by Alan Baxter
“Oh fuck!” Speer whispers.
The night runners lift their heads and shriek, the ear-piercing screams echoing off the trees and along the road.
“It’s go time, gents. The dinner bell has been rung and they’ll be bringing guests,” Krandle says quietly.
The three night runners leap forward, one instant standing still the next, closing the distance at a full sprint.
“Speer, Ortiz, Miller… left, middle, right,” Krandle says aloud, the need for quiet past.
In the time it takes to breathe once, the night runners have closed half of the distance. Krandle knew they were fast, but has only encountered them inside of buildings. Those times, they appeared like monkeys with crazy agility. Here, in open terrain, they seem like jaguars streaking toward their prey. Three nearly simultaneous muted shots leave the barrels with accompanying quick flashes of light. The rounds streak out and rapidly close the distance, uncaring of what they hit, only obeying the laws of physics and going where they’re pointed. Amid the shrieks, the minute metallic tinkle of expended shells strike the pavement.
Krandle watches as the lead night runner’s head as the bullet strikes home under its eye. The projectile hits the solid bone and mushrooms, angling upward through the eye and carving a tunnel through soft gray matter. It slams into the inside of the skull, shattering the bullet. The back of the night runner’s head explodes in a spray of bone, blood, and chunks of flesh. The rest of its body, not realizing that it’s dead, continues running a step. The creature’s feet leave the ground and its back slams onto the highway.
The other two go down in quick fashion, their fallen bodies partially hidden by the taller grass. In the distance, answering screams carry on the night air, growing louder. The faint smell of nitrate drifts quickly away. The shrieks grow in intensity and volume, becoming a din as groups of night runners pour into the field of vision. Krandle radios the sub, letting them know they have company.
“Can you exfil?” Leonard asks.
“No, sir. It’s a little late for that and we’d lose the civilians. But, we may need some of your toys if it gets too rough.”
“We’ll need five minutes to any of the pre-plotted targets, ten if there are any new ones,” Leonard says.
“Copy that, sir. The pre-plotted ones will be fine. I’ll let you know. Out.”
Small groups of night runners stream across the grass and along the road, the screams permeating the area. Gunfire streaks out from the team lined across the bridge, periodic tracers crossing like fiery spears. While others have differing ideas about how they load tracers, Krandle loads his mag with the third to last round going out as a tracer so he knows when he’s down to his last shell. In his mind, it makes it a whole hell of a lot faster to reload, getting a visual representation rather than waiting for the slide to lock back.
Krandle adds his fire to the left. Speer and Ortiz are concentrating on the ones near the road, Franklin and Miller to the right. Blanchard, with the clackers arranged at his feet, is directing his fire into the groups racing from the left. The first small groups of night runners are mowed down, each figure going down with splashes of blood spraying into the air. More fill their places, leaping over the bodies of their fallen and charging forward.
Krandle zeroes in on one head, fires, then makes a minute movement to scope in on the next, only marginally aware of the previous one falling. Night runners continue closing in until they fill the area from one tree line to another. Shrieks pierce the night, seeming to vibrate his skull. Calls of “reloading”, the screams, the background sound of continuous gunfire, and spent shells hitting the ground combine to create a cacophony of noise. The smell of gunpowder fills Krandle’s nose.
Bodies fall one after another, yet the scene is filled with the glowing faces of night runners pushing forward. Dozens go down, dead, dying, or injured, yet the horde draws ever closer. Krandle knows there is a tipping point at which the night runners will surge forward and there’s nothing they will be able to do about it.
He grasps Blanchard’s shoulder. Above the din, he has to lean over and yell in his ear to be heard. “We need to create gaps. Blow eleven and twelve.”
Blanchard grabs two of the clackers, squeezing each repeatedly. On either side of the highway, two large explosions rip through the night in succession. Ball bearings, propelled by C-4, tear through night runners in their path. Those nearest disintegrate into clouds of pink mist, the heavier chunks of flesh and bone hitting the pavement with meaty thunks. Beyond, limbs are separated and bodies ripped open, spilling their contents to the ground. Bodies are lifted into the air and thrown backward.
“Nine and ten,” Krandle yells.
Two closer blasts rock the night, sending more night runners sailing. The explosions cause a momentary pause of the night runners in front as they turn to look at what erupted in their midst. The rolling blasts of the claymores fade, ending in a moment of silence.
“Holy shit. Did you see those bodies?” Speer says.
In the immediate silence, Krandle’s ears ring. As one, the night runners in front turn toward the bridge and shriek.
Break’s over. Krandle delivers fire into the midst of night runners again racing forward.
Intent on focusing on one night runner after another, he’s taken aback when he looks through his scope to find… nothing. He jerks it back and forth, seeking a new target. There’s only a green glow filled with bodies, but none of them upright. Lowering his weapon, he gazes out at the destruction. Figures lie in heaped piles, or singly, some crawling as if to get away from their pain. Finally, he notices the lack of shrieks. There are only the groans and screams of the injured. Beside him, the others of his team stare out at the carnage.
