Extinction Horizon

-6-

The late morning sun glistened off the metal of the Blackhawk above them. What were the pilots waiting for? The chopper had hovered there for several minutes. Beckham took a deep breath, trying to suck in more air. Something was wrong with his respirator. He felt like he was sipping air through a broken straw.

Gasping, he moved to a higher position and waved frantically at the craft. His arms burned. Every moment sent an agonizing surge of pain through his oxygen-deprived body.

Finally Beckham saw the pilot yelling into his headset through the cockpit glass. Beckham knew then what was happening. The pilot was on an encrypted line with someone from Gibson’s staff at Fort Detrick—someone that was deciding the fate of Beckham’s team.

He craned his neck to see Dr. Ellis on his knees, pleading for rescue and yelling into the comm, “Get us out of here!”

Trash swirled around the doctor as the Blackhawk’s blades whooshed overhead. Behind them, Riley and Horn had taken up positions outside the front of the facility, waiting for the infected to emerge from the bowels of the lab.

Beckham stopped waving and collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. His breathing was beyond labored. He couldn’t get enough oxygen. The respirator had malfunctioned, and with every torturous breath he resisted the urge to rip off his helmet. He knew the ramifications of removing the protection of the CBRN would be much worse than passing out inside of it.

But all he could think of were his men, of their corpses, and suddenly dying didn’t seem like such an awful fate.

No, he thought, you don’t get to die yet; Horn and Riley still need you.

Static finally crackled into Beckham’s earpiece. The pilot spoke rapidly. “Beckham, HQ wants a SITREP. Do you have the sample? Is anyone infected?”

Beckham tried to respond, tried to speak, but the clunky words sounded slurred. “Negative. We…”

Fuzzy snowflake-shaped stars crawled before his eyes, transitioning into bright colors swimming across his vision. The thumping blades grew louder, and then he felt two strong arms under him, dragging him and lifting him onto a metal surface.

He tried to move but his hands wouldn’t respond. There was shouting over the comm channel, several voices. He made out a couple of the words.

“No sample…”

“Everyone else is dead…”

“Get us airborne!”

Then he felt the chopper lurch. Cracking an eye open, he saw the sandy ground below. He watched the facility become smaller and smaller as they pulled into the sky, but there was something else down there.

“Wait,” he mumbled.

Was it Caster? Had he made it out or was Beckham’s oxygen-starved mind playing tricks on him?

Beckham forced his other eye open and saw a figure standing in the open front door of Building 8. He could swear the man was looking right at him. Then he heard a distant screech, faint but familiar against the whoosh of the blades. It was the same sub-human shriek they had heard below the surface.

“Hold on!” the pilot yelled. He jerked the bird hard to the right. Beckham slid across the metal surface. The wall stopped him as he smashed into it. A sharp pain raced through his chest.

The unmistakable rumble of F-22s rattled the Blackhawk as three of the jets zipped over them. Beckham struggled to keep his eyes open, the lack of oxygen finally taking hold of his body. He was completely immobile, his eyelids slowly shutting. His ribs felt like they were about to burst. He knew he only had a few seconds of consciousness left—just enough time to watch the scientist and San Nicholas Island disappear in a carpet of flames.

Doctor Allen’s raised voice startled Kate. He rushed into the lab, wearing a face creased with worry. “Something’s happening in Chicago.” He paused, his hazel eyes darting to the ground. “Preliminary reports claim symptoms of the Ebola virus.”

Kate gasped. “What? How is that possible?” She pulled her eye away from her microscope, a sudden wave of anxiety rushing through her body. Her brother, Javier, worked as a professor at the University of Chicago, directly in the heart of the city. She hadn’t seen him for weeks.

“I don’t know. I just got a call from Jed Frank. The CDC is hosting a conference call in an hour. I’ll stream it in my office.”

“What the hell is going on?” Kate asked. Had the outbreak somehow managed to cross the ocean? There were systematic procedures put in place to prevent anyone infected from carrying the virus aboard a flight. Still, she knew no matter what security measures were put in place, Mother Nature could find a way around them. The microscopic world of viruses didn’t play by the same rules as other national security threats.

“Jed said that…” Michael paused. He looked confused. And after only a few hours of sleep, Kate could understand why. Still, she pressed harder.

“Michael,” she said sternly. “Tell me what’s happening.”

The strategy worked. “Jed claims this is something worse than Ebola,” he said. “Something much, much worse.”

Beckham couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t respond. When he saw the clean white walls of the hospital room, he knew he had to be dreaming. Either that or he was dead.

“You’re so handsome,” his mom said.

