by Alan Baxter
“Looks like someone set up an ambush,” Speer whispers.
“Sure looks that way,” says Ortiz.
Krandle remains silent, turning his gaze down the highway in the opposite direction to where the steel girders of a bridge rise in the distance. Tapping Speer and Ortiz, he nods back toward the others. Easing the branches back into place, they inch back from the highway, covering their tracks as a matter of habit.
“Someone set up an ambush and triggered it. End of story. So, I’m all for calling it a day and heading back to the boat,” Speer says.
Krandle glances upward. “We still have a few hours and there may be survivors who need help.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Speer says despondently.
“If there is anyone left, they’re going to have itchy trigger fingers,” says Franklin.
“We’ll just have to be careful, then,” Krandle says.
“Those were tire tracks we saw leaving the road… a few of them. They might still be there,” says Speer.
“Possibly,” Krandle says. “We’ll work our way to where they came in and circle around.”
“So, we’re going, then?” Speer says.
Krandle looks at each team member. Franklin and Blanchard both nod, Miller shrugs.
“Fuck. You’re all going to be the death of me,” Speer says.
“We all gotta go sometime,” says Ortiz.
Krandle knows that’s just the way Speer deals with stuff; he’s not truly against going. He’d give you the shirt off his back, but bitch about it the entire time.
They continue near the inner screen of shrubs. Their pace slowed, knowing there is a good chance there’s trouble ahead. Speer advances ten paces, and then holds to watch and listen, measuring his next steps. They watch for a sudden flight of birds, listen for the wildlife to go quiet. The onshore flow continues to sweep through, the gusts beginning to calm. Six men silently creep through the woods, so quiet not even the animals are aware of their presence.
Speer arrives at the vehicle’s point of entrance and crouches. Each man lowers in place and scans their sectors, weapons ready to unleash a torrent of fire in a heartbeat.
Speer motions Krandle forward. “Looks like seven or eight quads, but it’s hard to tell,” says Speer. “They’re only a few hours old. It looks like the same thing across the road. Most are obscured, but look at the ones on top. The tread pattern shows them exiting the tree line.”
“So, they entered, triggered the ambush, and left?” asks Krandle.
“It would appear so. However, whether all of them left…” Speer ends his comment with a shrug.
“There’s no smell of exhaust,” Krandle says.
“No. Whatever went through here did so hours ago. And there aren’t any quads idling ahead. Even with the wind, we’d hear them from this distance.”
“Take us back into the woods and circle us around so that we come in from the side,” Krandle says.
“What’s our timetable?”
Krandle checks his watch. “We have four hours. So, that or until we finish verifying if anyone needs help.”
“Or we’re fired on.”
“Or that.”
Heading deeper into the woods, they resume their slow advance. Fingers stroke trigger guards or selector switches. With each step, small branches have to be moved out of the way, the weight gradually transitioned to avoid the crunch of needles. All their gear had been taped to prevent any metallic ping.
Speer finally calls a halt. “We’re past the tree. Do you want to head in from here, or circle around farther behind?”
Krandle looks in the direction of the highway, squinting to see into the shadows.
“There’s no one in the trees, and no sign of quads,” Speer states, watching Krandle. “But, there are people on the road.”
Krandle tries to see what Speer sees.
“No, chief, listen.”
Krandle strains to hear, but gives up and shakes his head.
“There are voices coming from the highway. They’re faint, but they’re there,” Speer says.
“How in the fuck can you hear that?”
“Pretty sure my grandpa fucked a dog, or something like that.”
“That’s messed up, Speer. You’re saying your grandma was a dog?”
Speer shrugs. “She was kind of a bitch.”
“You’re too much.”
Krandle thumbs the throat mic. “We’re going in from here. Move out on line.”
With weapons ready and eyes searching, they work their way toward the highway. After a short distance, Krandle begins hearing the voices Speer mentioned. He looks over at his point man, who gives him another shrug. As they advance, the forest floor gives evidence of recent travel. Halting away from the edge of the tree line, Krandle halts the team and motions for Speer to move up with him.
They both crouch at the edge of the tracks. Beyond the bushes, the murmur of voices with a shout occasionally rising. The smell of burned rubber, oil, and gas permeates the trees. Speer moves up and down the torn forest floor, studying the tracks.
“Whoever it was, they arrived on eight quads, which they parked over there.” Speer points. “They set up along the edge of the bushes. I can’t say for sure, but it looks like one person per quad, making it eight on this side. Given human nature for keeping things even, I would say seven to nine on the other side as well. It looks like they entered the tree line, did whatever they did, and left. There are indications of drag marks, so I’m guessing they took some non-compliant dinner guests with them.”
Speer motions to a woman’s shoe lying on the ground. “Of that nature.”
It appears raiders ambushed then kidnapped several of them, including at least one woman. Are the voices on the other side of the bushes from the assailants or victims? Did the attackers spring their ambush, take hostages, and leave the rest alive? If you’re going to go through all of the work involved, why leave the opening for retribution?
Perhaps the raiders feel overconfident… the ‘do as I please without reprisal kind of attitude.’ That’s if the ones on the highway aren’t those that attacked.
