… but he’s not the Prophet.”

The primary pilot’s voice crackled over their headsets. “Master Sergeant Fitz, I’m Liam Tremblay, an old friend of Beckham’s.”

“Thanks for risking your neck for us,” Fitz said. He tried to hold himself together for whatever came next. The name, Tremblay, sparked a distant memory. “You’re the one who flew Beckham down to Colorado.”

“That’s right,” Liam said. “Beckham told me you all could use my help. I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it here sooner.”

Fitz wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It came away with a mixture of sweat and blood. “Where are we headed?”

“To Beckham’s location.”

“Where is he?”

“The Venetian.”

Fitz looked out from the window in the side door to see pillars of massive flames ravaging the city. Black pillars of smoke blocked out the stars.

Amid it all, Fitz spotted the main strip, illuminated by flames and gunfire.

They had just escaped one hell, and now they were headed straight into another, missing another member of Team Ghost.

— 16 —

Smoke poured around Beckham and seeped into his lungs. The shemagh scarf he had used to cover his nose and mouth hardly helped. He coughed with each struggling breath, searching through the ember-filled atmosphere with his rifle pressed against his shoulder. His night-vision goggles were worthless in the screen of black and gray, and he had resorted to using his barrel-mounted light.

With his M249 SAW strapped over his back, Horn carried Ruckley in his arms. She cried out in pain as he navigated the rubble, but she still managed to hold her pistol with her good arm, too stubborn to keep it holstered.

The crack of gunfire burst through the roar of the flames devouring the destroyed hotels and casinos along the Las Vegas strip. Howls shrieked through the darkness like angry banshees, and the public channels on the radios were filled with desperate calls.

“Taking fire!”

“Recon Bravo, Eagle Four, we need to leave now. Hostiles—”

More static, more voices lost to explosions and the cacophony of the ongoing battle.

Beckham knew they didn’t have much time before the last of the helos took off. He could only hope that Tremblay would hold out and still be able to give them a ride.

By all counts, the mission had failed, but there was one objective Beckham would not give up on. One reason he had not yet run to one of the evacuation sites transmitted to them by Command.

I can’t leave Timothy.

They stopped at an intersection. Somewhere past the smoke, he heard the clatter of claws against asphalt.

Beckham looked over his shoulder, stifling a cough. His lungs were burning, and he had to duck low, gasping for what little oxygen remained in the scorching air.

Horn was hunched low, still holding Ruckley. Sweat carved through the ash on his face.

The crack of gunfire sounded to their left. Could that be Timothy?

A sudden growl cut through the air to their right, and Beckham dropped low. Horn reached for his sidearm, gently lowering Ruckley in case he needed to fight.

They remained frozen as the smacking and pop of Variant lips sounded from behind the dark fog. Claws scratched over concrete as a pack of beasts sprinted past.

The only benefit of the burning city was that the smoke and fire masked scents.

Horn tugged on Beckham’s sleeve, gesturing toward Ruckley.

“We have to get her out of here,” Horn said. “She’s not doing so hot.”

She wasn’t going to last much longer in the smoke. And truth be told, neither would the two operators.

“We can’t leave Timothy,” Beckham replied.

He had made a promise. And if he left Timothy behind, he knew that choice would haunt him like a terrible cancer eating at his mind, sending it to the dark places he had worked so hard to get past with the help of Kate and friends like Big Horn.

Now he needed to be that friend to Timothy.

“You go with Ruckley and get to an evac site,” Beckham said. “I’ll keep searching.”

“Hell no,” Ruckley said. “I ain’t leaving the kid either.”

Horn smirked. “I’ll do whatever she says, boss.”

Wasting no time, Beckham pushed onward through the rubble of the Venetian.

Horn picked Ruckley up and followed through a cloud of smoke. On the other side, forms of construction equipment appeared like monstrous creatures. Small cranes and aerial work platforms were tangled in a jumbled mess outside a loading bay with semi-trucks and trailers. Part of the concrete ceiling of the bay had collapsed and crushed two of the trucks.

Beckham took the long way around the docking bay. Congealed or not, the fuel inside those trucks could act as a bomb if the fire got too close.

He had nearly passed the loading dock completely when he heard the pop of gunfire from inside, followed by an angry shriek. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out movement deeper within the bay. Everything was covered in a layer of gray smoke and shadows.

“I’m going in,” he said to Horn. “Keep watch with Ruckley.”

“Careful, brother.” Horn set Ruckley down and shouldered his M249.

Beckham advanced, eyes flitting from the ceiling to the shadows of the bay. Fires burned throughout the place, chewing through debris.

A sudden groan and crack sounded overhead. He dodged as chunks of the ceiling gave way, spilling rubble. Some of it hit his prosthetic hand, the embers melting the plastic where they touched, and sizzling through his ACU.

He hurried forward, listening for Variants. Any hope of smelling their putrid stench was masked by the odor of melting plastic and fuel.

Another cough tore through Beckham, this time making him double over. He tried to catch his breath, knowing the noise could also get him killed.

A second hole in the ceiling formed, spilling more burning detritus.

He lunged to the side, scraping his flesh-and-blood arm across the concrete floor. Concrete and pipes crashed to the ground behind him, cratering the floor.

Then he heard the tap of claws. He braced himself, swinging his rifle up, ready for an attack.

But the beasts those claws belonged to weren’t headed toward him. They were going deeper into the smoke-filled dock.

Straight after prey, he guessed.

More gunfire burst in the space, echoing.

The tormented shrieks of injured Variants followed.

Beckham rushed forward. Behind him another semi-truck went up in flames, fire swelling toward the ceiling. Heat washed over him.

He heard voices ahead.

Human voices.

Beckham’s heart leapt, pulse racing.

“Timothy!” he yelled. The sheer effort caused another coughing fit to wrack his lungs, but he pushed forward against the pain and heat.

“Help! We’re in here!” someone shouted.

The ceiling had caved in, but Beckham could see movement behind a few chunks of marred concrete. A few scattered, bleeding Variant bodies lay nearby, some of them burned so badly they couldn’t move.

“Horn, I found Timothy,” Beckham said over the radio. He scrambled over the piles of scree on all fours like one of the monsters.

“Hell yes, that’s great news, but you better get your asses out here before the place goes up in flames!”

“Copy,” Beckham said. He hunched and directed his tac light into the cavity beneath the debris, illuminating an ash-covered face.

Relief flooded Beckham, temporarily assuaging his burning lungs.

“Timothy, are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes, but I’m trapped.”

Beckham roved the light to reveal a few pipes had pinned his legs. Behind him another man had an arm and shoulder trapped under a block of concrete. A grimace painted his face, blood dripping from lacerations in his scalp.

“Boyd needs our help, too,” Timothy said.

“Hang on!”

Beckham used one of the pipes as a lever to push a pair of smaller concrete slabs away. They toppled away from the debris and cracked against the floor.

Behind him another explosion burst. The heat seared over his back, and the odor of burning fuel grew stronger over the smoky air.

He used the pipe to lever up another concrete chunk from Timothy’s leg and a few of the other pipes trapping Timothy rolled away. The young soldier pulled his foot free with a pained grunt. Beckham held out a hand, helping Timothy stand.

Another crash of falling concrete sounded nearby.

“Let’s help Boyd,” Timothy said.

He limped to his downed teammate. The man looked like he was barely clinging to consciousness, no doubt enduring endless waves of pain. Together, Beckham and Timothy tugged at the concrete holding Boyd in place. The man yelled in pain when they lifted it off his arm, and he reeled on the ground from the pain.

Timothy lugged the bigger soldier off the ground, wrapping Boyd’s good arm around his shoulder.

“Hold on, brother,” Timothy said. “We’re getting you out of here.”

They hobbled back through the smoke and growling flames. Halfway to the exit, a blinding flash of light cut through the smoke, followed by a concussive wave that threw Beckham forward. Pieces of metal and concrete shrapnel tore through the air. His helmet thudded against the concrete, the side of his face scraping on the ground.

His ears rang from the blast, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He pushed himself up, rising to a knee. Timothy was already helping Boyd back up to his feet.

Beckham lurched forward, dizzy from the blast. His ribs ached, head pounding, ears ringing. He pushed forward until he reached Timothy, and together they stumbled toward the exit.

More of the ceiling and roof gave way behind them, clouds of dust rolling after them like an avalanche, fanning the flames and plumes of smoke.

“Go, go, go!” Beckham tried to say. He couldn’t even hear his own voice, but he saw their exit ahead.

Horn was waving at them, and Ruckley had managed to get back on her feet. The sight filled Beckham with the energy he needed to guide Timothy and Boyd out of the blazing bay.

The world still sounded muddled when they made it out into the street. Beckham thought he heard voices on the comms. Horn was yelling something, but he couldn’t make that out either.

A wave of smoke and dust blasted out of the loading bay, forcing the team down. Beckham coughed, trying to block Timothy with his own body as grit pelted them.

When the dust settled, he saw Horn pointing at something on their six. Beckham turned, looking past the dumpster Ruckley was hiding behind.

Dark silhouettes moved amid the smoke and dust.

At first, Beckham couldn’t tell if they were enemies or soldiers.

His hearing started to return, the persistent ringing beginning to die down. He knelt behind the cover of a burned-out forklift, Horn steadying his machine gun nearby.

A high-pitched clicking and shrieking dispelled any notion that these might be allies.

Hot wind blew through the street, clearing the smoke momentarily.

An Alpha strode toward them, its batlike ears twitching. Fire cast its body in shadows that highlighted the bulging muscles beneath its gray flesh. Behind it came a pack of juveniles and Variants.

Timothy leveled his pistol at the beast.

Beckham tried to bring up his rifle, but the weight was almost too much to keep steady. He turned to look for an exit route, but there was nowhere to run.

“On me!” Horn said.

He stepped in front of the group, his M249 centered on the pack of misshapen, diseased, beasts.

“You want some of this, you motherfuckers?” he shouted. “Come and get it!”

***

From the helicopter, the flash of gunfire below looked like lightning cutting through dark storm clouds. Dohi leaned out the side door as Tremblay brought the Black Hawk toward Krueger Drive, on the south side of the Venetian.

For a while, they had been unable to reach Beckham, Timothy, or Ruckley. Dohi had worried it might be too late to save them and after Ace’s death, he could not deal with another devastating loss.

When Horn had finally answered on the comms, Dohi had let out a breath of relief.

The rotor wash of the chopper kicked up the pillars of smoke, dispelling the dark clouds enough for Dohi to see the Alpha and its monstrous brethren rushing toward a small group of soldiers pinned up against a burning loading dock.

The creatures had fanned out, some taking to nearby walls, others darting for cover.

“Take us down between the Variants and Beckham!” Fitz yelled over the comm.

“Too much debris near Beckham,” Tremblay called back. “But I’ve got a patch of street fifty yards to their east that should work. We can still block the Alpha from Beckham that way.”

“Do it,” Fitz replied. “Ghost, Spearhead, form a perimeter and cover Beckham and the bird as they get the injured aboard.”

The crew chief on the door-mounted gun began to spray rounds into any creature that made the mistake of leaving cover.

Rounds suddenly pelted the helo, forcing the pilot to bank hard to the right.

“We got hostiles across the street!” yelled the primary pilot.

More bullets rattled against the side of the chopper. A round caught the crew chief in the chin, taking off part of it. He slumped, falling out of the chopper to the road below.

“Get us down!” Fitz shouted.

The chopper lowered to the ground as more rounds slammed into the helo, some punching through the metal.

Dohi spotted one of the Chimeras. The half-man hid behind a slab of asphalt. He aimed at the creature as they approached the ground.

The wheels hit the street, putting the bird between where Beckham was toward their west, closer to the main strip, and the Alpha and Chimeras charging in from the east.

The first Chimera’s head popped up, and Dohi pulled the trigger. A burst of rounds took the top of the skull off.

That’s for Ace, you asshole.

The second Scion went down from a headshot from Fitz.

“Let’s move!” he screamed.

Dohi hopped out with Rico, Fitz, and Corrin. They fanned out to make a perimeter as Neilson and Toussaint laid down covering fire, one of them jumping to the M240.

“We got more coming from the west!” Horn called over the comms.

Dohi turned to see that beyond the helo, well past Beckham’s position, beasts flooded in from the main strip, forcing Beckham and Horn to open fire while Timothy ran toward the helicopter with Ruckley in his arms. Another man from Recon Sigma limped after them.

They were still a good thirty, forty yards away.

The Alpha and its brethren barreled toward the chopper from the east, racing toward the bird. At this pace, they would be there before Timothy made it with the injured soldier and Ruckley, even with Beckham and Horn trying to hold off the second pack of twisted creatures.

The Alpha pushed past a few of the dead monsters, smashing them as it ran over their bodies. A few bullets caught the monster, tearing through its muscle. But it didn’t let the rounds stop it.

“Use the M240!” Dohi yelled into the comm.

Toussaint turned the weapon on the beast. A few rounds lanced out from the machine gun, but the weapon jammed.

Dohi cursed and aimed for the head of the Alpha. It ducked away, vanishing in a cloud of drifting smoke. He let his rifle fall on its strap, whipping out his hatchet in one hand and his knife in the other.

Images of Ace’s beheaded body smacking against the rooftop flashed through his mind. He let out a primal war cry to match the Alpha’s.

Corrin followed, gripping his cutlass in both clawed hands. A Variant burst through the smoke, and he took off its head with a swift stroke like he was swinging for a homerun.

Dohi sliced at another thrall that burst from the smoke, maw snapping at his blade. He hit it in the skull with the back end of his hatchet, cracking open its head like an egg.

The Alpha kept to the barrier of smoke. It fell to all fours, waiting to strike.

As Corrin distracted the smaller Variants, Dohi ran at the Alpha with his blades up over his head. The creature burst out to meet him, striking at his chest. He dodged the attack and cleaved a patch of thick muscle from the beast’s shoulder. The Alpha swung again, hitting Dohi in the chest and knocking him back.

Gunfire slashed out around them, piercing the flanks of the other Variants.

The Alpha reared back, rising to its full height like a grizzly bear. Dohi dodged under another series of blows, striking out with his weapons, cutting at the barreled leg muscles.

Smoke stung his nostrils, making his eyes water. He blinked past it, desperate to keep his focus on the gigantic abomination. Every other sound seeming to fade away except for the growls and roars of the Alpha.

Thoughts of Ace, Lincoln, Mendez, and all the lives torn apart by the monsters fueled him.

Attack after attack, he dodged, then parried and counterstriked.

Dohi hunched beneath slicing claws, and lashed out at the beast’s ankle, cutting deep into the tendon. The monster crumpled to one knee, letting out a cry of agony.

Its milky white eyes flitted up, as if it was trying to see as its batlike ears crinkled. Another series of clicks escaped its mouth as he prepared for the finishing blow.

But as he brought his hatchet up, the monster surged forward, slamming into his body. He flew backward, crashing violently into a charcoaled car.

Pain throbbed through his body, but he ignored it, propelled by the mental pain of his lost brothers and sisters. He moved as the creature got up on both legs again, grunting in agony.

It sliced at him, but he was much faster this time. He bolted away, and then circled, lashing out with his knife and hatchet to cut the creature across its side and back.

Spinning toward him, he seized on the perfect opportunity, jabbing his knife into an eye. The orb popped so loud he could hear it over the gunfire. He brought the hatchet down with all his strength on the skull, splitting the bone.

The monster reeled backward, collapsing, but still struggling. Dohi tugged the hatchet and knife out, then struck out again and again. Hot blood sprayed over his face. The creature groaned, and its limbs finally stopped twitching.

Voices called his name, but he ignored them. He continued to carve the beast until he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He held up his blood-soaked blades, ready to strike the Chimera that had stopped his attack.

“Come on!” Corrin said, voice crackling. “We need to leave!”

Dohi looked up to see the Blackhawk was finally loaded up. He and Corrin ran back to the bird.

Corrin had laid waste to several of the thralls with his cutlass, and the other soldiers had taken down the rest of the pack with bullets. Dozens of gray corpses lay in the street and in the loading bay area.

Another wave of hungry Variants rushed down the street, chasing Dohi and Corrin back toward the helicopter. As soon as they were inside, it lifted, but several of the beasts were close enough to leap into the air, claws extended.

Another pack had charged in from the east, and three jumped into the opposite open door of the chopper before Beckham could get it closed.

One of them lunged at the injured man from Recon Sigma. Timothy aimed his pistol at the beast, shooting it until the monster tumbled backward, falling back. Dohi threw his hatchet, hitting one of them in the chest. The third pounced on Ruckley.

“Hell no!” Horn rumbled.

He grabbed the creature by the back of the neck and yanked it off, then slammed its head into the deck, over and over until it caved in. He tossed the limp body out of the chopper.

Fitz closed the side door, sealing out the shrieks and sporadic gunfire as the helo rose past the swirling smoke.

Dohi sucked in breath after breath. He finally crashed on the blood-soaked deck. Across from him, Horn leaned down to check Ruckley while Rico and Fitz tended to the other man on Recon Sigma, whose nametape read Boyd.

Corrin wiped his cutlass over his pant leg, eyes locked on Dohi. “Are you okay?”

Dohi nodded, trying to speak, his throat scratching, still raw from the smoke.

“I’m sorry about Ace. He stuck his neck out for me, even when no one else trusted me,” Corrin continued. “I won’t forget him.”

“None of us will,” Dohi said.

— 17 —

Azrael looked out over his land. The sun peaked over the mountainous horizon, red and orange light bleeding across the sky. It had been a full day since the victories in Las Vegas and Puerto Rico. Much of his fleet was escorting the ships they had captured there, preparing for their next battle as they headed west into the Gulf of Mexico.

The collaborators he had acquired over the years with adequate knowledge of operating the vessels were supplemented by those new prisoners they had enslaved and forced into service through the promise of brutal torture to them and their families.

He had only recently flown back to his lab on one of the civilian model planes they had commandeered from the forces they had defeated on the island, and he was anxious for the next step of his plan.

But before he could proceed, he waited for the return of Elijah and the rest of his forces from Las Vegas. They had spent the previous day ensuring there were no lingering survivors and taking multitudes of prisoners who Azrael hoped would fuel the New Gods in their final campaign.

Soon the entire Allied States would be nothing but smoldering ashes.

Ringgold would bow to his power when he gave her one final choice: join them or die.

He leaned against the railing on the terrace of a building that served as his communication center. From his perch, he had a clear view of the mountains and all the roads leading up to his base.

This was where his empire had begun.

To the casual observer, the facilities and warehouses around him appeared no different than they had during the first war. Like the human loyalist base Mount Katahdin in Maine, he ensured that everything was carefully camouflaged, keeping the important facilities out of sight and surveillance for as long as possible.

So far, it had worked. The heretics may have infiltrated smaller satellite bases around his kingdom, but they hadn’t found this stronghold.

This holy place was where he had first worked to help the United States, back when he thought he was developing a cure like Dr. Kate Lovato for the X9H9 virus plaguing the country.

But fate had other plans.

Azrael had unwittingly fulfilled the true mission behind the VX-99 program. The Scions were the perfect predator and soldier.

He had started a new world order, rising from the ashes of humanity’s self-destruction.

The fiery orange and red sunrise of dawn melted away to clear blue skies. Black specks appeared over the western horizon, growing larger.

Azrael drew in a deep breath of warm air. These were the first of his faithful legions returning from Las Vegas.

He took the stairs down from the terrace and strode between the spread of white and tan buildings stretching between parking lots. Voices called out from Scions commanding groups of chained human prisoners as they lugged crates full of ammunition and fuel into a warehouse.

These were the slaves healthy enough to be of service to the New Gods, but stubborn enough that they would not serve loyally. They would be put to use until their bodies gave out, and then they would be plastered in the webbing network permanently, nutrition flowing from their meat to feed the growing network of masterminds and other godly creations.

Among the slaves were a few Scions—or members of the Fallen, as Azrael liked to call them.

Those were creatures that had shown disloyalty. He had given them the gift of joining the ranks of the New Gods, and they had squandered it. They were the flawed part of his creation. Soon the new batches would be completely indoctrinated.

Anger flashed through his augmented body as he observed the Fallen hoisting crates into the back of a truck.

“Quicker!” the Scion said.

A female Scion with long wiry hair draping over her bony shoulders snarled at him. “Screw you, monster.”

The faithful Scion struck the female Fallen with an electric cattle prod.

“Kill this small-minded beast if she disobeys you again,” Azrael said.

“Yes, Prophet,” the Scion said.

He struck out at the Fallen with the cattle prod again. The Fallen writhed in pain but didn’t let it stop her from snarling at Azrael.

“We chose you, and yet you spurn us.” Azrael placed a foot on her sternum, pressing down so she struggled to breathe. “You have been gifted so much. Why do you waste it? Why do you cling to your silly notions of humanity?”

He leaned in toward her, baring his fangs.

“Your side has already lost.”

With that, he slashed at her face, leaving crimson tears in her flesh, then kicked her away.

Satisfied, Azrael turned and continued toward an expansive parking lot.

The buzz of the cattle prod and an anguished cry sounded from behind him again. He relished in the female’s pain.

Guards stood sentry at the parking lot. They bowed at Azrael’s approach, then turned back toward the surrounding terrain for any threats. A squadron of helicopters drew close. Among them were a few civilian models, in addition to a Black Hawk and a Little Bird.

The Black Hawk hit the ground first, and the side door slid open. Human loyalists readied the camouflage netting and tents to conceal the choppers as a group of Scions poured out. Blood covered their clothes and stained the cutlasses strapped over their backs. They strode toward Azrael, pride evident in each marching footstep, but they kept their eyes low out of respect for him.

He stood there watching, his cloak flapping behind him in the wind. He could smell the scent of death lingering over the loyal Scions as they knelt on the pavement.

The final Scion left the troop hold of the Black Hawk. He carried something roughly the size of a soccer ball wrapped up in an olive shemagh scarf mottled with dark stains.

“Elijah,” Azrael said as the Scion approached.

“We’ve returned to serve, Prophet,” Elijah said, dropping to one knee, his tattered cape falling over his battered body.

“Rise.”

Elijah stood, the object still cradled under his left arm. Bandages covered his limbs and several spots on his torso. Dried blood had soaked through them.

He kept his head bowed, blood dripping past the broken human-skull mask he wore. “I brought something back for you, master.”

“Show me.”

Elijah let the shemagh scarf fall, then gripped a human head. The long white and gray beard was tangled and matted in dried blood.

“Who’s this?” Azrael asked.

“A member of Team Ghost,” Elijah dropped the head, then fell to his knees again. “Prophet, I failed you. This is not one of the men you requested. I lost many of my soldiers to a sacrilegious Fallen Scion that was with Team Ghost and—”

“Quiet,” Azrael said calmly. He reached toward Elijah, placing his claws under the soft flesh of his chin. “Look at me.”

Elijah glanced up with golden eyes. “Prophet, I beg your forgiveness. Give me an honorable death and cleanse me of my failure.”

Azrael stood and stepped away from Elijah, considering his fate. He appreciated the loyalty of the Scion and the fact he had actually killed one of the elusive members of Team Ghost. Not to mention the trap was a success.

“You brought back something the others before you could not,” he said. “This will strike fear in their numbers to see yet another of their heroes dead.”

“I will kill those that remain, master. I swear it.”

Azrael motioned for him to stand. “You have proven yourself faithful.”

Elijah rose as Scions and human loyalists began to lead military prisoners away from the birds. The fresh meat shuffled along, together with ropes.

“Very good,” Azrael said, unable to stop from grinning. “One of these wretched beings is bound to tell us where we can find Ringgold. There are only so many outposts left in the Allied States after all.”

“That was what I had hoped, too,” Elijah said.

Azrael gestured to Elijah, then the rest of the Scions assembled before him. “Go treat your wounds, then begin the interrogations.”

He locked eyes with Elijah again. “Then once we have the intel we need, you’ll have your chance at redemption. Team Ghost will be yours.”

***

President Ringgold sat next to Chief of Staff Soprano in the EOC at the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Generals Cornelius and Souza, along with General Vance and Colonel Stilwell from Canada and General Hernandez from Mexico, were seated around the conference table. Comms officers surveyed the computers lining one of the walls.

The Las Vegas mission had been an abject failure, and they had been reorganizing their defenses since the survivors had returned. But their failure had not been limited to Sin City.

“We still haven’t heard anything from Lemke, have we?” Ringgold asked.

“Nothing,” Souza said. “The last transmission we received from Puerto Rico was when the USS George Johnson reported being overrun by Variants. Since then, it’s been silent.”

“They could have repositioned to another island,” Souza suggested. “They’re probably maintaining radio silence to prevent the New Gods from finding them.”

“Lemke’s a smart man,” Ringgold said, trying to reassure herself as much as the others. “He’ll have found a way to survive.”

Cornelius nodded. “I hope so.”

“How about Los Alamos?” Ringgold asked. She had kept the science team’s report about OrgoProct and Charles Morgan close at hand, wondering if they had been right. That maybe the New Gods were based in New Mexico instead of Nevada after all.

“You can see the latest images we took of Los Alamos,” Souza said, showing the National Laboratory. “We haven’t seen any signs of activity there. It looks just as it did when it fell during the Great War.”

Ringgold withheld the curses begging to be let out. “Then where in the hell is this Prophet? How are these monsters spying on us and we can’t even figure out where they’re keeping all their forces?”

No one had answers.

“Madam President,” one of the younger comms officers said, his voice excited. “I’m getting an incoming transmission. It seems to be coming from a computer that belongs to the Centcom facilities.”

“From Puerto Rico?” Ringgold asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “It’s on our encrypted lines with the right machine ID, but I can’t geolocate the signal.”

“Put it through.”

The comms officer accepted the transmission. “It’s… it’s a video.”

“Let’s see,” Ringgold said.

The video replaced the views from the flyover. It showed an auditorium with red webbing stretched over the seating. Two hulking masterminds were positioned on either side of the stage. Between them was what looked to be a throne made of red organic webbing.

“What in the hell is this?” Ringgold asked.

“I don’t know,” the comms officer said. “But I do know this is a recording. That’s all I can say for sure.”

A figure strode to the center of the stage wearing a dark cloak. His fingers ended in hooked claws, and his face was a patchwork of scars. His nostrils were little more than slits above his wormy lips and pointed teeth.

When his golden eyes locked onto the camera, a chill snaked down Ringgold’s spine. She could almost sense the creature’s intelligence seeping through the image on the screen.

“That’s… a Chimera,” General Vance said.

The beast sat on his throne, clawed fingers clenching into the red vines of its armrest.

“This message is for President Jan Ringgold,” the Chimera said in a gravelly voice. “I am Prophet Azrael, the leader of the New Gods you have failed to defeat.”

Ringgold stared at her mortal enemy. Evil radiated from the eyes of the monstrosity. He was responsible for so much death and devastation.

“Las Vegas was not your only loss last night,” Azrael continued. “Your foolish attempts to establish a foothold in Puerto Rico were an absolute disgrace. We took the island from your pitiful forces in a matter of hours. I want to show you just how easy that was for us.”

The video went black, before coming back online to a view of the streets of Old San Juan. Once colorful buildings with colonial architecture were pocked with bullet holes. The camera followed a group of collaborators who were advancing through the streets trailing a pack of Thrall Variants.

Sporadic gunfire sounded in the distance. The monsters surged forward, pouncing through windows and doorways. Some pulled human soldiers out of buildings, tearing the poor souls apart or dragging them away.

The camera view shifted to another angle. Three helicopters soared above the collaborators, spitting gunfire into the Thrall Variants. Suddenly light flared from neighboring buildings.

LAW rockets punched into the choppers. They exploded and spun out of control, slamming into buildings and the street.

The video showed other equally horrifying scenes.

More small seacraft drawing close to the San Juan port, unloading monsters and collaborators that overwhelmed the Allied States vessels docked there. Variants with webbed hands and feet emerged from the waves, scaling the sides of Allied States naval vessels.

Ringgold had prayed that Vice President Lemke and the First Fleet had somehow survived. That maybe Souza was right, and they were hiding out now, biding their time. But the silence from Puerto Rico had inspired all manner of nightmarish thoughts.

This video showed those thoughts were accurate.

After what seemed like an agonizing eternity, the video switched back to Azrael.

This time, a line of Scions stood on the stage with him. One Scion with a broken human skull as a mask held a hostage who wore a black cloth hood tied over his head.

“The weapons your government created started this, and I will finish it,” Azrael said.

With a snap of his clawed hands, the Chimera with the macabre mask tore off the hood from the hostage’s head.

Ringgold gasped at the sight of her vice president.

“Son of a bitch,” Cornelius said, balling his fists.

Bruised and beaten, Lemke stood on the stage next to the Chimera. His hands were tied together by a rope and another cloth was pressed into his mouth as a gag. Blood dripped from cuts along the side of his face.

Azrael stood from his throne and strode to Lemke’s side. He used one claw to slowly peel away the flesh along one of his arms.

Lemke yelled in agony, his cries distorted by the cloth in his mouth. The Chimera guarding him held him upright, preventing him from backing away as Azrael flayed the man alive.

Ringgold wanted to look away, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Part of her kept hoping that Team Ghost would show up and save him.

This was no old action movie, though. There was no saving him from these abominations.

Azrael turned toward the camera.

