by John O'Brien
Once again, I weigh the balance of continuing our nightly attacks to clear out the area versus searching for the families. I feel torn. We decided as a group to do this but the conflict remains. I owe it to the soldiers who risked their lives without question rescuing the kids and who continue to do so every day. But clearing out the local area is important to providing a higher measure of security for our group of survivors. Keeping the night runners at bay and reactive – on their heels – allows us not only protection but it’s my feeling that it makes it harder for them to adapt. That is what worries me more than anything else. But the group has spoken and we did promise we would do what we could to help. The coming of winter and the deterioration of weather it brings dictates that we are closing in on the ‘now or never’ time. And so, off we’ll go. Plus, having another Spooky in the arsenal, even if for just a short time, can’t hurt. With the addition of Roger, we’ll also be able to conduct local searches while we’re gone.
We meet in the evening and I outline our planned trek. The only thing I’m not sure of is whether to take Humvees or a Stryker. The Stryker will make for cramped quarters and limit the amount of people we can take back should we encounter any but it’s armament and unexposed firepower will be a benefit should we need it. Taking one will also decrease the distance we can travel, but with the route we currently have planned, that really won’t make much of a difference.
“What about taking two 130s? Like we did returning from Canon AFB? We could drop down to the Guard base in Portland and pick up another one,” Robert suggests.
“That will make it decidedly more difficult to bring a Spooky back up with us,” I answer.
“Oh, yeah, that it would,” he responds. “My only problem is deciding whether to take Humvees or a Stryker.”
“Will it make a difference with the flight?” Lynn asks.
“Only with regards to the range plus it will take longer to get to altitude. We may not be able to climb as high with a full load of fuel but can after we burn some off. Takeoffs from high altitude airports can be a little sporty,” I answer.
“You’re the best to answer that one really. If you think it’s safe enough, flyboy, then I’d say take the Stryker,” Lynn says.
“I’ll have to seriously think on that. We’ll be taking off in Colorado so I’ll take a closer look at the data figuring in some worst case scenarios. I agree that the Stryker is a better choice but turning the 130 into an all-terrain vehicle is not my ideal solution,” I state.
“It’s kinda hard to clear the mountains that way,” Robert says.
“Yeah, kind of, but it does make landing a whole lot easier,” I reply.
“Ugh. And with that, I’m going to bed. If I don’t stop you two here, you’ll go on all night,” Lynn says. Robert and I merely smile knowing the truth of her statement.
We turn in for the night with the intention of waking early to meet Captain Leonard and his crew. Whether that will be in Olympia or Tacoma remains to be seen. Bannerman has crews ready for either scenario.
* * * * * *
Sandra runs down the empty streets with the moon casting its silver rays through a break in the clouds overhead. The rumbles and flashes of light of the night previous are not present and she feels a measure of relief with their absence. She still looks to the sky watching for the streaks of light that mean death and listens for the tell-tale droning that premeditates the deadly explosions of fire.
The large pack she has brought with her thunder behind her as they search for prey. Michael has turned her and her pack loose in the night after other packs reported good hunting grounds nearby. She returned to the lair last night loaded with the containers of food she and her pack raided from the many buildings they entered. The rays of the bright orb overhead causes her skin to tingle but that is ignored as she trots through the dark. Her breath comes out in puffs of white as her exhales condense in the chilled air.
She keeps looking north toward the large two-legged lair and feels herself drawn to it again. She passes the old lair which now lies in ruin with wisps of smoke rising in places through the rubble. A thought crosses her mind that Michael was right in moving the pack farther away. This must be what the white flashes and the blasts were about last night, she thinks as she keeps driving northward with her pack on her heels.
She pauses at the distinct dividing line between intact buildings and the debris of ruined structures. The wariness she felt several nights ago takes hold and she comes to a stop. The hundreds behind her halt with her and position themselves in the street and grassy strips along the side. She listens carefully for any signs of the droning in the sky but hears nothing except an occasional cricket chirping in the distance. Faint scurrying comes from the debris as the thousands of rodents inhabiting those places scamper about. Her pack will feed on them again tonight.
She sends her pack forward among the ruins to catch the quick, wily, small ones. Standing watch by the side, she will feed after the others have had their fill. She thinks of telling Michael about this abundant food supply but she has held the information for two reasons. One, he will know for sure that she has ventured close to the two-legged lair again. He may anyway but she doesn’t want to make it overt. And two, she doesn’t want this place swarming with other packs. Having them this close may alert the two-legged ones. Of course, Michael most likely wouldn’t allow them to get this close but she can’t take that risk. She doesn’t know how she will get into the lair, but she means to try. The pull of the two-legged one is strong and she is still intent on capturing the female she saw in his mind that one night.
She continues to watch her pack dash among the piles of rubble as they chase down the small prey. Pained squeals permeate the night air indicating the capture of food. Other squeals pervade the night as the rodents sees one of her pack and run farther into the protection of the wreckage. Her head comes up sharply as she feels something else in her mind. Coming to her abruptly, it’s the thought images of another one and is coming from the two-legged lair. It’s not the feel of one of her kind but it’s close. Nor does it feel like the brush she had from the two-legged one. She can follow this new one’s thoughts and actions though and there is no doubt that he is within the lair.