“Marauders or victims?” Krandle whispers, pointing toward the road.
Speer shrugs.
Krandle is left with the feeling that a band of survivors were waylaid and the women taken. Fading back to the others, he tells them the situation.
“Speer, Ortiz, you’re with me. Franklin, Blanchard, Miller, keep our six clear. We’re going forward and make contact if the ones ahead are victims. If they’re bandits, we’ll fade back and plan according to the situation,” Krandle says.
Expecting a reaction from Speer, Krandle is surprised when his point man just stares at his carbine, pretending to pick at an imaginary flake of rust. By the way everyone is looking at Speer, they are anticipating the same.
Speer glances up and sees everyone staring at him. “What?”
Shaking his head, Krandle says, “Let’s get on with this. Like Franklin said, if we’re dealing with victims, they’re apt to be trigger happy.”
Closer to the tree line, Speer freezes, holding up a fist. He sinks to his knees, his head turning a slow arc to the left. “Two sleepers. Near the split tree,” Speer whispers into his mic.
Krandle finds the location and focuses, his vision moving inches at a time, attempting to pick out an outline that doesn’t fit.
There, a pair of legs. The pant legs and shoes now clearly defined.
“Do you have a clear visual of both?” Krandles asks.
“Yeah. They think they’re being sneaky, but not doing a very good job at it.”
“Wait one. I’m moving to your location.”
Krandle edges forward, carefully setting his foot in order to remain silent. Going to one knee, he gazes to where Speer nods. Two h
eads peer over a shrub, looking toward the group on the road.
“Bandits or survivors?” Krandle asks.
“Bandits for sure. One lifted a carbine and simulated shooting while the two snickered.”
“They must have left these two behind in case they were followed. That implies radios,” Krandle says. “Is that all there are?”
“On this side of the road, yeah. Take them out?”
“We can’t very well leave them here. If they have radios, we’ll do our best to simulate traffic if they’re called,” Krandle says. “You take left, I have right.”
The two SEALs slowly lift their barrels, eyes down the scope. Krandle settles on his target, settling his breathing to keep his sight steady.
“Three… two… one.”
Two soft pops bounce off the trees, carrying no further than a few yards. The high-speed projectiles cross the distance nearly instantly, impacting with two almost simultaneous, meaty thunks. The two heads vanish beneath the branches in a mist of red. While the two have their weapons trained, two others from the team edge from the forest to verify the kills.
Kills confirmed, Krandle edges forward, going prone at the edge of the bushes and begins to slither through the undergrowth. Several needles make their way under his shirt and poke into his skin. Ignoring the pricks, he moves twigs out of his way before hauling himself forward a few more inches. Spread out to either side, Speer and Ortiz do the same. Reaching the outer edge, Krandle slowly lowers a branch and peers out into the highway.
Parked a little ways behind the fallen tree is a line of smoldering pickups, SUVs, and a couple of RVs. Just beyond the wreckage, the highway makes a sharp bend. Three small groups of people are gathered amid the wreckage, each cluster kneeling beside a figure lying on the ground. Near the fallen tree, a person stands on either side, looking up the highway toward the bridge. All of those on the road are men and the fact they’re all unarmed gives credence that they were the victims of the ambush.
“Move back,” Krandle quietly says, keying his throat mic.
Once gathered, Ortiz leans over and whispers to Speer, “Not like Iraq, huh?”
“Shut up, East LA.”
“Says the hillbilly.”
“Hey, Blanchard. Do you have anything in your bag for an aching prick? I have one sitting beside me,” Speer says.
“The only aching prick here is the one between your legs. I warned you about fucking goats,” Ortiz returns.
“A goat? I thought that was your mother. Can’t tell the two of them apart.”
“Both of you stow it,” Krandle says. “It looks like we’re dealing with victims. There are fourteen unarmed men, counting three injured. Although it looks like the far side is clear, Franklin, take Speer and Ortiz to make sure. The road curves beyond the wreckage, so cross past that point. Be alert for any sleepers on that side. Once we’re secure, we’ll make contact. There are injured, but we need to see to our own security first.”
The three depart, leaving Krandle with Blanchard and Miller, forming a tight perimeter. While keeping an eye through the trees, Krandle looks toward the path they took to get here. There’s no sign of their having traversed the forest floor. He wonders if he’ll ever get over his amazement at how well Miller can erase signs of their passage.
I’ll have to ask Franklin if he hears soft chanting and spells being cast behind him. One of these days, I’m going to make a thorough mess and see if Miller can cover it up.
Time passes. The angle of the sun’s rays pouring through the trees changes, some vanishing and others appearing. The voices on the road rise and lower. Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, knowing the three making their way to the other side are being cautious in their approach, but it’s taking forever.
They don’t have long before they have to begin their trek back to the boat. The injured on the road will create a challenge. Even if the bandits leave them alone, without their vehicles and with injured, they won’t make it very far. When the sun sets, the night runners will pick up the scent of those in the road, especially with the smell of blood. And, once it begins to cool, the wind will most likely change to an offshore flow, bringing their scent directly into town. Even though the town is small, there will still be thousands of night runners.