She was coiled up in her hospital bed, wincing from the pain as the cancer ate her gaunt body, the dark brown eyes he had inherited from her staring back at him. They were distant now, the pupils smaller. Her life force was fading. He was only seventeen, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew she didn’t have much time left.

He grabbed her hand. It was so thin, just bones covered in skin. For the first time he saw just how weak, how fragile she was, lying there curled up in a fetal position shaking from the pain.

The cancer had eaten her insides. Starting in her stomach, the disease had worked its way through her entire body. It was a horrible disease. Like an invading army with no rules, no conscience, only the insatiable need to kill and consume.

“Reed,” she said. “Please, promise me something.”

“What, Mom?” He already knew what she was going to say.

“Promise me that you won’t die on some battlefield in a far off land. Promise me you won’t throw away your life.”

He looked at her, tightening his grip on her hand. “I promise you I won’t throw away my life, Mom. But I want to make a change in the world. I want to help people. I want to fight evil.”

“There are plenty of ways to do that,” she choked. “Become a doctor, not a soldier. I’ve worked with so many that have saved countless lives.”

Reed looked at his feet. He knew he wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor, and even if he was, he didn’t want that life.

“Reed, promise me,” she said. “Don’t throw your life away, baby.”

When he looked up her eyes had glazed over. Her hand was limp in his own.

“Mom?” he said, shaking her wrist. The chirp from a machine she was connected to filled the room. His father and a doctor rushed inside, other medical staff swarming in behind them.

Reed backed away, a tear forming in his right eye. He wiped it away swiftly and kept walking until his back hit the wall. He stared at his mother’s bony frame. The cancer had taken everything from her and from their family. The disease was no different than any terrorist. It fought with no regard for the lives it afflicted.

It was then he knew he had to join the military. He had to fight evil. He would make good on half of his promise to his mom and not throw his life away. But he would also make good on his promise to make a change in the world—he was going to kill the enemy, no matter where they hid. His mom would understand when they met again.

Distant voices called out to Beckham. The hospital room faded into darkness. He struggled to move, listening to the faint sounds.

Where were they coming from?

His body was a prison, suspended halfway inside a dream and halfway in reality.

“Beckham!”

The voice was louder now. Closer.

There were other noises in the background, the whoosh of helicopter blades and grinding of metal. And there was light—slivers of crimson soaking through the darkness.

He finally awoke and peeled back an eyelid to see Riley staring down at him. The younger man fidgeted with Beckham’s respirator, and he sucked in a long, full breath.

“You’re going to be okay, sir,” Riley said.

“I told you not to call me that,” Beckham choked, still trying to draw in all the air he could.

“I know.” The younger operator rapped Beckham’s faceplate with a finger, good to go, and then hoisted himself onto the seat next to Horn.

Beckham slowly pushed himself off the metal floor and took in several quick, shallow breaths. The smell of plastic returned. Within seconds the colors swimming across his vision vanished.

And then he remembered.

Tenor, Spinoza, Edwards. They were all dead, and so were the two Med Corps officers.

The revelation paralyzed Beckham with an agonizing surge of regret. His body went numb as he remembered. The rubbery scent of his helmet was replaced by the cold metallic taste of his own blood. He’d bitten down hard on his lip and could feel a gash from where a tooth had sunk into the fragile flesh.

The pain was nothing compared to what he felt inside. Were his men really dead? Beckham couldn’t bear the guilt and sorrow he felt. He’d served with Tenor, Spinoza, and Edwards for close to a decade. He couldn’t even imagine how many thousands of hours they’d spent training or how many deployments and battles they’d weathered together. It had all ended in a few minutes of horrifying madness.

A promise Beckham had made to each and every man on his team years ago boomed in his mind: “If you follow orders, I’ll get you through this. I will get you home to your families.”

Beckham shook his head, the memory haunting him. He took another deep breath and stared blankly out the window, the view nothing but a blur of hazy morning light.

Static crackled in his earpiece, snapping him momentarily from his daze. The familiar sound of Chief Wright’s voice came online. “Master Sergeant Beckham, what the hell happened down there?” The crew chief’s frantic voice no longer sounded friendly. His tone had changed; his words were systematic. When Beckham didn’t respond, Chief Wright said, “I need a SITREP. HQ requests confirmation of the sample.”

How was he supposed to respond? Would anyone even believe him if he told them what really happened? That Medford’s staff had transformed into monsters? That the doctor had been infected with a virus he had likely designed himself?

“Goddammit, Beckham,” Chief Wright said. His voice indicated he had lost every ounce of patience. He wanted an answer and wouldn’t stop pressing Beckham until he got one.