For a moment, she is tempted to take her pack to the tall walls once again but the memory of being tossed to the ground and losing one of her pack when the ground erupted under his feet causes her to hold back. Instead, she sends this new one an image. She waits patiently for a return message but receives nothing. Just as abruptly as this new one came to her mind, he vanishes. She looks into the distance hoping for him to come back and is disappointed when he remains silent. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she focuses on the area around her. With thoughts of how to get over the walls to capture the female and draw the two-legged one out, she lopes into the debris-scattered parking lots to feed.
* * * * * *
Alan finds himself downstairs once again. In his confused state, he has the overwhelming feeling of wanting to be outside. The feeling is so strong. It is a distinct need to be out in the dark which confuses him even further. His heart races thinking about the thrill of the hunt, his mouth waters thinking about the sweet taste of fresh blood. His teeth sinking into warm flesh and tearing it from bone. The eagerness as he chases down prey, closing in from behind and the excitement of him about to feed. A quickly fading image hangs in his mind of being called, the call being one to join the pack and hunt.
He shakes his head as the images fade from his mind and he becomes more conscious of his surroundings. His heart still pounds in his chest and there is a lingering feeling of excitement. With it is a fear that one has upon suddenly finding oneself in a different place.
What the fuck is that all about? What in the fuck is happening to me? He thinks as he turns from the door leading into the warehouse and makes his way back upstairs. Falling onto his cot, he wonders if he will experience the terror dreams or find himself waking downstairs again. With these t
houghts, he falls into a dreamless sleep.
* * * * * *
I rise early remembering that I woke at some point last night with a strange sensation. It felt as if something brushed my mind. It wasn’t like a thought or anything similar, it was as if something literally brushed up against it. It didn’t keep me up long but the memory of it still lingers. Lynn stirs beside me and rolls over. Usually she is the first up and it’s me rolling over to ignore the world and get more sleep. I grab my boots and exit as quietly as I can to let her sleep on. She’s been keeping this whole thing together and needs her rest.
A few others are emerging from their little caves and do the usual morning stretching before trudging slowly to wherever their tired brains lead them. Some to eat, others to the showers. I head down to the small control room and ask if anything showed up on the monitors last night. I have just the ghost of a memory that what brushed my mind felt similar to a night runner. The woman monitoring the video feeds from the cameras looks through the logs.
“I didn’t see anything and the logs don’t indicate that anything was observed,” she reports. I nod and thank her.
Walking out with the thought of taking a shower to clear the last of the cobwebs, I look up to see Lynn emerge from the cubicle. Upon seeing me, she gives a tired waved and makes her way down to me.
“Good morning, hon,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Good morning, Jack. You’re up early,” she says, returning a quick hug.
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep,” I state and tell her of the sensation I experienced.
“What do you think it means?” She asks, drawing away.
“I have no idea. This ‘thing’ seems to be more of a liability than an asset. It confuses me more than it lends any clarification. I just wish I knew more about it and understood it better,” I answer.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out as time goes on, Jack. On another note, I was thinking and if you’re going to go on this search, you might as well start sooner rather than later. The ones in training will be finished in a number of days and are already trained enough to help should we need them. And the inner wall will be complete soon as well. We’ll be fine here and you delaying your trip a few days just to wait for them isn’t going to accomplish anything. The sooner you start, the quicker you’ll be back,” she says.
“You’re probably right about that. Leonard is due to arrive today and I want to be there to see what his plans are. I also have to run the numbers with the Stryker on board but can do that today. Regardless of which we decide to take, we could be ready to leave tomorrow,” I reply.
“I’m still not all that excited about you leaving but I know you have to. The only plus is that this will hopefully be your last trip,” she says.
“I know and, believe me, I’m not a big fan of leaving either. I don’t like being away from you. Nor am I all that thrilled at giving the night runners a chance to recover. But it is only for a few days and I’ll be back before you know it,” I respond.
“I love you, Jack.”
“I love you, too.”
Coming out of the shower, there is a little more bustle inside from people getting ready to get on with the day and whatever assigned tasks they may have. Frank informs me that Leonard radioed in that he is sailing down the straits and should arrive in Olympia shortly. Bannerman is with the supply crews making sure they are ready while the teams gather for their morning formation and training. Close to two hundred and fifty people gathered under the roof makes for quite a din. It is definitely over-crowded, especially with everyone trying to get in a shower or grab something to eat.
Gathering Black and Red Team together, along with Bannerman, Frank, and the crews transporting the supplies, we head out for our rendezvous with Leonard. I’m hoping he can dock in Olympia as I’d rather not take the time to drive to Tacoma. I have a lot to do to get ready if we’re going to leave in the morning on our little venture. If the numbers line up, I’d like to get the Stryker loaded today so we can be ready to leave first thing in the morning. The overcast and broken clouds of the previous days are absent and we are greeted with clear skies although a brisk breeze is blowing.
