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
