by John O'Brien
Parking themselves under the shade of several trees, they sit at the edge of the tall grass occupying a median. Pulling out canteens, they drink, the cool water going down nicely in the warming day. If it weren’t for the mission, and the way the world was, it would be perfect for a picnic. As it is, the five minutes, as always, seem more like one.
“Okay, Speer, lead us out,” Krandle says softly. Canteen caps are screwed on, the containers replaced in their pouches, and the team rises.
Taking a knee, Speer pauses before the slope of the overpass, looking down both sides of the freeway. With a sharp nod from their point man, the rest rise and trot across. Two blocks later, they come to the second overpass, repeating the action. On the other side, houses begin flanking both sides of the street.
Resuming their staggered intervals, they continue. Trees are surprisingly absent along the avenues. Their eyes dart from corner to corner, looking for the quick movement of a shadow. House windows stare back at them, some covered with blinds, others open to the interior. All are dirty. Lawns are overgrown. Some of the homes look to have been landscaped at one time, but the once-pristine bushes now have branches sprouting out at all angles, and flower gardens are thick with weeds.
Krandle notes that some of the doors are open. Hard-packed trails in the overgrown grass lead to several houses evidence of night runners. However, all remains quiet as they step along dirt-covered roads. Several times, they come across tracks crossing or proceeding along the streets. Fingers remain close to triggers as they cautiously make their way through the neighborhoods.
They trudge onward; their shadows, once long, grow shorter as the sun rises higher. The roads slope ever upward through the residential areas. Over the tops of the roofs, they see the steep, rising mass of green of the heights that dominate the city and harbor.
Soon, the houses thin, replaced by trees on one side and a large green sports field on the other. A baseball diamond is nearly invisible behind tall grass that used to be a trimmed outfield. If it weren’t for goalie nets rising above the stalks, the adjacent soccer field would be unrecognizable as such. A barbed-wire-topped chain link fence separates them from the field. They have arrived at Camp Smith.
Knowing that the radio transmission is emanating from within, they travel more slowly, expecting to be met by whomever might have triggered the signal. Krandle worries that nerves might be frayed in anyone still holed up in the facility, especially with the night runners nearby. He hopes, however, that if anyone is still in the camp, they will recognize a military group such as themselves before gunfire is exchanged.
The chain link fence gives way to one with tall, metal poles that are curved at the top. Here the road flattens for a ways before rising into the green hills beyond. Passing a tall white building, they reach the entrance. Letters on the side of a rock wall identify the site:
Camp H.M. Smith/MCB Hawaii
Headquarters
Commander US Marine Forces Pacific
On the other side of the entrance road, more letters on an identical wall:
Camp H.M. Smith/MCB Hawaii
Headquarters
United States Pacific Command
Somewhere within the small camp, an automated radio signal is broadcasting a recall notice.
The entrance is a single lane, with another exit lane leading out. Both pass to either side of a small guard shack. A white sign, tipped over on its side in the entryway, denotes: 100% IDENTIFICATION CHECK IN PROGRESS. However, there’s no one at the checkpoint to enforce that anymore.
“Okay, ladies, nice and slow up to the command center. Someone, or something, set this thing off, so let’s be on our best behavior,” Krandle comments, nodding for Speer to head into the camp.
With their M-4s at the ready, they creep to the guard shack. Speer peeks around the corner, looking over the area. He then sprints across the entryway and onto a lawn, almost vanishing in the tall grass. Krandle hears him whisper “clear” before the rest race to join him.
At the corner, Krandle sees the command center building. The six-story structure is built on the backside of a hill, which hides the first two floors. The brick facility is tiered, with the center section rising four stories above a small parking lot and curved entrance. The next section is only two stories tall, with a third section consisting of only a single floor. Including the two floors hidden by the rise, the building is a large one.
The center section has ceiling-high windows on the fourth and fifth floor that look out over the parking lot. Many of the other windows have shutters or blinds covering them. In the distance, the high-rises of downtown Honolulu reach skyward and the blue waters of the harbor shimmer under the sun.
“What now?” Franklin whispers.
“We head up to the entrance and see what we see,” Krandle replies.
“Please tell me that you aren’t thinking about going inside,” Speer pleads.
“I don’t know at the moment. Now, move out.”
They trot along the curved driveway, which travels along the front of the building. The pavement ends where a portico juts out from the entrance. At the covered entryway, glass shards from one of the shattered doors litter a brick walkway.
Krandle radios the Santa Fe. “Arrived at the facility. Nothing to report.”
The radioman acknowledges. Krandle leans against a brick pillar, staring at the broken door. While he’s not positive that it means night runners are inside, it’s certainly a good indication. It could also be how whoever set off the signal gained entry.
“What are you thinking?” Franklin asks.
“I’m thinking that someone started the broadcast, so there’s a chance that there are survivors within,” Krandle answers.
“So, you’re thinking of going in?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Do you know where it would be coming from? I mean, like which floor…what part of the building?” Franklin queries, staring into the interior.
“Not a clue,” Krandle responds.
“If we go in, are we going to sweep the entire structure, then? That’s a lot of building to cover.”