“I am pleased for you to witness the pain I can inflict. This is just a glimpse at what is to come,” he said. “All because you have arrogantly tried to dethrone me. You heretics must learn. We will not hesitate to punish each and every one of your insolent followers.”

He tore the gag from Lemke’s mouth.

“Don’t give in to this filthy bastard!” Lemke said.

Azrael used a claw to cut off one of his ears, then threw the piece of flesh and cartilage into the air, catching it with his teeth and eating it.

Ringgold looked away, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The vice president let out a long wail, and she turned back, eyes narrowed, to see his intestines slopping out onto the stage.

The Chimera behind Lemke let the vice president collapse to the floor. Azrael pressed his boot against Lemke’s neck, preventing him from breathing.

“You have tried and failed to stand against me,” Azrael said. “And still, I am willing to show you some mercy. Abdicate, release your tyrannical hold on your country. Then I will consider some of your people to be among my chosen, to be elevated as Scions.”

Azrael took his foot off Lemke. The vice president gasped for breath. A nearby Chimera handed him a cutlass.

“Or if you do not submit, then understand that we will destroy you and what’s left of your country.” Azrael aimed the cutlass at the vice president.

“No,” Lemke said, voice rasping. “Don’t submit!”

Azrael swung the cutlass down, separating his head from his body.

“You have three days to decide,” Azrael said.

The video ended.

General Souza bowed his head.

Ringgold shivered, unable to contain the emotion boiling inside her. Soprano put a hand on her back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Souza said.

Ringgold shook away the shock, wiped at her tears, and looked at the team.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “Should I…”

She didn’t want to bring herself to say it, but she was no longer sure about their future.

“Do we surrender?” Vance asked, completing the question she was afraid to voice aloud.

“No, hell no,” Cornelius said. “If we do, that son of a bitch will kill every one of us and enslave our families.”

“Slavery is worse than death,” Soprano said.

“After Puerto Rico, Vegas, your entire country, you think we can actually win at any point in the future?” asked General Vance. “That thing is too powerful now.”

“What choice do we have?” Souza said.

“He gave us a choice,” Vance replied.

Hernandez snapped out of his shock and slammed his fist on the table. “I would die before I become a creature like him. You ask my people, and they will tell you the same!”

All eyes turned toward Ringgold. She fought to control herself and push the images of Lemke’s horrific death from her mind.

There was only one way forward. Giving in to the New Gods, as Lemke had said in that video, was not an option.

“You should not have to ask me.” She stifled the sobs threatening to overtake her. “I spent a few years in New Hampshire. You know the motto.”

“Live free or die,” Cornelius said. “I’m with you, Madam President.”

“In three days, I will defend Galveston by myself if that’s what it takes,” Ringgold said, speaking as clearly as she could, stymieing the tide of grief building inside her. “If any of you want to submit to him, know that you’ve made yourself our enemy. Otherwise, in three days, we’ll stand right here on this soil and fight.

One by one, the others nodded in agreement.

“Notify Commander Jacobs immediately to recall all operations from Houston, consolidating them here in Galveston,” Ringgold said. “We need everything we’ve got in one location. That includes ensuring every single person who can lift a gun. Everyone must help to defend this base. No exceptions.”

“We’ll get the message out,” General Souza said.

“That includes me,” Ringgold said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve fired a weapon, but General Cornelius, I was hoping you could give me a refresher.”

“Absolutely, Madam President,” he replied.

“Good,” Ringgold said.

“I’ll begin preparing our forces,” Cornelius said.

Hernandez started to stand. “I will request reinforcements immediately. We cannot sit idly by while one of our closest military and economic partners is destroyed by this beast and his monsters.”

“Thank you,” Ringgold said. She looked to General Vance. “Are you ready to send those thousand troops your country initially promised, too?”

“Please understand that it’s out of my control, but I think this latest video will serve to change a lot of minds up north.”

“Thank you,” Ringgold said. “For those doubting we can win, remember this. Our enemy believes they are Gods, but they bleed and feel pain. And they’ll soon learn they’re mortal like the rest of us.”

— 18 —

Kate wrinkled her nose at the smell of rot and death wafting around her when she entered the parking garage beneath the hospital outside of Outpost Houston.

Banks of lights illuminated the tunnel plastered with red webbing. Commander Jacobs had doubled the number of men down here since President Ringgold had sent word that an attack on Galveston was imminent.

Kate didn’t feel any better with the increased troops. The video from Azrael’s throne room continued to haunt her. This monster had single-handedly brought the Allied States to its knees, and his forces only seemed to grow stronger by the day.

At least she wouldn’t be stuck in this hellhole for much longer. As the president withdrew their defenses from Houston, she had requested the science team return as soon as possible with them.

The team would have to abandon their efforts outside the tunnel and figure out a new way to help the war efforts.

All in the matter of three days.

Kate wasn’t sure how they could accomplish anything of scientific merit in that short amount of time.

A cry of pain distracted her from her thoughts and Kate turned away from the tunnel. Leslie jerked in the chair near the tunnel where she was tapped into the network, her eyes closed.

Ron and Sammy stood nearby, watching the computer.

“Anything useful before we pack up to leave?” Kate asked Sammy.

Sammy squinted at the monitor, scanning the spikes of communication signals she had intercepted. “Everything is gibberish.”

“They knew the whole time we were listening, and they used it against us,” Kate said. “We missed the scouts they sent all around the country. We missed the attacks on Puerto Rico, and we still don’t know for certain if the Prophet is Charles Morgan and if he is at Los Alamos. But we do know they are coming after us again, only because they told us.”

Ron lowered his head and rubbed his eyes.

She could tell the researcher was exhausted and scared. She didn’t blame him. Fear was a constant companion in all their lives. Part of her just wanted to give up and spend the last few days with her family.

But so long as they still lived and she had a chance of saving them, she could not give up.

“Sammy, is there any hope you can follow their communication signals again?” Kate asked.

“They’ve re-encrypted everything.”

“How long would it take for you to decode?”

“Days, maybe a week. Maybe longer, even with the software we’ve got.”

“We don’t have a week. We’ve got three days.”

“I know, but…” Sammy slapped the desk.

“It’s okay.” Kate put a hand on the young woman. “Just breath. We can figure something out if we work together.”

Leslie cried out again, drawing stares from several soldiers.

“Should I disconnect her?” Ron asked.

“Not yet,” Kate said. “I need to know more about this new encryption before we head back to Galveston. What’s the issue?”

Sammy took in a deep breath, exhaled, and stepped back to the computer.

“They’re using what I can best describe as a kind of rolling code. Or something similar. Every time I think I’m remotely close to figuring out how they’re encrypting their signals, everything changes,” she explained. “Suddenly the frequencies and data they were sending are all altered, so I can’t track down what anything means anymore.”

“You’re saying it’s impossible to figure out what they’re saying?” Kate asked.

“Impossible? No, it can be hacked. But not in three days.”

Kate considered it. Understanding the Variant communication signals once again might give them some leverage. If they were lucky, maybe Sammy could figure it out earlier than she estimated. They might be able to get a read on how many beasts were headed their way.

But she did not want to rely on luck. Not with the future of the Allied States at risk.

“You’re positive you can’t solve it in three days?” Kate asked.

“Positive as a proton.” Sammy said, cracking a quick grin. “Okay, probably not as funny given the circumstances. Basically, we’re screwed.”

“I don’t know about that,” Kate said, starting to pace behind the computer station. “There must be something else we can do.”

“I’m telling you, there’s not a damn thing I can do to decrypt these messages any faster. It’s like creating a vaccine for a virus in a week instead of a year.”

“I understand…” Kate said. She stepped away to think.

Sammy was right that they wouldn’t be decoding messages anytime soon, and the New Gods had seemingly weaponized the organic network against the Allied States. But that did not mean there weren’t other options to use the network against them.

Perhaps there was something they could do to disrupt the upcoming attack—and better yet, prevent the New Gods from ever using the webbing again.

“Sammy, Ron, pull Leslie out of there,” Kate said. “I’ve got an idea.”

A few moments later Leslie was detached from the microarray connections and webbing. She rubbed the back of her neck where the webbing had been removed, wincing.

“You okay?” Kate asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Leslie replied.

“Good. Everyone, gather around.” Kate waited for her team before starting in on her idea. “Unless anyone has an idea, I think trying to intercept messages from the webbing network is a waste of time. Ringgold wants us back in Galveston.”

“So everything we’ve done… it’s been for nothing?” Leslie asked.

“No,” Kate said. “We stopped plenty of attacks when we first figured this out. We bought time for outposts that were able to evacuate, and most importantly, we found intel that helped us identify our enemy.”

“True,” Sammy said. “And with all our work behind-the-scenes, I was able to run some image analysis programs. I can say with an eighty percent certainty that Prophet Azrael in the video was Charles Morgan. Everything he said matches exactly what Ron guessed.”

“Eighty percent certainty isn’t good enough,” Kate said. “But if we’re assuming we know who this guy is, thanks to that video, we have a better sense of our enemy. It seems like a man who might think he was wronged by our government, by our science. And who feels like he is truly delivering the future of mankind to us in the form of the Chimeras.”

“Basically, a huge fucking asshole,” Sammy said.

“I won’t argue with you about that,” Kate said. “But we know he’s intelligent. He understands a variety of technologies and isn’t afraid to use them to his own benefit.”

“He’s an evil, arrogant bastard,” Leslie said.

“Perhaps we can harness his arrogance,” Kate said. “Science is only good with the proper checks and balances. I always found that my best results came when I was working with people smarter than me, unafraid to tell me when I was wrong or when we should consider different experiments.”

“This guy is working with a bunch of monsters,” Ron said. “I wonder how many brains they’ve got behind their operations.”

“I have a feeling he doesn’t like when people tell him he’s wrong,” Kate said. “But he’s not surrounded by idiots. We can’t forget about the masterminds and the Chimeras, plus everyone connected to the network and those that helped build it.”

“I wish we could just burn it all down,” Sammy said.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Kate looked at the webbing around the tunnel. “We don’t need the army. That throne, that entire room, was covered in organic webs. I would be willing to bet that even the webbing around Houston shares enough connections for those webs to transmit signals directly into that throne of his, whether it’s in Los Alamos or somewhere entirely different.”

“But we can’t listen to anything coming from that throne room, though,” Ron said.

“I don’t plan on listening to it anymore. I want to destroy it. Like killing a weed by destroying its roots, I want to poison the whole network.”

“With what?” Sammy asked. “I could maybe come up with a computer virus that scrambles their signals or something, but that’ll still take days and will only work on those physical computers attached to their network.”

“We’re not talking about computer work anymore,” Kate said. “A mentor once told me that to destroy a monster, I would have to create one. And we’re going to do that again.”

“You want to develop a new bioweapon?” Ron said, bottom lip shaking.

“Not exactly,” Kate said. “The development work has already been done for us. We still have the concentrated weaponized anthrax from that grenade, right?”

“Yes,” Leslie said. “More than enough to kill a quarter of the outpost here if we released it.”

“Good. We can move our operations safely back to Galveston, and culture more of the anthrax bacteria.”

“More? We’re talking about a weaponized pathogen! You want to use it against the New Gods?” Leslie asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s insane,” Ron said. “If we deployed it and the wind blows wrong, it could infect our people. I know it’s not contagious, it won’t spread once it infects people, but it will still kill so many.”

“We won’t be aerosolizing it,” Kate said. “I want to grow as much as we can in the next two days. The anthracis bacteria that causes anthrax is extremely easy to culture and divides rapidly. It won’t take long. Then I want to aliquot boluses of the bacteria into syringes.”

“Inject the anthrax?” Ron asked.

“I get it,” Sammy said. “Instead of a digital computer virus, we’re going to use a biological one.”

“You got it,” Kate said. “Only it’s not a virus. It’s a bacterium. We can selectively inject it into various webbing network sites our scouts and other outposts have uncovered. Those vines will die off as the bacteria spreads, and even better, they’ll actually serve as living bioreactors for the anthrax bacteria, allowing the bacteria to spread up and down the network, slowly killing every connected piece of webbing.”

“It’s like we’re setting an unstoppable forest fire,” Leslie said.

“And if we spread out the injections, we can avoid any dead ends and ensure they can’t prevent its spread before it’s too late for them,” Kate said.

“Why not just bomb the network or physically burn it for that matter?” Ron asked.

“We have no idea how widespread the network really is,” Kate said. “And we already know bombing is ineffective from the tactical nuclear weapons we previously deployed. While the tunnels help conceal the webbing network from the air, they don’t do anything to shield them from microscopic bacteria traveling through the cells inside the webbing. Any other questions?”

Sammy raised her hand. “Are you going to teach me to help culture the bacteria, too? I need to do something helpful.”

“You got it,” Kate said.

“By infecting the network, don’t we also risk killing off everything attached to it, including every human and animal prisoner.”

“I’m afraid this is the only way,” Kate said. “Whether we win or lose the battle for Galveston, the bacteria will keep fighting, routing out any surviving masterminds, beasts or hives attached to the webbing.”

Kate stared at the tunnel, picturing the bacteria spreading like a wildfire with grim satisfaction. “It will be our last gift to the New Gods.”

***

Fitz basked in the warm sun at Seawolf Park on Pelican Island, an island situated across the water at the northern edge of Galveston. The USS Seawolf, a submarine from World War II, along with a destroyer escort, the USS Stewart were drydocked there. Both had served as an open-air museum before the Great War of Extinction.

Today the site had transformed to allow for a memorial service for all the lives lost in the battle for Las Vegas. Men and women in uniform lined up, facing President Ringgold at a podium.

As the wind whipped at her hair and pantsuit, soldiers stood around a few caskets sitting in a series of small wooden rowboats in the grass near Ringgold. Each casket had an Allied States flag draped over it.

“Today we say goodbye to those who made the ultimate sacrifice,” Ringgold said. “Today we carry their memories and spirits into the crucial days ahead. Know that they are watching over us and fighting beside us, as determined as any of us to preserve the freedoms we have so valiantly fought for.”

President Ringgold saluted when the soldiers positioned near the small boats moved them toward the concrete pier surrounding the park. Another group of soldiers removed the flags from the caskets and began folding them.

Fitz watched in reverence as they finished folding the flags, retreating as others placed the boats with their casket cargo into the Gulf, setting each on fire, then pushing them to sea.

A bugler played “Taps” as the boats drifted out in flames. What remained of the caskets and the few bodies they had brought back from Vegas would find their final resting place at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

He felt tears forming over his eyes as he maintained his salute. He sensed the same despair in Rico and Dohi who were next to him. How many times had they stood side by side to say goodbye to their brothers and sisters?

They were all that remained of Team Ghost. He regretted that they had not even been able to bring Ace back to give the man the burial he deserved. The older man should not have even had to fight this war. He had been past retirement age for a special ops group like Ghost, but Ace had never shied from a fight or the calling to protect the country and people he loved.

The bugler finished, and Fitz let out a sigh. Most of the people who had come to pay their respects dispersed.

President Ringgold lingered for a moment, watching the fingers of smoke streaming away from the boats before following her cadre of Secret Service agents to a Jeep. It drove away, accelerating back to the EOC to continue planning the outposts’ defenses.

Fitz, Rico, and Dohi joined up with Beckham, Horn, and Timothy, all of whom were moving back to downtown Galveston, following the rest of the mourners.

They walked in silence. Fitz found Rico’s hand as they walked, squeezing it gently. Her touch brought him a swell of reassurance, even at this dark hour.

“We’ve lost so many,” she said. “Mendez, Lincoln, and now Ace. It’s never going to be the same, no matter what happens next.”

Of course there were also all of their comrades who had died in the first war, people like Tanaka, Jensen, Riley, Meg, Garcia… Fitz used to find strength in remembering them, but now it just made his heart ache.

Beckham looked out at the Gulf of Mexico. “I’ve watched too many brothers and sisters give their lives for this country. Every time, it hurt worse than the Variant acid that took my leg and arm.”

“That’s why we must win,” Dohi said. “So their sacrifices weren’t for nothing.”

“You bet your sweet ass we’ll win,” Horn said, clapping the tracker’s shoulder with a big hand.

“We better hurry then,” Fitz said. “We’re running out of time and ammunition.”

“I don’t need bullets,” Dohi said. “My hatchet and knife are sharp enough.”

“Guess we’ll be making some homemade bombs and sharpening some swords,” Horn said. “Just like when I was a teenager, except I can’t get arrested for it.”

They all laughed for a moment.

“Better than bullets and bombs, we have each other,” Beckham said. “We’re back together again. And we’re still breathing, which means we still have a shot.”

Beckham put an arm around Timothy.

“So what’s the plan?” Rico asked. “I mean, the brass has to be planning something together better than pipe bombs made by Horn.”

She gave Horn a side glance like he was nuts.

“Even if the science team is right, that the Prophet is actually in Los Alamos, we don’t have the manpower right now to launch another major offensive,” Beckham said. “Truth is, we’re better off defending this place, where we already have our heels firmly planted.”

“But you know how the old saying goes,” Fitz said. “The best defense…”

“Another mission like Vegas will mean there isn’t anything left for our defense. I’m working with Commander Jacobs to coordinate a strong defense strategy, though.”

“Have you consulted with Corrin?” Dohi said.

“The Chimera?” Horn asked.

“Yeah,” Dohi said. “He might be one of our best advantages. He knows the New Gods intimately, and has the predatory senses of the enemy. He can tell you how to conceal our men or find blind spots in our defenses we might not have realized.”

“Corrin has proven to be extremely reliable, and he really does want to do whatever he can to help,” Fitz said.

“So you really trust him?” Horn said.

“Yes,” Fitz and Dohi said simultaneously.

“He didn’t screw us in Vegas,” Rico said.

“Yeah, but morale matters,” Beckham said. “What will people think if we drag out a Chimera to consult on our defenses?”

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Fitz said. “Corrin could be a godsend. Take advantage of him while we’ve got time.”

“Fitzie’s right,” Rico said. “The guy helped save my life, and I think he had a soft spot for Ace. He’s just as pissed as we are. Give him a chance to help. You won’t regret it.”

“I’ll consider it,” Beckham said.

“When people see Corrin walking around with a hero like you, they’ll have to trust him,” Fitz said. He knew Beckham didn’t like being called a hero, but that was the truth. His name had spread quickly through the country after the Great War, and he had become somewhat of a living legend.

Now that they were in the face of imminent destruction, Fitz wanted Beckham to know it was no time to be humble.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Beckham said. “I don’t want people any more scared than they already are. We can’t look desperate by bringing Corrin out to help us.”

Rico let out a sad laugh. “Truth is, we are desperate.”

“Amen, sister,” Horn said. “For now, I’m going to check on my girls, then to the hospital to see Ruckley. Want to make sure the docs are treating her right.”

“I’m supposed to grab some food with Tasha,” Timothy said. Then he looked up at Horn sheepishly. “If that’s okay with you.”

“Long as you keep your paws to yourself,” Horn said with a raised red eyebrow.

“Big Horn, I’ve got a meeting with Jacobs in the afternoon,” Beckham said. “He’s organizing all the new defenses and troops that we recalled from Houston. But I’ll meet you in the hospital after I check in on Javier.”

The group split up, with Dohi heading to check on Corrin who they had left under guard. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Rico and Fitz were alone.

It felt strange, but good at the same time.

They continued walking along a sidewalk neighboring the port. Men and women were moving precious crates of ammunition to resupply points along the walls. Watchtowers and machine gun nests were bolstered with camouflaged netting that not only concealed their positions but helped protect somewhat against any possible bat attacks.

In only a few hours, Fitz and Rico would be back in meetings, trying to come up with a game plan on how Team Ghost could best help defend the last true strongholds of the Allied States.

Unlike Beckham and Horn, they didn’t have any family to see in the meantime.

All they had were each other.

“I missed you, Jeni,” Fitz said. “I was worried sick about you when I was stuck in Canada.”

“Me too, but we’re together now.”

“And it’s going to stay that way.” Fitz stopped, took her hands in his own, and faced her. “No matter what happens, I’m never leaving your side again. We’re in this thing until the end.”

“Until the end,” Rico agreed.

Fitz pulled her into an embrace, kissing her in the middle of the street. He relished the warm touch of her lips on his, memorizing every feeling, every sensation flooding him. He did not know how many more opportunities like this they might have left.

All he knew was he had to enjoy what they did have. Just the two of them, strolling together accompanied by a salty breeze and a promise that maybe, just maybe, if they survived this, there would be more of these moments.

Fitz held her close, her head pressed against his chest. “We’re going to make it through all of this together. I promise.”

— 19 —

Azrael entered what was once the world’s most advanced and powerful linear accelerator, a monumental achievement in the field of particle physics. It was now the world’s largest collection of heretics and traitors.

Elijah walked beside him, fresh scars and wounds healing nicely. Puckered flesh from bullet holes were covered in reddened scabs and black stitches. Despite injuries that would debilitate, if not kill, a normal human, Elijah walked with a powerful gait.

“You appear strong, but how do you feel?” Azrael asked.

“Ready to fight again,” Elijah said, head bowed. “I hold the faith. Pain does not matter.”

They paused just inside the linear accelerator where the loyal old doctor, Murphy, waited for them. He bowed, his hunched back making it seem almost painful. “Prophet, I am ready to show you our newest creation.”

“Good, take us.”

Murphy turned, talking as they walked. “I would like to show you his strength in comparison to some of the Scions we’ve made previously. I hope you will be pleased.”

Murphy took them past a bevy of long metal tubes and wires, all covered in snaking red vines. Moans and anguished cries filled the concrete passage. A pungent mix of body odor, blood, and human waste hung on the humid air.

He ignored the hands grasping at him for help. Cocooned human slaves hung along the walls and ceilings. With their success in Las Vegas, the New Gods had nearly doubled the number of heretics serving their purgatory here.

“How many of these will join the chosen?” Azrael asked.

“We have enough VX-102 to administer to approximately three hundred immediately,” the old doctor said. “Many of them would be physically ready by the time we invade Galveston.”

“Physically, but not mentally,” Azrael clarified, stabbing a claw toward the fierce soldier.

He paused by a man with veins bulging over his naked muscles. A crew cut crested his bloodied head. He directed hard eyes full of rage at Azrael. He was one of the recent arrivals. No doubt an experienced and well-trained soldier.

The man screamed against the glue covering his mouth, his muscles straining and eyes bulging. The webbing snaking from his nostrils and mouth prevented him from uttering anything more than a guttural cough.

Elijah bared his teeth, snarling at the man, who glared back as if he wanted to fight.

“I like this one,” Azrael said. “He will serve me well. Start with him.”

“Yes, Prophet,” Murphy said. “It takes longer to break down the mind than the body, and this one will be a good test.”

“You have continued to exceed my expectations, even in your frail body.”

“I have worked with our Scions and masterminds to ensure the proper amount of physical duress is applied, along with the constant deluge of promises of a better future for themselves and humanity if they choose to hold the faith,” the doctor said. “I find this combination of physical discomfort and psychological assurances alters their mindset quickest.”

“Excellent.”

He strode past more new prisoners, clawed hands laced together behind his cape. These soldiers were all wonderful specimens to carry out the physical labor required to expand the New Gods’ empire.

Normal humans were not the only creatures imprisoned here.

“The sight of these animals makes me sick,” Elijah said, spitting on the floor.

All along these walls were the mutated bodies of Fallen Scions. These were the rebellious ones, the ones that the mental reprogramming regimen hadn’t quite worked on.

“None of these beasts have complied with even intense levels of reprogramming,” Murphy said. “They retain a defiant nature that I have not been able to break.”

“A shame,” Azrael said. “We wasted precious VX-102 on their pathetic bodies.”

“Still they may serve some good, Prophet,” Elijah said.

“Certainly,” Azrael said. “They make for even better physical laborers than the humans. They’re stronger, faster. We have ways of controlling them, even if they shirk the mental leashes we try to fasten around their minds.”

“Yes, of course, Prophet,” Elijah said. “I merely suggest that they may also make good practice prey for our elite Scions. Human prisoners are too easy for us to hunt and dispatch. These ones may help us to better train our Scion forces in the days ahead.”

Azrael raised a clawed hand, and Elijah flinched. Instead of delivering a punishing blow, Azrael merely clapped the Scion’s shoulder. “That’s an excellent idea. This is one of the many reasons I gave you the general’s position. A beast like the general or any other Alpha Variant can only really think about their primal needs, killing and eating. But you, my blessed creation, are so much more than that.”

“Thank you, Prophet. I live to serve.”

The sudden sounds of screams and tearing flesh rose over the chorus of pained groans.

“What’s going on?” Azrael asked. “Have you lost control of these beasts?”

Murphy wringed his knobby hands together. “No, no, Prophet. I swear it.”

Azrael picked up his pace past the rows of the Fallen Scions and human heretics. His eyes locked onto a single Scion standing in the middle of the pathway. Blood dripped down his flesh. Around his feet were the disemboweled corpses of three other Scions.

Elijah stepped defensively in front of Azrael. To Azrael’s surprise, Murphy hurried ahead, reaching the Scion whose back was turned to them.

“Stop!” Murphy said.

The Scion slapped the doctor to the side.

Azrael growled and pushed Elijah out of the way. He strode out to meet this Scion. The beast stood almost a foot taller than him, and thick muscles swelled under blood-soaked flesh. Healing surgical scars traced up and down naked flesh. Fangs protruded from his wormy lips.

“Do you know who I am?” Azrael shouted in a crackling voice.

Elijah hurried over to stand next to him.

“Recognize your master!” Azrael screamed.

He grabbed the Scion around his meaty throat. The Scion resisted at first, but as soon as he locked eyes, the warrior stopped struggling.

All aggression immediately evaporated, and Azrael loosened his grip.

The Scion dropped to one knee. “Prophet, I am sorry.”

Murphy stood and plucked sticky red vines off his white coat.

“Who is this?” Azrael asked.

“My latest creation,” Murphy replied. “The one we recovered from Mount Katahdin.”

“What is your name?” Azrael asked.

Elijah snarled again at the other Scion, still ready to strike.

“I have no name yet, Prophet,” said the Scion.

“What was your name?” Azrael asked.

“Nick,” the Scion said. “But that was another lifetime, before I was chosen.”

“Nick,” Azrael said. He disliked the plebian way it clicked off his tongue. Such an uninspired name for a chosen Scion with this power. “Why have you killed these Fallen?”

“Prophet, I told him to wait for us,” Murphy said. “I told him—”

“Silence. I did not ask you.”

The Scion gestured toward empty spaces along the wall where the Fallen Scions had been cocooned. “They were speaking blasphemy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was watching the prisoners as Murphy asked, but they spoke ill of your name.”

“What did they say?”

“I cannot repeat such heretical sayings.”

“You will, and you will do it now,” Azrael said. “Unless you are one of the Fallen.”

The Scion from Katahdin shook. Not from fright, as far as Azrael could tell, but rage.

“They said that you would lead us all right to our deaths,” the Scion once called Nick said. “That the bitch Ringgold would have us all killed, and you were an idiot to believe you could defeat them.”

Azrael laughed. “That’s what they believed?”

The Scion nodded.

“You heard nothing but the blathering of mindless idiots,” Azrael said. He turned to the doctor. “Who were they?”

“These prisoners were former soldiers, guards from outposts in Florida.”

“They watched the fall of their outpost, they were chosen, given this treatment, and they still had hope of victory?” Azrael asked. “These heathens are better off dead.”

He walked down the passage, eyeing the shredded flesh of the Fallen Scions, their white bone protruding from red muscle and congealed blood.

“You did all this by yourself?” Azrael asked.

“I did.”

“He’s one of my best creations,” Murphy said. “I had hoped he would restrain himself enough that you could see this display of power in person. We can prepare another batch of prisoners, if you’d like.”

Azrael looked at the remains of the Fallen Scions this beast had destroyed. “That won’t be necessary. I’m assigning him to my personal team.”

Elijah seemed to rear back slightly. Perhaps he was jealous or worried this new warrior would steal honor from him.

That was good. Healthy competition among his ranks drove their strength and power.

Azrael looked back to the new Scion. “Tell me who you were when you were a human.”

“I was a father, a protector. A husband until…”

“This family? Where are they?”

The Scion shook again, golden eyes bulging from his head. His nostrils flared. “The man known as Beckham took them from me. He and a human traitor, a boy named Timothy, attacked my home. They called in an air strike that slaughtered all the innocent men, women, and children the New Gods so graciously sheltered in Mount Katahdin.”

“Ah, Beckham. I know him well, but this Timothy, he’s new to me.” Azrael stepped closer. “You want vengeance. You want retribution for what they did to you.”

“Yes, Prophet.”

“I understand. Look at me, Scion.”

Their golden eyes met.

“Forget your name. Remember your thirst for revenge. You are Abaddon, the destroyer of heretics.”

“Thank you, Prophet.”

“Now let us find some prisoners to feast on,” Azrael said.

Elijah and Abaddon marched with him back toward the human prisoners. Their eyes hungrily examined each writhing heretic.

“Soon you will be feasting on the flesh of your enemies, and tasting the sweet blood pumping through their veins,” Azrael said. “Team Ghost, Kate Lovato, Jan Ringgold, and the most infamous heretic, Reed Beckham, will be our final victory.”

***

Kate wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. She had just finished unloading the last box of laboratory supplies from the transport truck into their new lab in the Galveston hospital.

