Dissension nw-6

by John O'Brien

  The thrill of the chase fills her, heightened by the fact that it is a two-legged one she is after. Her elated shriek rises above the others. She can almost taste the sweet blood and fresh meat. The two-legged one ahead manages to find a door and stumbles through it. She has faced the two-legged ones before and managed to survive. His stumbling around in the dark confuses her as the ones she has encountered previously seemed able to see very well in the dark. This thought is lost in the rage, hunger, and anticipation she feels.

  Racing through the closing door, she turns in a narrow hallway close on the heels of the two-legged one. She sees it crash into one of the side walls and falter. She is now right behind it. A few more steps and the feeding will commence. The chase and thrill fills her and she hungers for that first bite. Her mind registers the thuds of the others of her kind hitting the door as they enter the hall. She reaches out and catches hold of the shirt that is barely clinging to its body. Remembering another time when she brushed the shirt of another fleeing two-legged one, brushing but not catching hold, she clenches her hand on the shirt and doesn’t let go. That one a while ago managed to get away and escape. This one will not.

  The two-legged one screams as she jerks back and it loses its balance, falling to the soft flooring below. She immediately falls upon it, biting and tearing at the tender skin. Blood flows from the wounds she creates, its sweet smell permeating the air. The two-legged one is screaming beneath her heightening the thrill of the feeding. She shrieks loudly with pleasure and leans over, sinking her teeth into the soft neck. Twisting her head violently, warm blood spurts out from the wound coating her with its stickiness. The one below her goes limp and the spraying blood slows to a trickle.

  Shrieking once again, she lowers her head to feed as the rest of the body is covered with other pack members. They claw at the body seeking to get their fill. The clothing is shredded away exposing the delicious meat underneath. Mouths and hands attack and soon a sickly sweet smell pervades the air as the insides are laid bare. She goes for the tender parts of the face tearing strips of flesh from the cheeks. Her exhaustion is forgotten as she and the others feed until only a few strips of flesh, tendon, and hair remain on the bloody bones.

  Lacing up my boots early in the morning, I feel exhaustion creep through me. Lynn and I stayed up late enjoying each other’s company, not wanting the evening to end as that meant being the beginning of days on end apart. However, as time does, the night passes without any input from either of us. I throw more items into my bag as Lynn tiredly ties her boots. She looks up with eyes reddened from lack of sleep and exhaustion. No words need to be spoken, dawn is upon us and it’s time for me to be on my way.

  We grab a bite to eat together and watch as the others who are going with us emerge from their cubicles one at a time. Robert, dressed in a flight suit with an M-4 draped over his shoulder and packed duffle bag on the ground beside him, leans against the upper railing with his arm around Michelle. Bri exits with a huge yawn and stretch that belies her diminutive stature, nods at Robert and Michelle, reaches back inside for her carbine and pack before heading downstairs. The others of Red Team and the reorganized Echo Team gather around one of the tables on the first floor.

  “Well, hon, I guess it’s about that time,” I say to Lynn.

  “I know. I hate that you have to leave, Jack. I don’t like this one bit,” she replies.

  “I don’t either. One of these days, it will come about that we don’t have to do this. This just, well, sucks,” I state.

  “Yes it does and I’m so looking forward to that time. We might as well get this over with. You know, the band aid approach. I’ll walk you down and see you off, again.”

  We walk downstairs hand in hand. Tired ‘good mornings’ make their way around and we gather our gear. The light of the early morning fills the parking lots without a cloud in the sky. The brisk breeze that was prevalent yesterday has passed by leaving a calm morning. The morning still has a chill to it that speaks of a new season approaching. I turn and wrap Lynn in my arms holding her tight. I notice Robert and Michelle enacting the same scene a short distance away.

  “I love you, Lynn,” I whisper into her ear.

  “I love you, too, Jack. So much,” she returns.

  We stay that way a moment later exchanging a long kiss before she finally says, “Now get out of here. I have a busy morning.”

