by Alan Baxter
Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle lies prone along the rubber gunwales of the zodiac combat raiding craft. One hand grips his suppressed M-4 while the other grips the rope handhold. Spray is thrown off to the side as the zodiac bounces through the rough waters, occasionally splashing up and over him. Wiping his goggles clear of salt water, he glances to his rear at the rest of his team.
Speer, currently hunched over and driving the raft, is his point man and resident joker. He grew up hunting in the Ozarks and can track with the best of them, but his attitude and seemingly constant sarcasm grate on Vance at times. However, there isn’t a better point man in the business.
Ortiz, lying just behind Krandle, runs slack – second position – and the little Puerto Rican is the picture of fury incarnate under fire. Perhaps it has something to do with his growing up in the East LA area. It has taken Krandle a while to bring that part of him under control.
Blanchard, crouched in the rear, is the designated medic and a skinny, quiet, unassuming kid from South Chicago. That quietness is belied by an internal fortitude. He will, without hesitation, venture into the thickest of combat to help a fellow teammate. Blanchard is also the one mostly on the end of Speer’s barbs. The tightness of the team makes these attempts good-natured without creating a fracture within the group.
His XO, Franklin, lies in the rear across the other side of the zodiac. The black petty officer from Atlanta is one sharp tack and will make a fine team leader someday. Well, he would have had events not changed the world.
Miller, lying directly opposite Krandle is a full-blooded Sioux who grew up in South Dakota. He rarely speaks, and even then his replies are limited to only a few words. Krandle is sure there are weeks when Miller’s word count never exceeds double digits. But, he is a master at covering their back trail. There were times when they had to backtrack and were unable to do so via any signs of their passage. He is that good.
Together, they make one hell of a fine team. They have fused into a single organism, each knowing the other’s thoughts and actions – knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. If anyone can make it through what they are facing, it’s them.
They’ve been inland once before, finding and rescuing a small band of survivors. Spotting smoke drifting above the wooded coastline of Oregon, Leonard brought the sub closer in and sent the team to investigate. “Remember, chief, you are it for us. No hero stuff. If it looks like too much trouble, withdraw. No matter what you find, be back an hour prior to dark,” Leonard had briefed before to sending them ashore.
Another splash coats Krandle’s goggles. Wiping them clear, he braces himself for the landing, mentally rehearsing actions as he’s done a hundred times before. Riding just in front of the surf, the waves diminish. The shore becomes visible over the tops. The tide is nearly at the high mark. Sand stretches wide, ending at a rocky bluff nearby at one end, and an inlet on the other. Past the waterway, the beach continues for a short distance before meeting a similar rocky cliff. Ahead, the beach terminates at small dunes with strands of grass waving in the wind. Beyond that, beach houses line the edge. In the distance, lines of smoke rise in plumes over the tops of trees.
Nearing the shore, Speer guns the motor and raises it at the last minute, the raft gliding the final few feet. As the raft kisses the sand, Krandle rolls off at the same time as Miller. Together, they fan out and race across the sand, their eyes searching every dune, every corner of the buildings ahead, into every window. In their wake, the remaining four grab the rope handles and pull the raft over the sand.
Krandle’s boots dig into the soft sand, creating divots as he powers across. Startled gulls screech as they’re driven to flight. Other than that, he only sounds are his boots driving into the beach, his breath forcefully exhaled, the hissing of the raft being dragged over the sand, and the muted roar of the Pacific.
He slides to a stop behind a short dune, its shadow created by the morning sun. Taking out the finely-honed knife strapped to his leg, Krandle cuts the rubber band holding the condom placed over his suppressor. He tosses the rubber into the sand where it potentially joins others used for their original purpose. A gust of wind carries fine grit that makes its way down his collar, and ruffles the pant legs and arms of his fatigues.
An onshore flow, great. Our scent will precede us. But, it’s daylight, so as long as we stay out of the buildings, we’ll be fine.
Krandle looks back to the expanse of the ocean. There’s nothing that interrupts the vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon, but Krandle knows the USS Santa Fe lies submerged just under the surface.
Inching to the top of the dune, Krandle parts the stiff grasses. Opened doors lead into darkness and curtains dance as drafts blow through broken windows. Nothing moves in and around the cottages. Overhead, gulls glide on the winds. Kneeling behind the dunes, the other team members alertly wait for his call.
Pressing the button on his throat mic, Krandle radios, “Stow the raft between the dunes. We’re heading for the light yellow house directly ahead.”
Hunched over, Speer leads, focused on the area directly ahead. Several paces behind, Ortiz concentrates his attention to the left quarter. Third in line, Krandle watches to the right front. Following is Blanchard, then Franklin, with Miller bringing up the rear.
Each knows their only worry in the daylight is from their own kind. Once the sun descends below the horizon, the night runners emerge from their lairs to begin their hunt. Their speed, cunning, and numbers make them extremely dangerous. While he and other survivors may own the day, they take a step down the food chain once night falls. Any darkened building is to be avoided, and only entered in the event of dire need.
