A New World:

CONSPIRACY

A Novel by John O’Brien

This book is dedicated to my father, John P. O’Brien. A Vietnam War vet and a great man. I didn’t get to know you as well as I’d have liked to, but the times we did get to share will forever remain with me. You are in my heart when I stroll through the woods and always in my thoughts. I miss you.

Author’s Notice

The New World series is a fictional work. While some of the locations in the series describe actual locations, this is intended only to lend an authentic theme. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First thanks goes to my mother, June O’Brien. She takes first crack at my scribblings and turns them into something that others can read. Each time I seem to develop a new quirk. This time I seemed to fixate on ‘begins to’ and ‘to an extent’. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you for all of the hours you put in. And that’s aside from publishing your second book in the series, The Blue Child Series. I highly encourage everyone to read The North Road. You won’t be disappointed.

Thank you to the beta readers who take their valuable time to read through and correct my many errors. I truly appreciate all of your input!

I owe a special thanks to Amanda with Cave of the Winds. She spent a lot of her valuable time answering my questions regarding the cave systems located in Manitou Springs.

A thanks goes to Matthew Riggenbach for your help with the cover art. You delivered once again in record time with a masterpiece.

And a very special thanks to all of my readers, thank you!!! Your encouraging messages and support is humbling. I feel truly fortunate to have such great fans. You aren’t just fans, you’re friends and part of my extended family. You have journeyed with me through this story and made it a part of you just as much as it is me. I said it before and I’ll say it again, this story is as much yours as it is mine.

If you do happen to enjoy the story, feel free to leave a review. Reviews are important for two reasons. One is that’s how the books get up in the listing which of course means more sales. But more importantly, it lets me get a look at everyone’s perception. Looking though the online reviews, I feel that I become a better writer.

John O’Brien

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Well, here we are on the eighth book. Who would have guessed it would have come this far. I, for one, am absolutely thrilled it has as I enjoy writing about this group of survivors. They have become more than just characters in a story, they have become a part of me that I enjoy spending time with. Yes, the voices in my head. The fun thing about writing about them is that I never really know what is going to happen. Within certain set parameters, the tale unfolds as I set the words down.

I’ve had a few messages regarding UV lighting so I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk about that. I truly wish that UV lighting could come into play and work it into the story line with teams pushing into night runner lairs. UV lighting operates on a shorter wavelength than that of the visual spectrum. It’s really divided into three different UV types but I won’t go into that. The sun emits all three types and it’s UVB that is the most damaging. Most of the artificially produced light, i.e. tanning beds and handheld devices, operate in the UVA spectrum. This light can be harmful if overexposure occurs but that exposure takes some time for it to be effective in that manner. I can’t see that anyone would want to hold a lamp to a night runner for an extended period of time, and I can’t imagine that the night runner would be cordial enough to hold still during that time. Well, enough about that. I’m not meaning to come across negatively, I just want to mention it and show that it wouldn’t be a very feasible option.

I’d also like to mention that there is a lot of planning that involves Frank so there is a lot of interaction there. I just don’t write about a lot of the pre-planning that goes on as I’m sure you’d be skipping over those sections just as I would be falling asleep at the keyboard writing it.

This book is a little different than the others. There are a few threads going on, and an introduction to a new one. I won’t spoil it here but you’ll see it. Speaking of which, here I am prattling on, keeping you from the story. So, let’s get on with it shall we. I hope you enjoy the continuation of Jack’s and the group’s tale. And, if you happen to enjoy it, please head back and leave a review. I’d be forever grateful.

John O’Brien

Prologue

Tired from a night of hunting, and with the bright light bringing an end to his time outside, Michael eases down to the hard, wooden floor of his lair. The noise of the pack jostling to find places to rest echo in the large arena, eventually settling to a few grunts and groans. Michael wants to slump down and sleep with the rest of them, but thoughts, racing through his mind, keep him awake. With the two-leggeds occupying the top position, anxiety about his pack fills most of his waking moments. They are by far the most dangerous threat to the pack’s existence.

There had been a chance to destroy the two-leggeds when Sandra had somehow managed to get into their lair, but then she inexplicably left with one of their females in tow. However much he has tried to make sense of that move, he hasn’t arrived at anything that adds up. Now his worry extends to what the two-legged’s response will be. Michael has no doubt that they’ll react, but he isn’t sure of what that will entail. He has warned his groups heading out on the nightly hunt to be alert for the sounds of the thing in the sky that rains down death; but so far, nothing has materialized.

Through images from some of her followers leaving and arriving on their hunt, he knows where Sandra has laired the remains of her pack. Thoughts circle through his mind about eliminating her as she has endangered the whole pack through her actions. Instead, he has purposely kept a wide separation between their two packs. There is no telling when the two-legged ones will react, and he doesn’t want to be caught in the middle or in any way draw their attention his way.

Michael knows the two-leggeds must be destroyed if he and his pack are to have a chance at surviving and that Sandra’s actions are now likely to make that a more difficult endeavor. His choices are to attack the two-legged lair and hope for the best, destroy Sandra and hope that his own pack isn’t discovered, pull farther back until things resolve themselves, or keep things as they are. Each time he thinks of one of the options, it seems to be the right choice, but the problems associated with each one quickly appear and he discards the idea.

Attacking the two-legged lair would decimate his pack in the process, and he doubts he would be successful. That would bring about an even larger retaliation. Attacking Sandra would accomplish very little unless he recovered the captured female and released her, but what would that really solve? There is nothing to be had there except for destroying Sandra and the danger she keeps bringing. Pulling back to another location could possibly bring them to an area with limited food sources. They are able to sustain themselves where they are for the time being so moving might bring on additional problems. No, he will watch from a distance in the hopes that he can learn more about the two-leggeds from their reaction.

* * *

He sits bolt upright, coming out from a dead sleep and into a panicked awakening. It has been several nights without any sign of a two-legged reaction to the intrusion of their lair. Michael wondered if there is going to be any retaliation at all. The image that flashed through his mind and brought him from the depths of sleep makes him think that the time of the two-legged reaction is at hand.

The mental image that startled him awake fades as he becomes more aware of his surroundings, but the essence of the message remains etched in his mind: “I’m heeeere…and coming to get each and every one of you, you backwards-ass motherfuckers.”

Looking around at his immense pack laying in all corners of the vast arena, some twitching as they sleep, he feels confused by the message. It feels both similar to the images he is used to, yet foreign at the same time. It’s one he has felt in the past from time to time, but now he’s certain it’s from one of the two-legged. The fact that he sees an image sent by one of them both scares and puzzles him. He wasn’t aware that any of the two-leggeds could communicate in this manner. Although he isn’t certain, Michael senses that the image was sent from the proximity of Sandra’s lair.

As the image fades, another takes it place almost immediately. This one is more directed, “I’m coming for you. I’ll be along shortly, so save a place.” The ‘voice’ of the image instantly vanishes from his mind.

Yes, the two-legged ones are reacting. Michael rises and ventures closer to the entrance as if this will allow him to “see” the upcoming events more clearly. He sits and watches for images floating from the direction of Sandra’s lair.

It’s not long before he feels a couple of his kind from far away vanish from his mind. That in itself isn’t all that unusual; it happens from time to time, and the ones who fade from his senses usually reappear shortly thereafter. However, the timing of it this time causes him to believe that these won’t be coming back. He senses some in the other lair become more alert. He knows that opening up to fully sense them will cause him to become ‘visible’, but as long as he doesn’t transmit anything, he will be just another presence — albeit a stronger one.

Another vanishes. He senses two pack members become alert, aware that an intruder might be in their midst. Michael wonders how many the two-leggeds have sent in to such a large lair, but as yet, no visual images of them emanate from the pack. Feeling that will be a short-lived thing as the others react, he continues to watch, looking for two-legged weaknesses that he might exploit in the future.

It’s not long before he is rewarded by visual images of pack members looking at a lone two-legged standing on some stairs. He feels first one and then the second pack member vanish abruptly from his mind, but not before they were able to send out an alarm. Hundreds of pack members tense and begin running toward where the one was spotted.

Images filter in of them finding and then chasing a two-legged up the stairs. From what he can glean, they are catching up with it fast, and this part of the attack will be over quickly. Suddenly, his mind is filled with the agony of many pack members. He can almost hear their screams of suffering — white hot images of pain. Michael doesn’t know what happened, only that the pack members giving chase blink out of existence.

These two-leggeds are more dangerous than I thought, he thinks as he receives images of Sandra’s pack members searching the lair.

Images of Sandra enter as she calls others to bring the two-legged female to her. Michael still can’t figure out what she is thinking, as if this female can save her or her pack in some way. The thought that Sandra is using this female as a lure surfaces again, but that still doesn’t make any sense. She was in the two-legged lair and could have killed all of them. To withdraw only to set a trap when she was already there just doesn’t seem right. A thought occurs that maybe she is just crazy.

Now, that makes more sense, Michael thinks as Sandra vanishes once again.

Time passes with only images of pack members searching through the lair for more of the two-leggeds. Michael wonders if this was their attempt and, having failed, they are now giving up. Images surface; running down halls…chasing after sounds. He can’t ascertain exactly what is going on, but catches fleeting pictures of hallways and the mental equivalent of the sound of glass breaking.

The next series of images has him stiffen and rise abruptly from his sitting position. Sandra, filled with pain and screaming, “Noooooo!” He feels anguish radiate from her and catches a visual image of a two-legged one and the female, hearing the two-legged say, “I warned you that I was coming.” He senses the image from Sandra begin to fade, but not before he ‘sees’ Sandra answer, “You were mine.” Then…she vanishes.

Amidst the anger rising from the pack members at her loss, Michael feels his own rage build. It’s not the loss of Sandra that causes this — that is almost a relief — but it is because of the loss of one of his own kind to a two-legged. The very sight causes his rage to build; but so far, he has been able to control it. It’s still there, and sometimes it threatens to overwhelm all of his other senses, but he can manage it. Some of it stems from fear. He has a hard time coming to grips that one of the two-leggeds can infiltrate a lair like that and kill a pack leader.

The red-infused images from the remaining pack members echo in his mind, becoming a single voice of rage. They may have entered and taken out Sandra, but they won’t escape the wrath of the pack. Although Michael can’t believe that only one or a scant few infiltrated a lair as large as Sandra’s, he has to think this is so. If there were more, they would have been found, and he would have witnessed the ensuing fight.

The anger coming from the pack blocks out specific images, but he feels that the pack is close to getting in. Once that happens, the two-leggeds will be torn apart. He feels his mouth water at the prospect and wishes he were there to partake in the rending of flesh, especially flesh and blood so sweet. His surroundings fade as he slips into their bloodlust.

The rage he feels coming from the pack changes to confusion. Images filter outward of an empty room with the body of Sandra lying on the floor amidst overturned chairs. Fear brings his surroundings back into focus.

Where could the two-leggeds have gone?

Just as quickly, another image forms of two-leggeds racing down a corridor. How they were able to get out of the room is beyond him, but they have been spotted, and he follows the chase through the images sent from the pack. Corners race by; he feels the eagerness of those nearing the two-leggeds as the pack closes in. They may have escaped from the room, but they won’t make it out of the lair.

Several members vanish as the chase progresses, but, judging from the images, it will soon be over. White hot agony from a pack member intrudes into his thoughts. Then, the images of the two-leggeds are gone. Frustration and rage emanate from the pack. Michael shuts them out. His own anger is still strong, but beginning to recede. One of his problems, Sandra, has been taken care of; but his other, the two-leggeds, has escalated.

If they are capable of this, then they are much more dangerous than he gave them credit. They must go or he must move his pack. Both cannot exist in the same place. He feels deep down that his pack is in more danger than ever. Their very survival is in question. Now…whether to attack or pull back? As he stalks back to his place, he ponders what the right answer is. He’ll need to think about it more. For now, they’ll hunt as they always have.

As he lays down in an attempt to get some rest, he opens up and sends out a message to the remaining members of Sandra’s pack to join him the next night.

A Past Remembered

Gav, code name Nahmer, crouches next to a pile of rubble near an intersection. The debris from a partially fallen wall spills across the sidewalk and out into the street — most likely caused from a mortar blast or RPG. Looking to her left and right down the cross streets, she sees nothing moving in the green glow of her NVGs. More rubble and the burned out husks of cars sit silently along the edges of a road littered with the debris of battle; the pockmarked walls attesting to the ferocity and volume of fire that has been exchanged at this intersection over time.

This particular location has changed hands many times and no one is sure who owns it now. But, whoever has it, it is a sure that it will change hands again. For the time being, though, it is quiet, which is exactly the way she wants it. Sporadic gunfire in the distance says that’s not the case everywhere, some other intersection is being contested. The jagged shapes of the surrounding buildings are outlined when the night sky occasionally flashes from a mortar round or RPG striking a target, the dull roar echoing down the streets seconds later.

Looking behind her, she barely spots the five others that comprise her team — only visible because she knows exactly where to look. They are crouched behind vehicles, other rubble, or peeking around corners of blown out building fronts. All six members, including her, of her Mossad team were inserted two days ago near the outskirts of the embattled town. Since then, they slowly snaked their way to their present location, holing up in abandoned factories and housing complexes during the day and skirting observed strongholds at night.

Their mission is the elimination of a group responsible for the daytime bombing of an outdoor café in Jerusalem. Intel had placed them deep within a portion of Hezbollah-controlled territory. Normally, they would verify the presence of the group and call in a strike, but the higher ups wanted photo verification that those responsible were dead. Her thought was that they wanted to cast fear in those who would dare strike against their small state…that nowhere was safe…that they would be found and eliminated.

Regardless of the reasons, she has her mission, and she will carry it out as she has all of her previous ones: with extreme prejudice. She had earned her moniker while serving in the Sayeret, and it followed her when she was recruited into Mossad. It meant ‘panther’ and it resulted from the fact that she could infiltrate with stealth, complete her mission, and disappear.

To her, that capability didn’t come from luck or some form of magic, it was due to her meticulous planning and training. She thought about every angle and had a counter to each one prior to stepping onto her transportation. Her team trained extensively, but not so much where their edge was worn down. She didn’t want them to lock in to a set series of actions. Her experience has taught her to be flexible and flow with each situation. It only looked like a flow from the outside, but it was running scenarios through her mind time and time again, looking at every factor, which made the action become instinct. Still, anything can happen at any time.

A distant flash is followed by rolling thunder, resounding down the war-torn streets. Adjusting her silenced Micro Galil, she glances down the streets once more, concentrating on the irregular outlines of the building’s windows. Seeing nothing, she rises and darts across the intersection, settling next to one of the burnt out vehicles. Nothing erupts from the night that would signal that she has been seen — no shout of discovery or sudden volley of gunfire.

Gav issues a single command into her radio. The others of her team rise like ghosts, dash across the street — their soft-soled boots making almost no noise at all — and fold into concealed positions. After two days of tense movements, they’ve crossed the boundary into what is now mostly Hezbollah-controlled territory. If all goes well, they should make it to their target’s location and be able to slip out before the sun rises over this battle-scarred land.

They slink farther into enemy-controlled territory (of course it became that the moment they crossed the border), keeping to the darkened entryways and other cover as much as possible. There isn’t a light that shows in this particular part of the city. The power lines had been decimated long ago…along with the water and sewer lines. The sound of a vehicle has each member folding into cover, merging even more with the darkness. The noise increases until a pickup truck loaded with figures passes by an intersection ahead of them. With the sound of the vehicle receding, they ease out of their positions and continue making their slow way farther behind lines.

Over time, they advance into the heart of the city. Some lights glow from windows, and the walls show less bullet strikes than those near the much fought over edges of territory. Several times, Gav had to direct them around roving patrols and intersections guarded by militia carrying AK-47s and RPGs. At one point, they had to scramble in and hole up in an abandoned store as one patrol decided to dismount at their location. The voices and occasional laughter from the patrol drifted across the street over the sound of distant gunfire. The wait was so long that Gav thought the patrol was actually barracked here and her team would have to hole up in the building for another day. Eventually, the patrol loaded up again and moved on, their reason for stopping unknown.

Gliding through partially destroyed buildings, through alleyways, and cautiously yet quickly along main avenues, Gav and the rest of her team find themselves in what used to be a shop of some kind after having gained entrance through the rear. Across the street, at the location given by intelligence, two people holding AKs stand next to a wooden door leading into a multi-story building. On the third floor, light shows from several windows, each covered on the inside by thin cloth. As Gav looks over the establishment, a silhouette of someone walking by the windows shows a couple of times.

To her, the guards are an indication that something or someone important is inside and lends evidence that their intel is good. She assumes that any back way in would be equally guarded, but it’s better than going in the front where they can be more easily spotted.

The roar of a low-flying jet streaking through the night sounds directly over her. The startled guards across from her crouch and turn their heads upward, searching and tense with the possibility that bombs might fall on them. A few blocks away, two penetrating flashes light up the night sky, followed by ground-shaking explosions that rock the nearby buildings. A scattering of dust falls from the ceiling onto the watching team.

Thirty seconds later, as the noise from the pair of bombs fades, another jet roars over the roof tops, adding yet another set of shattering blasts to the area. The lights on the third floor go out. While still crouching, one of the guards holds a radio to his ear. A second later, they both turn and rush into the interior.

“Now’s the time. Across the street and in. VOX and cameras on. Clear the sides as we go, but we make haste to the third floor. Everyone is considered a threat and eliminated immediately. No noise. Let’s go,” Gav says, rising.

Gav and her team emerge from the shop on the run, widening the gap between them as they go. The chatter of the distant gunfire has fallen off, but not silenced altogether, as the night has progressed. Perhaps the munitions, more than likely delivered by the IAF, has caused everyone to go underground. Or maybe it’s just quitting time.

She and another of her team quietly rush across the street, their suppressed barrels focused on the doorway, two others spread out to the sides concentrating on the windows overlooking the road, while the remaining two keep their eyes out down the narrow, debris-covered avenue and behind them. Approaching the door, they stack against the wall, listening for any sounds.

A loud voice sounds from the floors above, but it fades just as quickly. The most important thing is that she doesn’t hear anything coming from the other side of the thin door beside her. Her teammate reaches out and, with a nod from her, pulls the door open. Gav streaks inside, weapon at the ready.

A long, narrow hallway extends the length of the building with closed doors spaced at intervals along its length. Wallpaper, torn and peeling, adorns the dirty walls, which show green through her goggles. Cheap light fixtures are set along the length, some hanging loosely by wires that barely hold the lamps up. Most have had their bulbs broken, but a few still seem functional. More importantly, the hall is clear.

Gav continues swiftly on, crouch-walking down the hall, her barrel leading the way. Anyone emerging into the hall will be quickly and quietly taken out, no questions asked. She won’t hesitate pulling the trigger…be it man, woman, or child. Any noise or startled shouting will alert others to their presence and endanger the whole team. If this place, meaning the entire territory, becomes alerted to the presence of Israelis in the area, all other actions will cease in order to hunt them down. She and her team wouldn’t live through the night.

Passing closed doors to the left and right, her tension high and senses highly tuned to any disturbance or hint of anyone around, she spies an opening up ahead about half way down the corridor.

“Stairs ahead to the left,” she whispers into her extended boom mic.

She doesn’t hear any reply but knows her team heard her. She edges to the stairs and peeks quickly around the corner. Old wooden steps climb steeply, the treads warped in many places.

“Clear,” she breathes, stepping quickly around the corner.

She turns backward and, making sure she climbs the stairs near the wall where they are less likely to give a tell-tale creak, focuses on the stairs and landing upward. The rest of her team continues to cover the entire area with the last two walking backward, keeping an eye behind them — they are essentially a moving perimeter.

Her heart beats heavily as she continues upward, adrenaline flooding her system. Any false move here and they’ll never see their home again. There’s a touch of fear, but it’s mostly about safeguarding her team. Most of what she feels is a highly-tuned adrenaline rush. Long ago, she overcame any guilt associated with her chosen lifestyle. This is what she lives for and loves to do. There may some patriotic feature to it, but it’s really about avenging the death of her parents. And, if she were perfectly honest, that has little to do with it anymore. She shuts the thought down as she reaches the first floor landing.

Reaching into one of her cargo pockets, she withdraws a simple, triangular doorstop. Wedging it under the inward-opening door, she continues her advance. The measure won’t stop a determined effort to gain entrance to the stairway, but it will definitely slow anyone down. It will perhaps gain enough time to allow them to escape should they be discovered.

Gav and her team continue their quick march upward, wanting to hit fast, hard, and quiet. So far, there hasn’t been any sight or sound of the two guards who vanished inside. She feels her warm breath as she exhales through her dark pullover mask, conscious of keeping her breathing steady. They are nearing their target, and now is not the time to let fear cause a mistake by moving too fast. Quick yes, but hurried… no.

Sealing off the second floor door in the same manner, Gav nears the third floor and their destination. Her highly-tuned senses feel that something is amiss. Almost before she can register this feeling, the door opens widely with a loud, long creak of hinges that haven’t seen oil in years.

Two guards emerge through the doors at the top of the stairs. With her weapon emitting silent coughs, she fires three hurried rounds into each before they even know she is there, dropping them quickly to the landing where they hit with solid thumps. Spray from the high-speed projectiles slamming into flesh and bone paints the walls with their blood, some of the larger splotches flow downward in small rivulets. One moment, the two were talking about how to live another day in their war-ravaged land, and the next…they weren’t.

Not slowing, Gav continues quickly over to the bodies and fires a single round into each of their heads. Bone, flesh, and brain flow outward from a large exit wound each round created, adding to the blood already pooling around the still warm corpses, the subsonic bullets doing tremendous damage. She doesn’t know if the guards will be missed anytime soon, but she has to assume they will. The first card is played and the game is on.

She reaches down to one of the bodies and, finding a radio, she turns it off and pockets it. This will be additional intel regarding the frequencies they may be using. The two bringing up the rear will remove the mags and insert different mags with rigged cartridges. It is likely that the weapons will be recovered after this and used again. The rounds inserted are overcharged ones which will explode in the chamber when fired. With any luck, the shooter will be severely injured. At the very least, it will trigger distrust among others about using their weapons and cause them to hesitate, hopefully at a crucial moment.

Gav checks down each hall. It is in the same condition as the first floor corridor. She then turns right toward the front of the building where she saw the light in one of the windows. At the end of the hallway stands a closed door. It’s to this that she quickly but silently makes her way, her suppressed weapon up and ready.

She hears almost nothing behind her as her team follows, only an occasional scrape of boots on the severely worn carpeting. Like climbing the stairs, Gav keeps to the wall to eliminate creaks of the weak floorboards; also, so she won’t stand out as readily like she would if she were in the middle of the hall. Nearing the door, she hears the door handle rattle and begin to turn.

Not hesitating, she lowers her shoulder and charges the door. If they are caught in the hall, it will leave her and her team exposed. An initial volley may take out those in the doorway, but the simple toss of a grenade from inside will spell the end of her and her team. She hits the door with her shoulder just as it is opening. The door crashes inward and stops abruptly. She slams into it again and steps through.

Gav sees four armed men, two of which are stumbling backward into the arms of the other two behind them. Raising her Micro Galil, she sends short bursts into the two stumbling men. The closeness of the delivered rounds slam into their chest and face, sending the two men crashing hard against the two others. Pink mist sprays into the faces of the two remaining alive, covering them with gore. Gav delivers two more bursts into the surprised men, sending all four of them crashing into the ground. The men bounce off walls and collapse a small table as they fall.

Stepping over the bodies, she enters the room proper. An archway opens to the right with the main room opening to the left.

“Opening to the right,” she calls quietly into the mic.

Bypassing the opening and knowing the teammates behind her will sweep into there, she turns to the main room. Four other men are rising from chairs around an old dining table. Light from a TV shines in the room, but no sound emits from it. The only other light is from a couple of candles on the table itself. The startled men are rising quickly and reaching for the carbines next to them. She can tell they are having a hard time seeing who has invaded their domain, but that doesn’t slow them retrieving their arms.

She, however, can see quite clearly. Her first burst takes the closest man squarely in the chest. The rounds hit with solid, meaty thumps; flowers of dark liquid instantly stain his light-colored T-shirt. Gav hears his breath as it is forcefully exhaled. He clutches his chest and falls forward to his knees before falling prone. She only witnesses the hits before directing her fire into one of his companions next to him.

The bullets hit in close proximity just to the left of his sternum, spinning him around and sending him crashing across the dining table. She hasn’t stopped moving and sees the remaining two lift from the ground as the combined rounds from three of her team connect with force. They are sent crashing into the wall before slumping slowly to the ground. She hears two of her team, who hit the room to the right by the entrance, call clear. Four hollow coughs follow as part of her team behind put rounds into the first four. The only sound is a low groan emitting from one of the men near the table.

The main room opens into another large room to the right, past the first one. Normally, she would toss a flashbang and enter. However, this is to be a silent op if they are to get out in one piece. She signals the others and they turn the corner together.

Another room opens, looking much like the main one with a kitchen on the far side. Nothing moves. She directs three of them in to search farther as she steps over to the table and nearer the four downed men. The man lying across the table is the one moaning. Putting a round into each of the others to ensure they remain quiet, Gav checks for signs of a grenade under the body of the groaning man. Yeah, she’s learned that one. Satisfied that he hasn’t booby-trapped himself, she rolls him off the table. He falls to the floor face up. She looks down at his pain-filled eyes. The pain turns to fear. With a wicked grin, she raises her weapon.

The room goes silent.

A Sighting

She shakes herself out of the memory of times past. The click of her heels echoes in the wide hall, off the polished white and black tiled floor, as she makes her way to the control room. The call asking for her presence had come moments ago, interrupting another meeting. Gav takes note of the mostly bare corridor painted in a calming sky blue. She was mostly responsible for getting this facility together and paid attention to every detail with its construction. After all, there was a chance that they were to be down here a long time — a chance that proved right.

The abandoned, underground government communication bunker was originally forty-five thousand square feet of below-ground real estate sitting beneath over two hundred plus acres that were located approximately twenty miles to the northeast of Denver. She oversaw the renovation of the facility for their purposes; enlarging it to over five hundred thousand square feet. That provided enough room to house the equipment and personnel required to operate as a command-and-control center, along with the battalion of troops on site for security. She also has several reconnaissance and special operations teams to deploy as needed.

Gav passes by large windows, looking into the offices and conference rooms along one wall as she makes her way down the long hall. Most are empty, the vacant chairs circling equally empty tables just waiting for bodies to file in and occupy them. Passing under one of the many air vents, she feels cold, filtered air as it is blown in from the surface after passing through the comprehensive nuclear, chemical, and biological filtration system.

Passing her card through the reader, she glances at her picture and name imprinted upon the white plastic: Gavriella Rosenstrauss. That name seems foreign to her as she had left it behind long ago…in her mind at least. The woman that person was had left the moment her parents were killed by a mortar blast fired from across the border of her old home. The girl who lived in fright from those attacks emerged from the rubble a changed person. After the initial shock — her parents being torn out of her life — the pain of what happened began to surface. Every day she felt that tearing within her heart; a physical pain that she felt she couldn’t bear any longer. But she endured and learned to suppress the agony within until her fear and grief turned to anger. A deep-seated anger without an outlet. She railed at the world. Over time, the fire of anger burned out and coldness was left in its place. At first, that was directed at those responsible for the cowardly attack; later, it was funneled into her operations against that very same enemy. Over time, it just became her job, one she enjoyed doing.

As for the picture, it was a recent one, and, although she never thought about her features much, she has to admit this was a rather good one. Her dark, almost black, flowing hair frames a narrow face with a strong chin. Her dark eyes stare from under thick, dark eyebrows as if daring anyone to cross her path. Her nose…yes, her nose, that part of her that identifies her as classically Jewish, is the part of her she likes the least. Her darker skin, just that color a shade deeper than a tan, blends nicely with her hair. Some have called her beautiful, but she never has paid attention to things like that. Hers is a world of death, and she has had little time or energy for anything else. She has had flings in her life, but they were merely that to her; flings. Her priorities have always been geared toward her work, and she just never wanted to devote the energy necessary to sustain a relationship.

No, that’s not entirely correct, she thinks.

She had actually fallen in love once, and thought her life would change along with those feelings. Her career in the special operations world was going nicely. It sustained her, but she was willing to give up even that. That was before the capture and arbitrary killing of the one she was willing to give up everything for. That event devastated her and killed any thoughts of all further relationships. She turned back to the dark world in which she circulated. It once again became her only family, and one that she felt secure in. Never again would she allow her feelings to go past the mission and her fellow operators.

The door clicks, accepting her card as valid, and she pulls it open. Entering the control room, she lets the door close behind her and surveys the room. Three large screens are set into the wall on her right with rows of tiered workstations set before them. Each workstation has its own large monitor, but each is wired to present information to the larger ones. At present, only the center screen is on, showing an overhead view of the United States and several satellite tracks. It’s the default view kept on screen and only replaced with other vital information during a planning sessions.

The workstations are only partially filled with operators at this time, primarily because nothing much is happening at the moment. They are in a pure monitoring status. The shift supervisor, the one who called her here, looks over when she enters and hurriedly makes his way to her.

“Nahmer, thank you for coming. We’ve picked up something you might be interested in. You know you said that we should—” he starts.

“Yes, yes. Show me what you have,” Gav interrupts.

The supervisor nods and opens his arm in a ‘if you’ll follow me’ gesture. She follows in his wake, her heels clicking sharply on the hardened floor. She always wears heels when she can. The sound of them on the floor adds to the force she already presents. Even though she is not a tall woman, her presence in a room commands attention. The supervisor guides her to one of the consoles where they stand over a lone operator.

“Pete, pull up the satellite feed from a moment ago,” the supervisor says, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder.

The operator’s fingers fly over the keyboard and his monitor goes dark momentarily. When it comes to life, they are looking down at some region of earth.

“Zoom in a little,” the supervisors instructs.

More fingers bounce across the keyboard and the monitor blurs for an instant before refocusing. There, in the center of the screen, is a C-130 flying across a mountainous landscape. Gav is startled at the sight of a lone Hercules aloft but conceals her surprise behind pursed lips.

“Do we have any idea who it is, where it’s going, and where it originated from?” she asks, her accent betraying her origins only slightly.

“We have no idea who it is, Nahmer, but we did track its source to Joint Base Lewis McChord. Going over some of our footage of the area, it appears to be part of a group from a C-camp. Let me see.” He rummages through several sheets of paper. “There it is, camp designation C-US-4.”

Gav holds her hand out and the supervisor gives her a small booklet. The booklet contains all of the identified gatherings of people and categorizes them. Categories range from A through F; with ‘F’ being just a few families, to a group such as Gav’s, which would be classified as an ‘A’ camp. The classification system includes capabilities with regards to training, numbers, and equipment. So far, they have only found groups classified up to a ‘C’ level, and only four of them within the borders of the continental United States. This group falls within that category.

She turns the pages before coming to the camp information. It’s a location in the Northwest close to JBLM, near the city of Olympia. There are several pictures of the site but they don’t look current to her practiced eyes.

“Any idea of where they’re heading?” she asks, not looking up from scanning the information.

“It’s not a certainty, Nahmer, but from the information we can gather from their flight path, it could be that they are heading to Clovis or Albuquerque,” the supervisor answers.

“And what is there that could be of interest?”

“Albuquerque has Kirtland AFB which was a training base for Air Force special operations and Clovis is near Cannon AFB which is home to an AC-130 wing.”

“I’d put my money on Cannon AFB seeing as they are flying a C-130. They may be trying to pick up an AC-130,” Gav states.

“What would you like us to do?” the supervisor asks.

“Keep an eye on them and let me know what they are up to. Also, task one of the satellites to do a pass-by of camp C-US-4. I want current pictures and keep it monitored.” Gav hands the booklet back.

She turns to leave but stops and looks over her shoulder. “Good find. Keep up the good work,” she says before turning once again and leaving the control room.

The supervisor nods with a satisfied smile on his face, patting the controller on the shoulder.

Later that day, Gav sits with the outgoing and incoming shift supervisors in one of the smaller conference rooms close to the control center. She tries to hold these meetings with them between shifts to ascertain what is going on in the world around them and what needs to be done…if anything. Usually it’s just an update on the various camp activities that they’ve located or to mention another one found or lost.

In the beginning, these meetings had more significance as the scouting of the areas and logging of information began. Lately, they have been short as nothing much different has transpired. Finding a C-130 aloft alters things. It’s the first significant discovery that they’ve found in a while, and it represents a capability they don’t currently possess. That worries her.

“We tracked the C-130 as you requested, and it landed in Albuquerque,” the outgoing shift supervisor continues his debrief.

“Any idea what they are doing there and what their force is comprised of?” Gav asks.

“I don’t have any idea what they may be doing there. They could have landed there due to a large squall line that formed along their flight path. From what we were able to see, which was difficult because of the weather moving in, their numbers were approximately eighteen to twenty, all armed. They managed to meet up with one of the D-level groups we previously identified. It is, um…” the outgoing supervisor says, pausing as he looks through one of the sheets he has spread on the table, “…the group identified as D-US-12. We also re-tasked one of the satellites to do a flyover of camp C-US-4 as you requested. We should have a new set of pictures for you in the morning.”

“Very good. I want that C-130 flight and group under constant surveillance. Call me if you find anything else,” Gav says.

With that, both supervisors nod and leave, one for dinner and rest, and the other to monitor what is left of the world. Gav remains seated at the table. Sipping on her cup of coffee, she mulls over her position and how she arrived at it. More importantly, how everything could have gone so horribly wrong.

All Good Plans

She had a lot of success within the Israeli special operations which led to her being integrated into the Mossad. Gav felt her abilities were underutilized within the Sayeret, so she jumped at the chance to move. Once her training was complete, she never looked back as the missions she conducted were more in line with what she wanted and where she felt her skills were put to the best use. Plus, she enjoyed the challenge.

Over time, Gav made a name for herself as someone who could be successful even in the trickiest situations. That eventually led to a very strange meeting with a small group of people that evolved into her current status. She was given several missions which tested her resolve, loyalty, skills, and morals. With regards to morals, she had them and detested bullying, but accomplishing the mission was the more important aspect. She prided herself on her ability to meticulously plan and carry out any assignment given her.

Eventually, she was given the opportunity to become a full-fledged group member. Her death was faked and there were only a very few within the Israeli intelligence community who knew that she was still alive. Those were the ones who introduced her to this new group and were themselves involved. Over time, and after being tested further, she learned of the group’s mission, eventually leading to her current position as the operations director of the command facility. And what a scheme it was.

The overall plan was for the group to emerge from the ashes of civilization to control the resources and, in essence, become the de-facto leaders. They would control the resources and distribution. To do this, they had established thirty-two sites across the world; each one built in secret and close to various resources. Each site would house petroleum specialists, nuclear physicists, and other experts in differing arenas of production, along with the staff and workers necessary to bring infrastructure systems back online and continue output. This was especially important with the nuclear power plants. Those needed to be shut down in a timely manner or they’d have a disaster on their hands. Each site was to deploy its resources after the world died to enact Phase Two of the plan.

Phase One was implementing a vast decrease in the world’s population. It was a bold plan waiting for world events to bring it about. They had the nanotechnology and were just waiting for the right time and event to implement it. The nanotechnology would be spread in a short period of time and distributed worldwide. Phase Two was for personnel to deploy out of the sites and take control of the resources.

Pandemics, or rather the fear of it, were increasingly commonplace events. The group just needed one to come around so they could administer their plan via a vaccine to a populace that would welcome it. Of course, no one would know what else was being administered. The nanobots would infiltrate the body and attach themselves to the cerebral cortex. These could then be activated by satellite, setting off a small charge which would instantly kill the individual. Arrangements were already in place to add these nanobots to two-thirds of the vaccines which would be sent out. In the meantime, they would build their infrastructure and wait.

The Cape Town Flu virus provided the opportunity. Gav and her staff were already ensconced in their underground command facility. Other groups were alerted to move into their facilities. These would house the experts, military personnel, and equipment that would later emerge and begin Phase Two. There was even an entire division of military personnel in Namibia that were to sweep south into South Africa to take control of the infrastructure and precious resources there. Timing was crucial. The vaccine would be administered, and ninety-six hours later, everyone would move into the facilities and prepare. Twenty-four hours after everyone was in place, the nanobots would be triggered, effectively reducing the world’s population by over sixty percent. Their deaths would be blamed on the flu; the group would take control of the resources and rise from the ashes. That’s when everything went to shit.

They could never have anticipated that the vaccine itself would alter the DNA and bring about the ruin of their plans. Since the initiation of the first phase, there had been no communication from any of the other sites. Gav believed that no other personnel made it due to the short span of incubation the vaccine had — the deaths and DNA alterations that created the infected ones happened too quickly. Although none of the personnel took the vaccine, she believes that they succumbed to the madness that followed and never had a chance to make it.

She sent parties to some of the nearest sites only to find them sealed up with no one home. Even the military vehicles in storage were of no use as she didn’t have the proper forces to utilize them. She had her own contingent of vehicles, mostly Humvees and Strykers, but the others were useless without the personnel. She had no pilots or any other specialized personnel. Her facility was intended to function as a support compound. They were, in essence, stuck. The leaders of this fiasco were housed in the command facility, but they were still searching for a way to rise from the ashes.

There would still have been a chance if it weren’t for a single failure. They couldn’t communicate with the satellite controlling the nanobot’s signals. They were receiving information from it, but, from all appearances, the receiver aboard wasn’t functioning. They checked all of their equipment to find it working perfectly. Still, the satellite couldn’t receive a signal. Integral checks of the satellite revealed it was working perfectly except for this one, not so minor, glitch. Gav kept technicians working on it night and day, but so far, they haven’t found a solution.

If she could get control of the satellite, she could hopefully eradicate the infected ones, or at least thin them out a little; and then Gav and her group could come out of their facility to implement a modified version of Phase Two. As it is, there is no way they can implement the plan they had gone to bed with, but perhaps there is still a chance. With an exaggerated sigh, she rises, rinses her mug in a small sink, and departs the room to grab something to eat.

The next afternoon, she meets with the control room shift supervisors once again. The one going off shift slides a folder across to the table. Gav opens it as the supervisor begins the brief.

“Nahmer, we did a flyby of camp C-US-4 as you requested. The camp has established their main encampment around a large sporting goods warehouse just to the north of Olympia, Washington. It sits astride Interstate 5 with access to JBLM and Seattle to the north and Portland, Oregon to the south. As you can see in the pictures,” he says as Gav pulls out one of the high definition photographs, “they have erected a concrete wall around the entire facility…at least it appears to be concrete from our analysis. It measures approximately four miles on the long side by one mile wide. The land between the walls is mostly cleared and construction of outer buildings is apparent, with most either completed or nearing completion.”

The supervisor points out several closer shots with only the camp showing. “You can see here,” he points to some of the buildings to the south, “these appear to be barn-type enclosures and we can only speculate that is what they’re being used for. The others are storage and, from their size, they may be for vehicles. There is a large greenhouse along with shipping containers that we can only guess are used for supply storage.”

“Anything on the occupants themselves?” Gav asks, looking at more photographs and the annotations on each.

“We can’t really tell too much from a single pass over, it appears they are branching out. We took video as long as we were able. It looks like they may be searching for other survivors, but they are definitely gathering supplies. They travel in armed convoys whenever they send parties, those armed escorts being Humvees. They have a ready supply of arms and equipment from Fort Lewis to the north. The work groups we identified also have a guard of armed people. We can’t be sure with the one day observation, but there could be up to one hundred and fifty within the camp. Of those, it appears that approximately thirty of them are carrying arms. We also observed military-style training in progress. I’m not hazarding a guess at this point, that’s above my expertise, but if I were to lay money on it, I would say a good majority of those who are armed are, or were, either currently or prior military. This is only my opinion based on the footage we captured,” the supervisor briefs.

Gav only listens. She learned long ago that other’s opinions and thoughts were important. She has already reached the same conclusions merely by looking at the photographs. There is a definite military precision to the camp and in the way they conduct business. It’s what she would be doing.

“Very well. Good job. I want a satellite keyed to that camp. Can we do that?” she asks.

“We can, Nahmer. It will cost some fuel burn, but we can put one of the satellites we aren’t currently using to the task. It’s an older Keyhole satellite. The resolution of the pictures and video won’t be as sharp, but we won’t use up the fuel reserves in our newer ones. With your approval of course,” the supervisor answers.

“Do it. And I want that aircraft kept under constant surveillance as well. I want to know what they’re up to. Any news?”

“They took off early this morning and set down at Cannon AFB. They offloaded two Humvees and set out for the town of Clovis. I might add that they left the D-camp in place at Albuquerque. They met with another group we hadn’t identified and returned to the aircraft. They are still there,” he responds.

“Keep an eye on them. I want to know their every move.” Gav rises to leave.

Walking down the hall to her quarters, she ponders this new group. They have all of the intentions of gathering survivors, or at least meeting with them. She wonders whether these meetings are coincidental or if they have been communicating in some fashion. The airwaves have remained clear, so she isn’t sure. A part of her knows this is what her group should be doing, gathering others, but the secretive nature of her employers has made them overly cautious and paranoid.

However, she does have command of a battalion, complete with armored vehicles, and they aren’t limited to the diesel fuel sources, having been converted to bio-fuels. The vehicles may not have the power they once did, but they’ll function for as long as they have replacement parts and can manufacture the bio-fuel. There is no one who can challenge them, but this camp, C-US-4, has her worried. They have a range and ability she can’t match with regards to aircraft. And, they are at Cannon AFB which houses the fearsome AC-130 aircraft. If they can fly a C-130, they can fly those.

Bird’s Eye View

In the privacy of her own suite, Gav reviews the captured video of the C-130 group in the Southwest. Watching the enhanced surveillance video, she observes the dusk flight and subsequent HALO jump. Viewing the footage, she makes up her mind. She has been thinking about it for a day but, after looking at the replay, she is spurred into action. She calls the command center on her private line.

“Yes, Nahmer. How can I help you?” the supervisor asks, picking up on the second ring.

“I want camp C-US-4 upgraded to a ‘B’ category designation,” Gav states.

“Very well. I’ll make the change immediately. It will be renamed B-US-1,” the supervisor replies.

“You know what that entails?”

“I do, Nahmer. I’ll get on it right away.”

“Very well. Update me if anything substantial occurs,” Gav says, hanging up before eliciting a response.

The more she has observed the actions of this new group, the more worried she has become. While she has a secure facility, it’s the other group’s abilities that have her concerned. Neither side has the ability to take the other out, but she isn’t comfortable having a group out there that can rival her own. She has the secure location, the troops, and equipment, in addition to their ability to implement satellite control — information is everything, but they apparently have an aerial gunship that they can utilize. As yet, the observations indicate they haven’t picked one up, but she knows deep down that they will leave Cannon AFB with one. That aerial platform more than counteracts the troops and equipment she has at her disposal.

While upgrading the camp category level may not seem like much, it does mean additional surveillance and an operation to identify key leaders within the group. The command control supervisors will call additional operators into action and dedicate teams solely to the camp. One of the latest Keyhole satellites will be parked in a synchronous orbit for the time being. The high-definition images will be analyzed and the group’s structure examined. Over the next few days, she will have a clearer picture of their organization, and, more importantly, who is leading the group.

Information on the camp pours in. Gav pays attention to the C-130 group and, as she guessed, they pick up an AC-130. From the photographs, she observes that they have the Spooky II variant. She also notes they have picked up the other “D” category group located at Albuquerque.

Sitting in the control center, the room now more crowded than before with additional console operators, Gav pours through the file and information gathered on Camp B-US-1. The C-130 and accompanying gunship having already made it back to the Northwest and parked on the ramp at McChord AFB. High-definition photographs of all kinds fill the file she is leafing through. The ones she is currently interested in are the close up pictures of individuals.

After hours of watching video on the camp’s actions, she and the team dedicated to observing the camp have compiled an accurate assessment of the leadership. Seeing the satellite image she was looking for, she pulls it from the stack. It’s a picture of an armed man in black fatigues standing in the parking lot outside of the sporting goods warehouse, staring up at the early morning sky. He appears to be an older man, Gav guesses somewhere in his forties, and is the one that the overall consensus identifies as the leader.

Looking at the lower corner of the picture for the file designation, she pulls it up on the console she is working at. Opening the face recognition software used by the FBI and NSA, she crops the picture and feeds it into the software. Images whir on her screen as the software takes the image and begins its attempt to match it with the databases they downloaded from both institutions. She then rises and leaves in search of something to eat, allowing the software to do its thing.

Taking an extended break, she returns to her workstation, puts in her password, and finds a file waiting on her screen — Walker, Jack, Captain, United States Air Force.

That would explain the C-130, Gav thinks, beginning to dive into the file.

Scrolling through the various records, she sees his transition into special operations. Some of the records have been partially redacted, but most of the early ones are fairly clear. His discharge papers come up. Her eyes narrows as the discharge date doesn’t exactly match his records. Some of the later reports, these heavily redacted, have recording dates after his release date. She tries pulling up some of the later files but is unsuccessful. She has the highest clearance on this system and should be able to read any military file.

She attempts several times and through different avenues but is still denied access. This intrigues her as she knows her own file is very similar to this one, although her official one lists her as deceased. The only information she can glean on this Captain Walker is from the file dates. They extend years after his “official” discharge and then abruptly stop. Yes, this one is very close to her own. She knows an intelligence profile when she sees one. Her eyes narrow further and thoughts race through her mind.

Yeah, this one is going to bear watching closer…an intelligence operator in charge of a post-apocalyptic group. That sounds familiar, and she’s not happy about it. She almost promotes the camp category to an “A” status but holds back. She knows his type, and there may be very little chance of them joining forces with her supervisor’s attitude toward maintaining power, especially after observing the other group’s activities and dedication to finding survivors to bring into their fold. If she and her group are going to have a chance in the long run, this one may have to go. She becomes excited with the challenge presented.

Later that evening, sitting around a large, redwood conference table, with her face reflected in its mirror polish, she looks at the other five around the table with her. The opulence of the room, from the heavy cherry wood book shelves lining the walls, to the thick, rich cream-colored carpet, define the men who are sitting with her. They are the ones who had controlled the world from the background and wished to control it from the forefront…the ones who formulated the plan and initiated its action. They had converted all of their vast fortunes into precious metals and other resources prior to initiating Phase One. The preparations for this undertaking had taken many, many years to bring to fruition…gathering the needed people, upgrading sites, bringing in equipment — military and electronic — gaining access to files on the upper echelons. They co-opted people in all of the top levels of government, and they did this all under the radar.

The elder men sit around the table and listen as Gav informs them about the monitoring activities as a whole. She gives them training updates, briefs them on their supply situation, which should last them for another year, and a myriad of other details which entail the functioning of the facility.

“Gavriella, tell us more about this camp you upgraded to category B,” one of the men states.

They are the only ones who call her by her name, and frankly, the only ones who have in a long, long time. She hates the name as she associates it with the girl who lost her parents. Every time she hears it, she feels a small part of her cry out for her loss. During many of her downtimes, when she was alone, she would pull out the only picture she has of her parents…the one she pulled from the wreckage of her house. Her cold heart would melt and hot tears would flow in streams down her cheeks. She feels a momentary pang of grief every time she hears her full name uttered.

Gav updates them on the camp’s activities to include, according to her findings and assessments, that they are being led by a former intelligence asset.

“So what do you propose to do about it?” another of the men asks.

“Monitor it for now. There’s not too much more we can do at the moment. We can’t attack them and, even if they were to find out about our existence, they can’t attack us, so it’s mostly a standoff. I think it’s in our best interest to leave them for the moment. However, I will reiterate this once again, and I know you may be tired of hearing it, but we need to start integrating some of the other camps we identify for possible inclusion if we are going to, as you quote, rise from the ashes,” Gav answers.

“You know the answer to this, Gavriella. Any integration will spoil the purity of our group and mission. We can’t have that. If we integrate other camps, we will then be required to share in the resources,” the first man states.

“You brought me on to be honest with you, and that’s what I’m going to do now,” Gav starts, feeling frustrated at their “purity of mission” and overly cautious nature. No, it isn’t being overly cautious, it’s called greed. “This rising from the ashes, as you think of it, and controlling resources is gone. It was a great idea, but that plan went by the wayside the moment the other sites failed to come online. We have had zero response from them, and the teams we sent to some of the sites show that they were never occupied. We can only assume that is the same for every other location. The personnel never arrived.

“Hear me when I say this. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, except what we have here. This facility was only meant to be a command and control center. We don’t have the resources to rise from anything. We don’t have the expertise or manpower. Satellite readings confirm that the Eastern United States, most of Europe, and Asia are wastelands, due to radioactive contamination. The small groups we have identified there are growing smaller by the day as the radiation levels kill them. The only places that appear to have escaped so far are Africa, although the states around the Mediterranean are risky, part of South America, Australia, the western United States, and Canada. There are a couple of minor South Pacific islands that appear habitable as well. However, you will note that we have only identified “D” category camps in those places, and very few of them at that. The infected created by the vaccine have taken their toll. Of those, there are plenty,” Gav asserts.

“Regarding that, have you had any success with satellite communications?”

“Not at this time. We are working on that night and day but it appears that any transmissions we send are not being received. We are still receiving telemetry data, but we have lost all ability to communicate with the satellite itself,” Gav answers, hating to utter those words as it feels like her failure, even though she knows it isn’t.

“How long until it begins orbital decay?”

“Our best guess is that we have approximately six months. I’d have something more definitive, but we also aren’t receiving any data on those systems. Fuel burns to remain on its current orbital pattern could be higher or lower than our guesses,” she responds.

“Do you foresee any threats to us from the radiation?”

“No, but that is hard to determine. The leading elements of the radiation cloud are sweeping over Asia and out into the Pacific. It will swing north toward Alaska and come down the Western Seaboard of Canada and the United States. We predict it will reach those shores in negligible amounts. I’ll say this again. It would be nice to have the other sites available, but we don’t. We need to figure an action plan about what we are going to do. We need to develop a plan that takes into account the limited resources we have. If we fail to do that, events will pass us by….and our opportunity with it,’ Gav affirms, closing her folder to emphasize her point.

“We will discuss it and get back to you,” the first man says, dismissing her.

She walks out of the plush conference room and into an elegant waiting room. This part of the facility is reserved for the five men she just left, with her having the only access. Leaving the wing and walking down a wide hall, her heels once again solidly clicking on the hard floor, their sound mimicking her frustration, Gav presses her lips together in exasperation. To her, the men sitting in the conference room behind her appear lost. They had the perfect plan, and, although they had been able to adapt to differing situations in the world before, it seems to her that they are holding too tightly to the wheels they set in motion. Of course, maybe they aren’t so used to adapting; they always controlled prior situations and never really had to adapt to anything. They are accustomed to being in power and perhaps feel helpless that they can’t control the current situation.

For a brief moment, Gav wonders what the personnel would do if her orders were countermanded by any of the five men. Who would the personnel follow? She immediately dispels the thought. She has her mission and will accomplish it to the best of her ability.

* * *

If Gav thought watching the group from camp B-US-1 HALO jump and flying an AC-130 gunship was a surprise, watching the LA class submarine surface and glide through the waters close to Puget Sound is a downright fright. The control center picked up periodic satellite transmissions and honed in on the source. The sleek, cigar-shaped vessel surfaced outside of the inlet to the Strait of Juan de Fuca and slid slowly beneath the waves a short time later.

She had the control center watch the naval yards at Bangor. Sure enough, she observed the submarine surface, but the harder part to swallow was a contingency from the “B” camp meeting with it. If the two came together, the camp would far surpass her facility. Video of the sub making its way down the narrows of Puget Sound fills her monitor. Gav watches as it docks in Olympia and takes on supplies provided — apparently, from the camp. It then sails up the sound the next day, out across the straits, and vanishes under the waves of the Pacific.

Witnessing this series of events and the apparent harmony of the camp with the sub strikes a very deep concern. For one of the first times in her life since losing her parents, Gav feels worried about an outcome. Although she has control over the satellite network, the only ground resources she has amount to a battalion of soldiers and several teams of special operators. This is nothing compared to the equipment that the camp currently possesses. Whereas the stalemate between the camps would eventually swing in her favor as aviation fuels fail, the nuclear propulsion capability of the sub far outweighs anything she can bring to the table. Gav doesn’t have the latest load out of the sub but knows they carry Tomahawk missiles and could be carrying bunker busters which have the capability of causing harm to her facility. She immediately has the camp upgraded to a category “A” status.

Finding herself summoned and sitting in the same plush conference room with the same men, Gav updates them on the status of now, camp A-US-1. Her own facility is differently named to avoid confusion: A–CC-1. After her briefing, the men ask her to leave for a moment while they discuss the situation.

Upon returning, one of them asks, “We can’t allow another group to exist that can compete with us, let alone outclass us. What do you intend to do about it?”

Ready for their question and having already thought over the possibilities, Gav answers, “We have only one solution. We need to take out their leadership, specifically Jack Walker. It’s our only hope. That will set them back and allow us an opportunity to contact them while they are in a state of confusion and fear. I believe that if we contact them, without alluding to the fact that we were responsible, that they may be amenable to joining us. We approach them with a saving situation and fold them within our group. I know what you said about this, but it’s our only choice. We need them to join forces with us…assimilate them. And for that to happen, he needs to go.”

The men sit in silence, contemplating. Three of them lean forward with their elbows resting on the polished surface, chins poised on interlaced fingers. The other two are reclining with their hands folded behind their heads. One man finally lifts his head from his hands.

“See to it,” he states.

Fear and excitement envelop her. Finally, they are going to do something other than maintaining the status quo. She has never done well with that and always felt that if you weren’t moving forward, you were going backward. She meets with one of her special operations teams and gives them their mission. They leave to ready their gear and begin the drive to the Northwest to eliminate the leader of the specified camp. They will have satellite feeds and communication at their beck and call. They pour over maps to familiarize themselves with the area. They will observe video feeds sent by the control center to establish the movements of their target and orchestrate a plan upon their arrival.

Gav feels a renewed energy as plans are set in motion…her plans. The game has started. Pieces on the board are moving, and this is where she thrives. There is the fear that things could go wrong, as they sometimes do, but that only adds to the challenge. She cannot underestimate this Captain Walker.

Later, the control room notifies her that the camp and the LA class submarine, now identified as the Santa Fe, are using satellite communications to stay in contact. She looks at the supervisor briefing her, this time in the control room itself.

“Shut it down,” she says.

A Bird in the Hand

I feel a pressure of air and hear an all too familiar ‘zip’ pass over my head. Warm liquid splashes on the back of my neck and in my hair. A sharp report follows.