  I know it’s her way of dealing with the pain of separation and, to be honest, without her saying something like that, I wouldn’t depart. We release from our hug and I grab my bag. Our hands are locked together and then slowly drift apart with our fingers trailing. Fuck! This really sucks, I think as our hands part. With a heavy heart, I turn toward the parked Humvees where the others have finished loading their gear. Robert catches up and, together, we walk to a Humvee and throw our things in.

  The drive is like many of the others we’ve had. My head doesn’t clear much from its tiredness as we proceed through the base. I reach out with my mind and don’t feel the presence of any night runners in the area. Wondering if the ability has receded, I reach out farther but still come up empty. I’ll have to test it out if we receive visitors during the night on any of our stops. I was able to detect faint presences the other night when flying above the hordes of them emptying into the night. I just don’t know. As we pull onto the ramp and the 130s parked there come into view, the tired feeling leaves and I focus on what’s ahead of us.

  We load our supplies and fuel on board. Robert has questions about the seating arrangements for the flight and I let him know I’ll be flying the first leg due to the increased weight on board. Later, I’ll let him get some stick time in to get a feel for the heaviness. He begins to load the flight data into the computer. There isn’t much room in the bag with the metal monster tied down but we manage. I double check the tie downs. It really wouldn’t do to have it shift on takeoff or in flight. On the list of bad things to happen, that would come close to topping the list. Twenty-six tons of metal shifting around in the cargo does some funny things to flight characteristics. Like turning it from having flight characteristics into that of having falling characteristics. A C-130 does not make a good parachute.

  We are soon started up and, with an increase in power, the 130 reluctantly begins to move. It takes more runway than usual but we are airborne and slowly claw our way to altitude. I look across the Puget Sound thinking I may catch a glimpse of the Santa Fe but there is nothing to be seen plowing the waterways. Turning toward the morning sun, we set a course to the southeast and our first stop at Mountain Home AFB where one of the soldiers has a wife and two kids. They apparently chose to reside in their hometown while he deployed to the Middle East.

  It’s only about an hour and a half flight to the base so we may be able to launch our search of the town of Mountain Home upon our arrival depending on what we see. I plan to fly over the town to scout it out before landing. The snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier is off to our left and we pass directly over the crater of Mount St. Helens. The warm crater has wisps of steam rising from the dome in the middle. The forested hills of the Cascade Mountains give way to the brown fields of eastern Washington and we are soon over the Blue Mountains of northeastern Oregon.

  We pick up Interstate 84 on the other side of the mountains and I begin a slow descent. We will basically follow the highway to Mountain Home. Boise passes off to the left and looks much like the last time we passed by. Mountain Home soon appears on our nose as we edge down closer to the ground. Mountains rise on either side of the brown valley that the Interstate cuts through. Some areas are agricultural with the once green circle pattern of irrigation systems now overgrown and brown. Some others have cattle still roaming about in the fields. Only a few natural ponds exist in this dry, arid land and it’s only around these that the black dots of cattle still thrive.

  Leveling off about two thousand feet above the terrain, with a few bumps from the winds blowing off the mountains and still warm land, I put the
town of Mountain Home off to my side. The town itself is nestled between two major roads with the interstate branching off to the eastern side. Off in the distance, I see the runways of Mountain Home AFB — our destination.

  Slowing, I circle over the city and see that the town is mostly residential. While the trees that line the residential streets are still green, the golf course, baseball and football fields, parks, and yards have turned the same brown as the outlying fields. Other than a few cars parked in some of the parking lots serving some stores, the streets and lots are clear. Cars sit in driveways and the town appears normal with the exception of the lack of movement. It’s like most other towns we’ve encountered and I have a feeling that every town we fly over will be the same. It doesn’t bode well for the soldier in back who I imagine is glued to the window looking out.

  “I don’t see anything here. Anyone else see anything?” I ask on the intercom. Craig has risen from his seat at the nav station to look.

  “I don’t see anything,” Craig answers.

