by John O'Brien
I don’t have time to reload. I drop the M-4 and step backwards reaching for the M-9 at my side. Bringing it up, I get one shot off before being body slammed by a running night runner. The impact knocks me off my feet and I’m driven backwards. The pistol is knocked from my grasp by the strength of the collision. The surprise is complete as my mind only records the fact that I am on the way to the floor with a night runner on me. My mind screams, Noooooo! as the additional thought registers that my kids are now exposed to the danger and I’m not up and able to help them.
The great fear turns to anger as I hit the ground on my back. The impact with the floor nearly knocks the wind out of me. My left arm is between me and the night runner on top. I slide my forearm up to its throat to keep the snarling and growling face from me. Putrid breath launches an assault of its own against my senses. I push upward with all my might but the night runner has a good position on me and I can’t get any leverage. The only thing I can do is attempt to keep its gnashing teeth from penetrating my skin.
My right leg is free. I bend my knee and reach down to grab my knife strapped to the outside of my ankle. The leverage is tough to hold while reaching down but I manage to pull the knife free of its sheath. I hear a small scream and several bursts from the other M-4’s. The thought that my kids are in trouble angers me even further. I plunge the knife in under the ribs and twist. The writhing night runner on top of me howls as I withdraw the knife and plunge it in again. A spurt of blood comes out of its mouth that is only inches away from my face. It pushes down against my arm, growls once more, and then goes limp.
“Get the fuck off me,” I say pushing the night runner off and to the side.
Sitting up, I am immediately slammed to the ground again. Fear, adrenaline, and anger course through me. Another night runner has slammed me onto my back and is on top with its head by my chest. My left arm is trapped between the night runner and myself. It claws at my neck and I feel the stinging pain of my skin being ripped on the left side. I feel the weight on top of me double as another night runner’s face appears over the shoulder of the one immediately above me.
I can’t move and can barely breathe. My jaw clenches and I feel a surge of anger. “Okay, you’re seriously starting to piss me off,” I yell and stab my knife into the closest one’s neck.
The top of my blade emerges from the other side of its neck cutting through tendons and cartilage. Blood leaks out of its mouth and nose, dripping onto me. Its growling turns into a gargle and I feel the warm blood gush over my hand and flow onto my chest. I remove the knife and jets of blood spurts twice before I feel the night runner become a dead weight on me.
The other night runner is trying to get down to me but isn’t able to with the dead one between us. I also don’t have a very good angle on it. It reaches over its dead comrade attempting to claw my face and neck. As it reaches its hand upward toward me, I stab upward under its armpit. The howling shriek turns into a scream of pain as my knife penetrates that very tender place. The armpit is a source of many nerves and the arteries of the arm run just under the surface of the skin. I twist the blade and feel jets of warm blood spray against my hand. I twist and push my knife blade again. The night runner arches up howling and struggles to get away from the point of my blade buried deep under its arm. Its yells of agony fade and it collapses across me to the side.
“Get..the..fuck..off..me,” I mumble straining to push the night runners off me.
“Dad, are you okay?” Robert asks.
“Yeah, just fucking peachy,” I answer giving a final push.
I finally manage to heave them to the side and scramble back to my feet. A few night runners lie on the floor in front of the closet entrance with one half in and half out of the entry itself. Two more night runners stand by the bedroom door. A glance behind them shows the hallway clear.
“Hold your fire,” I say as the two start for me, my roar meeting with theirs.
The two night runners rush, one behind the other. I take a step forward and meet them, going to a crouch just prior to contact. I rise forcefully and drive my shoulder into the front one’s chest, halting its forward momentum. I grab the night runner by the neck, drive it backward into the one behind, and thrust my knife under its sternum. I feel the warm sensation of blood run down the haft and onto my hand once again. I tighten my grip as the handle has become slippery. A turn of the blade and I move the night runner to the side. I duck under a swiping reach of the second one behind. Coming up as its arm sweeps over my head, I drive my knife into its neck. I lower my head just prior to my blade penetrating to prevent splashes of blood coating the lenses of my goggles.