I am struck by how tall the grass in the median is. It and the tops of the fir trees bend with each gust that blows through. A red-tailed hawk swoops down from one of the trees and plummets into the tall reeds lining the Interstate. It appears moments later with something small grasped in its talons. One life ends so that another may continue.
Pieces of paper and a few leaves are pushed along the windswept streets of town as our convoy of vehicles makes its way through. Packed dirt, sand, and debris lie in the recessed doorways of the buildings. Windows, which once were the dreaded duty of employees to clean on a daily basis, are streaked with grime to the point that the displays sitting just inside are barely visible. The stenciled or decaled store signs on the doors and windows, along with a myriad of taped advertisements, are close to becoming unreadable. The city is quickly decaying.
Emerging from the city proper, we pass by the boarded up building that housed the once busy Saturday Market. I guess all produce will be organically grown from here on out, I think as we pass and drive down the crumbling street to the single dock that serves Olympia. Only one ship lies tied to the large pier jutting out into the waters of the south Puget Sound. The thick lines that keep the ship connected to the dock will eventually rot and the ship will then be at the mercy of the tides, either floating out into the large body of water or crashing into the boats docked in the marina. Those will also eventually become free and I have an image of boats piled up on the shores with the large cargo vessel leaning amongst them.
Driving onto the concrete dock itself, I see the sleek black outlines of the Santa Fe making its way toward us in the choppy waters. I exchange radio calls with Leonard and he informs us that there is enough room to dock and he will pull into shore here. We wait in on the pier with our pant legs and shirt sleeves flapping in the brisk wind.
The sub eventually nestles next to the pier and we toss heavy mooring lines to the waiting crew. Maneuvering a make-shift gangplank into position, Leonard and some of his crew meet us on the dock. Bannerman organizes our crew and soon supplies are being handed over and stowed below.
Leonard tells his story of the past three days and nights and I fill him in on ours. I begin to mention our plan to search for any surviving family members. He stops me and pulls me to the side.
“I’d rather not have my crew hear about your plans to look for families, Captain. That will only spur them to want to look for theirs and right now, I need a tight crew. I would be interested in hearing what you find out but, please, before you exchange that information, make sure I am the only one listening,” Leonard says once we are out of earshot of everyone else.
“I completely understand and have my own uneasiness about leaving. But we promised the soldiers we would try when we could and we don’t have that long before our window closes. We only have a few months before the fuel goes bad and the weather will be closing in soon. And, I’ll be sure to relay any information to you only,” I reply.
“That would be much appreciated, Captain. Speaking of communication, we should test the satellite comms,” he says.
We break out the satellite phones Bannerman gathered from the base and, much to my surprise, we are able to make contact with them. This will also open up the ability to communicate with Lynn and the others while we are off on our little jaunt. I’m surprised I didn’t think of that earlier as that was our main method of communication while out in the field. I guess I just assumed that, with the downfall of civilization, the satellites wouldn’t be functional for long. That alleviates one big worry. I was always worried that something would happen to us while flying across the country and we wouldn’t be able to let the others back here know. I had no doubt we could return as vehicles lie in abundance, but the time delay would cause worry at home.
“What are your plans?” I ask, watching another
load of supplies make their way up the gangway.
“I think we’ll head down the western seaboard and check out some of the smaller coastal towns and ports along the way. I’d like to take a look at San Francisco and LA with the eventual goal of checking out San Diego. I’ll then evaluate whether to sail over to Hawaii at that point. If there are any naval assets still functioning, they’d be there but after observing Bangor, Whidbey, and Seattle, I have my doubts as to whether we’ll find anything,” he replies.
“Okay. Keep in mind that we have aviation assets that can come assist if you need although Hawaii would be a stretch,” I say.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Captain. And thanks for everything. I know we may not have hit it off well and we still have a certain discussion coming, but thanks. I appreciate you digging into your stock and allowing us to resupply,” Leonard responds.
“It’s the least we could do. Just so you know, we tossed in enough weapons and ammo to arm your crew,” I state.
“Thanks again,” he says, reaching out his hand.
It takes time but the supplies are eventually handed over and stored. We shake hands all around and Leonard and his crew head on board. The gangway is removed and lines pulled back. The Santa Fe backs out of the docks, turns, and begins making its way across the waters, parting the waves. The figures observing from the bridge grow smaller. We watch as the black sub, far into the sound, turns north. It disappears around the point by Boston Harbor as it slowly makes its long trek to the open seas.
We head back and I spend most of the morning going over take off and flying data to include the weight of the Stryker. The Stryker is below the payload limitations for the 130 and the numbers look good. The only constraint will be our range which will be shortened to around one thousand miles. None of our legs come close to that distance so we should be okay. The only thing that sticks in my mind is if we find other survivors. With the Stryker on board and with the additional fuel we’ll take along for it, we’ll be restricted to eighty passengers. That puts the 130 right at its max parameters and I’ve never been enthusiastic about operating an aircraft right at its maximum weight limitations. Those are made up from engineers using new aircraft. Yes, there are the usual twenty percent margins thrown in but still.