“Sniper!” I yell, instinct taking over.

A moment of panic seizes me. A projectile traveling at high speed just passed over my head, close enough that I felt the air being displaced by its passage. I know what the sound and feel of warm liquid on my neck means. I also know that Robert, Bri, and Lynn were right behind or next to me, aside from the others.

I rise and turn before I even know I’m doing it. Adrenaline, which I was coming down from after safely exiting the night runner lair with Lynn, resurges. A small amount of relief enters as, upon turning, I see Robert and Bri — Robert just beginning to rise from his bending to help with the dropped mag and Bri staring open-mouthed. Both have droplets of bright red blood sprinkled across their faces. Time slows and seems to stop for an instant before zooming back to normal speed like a train running through a tunnel at high speed.

More relief floods in as I see Lynn crouching in answer to the shot ringing out. Grabbing the backs of Robert’s and Bri’s vests, I shove them in the direction of the hospital wall and head after them.

“Against the wall, NOW!” I shout.

The outside wall of the hospital offers our only chance of cover and I hope we can make it to its safety before another bullet is launched, seeking a target. A quick glance behind tells me that the others heard and are racing on my heels through the overgrown front lawn. I know someone is hit, but right now it’s about getting everyone to safety — at least what I hope is safety. From the path I felt of the bullet and it hitting someone behind, I feel fairly confident that the wall will enable us to stay out of the line of sight, providing that whoever fired at us doesn’t move.

There isn’t another shot; there is the only loud swish of the tall grass against our pant legs, the sound of our boots hitting the ground on the run, and our panting breath. I pass by and move to the side of Bri as she streaks through the grass, putting myself on the sniper side of her and Robert. We sail through untrimmed, waist-high bushes lining the outer hospital wall, sliding to our knees on the bark-covered ground. Carried by my momentum, my shoulder slams into the brick wall.

Hearing others break through the bushes, I glance back relieved to see Robert, Bri, and Lynn, all looking my way; Robert’s and Bri’s are eyes wide. Feeling covered for the time being, I rise over the bushes to look back where we were standing just moments ago. Lanes of bent grass attest to the routes we hastily carved through it. Just over the tops of the grass, I see a dark-clad body lying face down on the concrete path leading to the hospital entry. I immediately recognize the diminutive figure with dark hair fanned across the warm stone. Looking down the line we are forming against the wall, I verify my assumption — McCafferty isn’t with us, but instead, lies unmoving on the sidewalk.

“McCafferty,” I hear Lynn and Gonzalez call out at the same time.

There is no movement in response. I feel my heart sink with sorrow. I want nothing more than to run to her side…to find that she is okay and help her to her feet, or patch her wound and carry her to cover. I know in my heart that she is most likely gone. In a flash of an instant…gone. A sweet, young woman, always with a ready smile. Her laugh always the first to burst forth, or her giggle, which earned her endless good-natured ribbing…silenced. A woman with the sweetest disposition…with dreams and fears…one of us. One moment standing with the rest of us, happy that Lynn was back, and the next…unceremoniously falling to the hard ground…her life ended in a flash of a moment.

“Allie,” Gonzalez calls, eliciting the same response…nothing.

I notice both Lynn and Gonzalez take a step away from the wall toward McCafferty, their expressions making it evident that they are on their way to aid a fallen comrade.

“No!” I whisper harshly.

I’m torn. My heart goes out to Allie, and I am filled with grief…a grief that I can’t express until we are safe — providing that moment comes and whoever fired on us doesn’t shift positions. A sorrow that, once started, will flow unrelentingly. Time is critical. I glance to the corner of our wall of protection and back to McCafferty. Looking down the line pressed against the brick, all eyes are on me. I notice a couple glances toward McCafferty.

I know the sniper is either changing positions to get a better shot on us or waiting for us to break cover toward our fallen teammate. That’s if they know what they are doing. From the time of the bullet passage to the sound of the shot, I know the shooter is some distance away. It will be difficult to get a shot on us in this position from any distance. The trees in the parking lot to our front give us additional cover.

Two things I do know…by the accuracy of the shot from a distance, the shooter knows what he or she is doing and, that I was the target. It could have been just a random target selection and not a defined target. However it came to be, I was the one being shot at, and my bending down to pick up my mag caused the round to sail overhead. Instead of hitting me, it hit McCafferty standing behind. This makes me feel worse.

With everyone’s eyes still on me, I give a big sigh. I know what needs to be done. It’s something that’s just ingrained. I unhook my M-4 and hand it to Robert who is kneeling by me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Without answering him directly, I sharply whisper down the line, “Stay here.”

I launch through the bushes and take off at a run, hitting a lane of bent grass one of us created moments ago. I left my carbine because it’s not going to do me any good against a sniper firing at long range and will only slow me down.

Feeling the sun on my shoulders as I streak through the overgrown lawn, adrenaline coursing through my body and expecting to feel the solid impact of a round hitting me, the situation feels surreal. My sight picture narrows to single focus… getting to McCafferty.

I feel like I’m making no progress at all as I stare at the body lying prone. No matter how fast I run, it seems to stay the same distance away. I don’t alter my path, but instead change the speed of my dash across the lawn. Zig-zagging with someone shooting at right angles won’t hinder their shot, that’s for when you are running toward or away from them. But changing your speed will make it harder for them to hit. And it’s important not to make predictable alterations, but do it almost constantly. As will varying your height from semi-crouch to upright to leaning forward.

I slow to a trot and, two steps later, break into a sprint. I feel something tug on my fatigues at the shoulder, pulling my vest to the side slightly and almost knocking me off balance. The sting comes at the same time as the sound of the gunshot. I recover and keep running.

McCafferty’s body hangs in the distance for a moment and then I seem to arrive in a rush. She is face down with a pool of drying blood under her head and around one of her shoulders. Her dark hair is spread across the light gray concrete, part of it clumped in the red pool.

“Allie!” I call, sliding on my knees beside her.

It’s important to keep moving or the shooter will be able to get a firm bead on me. I can feel the crosshairs on my back like a physical presence. Any moment, I expect to feel the solid impact and pitch forward. My mouth is dry from fear, and I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. The quick glance at her as I slide to my knees causes a sickening feeling inside.

“Allie!” I call again, grabbing for her drag handle at the back of her vest.

I rise and begin pulling her across the sidewalk by the handle. Her hair smears the puddle of blood as I drag her though it. Still no shot, but I anticipate it coming any moment. I’ll be slowed substantially pulling McCafferty to the wall. I concentrate almost solely on the next step and pulling her along; although, in the back of my mind, I spare a few thoughts for the sniper. Keep moving and don’t think about it. If I give over to thinking only about the shooter, fear will set in and it could make me freeze. There is only the next step.

McCafferty’s body rolls over as I pull her onto the grass. Her head lolls to the side, revealing her ruined throat — there just isn’t much left of it. I feel an anger building inside alongside deep sorrow. McCafferty’s body lightens and becomes easier to drag.

“Leave her, Jack. She’s dead,” I hear Lynn call as if from a distance.

Looking up, I see her by my side pulling McCafferty along with me. It’s a startling sight as I didn’t even notice her arrival. The intense adrenaline over the past few hours has caused a fog to come over my brain. I hear what she said, but it doesn’t make sense, and I keep pulling McCafferty.

“Jack! Leave her,” I hear Lynn yell again.

The fog lifts. Clarity returns. I look from Lynn to McCafferty. Hating to do it, but knowing we’ll just leave another body out here if I don’t, I release my grip on the drag handle. McCafferty’s body falls to the grass and I run alongside Lynn. We alternate pace and I feel another wave of pressure pass barely in front at shoulder level. The report of the gunshot echoes as we both turn on a burst of speed, reaching the bushes and the wall.

Panting hard, I sink to my knees and retrieve my M-4 from Robert. The stinging in my shoulder returns, having been forgotten seconds after feeling it.

“Dad,” Robert says, “you’re hit.”

“It’s nothing,” I reply and tell everybody to stay close to the wall.

Leaving McCafferty out in the open after making the rescue attempt tells it all. I see anger etched in the faces of the others, their lips drawn tight. A single tear makes a dirt-lined streak down Gonzalez’ cheek. She wipes it away, smearing dirt across her face, and glances at McCafferty. All of our hearts are filled with a deep sorrow and anger at someone who took this sweet young woman away from us.

I inch forward toward the corner of our little slice of safety. The wall is at an angle to where the shooter was last, so I should be able to get close to the corner without exposing myself. It’s important to try and get a picture of where the sniper is before we come up with a plan…yeah, there’s that word. As it is, we’re rather stuck in this position. Forward or to the side is out of the question, and into the hospital is an even worse option. I can still hear the shrieks drifting across to us from the hornet’s nest we kicked over.

“Drescoll, Jack here,” I call into the radio.

He answers a moment later, “Drescoll here, go ahead.”

“Go button plus five,” I say.

“Copy,” he replies.

Button plus five is a code for switching to a different frequency without broadcasting which channel we’ll be going to. Button is a channel briefed before an op or a daily setting and denotes what is essentially the zero channel to base settings from. So, saying button plus five means five channels above the base channel. If the base channel is seven, then button plus five is a command to go to channel twelve. If someone is scanning frequencies, they’ll find us, but there’s no use making it easier for them.

“Drescoll’s up,” he calls over the new channel.

“We have someone taking shots at us and have taken cover by the front wall of the hospital. I don’t have a clear picture of their position, but I estimate about four to five hundred yards to the south-southeast of the main entrance,” I state.

There are a few seconds of hesitation before he says, “Copy. Is anyone hit?”

I hesitate, especially knowing that he and McCafferty were, well, in lack of other terms, together. I don’t want to give out any information, but the real reason is that I don’t want to tell him at the moment. I need him clear. It’s not really that fair, but there it is. I turn to Lynn and she gives me a shrug as if to say, ‘your call.’

“We have one down. Trying to get a position on the shooter now,” I say.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“No names over the radio. You and Horace stand by to head to the sniper’s location.”

Another hesitation. “Do you want us to come up there and provide a shield with the vehicles for you to evacuate?”

I would like nothing more than to just get out of this situation. However, I want to find and hopefully capture this shooter. Just having them evacuate out of the area will leave the threat still there for some future time. I’m assuming this was an intentional act and not some deranged person who happened to come across us. That is still a possibility but, for some reason, I don’t think it is.

“Negative. Standby.”

Kneeling just before the end of the wall, I extract my signal mirror and extend it around the corner. There aren’t any bushes on that side of the building, so I can get a clear view in that direction. The small face of the mirror makes it difficult to see much, but I see a line of offices in the distance, away from and across a street from the hospital. Of course, seeing anything remotely like a person at that distance with the mirror is basically futile. I’m mostly looking for movement. I don’t see anything.

The mirror flies out of my hand, breaking into several shards. One moment it’s there and the next it’s tugged forcefully from between my fingers. The round that shattered the glass rips through a bush next to me and buries itself into the ground with a thud. The clap of a gunshot follows. Yeah, this shooter knows what they are doing and apparently has quite the zoom on their scope. The benefit is that, just before the mirror was blown from my hand, I saw a flash of light coming from on top of the two-story office buildings.

I’m actually surprised that they are still there, and that is one of the mistakes they are making — staying in one place for so long. Shoot and move should be their method of operation. I get missing and wanting your target down, but they should have been on the move.

“Drescoll. The shooter is on top of the blue two-story office buildings approximately four hundred meters to the south,” I call. “Take them alive if possible.”

* * *

Drescoll lurches forward with the Stryker, coming to a stop. Jack’s radio calls sent an icy jolt of fear down his back. He feels his heart tighten and is sick to his stomach. There is someone down and he knows Jack isn’t telling him who it is because he doesn’t want to tell him it’s Allie. Deep down, Drescoll knows it’s her, and the thought makes him want to fold up. She is the only bright light in this hell they are living in…the only thing that has given him hope. To think of her gone makes him want to sink to his knees and lose himself in grief. However, he tells himself that he doesn’t know this for sure. Actually, there is a part of him that’s upset at Jack for trying to protect him and thinking he needs to be. He would do what was needed regardless as the whole team is relying on him.

He exits and joins Horace. The two of them pour over a map, quickly finding the building mentioned by Jack. It isn’t hard to find as there aren’t that many buildings in the area. There is an urgency to come up with a plan and get into the area. Jack wanting to capture the sniper puts an added wrinkle to any plan. It would be easier to spook the shooter out of the area by driving the vehicle nearby. Anyone worth their mettle would vacate the area quickly. Drescoll, like Jack, is surprised they’ve actually stuck around this long.

“I’ll take my team and sweep around the side, positioning in an arc around the shooter’s latest position. I’ll need to sweep wide enough so the vehicles can’t be heard, disembark a ways out, and head to our positions on foot,” Drescoll says to Horace, outlining his intended route on the map. “Then, when we’re in position, you head forward with the Stryker and flush them out.”

“You’ll need more than just your team. I only need two here. You can take the other four with you. That will give you a better coverage area,” Horace states.

With a quick plan set up, Drescoll boards the two Humvees with his and part of Horace’s team. They need to do this quickly yet with caution. He doesn’t know if the shooter has a team for security or not, so they’ll need to proceed cautiously once they are on foot.

The idling vehicles are barely heard as Drescoll folds the map and prepares to move out. The sun’s rays shining down provide no warmth, its brightness in direct contrast to how he feels. Tension mounts with the upcoming operation and his stomach is churning, again wondering if Allie is okay. Drescoll isn’t really sure if not knowing is a good or bad thing. On one hand, not knowing gives him hope that she is okay, but on the other, it leads his mind down a very dark path. He has never been very good with not knowing things; they weigh heavier on his mind. His thoughts always tend to wander down the darkest path available. Climbing into one of the Humvee passenger seats, he looks at the clouds gathering on the horizon. That is more of how he feels — that there are dark clouds gathering.

Taking a long route around the area, Drescoll is antsy and has a difficult time not telling the driver to accelerate. Every fiber is pulled tight and he almost orders the group to the hospital so he can find out about Allie…to protect her. Of course, if she is with Jack and alive, she will be pissed beyond belief. He tried to be protective of her once and regretted that for the next several days. A memory enters of her smiling up at him, fueling his anxiety.

The two Humvees travel along a road adjacent to Capital Lake. The once pristine park surrounding it is now overgrown. The water is barely visible through the tall weeds as they make their way along its side and turn. Climbing a steep hill, they make another turn and begin heading toward the area where Red Team, Lynn, and the sniper are located.

Entering the edge of town and a shopping area, Drescoll has the driver slow to minimize the sound of their presence. Strip malls line both sides of the street which eventually lead to the large grounds that encompass the Capital Mall. Each shop emits a presence of being uninhabited for a long period of time. Where the glass isn’t outright broken, grime-covered windows stare mutely at the passage of the small convoy.

Drescoll directs them into a Taco Time parking lot where they disembark. The teams quietly gather their gear and check each other over. From here, they’ll proceed on foot, circumventing the building to the south, and begin setting up a perimeter on the far side. He would normally call, informing the others of his progress, but decides to maintain radio silence in case they are being monitored.

They set their intervals and, with a nod from Drescoll, they begin. The large team proceeds cautiously up one of the streets leading around the building circled on the map. With each step, a feeling of dread comes over Drescoll. He has to keep himself in check mentally lest he drive the team at a hasty pace. He gives his head a minute shake to clear it from the negative thoughts crowding it.

Not a sound accompanies their trek through the wide streets as they pass several apartment complexes. Debris is piled up against the curbs with a fine grit of dirt covering the roadways and sidewalks. Warmth streams from the sunlit sky and several birds leave nearby branches at their approach, crossing the street to perch on other limbs. The very air itself feels oppressive, but that is only the tension emanating from the team as they zero in on their prey.

Drescoll plans their route to ensure they won’t be spotted from the sniper’s perch, passing several blocks away from the building itself. He begins leaving teams of two at some of the cross streets, making sure they are well-covered before moving on. He has no doubt the shooter will flee at the approach of the Stryker and plans to set a cordon around the area to catch the person. Alive if possible, but he briefed the team not to take chances and shoot if necessary, especially if there is a security team in place. If they find themselves in a position where they would be outgunned, they are to regroup and report.

Turning down a street on the very edge of town, dilapidated houses to one side and a tangle of fields on the other, he places another team in thick bushes. Making sure the team is well-placed, Drescoll glances down the street to clear it before moving on. His eyes widen and he feels a small jolt of adrenaline. On the side of road, two narrow tracks proceed along the street, creating a barely discernible path through the grit on the surface.

He visually follows the path and notes they come to an end, turning off the street and into the bushes to one side. He signals the rest of them to the find and warily walks beside the path created by the tires. The narrowness of the tracks tells him that it isn’t a vehicle but either a quad or perhaps a golf cart…maybe even a dune buggy. Whatever it is, the tracks were created very recently, seeing as how the tread patterns are still well defined.

With his weapon trained on the spot where the vehicle exited the road, and making sure the others are covering the houses on the other side, Drescoll slowly advances. He fully expects the bushes to erupt in gunfire, but the single set of tires also indicates that whoever drove here didn’t arrive with great numbers.

The silence is almost overwhelming. A few birds call from farther back in the trees but are the only sounds — other than the steady drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He looks toward the bushes looking for the barest tip of a rifle poking out. His heart almost leaps out of his chest at the flash of movement he catches in the corner of his eye. Looking quickly at the movement’s location, the barrel of his M-4 tracking with his eyes and his finger tightening on the trigger, he glimpses a black and gray striped cat as it disappears around the corner of one of the houses.

He feels like he’s walking on the edge of a razor blade. His nerves are stretched taut, and his breath comes quicker with the rapid flood of adrenaline overloading his body. Drescoll takes a few deep, calming breaths in order to restore his system. Sweat from his brow drips into his eyes and he wipes a hand across to clear them. All other thoughts leave as he is now focused on a single area. The bushes ahead become his entire universe. He looks for any abnormal movement of twig or leaf, listens for a tell-tale scruff of something shifting, an outline of someone hiding in their depths.

He nears where the tracks turn off, every muscle vibrating from tension, every sense highly-tuned. He feels the press of the folding stock against his shoulder, the warm breath across his upper lip as it is exhaled through his nose, the feel of his boot as he puts pressure down with each step, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to deliver violence at a moment’s notice.

Approaching the spot, even the birds have gone silent as if they are intently watching the drama unfold near them and holding their own breaths, ready to take wing. Nothing happens. The tracks lead through the bushes and Drescoll follows with the others behind. Not too far into the thick brambles, he finds a quad behind one of the bushes with branches over it concealing it further. A single set of footprints lead from the four-wheeler paralleling the street. Reaching down, he feels the motor to find it cool. Whoever was here arrived at least an hour ago.

A single set of prints is a good sign as long as this was the only vehicle. Keeping part of the team with him, Drescoll has the others take branches to sweep away evidence of their passage along the street. He then directs them to proceed up the street, erasing their tracks as they go, and take positions farther along. As they move out, he clears the tracks adjacent to the quad. He and his teammate settle into a dense thicket where they can still observe the vehicle and wait.

“Horace, proceed,” Drescoll calls after giving the others of his team time to reach their positions.

Two clicks in his earpiece is the only response he needs. Horace should flush the shooter this way, and he’ll be ready. It’s already taken way too long, but they did it right. Unless the shooter rode with another and parked a similar vehicle at some other location, they should have some company soon.

The air within the thicket is oppressively warm. Drescoll, squatting in the bushes, feels trickles of sweat as they make their way down the middle of his back, over his brow, and from his temples down his jawline. A slow brush of his finger across his brow keeps his eyes clear — each movement exaggerated so as to not draw attention. His heart rate has calmed from the heavy, adrenaline-fueled beating of before. The only sound is the occasional buzz of flies being drawn to the moisture his body is producing. His senses are acute as he keeps a sharp eye on the houses across the street.

The prickly heat is annoying as he waits. He expects to hear the sound of the Stryker as it approaches the building several blocks away, but he hears only the continual buzzing as flies alight on his sleeves and bare skin only to take off and land again. A flicker of movement near one of the houses catches his attention. Looking to the location, he sees the outline of a head and shoulders peeking around the corner of one of the houses. Drescoll watches as the head turns slowly from side to side, carefully checking the area.

He feels his heart rate quicken at the sight of the other person and forces himself to be still. Triggering the ambush too early will increase the odds of the shooter escaping. Drescoll wants to alert the others via radio but there may be the chance that they are being monitored. Without warning, the figure steps out from the corner and darts across the road, heading directly for him. Feeling beads of sweat as they drip down his face, Drescoll forces patience.

Let him come to you, he thinks, tightening the grip on his M-4.

As the figure makes his way swiftly across the street, Drescoll sees the person is armed with a carbine and another, longer barrel of a rifle strapped across the running figure’s back. He hears the swish of branches sweeping across the person’s legs as he or she begins making their way through the dense bushes. Entering the small clearing with the quad, the shooter glances quickly around and then, sliding the M-4 style carbine in a long holster situated across the handle bars, he climbs on. Drescoll rises.

Hearing the sound of someone nearby, the shooter reaches for his side.

“That’s not a very good idea. You’ll be dead before it clears the holster. Slowly put your hands on top of your head,” Drescoll states, his red dot centered on the individual’s head.

The figure complies and, still sitting on the quad, laces his fingers on top of his head. Drescoll steps through the bush to have a clearer line of sight.

“Tie his hands behind his back,” Drescoll says, nodding at his partner.

His colleague lets his M-4 dangle from its sling and steps forward. The shooter, with lightening quick reflexes, turns and attempts to grab the teammate. Drescoll, anticipating something of this sort, steps in and, reversing his M-4, slams the butt into the back of the shooter’s head. The man falls forward, tumbling off the vehicle, and lands facedown with one leg hanging on the seat. The shooter doesn’t move.

With caution, Drescoll ties the man’s hands and calls the other teams, cautioning for them to keep a lookout for anyone else.

* * *

With Drescoll’s radio call of capture, I check the surrounding buildings through my scope and, seeing nothing, we cautiously ease out of our cover. I immediately head to McCafferty. Looking closer at her wound, I see that there wouldn’t have been anything we could do for her even if we’d administered first aid right away. The round hit her in the throat and tore a large portion of it out. The only redeeming facet is that she wouldn’t have known what hit her. Looking down at her, she seems even smaller. I feel the deep pain of grief grab my heart, and the first hot tears come. Barely hearing Drescoll call again, I have him make his way to the hospital.

With the others looking on with saddened faces, Gonzalez and I clean Allie’s wound as best we can. Faint screams of night runners drift out of the hospital and across the area. I look up at the arrival of the Stryker and Humvees several minutes later. I begin to rise to meet Drescoll when I feel Lynn’s hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll handle this,” she says, rising and walking across the tall grass to meet the arriving teams.

As Lynn heads over to meet Drescoll, Horace and her team half support and half drag a man to where we are gathered around Allie. Arriving, they release him and he drops to his knees. His hands are tied behind his back and he appears groggy. As his knees hit the ground, he raises his head and stares at me expressionless.

He appears only a little younger than me and is clean cut with a few days stubble showing. It only takes one look for me to know two things. This man is a professional and is the type that puts his skills to use for someone else. That means someone sent him. We need to figure out whom; but just as importantly, why. The presence of the quad indicates he had to come some distance, but that distance is also a limited one. We need to find out how far away the camp is. I’m surprised to find that he is alone; shooters usually work in teams. We could have missed his partner or partners, but I have no doubt that there are others nearby. That leaves two options — they either have an established outpost somewhere close or that their major encampment is. Regardless, there are others out there that we need to find.

Looking down at the man, I know this guy didn’t come from any ordinary group of marauders. If he did, he would be leading them and more than likely not running missions. Yes, there is a lot that can be gleaned from a three-second look. The question running through my mind is how they tracked us and found us at the hospital — that they knew to meet us here.

There is the possibility that we were a target of opportunity but, in my mind, the scales tip toward a planned operation judging from the skillset I am assuming the shooter has and the fact that the quad was found camouflaged. I’ll know more once I look through his gear, but if this was a planned operation, then it has much larger ramifications. This camp or outpost must be found almost as urgently as destroying the remnants of the hospital night runner lair. We may be able to do both this afternoon. If we can locate the camp/outpost, there is the chance we can capture the others. However, I won’t risk more of our teams in an all-out assault if it looks to be too difficult. More people to interrogate would be nice because, looking at the man staring defiantly at me, he won’t be talking anytime soon. He has the appearance of knowing the game. We’ll have to make the call when we see what we are dealing with. We may just have to use the Spooky and take them out.

With the distant shriek of night runners for company, our eyes lock for a few seconds.

“You missed,” I state.

It pains me to say this because his miss is why Allie is lying on the ground near my feet. However, the tone with this man needs to be set. He won’t be showing any weakness and neither can we.

Breaking eye contact with him, I look to where Lynn is talking with Drescoll. I watch with deep sorrow as Lynn delivers the news. Drescoll’s head falls and Lynn puts her arm around his shoulder. They stand that way for several moments before slowly making their way to us.

Gonzalez is kneeling by McCafferty’s side with one hand on her shoulder, her head down and tears falling to the ground. Drescoll arrives, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and kneels down. Gonzalez meets his eyes, pats his shoulder, and rises.

Through his sobs, Drescoll utters, “Oh, Allie…why? You were the only bright light in this world. Why did you have to leave?”

Drescoll places his arms underneath Allie’s limp form, and gently, with great tenderness, he scoops her up. His tears splash on her vest and, turning, he carries her slowly to his Humvee.

Watching, I feel my heart fill even more with a great sadness, grabbing hold of it and squeezing. More tears fill my eyes and spill out, marching down my cheeks. Gonzalez wipes her tears away, leaving more dirty streaks, and joins Drescoll where he is laying McCafferty’s body in the vehicle. Gonzalez helps, smoothing out Allie’s hair and, together, with gentleness and caring, they make her seem more at peace.

I watch as Drescoll falls to his knees outside of the Humvee and takes Allie’s hand. He holds it to his face and I see his shoulders begin to shake anew. Gonzalez remains with him with her hand on his shoulder.

I look down at our prisoner. I kept him here hoping that the scene would appeal to his humanity in some regard — that he would see what he caused and for his façade crumble, but he just looks on with the same expressionless face.

Drescoll gingerly, and ever so gently, places Allie’s hand in her lap and turns in our direction. The incredible sadness etched across his face turns into a storm of rage when he sees our prisoner — the transformation startling. Pulling his sidearm, he marches across the waist high grass, making a beeline in our direction.

Gonzalez catches up to Drescoll and grabs his arm. He shucks her off, but she reaches out again, more firmly this time. He turns angrily toward her and she begins talking. After a moment, he lowers his head and holsters his Beretta. He then resumes his march, coming to a halt directly before the kneeling prisoner.

“You are on borrowed time. You get to live for now but, know this, at some point, I will hurt you. I will hurt you bad!” Drescoll states.

The man, staring defiantly at Drescoll, utters his first words. “We all die sometime, mate.” The accent is unmistakable.

“Who said anything about dying?” Drescoll says with soft menace.

Drescoll stalks back to the Humvee, stands next to it, and strokes Allie’s hair.

Payment Comes Due

Climbing into the helicopter a short time later with Lynn in the left seat, I call back to the compound and give them a brief synopsis that includes Lynn’s rescue, the loss of McCafferty, and the subsequent capture of her killer. As the rotors spin up overhead, I look over at Lynn and give her a smile. I’m thrilled beyond measure that she is safe and back with us. I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost her. I feel like everything is hanging on edge as it is. To say the last few months have been stressful would be the understatement of the century. I know the others feel it as well and it’s only a matter of time before that spills into our group.

During the short hop back to Cabela’s, I talk with Frank and Bannerman about emptying one of the smaller shipping containers and having it brought into the loading dock. Setting down in the parking lot, I see a multitude gathering already. Shutting down, Lynn steps out to be greeted by a host of people; some shaking her hand, some clapping her on the shoulder, while others wrap her in quick hugs, welcoming her back.

I continue sitting in the right seat watching the others greet her with warm smiles. Frank and Bannerman give her the biggest of hugs and then step to the side, apparently waiting for me. I give them a head nod and remain in my seat. I’m joyous to have Lynn back and can feel the uplift in energy from our group of survivors. However, I also feel drained. It’s normal to have a post-adrenaline letdown, but I feel like I have no energy left at all. I’m tired and don’t want to move from the seat…and not sure I could even if I wanted.

Before long, the Stryker and Humvees of the other teams crest the hill. Heads turn toward the arriving teams and slump in sadness. Yes, Lynn’s arrival is bittersweet. The vehicles arrive and park. I climb wearily from the cockpit and stand with the door open. Lynn shakes a few more hands, then gathers the remaining teams and arranges them in two rows leading away from Drescoll’s Humvee. Drescoll himself exits and walks slowly around the vehicle.

“Atten-hut!” Lynn calls. The team members in the lines snap to attention.

Drescoll doesn’t appear to notice his surroundings as he picks up Allie’s body and walks with her between the two lines of teams toward the building.

“Present… arms!” Lynn calls out.

The soldiers present in the lines snap sharp salutes as Drescoll carries the limp body of McCafferty in his arms. I join the salutes as does Bannerman and Frank. There are many salutes in the crowd that have gathered to welcome Lynn back — these from the soldiers we picked up during our sorties to other bases. There are very few dry eyes within the entire group as Drescoll carries one of our own into Cabela’s.

Looking to the side, I see our prisoner kneeling on the warm pavement with a contingent of armed guards surrounding him. With a heavy sigh and even heavier heart, I nod toward Frank. He gathers Bannerman and they make their way to me. Catching Robert’s and Bri’s eyes, I motion them to me as well. Lynn dismisses the teams and joins us. A shadow falls over us, mirroring our mood, as the high clouds that had been pushing inland finally cover the sun.

“We’ve been clearing a small shipping container as you requested. There’s enough space just inside the loading area for it and we should have it placed within the hour,” Bannerman says.

“Good. Have the doors face inward. I want it rigged with sturdy overhead rings with some bolted to the floor under them. Place hooks in the rear to secure chains and arrange the chains so we can attach manacles. I want our prisoner secured with short leg chains to the floor and wrists to chains leading through the upper rings. Lengthen them so he can kneel, but no farther. Place guards outside the container day and night. He is to have no sleep and be woken every hour with a bucket of cold water. If we can have recordings of loud, obnoxious sounds played constantly within the container, that would be nice. Crying babies work best,” I state.

“What about sanitation?” Bannerman asks.

“None needed. He can go where he stands,” I say, noticing Frank nod his approval. “Leave instructions for the guards not to talk with him or answer anything. We’re going to leave him in isolation for a while before we even begin.”

“I probably know the answer to this, but what about food and water,” Bannerman asks.

“None,” I answer. “Robert, Bri, go find Craig and the Spooky crew. Gather your gear and meet me back here. As much as I hate to leave at a time like this, we need to destroy that hospital while we know the night runners are there, and to search the area for the shooter’s team. I’m sure he has others out there. We need to find them.”

Robert lowers his head, “Um…. Dad…” he says, hesitating.

I feel the sorrow in my heart increase. “Yeah, that’s right…McCafferty,” I say with a sigh. “Is there anyone else that can monitor her position?”

“I’ll do it,” Lynn says almost before I can finish. “I’m tired of staying around here while you go gallivanting off, and I want to take an active role for a change.”

“But you’re a huge part here. I mean, without you, we wouldn’t—” I start to say.

“You know what I mean,” she interrupts.

I see the exhaustion in her eyes and the loss of weight she sustained during her ordeal.

“Hon, you need to rest,” I say.

“Don’t even! Yes I’m tired, but I want to be a part of taking that place down,” she says, fiercely. Her lips are drawn tight and her eyes flare with anger…or the thought of exacting vengeance.

Even through her tired eyes I recognize that look. I really do think she needs to eat and rest, but what she said makes sense. Given what she had to put up with — some of which I can’t even imagine — she has a right to take part in the lair’s destruction. I know there’s not much that could keep me from wanting that were I in her position.

“Okay. Robert, brief her and fill her in on the position. We don’t have a tremendous amount of daylight left, and I want to be back soon,” I respond. Turning to Frank, I add, “Can you arrange the services for McCafferty? I’m thinking early evening before the sun starts heading down. We’ll be back before then.”

“Sure thing, Jack,” Frank replies.

With nothing much else to say, Robert, Bri, and Lynn depart to gather the crew, Bannerman and Frank to finish the arrangements for our guest, leaving me standing by the open door of the Kiowa. I notice said guest kneeling with the guards standing over him. Anger crowds inside, sharing space with the sorrow over Allie. I hate losing people but, someone like McCafferty should be enjoying her life and giving the world the gift of her smile. And the fact that she took a bullet meant for me…I feel my blood pressure increase. Slamming the door closed, I march over to the prisoner.

He looks up as I arrive. He still has the same deadpan expression, although I see a tiredness in his eyes. This speaks of several nights of lost sleep which will make his upcoming sleep deprivation all that much more effective. We lock eyes as I kneel in front, bringing us to the same level.

“Did I mention that you missed?” I ask, staring hard into his eyes.

He gives no reply, but I know I hit a spot with him by the hardening of his stare and a slight tightening of his lips. That’s good to know. He may be hard, but hard does break. He’s obviously not used to failure. We may be able to use this, but it’s equally obvious that he’s a professional.

“But, I guess that’s kind of obvious eh? I mean with me standing here and you, well, tied up. That must be so disappointing for you. I mean, coming all that way only to miss like that. Damn, I can only imagine how much that must suck. And then to get captured…wow. I bet you were contemplating how to come back and do the job and then, well, here you are.” I continue to stare into his eyes.

I notice, just for the briefest of moments, that the hardness in his eyes changes. When I mentioned coming all that way, they took on a questioning look, wondering how much I know already. If I wasn’t looking for it, I might have missed it, but watching as closely as I was, it was as apparent as if he cocked his head to the side. It was there for only a flash and then back to staring at me like we were two fighters in a ring receiving our fighting instructions. I can also see that the continued reminder of his failure is causing his lips to compress even more.

Some interrogations aren’t looking for actual answers, but rather, reactions to questions. The initial questions are to analyze tactics that might work and, depending on the reactions, the way in to which to ask the questions and how to orient the interrogation. He is steeling himself against questions, not statements. He may be guarded, but not as much as he likes to think. We’ll have discussions rather than question/answer times.

The other secret is to not let the other know that you’ve learned something. You can use that knowledge later and let them guess how you know. If you let on right away, they’ll notice and shut down. And, in that way, you can catch them off guard with the knowledge at a later time.

“Look, you’re obviously a professional, so you know how this is played out. And knowing the game, you know how this ends…every time. There’s no escaping the inevitable. Save yourself the time and some obvious discomfort by just telling us what we’ll figure out anyway. Who sent you?” I say. He remains silent.

This is the type of questioning he is looking for and what he can protect himself against. I really didn’t expect him to say anything. The question was asked because he expected it. It was also a way for me to cover up the parts of his personality I discovered. If I had left it with just the statements, he would think something was amiss and shut down even more.

“Okay,” I say, rising, “have it your way. We know where your team is located. You can save them. It’s on your head whether they live or die.”

The silent stare remains, but the questioning look in his eyes is there again. The question of whether a team is out there or not is answered. The expression was a fearful one and not a look of smugness, so I know the team is small and vulnerable. Now we just have to find them.

“No? Okay, I hope none of them are your friends. I’m actually looking forward to the little chats we’re going to have. You may not like them much, but I’m going to enjoy them immensely.”

“Bugger off, mate,” he responds.

He may not know it, but he screwed up by uttering that. Some are broken by torture and pain, others by, believe it or not, kindness. Everyone has their button, and it’s just a matter of finding out what they are; his weaknesses are anger and pride. Make him angry, twist his words around, confuse him and he rises to a direct confrontation, but take hits at that which he takes pride in and he’ll react. It’s always a matter of bringing an emotional response; fear, anger, even feeling safe. Eventually almost everyone breaks. It’s a rare person that doesn’t. Everyone thinks they can hold out, but in truth, few can.

Lynn emerges from the main building with Robert, Bri, Craig, and the other crew members in tow. Some of my anger, which is the sorrow at losing McCafferty turned inward, is alleviated by the sight of Lynn strolling across the pavement. I feel my heart blossom at seeing her back with us…back with me. The anxiety of her being taken was killing me.

“See ya soon…mate,” I say with a wink to the prisoner and head to meet the others.

* * *

I feel the clunk of the wheels as they retract into the wheel wells. The green lights indicating gear positions wink off; first the nose gear and then the mains. With the engines at full power and the Spooky cleaned up, we claw for altitude beneath on overcast layer of clouds. A quiet, professional calm permeates the interior, but with an underlying element of tension with the loss of McCafferty. This is more than just a mission to take out the night runners who took Lynn; it’s coupled with a mission to find the others responsible for the loss of Allie. It won’t bring her back, but we’ll exact a measure of satisfaction by taking down those responsible. We just have to find them first.

“Robert, do we need to head to the range for a quick rehearsal?” I ask over the intercom.

The question is meant to ask if Lynn is up to speed with her console duties or whether we need to make a few practice runs.

“No, we’re good to go back here,” he answers.

“Okay. Turning south now. We’ll be on target in about ten minutes.”

“Copy that. We’ll be ready by then.”

Mount Rainier swings into view as I bank the aircraft around, the snow-covered mountain’s flanks angle upward until they disappear into the clouds. The ground vanishes under our nose, but is largely unnoticed, as we run through our checks, setting up for our run on the target. The quick thought of having the aircraft looked over by the mechanic we brought back with us cycles through my mind as we aim for the hospital. The city of Olympia, housing thousands upon thousands of night runners, unfolds below us.

Somewhere below is also the team that accompanied the captured sniper. We’ll have to act quickly to locate them. Once the shooter doesn’t return, they’ll know something is amiss and either bug out or take another crack. They have the advantage as they know where we are and we don’t know their location. That will have to change.

Leveled off at five thousand feet, the hospital becomes visible on our nose. Our checks have been completed and we are good to go for our run in to the target. Images of the night runners inside as Lynn and I were chased through the darkened corridors flash through my mind. There may not be that many inside, but any dent we can make in their population can only help. And, unlike hitting what we thought was a major lair previously, the night runners inside won’t have had a night to escape. It is certain that they are still there.

The hospital slides to the side of our path as I make a change to our heading and set up an orbit. I feel a pang in my chest seeing the front of the structure where we were trapped by the sniper and lost McCafferty. Seeing the entire complex sends a shiver up my spine as I can’t help but think about the ordeal Lynn went through and how close we came to not making it out. I hear Robert make a last minute check-in with each station as we circle.

“We’re ready to commence back here,” Robert says.

“Roger. Can you spare Lynn?” I reply.

“Yeah. She’s monitoring the low-light TV and I doubt we’ll be needing that.”

“Lynn, there’s a ringside seat up here. Want to come up and watch?”

“On my way,” she states.

I wait until she is standing at my shoulder and looking out of the side window.

“Robert, you’re cleared to engage.”

I feel a slight vibration in the airframe as the M102 105mm howitzer sends its payload downward. Below, the shell impacts into the side of the facility with a crash. Smoke, with pillars of yellow flame mixed in its depths, billows away and up. The trees near the building bend from the blast and debris rockets outward. Chunks of concrete, brick, and metal rebar land in a fan pattern across the area, some hitting vehicles in the parking lot. The section above where the shell crashed into the building falls on itself in a pile but is lost behind the billowing smoke.

I feel a second vibration as another shell punches downward. Another section of the hospital is hit with a fiery explosion as the ordinance collides with the structure. I glance back at Lynn and see a small smile on her lips as she watches the shells tear into the hospital. I would reach out to sense the night runners inside but I don’t want to feel their fear or their pain. I keep that part of my mind locked down.

Before long, Robert ceases fire. Looking through the smoke pouring from the devastated facility, the thermal images show a complete ruin. As the smoke clears, I see the destruction. The hospital is nothing more than piles of rubble with some portions of ruined wall structures standing amongst the tumble of stone and distorted metal. Twisted metal rebar sticks out of some of the crumbled walls. Pillars of smoke pour skyward as fires smolder in the ruins.

Looking at the ruins, there is no way any night runners could survive, unless they were buried deep in some basement. If that’s the case, they’ll have a hard time digging themselves out. I open up and sense nothing. My senses in this area aren’t entirely reliable, especially from altitude it seems, but there isn’t a flicker from below. There isn’t any use in continuing as we’ll just be pounding some of the larger debris into smaller rocks. And, we don’t have an unlimited supply of ammunition.

We secure the stations and make ready for the second part of our mission, finding the sniper’s team members that I believe lie hidden in the area somewhere. If they’re close, they will have heard the thunderous destruction of the hospital below and know something is up. The thought that we should have looked for them first surfaces, but there isn’t anything we can do about it now. I was focused on taking out the night runner lair before night fell. Lynn squeezes my shoulder and gives me a smile before making her way aft and back to her console.

“I’m going to climb higher and set up a grid search pattern to the south. Robert, have all monitors on. We’re looking for vehicles without a coating of grime, tracks, people…anything that looks like there might be someone around. My guess is that they’ll be encamped a distance from the city to minimize the night runner threat. Look for barricaded buildings or something similar. Speak up if you see anything that looks slightly out of place,” I say.

With that, we turn south, leaving the destroyed night runner lair smoking behind.

Taps

For the second time this day, Michael is awakened from his slumber. This isn’t the panicked waking that the previous one was, but more of something that gradually pulls him from the dream world to the waking one. He is groggy at first and rolls over to fall back asleep, noticing many of his pack within the large interior are restive as they too have come awake. His eyes open as he realizes there are images of pain and fire entering his mind.

He pushes himself to a sitting position. The low noise of his pack jostling around the interior increases. Many rise to a sitting or standing position as the images fill their minds as well. Waking more, Michael reaches out and knows instantly the images of fear and death are coming from where Sandra’s pack was. He senses, through the minds of the distant pack members, the explosions that are rocking the lair. He also senses the agitation that is sweeping through his own pack.

Fear of the unknown thing that is tearing the lair apart emanates strongly from the far pack. Flashing images of individuals running through the halls to escape. Multitudes are running randomly, hoping to escape the fire and destruction. Floors and walls rock, knocking many off their feet. Images of plaster falling from the ceiling enter Michael’s mind. Other brief pictures are of entire hallways disappearing in a tumult of falling debris. Members from the far pack vanish from his mind, never to return.

Shrieks from Michael’s own pack echo as they share in those images. Some run around the interior as terror from the distant pack enters their minds. Michael’s own fear is mixed with frustration because he doesn’t know what to do. He wants to send some message that will help, but he doesn’t have a clue as to what that should be. The faraway lair is coming apart and he doesn’t know why. He does have the deep sense that the two-leggeds are responsible but has no idea how. The only thing that comes to mind is that thing that deals death from the night sky.

With the images storming into his mind, Michael looks up at the ceiling far overhead. He dreads that the destruction he is witnessing in his mind will come to his lair next. If it does, there is no place they can go. Heading outside into the bright, painful light is certain death. Thankfully, the lair that is being destroyed is some distance away. He anxiously stares at the ceiling while the other pack vanishes from his mind by the tens and then the hundreds. Soon, there is not a single flicker of life left that he can sense.

The rest of his pack settles down after the last of the images fade from their minds. They feel his apprehension and huddle in corners or in groups, waiting for the same to happen to them. Whimpers and moans fill the vast, darkened interior of their lair and Michael wonders what Sandra has brought upon them. He thinks, belatedly, that he should have killed her when he had the chance. Whatever destroyed her lair is far more than he can deal with. Michael no longer thinks of his place as a sanctuary. He thinks again that he and the two-leggeds can’t inhabit the same area. The answer, however, remains elusive — run or attack?

Time passes without the concussive noise or destruction arriving. Michael begins to relax, and the pack eventually drifts back to sleep. Even though the other pack didn’t come close to the numbers he has, he knows numbers won’t mean a thing if the lair is attacked like that. Sandra’s demise and the way the two-leggeds accomplished it escalate the danger of them. The destruction of the lair, and in such a short period of time, intensified this feeling ten-fold.

* * *

“Dad, turn um… to 210 degrees. I’m picking up something on the thermal. It may be nothing, but it’s the most we’ve seen so far,” Robert says over the intercom.

We’ve been running a grid search, but in a seemingly random pattern for the last hour. The pattern is random so that, if there is someone on the ground, they won’t know we are searching for something. We’ll appear to be on a training flight. If we were to crisscross the area, it would become abundantly clear we were in an active search mode. We need to hurry though, as there isn’t much time before we need to head back for Allie’s ceremony. The sun is lowering and will hit the horizon soon.

I turn toward the heading given by Robert. I don’t want to head directly at what he found as that would be obvious as well.

As we near the area, I look to the monitor and see where Robert has zoomed in. On the screen is a standard looking farmhouse with an attached garage, complete with an oak tree in front providing shade and an equipment shed and barn nearby. Switching to the thermal imaging, I see what drew Robert’s attention — a heat signature emanating from the garage. It’s faint but there, and brighter than anything else we’ve found. It’s lucky today is cooler or we might have missed it entirely. Of course, it could be anything, but any heat registering would have to be something; either a sign of some other survivor(s) or from the team we suspect is in the area.

“I’m picking up some tire tracks in the driveway,” Robert reports.

Switching back, I look at the zoomed displayed image. There is a definite disturbance in the dirt driveway. It’s hard to tell if they are definite tire tracks, but something has disturbed the otherwise smooth surface.

“Keep an eye on those buildings,” I say, setting an orbit around the small farm.

I radio base to update them and have three teams head south with the rest placed on standby. I don’t know if we’ve actually found anything, but if we have, I want to be ready to hit it quickly. Only three teams are sent since I don’t want to leave the sanctuary undefended considering what has happened. We may have only found some random heat source, and the suspected team may actually be closing in — if there is anyone at all.

Looking down, I study the setup. The house itself is far away from any others and a ways outside of Olympia. It’s nestled in a small valley amongst the hills of the Capital Forest. There don’t appear to be any fortifications, but this seems like a place that would be devoid of any night runners. It looks to be a calm and peaceful place that I’m sure was someone’s dream home before the world went to shit.

“Vehicle emerging from the barn…make that two,” Robert calls out.

On the scope, I see two vehicles charge from the barn. The first barges through the flimsy barn door with a second one emerging on the heels of the first before the splinters of the wooden door have finished falling.

“Permission to engage?” Robert asks.

The vehicles appear to be Humvees painted in a woodland camo pattern.

This surely has to be them, I think, watching the vehicles make a dash for a road leading deeper into the forest.

The actions surely indicate this is who we are looking for. I’m not sure there would be anyone else who would, one, make a run for it with us flying overhead, and two, be driving military-style vehicles.

I take a second to answer as the Humvees draw closer to the wooded area.

“Permission granted,” I reply.

We can’t afford to let them get away. We’ve already lost one valuable team member to them and can’t afford that they might take another shot at us.

I sense more than hear the 40 mm cannon open up. The ground around the lead Humvee erupts in a flurry of dust and smoke as the rounds strike around it. The vehicle flips over frontwards like it hit a tripwire and lands on its top, skidding to a stop after a short distance, its wheels spinning in the air.

A second later, I hear Robert issue the order to engage the second vehicle. Another flurry of dust strikes send it into a sideways skid.

As the dust settles, I hear Robert, “We have two runners from the second vehicle.”

Tracer rounds streak downward from the 25 mm Gatling gun. Again, the ground is chewed up around first one, and then the second runner. Through the thermal imaging, two bodies lie unmoving on the hard-packed earth. Dust slowly settles to the ground around the bodies and vehicles, but not another thing is moving.

I contact Horace to inform her of our contact and give her the coordinates. She informs me that she and two other teams are about twenty minutes out. We continue to circle and monitor the house for any further movement. From all appearances, we won’t be asking questions of the sniper’s teammates.

With Horace due to arrive in five minutes, I have Robert direct a single 105mm shell into the house and another into the barn. The house and barn fly apart from the concussive hits from the howitzer, scattering wooden shrapnel into the yard and surrounding fields. If there were others inside, any info they may give is not worth the risk to our team members. We have the one shooter and have lost enough for one day. If we didn’t already have one to garner info from, I may be thinking differently. And, if we hadn’t lost Allie, I might also try to capture another. However, her loss has hit me hard. Every life is valuable. We can’t afford any losses if we are to survive.

We circle looking for any others that may be below. A line of dust rises as Horace and her column of vehicles turn onto the dirt road leading to the small farm. They dismount away from the ruined house and barn with the weapons of the Humvees and Stryker she brought trained on the structures. They approach and start going through the wreckage, finding nothing of value.

They take a cautious approach toward the destroyed vehicles. Without taking any fire, they search the vehicles, finding five dead and two badly wounded but unconscious. They go through the wreckage without finding anything of value, gather the bodies, and return to base. We search without finding anything else by the time we need to return. Horace calls a short time later and informs us that the two wounded have succumbed to their injuries.

The warm but humid day becomes chilly by the time we arrive at Cabela’s. The mood is somber as the crew of the Spooky and I walk into the main building. Milling quietly, the others of our compound have gathered on the first floor. Near the front doors, a casket resides on several sawhorses. Inside lie the bodily remains of Allie, her soul having already departed to her next destination. Seeing the casket, I wonder if it’s just a small matter of time before we all meet a similar fate…are we just operating on borrowed time? Is this thing we are doing, trying to survive, just the last dying gasp of humanity? Drescoll stands close to the concealed casket, staring down at it. His eyes are unfocused and it’s obvious his mind is miles away.

We quickly stow our gear and return. Drescoll hasn’t moved and is still lost in his own mind. Lynn walks to him and places her hand on his shoulder. He gives a subdued start and turns his head slowly. His red-rimmed eyes meet hers and she whispers something to which he gives a slow nod.

Lynn quickly bathes and returns. Someone hands her a bite to eat, which she gladly accepts. The filth that covered her has been removed, but cleaning up and having something to eat can’t hide the gauntness that remains. It is obvious that she’ll need time to regain her health.

Gonzalez, Robert, Henderson, Denton, Lynn, and Drescoll take positions around McCafferty’s casket and lift it onto their shoulders. They proceed solemnly out the front doors, the rest of us following.

The funeral procession makes its way to our small cemetery — Allie’s final resting place. Seeing the markers and the hole dug for McCafferty, I hope we won’t have to place any others here prematurely. Our endeavors must be so that this place remains uninhabited except for when it’s our own proper time to leave. Although this world truly sucks, it’s the only one we have and we must endure.

As Allie is placed on a bier set over the open grave, the feeling of grief once again grabs hold of my heart. After all she’s been through, to find an end in this way just doesn’t seem right. I hear the echo of her ready laugh in my mind, a picture of her grinning at some joke made after an operation, her game face as we embark on yet another operation. Her small stature contained an overly large heart that held no fear. She hung in there during the grimmest moments. One picture emerges of her smiling at something said at dinner, her eyes shining with the same joy. She loved the camaraderie of the team and was loved by all in return. She will be sorely missed.

The others of our small group of survivors begin making their way to arranged seating. Allie’s dad is standing off to the side staring blankly at the flag-draped coffin. With his head hung low, Drescoll makes his way to a podium. I hear him sniffle and wipe away a tear.

“I really don’t know what to say,” he begins between sniffles. “Allie was a true angel…(sniffle)…who had the biggest…(sniffle)…of hearts.” Tears begin to stream down his face. He attempts to scrub at them, but they fall faster than he can wipe them away. “I’m sorry…(sniffle)…She’s going to be…(sniffle)…missed…”

I walk to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, you grieve and I’ll talk. I just hope my words can give her the honor she deserves.”

Drescoll nods and walks to the casket, his back to the crowd and places his hand on the polished wooden surface. Before turning to the gathered crowd, I see his shoulder begin to shake with grief. Allie’s dad, also weeping, rises and joins Drescoll on the other side of the casket.

“Friends, we gather at a very sad time to give our final respects to one of our beloved. How do I even begin? How do we say goodbye to someone that we can’t believe is gone? How do we say farewell to one that was with us heart and soul?

“Allie was with us just a short time but impacted the lives of everyone she came in contact with. It was impossible to remain down when she was around. Her ready smile brightened the day, and she gave us strength when times were hard. Allie, you were taken from us too early and you will be grievously missed…”

I have tears in my own eyes by the time I finish. Seven rifles fire three times, each report sends a note that Allie is truly gone…that she will be with us no more. After the final shots echo into the distance, a solitary bugle plays Taps, the sound drifting forlornly over bowed heads. Soldiers rise and come to attention, saluting a fellow companion. The skies overhead threatening rain reflect the gloom and sadness we all feel. I can’t hear Taps without tears forming, and this time is no different. The hot tears streaming down my cheek are a direct contrast to the chill of the dying day.

The services end and everyone silently makes their way to our sanctuary. I watch them depart, thinking that, in this new world, it seems that for every gain, there is a corresponding loss. For Lynn’s return, we lost Allie. We can’t seem to get a leg up on things. That needs to change soon or we are in for trouble. If it’s not the night runners, it’s our own kind. As for the night runners, they seem to be advancing at every turn. Standing at the podium, with my pant legs whipping in the wind, I hope that we aren’t in for any further surprises. We can’t afford it from either a personnel or psychological standpoint.

I join Drescoll and Allie’s dad who maintain their silent vigil. I think to provide some consolation but I’m not any good at that. Still, I want to tell that I’m sorry and that I understand their pain. But what can you really say to anyone that has lost a loved one? There really isn’t anything that can alleviate the pain and sorrow.

I’m about to put my hand on Drescoll’s shoulder and hear him whisper, “Why did you have to leave, Allie? Why? I don’t want to be here without you…”

I back away. This is a time for him to grieve. As I turn to leave, I hear him say, “I will really miss you.” He leans down and kisses the casket.

He turns and we lock eyes. “I’m really sorry. I know there isn’t anything I can possibly say that will alleviate the pain and sorrow you’re feeling. I would love to tell you that time will heal the grief and somehow make it better. The truth is that time only makes it more bearable but, it does make it bearable. I’m not going to say that I understand what you are going through because I’m not you. But, just know that I’m here if you need…for anything,” I tell him.

Through his tears, he nods and makes his way toward Cabela’s. Allie’s dad runs his hand lovingly along the casket and departs as well. Red Team, Lynn, and I are the only ones left and we ease Allie into her final resting place.

