Extinction Cycle (Kindle Worlds): Extinction [Isolation]

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Nicholas Sansbury Smith. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Extinction Cycle remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Nicholas Sansbury Smith, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Contents

  Other Books

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Books by Brian Martinez

  A Chemical Fire

  Kissing You is like Trying to Punch a Ghost

  The Mountain and The City

  De-Partment

  The Obscured Series

  Shallow Veins

  City of Demons

  Hot Dirt

  Books by Max Boone

  Bleeders Series

  The Red Death, Book One

  A Rising Storm, Book Two

  There are too many accidents that can befall life on a single planet. -Stephen Hawking

  -Prologue-

  July 10th, 1968

  Operation Burn Bright

  South Vietnam

  Private First Class Junko hit the ground running. As one of thirty-one Marines who had just jumped out of multiple UH-1 Hueys and into a stinking jungle, running headfirst into a swamp crawling with bugs and hostile soldiers, he should have been cursing under his breath. The men around him gagged as their boots sloshed into the mucky water. Mosquitoes swarmed down on their sweaty skin. They grit their teeth, unable to slap the insects away without taking their fingers off their triggers. Even their Lieutenant, a decorated hero with years of experience in the worst places in the world, sounded disgusted with their surroundings as he ordered them forward into the soupy mess.

  But not PFC Junko. Only three months into serving his country, he had waited his entire life for this moment. He'd been a Young Marine for the three years leading up to high school graduation, at which time he aged out and was honorably discharged, holding at the time the rank of Sergeant Major. It was the highest honor attainable in the Young Marines, and it allowed him to enlist in the military with the rank of Private First Class, skipping over Private entirely.

  He made his mother proud the day he left for service, and continued to do so with every step he took into that jungle. He could still picture his mother standing in the front door of their home, a brick house at the top of a stony path, watching him as he headed to the bus that would take him to basic training. He must have mentioned that image a hundred times back at camp. Even Lieutenant Brett told him to shut up about it, though he could tell the image appealed to the man's longing for home.

  As they advanced into deeper and deeper water, the Lieutenant stopped them every few feet to check for signs of enemy in the trees. Junko was on edge, yet he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be: an M16 in his hands, a target in mind, and his brothers at his sides. The deafening sound of insects screaming from the canopy helped to cover up the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his neck.

  At the Lieutenant's order the platoon came to a stop at a clearing near the end of the swamp. Dry land waited for them ahead, though they were still waist-deep in dirty muck. The water would have been completely stagnant if not for the movement of the occasional leech swimming past.

  They remained on high alert while Platoon Sergeant Fern, who Junko thought looked like a gorilla with a serious tobacco habit, approached Lieutenant Brett to discuss their next move. The rest of the men kept look-out, eyes peeled and heads on a swivel.

  "Looks like it's almost that time," Private LaPointe whispered, patting his supply bag. LaPointe had a thin mustache that made him look like the villain in some old cartoon. Junko checked that his own bag was still at his side. Inside was the same syringe every Marine in the platoon had been issued for the mission. VX-99, the experimental antidote to chemical agents they might come across in the hot zone. VX-99 was sure proof to Junko that the U.S. military cared about the safety of their men, that they wanted them to live, succeed and get back to their wives. Or in his case, girlfriend.

  "It better at least give us a decent high," Lance Corporal Mack chimed in. How he had made rank Junko didn't understand. He was usually too concerned with digging up a good time, whether by ass or grass, to pay much attention to the mission.

  LaPointe scoffed. "Shit. I just hope it doesn't kill us."

  "Why would it kill us," Junko asked. He was becoming annoyed with the borderline treasonous comments.

  "I don't know how this stuff works, I just know I don't trust doctors. If there's really Agent Orange out there no needle's gonna save us."

  "You took the Polio shot, right? Measles? It's the same thing."

  Private Jackson, a skinny black Marine, leaned in. "Relax, boys. Have a little trust in your fellow man."

  LaPointe nodded. "Sure. So long as they're not Vietnamese, right?"

  Jackson shook his head with the same calm, confident smile he always wore. "Open your heart, LaPointe. It's warm out here."

  Junko noticed Fern and Brett had finished talking. "Quiet, all of you," he hissed. Sergeant Fern motioned for everyone to pair up and move onto solid land. They all fell into position like clockwork. Junko found himself teamed with LaPointe, which was fine by him. LaPointe was a bit of a smart-ass, sure, but he was a damn good Marine, and Junko would be honored to watch his back.

  They left the swamp behind and made their way through the brush until they reached a clearing. Ahead of them was a long stretch of rice paddy. The Lieutenant dropped to one knee and took his dose of VX-99. Everyone followed suit. First Junko kept watch while LaPointe took the plastic tip off his needle and jabbed it into his arm, then LaPointe watched as Junko did the same.

