A Place Outside The Wild

by Daniel Humphreys

  He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. This is something Miles should be doing. A man my age should be in bed asleep right about now. Larry chuckled and whispered to himself. “Quit grousing, Marine.”

  He glanced around the visible area of the parking lot, then adjusted his position. The trick to setting up an observation like this was pretty simple. You didn’t look at any one thing in particular; you just kind of zoned out and let your eyes go out of focus. Look for the thing that changes, not for any one thing in particular. Wait for the motion, and then focus.

  His earpiece clicked. Larry reached up and pressed it deeper into his ear. Vir’s voice was quiet but audible. “Someone at the east side of the lot. Right between you and the truck, Larry.”

  Not wanting to risk speaking, Larry pressed the push to talk button twice, sending a pair of clicks over the radio.

  Vir hesitated for a second; they’d established the simple one click no, two clicks yes system before separating, but it was a bit different in this context. “We’re waiting for you, is that what you’re saying?”

  Two clicks.

  “Understood. Charlie?”

  Two more clicks and Larry smiled. Good troops.

  “Headed inside now,” Vir whispered, and now Larry saw the figure slinking across the gravel and angling for the deuce-and-a-half. This was it. He reached down and ensured his pistol was still holstered at his side. He’d brought the VEPR along, just in case there was more than one person to deal with, but this looked like a solo act.

  Wait for it.

  The man was of average height and clothed all in black. It was too dark for Larry to make a guess as to his identity. He could have been any one of fifty members of the community, based on a possible height range. The weight was no help — pretty much everyone tended toward the bonier end of the scale these days.

  Soft light flared as the man in black knelt next to the wheel well and played a flashlight around inside. Here we go.

  Larry kept his movements slow so as not to shake the Humvee’s suspension. With the pins and needles in the back of his legs and buttocks, it was easier said than done. After several nerve-racking moments, he ended up in one of the rear passenger seats with a minimum of noise. Over at the truck, the man in black had the cargo compartment open and was pulling out the bag.

  Wincing, Larry pulled on the door latch and swung the back door open. Preparation saved him, though he hadn’t even considered it before making the move. The hinges didn’t utter even the slightest squeak as he swung the door wide. They couldn’t do much about engine noise. But it made sense to limit noise emissions after stopping. It was easier for the dead to home in on a constant source of noise rather than something intermittent. For that reason, the survivors in charge of the motor pool doused each vehicle’s door hinges, shocks, and other possible noise sources with oil when the vehicles returned from the Wild.

  Larry brought his feet down and stood at what seemed a glacial pace. Glass clinked as the man in front of him began to dig through the bag. That seemed as much of an opportunity as any. He stepped forward and raised his pistol.

  As he clicked the flashlight on and shouted for the figure beside the truck to freeze, a blood-curdling scream came from the north. He instinctively began to turn in that direction. As he caught himself and corrected the maneuver, the figure beside the truck bolted straight at him. His teeth slammed together from the impact and he saw stars as the back of his head slammed into the side of the Humvee.

  Blinking, Larry realized he was lying on the ground and the flashlight was lying next to him. Gravel crunched to his right as the figure who’d bowled him over sprinted away.

  “Shit!” Larry hissed as he fumbled with the button on his headset. “Charlie, Vir, he’s bolting!”

  Everything seemed to happen at once — the scream, the light cutting into his eyes, and the cry for him to freeze. Dantzler reacted without hesitation. His eyes followed the flashlight beam to the man holding it — it sounded like Vance, which figured. He dropped the bottle he’d pulled out of the cargo compartment and sprang that way. That, he reasoned in one instant, was his only chance. Knock the other man over before he exchanged his flashlight for something deadlier and put a bullet or six into his back.