Moving the laboratory from Houston to Galveston had taken her, Sammy, Leslie, and Ron the better part of the morning, but she knew it was necessary. The Allied States simply couldn’t afford to keep defending Houston and Galveston. They had to consolidate their forces, and that included the science team.

Leslie motioned to the boxes in the laboratory. “Kate, why don’t you go see your family for lunch. We can take care of unloading everything and finishing the anthrax bacteria cultures.”

“I can help,” Kate said.

“I remember the last time I saw my daughter,” Ron said, voice choking up. “And my God, it wasn’t enough. That was eight years ago, and if I could go back, I would give anything to spend one extra day with her instead of spending so much time in the lab.”

“Kate, my whole family is in this lab right now,” Sammy said. “You all are the only ones I got left. And frankly, I’ve spent enough time with you three.” She gave Kate a grin. “But you have other people to see. Other people who need you, even if it’s only for a moment.”

Kate got the message. Her team was right. There was no way any of them could know what might happen tomorrow, but she could control what happened now.

“Thanks, I hope you all know how much you mean to me,” Kate said. “I’ll be back soon as I can.”

“Don’t hurry too much,” Sammy said, giving her a wink.

Kate left the hospital and melted into the throngs of civilians and soldiers flooding through the streets of Galveston, finding new temporary shelters or carrying out orders to bolster the island’s already formidable defenses.

She hoped that all this extra effort was enough, because every single person she cared about in this world was on this little patch of Texas.

In front of the apartment building where her family was sheltered, she saw Beckham was already outside with Javier at a table. Beside him was Horn and Jenny. Spark and Ginger were playing tug-of-war with a branch.

Kate almost broke at the sight of what would have been a normal day back at their former home on Peak’s Island. She halted to watch them from afar for a few seconds, remembering those days when safety was not an illusion.

She took a mental snapshot of the scene to save for what would come tomorrow. When the enemies were barreling down on the walls and the horror of monsters returned, she would have this image to inspire her and keep her fighting.

“Kate,” Beckham said. He stood and waved her over. “What are you doing here?”

“Turns out my team could handle things on their own for a bit,” she replied.

Javier ran over and hugged her. “Second time in one day. This is great, I’ve got something to show you.”

“Oh yeah?” Kate looked at Beckham suspiciously.

“I was just telling Dad that I’ve been practicing some boxing moves Connor taught me,” Javier said. “I’m ready to fight some Variants.”

Kate pulled him close against her side with one arm. Normally she would have scolded him, but today he needed confidence and she had to admit it was good he was learning to defend himself.

She waved at Connor, the Secret Service agent that had been protecting Javier and the girls. He was watching over them all now and gave a friendly wave back.

“Where’s Tasha?” Kate asked.

Jenny gave her a playful smile. “She’s with Timothy.”

“They went for a walk together,” Horn said. “Told ’em to stay within view of other humans.”

“And you think they’re going to listen to that?” Kate asked with a laugh. “Big Horn, I imagine you still remember when you were a teenager.”

“God damn…” his words trailed off.

“Give them this time together,” Beckham said. “They deserve it as much as anyone else.”

“He’s right,” Kate said. “I’m just glad we’re all still together. For better or worse, we’re all one big family now.”

“We’re just missing Fitz and Rico,” Beckham said.

“They’re off on a ‘walk’, too,” Horn said, using his fingers to indicate quotation marks in the air.

“Days like this I really wish Mom was here,” Jenny said. “I can hardly remember her now.”

“Oh, honey,” Kate said. She went to the younger girl and gave her a hug.

Horn sulked. He rarely spoke of Sheila anymore, but Kate could tell the big guy was thinking of her now.

“When this is all over, are we going to move back to Maine?” Javier asked.

Beckham and Kate exchanged a glance. Even if they were victorious, returning to Maine was probably not an option.

“What about a nice house along the Gulf, somewhere we can enjoy the beach almost every day instead of just in the summer?” Beckham asked. “I kind of like it here.”

“The beaches in Mexico are better,” Horn said. “But I can’t speak Spanish worth shit except to order a cerveza. So Texas will have to do.”

“Gingers like you don’t do well in the sun,” Kate said with a slight smile.

“I’ll make sure he wears sunscreen,” Jenny said.

That earned a few laughs from the group.

“Really, I like it here and so do the dogs,” Jenny said. “Tasha seems to like it too, when Timothy is around.”

“Oh, we’re not letting that young man stray too far ever again,” Beckham said.

“No, we aren’t,” Horn agreed. “I’m keeping my eye on him. For more than one reason.”

Kate spotted two more figures walking toward them. “Speaking of lovebirds…”

Fitz and Rico waved as they crossed the streets and joined the group at the tables.

“Please, help yourselves,” Beckham said.

Jenny held out a plate of cut apples.

“Thanks,” Fitz said. “Sure is a nice day.”

“You always liked the calm before the storm,” Rico said. She gave him a playful elbow in the ribs. “But don’t lie, you’re just happy ’cause you’re with me again, aren’t you, Fitzie?”

Horn laughed. “You know, I’m pretty sure the guy used to hate it when you called him that.”

“Oh, he still does,” Rico said. “But he’s learned to deal with it.”

“Because deep down he actually likes it?” Kate asked.

“Nah, that isn’t it,” Fitz said. “I just realized Rico’s too damn stubborn to ever stop doing something I dislike, and I use up all my energy fighting monsters to fight her on it.”

“It only took him eight years to learn that,” Rico said with a laugh.

“At least he figured it out,” Beckham said.

“Hey, where’s Dohi?” Javier asked. “I wanted to show him some of my new moves.”

The young boy kicked the air and chopped it with his hands.

“Nice,” Fitz said. “But I’m afraid Dohi’s looking after someone right now.”

Kate had a feeling it was the captured Chimera Corrin.

Ginger and Spark grew tired of the tug of war and trotted over to Jenny and Javier. Spark dropped the stick on the ground and Javier picked up the slobbery toy.

“Gross, guys,” Jenny said.

Javier threw the stick and the dogs rushed after it, barking. Jenny laughed and ran after Spark and Ginger. They bounded over the grass, stumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to get at it first.

Kate relished those moments. The conversation, playing with the dogs, and just being with those she loved more than anything had been something she had missed desperately. It was just the break she needed from work, and a good reminder of why they were fighting so hard.

Part of her felt like she should be working, but now she was enjoying the moment with no idea if there was a future where she could enjoy time like this again with her family and friends. Besides, they had prepared as much as they could, and the kids needed something to look forward to. Some hope to cling to when all else appeared dire.

— 20 —

An hour after lunch with the family, Beckham sat in a seat next to Horn in the cramped Galveston hospital room where Ruckley was being treated.

“Damn, you look like the female version of Rocky Balboa after a debut with Variants,” Horn muttered.

“And you smell like a garbage can,” Ruckley said, her voice coming out in nearly a croak. She cleared her throat. “I keep having nightmares about ugly monsters, then I wake and see something even worse.”

She looked at Beckham. “Not you, Captain.”

Horn laughed. “Us ugly people got to stick together, that’s why I came to see your mug.”

“You do smell,” Beckham admitted.

“You kidding?” Horn asked. “I showered. The girls made me do it, too. They said I was stinking up the whole shelter.”

Ruckley smiled, but it turned to a grimace.

“How are you feeling?” Beckham asked. “The doctors told us you’d been struggling when you first got back.”

“Exhausted now, but I’ve dealt with worse. I’ll get out of this bed soon. I’m not going to let you guys go back out there without me.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Beckham said.

Ruckley gave him a glance that flitted from his prosthetics to his face. He knew what she was thinking, but she respected him enough not to say anything.

He held up his partially melted prosthetic hand with his other hand defensively. “All right, just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he felt the smile fade, and he leaned in toward the hospital bed. “In seriousness, I also came to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You helped keep Timothy safe,” Beckham said.

“And he helped keep me safe.”

“He’s a good kid.”

Ruckley nodded. “He’s a man now, don’t forget that.”

“You’re right,” Beckham said.

“Damn straight,” Horn added, grinning. “Anyone who goes into battle as many times as Timothy has is a real man, and a brave one at that.” His smile faded, and he patted the handrail alongside the bed. “You know, you scared the shit out of me. And that’s not an easy thing to do.”

“What do you mean?” Ruckley asked.

“We’ve lost too many good people,” Horn said.

Beckham heard an unusual slight crack in Horn’s voice.

“I was worried you were going to be one of ’em, and frankly…” he looked at Beckham, his freckled face turning a bright red.

Realization set in, and Beckham held back a smile.

My god, Big Horn actually likes a woman, he thought.

Horn had never even laid eyes on the opposite sex over the past eight years since he lost his wife during the fall of Fort Bragg, but Beckham had always encouraged him to find love again.

That was the last thing he had expected to happen in the thick of the new war.

“I was worried you weren’t going to make it,” Horn said after the long pause.

“Don’t worry, bub,” Ruckley said. “It’s going to take more than a crumbling casino to kill me.”

“I’m just glad to see you back to your old self,” Beckham said. He started to stand, checking his watch. “I’ve got to talk to Commander Jacobs and Corrin. Big Horn, buddy, why don’t you stay here?”

Horn shrugged.

“Yeah, keep me company,” Ruckley said. “Long as you don’t get too close.”

“I really smell that bad?”

“Yeah,” Beckham said with a grin. “Yeah, you do.”

“Hey, Captain,” Ruckley said.

Beckham paused and turned toward her.

“I promise, even if the doctors don’t like it, I’m getting out of this bed to join the fight before they come,” she said. “I can’t sit here while people die for me out there.”

Beckham opened his mouth to speak, but Ruckley cut him off.

“Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’d rather die in the battlefield defending this country than in a damn hospital bed.”

With that, Beckham left the hospital and headed back out toward the street. Crowds of civilians walked in large clumps as soldiers ushered them to shelters. Many were new arrivals, people who had fled the fallen outposts, somehow managing to make it here with their lives.

Beckham couldn’t help thinking how many people were still out there in this country, fighting for survival like Ruckley and Timothy had. They deserved help just as much as anyone inside these walls.

He shook the thoughts aside as he entered a former history museum that now served as Jacobs’ headquarters on Galveston. Stairs took him down to a floor filled with what had once been expensive jewelry ranging from near prehistoric times to the modern era. Beyond the glitter of the jewels and gold was another room guarded by six men.

Commander Jacobs stood outside of it talking to Dohi.

Corrin stood behind them, his hands shackled.

“You don’t need to put this guy in cuffs,” Dohi said. “He’s not an animal.”

“We’re taking a big risk parading him around already,” Jacobs replied. “I trust you, but I trust those shackles more.”

“If Ace were here…” Dohi’s voice trailed off as Beckham approached.

The burn scars across Jacobs’ face glistened in the intense overhead lights.

“Captain Beckham, we’re just about to begin our test,” he said.

Beckham glanced at Corrin. The Chimera was quiet, but he wore a scowl.

“Maybe Dohi’s right,” Beckham said. “The shackles might be too much.”

“If we want this charade to seem real to the Chimera we have locked in here, we’ve got to treat him like the other beast,” Jacobs said.

He indicated the door to the vault. Where the museum curators had once stored valuable artwork and historical artifacts, Jacobs’ men now kept the Chimera prisoner that Beckham had captured outside of Houston.

The plan was simple. They would lock Corrin in the cell with the other beast, and Corrin would hopefully get them some much needed intel.

“Remember, we need confirmation of where the Prophet is, any verification that the science team is right about Los Alamos,” Beckham said to Corrin. “If there’s any intel we can get about that site or the New Gods’ forces, it might be helpful to our cause.”

Corrin nodded.

“You backstab us, I will drive my own knife straight into your skull,” Jacobs said.

“And I would welcome it,” Corrin replied.

“Just get this over with,” Dohi said.

Jacobs glared at the Chimera. “Team Ghost speaks highly of you. I still can’t decide if they’re crazy, but I hope you prove them right.” Then he gestured at the guards. “Take him away.”

The six guards grabbed Corrin roughly. He struggled against their grip, thrashing, as soon as one unlocked the prison cell.

Jacobs beckoned Beckham and Dohi to a computer monitor set up nearby. The view on the monitor showed the concealed CCTV camera inside the cell where their prisoner Chimera was already chained to a wall.

The guards secured Corrin and his shackles next to the prisoner. One kicked Corrin’s gut for good measure, and Corrin wheezed.

Beckham didn’t like it, and neither did Dohi, but he knew it would help sell the lie to the other Chimera that Corrin was loyal to the New Gods.

The guards left and locked the door. For a few minutes, Corrin huffed, catching his breath. The other Chimera stared at him.

“Heretics,” Corrin hissed, his voice crackling over the computer’s speakers.

“Vile creatures,” the other Chimera agreed. “How did they catch you?”

“A scouting party.”

“The Prophet sent others?”

“Yes, after your team went silent,” Corrin said. “He sent us to find out what happened. Evidently like you, we failed.”

The other Chimera let out a low roar. “These heretics will pay.”

“The Prophet knows that we’re here, and he knows that the president is here. He’ll help us seek revenge.”

“The Allied States president is here?” the Chimera said, all but confirming to Beckham that this was a recent revelation to the New Gods.

“Yes.”

Even through the computer monitor, Beckham could see the enemy Chimera salivating.

“When I break from these chains, I will slaughter the filthy heretics,” he said, snarling.

“We must first find a way to break the chains, but we would be wise to be careful.”

“Yes.”

“I overheard them talking about the Prophet and Los Alamos. They know more than we thought. Perhaps it’s best for us to find a way to free ourselves, then take the head of the president back with us on our own.”

The enemy prisoner tilted its own misshapen, scarred head.

This was their chance to find the true location of the New Gods, and if Corrin had blown it, then they would gain nothing from this Chimera.

“Los Alamos?” the Chimera said quietly.

Corrin nodded.

“You’re right. If we can kill her and return to the Prophet with such good news, we will be rewarded with all the flesh we can eat.”

Jacobs looked at Beckham. “Maybe this Chimera of yours isn’t so bad after all.”

“Elijah told me if I returned to him with the head of any member of Team Ghost or the generals here, I would be made a member of the Council,” Corrin said, reciting a lie he had prepared before.

“Elijah said that to you?” The Chimera sounded eager. “He made me similar promises. I was supposed to try and bring my trophies back alive.”

“Alive? Why?” Corrin asked.

“To serve us. And if they don’t do it willingly, they can join the ranks of the slaves and the Fallen.”

At Commander Jacobs’ command, one of the guards rapped on the cell door. “Shut your mouths before I crush your faces in!”

The theatrics seemed to help convince the Chimera he was talking to a fellow prisoner.

“The Prophet wants Reed Beckham and his family more than any of the others,” the enemy whispered.

Beckham froze.

“That son of a fucking bitch,” he whispered.

“I do not know what the Prophet wants with them, but it should be beautiful,” the Chimera said, nostrils flaring.

The conversation continued until Beckham and Dohi were satisfied. Now he had questions. He nodded, and Jacobs ordered the guards to intervene. Two of them opened the cell door and one slammed the stock of his rifle against the enemy Chimera’s mouth. The other kicked Corrin back.

A group of four more soldiers in riot gear rushed in to restrain him and make it look even more realistic.

“You’re going to your own separate cell, you piece of shit!” one of them yelled. “After I beat the hell out of you.”

The cell door slammed shut behind them, and the guards let go of Corrin. The Chimera joined Jacobs and Beckham, wiping blood from his fresh wounds.

“How did I do?” Corrin asked.

“Well done,” Beckham said. “But I have a question. What exactly are these Fallen?”

“I’m one of the Fallen,” Corrin said. “Scions—Chimeras—who haven’t been brainwashed into their cult. We’re the ones who they treat like slaves after they’ve turned us into these disgusting monsters.”

“And there are a hundred in Los Alamos?” Dohi asked.

“Sounds like it,” Corrin said. “I can’t confirm, because I was never at Los Alamos.”

“That Chimera said there were hundreds of human prisoners, too,” Jacobs said.

“I’m not surprised. We had plenty of prisoners in Seattle. Most eventually became food.”

Beckham tried not to picture his family, but he couldn’t help but imagine them as slaves. They had to do something to help those people, and maybe…

“What are you thinking, Captain?” Jacobs said.

“Nothing good, but this is giving me an idea. Something that could give us an advantage if we get the right people to carry it out.”

“Like us?” Dohi asked. “Ghost?”

“Like Team Ghost,” Beckham said. He turned to their Chimera ally. “And Corrin.”

***

Ringgold watched the sun rise over the Gulf of Mexico with Chief of Staff Soprano walking beside her. The view might have been partially blocked by the tall watchtowers overlooking the beach, and the rolls of razor wire gracing the tops of walls and fences, but she tried to find beauty in the hues of orange and red bleeding over the horizon.

This might be her last sunrise as the president of the Allied States. It might be the last sunrise over what remained of the free people of the Allied States.

Tomorrow morning was the deadline for her to submit to Azrael and his Land of the New Gods. Today would be filled with preparations for that fateful moment, when the forces of that monster descended on her to try and take what little they had left.

A group of Secret Service agents shadowed her as she and Soprano walked down the street. She headed toward a pier that had been built along the shore. A half-dozen sailing ships and yachts were docked there. Some had already launched to sea, fleeing from the upcoming battle, but more had showed up to help the fight.

Seeing other citizens answer the call to action filled her with confidence.

Two of the agents walked ahead onto the pier, then ducked into a forty-foot yacht. Once a luxury vessel, the military had since requisitioned it to transport troops and refugees. It had most recently found its way here from the Florida Keys, after transporting nearly fifty people to Galveston.

“All clear, ma’am,” one of the agents said as he returned to the top deck. “They’re all waiting for you below.”

One of the agents helped Ringgold up onto the vessel as gentle waves rocked it. Soprano followed. They then went down into the belly of the seacraft where a long wooden table was surrounded by a few chairs bolted to the deck on one half and a plush booth bench on the other.

At the table were General Cornelius, General Souza, LNO Festa, Captain Beckham, Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick, and Doctor Kate Lovato.

She drew strength from having these people join her in this boat today. They were advisers and confidantes, each adept and skilled in their vocations. But they were also her friends, the closest thing she had to family left in this world.

They stood as she descended the last steps toward them.

“Thank you all for being here this morning,” she said. “Please, have a seat.”

Soprano wedged his way into the cramped space to stand behind her.

“No matter what happens tomorrow, you have stood beside me through the worst times in American history, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” she said. “We’ve adapted and overcome challenges no one ever dreamed this country would face. And tomorrow might just be the strongest test yet… But I didn’t call you here to spout a bunch of inspirational platitudes.”

She looked at everyone in turn, again soaking in the confidence she drew from their presence.

“You all have been actively involved in the defenses of the base, and while I trust our allies from Canada and Mexico to help in that matter, what we have to discuss here must stay classified,” she continued. “A few of you have presented ideas that may improve our odds tomorrow. I want to explore these opportunities and see how we can support them. Dr. Lovato, please give us an update on your mission.”

“Madam President, my team has isolated the strain of anthrax bacteria from the grenade the Chimera scouts brought to Outpost Houston,” Kate said. “We produced enough to seed the Variant network with the bacteria. It’s not a complex bioweapon, but it’s effective. With it, if we choose our locations carefully, we estimate that we can infect over ninety percent of the Variant network and any masterminds or other beasts attached to it.”

“I take it that infection won’t completely destroy the network in time to stop tomorrow’s attack,” Ringgold said.

“I’m afraid not. However, if our teams deploy the weapon in time, they can destroy small parts of the network as the bacteria continues to breed and kill the webbing.”

“Will that help us?” Cornelius asked.

“It will at least cut off the front-line forces from communicating with their base during the battle,” Kate said. “The destruction will likely continue well after tomorrow, too.”

“That sounds promising,” Souza said. “How many teams would you need to carry out this task?”

“Sammy was able to provide projections for us.” Kate unfurled a map over the table, pointing to locations around the Houston area and beyond. “Even if we stick close to base, we estimate that we can achieve ninety percent coverage via bacterial spread if we attack these fifteen targets.”

“Fifteen teams?” Festa asked. “That’s a lot of manpower we won’t have on our walls. Can we use less?”

“I don’t think so,” Kate said. “But we can use small teams. Maybe three people at most. Just enough to ensure that at least half the teams inject their samples so we can succeed. Using fifteen small teams will ensure that even if one team is eliminated, we still have the other fourteen target locations in play.”

“Fifteen separate teams will also get the job done much faster than a handful of teams trying to travel between multiple targets,” Souza said.

“Exactly,” Kate said. “That means they can return to the walls as soon as they’re done, well before the attack commences. I know it will be dangerous out there tonight. With the New Gods preparing for a dawn attack, we don’t know what our teams will face. But we’ve got to do this if we have any hopes of destroying their network.”

“Can we launch the injections earlier?” Souza asked.

“My lab techs are packaging the bacteria and spores now into syringes that these teams can inject into the webbing sites we’ve identified. They’ll be ready to go by tonight, so we can launch these missions before the attack on Galveston commences. That still gives our teams time to return to base.”

“Also, from what Kate tells me, this network may reach all the way out to Los Alamos, where they suspect the Prophet may be,” Beckham said. “Thanks to Corrin, we confirmed that the Prophet’s headquarters is there. This could very well kill him.”

“I don’t see why we don’t just bomb them,” Souza said. “We have some bunker busters left.”

“We have, at best, circumstantial evidence from the science team and the word from a single Chimera,” Cornelius said. “You want to expend what little ordnance we have left on Los Alamos?”

“If it will kill the Prophet, yes,” Souza said.

“We don’t know that it will,” Cornelius said. “Los Alamos is an enormous facility. It’s going to take more than a few bunker busters to completely wipe it out, and if we miss, he escapes.”

“As much as I trust Dr. Lovato, our flyover of Los Alamos revealed nothing,” Festa said. “This might very well be a setup like Las Vegas. The Chimera scout could just as easily have been told to give false information after his capture.”

“This Prophet is not a dumb strategist,” Cornelius said. “I do think he could conceal his location if he chose. So I’m not convinced Los Alamos doesn’t contain a New Gods’ facility. But even if it does, what if this Prophet isn’t actually in Los Alamos when we bomb it? We can’t be sure he’s there right now, and we have no way of knowing his current location.”

“That’s true, as much as I hate to admit it,” Kate said. “Since we can’t listen in on the network, there is no way to track him. If we bomb Los Alamos at the wrong time, when he’s away from the base, then we’ll lose him completely.”

“Not to mention the New Gods claim to have control of the First Fleet,” Cornelius said. “He might be on the First Fleet for all we know. Either way, they’ve now got more formidable firepower and we might very well need every last bit of airborne support and ordnance we have to fight against our own naval vessels.”

Ringgold felt sick at the thought, but she knew Cornelius was right.

“There’s one other thing that we haven’t even discussed,” she said. “According to the intel from the prisoner Chimera, there are hundreds of our people imprisoned there, and I’m not going to kill them on a hunch that the Prophet is there.”

Souza seemed to consider that. “Given the conversation, I suppose these bombs would be more impactful if the New Gods forced our hand and we needed to use them on the First Fleet.”

“Agreed,” Cornelius said. “Let’s focus on using our remaining ordnance to defend Galveston first. Then if we survive this battle, we can inventory what we have left and see if we can deploy it in an offensive move. But none of that really matters if we can’t defend this island.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Ringgold said. “Priority number one is keeping Galveston alive.”

“Madam President, I have an idea on how we can destroy Los Alamos without diverting too much of our defenses,” Beckham said.

“What’s that?” Ringgold asked.

“I’m recommending Ghost launch an attack on Los Alamos while the New Gods have their attention turned toward us. They won’t see it coming.”

“We already decided we can’t send an attack like last time,” Souza said. “There’s no way we can afford to send our best team to what could be a slaughter. We would need an army.”

“We have one,” Beckham said.

Ringgold stared at the Captain for a moment. “Explain, Reed.”

“As President Ringgold mentioned, we know there are hundreds of human prisoners in Los Alamos, many of which I’d guess by now are probably soldiers captured in Las Vegas.”

“No surprise,” Souza said. “They’ll be feeding on them, I’m sure.”

“Yes, but they also use many for hard labor,” Beckham said. “Just like how the collaborators try to convert humans to work for them, the New Gods have been culling our people for converts. They also perform experiments on them and turn them into Chimeras, which takes time.”

“Like Corrin,” Fitz confirmed. “He was once a free man, but was held against his will when they turned him into a Chimera.”

“Exactly like Corrin,” Beckham said. He turned toward Fitz. “You’ve seen Corrin in action. You trust him, right?”

“At this point, yes, I can say without hesitation, we can trust him.”

“There might be a hundred more Chimeras like Corrin, who don’t want to be a part of the New Gods, waiting in Los Alamos,” Beckham said. “They’re dry tinder, waiting for a spark.”

“If they’re half as angry and loyal as Corrin is, then that’ll be more than enough,” Fitz said.

“That’s why I’m recommending sending Ghost with Corrin into Los Alamos,” Beckham said. “Start an insurrection. The New Gods will have to fight us here in Texas while at the same time trying to put down an internal rebellion, all while anthrax is spreading through their networks.”

Ringgold’s thoughts turned toward her deceased friend and vice president, the final moments of his life playing across her mind.

“Anything we can do to send these evil abominations back into the pits of hell sounds good to me,” she said. “We must cause as much damage as possible with what few resources we have over the next twenty-four hours if humanity has any hope of survival.”

“We’re all about inflicting damage,” Fitz said with a half-smile.

“And Dr. Lovato, if I understand correctly, even if we lose the battle for Galveston, your bioweapon will continue to attack them,” Ringgold said.

“That’s right,” Kate said.

“We owe it to our allies in other countries to do this,” Ringgold said. “Even if we can’t stop the New Gods, perhaps this weapon will. We’ll rid the world of the monsters here that the United States inadvertently seeded the planet with. Then there will still be hope for humanity. And should we survive, we can resume talks of more aggressive offensive actions against a crippled enemy. Anyone opposed to this?”

Everyone shook their heads.

“Good,” Ringgold said. “As soon as we’re done here, General Cornelius and Captain Beckham, I’d like you to identify teams capable of delivering these anthrax doses to the Variant network.”

“Yes, Madam President,” they both replied.

“Look, I understand these strategies give us a chance, but they pull away much needed forces to protect the people here, innocent people,” Souza said. “I’m also concerned the New Gods might be planning to use biological weapons like anthrax since they had it on their Chimeras before. What’s to say they don’t also have more weapons like that they plan to use against us?”

“You’re absolutely right,” Ringgold said. “General Cornelius, do you still have your stock of gas masks available?”

“Yes,” Cornelius said. “I’ll distribute them among our troops. We’ll requisition everything else we can to help protect our men and women on the walls.”

“We can help the hospital and combat medics prepare standard issue chemical and biological warfare medications from the pharmacies,” Kate said.

“I can dig into our warehouses, too,” Cornelius said. “We inherited a great deal of the CDC’s Strategic National Stockpile years ago that might come in handy.”

“Good,” Ringgold said. “Lastly, I’ve confirmed both Canada and Mexico will finally send the reinforcements they originally promised after their respective generals shared the video of Lemke’s death from the New Gods.”

“When will they arrive?” Kate asked.

“A few planes will arrive in the middle of the night.” She paused. “Unfortunately, they’re just as low on vehicles, fuel, and ammunition as us. Most of their troops aren’t estimated to make it until approximately 0800 hours tomorrow.”

“That might be too late,” Fitz said.

“We must hold out as long as possible for their arrival. It’s up to all of you to make that happen. Any more questions?”

The group remained silent.

Ringgold stood. “Good. We all have work to do. Let’s go make what’s left of our country and those who have made the ultimate sacrifice proud.”

— 21 —

“So it begins,” Horn said.

Timothy sat in the passenger seat of the Humvee that Master Sergeant Horn drove using a pair of NVGs to navigate the wreckage outside of Outpost Houston. They were on their way to a northwest suburb. Their mission was to deploy the anthrax-containing syringe on one of the Alpha holes identified by a recon team.

“You get some time with your girls and the dogs?” Timothy asked.

“Yeah, but never enough,” Horn said. “How was that walk? You stayed out in public, right?”

Before Timothy answered, Horn spoke again.

“I was watching, so I’ll know if you’re lying to me.”

Timothy felt his face warm and fingered the bracelet Tasha had given him as he considered his response. He wasn’t sure how to answer that one without getting a dressing down if Horn was telling the truth.

But he had a feeling Horn wasn’t here to bust his balls. The guy was probably here because Beckham had sent him to watch out for him.

They weren’t alone, thankfully, not that Boyd could do much to help if Horn did want to kick Timothy in the ass.

The injured solider sat in the back of the SUV. He wore a cast from the hairline fractures in his wrist, and Timothy knew the man was in a lot of pain, but Boyd had insisted that he come along.

The three of them made up one of the fifteen teams that were assigned to inject the anthrax bacteria the science team had prepared.

“No answer?” Horn said. “Probably for the best. It’s good that I like you.”

“I’m thankful for that, Master Sergeant.”

“Call me Horn, Big Horn, but not Master Sergeant, sir, or future dad-in-law.” He directed his NVGs at Timothy.

Dad-in-law?

Timothy was at a loss for words again, but then Horn gave him a big shit-eating grin.

“I’m fucking with you, man,” Horn said. Then his face grew serious again. “Except for the dad-in-law part. Don’t be getting any big ideas too soon.”