  The concoction slid into his vein. There was a sharp pain at first, then a strange tingle that ran up his arm. A few of the men complained, but Junko didn't mind. He'd seen the pictures of men dying from Agent Orange. It was meant to be used as a defoliant, standard scorched earth tactics- kill the plant-life, expose enemy hideouts, cut off the food sources- but the effects it had on men and women who came into contact with the chemical was brutal, even for warfare. Red, blistering skin. Pain in the eyes and stomach. Monstrous births. It was no surprise folks back home were still fighting to stop its use.

  At the Lieutenant's word the Sergeant signaled them forward. They crossed the rice field with buzzing veins, ready to seek out their target: a village foolish enough to help the Viet Cong. Junko was eager to prove himself to his Lieutenant. He pounded the mud hard to keep pace, falling in just behind the man so he could show him how he deserved to be Lance Corporal as much as Mack- if not more-so.

  Something seized in Junko's chest. It was a sudden jolt of pain, like someone had reached through his ribcage, grabbed a hold of his heart and squeezed it with every bit of strength they had.
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  Was this a heart attack? He was too young for that, too healthy. It had to be the VX-99. Something was wrong with it. A tainted batch. Something. He came to a stop as a feeling like bees swarming inside his skull overtook his thoughts. It was so sudden, so intense that he fell to his knees and clawed at his head.

  His brain was on fire. If he could peel the skin from his face to let the pain out, he would do it without a second thought. Beyond the roar inside his head, he could hear muted screams all around him; the anguished cries of the other Marines as they shared his pain.

  He crawled inside himself, hiding in the corners of his mind. He pictured himself in Suzie's bed, the two of them naked in the sunlight that filtered through her white lace curtains. They lay with their arms tangled, sharing a pillow, their faces almost touching in the afternoon's warmth.

  "It has to be a small church," she whispered. "A white one."

  "Anything you want," he promised. Her face softened. When she looked at him like that, she looked just like an angel.

  "But don't worry about the ring. It doesn't have to be anything fancy. It doesn't have to be anything, as long as it's you and me."

  He smiled. "Suzie Sharpe, I will buy you the nicest ring I can find, with the biggest diamond on top that anyone's ever seen." She laughed, and he felt it in his chest. "Sharpe," he repeated. "We'll change that as soon as I get back." He watched her face change to worry. "Hey. I am coming back."

  "Of course you are. I don't doubt it for a second."

  "Then what's the matter?"

  She bit her lip. "I was watching the protest on TV last night. The soldiers, a few of them were in wheelchairs. One of them was missing an arm. I'm just scared you'll..."

  "Get hurt? Me? With you waiting for me back home, I'll be the strongest guy out there." He jumped out of bed and posed like a bodybuilder, naked as the day he was born. He flexed his muscles. "The Viet Cong won't know what him 'em." She laughed again and pulled him back into bed. He kissed her on her lips. "Don't worry about me," he said softer. "With you on my mind, I'll be invincible."

  Junko opened his eyes. He was still on his knees, but the pain was gone. The swarm inside his skull had receded to a whisper. More than that, he felt strong. Power ran in his veins like electricity through a live wire, and he felt like he could take on anything. Anyone. His skin picked up tiny vibrations in the air. He smelled oil and gunpowder, mud and grass, details he'd never been aware of before.

  He was a new man. A better man.

  There were others around him, men with familiar faces he couldn't quite recollect. Ten feet to his right he spotted a man with a thin mustache, a rifle at his feet.

  "Villain."

  Junko spun around. What the hell was that? It was like someone had said the word right into his ear. He stumbled to his feet and looked for the owner of the strange voice. There were other men nearby, but no one close enough, no one even looking in his direction, and they were focused on other things. Some wandered off. Others stared down at their hands.

  "Villain," the voice repeated. "He has to die."

  Junko looked again at the man with the thin mustache. He was starting to understand: the voice knew something he didn't. It was trying to warn him. Was it God? Was he being called upon by a higher power? What if it was the Devil? Didn't he often disguise himself as God, leading men astray?

  "Kill him." He was sure of it now- the voice was coming from inside his head.

  "No," he mumbled, and shook his head like he'd gotten water in his ear. Poison water that wanted him to spill blood. Meanwhile, the man had picked his rifle up off the muddy ground and was studying it.

  "Kill him now."

  "No," he shouted this time, loud enough that the man with the mustache spun in his direction. A look of pure hatred flashed across his reddened face. Junko resisted the strong urge to run at him and tear him apart, but he doubted the man would do the same. He would have to kill or be killed. Adrenaline pumped through him, forcing him to choose, to act, to run, to fight.

  To kill.

  Before he could act on it, a large man tackled the mustached man to the ground. With hands like bear paws he held the man down and squeezed his throat shut, cutting off his air.

