He had nearly passed the loading dock completely when he heard the pop of gunfire from inside, followed by an angry shriek. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out movement deeper within the bay. Everything was covered in a layer of gray smoke and shadows.
“I’m going in,” he said to Horn. “Keep watch with Ruckley.”
“Careful, brother.” Horn set Ruckley down and shouldered his M249.
Beckham advanced, eyes flitting from the ceiling to the shadows of the bay. Fires burned throughout the place, chewing through debris.
A sudden groan and crack sounded overhead. He dodged as chunks of the ceiling gave way, spilling rubble. Some of it hit his prosthetic hand, the embers melting the plastic where they touched, and sizzling through his ACU.
He hurried forward, listening for Variants. Any hope of smelling their putrid stench was masked by the odor of melting plastic and fuel.
Another cough tore through Beckham, this time making him double over. He tried to catch his breath, knowing the noise could also get him killed.
A second hole in the ceiling formed, spilling more burning detritus.
He lunged to the side, scraping his flesh-and-blood arm across the concrete floor. Concrete and pipes crashed to the ground behind him, cratering the floor.
Then he heard the tap of claws. He braced himself, swinging his rifle up, ready for an attack.
But the beasts those claws belonged to weren’t headed toward him. They were going deeper into the smoke-filled dock.
Straight after prey, he guessed.
More gunfire burst in the space, echoing.
The tormented shrieks of injured Variants followed.
Beckham rushed forward. Behind him another semi-truck went up in flames, fire swelling toward the ceiling. Heat washed over him.
He heard voices ahead.
Human voices.
Beckham’s heart leapt, pulse racing.
“Timothy!” he yelled. The sheer effort caused another coughing fit to wrack his lungs, but he pushed forward against the pain and heat.
“Help! We’re in here!” someone shouted.
The ceiling had caved in, but Beckham could see movement behind a few chunks of marred concrete. A few scattered, bleeding Variant bodies lay nearby, some of them burned so badly they couldn’t move.
“Horn, I found Timothy,” Beckham said over the radio. He scrambled over the piles of scree on all fours like one of the monsters.
“Hell yes, that’s great news, but you better get your asses out here before the place goes up in flames!”
“Copy,” Beckham said. He hunched and directed his tac light into the cavity beneath the debris, illuminating an ash-covered face.
Relief flooded Beckham, temporarily assuaging his burning lungs.
“Timothy, are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’m trapped.”
Beckham roved the light to reveal a few pipes had pinned his legs. Behind him another man had an arm and shoulder trapped under a block of concrete. A grimace painted his face, blood dripping from lacerations in his scalp.
“Boyd needs our help, too,” Timothy said.
“Hang on!”
Beckham used one of the pipes as a lever to push a pair of smaller concrete slabs away. They toppled away from the debris and cracked against the floor.
Behind him another explosion burst. The heat seared over his back, and the odor of burning fuel grew stronger over the smoky air.
He used the pipe to lever up another concrete chunk from Timothy’s leg and a few of the other pipes trapping Timothy rolled away. The young soldier pulled his foot free with a pained grunt. Beckham held out a hand, helping Timothy stand.
Another crash of falling concrete sounded nearby.
“Let’s help Boyd,” Timothy said.
He limped to his downed teammate. The man looked like he was barely clinging to consciousness, no doubt enduring endless waves of pain. Together, Beckham and Timothy tugged at the concrete holding Boyd in place. The man yelled in pain when they lifted it off his arm, and he reeled on the ground from the pain.
Timothy lugged the bigger soldier off the ground, wrapping Boyd’s good arm around his shoulder.
“Hold on, brother,” Timothy said. “We’re getting you out of here.”
They hobbled back through the smoke and growling flames. Halfway to the exit, a blinding flash of light cut through the smoke, followed by a concussive wave that threw Beckham forward. Pieces of metal and concrete shrapnel tore through the air. His helmet thudded against the concrete, the side of his face scraping on the ground.
His ears rang from the blast, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He pushed himself up, rising to a knee. Timothy was already helping Boyd back up to his feet.
Beckham lurched forward, dizzy from the blast. His ribs ached, head pounding, ears ringing. He pushed forward until he reached Timothy, and together they stumbled toward the exit.
More of the ceiling and roof gave way behind them, clouds of dust rolling after them like an avalanche, fanning the flames and plumes of smoke.
“Go, go, go!” Beckham tried to say. He couldn’t even hear his own voice, but he saw their exit ahead.
Horn was waving at them, and Ruckley had managed to get back on her feet. The sight filled Beckham with the energy he needed to guide Timothy and Boyd out of the blazing bay.
The world still sounded muddled when they made it out into the street. Beckham thought he heard voices on the comms. Horn was yelling something, but he couldn’t make that out either.
A wave of smoke and dust blasted out of the loading bay, forcing the team down. Beckham coughed, trying to block Timothy with his own body as grit pelted them.
When the dust settled, he saw Horn pointing at something on their six. Beckham turned, looking past the dumpster Ruckley was hiding behind.
Dark silhouettes moved amid the smoke and dust.
At first, Beckham couldn’t tell if they were enemies or soldiers.
His hearing started to return, the persistent ringing beginning to die down. He knelt behind the cover of a burned-out forklift, Horn steadying his machine gun nearby.
A high-pitched clicking and shrieking dispelled any notion that these might be allies.
Hot wind blew through the street, clearing the smoke momentarily.
An Alpha strode toward them, its batlike ears twitching. Fire cast its body