  “Nothing here,” Robert replies.

  “Okay, take note of the streets and layout and let’s head over to the base. We’ll do a flyby there and practice a few touch and go’s so you can get the feel for the extra weight,” I say.

  I swing us to the southwest toward the small base and line us up with the single, long runway serving the base. Putting runway 30 on our nose, I lower to just a couple hundred feet. I want to do a flyby to check wind direction. The turbulence picks up this close to the ground and we pass a few parked F-15s on the hot ramps. I see a few others parked on the main ramp farther down. The main section of the base is similar to the town, a few green trees with the rest overgrown and brown.

  Our low approach shows a moderate wind out of the northeast so our first approach was a good one. I bring the aircraft up and around wanting to do the first touch and go with Robert following on the control stick to get the feel of the heavier response. We circle around and set up. The wheels settle to the runway with a slight jostle and, after resetting the flaps to their takeoff setting, apply power and are soon airborne again. I hand the aircraft over to Robert and monitor his approach. The heavy weight, only slightly diminished with our fuel burn, causes the nose to drop more than usual when he decreases the power. Making the adjustment, he sets it in with more of an arrival.

  Setting the flaps for him, I catch a quick glimpse of movement off to the side out Robert’s window. Of course, with the aircraft itself moving down the runway, everything outside appears to be moving. I do a double-take and see a blue Air Force pickup truck speed on the tarmac to our right. Others pull onto the ramp behind it.

  “I have the aircraft,” I call out, taking control. I lift off and turn, low to the ground, to the southwest and away from the ramp.

  “What? What did I do wrong?” Robert asks, looking at the instruments and then over to me.

  “Nothing. We have company on the ramp,” I say, climbing away from that base. I see Robert turn to look back out his window but we are headed directly away and I doubt there’s much he can see.

  “Craig, would you go get Greg and have him come up here, please,” I say.

  I climb to five thousand feet and circle a distance away. I tell Greg, Craig, and Robert that I spotted four vehicles on the ramp during out last landing.

  “I’m not sure of who they are, or their intentions. We weren’t on the ground long enough to see what they may be up to,” I say.

  “Could they be Air Force or military personnel?” Greg asks.

  “I have no idea. If they do have a presence here still, they may not like us just showing up. Although, if that is the case, they won’t just shoot at us. They’ll most likely let us land and then take us in to interrogate us. If it isn’t military, then all bets are off as to what they’ll do,” I answer.

  “Well, what do you want to do? Should we just bypass this and head to our next stop?” Greg says.

  “I don’t know. If there are survivors here, and it’s apparent there are, I’m thinking we should at least drop in and say hi,” I reply.

  “And if they shoot at us on approach or while landing?” Robert asks.

  “That wouldn’t be a good thing,” Craig chimes in.

  “We’ll do a flyover at this altitude and see how they respond. This will keep us out of small arms fire range and allow us to have a look,” I say.

  “Alright, let’s check it out then,” Greg says.

  I turn back ready to dive the aircraft and beat cheeks the best this ‘ol bird can do if I see tracers or smoke trails heading our way. The ‘Herc” can take a lot of damage but I’m not all that keen on testing just how much. I call on the emergency frequencies with no response.

  Flying across the runway and base, I look to the ramp below. Five blue pickup trucks are parked in close to the middle of the ramp with tiny figures of people standing around. No tracers or smoke trails reach out toward us. Passing the base, I descend and come back, crossing from a different angle. Several people look upward shielding their eyes with their hands. A couple of them stand off to the side with weapons in their hands but they aren’t pointed in our direction.

  “Well, we’re still flying,” I say, heading the aircraft back to the southwest. “What do you think?”

  “They weren’t firing or pointing weapons at us. It did appear they were dressed in civilian clothing although those weapons were either AR-style carbines or actual M-4s,” Greg responds.

  “Well, let’s see what happens then, shall we,” I say. Greg heads into the cargo compartment to brief the teams.