  As Junko watched, the mustached man thrashed in the mud, suffocating under the crush of the bigger man's grip. He clawed at the face of his attacker, who made no attempt to protect himself. Nails found flesh and tore it open, but still the large man squeezed, even as his face shredded and blood erupted. He pushed down so hard that the mustached man's head began to sink into the mud, until all that showed was a red and blue face sticking up from the ground; a rotten flower, dying in the sun.

  He made his last attempt to push the large man off, then the mustached man's arms went limp and collapsed at his sides. The large man stared down at the body with blood pouring down his face from his wounds. It showered the corpse beneath him and mixed with the mud, turning it a deep red.

  Then he turned to look at Junko.

  "Try it," Junko growled. "Just fucking try it."

  Gunfire broke out, echoing across the field. A bullet whistled past Junko's ear and struck the large man in the side of his head. His eyes glazed over as he fell backward over the body of the man he'd just killed.

  Junko was angry. That was twice his kill had been stolen from him.

  He looked out across the muddy field. Flashes of gunfire were coming from the trees in the distance. He didn't care who it was or why they were shooting at him, only that they had to die.

  His boots pounded the ground as he ran toward the gunfire. Other men were running next to him, some of them attacking each other as they went, others too focused on the tree line to notice anything else. Not one of them ducked or tried to avoid the gunfire. They feared no death and thought of nothing but the kill. Explosions began thundering around them, sending dirt and rotten plants high into the sky, and all it did was make them run faster, breathe deeper, growl louder.

  Something landed in the mud three feet to Junko's left. It only registered in his racing mind for a moment before the detonation hit.

  A flash of light and a sound louder than anything in memory enveloped him. Then the world went silent. He was only distantly aware of the ground and the sky trading places again and again before he felt the ground hit him like a runaway truck.

  For a while- how long he had no way of knowing- everything was a blur, a watery smudge wrapped in grave silence, but then the blur began to be replaced by images of fire and teeth. The hazy sky drifted past his vision, the ground pulling along his back. He found himself being dragged through the mud and out of a crater by an unknown man.

  As he looked around, slowly regaining his senses, he saw a bloody arm go past him, lying in the mud with a sharp bone sticking out the bloodied end. The pointer finger twitched at random, like it was beckoning him forward. He held up his right hand and wiggled his fingers in front of his face. All there. Then he tried the same with the left. Nothing happened.

  Junko looked down at his left side. Shredded cloth and meat hung from the shoulder, but otherwise it was empty.

  The arm was his. He reached out and grabbed it, finding it was still warm. Whoever was dragging him out of the hole must have noticed him moving. They let go and turned to face him. The face was familiar but without a name, like all the other faces he'd been seeing. The man wore a look that said he wasn't trying to save Junko, but drag him out of the hole and finish killing him himself.

  Junko wasted no time. He jumped up, nearly falling over from the dizziness that wracked his skull. Still gripping his dead arm, in one, swift motion he screamed, lunged forward and drove the bone-end up into the man's stomach.

  Jagged bone pierced the man's gut. Blood bubbled up at the corners of his mouth as a pained whimper escaped his throat. Junko drove the bone deeper until the life faded from the man's eyes. Then he let go, leaving his arm and the dead man to fall as one.

  He had never felt this alive in his life. Adrenaline and endo
rphins flooded his body. They were like fire ants crawling up and down his legs, urging them to move, run, jump, go forward and never, ever stop. Even missing an arm, he felt somehow complete. Gunshots snapped him back to reality. He spun to face them, ready to kill and kill again.

  A sharp pain pierced his chest. It was even worse than the one he'd felt minutes before, like an electric shock through the heart. A man stood in his way, a thin black man with the eyes of a monster, smiling at him. Junko looked down.

  The handle of a knife stuck out of his chest at a sharp angle. It looked like a flag that had been planted on newly discovered land. The thin black man reached out and grabbed the handle of the knife with one, muddy hand.

  "Open your heart," the man whispered through a bloody grin. He pulled the knife free in one, long motion. A sucking sound escaped Junko's chest as his legs gave out. He fell to the ground like a broken doll.

  With the side of his face pressed into cold mud, Junko looked at the field he'd nearly crossed. On the hill above he saw the silhouette of a monster cloaked in blood. It looked like a man he'd known once, a man he would have followed into Hell itself, and just maybe did. As he watched, the thin black man wiped Junko's blood on his sleeve, then turned and went toward the monster on the hill.

  Junko's vision swam. A pool of words washed over his mind as the field went dark around him and the screams of dying men fell away into nothing.

  Have a little trust in your fellow man.

  47 Years Later

  March 3rd, 2015

  Washington D.C.

  Central Detention Facility

  It was a brisk morning when Stanley Sharpe walked out of the double doors and onto the concrete front steps of D.C.'s notoriously crummy prison. The air was damp, lending the sense that rain was coming down the line, yet the sky was sunny and cloudless, from the parking lot ahead all the way to the horizon over the Anastacia River. A chill went up his spine. He zippered his jacket up to his chin, wishing he'd been arrested in something a little warmer.