* * *

Drescoll walks across the hard-packed ground. With his heart filled with the pain of grief, the chill of the evening is lost on him. He and Allie had only known each other a short time and were together for an even shorter one. That doesn’t change how he feels…the depth of his affections. Once they began talking, it just seemed natural and right for them to be together. Each time they had a chance to be alone with each other, life had more meaning and everything seemed so much brighter. He didn’t want those moments to ever end and, should time decide to have frozen then, he would consider himself fortunate.

Now, he is walking back to a place that seems darker. He has never been one for relationships and didn’t mind being by himself. Now he has never felt so alone. He knows Jack’s words were meant to help, but his thoughts are running in a confused jumble. In his heart, there is a small part remaining where he doesn’t doubt Jack’s sincerity and care for the people. It’s why he cautioned Jack in the first place not to place himself in danger all of the time — the group needs him. But, he constantly placed Allie in danger and this is the result. She took a bullet meant for him and Drescoll isn’t sure he can ever get over that.

He now understands Jack’s initial anger toward him over Nic’s death but, at this moment, he doesn’t know if he has the strength to forgive. Allie was his everything, his world, his reason to continue in this miserable hell, and now she’s gone — the light of his life snuffed out.

Show and Tell

Walking back into the building, with the gray day fading to a darker shade signaling the coming of night, I notice more than a few women are beginning to show signs of being pregnant. Times of stress will bring people together. Seeing them, I’m reminded of the night runner female we encountered earlier in the day. The fact that she was pregnant brings a fear to the forefront — the night runners can breed. If the women in our group are any indication and the night runners are breeding in a similar manner, with their greater numbers, they will exponentially grow in relationship to us.

It’s been an emotionally-charged day and it’s hard to believe, with all that happened, that it’s still the same day. The day is ending on a sad note and, even though none of us are wanting to, we still need to meet. There is so much to discuss, and putting it off isn’t going to help.

Although there is a pall over the group, I can’t describe how good it is to see Lynn sitting amongst us once again. She is thinner, and there are definite circles of tiredness around her eyes, but she retains some energy. It’s likely due to her relief at being freed from the night runners. I can’t imagine the ordeal she must have gone through. I haven’t asked her about her experiences, but I’m sure she’ll share them later. It’s her story to tell when she feels ready to tell it and not for me to pull it out of her.

Although everyone gave Lynn warm welcomes on our return, they mention again how nice it is to have her back.

“It’s been a long day, so let’s keep this brief,” I say. I detail the events within the hospital and the capture of the shooter.

“Lynn, I hate to bring up your ordeal, but do you have any idea why you were singled out and taken?” Frank asks.

“I haven’t a clue,” she answers.

“You didn’t receive any indication?” he continues.

“I really don’t know anything. I was kept in a closed room with night runners for guards, if you can fathom that, but I couldn’t gather any reason why.”

“I have to say I find it rather disconcerting that night runners can speak, let alone have the cognizance to station guards, but what about those last words you mentioned the female night runner saying?” Bannerman asks, directing the question at me.

“I wish I knew. This is as baffling to me as anyone else. The directed attack into our compound only to grab Lynn and depart doesn’t make any sense. If the night runners exhibited normal human behaviors, I would say that the female night runner was psychotic. I would venture that there was some sort of obsession going on…you know, the crazy, psycho, rabbit in the pot kind of crazy. It could be that she was psychotic in her previous life and that stayed with her when she turned. Perhaps the night runners carry over some degree of whatever mental characteristics they had and it manifests in odd ways. Either way, I’m not sure this is an answer we’ll ever know. I’m not even sure there is a lesson to be learned from it regarding the night runners,” I reply.

“The scary thing, aside from them being able plan something like that, is the pregnancy. Are you sure she was pregnant?” Frank asks.

“As sure as I can be. It could be something else, and it was a little sporty in there, but she certainly looked pregnant to me,” I respond.

“She was,” Lynn adds.

“So, we have to believe that the night runners can breed. That doesn’t bode well. If their rate of pregnancy is the same as ours, I don’t have to mention what that means,” Frank states.

“I’m afraid that may be the case. Of course, with any animal, they’ll only be able to maintain their population based on their available food source,” I say.

“That may be true, but at what point will that become a problem for them?” Bannerman asks, rhetorically.

The unstated question left sitting on the table is whether we’ll be around to find out. We are already vastly outnumbered, and the night runner population growth will only increase the threat to our survival. They can afford great losses and still sustain themselves; whereas we can scarce afford to lose anyone. If the math from the CDC reports is accurate, there could be more than thirty thousand night runners in the area compared to our meager near three hundred. The silence in the group says that everyone is doing the math and coming up with frightening answers. The mood drops even lower.

“Okay…well…we’ll just have to keep on with what we’re doing. We’ve made it this far and we’ll continue to do so. Where are we with our local projects?” I ask.

“Well, we’re ready to start with the housing. We’ll gather materials tomorrow and begin construction. Oh, and one of the people you brought back is a diesel mechanic, so we may be in luck with our ability to switch over to bio-fuels,” Bannerman replies.

“Good deal. And speaking of the people we brought back, one of the groups initiated a day where they had a BBQ. Although I think we can scarcely afford to take any time off, we need to implement something like that,” I state.

“I think that’s a good idea. It will give everyone an opportunity to relax. Honestly, I’m surprised we haven’t had more meltdowns considering the pace we’ve been maintaining. I don’t think we can keep up this way and not suffer…you know, drive us into the ground,” Frank states.

“Can we afford to?” I ask.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Frank replies.

“What about the prisoner?” Drescoll asks, breaking his silence.

“I’m going to go see him after we finish here. I know I said that we’ll wait for a while, but we need info soon. He is definitely a pro, and the military vehicles we encountered earlier today shows that we may be up against something that we aren’t prepared to handle. We need information…and sooner rather than later,” I answer.

“Why do you think they attacked?” Robert asks.

“I have no idea, but that’s something I hope to remedy soon,” I respond.

“What about Greg?” Lynn asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t like the fact that he’s out there on his own with only one team, especially considering what happened today. Look, it’s been a long, emotional day, so let’s call it a night and meet again tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll have some answers by then and can plan accordingly.”

With more questions than answers, we all rise and make our way to our individual cubicles. I tell Lynn I’ll be back soon and head to where our prisoner is being held. Walking through the interior, I feel that a heavy oppression that has settled. These are trying times at best and the upsurge in optimism that I hoped for by bringing Lynn back into our fold was overridden by the loss of McCafferty. One step forward and another back. As it’s a human tendency to dwell on the negative more than the positive, the step back was larger than the one forward.

* * *

Images flash through her mind as she strides down the corridor. Gav watched events unfold in the control room and pictures from the satellite video feed are firmly imprinted in her head. Her jaw alternately clenches and relaxes as her mind plays the video over and over like an unending reel. Her hand grips the video disk tightly, almost to the point of snapping it. The tightening of her muscles is due to her stress and frustration.

Her shooter was given live satellite information — which was more than she ever received in the field — but it proved worthless in the end as it only resulted in a miss. In slow motion, the shot plays over and over in her head. Their target, Jack Walker, bending down at the exact wrong moment, the shot passing over his head. They had one chance at this and they blew it. Part of her frustration is that she knows that if she were there, the results would have been different — she never misses. Gav clenches her jaw, knowing she should have been the one to go, but her position here denied her that option. The team she sent was a good one, and she can’t fathom why the shooter decided to go it alone. There should have been two shooters with two spotters to make sure the target was down. Her frustration is echoed by the sharp clicks of her heels on the hard floor.

In her room, she slides the disk into the player to look at the video again; although it won’t alter the outcome no matter how many times she watches it. The video plays through to the end, showing the capture of her shooter, the destruction of the hospital, and the shelling of the rest of the team. The camp’s quick reaction shows what she is up against. She played her card and now her group’s anonymity may be in jeopardy. The capture of the shooter makes that a real possibility. He’s a tough one, but everyone has their breaking point. She knows this from her years of intelligence experience. She also knows they won’t get another opportunity like the one they had. It’s imperative that she do something to eliminate what may now be a larger threat.

Thoughts slide through her mind as she stares blankly at the monitor. They could make contact and attempt to join forces, denounce the shooter and his team and ones who went rogue, but the timing of it would be circumspect. No, that isn’t an option anymore. That one shot made the two encampments enemies. Minutes slide by as she works through options. A glimmer of an idea surfaces and she reaches for the phone to dial the control room.

“Yes, Nahmer. What can I do for you?” the supervisor asks, picking up on the first ring.

“Do we have the naval communication codes?” Gav asks.

“We do. They are older codes as the download of the latest naval databases never completed but they could still be validated.”

“Have the codes ready. Find that sub and inform me the moment they surface,” Gav states, hanging up before receiving a response. She is already focused on other parts of a plan forming in her mind.

* * *

Lynn doesn’t know exactly how she feels as she watches Jack head down the stairs. It’s been an unreal day. The adrenaline rush and relief of being freed from captivity…followed by the death of McCafferty. She was already exhausted, but the extreme ups and downs have drained her even more so. She feels like she can sleep for a week. As she stares blankly at Jack’s retreating back, she feels her mind shutting down.

Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she trudges toward her room with no other thought than to fold into a coma-like sleep. Sinking wearily onto her cot, Lynn begins to untie her boots when she hears a rap at the entrance.

“Come in,” she says, sliding off one of her boots.

Drescoll enters and Lynn takes in his puffy red eyes and tightly drawn face. He seems ill at ease and absent-mindedly rubs his ear in a nervous fashion.

“What’s up?” she asks, knowing her long-time friend needs someone to talk with.

She had expected this visit and wanted to talk with him earlier but knew he would come to her when the time was right for him. Having lost loved ones as well, she knows the confusion, anger, and the feeling of being lost that he must be going through.

Drescoll hesitates in a nervous fashion. “Look, I know you’ve been through some shit and don’t need to hear me whining.”

“Sit your ass down,” Lynn says, pulling off her remaining boot.

“I just…just don’t know what to do. I feel so lost. I just don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he says, his eyes taking on a far off stare — his mind both present and away at the same time.

“I know it’s hard, and I wish there was something I could say that would take the pain away. All I can really say is that I have an inkling of what you are going through, and the best we can do is take it minute by minute. The pain may not pass entirely, but it becomes endurable. You have to push on… believing that things will get better. Time may not heal completely, but it does make the loss more bearable.”

“I get that, but that is only if you have something to live for… something that you care about. What’s to live for, Lynn? Everything I cared about has been taken away.”

“I know it seems that way right now, but not everything has been taken away. You still have people who care about you and who rely on you. And, this may sound cliché, but both you and I know that Allie would want you to carry on. Keep your memories precious by not giving up.”

“I know all of that, but it really doesn’t matter to me right now. This is a shitty-ass world. Allie made it worth living in. I just don’t have it in me to do it anymore,” Drescoll says, staring at his feet.

“You had something to live for before you two started, so I know there’s something there. There’s your team and our continued survival. The one thing that worked for me was to immerse myself in the training and keep myself busy. Sometimes that was the only thing that kept me going. I would like to say it was Jack or something else like that, but in all honesty, that kind of healing can only come from inside. You find something else that you care about or that you have to do, whether you truly believe in it or not, and you keep at it. For me, I realized that there are others who need me on a day-to-day basis and that sustained me. Your team and the others in this camp need you, whether you realize it or not, they do. Let that sustain you. If you give up, then the other side won, whether that is the night runners or those who attacked us,” Lynn states.

Drescoll remains silent, staring at the ground.

“I know you’re in a tremendous amount of pain and feeling lost. No words that I say are going to make that go away. Your actions and time will. It seems like a dark tunnel now with no light in sight, but if you continue to march along, that light will appear and life will regain meaning. You’ll just have to trust me on that. And know that people look up to you and care about you…a lot.”

“I appreciate that and know in my mind that what you say is true. But that has so little meaning for me, and just seems so…well…superficial,” Drescoll mumbles.

“I know it does. You’re going to feel sorrow and anger, sometimes within minutes of each other. Each day will get better, though. We’ve been through a lot of shit, and will probably go through more of it, but we’ve also come a long ways.”

“At what cost? I just don’t feel that it’s worth it anymore.”

“The personal cost has been high for a lot of us. But what choice do we really have but to carry on for those we’ve lost? There is really only one real option, and that is to survive at any cost. When that anger comes, and it will, turn that against those who want to hurt us and toward making this a better place. If we win, they lose and vice versa. For the moment, let the doc give you something to sleep or you’re going to lie in agony and the thoughts that come aren’t going to help…only make it worse. Come on, I’ll walk you there.”

“No, that’s okay. You’ve been through a lot already and I’m sorry to burden you more.” Drescoll turns to leave.

“Bull-fucking–shit. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself. I’m always here for you and always will be…as are the others. You’re a part of us and we’re a part of you. What happens to you happens to us. Now, come on, let’s go see the doc,” Lynn says, slipping her boots back on.

“Thanks.”

* * *

Leaving the group, I make my way down into the storage room where we have the prisoner locked up. The container has been set just inside the loading docks with two guards posted next to the metal doors. Several buckets, most still full of water, sit close by. They have instructions to keep the shooter awake by dousing him with water every hour. Sleep deprivation is one of the most useful tools when trying to extract information. Many can withstand torture to an extent, but sleep deprivation makes everything seem worse.

The guards open the doors at my request. Inside, an arc light has been set up to make our prisoner’s stay all the more enjoyable. He is on his knees with his arms chained above him and seems little worse for wear. His uniform is still soaked from water that was thrown on him earlier. He looks up at my entrance through tired red eyes. His muscles tense with resolve at my arrival. Yeah, this guy is no amateur.

“I hope you are enjoying our hospitality. We’re striving to make your stay a pleasant one. We may not have all of the amenities, but we do go all out for our guests,” I say, squatting in front of him.

The silence he maintains is expected.

“Like I said earlier, we both know how this game is played and how it ends. Knowing that, the only consideration is how much do you want to endure before that happens? The answer to that is entirely up to you. You have the option to save yourself a lot by telling me what I want to know,” I state.

Silence. I shrug nonchalantly.

“Alright, have it your way. It matters little to me. I’m not the one chained up and have nothing to lose whichever way you choose. Oh, but in other news, we have captured some of your team. Some of them… well… didn’t make it. My sincere apologies, mate. I know how it is to lose people, so I truly do mean that. They just didn’t want to play nice and come along quietly.” I watch him closely.

This triggers a reaction with a tightening of his eyes and lips. He glares, searching for the truth in my words.

“Well, what can I say? We’re just better.” I shrug.

“Whatevs,” he says, finally speaking.

“I have nothing to gain by lying to you. You understand this and therefore know that what I’m saying is the truth.”

“I don’t believe you. If that’s true, produce one of them,” he says.

Getting him to speak is the first step. It really doesn’t matter what it is as long as he says something. It opens a blockage, and once words are spoken, more are likely to follow. It’s getting him to become comfortable with speaking. And he did slip. ‘Whatevs’ is an Australian slang term for whatever. So, I’m guessing he may have been Australian SAS. I won’t let on that I suspect this as he’ll realize that he slipped and clamp down again. It’s a game, and I’m a little rusty. I again revealed some of his buttons though — anger and a competitive streak…pride. Of course, who in this game isn’t competitive?

“Mate, you know I can’t do that. That’s not part of the game and we have to play by the rules, right? You want to play by different rules, then you come up with something to tell me. I like it, and then you get something in return. I get something, and then you get something. You know how this is played,” I reply.

He looks on with a hint of confusion. It’s obvious he’s rummy from lack of sleep and not really able to keep up.

“Here, I tell you what, I’ll go outside the boundaries of the fun time we’re having and show you something first. Let’s relax and watch a movie together. I’m afraid I’m fresh out of popcorn, but we can enjoy it nonetheless.” I open the laptop I brought and power it up.

The screen goes through the boot up process and I start up the recorded video from the Spooky. The house and nearby barn are on the screen. A momentary tic on his face makes it obvious that he knows the location.

“I thought you might recognize this place. We found it during one of our afternoon jaunts.”

With his arms hanging above him, he looks from the screen to me.

“No, keep watching or you’ll miss the fun part.”

Suddenly, the doors of the barn burst open and a Humvee emerges, racing for a nearby tree line. Another vehicle follows shortly after. The internal radio calls asking for permission to engage and the okay comes from the small laptop speakers. The target reticule centers over and then ahead of the speeding vehicle in front. Clouds of dust erupt around the Humvee. I stop the video here and turn the screen away to fast forward to the second vehicle as it comes under fire. I fast forward to a place where the barn is centered in the screen. I don’t want to show him where we gunned down his team running from the vehicles.

A flash appears on the screen where the barn was. Smoke, with flames embedded deep within its dark mass, boils upward from the hit. One minute we’re watching the barn, then you hear the words ‘round out’ and the building vanishes under an immense, mushrooming cloud. Debris scatters outward. As the smoke surges toward the camera, pieces of the barn begin falling to the ground. The screen shifts to the house in time to see the second round hit it. I press stop with pieces of the house still hitting the ground.

“That’s really something, huh? So, I know you know the house and barn. You know your team was there. You saw them making a run for it and you know I’m not fucking around. Now, take heart. We had a team go in shortly afterward and some of your team survived. We are caring for them as we speak. They’re not really up for a cup of tea with you at the moment. However, they are a little chatty. So, you see, your use to me is fading. Unless you actually have something to offer, and soon, you’ll just be taking up space, time, and resources that I don’t want to spare. I’ll leave you to ponder that for a while,” I say, turning to leave. “We’ll chat later, mate. Until then, enjoy our comforts.”

He says nothing more as I leave but hangs his head in an attempt to get some rest. I know his mind will run through what he watched and wonder about his fate. I imagine he will begin bargaining with himself to tell me something if he believes his teammates are talking. Pride and training will argue one side, but his exhaustion will argue the other side. We can’t afford to wait long since we are at a distinct disadvantage. Whoever is behind this obviously knows us, whereas we know nothing about them other than they appear to be well organized and equipped.

“Make sure he doesn’t get any rest,” I tell the guards as I depart.

Walking from the warehouse, I see Harold standing near one of the tables set up in the middle of the first floor. He catches my eye and begins making his way toward me. I am tired and not close to being in the mood to listen to his ravings, but I figured he would approach me at some point. To be honest, he hasn’t spoken of his conspiracy theories since we picked him up from Mountain Home, for which I’m thankful. We have enough going on without becoming paranoid about everything. Of course, with what happened today, I must admit I’m a little more willing to hear what he has to say. The moment he starts sounding too far out there, I’ll be done and go to bed. After all, Lynn is back and I really haven’t had any time with her.

“I know you have a lot going on, and it didn’t seem like the right time earlier, but can we talk?” he asks.

“Sure, what’s up?” I say, wanting to keep this as short as possible.

We meander over to one of the tables and sit.

“I don’t rightly know how to start this and you may think I’m crazy, but hear me out. Remember back at Mountain Home when I said, ‘wait and they’ll find you’?” Harold begins.

“Yeah, I remember that. What exactly do you mean?”

“Okay, I don’t have the details, but the story is that someone took a shot at you. So, I’m going to take a guess and say that you were the target and the one you captured is a pro,” he answers.

“Correct so far, but that in itself doesn’t mean anything along the lines of a conspiracy,” I state.

“I don’t mean to sound crass, but I did say they would reveal themselves to you at some point,” Harold says.

“And you think this is from some group you were hinting at?”

“I’m sure of it,” Harold replies, nodding. “You have become a threat, or rather this place has.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” I ask.

“It’s probably best if I start at the beginning so you can see the foundation I’m operating from,” he responds.

“Okay, you have my attention.”

“I used to work for a certain three-letter organization and was stationed at a remote listening post. By remote, I don’t mean in a remote part of the world, I mean it was a small post that was merely a network transitional point. We, well, keyed into various confidential locations and either listened or provided secure tunnels for secure transmissions. One day, I noticed a hit from an unknown IP address. Looking into it, I saw that whoever it was created a virtual private network into our system and appeared to be pulling information from some of our secure channels. Intrigued as to who could do this, seeing as we weren’t really a known entity, I created a back channel using the one they created. I created a packet that looked like another piece of info they were pulling so it wouldn’t be discarded. It allowed me to peek into their system. I know, probably too much detail, but I wanted to know who could hack into our system before shutting them down.

“What I found was interesting, to say the least. I wasn’t in for long before being found out and booted, but from what I gathered, it seemed like I stumbled onto, or into, a covert group that was pieced together from all parts of both our government and others. In addition, there were several larger corporations involved. I didn’t get all of the details, but what I did find scared the hell out of me. I found files that mentioned global annihilation and for a takeover of resources. At first I just thought I had stumbled onto some contingency planning group, but the deeper I went, the more this seemed like an actual plan being set in motion.”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t some think tank group coming up with contingencies? They have those everywhere and come up with the wildest of scenarios,” I ask.

“I thought so at first, but then I found some emails between heads of corporations and government agencies. They spoke of plans already in place, of only waiting for the right moment to begin initiating phases. Now, some that I managed to find were encrypted and I didn’t have the time to decrypt, nor, to be honest, did I really want to. Most of the unencrypted ones came from the CDC itself and provided the most information. Those mentioned vaccines, death rates, and population control. Attached were services to be restored and in what order, along with timelines,” he responds.

“That still sounds like contingency planning to me,” I say.

“I still thought that might be the case as well. That is until I found a list of facilities that were being constructed and statements detailing expenses. This wasn’t just a contingency, it was actually being funded. I pulled that one from one of the emails that included the CDC director. Now, I’m as skeptical as the next person, but then when this shit happened, I realized I had been looking at an actual plan that was being initiated.”

“And you found all of this in the supposed short time you were in? Seems like something like that would take more time,” I say.

“Well, I might have, um, downloaded some of the files. When they found me, I was quickly booted. The tunnel dropped and I never saw it again. I tried to hit the IP address several times, but it was non-existent,” Harold replies.

“I’m not saying I believe you, but I’m not saying I don’t either. It’s just that it’s a little hard thinking about a single group bringing on an event like this. So, you mentioned the CDC several times. What if I told you I have a hard drive I picked up from the CDC?” I ask.

Harold chuckles for a moment. “That’s not something they are going to have on a hard drive, nor really anywhere on their system. From what I saw, the actual director was involved and I sincerely doubt he stored anything like that on the network.”

“And if I say that I have the director’s hard drive? What—” I begin.

“Wait, what? You seriously have that? I mean, here…with you?” Harold blurts out, interrupting.

“Yeah, Frank has it,” I answer.

“How did you come by that? Never mind that. Can I take a look at it?”

“I’ll talk with Frank in the morning and see that you get it. You’ll make a copy before digging in, right?” I say.

“Of course,” he replies, the excitement in his eyes apparent.

I take my leave and trudge wearily upstairs. It’s been a day that seems like a week. The huge emotional swings have definitely taken their toll. As much as that is true, I can’t wait to see Lynn. It still seems so unreal that she’s actually back but, then again, it seems strange that she was taken in the first place. Then there is the theory spouted by Harold. I’m beat and wouldn’t be too upset if I were allowed to sleep for a month.

Lynn is lying on her cot. Her exhaustion is written all over her. Looking through one open eye, she begins to rise onto her elbow.

“No need to get up for me. Just lie back,” I say, removing my boots before collapsing on my own cot. “You know, if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“I know, Jack, but I’m okay. Just glad to be back. Let’s just leave it there. And thanks,” she replies.

“Thanks for what?”

“For coming to get me,” she responds.

“Of course, hon. As if there were any other possibility.”

“You know, Drescoll is having a hard time.”

“I bet he is. I can’t imagine what he must be going through. Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Just be there for him. There’s really nothing anyone can say or do. It’s something he’ll work through on his own,” Lynn answers.

“Well, if he needs to take some time…”

“No. That may be the worst thing for him. He needs to be kept busy.”

“It’s been a hell of a day. I’m just glad you’re back. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

We both then fall into a coma-like slumber.

* * *

Morning comes far too quickly. I come out of a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling almost as tired as when I went to bed. The events of yesterday slowly creep into my consciousness, and the vast amount of things to do today propels me into wakefulness — although wakefulness is a matter of perspective. Let’s just say the cobwebs become less dense. Lynn stirs beside me and starts to rise.

“I’ve got the training this morning, you just rest,” I say.

“Thanks, Jack,” she mumbles before rolling over and falling back asleep.

Now I know she is exhausted if she will allow that. She knows my idea of training is walking to the fridge to grab a frozen Snickers bar. I trudge downstairs to meet with the other teams and we go through the morning training. Most of the others also seem tired and not really putting much effort into it with the exception of Bri who can’t seem to get enough. I shake my head at her enthusiasm and go through the motions. I must admit, it feels good to be moving, but so much is weighing on my mind that I can’t fully enjoy it.

After showering, I see that Lynn and the others have gathered in our usual meeting location. She looks stronger today but still carries the gauntness from her ordeal.

“We have a lot to cover.” I settle in. First, I give them a synopsis of my conversation with Harold.

“Frank, will you see that Harold is set up with the hard drive?” I say.

“Will do, Jack. Do you think there’s anything to what he said?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. And even if there is something to it, that doesn’t mean it’s that group that targeted us. There are some things that we know, but there’s so much more that we don’t. Let’s talk about what we do know and go from there. We know that we were targeted and…” I begin.

“You mean that you were targeted. In my opinion, it’s not us that was targeted but specifically you,” Frank interrupts. “I think it’s important that we make that distinction.”

“Okay, that doesn’t change my thinking much, but you’re right, we need to keep that in mind. Targeting a single individual is usually because that person or the group they head represents a direct threat or it’s to send a message. What we are threatening or what message they want to send is unknown as of yet. What concerns me is that they knew where to hit us. And not due to some daily activity that puts us in a certain place at a certain time. This was something out of the ordinary we planned. That means one of several things. One, they knew Lynn was there and that we would eventually show up and staked it out. Two, someone here knew our plans and notified them, or three, they had the capability to track us and had a team in the field to act on that intelligence. Either one doesn’t leave me with warm, fuzzy feelings,” I say.

“I have problems with your second idea. There were surely better opportunities to get to you if someone inside were providing information. And if they were staking out a place, why wouldn’t they stake out the ramp at McChord. It’s a far more likely that you’d show up there as opposed to a hospital where night runners are holding Lynn,” Frank comments.

“That leaves us with option three which means they have the means to track us at any time. That also means that they have a tremendous amount of intel on us and we have nothing on them. Like, are they local, or did the team they send have to travel? That implies a high level of coordination and organization,” I state.

“What that means is that they have satellite control,” Frank says. “And that could also be the reason our satellite communications have failed. They could have shut those comms down.”

“That means an awful lot of satellites,” Lynn mentions.

“That it does,” Frank replies. “I think we have to go with that assumption until we know anything different — work from the worst case scenario. You know that the comms and leadership are priority targets when initiating hostilities. And seeing how they targeted you, that means they have a pretty clear picture of our leadership.”

“I agree. We are at a distinct disadvantage. The implications are clear; we are dealing with a professional organization which brings us back to Harold’s theories. As much as I hate conspiracy theories, they are out there and with what happened, the little pieces, while individually not seeming like much, when put together, they present a much more worrisome and frightening picture. Have we had any word from Captain Leonard?” I ask.

“Not since we lost communication with you,” Frank answers.

“You’ve talked with our prisoner. Did you learn anything?” Lynn asks.

“Not really much other than he is a pro. I know he’s an Aussie and I’m guessing Australian SAS. I think I’ve discovered some of his buttons but haven’t gleaned anything of value so far. Unfortunately, these things take time, and that’s something I don’t think we have a lot of.”

“Do you think this a prelude to an assault, then?” Lynn asks.

“I don’t know but, if they’re after our leadership, that seems the next logical step,” I respond.

“We need to arrange longer patrols then. We can’t really afford to spare many of the teams being out, and that would put them at risk. We need aerial patrols and can have Craig and Roger conduct those in light aircraft. That way we can have some warning of anyone approaching,” Lynn says.

“Good idea. Let’s make that happen. I would venture that, because the shooter’s support team was located where they were, their main encampment is some distance away. That doesn’t mean anything and is only speculation,” I say.

“It makes sense,” Frank states.

I notice Drescoll is not his usual self, which is to be expected. He is quiet and fidgety. I let him know that it’s okay if he wants to take some time for himself — he doesn’t have to be here if he doesn’t want to be.

“No, this is where I want to be. I want to be a part of this,” he replies.

“So, what else can we be doing?” Bannerman asks.

“Well, as Frank mentioned, we have to take it that they know our leadership and may be targeting it. Greg is still out there, and we need to get him back. We also need to notify Leonard. Without our satellite comms, that means a flight down the seaboard to find him and attempt to communicate via UHF. If we are being targeted, our greatest defensive asset is the Spooky and it’s vulnerable on the ramp at McChord. We need to clear a runway nearby where it can be better protected. Bannerman, can we create a runway inside the compound?” I ask.

“There’s still some land that we aren’t using for pasture. We can grade a runway there if you’ll give me the specs you need,” he replies.

“That also means we’ll have to transport our ammo down and store it,” Frank comments.

“We can dig some bunkers but that will take time. In the meantime, we can store it in some of the storage containers. Fuel will be trickier, and we may have to transport the fuel down and store it in tanker trucks,” Bannerman says. “As soon as you get me the specs, we’ll start clearing a landing strip, though.”

“If we are looking at an attack, I think we need to start storing more of our ammo and vehicles here rather than at Fort Lewis,” Lynn states.

“Most of the crews are working to get material for the living quarters, but we can re-prioritize some crews. What and how much were you thinking? We have some space in the vehicle sheds, but it’s not unlimited,” Bannerman says.

“I’ll get with you after to see what we can bring down,” Lynn responds.

“So, let’s get Harold set up with the hard drive and see if he can dig anything out. We still don’t know this is what we’re dealing with, but I think we go along with that assumption for now. Frank, will you talk with Craig and Roger to arrange patrol schedules and, Lynn, get with Bannerman for the storage requirements. I’ll talk with our prisoner later today to see if he has any desire to share with us. If we can get a rudimentary runway carved out today, I’ll bring the Spooky and 130 down in the morning. We’ll meet tonight to discuss getting Greg and contacting Leonard,” I say.

“I think there is something else we need to discuss,” Franks chimes in.

All eyes turn on Frank.

“Go on,” I say.

“In all of this, we can’t forget about the threat of the night runners. We’ve picked up an increased presence of night runners around the bases. We don’t have a lot of cameras in place, but the pictures we’ve gathered from those few show an increase. I don’t know what that means. It could be that they are being pushed south out of the Seattle area due to a food shortage,” Franks says.

“Any idea of how many or pack sizes?” Lynn asks.

“It’s hard to tell from the occasional snapshot, but it seems like moderate pack sizes. I have no idea how many total may be in the area. Perhaps we could take the Spooky up some night and get a better picture,” Frank answers.

“We can do that. I believe our priority is to consolidate our resources, get Greg back, and contact Leonard soon,” I say.

“When you get back will be fine. I haven’t seen much of an increase, but it’s there. Let’s just not forget about it. And I’m wondering if there are any ramifications that might come from taking out the night runners at the hospital,” Frank adds.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, in the past, we’ve seen something from the night runners when we’ve struck. We began attacking them at night and hit one of their larger lairs, although they had moved, and then they attacked the compound here. It just seems that when we do something, they counter by changing tactics and seem to gain in their abilities. I’m just wondering if there is something that might spawn from this one.”

“I couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess. I’m hoping nothing happens as we took out the entire lot of them. But it does bear some thought. How many night runners do you think are in the area?”

“Well, from the number we saw from the Spooky that one night, and from the percentages in the CDC report, I would say we were initially dealing with a total of plus or minus sixty thousand in the area. That number may have become whittled down, but I don’t think we put much of a dent in that pack of ten to twenty thousand we saw in the AC-130 video. They’re still around somewhere,” Frank muses.

“Do you think they are the ones you’re starting to see up north?” Robert asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve compared photographs with the ones we’ve seen here and haven’t seen a match yet. It could be, but I think I would see at least one pack that was the same. And they aren’t in the same groupings we saw around here. So, my guess is that these are different,” Franks answers.

“Keep an eye on it. We’ll try and get the Spooky aloft tonight or tomorrow night to take a look. Today I’d like to take it out and conduct a perimeter patrol as Lynn recommended. At least we can clear the immediate area,” I say.

Upon leaving, I feel that there’s a certain renewal of energy within our encampment. There is still a depressed aura, but there is a focus underlying it — like there’s a lot to do and we’d better get to it. The air has almost a frantic electricity to it. We need to inform everyone about what is happening and what we’re doing about it. Rumors left unchecked can create a crazy all its own. Without straight information, the mind will create its own and wander to the craziest of places — coming up with boogeymen of the worst kind. The pervading depression is not so much the loss, but the way it happened… by an unknown entity. That creates its own fear. Giving a name to the boogeyman, making them real, and therefore something that can be dealt with, will alleviate a greater part of that.

Pulling onto the ramp, I hate the paranoia that has crept in. I move faster from the vehicle to the aircraft and check the panels closer during the walk-around which itself is conducted at a quickened pace. I search the surrounding building rooftops for flashes of light or silhouettes. We manage to get the beast into the air without any fatalities or the aircraft blowing up; although I must admit, being exposed on the ramp like that wasn’t my favorite place to be.

We are a crew member short with Lynn taking care of things at Cabela’s with Bannerman. It’s daylight, so we don’t really need the low light monitor. We stream north, looking for signs of the night runners Frank mentioned. There are a few fresh trails through some of the tall grass, but I don’t see anything that would indicate a vast number of them. Opening up, I discern a few packs in the area and have Robert mark the buildings. We have a lot of miles to travel but taking out night runner lairs have a priority just as high.

Circling the first marked building, Robert places a single round into it. The eruption of fire and smoke scatters debris far into an adjacent parking lot. There’s a breeze blowing, and the smoke clears quickly showing that the building has fallen in on itself — a jumble of concrete, plaster, and rebar. Small plumes of smoke drift upward from the rubble and are whisked away in the wind. Scanning the building, the sense of the night runners that used it as shelter is gone.

We hit several other buildings in the same fashion, but soon find our time whittling away. There always seems to be another small group in another structure. Frank was right, there has been an influx of night runners around the bases. We have a choice to continue demolishing buildings or continue our scouting. We have verified Frank’s sightings, but I won’t be able to sleep comfortably tonight until I also verify that we are clear from any imminent attack. With that thought, I radio base to let them know of our findings and proceed to search for any signs of vehicles or encampments.

The rest of the flight is much the same — finding scattered groups of night runners in urban areas — although I note the farther north we travel, the denser the packs become. As we travel east and south, they dissipate dramatically. All of the monitors are running and we should be able to pick out heat signatures, but there’s no sign of a buildup or human group. It takes a few hours, but we cover north, east, and south out to a range of three hundred miles. I would like to go out farther as a fast-moving military convoy can travel almost four hundred miles in a night. However, we just don’t have the time to cover that much area and be back before dark.

Upon returning, I notice a convoy of Strykers , Humvees, loaded flatbed trucks, and tanker trucks heading south down Interstate 5. Contacting base, I find that the runway hasn’t been finished; we’ll have to set down at McChord. Hopefully we’ll be able to move the aircraft in the morning.

Into the Sunset

The compound is a bustle of activity — our plans being put into motion. The consolidation of our resources takes some of the work crews, but others continue working on our housing. At the southern end of the compound, machinery and crews are carving out a runway and associated ramp space. All-in-all, it’s a good sight to behold. Many things are coming together, but I feel the looming pressure of time. With the late afternoon closing in, I step into the darker interior of Cabela’s.

Harold is at one of the tables staring intently at the screen of a laptop, its blue light reflecting off his face. He shakes his head and his fingers move rapidly across the keyboard before he returns to stare at it intently once again. Looking up quickly as I make my way across the first floor, he waves me frantically to him.

“Any luck?” I ask, coming to stand at his shoulder.

Swiveling in his chair to face me, he answers, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“How about in the middle?” I respond.

“What?”

“I’m kidding. I’ve always found the beginning to be the best place. Let’s try that,” I state, glancing at an open document on the screen.

Harold sighs heavily and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “You were right to take this hard drive, although not for the reasons you initially thought. There were more than a few hidden, locked files. The algorithm wasn’t that hard to figure out, but it’s as I suspected, the director was definitely in on this,” Harold says.

“In on what?” I ask, trying to make sense of the files spread across the laptop screen.

With another sigh, Harold spins back to face the laptop. “There are files here denoting locations, test results, goals, maps of facilities, lists of names, transmission modes, a—”

“Whoa. Slow down, Harold,” I interrupt.

“…few corrupted files, satellite control, nanotechnology,” Harold continues as if I had merely blown hot air into the room.

I reach down and grab his shoulder, making him turn to meet my eyes.

“Harold, slow…the fuck…down. What are you talking about?” I ask, having gained his undivided attention.

“I told you I didn’t know where to start,” he murmurs, turning to the screen once again.

With another deep sigh, he rubs his face. “Okay, remember our conversation about the rogue network and me getting in there momentarily?”

“Only too well,” I reply.

“Keep that conversation in mind as I go through this,” he says, closing the documents on the screen, but leaving one in place.

“This,” Harold says, pointing to the screen, “is a report from test results conducted with nanotechnology. I haven’t read through the entire thing but, from what I have read, it shows results of various transmission modes to administer nanobots.”

“Nanobots? And you mean transmission to people?” I ask with a sick feeling settling in my stomach.

“Yes. And the ones mentioned here are particularly nasty ones. They adhere to the cerebral cortex,” Harold answers.

“And?”

“They contain small explosives.” Harold pauses to let the emphasis of what he is saying settle in.

“This was tested?” I ask, the sick feeling settling deeper.

“Yes. With varied results. The transmission was tested with food, liquids, aerosols, and a few others…including vaccines,” Harold answers, emphasizing the last.

“Fuck me,” is all I can reply with. “This still sounds like contingency planning and think-tank stuff. They test nasty shit all of the time. It doesn’t mean it’s enacted.”

With a small shake of his head, Harold pulls up another file. “This says differently.”

“What am I looking at now?”

“This,” Harold says, pointing at the screen again, “is a plan initiating the whole mess. It lists a phased approach…building locations, facility maps, along with the goal of emerging and taking control of resources… the whole thing.”

“Still, it’s just a plan in a document. There must be a thousand such plans nestled in computers everywhere. There is a contingency plan for almost everything. Again, that doesn’t mean they are put into place and acted on,” I state.

“True, except for several emails I culled out.” Harold opens yet another document. “These messages detail information about putting the nanobots into the Capetown flu vaccine. If I read these correctly, they put these in two-thirds of the vaccines distributed.”

The room feels both colder and warmer at the same time. All else fades from my consciousness except Harold and the screen with the open documents. As if this world wasn’t fucked up enough, it suddenly becomes more so as I read through several emails that Harold consolidated.

“So, let me get this straight. This all says that this was a planned event. Whoever this was, or is, administered these nanobots with the intention of killing off two-thirds of the population, effectively destroying the infrastructure, and then they planned to emerge and take control of the resources?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Harold responds.

“So, the deaths weren’t from the flu at all, but from these nanobots?” I say, more rhetorically than as an actual question. “How does that explain the night runners?”

“Here’s the funny thing. I don’t think the deaths were from the bots at all. I think they were actually from the vaccine itself. With regards to the night runners, I can’t find any indication in any of the tests mentioning DNA alterations. I get the feeling that it’s something they didn’t see and comes from the vaccine itself rather than something concocted. I think it really messed up their plans.”

“How do you know that?”

“There are several urgent messages that were passed back and forth asking what was going on. The replies come back with how they don’t know. Then…nothing,” Harold answers.

“If that’s true, then the nanobots are still there,” I state.

“So it would seem,” Harold replies.

“And they can initiate this, well, destruction anytime they want,” I comment.

“I think so. Although…”

“Go on,” I say.

“Well, the vaccine pretty much took care of the population in that regard. Only ones who took the vaccine would be at risk, and most of those either died or became night runners,” Harold states.

“So, if that’s true, then why haven’t they initiated these nanobots? Why are we still seeing so many night runners?” I ask.

“Keep in mind that only two-thirds of the vaccines contained the bots according to these reports. Maybe they were initiated and what we’re seeing is what is left. Maybe the DNA changes altered the bots in some way. I don’t know the answer to that one.”

I realize that I’ve gone from a skeptic to a believer. It makes sense with what we are seeing. However, it still points to the fact that it was the flu vaccine rather than this plan that brought about the downfall, created the night runners, and brought us to where we are now. It also means that this group is possibly still out there.

“Okay, let’s leave that for now. Did you find out anything about this group? Where they are located? How many are we talking about?” I ask.

Harold closes the files currently open and opens a few others.

“According to what I’ve managed to find so far, there are, or were, thirty-two sites across the world,” Harold answers.

“Thirty-two sites?! That puts us against something much larger. What kind of size and arsenal are we looking at?”

“Quite substantial on both accounts. Enough so that they could walk over us while enjoying a refreshing beverage,” Harold responds.

“Then why haven’t they?”

“Now that’s the question. By the timeline established in the plan document, they should have emerged and taken control. We should have seen them by now.”

“This team and their attempt could be the beginning of that emergence,” I say.

“I don’t know about that. Like I said, it appears the vaccine itself may have screwed their up plans. I found several indications that the sites mentioned weren’t able to come into operation due to the swiftness of the spread. All sites, that is, except this one,” Harold says, pointing to a document on the screen. “This appears to have been manned before the vaccine was distributed and, by all indications, it still may be. The notes show that this is a command and control facility. It doesn’t seem this place has a large arsenal, but only houses a security force, along with technicians, and a communications center. I think this is where our friend came from.”

I look closer at the document on the screen. The facility doesn’t have a name associated with it other than the designation, A-CC-1. The coordinates show an underground location approximately twenty miles to the northeast of Denver. Scrolling through the pages, I come across a blueprint detailing the facility layout. I don’t see anything about any defenses or a complete layout of their equipment. It only notes that there is a battalion in place as a security force along with an accompanying equipment list of Humvees and a small number of Strykers. This force far outweighs anything we have in regards to personnel.

Leafing through some of the other sites, I hope that Harold is correct in that they aren’t in operation. The details show armored vehicles and personnel to spread out to nearby bases to take control of the forces there — armored vehicles, weapons, and aircraft.

After a brief look, I see it wouldn’t take a genius to know that we wouldn’t last but more than a couple of seconds should we ever encounter this armada. The battalion in place at the command and control facility is more than we can handle on the ground. The Spooky is the only thing that would keep the balance should this force come against us. The pressure of time weighs even heavier. There’s so much to do and, although we have this information, there is so much more that we don’t know. If this is the group who sent the shooter against us, at least we now have a location. We are still way behind the curve with regards to capabilities, though.

After leaning over Harold’s shoulder for so long, I straighten and attempt to stretch the tightness out of my back. I would like to stretch the tension out of my whole body and soul, but this will have to do.

“Thanks, Harold… I think. Do me a favor and print out everything you find on that facility. And dig deeper to see if you can find a definite status on those other facilities. I want you at the group meeting tonight. And, if I hear a single, ‘I told you so’…”

“Hey, I wish this shit wasn’t true, believe me. And I’ll be there.”

I leave to clean up and have a bite to eat. What Harold found occupies the entirety of my mind. Lynn tries to strike up a conversation about something or another, but I merely grunt and nod my responses as I try to sort through the information. I notice the buzz of her attempts at conversation go quiet. That, in itself, sets off an internal alarm. We’ve been together long enough to know that isn’t a good sign. I turn to look at her.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” she asks.

More internal alarms.

“Of course I have,” I answer, quickly plowing through my memory to see if I can remember anything she did say. No luck.

“Okay, what did I just say?”

“That you like toasted bagels,” I say, throwing out the shield of humor in an effort to block what I know is coming next.

“Yeah, Jack, that’s exactly what I said.”

“Look, I’m sorry. What did you say?” I ask.

“I asked you how the flight went.”

“Fine,” I respond.

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she rises and walks off. I hear her mutter something about “men”, “dense-headed”, and something else that sounds a lot like my skin being removed. I’m also pretty sure my heritage was called into question. It’s good to have her back. I sigh and return to my food, the thoughts once again crowding into my “apparently” limited head space.

I think about heading over to talk with our prisoner again, but the information Harold found can’t wait. At my request, the others gather to meet earlier than normal. It seems like there is a never-ending stream of things coming at us and I wonder how long we can last. It’s not that I feel like giving up, or in, or whatever, but it’s just exhausting at times when we are constantly confronted by danger. I also wonder just how long our sanity will prevail. It’s like swimming into a riptide. We must swim to keep our position, but we don’t ever seem to be gaining any ground. Yes, I know, swim to the side; but where is the side in this situation?

“I’ve brought Harold because he found some rather… um… interesting information on the hard drive we brought back from the CDC director’s office,” I say, starting the meeting. “I think I’ll leave it to him to explain.”

In a better sequence than how he told me, Harold explains what he found. Similar questions to the ones I had are asked and answered to the best of his, and my, ability. Harold finishes delivering the information to a very shocked group.

“Frank, just out of curiosity, do you know how many of us in the compound took the vaccine?” I ask.

Frank shakes his head slightly, coming out of whatever thoughts were cycling through his head.

“I’m sorry, Jack. What?”

I repeat the question.

“I remember us looking into this a while ago. I think eight, but that’s not including any of our newer arrivals,” Franks answers.

“Find out, would you. And I need to know who. I know this may sound harsh, but if they decide to trigger this technology, I don’t want others at risk if it’s done at the wrong moment,” I state.

“You mean, anyone on the teams or in a leadership capacity,” Lynn comments.

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I say.

“Will do, Jack. I’ll see to it in the morning,” Frank replies.

“Jack, you asked me to look further into the files. I’m reasonably sure the other facilities weren’t manned, and therefore, aren’t operational. The only other thing I found is that this command and control facility seems to be run by something or someone named Nahmer,” Harold chimes in.

“Nahmer?! Are you sure about that?” I ask, startled.

“As reasonably sure as I can be,” Harold says.

I’m sure there was a resounding thud as my jaw hit the floor. I’m stunned into silence.

Lynn notices my reaction more than the others. They seem only partially here as they sift through the information.

“Does that mean something to you, Jack?” Lynn asks.

“I’ve heard that name before, and I’m not even sure it’s real person. As the story goes, she was one of Mossad’s most successful agents and led several assassination squads. That was all hearsay though and, as far as I know, never really verified. It was more of a boogeyman kind of thing,” I answer.

“That would explain the attempted hit,” Frank says.

“I don’t know. While we may have this info, there isn’t really anything to connect them with our being targeted. It could be something completely different,” I say.

“Oh, come on, Jack. If this information is true, it’s pretty easy to connect the dots. We are a strong enough threat to them taking control of resources, especially now that they may be limited,” Lynn states.

“While that may be true, the only thing that can actually connect the two is our prisoner,” I comment.

It’s then that I notice that Drescoll isn’t with us. Perhaps it’s because he usually chimes in about now with an opinion. I’m sure I would have noticed that he wasn’t here if so many other thoughts weren’t crowding my mind.

“Where’s Drescoll?” I ask.

The others turn toward where he normally sits, perplexed as I that he isn’t there.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since this afternoon,” Bannerman says.

“Shit,” I say, rising. “Lynn, find his team and find out where he is.”

“Okay, Jack. Where are you going?”

“To check on something.”

With a quickened pace and a sinking feeling in my gut, I make my way downstairs. Heading to where the prisoner is shackled inside of the storage container, I see two guards posted.

“How is our guest doing?” I ask the one closest.

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t looked in since Sergeant Drescoll left word that the prisoner wasn’t to be disturbed in any way,” the soldier answers.

“I see. And when was that?”

“Sometime this afternoon, sir. He went in and came out with orders from you that no one was to go in.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Open it up.”

The soldier opens the lock and, with a metallic screech of protest, one of the steel doors swings back. I look in fully expecting the sight that greets me. Inside, his arms still hanging by chains overhead, the prisoner is slumped, his chin on his chest. I don’t need the blood spattered on his shirt or in a large puddle on the ground below him to know he is no longer with us.

“Fuck me,” one of the soldiers mutters.

“Sir… I…” the other stutters, starting his apology.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, venturing to the body.

I lift the prisoner’s head to find one side of his face mostly gone. There’s a smaller hole in the upper back of his head. The skin around the entrance wound is singed and blackened.

“Sir, we didn’t hear a thing. If we’d known…”

“The weapon was silenced. Again, it’s not your fault. Take him down,” I say, dropping the man’s head back to his chest.

Returning to the group, I sense a certain confused tension. As if it weren’t there already.

“Jack, Drescoll’s team says they haven’t seen him since—” Lynn starts.

“Let me guess… since this afternoon,” I interrupt.

“Yes, one of his team remembers seeing him leave in a Humvee, saying he had to run deliver a quick message to one of the crews, and that he’d be back soon. They haven’t seen him since and assumed he was with one of us. Wait, how did you know?” Lynn asks.

“Our only tie to who sent the team against us is gone,” I state.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Dead. Assassinated,” I reply.

“Ohhhh…shit,” Lynn says, the light dawning.

The others stare with mouths open, some eyes going to Drescoll’s empty chair. The look on their faces indicates they have put the pieces of what happened together as well.

“I should have seen that coming,” Lynn says. “Damn!”

“What do you mean, you should have seen this coming?” I ask.

“Allie’s death hit him pretty hard. Harder than I imagined,” she says and details the conversation she had with Drescoll.

“I can’t say I blame him, but he sure hasn’t made this any easier for us. Lynn, have the teams conduct a quick but quiet search for him. Let’s make sure he isn’t still in the building,” I say, rising.

“And where are you going?” Lynn asks.

“To look for him if he isn’t here,” I state.

“Jack, as much as I want to as well, you can’t do that,” Lynn says.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dark out. Even if you did make it to the ramp, you’d never make it inside the aircraft quickly enough. The noise of your arrival will draw every night runner around. You heard Frank and sensed them yourself, they’re up there in numbers now.”

“I’m afraid she’s right,” Frank comments.

I stand uncertain. Even though Drescoll killed the prisoner exacting revenge for McCafferty, he was…is still one of us. And he may be out in the night alone. However, if I go, that would entail putting others at risk.

Lynn places her hand on my arm, “Jack, he’s my friend, too. I want nothing more than to go out and find him, but, we can’t. He made his choice. We’ll search for him at first light.”

There is a pause as I still stand there, plan after plan running through my mind about how to conduct the search at night.

“Jack, I know what you’re thinking and we can’t take the Strykers either. They might be able to hold out against some of the middling packs, but there is still that group of ten thousand or more out there. There’s no way much of anything can stand against something like that. You know the night runners are cunning and would find a way in,” Lynn adds.

I stand a moment longer and then let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right. Conduct a quiet search for him and organize search parties to head out at first light. Then let’s meet back here. There’s still a lot to cover.”

Upon returning, a dejected sounding Lynn says, “He’s not here.”

“I didn’t think he would be,” I say.

The news casts a pall over the group. Most of us can’t believe he did what he has — executed the prisoner and then fled into the night. I totally understand why he did it, but to flee? PTSD does funny things to the mind. It makes the most ridiculous decisions seem like sane ones. In each, it can do different things — depression, anger, emotional turmoil, rob one’s spirit to live. It’s been manifesting itself in all of us since the beginning. We can’t keep up the way we have, with stress each and every day, without signs of breaking. It can take the strongest or weakest. The bottom line is that it will affect each and every one us at some point to some degree. It’s one of the reasons to institute the one day that we take for ourselves, to gather and just socialize, to stave off the ramifications of the stress for as long as we can.

I know most of us aren’t really interested in continuing the meeting with what’s happened, but if we end with this, it will not only carry into tomorrow, but it will have rooted itself more deeply. That will happen anyway; right now we have to focus on the job of living. We’ve had a few setbacks, yet we still need to deal with the cards set before us.

“Okay, folks. I know it’s difficult, but let’s get through this. We have information on the one facility. If the others are operational, then we’re sunk. However, if we’re only dealing with this one, then the way I see it, we are evenly balanced and they know it or they would have attacked already. They have the numbers and a more secure location, but we have the Spooky. If they come out in the open, we can tear them apart, providing they don’t have anti-air capabilities,” I say.

“I didn’t see anything like that mentioned in the arsenal for the site,” Harold chimes in.

“Share all of the information with Frank. Look through it with a fine-toothed comb. We need every scrap of info we can get,” I state. Frank and Harold nod their replies. “They could have shoulder-fired weaponry, but we can counter that. Anyway, we can’t go in and get them, at least in force.”

“Unless we draw them out,” Robert states.

“Yes, unless we can somehow draw them out into the open. Until then, we’re at a stalemate until our fuel situation runs out. When that happens, the balance will shift dramatically, and not to our benefit. So, we have to do something before that happens. And there’s the weather to think of,” I say. “For the moment, we need to consolidate like we have been and get the Spooky in close to protect it, and be able to use it in a moment’s notice.”

“As likely as it is that the attack and this facility are connected, we still don’t know that for a fact. We lost the only thing we had that would do that for us,” Frank offers.

“That, unfortunately, is true,” I agree. A faint light glimmers in my mind. “Frank, do we still have the tablet we took off the shooter?”

“Yes. I didn’t see anything much other than satellite imagery of the compound and surrounding area. Oh, and close-ups of each of us. Do you want me to fetch it?” Franks asks.

“Yes, please.”

Frank brings the tablet and fires it up. As he mentioned, there is current satellite imagery or our compound. That in itself doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that this other group reportedly has control of satellites; that the imagery is recent only provides a weak tie between the attack and the facility. Something catches my eye on one of the satellite images. It’s an overlay of our compound, and in the lower right corner, the annotation ‘A-US-1’. It’s the same annotation format as the one in the facility document listing it as A-CC-1. Another potential link. I show it to Frank and the others.

Frank studies it and some of the other images. “I think we have to go with the fact that this facility ordered the attack. All indications point to it,” he says after a moment.

“I agree. So, what do we do with it?” Lynn asks.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s much we can do,” Bannerman says.

“Well, we can’t very well just lie here waiting for another strike,” Roberts adds.

“And we can’t penetrate the bunker with our forces. We’d be outnumbered and outgunned,” Lynn states.

“Can’t we draw them out?” Bri asks.

“Yes, but it would have to be in way that they couldn’t immediately head back inside the bunker,” Robert states.

“We need to do a flyby to get a better picture of what we’re up against,” Franks suggests.

“I agree completely,” I say. “We need more information before we can come up with a plan.”