“No, we don’t have time for something like that. I’m kinda hoping there will be a facility diagram at the guard desk. And I imagine there will be signs in place that will indicate the most likely locations,” Krandle replies.
“So, basically we’re hoping there will be a glowing neon sign or blinking arrows?”
“Pretty much.”
The team stands under the shaded overhang for a moment, contemplating the structure.
Pushing himself off the brick pillar, Krandle addresses the team. “All right, we’re going into the lobby. It looks like there will be plenty of radiant light so night runners shouldn’t be a problem. Keep in mind that there may be people inside, so don’t be too happy with your trigger fingers. We’re looking for a building diagram. I’ll decide how much farther in we go depending on what we find.”
Clearing the glass away with their boots to make as little sound as possible, they step into the lobby. The tiled floor near the opening has a thin layer of fine sand mixed with the shards. Farther in, radiant light shining through the windows shows polished linoleum. Papers are strewn across the floor, many piled against the walls. It looks like people stationed here left in a hurry, throwing whatever was in hand over their shoulders as they exited…if they were able to.
Pausing just past the entrance, Krandle surveys the scene. Spotting a guard desk nearby, he walks over and peeks behind a raised counter. More papers are scattered across the desk and on the floor. Under several sheets, he sees two bodies…or what remains of them. One is lying face down, but he can tell that it has been terribly mauled. A skeletal hand, with dried pieces of tendon still attached, extends from one of the sleeves. A handgun lies just out of reach, as if the soldier was reaching for it when he died.
The other body appears unmolested, except for a shriveled hole just above one eye. The skin has decayed and it’s im
possible to tell if it was a human or a night runner, although the scene and the fact that it’s not torn apart lend evidence that it was a night runner.
Rummaging through the scattered mess, Krandle locates a binder with maps of each floor, along with telephone numbers. Calling Franklin over, they go through the documents, trying to ascertain where a communication control room might be located.
“It looks like it could be this one, near the center of this section on the second floor,” Franklin states, pointing.
“That’s probably the best guess,” Krandle says.
Turning to the other team members, he briefs. “Okay, there’s a room almost right under us on the second floor. We’ll check out this one room, and only this room. If we encounter anything, or hear anything, we’re out. Reverse our line and double time it back to the entrance.”
“I don’t like this, chief,” Speer comments. “Not at all.”
“I don’t either, Speer, but we’re going.”
“I have to side with Speer on this one,” Franklin states.
“Two floors below us is a broadcast being sent on a coded military channel. It didn’t start on its own. If there is a vestige of military personnel here, I think we owe it to ourselves to find them. We’re going in. Now, don your NVGs. Speer, study these diagrams and lead us in.”
After notifying the sub that they’re heading in, they walk across the lobby toward a hallway leading farther into the building. Entering the hall, the light fades to a deep gloom. Goggles are lowered, showing the long corridor in a greenish hue. Speer leads them down, slow step by slow step, his carbine held ready.
In the middle of the hallway lies a steel door with “stairs” on a wall sign. Speer peeks through a small glass pane inset into the doorway. A faint light shines through, barely illuminating his face.
“Emergency lights are on,” he whispers.
Pulling on the handle, each one slithers through the opening. The small amount of light emanating from an exit sign above the doorway shines on the top of their heads and shoulders. Krandle notes additional glows from landings both above and below.
Proceeding downward in single file, Krandle hears the others’ soft breathing within the confined space and feels his own heart thumping solidly. The air is noticeably chillier inside the stairwell. Slowly, they make their way down the stairs. By the time they reach the second floor, the prevalent tension feels like the vibration from a tightly pulled cable.
Speer peeks through a small rectangular window, looking as far left and right as is possible. Easing the door open, he sticks his head into the hallway. Seeing nothing, he opens the door wider and creeps inside, going to his knees after a short distance. Ortiz follows, setting up in the opposite direction. Nothing shows itself. The soft glow from the exit sign is the only visible light. Except for the soft rustle of cloth, it’s completely silent.
The rest of the team snakes into the hall. Speer points in the direction he’s facing and they make their way down a long hallway. Doors line the walls; some open and others closed. Several have been broken and lean across the corridor. Some are still attached to an upper or lower hinge and lean drunkenly, while others rest against the far wall or have fallen to the floor. Like the upper lobby, papers are strewn the length of the hall.
They check each door they pass as they work though the building, a faint reek of decomposition filling the hall. Most lead into office spaces. They pass a few glass-enclosed conference rooms, with large screens on walls. Behind most of the broken doors, they find dried blood splattered on the walls, along with bodies and parts of bodies.
They step over and under the broken doors, slithering through the facility like a dark, flowing mist. Krandle has them pause, pulls out the diagram, and points ahead. Speer nods and creeps toward a double set of doors that Krandle indicated, one of which has been forced inward.
Even with the chill inside the corridor, Krandle feels a trickle of sweat roll down his temple and over his cheek. The damaged doors, blood, and mutilated bodies show that violence took place; but so far, he hasn’t heard any sounds that would indicate that night runners are inside. Perhaps the satellite video feeds were correct and they only inhabit the surrounding structures.