Let’s say there were six thousand in the town before the gates of hell opened. What did Captain Walker say? That some seventy percent became infected? That leaves, well, a whole hell of a lot. Forty-two hundred? Is that right? We each have thirty mags, including those in our packs. That gives us… fuck I hate math. Thirty times thirty equals… nine hundred, I think. And that times six is… fifty-four hundred, minus the one shell we leave out of the mags. So, barely enough. And if the town held more people…
“Far side is clear.” Franklin’s voice crackles in Krandle’s ear piece, drawing him out of his math class.
“Stay in place, we’re moving up to make contact,” Krandle replies. Retracing his route, Krandle parts a branch. Keeping a low profile, he calls out, “Ahoy there in the road.”
All eyes snap in his direction, the panic visible even from a distance.
“We’re friendlies and coming out. Please don’t make any sudden movements.”
Into his mic, Krandle directs Franklin and the others to hold position on the other side. Those in the road rise, the ones by the tree remain frozen in place, all staring in this direction. Krandle rises and exits the bushes alongside Blanchard and Miller. There’s a collective gasp among those on the road as they observe three heavily armed, camouflaged soldiers emerge from the bushes.
“Are you Army?” one man calls out.
“Navy SEALS, sir,” Krandle says.
The held gasp is replaced by simultaneous sighs of relief, followed by a chorus of voices; some asking to help the wounded, others trying to explain what happened. Krandle holds a hand up, bringing silence.
“Blanchard, see to the wounded,” Krandle says. Into the mic, he continues, “Miller, Franklin, into the trees near the corner. Speer, Ortiz, the woods near the fallen tree.”
Blanchard unshoulders his pack and proceeds to triage those lying injured on the ground.
“What happened here?” Krandle asks the man who first called out.
“We were coming out of Portland, picking up others along the way, and came across this tree in the road. We got out to clear it, thinking it had fallen and were attacked from the sides. A couple of us were armed, but they took those away. We didn’t really have much of a choice,” the man says. “I’m Doug, by the way.”
“Chief Petty Officer Krandle. How many were there?” Krandle wonders how anyone could fail to spot such an obvious ambush, but leaves that unsaid.
“I don’t know exactly… fifteen? Twenty?” Doug says.
“Go on?”
“Well, they shot Shaun right away. They said it was to show us they were serious. After disarming us, they ordered everyone out and made us gather by the tree. They went through the vehicles, taking what they wanted. Then, they said they were taking ‘our women’ as they so quaintly put it. They started grabbing them. Mark fought back as they were grabbing his wife, Lindy. They shot him, then one of the assholes asked if there was anyone else who wanted a piece. I’ve never felt so damn helpless in all my life. I had to watch them drag our wives and daughters away.”
“Daughters?” Krandle’s anger rises.
“Yeah. They took everyone. Five of our wives and two teenage daughters,” the man says, tears forming in his eyes then streaming down his cheeks.
Krandle notes the man’s tightly clenched fist. “I know it’s difficult, but finish the tale if you can.”
“That’s it. They took our women and weapons. Oh, and shot Adam as they left, telling us not to follow them, that we should count ourselves as lucky and move on. Lucky? I wish they had killed me.”
“How did th
ey leave? Vehicles?”
“A couple of vans drove up on the other side of the tree as they were leaving,” says Doug. “They loaded our supplies and threw the women in. I heard motors crank up in the woods and they left.”
“Did they take the turn into town?”
“No, they drove up the highway toward the bridge. I lost sight of them after a bit.”
“Okay. Do you have food and water?”
“Not anymore.”
“We have some. Where were you heading? What was your destination?” Krandle is curious if there was some haven they had in mind.
“Nowhere really. Just south. We planned on driving during the day, stopping where we could to refill our tanks… find what food we could. At night, we’d hole up out of populated areas. We kind of figured a place would just show up and we’d know it when we found it. Now, I’m walking until I find those fuckers and get my wife back.”
“Unarmed? Alone?” Krandle raises his eyebrows. He knows the anger and fear the man must be feeling… the hopelessness.
“I’ll find something along the way and I’m sure the others will want the same thing.”
“Hold that thought,” Krandle says.
“Are you going to chase them down? I guess I mean, will you?”
“Just hold that thought.”
Krandle removes what water and food he has, handing it to the man. “It’s not much, but pass it around to the others.” He steps over to Blanchard and crouches. “What do you have?”
“One with a sucking chest wound. Another with a hole in his stomach. The third one looks like he has a cracked femur, but he’ll be fine,” Blanchard says.
“And the other two?”
Blanchard sighs. “I can’t do much for the sucking chest wound. I have it sealed, but it will need constant deflating and he’ll need surgery pronto. He’s already exhibiting subcutaneous Emphysema, you know, bubbles under the skin. If we had a medevac available, he might have a chance. We don’t, so…
“The gut wound is iffy. I’ll do what I can, but if he doesn’t die from blood loss, there’s a good chance Sepsis will finish the job,” Blanchard says. “I’ve given them all morphine, so at least they don’t feel it.”