I feel a slight resistance in my arm as my point meets the tender skin and drives inward. Blood splashes across my forehead. Putting my shoulder into the thrust, my knife plunges further into the night runner’s neck and comes to a stop against its spine. I withdraw the blade, step forward putting my right leg behind its right ankle, and push with my shoulder. My push trips it and sends it to the floor where it hits with a thump flat on its back. It lies gargling for a moment and then is silent.
I turn to the sound of the patio door blinds stirring. Another night runner darts into the room. I’m blocking the closet door so Robert and Lynn can’t fire at the new intruder. It stops a couple of feet inside, thrusts its head forward and shrieks. The scream fills the smallish room to the point that it seems the walls shake with its intensity. Rage and adrenaline still fills me like a heated glow but there is a numbness and calm accompanying it as well. I feel like I’m wrapped in a heated void. I hold my arms out to the side with my knife dripping blood, thrust forward in a similar manner, and roar back at it. A startled look crosses its features as I step towards it. It turns and darts back through the blinds. I hear a sickening thud and crack issue mutely from outside followed by a scream of pain.
I check the hall and front doorway to find them empty of any further attempts to invade the apartment. Walking to the patio, I step through the shattered glass door and look down at the driveway to the rear. The night is silent. Below, the night runner that fled is crawling slowly across the pavement having apparently leapt off the balcony and broke one or both of its legs on impact. I walk back in, grab my M-4 off the floor where I dropped it, and put a fresh mag in – my last one. Flicking the release, the bolt drives home, chambering a round.
Returning outside and clearing the area, I put the sight on 2x and center the crosshairs on the night runner. I continue to stare at the creature slowly and painfully crawling across the dark pavement for a moment. The thought of leaving it to deal with the dawn coming a few hours away runs briefly through my mind. The fear turned to anger is rapidly disappearing as the danger recedes and I feel a little sorry for the night runner below me. Regardless of the situation prior, no person, animal, or other deserves to be in pain or to suffer needlessly. With the crosshair centered, I send a fast-moving projectile into its head, bringing its crawling, and its agony, to a sudden halt.
* * *
Looking out at the narrow view of the bed and patio blinds, Robert kneels on one knee in the center of the group against the back wall of the walk-in closet. Clothing hangs down to either side of him. His heart thumps inside his chest as the thuds echo inside the apartment from night runners slamming into the front door. A particularly loud bang shakes the walls around him and he hears Bri gasp beside him.
“It’s okay, Bri. We’ll be fine. That’s Dad out there and we’re here. It’ll all be okay,” he says reassuring her.
His dad whispers at the door that Bri’s mic is on. In his peripheral, he sees Bri scramble trying to find the right switch and notices her look up at him. He reaches over and moves the switch on her mic cord. The breathing in his ears, that he assumed was his dad’s, falls silent. Several more slams resonate.
“Very well motherfuckers! Bring it,” he hears his dad whisper through his earpiece.
His heart rate quickens knowing his dad and his idioms. Those words mean something is about to h
appen and his dad is steeling himself for it. He looks at Lynn kneeling beside him in the same manner; on her knee with her M-4 pointed outward. She turns her head to him and nods. He feels confident yet scared at the same time. He knows he will react okay but will it be enough. He is glad he gave his dad that hug before leaving the bathroom. For some reason, it makes him feel better knowing that he did. It seemed the right thing to do. He almost wants the action to start so he can get rid of this feeling inside and just react like the previous times. This nervousness is close to unbearable. A tremendous crash blasts through the closet.
“They’re in,” his dad calls out.
Light flashes across the open doorway followed a split second later by muted gunshots. This is quickly followed by more. The first bursts of fire are trailed by single shots. Robert tightens his grip and slides his finger into the trigger guard. His thumb rubs along the selector switch to affirm that it’s set on auto. If they get in this far, semi just isn’t going to cut it, he thinks keeping his focus on the doorway and far blinds. The flashes of light and sounds are near continuous except for pauses where he assumes his dad is reloading. The mixture of shrieks and screams of pain make it difficult to hear anything else.