The scent of gunpowder dissipates, bringing the raw iron scent of spilled blood and the stink of torn intestines on the swirling wind. Hundreds of night runners, possibly over a thousand, lie across the chewed-up ground with barely a clear space showing.
“Is that it?” Speer asks.
“I doubt it. There have to be thousands in that town and we’ve never seen them just give up,” Franklin says.
“Ammo check. They’ll be back. The claymores made them hesitate. Be ready for a change of tactics,” Krandle says.
“Twenty, plus whatever I have left in the current one,” Speer says.
The rest of the team reports on their ammo situation; they’ve used nearly a third of it.
“Figures you’d have the most mags left, pretty boy.” Speer directs his remark to Blanchard after an ammo check.
“Had to blow the claymores,” Blanchard says with a shrug.
“Test the remaining wires,” Krandle tells Blanchard. “We need to know how many are still operational.”
Blanchard disconnects the clackers and puts the tester on each one.
“All circuits test out,” he says, finishing.
Shrieks, other than those coming from the wounded, grow louder, but also somewhat muted. Krandle looks along the road, but it and the flanks remain clear. He turns his head, attempting to locate the origins. Each time he thinks he has it, it changes.
“They’re in the trees,” Miller says.
All eyes look to the left and right, trying to peer through the undergrowth. The shrieks grow louder, coming from both directions.
“They’re going to try and rush us from both sides,” Krandle says. “Speer, you help with the left if they do. Blanchard, you stay right next to me. Franklin, you, Miller and Ortiz have the right.”
As if a switch were thrown, the screams go silent. Except for the injured in near the road, a hush falls.
“Well, that’s fucking creepy,” Speer whispers.
In the distance, near where the four claymores blew holes in their ranks, night runners emerge from the woods, filling the roadway and median. Rank upon rank gather, their eyes flashing silver as the light catc
hes them right. Behind the front ranks, more filter out. Thousands gather, filling the highway beyond sight.
“Fuuuck me!” Speer again whispers.
Krandle’s throat tightens and his stomach clenches. He heard stories from Captain Walker about their ability to change tactics, but he never thought them truly capable of something like this. He had thought them animals, perhaps cunning, but mindless nonetheless.
The night runners in the middle jostle, as if something was moving through their midst. The front line parts and a solitary night runner steps forth, coming to halt several paces ahead of the others. The massed night runners and the SEAL Team stare across the open space at each other, neither moving. The lone night runner lifts its head upward, looking from left to right, seeming to gaze at each horizon. Then, lowering its head to look directly at the group holding the bridge, it screams. The horde of night runners surge around him, the night once again filling with shrieks.
Krandle thinks about pulling back to the middle of the bridge to create a chokepoint, but the night runners will climb the girders and be in their midst in no time. He radios the sub.
“We’re going to need those toys, and soon. Fire on plots one and two, south to north along the highway.”
“Five minutes, chief… ready, ready, hack,” he receives.
Krandle hits the button on his watch to start his timer.
“Five minutes, gents. We need to hold the line here. Give them all you have. Blanchard, blow the claymores as the line reaches each one. Save the four near the bridge.”
Krandle thumbs his selector switch to auto and, with the others firing, begins sending burst after burst into the charging night runners. The front line goes down as if they hit a tripwire. As the night runners encounter the bodies on the ground, they begin leaping over, making it difficult to get a clear shot. Some jump over bodies, only to fall forward as rounds strike home. The once solid line becomes ragged, but the empty places are filled quickly. There are more bodies racing toward them than outgoing fire and the line draws inexorably closer.
Two explosions tear through the night, momentarily drowning out the screaming horde. The line staggers as ball bearings rip through the ranks. Night runners leap through the dissipating smoke, charging forward. Bullets continue to thin the front ranks, bodies piling up. Two more blasts, but still they come. Glancing at his watch, Krandle is left with the sinking feeling they won’t make it the remaining three minutes.
Offshore, the surface of the ocean erupts in a geyser of water as the cruise missile is pushed into the sky. Through the plume of water, the engine ignites in a roar. The missile sails across the open water, tailing a barely visible flame. Five seconds later, a second missile bursts through the surface and is thrust skyward.
Krandle thumbs an empty mag free, jamming another one home and hitting the bolt release. The slide slams forward and he delivers more fire into the closing ranks. One burst, then another, not bothering to take aim other than into the midst of bodies. His bullets will hit something, and that’s all they need at the moment – night runners down.
The fire from his team is relentless, the air in front of them thick with outgoing rounds. They slam home into bodies, hitting arms, legs, shoulders, chests, and heads. Skin is torn and bones shattered. Hitting knees, the bullets angle upward, tearing through bowels before exiting the shoulder. The ground around the team is littered with the gleam of spent casings and emptied mags. Still, the night runners inch ever forward in a relentless tide.
Two minutes.
The last of the claymores blow, mangling numerous night runners, but the surging point is drawing near – the point at which the SEAL team will only be seconds away from being overrun and annihilated. The line is near and their fire is keeping the monsters at bay.