  I do a combat overhead landing and drop it in, stopping on the runway after only a couple of thousand feet with the engines revved and ready to go. My feet get tired of standing on the brakes watching for a response. Robert looks through a pair of binoculars and reports that the people, who he counts at fourteen, gather together in a group with a six of them heading behind the cover of the vehicles. I do not like their actions of folding into cover but I’m sure our actions aren’t making them all that comfortable either. I ask about their clothing and Robert confirms they are dressed in a variety of civilian clothing. The others continue standing and looking in our direction.

  “Okay, someone has to break this stalemate,” I say, releasing the brakes and bringing the power back. Greg pokes his head back up in the cockpit.

  “I’m taxiing in but parking down the ramp away from them. I want Red Team to be ready to go outside with me. Greg, you and Echo Team get the Stryker ready to go but only take the tie downs off. If we’re attacked, drop the Stryker out and return fire. I’m not overly thrilled with inviting fire toward the aircraft but if others appear and we find ourselves in a precarious position, fold back in and we’re leaving. Robert, I’m leaving the engines running so hop in the left seat and get us ready to go in a hurry,” I brief.

  “You mean in more of a precarious situation than the one we’re in?” Greg asks, only half joking.

  “Yes, Greg, in one worse than we already are,” I answer.

  “Touchy, touchy. Okay, you got it, Jack.”

  I leave the seat and Robert takes over with Craig folding into the co-pilot seat. Heading down into the cargo area, I see Echo Team releasing and stowing the tie downs from the Stryker. I don my vest and check my gear, meeting Red Team assembled by the rear ramp. Gonzalez looks at me and nods toward Bri by her side.

  “You keep her close beside you,” I say to which she nods again and smiles at Bri.

  I hear Robert comment over the radio that two cars are driving our way. I drop the ramp and, with Red Team close behind, head down it and take station near the rear of the aircraft. The roar of the engines increases in the open air and wind whips to the rear behind the giant, rotation props. Through the blurring propellers, I see the two approaching vehicles. The whine of the Stryker’s diesel sounds just above the roar of the 130 engines.

  “How many in each vehicle?” I say into the radio.

  “I count five all t
old in the cabs with no one in the beds,” Robert responds.

  “Okay. Thanks. Keep an eye out among the hangars and surrounding area for more that arrive or that we missed,” I say.

  “Okay, Dad,” he replies.

  I watch as the trucks pull up short of the nose of the aircraft and five people emerge to stand by the front of their vehicles. No fire has been exchanged which is heartening. I nod to Red Team to follow and head out with the gale force winds trying to blow me into the surrounding mountains. I walk with the others to the small group telling Greg to be ready to head out with the Stryker.

  “I have to say it’s nice seeing you folks. We thought we were the only ones left. I’m Jason,” one of the men shouts above the engines as we draw close.

  “Jack. Jack Walker,” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. I turn and give Robert the hand across the throat cutoff signal.

  The roar winds down as Robert cuts the engines. I radio Greg letting him know the cavalry isn’t needed. His disappointed sigh and, “Dammit. And here I dressed in this silver armor for nothing,” in response says it all.

  “Are you what remains of the military? Is there a larger force either incoming or based elsewhere? The military folks here say they haven’t been able to raise anyone anyone for months,” Jason says as the props slow to a stop.

  I’m not really sure what to tell him and feel I’ve been a little free with our story to strangers to this point. Everything here seems well enough and Jason appears to be above board but my experiences of late have made me jaded. I don’t like it but there it is.

  “Before answering, I’d like to hear your story here,” I answer.

  Jason tilts his head as if re-evaluating us. “Eh, what the hell,” he eventually says and proceeds to tell us the story of those here.

  He tells of the sickness and the attacks at night. With some help from the few remaining military people on base, he and some others gathered the rest of the people from town and moved here. They cleaned out the base and set up shop. All in all, it sounds like what we have set up back home. With the exception that we are facing a much larger population of night runners. The isolation of the base has protected them to some extent.