Extinction Agenda

Chapter Fifteen

Shreveport, Louisiana

It had been the better part of a day since Adderson lost most of his unit on the outskirts of the city. He’d already joined up with the surviving forces of Ravens One through Three and set up a base camp inside an electronics store with metal shutters over the windows. The werewolves had caused more hardship than the recession and taken a similar toll on local businesses. The shelves had nothing on them but dust, and the storerooms were partially filled with empty boxes. Even so, there was still power flowing through the nearby mains, which one of the IRD techs was able to splice and divert into the store’s back room.

It was early morning by the time Adderson stretched his back and worked the kinks from his legs. He made his way to the soldier hunched over the dented metal case containing enough equipment to hack local wireless networks and use them to send and receive encrypted messages. Adderson ignored all the other miniaturized displays as he extended a hand to the squat young Marine with the headset wrapped over his ears. The Marine handed over an earpiece along with a quick warning. “Wasn’t able to raise Command, sir. Got patched straight through to one of the other field units, though.”

“This is Adderson,” he said as soon as the earpiece was fitted in place.

“There’s significant movement southeast of your position.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“Sergeant Tate, sir.”

The voice wasn’t what Adderson had been expecting. It was almost as tired as his, several years younger, and female. “Where did you get this intel?”

“We’re entrenched in Carthage, Texas, tracking the shifters via satellite.”

“You’re able to keep a fix on them?”

“Upgraded the positioning systems yesterday morning,” she said with a faint hint of relief in her voice. “Got them online about three hours ago. They’re still not quick enough to track the Class Ones, but we can keep a closer eye on the larger packs. There’s three of those headed your way.”

“How many are with you there?”

“Just me, a private, and a sniper. We’ve got a Humvee with a mounted .50 cal but don’t want to gun the engine until it’s time to abandon this position.”

“Are there any Class Twos there to keep you company?”

“For now, no sir. But there’s no way of knowing how many more are on their way.”

“Abandon your position and rendezvous with us in Shreveport,” Adderson said.

“Where in Shreveport, sir?”

After giving her the coordinates, Adderson told her, “Come to us ASAP. Monitor the Delta frequency once you get within range, and if you hear me issue the command to break formation, turn around and head for a safer position. Until then use that .50 cal to chop up as many of those things as you can. Focus on the Class Twos.”

“We’ve heard about sightings of at least one Class One shifter in the area, sir.”

“You heard the command. Focus on thinning out those packs. If you find any wounded, all Priority Cleanup Protocols are in effect.”

There was a longer pause before Tate gave another tired affirmative. After that, Adderson signaled for the connection to be cut and handed back the earpiece.

No matter what he’d seen since the beasts came in from the woods, he felt sickest when enforcing the Cleanup Protocols. Every instinct he had was to either help the wounded or find a way to move them to where they could be helped. Those instincts had to be squelched after the first wave of police officers were attacked and turned in Kansas City. There had been rumors about werewolves before then, but most of them relied on whatever was cranked out of Hollywood or fairy tales. For a man who’d been polishing his boots since the third grade, that sort of thing simply didn’t cut it. Adderson was a military man brought up by military men. Even his grandmother had done her part by serving as a gunnery instructor in World War Two. His uncle had been in ’Nam and used to get drunk and brag how his skin was the same color as his jungle fatigues. All of them held one solid belief where battlefield ethics were concerned: nobody was supposed to be left behind.

Cleanup Protocols mandated that those attacked by any class of shifter couldn’t be allowed to change into one of them. Plenty of the medics and lab coats still wanted to do their research, but when times got bad, the protocols stated very plainly that no chances should be taken. The wounded were put down. No exceptions. Adderson hated that order, and he hated himself for giving it, but there just wasn’t anything else to be done.

Looking out between the cold wooden slats nailed in place over the electronic store’s front door, he watched the shadows pull away to reveal an empty street. If he squinted hard enough, he could make out the scratches left behind by a pack of shifters. Their claws had dug into the concrete and spilled blood that dried into cold, dark stains on the curbs and sidewalks. The sounds of panting, barking, and scraping reached his ears. They came from the other side of the window, and as he closed his eyes to savor one last moment of morning sun brushing his face, he could tell the sounds were getting closer.

“Do you have any details on where the survivors are taking shelter?” he asked.

The Marine at the keyboard searched a few files and said, “There are a few local postings about a gym a few blocks away. Other than that, it’s just the usual scattered basements patrolled by Neighborhood Watch.”

“Send some men to that gym.”

“Should they be ready for cleanup?”

“Only if absolutely necessary. The shifters may try to sniff them out. Rather than move any survivors into the open, let’s post some explosives at the safest minimum distance and vaporize some of those Class Twos.”

“Yes, sir!” the Marine said with a grateful smile.

“There are packs moving into the area,” Adderson announced to everyone in the room, without taking his eyes from the window. “A scouting team has picked them up thanks to the new satellite relays, but we all know there could be a lot more than that. We also know there’s at least one Class One in the vicinity and no reason to think it would have left just so we could go out for breakfast.”

Despite every soldier feeling the same fighter’s twitch that accompanied the thought of running away, none of them could argue with the fact that Esteban had allowed them to survive. One of the pilots who’d escaped from a downed NH-90 had something else to say.

“What about those Class Threes? I saw them burrowing underground when my crew was turned. I think it was attacking the Class One.”

“Just set the explosives and get ready for a fight. If those things are turning on each other, we’ll let them rip each other to pieces. Stay back and give them room. Our top priority is in keeping this city from falling. If we can’t do that, we’ve got to at least keep those Class Ones in one spot long enough for an artillery strike.”

“Those things are too fast to be hit by artillery,” one of the soldiers pointed out. Adderson recognized the man’s voice but was too tired to come up with a name.

“Then we’ll have to get creative and find a way to keep them in position. Nobody will turn their noses up at a target if we can make it juicy enough.”

All the soldiers could muster up by way of enthusiasm was a few nods scattered among the dirty faces.

The wolves were coming in from the forests.