by John O'Brien
“Do you really think this pace will keep up?” He asks.
“I’m not sure. In some ways, I don’t think we’ve even started. There’s a shitload of night runners out there and we haven’t the slightest notion of what they are capable of,” I answer.
“Michelle isn’t going to like that, just like she doesn’t like the fact that we’re flying off again soon,” he says.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m having the same issue,” I say, hearing the curtain part behind me. Lynn parks herself against the railing on the other side of me.
“What are you two boys talking about?” She asks.
“Nothing much. You know, the weather, the best deodorant to use, that sort of stuff,” I answer.
“Uh, huh…. And I suppose that the fact that Michelle and I aren’t looking forward to you two flying out again soon never came up,” she says.
“How do you do that? Do we really have a teleprompter on our foreheads?” I ask, startled at how she always knows what I’m thinking.
“We have our magical ways,” she replies with a grin. “And to answer, yes you do. And yours, Jack, is bigger than most.”
“You know I love you, right?” I say.
“Yes, I do, and love you too,” she replies. “Jack, there was something on the cameras last night I think you should see.”
“What was it?”
“Just come look at the tape yourself before we head out,” she says.
Robert, Lynn, and I walk downstairs into the control room. She pulls the recording out and starts playing it. She fast forwards until night runners appear on the screen. I watch for a few moments as the replay of what she saw plays.
“Shit! Are they actually casing the walls and looking the place over?” I ask, stunned by what I am seeing.
“That’s what it looks like to me,” Robert answers.
“I was thinking the same thing when I saw it last night,” Lynn responds.
I continue to watch as the small band of night runners look at the walls. Lynn puts in another recording as the ones on screen move off to the side. They appear again and stop. I shiver and a sense of dread comes over me. I know not to underestimate the night runners or anyone else for that matter and didn’t think I had been. The actions I am watching certainly indicate that I may have been. I hope this isn’t a prelude to something and think about taking the AC-130 up tonight.
“We have to clear out the area,” I say, watching a night runner take a run toward the camera and wall.
I continue watching as the explosion from the mine fills the screen and the subsequent night runner reaction. They vanish into the distance after moments of apparently being stunned. Lynn reaches over and hits the stop button but we continue to watch the blank screen for a few more moments. The fact that night runners will, no can, openly observe and surveil doesn’t leave me with a warm feeling. Cold dread creeps up my spine. As with the other packs I’ve observed, this one had an apparent leader. Perhaps it’s the leaders that have the ability? Whatever the case, it seems they have a higher level of intelligence that I wasn’t aware of. Yes, they can open doors and the thought of them being able to escape from the hospital comes to mind. Not that it ever really left.
“I’ll go wake the others,” Lynn says, jarring me from my thoughts.
“Okay, thanks, I’ll meet you outside,” I say.
Robert and I check that the outside is clear and step out to an overcast day. The moisture in the air after so many clear days brings a chill. It’s barely light out and the parking lots are cast in a dim gray. The sun must just be peaking above the mountains but it doesn’t look like we’ll see much of it today. The air is still with not a breeze stirring. The morning fits my mood after watching the video. I was only partially kidding when I told Robert that we may not see a secure peace in our lifetimes. Once again, it feels like we are barely treading water, but we are still alive. Looking at Robert sitting on the curb next to me, resolve sets in. I’ll protect him, Bri, and Lynn to my dying breath. An image of Nic smiling fills my mind and fills me with sadness and longing to see her. Just to see my sweet girl once again. See her smile, hear her voice, and hug her just one more time. God, I miss her. My heart opens up and tears well in my eyes.
“So, what are we going to do?” Robert asks, breaking the silence of the morning.
“Kill every last one of the motherfuckers,” I answer, looking over at him.
“I’m with you on that. But how?” He asks.
“We’ll take the Spooky out and clear out the area. Scorched earth policy. Clear out every last place they can hide in. Strike fear in them. Make it so they won’t want to come within miles of this place,” I say.