“A flyby will alert them that we’re onto them. That’s the only advantage we have at the moment,” Frank comments.

“We can hide it as being like any of our other flights. We weren’t bothered on those. If we pick a nearby base, fly there planning our route so we can conduct an overflight, then it will just look like something we’ve done in the past. They might think we are on a normal flight like we’ve done more than a few times,” Robert says.

“I think that’s as good a plan as any other. However, they’ll know by now that we took one of theirs prisoner. They’d be fools if they didn’t have a satellite trained on the op, and I seriously doubt they are fools. Especially given that they may have a trained Israeli agent in charge. No, they’ll have to go on the assumption that we know about them already. But, I still agree with your plan. I don’t see that we have any other choice,” I reply.

“I’m guessing they reached the same conclusion about us being at a stalemate and made a pre-emptive strike to take out our leadership. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why they didn’t try to take all of us out,” Frank says.

“I don’t know either. If they are striking at us, we need to counter that somehow. I don’t think this was a one-and-done attempt. But to do that, we need more information. So, I suggest we head out at first light to search for Drescoll. Then we can make a flight plan to locate Captain Leonard and relay this information to him, jump over to find Greg and pick him up, then stage a fake rescue effort and overfly the facility. Frank, we also need a better picture of what is going on up north with regards to the night runners. If we have more cameras, set them up around the base and outlying area. We’ll take the Spooky up tomorrow night and take a look as well. Bannerman, when will the runway be completed?”

“It should be finished sometime tomorrow, I’m guessing toward late afternoon.”

“Okay, we’ll bring the Spooky down the morning after and then depart in the other 130,” I say.

“How many teams are you taking with you?” Lynn asks.

“I was thinking I’d only bring Red Team. We’re only doing two flybys and picking Greg up. I don’t want to leave us too thin here,” I answer.

“You’ll be landing for a day at an outbase,” Lynn says.

“True, but if there’s any trouble, we’ll just leave. It’s not like we’re there actually looking for something.”

A soldier approaches and whispers in Lynn’s ear. I watch and see her shoulders sag with whatever is said. The soldier departs.

“I have more bad news,” Lynn says after a moment. “Allie’s dad was just found dead by his own hand.”

The news cuts through us almost as much as Drescoll’s disappearance.

“Could this week get any worse,” Bannerman mutters, hanging his head.

The next morning, all but two of the teams are sent out at first light to search for Drescoll. Craig and Roger each take a light aircraft out to assist. They are to look for the Humvee or sets of tracks in the otherwise undisturbed dust covering the roadways. I take Red Team with Lynn in the Spooky to utilize its equipment. Frank coordinates the search from base so we can cover the area effectively.

In addition, the teams broadcast both over the radio and loudspeaker, letting Drescoll know that all is okay. That’s in case he thinks he is in trouble and is staying away. We’ll definitely be having some words if he returns, but the important thing now is to get him back. He’s had more than a few hours head start on us, and the area we have to cover is vast.

At the end of the day, after covering thousands of square miles by air and ground, we are no closer to knowing where Drescoll is than when we started. If we haven’t found him with such an extensive search, we aren’t going to by prolonging it. It’s with heavy hearts that we work our way back to the compound. I cast a thought out, wishing him well and hoping he will return. I will miss him.

The runway is completed at the compound so I land the Spooky there. I plan to take it up just before dark to try and get a better picture of how much the night runners have infiltrated the area north of us. I don’t know what caused them to vanish from there a short while ago, although I have a pretty good idea, but it’s apparent that there is a vacuum that is being filled. If night runners are venturing out of Seattle as Frank suggested, it doesn’t bode very well for us, and we need to get a fix on how many there may be.

Lynn is quiet as we enter Cabela’s and, like the rest of us, subdued.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as we gather around the table to plan for the night and for the route to take come morning.

“No, not really. I just should have seen it coming. I’ve known him for some time, and I keep thinking there was something I missed. This is so unlike him.”

“Stress can do some fucked up things to the mind. I’m guessing he knew what he was going to do before he talked with you,” I say.

“Probably but… shit. I guess I’ll have to find someone to lead his team. How about Gonzalez?” Lynn asks, turning to look at me.

“She’d make a great team leader, but with the loss to Red Team already, I need her there,” I answer.

“Okay, I’ll find someone else. I think Taylor is ready. I don’t want to think of that now. Let’s get tonight planned.”

Frank joins us to point out where he has placed the cameras and found the greatest increases in the night runner presence. We map out a search pattern and get to the business of planning our flight route to find Leonard, pick up Greg, and conduct our overflight.

With the sun sinking low against the western hills, its glow flashing through a break in the clouds overhead illuminating the underside of the overcast in oranges and reds and silhouetting the mountains, we send a cloud of dust to the rear as we apply full throttles. The Spooky lurches forward as if eager to escape the earth and find the peace of its home in the sky. This has been an emotional week, and it will be nice to lock the wheels up and find the solace of flight.

As we claw our way over the perimeter fence, I think of how I should have thought to bring the aircraft inside the compound earlier. It sure would have made some things easier. It’s funny how we become trapped in the way things are usually done even though we think we have accustomed ourselves to the newness of our environment. I turn the aircraft north as the sun sends a last flare of light through the heavens.

It seems, once again, that the more we do to ensure our survival, the harder it becomes. It’s like we have to fight against our own advances. The farther we get, the more we seem to be attacked from so many angles. I’m ready to be done with this stress shit and get on with our rebuilding. We’ve done well to survive to this point, but at what cost — Nic gone, McCafferty gone, Drescoll apparently giving up and leaving, Allie’s dad taking his life. They won’t be the last unless we can get some respite from the continual attacks.

Robert’s voice on the intercom, readying the aircraft for our mission, breaks into my thoughts and brings my mind to the operation at hand. I reach down to the monitor and set it to the thermal imaging. That will be the best way to find out just how prevalent the night runners are. The plan is to engage if we find numerous night runners, but the primary mission is to get a feel for the numbers in the area. Our first sweep will be to check out the bases themselves.

The last glow vanishes from the western sky. The sun is setting noticeably earlier now, giving us fewer hours in the day to do what we need. The aircraft is quiet and tension builds as each member watches the screens to see what will happen. I, for one, am hoping it stays just the way it is — dark.

I might as well have hoped for all of the night runners to instantly drop dead. The camera zoom is pulled back so we can see a wider area. White blips suddenly appear from multiple locations. The packs are of medium-sized and not the complete white out we experienced when they gathered in the thousands a while back. Still, there are hundreds of them pouring from the buildings below. Lynn and Frank were right, there is no way we would have made it to the aircraft last night.

“Are we recording this?” I ask Robert through the intercom.

“We are,” Robert replies. “Do you want us to engage?”

“No, not right now. We need to make sure we get a good picture of the entire area before taking them out,” I answer.

“Copy that.”

After circling the base, we head over the surrounding areas of Tacoma and are met with the same picture; a few small to medium-sized packs roaming the streets for food. Taking a tour of the rural areas, the night runners are definitely less numerous than in the built up areas. This may be because they want to stick close to their lairs but, as Frank has said many times, they will have no choice except to venture farther afield once the food supply runs out.

Glancing at the monitor, it is apparent that the area has been infiltrated. They are not as numerous as they were around our compound, but they are definitely here in numbers. What I wouldn’t give to find out where that large gathering is in our area, if they are still there. We’ll have to conduct more searches for them when we return. I don’t like not knowing where that large pack is, especially as we were recently attacked by a smaller group.

After a few hours of drilling holes in the sky, we manage to cover the Tacoma area. Looking at the white figures on the monitor, I think of Drescoll being out there somewhere. I hope that wherever he has decided to go, that there aren’t night runners in these numbers near him. Or any for that matter. That would be a horrible way to go.

I bank the aircraft in the night sky, keeping below the overcast, wanting to take a look at the corridor between Seattle and Tacoma before we settle down to the business of delivering steel to flesh and bone.

The farther north we go, the more we encounter packs on the prowl. The number directly corresponds to the level of urban buildup. It seems Frank is right and the night runners are pushing out of the Seattle area. I’m sure, like he said, that the food supply is drying out up there and they are pushing in all directions. The thought arises that if we take out any night runners in an area without depleting their food source, the vacuum created will eventually fill up again until the food is gone. That is provided that there are night runners that can transition to the area. That doesn’t bode well for us as the western corridor, from Olympia to north of Seattle, was heavily populated with only narrow breaks between the developed areas.

There is no way we can take out all of the night runners. We may be able to destroy their food source. That may keep their numbers down; but how do you demolish miles and miles of urban development? The only way to keep night runners out of an area is to develop a scorched earth policy…burn everything to the ground. That’s not as easy as it sounds, but it may be our only recourse. Nature adapts though, and it may be that we drive the night runners to another course which will make them even more dangerous. I shake off this train of thought and decide that I will take it up with Frank and the others at a later point. Right now, there are targets below that are itching to be taken out.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough. Get ready to start delivering your magic,” I announce.

“We’re past ready,” he replies.

“We’re going to concentrate with the ones around base. Make sure to stay away from the aircraft parked on the ramp. We need to also avoid getting close to the armories, the maintenance sheds, the helicopters, the hospital, and I’d like to avoid the housing if possible. You never know if we may use those down the road.”

“You’ve pretty much just eliminated any place that we can hit,” he responds.

I hear Bri chuckle on the intercom.

Fuck, he’s right, I think, looking down into the blackness below where unseen night runners run through streets separating abandoned buildings. My enhanced vision doesn’t allow me to see that far into the night.

“Okay, we’ll concentrate on a built up area outside of the burnt out sections. Give me a heading to the most significant sightings,” I say.

“Stand by one,” he replies. “Okay, head toward downtown. A heading of three-one-zero degrees ought to do it.”

The hotels and office buildings of downtown Tacoma slide into view on the monitor and we set up our usual orbit pattern. We’ll hit the outskirts of the downtown proper as the taller buildings will restrict our view and, subsequently, our shots. Thermal imaging picks up the white figures of several packs as they move through the streets. The night runners pause to look up as we pass.

Robert’s voice comes through the intercom as he marks targets and runs through last minute safety checks to bring the guns to a final readiness.

“You are weapons free,” I call once I hear him complete his checks.

“Copy that. Opening fire.”

“Make sure you are recording,” I state.

“We are.”

I look down to the monitor and see that he has targeted one of the medium-sized packs loping down a wide avenue. Flashes appear outside as the 40mm cannon opens up, spewing rounds out into the dark, lighting the outboard engine nacelles and propellers for split seconds at a time. Looking down to the monitor, I see the first shell hit at the edge of the group. The figures are lost momentarily as the screen flashes with the heat of the impact. A figure of white is launched to the side and crashes forcefully into a parked vehicle. Just as the screen begins to clear, another flash of light signifies another 40mm shell exploding as it hits in the midst of the group.

The screen clears and I count seven white figures scattered in various positions on the roadway below. None are moving. Robert calls out the next target and engages. I notice that these don’t immediately vanish into the buildings as did the others that we encountered closer to our compound.

After hitting several groups in the area, the figures in white below finally do disappear into buildings. We mark these before moving on to other groups in the open. In another area, the night runners vanish almost immediately after we hit a single group. I’ve come to realize that I’ll never get a grip on night runner thinking. They behave differently wherever we go, whether in the air or on the ground. Again, we mark the buildings and start engaging those with the 105mm howitzer.

Looking down into the dark landscape below, large orange mixed with yellow flashes flare briefly, like matches being struck at a distance in an unlit room. The explosion, from the 105mm as it impacts one of the buildings that a group of night runners ran into, bursts skyward and then vanishes. There’s not a night runner to be seen on thermals, but Robert has marked a few of the buildings and we hit a few of these before moving to another area. We are beginning to run low on 40 and 105mm ammo as we hunt the night runners through the blackened neighborhoods.

It’s a good feeling to be exacting some measure against the night runners. It’s doesn’t take away from our recent tragedies, but it still feels good to be doing something other than sitting by the side waiting to be hit.

In another orbit, Robert tracks a large pack in an industrial area. The pack is the largest we’ve seen tonight. At best count, there appears to be over a hundred moving behind a single figure in front. I hear Robert target the pack and set up the 105mm for an initial attack. He will follow up with the 40mm and Gatling gun for any that remain.

Concentrating on the size of the pack and its leader, I don’t focus much on the area they are running through. I’m guessing Robert didn’t either. Suddenly, that lack of vigilance jumps into my vision like turning the page of a pop-up book. I hear the order to fire before I can utter a word.

The screen goes completely white. I look outside to see a white-hot explosion rocketing upward and out, lighting the terrain for miles around. Secondary explosions rock the ground below and combine with the initial blast. White and blue flame shoots outward, obliterating everything in its path. White hot fire and flame boil upward with immense speed, hurtling skyward. The mushroom cloud, filling now with yellows and oranges, reaches our altitude and soars past. I grip the wheel in anticipation and instinctually start turning the aircraft away from the fireball. I know what’s coming next.

“Hang on!” I shout into the intercom.

It’s all I can get out before the aircraft is hit by the initial concussion of the tremendous explosion. It feels like we’ve been swatted by a gigantic hand and flung to the side. The Spooky is lifted and thrown, the nose turning at least thirty degrees to the side. The left wing rises, threatening to roll us, and the nose points skyward. It’s all I can do to hang on to the wheel as it tries to force its way from my grip.

Unsecured objects crash to the floor in the cockpit and cargo compartment. I am thrown to the side and only held in my seat by the harness. Almost subconsciously, I hear strangled screams and shouts through the intercom. I push the controls forward and to the left, mashing the left rudder down, but the actions have little effect with the pressures being exerted on the aircraft. The Spooky now has the flight characteristics of a thrown brick.

“Pull number one to idle and push four to mil,” I shout to Craig, trying to right the aircraft.

I would position the throttles, but it’s all I can do to keep control of the wheel. The control surfaces are exerting pressure in the exact opposite direction that I’m trying the hold them. Craig positions the throttles and I feel a decrease of the pressure being exerted against the control wheel as we continue to be buffeted by the force of the explosion.

And then, just as suddenly as it hit, the buffeting ceases. The nose and wings begin to respond to my control inputs, and we achieve level flight six thousand feet above where we started and on top of a layer of clouds. Moonlight shines brightly, casting its silvery glow upon the undercast. A blanket of whites and grays float gently below us, the calmness they portray is in direct contrast to what we just went through. The top of Mount Rainier pierces the clouds, the moonlight reflecting brightly off the snowfields.

To the side, the fireball still rises, but has slowed significantly. The heat from it has vaporized the clouds, creating a hole of clear air around it. The fact that we are still flying is a testament to the strength of the 130. We’ll definitely have to have it checked over by the mechanic we picked up before taking it out again. If we’ve sustained any structural damage, we may have to fly down and pick up another one. At the very least, it will delay our flight by a day in order to get it looked over. It’s not that we are going to fly it south with us, but I’ll need to know whether we need to pick up another one. I do a quick scan of the instruments to verify that we are indeed flying and the engines are still operating.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask, looking to Bri and moving the throttles back to their original settings.

Her helmet is oversized and has been shoved down over her eyes. She reaches up to push it back and looks up at her instruments. I’m impressed that she has the wherewithal to check the panels after having gone through what we did.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” Robert calls after a moment. His voice is shaky, otherwise he sounds fine.

The rest respond in a similar fashion; Bri merely nods and Craig gives a thumbs-up.

“Are we okay?” Robert asks, his voice still shaky but quickly recovering.

“Yeah, we appear to be, but I think it’s time that we call it a night. We need to get this aircraft on the ground,” I answer.

“What in the hell was that?” Robert asks.

“We hit a propane storage facility,” I answer.

“Fuck me…I need to look closer,” I hear him mutter.

The mushroom cloud off to the side has expended its energy and is breaking up, the smoke drifting slowly northward. I turn the aircraft toward the hole in the clouds and slowly descend until we are once again below the overcast. The area below us is devastated for a half mile around where the facility was. Everything there has been vaporized. I radio base to let them know that we are on the way back. I hold off telling them what happened. It’s not like they can meet us with emergency equipment.

On the return flight, I look for damage on the wings and have others look along the fuselage. We run through the structural damage procedures, but it looks like we escaped without harm. We’ll still conduct our approach as if there is.

The strip carved out of the field looks small in the glow of the night vision goggles. It’s a long strip, but not overly wide. The runway wants to keep sliding to the side. I’m still a little shaky from what happened and my post-adrenaline rush isn’t helping much. I keep bringing the nose into alignment as we descend ever closer. It’s hard to judge the glide path at night without nav instrumentation or glide slope lighting, especially seeing as how the NVGs aren’t that great with presenting a three dimensional picture. Craig calls out the airspeed and altitude as I adjust the throttles in accordance.

I finally reach a point where I think I can see the runway without the aid of the NVGs and peek out. Sure enough, the picture resolves itself into a better dimensional representation.

“Okay, I have a visual,” I tell Craig.

The aircraft thumps down on the dirt landing surface and we slow, turning onto the ramp Bannerman had carved out.

“I’m not sure which hurt the aircraft more…the explosion or that landing,” Craig says.

I hear more than one chuckle on the intercom.

“Thanks for volunteering to help out the mechanic tomorrow,” I reply.

Frank meets us with several Humvees in tow as we shut down. I brief him on what happened as we make our way back to Cabela’s and hand him the tape of our sortie.

“Show the entire camp the combat footage. I’m thinking they need an uplift after this week and need to know that we are doing something positive. Oh, and you can leave out that little episode where we are tossed around the sky.”

“Will do, Jack,” Frank replies.

The debrief with the crew is quick. The part with the propane storage is covered by only mentioning that we need to take a closer look at our surroundings before delivering explosives. There’s no need to harp on this as the lesson was learned by everyone seconds after the facility was hit. I do, however, record the devastating effects in the back of mind. It’s not like we can drop fuel-air bombs, but it bears thinking about.

* * *

Gonzalez leaves the debrief and makes her way to her cubicle. Plopping down on her bunk, she leans, resting her elbows on her legs. She’s exhausted to the point where untying her boots seems like a chore beyond her power to complete. She stares at them, willing them to undo themselves, but they remain glued to her feet. With a heavy sigh, she reaches down and unlaces one boot, pulling it off with effort and dropping it to the floor. She then stares at her other boot as tired thoughts drift through her mind.

The flight tonight only emphasized a point she has known throughout her career — that anything can happen at any time. Jack and Craig downplayed it during the debrief, but she knows they were moments away from plummeting. She thinks on how small, seemingly insignificant things can make such a difference. If they were a hundred yards closer to the explosion, it might have been enough to toss them out of the sky. There was one time that she moved away from a position only to have it shelled seconds later. She didn’t have any feeling of foreboding or that she should move, it just happened. Or Jack bending over when he did. He would have been hit and Allie would be sitting here sharing a joke or story with her. It’s not that it is good or bad, it just is.

The thought of McCafferty causes her to sigh heavily through pursed lips. Gonzalez’ shoulders sag farther as she continues to lean on her legs, staring at her one boot, not truly seeing it anymore. Allie’s death has really shaken her. She’s lost friends before, and yes, they shook her then, just not to the extent Allie’s has. Perhaps it’s the times they live in now, or that Allie was really her last friend. Before, she had other friends, and they would console each other — help each other through the hard times. She doesn’t have that now. There are the others in Red Team, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t feel as if she can share like she and Allie could… or her other friends.

A tired tear runs slowly down her cheek. It’s soon joined by others to create a stream. Her vision blurs; she wipes one hand across her eyes to no avail, the tears keep coming. Her shoulders shake with the first sob. Emotions pour out of her as grief takes hold.

No matter what happened the previous day, she would always wake ready to take the world by the horns and give it a ride — she would experience it fully. Sometimes exhaustion would make that a short ride, but she would meet the day with what she had. She is finding that hard to do now. With the daily stress and constant threat to their survival, it seems like they are hanging by a thread. And Drescoll leaving. He just gave up. She can see the ‘why’, but to leave like that. There are people that depended on him…cared about him. Not in the way Allie did, but cared nonetheless. She wishes he could have seen that and used it for strength.

Her thoughts wind back to Allie. Gonzalez sees her face with that silly grin she always wore when the team was joking around. Her small stature and features made her seem like the eternal high school princess. The look of determination she exhibited when fighting loomed near — completely fearless. Something you wouldn’t expect from just looking at her. Gonzalez remembers the mischievous grin Allie had when they discovered the Twinkies and her pure joy when she brought them out to share with the others in that strange town. Her spirit lifted the team up when times were hard. Allie was her friend and she misses her.

With her elbows on her knees, Gonzalez wraps her hands at the back of her head and grips her hair. Sobs wrack her body as she remembers her friend and the times they had together, even if just for a short time.

Other thoughts come in a jumble — the night runners coming down from the north, the group apparently targeting them, the larger group of night runners somewhere in the vicinity. When will we get a break?

She cries herself out and places her arms back on her legs with a big sigh.

Quit whining like a little girl, she tells herself. We have a secure location with good people. And we have the ability to strike back and strike back hard. We’re alive right now, and that’s all that matters.

Gonzalez reaches down to undo the laces to her other boot, removes it, and drops it next to her other one. She’ll fight, as she and the others have always done — for the soldier next to her and for those they protect.

Wiping the last vestiges of tears away, she settles back on her cot. Tomorrow is another day and she’ll face it as she has all of her other ones. She’ll experience it.

Tempered steel…her last thought as she slips into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Robert climbs the stairs slowly, watching Gonzalez scale the steps ahead of him. He’d like to catch up to her and talk about this evening, but he also doesn’t want to talk with anyone right now. It’s a contradiction within him — the need to talk with someone, yet not wanting to hear the recrimination he feels he deserves. With his hand on the railing, guiding him up another step, he shakes his head. He feels bad about what happened.

I almost killed us all, he thinks, nearing the top of the escalator.

If only he’d looked closer he would have clearly seen those propane tanks. He plays that picture over and over — that one just before giving the order to fire. In his head, he sees those tanks clearly and wonders why he didn’t then. His dad’s only words during the debrief were ‘lesson learned…for all of them’ and that was it.

It beats the shit out of Robert how his dad can brush off significant things like that as if they mean nothing, yet he’ll harp on the smallest of things. Robert remembers asking him about this once. He remembers his dad turning to him and saying, “Because it’s paying attention to the details that’ll keep your ass out of the fire. If you do that, the bigger things will fall into place. Let the larger picture guide you but focus on the details. You can’t create a building if you don’t meticulously lay each brick. On the other hand, you can’t just haphazardly lay bricks and expect a grand building to materialize.” Yeah, his dad loved his metaphors.

However, Robert feels like he let the whole team down. He was given a chance at leadership and he almost killed them. Robert fully expects his dad to relieve him. Oh, he’ll do it quietly and make it seem like it’s not a negative thing, but he’ll do it nonetheless. And Robert doesn’t blame him. They can’t afford mistakes like that. He feels sick to his stomach as he climbs the last step and watches Gonzalez as she makes her way to her quarters.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he rubs the back of head. It still feels tender where he bumped it and he feels the beginnings of a headache coming on. Those terrifying moments play through his mind…

The numerous night runners filling the screen. His watching intently as he gives the order to fire and watches for the explosion on the monitor signifying a hit, ready to follow up with the 40mm and 25mm Gatling gun to finish off any survivors. The monitor going completely white. His confusion. The shout of his dad yelling ‘hang on’ and the aircraft lurching violently to the side. The sudden movement knocking him off his feet from where he was standing behind Gonzalez’ shoulder and slamming him into one of the tables — thankfully he was wearing his helmet.

He remembers trying to scramble to his feet, but unable to do so because of the continued buffeting of the aircraft. Barely able to hear the instructions his dad was yelling and knowing they were as good as dead. They were going down and it was his fault somehow. He still didn’t know what had happened. The panicked fear that the 105mm round had exploded inside the aircraft and tore them apart. Then, suddenly, they were upright again. Climbing to his feet and finding out what had happened. The sick feeling returns in strength to his gut.

He looks over to see Michelle giving him a warm smile near the balcony. Giving a half-hearted smile in return, he walks slowly toward her.

“What’s wrong,” Michelle asks as he draws in front of her.

“Nothing. I’m just tired,” Robert responds.

“Well, let’s get you to bed then,” Michelle says, wrapping her arm in his and leading him toward their room. “How was the flight?”

“It went okay, I guess. We made it back,” Robert answers.

He wants to tell her what happened but, with the sick feeling he has and the oncoming headache, he just doesn’t want to right now. As they draw near the entrance, he hears his dad call from behind. They both turn to see his dad approaching.

“If I could steal him for just a moment longer,” his dad says to Michelle. “I promise I won’t keep him long.”

Oh boy, here it comes, Robert thinks.

“I’ll be right in,” he says to Michelle and walks with his dad to the balcony overlooking the first floor.

“Okay,” she replies and waits near the doorway.

With his elbows resting on the wooden railing, he looks over to his dad leaning over the balcony in a similar position. He looks tired. He’s seen his dad tired before but not like this.

“Look, Dad—” Robert begins.

“Nope. This is where I get to talk and you get to listen,” his dad interrupts. “I know what you’re going through and that you feel like it’s your fault. You feel like you let everyone down and that you shouldn’t be in a leadership position.”

“Yeah. Well—” Robert begins again.

“No, you’re talking again. Now listen. First of all, it’s not your fault, so you can toss that crap out of your head. No one blames you. Yes, you should have taken a look at the surrounding features, but I missed them as well. I was the pilot-in-command and therefore any fault with anything, and I mean anything that happened, is ultimately mine,” his dad says. “Look, leading isn’t about being perfect, but learning from every mistake — one made by you or others. It’s showing by example and, if you do make a mistake, you own it and rise above it. You don’t hang your head down, but lift it up and say, ‘Fuck, I guess I won’t do that again’. The one thing you can’t do is let it destroy your self- confidence. If you do, the mistake wins. If you rise above it and tuck the lesson into your bag of tricks, you win.

“Tonight was a good lesson, and one you need to take to heart. As a leader, you’re going to make mistakes. The world knows I’ve made more than my fair share. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. Awareness, on all levels, is vital. You can’t let the mistakes of the past cloud your mind or you’ll never be able to make a decision. At some point, you’ll need to make snap decisions. Sometimes, they won’t be the right ones, but you’ll make that decision based on instinct. That instinct is driven by the bag of tricks you carry. As you progress, that bag will grow as you stuff more experience into it. You’ve heard me say many times that making a decision, any decision, is better than not making one at all. A leader was once asked, ‘How do you make so many good decisions?’ The answer given, ‘Because I made so many bad ones in the past’. Collect the lesson and move on. Does any of this make sense?”

Robert continues to look at his dad.

“You can talk now.”

“Yeah, I guess it does, but I still feel like I let everyone down. I almost blew us up.”

“No one thinks that. You can march down there and ask them. They’ll look at you funny and tell you bullshit. And I’m not just saying that to blow sunshine up your skirt,” his dad says.

“How about we not use that expression again,” Robert says, the first smile coming to his face in a while.

“Deal,” his dad replies.

“So, are you going to relieve me?” Robert asks.

“You’re kidding, right? I need you. You do a tremendous job leading the team in back, and I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want there. We’re going to need your expertise in the coming days and weeks.”

“Okay, Dad…thanks,” Robert says.

“Just tellin’ it like it is. Is something wrong with your head?”

“What do you mean?” Robert says.

“You’ve been rubbing it the whole time we’ve been talking,” his dad says.

“I just bumped it in the aircraft. It’s nothing. I had my helmet on and it rubbed it funny.”

He’s worried his dad will see through his story and find out about his headache. Then he’ll ground him and hover like a mother hen. His dad stares hard at him for a moment.

“Okay. Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, Robert turns and walks with Michelle into their cubicle. Later that night, with his arm around Michelle as she sleeps, he stares at the ceiling. He goes over what his dad said and sees the truth in it. He also thinks about the numerous night runners they saw and thinks that they might be heading their way. That is if they continue to push south. His dad didn’t say anything about how they are going to counter them, but he assumes they’ll hit them nightly and whittle them down. They have the walls to keep them out and have enhanced their defenses, so he’s not overly worried about another attack like the one the others experienced in which Lynn was taken.

With these thoughts, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Bri stays at the planning table following the debrief. She watches as Gonzalez walks away, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. Robert follows slowly in her tracks with his head hung low. Bri knows he feels bad and blames himself for what happened tonight. She wants to go to him but doesn’t really know what to say. She’s sure that anything she does say won’t be the right thing.

It’s been a week full of downers. Sure they rescued Lynn, but that seems to have been forgotten amidst losing McCafferty, finding out that there may be a group targeting them, and Drescoll disappearing. The events have brought back an unreal feeling — that this is all somehow still a dream. None of this can be real.

She would never admit it to anyone, but the events tonight in the aircraft were actually kind of exciting. She never felt like they were in trouble. Well, she would be lying to really say that. There was a moment during the initial slam when she thought they’d had it, but the fear of death never entered her mind. She knew her dad would handle it. The thing that worries her, and excites her, is being included as a full member of Red Team. She absolutely hates the way it came about. Bri really liked Allie. She reminded her of one of her friends. Bri had started to bond with McCafferty seeing as she and Gonzalez always seemed to be together. Bri will miss that… and Allie.

She hears her dad sigh loudly and start up the stairs to where Robert and Gonzalez went. This whole thing has shown her such a different aspect of her dad. Having watched movies and gone on trips with him, she would never have guessed this about him. She knew that he knew stuff, but she had no idea about this part of him.

To be honest, she feels kind of lost in this new world. Her dad pays attention to her, too much at times, and Gonzalez always seems to be there, but she doesn’t really have any friends. There’s no one to hang out with and talk to. Sure there’s Red Team, and they’re fun to be with, but she always feels a little left out… like she’s on the outside. She supposes that could be an age thing, but she really wants to belong, and not just because of her dad. She wants to belong because of her.

She misses her friends. It’s the camaraderie that she misses the most; although there are a couple of her friends she really does miss. And Nic. Bri wishes so much, every day, that her sister was still here. She’d know what to do and always made Bri feel special. In some ways, it seems like Nic’s death happened so long ago, yet in her heart, it still seems like yesterday. With Nic around, everything seemed like it was going to be okay. She was just that way.

If she were to have a word to describe how she feels, it would be thin… she feels thin. Like there’s no substance to her. There’s no meaning. Sure, there’s the whole surviving thing, but they do that every day and that’s different. Perhaps now that she’s a part of Red Team, that empty feeling will leave and she’ll be a part of something.

The one part of the day she looks forward to is the training. She’s not a fan of waking up early, but eagerly takes it in once she’s out and engaged in it. She can’t get enough of it and wants to learn everything there is — to experience it. Nic enters her mind once again and Bri wishes her sister were here to see her now… see how far she has come. And to share in conversations they used to have, both deep ones and those just for fun.

Bri quickly wipes away the tears in her eyes. She doesn’t want anyone to see her crying. She remembers Gonzalez’ talk with her seemingly so long ago.

Tempered steel, she thinks and turns back to the flight plan they have for the trip out. She has fuel numbers to crunch.

Last Legs

Krandle slips off the rubber craft and studies the narrow strip of sand before him. The soft roar of waves rolling onto the beach is the only accompanying sound. Off to the west, the Santa Fe has already submerged but will rise again quickly upon the team’s return.

They had traveled slowly down the coastline, checking out the small towns and establishments nestled in the forested hills. This wasn’t a very populated area of the coast — mostly small resort towns and fishing villages. Captain Leonard would sound the horn, wait for any sign of activity, and then submerge and move on after finding none. The clouds drew a blanket over them without rain. Pockets of fog would form just after sundown against the shore, lifting with the sunrise and pushing out to sea.

They ran through the gentle swells of the Pacific, working their way south with the eventual goal of reaching San Diego where the sub was based. The eager anticipation from the crew is an almost physical presence. The usual breakage of items that would normally send them to port early hadn’t occurred. There was an underlying tension as well. The scenes from shore weren’t encouraging that any would find their families safe, but still, hope remained. After all, there were survivors from up north, so the crew held onto this hope that they would find their loved ones waiting for them.

The reason for their sojourn to this town was a report from last night’s watch of a light coming from one of the low, surrounding hills. Every so often, the moon would peek through a break in the overcast and send its beams cascading upon the land and water. It could have been the moonlight reflecting off a window or something of the sort but Captain Leonard thought it worth a journey to the shore and Krandle concurred.

With the black rubber craft on the beach next to him and the hiss of the water rolling onto the wet sand, Krandle surveys the area to his front as the others cover their sectors. The beach is a narrow strip of sand rising to bluffs on either side. To his right, hills rise directly from the beach with cottages huddled on them, overlooking the sand and the jagged rocks rising from the ocean just offshore. Stunted trees, some bent with the strong winds that occasionally came sweeping onshore, share the steep hillsides with the cottages and dense growth of bushes.

To the left, a breakwater of large rocks juts out into the ocean, the waves splashing over its height farther out. Ahead, the sand leads to a small embankment where other modest houses and duplexes mark the beginning of this small town. Nothing moves in Krandle’s sight.

Looking over the top of the roofs, he sees a series of small hills that surround the town. He eyes one in particular where the night watch said they saw the light. Taking out his binoculars, Krandle focuses on the heights that are their goal. Houses blanket the sides with what appears to be a fenced community stretched across the top. He can only see the rooftops of the houses nearest the wall from this vantage point.

“If you’re done sightseeing, Chief, can we please get off this fucking beach?” Speer whispers with a sharp edge to his tone.

Putting away the binoculars, Krandle motions ahead with the barrel of his M-4. “Lead on.”

This spurs the others into action. The raft is grabbed and, with the others providing security, is dragged across the sandy beach. The hiss of the rubber on the sand mixes with the surf running up the shallow grade of the seashore. The sun is behind the clouds, but faint shadows from the houses in the early morning light stretch over the embankment as the team draws near.

Blank windows stare at them, the curtains still hanging in many of them. Some of the houses have screen doors pitched at angles, the upper hinges having been torn loose. A few have open doors, whether forced or otherwise, giving a view into the darkness beyond. Paths cut into the embankment lead from the beach to each of the houses and the few streets that dead end at the shore.

Krandle rises near one of the dead end roads. A wooden post painted orange and white lies horizontal across two other poles, signifying the end of the street. A gust of wind stirs his pant legs and sighs through more of the stunted trees nearby. Groaning creaks arise from a couple of the screen doors as their hinges protest movement. The breath of wind catches one of the doors and it slams against an outer wall, startling the entire team.

They all drop to their knees in a semi-circle, barrels rise, searching for targets. The awareness of what the noise was comes quickly, but they continue searching the surrounding area.

“Speer, move us out. Opposite sides of the street. Remember your intervals,” Krandle says moments later.

The team rises and negotiates short steps cut into the embankment leading to the street. They head around the dead end marker and begin to make their way into the coastal town. Tall grass surrounds each house, the stalks bending over and hiding any semblance of a sidewalk. Vehicles are parked at intervals on the roadway and in driveways, their windows and outer bodies covered in grime from months of being in the open. Sand has piled up around the tires of those in the street. Any curbs this street had have long ago been covered by drifts.

The road itself is covered in a thin layer of undisturbed grit, and it’s through this that the team cautiously makes its way farther into the town. The tracks they leave behind are the only evidence that anyone or anything has moved through this area in some time. Krandle isn’t worried about leaving tracks. After all, this isn’t a ‘zero footprint’ operation, and their mission is to actually find someone. If someone sees their tracks and finds them, well, that amounts to the same thing. Miller keeps a sharp eye behind them nonetheless.

Some of the houses they pass have had their doors and windows broken. Curtains in those broken windows stir in the breeze; there isn’t any movement beyond that. A hush has settled over this place. Even the soft shuffling sound of their boots on the gritty pavement doesn’t seem to travel far. It’s as if the area is absorbing any sound. The feeling isn’t a stifling one, more of a dead one. The land has forgotten that humankind once walked these streets.

The team comes to the end of this small neighborhood and small industrial shops occupy the few lots in front of them. Rusted husks of vehicles sit in some of the chain link enclosed yards. The buildings themselves have a rundown look and most haven’t seen a coating of paint in some time. Krandle halts the team at this residential boundary.

Sections of the fencing have been pushed down, the supporting poles leaning inward at angles. Some of the damage looks recent and forced while others are obviously down through age and neglect. Buckets, old signs, and other forgotten debris are scattered in the back of the businesses. The road ahead makes its way past these structures before turning to the right a few blocks away.

Krandle and the others look for any sign of life, threatening or otherwise. No bird takes wing, nor is there a stray cat slinking through scattered piles of junk looking for a meal. It’s completely silent and still.

A ray of sunshine pokes through a break in the clouds, casting its light across several of the neglected lots. The beam doesn’t brighten the landscape but only makes it appear more forlorn. It reflects off the shattered back window of one of the vehicles, causing the members to blink and look away from the glare. The sunshine is short-lived as clouds cover the sun once again.

“I bet that’s what the watch saw last night…only from the moonlight instead,” Speer whispers.

Blanchard and Ortiz nod in agreement, remembering their last trek ashore. Franklin tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts one side of his mouth as if skeptical of this answer.

“That’s one possibility,” Miller says.

Krandle doesn’t know if the surprise of the screen door slamming against the side of the house earlier or hearing Miller speak is more of a shock. The others turn to stare at Miller, to which he merely shrugs, his words for the week having been uttered.

“Did that hurt?” Speer asks Miller before turning back to screen his sector.

“Who knows what they saw? That’s what we’re here to find out. We’re heading down this street and around the corner. We don’t have a map, so we’ll have to find our own way to the hill,” Krandle says.

“And I vote we don’t go find a map. I wasn’t very fond of the last time we decided we wanted one,” Speer mutters to himself, rising.

“Stow it, Speer,” Krandle says.

The team heads down the road, paying special attention to those places where the fences appear to have been recently bent inward. Silence follows along with them. They reach the point where the road curves to the right and heads in front of the dilapidated buildings. The windows of the buildings have all been broken out with grime covering the shards of glass remaining in the panes. Washed out signs hang above the establishments — City Appliances, Jim’s Auto Repair, Unique Treasures, and others too faint to read.

Some light reaches a short distance into the buildings revealing scattered messes within each of them. As the team passes the auto repair facility, a metallic sound rings from deep within the shadows. It sounds like a pipe hitting the hard ground and bouncing.

The team instantly goes into action. The members on the building side swing their carbines to bear on the sound while dropping to their knees. The others drop as well and focus on the surrounding area — all are poised to deliver concentrated fire and either run or engage. The ringing sound within fades and the deathly quiet returns.

“If there’s anyone inside, come out slowly. We mean no harm and are here to help,” Krandle calls, his cheek against the adjustable stock, aiming through his sight at the interior of the building.

Nothing moves. Tension holds its grip on this small piece of ground in this nameless little town. Reaching up, Krandle turns on the flashlight mounted on one of the side rails of his carbine. Light flares into the building, but its intensity is drastically reduced, having to pass through the daylight. He rises, and, with his finger caressing the trigger, walks slowly forward.

At one side of the broken window, he casts his light inside. The interior smells of mold and must. The carpet spread across the floor is deeply stained with grease and is ragged around the edges. In what appears to be a small waiting room, plastic chairs lie upended. A fake wood-paneled counter with a pale Formica top occupies half of the room, and a broken clock hangs crookedly on one of the walls, its time stopped at 1:13. From the looks of the place, that clock could have stopped in 1996, so Krandle doesn’t attribute much to it. Dirt-streaked papers are scattered across the dull space. To one side, a door leading into the garage stands partially open. Sending his light through the doorway, Krandle doesn’t see much of interest other than a stained concrete floor and the partial front tire of a vehicle.

“Anything?” Franklin whispers across the radio.

Krandle shakes his head as he continues to look into the building. Looking at the grit-covered sidewalk at his feet, there aren’t any tracks or other disturbances that would indicate something had been along this way recently. Snapping off his light, he backs from the window to his gathered team.

“Okay, let’s keep going. Miller, keep a sharp eye behind us.”

Each of them cast leery glances at the structure as they rise to proceed on their journey. Houses in the same condition as the run-down buildings lie across the road. Most are barely visible through the overgrown bushes and weeds. Several seem on the verge of collapse with one having its roof in a concave shape, ready to fall in on itself with the next strong gust of wind. More than a few have rope chains stretched across overgrown driveways. The lack of birds in the area is strange. This is the first time Krandle has been close to a shoreline and not witnessed gulls in the area — soaring aloft or on some perch looking for scraps of food.

“Everyone halt,” Krandle whispers into the mic.

He waves Franklin to his position. “Are you still carrying the portable chemical detector?”

“Yes,” Franklin answers, taking off his small pack and digging through it.

“This will take a few minutes,” Franklin says, removing an olive drab plastic unit.

“Oh shit,” Speer comments, seeing what Franklin has brought out.

“Easy now. We’d have already felt something if there was anything here. I just want to make sure,” Krandle says, briefly explaining his uneasiness with the lack of any life around, mentioning in particular the lack of gulls.

Minutes slowly tick by as the unit boots up and it begins to take samples from the air. Seconds are counted by the beads of sweat that form on all of them. Krandle and Franklin squat in the center of a small perimeter formed by the other four. Speer, Blanchard, Miller, and Ortiz focus their attention outward. More than once, they all glance at the building from where the noise came and sneak peeks toward Krandle, waiting for word. Like watching water come to a boil, Krandle and Franklin stare at the device.

At long last, the unit gives a beep and Franklin brings the display closer.

“All clear,” he says loudly enough for all to hear, but not so loud that his voice carries.

A collective sigh passes through the team — an almost physical release.

“Then why aren’t there any gulls?” Krandle mutters under his breath as Franklin stows the unit and makes ready.

With a wave of his hand, Krandle motions for Speer to continue.

The hill that is their goal is to their front left in the distance. They’ll have to progress through the town in order to reach it. Several blocks later, Speer turns left down a side street. The gusts at intervals bring the smell of the sea. The clouds overhead barely move and seem content to stay where they are.

They enter a part of town that is geared toward the tourist trade. Small shops line the road, most with their windows broken. Barely seen are signs denoting kites for sale or bikes to rent. Salt water taffy and other candy shops are prevalent along with the usual trinket and T-shirt shops. One shop advertises artwork and another, blown glass. Sand is piled against the buildings and in the small doorways. In places, the layers of sand and grit show pathways through them. There aren’t any tracks, but the covering is uneven.

Of course, it may not be made by anyone, Krandle thinks, stopping to examine them. It could be created by the wind swirling through the area.

The streets are mostly clear of vehicles and drifts pile high, in some places almost reaching halfway up the structures. Scraps of paper and other light debris lay scattered across the avenues they pass. Gusts of wind swirl through the streets of this seemingly abandoned town, picking up the loose fragments and sweeping them to a new resting place. Faintly, Krandle hears the harsh cries of gulls ahead.

A couple of blocks later, Speer radios that he’s spotted a body ahead. With caution, they approach.

The body lies in a broken window, half in and half out of what used to be a café. The head and forearms are buried in a sand drift outside of the restaurant with the legs draped on the inside. Putting the men on watch, Krandle looks closer. The jeans are darkly stained. It takes him a moment to realize that the jeans are pressed flat, meaning the legs aren’t attached to the body. Grit covers the diner floor, but he eventually sees a few bones scattered within. In one place, a shin bone stripped clean of flesh lies with a tennis shoe still attached. Moving some of the sand away from the upper torso, he sees that the flesh has been ripped from the bones. Only a few pieces of desiccated flesh, sinew, and hair remain.

Speer calls with the sighting of another body farther up the street. The new body is in the same condition — dried out with most of the body torn apart. The farther into town the team proceeds, the more bodies they find. Some just inside the buildings, others in sand drifts, and yet more just lying in the street. Some of the bodies haven’t been mutilated. Just like in the other town they visited, Krandle guesses the ones still intact are night runners.

The team warily proceeds in the narrowed street between the shops. The sound of the gulls increases with each step they travel. It isn’t a cacophony of sound, but single, distinct cries. They pass bits of strewn clothing, some mere scraps poking out of sand. The whole team is silent and walks with trepidation, wondering what they’ll find farther in. Fingers stroke trigger guards with nervousness. They are tense and alert, ready to unleash fury in a given moment.

Pant legs and sleeves flap in the periodic flurries of wind winding through the streets. It stirs the layer of sand, creating new designs with each draft. Krandle again finds it hard to tell if the trails through the grit are from the passage of something or just the wind drawing patterns. He has Speer and Miller take closer looks but even they can’t tell.

Gone is the joking around. Solemn game faces are etched on the entire team. Thinned lips and watchful eyes denote the tension in each of them as they attempt to peer through the darkened veils into the depths of each shop. Krandle feels his heart hammering. It’s a feeling he became used to long ago and even welcomes. With it, he knows his senses are sharpened and reactions quicker. He fully expects to hear a noise from each store like the one they heard at the auto repair garage, but there is only the soft whish of wind and the occasional cry of a gull.

The area opens as they emerge into a plaza with a small fountain in the center, surrounded by a low concrete wall. The rest of the plaza is filled with tall grass swaying with each breath of wind. Krandle can imagine the finely manicured lawn with tourists taking their ease on its soft surface — the gentle murmur of the fountain in the background.

Adjoining the small park is a two-story concrete building with the words ‘City Hall’ etched across the top. Fluted concrete pillars line the front with wide steps leading to the entrance. Bodies litter the steps and fill the plaza — night runner and human alike — although the tall grass hides many of them. Several gulls hop among the bodies and pick at them, looking for remnants of flesh. Krandle notices that the birds leave the night runner bodies alone. One gull swoops down to chase another one. They squawk at one another for an instant and the one that was standing flies off. The winning gull settles in, picking at a body.

Looking around, Krandle envisions that there must have been quite a fight here. It carries the picture of the town taking a last stand. The small police force must have been housed in the city hall and tried to hold their ground. Those last moments must have been filled with horror. The confusion of the night with figures darting around the lawn and unable to tell friend from foe. At the end, just firing at everything that moved until they were overwhelmed.

Shops surround the park across the streets on three sides. Their dark, broken windows gaze onto the massacre without interest, merely taking it in. Krandle and the rest of the team watch the stores looking for movement, their eyes darting from one opening to the next. Gulls are perched on the eaves of the buildings looking on. There aren’t hundreds of them, nor do they present any feeling of dread like the Hitchcock movie Birds, but there are a few of them. They stare on, some with tilted heads, as if wondering if this intrusion of people is going to interfere with their food…or add to it.

“I’m not fond of being in the open like this,” Speer mutters.

“For once I have to agree with Speer,” Franklin says. “We’re at a huge disadvantage if someone should take issue with our being here.”

“These birds freak me out, man,” Ortiz states.

“I know. Set a perimeter and sit tight. We’ll move along shortly,” Krandle responds.

The unreal nature of this place makes Krandle want to see more. He feels that if he looks closer, it will all begin to make sense. He knows what happened to the world and has dealt with that aspect, but his senses haven’t adapted, and being in the center of it makes him want to see more. He has been thrown into this new world against his will; he feels the need to see more. He knows that the team comes first, but he feels that, if he can understand and come to better terms with the environments they come across, he’ll be able to lead them better.

The team sets a perimeter around the plaza and Krandle makes way through the tall grass toward the fountain. The stalks brush against his pants as he creates a trail through their midst, having to step over an occasional body lying on the ground. He doesn’t spy any other trails through the grass, which is a good sign, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything. It’s only means that nothing transits through the grass regularly. If there was only the occasional trespasser, the stalks wouldn’t be pressed flat for more than a day. They would stand upright with the coming of the next day.

Reaching the fountain, Krandle notices it is partially filled with sand. On a waist-high marble dais, a plaque is embedded at an angle on its top, dedicated to the nation’s war veterans.

That’s now a dedication to everyone left alive, Krandle thinks, staring at the carved writing. Those now living are all war veterans.

Brushing the sand away from the raised lettering, he wonders if there will be a similar plaque in the far future dedicated to those who survived this new era.

Krandle leaves the fountain and mounts the steps leading upward to the city hall building. Working his way around the withered bodies, he comes to an entrance door that stands open. Looking down, he sees the impression of a trail leading out. It’s the first time he’s seen a definite sign since arriving onshore.

Standing to one side of the opening, Krandle calls inside. His voice resonates in a large entry chamber and echoes down dark hallways. Moments later, a single shriek sounds out. The scream sends chills down his back and causes goose bumps to rise on his arms.

“Okay, we’re not going in there,” he mutters.

Like I was even thinking about it. Buildings are to be avoided, he thinks, remembering both the hotel and what happened to the sailors in the supply depot.

Negotiating the steps, he joins the rest of his team.

“You had to go and disturb them, huh?” Speer says. “Can we get out of here now? There’s no one left alive in this shit town.”

Krandle looks into the eyes of the others. There isn’t an expectation of his answer one way or the other, they only look back waiting for it.

“You know better than to ask that question, Speer. We have a job to do and we’re not leaving until we check out that hill,” Krandle answers.

“I know, Chief. This place just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”

“It’s pretty fucked up for sure. Let’s get this finished.”

Readjusting the small packs on their shoulders, the team rises and makes their way across the plaza, heading down one of the side streets toward the hill. The shops give way to another small neighborhood. Before long, they come to a waist-high chain link fence bordering one side of the street. Beyond the fence lies a small school.

A playground occupies most of the grounds where kids once enjoyed recesses. Swings oscillate slightly in the breeze and a merry-go-round slowly circles with a low squeal of metal grinding on metal.

The emptiness is more than just no one in the playground. It’s much more than that. There should be shrieks of gaiety from kids playing — running from one piece of equipment to another or playing tag. Franklin’s eyes linger on the empty playground. He has a daughter in San Diego that is the right age to be cavorting with her friends in a playground such as this.

Everyone eyes the empty slides, swings, and monkey bars. There is a prevalent loneliness, as if the equipment misses the kids who once played here. The ground misses the stomp of little feet and the air their cries of laughter. More than likely though, it’s the missing presence of those that should be here that fills the team member’s hearts and souls.

“Keep alert, everyone. Remember why we’re here,” Krandle whispers into his mic.

The trance breaks and they resume their cautious yet quick pace. Only Franklin’s eyes steal over to the playground periodically as the team passes by.

They find a road that begins a shallow ascent and before long, they are climbing into the hills beyond the central part of town. Houses on the hill are built farther apart with larger yards. As they scale upward, stunted trees grow more numerous. To the east, the small trees give way to firs farther up the hillside. Close to the top of the small hill, the wall Krandle spotted from afar comes into view. The team is close to their goal.

A wrought iron entrance gate built between tall brick walls bars the roadway. Several abandoned vehicles block the road in front of the gate and behind them, on the far side of the gate, sits a shuttle bus. Drawing cautiously closer, it becomes clear that a large fire once burned fiercely. The bus is a gutted-out hulk and the vehicles in front are scorched from the tremendous heat that once visited this spot. The iron fence has been warped, and one of the gates itself lies against the roof of the nearest car. Carried on the breeze, there remains a faint smell of charred plastic and rubber.

Krandle attempts to peer through the barricade but can only see glimpses of what is behind. It looks like any other neighborhood. Sending the team to the sides against the wall, he steps closer until he is next to one of the vehicles.

A faint, scraping sound comes from the other side of the gate. It’s followed by a quick shuffling noise. Krandle instantly brings his carbine up, aiming toward the noise. The disturbance was close, but he hears nothing now.

He has plenty of cover, but he can’t see much beyond the barricade. Against his better judgment, he leaps onto the hood of the car. Getting a better view beyond, he spots a small figure moving away. Whoever it is appears to be trying to run away, but a limp is slowing them down. The long brown hair and small stature gives Krandle the impression of a young girl. The girl’s emaciation is evident even from this distance, and the fact that she’s out in the day is a clear indication she’s not a night runner.

The girl looks back over her shoulder and, upon seeing him, yelps and starts hobbling away faster. Her increased speed isn’t much, but the fear she exhibits is. Krandle calls out to her, but the girl only emits another cry as she rounds a corner and vanishes from sight.

“What is it, Chief?” Franklin asks from his position.

“A small girl. She ran away and vanished down a street,” Krandle answers.

Managing to work their way through the barricade, they regroup on the other side. The housing here appears in better shape and, from first glance, seems to be one of those self-contained developments. A shopping center complete with restaurants is off to one side with a school on the other. The central area is taken up with pristine houses anchored by parallel streets.

“Which way did she go?” Blanchard asks.

“Toward the shopping center,” Krandle answers.

“Well, I guess that answers the question if someone is still alive here,” Franklin mentions.

“Okay, just because there is…or are survivors here, they may not take kindly to our presence. If we’re threatened, we throw a wall of steel out and disengage. Our exfil is here through the gate. Our rendezvous point is the CRCC if anything happens. If possible, we hold there until we all arrive or it becomes one hour prior to sundown. It’s obvious that night runners are here, but who knows how many there are. One hour prior to sundown, gents, then whoever is there casts off for the Santa Fe. Are there any questions?” Krandle asks.

Hearing none, Krandle continues, “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll proceed ahead. We don’t want to spook anyone by coming across too aggressively. Franklin, you’ll take the team along behind covering. I don’t want you too close but close enough to engage if we come under fire. The hope is that whoever is here will see our peaceful intentions and deal with us in the same manner. That was a little girl at the main gate and not armed men so I’m guessing this isn’t an armed establishment. That doesn’t mean they won’t defend themselves, but I doubt they’ll come at us aggressively.”

“It’s your dime, Chief,” Franklin states. “We’ll have your back.”

Krandle nods and lets his M-4 hang at his side by the sling. He heads in the direction where he saw the girl vanish. Every so often, he calls out, naming himself and their intentions. He’s staking his life that whoever is here is peaceful. If there are survivors — and the girl is an indication that there are — they are a rarity from what he’s seen and they need to be found.

He reaches the corner and peers around. A parking lot serving the little shopping center is just ahead to the right with houses set next to each other stretching down his side of the street. It’s pretty easy to pick up the girl’s tracks in the dirt as they head down the road and then angle toward the mall itself. They are the only ones visible as the wind seems to sweep any others away on a regular basis.

With a sigh, he steels himself and steps around the corner. He’s in the open for anyone to see and the feeling isn’t the coziest. Of course, they’ve been more or less in the open since they arrived, but it’s the mental part of presenting a target on purpose that gives Krandle the nervous feeling in his stomach. He intends to live through this crisis of the new world and not become just another corpse lining some unknown street.

Walking out in the open like this doesn’t improve those chances, he thinks, following the tracks and angling toward the shops.

