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Book: Extinction Evolution (The Extinction Cycle Book 4) by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
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Authors: Nicholas Sansbury Smith
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in a corner of the room, a female Variant with a swollen belly rested with her back to the damp concrete wall. She looked six months pregnant, but how was that possible?
The fence of flesh suddenly parted, and in the gap of bodies a colossal male Variant lumbered into view. He dragged a female with him, his claw wrapped around her bony arm. The Marine followed them with his cam to a shadowy corner of the chamber. At first, Kate watched with fascination, but as the Variants mated, she forced herself to look away.
“They’re breeding, Kate,” Ellis said. “The next step in the Variant’s evolution is finally here.”
-4-
M arine Sergeant Jose Garcia looked out over Turner Field, trying to picture a stadium full of screaming Braves fans. The signs and scoreboards were all dark, and every seat was empty. Gone were the smells of peanuts and freshly cut grass, replaced by the perpetual reek of rot and trash that had claimed the city.
Four days had passed since Garcia had lost two of his men to the Variants in Key West. It was hardly enough time to heal from the mental and physical injuries, but more than enough time to scrutinize every mistake he’d made.
Morgan, Daniels, and some poor woman whose name he didn’t even know were dead because he had broken the cardinal rule of Force Recon: never, ever get compromised.
If Garcia had searched the water for Variants, they would all still be alive. On this mission, he wasn’t going to make any mistakes. Marine Force Recon always got the job done right. He couldn’t be perfect, but if anyone fell, it wouldn’t be because he fucked up this time.
Garcia squirmed a few inches closer to the edge of the scoreboard. The fresh ink on the underside of his forearm burned. The tattoo gun he kept in his gear aboard the George Washington was old, but it worked. He had tattooed Morgan and Daniels’ names on his arm earlier that morning. The cross was almost full now. There was only room for one more fallen brother.
Overhead, the ethereal glow of a full moon filled the sky. It illuminated the stadium, casting shadows behind the seats and into the dugouts. Garcia hadn’t seen moonlight this intense since the last time he’d been on his acreage in North Carolina. The last time he saw his wife and daughter...
Closing his eyes, he said the Lord’s Prayer. The words filled him with the strength to clear his head and focus on the objective. He opened his eyes, and in his peripheral vision, Stevo moved just a hair. Neither of them made a sound; even their breathing was stifled.
Garcia wiggled another inch and brought the scope of his suppressed M4 to his eye. Thomas and Tank were across the stadium, somewhere in the top bleachers behind home plate. He couldn’t see them, but he knew Tank was chomping at the bit to move. He could never sit still too long, and being close to three hundred pounds didn’t help. Thomas, on the other hand, could fall asleep in the middle of a gunfight if he had to. The man was an expert at meditation.
Zooming in, Garcia looked for the men. There was still no sign of their position, but that was good. It meant no one else could see them either.
It was 2350 hours, and the Variant Hunters were finally in position. Garcia’s body was already numb from lying on the roof for so long. A Blackhawk had dropped them off a few blocks away at dusk, and they had worked their way into the stadium without being spotted. The city was soundless, like he was in a padded room, but experience told him that was about to change. The Variants were most active around midnight, when they emerged from their lairs and hunted for prey.
Tonight, the monsters weren’t the only ones hunting in Atlanta. Garcia and his boys were too. Their objective was to document enemy movements and any behavioral changes. Rumor had it the freaks were breeding. Garcia didn’t like the idea of being the cameraman for a Variant porno, but orders were orders.
He clicked on the camera mounted to
The fence of flesh suddenly parted, and in the gap of bodies a colossal male Variant lumbered into view. He dragged a female with him, his claw wrapped around her bony arm. The Marine followed them with his cam to a shadowy corner of the chamber. At first, Kate watched with fascination, but as the Variants mated, she forced herself to look away.
“They’re breeding, Kate,” Ellis said. “The next step in the Variant’s evolution is finally here.”
-4-
M arine Sergeant Jose Garcia looked out over Turner Field, trying to picture a stadium full of screaming Braves fans. The signs and scoreboards were all dark, and every seat was empty. Gone were the smells of peanuts and freshly cut grass, replaced by the perpetual reek of rot and trash that had claimed the city.
Four days had passed since Garcia had lost two of his men to the Variants in Key West. It was hardly enough time to heal from the mental and physical injuries, but more than enough time to scrutinize every mistake he’d made.
Morgan, Daniels, and some poor woman whose name he didn’t even know were dead because he had broken the cardinal rule of Force Recon: never, ever get compromised.
If Garcia had searched the water for Variants, they would all still be alive. On this mission, he wasn’t going to make any mistakes. Marine Force Recon always got the job done right. He couldn’t be perfect, but if anyone fell, it wouldn’t be because he fucked up this time.
Garcia squirmed a few inches closer to the edge of the scoreboard. The fresh ink on the underside of his forearm burned. The tattoo gun he kept in his gear aboard the George Washington was old, but it worked. He had tattooed Morgan and Daniels’ names on his arm earlier that morning. The cross was almost full now. There was only room for one more fallen brother.
Overhead, the ethereal glow of a full moon filled the sky. It illuminated the stadium, casting shadows behind the seats and into the dugouts. Garcia hadn’t seen moonlight this intense since the last time he’d been on his acreage in North Carolina. The last time he saw his wife and daughter...
Closing his eyes, he said the Lord’s Prayer. The words filled him with the strength to clear his head and focus on the objective. He opened his eyes, and in his peripheral vision, Stevo moved just a hair. Neither of them made a sound; even their breathing was stifled.
Garcia wiggled another inch and brought the scope of his suppressed M4 to his eye. Thomas and Tank were across the stadium, somewhere in the top bleachers behind home plate. He couldn’t see them, but he knew Tank was chomping at the bit to move. He could never sit still too long, and being close to three hundred pounds didn’t help. Thomas, on the other hand, could fall asleep in the middle of a gunfight if he had to. The man was an expert at meditation.
Zooming in, Garcia looked for the men. There was still no sign of their position, but that was good. It meant no one else could see them either.
It was 2350 hours, and the Variant Hunters were finally in position. Garcia’s body was already numb from lying on the roof for so long. A Blackhawk had dropped them off a few blocks away at dusk, and they had worked their way into the stadium without being spotted. The city was soundless, like he was in a padded room, but experience told him that was about to change. The Variants were most active around midnight, when they emerged from their lairs and hunted for prey.
Tonight, the monsters weren’t the only ones hunting in Atlanta. Garcia and his boys were too. Their objective was to document enemy movements and any behavioral changes. Rumor had it the freaks were breeding. Garcia didn’t like the idea of being the cameraman for a Variant porno, but orders were orders.
He clicked on the camera mounted to
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