“Okay.” Timothy gripped his rifle, trying to pay attention to the road too, since Horn seemed to be more interested in chitchat.

“Don’t tell him I told you, but Beckham wanted to be here too,” Horn said. “Unfortunately, he got stuck on wall duty.”

“Good for morale,” Boyd said. “Hell, even before I met the guy, I heard stories.”

“Was I in them?” Horn asked.

“The big ginger oaf who could squeeze the life out of a Variant?” Boyd asked. “Of course, brother. Team Ghost was—and is—a legend.”

“‘Big ginger oaf’ better mean the motherfucking, ass-kicking mountain machine,” Horn said.

“Right, that’s exactly what I meant,” Boyd said.

Timothy chuckled and watched the highway. It was devoid of life, filled with vehicles left to rot on the cracked asphalt.

All the good humor they had shared quickly evaporated as they drew closer to their target. In the green hue of his optics, Timothy spotted desiccated skeletal forms lying against the side of the highway.

“Stay frosty,” Horn said.

He took an offramp and guided the Humvee down a road framed with large trees and overgrown weeds. He had to slow the vehicle as they thumped over debris in the street.

Ahead, vacant apartment buildings loomed against the star-studded sky. Images of the slaughter in Vegas flashed through Timothy’s mind. The broken windows and rotting balconies would be perfect places for collaborators or Chimeras to set an ambush.

He steeled himself, studying their surroundings for any sign of motion.

The fear creeping into him now could not hold him back from their mission. Kate had told him that what they were doing could change the tide of the battle when the New Gods launched their attack.

They had to succeed at all costs.

Horn drove past the apartments to a tree-filled neighborhood full of houses. Then he braked to a stop.

“We’re almost there, and we’re going to hoof it the rest of the way,” he said. “Once we’re out, it’s radio silence and quiet. You got that, boys?”

“Yes, Master…” Timothy said. “I mean, Horn.”

“Got it,” Boyd said.

“And Boyd, you got the anthrax, right?” Horn asked.

Boyd patted his pack. “Ready to inject a little pain into that shit.”

“Good. Let’s roll.”

They jumped out of the Humvee, and Horn took point with his M249.

Wind howled over the tall grass. Leaves rustled everywhere Timothy directed his suppressed M4A1. He sniffed the air, trying to detect a hint of the rotten fruit odor from a Variant.

So far, there was nothing. No howls, no claws tapping on the asphalt, no growls.

If he remembered correctly, they just needed to head northwest to a small colony that had been set up in a Houston suburb called The Woodlands. The community had a few nearby parks along with an old golf course that had been turned into a farming operation.

Horn took them toward the remnants of a fence that had once surrounded the safe-zone. Most of the wooden panels and stakes had been torn apart, broken by attacking Variants.

Timothy followed, stepping over a segment of the fallen fence, trying not to cause any noise. His boots landed in mud on the other side with a soft squelch, and he froze, waiting for a reaction.

Horn kept moving between thickets of trees and weeds that rose to shoulder height. The thought of a Variant rocketing toward him beneath the cover of the foliage circled his mind.

He tried to ignore it.

All he could do was keep his senses honed like he had been trained.

Beyond the fallen fence and mud was the golf course that had been turned into a farm. Dense weeds covered it as neglected crops rotted away. Stalks of corn wilted, leaning or folded over. Insects had chewed through much of what hadn’t already died.

Timothy listened for popping joints over the rustle of the vegetation in the breeze.

Horn signaled the path was clear, then took them between the rows of bad produce. A clubhouse loomed at the other end of the field.

Razor wire still topped the roof, along with a couple of empty machine gun nests. The tunnel was supposed to be on the other side of the structure.

Already Timothy could smell the webbing. At least, he hoped it was just the webbing. The odor of decay and death drifted on the breeze as they approached.

They walked cautiously in combat intervals. Horn was the first to get there. He checked the windows, then flashed a signal to move around the building.

Timothy walked at a hunch, following the wall of the clubhouse to a parking lot with six abandoned cars and trucks. Even with his NVGs, he could pick up the glint of moonlight reflecting off the hundreds of bullet casings scattered over the lot.

A major battle had gone down here, and Timothy wondered if any of the two-hundred colonists had survived.

Horn skirted between the vehicles, using them as cover. He waved for Timothy but motioned for Boyd to stay.

Timothy followed, keeping closer now as they approached the rancid odor drifting from the hole. The stench grew so intense it made his eyes water. He fought through it until he reached the lip of the hole.

A glance down revealed the same disgusting sight of red webbing crawling over the walls like tentacles from some earthen kraken. Despite the smell, no creatures emerged from the darkness.

Horn looked back toward the clubhouse and waved for Boyd.

But Boyd was nowhere in sight.

“Where the hell is he?” Horn muttered.

Timothy searched for their comrade, but didn’t see him now either. His heart thumped wildly. Not only was he injured, but Boyd carried the anthrax that was crucial to their mission.

Horn motioned for Timothy and they started to backtrack toward the clubhouse, keeping low.

They were losing time so long as Boyd was missing. They needed to hurry and deploy the anthrax, then make it back to the Humvee so they could return in time to help defend Galveston by sunrise.

A sudden pop of gunfire shattered the eerie quiet.

Timothy flinched at a throaty yell. Boyd.

A Variant answered with a piercing howl that sounded like it was no more than a few hundred yards away.

Timothy tightened his grip on his rifle and searched for the target amid the tall vegetation, his jaw clenched. As he and Horn advanced, Timothy realized he didn’t feel a single hint of fear.

Just anger.

He was so damn sick and tired of the beasts killing his friends. It was his turn to bring fear to the enemy.

***

The drone of the modified Beechcraft King Air 90 filled the spartan cabin as the craft passed over New Mexico.

Despite the cramped confines of the small aircraft, it felt empty to Fitz. Lincoln, Ace, and Mendez were gone, as were so many other former members of Team Ghost.

Fitz couldn’t help but think of Apollo, too. He would have done anything to have the dog with him now. But at least he had Rico and Dohi. Plus, the newest and strangest addition to their team, Corrin, who was shaping up to be their biggest asset.

He felt a twinge of guilt for not being back at Galveston, defending the island with his friends Beckham, Horn, Kate, and Timothy. The troops at Galveston were as prepared as they could be, but Fitz feared they wouldn’t be able to stop the imminent assault.

If the science team and the intel that Corrin had squeezed from their imprisoned Chimera was right, then all hope lay on Team Ghost and taking out the Prophet.

The success of this mission would be like a knife jab into the side of the New Gods, finally killing their leader and liberating hundreds of prisoners in one fell swoop.

He had no illusions that this mission alone would end the war, though. The New Gods were likely already positioning themselves around Texas, and the First Fleet was on a collision course with the Texas beachside base, carrying an army of the abominations.

Even if their mission in Los Alamos ended in victory, would he still have a country to return home to?

All it takes is all you got. Fitz looked at the others, noting their determined expressions. And we still got a lot.

A voice came over the speakers in the cabin. “Five minutes until drop.”

It was Liam Tremblay, the brave Canadian who was one of the few civilians willing to fly out over enemy territory. Fitz felt a little better having the man that Beckham had personally recommended for their HALO drop into Los Alamos.

“This is it, Ghost,” Fitz said to the others, talking loudly to be heard over the hum of the engine noise.

Dohi looked up from sharpening his knife.

“Tonight, we jump into what could be the most important mission of our lives,” Fitz said. “And I couldn’t be prouder to do it with you.”

Rico smiled and Dohi nodded, but Corrin simply looked at the deck.

“I’m talking to you too, Corrin,” Fitz said. “Never thought we’d have a Chimera on our team. But you saved our asses in Seattle, came through for us in Vegas, and you’re our key to success on this mission.”

“You’re one of us now,” Dohi said.

Rico smiled, but Fitz could tell it was forced. She hadn’t seen what Corrin was capable of yet. Soon she would be a believer.

“I will do anything to destroy the people who took everything from me,” Corrin said in a raspy voice. “I’m with you, my friends. Thank you for placing your faith in me.”

Dohi held up his knife. “Tonight the Prophet will take his last breath, right before I take his head.”

Rico glanced briefly at Fitz. Over the past few days, they had talked about how Dohi was acting differently. Losing Ace had hit him hard, and he still hadn’t mentally recovered from his captivity in the webbing.

All of them had been through a lot.

Hell and back, and now to hell once more.

“Two minutes,” Tremblay reported. “Good luck. I’ll be praying for you all.”

Dohi stood with Corrin. The Chimera strapped himself into the tandem-diving harness with Dohi, then they waddled to the hatch where a lone crew chief waited. Rico and Fitz strode after them, side by side.

The crew chief gave a thumbs-up, then opened the hatch. Wind tore into them as it filled the cabin. Fitz flipped down his night vision goggles.

A green light blinked above the hatch.

“Godspeed, Ghost!” the crew chief yelled.

Dohi jumped out with Corrin, disappearing into the void.

Rico went next. Fitz positioned his blades at the edge, his heavy pack filled with extra water and nutrition for the prisoners weighing him down. At the crew chief’s instruction, he threw himself out. For a moment there was nothing but pure weightlessness, then gravity took hold and he flipped head over blades.

Wind tugged at his ACU, pulling and pushing on his body. He fought his way into a stable falling position with his eyes angled toward the ground and his arms and blades spread outward. Unlike the other team members, he was top heavy thanks to his prosthetics. Without the minute control of flesh-and-blood legs, it made controlling his dive slightly more difficult as he relied more on his arms to navigate the cloudless sky.

He watched both of the infrared tags below him and followed their descent.

The team directed themselves to a clearing in the trees just north of the main cluster of buildings on the Los Alamos campus. He rotated his wrist enough to check his altimeter, waiting for the last possible moment to deploy his chute.

Counting down the seconds, he kept his eyes on the others, all swooping into their final positions.

The ground was now only two-thousand feet below them.

Wait. Wait.

Fifteen-hundred feet.

He spread his arms wider to slow his descent.

Then, one thousand.

Fitz released the pilot chute. A rapid whipping sound followed as the main parachute deployed. The harness tugged against his body as his chute bloomed outward and immediately slowed his descent. He grabbed his toggles and drifted the rest of the way down into the grassy clearing, performing a two-stage flare and then running out the momentum as soon as his blades hit the dirt.

He slowed to a halt, removed his harness, and secured the chute by stuffing it haphazardly back into the deployment bag. Dohi and Rico were finishing up the same thing. They deposited the bags next to tree trunks while Corrin crouched and sniffed the air.

Fitz gave the signal to advance, and Dohi moved up to point position with Corrin. The two expert hunters started the trek through the trees.

Dohi guided them through the trees and then held up a fist. Fitz listened for the sounds of animals or other creatures but heard nothing. If the New Gods were really here, they had likely devoured every living thing in the area.

But Dohi… no Corrin, had heard something.

The Chimera sniffed the air and slowly scanned the forest.

A distant howl rang through the trees.

Fitz and Rico crouched, surveying the green forested scenery for hostiles. He couldn’t tell if the howl was one of the creatures simply on the hunt or if they had been detected.

Another howl answered the first.

Fitz counted the passing seconds, waiting for the smack of sucker lips or the crunch of claws over the pine needles and rock. With the thermal vision, at least they had a better chance of spotting any camouflaged beasts lurking in the dark.

Corrin turned back to Dohi and nodded, then continued prowling through the woods.

The distant rustling of the wind and creaking of branches followed them all the way to the northern edge of the National Laboratory campus. Corrin and Dohi perched behind bushes to observe the area. Fitz used a tree for cover, looking out over the pale shapes of the buildings, warehouses, and parking garages looming over the expansive campus.

From their mission briefing, they had selected several of the larger buildings that were suspected sites for prisoners, and Corrin was pointing right at one of them.

That meant something had piqued his olfactory senses. He made another hand gesture, indicating he detected Variants.

Through a screen of bushes and trees, they could see the edge of a street. Dohi made a path through the foliage and found shelter in the woods adjacent to the roadway. Directly across from them was a tall building with large glass windows and a shorter white building with huge steel doors but no windows. A parking garage was another hundred yards down the street.

Fitz flipped up his NVGs and fished out his binos. A few human guards stood around the entrance to the parking garage, and a group of six Scions marched past them on patrol. They were protecting at least two dozen vehicles, from a handful of military Humvees to pickup trucks with mounted machine guns.

Further down the road were transport trucks, parked under camouflage netting to conceal them from the air. Shapes moved around beside them. Human or Chimera, he couldn’t quite tell from this distance.

Dohi motioned for everyone to get down.

Getting down on his belly, Fitz heard why a few seconds later.

The growl of a helicopter coming to life echoed through the night, followed by the whoosh of rotor blades. Moments later, a Black Hawk rose from between the buildings before accelerating toward the east.

Two civilian AW109s and an AS350 AStar joined it, racing away into the night.

Corrin slowly got up to look at a warehouse across the street he had pointed at earlier.

“The smell is coming from there,” he whispered.

Fitz nodded and prepared to give the advance signal when another rumbling engine sounded. A semi-truck trundled down the street, headlights illuminating the edges of the road.

The team went prone again.

Once it was clear, Fitz gestured to Dohi. The tracker rushed across the street toward the warehouse. He pressed himself against the wall of the facility, following it to a door. Then he looked into a window and turned and motioned for the team to follow.

Fitz and the others joined him, and Dohi opened the door. Fitz moved his finger to the trigger in anticipation of guards.

But they met no resistance as the team entered a vast, empty room reeking of something rancid—something worse even than the gruesome underground hives and web-covered tunnels.

Cages were stacked in columns nearly fifteen-feet high. All appeared empty, though red webbing stretched between them winding between the thin bars.

Fitz roved his rifle back and forth, looking for signs of life. Nothing moved except for the slowly pulsating tendrils of webbing.

Most of the enclosures were no taller or wider than three feet. They appeared much too small for people to fit comfortably inside.

Then again, the New Gods didn’t care about their prisoners’ comforts.

Dohi pointed at the floor of one of the cages. It was covered in what looked like soil, except that it had a pungent, acidic odor.

“Guano,” Dohi whispered.

“Gross,” Rico said quietly. She covered her nose with her sleeve.

Fitz looked around in a mixture of awe and fear.

All these cages, the hundreds of them in this otherwise empty warehouse, were once filled with bats. Mutated creatures like the ones that had plagued the outposts of the Allied States. The odor of the guano indicated the bats had been here recently.

“Jesus,” Fitz whispered. He knew exactly where these bats were heading.

“Should we warn Galveston?” Dohi asked, sensing his thoughts.

Fitz wasn’t sure. Doing so could jeopardize their mission. If the New Gods intercepted radio activity in Los Alamos, their attempt to incite a covert insurrection would be over before it even began.

For that reason, he shook his head. “They’re ready. They can handle the bats.”

Dohi nodded and started to lead them out of the warehouse back into the cold night on the eastern side of the building. Outside, he crouched behind a line of bushes near a street heading north. Across the way were other buildings and laboratories.

Using his NVGs, Fitz spotted three patrols of soldiers, at least a dozen Scions. Engines rumbled somewhere else in the base. Somehow, Ghost had to get around all of them, identify the prison, recruit their army, and do it all before dawn.

He looked at his watch. They were already behind schedule.

The clock was ticking, and they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Neither could their friends, family, and countrymen counting on them back in Galveston.

— 22 —

Beckham strode along a steel-panel-bulwarked wall on the west side of the secured island coast. From his vantage point, he could see the sliding gate of the island’s outer walls leading to the old Interstate 45 bridge connecting Galveston to the rest of Texas. The defensive forces had loaded the bridge with explosives earlier to stop a potential attack from that direction.

They would sacrifice the bridge should things get bad, cutting off their only route to the mainland.

But they wouldn’t need it anyways. There was no escape plan. All they could do was fight to the last breath, just like the soldiers at the Alamo.

He shook away the thought.

This would be different than the Alamo. Beckham had faith because they had something the soldiers at the Alamo did not: Team Ghost and Kate’s science team.

Stars studded the blanket of darkness above them, but they were being swallowed by fast-moving clouds. A bank of fog rolled toward them from the east.

“I smell rain,” Sergeant Ruckley said, walking beside him.

She walked with a bad limp, as if each step was sending a pain through her body. This is what it had come down to, using injured soldiers, some only able to walk because of pain meds.

They needed every person and every gun on the walls.

They paused near the open entrance into the top level of a guard tower that looked like a pillbox built into the wall. It had reinforced walls and small windows offering shooting lanes over the side of the island. Commander Jacobs was inside speaking to a few soldiers standing next to an M249 on a tripod.

The engineers and soldiers had also positioned three automated Phalanx CIWS turrets adapted to cut down any aerial threats around the island. The closest was located at the Ocean Star Offshore Drilling Rig museum just off the pier near the Harbor House Hotel. Another was near the hospital at the northern side of the base, and the third was south of their position, closer to the airfield.

Commander Jacobs finished giving orders and joined Ruckley and Beckham outside the entrance to the tower. “Everything’s set. We’re just waiting on the first groups to return from injecting the anthrax.”

Beckham looked back toward the bridge. “No one’s made it back yet?”

“I received word from the first few teams that they’ll be back soon. Recon Charlie reported seeing a few Variants out there. Most of the other groups have remained radio silent.”

“Any word from Recon Sigma?” Beckham asked, referring to Horn and Timothy’s team.

“Nothing yet,” Jacobs said.

“I’m sure they’re doing fine,” Ruckley said.

Beckham had wanted to go with, but he trusted Horn and he was needed here to help with the final defenses.

“Recon Sigma went to one of the farthest sets of tunnels northwest of Houston,” Jacobs said. “I wouldn’t expect them back any time soon.”

“And we still got a long time before dawn,” Ruckley said. “Trust me, I’ve been up and down the northeast with Timothy. Driving through Houston and injecting a bit of anthrax is nothing that young man can’t handle.”

“I know you’re right,” Beckham said. “How about news on the First Fleet?”

“We haven’t spotted them yet, but this cloud cover isn’t helping. Seems like a storm is rolling in. They can’t hide from us forever, though. Our final aircraft are on standby to send them to the bottom of the Gulf.”

“Good,” Beckham said.

His thoughts turned toward the men, women, and children who were too young, old, or sick to defend the base. Those who could carry a rifle were scattered on the wall with more experienced soldiers or helping to guard the civilian shelters. Even Horn’s oldest, Tasha, had been given a pistol, in case things turned especially ugly.

“Do we need to make another loop to ensure all civilians are at their designated shelters?” Beckham asked.

“It’s already done,” Jacobs said.

Beckham nodded. He thought of Kate and her team, set up at the former University of Texas Medical Branch Hospital. They were some of the best protected people on the island, along with the engineers running the SDS equipment.

“Any reports of seismic activity?” Beckham asked.

“Nothing to indicate any tunneling Variants yet,” Jacobs said. “We’re keeping a close eye on everything.”

One of the soldiers in the bunker near them called for Commander Jacobs.

“Excuse me,” Jacobs said.

Beckham turned back toward the west where Houston lay beyond the increasingly cloudy horizon, wondering where the New Gods would start their attack.

Wherever they did attack, he was confident his people had prepared the best they could with the resources they had.

Jacobs returned a few minutes later.

“Just got word the first three teams reporting successful anthrax injections into the network are less than five minutes from the bridge,” Jacobs said.

Beckham checked his watch. “Good. We’ve got another five hours before dawn.”

“Still plenty of time for Horn, Timothy, and Boyd,” Ruckley said.

“More than enough,” Jacobs agreed.

Beckham nodded and started to speak. “We can—”

Suddenly, the buzz saw whine of the modified Phalanx CIWS turrets erupted from the Ocean Star Offshore Drilling Rig just off the pier. Fifty rounds per second exploded from the weapon in a series of bursts from its rapidly rotating barrels.

“What the hell are we firing at?” Jacobs shouted.

“The CIWS detected something,” an officer replied.

“Rockets? Missiles?” Jacobs asked.

Another burst of fire spat from the Phalanx, modified rounds piercing the black of the night. A series of smaller explosions glowed red and orange amid the low-hanging clouds.

“Bats!” Beckham shouted.

From the northern most point of the base and the southern, the other two Phalanx CIWS systems roared to life.

“All spotlights on!” Jacobs said. “Scramble anti-air units! Shoot anything that flies!”

The lights speared into the dense clouds, sparking around the base, and air-raid sirens wailed to announce the beginning of the battle for the survival of the Allied States.

Two of the soldiers in the barricaded tower handed out shotguns filled with all the buckshot, birdshot, and other munitions they had scraped together for just this purpose. Beckham strapped his rifle over his back and took one of the shotguns.

“Get down,” he said to Ruckley.

She ducked near a wall with a pistol. The weapon was all but useless against the small bats.

Raising the shotgun, Beckham waited for the explosive-laden little devils. The horror they were capable of made his heartbeat accelerate in anticipation. Each grotesque, genetically modified bat carried only a small amount of explosives, but the rain of hundreds or more of those suicidal monsters over any outpost or base was devastating.

The radar-guided point-defense system guided the firing barrels toward unseen targets masked by the clouds. More explosions rolled through the sky, followed by miniature rumbles of thunder.

The fog slowly covering the base made it damn near impossible to get a good visual on any potential targets. Beckham roved his shotgun wherever the Phalanx aimed, waiting for the first of the mutated beasts to descend like miniature demons from hell.

A couple of soldiers got antsy and fired.

“Hold your fucking fire until you have a target!” he yelled over the noise. “Ammo doesn’t grow on trees!”

“I thought we had until morning!” Ruckley shouted. She held the pistol in a shaky hand and aimed it at the sky. “This is way earlier than the Prophet said they would attack!”

“Did you really trust that beast?” Beckham yelled back.

More booms rocked through the sky. Beckham could smell the odor of burned flesh and explosives.

The first of the CIWSs suddenly stopped firing. The second followed soon after, and less than a minute later, the third went silent. The sirens continued to blare but Beckham could hear conversations over the noise.

“Is that it?” a soldier in the tower called. “Did we stop them?”

“I think so!” another said.

Jacobs had his hand pressed against his ear, listening to his radio. “Negative! The Phalanxes are out of ammunition! The bats are still coming!”

A small silhouette flickered underneath the clouds, caught in a spotlight.

Beckham twisted, adjusting his aim, and fired. His shotgun kicked back against his shoulder, and the bat disappeared in a spreading fan of flames that illuminated the clouds. The small explosion revealed an entire flock of bats.

More booms of shotguns rang out in a deafening chorus. Each shot cut through the beasts, setting off chain reactions of explosions as the bats flocked together.

All Beckham could do was aim, fire, pump in new shells, and repeat. He blinked past the sweat trickling over his face. The smell of burning flesh growing stronger and closer.

Heat washed over the guard tower platform, as the bats advanced their relentless attack.

The first explosion rocked one of the buildings behind the walls. A scream filled the night, followed by a radio transmission calling for medics.

Other explosions ripped through buildings, former hotels and restaurants and offices bursting into flames from the blasts.

Firefighters scrambled throughout the base, desperately trying to put out the spreading infernos.

Nearby, a cloud of bats rocked into a section of the western wall. A chain of blasts kicked up clouds of smoke and fire. Razor wire, soldiers, and weapons disappeared in a blinding flash.

Beckham tried to keep his aim on the bats above his position, but each resonating blast stoked the images of Javier and Kate and Tasha and Jenny in his mind.

He tried to turn off the tide of emotions and become the machine he had once been in battle, but never had that been more difficult. Adrenaline pumped through his vessels, his mind shutting out the chaos. He focused on the descending monsters as the fight to stop the beasts grew more desperate.

The shells he had had in his pockets, bandolier, and tac vest were now gone. He reached into an ammo box placed near his position, grabbing the few remaining shells, then pumping them into his shotgun.

The spotlights continued to probe the clouds, shotgun blasts and explosions echoing over Galveston. He expended the final shells and switched to his M4A1.

The weapon was nowhere near as suitable for taking down flitting airborne targets like the shotgun, but he had no choice.

As soon as he brought it up the explosions faded away, until there was only the emergency sirens and screams of the injured and dying.

A light rain started to fall, but it wasn’t enough to put out the raging flames.

Beckham checked the tall form of the hospital toward the northeast silhouetted in the fog, relieved to see no flames were leaping from it. At least for now, the science team was safe.

Ruckley cautiously lowered her pistol. “That was just a warning, wasn’t it? Just to show us they still hold all the cards.”

“Yeah,” Beckham said with a grunt.

He maintained his aim on the clouds as rain splashed over his face. It would be just like the New Gods to send a follow-up attack when they had let their guard down and were helping the injured after that slaughter.

The New Gods soon proved he was right.

A few more bats fluttered from the clouds and the soldiers opened fire.

This time there were no explosions. The dead bats spiraled to the ground. One landed just outside the wall.

“Captain, look!” Ruckley said.

A cloud of what appeared to be white smoke spread from the dead bat.

“Gas, gas, gas!” Beckham shouted. “Masks, now!”

He pulled on his own mask and strapped it over his face. Jacobs passed on the warning to the wall garrison, activating a new alarm that shrieked over the base.

Soldiers on the wall and in the tower near Beckham fixed their masks into place. But for those who had been injured in the explosive attack, there would be no escaping the poison spewing from this new round of bats. The second wave of beasts had landed throughout the base, tendrils of white smoke spewing out from the small canisters attached to their bodies.

As flames continued to chew through the surrounding buildings, poisonous gas filled the night air. The attack was quickly becoming deadlier than he had feared.

At this rate, he wondered if they would even survive until dawn to meet the real monsters.

***

Dohi ducked behind a parked semi-truck. A group of Chimeras marched down the street with cutlasses strapped over their backs and rifles cradled over their chests.

Corrin knelt beside him, and just a few yards back, Rico and Fitz were positioned behind a Jeep just behind the truck’s trailer. They had scoured another building large enough to serve as a prison. All they had found was pulsating webbing and rotting corpses.

For all Dohi knew, that cavern of death could have been the former prison they were looking for. As their mission wore on, he worried the army they had sought to raise might not exist. Searching building by building had only deepened those fears.

Ghost needed a shortcut, a quicker way to find the prison, if it did still exist. Dohi ducked at the sound of more footsteps headed their direction.

“Humans,” Corrin whispered.

Dohi risked a glimpse around the tires, seeing the Chimera was right. All four collaborators walked casually down the street.

Our ticket to the prison, he thought.

As the collaborators drew closer, Dohi whispered a plan to Corrin. The Chimera listened intently, nodding, then crouched near the front of the truck, ready to intercept the collaborators.

Dohi remained hunched behind the tires, peering around the rig. Fitz and Rico had disappeared behind the Jeep.

Before the men passed in front of the semi-truck, Corrin strode out in front of them feigning the confidence of a New Gods Scion.

“What are you doing?” he said with a growl. “Did you not listen to your orders? You’re supposed to be helping me with prisoners.”

“But—” one of the collaborators began, looking at the others in confusion.

Corrin snarled and cut the man off. “Say another word and it will be your last.” He turned and began walking behind the rig. “Follow me or you’ll be the next strung up on the webs.”

The four men did as instructed. As they trailed the Chimera, Rico and Fitz sprinted around the other side of the truck to ambush them from behind.

Corrin stopped and looked at Dohi, giving him a slight nod.

At that signal, Dohi lunged from his hiding spot with his hatchet in one hand and knife in the other. The hatchet crunched heavily into the lead collaborator’s skull.

Corrin drew his cutlass. The blade sliced through the air in a violent swoop, the gruesome weapon lopping off the head of another collaborator.

The other two turned to run, but Rico and Fitz cut them off with their weapons leveled straight at them as Dohi retrieved his hatchet.

“Make a noise and you’re both dead,” Rico said.

The collaborators both halted and held up their hands. Dohi relieved them of their weapons and Corrin aimed his cutlass toward the men.

“I’m only going to ask you this once,” Fitz said. “Tell us where the prisoners are.”

Neither answered.

“First of you to tell me gets to live,” Fitz said.

“The linear accelerator!” one blurted.

The other collaborator tried to run, but made it only three steps before Dohi’s hatchet hit the man in the back of his head.

Dohi walked over and yanked it out with a wet squelch, eying the final collaborator. The captive man stared in horror. He was young, maybe in his twenties, with a long beard and floppy ears like an Alpha Variant’s.

“Let’s go,” Fitz said. “Bring him.”

“If you lied to us, your death won’t be nearly as quick and easy as your pal’s,” Rico said. She bound his wrist with plastic ties while Fitz took his shemagh scarf off and fastened it around their prisoner’s mouth as a gag.

Dohi knew exactly where the linear accelerator was and took point, leading the group back into the shadows of the base. Every few minutes they paused to hide from hostiles, progressing slowly toward their target destination. Their trek took them to the outskirts of the laboratories, where the forest once again bordered the streets.

The cover of the trees allowed them to advance without having to stop for patrolling guards, and they reached the northernmost entry to the linear accelerator facility.

A group of four Chimeras stood guard outside the entry, cradling rifles.

Even from where Ghost hid behind rocks and trees across the street from the accelerator facility, Dohi could smell the overwhelming odor of humans forced to live together in close confines.

Fitz gave the order to take the Chimeras down.

Suppressed rounds tore into the fleshy parts of their body unprotected by body armor. Three dropped immediately, but one survived the gunfire and lifted his rifle to fire.

Dohi finished the beast with a shot to the face that cracked through the night.