  Vance had three or four inches and maybe forty pounds of muscle on Dantzler, but he caught him just right, square in the breadbasket. The bigger man slammed into the Humvee with a thump. Dantzler didn’t even bother to check on his handiwork — he took off running. Neither Vance or the kid marshal were dumb enough to try something like this alone — a freaking stakeout, part of him marveled — and he wasn’t going to stand and fight. That was a losing proposition, no matter what. Running, he stood a chance to get away. It was dark, he doubted anyone had seen his face, and he didn’t have to worry about any of the crazy CSI crap with DNA and fingerprints like the old days. Make a break for it and you’re home free, boyo.

  The gravel was loose under his feet, but he was nimble enough that it didn’t slow him down, much. He hit the pavement just as he heard more yelling from behind. From the sounds of it, there were maybe two or three other people back there. Running had definitely been the best—

  Dantzler slammed into someone and tripped, flopping to the ground on top of a soft, screaming mass. What the hell? He rolled over onto his back and tried to make out what was going on.

  A man lay in the road at his feet, clutching his stomach and screaming between gasps for air. A figure in a long, hooded coat — some sort of rain gear? — stood over them. Despite the concealing bulk of the coat, the rounded swell of her chest proclaimed her gender, and Dantzler got a flash of pale skin and dark hair beneath the hood. Before he could make a more intent study, a beam of light shot around the corner of the clinic. He flinched in panic and rolled onto his stomach to hide his own face. The sound of Larry’s running footsteps paused as he took in the strange tableau, then Dantzler heard another scuffle and the sound of someone falling down. The light blinked away as the flashlight spun on the ground, and he risked a glance back as he scrambled to his feet.

  Larry was on the ground by the first victim, and as the flashlight beam swept across him, Dantzler could make out the knife stuck into his left leg. Girlfriend’s got a nasty bite. He glanced around and saw the woman sprinting north in pursuit of her own cover. That snapped him into action himself, and he began jogging to the east. Past the clinic, he ducked into the gap between it and the police station. From the cries and shouts behind him, it didn’t sound like pursuit would be forthcoming. He could take the time to be stealthier and not worry about someone spotting him in a frantic rush to make it back to his quarters.

  For a moment, Dantzler considered going back to retrieve the bag of goodies from the truck. He dismissed it almost as soon as the thought occurred to him. Far be it for him to spit in the face of such luck. He’d tempted fate once already in coming out tonight, and he was reluctant to do so again.

  As he slipped through the shadows, a broad smile crossed Dantzler’s face. When he’d heard there’d been a murder, he’d assumed it was one of the rowdies that frequented Tom’s bar, or some spat over supplies. He’d never have believed who the killer actually was. Maybe she’d recognized him as he had her, but maybe not.

  Either way, we’re out of here tomorrow night. “And I’ve got a secret,” he whispered, sing-song.

  The son of a bitch was fast.

  Larry almost lost his footing a handful of times as he sprinted after the fleeing figure. The beam of his flashlight wobbled as he ran, but he was still able to make out the runner as he left the gravel and angled right on the pavement.

  He picked up speed on the solid surface, but Larry was able to close ground when he was going sideways. He hoped that Charlie and Vir were following. If this went on much longer, he didn’t know if he could handle it. Can’t recall the last time I was in a full-out sprint — it’s a damn sight easier closer to twenty than sixty.

  The runner left his line of s
ight as he cut east around the front of the clinic. Larry heard another scream, a heavy sound of impact, and the ringing sound of metal on the pavement.

  He forced himself to slow as he rounded the corner of the clinic. His heart hammered in his chest, and he panted for breath. He swept the beam of his flashlight across the road before him.

  The screaming figure was a man in normal clothing — one of the wall guards, Larry thought. A widening pool of blood surrounded his crumpled form. The runner was scrambling to his feet just past the guard — he’d tripped over him, maybe? Light glinted off of the shiny blade of a Bowie knife lying on the pavement between the two. Confusion reigned for a moment as he tried to grasp the meaning of the knife, but as soon as he reached a logical conclusion, a bolt of pain hit him in the thigh. For the second time in as many minutes, his head slammed into something hard. This time, his forehead met the road as he toppled over. The flashlight clattered to the ground, spinning and giving the entire scene a macabre air. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision. All he caught was a glimpse of long, black fabric whipping away as the second attacker sprinted into the maze of greenhouses and fields to the north.