Climbing a couple of steps, really nothing more than a few railroad ties, the team enters the yard and stacks against one of the corners. Krandle peers into the open back door. Closer to the house, the darkness peels back and the radiant light reveals upended furniture. Other objects lie strewn on a floor covered with a fine layer of sand blown in from the beach. It’s as if he’s looking upon a snapshot; the moment in time forever frozen with only the house carrying the memory of what happened within.
The hinges of the screen door squeak as a breeze passes through. Pulling his attention away from inside, Krandle makes his way to the corner and crouches just behind Speer. “What do you have?” he asks.
“Nothing. A street running parallel in front with more houses across. Just to the left, there’s an intersection with another road heading inland.”
A strong gust buffets the team; a screen door to the rear to slams against the door frame. All six jump and turn toward the sound.
“Fuck, I hate that!” Speer sharply whispers. “I think I just peed myself.”
“Well, get yourself cleaned up and lead us inland toward those smoke plumes,” Krandle says.
“Have I mentioned how much I hate this?” says Speer.
“Too many times. Now, get moving.”
As Speer rounds the corner and sidles toward the front, Krandle wonders if he’s ready for another day of listening to Speer bitch and moan. However, the sixth sense Speer has makes every complaint worth what he brings to the table. Speer halts near the front corner of the house and looks up and down the street. With a hand signal that it’s clear, Ortiz and the rest of them roll around the corner and kneel next to small bushes lining the side of the cottage. In place, they rise as one and dash across the avenue, piling at the corner of the house adjacent the intersection. A startled flock of birds takes flight, squawking their indignation at the intruders.
Krandle moves in front and stares down the road that heads deeper into the coastal community. Trees line the median on both sides of the street, shading overgrown lawns. Once trimmed bushes grow wild, their leaf-covered branches sticking out like morning hair. Along the street, several vehicles are parked against the curb with drifts of sand and debris piled up against their tires. G
rit completely covers the pavement in places, the wind having created ripple-like patterns. As each breeze blows through, sand is driven across the surface, making it appear as if the street is in motion.
Shouldering his M-4, Krandle selects the 4x setting on his SpectreDR scope to get a closer look at the houses and surrounding area. At one abode, the tail of a cat quickly vanishes around the corner. In various locations, trails cut through the otherwise pristine layers of sand, possible evidence that night runners prowl these streets.
Something’s made their way through here recently.
Although he can’t see into every window from his vantage point, everything looks clear.
“What do you think?” Krandle directs his question to Speer.
“I think we should turn around and get the fuck out of here. These empty towns give me the fucking creeps.”
“And what if those smoke plumes are a sign of people who need help?”
“That’s their problem.”
“Well, too bad for you this isn’t a democracy. That’s where we’re going. Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”
“Someone in this outfit has to be the voice of reason,” Speer says.
This is Speer’s way of dealing with tension; the man has no intention of turning around, and would complain if Krandle suggested it.
“So, now that you’ve taken your dick out and waved it around, what do you think?” Krandle asks.
Speer shrugs. “It’s clear, but I wouldn’t want to be around after dark. There are more than a few night runners who come through here.”
Krandle directs Franklin, Blanchard, and Miller across the street, then places a hand on Speer’s shoulder. “Lead on.”
They head out, inching down opposite sidewalks with Franklin and the other two taking a staggered position behind. They’ve been through a couple of these abandoned towns before, but he’s with Speer on the eeriness. With the warmth, there should be the sound of kids playing, lawns being mowed, cars driving along the streets, and the smell of barbecues wafting on the breeze. There is only the swish of the wind through the trees, the soft crunch of their boots on the sand, and the occasional cry of a gull in the distance.
Only a few of the houses are intact; most have their windows broken and doors ajar. It’s quiet enough to hear a sporadic creak or moan of wood expanding in the rising heat. They come across tracks in the sand; trails leading down the street and through lawns. Speer halts and analyzes the impressions of each, coming up with how many night runners passed through and when. Each track is a reminder of what could be hiding within every building.
The team crosses several side streets, empty houses and parked vehicles along each of them. Sand piles against every object – the beach slowly reclaiming the city. There’s not a single scream from within any of the buildings, meaning the night runners of the city lair elsewhere. Krandle is well aware of their keen eyesight and ability to pick up the faintest scent. The barest whiff of prey will send them into a frenzy.
Exiting the residential neighborhood, Speer halts at a larger thoroughfare, crouching next to the wall of a building. Traffic lights swing from their wires over the intersection. Along the main avenue, several of the larger paned glass windows of the storefronts are broken, the interiors hidden in darkness.
The worst sign of the carnage that swept through the coastal town are body parts strewn along the street. The shredded remains of a pant leg lies in the middle of the intersection, the white of shin bones protruding from one end and a faded sneaker from the other. In a nearby shop, the rear of a pair of jeans humped over a broken window, the rest of the body hidden beneath a sand drift. Another deep drift invades one of the vehicles, its door open. The skeletal remains of a forearm, the dried remains of tendons still attached, extends from the sand as if attempting to pull the rest of the body clear. The upper torso protrudes from another drift. The skull sprouts a full head of hair with pieces of desiccated flesh dangling from the cheek and jaws. All along the avenue, tattered clothing and bones extend from drift of deep sand.