“How many of you fuckers are there?” Robert hears his dad say.
“Jack, are you okay?” Lynn asks.
“Yeah. I think they’re fucking breeding out here,” his dad replies. Robert chuckles knowing things are okay if his dad is keeping his humor.
While concentrating on the things within his view, he is reminded of those times where he and his dad laughed until their eyes bled tears. They have an identical sense of humor, perhaps stemming from the countless hours they spent together, and they see things in life the same way. Sadness folds over him as he remembers those times now with his dad out there fighting for his and their lives.
The sound of glass breaking rides over the howls and shrieks from inside the apartment bringing Robert’s entire focus back to the moment. The blinds part and a night runner enters the bedroom. He pulls the trigger with his dot centered on the chest. Multiple strobes flash off the walls of the tight closet as both his and Lynn’s carbines fire at the same time. The night runner is launched off its feet and back through the blinds from the multiple, forceful strikes on its body.
Robert sees his dad step back into his range of vision but is only able to see his back. “Thanks,” his dad says.
“You’re welcome, Dad,” Roberts says.
“No worries, Jack,” Lynn responds. “How’s it going out there?”
“Getting a little sporty,” he replies.
Robert knows what “getting a little sporty” means to his dad. It is a little more than the normal “getting a little sporty.” There was a time when he and his dad rode their mountain bikes up this long, steep ridge to the top of a mountain on the Fourth of July to watch the area fireworks. They sat on a mountain top, tired and exhausted from the ride, drinking Dr. Peppers and watched the light shows in the region below. The sun had set on everyone else but the glow of the sunset still shown on them. After a while, darkness set in firmly and the fireworks ended. It was pitch black out and they only had small flashlights – yeah, that one wasn’t thought all of the way through – which illuminated the ground in front for only five feet at best. The brakes only worked marginally on the exciting ride back down the steep slope. It was hard to keep the bikes under control as they careened off rocks and the edge of the cliff came close several times. When they finally reached the bottom, his dad said the same thing, “That was a little sporty.” Truth be told, Robert had thought it rather fun and exciting.
The one other time he remembered his dad using that phrase was the time they kayaked across a large, open body of water, the wind kicked up against an incoming tide and they paddled across with waves breaking over their head.
“Oh hell no! You don’t get to do that,” Robert hears his dad say over the radio.
His grip tightens on the handgrip of his M-4. The reality of the moment sinks in and he feels an intense fear but with an underlying calm. He feels a certain confidence with his dad and Lynn with him. Moments later, he sees his dad being catapulted in the air past the opening with a night runner on top of him; the two of them disappearing off to the right.
“No! Dad!” Bri screams rising to her feet.
“Stay here Bri,” Robert says holding his arm out in front of her.
“Holy shit,” Brian says in hushed voice.
“Shut the fuck up,” Robert says with adrenaline coursing through him. His response surprises him as much as the others around him. That came out of him from the fear he feels seeing his dad thrown like that, from the dire nature of their situation, and from his disgust for the guy next to him for getting them into this.
Other night runners follow in the path his dad and the night runner took. He and Lynn fire at the ones materializing in front of the door. Their rounds hit the night runners in the head, chest, and arms, knocking them to the side against and on the bed. They are attempting to keep the swarming creatures away from his dad. A night runner quickly appears in the doorway, completely blocking the view outside. Kelly screams as Robert raises his carbine and pulls the trigger, sending speeding projectiles toward the night runner threatening them. His rounds close the distance quickly and hit in rapid succession on its chest. The upward angle of the shots lifts the night runner off the ground with its legs shooting forward and its head backward. It falls to the ground half in and half out of the doorway.
“Nice job,” Lynn says as they resume shooting at the passing night runners.