With his heartbeat pounding in his ear, Krandle steps up to the entrance, signaling Miller and Ortiz to watch both ends of the hallway. Peering inside, he takes in what is obviously a control room. Three large screens dominate the far wall, with a series of long desks filled with monitors and electronic equipment. In the aisles, chairs are upended and lie on their sides.
The screen in the middle shows a video feed from the empty flight deck of a carrier. A digital clock in the upper left corner shows various time zones. Krandle looks at his watch. The times match. The video is live, from somewhere in the world. He watches for a minute, looking for anyone moving. After all, a flight deck is usually a busy place. There is nothing except a rolling swell visible past the edge of the deck.
The screen on the right shows “SPAWAR” with a symbol underneath, and the one on the left is dark. The monitors emit glows within the room and it’s immediately obvious that no one is home.
Krandle grabs Speer’s shoulder and nods toward the interior. Moving the shattered door enough to gain entrance, they step into the room. They’ll do a quick check of this room, and if they don’t find anything, they’ll move out, having given it their best.
Entering the aisle closest to the large screens, Krandle notes blood splatters on the floor, and shreds of clothing. Walking closer, bypassing the overturned chairs, he finds a shredded pant leg, the lower leg still inside. Lifting the hem of the pants with the barrel of his M-4, he sees that it has been gnawed to the bone. More importantly, it looks recent.
Near the pants, he sees the top part of a shirt; its once-white color deeply stained. On the epaulet is a tab denoting the rank of lieutenant. A glowing monitor near the tattered remains is coated in rivulets of dried blood. Wiping the screen with his glove, he sees some sort of communication program running. Moving a mouse, he clicks on a button that indicates “end broadcast.”
The Santa Fe radios. In the silence of the room, it blares in his earpiece. The message lets him know that the signal has suddenly quit and asks for an update.
“Whoever started the signal is long gone…or dead. It looks like they may have entered to call for help but were overtaken,” he responds. “We’re on our way out.”
Signing off, Krandle sees a large blood trail on the linoleum floor, leading to another set of broken doors. Following the smear, he pokes his head out of the doorway into another hall.
Shrieks suddenly fill the air.
Holy Fuck!
Turning sharply toward the sound, toward the doors they entered, he sees several bright flashes of light from beyond the broken entry. Miller and Ortiz leap across the broken doorway and into the room.
“Night runners!” Ortiz yells, and breaks into a string of Spanish.
“English, Ortiz!” Krandle shouts, the need for quiet no longer needed.
“We got a couple, but there are more coming…a lot more.”
“Everyone out…out now!”
“Which way?” Franklin asks.
“Out this door,” barks Krandle. “Speer, find us an exit. Just head down the hall and look for light coming from under a doorway. I’ll cover our backside.”
Speer tears through the broken doorway. Pausing for just a second, he heads to the left. With screams filling the air, the others follow quickly.
Krandle enters the corridor. Glancing back, he sees several night runners enter through the far door, their pale faces glowing and their eyes reflecting the light from the monitors. Without a second thought, he races after his teammates. The screeching escalates as night runners enter the hallway after them, their bare feet slapping the hard floor to mix with the pounding of the team’s boots.
They’re getting closer.
Krandle slows, and turns. Ghostly faces jostle in the hallway as the
night runners streak toward him. Raising his carbine, he fires several bursts into their midst. Those closest fall face-forward, hitting the floor hard. Others behind leap over the bodies at a full sprint; closing with incredible speed. Krandle turns and runs, his teammates ahead of him in the long hall.
“Light ahead,” Speer calls on the full run.
Krandle isn’t sure what he heard, only that Speer shouted something. Shrieks echo down the corridor, so loud that it feels as if his head is vibrating. He doesn’t dare look back. There’s no need to check. He knows the night runners are there, and rapidly closing; their screams seemingly coming from directly behind his ear.
He tenses, anticipating the feel of hands clawing at him from behind, dragging him down. Krandle can almost feel the first tearing sensations of his skin being ripped away; teeth biting sharply into him. He puts every ounce of energy into his legs, although he knows it won’t be enough. The hallway, glowing green through his goggles, remains dark, with no sign of an exit.
Ahead, a strobe of light flashes, silhouetting his teammates far ahead of him, caught in a frozen moment of time. He immediately thinks they’ve run into another pack coming from the other direction, cutting them off and encircling them. Steeling his mind for the inevitable, he won’t go down without fighting with everything he has.
A bright stream of light surprises him. At first, it doesn’t make sense; his mind is already set for a fight he can’t possibly win. Then, the hallway fills with it. The shrieks behind him change. Following the streaking figures of his team, he runs full-tilt into an office, slamming hard against the far wall. The jolt rattles his mind. As awareness sets in, he sees the rest of his team, their hands on their knees, panting. Light from the noon sun pours in through windows. The view over the bay is the best he’s ever seen.
“Well, that was fun,” Speer pants. “Anyone want to do that again?”
“I’m good, thanks all the same,” Miller replies.
Ortiz rattles off a string of comments in Spanish.