The team bolted toward the corpses with Corrin handling their prisoner.

It turned out the man wasn’t lying.

As soon as they cleared the entry, Dohi flipped up his NVGs to a ghastly scene.

Sickly yellow lights hung overhead, illuminating red webbing that covered the lengths of wires and pipes stretching further than he could see. Everywhere he looked, he saw bodies cocooned in those webs.

He scanned the vast space for guards. Seeing none, he started to check the closest prisoners.

While some looked like little more than sacks of flesh and bones, many appeared stronger. That was good to see.

The team had brought a few extra bottles of water and nutrition, limited by the weight they could safely dive with, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.

Mouths that weren’t clogged with red vines called out for help.

Dohi went to the closest one. It was a woman who looked to be in her twenties wearing a soiled ACU. He cut away the vines holding her in place and then caught her when she sagged forward.

“Hold on,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

He helped her down to the ground.

“Water,” she muttered.

Dohi reached to his side and grabbed his bottle, bringing it to her lips.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Easy.”

She looked familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place her.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

“You… you’re here to save us?”

“Yes,” Dohi said. “What’s your name?”

“Corporal Esparza…” She glared over his shoulder at the collaborator.

As soon as Dohi had freed her, he grabbed the man by his beard.

“Wait, no, you said…” the collaborator started.

Dohi pulled him to the ground and stomped on the side of his face, knocking him out. He looked over at Corrin. “Sling this bastard up in one of those cocoons.”

“With pleasure,” Corrin said.

While the Chimera dealt with the collaborator, the rest of the Team worked on freeing the others. As the group of liberated human prisoners grew, those strong enough started to help. Ghost shared the extra provisions and water they had brought, helping to rejuvenate the prisoners even just a little.

“What’s your plan?” Esparza asked.

Fitz handed her a rifle they had taken from a Chimera. “We fight, and you help us.”

The woman wiped blood and dirt from her face and smiled. But Dohi noticed some of the freed prisoners looking at Corrin skeptically.

“What the fuck is this beast doing with you?” asked one of the men.

“He’s with us,” Fitz said.

“You trust this… thing?”

“He’s the reason we found you all,” Rico said.

“You all owe him your life,” Fitz said.

Esparza turned to the others. “This is Team Ghost. You’ve heard the stories. You know what they’ve done. If they trust this Chimera, we should too.”

A few of the released prisoners grunted their agreement. The man who had initially voiced his concern over Corrin gave a reluctant nod.

“Keep working,” Fitz said. “We need all the help we can get.”

“Are we getting reinforcements?” one of the prisoners asked.

“You’re looking at them,” Dohi said. “Everyone else is fighting for survival in Galveston. There’s barely anything else left of the Allied States except that island and us tonight.”

“Jesus Christ,” another prisoner said. “Do we have more guns than the ones you brought?”

“We’re going to have to get more,” Rico said.

Corrin pointed down the corridor. “There are more weapons in here.”

“An armory?” Fitz asked.

“No, beasts like me,” Corrin said.

“Dohi, go with Corrin to release them,” Fitz said. “Rico and I will organize the others.”

Dohi and Corrin hurried toward the other end of the accelerator. He searched down his scope again to ensure no guards had entered the facility yet.

They stopped when they reached the section where the Fallen Chimeras were secured against the walls. Their scarred bodies were wrapped in even more glue and vines than the normal humans.

The golden eyes of the first prisoner watched. A patch of glue adhered to his sucker lips prevented him from talking.

As soon as Dohi pried off the strip with his knife, the Chimera screamed in his face, forcing Dohi back.

“Quiet,” he said.

“Just kill me!” the creature wailed. “I won’t work for you any longer!”

Corrin jumped over to help. “It’s okay. We’re friends. We’ve come to free you.”

The Chimera glared at him, then back at Dohi. For a moment, Dohi worried he was going to have to kill the beast.

The Chimera’s face remained in a snarl, saliva dripping from his teeth. Other Chimeras covered in webbing watched, their golden eyes studying Corrin and Dohi.

“We’re here to free you.” Dohi turned to speak to all of them. “We need your help to fight back against the New Gods.”

He faced the first Chimera again.

“Join us,” Corrin said. “We might not win against the New Gods, but we will die fighting as free…”

“Men,” Dohi said.

The creature held his gaze and nodded.

Dohi finished cutting him down, and Corrin started on the others, using his claws to tear through the tendrils imprisoning them. Ten minutes later, a growing group of freed beasts had started to cut down the rest of the Fallen Chimeras. Some spoke in low growling voices, musing about their newfound chance at revenge.

Dohi counted twenty-five freed Chimeras when the doors to the other end of the linear accelerator opened. All of them turned to a group of six collaborators who rushed in with weapons. The collaborators stopped in their tracks when they saw the freed horde.

“You want revenge?” Corrin said. “Now’s your chance!”

The group rushed toward the collaborators. None of the men even bothered to fire. They turned and ran, their terrified screams echoing throughout the facility. Dohi aimed his rifle and shot their legs one by one.

The Chimeras caught up to the collaborators writhing in agony on the ground, tearing into their flesh. Blood splashed across the floor as the beasts got their first taste of revenge.

With the other freed prisoners behind them, Fitz and Rico caught up to Dohi. The three of them picked up the collaborators’ weapons and began handing them out. Rifles. Pistols. Knives. And even a machete.

“You have your army, Master Sergeant,” Corrin said to Fitz. “Now put us to use.”

— 23 —

Sirens wailed over the constant patter of rain. But above the clamor, Kate heard the faint voices of those injured in the bat attacks screaming throughout the hospital. She was a few floors below, in the hospital’s former clinical laboratory, but their cries carried through the vents.

While most of the patients were receiving intensive medical care, including the use of respirators and ventilators to keep them stable, those who were most ill wouldn’t ever recover without the right antidote. That was something she and her team could help with. In an isolated portion of the lab, Leslie and Ron had already prepared reagents for assays to analyze samples from the gas attack.

Kate was in the main section of the lab with Sammy to monitor the remote computer stations left connected to the webbing in Houston. Although they couldn’t decrypt the signals flowing through the network, they could monitor the total volume of signal activity.

On the other side of the lab, engineers monitored reports from the seismic detection sensors installed around Houston and Galveston.

Kate supervised it all, going from station to station. She was back with Sammy when the door burst open. A combat medic entered, sweat dripping down her face. Her ACU was covered in blood and ash. She carried a tray filled with small plastic vials.

Ron emerged from the isolated section of the laboratory when he saw her.

“Dr. Lovato, we’ve got the first set of blood samples,” the medic said. “We’ve already used Mark 1 NAAKs on all the patients, but the docs want to be sure we’re doing the right thing.”

Kate handed the tray to Ron. He rushed them back into the isolated section of the lab where they had prepared the standard point-of-care blood analysis assays to detect potential toxins.

“Those nerve agent-antidote kits have 2-PAM chloride, diazepam, and atropine, right?” she asked.

“Yes, Doctor,” the medic answered.

“So long as this is just a normal nerve agent, we should be in the clear.”

“But if it isn’t…” the combat medic shifted nervously. “How long does this take?”

“Just a few minutes,” Kate said. “These tests were developed well before the Great War in response to potential nerve agent attacks in the Persian Gulf War. They’re designed to be quick.”

“Good. The doctors want answers now. At least fifty patients we brought here are in serious condition.”

“What do the symptoms look like?”

“Nausea, vomiting. A large portion of the patients reported intense pain in their muscles, and many are having trouble controlling their limbs.”

Those were all symptoms of a nerve agent. Kate wanted to scream. The evil of the Prophet and his army was unmatched by any of the creatures or men she had faced in the past.

“All we can do now is watch for new symptoms until we get definitive answers,” she said.

Ron emerged from the isolated portion of the laboratory after another few minutes. “I’ve got the results from the first blood samples.”

He handed her a printed-out page.

Kate skimmed the report. “We can confirm organophosphate poisoning in all these samples. Definitely a nerve agent.” She scrolled through the report. “We’re looking at soman.”

“Soman, got it,” the medic said. “The 2-PAM chloride and atropine will knock it out then.”

“Good,” Kate said. “We’ll continue looking at the blood samples to make sure there’s not something else in there that we missed.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the medic said, hurrying out of the lab.

“Good luck.” Kate was glad to have helped, but she knew the death and misery had just started. Soon they would be dealing with the injuries from gunfire and claws that she had seen far too many times.

As if in answer, a thunderous boom shook the hospital. She braced herself, waiting for an explosion.

One of the computers chirped, indicating a seismic disturbance.

“Just thunder,” said the engineer monitoring the screen. “The storm is messing with our equipment, but that’s all it is.”

Kate exhaled. “Ron, I want you and Leslie to continue processing the blood samples. Just because we found soman in the first few doesn’t mean that’s the only thing the New Gods were using. Check for other biological agents or weaponized pathogens.”

“You got it,” Ron said, then returned to the isolated portion of the lab.

Kate moved to the section of the lab where the team of engineers were monitoring seismic disturbances.

“Have you picked up anything unusual?” Kate asked.

“No, Dr. Lovato,” the engineer replied. “The only seismic activity we detected was from the explosions hammering the ground around Galveston. After that, it’s been quiet except for this storm.”

So far, it seemed the New Gods hadn’t been tunneling into the ground anywhere near Houston or Galveston.

Cries sounded from the hallway, and Kate looked up just as another gurney was pushed past by two paramedics. A patient on it writhed in pain, covered in blood and blackened skin.

Kate’s thoughts rushed back to the shelter where Javier, Tasha, and Jenny were. She had checked in with Connor twice now, and he had reported they had been safe from the blasts and the gas. That knowledge did nothing to assuage the dark feelings hanging over her mind like the storm over Galveston.

She went to Sammy’s station, trying to keep focused. “How many teams have delivered their anthrax samples?”

“So far, six,” Sammy said. “I’m seeing a slight reduction in network signals. You think it’s working?”

“We won’t know for sure unless we can kill off more of the webbing. The infection isn’t instantaneous, so it’s no surprise that it’s taking a while.” Kate looked at the computer. “Can you quantify the damage we’ve done to the network?”

“Keep in mind, the situation is evolving, but as the bacteria propagates, so too does the signal attenuation. I’m noticing a drop off in the overall number of signals at about five percent right now.”

“That’s not much at all.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sammy said.

“We only have a couple hours until dawn and the New Gods show,” Kate said.

The color drained from Sammy’s face. Kate had a feeling she knew what Sammy was thinking.

“If at least a few more of those teams don’t get their injections into the webbing soon, it’s not going to make much of a difference for us, is it?” Kate asked.

“Correct,” Sammy said coldly.

Kate clenched her jaw out of anger. She had truly thought their work would have a more substantial impact tonight, but it seemed their efforts might not really affect the network until after the fighting was over.

Sammy looked like she was about to say something, but the radio next to her computer buzzed to life.

“Doctor Lovato, this is Commander Jacobs. We’re confirming Recon Omega is reporting another successful injection. They’re now returning home.”

“Good,” Kate replied. “Can I have a sitrep on the other teams?”

“Recon Tango and Recon Oscar are confirmed KIA. November and Kilo are MIA, but last transmissions indicate probable KIA. We lost contact with Recon Delta and Echo. Sigma is still out there, but ran into hostiles. They’ve been radio silent since.”

Kate clenched her jaw again at the mention of Sigma. That was Horn and Timothy’s team.

She shook away her fear and decided the only thing she could do right now was believe they were still alive. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing them both.

“That’s not enough,” Sammy whispered. “It won’t cause a collapse if we don’t get at least another bolus injected.”

Kate stared at the map of the planned injection sites on the monitor. The dot representing Recon Sigma’s target glowed red.

“There’s still hope,” Kate said. “If Sigma is out there, they’ll come through.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sammy said, sounding dejected.

“Horn and Timothy know what they’re doing. They have to survive. We’ve just got to trust them.”

She said it as much to convince herself as Sammy.

Another chirping computer pulled Kate’s attention away from Sammy’s computer, and she rushed over to the engineering team.

“Is it the thunder again?” she asked.

Stepping between two of the engineers, she watched spikes of seismic activity scrolling across the screen.

“No,” one of the engineers replied. “This is happening across the northwest side of Houston. If I’m reading this right, we’ve got at least five separate groups of Variants traveling through the tunnels and making new ones.”

“Inform command,” Kate said.

The engineer nodded to another man who picked up the radio.

Kate looked at a map of Houston and Galveston that showed the epicenters of the detected seismic activity. One of these points was moving close to the Woodlands, toward the northwest of Houston right where Timothy and Horn were supposed to be.

The second wave of the New Gods’ attack was coming, and they were right in the path.

***

“Recon Sigma, this is Command,” a communications officer said over Timothy’s radio. “Seismic activity confirmed near your position. Variants headed your way, ETA ten mikes.”

“Sigma One, copy,” Horn replied.

“Be advised, you’re the last team in the field. We’re all counting on you.”

“Copy,” Horn said.

Timothy caught his gaze.

“You heard ’em, it’s up to us,” Horn said. “And we’re not going to disappoint.”

Rain fell over them in waves as they continued to follow the trail of clawed footprints in the mud. Blood covering the smashed grass showed where the beasts had dragged Boyd away. The sheer amount told Timothy that his friend was no longer alive. But hopefully he still had the anthrax they needed to inject in the webbing.

Timothy thought he felt the ground rumble slightly beneath his feet. He hoped it was just his mind playing tricks on him and command was right about them having a full ten minutes.

He gripped his rifle in his soaked gloves and angled the barrel down the path. It led them into a neighborhood and over the front yards of two houses.

Thunder rumbled overhead, lightning cutting through the sky.

They passed through another line of trees, following the trail through a yard of overgrown grass. Horn motioned for them to get down at the sound of squawking and scratching claws on the adjacent street. Timothy ducked low in the cover of the overgrown grass. He crept through the grass with Horn to get a better look.

Next to a rusted-out pickup truck nearly a hundred yards down the street, Timothy could make out three twisted shapes headed north. They were dragging a large body behind them.

“They still have Boyd with them,” Timothy said. He brought his rifle up just as the beasts started to disappear behind a minivan. “Can’t get a clear shot now.”

“We got to take them out before they get wherever they’re headed,” Horn replied.

He signaled to the backyard of the house. They ran hard to cut off the Variants. After passing by rotting decks and rusted swing sets, they raced back to the front yard of another house.

They took up firing positions between two cars parked side-by-side on a driveway, and Timothy flipped up his NVGs to peer down his scope.

The three creatures skittered toward them, still a couple hundred yards from the south. They had plenty of time to set an ambush.

As Timothy centered his sights on the first Variant, he noticed a collar around its neck.

“You were right,” he said to Horn. “Someone’s controlling these Thralls. As soon as we open fire, whoever’s in charge of them is going to come after us.”

Horn readied his M249, setting up its bipod on the hood of one car, aiming north. “I’ll deal with the collaborators or whoever the hell else might be here if they show up. You take the beasts down.”

“You’re sure?”

“We got no other choice, kid.”

Timothy aimed at the diseased flesh of the lead monster dragging Boyd. A hot anger rushed through him, and he squeezed the trigger.

Rounds punched through the chest of the monster, and the grotesque mutant collapsed to the wet asphalt next to Boyd.

The other two creatures let out furious roars and got down on all fours. Timothy lined up his sights and held in a breath as they barreled toward him.

He squeezed a burst off into one of the beasts, rounds lancing into its barreled chest and limbs. Blood sprayed from the devastating wounds as it tumbled over itself, skidding across the asphalt.

Before he could adjust his aim for the third monster, gunfire north of their position exploded behind him. He had been right. The assholes controlling the Variants weren’t far. Rounds pinged against the car where Horn had propped up his M249.

The heavy thump of the machine gun was nearly deafening, drowning out the shrieks of the monster galloping toward Timothy.

His world narrowed down the scope of his rifle. He took another breath and squeezed the trigger. The bullet found the target, but the creature still kept coming.

“What the fuck,” Timothy said.

He centered his aim again with the Variant only a few yards away. The burst finally knocked it off course, and it slid across the ground.

Timothy put a final round into the head, just to be sure. Then he turned to look in the direction Horn was firing.

Two collaborators ducked behind cars, trying to get close. When they made a move, Timothy took one of them down, and the second man dove for cover.

A spray of rounds from the M249 cut down another enemy rushing down the street for a new position. Timothy roved his scope over the body to see it was a human collaborator.

Scouts, probably.

Thoughts of his father, of his captivity in Mount Katahdin, and of the destruction of his former home in Maine flooded his mind.

He wanted to tear apart every last one of these evil men, but the wooden beads of the bracelet Tasha had given him bumped against his wrist, reminding him he had more to live for than revenge.

Even if he and Horn were better shots, the collaborators might already be sending people to surround them. The two of them couldn’t hold out forever. Most importantly, they had a bigger mission at stake.

“Cover me, and I’ll get the anthrax,” Timothy said.

Horn gave him a nod before unleashing a hail of bullets. Return fire speared into the cars as Timothy sprinted away. More bullets seared through the air past him. A couple sparked against the wet asphalt. He slid next to Boyd and hid behind the first Variant he had killed as rounds thumped into both corpses.

Timothy reached over and searched Boyd’s pockets for the syringe of anthrax. Boyd’s throat was torn open, and his eyes were locked open in a look of horror.

“I’m sorry,” Timothy said.

More bullets slammed into the Variant and Boyd, forcing Timothy to draw his hand back. He waited a moment then tried a new pocket and found the plastic syringe.

“Got it!” Timothy yelled.

He stashed it in his vest and drew himself up into a low firing position, providing cover fire for Horn. The big man raked the M249 back and forth, then took off running.

Shouts from the collaborators carried over the rain as Timothy retreated to the backyard of the closest house. Horn was huffing and puffing, but managed to keep running toward the golf course bordering the backyards. They didn’t slow until they found cover in a tree line, and even then, they pushed themselves forward, never completely stopping until they reached the edge of the webbing-covered tunnel.

Water ran over the sides and down into it, turning it into a muddy mess.

“I’ll cover you,” Horn heaved. He aimed back the way they had come.

The ground seemed to rumble, but this wasn’t thunder. The monsters in the tunnel were close.

With the anthrax in one hand, Timothy dropped to his belly, still gasping to catch his breath. He lay flat and stretched to reach one of the tendrils within the tunnel. With a jab, he got the needle into the throbbing red vine and depressed the plunger.

A howl erupted from deeper inside the tunnel. The stench of rotten fruits filled his lungs. His body shook as the walls trembled more fiercely. The click of joints and growls of bloodthirsty monsters echoed toward him.

“Hurry up,” Horn said.

Timothy backed out and began to stand, but Horn yanked him down in the cover of the tall grass.

“We got more company,” Horn said. “Collaborators caught up to us.”

“Can’t stay here. The Variants aren’t far behind.”

“I fucking hate running,” Horn said. He stood, ready to move. “Don’t leave me behind, kid. I still haven’t given you permission to date my daughter.”

Timothy almost laughed but a burst of gunfire made him flinch.

Another terrifying tremor rumbled the ground, the shaking more violent. Another spot of grass twenty yards to their west pushed upward.

A familiar, terrifying clicking shriek sounded from the newly formed hole as Timothy took off running with Horn. They both watched the ground burst upward in a geyser of wet soil and long grass. An Alpha pulled itself out, and Variants poured out after it.

“Faster!” Horn yelled.

Timothy had never run harder in his life. He pushed himself to his physical limit, his lungs burning with the effort. Horn was starting to fall behind. Timothy eased up and took a moment to look at their pursuers.

Monsters galloped over the wet ground, tearing through the grass, and gunfire flashed from the golf course.

“KEEP RUNNING!” Horn yelled.

Timothy took off again.

Images of Tasha flashed through his mind. She was waiting for him back in Galveston. If he didn’t make it back, he wouldn’t see her again. He wouldn’t be able to help her from the incoming army of monsters descending on their base.

And if he didn’t save her dad, they would both be screwed.

He skidded to a stop and aimed to take out the closest Variants, buying the big man some extra time.

The creatures bolted into the fire, not even trying to avoid the bullets.

Horn stopped to send a burst of rounds into the enemy’s ranks, taking down two of the lead beasts, but the Alpha never stopped.

“Come on!” Horn yelled.

They reached the street where they had left the Humvee, and Timothy spotted the truck. By the time they made it there, the Alpha was halfway down the street with a pack of Variants flocking around it.

Horn opened the driver’s door as Timothy dove into the back seat. He didn’t even have time to shut the door before Horn pushed down on the pedal. The vehicle lurched forward, but then jolted to a stop.

Timothy looked back to see the Alpha had grabbed the back bumper, water sluicing over its diseased flesh.

“Come on, baby!” Horn said.

The Humvee growled, tires squealing. Timothy pulled out his pistol and fired at the back windshield. Glass burst outward, and bullets punched into the meaty flesh. The Alpha held on until a couple rounds smashed through its snout.

The vehicle tore away, ripping out of the Alpha’s claws. The beast ran after them with the entourage of smaller monsters and the collaborators, bullets slamming against the back of the Humvee.

Horn navigated out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, leaving their pursuers behind, never letting up on the gas.

“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Horn said. “We clear?”

“I think so,” Timothy said, still gasping. “So… does this mean I got your permission to date Tasha?”

“We’ll see,” Horn said.

Water fell in sheets over the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth. Horn dodged past a wrecked vehicle, and Timothy climbed into the front passenger seat.

Horn picked up his radio. “Command, Recon Sigma One. We got the anthrax injected. Headed back to base now.”

“Copy that,” the comms officer replied. “Good work, Recon Sigma One. What’s your ETA?”

“Fifty minutes if we press it.”

“Better hurry up or you will be cut off,” the comms officer said.

“Copy,” Horn said. He slammed the radio down.

“Cut off?” Timothy asked.

“The bridge,” Horn said. “They’re going to blow it.”

“If they do, we’re stuck on this side of the bay with all those monsters.”

“My girls are on that island, Temper. You sure as shit know I am not letting us stay on this side of the bay while those beasts try to take Galveston.”

Timothy checked to make sure his belt was secure.

“Yeah, better hold onto your ass, kid, because tonight, this mountain is a fucking volcano, and I’ll fly this fucking Humvee if I have to,” Horn said.

— 24 —

Ringgold stood on the ten-yard-wide watchtower platform atop the roof of the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Beside her stood Cornelius, Souza, and Soprano.

She had insisted on being outside the confines of her bunker to stand side-by-side with the troops sworn to protect this country.

As a concession, Festa was inside the hotel, coordinating with a team of military officers and the representatives from Canada and Mexico. Festa would serve as the designated survivor, taking control of the defenses in a secure underground headquarters should something happen to Ringgold.

In the middle of the platform, two armed communications officers had laptops and radios set up on a table behind a steel enclosure. Three snipers were situated in nearby watchtowers and two-person teams manned M240s set up behind sandbags on the catwalks above the steel walls.

A reinforced steel roof protected them from the light drizzle of rain. The fog had mostly lifted, and the storm was retreating, providing sightlines to both the I-45 bridge and the Gulf of Mexico. They had lost radar in the bat attack, rendering them otherwise blind. To watch for the First Fleet, Souza had deployed two 25-foot Coast Guard Response Boats.

For the first time in her career serving her country, she carried an M4A1. She had spent every spare minute training with the weapon.

She was not the only one holding a weapon like this in combat for the first time.

Their defenses were filled with individuals who had been drafted days ago. Refugees and even the injured stood on the walls. Soprano was armed with a shotgun that he carried awkwardly. Ringgold wondered if he was more of a threat with it, than without.

“The Variants are closing in,” Cornelius reported. “ETA forty-five minutes.”

“How far is Recon Sigma?” Ringgold asked.

“They’re expected to arrive around the same time.”

“That’s cutting it too close.”

“We’ll have to blow the bridge before the monsters arrive, whether they’re here or not.”

Ringgold could not imagine giving an order that would condemn some of her closest friends to almost certain death, but decisions like this were part of the burden she faced as president.

“Delay blowing the bridge as long as possible,” she said. “But I would like—”

“Madam President, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Souza said. “I just heard from Festa. The First Fleet was reported just under twenty klicks out by one of our Response Boats.”

Ringgold let her rifle fall on its strap and picked up her binoculars. She looked toward the east. Sheets of rain blocked any chance of seeing the distant fleet emerge over the horizon.

“How many ships?” she asked.

“Without radar, hard to say, but the scout reported seeing the USS George Johnson and three other First Fleet ships. They were preparing to launch dozens of smaller boats filled with collaborators, Variants, and Chimeras.”

“They’re preparing for a full-on beach invasion,” Cornelius said.

“Begin our aerial attack,” Ringgold said.

The general relayed the order, and moments later, the first few jets took off from the runway to their south. Other planes followed, military and slower civilian craft flying off with what little ordnance they had left.

A distant flash of lightning cut through the sky. The minutes ticked by as the planes flew through the clearing storm toward the enemy fleet.

The increasingly heavy thrum of her pulse sounded like war drums in her ears at the thought of what they would soon face. The
USS George Johnson had been equipped with the best anti-aircraft weaponry the Allied States had left. She could only hope that the New Gods did not know how to operate such advanced equipment.

Unfortunately, she had also witnessed what had happened when the Allied States underestimated their enemy. Even if a fraction of their forces knew how to use the weapons, the ships could prove devastating to their forces.

“Our squadrons are almost in position,” Souza said.

A few moments later, one of the pilots came over the radio. “Command, Eagle One. Approaching targets.”

Ringgold could almost picture the ships cutting through the dark waves that the pilot must be seeing.

“Commencing bombing,” said Eagle One. “We are—”

The line suddenly went dead.

Souza stepped closer to the radio operator. “The hell just happened?”

The operator shook his head. “I think they were shot, sir.”

Distant flashes of light strobed through the gray clouds over the horizon, like more lightning strikes behind the clouds. But there were far too many blasts for it to be from the storm.

“We’re going down!” another voice cried over the channel.

“Command, we’re taking heavy fire!”

“Engine failure! They hit—”

“I can’t hold out!”

“All systems are failing! Target is still—”

More explosions bloomed across the gray horizon. Frantic voices filled the lines.

Souza picked up the radio. “All pilots, this is Command. Concentrate all weapons on the USS General Johnson. You can’t let it get through.”

“Command, Eagle Three,” a pilot said. “We’ve lost contact with a third of our units.”

Souza turned away from the radio, his jaw clenched, fingers curled into a fist. “Damn it!”

“It would’ve been even worse if these monsters really knew how to use that weaponry,” Cornelius said. “All our aircraft and our base would be gone. We’re lucky they must not have half the expertise our Navy did.”

“Bombing still underway,” Eagle Three reported. “We’re hitting it with everything we’ve got.”

The rumble of the explosions barreled into Galveston like an unstoppable chorus of thunder.

“Command, Eagle Six,” another pilot said. “All ordnance deployed. Returning for reload.”

“Eagle Six, can you confirm that all enemy anti-aircraft weapons were eliminated?” Souza asked.

“Affirmative, all weaponry on the George Johnson is disabled! It’s spitting fire, sir. She’s not going to be floating much longer.”

Cornelius raised a fist, and Souza exhaled. Ringgold nodded at both of them, but the victory was short lived. Eagle Six reported two cruisers still had active anti-aircraft weapons.

Ringgold watched the first of the surviving aircraft returning to Galveston. Comm chatter painted a grim picture of the damage to their beleaguered air force.

She turned back to Soprano.

“Go confirm with Hernandez and Vance to see if there is anything the Mexican and Canadians can do to make their troops move faster,” she said.

“Yes, Madam President,” Soprano replied.

“New Gods land units are now twenty minutes to the bridge according to seismic activity,” Cornelius said.

“Sigma?” she asked.

“Still en route, just ahead of them.”

Ringgold raised her binos back to the Gulf Coast. Planes were taking off into the screen of rain and clouds again.

The first dark silhouettes of the First Fleet appeared over the choppy waters.

She zoomed in, and while she couldn’t make out all the details, the looming shape of the USS George Johnson was evident. Half its superstructure vented flames. The massive ship steamed ahead straight toward Galveston, but was listing precariously to its portside.

Two cruisers barreled alongside it. Fingers of smoke rose from each vessel, and most of their decks seemed enveloped in fire. Munitions exploded as the flames spread, shooting geysers of spreading debris into the air.

The smaller crafts that Eagle Six and the Coast Guard Response Boats had spotted were churning alongside the bigger ships, struggling to maintain speed in the violent waves.

“Unless the New Gods brought their own munitions, we know what was on those last ships for the anti-aircraft weapons,” Souza said. “They can’t have much left now, especially after all that damage.”

“I hope you’re right, because we’re sitting ducks,” Ringgold said.

Tracer fire spit into the sky from the cruisers. She watched in horror as the rounds tore into the lead aircrafts. A couple of the pilots managed to avoid the incoming fire, rolling away or diving underneath, but they disappeared in billows of white smoke and fire when missiles struck them.

Only a few made it through with a combination of expert maneuvering and sheer luck.

Blasts from the decks of the cruisers as the aircraft dropped their payloads. Part of the decks gave way, flames roaring out like enormous demons from the underworld. Crews on both ships started lowering lifeboats and another wave of smaller craft over the side. Some even jumped straight into the roiling waters.

The guns on the USS George Johnson remained quiet, but she could still see the shapes of surviving enemy soldiers on the decks.