What I don’t mention is the fear they’ve struck in me. I’ve dealt with a lot of bad guys in my time but nothing like the night runners. Sure it’s been a while since we’ve had to endure nightly attacks and the barrage of their shrieks but their ability to adapt so quickly and the level of intelligence they seem to have worries me. The sheer number of them that the CDC statistics compiled is mind-boggling, particularly compared to the lack of our numbers. I feel deep down that it’s only a matter of time before they come at us again. Especially if Frank is right about them running low on food. Maybe we could leave food drops for them far away so they wouldn’t think of coming here. I release that thought as it would sorely deplete our own resources. No, we have to clear them out of the area somehow.
Robert just looks at me. Team members begin to trickle out and toss their gear in Humvees. “Well, shall we go see what the sub captain has to say?” I say, patting him on the shoulder.
“Let’s go do it,” he replies. We head over to the Humvees for our journey north.
Sam the Unwise
The clouds remain over us on our journey to Fort Lewis. They don’t have the look of foreshadowing rain but they are more evidence of the fall and coming winter. Time continues to tick away. With the exception of the continued signs of night runner adaptability, we seem to be doing well with our own advances. I just hope we haven’t overlooked something drastic. It’s not like we are playing a video game and can pull up our last save if we make a mistake.
We follow the familiar terrain of I-5 north. The leaves of the few deciduous trees in the area are turning red and yellow, giving color to the otherwise dreary gray day the Northwest is known for. It won’t be long until the rains hit. And the shorter days. The grass in the median between the north and southbound lanes has grown tall, so much that the other lanes are hidden behind it. I look in the rear-view mirror and see five other Humvees climbing the hill behind. We take the first turn into Fort Lewis and make our way through the abandoned fort to the maintenance buildings.
I cast my mind out as we drive slowly through the myriad of buildings and adjacent fields. My second shock of the day follows. I don’t sense a single night runner. I cast farther out and only find one small pack nestled in a building on the north end. This is puzzling as I sensed a few of them gathered on our last journey through. Have they depleted their food here and moved on? Are they banding together somewhere else? These thoughts occupy my mind as we progress through the main base and by the commissary. A deer walks into the road ahead, sees us, turns and leaps back in the direction from which it appeared. An occasional bird flutters across the road. No, there’s still food in the area. As we pull into the maintenance area, I continue to puzzle over the absence of night runners.
We park and I join up with Lynn. The other team members exit and fan out in a perimeter. The sound of the Humvee engines idling mixes with that of the soldiers’ boots running on the pavement. I feel the chill of the day seeping through my fatigues. It won’t be long until we will have to start donning warmer clothing underneath. Lynn rubs her hands trying to keep them warm. I think about telling her about the absence of night runners but decide to bring it up later. Right now we need to focus on meeting with the sub.
“Well, do we take Bradleys, Strykers, or just transports up?�
� I ask.
“The Bradleys will just tear up the roads and I’d feel more comfortable having some armament available. We haven’t been up in that area as yet and don’t know what to expect,” she answers.
“Maybe we should just fly up. I’m pretty sure they have a small airfield there,” I say.
“You said we could only carry two Humvees in the 130. That would take us forever to transport the five teams unless it’s right next to where the sub will be,” she responds.
“I don’t think it’s that far but it would still require a little hike. So Strykers it is then,” I say.
“We can carry three teams in two Strykers but let’s take three Strykers and two Humvees, one ahead and one behind,” Lynn says.
“Sounds good to me,” I say.
Lynn turns and has three brought out of the maintenance building. The heavy whine of their diesel engines fills the air, overriding the idling Humvee engines. Lynn talks with the team leaders and has the teams form up into vehicles. I’ll be in the lead Humvee with Robert, Gonzalez, and McCafferty. The rest of Red Team will ride in the first Stryker. Lynn will bring up the rear with Frank, Bannerman, and one other Black Team member. After test firing the.50 cal M2 machine guns mounted on top and checking the targeting systems, we start our convoy out of the maintenance area.