But Beckham still did not respond. He peered over at Horn, who sat hunched over, his helmet between his knees. He looked like a plastic statue under the faint overhead lights.

“Sir,” Riley said over their private channel. “Do you want me to report?”

“No,” Beckham said. He raised his hand to wipe off his faceplate and realized his hands were shaking.

Craning his neck, Beckham looked toward Chief Wright and very sternly said, “Negative on the sample.” He paused to consider his next words. He had abandoned the mission to save his men, but he reminded himself if he hadn’t, then no one would have been around to even give a damn SITREP.

Exhaling into his comm, Beckham said, “Tell them I hope those F-22s destroyed everything because whatever we saw down there can’t be allowed to see the light of day.”

Chief Wright didn’t immediately answer. The chopper pulled to the right and a mass of white clouds filled the skyline. Below an infinite sea of sand stretched across the stark landscape.

“You can tell them yourself,” Chief Wright finally replied. “We’re landing in New Mexico in thirty minutes. Prepare for decon.”

“Decon?” Riley asked.

Horn’s helmet shot up. “You didn’t think they were just going to send us back to Fort Bragg, did you?”

“We’ll have to go through decontamination procedures,” Beckham said. He double-tapped his comm so only Riley and Horn could hear his next message. “They’re going to grill us. Ask us every detail of the mission. Don’t try to protect me, guys,” he said coldly. “I broke protocol. I abandoned the mission when I saw what we were dealing with.”

“And you were fucking right to do so,” Horn said. “Brass’ll see that. They’ll understand what happened.” He began to speak more rapidly. “They can’t—”

“They can do whatever they want,” Beckham interjected. He looked at Horn. The operator was snorting like a raging bull. “Don’t you fucking lose it when we land,” Beckham warned. “I need you to stay focused. Remember your family, Big Horn.”

Horn punched the side of the chopper wall and looked at the floor. Beside him, Riley fidgeted nervously. “That motherfucker Caster held a gun to your head!” he announced. “Don’t worry, sir, we have your back.”

Beckham shook his head. Neither of them understood. Colonel Gibson would place the blame on Beckham’s shoulders and his alone. The loss of life, the failure to retrieve the sample—it would all be pinned on him.

“That sample is better off destroyed,” another voice said. At first, Beckham didn’t recognize it, but then he saw Ellis looking over at them from the corner of the compartment. His faceplate was covered with specks of gore. Sitting there stiffly in his blood-soaked CRBN suit, Ellis looked like a robot that had just gone on a killing spree.

“Thanks for getting me out of there,” Ellis said, bowing his head.

“Prepare for landing,” the pilot said over the main channel.

Beckham gave Ellis a nod and then turned to look out the window. He squinted and saw a glimpse of a landing strip at the edge of the sand dunes. The view was partially obscured by a few unruly rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds, but there was no mistaking the three long white structures on the tarmac. The portable biohazard facilities were already prepped and ready for their arrival. Constructed side by side, a center passage connected all three. Near their entrances, he could vaguely make out several square boxes that he assumed were HVAC and negative pressure isolation units.

They were state-of-the-art portable domes with controlled environments, designed to deal with the most severe Level 4 contagions. The view reminded him of the potential for infection, but as the chopper began to descend Beckham wasn’t worried about that or even a court martial. All he could think about were the charred bodies of his men back at Building 8.

Tires squealed across the tarmac the moment their Blackhawk landed. Beckham watched a pair of Humvees screech to a halt a hundred yards away. Both vehicles had gunners in CBRN suits up top, one equipped with a TOW launcher and one with a .50 cal. They leveled their weapons at the chopper.

Beckham instinctively swung the bay door open, flinching as the weapons greeted him.

“We aren’t infected!” he yelled.

“Don’t move, Sergeant!” the man on the right yelled. His voice, muffled by the breathing apparatus, made him seem less human and more like a cold, calculating machine. Beckham wasn’t used to being on the other end of a gun, not a friendly one at least, and the sound of the soldier’s stifled voice reminded him just how fast the tide could change.

“You will be given a set of directions shortly. We have orders to fire if you or your team fails to comply,” the man in the other turret said.

Beckham watched the soldier grip the .50 even tighter.

“We aren’t infected!” Ellis said, joining Beckham in the doorway. “I want to talk to someone from the CDC!”

“Stay put, sir!” the right gunner repeated.

Beckham pushed the doctor back into the chopper.

The door to one of the Humvees swung open. Three men wearing white biohazard suits stepped onto the tarmac, each with the insignia of USAMRIID. They were trained to deal with the most infectious diseases in the world. And it showed. Their faces were emotionless behind their visors, devoid of worry or fear.