Another wave of explosions rolled over the cruisers.

“Command, Eagle Six,” a pilot reported. “We scored direct hits on the escort cruisers. Coming in now to finish off any survivors on the George Johnson.”

Another explosion rolled over the superstructure of the destroyer. Flames erupted from holes torn into the bent metal, but the ship continued to carve slowly through the water.

That ship might be going down, but the battle wasn’t over.

Sirens wailed over the base once more. Soldiers raced for their battle stations along the walls, and spotlights raked the waters, illuminating the incoming boats.

Ringgold could do nothing but watch them draw closer.

A loud grating sound scraped over Galveston as the sinking George Johnson ground into the sand and rock offshore. Momentum carried it forward, kicking up waves, its ruptured keel slicing into the shallows until finally it lurched sideways, beached nearly four hundred yards from the Galveston beach.

The two burning and dying cruisers made it slightly further before they too succumbed to the same fate. Smaller motorboats and yachts chugged past them, advancing over the rolling waves, and crashed into sand banks.

From each of those smaller vessels, men and monsters jumped over the sides. Ringgold tried to keep track of the dozens upon dozens of creatures pouring off the boats and through the shallows.

Tracer fire lanced from the walls. Low thuds resonated over the beach from grenades and mines. Geysers of sand, fire, and shredded body parts spewed into the air.

A few helicopters they had on reserve made passes over the beach, spitting gunfire and launching rockets into the enemies stampeding over the sand.

Collaborators returned fire with their own rockets. One streaked into a Black Hawk, erupting in a flash of light. The pilots managed to put the damaged bird down on the beach, but a pack of Variants were on them before they could escape the wreckage.

“We’ve got more incoming,” Cornelius said, pointing at the George Johnson.

While flames danced from the superstructure, a stream of smaller shapes flung themselves over the side into the water. Others raced down the ladders tracing the hull, leaping into rigid-hulled inflatable boats, lifeboats, and some of the other small craft nearby.

“There must be hundreds of creatures and collaborators on that ship,” Cornelius said.

Ringgold roved her binos over the enemy soldiers, spotting squads of heavily armed Chimeras with their cutlasses.

“Madam President, seismic activity indicates the rest of the New Gods’ land forces are poised to cross the bridge in less than two minutes,” the comms officer said. “Recon Sigma is on the bridge now.”

She turned her binos back to the bay. A lone Humvee raced across the long bridge. Only about five-hundred yards behind them, the first rush of monsters followed, galloping across the asphalt.

“Blow the bridges as soon as Sigma is across,” she said.

A moment later, explosions ripped down the bridge, red and orange balls of fire devouring the pillars holding it above the bay. Concrete gave way, falling in chunks, and almost as if in slow motion, the bridge began to collapse. Variants flailed as they plummeted with the debris.

Soprano rushed back up the stairs to the platform, chest heaving.

“You have good news?” Ringgold asked.

Souza and Cornelius both looked at Soprano.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The Canadian and Mexican forces are still hours from arrival. We’re on our own for now.”

Ringgold felt her stomach churn. The enemy had arrived by sea, air, and land. She had done everything she could to prepare, but still it felt like it was not enough. The only thing left to do was fight.

Raising her rifle to her shoulder, she readied herself for battle.

***

Gunfire cracked across Los Alamos.

Keeping low, Fitz advanced up a narrow street between two laboratory buildings, headed north with Team Ghost and a small army of Chimeras and humans. It had been hell fighting through the streets and doing their best to stay concealed from the few guards left around the base.

But they had unexpected help keeping the guards occupied.

While most of the prisoners had followed them, a few distrusting Chimeras and scared human prisoners had run off. Those fleeing prisoners were enough to draw many of the remaining enemy guards away. That distraction had helped Ghost, but it was a terrible choice for the prisoners.

Screams rang out, some of them human as the monsters found them.

“Should’ve stayed with us,” Fitz said.

“They chose their own deaths,” Dohi said.

Fitz tried to understand the callous words. This was not the Dohi he knew—the Dohi who would do anything to save another person. But Fitz understood how trauma and PTSD could turn a good heart black.

That kind of trauma could not be dealt with now. Instead he focused back on the mission and took shelter behind a truck to sneak a glimpse at an intersection to the east. A friendly Chimera had confirmed that just a few blocks in that direction was the command center for the New Gods.

Fitz surveyed the building. Camouflage netting covered two machine gun nests and maybe a little over ten Chimeras perched along the roof. Collaborators were entrenched behind sandbags and aiming out of windows.

Prowling Thrall Variants screeched and howled in the street. The smell of blood and sound of battle had them riled up. The only thing holding them back were the collars around their necks.

Fitz turned to his team, telling them what he had seen.

“We’ve got the numbers,” Dohi said. “Nearly thirty Fallen Chimeras still with us, and thirty human prisoners strong enough to fight.”

“But less than half have firearms,” Rico said.

Corrin clicked his claws together. “But we have weapons.”

“Still, it’s suicide running headlong into that command building,” Rico said.

Fitz listened between a few more distant gunshots and the rattle of machine guns.

“If we don’t do something quickly, they’ll finish off the last of the fleeing prisoners, then find us,” Fitz said. “The only reason we’re still alive is because they sent damn near everything they had to Galveston.”

All they needed to do was get to the Prophet, assuming he was even here. The command building was so close, but trying to sneak in with this army would not work.

Fitz signaled to the Chimera that had told them about the command center. The filthy half-man hunched down, reeking of body odor and festering wounds.

“The front western entrance to this place is well-guarded,” Fitz said. “What’s our best alternative?”

“There’s a couple of secured doors on the north and south sides,” the Chimera replied.

“Those machine guns will cut us down before we can get close enough to get inside,” Rico said.

“What about tunnels?” Fitz asked. “The throne room was covered in webbing. We know the network goes inside.”

The Chimera looked uncertain. “I don’t know.”

“I do,” Esparza said. She was the first prisoner Dohi had released and was the strongest of the freed humans. “They forced me down there a few days ago to find soldiers who could join their ranks.”

“Do you think you could get us to that tunnel?” Fitz asked.

Esparza nodded.

“We can’t fit everyone through like that,” Dohi said. “I’ve seen what happens to people in there. A little bit of panic, and they’ll run wild, get us all killed.”

“Let me lead the Chimeras,” Corrin said. “We can divide the forces. Humans with firearms can take the southern side of the building, and I will take my team to scale the walls on the north. That should give you enough distraction to sneak underground.”

Fitz was quiet for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of collaborators and Chimeras rounding up the other prisoners. He hated for so many to sacrifice their lives, but Corrin was right.

This was the most effective way to get inside.

“Let’s do it,” Fitz said. He signaled to another human prisoner who had been a ranking officer before being captured in Vegas and told him to lead the humans. They divided up their ragtag army and relayed their plans.

Fitz looked at Corrin one last time as the Chimera readied his forces. “Thank you, Corrin. You’ve done more than we ever could’ve asked.”

“It’s time to make the Prophet pay,” Corrin said. “Good luck, Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick, and to the rest of you.”

Dohi reached out toward him. Corrin didn’t seem to know what to do at first, but then he clenched Dohi’s hand carefully in his own.

“Good luck, brother,” Dohi said.

Corrin held his grip for a moment, then nodded and led his troops away.

At the same time, the human prisoners swarmed from their positions, cutting across the street and filtering between the other buildings. Those with weapons provided covering fire, allowing the army of liberated prisoners to spread out in combat intervals.

The Thrall monsters raced toward the human forces, and the machine guns behind them churned with the throat growl of automatic fire.

“Let’s move,” Fitz said.

Esparza took them back down the street, then cut across a block east toward an open road with three large holes. Red tendrils of webbing grew out of them. She pointed toward one, and they climbed inside a tunnel that reeked of carrion.

Dohi took point, leading them through the darkened tunnels with his NVGs. They advanced at a run, and the sounds of battle outside grew muffled the deeper they went. Fitz’s blades squished into the webbing and crunched over bones. They passed by dead humans and animals pasted on the walls.

Esparza directed them through a few intersections until they reached a hole leading to the surface.

“This is it,” she whispered.

Fitz approached cautiously. Thick stalks of red webbing stretched upward. Sickly yellow light glowed from above. The smell here was worse than anywhere else in the tunnels.

A few rumbling growls filtered in from the room above. Those were sounds Fitz was all too familiar with.

Masterminds.

From the floor of the tunnel, he could look straight up toward a ceiling covered in a spiderweb of red. This was definitely the auditorium they had seen on the video.

The sounds of the battle raged outside, reminding him of the sacrifices made so they could get here. They had to hurry. The lives of all those outside in Los Alamos and even those in Galveston depended on it.

He signaled for Esparza to back up, then beckoned Rico and Dohi. They all pulled M67 grenades from their tac vests and handed them to Dohi. He lobbed them up one by one through the hole into the throne room.

A few surprised raspy voices cried out, followed by three violent blasts. Chunks of webbing rained down into the tunnel.

“Go!” Fitz yelled.

Dohi took to the webbing and climbed up it with Esparza and Rico swinging themselves up after. Fitz was the last one up, entering the area between the stage and the seating. Smoke and the scent of burned flesh drifted through the air. Pieces of severed webbing squirmed across the floor.

Fitz searched through the dissipating smoke for targets. As it cleared, he spotted the two giant masterminds on the stage, bleeding from shrapnel wounds in the folds of their pink flesh. He turned to scan the seating area, seeing a few dead Chimeras sprawled around smoking sites where the chairs and webbing had been blown to scrap.

Other beasts closer to the back rows of webbing-covered chairs were recovering from the blasts. Two situated at the entrance of the room were already moving into firing positions.

Fitz signaled for Dohi to flank them from the auditorium’s north side while Rico and Esparza dropped down behind the seats. He popped up and shot one of the advancing Chimeras through its grotesque face.

Then all hell broke loose, gunfire punching into the seats.

Fitz ducked down and flattened his body. Using his elbows, he army-crawled to a new spot as bullets punched through the plastic seats behind him.

Webbing and broken bits of the chairs sprayed over his body. Esparza got up to fire from an adjacent row, giving Rico and Fitz time to find another position.

As soon as they were clear, Fitz gave Rico a nod. They rose to sight up their next targets, but the return gunfire had already stopped. A cry of agony roared across the enclosed space, and a final Chimera thumped to the ground near the entrance.

“Clear!” Dohi called.

Dohi stood over the last Chimera with blood dripping off his hatchet and knife. The team all turned to the stage where the two masterminds yanked on the webbing to call in reinforcements.

“Prophet isn’t here,” Dohi said.

“Come on, we have to move,” Fitz said.

Dohi led toward the doors, but they burst open before he could reach them. Four juveniles with collars around their necks lunged inside, growling and snapping.

One barreled toward Dohi. He stumbled backward and fell, giving Fitz and the rest of the team clear firing lanes.

“Covering fire!” Fitz shouted.

They unleashed a torrent of rounds into the armored skin of the beasts as the creatures bounded toward Dohi. Fitz aimed for their faces, seeking out their weakest spots. A well-placed shot to an eye killed the lead creature, tripping the others. Two of the remaining three went down in the gunfire, but the survivor pounced on Dohi.

He jammed his knife right through the chin of the beast and deep into its skull.

Fitz aimed at the entrance, spotting shapes in the darkness.

Three or four muzzle flashes suddenly lit up the open doorway.

“Down!” he screamed.

Bullets plunged into the chairs and webbing around Team Ghost. A round slammed into Esparza’s shoulder, and she fell backward, crumpling against a chair.

She pressed a hand against the wound. Blood gushed between her fingers.

More rounds hammered their position. Fitz couldn’t see their assailants or Dohi, but he could hear them. Another four juveniles rushed in screeching, and Dohi screamed back a blood-curdling war cry.

Rico crawled past a few destroyed seats to another position. A monster suddenly leapt over the seats in front of her.

“Jeni!” Fitz yelled.

She swiveled onto her back, bringing her rifle up to parry the snapping teeth of the creature. Fitz tried to aim, but another juvenile swiped at him from the seats he was behind.

The creature grabbed him by his collar and yanked him up, ripping his rifle strap with its claws and tossing him to the aisle. He hit the ground hard but drew his holstered M9 with just enough time to fire at the beast as it lunged for him. Bullets smashed into its armor but didn’t kill the wretched thing. It grabbed his prosthetic blades and pulled him closer, right into biting distance as he fired into the armor of its neck and face.

“STOP!” came a gravelly voice.

The bleeding juvenile loosened its grip, whimpering and backing off.

Fitz turned his gun on a Chimera with a ragged cloak striding down the aisle holding a cutlass. A broken skull covered his face.

Elijah.

The abomination that had killed Ace.

“Put your weapons down or you all die,” Elijah said. “This is your one chance!”

Fitz swallowed his anger and took a stolen moment to assess the situation while he kept his pistol trained on the skull mask. He couldn’t see Dohi, but Esparza was down. Rico was in the grip of a juvenile and six Chimeras marched beside Elijah. They split up, advancing down the sides of the throne room.

“Put down your weapons or your little Rico dies,” Elijah said. “The Prophet has chosen you. There is no need for you to waste your lives heedlessly.”

The beast looked away from Fitz to Esparza. “But not you, heretic.”

At the snap of his claws, a juvenile leapt over a seat and ripped into her.

“NO!” Rico shouted.

Fitz kept his gun aimed at Elijah as the monster tore Esparza apart, the sickening sounds of teeth on bone cutting through the air.

“Rico’s next if you don’t submit,” Elijah said.

“Don’t do it, Fitzie!” Rico yelled.

Saliva from the juvenile dripped onto her face.

Fitz was about to lower his gun when Dohi leapt over the seats. With his hatchet and knife in hand, he ran for Elijah, screaming at the top of his lungs.

A Chimera tried to stop him, but Dohi whirled and sliced open the throat of the monster and then slammed his hatchet into the face of a second Chimera. With only his knife left, he jumped onto a seat and then launched himself into the air toward Elijah.

The Chimera was caught off guard, and Dohi slammed into him, knocking him down. He brought the blade to Elijah’s throat but did not kill him.

“BACK OFF!” Dohi yelled to the other Chimeras.

The beasts throughout the room gave each other confused looks.

“Do it, or he dies!” Dohi shouted.

“If you kill me, your friends die,” Elijah growled. “I would readily give my life for the Prophet. But there is only one way out of this for you. Team Ghost joins the New Gods or the New Gods feast on your flesh.”

“I’d rather die than join,” Rico said.

“Fitz,” Dohi said. “Tell me what to do.”

Even if Dohi killed Elijah, they would all die in this throne room—and the Prophet would still be out there.

“You’re outnumbered, and your pathetic forces are on the verge of complete defeat,” Elijah said. “I am giving you the only way you make it out of here alive. Join us. Join the Prophet.”

“Where’s the Prophet?” Fitz asked, trying to buy time.

“In Galveston, leading our forces to victory.” Elijah chuckled under his mask despite the blade pressed against his throat. “It’s over for your beloved country.”

Dohi looked over his shoulder at Fitz, shock painted across his expression. Elijah took advantage of the mistake, grabbing him and tossing him aside. He rose to his feet with a cutlass in hand and angled it down at Dohi.

“You weak, pathetic traitors,” Elijah said. “You should have surrendered when you had the chance.”

— 25 —

The resounding thuds of explosives and the constant roar of gunfire filled the air. Beckham had his shemagh scarf pulled up over his nose, but there was no keeping out the biting odor of smoke.

Soaked from the sheeting rain, he and Ruckley were still on the catwalk stretching along the ten-foot-high, steel-panel wall surrounding the inner core of the base. Command and the hospital facilities were tucked away behind these walls, as was much of downtown Galveston.

From the catwalk, they could see the bay and the bridge four miles to the southwest.

Behind them, a platform led to a tower where Commander Jacobs was posted with his officers. It offered one of the best vantages on the island and was well protected by reinforced layers of wall topped with razor wire.

Minutes ago, they had all watched Timothy and Horn arrive in their Humvee, just before the soldiers guarding the bridge had blown it. Beckham had received radio confirmation that his friends had made it through the first sliding steel-and-razor-wire gate where the Gulf freeway met Galveston Island.

Those outer walls and gates had taken too much damage in the bat attack to be defensible, so the soldiers assigned there had fallen back. They were now positioned on a second set of barricaded steel-panel gates with two watchtowers about a mile to the southwest connected to the same inner core walls that Beckham and Ruckley were on.

From what Beckham could tell, the second position was about to get hit hard.

He lifted his binoculars to scan the choppy water of the bay. The pale flesh of Variants broke the surface of the opaque waters as the beasts swam toward the shore.

And it wasn’t just monsters headed their direction.

Two Black Hawks descended to the other side of the bay to pick up stranded collaborators. Once they pulled back into the sky, they raced over the water toward where Horn and Timothy had taken refuge.

“We’ve got incoming birds,” Beckham said through the tower door to Jacobs. “Do we have anything down there left to take them out?”

Commander Jacobs stepped out and shook his head. “The aerial-defenses were either destroyed or expended during the bat attack.”

“Shit,” Ruckley muttered.

“If they breach that, the Variants coming in from the west will flood downtown and command,” Jacobs said.

“Then we need to stop those choppers,” Beckham said. “Permission to take the M72 LAW rocket launchers and a Humvee.”

Jacobs thought on it a moment, but then nodded. “Take out those birds, but be careful, Captain.”

Beckham started down a set of stairs with the weapons as Ruckley hobbled after him. He lost sight of the choppers when he reached the street under the wall. They loaded up into the Humvee and took off, Beckham navigating around a few stubborn fires and craters from the bat attacks.

After driving with the pedal pressed against the floor, the inner gate with its two watchtowers came into view beyond a screen of smoke. He estimated he was only a quarter mile from the inner gate when he saw the two choppers that had been racing across the bay again.

This time, they had made it over where Horn and Timothy were supposed to be.

Muzzle fire flashed from the birds as door gunners swept their machine guns over the walls and the two watchtowers beside the gate.

With each passing second, the gout of gunfire over the defensive positions grew thicker, and Beckham feared soon it would be too late for Horn and Timothy.

He couldn’t lose them. Not now. Not after all they had been through.

You’re not going to lose them. You’re going to save them.

“See if you can get Horn on the radio,” Beckham said to Ruckley. “Tell him to meet us at the bottom of the gate and look for our Humvee.”

“On it,” Ruckley said.

While she tried to contact Horn, tracer fire pounded the first helicopter. The pilot banked hard to strafe the machine gun nest. The turning bird gave Beckham a clear view into the troop hold that was filled with Chimeras.

The beasts positioned in the open troop hold joined in with the door gunner to rain hell on the troops stationed in the towers and along the catwalks lining the walls inside the gate. As both choppers began to lower over the gate, the Chimeras pulled out their cutlasses, to prepare for hand-to-hand combat on the walls.

Beckham drove faster, but then slammed on the brakes around the next corner. The Humvee squealed to a stop behind the wreckage of an overturned semi-trailer.

“Out!” he shouted.

Ruckley opened the passenger side, and he jumped out and opened the back door to retrieve the launchers. As he grabbed one and threw the other over his back, Chimeras leapt from the two choppers, landing in the ranks of soldiers while swinging their swords. The crack of gunfire echoed over the cries of soldiers clashing with the Chimeras.

“Horn!” Beckham shouted. “Timothy!”

He scanned the soldiers now engaged in hand-to-hand combat across the walls and towers, but didn’t see either of his friends.

“Look out!” Ruckley said.

One of the Black Hawks suddenly swooped low, forcing them to take cover behind the Humvee as the door gunner let loose a spray of fire. Bullets cracked against the hood and windshield, peppering the side of their vehicle.

Beckham hunched down with Ruckley until the torrent was over.

The bird flew away and strafed the wall again, tracer fire lancing out in a violent spray. Rounds punched into soldiers fleeing for cover. Dead bodies tumbled back off the catwalks and smacked against the ground with sickening thuds.

The other Black Hawk was turning now too, coming back in for a second attack.

“Fuck, we have to hurry,” Beckham said. “We need a distraction.”

“I’ll do it,” Ruckley said. “You take them out.”

“How?”

“I’ll drive, you fire,” she said.

Ruckley got into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. It groaned but turned over and she drove away.

Beckham pulled out the arming pin of the LAW rocket launcher, extended the weapon, and shouldered it. One of the choppers took Ruckley’s bait and turned away from the wall, giving chase. He lost sight of her and focused on the bird.

Beckham aimed, leading the cockpit, then squeezed the trigger bar. The rocket blazed from the tube. For a fleeting second, he feared he had missed, but the shriek of tearing metal sounded, followed by a low explosion. The rocket had punched right into the top of the troop hold.

With the screech of protesting metal, the bird plummeted sideways before bursting into a fireball against the pavement.

The second Black Hawk began to turn, but instead of going after Ruckley, it started toward his location.

“Oh, shit,” Beckham said.

He ducked for cover behind the overturned trailer.

Bullets pounded the sides, piercing the thin metal. He waited for the right moment before bolting away for the wreckage of a pickup truck with flames sputtering from under its hood.

Beckham had hoped the smoke would obscure the pilot’s vision, but the door gunner continued to pound his new location. Glass rained down on him as he flattened his body to the pavement and crawled under the back bumper.

The front wheels both exploded.

He had to move or he was going to die, pinned under a burning truck.

As he prepared to make his move, the bark of a second machine gun joined the fight. He clenched up, anticipating the fire, but the bullets weren’t intended for him. He slid out from the truck and watched as the door gunner tumbled out the troop hold.

The pilot pulled away, giving Beckham a perfect shot.

“Got ya, motherfucker,” he said, drawing himself up into a kneel and firing.

The rocket speared into the tail and sheared it off. The helicopter spun, tossing Chimeras out from the hold. Some survived the fall and tried to crawl away, but a Humvee swerved around a corner and slammed into them.

Ruckley gave a thumbs-up sign out the window.

“Reed!” a deep voice yelled.

Beckham turned back to the other truck, his heart flipping when he saw it was Horn and Timothy. Singe marks and ash covered their ACUs, but they appeared uninjured.

“We have to help reinforce this gate!” Horn said.

“Ruckley, keep the Humvee ready for us!” Beckham said.

He followed Horn and Timothy back toward the semi-trailer where they had a clear view of the fighting on the catwalks and watchtowers. At least ten Thrall Variants had climbed the walls from the other side of the gate and were leaping onto the catwalks to join in the skirmish, fighting beside the remaining Chimeras.

Most of the soldiers defending the gate appeared too young or too old to be fighting. As he ran, Beckham saw a boy no older than fourteen standing next to a guy with a white beard who had to be pushing seventy. The man held up a rifle to block a cutlass. The strike knocked him to his back on the catwalk. He shielded his face with a hand, and the Chimera cocked back his blade for the killing blow.

Before Beckham could unsling his rifle, a burst of gunfire erased the creature’s face.

“Nice shot!” Horn said.

Timothy adjusted his aim and then took out a Variant prowling toward a young soldier.

Half the Variants were at the top of the walls, mixing in with the Allied soldiers on the platforms.

“Watch your zone of fire!” Beckham shouted. He shouldered his rifle and went to work, sending bullets tearing through a few beasts still climbing over the lips of the walls. Three of the Chimeras dropped to their knees and aimed toward Beckham in response to the incoming fire. Before they got off a round, Horn’s M249 slung a fusillade of fire into their augmented bodies.

Timothy helped Beckham pick off the rest of the monsters one-by-one.

Their efforts were enough to regain control over the gate, and the surviving soldiers finished off the last few Chimeras.

Horn jogged over to Beckham, and they shared a brief hug. After pulling away, Beckham pulled Timothy into a hug too.

“Good timing, Captain,” Timothy said.

“Good shooting.”

The sounds of distant explosions and gunfire reminded him this was just one battle of many.

“Hold your positions and keep fighting!” Beckham yelled to the surviving soldiers along the wall. “This victory proves we can win!”

Beckham led the way back to the Humvee.

“Good to see your mug,” Horn said to Ruckley.

“You smell like always,” she replied. “But yeah, good to see you.”

Timothy chuckled as they jumped into the vehicle and started to drive back toward the command post. As Ruckley steered around the wreckage of a Black Hawk, the radio crackled with a chilling report.

“Breach on the seaborne wall! Reinforce immediately!”

“Fuck, we need to move,” Beckham said.

“We’ve got hostile choppers on the hospital now, too!” another voice stated. “Requesting immediate assistance!”

Beckham tried calling back on the radio, dialing it in to reach Kate, but there was no answer.

“No, no, no,” Beckham said, slamming his fists on the Humvee’s dash.

Horn put a hand on his shoulder.

“Ruckley, take us there now,” Beckham said.

“You got it, Captain.”

The Humvee sped down the debris-littered road. Beckham reloaded his rifle and tried to remain calm, but he struggled to contain his breathing.

“It’s going to be okay,” Timothy said. “We’ll save her.”

Beckham nodded, praying his young friend was right.

***

Azrael leaned out of the passenger seat of the MH-6 Little Bird helicopter, taking in the scent of burned flesh and death. Corpses littered the streets. Blood flowed freely.

It was a shame. Many of these humans could have joined the New Gods. But their ignorant and selfish leader had sacrificed them all in a futile attempt to preserve this pathetic country. Jan Ringgold was probably cowering deep underground, stubbornly hiding while she used her people as a shield of meat.

He would find her, and she would pay for this foolishness.

But first he was headed to Doctor Kate Lovato and her team. He had used the remote sensors his Scions had found in the Houston tunnels to track them down. It was a bit premature to be coming in this far to grab the scientist, but Azrael didn’t want to give her a chance to escape. Besides, other choppers were depositing collaborators and Variants around the island, and more of his forces flooded in from the breached walls on the eastern shore.

Twenty Scions from his death squads were already waiting on the hospital rooftop. They had made quick work of the few guards there.

The Little Bird touched down in the middle of the human corpses. Azrael strode out, the rotor wash kicking up his black cloak.

One of his Scions that had waited for his arrival knelt before him. “Prophet, we are ready.”

“Rise, Abaddon,” Azrael said.

The Scion stood again, facing him with golden eyes peering out behind a black mask.

“I want Kate and her team alive, but kill everyone else,” Azrael said. “Have all our ground forces in the area secure the exits.”

“Yes, Prophet,” Abaddon said.

Abaddon turned and led the death squads into the building, rushing down the stairs. From the pre-war schematics of the hospital, Azrael knew the clinical laboratory was on the second floor. That would be the most logical place for the science team to have set up their labs.

As Azrael followed his warriors into the building, he heard the cries of the injured. These helpless, weak humans would serve no purpose other than to feed his army.

He wasn’t sure why anyone would want to protect these breathing corpses, but a group of soldiers had set up a barricade of patient examination beds just inside the hall on the third floor.

“Kill them,” Azrael said.

A group of four Scions led by Abaddon scaled the wall, their claws finding purchase just like their Variant brothers. They maneuvered above the barricade and dropped behind the beds.

Agonized screams and the ripping of flesh echoed through the hallway. When those last dying moans grew silent, the four Scions emerged. Blood dripped from their maws and talons.

Azrael continued the trek down the hallway to a doorway that would take them to the second floor. As he passed patients, some of his forces peeled off to kill and feed. Azrael had given these humans all a chance to submit, a chance to accept his mercy. But Ringgold had refused, so he and his talented hunters showed them no quarter.

Some humans tried to crawl or scramble away, one of them running in front of Azrael. He reached out and grabbed the young man by his throat, lifting him up and crushing his windpipe. Then he tossed the limp body away.

His forces dominated any stubborn heretics foolish enough to fight them in the enclosed space, lashing out with their rifles and cutlasses when the skirmishes devolved into hand-to-hand combat. They churned through the facility like a wildfire devouring dry fields of grass.

A final group of soldiers had constructed another barricade in front of what looked to be the clinical laboratory. Abaddon waved his cutlass toward them, and the Scions charged. Bullets cut into their ranks, dropping a few, but the meat of the Scion ranks crashed into the barricade.

Patient beds tumbled. Chairs splintered and broke. Human soldiers fell back, screaming as the Scions pounced on them.

Azrael strode past them as his loyal followers ripped their flesh. His stomach growled hungrily as blood spilled over the floor, but his desire to find the infamous Kate Lovato exceeded his appetite.

He was close now.

As he stepped into the doorway, he spotted a group of scientists huddling in the back of the lab.

Azrael motioned for his soldiers. Together, they broke through the windows with their swords and rifles.

The Scions flooded in and surrounded the group. One of them was standing. To no surprise, it was exactly the person he had come here to see.

“Doctor Kate Lovato,” he said. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”

“And I, you, Doctor Charles Morgan,” she said.

“That name is no longer mine. Call me Azrael.”

“I’ll call you a monster, because that’s what you are.” She spat at him, hitting him in the face. One of his Scions grabbed her by an arm, his claws cutting through her white coat and drawing blood. She let out a surprised cry of pain.

Azrael roared and swung his cutlass right across the neck of the soldier. The Scion let go of Kate, pressing his fingers against the flap of bleeding flesh.

“I told you, no harm comes to her!” Azrael shouted.

The creature writhed as blood poured around his claws, and Abaddon dragged the disobedient soldier away.

“You don’t have to do this,” Kate said. “I know you were once a scientist who wanted to help humanity.”

“I am helping,” Azrael replied. “I offered mankind a way to evolve.”

“This isn’t evolution. It’s madness.”