This is like fighting a wave of water. Any slack and that wave will crest.
The bodies stack higher at the front, slowing the efforts of the night runners.
“Trees!” Krandle hears Miller call.
Daring to glance away, Krandle sees night runners pouring out of the nearby tree line.
“How long do you think it will take us to run to the other side?” Krandle yells to Blanchard.
“Eighth of a mile… forty seconds. Thirty with these bastards on my tail.”
“Speer?”
“I can fucking teleport there if I need to.”
Thoughts race through Krandle’s head at light speed. If the team leaves too early, the night runners will make it to the bridge and be among them. However, they won’t be able to keep the new horde of night runners and those on the highway back at the same time.
Fuck it! We gotta go.
“Franklin, take the others and set up mid bridge. I’ll wait and blow the claymores. Don’t fucking shoot me. Now, go!”
The others turn to run. Without the fire holding it back, the wave of night runners crests and surges forward. The ones streaming from the woods are close, some even falling into the ravine from the tight-packed bunch.
Looking down, he sees the four minute mark pass.
Good enough.
Krandle rapidly squeezes the clackers, one after the other. The near explosions, coming seconds apart, rock the bridge. A wet mist mixes with the roiling smoke. Without another look, he races to his teammates setting up near the middle of the bridge. He reaches them and turns, each of them delivering a mag into the recovering mass of night runners.
“Time to go,” Krandle yells, glancing at his watch.
There’s no need to tell the civilians to run; they have already taken to their heels. Well, most of them. Two are assisting the man with the wounded leg – assisting being a matter of perspective. A better definition would be dragging.
Near the end of the bridge, Krandle notes two bodies with the remains of stretchers over them. He has no idea when they died. A roar and tail of flame flashes overhead. He and his team dive into the grass beside the road as they hear several loud ‘pops’ from behind.
A series of explosions tear through the night, becoming one continuous roar. The team all turn to take care of any night runners on the bridge, but their light filters are overwhelmed by the cluster munitions dropped. Another roar streaks overhead, adding its payload to the thundering explosions.
The echoes die away.
The team rises to their knees, weapons trained on the bridge. Expecting some night runners to remain, Krandle is confused by the empty bridge. His NVGs recover. There is devastation on the other side of the ravine.
The ground is churned beyond recognition. To the sides, the underbrush lining the trees is all but gone, the trees scarred in a hundred different places. Bodies and body parts hang from branches as if from some macabre scene in a movie. The remains of arms and legs poke out from mulches of dirt. Even from this distance, Krandle smells the aroma of torn bowels and blood, mixing with that of gunpowder. Not a single night runner is in sight or can be heard.
“I’m not walking back through that,” Speer says, shaking his head.
In all of his years, Krandle has never seen destruction on this scale. He radios the sub and gives an all clear and his thanks, informing them that they’ll spend the rest of the night on the bridge. The civilians return, the wounded man looking pale. Little is said throughout the night as each ponders what they went through.
“If they weren’t already, I bet those bandits are long gone by now. I know I would be if I heard that shit happening nearby,” Speer says.
Krandle shakes his head. Speer says whatever is on his mind at any given moment, not realizing how it may affect others. There’s truth in what he said, but that truth means the wives and daughters will be gone as well.
He just isn’t socialized, that’s it.
“I don’t know. They may just hunker down for dear life, not wanting to show themselves and risk an accidental meeting. We’ll see in the morning.”<
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* * *
The rest of the evening passes without event. Far off screams are heard periodically, but nothing draws close to the killing ground. Even the night runners have apparently had enough. Taking turns on watch, they get what rest they can.
It took Speer and Miller all of about forty minutes after sunrise to find the quad tracks leading up a logging road. A short distance up a hill, nestled within evergreens, Speer found two shipping containers resting on level ground with fourteen bandits scattered around it. The quads and vans were parked to the side. Some of the women had been tied to trees, the others not visible – probably being kept the containers. The tied women and the type of vehicles are all the verification Krandle needs. Leaving the civilians to dig shallow graves for the two who succumbed to their wounds, Krandle and the others join with Speer and Miller.
Speer points out three leaning against trunks farther into the trees, apparently the watch they set. One is positioned just off the road in front of a large fir. The other two are off to the sides, all focused — if focused is the correct word — toward the highway. They have evidently concluded that any threat will come from that direction, that nothing can come at them from within the woods. Considering the sound of gunfire and explosions, Krandle is a little confused by their nonchalance.
Perhaps that’s what comes from thinking the world is yours for the taking.
“I didn’t see any radios on the guards,” Speer says.
Krandle momentarily ponders coming at them from their unsecured side, but opts to take the guards out first. Always better to deal with the perimeter first, then move in.
Krandle directs Speer and Ortiz to take out the first guard, setting the rest of the team to cover their approach. If the camp becomes alerted, Speer and Ortiz will eliminate the other two guards while Krandle and the rest of the team engage those within the camp. That means a firefight, which is always risky.