  For a moment, Larry tried to rise to his feet, but his leg crumpled under him as he put weight on it. He slapped a hand down and interrupted the slowing spin of the flashlight. When he shone it on his leg, he understood the reason for his temporary paralysis.

  The attacker had jammed another knife into the side of his leg. This one was much smaller than the Bowie, some sort of folding pocket knife with a textured, composite plastic handle. It wiggled in time to the motions of his leg muscles, and he fought down the urge to vomit from the waves of pain that washed over him.

  The light over the clinic doors came on as Vir and Charlie ran up to him. “Bloody hell!” Vir exclaimed, and knelt down to check on Larry.

  “Forget me,” Larry raged. “Go after him!” He raised his hand to point, but the runner from the motor pool had taken advantage of the confusion and was nowhere to be found. He resisted the urge to slam his fist into the pavement. “Damn it!”

  The clinic door came open and Grady Scott came out. The dentist rubbed his eyes and yelled, “What the hell’s going on out here?”

  “Wounded,” Charlie growled, and Grady took in the tableau and seemed to jolt awake.

  “Holy shit,” he exclaimed. “Hang on.” He disappeared back into the clinic. Larry watched him go with a sigh, then relaxed. With the back of his head on the pavement, he could almost forget the throb of agony in his leg, the headache that promised to be a whopper, and the thudding of his overtaxed heart.

  Vir’s head hovered over him, and Larry tried not to laugh. He didn’t know if it would shake the knife or not. “It’s a cliché, Vir, but I am getting too old for this.”

  The other man frowned. “Stay awake, Larry. Come on now, don’t close your eyes.”

  “I’m fine,” Larry slurred. “How’s the other guy.”

  “Charlie’s helping him. No worries, guv, looks like he’s just got a couple of stab wounds, shouldn’t be too big a deal.”

  “No,” Larry said. “Who’s the other guy?”

  “It’s Carter, Carter Burke. Come on, Larry, keep your eyes open.” Vir tapped him on the cheek, but even that didn’t hurt as bad as his headache had promised it would. He tried to smile, tried to tell Vir that he was just fine, but consciousness slipped away before he could form the words.

  Chapter 24

  In contrast to the rough awakening he’d suffered the night before, Miles woke Friday morning at a comfortable pace. The only thing that sped him along toward consciousness were the quiet movements of the other men. He rubbed at the crustiness in his eyes and wished for some warm water and a washcloth to kick-start his morning. There were advantages to even the small level of modern conveniences they’d maintained. No worries; he’d manage. He had some caffeinated drink mix in his pack; it wasn’t Starbucks, but it would suffice.

  The room was dim, but vague lines of sunlight peeked out from behind the blanket covering the window. Ross sat with his back against the wall, and the tablet at his side. The SEAL nodded in greeting, then said, “Bathroom’s open. Pipes are long dry but feel free to use the john. Best case scenario we won’t be back here, ever.” He half-shrugged. “Just in case, dig a cat hole out back if you have to do anything more than piss.”

  “I’m good,” Miles promised him and made his way into the master bath. Before the end, it had been a work of art. The flooring consisted of large, cream-colored ceramic tiles. That same color pattern extended to the broad counter with twin sinks and the Jacuzzi tub in the immediate center of the room. A glass shower stall sat in one corner. After sitting idle for so long, the entire room was grubby with dust.

  The bowl of the john was dry, but he detected a vague scent of urine as he lifted the lid and went about his business. Without water to flush, it would evaporate like the water in the bowl and tank had, long ago. In the meantime, though . . . I hope Ross is right. This could get a little rank if we have to hole up here for any amount of time.