“Ironic, considering you’re responsible for what you see before you.” Azrael gestured toward his Scions. “It was your bioweapon that altered my cure. It created the Scions and the Variants. And now you are trying to fight us, to make us extinct. Why do our lives not matter?”

“Because you’re trying to destroy all of us,” Kate said. “You preach about saving humanity, but you’re destroying it, Doctor Morgan.”

“That is not my name!” In a fit of anger, he shoved her.

Her head hit the wall with a heavy thud, and she collapsed. A woman with dreadlocks yelled out in surprise, bending to help.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Kate said to the other woman.

To Azrael’s surprise, Kate pushed herself back to her feet unaided.

“I’m trying to elevate humanity,” Azrael growled.

Kate rubbed the back of her head. “You cannot elevate humanity by turning us all into monsters or enslaving us.”

“I gave you a choice. All of you.”

“A choice of slavery or death, like you gave them?” She indicated the Scions with a wave of her hand. “How many of your people are sacrificing their lives needlessly to satisfy some grudge you’ve carried for over a decade?”

She turned to his Scions, appealing to them. “This
Prophet of yours is nothing but a fraud. He’s using you because he’s angry about what happened to him, not because he’s ushering in some great future.”

A couple of the soldiers looked at Azrael, almost as if they were uncertain who to believe. The others growled at Kate.

“Ignore the heretic,” Azrael said as calmly as he could. She was no longer worth his time. He lunged forward and grabbed Sammy this time. “You care about this woman, don’t you?”

Kate said nothing.

Azrael picked Sammy up by the neck. She kicked her legs and pulled at his fingers, her mouth opening, trying to suck down air that she couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me where President Ringgold is,” Azrael said.

Kate held up a hand. “Please, let her go.”

Azrael tightened his grip, watching his victim turn pale.

“Tell me, or I will crush her windpipe,” he said.

Kate looked conflicted, her eyes flicking between him and Sammy.

“All I want is to talk directly to your president,” Azrael said. “If you don’t tell me, I will slaughter every living soul until I meet her. You’ll be helping your people by telling me exactly where to go.”

Sammy gasped for air, blinking.

“Tell me where the president is hiding now!” he yelled.

Gunfire cut him off, the sound ringing out from the hallway. He heard the screams of humans, Chimeras, and Variants, another battle raging in the hospital.

“Tell me!” he roared.

Sammy’s eyes were bulging now.

“Let her go!” a man yelled.

“Ron, stop!” Kate said.

Ron rushed Azrael, his hand outstretched for Sammy. Before he could even touch her, Abaddon’s cutlass came down, separating the man’s head from his torso.

“RON!” another woman in a white coat yelled.

Sammy’s movements became weaker and slower.

“Is no one going to tell me?” he asked.

The other woman in the white coat finally broke, tears streaming down her face. “They’re at the Harbor House Hotel! Please, let her go!”

Azrael tossed Sammy at the woman.

More gunfire erupted down the hall, closer now.

“Someone’s broken through our lines outside,” one of the Scions said, his voice crackling. “Our loyalists said it looks like Reed Beckham was with them.”

Azrael snarled.

While he yearned to wait here and face Captain Reed Beckham, Master Sergeant Fitzpatrick, and all those other foolish traitors to make them pay for the pain they had caused, there was one other person more important to him.

President Jan Ringgold.

“Secure these prisoners,” Azrael said to his soldiers. They tied the science team up in cables and ropes from their packs.

“Stay here with one death squad,” Azrael said to Abaddon. “If I have learned anything about Beckham, it’s that he would fight through hell to see his pathetic wife. Take Reed, Ghost, or anyone else who shows up here alive if possible. If they cannot be taken alive, then destroy them.”

“Yes, Prophet,” Abaddon replied.

Azrael turned to leave but hesitated.

“Do not fail me,” he said.

His gaze moved to Kate.

“I’ll see you soon, Doctor,” he said.

— 26 —

Gunfire echoed through the hall. Timothy had not stopped firing and running through the hospital since they had taken out a squad of Chimeras guarding one of the entrances.

He pushed through a second-floor corridor filled with dead beasts. Beckham and Horn were far ahead, firing and taking down guards while Timothy helped Ruckley limp through the destruction.

All around them, disemboweled patients littered the hallways, some of them missing limbs.

His mind raced, wondering how the civilians were faring as the enemy tore through Galveston. Were Tasha, Jenny, Javier and the dogs safe?

Horn and Beckham had to be worried sick, but they weren’t showing it. Both men were machines, killing with calculated precision and moving past the macabre scenes without flinching.

All Timothy could do was take things one at a time. Advance to this corner, clear a hallway. Each time, his vision narrowed to the corridor and enemies before him. That mentality had gotten them through the hostile forces so far.

They reached another section of hallway choked with the bodies of soldiers, patients, and hospital staff who had given their lives. The smell of death and cordite hung heavy in the air as the team advanced.

“Almost there,” Beckham said. “Just one more turn on our left.”

Ruckley hobbled after him, carrying her M9.

They slowed when they approached the next corner. Beckham had told them the lab doors were situated at a T-intersection. Horn peered around the edge, then motioned that he had seen two hostiles.

Timothy’s heart sank. Had they already killed the science team?

He looked toward Beckham, but the experienced operator’s face was hard as steel. Beckham appeared to be considering their next moves. He motioned for Horn and Timothy to go down another hallway and loop back around so they could come at the lab from a different side, flanking the sentries. Beckham and Ruckley would stay behind, taking the sentries head on, keeping their attention while Horn and Timothy took them out.

Timothy nodded and ran down another set of halls. More bodies lined the corridors, and he tried not to let his eyes linger on all those who had lost their lives down here.

Focus, Timothy thought again. He remembered what Horn had told him before. Tomorrow they would mourn the dead; today they would fight to save the living.

He and Horn made it all the way around to the other side of the laboratory wing. They could see the sides of the two sentry Chimeras facing straight down the hallway where Ruckley and Beckham were.

Broken glass covered the hallway.

Timothy kept his rifle shouldered and took cover behind a sideways chair, providing him just enough shelter to stay out of sight. The Chimeras began to sniff the air, their nostrils pointed up.

Beckham and Ruckley opened fire and both creatures dove for cover, right into Timothy and Horn’s sights. They blasted the armored beasts, killing them instantly.

“Let’s go,” Horn said.

Timothy leapt over the busted chair and followed Horn. They jumped through the broken windows into the lab and then ducked behind the cover of the massive lab benches.

Beckham and Ruckley continued firing toward the lab entrance from the hall. Timothy leaned around a bench, seeing a pair of Chimeras standing over the scientists and engineers who had been working here.

Timothy shifted to another position to see how many other Chimeras were in the room. As he did, a beast in a black mask leapt over the lab bench, knocking aside computers and plastic vials. He landed hard on top of Horn and slammed his head into the ground.

Timothy leveled his rifle, but the half-man dodged past the burst of gunfire as it scrambled on all fours, slamming his shoulder into Timothy’s face.

The impact knocked Timothy back, his vision blurring. He felt clawed fingers tighten around his neck and blinked to see golden eyes staring at him.

“Never thought I would see you again,” the creature growled. The crackling voice sounded vaguely familiar.

The beast picked Timothy up and slammed him against a lab bench. Panicked cries rang out from the scientists and engineers.

Timothy tried to pull his knife, but the Chimera grabbed his hand, pinning him on his back to the bench.

Horn was still struggling to stand, his head rolling on his shoulder. Other Chimeras were firing into the hallway, keeping Beckham and Ruckley back.

The Chimera leaned closer.

“Do you not recognize me?” he snarled.

He pulled back his mask. His graying flesh was covered in scars and his nose was barely existent, but if Timothy squinted through his blurred vision, he could almost see the man, the collaborator, that this Chimera had once been.

“How about now?” the Chimera asked.

Timothy tried to talk, but he was too stunned.

“I am Abaddon,” the Chimera said. He pushed down on Timothy’s sternum. “But before I was chosen, I was called Nick.”

Timothy felt something pop in his chest. His vision went hazy, and his heart raced.

“You destroyed my family,” Nick said. “Now I’m going to make you suffer agony like you’ve never known.”

The gunfire in the hall continued in deafening bursts. Horn was starting to push himself upright, but the big operator looked dizzy, like he had suffered a traumatic concussion.

“Do you know how that feels?” Nick asked, leaning down toward Timothy. He spit in his face. “Losing everything?!”

Timothy struggled to breathe, but he managed a nod.

He pictured his father’s body on Peak’s Island and the faces of Donna and Bo, before they had died in the bat attack in Portland. He imagined his mother and the rest of his family who had been killed in the first war.

Nick had suffered his own share of misery, too. Now he was crazy, driven insane by the death of those he had loved. The true embodiment of evil. A twisted Chimera, fighting and killing for the New Gods.

Timothy felt the wooden beads of Tasha’s bracelet against his wrist. He still had something left to fight for.

“Do you know what it feels like?!” Nick roared again, demanding an answer.

Timothy stretched one hand toward his hip, toward the holster there, fighting against the pain coursing through his nerves. He tore his pistol out and pushed it against Nick’s stomach. He pulled the trigger once, twice, three times.

The Chimera staggered backward.

Timothy got up and fired again, but Nick still managed to pull his cutlass from his back and started to swing it down. A hand grabbed the Chimera’s wrist.

“Don’t fuck with the mountain’s future son in-law,” Horn said.

Before the beast could turn toward Horn, Timothy leveled the gun into Nick’s face and pulled the trigger.

He crumpled to the ground, right in front of Horn. The big man ducked down to pick up a rifle. Three remaining Chimeras were distracted and firing down the hallway, holding back Beckham and Ruckley.

Horn took them down in three bursts.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Horn shouted. He wobbled, uneven on his feet.

“Clear!” Timothy called out. He leaned on a lab bench, trying to catch his breath. Every gasp felt like someone was twisting a knife in his side. Blood dribbled down his face as he finally limped toward the scientists and engineers.

Kate was kneeling beside one of her injured scientists. Her eyes were wet with tears. Another researcher was already dead, beheaded by the abominations.

“You okay, Kate?” Horn asked.

Timothy bent down next to her.

She nodded and rose as Beckham rushed into the lab. They met each other in a deep embrace while Timothy moved to stand sentry with Ruckley.

“Jesus, you all right, Temper?” she asked.

“My ribs…” He grimaced in pain.

“You guys did good,” Ruckley said to Horn.

“Wasn’t me,” Horn said. “It was all Temper.”

Beckham and Kate parted. She glanced down at the headless corpse and closed her eyes.

“We need to get the rest of you to safety,” Beckham said.

“There’s no time,” Kate said. “The Prophet was here. He’s headed for President Ringgold now. You’ve got to stop him.”

“I will.” Beckham looked at Horn. “Ruckley and Timothy, you stay with them.”

“I can help,” Timothy said.

“No, you can’t,” Kate said. “I’m sorry, Timothy, but you might have a broken rib or worse after that. You push yourself, you’ll die.”

“She’s right,” Beckham said. “Timothy, protect the science team. Big Horn, you okay?”

“Got a concussion probably, but it’s not my first. Had plenty in my football days. I can manage, boss.”

Beckham measured up Horn with an uncertain look, but Timothy knew that like Ruckley, Horn was going to fight whether he could or not.

“Ruckley, take the science team to shelter in the basement of the hospital,” Beckham said. “There’s a storage facility near the morgue you can lock down and hide in until this is over.” He clasped a hand over Timothy’s shoulder. “You did good. Made me and your dad proud.”

“I did what I had to,” Timothy said. “Now go kill that bastard for me and my dad.”

***

Dohi awoke on the stage in the throne room, blinking until his vision cleared. He felt the warm grasp of webbing tendrils over his chest, holding him in place.

On either side of the stage were the masterminds. Both of them moved lethargically from their injuries. At the front of the stage, Rico and Fitz were pinned down by webbing and guarded by a pair of Chimeras.

Crunching and ripping came from the seats bordering the stage where three juveniles feasted on Esparza’s remains.

“Ah, you’re awake,” came a voice.

Elijah jumped onto the stage, striding over while holding a cutlass.

Dohi fought against his constraints, anger warming his entire body.

“Bring in Murphy,” Elijah said.

Rico and Fitz squirmed as a side door opened and three collaborators in rubber aprons pushed out a surgical cart. An old doctor with a bent back followed them onto the stage, shuffling along.

The chatter of gunfire reverberated in from outside the building, and the four Chimeras guarding the throne room shifted about, almost as if they were nervous, keeping their weapons aimed at the entrance.

“Call off your dying dogs, Fitzpatrick,” Elijah said. He bent down and poked a hole in the glue over Fitz’s mouth with a claw so he could talk. “Tell the heretics outside that this battle is over, or we will transform her right now, right in front of you.” He angled his sword toward Rico. “Right, Murphy?”

“Without painkillers of any kind,” the doctor said.

Rico thrashed, her voice muffled by the glue over her mouth.

Elijah snapped his claws. One of the damaged masterminds lifted a tremoring hand to pull on the red webbing. A few vines dangled from the ceiling, descending toward Rico and shedding damaged pieces from the attack.

The intact pulsating red tendrils wrapped around Rico’s wrists and legs. Then they pulled her up, snapping her free of the other restraints and yanking her into an X-shape. Thinner strands snaked into her nostrils.

Dohi could almost feel the sensation himself. Dark memories of his time in the tunnels returned. He knew the pain and horror. He remembered the voices that would now be calling into her head from other humans imprisoned in the organic network as she became integrated with the webbing.

“Call off your forces,” Elijah said.

Fitz remained silent, clearly trying to buy time.

“You heretics are hopeless,” Elijah said. He nodded at Murphy.

The doctor bent down to examine the tools on his surgical cart. He opened one of the stainless-steel boxes. Dohi had just enough of a view to see a roping chunk of intestine on ice.

The three juveniles that had devoured Esparza began to prowl around the stage, their yellow eyes sizing up Rico and Fitz hungrily.

“The first step is integrating Variant organs into her body,” Murphy said.

“And it is an extraordinarily painful operation,” Elijah added.

Fitz glared at the beast, then over at Dohi.

Stay strong. All it takes is all you got, brother.

Murphy examined the surgical blade he had selected, rotating it in the dim light of the throne room. He brought it close to Rico. She writhed in the grip of the vines, but in response, the webbing stretched more tautly.

“No!” Fitz shouted.

Dohi pushed against his restraints, trying to free a hand. If he could get one free, maybe…

A Chimera strode over and put a cutlass to his belly.

“Move again, and I gut you, heretic,” he grumbled.

A rash of gunfire exploded somewhere outside the throne room. This time, it sounded like it might have even come from inside the command building. The Chimera lowered his cutlass and turned his back to Dohi.

The doctor looked up from his cart of tools. Four Chimeras moved toward the entrance to the throne room.

At that moment, Dohi braced his feet against the wall and summoned all of the strength in his legs, pushing against the webbing covering his chest. His nerves screamed as he strained muscles already bruised from his injuries.

But thoughts of what the beasts had done to Ace and Lincoln and Mendez fueled him.

Vines ripped away, and he lunged forward with an animalistic war cry, ramming hard into the Chimera. Dohi grabbed a sheathed knife on the back of the soldier’s belt.

More gunshots came from the hallway, followed by cursing screams.

Dohi drowned it all out.

His world shrunk to his target as he pulled the knife and rammed it into the side of the creature’s neck. He punched another hole into his throat, then a third.

The Chimera slumped, gushing blood, and Dohi picked up the cutlass.

He held the blades out and shouted, “Come and get it!”

The Chimera guarding Fitz strode over, swinging his own blade. Dohi jumped back from the slicing blade. The beast swung again, and Dohi ducked lower, the air above his head whooshing past. He struck out with his cutlass, splitting the creature’s belly open, and then closed in to stab his knife into its neck.

The vines around Rico coiled tighter like a boa constrictor around prey, and Dohi could see the color draining from her face as he searched for the next hostile.

Elijah stood beside the doctor Murphy and his three cronies. They all watched, saying nothing. The juveniles prowled toward him, waiting to strike, and two other Chimeras aimed rifles at him.

“What now?” Elijah asked.

“I’ll kill you all,” Dohi said. He stood his ground, chest heaving, fresh blood dripping off his blades.

“Like your bearded friend tried?” Elijah laughed. “You have the heart of a warrior, but your faith is misplaced. You won’t leave this room alive.”

Dohi looked over at Fitz who was squirming on the ground. Rico stared down at them both, face pale and eyes bulging.

Elijah pointed at the masterminds, and webbing snaked from the floor, wrapping around Dohi. He hacked through the climbing tendrils and jumped away, but the juveniles easily cornered him.

This was it. Nowhere to run.

Soon he would see Ace, Mendez, and Lincoln again.

Reunited as brothers in death.

He raised the blades and screamed again, charging at the juveniles.

The creatures hesitated, seeming confused. They twisted, growling and looking at the doorway.

At the entrance were four more Chimeras. At first, Dohi thought they were more enemies.

But he recognized one.

Corrin.

He and his companions had killed the remaining Chimera guards near the entrance. Corrin stormed the room while unleashing a hail of bullets, his team of three Chimeras following him.

The guards near Elijah returned fire and dove for cover as the juveniles bounded away from Dohi, launching themselves toward their new targets. Two of Corrin’s allies went down, and Elijah jumped off the stage to avoid the onslaught of incoming rounds.

Dohi wasted no time rushing straight for Rico.

Murphy shrieked and tried to cower behind her, but Dohi swung the cutlass into his bent back, slicing it open. The three assistants had already fled.

Rico looked down at Dohi as he hacked the vines holding her in place. She collapsed to the stage in a heap of limbs. The vines around her chest wriggled and loosened.

“Fitz,” she moaned before her eyes fluttered closed.

Dohi scrambled over to free his other friend while his enemies were distracted. A few slices was all it took. Fitz broke through the rest of his restraints.

He crawled over the stage toward Rico, and Dohi took off for the remaining Chimera fighting with Elijah. Corrin’s last ally went down in a blaze of fire, but at least the juveniles were all dead now.

Dohi leapt off the stage and stabbed his knife into the head of a Chimera firing next to Elijah. The other beast turned his aim toward Dohi as he crashed to the ground.

With a swift strike, Dohi speared his cutlass into the Chimera’s guts, then pulled down, spilling ropy intestines. He withdrew the blade and stood to face Elijah. The big Chimera was now holding two swords.

Corrin advanced down the aisle, snarling.

“It’s over,” he said.

“Not for me, you heretics!” Elijah screamed.

Dohi climbed over broken seats and joined Corrin in the aisle, approaching Elijah with their swords cocked back.

“For Ace,” Dohi said.

Corrin nodded.

The two soldiers swung their blades toward Elijah. He met their blades with his own in a shrieking crash of metal on metal, sparks flying. The impact of the metal-on-metal sent both Dohi and Corrin stumbling backward.

Dohi fought through the pain of his injuries, standing unsteadily. Corrin looked to be in equally bad shape, blood streaming from a bullet wound to the shoulder and another to his arm.

On the stage, Fitz was giving Rico mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She had been in worse shape than Dohi thought.

“There’s no way you get out of here alive,” Corrin said.

“Perhaps not,” Elijah said. He paced in the narrow aisle, stalking and sizing Corrin and Dohi up like a lion examining its prey. “But I will take you with me.”

Howling, he lunged toward them, swinging his blades. Dohi parried the attack, nearly losing his grip on the sword from the tremendous force of Elijah’s strike. Corrin swung, but Elijah dodged out of the way and then struck back, splitting part of Corrin’s chest to reveal muscle and the white of his ribs.

“NO!” Dohi screamed.

He tried to thrust his blade into Elijah, but Elijah struck out with his other weapon. This time Dohi was too slow to deflect the blow. The blade cut into his thigh. He went down hard a few feet from Corrin.

Elijah stabbed Corrin through the chest, skewering him with a crunch. The smaller Chimera struggled, grasping at the blade with his claws, trying desperately to keep Elijah from pushing it deeper.

Grunting, Dohi forced himself upright with his blade in hand.

He swung the cutlass one last time, summoning every bit of power he had left in his battered body. Elijah tried to avoid it, but he had been too intent on killing Corrin.

The blade cut into the broken skull mask covering his face. Blood and flesh flew away with the shattered bone.

Elijah let go of the blade in Corrin’s chest, turning toward Dohi as he swung again with all his might. The blade cut into his neck, tearing through the flesh and cleaving bone until his head hung to the side by a few bits of stringy muscle.

Dohi kicked him backward into the broken seats. The Chimera tumbled over the side, his head snapping free and rolling away.

“Corrin,” Dohi said.

He crouched next to his friend, gasping for air.

“You did it,” Corrin croaked.

“We did it, brother,” Dohi said. He eyed the sword sticking through Corrin’s chest, trying to determine how best to remove it.

“It’s okay,” Corrin said, no doubt seeing the realization in Dohi’s eyes. “I’m ready for death.”

“No, you’re not going to die. I won’t lose another brother.”

“I died a long time ago, my friend. Fighting with you and Ghost was a great honor…”

Corrin blinked. “Don’t forget me, friend.”

“I won’t ever.”

His eyes locked with Dohi as his chest went still.

“Corrin,” Dohi said. “Corrin…”

He put a finger to his neck but there was no pulse. With a deep sigh, Dohi gently closed his friend’s eyelids, then pushed himself up.

Dohi staggered, his injured leg threatened to give out. Blood soiled his pants from the deep wound. He used the cutlass as a crutch to walk back to the stage where Fitz was still holding Rico in his arms.

“Corrin?” he asked.

“Gone,” Dohi said. “Is Rico okay?”

“She’s in shock, but she’s breathing. We have to get her out of here.”

“I’ll finish the masterminds,” Dohi said. He picked up a rifle and aimed at the beasts, but as soon as he brought up the weapon his vision blurred. He stumbled, then fell to one knee.

“Dohi!” Fitz shouted.

Dohi collapsed to his back, eyes on the web-covered ceiling. Fitz scrambled over.

“Dohi, stay with me,” Fitz said.

He tried his best, but his vision went dark, and in his mind’s eye, Dohi saw Ace, Lincoln, Mendez, Corrin, and the spirits of all the warriors lost over the years.

I knew I would see you again, brothers.

— 27 —

“Madam President, I have good news and bad news,” Souza said.

“Good news, first,” Ringgold replied.

“We just got word from Ghost. Los Alamos is now under our control.” He put down the radio, but he didn’t smile. “Unfortunately, the Prophet was not there… he’s here in Galveston.”

“What?” She tightened the strap of her rifle, then felt the bulge under her jacket where her M9 was tucked into her waistband for reassurance.

The command staff on the balcony of the watchtower platform all looked over, and the three Secret Service agents on the platform shot Ringgold nervous glances.

“Doctor Lovato was taken hostage by him, but the Prophet fled when Captain Beckham arrived,” Souza said. “Captain Beckham is now hunting the Prophet with Master Sergeant Horn.”

“Beckham will take him down,” Ringgold said, ready to breathe a sigh of relief.

“I hope so,” Souza said. “Doctor Lovato warned us that the Prophet is coming for you.”

“Good thing we have two of our best soldiers hunting him,” Ringgold replied. She looked out over the watchtower platform at the Harbor House Hotel. The rain had stopped. All the enemy choppers had been taken out, but there were still thousands of enemy forces out there.

Columns of oily smoke snaked into the air across the base. Constant gunfire and the thuds of explosions resonated from every direction between screams of pain and shrieks from hunting beasts.

Cornelius walked over with his M4A1 cradled over his chest. “We’re getting reports of more breaches along the eastern and western walls.”

He looked out over the eastern part of the base. “Don’t worry, Madam President. We will hold them.”

Soprano rushed over with another handheld radio. “I’m hearing that Variants are invading some of the civilian shelters on the southern part of downtown.”

Ringgold felt a wave of sickness. “Is there anything we can send to help them?”

Cornelius looked out over the raging fires and flashes of gunfire to the west. “We can pull a few teams away from the walls.”

“Make it happen,” Ringgold said.

Cornelius nodded at one of his men.

Another explosion bloomed just a block away to their south. Flames roared up the side of a former hotel. The tongues of fire illuminated nearly twenty Variants and juveniles galloping down the street. A massive Alpha heaved the charcoaled husk of a car toward a group of soldiers behind a barricade of sandbags.

“Take them out!” Cornelius said.

A gunner on the platform directed his M240 and fired into the ranks of the monsters. Blasts from the sniper rifles followed. The Alpha lumbered toward the sandbags, rounds punching into its muscular frame.

“Jesus,” Cornelius yelled. “Give me that.”

He reached out for a sniper rifle and took it from the soldier. Slinging his M4A1 over his back, Cornelius then shouldered the long rifle, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The top of the Alpha’s head flew off, and the beast dropped in front of the sandbags. Cornelius handed the gun back to the soldier and walked back over to Ringgold.

“Nice shot,” she said.

Cornelius unslung his rifle, and Souza shouldered his weapon as more creatures advanced on the streets outside the hotel.

“Madam President, you should shelter inside,” Soprano said.

Her Secret Service agents moved toward her, ready to escort her down the stairs into the hotel.

“No,” she replied, raising her rifle. “I’m ready to fight.”

Cornelius raised a brow. “I sort of regret running against Lemke and your party now. God rest his soul, but you know what I mean.”

Ringgold nodded. “I’m sure he gladly would have run with you on the ticket.”

The shriek of Variants silenced them.

“Oh, Jesus,” Soprano said. He crossed his chest and then pumped his shotgun.

“Get ready!” Cornelius yelled.

Gunfire from collaborators on another rooftop pinged off the walls. The agents surrounded Ringgold, bringing their rifles up as she aimed her barrel, recalling the lessons Cornelius had taught her over the past few days. She kept the sights on the center mass of her target and fired.

Each squeeze of the trigger was deliberate and careful, the stock of her rifle kicking back slightly against her shoulder. A collaborator dropped from one of her rounds.

She paused for a moment from the shock of taking a human life. The Variants were one thing but…

No, these men are also monsters.

The sound of gunfire and screams snapped her back to reality. The beasts were coming from all directions now, storming through Galveston. She aimed at the Variants, trying to hit them, but they moved so damn fast.

A jammed round forced her to lower her rifle and clear the chamber. By the time she shouldered her rifle again, some of the fighting on the streets had turned into hand-to-hand combat.

The Chimeras and Variants lunged at the men and women clinging to survival, tearing at their flesh with claws and teeth.

Again and again, she squeezed the trigger.

The crack of gunfire sounded all around her, answering the howls of the beasts threatening to overwhelm them from below.

An hour of the fighting raged until corpses littered the street. Puddles on the asphalt turned red with blood.

Seeing all of the pale corpses of the monsters filled Ringgold with hope that they could hold out for the arrival of the Mexican and Canadian reinforcements.

A strange moment of silence passed over the watchtower as she reloaded. Sporadic gunshots echoed, but they seemed more spread out and further away.

“Anyone got eyes?” Cornelius called.

“We’re getting reports of movement to the north!” Souza called from the enclosed area with the comms officers.

“I see them!” one of the snipers called out from the north wall. “A whole—”

Before he finished his sentence, half his face was blown away by an incoming round. His body fell backward. Cornelius took the position and opened fire.

“On me!” he shouted.

Souza and a group of three soldiers moved over to help. Ringgold strained for a look at the targets, her Secret Service agents following her. Between the columns of smoke, she saw Chimeras running toward the hotel.

One of those monsters wore a black cloak that she recognized from the horrific video of when Lemke had been butchered. A phalanx of Chimeras ran close to protect the huge beast.

Variants and juveniles swarmed onto the street from neighboring buildings.

Gunfire suddenly pounded the platform. Ringgold went down on her stomach, the Secret Service agents crowding her. She watched as Cornelius jerked back from a round to the shoulder. He regained his balance and kept firing.

A pair of the machine gunners and the three snipers on the other walls rushed to help thwart the incoming attack.

One of her Secret Service agents tried to help Ringgold back to her feet when a bullet lanced through his throat. Blood sprayed on her as he collapsed on top of her body.

“Get her out of here!” Cornelius yelled.

Soprano grabbed Ringgold, and with the help of the two surviving agents, pulled her out from under the dead man. She watched in horror as a set of claws reached up and grabbed a sniper at the wall, pulling him over the side.

Soprano started to pull her away from the north side as Chimeras climbed over the platform and tore into the soldiers there. One of the beasts struck Souza in the face with a cutlass, severing his jaw. He reached up, but then fell to the platform, his dead eyes on Ringgold.

“No,” she choked.

Cutlasses hacked into the soldiers, separating limbs and heads. Cornelius and three of his men rushed to stop the advancing monsters.

“Let me go!” she yelled at Soprano.

He loosened his grip, and she raised her rifle, her two remaining agents aiming their own weapons. They both went down suddenly, from sniper rounds.

Rage flowed through her as she ducked down and changed her magazine, struggling to click it into the rifle.

“Madam President, watch out!” Soprano called.

She looked up as a Chimera climbed the wall and dropped onto the platform. Soprano stepped in front of her and fired the shotgun into the super soldier. It jerked backward and growled at Soprano who pumped the weapon.

“Oh fuck,” he said.

He turned to look at Ringgold as the Chimera thrust his cutlass through his chest, skewering him before yanking the blade out.

Soprano dropped in front of her, whispering his final words. “I’m sorry.”