Facing the stores, Krandle stops in the middle of the parking lot. He holds his hands in front of him, palms upward, and calls out. There isn’t any response or movement that he can discern. With another sigh, he begins walking closer.

The tracks lead through a glassless window of a restaurant. Standing to one side, Krandle peers inside quickly. The furniture has all been pushed to one side of the small establishment. Tracks lead toward the back of the restaurant and vanish between a double set of swinging doors, presumably leading into the kitchen. The interior is shadowed, but it’s not completely dark due to some reflected light. There is also light showing through narrow windows inset in the wooden kitchen doors.

Krandle waves the others forward and calls out into the gloom. There’s no reply from inside. He turns the flashlight on once again and aims it into the interior. The beam brings the murk into clearer focus. A counter with stools occupies the rear and right side of the small café. Tipped over cups and some silverware lies scattered across the top and the usual restaurant accoutrements adorn the walls behind — coffee maker, juice machine, dishes, etc. Everything is covered with a light film of dirt except for the definite path leading to the double doors behind the far counter.

“This is where the tracks from the girl lead. Speer, you and I are going in. The rest of you set up a perimeter facing out,” Krandle says as the others arrive.

Krandle and Speer step though, their boots crunching on remnants of broken glass under the window just inside. They walk past the counter to the doors leading to the kitchen, taking positions on either side.

Easing forward to peek through one of the windows, Krandle observes the source of the light beyond. The roof inside has partially collapsed. The debris covers the cold grills, small stove, and a prep table filling the center of the kitchen. Several pots and pans poke through the wreckage.

Krandle withdraws from the window and gives Speer a shake of his head indicating he didn’t see anyone. Speer nods his understanding.

“Ready?” Krandle whispers; Speer gives another nod.

It’s one thing to stroll across an open area to show you don’t intend harm, but entirely different to do the same thing going into a small room where you know others are and they aren’t responding. Krandle is only willing to carry the open intentions so far — small girl or not.

With a nod from Krandle, they both push into the room, Krandle going left and Speer to the right. They bring their M-4s up as they pour into the room. Their entrance is quiet and swift, like a flowing rush of air. Barrels follow eyes in rapid movements as they rapidly search the room, still moving toward their respective corners.

“Clear,” Krandle hears Speer whisper.

“Clear,” he calls back.

Turning toward Speer, Krandle sees he couldn’t advance very far due to the rubble from the fallen ceiling. Getting Speer’s attention, he points to a steel meat locker door where the dust has been disturbed. They both gather to one side of the door.

“This is Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle of the United States Navy. We mean no harm and have come to help,” he calls out.

A shuffling sound comes from the other side of the door and faint whispers, then silence. A moment passes.

“Are you really from the Navy?” a voice calls.

“Yes, sir, we are,” Krandle replies.

“Shut up. We don’t really have a choice, do we? Look at us. We won’t make it much longer regardless of who’s on the other side. Now open it,” the voice says, obviously talking to someone else inside.

Krandle hears a rattling sound like a chain being dragged against the door. The door opens and a stench rolls out. It’s the pungent smell of body odor mixed with…well, more body odor. Looking inside, he sees seven very emaciated people staring back at him. Four of them are sitting against walls in the back of the enclosed room, looking like it’s taking all of their energy just to stay upright. Those four stare back at him as if they are already dead. Only the fact that they slowly blink gives testament that they are still holding onto life.

Two very thin men stand near the open door with the girl he saw earlier clutching one of the men’s pant leg and peeking out from behind. Krandle lowers his weapon as he stares into eyes that have given up hope. It’s hard to tell anyone’s age through the grime covering them, but they seem to be in their twenties or thirties with the exception of the girl who appears to be eleven or twelve.

“Holy shit,” Speer whispers, staring dumbfounded.

Krandle nods for Speer to go join Franklin out front but Speer just continues to stare at the scene.

“Speer!”

Speer startles and looks at Krandle who nods once again, directing him to the front.

“Oh…right, Chief,” he says and starts back through the kitchen with a couple of backward glances.

“Franklin, I’m sending Speer to you. Contact the Santa Fe and let them know we have seven survivors…three mobile and four immobile. Blanchard, get in here. You have patients to attend to,” Krandle states over the radio.

Blanchard arrives and immediately sets to work with the ones at the back of the room — taking vitals and setting up IVs. He has a difficult time finding veins but eventually manages. Krandle offers water and small bits of food from his pack to the two men and girl. The men take what is offered. The girl is hesitant at first, but then digs in.

As Blanchard treats the men and women, one of the men shares some of their story. It’s one of searching for food by day and retreating to the meat locker at night. He tells of the food sources dwindling until they’ve had to subsist on crackers, potato chips, and whatever else they could find. The store shelves emptied early, and they’ve gone from house to house. They learned early that the dark held death, so they would only go in if they could make enough light by smashing windows. Lately, though, they haven’t found much of anything. It’s been merely fruitless searching by day and the pounding on the freezer doors by those creatures at night.

He goes on to tell that this was the only place they could find that they could barricade safely. The barricade at the gate that a few survivors erected only held for a short time. They set the bus on fire as a last resort, but that too only worked for a scant matter of minutes. There were more of them, but after the creatures broke through…

“It was a slaughter,” the man says, his eyes far away in the memory of that night. “And there were creatures inside as well. The roar of the fire…the gunshots down in the town…the screams. I can still hear them. We didn’t have a chance. The few of us remaining fled into the night and retreated here. The creatures followed, but we were able to hold the door against them. Then morning came and with it, silence. It soon became evident that the creatures didn’t come out during the day, so we hammered the roof in. That was the only way we could be assured it was safe to come out each morning. They still come and the shrieks every night are enough to drive one insane.”

“Why you didn’t just leave during the day?” Krandle asks, looking to see where Blanchard is with his ministrations.

“We wanted to but had…several others who were too injured to move. They eventually…passed on,” the man says with tears welling. “By that time, several more became sick, and by the time they passed, we couldn’t find a vehicle we could start. We thought about heading out on foot, but we were more worried about getting stranded somewhere after dark. Now, well, Jim, Maggie, and I could leave and take the risk, but we can’t very well leave the others behind.”

Krandle catches Blanchard’s eye and motions to him.

“Excuse us a moment,” Krandle says to the man.

“Well, Blanchard, can we move them?” he asks once they are out of earshot.

“Those four can only move on a stretcher and that’s iffy,” Blanchard states.

“Okay, see what you can do. I’m going to call the captain.”

Krandle contacts Captain Leonard and relays the situation. He then asks for permission to bring the survivors aboard.

“We don’t have room aboard, Chief. Give them coordinates to Captain Walker’s location,” Leonard replies.

“Sir, they won’t make it out of town let alone that distance. And there isn’t any transportation,” Krandle says.

“Chief, can you tell me with one hundred percent certainty that none of them are ill?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir,” Krandle answers.

“Sorry, but we can’t risk an illness aboard. Find them a map and see if you can get a vehicle for them to travel. Leave them whatever supplies you deem pertinent.”

“Aye, sir,” Krandle replies.

Krandle leans against a kitchen wall thinking over their situation. He understands the captain but doesn’t feel good about just leaving the survivors to themselves. In their current shape, merely giving them supplies and finding transportation would be the same as pronouncing their death sentence. After thinking it through, he pushes himself off the wall and walks back to the freezer.

Motioning Blanchard aside once again, he asks, “What’s the final word?”

“Chief, they’re in bad shape. I set up IVs, gave them some water and food. The ones standing are fine, a little weak, but they’ll make it. The others…well, time will tell. They should recover, but at this point, it will be up to them. We can give them antibiotics, hydrate them, and feed them, but they’ll have to be mentally strong if they are to fully recover. If we didn’t show up when we did, I’d say most would be dead sometime tomorrow,” Blanchard responds.

“Are they sick?” Krandle asks.

“You mean like a virus or something?”

“Yeah. Like do they have the flu or a cold?”

“Not that I can tell. They’re very malnourished and some have cuts and scratches that are infected, but I don’t think they’re sick,” Blanchard answers.

“Can you say with one hundred percent assurance?”

“Nothing is one hundred percent, but they don’t have symptoms of being ill other than a general weakness. Their heart rates, blood pressure, and breathing rates are all down, but that’s the malnutrition. They don’t have fevers, coughs, excess mucus, or any other indication that they are viral,” Blanchard reports. “Let me guess, the captain isn’t letting them onboard?”

“No.”

“I can’t say that I really blame him, Chief, but yeah, we need to give these people some help and soon,” Blanchard says.

“Will they survive a trip to Captain Walker’s?” Krandle asks.

“What?! No way. Not on their own anyway. The two men and girl standing…perhaps. It’s only a couple of days drive, but the immobile ones, no. They may not survive a trek to the sub.”

“What if we stayed to help? How long until they could survive the trip north?”

Blanchard pauses, glancing momentarily toward the people in the locker. “Two to three days minimum. That’s no guarantee, and I’d need a whole lot more than I have here with me.”

Krandle radios Leonard again and relays his medic’s appraisal.

“Chief, I’m standing firm. We can’t afford to take on survivors. We made it clear when we left that we would direct anyone we found to head north to Captain Walker,” Leonard states.

“I understand, sir. I’m asking that we stay until they are strong enough to make the journey,” Krandle says.

“You want me to park my sub here for three days?” Leonard replies with an edge to his voice.

“Aye, sir. It’s about finding survivors and preserving what’s left of humankind,” Krandle answers.

A long pause ensues before Leonard replies.

“Let me make this perfectly clear. It’s first about protecting the crew, but you have your three days. Have your medic send a list of his needs and be back before sundown.”

“I’ll be staying with them, sir,” Krandle states.

Another long moment of silence.

“Chief, you and your team are the only security force we have. That being said, our agreement gives you some latitude in how you operate. This would normally be non-negotiable, but I’m giving you leave to operate as you see fit. You have three days…three days only, and then we’re done here regardless of the situation,” Leonard replies.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Krandle walks to the others of his team to confer when one of the men hails him.

“What’s going to happen to us? You’re taking us with you, aren’t you?” the man asks on the verge of panic. His eyes have the fear that newly arrived hope is about to be yanked away.

“We’re going to stay to get you back on your feet and then guide you to a safe place that’s been set up,” Krandle answers.

“Thank you, sir,” the man says.

Krandle nods and joins the others. “Okay, gents, here’s the plan…”

* * *

Krandle stands at the edge of the mall parking lot, watching the day draw to a close. The clouds have given way allowing the sunset to bathe the sky in glorious reds and oranges. The horizon is painted as if a great fire burns there, which, technically, it does. A cool breeze blows at his back toward the ocean and where the rest of his team lies safely submerged with the Santa Fe. That is with the exception of Blanchard who is also remaining behind to minister to the weakened survivors.

During the day, the team relayed equipment from the sub to shore. Krandle remembers Franklin’s raised eyebrows as he read through the list Krandle gave him, but then he shrugged and tucked it in his pocket. To a person, everyone on the team volunteered to stay the night — even Speer, which surprised Krandle.

“This place is as secure as anyplace else. I’m only staying because these people need hope more than they need firepower. Besides, Captain Leonard will get cranky if he doesn’t see your ugly mugs guarding his boat,” he remembers telling them.

The last rays of the sun catch the top of the choppy ocean waves and the spray where the waves bash against the rocks farther offshore. Krandle wishes he could watch the last of the glorious sunset but knows it’s time to retreat — the night doesn’t belong to them anymore. It’s not the sanctuary of dark that they once coveted and used to hide their operations. Now it has been turned against them.

Walking through the restaurant, he rechecks the trip wire and the placement of the claymore he set up earlier. He would have placed it closer to the kitchen but didn’t want to risk jarring the freezer door loose from the back blast. Earlier that day, he and Ortiz set another one up on the roof away from the freezer.

He enters the tight quarters. Blanchard is kneeling by the four, checking the IV drips. The two men look nervous as the door swings shut and the girl remains close to one of them. The freezer door closes with a sharp click and they drape a chain around a thick C-clamps bolted securely to the door and adjoining wall. With the aid of a faint beam from a flashlight, they lock the chain in place.

With the doors closed, the aromatic nature of the inside becomes more prevalent. It’s more than just body odor. The weaker ones sitting on the floor weren’t able to move much and have soiled themselves. Blanchard cleaned them up as best he could, and the team found additional clothing for them. As the two men observed the weaker ones being bathed, they turned away, feeling ashamed that they didn’t do this for the others.

“We were concentrating on finding food and water,” the man named Jim said at the time and walked away.

The men light a camp lantern, casting a dim light across the interior. They break into rations the team brought, and the girl, casting a smile at Krandle, opens the wrapper of an energy bar. Krandle remembers Walker’s warning about the night runner’s heightened sense of smell but lets the others eat.

After all, it’s not like they can’t smell us already, Krandle thinks.

“We haven’t had the chance to get acquainted earlier. I’m Vance,” he says, passing his canteen of water to the others.

“I’m Charles,” says the man who has done most of the talking. “This is Jim and Maggie. Those over there are Carol, Miguel, Ritchie, and…shit, I can’t remember the other dude’s name.”

“The one attending them is…” Krandle begins, but is interrupted by a faint shriek coming from outside.

Charles and Jim tense and look toward the door, their bites of food forgotten. Maggie looks up with terrified eyes. The sound comes as if from far away, but the shelter of the locker mutes any noise. Other screams begin to fill the night. The night runners have emerged.

Krandle tenses along with the others and turns toward the door, his M-4 lowered but ready. Blanchard comes up beside him and assumes the same stance. A crash from inside the café carries to them. The volume and number of shrieks rise. Krandle hears a whimper from behind and glances to see Maggie folded tightly against Charles. Charles, in return, has his arms wrapped around the girl, but his eyes are wide with fear. Krandle is sure those eyes have seen enough death to be terrified of those now prowling around outside. He himself is nervous remembering the run through the jungle with night runners hard on their heels. He turns back to the door.

The ground shakes and a roaring blast penetrates the thick walls. The compression from being inside an enclosed space pounds at their eardrums. Through the rolling boom, Krandle hears Maggie shriek and one of the men scream. The lantern blinks out, but the light returns seconds later. The blast rolls away, leaving silence outside and all of them sticking a finger in their ears trying to clear them. All, that is, except Maggie who has crouched in fear and has her ears covered with her hands.

Krandle snaps on his light to check on the door and is relieved when he sees it is still whole and tightly shut. He turns it back off to conserve his power.

“What…what was that?” Charles asks.

“A little present I left them,” Krandle answers.

Blanchard goes to check on the patients and is relieved, as Krandle was with the door, to find the IVs still in place.

Blanchard rejoins Krandle. A short time later, the shrieks resume, although they are more muted. Krandle motions upward with the barrel of his carbine, indicating that the night runners are on the roof above. In the dim light, Blanchard nods.

Another thunderous blast shakes the interior, this one not as momentous as the last.

“Another of your presents?” Charles asks as the booming noise fades away.

“Yep.”

“How many did you leave?” Jim asks.

“That’s it,” Krandle answers.

The silence lasts this time. After a while, Krandle notices the others fall asleep and details shifts for Blanchard and him to watch over the group. The night passes without further incident.

In the morning, Krandle opens the door. The draft that pours in is a welcome relief from the stuffy and odorous interior. Charles, Jim, and Maggie startle awake at the sound of the door opening. They look about confused and fearful until they see Krandle standing, framed by the light pouring in.

Shaking his head to clear it, Charles says, “Thanks…um, Vance. That’s the best sleep we’ve had since this whole thing began.”

Krandle nods and exits to the kitchen. A lingering smell of gunpowder pervades the air, along with the iron scent of death. One of the swinging kitchen doors hangs loosely on its lower hinge. In the middle of the debris lies a shredded body of a night runner having been apparently blown through the hole in the ceiling from the blast on the roof. Krandle checks on the bloody remains. Multiple wounds have flayed the back of the night runner with the right side of its head completely missing. He had set the claymore on the roof to hit the night runners from behind. Looking upward, Krandle sees another body draped in the opening, its arms hanging down limply. Blood is pooled on the rubble below from where it dripped from the fingertips.

He rips the kitchen door from its remaining hinge and enters the restaurant. Chairs and the remnants of tables are strewn throughout with a couple of the chairs having been tossed outside by the force of the blast. The whole interior is shredded — bits of wallpaper hang loosely, and the counter tops are ripped up in places. Scattered across the floor lie several night runners, some whole and others leaving body parts liberally dispersed throughout — all bloody and almost beyond recognition. Droplets and smears of blood coat the interior.

Krandle steps outside and contacts the rest of his team, adding a few items to his previous list. While he waits for their arrival, he grabs a few dish towels from behind the destroyed counter and begins hauling bodies and parts of bodies out through the café entrance, the doors of which now lie in the parking lot. On his third trip in, he notices Charles, and then Jim, emerge from the kitchen to help. They deposit the bodies on the sidewalk a couple of stores away.

The others eventually arrive, all shaking their heads as they look from the bodies to what’s left of the restaurant interior. During the day, the team scouts for transportation and supplies for the survivors. They eventually find a Hummer and a used four-wheel drive SUV from the local dealership. Locating an auto parts store they can enter, they take one of the batteries off the shelf. After draining the water from the tanks, they manage to get the vehicles started and charge the battery. They will have enough room for all of the people and allow the weakened ones room to lie down. The team also takes atlases from the parts store, giving the pertinent ones to the survivors and keeping the rest.

“It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing,” Franklin says with a shrug.

With nothing much left to do, the team hangs in the parking lot, looking over the blue waters of the Pacific and exchanging lies… aka stories. Blanchard continues checking on his patients who seem to gather strength as the day progresses. It would be a peaceful outing if it weren’t for the underlying tension of knowing that night runners could be hidden within the empty houses facing them and that darkness would eventually close in.

The night is a repeat of the previous one with the exception that Krandle had set the explosives outside and farther from the building. Another blast like the one the preceding night would bring the restaurant down on them. Although the freezer would most likely hold up, there is a chance the door could become blocked.

The days and nights pass. After the second night of explosions, the night runners leave the small group alone. Krandle doesn’t know if it’s because the last of the ones in the area were taken out or if they decided the effort wasn’t worth it. The four who were weaker grow stronger each day until they are able to move around. They still appear wasted, but are able to walk by themselves for short distances. Their strength will improve over time with sustenance but the hobble to the front of the restaurant tires them.

The third day arrives, and the team helps the four to the vehicles parked in front. Loaded with some supplies, Charles and Jim climb into the driver seats. Krandle verifies that they have the correct location marked on their atlas and, with many words of thanks, the small group of survivors drive off.

Krandle feels a measure of satisfaction as he watches them turn down one of the streets and disappear from view. The entire team sees them off and their eyes linger on where the vehicles vanished. They then gather their gear and begin the walk back to the beach.

Krandle knows that the team’s thoughts are on their own loved ones. As they make their way through town, he ponders this trip. Finding these last survivors means that there is still a faint hope of finding others… and of finding their families… but their time to do so may be running out. However, there is the group with Captain Walker and the hope that others have come together and formed a wall against the darkness.

The team reaches the shore and, in silence, pushes the rubber craft into the gently rolling surf.

Another Try

Leonard waits patiently in the control room for Chief Krandle and his team to stow their gear in the deck locker. Waiting patiently is a matter of perspective. Having his boat exposed above the security of the depths has him on edge. Loitering in the area for three days added to that edge. Those three days had him surfacing several times and he felt his blood pressure elevate each and every time. Even though the evidence shows that there may not be anyone or anything that can threaten him, old habits die hard. Right now, the sub and each other are the only things they have, and he is hesitant to put either in danger.

He knows that what they were doing is right, that it is their duty to see to the survivors, but it is also his duty to look after the crew…and that includes the one thing that can keep them alive in this new world — the Santa Fe. The sub is their lifeline, and with it, they have a better chance at surviving. One thing weighing on Leonard’s mind is that the sub won’t last. It takes a lot to keep the old nuke attack boat going; it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have to put ashore for good. That time, he hopes, is a long ways off. They’ll be able to use the depot in San Diego for parts and, if that fails, there is a depot at Bangor.

The thought stays in his mind that he’ll have to find a location that’s best for them. At the moment, the best place they’ve come across is with Captain Walker and his group, but that’s only if they don’t find anything better. There is the danger that they’ll break down at an inopportune time and become stranded. If that happens, the choice will be taken away from them. The worst possibility is that they’ll become stranded in the middle of the ocean should he endeavor beyond the western shores and strike for Hawaii or Guam. The sub has taken them wherever they desired on patrol without difficulty, but they haven’t undergone their usual in-port repairs after their last cruise. He knows the chance he’d be taking.

For now, though, they’ll continue to take observations on the way to San Diego. That’s their base, where their families are, and their best bet to find anyone still in charge. Deep down, he knows they may be the only ones left. There would have been communications if any part of the military still operated. Captain Walker and his group would have received some message and become a part of the rebuilding.

Perhaps that’s all we’re left with… all that remains to rebuild. Small groups carving out a niche for themselves in an otherwise desolate land, Leonard thinks while waiting on the all clear. It could be that’s what we have to rebuild from.

The all clear finally comes, and the watch descends. Leonard orders the boat to submerge. The sleek black lethal m an-of-war sinks below the cresting swells of the Pacific and turns toward deeper waters. Feeling more comfortable, Leonard sends a quick thought of good will towards those who are, at this very moment, making their way northward. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about their well-being when talking with the chief; he had his crew to think of and couldn’t risk an illness being brought aboard. They just don’t have the resources at their beck and call that they used to. He’s playing it by ear in this new situation, and if he is too cautious, then so be it.

Checking with the comm officer, he finds they still can’t communicate with Captain Walker and his group. They dove one evening after giving a sit-rep and when they tried again in the morning, there wasn’t any reply. Each time they surface, they try to establish communication, but the airwaves remain empty. He should have left a message with the ones they helped, but he was anxious to get underway and the thought didn’t occur to him. If they come into contact with another group, he’ll rectify that and send them off with a note. Until then, observing the coastline and getting to San Diego is his priority. He’ll base further decisions on what he finds there. However, he has to get them there first. At their present speed, it will take about three-plus days. Sometime tomorrow, they should be pulling into the approaches to San Francisco.

Northern California has the least populated areas of any shoreline. Even though Leonard has a fair picture of what the Western Seaboard presents with regards to survivors, he holds to their course and speed rather than race south. Survivors can be anywhere, and he wants to give the watch the best chance at locating any. He senses the impatience of the crew to get to their base, but feels that these lesser populated shores may actually be the most likely places to find anyone.

They slowly pass the rocky shoreline without finding any evidence of life — of any kind. Leonard feels a slight relief at this as it would be hard to put Chief Krandle’s team ashore with the high bluffs and seas pounding against them.

The day wears on until the sun casts a fiery glow against the cliffs, creating diffused colors of yellows and oranges in the spray as the waves strike the rock walls. It’s the eternal struggle of an irresistible force against an immovable object. Rainbows dance above the waves where the spray leaves a mist.

The shadows in the crevices of the cliffs deepen, and the sky darkens as the sun gives a final farewell. In moments, with no lights on land to show the delineation of sea and shore, the features fade and go black as if a veil has been pulled over the land. Leonard hears the soft rustle of people moving as one shift relieves another. He rises.

“I’ll be in my cabin. Alert me if anything happens,” he says, leaving the control room.

The next day, the Santa Fe slides between the headland leading to Chimney Rock and the Farallon Islands, nearing the approaches to San Francisco. They enter the perpetual fog bank that keeps a solid hold on the straits. Leonard slows the boat to a crawl and surfaces.

“Bring us in on radar…slow and steady. Let’s not hit anything out here in this pea soup,” he says.

On top of the tower with two others of the watch, he feels the cold moisture gather on his exposed face. Droplets gather and run down his cheeks. He listens for the familiar fog horns in this area but hears nothing except the slap of waves against the hull. Periodically, his own fog horn blows low notes outward, rolling across the gentle swells; they are absorbed by the thick veil of moisture. The bow is only a faint, wispy sight in front as they draw closer to the inlet.

Radar picks up unmoving signatures of vessels floating at anchor ahead and they maneuver between and around the ships at rest. A few times during their approach, the mist clears to the extent that they can see the dark shapes of cargo vessels. The silhouettes slide past and are lost from sight in the fog.

Slowly, the Santa Fe creeps into the inlet serving the large city. Using radar to guide them, they pass the headlands of the strait. Several other cargo ships pass slowly by like wraiths loitering on the edge of sight. Without thinning, the fog brightens, changing from a consistent light gray to white. Patches of yellow mist appear overhead.

Without warning, the Santa Fe breaks into the clear. The fog hangs just behind like a sheer wall. Leonard orders a halt and orders the crew to keep the sub on station. Hills rise steeply on the left and parts of the city can be seen to the right. A breeze carries the tangy air associated with ports. That isn’t what captures the attention of Leonard however.

The large red pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge rise high above them and make their vessel seem miniscule by comparison. What is mesmerizing though is the large span between the towers. The incredibly large center span angles downward on either side from each of the tall support structures. The middle of the span is lost beneath the cold waters of the bay. One of the two large guides holding the suspension lines still spans the towers with the wires hanging down, swinging gently in the light breeze. The other guide has broken in the middles and trails loosely from each side of the towers, the wires still attached to the broken span.

Leonard edges the sub as close as he dares without running into debris or snagging loose lines. He wants to get a better look at the city and see if there is an indication that anyone still remains.

The high rises of the downtown area slowly emerge into view from around the guarding heights that encircle the city and lead to the bridge. Sunlight glints off a myriad of windows and the shape of the well-known TransAmerica Pyramid rises above all of the rest, a testament to humankind’s engineering.

Bringing the binoculars to his eyes, Leonard spots the long bridge connecting San Francisco and Oakland. It too has spans down. It looks like someone tried to isolate the Golden City from the rest. Leonard can only hazard a guess whether that was to fend off night runners coming into the city or to keep them from leaving. From all appearances, their endeavors failed as he can’t spot any movement or other indication of anyone surviving.

He hails on differing frequencies and has the fog horn blown several times, but nothing he tries elicits a response. Like Seattle, the city appears dead. He parks his boat for a couple of hours attempting all forms of communication and waiting for any reply while keeping a close eye on the fog bank behind him. As he well knows, that fog can sweep in quickly and he’s too close to the damaged bridge to make that a comfortable proposition.

After satisfying himself that he isn’t going to receive a response, Leonard directs the crew to turn the boat around and begin making headway to the south and San Diego. He’ll check Los Angeles on the way but feels that will be a moot foray as well. Looking at the receding city, he begins to think he won’t find anyone left in San Diego either.

As he descends, his comm officer approaches holding a piece of paper, “Sir, you’re going to want to take a look at this.”

* * *

All eyes look toward the phone as its ring intrudes upon the meeting. One of the officers reaches over and picks up the receiver on the second ring. He listens a moment and hands the receiver toward Gav, “It’s for you, ma’am.”

She grasps the receiver thinking, What could possibly be wrong now?

“Yes,” she says into the handset.

“Nahmer, we’ve located the Santa Fe. You were right to keep a watch on approaches to San Francisco,” the control supervisor states.

“I’ll be right there,” she says and hangs up.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she says to the commanders leading the battalion under her supervision.

With anticipation, she leaves the meeting and marches down a wide hall. The plan to take out their command failed. With her shooter being taken captive, she can only assume that her group is known — if not now, then it’s only a matter of time. They took their shot — literally — in an attempt to assimilate the group with hers, but that idea now lies in ruins. She has no choice now save for eliminating the group identified as A-US-1 as a whole, or at least to a point where the remaining ones won’t be a threat. Gaining command of her emotions, she slows as she nears the control room. With a deep breath to calm and center herself, she swipes her card and enters.

The large central screen shows sunlight glimmering off a strait between two bodies of land. Just ahead of a large fog bank, a dark cylindrical object lies in the middle of the channel. Notations to the bottom right of the screen denote the satellite and that the video is coming to them in real time.

The supervisor looks up from where he is conversing with one of the operators and acknowledges her arrival before bending back down and pointing at the monitor. Finishing with his instructions, he hurries over to Gav.

“How long have they been there?” Gav asks.

“They just emerged from the fog bank,” the supervisor answers.

He speaks with one of the operators and the image on the large screen blurs. It then sharpens as it settles on a closer image. Gav can see three people on the conning tower. She watches as the sub creeps forward, drawing closer to the collapsed Golden Gate bridge.

Gazing at the sleek outline of the Santa Fe, she is amazed that so much firepower is contained in such a small vessel.

“Were we able to obtain their current loadout?” Gav asks, indicating the vessel on the screen.

“Unfortunately no. We weren’t able to affect a complete download of the DoD files, Nahmer. However, we can make some fairly accurate guesses based on their last mission to the Persian Gulf. Given their patrol location, it would seem likely that they had a full complement of twenty-five Tomahawk cruise missiles. Out best guess is a mix of the D version with submunitions and the block IV version of the C variant.”

Gav nods at the information given as she continues to watch the sub on the screen slowly maneuver and come to a halt. For nearly thirty minutes, all eyes watch the Santa Fe as it maintains a position near the broken bridge.

“What do you think they are doing for so long?” the supervisor asks.

“Looking for survivors,” Gav says as if there isn’t any other answer.

“Do you think they know about the infected?”

“I would have to assume so. I seriously doubt the group from Camp One would have withheld something like that,” Gav replies.

“What would you like to do, Nahmer?”

Taking her eyes off the screen, she begins writing quickly. Handing the paper to the supervisor, she says, “Format this appropriately and send it when they depart. Contact me the moment they head out.”

“Yes, Nahmer. What makes you think they’ll leave?”

“They don’t have a choice. No sub captain is going to risk his boat heading across that wreckage,” Gav says, rising to depart. “And, unless I miss my guess, they’re heading to San Diego.”

* * *

Settled within the confines of the communications room, Leonard stares at the message in his hand. Studying the printed words for the fourth time, he still can’t believe what he is reading.

Turning to his communications officer, he asks, “Are you sure the codes are correct?”

“They’re old ones but they check out,” the officer answers.

“Have you sent a receipt verification?” Leonard asks.

“Not at this time, sir.”

“Okay. Send a verification that we’ve received the message. Make sure our return message indicates we are verifying receipt and not validating the contents. I need to think this one over before we proceed farther. And let’s keep this between us for the moment. We’ll brief the officers later,” Leonard states.

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer replies, starting to format the reply.

Leonard looks through the message once again. In and of itself, it doesn’t say much. It is merely a message stating that the Unites States government has begun to rebuild and that a chain of command has been instituted. It goes on to say that a safe zone has been created, but the reestablishment of the government has taken time due to various factors. Satellite control has been established and all units are to report in and wait for further instructions. The message itself seems legitimate, but Leonard isn’t entirely convinced of its authenticity considering the old codes. Someone could have found and hacked the old system and be trying to bring units still remaining under their control. He will hold off on a final consideration until he has met with his officers.

Making their way past the floating ghost ships, the sub readies to submerge when Leonard is handed another message. This one is in the same format as the others with the exception that this one is a mission order as opposed to a general bulletin. Leonard notes it is addressed specifically to them rather than a general broadcast.

“Was this sent with the same set of codes?” Leonard asks the officer.

“Aye, sir.”

Leonard rises and walks to the nav station with the message in hand. Tracing the location given, he receives his second shock of the day. Looking from the message to the map to verify the coordinates, he stares at the map with grim concentration.

The officer, looking over his shoulder, asks, “Would you like for us to send an acknowledgement of receipt?”

“What do you say we hold off on that for now. Gather the officers and let’s meet in the officer’s mess,” Leonard answers.

Clearing the approaches to San Francisco, the Santa Fe slinks quietly below the surface. Once assured that they are again on the southbound course and hidden from sight below the Pacific swell, Leonard makes his way to where his officers patiently wait.

Sitting in the enclosed space, he glances around the room. All eyes return his gaze and he can see the tension in them. He has both messages gripped tightly between his fingers. For one of the first times in command, he isn’t honestly sure what to do. The boundaries and guidelines he spent his career with aren’t valid any longer. Or at least he assumed so until receiving the first message. He has maintained that the United States is still an operating entity as long as there was a command in place to do so. And that command, to the best of his knowledge so far, rested with him and his crew. And now this. Another entity stating they have restored the government and are proceeding with rebuilding the country. He is relieved, believing deep down that this had to be the case, but that relief is tinged with skepticism.

The code itself gives rise to suspicion. It’s a valid code, but an old one. That in and of itself isn’t enough to deny the validity of the message. From what he’s seen, Leonard doesn’t see how there could be any remnant of government left, but it could have been holed up and needed time to consolidate — having to rely on old data stored on backups. It’s the second message that triggers the biggest doubt. The order to launch a Tomahawk strike against Captain Walker’s compound just doesn’t make any sense. If anything, that group would be included in an attempt to gather resources and rebuild. The order just seems downright contradictory.

“Okay, gentlemen, it’s time to bring you up to speed. Today we received…” Leonard begins and informs them of the messages, reading them verbatim.

He notes more than one raised eyebrow when he informs them of the coordinate location given in the second message. He isn’t surprised by the blank stares as each officer takes the information in and folds into their thoughts. The room is silent.

“Well that just doesn’t make any sense,” the XO states, finally breaking the silence.

“I should also tell you that we haven’t acknowledged receipt of the second message,” Leonard says.

“I take it, sir, judging from our continued southern course, that we aren’t going to accept the mission and initiate action,” the XO comments.

“I have concerns regarding the legitimacy of the orders but want to get the opinion of everyone here,” Leonard responds.

Most of the officers give their concurrence with their captain’s concern, either nodding or vocalizing their thoughts.

“Can we message back asking for verification?” one of the officers asks.

“It’s my thought, that if we decide as a group to disregard the orders, we will act as if we didn’t receive the message and continue with our current mission. In my opinion, given what we’ve seen so far, we owe it to the crew to see about their families. If we don’t, we may have to deal with…other difficulties in the near future,” Leonard says.

A silent pause follows Leonard’s words.

“I think this needs to be said, and it doesn’t indicate my position on the matter, but if we decide to ignore the order and it turns out to be a legitimate one, we are, in effect, conducting a mutiny or, at the very least, disobeying a direct order,” the XO states.

“That’s an important point. Thank you, XO,” Leonard says.

The officers glance around the room at each other, trying to gauge the other’s reactions.

“It’s important that each and every one of us votes according to their own thoughts and beliefs. Don’t fold in with the rest if you believe otherwise deep down. Because of its importance and possible ramifications, this matter is open for free discussion,” Leonard says, looking at each officer.

More glances around the room but no one says anything.

“Okay, gentlemen, let’s take it around the table and vote. Aye for disregarding the message and continuing on to San Diego and nay for accepting the orders and proceeding north.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“I would like to see the message validated but understand the reason why we can’t. Aye,” the engineering officer states.

“Captain, what if the messages prove valid?” the XO asks.

“Then we’ll apologize,” Leonard answers.

“What will we do once we reach San Diego…with regards to the messages?”

“If we decide to proceed in that direction, we’ll have to base that on what we see,” Leonard replies.

“We’ve never disregarded an order before. This could cause some concern with the crew. They may see the reinstituted government as their best chance to see their families again,” the XO continues.

“I realize that. Do you believe the messages to be valid ones?”

“No. I think they’re bullshit, but I have to bring up how the others may see it and how we’re going to deal with it.”

“Agreed. And I’ll be briefing the crew on our decision regardless of what that happens to be,” Leonard says.

“Well, sir, you know how I feel. Aye.”

The vote continues around the room resulting in a unanimous ‘aye’ vote.

“Okay, gentlemen. We’ll continue to San Diego. I still want to check out the LA basin area, but we’ll remain submerged unless there is an absolute positive indication that survivors exist onshore. And we’ll maintain radio silence. No further morning and evening calls on the sat phones or messages directed inland. I’ll make a general announcement when we’re finished here. Is there anything else we need to talk about?”

“Repairs, sir. We could use some time. I realize we may not be able to use the dry dock, but we will need parts,” the engineering officer states.

“And resupply,” the XO says. “We are doing okay at the moment, but we’ll need to take on supplies…mainly food stores.”

Several faces pale at the thought of going ashore and perhaps needing to enter into a supply facility again. The memory surfaces of those they lost — and how they lost them — at Bangor.

“How far can we go if we can’t get ashore for whatever reason?” Leonard asks the engineering officer.

He’s met with a shrug. “It depends, sir. We could break down in a day or go for months. It’s hard to say. At a minimum, I suggest we replace our scrub filters.”

“And the food?” Leonard asks the XO.

“We have a few weeks if we ration. We can send Chief Krandle ashore and find some stores that don’t put them at too great a risk. That would stretch our supplies some,” the XO answers.

“Okay. Make a provision list and we’ll see what we can do once we arrive. I’ll speak with Chief Krandle. Right now, let’s check on the LA basin and proceed to San Diego. Let’s begin rationing, but without the crew having to go hungry. I don’t think we’re at that point yet and there’s no use putting them in any greater discomfort than they already are. This news is going to put a measure of stress on them, however, I think our decision to check on our home port and families will be seen by most to be the correct one.”

“Sir, if I may?” an officer utters.

“Go ahead.”

“What about those with families elsewhere? I mean, they’ll want us to check on their families. As the XO mentioned, some will see these orders as a way to check on their loved ones farther inland. What I’m saying is that we need to give them something as to what we’re thinking in this regard.”

Several officers nod their heads at the logic. It’s a question Leonard has thought about more than a few times. It’s the one thing that could break the crew apart…or it could unite them together — their new mission to search for loved ones. Of course, they are restricted as to where they could search. Thoughts of Captain Walker’s group and their capabilities surface regularly. Deep down, Leonard knew there would be a time when the two joined together, but now this message has the potential to change that.

“Meet with your departments and gather a list of where their families are located. For the moment, let them know we will look into the feasibility following our arrival at home. Inform them of our limitations to check beyond the coastal areas, but that we’ll look into ways to search farther inland. Make sure that each knows that this is something we are only looking into, but that we can’t make any promises,” Leonard says.

No other issues are brought forth so Leonard adjourns their meeting. With a nod, each officer rises and departs. Leonard then makes a general announcement giving a synopsis of messages and detailing their plans.

Although anxious to get to their homeport, Leonard takes his time maneuvering the Santa Fe down the coast from San Francisco to Los Angeles. The coastline is more populous than that of the Oregon and Northern California shores. They explore Monterey Bay and the various inlets without finding any sign of surviving remnants of humankind. Leonard expected further communications; reissuing the orders and asking for confirmation of receipt, but the comm center remains silent since receiving their last message. The lack of communications only increases Leonard’s uneasiness about the validity of the message and, although still nervous about ignoring the order, he feels better about the decision he and his officers made.

The distance between the two big cities isn’t far but, with the slow speed Leonard dictated and taking time to investigate, it takes two days before they reach the Channel Islands to the northwest of the Los Angeles area. His plan is to swing wide of the Channel Islands and approach Long Beach directly from the west.

“Captain to the comm room,” the loudspeaker blares.

And there’s the message asking for confirmation, Leonard thinks, rising from his chair. I wondered when that was going to come in.

The Santa Fe picked up speed to circumvent the islands and is approximately midway across the Santa Barbara Basin when Leonard pokes his head in the small room.

“What is it, chief?”

“Sir, I’m picking up a very faint signal coming in on UHF guard. I believe I heard our name a couple of times, but it’s hard to identify clearly. Whoever is transmitting is either pretty far away or the signal is weak on their end.”

“Our end is good?” Leonard asks.

“Aye, sir. I’ve checked our equipment and it’s good.”

“How often are they transmitting?”

“That’s hard to say, sir. I’ve only picked up a couple of the transmissions and this last one is the clearest I’ve heard. However, it seems to be about every five minutes. Would you like for me to respond?”

“Let’s wait for the next one. If it’s getting clearer, then they are moving and getting closer. I doubt our speed makes much difference in five minutes. Put it on speaker but keep the volume low, please,” Leonard says.

A few minutes pass before the speaker crackles to life. “Santa F…alker on… guard…”

The message repeats but with the same clarity. However, it is enough to hear the sub mentioned and the chief verifies they are receiving the signal on UHF guard.

The basin over which they are sailing is relatively shallow and it will be another thirty minutes before they reach the deeper water on the other side of the islands. Although he has an idea who it may be considering the frequency used, he isn’t comfortable about coming into contact with an unknown entity without the safety of deep water below him. The thought of turning west and going to flank speed crosses his mind. However, they may miss contact should they do that.

With a sigh, Leonard calls his XO in the control room. “Slow to ten knots and be ready to take her to the bottom.”

Several minutes pass without the message being repeated. The five minute intervals they were coming through at passes. Nothing is in view visually and he orders the radar turned on with the crew ready to shut it down and conduct an emergency dive.

Radar reports back that they have negative contact. Tension mounts in the boat. They may have firepower and the ability to hide, but if they’re found, they become very vulnerable. Leonard is aware that they are very vulnerable this close to the surface with an unknown entity closing in. With the clear waters, it will be easy to identify the dark sub just beneath the waves. And if there is any magnetic anomaly gear being used, well, they might as well light up blinking neon signs.

The speaker crackles to life once again. “Santa Fe, this is Captain Walker on UHF Guard. Santa Fe, Captain Walker calling on UHF Guard. How do you copy? Over.”

Well, this is going to be downright interesting, Leonard thinks, reaching for the mic.

“Captain Walker, this is the Santa Fe. Read you loud and clear. This is not a secure channel. Over,” Leonard says.

“Copy that, standby,” Walker states.

“Santa Fe, it’s imperative that we have a conversation. Understand the unsecure channel. There’s an airfield next to a beach,” Walker says moments later, giving coordinates. “Can you meet us on the beach?”

This time it’s Leonard who has Walker standby while he walks to the nav station to look at the given coordinates. He feels like a flag tied to the rope in a tug-of-war; both teams wanting to pull the flag to their side. He calls the XO over and relates the radio call.

“What do you think, sir?” the XO asks.

“Well, frankly, I don’t like being in the middle of some game. We may not have hit it off right away, and this Walker did come across as being a little arrogant, but he didn’t seem like a bad guy. I find myself interested in what he has to say… but not at a risk to ourselves,” Leonard answers.

“Park the boat offshore and let Chief Krandle handle the discussion. He can relay the conversation,” the XO states.

“That will still be over the open airwaves. I’ll go in with the chief and his team. You’ll remain in charge and take the boat out deep if anything untoward occurs. If anything happens, continue the mission to home port.”

“Are you sure that your going in is a good idea? You’re needed here. I’ll go in your stead,” the XO says.

“I feel that there are some hard decisions that may arise and I need to be there to make them. Besides, how can I miss a chance to ride ashore with a SEAL team?” Leonard says with a smile.

“And that’s the real reason I wanted to go. It’s getting a little cramped in here.”

“I hear that, XO. Call the chief up and point us to the beach. Let’s not waste any time getting there.”

“Aye, sir,” the XO says.

Back in the comm center, Leonard takes the mic. “Captain Walker, this is the Santa Fe. We’ll be there in two hours.”

“Copy two hours. See you there.”

Leonard briefs Chief Krandle when he arrives, informing him of the radio contact and mission.

Two hours later, Leonard finds himself riding through choppy swells. The team around him is lying low over the gunwales as the rubber craft bounces across the wind-driven waves. He feels like he’s in the back end of a pickup traveling over a washboard road. They negotiate around several stands of rocks which absorb the inbound waves with surf splashing against their wet surfaces. The beach-lined cove which they’ve entered curves to their left and stretches away into the distance to the right.

As the breakers pass underneath, they lift the craft from the stern and toss it about. Leonard, while enjoying any time spent on or below the water, begins to regret taking this trip. The waves propel the team onward, and soon, the raft kisses the sand. As Chief Krandle and his team deploy to the sides, Leonard notes the top of a Stryker poking above a small rise across the beach. Near an adjacent parking lot, several figures are crouched in a small perimeter similar to the one the chief and his team have. One of the figures rises and separates from the rest, heading across the sand toward him. Leonard begins walking and they meet in the middle.

“Captain,” Captain Walker says, extending his hand.

“Walker,” Leonard replies, replying in kind.

“Sorry to stall your journey, but we’ve come across some information that you should be aware of,” Walker begins.

He then tells a story of being targeted by a sniper and their subsequent discovery of information relating to a group that may be responsible for the downfall of civilization. The tale goes into some detail with Walker handing him several pages with their findings on them. As the account goes on, Leonard feels a cold chill ride up his spine.

“We don’t have a hard tie-in that it’s the group who sent the shooter, but there’s enough to convince me that they are involved. It’s become obvious that we’re being targeted by a group with advanced capabilities, and I’m sure they’re the ones who are interfering with our communications,” Walker says, drawing his narrative to a close.

Leonard pauses, considering Walker’s story and his own recent experiences. He’s not sure what or how much to tell Walker and once again feels caught in the middle of two groups vying for his control. Every side has its story and, to each party, their reasons seem right. He didn’t hear anything that would cause Walker’s group to be targeted, but he may not be telling the whole story either. He lengthens his pause waiting for what Walker’s plan for him is.

He notes Walker watching him, waiting for him to reply. When nothing is forthcoming, Walker shrugs.

“If they know the details about us that they apparently do, then there’s a good chance that they might know about you. I just thought you should know as it could increase your danger as well. How is your expedition faring?” Walker asks.

This isn’t exactly where he thought Walker was heading with this conversation. There isn’t a talk to take sides, or really much mention of ‘sides’. So far, it’s just been imparting information without any leading statements or trying to guide the conversation in a certain direction. Leonard relaxes his stance slightly and tells of their travels down the seaboard.

“We sent a group your way two days ago,” Leonard says, relating to the small group they rescued.

“I hope they made it. I’ll check on them when I return,” Walker responds.

“What are your plans upon leaving here?” Leonard asks.

“We still have a group out. They should be somewhere between Peterson AFB and Luke AFB. We’re going to locate them and bring them home. The plan is to then conduct a flyby of the facility I mentioned to get a closer look. We’ll plan based on what we see. Are you still thinking of Hawaii after San Diego?”

“I’m not sure what we’re planning after that. Like you, we’ll base our decision on what we find,” Leonard answers.

“We won’t have the sat comms, but we’ll make periodic forays out your way if possible and try to stay in touch that way. Is there anything you need?” Walker asks.

“Thanks, but I think we’re good for now,” Leonard replies, still cautious, waiting for Walker’s appeal for the sub to join his side.

“Okay, we’ll come down as much as possible and give you a jingle. That’s until Spring rolls around. Then we’ll be grounded. If there’s anything you need prior to then, let us know and we’ll assist if we can. Good luck to you, Leonard,” Walker says, reaching to shake his hand.

Leonard returns the shake and watches as Walker turns and begins heading back up the beach toward his team.

“Walker…Jack, wait,” Leonard calls out, having reached a decision.

Walker looks over his shoulder. Upon his return, Leonard tells him of the messages they received and the target they were given.

Walker pauses, staring intensely at Leonard. “Well, I can’t say that I like that news much. I’m glad you didn’t turn north.”

“It didn’t seem right. I concur that we’re dealing with a rogue group and it’s apparent they have DoD file access. We’re still heading to our home port and not sure where we’re going from there but, I’ll make the same offer to you. If you need anything, give us a call. If we have to go deep, we’ll make sure and come to periscope depth at dawn, noon, and sundown if possible,” Leonard states; the two groups are now working together.

He knows that there will still need to be a conversation about leadership but sees that Walker seems to understand this as well. Leonard is content with that for the moment.

“Thank you, Captain. That’s very much appreciated. And thanks for not lobbing missiles at us.”

“Jack, keep in mind that we won’t be able to arrive at a moment’s notice, nor do we carry armament capable of taking out a bunker of the magnitude you mentioned,” Leonard states.

“Duly noted. You and your crew are welcome north anytime. I know you mentioned that we need to have further conversations, and I welcome it. To be honest, between you and me, I’m tired and ready to throw a hammock up between two palm trees and call it good.”

“I’ll be fighting you for those palm trees. Good luck with picking up your team,” Leonard says.

“And you with your search,” Walker says.

Walker looks over Leonard’s shoulder in the direction of the chief’s team and nods. He then turns and begins marching through the sand towards his team. Leonard watches for a moment longer and then does the same.

* * *

Gav watches the video replay the control room sent to her laptop. She had directed the personnel there to continue watching for the Santa Fe. She read their reply verifying receipt of their first message but nothing upon sending the second one…the one targeting Walker and his group. She knows they received it but chose not to reply. She had focused the satellite surveillance on both the northern coastlines of Oregon and Washington and the southern shores of California. She ordered both to be covered as she needed to know which avenue the Santa Fe would take regarding the target mission.

Looking at the screen, she has her answer. They chose to disregard the instructions sent. There is a small chance they never received the communication, but she doubts it. On the monitor, she watches as a C-130 from the camp A-US-1 flies down the coastline and lands. Fast forwarding to the location of the video given by the control room, she witnesses the Santa Fe surfacing near where the Hercules landed. Watching the events unfold, she is not happy. She knows that her game is up in that arena. She played her hand there and lost again.

A lifetime of successes and now this. This is the worst possible time for things to start going wrong, she thinks, reaching over to stop the video.

She isn’t used to failure and is doubly frustrated by the timing of having to deal with it.

* * *

Returning to the sub, Leonard opts to travel inside of the Channel Islands. He is satisfied with his decision regarding Walker and that the two groups help each other. He is nervous over the technological advantage of the rogue group. The anxiety is alleviated to an extent considering the limited force Walker says they have. It doesn’t appear they can strike back quickly without traveling great distances and then all Leonard has to do is put out to sea.

That’s assuming Walker has told him everything. He’ll still operate on the cautious side just in case. He offered help to the northern group, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get caught up in a battle between the groups. It’s funny how quick humankind returns to that form of conduct when dealing with each other — might makes right.

Perhaps there’s only a small remnant of those types that made it through the downfall.

Leonard hopes this isn’t going to be the norm for the last traces of humanity. He doesn’t agree with the use of force as an initial tool, but has no hesitation whatsoever about using it to protect his crew. And, if it really came down to it, humankind. The story Walker told, if true, is a chilling one. Contingencies and theories are one thing, but actually putting something into practice like that… purposely bringing about the downfall of humanity… is downright evil. Leonard briefs his officers on the meeting and the decision he reached.

Oil derricks dot the open water as the Santa Fe makes its way south. Rugged hills hugging the shoreline give way to towns where the hills open up. Strands of pristine beach, miles long, front the large cities with beachfront houses and businesses running right up to the edge. Between the large settlements, bluffs rise abruptly out of the water with rough hills and deep valleys beyond.

Rounding the Malibu point, the metropolis of Los Angeles opens up — twenty miles of beach and waterfront property. The buildings of the past civilization stretching over twice that far inland and farther south past the cliffs of Palos Verdes. Most of that is lost from sight due to the curvature of the earth as Leonard looks through the periscope. He notes the lack of the brown haze that usually sits over the megalopolis.

Turning his view south, he can barely make out the bluffs of Palos Verdes and catches a glint from the vast residential areas that lie on top. Much farther to the south, he spies a barely visible dark smudge lying on the horizon.

Pulling as close to the shore as he dares, Leonard surfaces the Santa Fe. With Walker’s information, he isn’t feeling as exposed as he did previously. He’s cast his trust with that group and, if he’s been led astray, then so be it. If information surfaces that Walker has been less than honest with him, he’ll deal with it at that time. The northern group had several chances to take them out if they wanted to, and Leonard hasn’t seen any indication that they’re being led on. He’s rolled the dice and, for now, he’ll let them roll.

Water streams from the sleek hull as the dark shape rises from the depths, parking about midway and just offshore from the large waterway leading to Marina Del Rey. Standing atop the tower, Leonard isn’t able to see into the channel itself due to a tall, rocky breakwater shielding the entrance. The low, resonating sound of their foghorn rolls across the water and into the outskirts of city.

Sunlight sparkles off the rolling swells and bathes the land beyond, the calm broken only by occasional blasts of the horn. Leonard wants to give anyone who can hear the sound time to respond. In a city this large, there certainly has to be survivors. Although, it could be the just the opposite — that a place of this size would have an exorbitant number of night runners making survival next to impossible.

Raising the high-powered binoculars, Leonard traces the shoreline. Several dark figures stand out against the light-colored sand. At this distance, he can’t make out much definition but they haven’t moved from the time he first spotted them. He can definitely see that they are bodies and they are either sunbathing in the middle of an apocalypse or dead. A closer inspection reveals the beach is strewn with dead bodies.

“Sir. We have activity around the breakwater,” one of the lookouts states.

Leonard looks to the area and focuses on the movement. The white hulls of several boats appear from behind the rocky breakwater. More follow and they all turn toward the Santa Fe.

“I count nine of them, sir,” the lookout reports.

“I see them,” Leonard says.

White sprays out from each of the boats as they plow through the swells — they are approaching quickly having sped up after clearing the seawall. The vessels themselves are large, sea-going pleasure boats. Not quite yachts, but not far from it. Focusing on the boats in front, Leonard sees several figures atop the decks and in the steering houses.

Contacting the control room, he has the sub turned toward the open water and preparations for an emergency dive initiated. Although they are adequately protected, he doesn’t know the intentions of the people rapidly closing in on their position. He doesn’t want to risk the chance of a stray round damaging his boat.

“Have Chief Krandle and his team standing ready,” he says, finishing.

As the boats approach, they spread out so that they are approaching line abreast. This configuration and the fact that they haven’t slowed doesn’t make Leonard feel any kinder toward their intentions. They have no outside armament with which to engage surface vessels, or anything else for that matter. He’ll let them approach to within hailing distance and tell them to halt. If they keep coming on, he’ll order full speed and slip beneath the waves, leaving the ones advancing to themselves.

The outlines of the vessels become distinct without the aid of binoculars. Bow waves splash out from the oncoming boats as their hulls pound into the face of the swells. Leonard feels the sub heel as it begins its turn to face the ocean and deeper water. He shifts positions to keep the approaching boats in sight.

Raising the bullhorn, his voice is amplified across the intervening space. “That’s close enough.”

The vessels continue without altering their speed. Repeating the message, he notes the decrease in spray as the boats slow and then come to stop a short distance away, running their engines only to maintain their relative position. The Santa Fe continues its turn and halts with its long stern pointing to the line of boats.

“Sir, the men I can see are armed,” one of the lookouts says.

“What are they armed with?” Leonard asks, not taking his eyes from the boats.

“It looks to be a mix of rifles… hunting rifles mostly, but I see three shotguns.”