That’s all about to change, Beckham thought, waiting for further instructions.

The men approached the chopper cautiously. One of them stepped out in front and said, “My name is Doctor Blake. I’m with USAMRIID. This is Doctor Fry,” he said, gesturing to the man on the left. “And this is Doctor Ibsen,” he said, systematically pointing to the other man with a stiff arm. He paused for a second and then dropped his hands to his sides in a very non-threatening manner. He continued in the same mechanical and systematic tone.

“I’m going to give you a set of very detailed instructions. Please follow them exactly. We will escort the members of Delta Force Ghost and Dr. Ellis to the decon facilities first. Crew chief Ted Wright and pilot John Bush will go last. Nod if you understand.”

Beckham responded with a quick nod.

“Okay. Good. First, I’d like Delta Force Team Ghost and Dr. Ellis to step out on the concrete. Leave your weapons inside the Blackhawk. Then take five steps away from the helicopter, forming a line side by side.”

“This is bullshit,” Horn said over their private channel.

Beckham kept still but said, “Just follow their orders.”

They dropped their guns on the floor and climbed out of the chopper one by one. Then they paced five steps forward and stood shoulder to shoulder as instructed.

Blake kept his hands at his sides but took two very mechanical steps toward the men, leaving only about fifty yards between them. Then he said, “Starting with the man on the left, I want you to answer the following question with a clear nod of your head if your answer is yes. If the answer is no, simply shake your head.” He waited a moment and then continued, “Do you have any of the following symptoms: Headache, fever, nausea, itching, or abdominal pain? Again, if the answer is yes to any of these symptoms, then simply nod. If it is no then shake your head.”

One by one the four men shook their heads.

“That’s good. Okay. Next I need to know if any of you have experienced tears in your suits. If you know your suit has been compromised please tell us now.”

Riley, Horn, and Beckham shook their heads, but Ellis hesitated. He looked down at his arm.

“Well, I,” he stuttered. “I don’t know. I can’t tell with all of this blood.” He began wiping the dark red gore off his suit with his gloves.

“Doctor Ellis, please don’t do that,” Blake said quickly. His voice was sterner than before, but still calm.

Beckham watched out of the corner of his eye as the .50 gunner trained his heavy weapon on Ellis. Beckham kept his gaze ahead, fixated on the group of doctors. His heart raced, the massacre inside Building 8 replaying over and over in his mind. He couldn’t compartmentalize it.

“Yes or no,” Blake entreated.

Ellis shook his head and slowly lowered his hands to his sides.

“Okay, good. Next, you will all follow Doctor Fry to Decon Facility 1.” He twisted his head in the same methodical manner and pointed a stiff arm at the first white dome about five hundred yards away. “Walk single file. No sudden movements.”

“Let’s go,” Doctor Fry said.

Beckham led what was left of his team and Dr. Ellis down the black concrete in silence. He thought about using the private channel but opted against it. There was no telling what USAMRIID would do if they thought someone in Ghost was infected, and he knew from firsthand experience what a .50 caliber round could do to human flesh.

When they arrived outside the first plastic dome, a soldier in a full biohazard suit approached them with an M4. He kept the barrel aimed at the concrete, which helped Beckham relax a bit.

Doctor Fry punched a code into the keypad and waited for the door to buzz. “There are three compartments inside. A dirty room where an assistant will help clean your suit and respirator. A decon shower where you will be sprayed down with chemicals to further kill anything missed in the first area, and finally a shower where you can get cleaned up and change into new clothes. Then you will be directed to the next dome for a debriefing. Please proceed one by…”

The sound of shouting caught the doctor off guard. He paused to see what was happening just as a sudden explosion boomed through the afternoon. An orange glow reflected off Fry’s faceplate, and Beckham caught a glimpse of the Blackhawk disappear in an enormous fireball.

Resisting the urge to remain still, Beckham twisted to see one of the TOW gunners still aiming the launcher at the burning remains of the chopper. Huddling behind the safety of the Humvee were Doctors Blake and Ibsen. But where were Chief Wright and the pilot?

Beckham scanned the wreckage and stopped on two flaming lumps about five feet away from the chopper. He flinched as pieces of charred metal pinged off the concrete next to one of his boots.

It only took a moment for him to realize what had happened. Either Chief Wright or the pilot must have answered yes to one of Doctor Blake’s questions, and one of the gunners had been a bit too trigger happy. Beckham could tell by the look on Fry’s face that things weren’t supposed to go down like that.

“Shit,” Fry muttered, shaking his head. He looked away from the smoking wreckage and scanned Beckham and his men. “Let’s go,” he said, gesturing inside the dome.