The Chimera started toward her, blood gushing from the shotgun blast to his side. He raised his cutlass when a bullet burst through his eye.

Cornelius ran across the platform, lowering his pistol. He grabbed Ringgold and started to pull her away, but five Chimeras had cornered them, three on one side and two on the other.

She came together with her back against the general.

“This is it,” Cornelius said. “Make each bullet count.”

He raised his pistol and Ringgold aimed her rifle, fighting the sheer terror and shock gripping her body. Two of the Chimeras fell under their fire, but the other three made it through. One slammed into Cornelius and locked his claws into the general’s arm, squeezing and forcing him to drop the pistol. A headbutt to the face from the creature knocked Cornelius unconscious.

Another creature yanked her rifle away and then angled a cutlass at her.

“We have the heretics!” screamed the half-man guarding Cornelius.

Another monstrous shape climbed over the side of the wall.

Azrael.

He heaved himself onto the platform, then surveyed the carnage. With a snort, he pulled his cutlass from over his back. He stalked toward Ringgold, black cape fluttered behind him.

The three Chimeras parted, letting him approach. Cornelius was still limp on the ground, unconscious.

“It’s over,” Azrael said. “You have lost, Jan Ringgold.”

“It’s not over,” she managed to reply.

Azrael narrowed his golden eyes, the point of his cutlass touching her neck. “After all this time, you still don’t understand.” He gestured out over Galveston with his claws. “You have killed your people by failing to submit and join the New Gods.”

“Death is better than slavery,” she replied.

Ringgold held his gaze and inched her hand toward the pistol tucked under her jacket.

“We took Los Alamos,” she said, trying to buy time. “We freed your prisoners, and they’ve joined us.”

Azrael prodded his cutlass under her chin, forcing her head up. “I’m not worried about a group of dying, weak heretics. We will take Los Alamos back after we finish taking Galveston.”

“Maybe, but you won’t be there to see it.”

At first, Azrael looked confused.

She whipped out her M9 and aimed it straight into his gut. A pull of the trigger put a round into his flesh, making him jerk back. His eyes widened slightly as she fired two more shots. Both bullets, making him recoil. Before she could fire a fourth shot, a cutlass came down on her hand from one of the Chimeras.

She tried to pull the trigger again, but her finger wouldn’t work.

A glance down and she saw her severed hand laying on the floor of the platform next to the pistol.

Blood pumped out of her wrist, and the pain set in, electricity cutting through her nerves. She let out a scream as the pain pierced her shock.

Azrael grabbed her by the throat and lifted her off the ground.

“The Allied States is mine,” he roared.

***

Beckham lunged over another dead Variant in the stairwell inside the Harbor House Hotel leading up to the watchtower platform. Horn followed him, wobbling slightly as he took the steps two-at-a-time, the effects of the concussion getting to him.

The advance here had been difficult. He and Horn had traveled through abandoned and burning buildings, avoiding as many of the enemy forces as they could. Twice they had to stop and engage Chimeras, but they had made it here.

Now came the hard part.

Leading the way, Beckham snuck up the last few steps toward the platform above the hotel. He paused on a landing and pointed up with his prosthetic hand, gesturing to Horn when he heard a voice.

“We will never surrender…”

Beckham wasn’t surprised that it was President Ringgold.

He glanced back at Horn who nodded back. They advanced slowly, their weapons at the ready. As they reached the top of the stairs, Beckham spotted both Ringgold and Cornelius on the platform against one of the four-foot-high walls.

Three Chimeras loomed over them, two with cutlasses drawn, and a fourth, larger beast stood between them. It had to be the Prophet, Azrael.

The abomination of science and nature angled his sword at the president, but then slowly turned, sniffing the air. His golden eyes landed on Beckham.

“Reed Beckham, is that actually you in the flesh? Ah, I can smell your fear.”

Two Chimera guards walked over to the top of the stairs wielding their cutlasses while the third Chimera drew up its rifle and fired.

“Down!” Beckham screamed. He slammed into Horn, knocking him down the stairs as bullets slammed into their former position. By the time they got up, the two Chimeras had rushed down the steps to the landing.

One of the creatures pounced on Horn, knocking him down the stairs while the second beast swung the cutlass at Beckham. He countered the blow with his rifle, deflecting the blade.

The Chimera pushed hard and pinned him to the landing. Beckham swiveled enough to get the monster off his chest, leaving a slight opening for the creature to chomp down at his neck. The Chimera took the bait, and Beckham whipped up his arm to block the attack. The creature bit into it, tearing at his limb.

But Beckham felt no pain.

The monster had attacked his prosthetic and did not yet seem to realize his fatal mistake.

With his good hand, Beckham reached for his Ka-Bar and stabbed it into the side of the beast’s exposed neck, unleashing a torrent of crimson.

The creature clawed at his own neck to try and staunch the bleeding, his mouth opening and closing in desperation, as if begging for his life.

Beckham shoved it off, then scrambled to grab the Chimera’s cutlass.

“Boss, look out!” Horn said, still wrestling with the other soldier on the stairs below. Gunfire lanced into the landing, and Beckham grabbed the dying Chimera to use him as a shield from the Chimera with the rifle that had nearly killed him and Horn before.

The beast was at the top of the stairs now, firing down. As soon as it stopped to reload, Beckham pulled out a pistol from the holster of the dead Chimera he was using as a shield and aimed, firing into the face of the sniper. The monster toppled down the stairs and landed on top of Beckham and the other creature.

Beckham fell back under the weight of the dead Chimeras, his head hitting the landing hard. As he squirmed to get free, a figure emerged on the platform above.

“I’ve waited too long for this,” Azrael said. “Get up and face me!”

“Boss, no!” Horn called out.

His voice sounded distant, but Beckham could see him on the landing below.

Horn had managed to get out from under the Chimera. He smashed the beast’s skull against the brick wall of the stairwell. Over and over, he bashed the head, the monster spasming with each blow.

Azrael walked down the stairs, a blood-soaked cutlass in hand. “I was going to give you one last chance to join the New Gods, but now I’m just going to gut you and your ugly friend and drape your intestines over the walls.”

Howls and shrieks of approaching Variants sounded over the grisly voice of their master.

Beckham tried to free himself, but the weight of the two creatures was too much to lift at the awkward angle he had fallen. He still held the pistol, but he couldn’t raise it enough to shoot Azrael where he stood.

The Prophet moved slowly down the stairs, gripping his stomach with one hand and limping. Blood drooled out of multiple gunshot wounds.

If the brute kept coming closer, then soon he would be within Beckham’s aim. He prepared to fire the pistol, hoping Azrael hadn’t seen it.

Azrael reached down and heaved the smaller Chimeras off Beckham, then stomped on his wrist before he could pull the trigger. His fingers splayed from the impact and the pistol clattered down the steps.

Beckham cried out in agony, unable to hold in the scream.

“BOSS!” Horn shouted.

Variants pounded up the stairs toward him as he got up, weaponless except for his fists.

“Horn,” Beckham choked.

“Look at me!” Azrael shouted.

Beckham met the soulless gaze of the monster and prepared to meet his fate. He had held onto hope that he could save Galveston and his family, but how could they win against such evil?

Azrael suddenly looked down the stairs as the Variants bounded up the stairs.

“I want you to watch,” Azrael growled.

Four Thrall Variants jumped to the landing where Horn waited with his fists raised. The creatures shrieked, sucker lips smacking, ready to feed.

“Fuck you!” Horn yelled. He punched one of them in the face, breaking the jaw with a crack. Then he picked up a second and tossed it down the stairs. The other two beasts jumped onto him, sinking claws into his flesh.

“HORN!” Beckham yelled.

The Variants slammed Horn into the railing along the wall, before they all tumbled backward down the stairs out of Beckham’s sight. He heard the bodies tumbling and smacking against the wall and stairs with sickening thumps.

Images of Horn’s girls and then his own family flashed through his eyes.

All the people he loved. Those who still lived. Those he had lost.

Thousands of lives depended on the outcome of this battle.

He could not let them down. He could not let his country down.

Beckham felt the cold blade of a cutlass tracing up his vest to his chin.

“I’m going to eat your heart first,” Azrael said. “And I will make your wife and son watch.”

Beckham swung his prosthetic hand at the blade, but Azrael countered it with a blow that cleaved off the prosthetic and the straps holding it to the remnants of his flesh-and-blood arm.

Then he brought the cutlass above his head and let out a deafening howl.

Three loud gunshots rang out from above.

For a moment, Azrael looked at Beckham, confusion and shock in his gaze. Beckham detected something else there. Something primal. A human emotion beneath the face of the monster.

Fear.

Azrael’s mouth gaped open, and he dropped the cutlass.

When he fell to the side, Beckham saw Ringgold looking down at him with a pistol in her remaining hand. She dropped the weapon and grabbed the stump where her other hand had been.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind Beckham, and he turned, ready to face yet another attacker.

Instead, he saw a familiar face.

“Boss,” Horn gasped. He towered over Beckham, bruised, bloody, and bulging muscles throbbing. A true mountain of a man.

He reached down to help Beckham to his feet. Holding on to each other, the Delta Operators and best friends made their way up the stairs to their president.

She had sat next to Cornelius again, resting her back against a wall.

The grizzled general had his eyes closed. At first, Beckham feared the man was dead, but when he felt the general’s neck, he detected a weak pulse pressing up against his finger.

He turned to Ringgold next. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

“Just paying you back for all the times you saved mine,” she said with a weak smile.

Beckham used his knife to cut strips off the shredded sleeve over his missing prosthetic, wincing in the pain from his injured wrist. He used the strips as a tourniquet to stop her bleeding, but she had already lost so much. It covered her shirt and pants.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said.

She could hardly nod. “Is it over?”

Beckham wanted to tell her yes, but gunfire still rang out between the screams of people and the howls of beasts.

Horn picked up an M4 and checked the magazine, then slammed it home.

“Boss, we’ve got more incoming,” he said. “We better get the president and general out of here.”

“No,” Ringgold said. “You go. Save your families.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Beckham said.

A sudden clash of footsteps sounded from the stairwell at the center of the platform leading up from the hotel. Three collaborators emerged, covered in blood and ash. Before they could so much as aim their rifles, Horn mowed them down with an M4.

“We have to move,” Beckham said. “Come on, we’re getting you—”

Ringgold wrapped her fingers around his injured wrist. Then he saw the blood coming out from under her jacket and realized why there was so much.

She had a second wound, a bullet to the abdomen.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, Madam…”

“Reed, I’m not going to make it,” she said, her voice sounding weaker than before. “And if we do win this fight, I need you to promise me you’ll keep fighting.”

“I’ll never stop.”

He reached out to press his hand against her stomach to staunch the bleeding.

“It’s too late for me.” She shook her head. “Let me die with dignity.”

Slowly, he pulled his hand away.

“Reed, I need you to promise me,” she said.

“Anything. Just tell me what.”

“Run for president. Preserve our… democracy. Protect this country.” She coughed. “The country and the world are going to need you.”

Beckham hesitated, but he couldn’t deny his president her dying wish.

“I will,” he said. “You have my word.”

A slight smile passed across her face, and a final sigh rushed out of her nose.

“Godspeed, Madam President,” he whispered. He blinked away the tears and bent down to kiss her on the forehead.

Scattered gunshots rang out, drawing closer.

Horn looked away from the wall toward Ringgold. “Is she…?”

“She’s gone,” Beckham said.

For a moment, Horn was quiet and bowed his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s not time to mourn. We have to get to the shelters.”

Beckham nodded. “Help me with the general.”

Horn bent down and slowly lifted Cornelius, preparing to hoist him into a fireman’s carry despite his injuries. The general’s eyes opened slowly, roving across the platform, and Horn helped him lean against the wall instead of picking him up.

“No,” Cornelius muttered, Horn offering him his shoulder. “Is she…”

“She’s gone, sir,” Horn said. “Let me help you. We have to move.”

Horn and Beckham bent down, but Cornelius pushed himself up on his own.

“What about Command?” Cornelius asked. “Is Festa still alive?”

“I’m not sure,” Horn said.

Cornelius picked up a rifle, wincing in pain from the wound in his shoulder.

“You good?” Beckham asked.

“I’ll make it,” he said.

They both looked at Ringgold one last time before proceeding to the stairs and heading down.

As they made it to the lobby of the hotel, Variants looked up from their meals between the scattered desks and snarled. Horn took one out with his rifle, and then fired bursts at the others, sending the thin beasts sprawling in pools of their own blood.

Beckham held an M9, but his wrist hurt so bad, he wasn’t sure he could pull the trigger. Feeling helpless, he stumbled along toward the street. Cornelius limped along slowly, struggling to keep his own weapon up.

Despite the beating Horn had taken, the injuries didn’t seem to slow the big man down.

He took point, firing calculated shots in the Thrall Variants they encountered on the street. Gunfire exploded in waves across Galveston, and Beckham feared, even if they made it to shelter, it wouldn’t be long before the beasts found them again, finishing the job the Prophet had started.

After eliminating another pack of monsters, Beckham finally saw the concrete bunker with its thick steel doors where their kids were hiding. Corpses of humans and monsters lay all around it, but the doors still appeared secured, locked from the inside. They approached cautiously, walking through smoke drifting away from a burning truck.

A distant rumble sounded, forcing them to stop and crouch behind the truck. As the noise grew louder, they turned to the east. Black dots flew across the sky, getting larger as they approached.

“Are they ours?” Cornelius asked.

Horn scoped the sky, and then lowered the weapon with a smile. “Must be the reinforcements our allies promised. Just in time to clean this place up.”

Beckham kept moving to the shelter as the aircraft closed in on Galveston.

The noise of their engines enveloped the island, and parachutes bloomed in long lines behind them, troops descending toward this now sacred patch of Texas.

Beckham tapped on the steel door with the pistol in his injured hand. “Captain Reed Beckham, open up!”

The door clicked, unlocked, and opened a hair. Connor, the Secret Service agent, assigned to protect his family, looked out.

“Oh, thank God,” Connor said, opening the door. “Kate just radioed in asking where you were.”

“She’s okay?” Beckham asked.

Connor nodded, locking the door to the shelter behind them. “Safe as of ten minutes ago.”

He let Cornelius wrap an arm around his shoulder, then guided him to a seat near the entry. Muffled gunfire and shrieks exploded above them, and the lights to the shelter sizzled on and off over the frightened faces.

“Dad!” shouted a young voice.

Beckham and Horn both rushed over to greet their kids. Javier hugged Beckham, and Tasha and Jenny both embraced their father. A few booms rumbled through the shelter full of civilians, and Beckham tightened his arms around his son.

“Dad, you’re hurt,” Jenny said.

“I’ll be okay. Are you girls fine?”

Tasha loosened her grip. “Timothy is okay, right?”

“I think so,” Horn said. “He’s with Kate.”

A radio positioned near the shelter’s door came to life. “Lieutenant Festa calling all shelters. General Vance and Hernandez of the Canadian and Mexican militaries have confirmed the arrival of their reinforcements. They are helping our troops retake the streets. I repeat, we are retaking Galveston! The enemy is falling back!”

“I guess this might not be the Alamo after all,” Horn said. “We’re actually going to win this thing.”

Beckham wanted to smile, but not everyone had gotten the ending they deserved.

“Where’s the president?” Connor asked.

“She died protecting the country she loved,” Beckham said. “And in the end, she saved us all.”

— Epilogue —

Fitz wandered down the beach with Rico by his side. His blades sank into the yellow sand with each step, forcing him to walk slowly. That worked better for Rico anyway.

Bruises covered her skin, and she walked with a limp from the vines that had nearly torn her apart.

They strolled along the parts of the beach that met Galveston. The debris had mostly been cleared, allowing them to get close to the sun-glinted waves rolling in from the Gulf.

“Warm sunlight, seagulls, sand,” Rico said. “I could get used to this, Fitzie.”

“Yeah… me too.”

They sat and stared for a while, taking in the view before wandering back toward the city to meet their friends. Horn and Ruckley were already at a picnic table with Beckham and Kate. Sammy was there too, standing next to Dohi who sat in a wheelchair. A brace surrounded his bandaged leg. He had been at the brink of death when a few Chimeras and freed prisoners helped Fitz administer first aid to him in Los Alamos, stabilizing him enough to get him back to Galveston.

Everyone looked in rough shape.

Timothy had a swollen and scratched face, but Fitz wouldn’t have been able to tell that he had a bruised rib if he hadn’t already known. The young soldier was sitting by Tasha at the adjacent table, both smiling like kids in a candy shop.

Javier and Jenny tossed sticks toward the waves for Ginger and Spark. The dogs raced after the sticks, kicking up rooster tails of sand.

“Five days of cleanup,” Rico said. “And five days of…”

She let the words trail off. Fitz knew what she wanted to say.

Funerals and memorials.

The troops from Canada and Mexico had assisted with cleaning up Galveston and helping take care of both the injured and the dead after clearing the city of the final beasts. But there was still too much work and mourning to be done before the Allied States could even begin to discuss the next stages of restoration.

Fitz squeezed Rico’s hand.

They had a long road ahead of them, but he was eternally grateful to be alive with his friends.

“Damn, I was just about to eat your food,” Horn said, as they approached the table. “Just kidding. Kind of. But seriously, this shit is delicious.”

He took a bite of a burrito, chewing with his mouth open.

Ruckley shook her head. “You smell, you have no manners, and you curse a lot. Did anybody every tell you that you’re kind of an ogre?”

“Exactly your type,” Timothy said.

Ruckley gave him a glare.

“Hey, it’s obvious you two are perfect for each other,” Timothy said.

Tasha and Jenny both chuckled, which told Fitz they must be warming up to the idea of their dad getting back out there.

Fitz clapped the big guy on the shoulder and then helped Rico lower herself to the table.

“You going to offer me some?” Fitz asked.

Horn reached out and started piling pieces of roast chicken onto a plate. Then he passed it to Fitz and Rico.

“Don’t judge,” Horn said. “I’m just preparing for the winter.”

“Funny, because I thought Texas winters weren’t that harsh,” Tasha said.

Horn stopped eating a half-picked-off wing and looked toward Beckham. “I really can’t catch a break with them.” Then he glanced at Javier. “Kid, are you like this with your parents?”

“No way,” Javier said.

“Because you’re a young, respecting gentleman,” Horn said.

“They aren’t as big as you either,” Javier replied.

Horn dropped the half-eaten wing on his plate and wagged his head.

Beckham laughed.

“Javier, apologize,” Kate said.

“I’m sorry you’re big around the middle,” Javier said with a shrug.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Kate said.

Horn let out a contagious laugh that got everyone to join in. Everyone, except for Dohi. Fitz noticed the man’s smile lasted for only a brief second.

“I’ll be right back,” Fitz said to Rico. He stood and went over to Dohi.

“How are you doing, brother?” Fitz asked.

Dohi simply nodded.

“It’ll get better,” Fitz said. “Everything will. We just have to trust in our future.”

Dohi gave another slight nod, but he didn’t appear convinced. A dark shadow seemed to hang over him that Fitz knew would not go away anytime soon. Not after everything Dohi had witnessed and survived. The best he could do was offer his friendship to Dohi and support him through the nightmares that would haunt him.

“We’re here for you, brother, and that will never change,” Fitz said.

Dohi smiled this time, a bit longer than the last grin. Fitz got behind his chair and pushed him up to the table next to Rico, who handed over a plate of food.

“Thanks,” Dohi said.

Javier leaned over the table, looking at Fitz.

“Mr. Fitz, do you think you’ll keep being a soldier?” he asked.

Fitz hesitated a moment, Rico watching him.

“You know, I think I’m getting too old for this stuff,” he said.

“Well, I’d be happy to take over Team Ghost if you ever step down,” Timothy said.

“Maybe someday, kid,” Horn said. “But not anytime soon. You got something to live for.”

Tasha smiled as Horn winked at her.

“I want to be a soldier, too,” Javier said.

Kate sighed. “How about starting out by helping me in the lab? I’ve still got work to do, and you might like it.”

“I can teach you how to do some cool stuff with computers, too,” Sammy added.

“Sounds boring,” Javier said.

“Computers are cool,” Fitz said, winking at Kate. “Maybe it’s time I learn some of that computer stuff for retirement.”

“You say that now, but look how retirement worked out for us,” Beckham said. “You never really retire from this job, no matter what the paperwork says, and sometimes boring is good, son.”

Javier shrugged.

“Want to look like me, kid?” Ruckley said, lifting her bandaged arms slightly. “Stick to the labs. Your body will thank you.”

“Yeah, you definitely don’t want to look like this lady,” Horn said.

“You’re such a…”

Ruckley let her words slide, and Horn grinned.

“You know, if my arm wasn’t in a sling, I would elbow you right in the ribs, you smelly oaf,” she said.

“You’re right. I’ve been rude. How about I make it up to you?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“How about dinner tomorrow?” Horn asked.

Ruckley raised a brow, like she wasn’t sure what to think. “You serious?”

“Is that a yes then?”

“If you shower, sure.”

“God, first Timothy and Tasha, now you guys,” Jenny said. “So gross.”

She feigned a disgusted expression, then picked up a stick and walked away with the dogs.

More laughter spilled from the group.

Fitz returned to Rico. She leaned her head against his shoulder as they watched Jenny play with the dogs.

After everything they had gone through, he finally felt a sense of peace. And he vowed he would do everything in his power to ensure that it would last. If that meant staying a soldier, then so be it, he would never stop fighting for his friends, family, and flag.

***

Beckham drove to the port of Galveston with Kate and Cornelius.

A month had passed since they had defeated the New Gods in Galveston. While the island was on the path to recovery, there were still plenty of signs of battle. Craters pocked the streets, and rubble still lay in piles where buildings had burned and collapsed.

But repairs were already underway on other buildings like the Harbor House Hotel which remained the new command center for the Allied States.

Beckham looked toward the port while he drove around the potholes and cracks in the road. He slowed as they passed a four-foot high wall made of bricks recovered from many of the destroyed buildings. Each brick was inscribed with a name representing someone who had died in Galveston.

In time, they would replace that memorial with a more permanent one. As the Allied States spread back into reclaimed territories more memorials would be constructed, lest the nascent nation ever forget the sacrifices their people had made.

Kate broke the silence. “I got good news about the Fallen Chimeras we rescued. Most have been moved to the colony in Houston. Our doctors have been able to take care of their unique medical needs.”

“That is good news,” Cornelius said.

“Especially since there hasn’t been any attacks or violence from or against the Chimera refugees as we first feared,” Kate said.

Beckham looked at the bricks they passed. Somewhere in that wall was one with Corrin’s name. The Chimera would be proud to hear that report.

“It’s a good start,” Beckham said. “The Chimeras deserve a new shot at life.”

“And I’m also happy to report that Sammy has confirmed over ninety percent of the network is dead due to anthrax,” Kate said. “We haven’t detected any signals passing through the network since the defeat of Los Alamos, too. Whatever monsters that are left out there won’t be able to reorganize or reunite through any webbing communications.”

“I’ve heard rumblings from some of the Fallen Chimeras that they would be willing to assist in our hunts to root out any of those remaining enemy forces,” Cornelius said. “Their senses—as Corrin showed—would be enormously valuable to our recon groups.”

“I agree,” Beckham said. “We can start training them with our next class of recruits. It will be imperative in taking back our territories and rescuing stranded people out there.”

Beckham thought about what was left. It wasn’t much. Only a few outposts in Alabama and the Panhandle of Florida had been confirmed as safe for resettlement. Once they started moving refugees they would need to focus on revitalizing agriculture and industry, but it would be a long process. For the next six months, managing their existing supplies would be the key to survival. That and working with their allies.

As they neared the port, Beckham spotted a massive cruiser docked along the pier that the United Kingdom had promised months ago. An entire contingent of European workers had arrived with the supplies.

Next to the British Naval Cruiser was the sole surviving ship in the First Fleet they had been able to restore with the help of their allies over the past month. It was a five-hundred foot-long Arleigh Burke class destroyer that had managed to survive the battle with minor structural damage.

A large crowd had gathered in front of the ship, soldiers and civilians spread over the street.

“Big turnout,” Kate said.

“That ship gives us all something to rally around,” Cornelius said.

Beckham parked and they all got out, starting toward a temporary platform built around the bow of the ship. A group of six Marines stood stiffly around the platform.

“Ringgold would be very proud of what we’ve accomplished together, Captain,” Cornelius said.

“I can’t thank you enough, General,” Beckham replied. “You have helped save our country.”

“You knew her better than perhaps any of us left on this island today. I imagine she would be looking forward to what you accomplish next.”

“What we will accomplish next,” Beckham said.

Cornelius nodded.

“Perhaps there’s a better strategy for us to work together, on the same presidential ticket,” Beckham said.

“Are you asking me to run with you?”

“I suppose now is as good as time as any,” Beckham said.

“I’d be proud to be your vice president.”

Beckham was slightly taken back. He figured Cornelius would want the top slot.

“Don’t act surprised,” he said. “I know it’s what Jan would have wanted.”

Beckham reached out and Cornelius met his hand, sealing the deal with a shake.

“I look forward to working with you to restore our country,” Cornelius said.

“We will bring it back from the brink, General,” Beckham said.

“I look forward to where the country’s headed with you two working together,” Kate said.

“Fortunately, we have some of the greatest scientific minds in the world on our side, too,” Beckham said. “That’ll be equally important to our future.”

“You can say that again,” Cornelius said. “We wouldn’t be here today without you, Doctor.”

Kate smiled and then looked to Beckham. “You ready for this?”

“Yes.” He gripped her hand and they started toward the crowd and the ship.

Beckham was relieved to have her blessing to run, and even more relieved to have Cornelius running with him. What they needed right now was to support one another and work together, despite any differences they might have.

As they approached the crowd, Beckham spotted his friends and family already here.

Horn was with Javier and the girls, Fitz, Rico, Dohi, Timothy, Ruckley, and all the others. A month ago, they had all gathered in mourning and remembrance as they buried loved ones, but today was a brief reprieve from their sorrow.

Perhaps one glimmer of light in a time marred by darkness.

Beckham walked up a few steps to the platform and then took to the podium. Kate joined him, standing by his side.

He looked at the city in the distance, seeing the ongoing restoration efforts and thinking of all the lives lost there. Next, he surveyed the survivors who had gathered here.

“Today, I am honored to stand before you as a soldier for this great nation,” he said, his voice echoing over the speakers set to either side of the crowd. “Many gave their lives so we could be free, and while we have a mountain of work ahead, we have something more important that President Jan Ringgold taught me about.”

He paused, scanning the faces of his friends and family.

“We have hope. Even at the bleakest moments of her presidency, even when others cowered in fear, she carried the torch of hope for us, blazing a pathway for us to follow into a future filled with opportunity,” he said. “To the very end of her life, she carried that hope. I am only here today because she took us this far. Now, it’s up to each and every one of us to take our turn carrying that torch.”

Kate picked up an old bottle of champagne that had previously been set beside the podium. She handed it to Beckham.

“That’s why, on this day, I’m proud to christen the newest ship that we reintroduce back into the Allied States Navy, the USS Jan Ringgold.” He moved from the podium and toward the ship, breaking the champagne battle against its hull.

Applause broke out over the crowd.

Beckham stepped back to admire the ship. It was a patchwork of repairs, and while it likely would never be restored to the same strength and functionality, it was a symbol of their country.

Damaged, but striving to recover, like all the survivors.

Beckham knew that with diligence, hard work, and with the people in this country who had gotten them this far, there was hope that he would never let die so long as he lived. And if they were lucky, they would pass that on for generations to come. Generations who would not only survive in this great country, but thrive.

A new society would be built from the ashes of the inferno that had enveloped the country.

From this Dark Age, the Allied States would emerge again, and Captain Reed Beckham was ready to lead the charge with his wife, family, and friends.

–End of Book 4–

I hope you enjoyed Extinction Cycle Season 2: Dark Ages! Writing the Extinction Cycle has been an honor and a highlight of my career. Sharing the adventures, trials, and tribulations of Team Ghost, Doctor Kate Lovato, and all of the heroes in these stories is something I will never forget. I want to thank each and every one of you loyal readers for following along over the course of this series. If you’d like to continue the story and see a sequel at some point, please leave a short and honest review letting me know. This is the best way for me to gauge whether readers want more books. Thank you so much for reading and thanks to Doctor Anthony J. Melchiorri for helping me bring this story to life!

Sincerely,

Nicholas Sansbury Smith

Greatwaveink@gmail.com

About the Authors

Nicholas Sansbury Smith is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Hell Divers series. His other work includes the Extinction Cycle series, the Trackers series, and the Orbs series. He worked for Iowa Homeland Security and Emergency Management in disaster planning and mitigation before switching careers to focus on his one true passion—writing. When he isn’t writing or daydreaming about the apocalypse, he enjoys running, biking, spending time with his family, and traveling the world. He is an Ironman triathlete and lives in Iowa with his wife, their dogs, and a house full of books.

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Anthony J Melchiorri is a scientist with a PhD in bioengineering. Originally from the Midwest, he now lives in Texas. By day, he develops cellular therapies and 3D-printable artificial organs. By night, he writes apocalyptic, medical, and science-fiction thrillers that blend real-world research with other-worldly possibility, including works like The Tide and Eternal Frontier. When he isn’t in the lab or at the keyboard, he spends his time running, reading, hiking, and traveling in search of new story ideas.

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