“Get the fuck off me,” Robert hears his dad say over the radio.
The night runners coming by the door are thinning out to an extent, becoming ones and twos rather than the horde that was there moments before.
“Okay, you’re seriously starting to piss me off,” he hears his dad yell.
No further night runners come by the opening but he hears others rustling in the direction of the hallway. The decibel level has dropped substantially. The sounds from the hallway combine with the sounds of struggle coming from his dad’s direction.
“Get..the..fuck..off..me,” he hears his dad mumble on the radio.
“Dad, are you okay?” Robert asks.
“Yeah, just fucking peachy,” his dad answers. With that answer, he knows that his dad is indeed doing okay. A little pissed but okay.
“Hold your fire,” his dad says stepping into view of the open doorway looking a little disheveled.
Screeches once again fill the hallway. He sees his dad lean forward and yell back. He watches as his dad steps forward, crouches down and drives his shoulder upward into a charging night runner. He then grabs its neck, forces it into another night runner behind and brings his hand upward, plunging his knife into its belly.
“Eww,” Jessica says softly.
All eyes in the closet are mesmerized by the scene unfolding before them. Robert watches his dad toss the night runner to the side and duck under the swing of the second night runner only to come up quickly, thrust his knife into its neck - even through his goggles, he sees the blood squirt outward - and push the night runner to the ground. The creature disappears from view and he hears a gurgling sound for a moment and then all is silent.
“Fuuuuck me,” Brian says barely under his breath.
The soft swish and tic of the blinds stirring by the patio door reaches his ears at the same time that he catches a hint of movement on the other side of his dad. A shriek fills the room once more and is answered by his dad giving an equally loud scream. His dad takes a step and Robert sees movement as the night runner apparently runs back through the blinds, his dad seemingly chasing it off.
* * *
Exhaustion sweeps through me as I re-enter the apartment. I check the hallway again and drop to my knee to retrieve my handgun. Energy seeps from me and I remain on the floor a touch longer in front of the closet. I take a deep breath and continue deep breathing to c
lear my mind and catch my breath. The silence has returned to the dark apartment and makes my breathing seem inordinately loud. With my head hanging down, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I see Lynn looking down at me with a worried smile. Robert walks out of the closet and I give him a tired nod of thanks and job well done.
“Are you okay?” Lynn asks quietly.
“Yeah, I think so. I need all of the bottles of water we have,” I reply feeling a sting from the scratch on my neck; both from the recentness of the injury and from sweat running into it. “Robert, cover the front door. Bri, I need you to cover the patio door. Both of you call immediately if you see or hear anything.” I realize my radio is still on the voice-activate mode and switch it to the push-to-talk mode.
Robert looks down the hall at the numerous bodies heaped there and beyond. “Holy shit!” He exclaims quietly.
“Yeah, holy shit is right,” I reply.
Robert kneels in the hallway where I was previously while Lynn steps into the bathroom to retrieve the water. With Bri standing by the bed by my side, I reach into a pouch on my vest and retrieve a batch of antibiotics we divided up seemingly years ago. Lynn returns with the water and sees me taking the pills.
“Jack?” Lynn says in a questioning and worried voice.
“I think I got scratched,” I reply in answer to her questioning concern.
“Oh fuck, Jack! Where?” She asks whispering.
“On my neck. I think it was a clawing scratch and not a bite though,” I answer feeling my neck for the scratch to determine the depth and extent of damage.
“Come on, into the bathroom,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a second,” I say.
I walk past Robert and down the hall. The enclosed space of the hallway stinks of torn bodies, the iron smell of blood, and gunpowder mixing together. I have to step over the bodies lying on the ground filling the hallway floor. I nudge each body testing for any life remaining within them. Several night runners respond to the toe of my boot prodding them and I finish them off with one round to the head. The entryway by the kitchen is piled waist high in places where the night runners pushed into the apartment and were met by steel. I go through almost an entire clip by the time I put the last of the night runners to rest.