“Are they acting in a hostile manner?”

“No, sir. Not that I can see. They are carrying them, but at their sides. I can’t see any that are actively aiming at us,” the lookout reports.

“Very well. Keep an eye on them.”

“Aye, sir.”

“State your intentions.” Leonard calls out to the group facing them.

“We heard the foghorn and saw you sitting out here. We were foraging, so it took us some time to make our way here. Are you really Navy?” an amplified voice asks.

“I am Captain Leonard of the USS Santa Fe. Who am I addressing?”

Leonard raises the binoculars again and the figures on the lead boat zoom into greater clarity. The validation of being a member of the Navy, or armed forces in general causes a reaction as the five people he can see all look to one another and seem to be talking animatedly with each other.

“I am…Christopher…Christopher Malkin,” the voice responds.

“And how many are with you?” Leonard asks.

“We have thirty-seven men and women here with us, Captain.”

“Is that all in your group?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are there others in the city that you know of?” Leonard asks.

“We heard gunshots far to the south a few nights ago, but we haven’t met anyone else,” the man answers. “Captain, is there any way you can come aboard or us come there. It’s easier than shouting at each other across the water. Or we can meet ashore if you’d prefer.”

Leonard ponders the situation and knows that if they are to have any meaningful dialogue, the man is correct, they will have to conduct it personally.

“Do you have a means to come to us?” Leonard calls.

“We have an attached skiff. We can make it to you.”

“Two of you may approach and come aboard. Make sure you are unarmed.”

“Give us about fifteen minutes,” the man replies.

Leonard informs the control room and has a crew readied on the deck to receive the two. He quickly briefs Chief Krandle and his team that they are to provide security.

“If you see anything amiss, and I mean the smallest thing, you’re clear to engage as you see fit. The boat and crew are to be protected at all costs,” Leonard states, finishing his brief.

A small boat emerges from aft of the lead boat and approaches through the choppy waters. Leonard halts the boat a short distance away while the lookout crew carefully searches the open boat with their binoculars. Finding nothing awry or some haphazard box which may go boom, Leonard directs the boat to continue its approach.

Boat hooks grab the skiff and bring it close aboard. The crew ties the vessel off and two men climb up rope ladders thrown down the side. One of Krandle’s team thoroughly searches each of the men and gives the okay.

“Have them brought to the crew’s mess,” Leonard says and disappears below decks.

Leonard rises from his seat as the two men are brought in. They appear well-kempt and clean. After handshakes and introductions are made, the men seat themselves. Krandle and another of his team stand by the near wall with their weapons lowered but ready.

The men tell a story of the mayhem that took hold of the city seemingly overnight. The fires, screams, and gunshots that filled the night streets at first. It seemed like similar riots that have taken hold of the city from time to time so they initially thought this was just another one and stayed indoors to wait it out. They heard throngs of people screaming as they passed in the night and thought they were looters out to steal what they could in the resulting mayhem. They knew of the sickness that gripped the populace and thought the riot was caused by the lack of available law enforcement.

The next morning, it seemed to be over. There weren’t many people to be seen out and about. The few that were out walked aimlessly down debris-ridden streets, stopping to sift through some of the rubble from time to time. They appeared dazed. Smoke poured from many of the buildings and many of the vehicles lay smoldering in the thoroughfares. It was the next night that showed that it wasn’t over by a longshot.

As the darkness fell, screams again filled the avenues. Those that were out were attacked by gangs and mercilessly torn apart. Neighbor’s houses were invaded and their screams of terror and pain echoed throughout the community. The horror of that night passed and the man speaking, Chris, gathered the survivors in his neighborhood and made for the marina in the light of the day. They took to boats and made for the seeming safer waters. Over time, they came to realize what they were dealing with. Since then, they scrounge for supplies during the day, never venturing far into buildings, and bring the boats out into the bay where they tie together and anchor for the night.

“There used to be more of us,” Chris says. “Over the past few months, we’ve lost a few when we ventured too far into darkened spaces and once, we lost eight when they didn’t make it back to the marina in time.”

Leonard remains quiet, running the images presented by Chris through his mind. He feels thankful he and the crew came into this the way they did and hates to think of having to survive an ordeal such as Chris and his group went through. Leonard glances over to Chief Krandle and thinks of what the chief and his team went through on his mission. A feeling of remorse courses through him when thinking of the way he treated the chief upon his return.

How could I know?

He thinks back to the ordeal Walker told of and shudders again at what these people went through. The mere fact that they survived is miraculous, and to have achieved what they did, even more so. It lends faith that humankind can survive this. What form that survival may take is yet to be seen. The sheer number of night runners is overwhelming. However, here they are, still plugging away, and that gives an air of confidence. Finding the group barely holding on farther north dimmed that hope. Discovering Chris and his group in as good as shape as they are brings hope that they will find their families in San Diego safe and sound. The base will have resources beyond what this group has. Perhaps they loaded the survivors onto the docked naval vessels and put to sea.

But, if that’s the case, why hasn’t there been any communication?

The thought only makes Leonard more anxious to get home.

“So, Captain,” Chris says, breaking through Leonard’s moment of reverie, “where does that leave us? Are you able to take us with you?”

“Are there any injured in your party?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We are all fit to travel.”

“We don’t have the facilities to take any of your group on, but we can direct you to a location where a safe haven has been established,” Leonard answers.

With a nod from Leonard, Chief Krandle pulls out an atlas and pinpoints Walker’s location.

“It’s two full days of travel if you choose to drive, providing you don’t run into any problems and have to divert. If that’s the route you decide, I’d recommend finding a place far away from any populated areas to spend the night. I’ve traveled some of the route in northern California and Southern Oregon. Finding unpopulated areas shouldn’t be a problem. I think you’ll be safer if you can find vehicles and stay in them in the unpopulated areas rather than a fortified building in any area that used to be populated. There may be roving marauders as well.

“Now, the safer way that I’d recommend is to use the boats you have. Put ashore at the various inlets along the coast during the day to take on fuel and supplies. The most difficult portion will be along the northern California coast where the rocky shores will make it hard to go ashore and there aren’t any ports. I’d recommend taking along as much fuel as you can carry. The risk factors depend on how comfortable you are with the vessels at your disposal. The sea route will take you considerably longer, and that carries its own risk,” Krandle says.

“I’d feel more comfortable in the boats,” Chris states. “I’m not very fond of going too far inland, and they’ve provided a haven of safety for us so far.”

“Be careful of the currents at the mouth of those inlets. They can be tricky and I’d recommend staying away from them with the tide receding. Make sure to take a tide book along,” Leonard offers. “When you do arrive, make for the port of Olympia and work your way to the haven. Ask for Captain Walker and let them know I sent you. You’ll be welcomed there.”

“Thank you, Captain and…”

“Krandle… Vance Krandle,”

“Thank you. May I take this?” Chris asks, holding the atlas.

Krandle nods. “Feel free. We have others.”

With nothing more to be said, Leonard and the two men say their goodbyes, wishing each other luck. Before long, the two descend the rope ladder and push away, making their way in the choppy seas. The skiff vanishes behind the lead boat and several minutes later, the boats turn and proceed toward shore with a hail of friendly waves directed the sub’s way.

“What now, sir?” The XO asks after everything is secured.

“As much as I’d like to speed home, XO, I want to take a look at the port around Long Beach. We’ll continue sounding the foghorn as we make our way around. Afterwards, we’ll submerge and wait for night. The man said they heard gunshots, so I’d like to see if we find anything. Tomorrow morning, if we don’t discover anything, we’ll turn up the screw and set a course for home. We can check on the remaining coastline afterwards. It’s past time we were there. I’d like to arrive prior to evening, but we need to approach cautiously. If anyone is still around and still active, they won’t be expecting us. Let’s just be cautious,” Leonard answers.

“It’ll be good to be home, sir…regardless of what we find.”

“That it will, XO…that it will.”

Rounding the rocky point, the large port slowly comes into view with the long strand of Huntington Beach stretching out of sight to the south. Ships of all sizes and types anchor inside the immensely long breakwaters. The docks are partially filled with container ships in various stages of loading. It’s like a snapshot was taken and time stopped. Nothing moves except for the slow creep of the shadows from the tall cranes as the sun works its way toward the horizon.

Parking the sub in the middle of the bay, Leonard continues sending their signal hoping for a response. There’s nothing except a periodic glint off an occasional window from the declining sun. With the sun hitting the horizon, Leonard turns the boat around, wanting to start at the northern end of the basin as night falls, and work his way south. If they don’t find anything during the night, they’ll be that much closer for the sprint home come morning.

Maneuvering under a twilight sky, the first points of light begin to show against a darkening background above. Leonard sees the white outlines of Chris’ boats bobbing gently between him and the shore. The wind dies down with the fading daylight leaving gentle coasters rolling toward the shore.

Leonard opts to stay on the surface during their night observation. It may be that the gunshots Chris mentioned hearing a few nights ago could have been someone signaling; although that seems unlikely with the number of night runners that must be prevalent. Noise, light, and smell will attract them and would amount to ringing the dinner bell.

Like a switch was thrown, the soft slap of waves rolling down the length of the sub is replaced by a chorus of faint shrieks reaching out across the water. Going below deck, Leonard looks in the periscope and catches periodic glimpses of night runners as they lope along cross streets near the shore. Details become clearer as he zooms in.

Passing the entrance to the marina, he spies a large group of them standing opposite where Chris and his group are moored offshore. They appear agitated, running up and down the beach. Some take runs at the water, splashing into the small rollers. Several have waded in up to their waist and have their heads tilted upward with their mouths wide open — looking for the world like they are howling at the night sky. Some of the ones in the water punch at the incoming surf as if angry with the waves.

Leonard watches one wade farther in. It starts swimming madly, flailing its arms and legs in the water, but it makes progress. After several seconds, the contortions calm and it starts swimming in a much more deliberate movement. Fascinated, Leonard observes. Several others start after it in a similar fashion. Small waves roll over the night runners. Leonard watches as they surface behind the breakers and continue after thrashing about some. The lead night runner reaches an area where larger waves are breaking. He loses sight of it after one large wave rushes over it. Leonard looks past the wave expecting the night runner to surface and sputter before continuing its foray into the bay. He sees nothing. Looking everywhere, he finally catches sight of the night runner as it rises out of the water much closer to the beach. It stands with water pouring from it and tilts its head upward. Its arms are rigid by its side and it opens its mouth wide. The anger and frustration its form presents is readily apparent. Leonard notices the others that attempted to swim have been swept ashore as well.

Good to know. They can swim, but they’re defeated by moderate surf, he thinks, continuing to watch the gathering as the sub slowly transits the area.

He observes as others attempt to swim out to the group anchored off the marina, but they all meet with the same result.

As they patrol south, sandy beaches begin to give way to the steep cliffs of the Palos Verdes headland. Leonard doesn’t expect to find much as they can’t see over the tall bluffs. About to pull his eyes away, he catches a quick flash. Looking back, the area is dark.

“Ask the top deck if they observed a flash of light,” Leonard directs.

“Topside reports negative, sir,” a crew member reports moments later.

A faint flash from the same location is followed quickly by a second one. As Leonard is about to ask if the lookouts saw anything, they report the two flashes.

“Mark the location,” Leonard orders.

Staring intently toward the spot, his eyes feel dry and gritty. Blinking to bring moisture to his eyes, he looks again. He has a difficult time bringing the view into focus. It’s been a long day and he feels weariness descend. Realizing he won’t be doing any good, he tells the Officer of the Deck to call him if anything happens. With a mix of eagerness at possibly pulling into their homeport tomorrow and weariness that makes his every step feel like his shoes are made of lead, he retires to his cabin.

* * *

Morning finds the Santa Fe on the surface offshore from where they witnessed the three flashes of light. Patrolling the length of the LA basin area didn’t reveal anything further during the night. With two other lookouts, Leonard and Krandle stand topside looking over the escarpment, shielding their eyes from the glare of the freshly risen sun. A faint breeze carries the blare from the foghorn toward shore where it echoes off the cliffs.

“I don’t know about this one, sir. I’m not so big on urban environments to begin with and that’s a large sprawl of one. I wouldn’t mind so much if we didn’t have to travel far, but the only way I see to get on top is to put ashore to the north and hike in,” Krandle says, describing the only way he sees to get to the top to investigate the source of the lights.

“It’s your call, Chief,” Leonard replies.

Krandle stands, staring at the bluff rising sharply out of the water. White shows along the waterline where waves splash against the rocky shore. They are slowly navigating around the headland so that Krandle can have a better look at the environment. Bringing the binoculars up, he doesn’t see anywhere they could come ashore without having to go the long way around. There are a couple of steep paths leading upward, but the team would be vulnerable ascending those. If it were night, it would be different, but scaling those paths during the day if someone unfriendly was up there would lead to their quick annihilation. It’s the long way or none at all.

He feels torn. If there is actually someone who needs their help, then he feels he owes it to them to provide it; but it’s risky. So far, they’ve only ventured into small towns where they could extract easily enough. Going into a large complex such as this creates additional hazards, especially where the route out is a long one. He hasn’t run into any unsavory types as of yet, but he remembers some of the stories Captain Walker told. Even if he didn’t hear those, he knows human nature and is sure there are those who wouldn’t welcome their presence…or would be openly hostile.

“You know, sir, those flashes could have been from gunfire,” Krandle says, still not sure what the right answer is.

“I understand. There isn’t a right or wrong answer here. Do only what you feel comfortable with,” Leonard replies.

Leonard’s words help, but he still isn’t sure what to do. Their mission, as he sees it, is to help those that need it but not to the point that he overly exposes his team. Before, it was much easier. Those decisions were made for him. He received his mission, briefed his team, and away they went. There wasn’t the choice to go or not, they just did. He isn’t used to this situation.

“Okay, sir. We’ll go ashore. But no farther than where the flashes were. We’ll do a quick check and then we’re out of there. I figure we’ll put ashore on the beach at the northern end and make our way to the top. We’ll exfil at the same location,” Krandle says, reaching a decision.

“Go only as far as you deem safe. I know our duty to see to survivors, but keep in mind you are the only security force we have,” Leonard states.

“I will, sir.”

“We’ll be here when you return,” Leonard says, looking directly into Krandle’s eyes.

“Thank you, sir. Well, I suppose we should get ready,” Krandle says and departs.

A splash catches Krandle across the face as the rubber craft races down the front of the wave and hits the trough before climbing the back of the next one. He wipes the water from his goggles and eyes the beach ahead as they crest a wave. Looking to the side along the bluff on top of which sits their destination, Krandle makes out a trail angling along its side.

The ridgeline above the trail has an overhang which should give them some protection. Krandle follows the trail down to the waterline as best he can. The trailhead appears to intersect a small beach. The waves on this strand don’t seem severe and the approach seems doable. It will put them much closer to their destination without having to transit a large distance through unknown neighborhoods. The one drawback is that their approach will be more readily seen if there is someone above. As it is, they can still be seen, but their destination won’t be as easily discerned.

Krandle gets Ortiz’ attention and points toward the strand to the right. With a quick movement, Ortiz alters their path and angles toward the location indicated.

A wave lifts them up and the raft grates upon gravelly shore. They exit and scan the area, concentrating on the lip of the bluff rising high above. A sandy trail leads up to the left and they quickly cross the small strand, hiding their craft part way up the trail against the wall.

The breeze ripples against their legs as the team begins angling up the path in single file, hugging the cliff wall. They carefully check corners before continuing up the next section. The path looks undisturbed, but Krandle knows the wind can quickly erase any tracks in the loose sand. The shore slowly recedes below them as they ascend.

The pathway eventually spills out on top, coming to an end on a small plateau adjacent to a road which proceeds next to the edge of the heights. Resplendent stucco-covered and red tile-roofed manses occupy large lots across the street, each complete with a requisite swimming pool. The water in each has mostly evaporated into stagnant puddles. The once pristinely landscaped yards with pruned bushes look like they have a bad case of morning hair.

The team crouches on the plateau and takes stock of their situation. They are almost two miles from the point where the watch saw the lights. According to the map, the road near them runs along the edge of the escarpment with the cliff on one side and houses on the other. The size of the lots on which the mighty houses sit gives them a fairly open sightline. The houses themselves don’t give Krandle too much worry as he can’t fathom anyone who has survived to this point venturing into them. It’s the yards themselves that give him pause. Their overgrown nature can conceal just about anything.

“Well, gentlemen, we’re a little over three klicks from our destination. What we see here is what we’ll see along the way. What do you think?” Krandle says as a gust stirs up and eddies in the sand near them.

“We’re here so we might as well enjoy the scenery,” Franklin says.

The others in turn shrug and Speer is surprisingly silent.

“Okay. Intervals, gentlemen. We’ll stay on the cliff side of the street. If we’re engaged in force, we’ll return fire and retreat down the bluff if possible. If not, we conduct a fighting retreat. The rally point will be the raft. If we become split, we wait at the raft provided we’re not under fire until two hours prior to sunset and then cast off with who we have. Secondary rally will be the start of the beach just north of this headland. Whoever casts off with the CRCC will rendezvous with the rest of the team there. One hour prior to sunset is the hard time to head to the Santa Fe. Questions?” Krandle briefs.

There aren’t any. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

The road winds as it follows the contours of the headland. The early morning sun stretches the team’s shadows long to the west, disappearing over the edge. A very faint roar from the surf rises up the steep surface of the bluff. Birds flitter through the trees next to the houses and an occasional squirrel chitters warnings from tall branches. The team catches a brief sight of a cat as it slinks around the corner of one of the houses. In all, if it weren’t for the circumstances, it would be a peaceful stroll under a clear fall sky.

The team passes block after block. Many of the picture windows that once afforded scenic views of the Pacific reflect the blue sky. Some of the houses have their windows broken out and doors ajar. Tension mounts as they draw nearer to the area where the flashes occurred. They pause more often to take in their surroundings, taste the environment, and test their inner feelings for something amiss.

During one of their pauses, a flurry of noise erupts from their left, coming from bushes set between two houses. The team immediately drops into a posture to deliver concentrated fire. Krandle quickly verifies that the team is covering all avenues and aims at the sound — his red dot centered on the small opening between the bushes.

Uneasy about their situation in the open, he is about to open up to recon by fire when he sees the head of a large dog poke out. The animal stalks slowly out, tense and in an attack posture. Three others emerge behind it. The canine in front is a German Shepherd. Krandle isn’t able to identify what breed the others might be. Noticeable are their ribs showing through the skin and thin flanks. It’s obvious to Krandle that these dogs are underfed and live the entirety of their days searching for food. How they have kept away from the night runners during the dark hours is anyone’s guess. Krandle supposes they must sleep some during the day, perhaps chewing on the remains the night runners leave behind, and spend the evening avoiding the nocturnal predators.

Normally four wild dogs would avoid six grown men, so these must be desperate…and therefore dangerous. The Shepherd thrusts its head forward, baring its teeth and a low growl emanates from deep within it chest. Krandle stands to present his full height, knowing that it will either scare the dogs away or offer a challenge. One trick is to not look the dog in its eyes as that is definitely a challenge, but there’s no way Krandle dares look away.

The four dogs turn and back up a step before rounding on the team once again. The other three join in the growling which grows louder. Krandle feels sorry for them. They epitomize this new world — one in which it’s eat or be eaten. The leader settles back on its haunches and tenses.

Don’t, Krandle thinks, his barrel held unwavering toward the pack.

He lowers his barrel and fires a single round. The muted cough is barely heard over the growls. The round impacts the ground just in front and to the side of the leader with a ‘thwack’. The Shepherd reacts and jumps in the air with a yip. It lands and bares its teeth again, growling once before turning and vanishing quickly into the bushes, its companions follow behind.

With a nod from Krandle, the team continues their slow, cautious trek along the road. Krandle is anxious about being in the open and feels cornered. The Cliffside is both a benefit and possible liability. For one, it cuts the possible avenues of attack in half, but on the other side, it prevents an avenue of retreat.

The more Krandle thinks of the flashes, the more he becomes convinced they were from gunfire. Seeing it was at night means that whoever was here was more than likely firing at night runners. That means two things; one is that whoever it was is armed and that there are night runners in the area. The armed people worry him more. As long as they don’t go into buildings and are out of here by dark, the night runners shouldn’t offer trouble. The others…well, there are two possibilities there. They are either friendly…or not.

The team reaches a place where the road leaves the edge of the cliff and subtly curves inland to make room for houses built next to the escarpment. Krandle halts the team to carefully look over the region. They are in the vicinity of where the lights were observed. Nothing moves except the occasional swaying of branches in the breeze. Swirling patterns show in the fine covering of grit on the roadway, giving no indication that anyone passed recently. The tall grass in the yards stands straight, swaying in waves as drafts blow through. There aren’t any discernible paths.

“We’ll continue to the next intersection and call it good,” Krandle states over the radio. “Let’s move.”

The houses they encounter next to the cliff are some of the largest they’ve seen yet. Through gaps in trees and bushes, Krandle notes tennis courts in addition to the prerequisite swimming pools. Looped driveways lead in and out of each place. Small clumps of grass that would normally have been removed before they even showed themselves spring out of the cracks between the concrete partitions. The locale is completely quiet except for the swish of the passing wind.

Krandle feels the grit under his boots as he steps warily along the road with houses on both sides. All of the team members search the spaces between the structures, looking intently as if trying to peer through the bushes. Their suppressed muzzles tracking as their eyes search out different areas.

Feeling the inner tension build, Krandle calls a halt. He feels that something is wrong but can’t pinpoint exactly what — only that it’s a strong feeling. He has come to trust that feeling as it hasn’t led him astray yet. It’s telling him that his subconscious is picking out something that is not readily apparent to his other senses. Operators with time in the field know this sensation and rely on it as if it’s another sensory input. Someone or something is directing attention their way.

“I thought we were going to the next cross street,” Speer replies.

“Well, I—” Krandle begins.

He hears a shuffling of boots on the sandy surface behind him.

“Chief?” Krandle hears Miller sharply whisper.

Turning to look behind, he sees three figures dart across the road where the housing next to the cliff began. They cross toward the bluff side and vanish into one of the yards. Miller and Franklin are on their knees aiming their carbines back in the direction the team came from — Miller tracking where the three disappeared and Franklin covering where they emerged from.

“Movement ahead,” Speer calls.

Krandle looks quickly to see some bushes next to a house down the street ahead shake out of synch with the breeze. Looking across the street, he spots furtive movement in the dark shadows of the landscaped trees. His heart jumps as he recognizes the arranging of an ambush. From his initial observation, there appears to be quite a few taking positions around them. He quickly glances to the house set deep into the bluff-side lot immediately next to them. The front is more open than most of the other houses around and he doesn’t discern movement there.

“Everyone, into the house. Move!” he calls over the radio.

The team rises and begins to back quickly into the yard, covering their sectors. Once they hit the waist-high grass, they turn and sprint. Franklin catches Krandle and runs alongside of him.

“Are we going inside?” Franklin says.

“That’s the plan,” Krandle answers.

“What about night runners?” Franklin asks.

“That’s a possibility versus a certainty. We need cover,” Krandle states, the grass parting as he rushes through.

The team plows through bushes lining the edge of the circular drive without slowing. Pounding across the concrete, they near the elegant front door. Gunfire erupts from across the street. Solid ‘thwacks’ hit the side of the house from rounds being directed at them. A window nearby crashes inward with a tinkling of glass. The team continues their mad dash amid rounds filling the air around them, intent on reaching the door.

Krandle hears the zip from rounds passing too close for comfort before they impact the wall just ahead. He and Franklin both lower their barrels as they mount concrete steps leading to the entrance. They fire into the door latch and jamb, splintering the heavy wood. Together they crash into the door shoulder first.

The door gives and the two of them stumble into the interior with the others hard on their heels. Clerestory windows set high on the walls coupled with picture windows sheds a lot of radiant light into the foyer they crashed into. A wide set of stairs, filling much of the entrance hall, leads upward, the top of them lost in darkness. Hallways along each side of the stairs lead farther into the house, the light transitioning to gloom until they also fade into an inky black. Arched entryways lead into rooms to the left and right. Rounds continue to impact the side of the house with compact thunks.

“Is anyone hit?” Krandle calls out, recovering.

The team does a quick pat over their bodies and signals that they are okay. Somehow, none of the bullets connected.

“Speer, Ortiz, take the left and cover our flanks. Franklin and Miller, take the right. Blanchard and I will take the immediate front,” Krandle says.

Speer and Ortiz dart through the archway to the left. Franklin and Miller dash into the room to the right. A loud, penetrating shriek erupts from somewhere in the darkened upstairs causing the hairs along Krandle’s arm to stand upright. They’re in the light, and as long as they keep it that way, they should be okay. That knowledge doesn’t make the fact that they are in close proximity to a night runner any easier. He kneels in broken glass by the side of the large window that was shot and looks out.

Across the street, flashes of light appear from the shaded areas under trees and from bushes. The fire is coming from more than a few locations, giving Krandle a picture that they are facing at least twenty people. The solitary twinkles of light tell him that only single shots are being directed at them from each location.

At least we don’t have to deal with auto fire, Krandle thinks.

“Okay, guys, talk to me? What do you see?” Krandle asks over the radio.

“I know what I hear,” Speer replies.

“Just stay in the light and we’ll be fine,” Krandle says.

As if to bring light to the subject, another loud scream echoes through the interior. Krandle turns sharply toward the sound but doesn’t see anything in the blackness.

“We’re taking fire from across the street. They’re at the back of the houses and in the bushes. Nothing from the sides so far,” Speer says.

“Same here,” Franklin states.

“Anything from our three friends who crossed the street?”

“Nothing as of yet,” Franklin answers.

“Okay, keep in mind that they’re there. Are you able to cover the sides from your position?”

“We have good lines of sight here,” Franklin replies.

“So do we,” Speer chimes in.

A round strikes one of the shards of glass hanging in the frame next to Krandle’s head. He instinctively ducks as the bullet streaks down one of the hallways.

“Motherfuckers,” Krandle breathes. “Okay, we need to take control of this situation. Suppressive fire.”

The sound of breaking glass comes from the other rooms causing the night runner, or night runners, upstairs to emit another piercing shriek. Muffled bursts of fire pour out of the house. Several tracer rounds streak outward and sail into the shadows between the houses across the street. Making sure to keep his barrel from poking out of the window, Krandle spins toward the opening and aims toward one of the bushes across the way. Easing back on the trigger, he feels the familiar push against his shoulder as he adds his fire to those of his team.

One of the rounds of his initial burst contains a tracer. He watches as it sails across the roadway and connects with the bush. Leaves fly up and he has the impression of something solid slumping to the ground in the dimness behind. Leaves slowly settle to the ground and are whisked away in the breeze. Seeing a flash, he moves his barrel just a touch and sends another burst downrange.

The return fire slackens but doesn’t stop. Krandle knows they can hold here for a while as long as they aren’t hit. Eventually, though, they will run low on ammo and be forced to make a break for it. They won’t be able to take down the numerous people arrayed against them. At some point, they’ll have to extricate themselves. So far as he knows, the only way out is the way they came.

With the slackened fire and the team having gained, if not the upper hand, then at least an equilibrium, Krandle has them switch to semi-automatic fire to conserve ammo. Keeping the three in mind, he wants to check out the rear of the house. The dark halls and presence of night runners will keep his immediate back side clear, but that doesn’t mean that others can’t approach from the rear outside.

To the front, five figures leave their concealment and start running across the road to the right. The lead person falls forward as if he were tripped, followed a split second later by another crashing sideways to the ground. The remaining three, seeing their comrades fall, make a mistake and slow. Tracers streak from Speer’s and Ortiz’ position to impact flesh and bone. Clothing ripples as rounds find their marks sending splashes of blood shooting outward. The remaining three are driven to the pavement under the withering fire, not having made it more than halfway across.

“Ortiz, Franklin? Do either of you have a route to the rear that’s lit?” Krandle asks.

“It looks like there’s a way to the back of the house from here that’s fully lit,” Ortiz answers.

“Franklin, while we can, join Ortiz and scout the back. Keep your eyes open and see if there is a route down the cliff from there,” Krandle says.

Krandle nods at Franklin as he passes behind on his way to Ortiz.

“Speer, Miller, keep up the fire. We need to keep their heads down.”

To his side, Blanchard is keeping up a steady stream of semi-automatic fire into the side yards. Every time a flash appears, Blanchard quickly shifts his aim and sends a few rounds at it. Sometimes the flash reappears and at others, the location remains clear of fire with the shooter either taking cover or down. Krandle delivers rounds of his own in an effort to keep their attackers at bay.

Projectiles from across the way continue to pelt the house. Krandle and the team can’t keep every head down, but they at least have a handle on the situation.

“Oww!!! Fucking dammit all the hell. You fucking bastards,” Speer yells from the side room.

“Are you hit?” Krandle shouts.

“I’ll kill every last one of you bitches,” Speer continues to rant, either ignoring or not hearing the question.

Blanchard looks back from his shooting position. Krandle nods at him in the direction of Speer and Blanchard scurries into the other room.

Krandle concentrates on keeping the front clear. He still sees the occasional tracer coming from Speer’s and Miller’s positions, but they are down to three shooters and maybe two if Speer is seriously injured.

Minutes pass slowly. Krandle sees the outside like snapshots. Flashes of light in the dark spaces across the street. Sunlight shining upon the five bodies huddled in the street to the right, dark liquid mixing with the sand. A glint of light from one of the weapons lying near them. The red-tiled roofs atop abandoned houses. Leaves drifting down from trees and bushes as rounds tear through them — some catching the wind and being whisked away. Feeling the push of the stock against his shoulder as he sends projectiles racing outward. The impacts of slugs smash into the side of the house or zip through the broken window and slam into the walls and stairs behind him. Smoke hanging in the room from the expended shells and the aroma of gunpowder filling his nostrils. The frequent screams of the night runner somewhere above.

Through the tumultuous noise, he can hear his steady breathing as it is inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He feels the curve of the trigger, its hard metal clicking under the ministrations of his finger. Sweat trickles down his temples to run down his cheeks. He is completely in the zone.

“We’re coming back in,” Franklin radios. “And we don’t have to worry anymore about those three. They were trying to come up from the rear.”

“Copy that. What about the cliff?”

“There is a cut in the bank one house over that we can shimmy down. We’ll be exposed from the top all of the way to the exfil though,” Franklin answers.

Blanchard reenters from the side room. “He took a round through his upper left arm. Hit under the bicep and passed through without hitting the bone. He’ll be sore but fine.”

“Is he still able to shoot?”

“Yeah. My parental heritage came into question as I was bandaging him, so I think he’ll be okay.”

Krandle gets in touch with the Santa Fe and informs them of the situation. They are essentially at a stalemate with their attackers. Those firing at them can’t close in, and the team can’t escape. That stalemate will end when the team runs out of ammo or nighttime arrives; whichever occurs first. Shouts carry from across the way interrupt the conversation. Krandle can’t make out the words through the sound of gunfire. He isn’t even sure it’s English. Other shouts are heard up and down the street.

Krandle hears Speer shout to be heard above the barrage. “Ortiz, what are they saying?”

“How in the fuck should I know? I don’t have super hearing powers!” Ortiz shouts, answering.

“You speak that language. Say something to them.”

“What do you want me to say to them, dumbass?” Ortiz yells.

“Tell them to calm the fuck down,” Speer answers.

Krandle thinks Ortiz may be a way to communicate with their assailants and dashes into the room. Just as he enters, he hears Ortiz shout at their attackers.

“Hey, Cabron. Tu madre es una puta.”

Ortiz draws away from the window with a smile and giggles.

Krandle recognizes the word ‘puta’ and guesses the rest was just as unpleasant.

Shouts from across the street rise above the din of firing. The volume of gunfire increases sending all of them to the floor. Rounds thunder into the house and decimate the remaining glass in the windows. Thuds against the side of the house shake it, sending splinters and shards of glass into the interior. The curtains hanging at the sides rock backward from the bullets slamming into them. The team folds their hands over their heads to protect from the rounds and volume of glass falling into their midst.

“What the fuck did you say?” Speer shouts from his defensive posture.

“I asked them if they enjoy a good cup of tea,” Ortiz yells back.

“Ortiz! You don’t get to talk from now on,” Krandle states.

Rising to the edge of the window, Krandle peeks out. He sees figures dart across the street to the right out of the range of fire. Franklin informs him that he saw others dash to their side of the road in his direction.

Calling the Santa Fe once again, he reports the change in their situation, giving their coordinates and those of the assailants.

“I don’t think they really like us being here much,” Krandle says, finishing.

“Is there any way you can extract yourself?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. We’re rather stuck here,” Krandle answers.

“Will you be able to relocate?”

“How far are you thinking?” Krandle asks, amid the din.

“I would suggest four hundred meters,” Leonard replies.

“That’s iffy at best. But we’ll do what we can. How long are we talking, sir?”

“We’ll do what we can to help. Give me fifteen minutes and then I’ll tell you five minutes out. Twenty minutes total. Can you hold that long?”

“Do we have a choice, sir?” Krandle asks with bullets shredding the side of the house.

“No, Chief. Sorry.”

“Then we’ll do what we need to do. I need that five minute warning though,” Krandle says.

“You’ll get that, Chief.”

“Sir, it needs to be an exact five minute count down. Can we rely on that?”

“You’ll have it.”

Bullets unrelentingly tear into the house. Shredded window panes fall on the backs of the team as they fold themselves into a ball.

Twenty minutes… Fuck! Krandle thinks, knowing twenty minutes in a firefight can seem like forever, especially when holding out for an extraction.

“Okay, folks, we have twenty minutes to hold. Then we’re making a break for it. We’re being flanked and we need to suppress this fire. Rock n roll, gents,” Krandle briefs the team.

A scream rises momentarily above the clamor. Krandle believes it to be the night runner voicing its complaints about the intrusion on its privacy when Franklin comes on the air.

“Miller’s hit,” he says.

“How bad?” Blanchard asks.

“Upper chest. I can’t tell how bad. It’s a little busy over here,” Franklin replies.

Blanchard scrambles along the floor, making his way to the far side of the house. The remaining members, Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle brave the incoming fire and begin directing automatic fire into the houses and bushes across the roadway. Krandle feels two rounds pass on either side of his head, one brushing his hair just above his left ear. Another tugs at his vest at the top of his shoulder.

He’s been here before and knows that if they continue to protect themselves from the incoming fire, they’ll be as good as dead. They need to deliver concentrated fire in an attempt to regain the upper hand. At a minimum, they need to send rounds out to decrease the accuracy of the incoming fire. They need twenty minutes but, even then, they’re not out of it.

Several people run from between the houses, attempting to cross the dividing road closer in. Speer and Ortiz pump automatic fire into their midst. Bodies twist and turn under their onslaught, falling to the grit-covered pavement. Some lie still while others try to crawl away from their pain. Bullets rend flesh and shatter bones. Amidst the fury of rounds, two still make it and vanish from view. That means they have several on their side of the road to both sides of their beleaguered position.

“Miller took a round below the shoulder. He’ll be okay in time, but he’s out of action,” Blanchard reports.

“Can he move?” Krandle asks.

“With help he can—” Blanchard begins.

“I’ll be fine,” Miller states in the background.

“He’s mobile, but he’s lost blood,” Blanchard continues.

“Okay. Keep an eye on him and stay there to support Franklin,” Krandle says.

Shouts of “reloading” rise above the tumult as the team, minus Miller, direct focused and intense fire toward the flashes of light. The return fire is reduced as their bullets, tearing through shrubs and ripping into house corners, keeps the opposing heads down. The team has gained a small measure of containment, but it’s the ones that are coming from the sides and possibly the rear that worry Krandle. The openness of the yard around the house allows for good fields of vision and will make anyone approaching more cautious. He knows though that, regardless of how careful they may be, it is only a matter of time before they start receiving fire from the flanks.

It’s nothing. Just a few more minutes, Krandle thinks, looking at his watch.

He repeats this as a mantra while he sends burst after burst downrange. He has Ortiz watching the sides for any sign of those that crossed and reminds Franklin to do the same.

“We have movement near the house next to us. I can identify only three right now,” Franklin calls out.

“Can you hold or do you want Ortiz?”

“We’re fine for now,” Franklin says.

Ortiz catches Krandle’s attention and lets him know he sees movement on their side as well. As if to validate the information, rounds begin to pepper their position from that side.

“Speer, take care of the flank. Ortiz, head to the back and keep anyone off our backside. That’s our only way out,” Krandle calls out.

Ortiz rises and dashes into an adjoining room leading to the rear. Speer adjusts his position to take the shooters on the side under fire. Feeling the effects of his wound and the tightening of the muscles around it, he brings his carbine up slower than usual. However, he starts delivering high-speed projectiles at those attempting to flank their position.

Having to cover all sides diminishes fire they can concentrate in any one area. They are slowly being surrounded, regardless of how much they try to keep their assailants’ heads down to prevent that very thing. Krandle glances at his watch yet again.

Come on, Leonard. Do what you’re going to do and do it soon or we won’t be around for it to do any good, Krandle thinks, having an idea of what Leonard has in mind.

Focusing on those across the street, the sudden sting and burning on his forehead takes him by surprise. It feels like someone pinched him and then held a burning cigarette to his skin. He reaches up to the sudden sensation trying to wipe the burn away with the back of his hand. His glove comes away with a smear of blood soaked into the fabric. The blood mixes with the sweat and the warm flow trickles down his brow. He wipes it away again and continues firing.

“Chief Krandle,” he hears Leonard call over the radio.

“Krandle here,” he answers, resuming fire between clicking the mic button.

He’s the only one delivering fast-moving projectiles to this side of their front and they can’t afford to slack off on their fire. They have to keep the pressure on.

“Five minutes…ready, ready, mark,” Leonard says.

Krandle, having set a countdown timer on his watch, reaches up and clicks a button starting it.

“Copy,” he replies.

“Be sure you’re at a minimum of two hundred meters. Four hundred would be optimal, but two hundred should provide a measure of safety. Not much, but some,” Leonard states.

“Copy. Call you in five.”

“Five minutes. We’re leaving out the back in three plus forty-five. Ortiz, we’ll be coming out your way. Then we’re across the back yard to the cliff edge. Be ready to peel away on my call,” Krandle informs the team on the radio.

“The back is clear for now, Chief,” Ortiz radios.

That will be cutting it close to be away in time but they can’t leave too early as that will give their assailants time to chase them and put the team at a greater risk in the open.

Offshore, in the deeper water of the bay miles to the northwest of the Palos Verdes headland, the rolling swells are interrupted by an eruption. Water is flung upward and out. Through it rises a sleek, cylindrical shape. The roar of a rocket echoes across the bay and the object launches into the sky at an angle, leaving a trail of fire and smoke. With a rumbling roar, it picks up speed as it gains altitude.

A short distance later, the solid propellant rocket that provides its initial boost detaches and falls into the ocean with a splash. The smoke trails off as the turbo-fan motor engages and the object vanishes from sight as it hurtles toward its destination.

Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, watching the small numbers wind down. They hit the one minute, fifteen second mark.

“Everyone empty two mags and then we’re out of here. Blanchard, you start with Miller now. Franklin, Speer and I will follow you out,” Krandle calls.

Krandle fires continual bursts at anyplace that anyone could possibly be hidden in. He hears the shuffling of Miller and Blanchard behind him as they make their way to Ortiz. Replacing his mag, he sweeps the area with gunfire again. A series of rounds impacts the edge of the window near him, splintering the already shredded jamb. He feels a sting as several sharp fragments cut into his cheek.

“Okay, Franklin, you’re next… Go!” Krandle calls, down to the last few bullets in his mag.

Seconds later, as Franklin dashes by, he touches Krandle’s shoulder to let him know he’s past. Krandle fires the last rounds, replaces his mag, and looks at his watch. Fifty seconds to go.

It’s past time to beat cheeks out of here.

“Let’s go, Speer!”

They rise and race toward the back, passing Ortiz on the way. Ortiz follows them out a back door. Franklin, Miller, and Blanchard are part way across the large, open back yard. Speer, Ortiz, and Krandle emerge from the rear door when shouts ring out from both sides of the yard. Gunfire follows seconds later. They are being assaulted from both sides. The team’s unexpected appearance causes the assailants to fire hastily and therefore inaccurately.

Krandle hears rounds zip through the tall grass. He feels the pressure of one round passing just in front of him. Not slowing one bit, Franklin aims his carbine haphazardly in one hand and fires. The rounds go wide, but it causes the attackers to take cover. Miller shoves Blanchard away with his good hand, grabs his arm on the wounded side, and continues running toward the bluff edge.

Blanchard unslings his M-4 and adds his rounds to the fray. Krandle and the remaining two fire as they race across through the tall grass. Mindful of their limited time remaining, Krandle sacrifices his aim to keep pace. It’s now a pell-mell race for the edge as they try to outrace time itself. Krandle and the two with him catch up and pass Miller and Blanchard close to the bluff threshold.

The edge looms near with nothing in sight beyond except the ocean far below stretching out to the horizon. Their pace doesn’t slow. Rounds continue to pepper the air around them, following their mad race. Only a few feet separate the team from the long drop.

“Over we go, gents. Slide down,” Krandle shouts.

A couple of feet from the rim, they sling their M-4s and go to the ground like they were sliding into second. As their feet go over the edge, they roll onto their stomachs. Their legs slam into the rocky sides of the cliff and they begin skidding down. Stomachs, chests, knees, and elbows scrape against the rocky outcroppings as they scramble to grab hold of something to arrest their fall down the cliff.

The angle of the bluff at the top allows them some control and Krandle manages to grab hold of a rock projecting out of the steep wall. His feet find purchase on a small ledge and he secures himself. He looks up in time to see Miller falling past him, unable to catch himself with his one free hand. With a firm foot and hand hold, Krandle reaches out and grabs a handful of shirt. Miller screams in pain as Krandle has grabbed the shirt near his wounded shoulder. Krandle feels his feet slip and his hand aches holding onto the rock, but he doesn’t let go. Miller’s slide stops and he manages to secure his footing. With his good arm, he finds a handhold. Miller looks up, the pain evident in his eyes, and nods his thanks.

Krandle secures his grip on the cliff face once again and looks over his team. They have all found holds of some sort, but they are all hanging precariously to the side of the cliff. Just a few feet below them, the angle they slid down comes to an abrupt halt and plummets straight down onto a rocky shoreline two hundred feet below. Krandle begins to feel a little more secure in their situation as long as those above don’t appear at the edge and begin firing down on them. His watch chimes as the countdown ends.

Krandle hears a sound rising above the roar of the surf below, similar to that of a low-flying jet. This is followed quickly by a storm of explosions. The cliff wall shakes from the multitude of blasts above, each detonation sounding like a mortar round going off. The thunderous explosions are indistinguishable from each other and form a continuous, rolling barrage. The shaking precipice on which they only have a tentative hold threatens to knock them loose. The ten feet between them and the straight, two hundred foot drop seems to shrink. Rocks shaken loose pelt the team members and continue past them over the edge.

Krandle hugs the wall, trying to push farther into its solid exterior. As quickly as it began, it’s over. Krandle feels his heart beating rapidly and hears his hoarse, panting breath as he exhales into the cliff, blowing dust away with each breath. He feels small rocks and grit fall out of his hair, and sand makes its way into his collar. Looking up, he sees dark smoke roiling above the ridgeline overhead.

The stunned team waits several seconds, expecting to see figures materialize, outlined on the ridge above. When the anticipated forms and subsequent volleys of fire don’t appear, they start climbing slowly up the cliff wall. Krandle helps Miller who grunts and grimaces with pain with each extension of his arm but they eventually crest the ridge.

The landscape ahead looks nothing like what they left minutes ago. The house they were in and the ones to either side, along with those across the street are smoldering ruins. Smoke drifts up from the rubble of timber, red slate, and stucco to join with the dark clouds hanging over the area, created from the explosions. A breeze catches the dark mass and carries it inland.

Between the houses stand shredded bushes and trees, many with snapped limbs, some hanging limply toward the ground. Small fires blaze in places in the dry grass and begin to spread. The team hoists themselves into this area of destruction, alert for any surviving members of those that engaged them. Blanchard takes Miller on his shoulder which he thankfully accepts this time. Nothing moves, and the only sound is the crackling of the spot fires and the groan of broken houses settling farther.

“That was…interesting,” Speer says, breaking through the team’s silent inspection of the area.

“Which way?” Franklin asks.

“I don’t really want to traverse the neighborhoods again. There might still be others and they won’t be happy with us. Let’s try the break in the cliff you spotted earlier,” Krandle answers.

The team starts along the cliff edge, alertly guarding against any remaining assailants. Krandle looks to Blanchard asking after Miller’s condition. Blanchard nods, indicating that he’ll be okay.

“We need to get back soon, though,” Blanchard says.

“Noted. That we do,” Krandle says, sweeping his hands through his hair to clear the remaining debris.

The others look like they’ve been hauled across the ground tied behind horses. Each and every one of them has a coating of dust and is covered with cuts and scratches. The grit has staunched the flow of blood from Krandle’s forehead and cheek forming small ridges of dirt over the wounds.

As they walk, avoiding the spreading fires, Krandle sees scraps of clothing and parts of bodies spread liberally on the churned up ground. He’s thankful they made it out when they did. He can’t fathom what it must have been like to be in the midst of that attack. Of course, it’s not like anyone would have felt anything as the darkness of the other side would have come immediately.

Krandle digs sand out of his ear and contacts the Santa Fe, giving them the situation and their wounded.

“Glad you made it, Chief,” Leonard responds. “We’ll have a medical team on standby when you return.”

“We’ll be there in a little over an hour barring any further interruptions,” Krandle replies.

They reach the break in the bluff. It’s a ravine which leads steeply down but a path through the middle makes it navigable. They stumble some of the way, Miller groaning with each fall. The team makes it to the rocky shoreline after slipping most of the way down. Glancing nervously at the tall ridge above, they make it to the raft and put out to sea. The sleek sub rises quietly from the depths as they near its location. The wounded are brought aboard and treated. Miller and Speer will be out of action for a time as they recuperate. With all safely aboard, the Santa Fe slides below the waves and turns south.

Hung Out To Dry

Greg stands in the turret opening watching the buildings of McConnell AFB grow smaller as they head away from Jack and the others. He understands Jack’s desire to get his son back home given that he had experienced the effects of an injury from a night runner. He also knows the need to continue with the search for the families. Time is running short for such operations. Knowing those things doesn’t make the thought of traveling across unknown territories for an extended period of time with only one team at his disposal any better. He feels self-conscious about the prospect, having experienced too many close encounters.

The Stryker will make up for their lack of numbers in a lot of circumstances, but if they have to go in some places on foot, that puts them with very limited options. And vehicles break down. If they lose the Stryker, they lose an immense base of firepower…and protection. If that happens, Greg will call the mission, gather alternate transportation, and head home. The operation seemed like a walk in the park while they were discussing it with everyone around. Heading down an empty road in the middle of nowhere with only six others, drawing farther away from the base, puts that in a completely different light. Looking at the countryside passing by, he feels rather small.

The plan is to skirt the city of Wichita to the south and east, bypassing the majority of the metropolis and urban sprawl. It will take them longer to hit the minor roads heading west but, given his feelings of insignificance, it’s worth lessening the chance of running into any other surviving groups. It’s about finding survivors, but it’s also about surviving. The mission to find surviving family members of the soldiers is paramount.

If they run into other groups, he’ll assess the situation at that time; however, caution will be his byword. He won’t go out of his way to meet others and will go around them if possible. They can mark their locations and come back later if they decide. That doesn’t mean he won’t help others if they need it and if he can, but he’ll do so warily. Avoidance will be his policy. That may be difficult as there are many small towns that they’ll encounter and not all can be circumvented.

His way around takes him through some smaller neighborhoods. Blocks of communities with densely-packed houses alternate with open fields. Everywhere he looks, there are untended yards and meadows — grass grown high and untrimmed bushes. It looks like the post-apocalyptic world that he’d become used to in movies and pictures but without the smoldering fires and burnt out buildings and vehicles. It’s more like the rapture where everyone just left. Except it’s not the dead that walk the earth; instead, it is fast-moving, agile, cunning, ferocious predators that are an unrelenting force.

Thank goodness they can only operate in the dark, Greg thinks, or this would have been over long ago.

They take their time negotiating the southern portion of Wichita. The housing developments give way to mostly open fields before Greg has the Stryker turned north to intersect an interstate that runs around the peripheral of the city. From there, he’ll strike out on one of the highways leading west toward his first destination near Colorado Springs. On this first leg, he’ll make the run to a soldier’s hometown of Manitou Springs.

Given normal conditions, they’d be able to make the run in a day. But the times are far from normal. Greg estimates it will take two full days, and that’s if they are able to keep moving the entire time. They won’t drive at night even though they have night vision capabilities. Their sight range will be limited, and they may run into something before they know it. They’ll also have to take on fuel as Greg doesn’t want to travel with less than a half full tank. If they need to make a run for it, it wouldn’t do to come up on the short end because of fuel.

Hitting the interstate that circles around the city, they continue their northbound advance. Fields and several lakes line the highway and, with the long lines of sight this gives, Greg orders an increase in speed. He notes that the water levels have dropped significantly by the shorelines of the lakes that they pass. They roll down the divided multi-lane concrete road, the only thing moving on this lonely stretch. As they pass the Wichita airport and terminal buildings to the left, he hears a faint roar rise above the whine of the Stryker. Looking to the right, he sees the small dot of the 130 as it climbs into the air miles to the east. It turns to the northwest and continues its ascent. He watches it until it fades from view. They are truly on their own now.

Just to the north of the airport, they hit another major highway heading west. They leave the pavement at this point, traveling overland to a ramp that leads down to the freeway. The Stryker jostles over the uneven ground until they roar up an incline and enter the paved ramp. They enter a manufacturing and warehouse district, the large buildings surrounded by equally sizable parking lots which stand empty. The district abruptly changes to housing developments set back from the road. Some neighborhoods are blocked from view by concrete sound barriers placed along the road, which only affords the sight of a few tree tops showing over the top. The echo of the Stryker motoring down the multi-lane road rebounds off these structures. Stirring the dirt on the road, the armored vehicle’s large tires leave a fine trail of dust behind.

Firmly entrenched on their route to the west, Greg knows he needs to secure better maps. He has an atlas which gives a good representation of the highway system, but he wants more detailed ones. Knowing he can find these at just about any gas station, he resolves to pull over when he finds one that appears relatively safe.

The development areas end abruptly. There is no easing out of them, they just end with fenced-in rectangular fields taking their place. Some of the fields are only rutted brown dirt while others are overgrown with grass or some agricultural product. A couple of miles down the road, Greg spies the beginnings of one of the many small towns that dot the highway. He halts the Stryker a mile away and climbs out to stand on the top to get a better view.

At this rate, it’ll take us more than two days to cover the distance.

The cloud cover overhead makes it more difficult to see with any clarity but, looking through high-powered binoculars, the outskirts of the town ahead jumps into view. The fields give way suddenly to neighborhoods with the highway plowing straight as an arrow through the settlement. He observes the structures within view looking for any movement to indicate they are being watched. Nothing. The place looks empty.

“Do you see anything?” he asks through the open hatch.

A team member is looking through the enhanced optics zoomed in on the town. “I don’t see a thing, sir.”

“Have you checked the thermals?” Greg asks.

“Yes, sir. There aren’t any heat signatures that I can see. Not even from the structures,” the team member replies.

Greg looks a moment longer and then climbs back in. The Stryker lurches forward as he tells the driver to proceed slowly. A weather-beaten sign on the side of the road tells them they have entered the town of Goddard, ‘home of the fastest growing city in Kansas, population 4,344’.

I bet neither of those is true anymore, Greg thinks as they pass a church and an associated school on the right.

Several fast food restaurants line the road. There isn’t any movement or sound from the town. Greg hears only the high-pitched whine of the engine and from the turret as it continually pans to the left and right. He doesn’t observe any tracks in the light dust covering the highway and driveways entering the various establishments.

Almost through the small township, the elevated sign of a Kwik Stop appears. Some numbers showing the last gas prices are missing, adding to the empty feeling of the place. Greg has the Stryker pull in to halt just off the highway in front of the mart.

A couple of cars are parked at angles to the designated parking places which are barely visible through the dirt covering the pavement. One is still parked at the pumps with the driver’s side door open. Clothing is strewn across the ground between the vehicle and the pump with the fuel nozzle lying on the ground. All is covered with a fine layer of dust.

Looking closer, Greg sees the windows of the store have been broken out near the entrance. A body lies across the broken glass panes of the doors. Nothing stirs except a few eddies of dust stirred by a breeze as it blows through. It appears that all of the damage and death occurred some time ago so Greg decides to check for road maps inside. And, even though the tanks of the Stryker are nearly full, he’ll make the attempt to fill them.

Telling the team his plan, they disembark and set up a small perimeter. Three cover the highway to both sides and one remains on the turret to lend heavy fire should it be needed. With one other team member, Greg cautiously approaches the front of the stop-and-rob.

Listening for any sound that might indicate someone is inside, he and his teammate close in on the entrance from opposite sides. The figure draping the doorway is face down with sand covering its once dark brown hair and seems to be missing one arm; that, or it is hidden under the body. A small drift of dirt has piled up on one side of the head, almost covering it.

Greg pushes on it with the barrel of his M-4. As the head turns slightly, the lower jaw remains in place, sliding off the figure’s cheek. He sees that most of the skin has been removed, leaving only strings of dried ligaments attached. Looking farther, Greg notices that most of the lower body has been dragged inside and lies near the cash register stand. He knows that the condition of the body denotes that night runners were once here… and maybe still are.

Greg overcomes a curious urge to check the pants pockets lying just inside the door for the person’s ID. It was someone once and he’s curious who. They had dreams, worries, highs and lows, paid their monthly bills, made vacation plans, planned what they were going to have for dinner. Now they lie here at the entrance to a Kwik Stop in a small town in what used to be Kansas. Their plans, fears, and joys ended in a moment of terror… just another body decaying in some forgotten place. These thoughts relieve him of his curiosity and he finds he doesn’t want to know who it is at all.

A faint odor of rot and decay spills from the broken doorway — spoiled food, milk, and death. A small amount of ambient light spills through the damaged front of the building, revealing wreckage inside. Shelves are tipped over on their sides or lean against each other blocking the aisles. There isn’t much food on the floor as the place appears ransacked but several bags of chips, candy bars, and cans are scattered across the floor. One of the neon light fixtures hangs from one edge. Trailing wires, the other end hangs down on one of the leaning shelves. Several of the plaster ceiling tiles has fallen in, revealing a network of conduit and electrical wiring.