We backtrack to the main gate and turn north on the interstate. Cars begin to pile up in the right lanes similar to those in the Olympia area as we near one of the exits to one of the hospitals in the area. We track over to the far left lane and are able to squeeze by the stranded vehicles. Some, like those farther south, have their doors open as people must have tried to get to the hospital on foot. Our Humvee squirts through with little room to spare but the wrenching sound of metal being ripped apart comes from the Stryker behind. I look in the rear-view and see sparks fly as one car door is torn off its hinges by the mammoth vehicle.
The Tacoma Mall lot is as empty as before. I look over the concrete barriers now separating the two lanes of traffic, searching for the car that was destroyed when I tossed the wrench out of the 130 seemingly so long ago. There are a couple of cars in the lot but I can’t make out that particular one. My thought momentarily drifts to Andrew. My guess is he either found his parents and stayed or didn’t make it. I send him a quick thought of hope.
We take the highway 16 exit and proceed through Tacoma toward the Narrows Bridge. Green exit signs track our progress. The signs indicate various Burger Kings, McDonalds, and Dairy Queens that won’t ever dispense their fast food again. Seeing the signs reminds me of the movies I saw where archaic relics of the past would pass by, indications of a time past that will never be again. So much has changed, the signs seem almost alien to me now.
I look over at the rooftops of the residential houses that line part of the highway. I think about the lives that once lived under those sheltering roofs. Bookshelves filled with books that will never be picked up and read again; once best sellers with rave reviews splashed against the front covers. The hoopla about their release now a forgotten memory of a world that once was. Photographs capturing happy moments with families and loved ones together now gathering dust. I look along the empty highway which once had cars stacked bumper to bumper as everyone tried to get to their nine to five jobs. The hectic rush in the morning and evenings and days filled with the stress of having some project or another to complete. The honking and gestures from impatient drivers. Yes, that world definitely seems the alien one to me now.
We continue through the sections of Tacoma, residences giving way to businesses and back to residences. Rounding a corner of the highway, the Tacoma Narrows Bridge looms ahead. The light green twin suspension bridges running in a close parallel arch over the deep blue waters of the narrow strait between Tacoma and the Kitsap Peninsula. I radio the others in the convoy that we’ll be stopping just prior to the approaches. Before crossing, I want to scope out the other side. It’s hard to anticipate everything but if we are able to see trouble before it happens, well, when is that ever a bad thing.
I pull into a paved open area before the lanes split to the entrances of each bridge. Two of the Strykers stop behind in tandem and I see their.50 cals swivel to cover the sides. The other Stryker comes to a halt behind covering the rear with Lynn pulling her Humvee up and parking next to mine. The chill of the morning hits as I open the door and walk over to her window. There’s still not a breath of air stirring. The rumble of the Strykers is the only sound. Standing at her window rubbing my arms to ward off the chill, I look to the bridges. Their arch prevents me from seeing the other side nor can I look around them from the sides.
“What’s up?” Lynn asks rolling down her window.
“I want to take a look before we cross. I’ll drive up to the middle and take a peek at the other side. I know there’s a residential area just over the other side and a small airport close by to the left. I just want to make sure it’s clear before we cross,” I answer.
“Yeah, I knew there was an airport close by,” she says.
“You did?” I ask. She merely points to the big green sign by the side of the road which says, ‘Tacoma Narrows Airport, 1? mile’.
“Yeah, I guess that would be a clue,” I say chuckling.
“Do you want me to come up with you on the second bridge?” She asks.
“Nah. Just hang back here and I’ll radio if it’s clear,” I reply.
She nods and rolls up her window. I walk back to my Humvee still rubbing my arms and looking at the gray clouds overhead. They aren’t moving and it seems as if the world is holding its breath. As I climb back in, I hear the radio crackle with Lynn radioing the others.
“We’re going to the top of the bridge and scope out the other side,” I tell the others with me as I pull into the lanes of the bridge on the right.
