by Mic Shannon
Taking a deep breath, he slowly emerged from the cabinet, crawling on the floor to stay low. He plastered his back up against the wall of the kitchen, pushing open one of the swinging metal doors to peek at the main floor lined with tables and chairs, and then retracting his head. It was twenty feet to the front door of the building, with the front of the restaurant lined with glass so everyone could see the patrons enjoying their meals.
He peeked back around the corner again, looking at the glass and realizing he would be exposed. He looked the other way across the kitchen floor and saw a metal door. He stood up and scrambled to the door, grabbing the handle and trying to build his courage.
He sunk back down onto the floor, tearing up and breathing heavily. He wasn’t ready, and he wondered whether he would ever be. Despite the odds, he knew he had no other choice.
He turned the knob and cracked the door, looking down the alleyway. He slid out slowly and closed the door gently, scurrying over to a dumpster and kneeling next to it. He looked up at the rooftops, carefully scanning for silhouettes. His breathing got heavier, and he couldn’t seem to calm himself from the mental trauma as irrational thoughts of the many ways he could die ran through his mind.
When he finally built up the courage, he ran down the alleyway with lightning speed and stopped at the corner. Sneeking a peek, he couldn’t see any creatures, only a few fires in the distance. He looked left and looked right, unsure of which way to go. As his anxiety flared, he looked up at the rooftops, took a deep breath, and ran across the small street perpendicular to the main highway. Reaching the other side, he hit the alleyway and fell behind another dumpster for cover.
With three magazines and no weapon, he knew he would have to find protection, and the best place to look for a rifle would be on the main highway near the dead bodies. Still, he was nervous, and as he sat quietly he could hear creatures in the distance moving around the main highway…dragging something.
He gathered his courage again and tiptoed down the alleyway to the corner of the building. The silhouettes were moving around the highway on the other side of the buildings. If they knew he were there, he would most definitely be torn apart. He carefully peeked around the corner in their direction and shuttered as he saw them dragging the bodies of dead soldiers. Body parts lined the streets, with blood splattered on the blacktop like a Jackson Pollock painting. It was too risky. He wouldn’t be able to reach the street to find a weapon, so he just decided to move on.
He ran from alleyway to alleyway, stopping at each one to look at the rooftops. A block away he saw smoke coming from behind what looked like the local bank. As he approached the bank and made his way around to the side of the building to look, he could hear the fire crackling and smelled a weird scent in the crisp night air.
His first peek made his heart sink as he snapped back around the corner, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. There was a large group of about thirty creatures, all huddled next to each other in front of the massive fire that blazed into the night sky. When he peeked again he could see them crunching their teeth into the burnt flesh of the dead soldiers from the battlefield while others lay cooking on the embers of the fire.
Turning around, he quickly doubled back across the street to the alley. Peeking back toward the main highway, he saw more creatures dragging the dead bodies toward the fire.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
Looking down at the ground to think, he noticed a long streak of blood heading in the opposite direction, away from the main highway. He waited for the silhouettes to pass and bolted down the small street away from the highway, following the trail of blood.
He wasn’t really sure why, but something told him to continue. He never rationalized the logic of his choice, he just kept following it until it turned around the corner of another building. When he finally found the source, he saw a U.S. soldier sitting on the ground with his back to the wall and his chin sunk into his chest. His legs were outstretched, with one leg injured. The foot was gone all the way up to the middle of the calf, with a puddle of blood underneath the leg and a loose tourniquet wrapped around what was left of the shin. He lifted the soldier’s head to see if he was still alive. Unsure if the person had passed, he unfastened the top portion of the hazmat suit and pulled it off. Leaning in to look at the face of the soldier and listen for breathing, his jaw dropped as he saw the face of Cynthia’s father. The injured man moaned in pain as he tried to sit up, but leaned back over in agony.
“Mr. Ramirez,” he said, shaking him.
He groaned in pain.
“Mr. Ramirez, hold on okay? I’m gonna get you out of here.”
Michael threw his arm around his shoulders and tried to pick him up. Cynthia’s dad let out a yelp and fell back to the ground, limp. When he tried to pick himself back up, he began to cry.
Michael wasn’t sure what to do to comfort a grown man. He stood there, trying to figure out what he could do to alleviate the pain. Then, he leaned down and slowly wrapped his arms behind his head, pulling him into his chest as the tears streamed down his face.
“It’s okay,” Michael said, “I got you.”
“My…” mumbled Mr. Ramirez, “my…”
“Your what?” asked Michael, pulling away and staring into his eyes, hanging onto his every word.
Mr. Ramirez grabbed him by the blouse and pulled him close.
“My…daughter,” he whispered through blood stained teeth. He began to cry again, “Oh God, my daughter!”
“She’s okay, sir. I promise. She’s gonna be okay,” said Michael, his eyes starting to well up as he wiped his face, wondering why. Why him?! Why this path? It made him emotional; he could relate to how he had lost his own mother.
“Please…” said Mr. Ramirez in a low tone, “please…”
“What is it?” said Michael, “What do you need me to do?”
“Take care…” he said, mumbling his words, “…of my…”
His hand fell from Michael’s shirt, limp. Michael stared, traumatized, at the lifeless eyes that were looking straight through him into the face of death. He shuddered, shaking the body and lifting his head by the chin. The tears began to flow as he grabbed the front of Mr. Ramirez’s hazmat suit, burying his face in it. He looked back up at him, eyes red from exhaustion and sorrow.