“Looks like it was some party,” Speer mutters.
“That it does,” Krandle says.
He knows the horror those lying in street experienced, not able to comprehend what was happening and trying to escape the sudden onslaught. The terror of knowing they weren’t going to make it, their last moments filled with the agony of having their flesh ripped from their bones.
A scream rips through the silence, quickly followed by others. The shrieks echo from deep within the darkened buildings, spilling out onto the street. Doves gathered on ledges take flight with a flurry of wings.
“Fuck me!” Speer says. “I think we just rang the dinner bell.”
“Yeah. I guess our company knows that we’re here,” says Krandle.
All six subconsciously edge back a step, weapons trained on the windows and doorways. Even though they know the night runners won’t emerge into the sunlight, the sounds reverberating throughout the town chill them to their very marrow.
They have several hours before they have to reverse their steps and begin making their way back to the shore. In the distance, rising above the roofs, the smoke that brought them inland still faintly plumes before being whisked away by the wind.
“What do you think it is?” Krandle motions to the smoke.
“Well, the power is off, so it can’t be some appliance that overheated. It’s too dark to be trees that caught fire. It’s not moving…” Speer trails off.
“So, you’re saying that you don’t know,” Krandle says.
“Pretty much.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I did.”
“Remember those columns of vehicles that we’d come across in Iraq after A-10s would work them over?” says Ortiz.
“In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t Iraq and I don’t recall seeing strafing warthogs,” Speer says.
Ortiz shrugs.
“Stow it, Speer.” Krandle agrees the plumes of smoke do look like the columns they periodically came across in Iraq.
“Which way?” Speer says.
When Krandle spied the smoke through binoculars atop the sub’s bridge, he had thought it to be on the far side of the town, but now he isn’t so sure. ‘Highway 101’ runs along town rather than through it. Looking again at the smoke, he opts to follow the highway signs. If they come adjacent to the plumes before reaching the highway, they can circle around.
The drifts stand taller and wider here. In places, the sidewalk is completely covered, forcing the team into the avenue. The bones poking out of the sand and lying in the street have deeply etched bite marks. They step over and around purses, shoes, and other detritus from those that happened to be on the darkened streets when the night runners hit.
As they walk, the sun rises higher, but the swirling winds keep the heat at bay. The screams fade, become background noise.
Reaching the city limits, cars are haphazardly parked in the lots of a gas station to one side and a café to the other. Ahead, the access road leads through a stand of trees and ends at a stop sign bathed in the sun’s rays.
Well, the world is fine. It’s humanity that was flushed.
There’s no sign of the smoke above the tall firs, the winds won’t allow it, but Krandle knows the source is somewhere ahead and to their left. The smoke has grown fainter – the fire was dying down.
“It looks like whatever is burning is coming from on or near the road,” says Speer.
Krandle nods. “I agree. Take us into the trees. We’ll approach from there and get eyes on whatever it is.”
Six successive metallic clicks sound as each checks for a round in the chamber. A strong gust of wind marks their departure from the city limits. Leaving the fading screams of night runners behind, they angle across the avenue toward the trees.
Movi
ng slowly to minimize sound, Speer leads the team through an outer layer of undergrowth, pausing to move branches out of the way before slithering past. With only an occasional brush of leaves against clothing and packs, they silently vanish, becoming one with the natural landscape.
The terrain under the firs opens up with only a scattering of underbrush. A few rays of sunlight find their way through openings in the boughs, angling amid the tree trunks. Insects dart in and out of the light in a never-ending stage show.
Once inside the woods, the going becomes easier. Taking care where to place his feet, Speer leads them along the edge of the outer-growth. They take their spacing between each other, more out of habit than from any threat. Six pairs of eyes search through the gloom, trying to pierce the shadows as they look for movement or the outline of a body.
Although it’s too light for night runners to be out, the danger lies with their own kind. Without the constraints of civilization, there are those who believe the changed reality means they can do as they please. The virus didn’t distinguish between bully and saint, making the world a much more dangerous place. Trust regarding strangers has been laid aside in the name of survival and the ones left are just as likely to open fire without question as to invite one into their hearth.
Nearing the highway edge of the woods, they halt. “Speer, Ortiz with me. The rest of you watch our six.”
Dropping their packs, Speer finds an opening under the bushes. Side by side, they crawl toward the road. At the edge, Krandle parts the leaves of the last screen of bushes, searching for a sign of anyone in the forest across the highway. Nothing. Inching forward, he looks toward where the smoke should be.
Up the road, a large fir lies across the road, the needle-covered branches obscuring a clear sight beyond. Past the fallen tree, faint plumes of smoke rise, climbing to a level just above the forest tops before being blown away. Near the barrier, the ground is churned up on both sides of the pavement.