Greg and his teammate cover the store interior with their carbines as they look over the mess. The back of the mart is lost in shadow, but there is no scream from night runners. Night runners or not, he has no intention of going past the safety of the light. It is marauders and the like that worry him but, from the signs around him, he’s sure that no one would take up residence here.

A turnstile rack near the entrance is tipped over, spilling postcards and maps across the floor. With his teammate covering, Greg steps over the dismembered body and starts sorting through the maps. Many have been soaked through in blood, but he finds a couple covering their routes that are still readable. Shaking the accumulated dirt off them, he shoves them in his fatigue pockets.

The cash registers are bathed in the dim glow of the radiant light. If he can get power to the building, he knows he can get the pumps to operate and top off the Stryker’s tanks. Provided that is, that power still carries to the registers and pump islands. Looking at the wreckage, he’s not sure that’s the case.

Backing out of the store, he walks with his partner to the rear of the building. The usual Dumpsters, empty boxes and stacked pallets, and a small loading dock encompass a majority of the space. Near one corner sits a generator. Greg tests it for fuel and, as he guessed, it’s empty, having run itself dry. Using some of their fuel against only a possibility of getting the fuel pumps to work is a chance, but he gathers one of the fuel canisters from the Stryker regardless. Testing the generator battery, he pours some of the precious liquid in the tank and presses the start button. The generator cranks, sputters for a few turns, and then fires to life, filling the rear of the parking lot with its roar.

Greg looks over the surrounding developments for any signs of life that the noise of the generator may have raised. A flock of birds take wing from a neighboring house, but nothing else stirs.

Moving back to the store entrance, Greg sees the result of his handiwork. Sparks cascade from the broken light fixture onto the fallen shelves. That, and the flickering of the other lights, cast the gloomy part of the mart in a strobe effect. Drink counter dispensers flash and a carousal warming machine for hotdogs and pizza rotates in fits and starts. Stepping around the partial body once again and circumventing the remains farther in, Greg checks one of the cash registers to see it booted up with the touch screen fully lit. Placing an order for diesel fuel, he has the Stryker pull up; fuel flows through the hose into the tanks. He refills the used canister and they load back up to push through to the next town.

Endless fields fill both sides of the road from horizon to horizon. The emptiness of the terrain allows for faster travel, but Greg keeps their speed down in order to fully scout the area before proceeding. Complacency and assuming that the area is empty without checking could get them in trouble in no time at all. Even with the Stryker, due to their small numbers, they can ill afford a confrontation.

They eventually come to other small towns along the way. It’s much the same sight as they pass slowly through each town — fast food restaurants and gas stations with small businesses thrown in between. Any places that had food have their windows broken out. Remains of bodies are occasionally seen but covered with layers of dust. The wide tracks that the Stryker leaves are the only sign of recent passage.

They bypass larger towns to the north or south depending upon the terrain. Leaving the highway at these places, the armored vehicle rolls over fences that delineate the boundaries of fields and plow through the occasional gully. Greg slows their speed through the fields to keep the dust cloud they kick up to a minimum. He is reminded of the chase they had outside of a town on their way to Lubbock and he’s constantly on the lookout for dust clouds trailing after them. None appear.

With the sun heading into late afternoon and having only made it about halfway to their first destination of Manitou Springs, Greg checks the map and notes the area they are in is one of the more barren spots along the road. It’s all fairly open and not populated, but several small towns dot the landscape and he wants to be as far away from any formerly populated areas as possible to hole up for the night. Even though it’s early, he has the Stryker turn off the road and travel up a long dirt road with no apparent settlements or houses in sight. The road slowly ascends up an incline into some fairly rough topography — rough for this area at least. Greg picks an arroyo off the road and parks the Stryker hull down. The gully is the perfect height and they are able to see in all directions but their silhouette is minimized.

As opposed to the plains through which they traveled beside for most of the day, the place they pick to stay the night looks like the surface of the moon. It’s barren with just a few rocky outcroppings on the edge of shallow ravines.

As Greg pans the surrounding area with his binoculars, the moon analogy fits even more. The gray soil is pockmarked with thousands of light-colored mounds. Out of these piles, small heads continuously bob up and down. The team has parked in the middle of a large prairie dog population. With a couple of larger towns ten miles to either side, there is a small chance night runners could come out to hunt in this area. It’s about a three hour walk from the nearest town, but with the speed of the night runners, it would be much less. Greg has never seen them go at any other speed than a jog or full run. He isn’t sure how far they venture to hunt, but thinks it’s unlikely they would be this far out. Like Jack, he doesn’t want to assume anything with regards to what the night runners can or can’t do. They’ll sleep buttoned up and keep a watch through the Stryker optics.

With time to spare before night settles upon them, Greg sets a watch and allows the others to dig a Dakota Fire Pit at the bottom of the arroyo. This will keep the fire from being seen and the smoke to a minimum. Plus, they will cover it up when they’re finished, which will eliminate any trace of scent. Who knows when they’ll have a chance at a hot meal again, so he allows them this simple pleasure. It’s sometimes the very small things that make a difference in mental attitudes and the ability to hold up under stress.

With the sun low on the horizon, they sit in the shaded gully eating heated MREs and exchanging whispers and subdued laughs. The sky to the east is turning a dark blue as they shovel dirt over the fire pit and erase any vestige of their meal. Greg wishes Jack was with them so he could tell them if any aroma lingered, but he’ll do the best he can. They can hold out in the Stryker against a large number of night runners, but it’s a different story if a horde of them show up. The armored vehicle is hard to tip or get into, but it’s not impossible.

As the sun sets, turning the gray land black, Greg organizes the watch and settles over the maps he acquired. They don’t give altitude variations, but he guesses that they’ll travel over terrain similar to what they ventured through during the day. They’ll encounter the same open fields and small towns until they draw near to Pueblo. The only change on their route will be increasing size of the mountains as the team rolls west. With that in mind, he’ll keep to the same plan — travel slowly through the small towns after looking them over and circumvent the larger ones through the surrounding fields. Given the distance they covered today, they should reach Pueblo by mid-afternoon and Manitou Springs a couple of hours after that. Circumventing the large metropolis of Colorado Springs to get to their destination could be difficult and take more time. A few roads show promise but he’ll assess the situation when they arrive tomorrow.

The team settles as best they can inside the cramped interior. It’s doubtful anyone will get a deep rest, but there isn’t really any choice. It’s that or sleep outside — which is out of the question. In the near distance, a lone coyote howls into the night. The hull of the vehicle muffles the sound, but it’s distinct nonetheless. It’s answered several seconds later by a chorus of yelps coming from another direction.

As long as it’s the howl of coyotes and not the shriek of the other pack hunters, Greg thinks.

Looking through the vehicle optics, Greg sees several coyotes as they pass across the plain. He switches from the thermal imaging to night vision mode. The shapes change from the white of their reflected heat to sharper images cast in a grayish-green. The pack trots in his field of vision as they stalk across the moonlit landscape. Even in the night vision mode, Greg can see their backs glowing silver as they are bathed in the moon’s beams. They stop and raise their noses to take in the scents of the night. One of the coyotes in front lifts its snout higher and sends a mournful cry aloft. An answering call is heard from the near distance. The pack begins yipping and turning in circles.

The apparent leader sniffs the air again and turns toward Greg. He barks once and the pack quiets. They all turn toward where the Stryker sits in the gully. Sets of eyes glow a fierce white as they stare directly at Greg, sending chills up his spine. As one, the light from the pack’s eyes vanish.

Greg still watches and catches an occasional glimpse of silver as the moonlight catches on the back of one of the pack members. They have resumed their hunt across the plain.

A high-pitched scream of terror and pain erupts from the night. The pack has found a meal from among the denizens occupying the numerous holes of the prairie. The coyotes on the prowl and the scream from the prairie dog remind Greg of the night runners and their own situation. The similarity between the prairie dogs and the last vestiges of humankind is unmistakable.

The night passes with only a few other calls from the coyotes as they hunt through the prairie dog town. No other signs of life show across the remote plain. Greg half expected to see the lights of a group of survivors shine somewhere but the surrounding area remained an inky black all evening. The lack of light isn’t overly surprising as that would be a beacon for any night runners, so it doesn’t mean there aren’t any surviving bands.

The sun barely touches the top of the Stryker sticking out of the gully when the team is geared up. Some quick morning ablutions and they are ready to get on with the day. Hopefully they will reach the first of the six legs of their trek. Greg is sure they won’t have to travel the entire distance as he reckons Jack will meet them at Luke AFB providing Robert is okay. He sends a quick thought of well-being Robert’s way as the Stryker warms up at idle. Rescuing the girl like Robert did was one of the bravest things he’s ever witnessed; that heroic kind of act deserves life.

After hitting the highway once again, Greg opens the top hatch to give some ventilation. Close quarters and a serious lack of clothing changes make for…well…a need for ventilation in the small compartment.

A short time on the road and the armored vehicle rolls past a sign welcoming them to Colorado. The topography is exactly the same, it’s only a line drawn by someone a long time ago. However, it’s a marker letting them know they aren’t stuck on a treadmill and are actually putting miles under their treads. Looking out at the landscape, one couldn’t be too sure. The only change in scenery is the tops of the mountains in the distance slowly getting loftier.

There are very few landmarks to keep track of their position other than a turn in the road or crossing over infrequent bridges. The fields to either side remain a mixture of brown dirt or overgrown with whatever crop was last put in the ground. The large crop circles that were created from centrally rotating sprinklers remain in places, but the crops have withered due to a lack of water.

That changes shortly after crossing a bridge spanning a small stream. The fields to the north take on the nature of being freshly plowed with some showing sprouts of greenery. Except for trees and bushes adjacent to streams, and in mountainous areas, it’s the first green Greg has seen since journeying out of the Northwest. The fact that the ground has been plowed isn’t necessarily an indication that someone has done it recently. It could have been done previously and the ones responsible taken down with the epidemic or some time thereafter. He orders the Stryker halted.

Looking at his map, he finds they are about three miles from the next town, Lamar. The highway heads to the center of the town before turning north to cross a bridge across the river they’ve been paralleling. Greg’s plan was to proceed cross-country around the city and intersect the highway again to the north just prior to the bridge. That’s still the plan but the condition of the fields beside the road gives him pause.

Greg climbs out of the vehicle to get a better view of the area. Through the magnified view of his binoculars, he sees the outskirts of the city ahead. It looks like any other town they’ve passed with the exception of a fence enclosing sections of it. The town is still some distance ahead, and the details aren’t clear, but he doesn’t spot any movement or other sign of inhabitants. The light covering of dirt across the highway doesn’t show tracks leading in or out of the municipality. Panning around the fields to either side and behind, he observes the same — no indication of anyone around.

Notifying the others, Greg jumps down and walks to the nearest field. He catches the aroma of freshly turned earth as he draws near. Reaching through a fence surrounding the plowed land, he feels the dirt and crumples a clod between his fingers. It still has remnants of moisture and not dried out as it would be if it sat on the surface for very long. He surveys the expanse once again, expecting farmers or their equipment to materialize. He sees and hears nothing to indicate others are near. However, the fencing around the town and the plowed fields are clear signs that someone was around recently.

Greg returns and informs the others of what he found. There’s some speculation about staying in the area to find out if there are others but, in the end, they decide to push on with their original plan. They don’t have great numbers to deal with a hostile encounter, and it would be unfair to the soldiers looking for their families if they didn’t continue with the mission. That’s their primary goal and every day counts, especially with them having to travel on the ground. Greg marks his map, indicating possible survivors and orders the driver to proceed off road.

Exiting the highway, they roll over the fencing and angle through the adjacent fields to reach the northern end of the city. The vehicle jostles as they bounce across the furrows. Greg keeps the optics focused on the outlying areas of the town. If there is anyone there, they aren’t going to take to the team ruining their fieldwork. However, unless they have anti-armor capabilities or heavy caliber weapons, there isn’t much they can do about it.

Greg looks to the north end of the city as they drive ever closer. It appears that they’ll have to cut close to a section of an industrial park prior to reaching the road and bridge. The fencing he saw from afar extends around this locale. From this closer look, the tall fencing does in fact circle a large part of the northern end. He’s about to order a turn to the north to avoid the area as much as possible when a glint catches the corner of his eye. He pans the optics and turret toward the eastern end of the town and sees another flash of light. The winks become a series and it’s apparent they are being focused directly at them.

“What do you think, sir?” the driver asks.

“The flashes are too bright to be gunfire…unless they have an awful big gun…and we’d be feeling the results of it already. Readout says just over two klicks, so I’m guessing it’s a signal mirror. Halt the vehicle,” Greg replies.

The Stryker lurches forward as the brakes are applied. They come to a stop in the middle of a dirt road between fields. The dust trail behind them hangs in the air, drifting slowly across the fields. The flashes of light stop.

“Shall we try and signal them back, sir,” the driver asks.

“No. I think we’ll sit here with our popcorn and see how this movie plays out,” Greg answers.

Soon, a trail of dust rises into air from the direction of the signal.

“Single pickup heading down a dirt road perpendicular to the one we’re on,” the driver reports.

“I see it. Keep watching around us. I don’t want to be taken by surprise while focusing on one vehicle.”

“Are we going to disembark, sir?” another soldier asks.

“Not yet. I want to be ready to leave in a hurry if this turns out bad,” Greg responds.

If the people heading their way aren’t friendly, he’ll just head out. They can’t outrun the approaching vehicle, but unless they have a howitzer hidden in the back, chasing them won’t do any good. And the .50 cal will turn the truck into scrap metal.

The pickup truck pulls up to the intersection of the road the team is sitting on and the one the vehicle is traveling on. About a quarter of a mile separates the two parties. A man exits the blue truck, stands next to the driver door, and pulls out a pair of binoculars. Through his own magnified view, Greg notes another figure in the passenger seat with two others in the bed of the truck looking their way. They are armed with rifles but aren’t actively aiming at them. It can’t be too comfortable for them to see a large caliber weapon aimed directly at them from an armored vehicle.

The two groups continue to stare at each other, neither making a move toward the other. In this world, wariness and caution is the rule. Lives can end in an instant and with each encounter. Everyone dies in the end but there’s no need racing toward it.

“I’m going out. Keep an eye on them and also around us. If anything unsavory happens, turn ‘em into hamburger and get the hell out of here,” Greg says after a few more moments of the staring contest.

He scrambles on top and hops down in front of the Stryker. Another soldier takes his place at the .50 cal. Feeling the warm metal of the vehicle as he leans back against it, he glasses the other group again. He sees the distant driver put his binoculars away and climb into the pickup. The vehicle turns onto their road and slowly approaches. Greg holds out his hand for the truck to halt and it does so with a squeal of brakes.

The driver and passenger look out at him through a dirty windshield with the two men in the back looking over the top of the cab. He doesn’t note any weapons aimed his way, but Greg holds his M-4 at his side, ready to bring up in an instant. The driver climbs out and halts behind the open door.

“I’m Captain Greg Petersen. Not to seem like an ass, but I’d feel a tad more comfortable if you all climbed out where I can see you.”

“Captain, perhaps you could have the people I’m sure are inside that thing to come out as well,” the man states.

“Point taken. What do you say we agree not to shoot each other and chat amiably?” Greg says.

“I’m agreeable to that if you wouldn’t mind aiming that big gun of yours somewhere else. The hole in the end looks awfully large from this vantage point,” the man replies.

Greg looks behind at the barrel mounted on its small turret and calls inside for the gunner to aim it elsewhere. The gun spins away and Greg looks back to the man, who nods his appreciation.

Coming out from behind the door, the man approaches and reaches out his hand, “James…James Talkison. We’ve had a few run-ins with some unsavory types, so we’re a little wary around here.”

“We’ve had several ourselves, so it’s the same for us,” Greg replies.

“We saw you circumventing the town. That gave us reason to believe you weren’t interested in attacking us so we decided to risk a signal. I will say that the sight of that thing approaching,” James says, nodding toward the Stryker, “gave us cause for alarm.”

Looking back at their tracks through the field, Greg sees the deep ruts their heavy vehicle created in the plowed fields and the torn fences.

“Assuming these fields are your work, I apologize for tearing them up like that.”

“That’s not a problem. We can fix that up quickly,” James states.

“Allow us to help,” Greg says.

“Are you really with the Army?” James asks, bypassing Greg’s offer.

“I was,” Greg answers. “There really isn’t such a thing anymore.”

“So, I guess we can’t expect any help from that sector. Everything really is gone, huh?”

“I’m afraid so,” Greg responds, hesitant to tell their story until they know this group better.

James hangs his head and sighs. “What are you doing around these parts?”

“We’re searching for families of those with us,” Greg states.

“Ah. I take it from the fact that you were bypassing us that no one is from here. We’ve wondered about ours that live elsewhere,” James says. “How many are with you?”

Greg just looks at James without answering.

James chuckles, “Okay, I get it. Look, we’re all curious how it is out there. From what we’ve encountered here, it doesn’t look good, but we need to know what we’re up against…and for how long. I reckon you folks are okay. We’re about to sit down for something to eat. You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you’d like…and I won’t lie, I wouldn’t mind having that behemoth of yours parked in sight to scare off any troublemakers. What do you say we head into town and trade stories? Tell only what you feel comfortable with, but it’d be nice hearing what it’s like. And it would pick up some spirits knowing there are others out there who aren’t just bandits.”

“We are on a timetable of sorts and don’t really want to stop, but I think we could spare a few hours,” Greg says. “Any information you have about the area would be helpful.”

Back in the Stryker, Greg relates the conversation as they follow the pickup toward the town of Lamar. He tells them that he wants them to stay close to the Stryker until he is able to get a handle on the situation. The gun is to be manned at all times. If they find that everything is legitimate, then they can mingle. However, he doesn’t plan to stay long. They still have a mission to see to.

As they approach, Greg gets a better look at the fence he observed earlier. It’s about ten feet tall and covered with coils of razor wire along the top. From his vantage point, he sees that it completely encloses the northern segment of town and has the appearance of encompassing the entire section. Placed at intervals on the inside are semi-trailers with armed men stationed on top. As they drive through an opening in the fence, a bus is driven across it, sealing it off. Greg isn’t overly worried about being cut off as the Stryker can run through the chain link at any time.

Once inside, they continue to follow the truck as they pass through the center of the town. They intersect a main road and turn north. Looking behind, Greg notices a section of fence several blocks away sealing off the southern part of town. A school bus blocks an entrance similar to the one they just passed.

They travel through the central part of the town. Fast food restaurants line both sides of the street along with the usual local businesses. Hotels line the road at the extreme northern end of town. The industrial area, which the team was attempting to bypass, takes up the northeastern section just beyond the inns. The pickup pulls into the last building on the left. A sign signifying the Rodeway Inn and Cow Palace decorates the front. Ahead, past another entrance, lies the bridge they were seeking to cross. Pulling into the lot next to the truck, he sees several other vehicles parked. Greg informs the others to stay put and exits.

“This is where we gather for evening meals and meetings,” James says, joining Greg. “We use the kitchen here and discuss the day’s activities. Eating together helps to keep us feeling like a community. I’ve called ahead and asked the town to meet us.”

Other cars and trucks enter. Those who exit stare at the Stryker and Greg as they walk into the restaurant portion of the hotel. Greg doesn’t sense any malevolence in their actions or the darting eyes that may foretell misfortune. They carry the same wariness exhibited by James during their initial meeting. Greg is shocked to see them casually enter into a building.

“You just go into a building? What about night runners?” Greg asks, watching several people swing the entrance door open and go inside.

“Who?” James asks.

“You know, the night hunters…the infected ones who come out at night and hide out in darkened buildings?”

“What do you say we get out of the sun and talk about things,” James says, motioning with his arm for Greg to head into the restaurant.

Greg looks sharply at James. The answer James gave was an outright evasion of Greg’s question which makes Greg feel uneasy.

“Not until I have an answer. I don’t mean to seem inhospitable, but wherever there are survivors, there are also night runners,” Greg says.

“Well, the answer to your question is that we don’t have any of the sick ones here,” James says.

“How is that possible? Were you able to kill them all?”

James hesitates just a fraction of a second before replying, “Yes. We took care of all of the sick ones in town.”

It still seems like an evasion of sorts, but it satisfies Greg’s curiosity. He supposes in a small enough town that it’s possible to eliminate the night runner population and set up a community like this. Greg nods and he and James proceed into the café.

Inside, Greg smells the aroma of food cooking. Men, women, and children of all ages sit around scattered tables. It looks like any other family-style restaurant, and seeing people gathered as they are almost makes things feel normal. Others enter behind and push past to find places to sit.

“We’d usually be in the fields or working on other chores. We vacated the fields when we saw your approach,” James says.

He introduces Greg to the gathering and guides him to a table. Many people nod their greetings and there are a few dispersed vocal greetings. The silence is complete except for the occasional clang of a pot or pan from the kitchen in back. As Greg sits with James, the hubbub of general conversation slowly picks up.

Soon, plates of scrambled eggs and bacon begin to be distributed.

“It’s all we could come up with on short notice,” the man says, placing a plate in front of James and Greg.

“I’m sure it’s good and thanks for coming in,” James returns.

Turning to Greg, James says, “Your people are welcome to join us for a hot meal.”

Greg looks around. It seems normal enough and, while most of the people have weapons either on or near them, there isn’t an ounce of hostility that he can detect. He calls on the radio and has the team come in two at a time to eat. The .50 cal remains manned with a small three-person reaction team. He tells the others they can open up the rear and head outside, but they are to remain near the protective armor.

The conversation between James and Greg turn to their stories. As they talk, Greg begins to feel more comfortable and shares as well. There was still that fraction of a second hesitation James had in answering, but that could be from the discomfort of two groups coming together and trying to find where the trust line falls.

Greg learns the group, totaling eighty-three men, women, and children, built the fence early on after things fell apart. They pulled the materials from Pueblo and carted them back on semis. They also brought solar panels, inverters, and equipment to set up a solar farm which they are presently working on.

“We know the batteries won’t last forever, but we’ll have something else figured out by then,” James says.

For now, they have several greenhouses and animal pens set up within the fenced portion of the city. A ready water supply is provided by the river and they bring it in with the town’s two fire trucks and a water tanker. They started working the nearby fields in the hopes of getting a small crop in before the cold hits. They’ll use those fields extensively in the coming year. An irrigation project is underway to supply the fields from the river.

When asked about arms, James mentions that everyone carries and they mostly have hunting rifles with a scattering of semi-auto carbines. “Everyone around here knows how to shoot, but we still practice.”

James mentions that not everyone is from Lamar but from the surrounding towns all the way to Wichita, Kansas. The ones who survived in the town started gathering others up and down the highway while on scavenging runs.

“So you were able to take care of the… sick ones early on? There aren’t any who bother you here?” Greg asks.

Again that split second of hesitation, “Yes. We took care of the sick ones right off. There weren’t many of these night runners, as you call them. I’ll tell you, though, the ones that were here were damn hard to kill. We lost a few good people taking care of them.”

With a fork full of eggs halfway to his mouth, Greg looks at James. He gets the distinct impression that James’ definition of sick ones is different from his and feels that James had almost said ‘There weren’t many of these night runners afterwards’. He thinks back and remembers Jack mentioning that the Lajes AFB commander in the Azores had all of the ill ones shot when he figured out what was going on. They would have survived too, except they couldn’t be resupplied and crashed into the Atlantic trying to fly out of there. Frank is one of the only survivors from that place.

Greg gives an internal shrug and stuffs the scrambled eggs into his mouth. Who is he to judge the survivors? If they didn’t do what they did, they might not be here to talk about it. Or at least the night runner threat would have been more of an undertaking to rid themselves of.

Perhaps if everyone had taken this stance…

Greg gives his story and the tale of the others to the northwest. Without being overly detailed, he tells of their heading to Manitou Springs. Upon hearing that they intend to head in that direction, James informs them that they have blown the bridges across the river just north of town.

“We kept getting trouble from marauders in that direction. Perhaps they saw us gathering materials in Pueblo and followed us, I’m not sure. We just know that they showed up and we were barely able to keep them at bay. That was a while ago, but we’ve heard engine noises a few times in the past week. That’s why we were cautious with you. The fact is that you’re the first we’ve seen coming from the east. That and the fact that you tried to pass around us instead of trying to going through is the only reason we’re having this conversation,” James says. “We keep that road open because we use it to scavenge when we can. We blew the bridge to the south and created a large ditch across the road to the west. Overland, it’s more difficult to get to us, and we can see anyone coming from miles away. So, I’d be cautious heading in that direction, even with that monster you have outside.”

“Great. I guess we’ll have to cross the river bed itself seeing that’s really our only viable way west,” Greg says.

“I’d warn you about doing that. The sandy areas adjacent to the river are tricky and there are a few swamps that would make the crossing difficult. We do, however, have a ford nearby which I can guide you through,” James replies.

Greg thanks him and offers for the survivors here to join theirs in the northwest. They’d have to make their own way or wait until the C-130 is available to transport them.

“I appreciate the offer, but we have it pretty well here. We’ve managed to adapt and I’m not sure some of the others could tolerate a move of that magnitude mentally. It’s comfortable here and we can make a go of it. It’s as safe as we can make it and…well, it’s home.”

Greg gets that reasoning. Comfort and a feeling of safety are vital to long-term survival. They’ve passed the most pressing survival issues of shelter, sustenance, and safety. There is still the stress of the potential marauders but that would be true anywhere. They have that up north but the stresses there are greater and seemingly every day. Perhaps they should find a place like this and move.

Thoughts for that later, Greg thinks, finishing his meal.

“Seeing the day is getting on, I doubt you’ll make it to your destination before dark. You are welcome to stay here with us,” James says. “You’ll have to stay the night somewhere and we’d welcome the company.”

Greg heads outside to talk over the offer with the team and they agree it would be nice to sleep on real beds and have another hot meal. He knew they wouldn’t turn that offer down.

What soldier says no to a hot, home-cooked meal? Greg thinks, returning and thanking James for his offer.

The team spends the afternoon helping mend the fences they obliterated on their run through the fields. In the evening, they sit in the restaurant with the townspeople engaging in whatever conversation arises. The late afternoon glow spreads across the parking lot outside. Greg feels nervous tension come over him as he looks through the glass to the ending day outside. The people make no move to finish their evening and relocate to a more secure location. It feels odd to be sitting in such an indefensible place with the time of the night runners quickly descending. The anxiety building inside is almost suffocating. He notices the other team members apprehensively glancing outside. The later the day gets, the more their glances are directed to the windows and farther back in the building. Yet, the din of conversation and laughter inside never changes.

It’s at this point that Greg fully realizes the stress of what they’ve all been through and continue to carry on a day-to-day basis. Night and darkness will always be a source of fear for as long as he walks this earth — at least when outside of the compound. He recognizes the comfortable feeling the residents here have. They have the same back at Cabela’s, but an underlying current of tension doesn’t allow them the same comfort these people seem to have. He wonders if they will ever be able to achieve something like this and envies these people their ability to relax.

Night closes in. The shrieks Greg has become accustomed to when the darkness falls near population centers don’t materialize. That doesn’t ease his anxiety though. Eventually, the people of the town begin departing for home. The normalcy of what used to be everyday life has now become the unreal nature…something that doesn’t seem right anymore.

After the restaurant has almost emptied, Greg and his team bid their farewells. James has set them up in several rooms in the hotel. Although still anxious about the nighttime and night runners, Greg asks for rooms on the lower floor. That is so they can make a quick exit to the Stryker. The atmosphere with the survivors is relaxed, but he sets a watch nonetheless. Those on watch will stay in the Stryker. He trusts the folks they’ve come into contact with but, with the world the way it is, that trust only extends so far. He noted that James set them up in the hotel rather than inviting them into their homes. James is only extending his trust so far as well, and Greg is sure that James has set someone to watch them. It’s possible that James feels like the Stryker is a two-sided coin. On one side, having it parked on the northern end, where they have been harassed previously by bandits, is a security to the town but, on the other side, it also represents a threat to the community.

Greg takes the first watch with another team member. Looking over the dark countryside, he reflects on the world. It’s not really that much different than what he’s been accustomed. His parents were killed when he was young, and he was sent to his grandmother to be raised. Life was as normal as any other child. They weren’t rich but his grandmother worked to provide for him. Not having the money to go to college, he was able to get an Army scholarship and rode that through his four years at the university. He graduated with his degree and an Army commission. After that, he opted for the Ranger path and has been deployed for the most part since his training. He’s used to being away from home and surrounded by enemies so this new world he finds himself in isn’t entirely different. The only change is that the enemy is on his home soil. And those that he protects have been significantly reduced in numbers.

Looking over the darkened town, he’s glad to know that some have a greater chance of seeing this through. It gives hope that they’ll find the soldiers’ families and, on a larger scale, for the continued existence of humankind. The people in this town are thinking in the long-term and seem to have it handled providing marauders don’t get to them. As far as bandits go, they won’t last too long in this world because of their mentality. Their take-what-you-can-when-you-want attitude is a very short-term way of thinking and that’s how long they usually last: short-term.

There’s a peace here that Greg can’t quite get secure with. He’s become used to that underlying tension. That’s not a bad thing, but it can’t be sustained. He’ll have to talk with Jack when he sees him next. At the very least, these people have given him something to strive for and the knowledge that it can be done.

Dawn arrives without a single scream to wake him. He folded into the comfort of the sheets and fell instantly asleep following his watch. Feeling like he could sleep the entire day away, he rises and performs his ablutions. Walking into the parking lot with the sun having just crested the eastern horizon, the metal hull of the Stryker is bathed in the early morning rays. After the comfort of the bed, he’s loathe to climb back into the cramped quarters which will more than likely be their only home for some time to come.

James pulls in with his pickup shortly thereafter and greets Greg and his team. Off in the distance, Greg hears other vehicles driving through the streets of the city. The town had a day off with their arrival but is now back at whatever tasks they have. Greg is eager to be off but will miss this place. He won’t forget the peaceful feeling but doubts he will ever see these people again. It’s like those at Mountain Home. To the people he meets, he and the team are just a quick interruption in their quest for survival — something that will be told in stories around the table for a couple of weeks and then forgotten.

He and James exchange some small talk and they are soon on their way. They follow the truck through the northern gate and turn left onto a dirt road. They turn again and come to a narrow dirt causeway between two sloughs. The sloughs give way to swampy areas that would be next to impossible to cross with a motorized vehicle. James negotiates an almost invisible pathway through. They wind this way and that until arriving at the river. Sand and stunted trees line the banks. James guides them to a narrow part of the river and they ford. Staying near a hill, they come across another dirt road. Following it, they soon intersect the highway north of the fallen bridges. James pulls to halt on the side of the road. Greg has the Stryker pull behind and the two meet on the grit-covered shoulder.

“Thank you for everything,” Greg says as the two exchange handshakes.

“It’s our pleasure. Good luck to you, captain,” James says.

“And to you, James.”

There’s nothing left to be said, so Greg climbs aboard the armored vehicle. He has the driver pull onto the road and, with a wave to James, they head north. Greg glances back to watch James diminish as they motor down the road. James climbs into his truck, backs up, and, entering the dirt track, disappears from view. Not far to the north, the road bends, turning east toward Pueblo.

If anything, the terrain is even more remote and barren upon leaving Lamar. They continue their slow travel and it’s a couple of hours before they come across their first town. Greg holds to his plan and circumvents the city. He’s ever-watchful for the bandits James cautioned them about. They aren’t impervious in the Stryker, and he is mindful that it wouldn’t take much in today’s world for a group to raid a military base and come up with hardware that could quickly take them apart. At their current rate of travel, Greg hopes to arrive at their destination by mid-afternoon. This assumes they can continue to circumvent the larger towns and make it safely through Pueblo and Colorado Springs.

The highway continues to parallel the river course. Greg finds a gas station in the small town of Manzanola which has above-ground fuel tanks. With the team set out in a small perimeter, they top off the Stryker’s tanks. Well into their day, they haven’t run across a single sign of survivors. It makes Greg think that the town of Lamar and finding others in the nearby communities was either a fluke, or anyone in the towns they’ve come across since has ran afoul of the bandits. Either way, each place has proven to be a ghost town. With little food sources nearby — cattle or fertile hunting grounds — he doubts any night runners have survived in this remoteness either.

Each road sign they pass shows the mileage to Pueblo counting down. At times, the opposite lane of the two-lane highway gives the impression of vehicle tracks — side by side sections of pavement can be clearly seen. The traces appear to be the width of autos rather than armored vehicles which brings some relief to Greg. He isn’t sure of the observations as it could be just a trick of the wind, but he isn’t taking any chances. He slows and they methodically survey the area ahead before proceeding on. This takes more time, but Greg doesn’t want to gamble.

Housing developments and small industrial parks appear ahead as they near the outskirts of Pueblo. At the very edge of the metropolis, a highway branches off which skirts the outer edges of the city. The Stryker turns onto this new highway and they are soon in barren lands once again. Before long, residential neighborhoods appear to the left toward the urban sprawl, with the large expanse of Colorado State University to the right. As they proceed, there are an increased number of bare spots in the pavement.

Just past the university, Greg has the vehicle turn onto a highway that parallels the interstate connecting Pueblo and Colorado Springs. The increase in the vehicle track sightings makes him nervous, especially with the report from James that the bandits came from this direction. With Fort Carson’s proximity and the large armored presence there, he wants to proceed with all the caution at their disposal. The thought of abandoning this leg of their mission doesn’t enter his mind, but he won’t rush pell-mell into it either. The protection and armament of the Stryker suddenly seems very limited compared with what they could come across.

They leave Pueblo behind in the mid-afternoon. A wide river bottom separates them from an interstate a klick to the west. The river and its surroundings will make it difficult for anyone on the other side to intercept them. The route they have chosen will join with the interstate just south of Colorado Springs.

Sporadic farm houses disappear entirely as they proceed north. Escarpments hide the interstate for miles at a time. The eastern hillsides, showing deep ravines from runoffs, are cast in shadow as the sun pushes its way west across the blue sky. They need to be on the other side of the river in order to get to Manitou Springs, so it’s imperative that they find a bridge or some other means to cross. Going through Colorado Springs isn’t an option; an urban environment can become a deadly place.

There isn’t a single bridge to be found along the way and Greg doesn’t want to risk foundering the Stryker while fording across sandy beaches he sees next to the river. They continue until sporadic farm houses give way to the beginnings of a residential neighborhood. He’s left with a decision. They can go through the urban area to find a bridge to cross, they can ford the river, or they can abandon the mission altogether. With the last not being an option and, as he doesn’t want to enter into the large community ahead, he has the vehicle strike west.

Traversing an empty field, they come to the river. It’s not wide at this point, and they cross a small strip of sand before plunging in. The river is initially deep, rising to the hull itself, but shallows as they progress across. On the far side, the Stryker powers up a low ridge of rock. The engine whines louder and the nose of the Stryker rises into the air before crashing back down with a jolt. To one side, hidden in a copse of trees, old washing machines, toilets, and other discarded sundries are piled.

Greg has them continue west and across the interstate where it becomes obvious that vehicles have passed recently. Their passage has cleared a path on both sides of the freeway. The Stryker climbs and descends the small embankments of the highway. In a field on the far side, with the outskirts of the city in the distance to their right, Greg has two teammates disembark to erase the marks of their passage as best as they can. He covers them with the .50 cal, but they are able to complete their task unhindered.

They continue striking west and enter the barren landscape of the southern end of Fort Carson. Greg has slowed the vehicle to a crawl in order to minimize any dust trail. It’s evident there are survivors of some sort around and he doesn’t want to announce their arrival.

The area is covered with small ravines, ridgelines, and countless dirt tracks branching off the dirt road they are following. The trails they leave behind are easy to spot and follow but, from all indications, no one has made it out this way in some time.

The hills in the near distance to the west rise sharply off the plain, their sides dotted with evergreens and patches of green shrubs. Any natural greenery remains green and those plants that required water to be brought by humankind have browned for lack of nourishment. The land is returning to its natural state.

Passing by an isolated firing range, they come to a two-laned highway — The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Highway. This road runs along the base of the hills for a short distance before heading into the center of Colorado Springs. Greg follows this thoroughfare until they are immediately adjacent to Fort Carson. At this juncture, the hills and the highway say farewell to each other and Greg turns into several residential developments on the very fringe of the city. The houses themselves run right up to hills rising off the upper plateau of Colorado. It’s the best they can do without traversing into the mountains.

Working their way through the twists and turns of the neighborhoods, and sticking to the ones nearest the hills, they eventually clear the urban areas. At an intersection where Gold Camp Road and High Road come together, Greg halts the team to figure out their best route.

“Sir, I know this area,” one of the soldiers says. “Growing up here, I ran and hiked most of the trails in the area.”

He is the one whose family they are currently searching for.

“Okay. What do you recommend?” Greg asks, moving away from the map to make room.

“This road…Gold Camp Road…continues across the intersection. It intersects a trail that the Stryker can negotiate. I think the trail’s name is Lion Trail, but I can’t be positive about that. There’s a ridge that several trails parallel and we can follow that to the highway between the two springs,” the soldier answers. Greg looks on in confusion.

“That’s Colorado Springs and Manitou Springs,” the soldier clarifies.

“And that’ll keep us hidden?”

“Yes, sir. They’re dirt so we’d have to keep our speed down, but there’s no one there, especially if we take the west side. The ridge will block us from view to the east, and there are several other smaller ridges that will block us from the west. It’s the best way I know.”

“Alright, you stay here with me and guide the turns. Show me where we need to go and the best way to get there,” Greg says.

The soldier points to a small neighborhood that extends partway into a valley on the southwestern side of Manitou Springs.

Of course it would be on the other side of the town, Greg thinks.

As if reading his mind, the soldier replies, “Not to worry, sir. I can get us there easily enough.”

“Not to seem crass, but how many are we looking for? Greg asks.

It’s been one of the things on his mind since they began. If they do find loved ones intact, how are they going to transport them? Especially if they find very many of them. His plan was to find other vehicles which they can use, and he supposes that will have to do. It may not be easy finding ones they can get started, since the batteries will have drained long ago, but he’ll deal with that when he comes to it.

“Well, sir, there’s my younger sister and brother and my mom. My dad moved to New York a while ago,” the soldier answers.

“I’m sorry,” Greg says, referring to the fact that the young man’s dad is out of reach.

“Not to worry, sir. We didn’t exactly get along.”

Guided by the soldier, they find the trail and proceed up a series of switchbacks as they climb the lone, north-south ridge. Greg opts to travel on the western side as the soldier indicated it will allow for them to be better hidden. That of course means they won’t be able to see trouble coming either.

They cross over the long ridgeline and descend along more switchbacks. Meeting up with another trail which leads through a deep ravine, they continue their northbound travel to the freeway ahead. Small trail signs along the way indicate they are proceeding along the Red Rock Canyon Trail. The path is at the base of a steep hill. In places, Greg can see the rocky top of the larger ridge which the soldier identifies as Hogback Ridge. The path is narrow and the vehicle’s wheels roll on either side, flattening scrub brush that grows alongside. Looking behind, Greg is satisfied with their speed as dust rises no higher than the top of the Stryker.

The trail ends at an empty dirt parking lot. Ahead, Greg can make out the east-west line of the highway they’ve been striving to reach. So far, they have been lucky and haven’t encountered anyone. The hogback ridge ends abruptly at the edge of the freeway. He stops and pulls out his binoculars.

Across the road, he makes out the side of a large department store. Trees adjacent the highway block any further view of the area, but he gets the impression that a residential neighborhood lies beyond the foliage. The two cities have almost grown together.

He focuses his view on something on the highway itself. He can’t make it out from his vantage point, but it doesn’t look right — it’s not part of the road system. It gives the appearance of a road block with stakes pointing outward. It almost looks like triangular anti-armor stakes.

That doesn’t bode well, he thinks, trying to ascertain exactly what they truly are. If there are anti-armor stakes, that means there’s armor in the area. And, obstacles like that are meaningless without supporting arms to take advantage of the blockage.

He takes a long sweep of the surrounding terrain looking for any sign of dug-in emplacements or anything to indicate that someone is lying in wait. He doesn’t see or hear anything other than the whine of the Stryker idling and a few birds circling. He orders the Stryker to advance slowly. As he draws nearer, he sees that he was totally wrong about the items in the road.

It’s a series of crosses placed in a semi-circle next to the multi-lane freeway. They are constructed of heavy timber and driven into the ground. The shadows from each cross stretch long to the east. It’s taken them almost all day to reach this point. Greg removes the field glasses and rubs his eyes, trying to erase the tired and gritty feeling in them. He’s strained to focus on objects for most of the day and he’s beginning to tire. Looking again, he turns the knob to sharpen the focus. The scene that jumps into view is horrifying.

In the magnified view, Greg sees that someone is tied or otherwise attached to one of the crosses. The figure hangs limply with its head down, chin almost touching the chest. Long black hair drapes lifelessly down and obscures any features. A light-colored shirt over jeans appears heavily stained. The person isn’t moving and, to all appearances, doesn’t appear to be alive.

Suspecting a trap, Greg methodically scans the terrain, but he still can’t see anything that might indicate someone else is around. All things human-made give tell-tale indications, no matter how slight. It’s just a matter of looking for those things that seem slightly out of place or the color seems wrong. He scans the area with thermal-imaging but sees nothing except the figure on the cross. The fact that they show up on thermals indicates that they are still alive.

Greg informs the team of what he sees and has the Stryker slow its advance. When they are about to emerge from the ravine and into the open, Greg has the team disembark. Although they will be slower and more exposed, the team afoot will create a lower profile. The Stryker will remain at the edge of the deep gully and provide support should they need it. He keeps two at the Stryker and takes five with him.

They advance across the open ground, their boots stirring up dust with each step across the rock and dirt. The lowering sun casts their dark outlines across the terrain, their shadows undulating as they cross rocks and small hillocks. Birds circle high overhead searching for food. Greg imagines the roar that rush hour traffic along the highway must have created at one time. Today, the quiet is pervasive. He can hear the crunch of their boots as they cross the sandy soil…hear the breathing of the nearest teammate behind him.

With caution, carrying his carbine at the ready, Greg walks ever closer to the figure on the cross. He hears the low whine of the Stryker behind as it shifts into a better position from which to cover them. At the sound, the figure on the cross ahead lifts its head a touch and tilts it in their direction. It then drops back to stare downward. The brief look doesn’t give an indication if it is male or female, but with the long hair, he’s guessing it’s a woman.

A rank scent begins to suffuse the area as he closes in on the figure — the smell of something rotten. Greg has run across this smell a number of times in the past. His wariness increases.

Greg crosses a low, barb-wire fence and startles a flock of crows that were settled near the crosses. They take flight with the sound of flapping wings and cries of disdain. Shaken loose from the sudden surge, several black feathers float gently to earth. Greg has one soldier follow him across the fence and tells the others to remain and provide cover.

Pausing to study the area before proceeding, Greg notes a significant amount of litter strewn around the crosses. Looking closer, he realizes that it isn’t litter at all, but rather pieces of darkly stained clothing. With the rank odor and the clothing, he knows that something very wrong has happened here. The smell of rotten meat, crows feasting, and articles of clothing scattered about. And that’s aside from some woman tied to a cross. From several meters away, he sees that what he took to be crosses constructed of dark wood is actually lighter colored wood that’s been deeply stained, the stain darkening closer to the ground.

“Oh. My. God…Diane?” the soldier beside him calls loudly.

The figure slowly looks up at the sound of the voice. With the lifting of the head, Greg makes out the features of a battered young woman. She squints as if trying to peer through a fog.

“Ky…” the woman begins and tries to swallow to gain some moisture for words. “Kyle,” she says through lips that have split from their swelling. “Is that really you?” She gives a dry cough from the effort of speech and her head droops again as if the energy required to hold it up is too much.

“Sir…sir, that’s my sister,” he says, starting forward.

Greg swings his arm to the side, catching the soldier across the chest to halt him.

“We don’t know what’s going on here. It could a trap,” Greg says, eyeing the surrounding environment.

“Sir, she needs help,” the soldier implores.

“I’m aware of that, but she’ll live a moment longer,” Greg counters.

The soldier subsides, but his body language carries his anxiety. Greg once again scans the landscape. They are all in the open, which isn’t the most enviable position. They are far away from any help and would be outnumbered in almost any situation. The horror of the scene in front of him shocks Greg to his very core. He stands for more than a few moments, waiting for something to happen. Nothing does.

“Okay, cut her down and give her some water,” Greg says “But then we’re moving her back to the vehicle, whether she can walk or not, and getting out of here.”

Greg wants nothing more than to leave this horrific scene. The smell is a physical presence that seems to blur anything observed through it. He calls up another teammate to help. As the two soldiers cut the woman’s ties, Greg holds his hand over his mouth and nose.

Not wanting to, but driven by a perverse desire, he looks over the immediate area closer. Shredded clothing, all covered by differing depths of dirt, lie scattered throughout. A large number of bones are entwined with the clothing, some with dried sinew attached and others looking fresh. Mutilated bodies lie everywhere he looks, and the odor almost becomes too much to bear.

The ground between the crosses has been unable to soak in all of the blood spilled and is darkly stained. Greg feels like he is stepping into a sandy tar pit. With each step, he feels the mush under his boots and globules of blood-saturated sand sticks to his soles. Gagging at the sight, he fights down an urge to flee — just get away from this place of sick horror. The drone from hundreds of flies fills the putrid air. From the site, a trail of blood, clothing, and remnants of bodies stretch to the east.

This is obviously the work of night runners, Greg thinks, looking over the dismembered forms that used to be living people, and some very sick people.

The soldiers struggle with the stench and the sight of mutilated bodies. One bends over to throw up, adding to the mess. But they persevere and work at the bonds holding the woman. As her bonds are cut, the woman sags into the arms of her brother. He knows he doesn’t need to hear the woman’s story. The bodies tell their own story of what is going on and the deliberate nature of which these people were tied for the night runners to feed on. It doesn’t sit at all well with him.

He can imagine the terror the victims must have felt being tied in the open with the sun sinking below the mountains to the west. The intense fear at hearing the first of the shrieks call out into the night. Panic filling their souls at the pad of running footsteps as the night runners made their way closer. The sheer agony of being ripped apart.

What kind of person can subject people to this kind of agony?

The soldier holds his sister upright and feeds her a touch of water from his canteen. He then moistens a towel and begins cleaning off her face.

“There’s enough time for that later, soldier. We need to get the fuck out of here. Carry her,” Greg orders, his voice rough with emotion.

Without replying, the soldier hands his M-4 to his teammate and lifts his sister in his arms. Her face is turned up to the blue sky and her grungy raven hair hangs in matted strings. Part of the gruffness directed at the soldier is his anger and shock at what has been happening. They leave the place of horror and begin heading back to the Stryker.

As they depart, the stench dissipates and Greg feels his mind clear. He directs the three other soldiers to form around Kyle as he carries his sister. Glancing over, Greg sees Kyle look upon his sister with a mixed expression of warmth and fear. Diane looks up from time to time and tries to give a smile, but her swollen lips make it look like a grimace. Exhausted from her ordeal, her body hangs limply in the arms of her brother.

Upon reaching the vehicle, Kyle makes Diane as comfortable as he can. Sitting on the bench seat, she slumps against the back rest. Kyle gives her sips of water and she seems to draw strength with each sip. Wetting a towel again, he commences with cleaning her face and hands. Chipped fingernails, bruises on her face, and her split lips attest to her ordeal.

The lowering sun casts the ravine in shadow. The mountains to the west silhouette themselves across the landscape. Shadows and darkness come early near the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains. The night runners enjoy longer periods of their nocturnal activity here. With abundant food sources, aside from those tied to the crosses, and the long nights of hunting, it’s amazing that anyone is left alive.

Greg has the Stryker retrace its steps back up the valley as far as they can go. The terrain rises into the hills and he follows the ravine upwards, wanting to get as far away from the city as they can. They make their way into the hills until the steep slopes and trees bar their way. He wishes he could build a fire to bathe them all in smoke so their odor won’t carry. The cool air of the evening will carry their scent down the narrow ravine and give them away to any night runner pack that happens to come across it. Within the deep shadows filling the high valley, he takes one of the fuel drums and pours some of their precious diesel across the gully in front of them. He hopes that the smell of the fuel will hide their odor.

In the failing light, the soldiers open packets of food and wolf them down. It’s their last chance to be out before nightfall and then it will be all elbows and arms as they try to find some comfort within the cramped Stryker. Kyle sits inside with his sister, feeding her portions of a meal. Those outside feel the cool air rushing down from the mountains above. Birds call from the surrounding trees, singing their farewell to the sun. Many swoop in the twilight to catch a last meal before retiring. It’s a contrasting scene of peacefulness compared to what they just witnessed.

An image from the ghastly scene on the highway below surfaces, but Greg pushes it down. He has a good idea about what is going on, but not the reasoning — as if that really matters. There’s no valid reason for someone to be doing that — purposely staking others out for night runners to feast on. It doesn’t really matter what that person did. The number of bodies alludes to the fact that it’s not done for punishment. Those are definitely sacrifices. Not wanting to relive the memory and have sick images flood his mind, he shuts down his train of thought along those lines.

Greg hears a cricket begin chirping somewhere higher up in the ravine. He remembers an old trick his grandmother taught him. To pass the time, he looks at his watch, marks the second hand, and begins counting the chirps. The second hand passes the fourteen second mark as he counts his fifteenth chirp. He adds forty to the count.

Fifty five degrees out. For all the good that does, he thinks, wondering who came up with that formula. Someone had a lot of time on their hands.

Entering the Stryker and sealing it up for the night, Greg sees that Diane looks stronger. Her eyes still betray weariness, but she doesn’t need the back rest for support. Kyle puts away his meal and tenderly wipes a spot of food away from Diane’s mouth. Nourishment has helped her recover a more of her strength. Between long pauses and sips of water, Diane tells some of her story. She has difficulties speaking at times, and she has a hard time enunciating some of her words, but she struggles through it.

She, her mom, and her younger brother held up in their home as long as they could. Her mom was a strong believer in keeping a pantry full of her canning endeavors, so they were able to eat for some time. Their well supplied water. Living in the hills outside of the city limited any run-ins with the creatures who roamed the night. They could hear the shrieks at night and huddled the evening away in their basement. During this time, they met only one other person who they invited to stay with them. The man told them of the terrors that roamed the night and supplied them with information about what happened.

Eventually, they were forced to forage for supplies. At first they raided nearby houses, but then had to venture into town. It was during one of these outings that they ran into trouble. A group of men found them and took them captive. They remained in captivity for some time with other prisoners. Most days, one of the guards would select someone and they would disappear. Others were brought in periodically to replace those taken. On occasion, their captors would take and beat one of them in front of the main group. A man would orate for a while and then the beatings would start.

“Did they… did they…?” Kyle asks, hesitantly.

“No, they never violated me in that way,” Diane answers.

“Where did they take you?” Kyle asks.

“To the cave… Kyle, they still have Chris there,” Diane answers.

“And mom?” Kyle asks, fearful of the answer.

Diane shakes her head and begins sobbing.

Tears fill Kyle’s eyes. He wipes them away and holds his sister carefully to his chest, caressing her head. “Shhh…Shhh, sis…it’ll be alright. You’re safe and we’ll get Chris.”

Kyle looks to Greg for affirmation of his statement. Greg nods, “If there’s any way we can get him, we’ll do so.”

Diane’s sobbing comes to an end and she pulls out of Kyle’s embrace, wincing from her injuries.

“Diane, my name is Greg. I know it’s difficult, but I need to ask you some questions if we’re to get your brother.”

She takes a deep breath to steady herself and looks into Greg’s eyes. “If I can. Were you…are you Kyle’s commander?”

“That’s not really an easy question to answer so, for the sake of simplicity, let’s just say yes.”

She nods, “Are you really going to get Chris?”

“If it’s within our means to do so, we will. I make no promises, though. The most I can say at the moment is that we’ll try if it’s possible. To be perfectly honest, that will depend on your answers.”

“I’ll answer as best as I can,” Diane replies, still struggling to speak.

“First of all, where is this cave?”

“It’s the Cave of Winds. On the other side of the city,” Diane answers.

“I know it well,” Kyle chimes in.

“Okay, we’ll talk about those details later. How many men are in this group?”

“I don’t know…a lot,” Diane responds.

“By a lot, do you mean ten? Or forty?”

“I don’t really know how many. When I was taken in front of the group and beaten, there were a lot in the cavern. I’d say…thirty…forty…I really don’t know.”

“How many were guarding you at any given time?”

“I think there were four. We were held near the Canopy Hall…I think. I’ve only been in the caves a few times, but I think that’s right,” Diane says.

Greg looks to Kyle to see if he knows of this place; Kyle nods his affirmative.

“The man that was with you, what happened to him?” Greg asks.

“He was taken away shortly after we were captured. I don’t know what happened to him. Well…before today that is,” Diane answers.

“And they take someone every day?”

“As near as I can tell. It’s hard to know night from day down there. I don’t know how much time passes between.”

“How many other prisoners are there?”

“That varies from day to day, but I think there are only about six right now. At least that was how many were there when they took me and tied me up,” Diane replies.

“How were you held?”

“There are chains mounted on the walls. They keep us there.”

“I know this is difficult, and I’m sorry to grill you like this, but do you know where the men stay at night,”

“No. I’m sorry. I heard voices from farther into the caverns, but I really don’t know,” Diane states.

“Sorry to bring up a horrible memory, but you mentioned a man orated when you were taken and…treated badly. What did he say?” Greg asks.

“I don’t know. I was so frightened that I really didn’t hear him. I only remember something about sacrifice and appeasing demons…or something like that.”

“I see. How many men brought you to be tied up?”

“Six I think…it could have been four or five. I’m sorry, I was terrified and didn’t count. I’m sorry I’m not much help.”

“You’ve been great help. You get some rest and we’ll see what we see in the morning,” Greg says.

Kyle comforts his sister and, as night sets fully in, all noise in the Stryker ceases.

Greg works his way through a sea of legs to the front. He sits on the hard floor looking at a map of the area with a red-lensed flashlight. The map is unseen though as he wrestles with his thoughts. It’s the usual dilemma of team safety versus putting them in danger to rescue others. If it were easy, then the answer would be as well. But there are forty armed men situated across the valley. They have but seven; and only five if he keeps two with the Stryker. They have rescued one family member which is more than he thought they would find. Should they count this a victory and move on? In his mind, the right thing to do would be to attempt to rescue those being held, but the right thing is also to protect the team.