“Hooah, sir,” Gonzalez says beside me.
“Damn, do you just wait for the opportunity to say that?” I ask, looking over at her. She is staring straight ahead but I see the corners of her mouth crawl up in a smile.
“My day wouldn’t be complete without saying it to you at least once, sir,” she says. “I like to watch you roll your eyes.”
I hear Robert chuckle in the back seat. We pull onto the bridge and begin driving up the curved arch. The waters below are like the roads we’ve encountered — empty. This part of the waterway was always filled with white streaks of boats heading across the waves. Now, it’s almost glass smooth with the occasional ripple.
We climb higher and just crest the topmost part of the bridge. Crack! A spider web of fractured glass appears on the windshield just on my side of the middle post. In my peripheral, I see Gonzalez’s startled response as she ducks. My heart jumps and I crouch as well slamming on the brakes.
“Fuck! Is everyone around hostile?” I say, throwing the Humvee in reverse.
Adrenaline floods my system as I step on the accelerator and reverse quickly back down the slope of the bridge. My mind makes out that I saw a flash of light at the far end of the bridge just before the impact of the bullet on our windshield. I bring the Humvee to a stop when we are no longer visible over the top of the bridge.
“Everyone okay?” I ask quickly.
“Except for needing a new set of fatigues, I’m just fine, sir,” Gonzalez replies.
“I’m good here,” Robert says. “But I’ll second the needing new fatigues.”
“Good here, sir,” I hear McCafferty, manning the M-240, shout from the open hatch.
“Okay, good, wait here,” I say, grabbing a pair of binoculars, open the door, and step out onto the paved surface of the five-lane bridge.
There is a pedestrian walkway to the right side of the bridge and I run over to it making sure I am far below the line of sight from the far side of the bridge. I hop over the railing and slowly crouch up to a point just short of the top. Apparently seeing me back up hastily and run across the bridge, Lynn calls.
“Everything okay, Jack?” I hear her voice in my
earpiece.
Hitting the push-to-talk, I answer, “Just peachy. Someone took a shot at us and I want to get eyes on the bastard.”
“Is there another way around?” She asks.
“Not unless you or anyone here knows how to drive a ferry,” I reply.
“African or European?” Lynn asks.
Great! I’m surrounded by comedians today. “Bravo, Mike,” I respond.
“Awww…. you do care. What about just rolling the Strykers up?”
“We may just do that. Standby,” I answer.
I lie down and crawl the rest of the way on the hard surface. The cold seeps through my sleeves and pant legs as I make my way to the crest. Ready to slide back down the crest in case someone sees me and wants to take a shot, I bring the binoculars up.
Down the curved arched roadway, on the far side of the bridge, I see a line of cars and trucks spanning across the lanes of both bridges. The magnified view brings everything into a sharp focus. Behind the cars blocking the lanes, I count twelve people lined up across the hoods, roofs, and trunks. All of them have rifles of some sort aimed toward where we appeared. Seven are aiming across the vehicles toward the bridge I am on and five have their weapons pointed up the span adjacent to me on the left.
I watch as several more cars enter the highway from a nearby ramp and park. Ten more people exit the vehicles, extract rifles and join the others behind the roadblock. I’m thinking they must have some form of communication and have a fortification somewhere near to be alive with the night runners about. How many more may be there is open to question. However, they’ve shown their intentions and I don’t mean to stick around and jabber with them.
“Lynn, run a scan on the UHF frequencies. Pay particular attention to the four-sixty megahertz range,” I say using my throat mic. “Let me know what you hear.”
“Wilco, standby,” I hear her response.
I’m thinking if they are communicating with radios, they’ll be using the FRS channels common to most two-way radios. I am about to put the binoculars down and inch back when I spot another pickup truck appear from farther up the highway. It comes to a stop behind the blockade. A man exits and walks to the front of the truck. One of the people at the cars sees him and trots over. There’s a lot of hand pointing toward our position and an obvious conversation is taking place. I zoom in closer on the two.