“Yes, sir. I will.”
He picked up Mr. Ramirez’s rifle, lying next to his lifeless body, and flicked the display on the butt stock. The number three was blinking, indicating that it was almost empty. He released the magazine and slid in one from his hip. Standing there for a moment in sorrow, he decided to lie Mr. Ramirez’s body down on the ground and cross the arms over the chest, saying a quick prayer that his mother had taught him, then moving on.
Traveling through the dark alleys, rifle pointed in front of him as he hunched around it, he continued away from the highway, making sure to stay concealed and out of sight. In the distance, he saw other fires burning and avoided them at all costs. Approaching the end of the next alley, he knelt as soon as he heard an engine running.
He peeked around the corner at the vehicle, unable to believe his luck. There was an old, black H6 Hummer sitting in the middle of the road, almost as if it was waiting for him find it. Looking around to make sure there were no silhouettes overlooking it, he mustered his courage, counted to three, and started to jog toward the vehicle.
When he approached the back of the vehicle, he peeked through the back windshield into the trunk area and saw three large gas canisters. It was perfect. He ran over to the driver’s side door and opened it, excited to hop in and punch the gas toward the nearest safety zone.
Swinging the door open, he froze. Staring back at him was an older white male with a long beard in the driver’s seat and a younger black male in the passenger seat. The three men, surprised and startled as the door swung open, stared at each other in surprise.
The older white male leaned out of the doorway, causing Michael to step back. Spitting his dip spit onto
the ground, he looked back up at him.
“So,” he said in a raspy voice, “you gonna hop in or you just gonna stand there because we have to go.”
--- 1:42 am ---
Zooming through the dark streets of Torreón, Michael stared out of the window silently at the ancient architecture and the palm trees. How could a city so nice be so dangerous? Have so much death? Who are these two men and how did they survive? His thoughts raced in contemplation.
“So,” said the Chief, “who the hell are you?”
Michael glanced up at the front seat at the two men with a look of disgust at the Chief’s insensitivity to all that he’d been through, and then looked back out of the window.
“My name’s Michael,” he said calmly.
“And where the hell did you come from, Michael?” said the Chief.
“Hey,” said James calmly, shooting a scolding look toward the Chief, and then looking back at Michael, “Forgive him. He doesn’t mean any harm, it’s just his way. I had to get used to it myself. My names James and this is Chief Petty Officer Harris.”
“What unit are you guys with?” said Michael, looking at their uniforms, “I don’t see a Ground Force patch.”
Both men paused and looked at each other.
“I’m CIA,” said James, “and this is my former mentor from SEAL Team Six.”
Michael’s eyes got large as he stared at both men. They were Special Forces, and that intrigued him.
“So, were you guys with us when we rolled out?” he asked.
“No,” said James, “our team landed in Costa Rica about a month ago, looking for intel. We’re all that’s left.”
“I know what that’s like,” said Michael, staring back out of the window and rubbing the fuzz on his chin.
James picked up on his social cues, “So, how did you survive?”
Michael thought back about how he had run, embarrassed at his actions, “I got lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” interrupted the Chief, snorting, “I believe in destiny.”
“Well,” retorted James, “I think we’d be luckier if we could see what we’re shooting at.”
Michael turned from the window in shock and looked at the two men, “Wait, you can’t see them?”
James raised an eyebrow, “You can?”
There was silence in the car as they awaited his answer. James turned around in his seat to look at Michael who shot him a look of fear, softening his expression as he began to shake.
“Well,” said the Chief, looking at him through the rear-view mirror, “stick with us. We’ve been behind enemy lines for a while and we’re not dead yet. Plus, we picked up some solid intel. All we have to do is get back stateside, alive, so we can debrief.”
Michael looked back out of the window of the Hummer as they passed a large ‘Policía’ sign. A light bulb clicked.
“Stop!” he yelled frantically.
The Chief slammed on the brakes and brought the Hummer to a complete stop, “What is it? Do you see something?!”
Michael immediately hopped out of the vehicle and started running toward the station.
“What the hell is he doing?” barked the Chief, looking out of the window.
“I dunno,” said James, scrunching his eyebrows and craning his neck to see.
“If he’s not back in sixty seconds, I’m outta here.”
“We need him, Chief,” he countered. The Chief scoffed at his statement, knowing he was right.
Michael sprinted to the police station and pressed his back up against the wall next to the open front door. To the left of the building, the Command Center was shredded to pieces and riddled with body parts. Taking three deep breaths to calm his nerves, he rounded the corner with his weapon in front of him and scanned the dark room left to right, looking for enemies. When he saw that it was empty, he dropped his weapon to his side and ran over to his cot.
“Where is it?” he said to himself, reaching into his daypack.
He pulled out the journal and held it in front of his face, staring at it.
“Jackpot,” he whispered, shoving the book into his cargo pocket.
He ran back outside, rushing to get back to the safety of the waiting Hummer. He hopped into the back seat panting heavily and slammed the door.
“What was that about?” asked James, confused.
“This book,” he said to the two men, reaching into his cargo pocket and presenting the pinned insignia on the back cover in front of them, “is my reason for riding with you.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