Delving further, he ponders whether they should put an end to this abomination or just rescue the hostages. Taking out forty men would be difficult unless they could get them in the open and unleash the firepower of the Stryker upon them. If they just rescued the prisoners, the group would merely branch out and capture others. The atrocity would continue. Wracking his mind for the “right” answer doesn’t bring any clarity. He knows what he’d like to do but doesn’t know if their capabilities can meet that desire.

In his years of service, he’s encountered these situations before, but not to this degree. They had orders and they saw them through. Sure he protected the team as best he could, but the mission had priority. If a situation became untenable, he radioed his command and they made the decision to pull out or continue. He now has an inkling of what Jack goes through. Delaying an answer, he makes a deal with himself to see the situation firsthand before making a final decision.

Greg thinks of their amazing timing. One day on either side and they wouldn’t have been able to help Kyle’s sister. If they didn’t leave the base when they did, they would have completely missed finding her. If they did arrive a day earlier, there’s a chance they would never have known about the captives. They might have checked out Kyle’s house and, finding no one, departed without knowing the fates of Kyle’s brother and sister. If they arrived a day later, stayed on another day with the people of Lamar, well…that would have be one day too late.

Morning arises without interference from the predators of the night. The soldiers stir from the uncomfortable positions and, after a quick check around, disembark from the locker room atmosphere within. The fresh air after a night in the Stryker is invigorating. The morning promises another day of blue skies. A flock of birds crosses the small canyon as their day has begun as well. Diane looks moderately refreshed and the bruises on her face are beginning to fade, turning yellow on the edges. There is an underlying tension with the soldiers knowing that they may see action before the day is out.

Greg calls Kyle over. “Where can we get the best view of this place?”

They pour over the map and Kyle outlines several trails that will take them through the hills south of town and put them directly on a ridge overlooking the city and the vast network of caves on the far side.

After a quick meal, they start forward. Kyle’s selections of trails are narrow, but they accommodate the bulk of the Stryker. The ridgelines keep the team from view and, after a very roundabout foray, they find themselves on a dirt road that climbs the spine of one of the larger ridges. Parking the Stryker below the crest, Greg and Kyle walk the remaining distance to the top, careful not to silhouette themselves.

A lone house sits at the very top to their right. Keeping out of view of the house, the two go prone next to the road. They have a vista-like view of the city below and the hills across from them. Kyle points out the cave location almost directly north of them. Looking through his field glasses, Greg sees a paved road winding its way up the ridge and terminating at a collection of buildings a half mile from the highway. The parking lot serving the facility is filled with a collection of new pickup trucks and Hummers. He continues looking over the area for a long period of time with ideas racing through his head — discarding all of them for one reason or another.

“Well, they’ve picked their place well. Assuming they are in those buildings, there’s no way we can approach without being seen long before we get there,” Greg says.

“Sir. Diane said they’re in the cave. At least the captives and some of the men. I know an entrance to the cave system that we can get to from that valley to the right. It enters the caves near the main entrance, but not many know of it,” Kyle comments.

“Those buildings have a view of that entire ravine. How can we get to it without being seen? I’m not all that interested in heading in at night for obvious reasons,” Greg states.

“From the other side, sir. See that light patch across the ravine on the next ridge over?” Kyle asks. “That’s a quarry and, although it’s a steep route down, it’s doable. We could park the Stryker and head in from there. They won’t be able to see us that way,” Kyle responds.

“Okay. So how do we get from here to the quarry without announcing our arrival?’

“We can cross the highway near the crosses and I know paths that will take us there. It’s a long ways around, but I can get us there without having to go through any housing areas. Plus, the ridgelines will keep us out of view. Again, we’d have to go slow to keep the dust down, but it can be done. We would be coming up on the other side of the adjacent ridge, which will block our noise. They won’t hear us.”

“How long will that take?” Greg asks.

He feels his decision is being guided. As long as there is a possibility of them being able to keep the danger levels to a minimum and get in undetected, he’ll take the chance.

“Unfortunately, with the speed we’ll have to go…most of the day, sir.”

“Point out these paths,” Greg commands.

As Kyle points and communicates the twists and turns, Greg follows with his binoculars. To all appearances, it looks to be almost a twenty klick drive only to position themselves less than a mile across from the caves, but it’s needed to get there unobserved.

“What can we expect inside?” Greg asks, making several mental calculations.

“For one, it’s cold…freezing as a matter of fact…and, of course, dark. A lot of the caves are narrow where they transition into larger caverns. Only one or two can pass abreast. The halls and caverns widen tremendously. Sound carries far. With NVGs, you can see fairly well except where the caves turn or ascend or descend. Once we get inside, we’ll reach the main entrance very shortly. Then the path will turn to the right and proceed to the Canopy Hall. Diane said they were being kept off to the side near that. I have an idea where that may be…though I don’t know for sure,” Kyle answers.”

“Any obstacles in the pathways?”

“Not really. There are a few ice-covered stalactites, but they don’t come down very far.”

Looking across the way at the numerous vehicles in the parking lot, Greg is worried about being caught away from the protection of their armor. Figures emerge from the nearest building and walk to several trucks. From this distance, he can’t make out their facial features, but they seem relaxed and jovial. The pickups depart and slowly wind their way down the road. Hitting the freeway, they turn east. Greg loses sight of them as they pass by the crosses and vanish behind Hogback Ridge.

Soon others materialize and they too drive away to the east. No one slows or stops at the crosses for which he’s thankful. Should they take a closer look, they’d notice that the ropes from their latest victim were cut.

That’s one of those little mistakes from begin tired that can cost the mission, he thinks. We’ll have to rectify that before we cross. If they find those cut ropes, they’ll know someone is around.

With a heavy sigh, Greg makes up his mind. They’ll go. “Okay, if we’re going to do this, we’d better get started.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kyle says.

The day passes from morning, to noon, to early afternoon by the time they make it to the crosses next to highway. Strands of cut rope lie on the ground next to the cross Diane was tied to. Kyle disembarks quickly and retrieves the line. He stays behind while the Stryker traverses the freeway to clean up their tracks. With a glance left and right, he fades into the shrubs and rejoins his team.

Being more than a mile above sea level, the land is arid. This slows their travel over the dirt-covered roads, but they have a few hours before nightfall. Scattered housing follows them for a few blocks and then they transition back into the barren, rough terrain. Their route meanders through the hilly environment. After an hour of travel, they double back down another road, each turn of the large wheels carrying them closer to their destination.

The soldiers are quiet as tension builds within. Each is lost in their thoughts as they contemplate what is ahead. They are going into a place where possibly forty armed men are encamped in order to rescue hostages. They don’t know the layout or have a plan. Details are severely lacking. That’s not because the information isn’t being shared, it’s because no one knows. It’s one of those ‘play it by ear’ missions. Not a one doubts the operation, but their thoughts are turned towards their being able to survive it.

They follow the outline of the hills coming back almost to the highway before intersecting another road that travels up a ravine one canyon over from the caves. Kyle points out a dirt road leaving the pavement that travels along a large ridge. To one side of the path is a steep drop to the bottom of the ravine. The other ascends sharply, but the road was built to accommodate heavy machinery, so the Stryker manages — barely.

The large quarry they enter has almost taken off the entire top of the ridgeline. However, as fortune would have it, there is a still part of the ridge between them and the caves. Greg parks the Stryker in the lee of this remaining ridgeline.

With Kyle, he scales the bluff to the side and looks over the valley separating them from the caves. A quarter of a mile is all that separates the two ridge tops. The sun is still above the tops of the mountains to the west, but it is sinking fast.

“There,” Kyle points to an opening near the top of the ridgeline near the buildings.

Greg has a difficult time finding the opening as the far hill lies in shadow due to the westering sun. With help, he finally makes out the entrance. He was looking for a cave in the cliff face instead of a sink hole. The cliffs below and on the other side are almost vertical, but he trusts Kyle’s knowledge that they can navigate their way. He hasn’t led them astray so far.

“So we have to descend into that hole? Is there a path leading down?” Greg asks.

“We’ll need some rope since we’ll have to rappel in, sir. It’s about fifty feet down and then we have to scale a wall about thirty feet up,” Kyle explains.

“I wish you would have told me this before we arrived,” Greg says.

“Would you have come, sir?” Kyle asks.

Greg just stares back. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer to that question.

“And how do we get back out? How do we get the hostages out? We can’t very well expect them to climb a rope fifty feet up. Hell, I don’t know if I can,” Greg states.

“I was thinking we could go out the front. If it’s during the day, perhaps most of them will be gone,” Kyle responds.

“That’s not going to work. There are far too many variables that could leave us vulnerable. I guess we can knot the rope, climb out, and use a Swiss seat to haul the others up. The hostages have to be conscious. Understand if we go in, that’s a hard and fast rule. No exceptions. If they can’t hold onto the rope, we’ll have to leave them,” Greg states.

“Understood, sir.”

Greg doesn’t like having to lay it down like that, but he feels like his ass is hanging out in the breeze on this one. He looks over the area and ponders the situation. He runs variables through his mind to see if he will be able to counter them. The advantage is the narrowness of most of the cave system. The only problem he can foresee is if they encounter a large group and have to fight their way out. The fifty foot climb is the weak link in it all. Running scenarios in his head, he reaches a decision.

“Tomorrow morning, we leave at first light,” Greg says, backing out of his position.

As the two make their way to the vehicle, one thought keeps surfacing. It worries Greg and eats at his conscience. If these people truly chain someone up to the crosses daily, that means that someone is tied up at this very moment. Sometime during their crossing the road and traveling across the back country, vehicles left the establishment and made their way down, tied someone up, and left. Some poor soul is right now tied up and terrified of the coming night.

The crosses are three miles away and they could do the trip on foot in two hours under normal conditions. These are far from normal conditions. Greg can either leave the person out there, or risk their presence being known and try to rescue them. ‘Sacrifice the one for many’ keeps popping up in his mind but, if he were honest, that doesn’t always hold true. Yes, if there were a wounded soldier in front of the lines being used as bait, he would be more inclined to believe that, but even then, he knows he would try to save that soldier.

Inside the Stryker, he asks Kyle, “If we take the most direct route to the highway, will we be seen by those on the adjacent hill?”

“No, sir. The freeway curves at the base of this ridgeline and the hill will protect us from sight,” Kyle answers. “Why?”

Greg shares his thoughts. As he reaches the conclusion, many shocked eyes stare back at him.

“Shit, I should have thought of that,” Kyle says.

“Okay, gents, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to sneak the vehicle back down and hide near the highway. When it’s about to fold into nighttime, when we’re sure that the others must have returned to their lair, we’re going to make a dash to the crosses. We can’t waste any time. I want to be back on this road by the time true night hits. We can survive a couple of night runner packs, but we don’t want to bring an entire horde upon us. The highway is mostly clear due to their constant coming and going, so hopefully they won’t see any tracks we might leave behind,” Greg briefs.

Turning to the driver, Greg says, “Once we hit that highway, you keep us on the clear sections.”

“Hooah, sir.”

They inch their way back down the dirt road. The sun’s progress toward the mountains is faster than their slow creep. They reach a hidden place next to the freeway with just a touch of sun showing above the tall peaks. The bluish-gray of twilight seeps over the area, washing color out of the environment. With a last bright gleaming flare, the sun vanishes behind the mountains.

“Go…go now!” Greg says.

With an increase in the low whine of its engine, the Stryker lurches forward and dives toward the road. They swing left and accelerate. It’s not an Indy car, but the armored vehicle picks up speed quickly. The lowering of the sun causes darkness to come quicker than Greg could have imagined. It’s a klick to the crosses and the team covers it in a minute and a half, but even then, it’s almost dark by the time they get there.

The Stryker lurches to a halt. The ramp is thrown down before the vehicle fully stops. It hits the ground with a clang and sparks fly off the road as the door is dragged a few feet. Feet pound down the ramp into the darkness, three of the team setting up a quick perimeter around the vehicle as two run over to the crosses. Nearby, the first shrieks fill the night air.

Greg looks through the thermals and sees the hot outline of figures racing their way. The night runners in the area know where to get a free meal every evening. The images on the screen grow larger with each passing second as they race down the roadway.

“Hurry it up out there,” Greg shouts. “Trouble’s on the way.”

Greg lines up the crosshair on the incoming figures. He doesn’t want to fire as the noise from the .50 cal will carry long distances through the thin air. Steps running up the rear ramp send tremors through the steel. The clang of the hatch closing and rasp of the handles as they are set are music to his ears.

“We’re clear, sir,” one of the soldier yells.

“Get us the fuck out of here,” Greg says to the driver as the first of the night runners pound on the steel hull.

“Copy that, sir.”

The vehicle heaves backwards. Once in motion, the driver floors it and they retreat with the whitish-yellow figures of night runners giving chase. The forms eventually grow smaller and seem to give up. The driver hits the brakes in order to turn them around as he can’t see to the rear of the vehicle. Keeping them on the road was a matter of looking at the road in front and hoping there weren’t any corners. A thump overhead tells of a night runner on top that has fallen from the sudden stop.

Greg pans the small gun turret around just in time to see a night runner get to its feet. It fills the screen and Greg depresses the trigger for a split second. A single round exits the barrel and catches the night runner in its midriff. The explosive force of the heavy caliber round rockets the night runner backward. Greg watches as it is hurtled from the top and drops from view.

That’s going to cause notice in the morning, Greg thinks, regarding the other group finding a dead night runner in the middle of the road.

Scanning the area, Greg doesn’t see any sign of the night runner getting up and running away. Nor is there any sight of the others. It seems all clear around them. The driver begins his turn.

“Driver, stop.” To the others, he says, “There’s a night runner out there that I shot off the top. We can’t have the others find it in the morning. Get out and pick up the body.”

The hatch drops once again. Moments later, two of the soldiers drag the carcass of a night runner aboard, dropping it in the middle of the floor. The round did a tremendous amount of damage, almost tearing the night runner in half. Blood covers its tattered clothing and exits its nostrils and mouth. Entrails leak from its torso. Diane eyes the pale figure once and vomits into the mess. A couple of the other soldiers turn pale as well. The stench of bowels and vomit permeates the Stryker.

Greg looks to Kyle and nods forward. Kyle gathers Diane and makes her look into his eyes. He then directs her forward where Greg settles her into a corner where at least the sight of the night runner is minimized. The smell, however, grows stronger until everyone is gagging.

“Move…now!” Greg commands the driver.

The motion causes blood to run down the narrow aisle. The stench becomes a physical presence making it hard to breathe. The Stryker reaches its exit point and they begin their slow climb into the hills once again. Greg halts them half way up the quarry road and has the night runner carcass tossed down into the ravine. Brandishing the few towels they have, the team cleans up the blood, feces, vomit, and a few pieces of the night runner left behind. After finishing, the smell is still there but much diminished.

It’s now that Greg looks at the poor soul the team rescued. Through the grunge covering him, Greg sees that it’s a young lad about twelve years old. He looks to Kyle asking if this is his brother. Kyle shakes his head. The other soldiers check his vitals and assure Greg that the boy is only unconscious but should recover. They slowly resume their ascent and reach their former position.

With very little sleep because of the reek, the team emerges at first light. For some, it feels like the first time they’ve been able to draw a full breath in months. Greg organizes the team — two will stay with the Stryker, the remaining five will accompany him. The boy they rescued moans but doesn’t waken. The two remaining will attend to him and Diane while the others are away.

“Clean up this mess while we’re gone. We don’t want to have to suffer through it another night. If you haven’t heard from us by morning, leave and make your way back to the compound.”

Gathering the others at the rim, Greg shows them the cave entrance and their approach. He still hasn’t reckoned whether this will be just to rescue the prisoners or whether he’ll bring the horrors committed here to an end. He’ll have to play that one by ear.

Dirt puffs out with each step as Kyle guides them along the sand which has been ground down to a fine powder from the heavy equipment traveling back and forth across its surface. The early morning sun casts long shadows from the hills and undulations inherent in the open mine. Each team member has a coil of rope draped around their neck extending under their arm. The arrangement allows them freedom of movement should it come down to a firefight. The tension emanating from each is palpable and they make their way in silence.

Greg’s heart is pounding, but his mind is too busy with thoughts to take notice. He is engaged in running the scenario endlessly through his head — searching for something he may have missed. They toil onward until they find themselves at the mouth of a steep ravine leading downward between steep bluffs. To Greg, the angle seems more like one of the speed slides you’d find at a water park than a path. Only this water slide is complete with rocks, scrub brush, and scree which would make the ride unenjoyably painful.

With careful slowness, they begin their descent in single file due to the narrowness of the ravine. At first they only have to skirt around brush and over stunted fallen pine trees. The angle steepens and they soon find themselves scrambling over boulders and through rocky shale. They struggle to keep quiet and not dislodge any rocks which would start a small landslide. From here, any noise they make will be carried along the valley floor, echoing off the steep bluffs…and to the buildings.

The caution and care required to make the descent takes the soldiers’ minds from their impending mission as all thought and action is directed toward staying on their feet. Anyone starting to fall is caught by the teammate behind them until they are stable enough to continue. More than once, lips press tight to refrain from uttering curses. They know that the mission is entirely dependent on a stealthy approach, and they strive to keep it that way.

Greg, making his way behind Kyle, slides across yet another boulder. The tall hills to either side make him think just how small the team really is. They are five people struggling down an incline and attempting to infiltrate a base, potentially outnumbered eight to one. They are far from any support and if they get caught in the open, they could become just five bodies rotting in this wilderness valley — quickly forgotten. They’d be no different than the billions lying in homes, parking lots, fields, and buildings. Nothing but bones bleaching under the sun year after year. He shakes these thoughts loose as they reach the bottom.

Some day that will be true, but today isn’t that day, he thinks, gathering in his surroundings.

The valley is in shadows with sunlight only illuminating the top of the bluffs on the western side. The cliffs rise sharply on either side of the narrow valley floor. The gorge they are in looks like it was created by a jagged knife splitting the hills in two. Stunted pine trees dot the sides with clumps of scrub brush growing between. The shrubs become denser on the valley floor but there is a small path that meanders through the shoulder-high bushes. It’s no wider than a game trail but, most importantly, it’s free of tracks.

In single file, they begin a slow march south along the floor. The path rises a short distance on one hill and then crosses the valley floor to proceed along the adjacent hill, eventually intersecting a larger path. Greg halts them in the bushes and observes the path with Kyle.

From here, the outline of the rooftop of the structure sitting atop the opposite cliff is visible. The dirt path is wide enough to comfortably accommodate two people walking side by side and proceeds up the bluff in a series of switchbacks.

“Sir, this path leads to the sink hole. We won’t be seen until we reach the very top. If there’s anyone inside the back of the building, they’ll have a direct view of the path and entrance,” Kyle says.

“Let’s hope no one’s home then,” Greg states.

With that, they leave the cover of the bushes in intervals and begin scaling the path. Greg takes the lead and feels tension build the closer he draws to the top. His mouth goes dry as adrenaline begins seeping into his system. His heartbeat pounds in his ears and he subconsciously strokes the trigger guard of his M-4 pointed ahead of him. Slowly, more of the building is revealed as he climbs higher. After negotiating the switchbacks, he nears the top and goes prone, crawling the last few feet toward the crest.

Listening, he only hears the swish from a strong breeze that blows through the trees and bushes. Below, the wind travels down the narrow canyon with a soft roar. Peeking over the edge, he sees the rear of the structure. What he initially took to be a series of buildings is actually a single one — the differing angles of the structure joined together. Windows show at the rear, the ones on the eastern side reflect the strong sunlight filtering down. Near the building is the sinkhole. Around it, a single rope runs through rings attached to the top of metal poles sunk into the ground. He watches for any sign of movement.

Assured that no one is observing this part of the facility, he crawls backward to the rest of the team.

“Okay, it doesn’t appear that anyone is watching. We need to work fast. There are metal poles surrounding the sinkhole. We’ll use one of them to secure the line. Kyle, do you have the knotted rope?”’

Kyle nods. The previous night, they put knots every three feet in a length of rope that would hopefully reach the bottom. This will aid guide their descent and their later ascent.

“We’ll move quickly and set up against the wall of the building. Kyle, you secure the rope and descend, when he vanishes, the next will proceed. NVGs on when it gets dark enough. Any questions?” Greg briefs.

A nod from every member indicates that they understand and are ready to go. Greg sequences their order of descent with him going down last. They crawl upwards on their stomachs and spread across the crest. Greg watches for any changes and sees none.

“Go,” he says softly.

As one, they rise and scramble across the short distance, going into ready positions against walls near the picture windows. Kyle races to the hole. Taking the rope off his shoulders, he quickly ties it around one of the steel poles set in concrete. Giving a sharp tug to test its weight-bearing capability, he looks to Greg and gives a nod. Greg returns the nod. Kyle swings his legs into the hole and begins lowering himself. His head vanishes and Greg nods to the next soldier.

Greg feels the coolness of the building through his clothing and vest. The sun is warming the walls, but the chill is still there. The climb was a steep one which caused more than one trickle of sweat to seep down his back. Blinds are drawn across the large panes of glass looking across the back of the building which gives them a measure of concealment. He notes each soldier making sure that their shadows don’t reach across windows as their turn comes to race to the hole and descend. He hears Kyle on the radio saying that he has reached the cavern floor and that the rope is more than long enough. As each soldier mounts to rappel down, the rope gives a creak of strain, but both it and the metal pole hold. The last soldier vanishes and, with a last look at the windows, Greg races to the hole and begins his descent.

The knots are both a help and hindrance as he descends. They don’t allow for a quick rappel and he has to go down hand –over-hand. However, it will make it much easier to climb. The rope swings slightly as he makes his way down, but with the bottom being held tight by those below, the sway is minimal. After a short distance, the darkness closes over him. IN the dark, the light streaming in through the hole above is dazzling. Dust motes dance in and out of the beam of light shining into the cavern depths. Greg pauses to lower his NVGs. The cavern springs to life with a green glow. He finishes his descent and joins the others.

Kyle was right about the temperature, it’s near freezing and plumes of breath are visible with each exhalation. Greg shivers as the cold envelopes him, but then he pushes it out of his mind. Nearby, a wall climbs out of the cavern with a cave exiting at the top. Kyle indicates that’s their path. Carabiners are attached to the rock surface with ropes leading upward. Dropping their ropes near their descent point, they make their way to the wall over the uneven, rocky ground.

The climb is an easy one with plenty of outcroppings to use as footholds. Before long, they are all kneeling in the upper cave. From here, it will all be hand signals and low whispers as the cave will carry the sound of their voices far into its depths.

They slowly make their way across the sandy and rocky ground, making sure not to scuff their boots. Any equipment that would make noise when moved was taped down prior to leaving the Stryker. Their M-4s are poised in front of them, ready to pour suppressed fire down the narrow cave. With Greg leading and Kyle behind, they continue in single file. Ahead, a metal door bars their path. The rectangular frame is set into the rock wall at the top and bottom, but the curvature of the cave causes gaps on the sides. It isn’t possible to slide bodily through, but they are wide enough to pass an arm through. Greg halts the team and looks to Kyle.

“Well, that’s new. At least since the last time I was there,” Kyle whispers.

An unknown noise comes from the other side. The team freezes and becomes even more still –which means that they become part of the stone. To Greg, the sound is like a scraping or shuffling sound. It’s not loud, but it’s there near the other side of the door.

Greg motions for the others to hold their positions and, with Kyle in tow, he inches toward the door. Peeking through one of the apertures to the side of the doorway, Greg sees two men leaning against a roughhewn wall approximately forty feet ahead. They are listless and appear bored, occasionally breaking the silence with an exchanged word or two which only reaches Greg’s ears as mutterings. At the two men’s feet lie several gas-powered camping lanterns that cast pools of white light.

Greg looks on the other side of the three inch solid steel door to see that it’s padlocked on the other side. Their entrance is guarded and locked.

This is beginning to look like a no-go, Greg thinks, studying the lock, door, and guards.

He watches for a few additional moments. No one else comes into view and the two kick at the ground. The indications are that they’ve been there for a while with no one coming or going. The armed nature of the guards gives a clear indication that they are the bad guys. Greg looks at the lock on the other side of the door once more.

“Do you have a good angle on the one to the right?” Greg asks.

“Yes, sir.”

Greg decides to take a chance. Putting the muzzle of his suppressor into the opening, he places his red dot on the head of the figure to the left. It’s easy to hold his aim as neither person is moving.

“On my count,” Greg says as Kyle positions his carbine. “Three…two…one…”

The cave flashes with split-second strobes as high-speed projectiles are launched down the darkened space with muffled coughs. The bullets connect with force, impacting the sides of each guard’s head. Both rock to the side as the steel core rounds penetrate their skulls near the ear and explode inside of the brain. One guard falls violently to the side, knocking over a lantern. Some of the liquid spills out and is ignited by the lantern. The other guard slumps down the wall to a sitting position and then slowly falls over to the side.

Acting quickly, Greg motions Kyle behind the door and pulls out his 9mm handgun. Reaching through the door, he places the barrel close to the padlock and, shielding himself behind the steel portal, he fires. The round hits the lock and whizzes down the hall. Looking at the lock, it has held. He repeats the action and, looking again, is rewarded by a shredded and unattached lock.

He removes the hasp and opens the door. Greg and Kyle move quickly at a crouch to where the two figures lie on the cold cave floor. Greg rights the lantern and quickly smothers the small fire with his boot. The two of them check for any signs of life and, finding none, grab the pair by the ankles and drag them back. He sends two soldiers to erase the drag marks as he and Kyle drop the bodies over the edge of the wall.

Returning quickly, the team moves to where the lanterns are illuminating the small area. Greg closes the door and attaches the broken lock before joining them. Another steel door blocks an upward tunnel that branches off and Kyle identifies it as the main entrance.

“The tunnel heads up into the main building above.”

Greg tests the door and finds it unlocked. A key extends from the inset lock. Greg turns the key and locks the door.

“You two stay here and keep out of sight,” he says, detailing two soldiers to stay behind.

The three remaining continue into the cave system. Kyle leads as Greg doesn’t want to lead them astray by taking a random exit or missing the one they need. Coming to an intersection, a cave branches to the left, another heads to the right, and the one they are on continues straight ahead. Kyle turns and heads down the branch to the right. The cave width fluctuates as they proceed, sometimes wide enough for two abreast and at others, there’s only enough room for one to squeeze through. Although the path is straight, it varies in elevation and, contrary to what Kyle said earlier, they are seldom able see very far in advance.

With their night vision goggles lowered, they move rapidly yet quietly in a crouch, their carbines out in front ready to engage anyone they should they encounter. Anyone they meet is considered a hostile in this environment and they’ll get the first shot in and either move up or withdraw quickly in the dark.

After a time, Greg makes out a yellow glow of light ahead illuminating the width of the cave. It literally looks like the light at the end of the tunnel. Kyle halts with Greg close behind. The other soldier with them goes to his knee and covers their rear. Even though there are two guarding their backside, there is no telling where someone might materialize with all of the cave’s offshoots.

“That’s the Canopy Hall ahead. I don’t know where the captives will be since the cavern is so large,” Kyle whispers.

Greg takes the lead, knowing now where they need to go. He inches forward in the freezing cold of the cave. Small stalactites hang from the ceiling, dirty yet with gleams of ice showing. His boots shuffle across the gritty surface as he crouches with his M-4 pointing steadily in front of him. Plumes of frosted breath fill the lower part of his vision as he exhales, vanishing over his shoulders as he pushes on. The flare of light ahead grows in size with each step.

As he approaches, he sees that the cave opens up. Faint voices are heard from ahead, rising and falling in volume. Greg can’t make out individual words, but it’s apparent one person is speaking loudly. Sweat trickles down the side of his face despite the freezing temperatures. His hands grip his M-4 loosely but with tension at the same time. His breath comes quicker and he feels his heart rate kick up a notch. The chill air on his ears makes them ache and he feels both hot and cold simultaneously.

He eases against the wall to minimize his outline in the center of the hall. If someone comes their way, he’ll drop them where they stand. With the team still in the dark, any return fire from others will be directed down the center of the cave. He inches closer.

At the edge of the light, Greg notes that the pathway descends and extends through the middle of the cavern which stretches out to either side. The voice becomes louder and other voices join in as if cheering, echoing off the hard walls of the cavern. Greg peeks into the wide cavity.

Lanterns are scattered throughout the cavern causing alternating places of brightness and gloom. Shadows dance across the floor and wall like wraiths. To his immediate left, he sees two guards sitting against the rock walls, their knees drawn up and attention focused around a corner from where the voices are coming. They are in a small notch extending into the bedrock away from the central cavern. Around the corner from their sitting place, more light glares. And between the two guards, in the center of the notch, four people are chained to a wall.

The four sit despondently with their arms and foreheads resting on drawn up knees. Their tops and pants are tattered and grimy. Any length of hair they have looks like a cross between morning hair and being dragged behind a horse. Of particular note is the four instead of five that should have been there as indicated by Kyle’s sister.

Greg shrugs and motions his findings to the two behind him. He pulls them close and whispers his plan. He’ll take out the guards quietly and then move up to observe around the corner. The two are to search the guards for keys and begin unshackling the prisoners. He feels his pulse pounding as he’s about to step into that fine line between being hidden and opening himself to the potential of getting caught. Action which can draw attention to them is near and approaching like a speeding freight train.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he eases around the corner. The guards are still preoccupied with the person that is out of sight and talking. He centers his aiming reticle on the nearest one and waits. Soon, the shouting voices that he’s heard from time to time erupt in the cavern and he squeezes the trigger. The carbine kicks against his shoulder — one delivery is outbound. He quickly shifts his aim to the other guard and fires while the sound of cheering still echoes off the walls. His suppressed, subsonic rounds both connect a second apart. Blood splashes against the light brown walls and both men slump to the side leaving dark smears on the walls.

Greg is up before the second body hits and places a round in each head as he hastens past them in a crouch. The single voice picks up again as Greg drops prone and peers around the corner.

Across the hall, a gaggle of men stand with their backs to him. Unable to see beyond the last row of people, he still gets the impression that there are approximately thirty gathered. On the wall on the far side, over their heads, shadows flickers from the light of a fire. Greg still can only catches snippets as they bounce off the granite.

“Work of the gods… you fools… sacrifice will… demons sent forth… appeased… the… demand it…”

This reminds Greg of the prison where he and Jack entered to conduct a similar rescue. Only this has a more maniacal aspect to it. He can’t really explain the difference except to say that this has more of a heated fervor to it — bordering or passing into true insanity. The other was one man, although crazy himself, that had some control. But this seems like it has a fever attached to it — almost demonic.

He doesn’t know if the people standing in front of him actually believe what the man is spouting or if they just like hurting people. That really doesn’t matter at the moment as he is now in a race against time. At some point, the talking will end and the people will leave to go about their business. And that will carry them his way. Everyone he sees is armed, and most appear to have some flavor of an AR-15 or M-4. If his team is engaged, they won’t be able to outgun the group.

Greg turns back to where his two teammates are trying key after key in the padlocks that hold the captives in their manacles. Between the prisoners, empty manacles hang from U-bolts that have been driven into the rock. Where they came up with so many shackles is beyond him.

“Come on…hurry up,” Greg whispers.

“We’re trying, sir. There must be a hundred keys here,” Kyle replies.

Greg turns his attention back to the gathering. Another cheer rises from them. The anxiety of staying here for so long grows within until Greg doesn’t know if he can stand it any longer. He gets the feeling that this little soirée is drawing to a close. He’s about to say fuck it and leave with what they have when he feels a tap on his leg. He startles and turns to see Kyle mouth, ‘We’re ready.’

Greg nods, expecting Kyle to turn and go with the captives. The other soldier with them begins leading the prisoners out. They stagger with weakness but, holding onto each other, they walk slowly into the darkness. Kyle remains.

“What?” Greg asks, whispering.

“Sir, Diane mentioned six. With the one we rescued last night, there should be five and there’s only four,” Kyle says, nodding in the direction of the departing ex-captives.

Greg gets what he is saying. His sister mentioned that they periodically take a prisoner and haul them in front of the group to beat them. Greg has a sinking feeling and feels like throwing up. There’s nothing they can do, though. If they engage, they will get chewed up. Tossing a grenade in this enclosure to even things up will hit the team as hard as the others.

“Was your brother in those we have?” Greg asks.

Kyle nods his affirmative.

“As much as I hate to say this, we’re just going to have to call this a win and get out of here,” Greg says.

Accepting what Greg says, Kyle turns and heads toward the cavern exit. Greg stops to pick up an open padlock lying on the ground and then follows on Kyle’s heels.

Greg trudges down the narrow cave with a heavy heart. With his decision, he has possibly condemned someone to be beaten and tied to the crosses. This is where the tough decisions come and he has to draw a line between team safety and saving others. He wracks his mind as to how he can save that person — if there even is someone. Taking the group one-on-one is absolutely out of the question. He could wait until the one was tied and rescue them, but it won’t be long until this group finds their dead and missing members. They’ll be alerted.

Even with the Stryker, their chances would be risky. It’s apparent that these people have raided armories at Fort Carson and they may have anti-armor weapons at their disposal. He can’t hazard that. If he had C-4, he could attach it and bring the ceiling crashing down on them, trapping them inside. His decision is not only condemning that one person to die, he’s allowing this hatred and evil to continue. The weight is enough to drown him, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s saved five people and, providing they get out without trouble, his team will live to fight another day.

He knows this decision will stay with him forever, but he will mark this place and talk with Jack when he sees him. On this leg of their trip, Greg has encountered some of the highest examples of humankind in this new world — the people of Lamar and the peace they have there. From the evil he is now walking away from, he’s also come across the lowest forms of humanity.

He and Kyle catch up to the prisoners and they make their way quickly to the guards they posted at the entrance. Through gaps in the door, Greg sees two bodies lying in the tunnel just beyond the other side of the steel door.

“What happened here?” Greg asks, gesturing.

“They wanted us to unlock the door… and we didn’t want to. There was a disagreement… they lost… sir.”

Greg nods, his mood lightened a little, and they make their way through the other steel door. Greg reaches through once they close it behind them and padlocks it. He then slips the large key ring into his pocket.

At the edge of the drop, each team member takes one of the newly freed hostages. Hugging them against the wall, their bodies shielding them from falling, and helping them place their feet, they manage to get the weakened people down.

Greg climbs the rope with two other teammates. The climb is arduous but, with the help of the knots, they make it. Kyle remains below with another teammate. Using the other ropes they brought, they fashion Swiss seats on the four ex-captives. They tie a carabiner at the end of the rope dangling from the hole high above and attach it to the first person. With the job finished, Kyle sends the other soldier up the rope and stays behind.

“Hold onto the rope to steady yourself and don’t let go,” Kyle tells the people. “You probably won’t fall if you do, but being upside down sucks big time. If you do let go, spread your legs and try to orient yourself back upright.”

With two keeping watch, Greg and another soldier begin hauling the first of the former captives up. The knots help but their backs and arms strain with the effort. Eventually a head pokes through the sinkhole. With the soldier holding the rope steady, Greg grabs their shoulders and hoists them up. He sends them a short way down the path and tells them to wait there. The four on top alternate in teams of two with each person and, although it takes some time, they get everyone up.

As they drag the last person out of the hole, Greg hears a commotion from the other side of the building — shouting coming from the parking lot. He hustles the person down the path and drops the rope to Kyle. Time has run out. They’ve been discovered. Greg can only hope that the locked main entrance door and the bodies on the other side will suggest that they escaped in that direction, just as long as they don’t come around the back. Car doors slam and engines start. Soon, the sound of vehicles fades as they drive down the road leading to the establishment.

Kyle emerges and they haul up the rope. Greg wants to keep the route a secret in case they decide to visit again. He has to walk away now, but people like this don’t deserve to live. There’s no place on this earth for the likes of them. The nine of them descend the switchbacks and enter the deep valley. The sun has passed through its zenith and lowered into afternoon.

They travel slowly, due to the weakened state of the ones rescued. They also don’t want their movement to draw any undue attention. Water has provided the four with a little refreshment and their staggering walk steadies some but they aren’t up for wind sprints as yet. Greg knows they need to make cautious haste out of the area. He hasn’t heard any fat lady singing, and she won’t until they see this city far in their rearview.

It’s a trial getting everyone up the steep ravine that leads to the Stryker. The team has to help the others over every boulder and push them up the steep inclines. It’s apparent the ex-prisoners are near the end of their strength. The knowledge that they’ve been freed gives them the power to push on even though they feel like lying down and resting under the peaceful sun.

Panting and sweating, they crest the top. The team pauses with their hands on their knees and the others collapse in the dirt, not caring if they die where they fall. At least they will die free.

Greg gets the team in motion again and cajoles the others with the promise that safety lays just a few more steps away. The powder kicked up from their boots seems drier and dustier than before. They are all exhausted — the post-adrenaline let down. The Stryker is parked in the shadow of a sheltering bluff, almost hidden. They scramble aboard and cram into every available space. The boy they rescued the night before is awake and smiles at the soldiers entering. Diane gives a croaking cry and throws her arms around one of the four they brought. The ex-prisoners are given water and fall asleep almost immediately.

Greg turns to Kyle. “Do your magic. Get us out of here. There are numerous vehicles out and about looking for us. Make sure we stay out of sight and keep us heading south.”

Kyle takes over the commander’s position and guides the driver through a myriad of paths. The going is maddeningly slow due to the need to keep their dust trail down. Greg turns to the ones they rescued. Diane is holding a young man in her lap as he sleeps. This is obviously her and Kyle’s brother judging from the tears rolling down her cheeks. Even as they sleep, the others are being ministered to by the soldiers. The freed prisoners are all gaunt with malnourishment and look battered and bruised. However, it seems likely that they’ll survive their ordeal.

Greg is thinking about transportation for them all when he hears Kyle call, “Vehicle ahead, sir. We’ve been spotted.”

Greg quickly exchanges places and is informed that they are proceeding south down the Interstate. Kyle has brought them south of Colorado Springs using his knowledge of the back trails. Greg orders a halt. Not wanting to silhouette himself on top of the Stryker and present a target, he looks through the vehicle’s optics and zooms in.

Ahead, in the other lanes, a dark-colored pickup is parked off to the side of the road. It could be that the other group has scouts parking along major routes to report their position if found. Two people stand on the other side of the truck looking on with binoculars. Whoever they are, it’s evident that the team has been spotted and their position more than likely reported.

“We need to move through this and quick. Driver, floor it,” Greg says. “If they make a move, blink, or otherwise breathe wrongly, I’m lighting ‘em up.”

The only thing keeping him from sending the truck and its riders to the afterlife is the radio call from Jack. At some point, they were to meet a group coming up from the south. The call was terse and he didn’t get a lot of information as Jack was a little busy at the time.

The Stryker launches forward, jostling those within. Some of the ex-captive’s wake and their eyes startle open. They begin flailing in a panic before remembering where they are. The men next to the truck parked ahead don’t move. The Stryker closes the distance. The two don’t respond in a hostile manner — of course, who would with an armored Stryker bearing down on them — but they don’t leave the cover of their enclosed truck either. As they draw closer, Greg sees that it’s an enclosed four-by-four — a Suburban or Tahoe. Both men have long beards and one holds a shotgun at his side.

Greg orders the driver to slow and change lanes. As they pass adjacent, Greg pokes his head out of the hatch.

“Are you the unit Captain Walker told us about?” the larger of the two men shouts.

Greg shouts for a halt and pitches forward as the heavy vehicle slows and stops.

“I’m Jax and this ugly brute is Steven.”

To Greg, the both of them look like they should be riding Harley’s rather than an SUV.

“I was under the impression you were going to radio when you were close. I was pretty close to unleashing some heavy steel your way,” Greg says.

The post-adrenaline drain and knowing he had to leave one person in the hands of those fanatics has left Greg with little patience. Plus, he is just coming down from his fear of having been discovered.

“We didn’t think we’d run into you this far out. And I’m glad you held your trigger finger light. I don’t think we’d have enjoyed that much,” Jax says with a grin.

The large man with shaggy brown hair and a bushy beard then looks north and points. “Is that your handiwork?’

Greg whirls around in the cupola. To the north, several thin streamers of dark smoke rise into the air with the tops bending to the east as they catch the wind.

“No… no it’s not,” Greg replies, shading his face to get a clearer picture.

Shattered Dreams

Gav listens to the supervisor as she watches the central screen stabilize.

“We were doing a recon of the surrounding area, checking on the camp south of us… camp C-US-9. The one that is holding up in those caves.”

Gav gives an impatient nod and the supervisor continues, “Ahem… yes, as I was saying, we were doing a routine surveillance run and we found this.”

With the punch of a button, the screen stabilizes and she sees in magnified image of a Stryker sitting near an open mine on top of a ridgeline.

“Okay, so why am I looking at a Stryker sitting in the middle of nowhere?” she asks.

“That’s about seventy miles southwest of us,” he says, noting a slight raise of her eyebrow. ”But this is where it gets interesting.”

Gav nearly sighs out loud but restricts it to an inward sigh. It’s the same wherever she has gone. The folks want to guide you through their process to show their cleverness. Sometimes that’s necessary to sway others toward a decision, to show that it’s the logical one to take, but here it feels like the supervisor wants her to be impressed and throw him a bone.

Her mood has definitely taken on a black side since the recent failures. She can’t change them, nor can she alter her situation through sheer force of will. It is what it is. There isn’t anything she can do to alter her present position. She understands that, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. She wishes her staff would understand that she doesn’t need to be taken by the and guided. The sheer fact that they are here shows their expertise and they should just cut to the chase without taking her for a ride. Yeah, her temper has definitely been short lately. And those old men sitting in luxury in the back rooms…she doesn’t even want to get started thinking about that or she’ll scream. She takes a deep breath and pays attention to what the man beside her is saying. This is where things will transpire that will change the way things are…not the delusional wishes of old men.

“Nahmer,” the man says to get her attention back.

“Yes, yes… go ahead,” she replies.

“As I was saying, I did a backward run of the captured video from our satellites. This Stryker and the team with it departed McConnell AFB when Captain Walker was there. That was several days ago. I believe it to be a team from the A camp.”

“Are they onto us?” she asks, worried about a team this close to their command center.

It’s not that a single Stryker is a threat, but if they know about their location, well, that’s a worry. The stalemate between the two groups is still in existence, and the others are bound to find out about their location having captured her shooter, but any one of them this close is an additional anxiety.

“No. they departed before anything happened and we haven’t picked up any communications. We still have the satellites blocked. They can’t know the situation,” the supervisor says.

“What are they doing then?” Gav asks.

“I believe it to be a ground search for survivors. They’re parked very near the other camp. We’ve been monitoring all of the C-camp’s activities and it could be that the A-camp team knows of the captives being taken. We know, looking through the video, that they rescued one of those that were out.”

Gav knows the activities of this camp well. They emerge to take hostages and tie one of them up for the infected. The act is offensive to her, but she has elected to do nothing as of yet. She knows they’ve raided an armory at Fort Carson and carry some firepower. She would lose a few of her troops should she attack the cave structure, and luring them out would take considerable resources. They are on her target list though.

As she looks at the live feed, she notes vehicles departing the cave’s parking lot. At first there is a scant few, but then more join them. A short while later, she watches as a small team of nine leave the bushes adjacent to the mine and walks to the Stryker, which departs shortly thereafter.

With her mind working rapidly, she watches the slow progress of the Stryker as it meanders around the urban sprawl on a southerly course. The control room crew has identified the other vehicles that left the cave structure and have them targeted. Her thoughts center.

“You say they are seventy miles away?”

“Yes, Nahmer,” the supervisor answers.

“Thank you. Nicely done,” she says, her accent betraying her origins and she departs the control room.

Crossing the concrete floor of the equipment bay, she walks briskly toward the quarters housing the soldiers. She sees an opportunity to take care of the one group and a chance to whittle down some of Walker’s forces at the same time. If she captures some of them, she may gain some useful information. It’s a risk, but nothing else has worked so far and she’s tired of spinning her wheels. She knows it’s only a matter of time before the A-camp reacts. Sending her men out is risky, but she doubts her base will be hit in the interim.

Satellite footage places the AC-130 back in the Northwest. If they see the Spooky heading their way, she’ll have plenty of time to recall her men. There’s only the C-130 that met with the Santa Fe and is now transiting the southwest. The aircraft is only carrying a small team with one Stryker. They aren’t a threat to her facility or to what she is planning. They’re secure in the bunker and there isn’t any way that Walker’s group can hit them directly.

Her mind wanders to what she would do to attack this facility. Everything is located underground and accessible only via the bunker — she made sure of that. The only exposure they have is the solar farm. They can do without that; they have generators and can rely on them for a significant period of time. If they’re attacked, they’ll just hunker down and wait them out. The other camp doesn’t have enough troops to hold any particular area for long, and the AC-130 can’t stay in the air all of the time. No, they are secure here. However, doing nothing gives the camp basically a free card to play as they will. She needs to keep them off balance and reactive. If she can do that for a period of time, the aircraft fuel will eventually fail, stranding the AC-130, and the scales will shift in her favor.

Doing nothing will give Walker room to do as he will and that worries her more than anything else — what he will do with that kind of freedom. She needs to act, and the lone squad far away from base offers an opportunity. The group from the caves has also emerged in force from the protection of their caves. She can take care of both at once — two birds with one stone.

If in the process, she manages to capture some of Walker’s squad, she can gain additional information, but she won’t do it at the expense of losing her irreplaceable soldiers. Human intelligence offers more than any technical information, but she won’t risk her soldiers going solely for the capture. There’s no doubt she’ll lose some soldiers taking on the small team but, if she goes in solely for the capture, she’ll lose more. The opposing squad has a Stryker, but she has plenty of those in addition to faster moving Humvees. She’ll herd the opposing force into a kill zone. With only a single squad and Stryker, a company of her men should be adequate to take them out. Lacking any communications with their base, they’ll be sitting ducks.

* * *

Greg watches the streamers of smoke rising in the air. As he continues to observe from his elevated platform, another dark, oily plume appears, its dark smoke climbing rapidly. Then another… and another. He knows this sight having seen it numerous times during his deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. It is vehicles being set alight by heavy caliber fire. Another dark cloud of smoke rises in the afternoon sky. The latest plumes are larger…whoever it is causing them is heading his way and drawing closer.

“Driver…. go! Everyone hang on,” Greg yells into the interior. To the two standing by the side of the road, he shouts, “Follow us if you want, but I wouldn’t advise being here in about ten minutes.”

* * *

Leonard is awakened and looks at the clock. “What’s up, XO?” he asks, knowing they couldn’t have arrived at San Diego as yet.

Leonard is familiar with the pulse of his boat and instantly knows they’ve come to a stop. “Why have we stopped?”

“Sir, we’re beginning to pick up an increase in radiation levels,” the XO states. “I’ve halted the boat.”

“Where are we?” Leonard asks.

“We’re approximately forty miles to the northwest… on a bearing of 315 degrees from San Diego,” the XO answers.

Leonard can tell from the Santa Fe’s lack of a rolling motion that they are submerged. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the XO says and departs.

Leonard sits up and runs a hand through his hair. He feels significantly older than he did five months ago. Sure there were stresses associated with running an attack sub in war zones but nothing compared to what they’ve been through since. And now they’ve halted when they are almost home. Since the attack on Krandle’s team and getting them safely back on board, they’ve made a run to the south. The medical personnel assured him that the chief’s men would recover fully. An attack of that magnitude took both of them by surprise. With the SEAL Team being his only protection, he’ll be more cautious where he sends them next time. And by the chief’s look as his men were brought below decks, he’ll be reluctant to send his men inland as well.

Splashing water on his face from the tiny basin in his cabin, Leonard dons his uniform top and shoes before making his way to the control room. He is apprised of their position once again. The radiation readings are within tolerable levels, but have steadily risen as they’ve journeyed south. Before they reached marginal limits, the XO dove the boat and ordered a halt.

Their passive sensors indicate all is quiet above.

“Bring us to periscope depth,” Leonard orders.

He feels the boat rise as the buoyancy levels are increased. Looking through the periscope, he performs a three-hundred sixty degree sweep. It’s all clear under an evening sky. The sun is setting on the western horizon bathing everything in its orange glow. Over gentle rollers, Leonard spots land a few miles to the east. To the southeast, toward San Diego, the last of the sun’s rays illuminate a dark smudge lying on the horizon. It’s obvious that this line extends well below the horizon. Looking at the ugly brown blanket covering the sky in that direction, he feels a cold thread of fear work its way inside him.

Continuing to stare through the lens, he watches the warm glow of the sunset spread, igniting the sides of the shroud. The color diminishes as the sun continues its downward trek but the orange glow doesn’t vanish completely.

He holds the Santa Fe in its present position until daylight. He doesn’t want to arrive in the middle of the night. If there is any remaining presence in their homeport, whoever is there will be more than cautious. In the morning, he’ll bring the boat in closer, broadcast their position, and wait for an escort. Failing that, he’ll surface if the radiation levels have stabilized, and motor in. No one can mistake their distinctive silhouette and will withhold any hostile reaction.

As far as the radiation levels go, he believes them to be a carryover from the nuke power plants in Southern California that have leaked their nuclear waste. Or from winds carrying the fallout from the vast number of plants in India and the Orient.

The next morning, with no change in the readings, he orders the helm to keep to their previous course and speed. He has the radiation levels monitored and leaves his boat at periscope level. At twenty miles, the levels reach marginal conditions. Being underwater, the boat won’t be affected as much; it’s the air that’s poisoned. The ocean is always slower to follow. Leonard has their course altered to keep some distance from the shoreline, still believing a nearby power plant to be responsible for the conditions.

He sends a broadcast identifying his vessel and position. There is no reply either over the airwaves or physically from an escort leaving the harbor. At seven miles out, the levels tip over into the red. At this range, Leonard knows that this must be hitting the city itself. No one can live through this. Outside, just scant feet over their heads, sits a microwave of enormous proportions. They couldn’t survive a moment without proper gear. They’d be cooked in minutes should they venture out.

Not saying a word to the crew, he has the boat turned to parallel the coastline. He wants to at least glimpse his homeport. When their position indicates that they’ve cleared Point Loma, their home, and they can view the naval base situated on North Island and the city itself, he raises the periscope mast to its tallest extent. He has the cameras rolling without putting the video on any of the displays and looks through the eyepiece. The sight he beholds is not at all what he is expecting and his mind goes blank for several seconds.

The dark smog that has hung on the horizon now shrouds the entire sky to the east. Its dirty brown tinges everything. Leonard presses his face harder against the eye cups as if he will be able to see through the veil. Point Loma, North Island, and the strand connecting it to the mainland are gone. They aren’t just lying in ruins or have some parts visible, they are completely gone…obliterated. What lies beyond is even more shocking. The city is in ruins. Skeletal remains of buildings rise in places amongst rubble. Light smoke drifts upwards from a hundred places to create an abysmal cloud above the city. The smoke prevents a look farther inland, but Leonard knows that he would only see more of the same. He gazes along the inner shoreline where naval vessels once berthed. It was there that aircraft carriers were based. Several of the older carriers that were docked, like those in Bremerton, on display or to be torn apart for their scrap metal, are overturned hundreds of yards from their previous moorings. Of the others, there is no sign.

The scene through the periscope adds up to one inescapable fact. Someone nuked San Diego… and nuked it heavily.

Epilogue

Michael senses other packs north of him. They are coming into the area in greater numbers, filling a gap that was created when he took the greater share of packs south with him. Some time ago, responding to a call for help, he called to the packs in the area and they responded, resulting in the large pack he currently has. Now there are others infiltrating into the area north and he knows it is due to a shortage of food.

So far, Michael has been able to provide for his pack and keep them safe. He’s kept them away from the two-leggeds, though his anger at them hasn’t subsided. He supposes he is marginally grateful to them that Sandra is no longer a thorn in his side but that doesn’t diminish his feelings toward the two-leggeds. They are dangerous and to be feared. Aside from his natural hatred and rage against them, they are a threat to his pack. They must be destroyed. His fear of them exacerbates his anger.

Michael senses several strong ones leading several of the packs but knows he has an advantage in strength over any one of them. Should he call, they will respond and acknowledge him as leader. None of the ones to the north have drawn together like his and remain scattered.

In nights past, he’s felt many of those packs fall to the night death in the sky that comes occasionally. He wishes he knew what it was and attack it. It’s the one thing that forces him to keep his distance from the two-leggeds and some prime hunting grounds. Many of his pack and others have suffered because of it. His hatred of it has grown as strong as that of the two-leggeds themselves. He knows it serves them somehow, and he feels that he should be able to know why, but the answer lies just out of his range of understanding.

With the strong ones coming south and bringing their packs with them, Michael knows it’s just a matter of time before he will journey up and contact them.

# # #

About the Author

John is a former Air Force fighter instructor pilot who transitioned to Special Operations for the latter part of his career gathering his campaign ribbon for Desert Storm. Immediately following his military service, he became a firefighter/EMT with a local fire department. Along with becoming a firefighter, he began a career in the Information Technology industry starting two large casinos in Washington as the Information Technology Manager and becoming the Network Manager for the Washington State Legislature, the Northwest Information Technology Manager for the Federal Aviation Administration, and the Network Systems Manager for Hollywood Video. Currently, John is self-employed with his own Information Technology consulting company, consulting and managing various businesses with their information technology needs. He also volunteers for a local youth center managing their computer lab.

As a former marathon runner, John lives in the beautiful Pacific Northwest and can now be found kayaking out in the waters of Puget Sound, mountain biking in the Capital Forest, hiking in the Olympic Peninsula, or pedaling his road bike along the many scenic roads.

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A New World Series

A NEW WORLD: CHAOS

A NEW WORLD: RETURN

A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY

A NEW WORLD: TAKEN

A NEW WORLD: AWAKENING

A NEW WORLD: DISSENSION

A NEW WORLD: TAKEDOWN

A NEW WORLD: CONSPIRACY

Copyright

Published by John O’Brien at Smashwords

Copyright © 2013 John O’Brien

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover art by: Matthew Riggenbach

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Content

A New World:
CONSPIRACY
A Novel by John O’Brien

Author’s Notice

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Prologue

A Past Remembered

A Sighting

All Good Plans

Bird’s Eye View

A Bird in the Hand

Payment Comes Due

Taps

Show and Tell

Into the Sunset

Last Legs

Another Try

Hung Out To Dry

Shattered Dreams

Epilogue

About the Author

Connect with me online

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Copyright