  When he returned to the bedroom, Ross wore a headset and listened with an intent expression. After a moment, he pressed a button on a unit clipped to his load-bearing harness and said, “Copy that, Whiskey 3, we’ll see you in ten. Hatchet out.” He glanced up at Miles and shot him a thumbs-up. “Our chariot awaits.” He followed the other man’s look to his radio and said, “MBITR; multiband inter slash intra team radio. Not too long of a range, maybe twenty miles or so, but works nice to keep the boys and I coordinated in the field.” He winked. “Plus calling in choppers.”

  “We’re still going to be a long way from your base, do you have any way to contact them?”

  “Satellite gear has been getting flaky for the past few years; we’ve got a boosted antenna setup that we can hit a hundred miles or so. Almost need to bounce the signal off of an intermediate receiver for it to work well.” Ross shrugged. “It is what it is.”

  He blanched. “Welcome back to the stone age, huh?”

  “Not quite that bad yet, but getting there.”

  Miles knelt down, unclipped the canteen from his pack and took a long drink. Rummaging around, he pulled out a granola bar that was only about a kindergartner past its expiration date. “Chocolate chip?”

  Ross raised an eyebrow. “How do they taste?”

  He grimaced. “Like chocolate-flavored sawdust. But it’s calories, and I didn’t get up in time for anything more extensive.”

  Ross began securing the tablet. “No worries, kid. We split up the watch shifts so everyone got plenty of sleep. No offense, but we don’t give trust easy. I’d rather you get more sleep than give you a watch.”

  Miles didn’t know how to respond to that, so he donned his pack and tore open the granola bar. He could understand the sentiment, at least, and he wasn’t going to complain about getting extra sleep.

  Ross had everything collected and stowed in his own pack, and Miles followed him as the other man slung it over one shoulder and headed toward the back bedroom. When they got there, the window was already open. Foraker crouched on the floor next to it, scanning their surroundings.

  “Dust off in ten,” Ross announced. “How’s it looking outside, Chief?”

  “Clear so far,” the older man reported. “Janacek is down at the bottom, ready to cover.”

  “Outstanding,” Ross proclaimed. “All right, Mr. Matthews, after you. We’re right behind.”

  Miles slung his rifle and finagled his way out the window and onto the ladder. Getting out was a bit trickier than climbing inside. He was glad to see Janacek standing on the bottom rung to stabilize it even as he scanned the backyard for any signs of movement.

  Miles hit the ground and stepped aside. Janacek ignored him, so he took the opportunity to bring his rifle forward. He arranged the loop of the single-point sling across his chest and over one shoulder and checked that the chamber was still loaded. He left his rifle on safe, but should
ered it at the low ready and studied the backyard on his own as Foraker began his own climb down the ladder.

  The knee-high grass rippled in the breeze as his eyes flickered from spot to spot. The granola bar had settled into his stomach like a rock and Miles licked his lips as he tried to discern what was natural movement and what might be an unseen danger crawling toward them.

  Foraker hit the ground with a thump, and equipment rattled as he took his own position to the side of the ladder. “All clear over here, kids,” the big Chief said.

  “I don’t like this,” Janacek said, but his tone was so mild that he might have been commenting on the weather. A vague thumping sound started to the north.

  Ross hit the ground. “Damn,” he said. “Chopper’s early. Bust a move, we need to get the fuel line ready for the crew chief. Matthews, stick close to me. Janacek, you’ve got point. Forget the ladder.”

  Janacek trotted forward, and Miles formed up just behind and to the right of the lieutenant. Foraker swept into place behind them and periodically turned to scan the rear.

  The grass in the front yard stood tall, though the passage of countless feet had flattened it close to the road. Without stopping, Janacek marched into the center of the growth. A few feet in, he knelt and swept his arm to the side. Grass scattered, and Miles realized that the SEALS had used it to camouflage something. Ross stopped and turned to Janacek’s left. Miles imitated the maneuver and faced the opposite direction.