by John O'Brien
Step by step, I gradually make my way upward until I can see over the last stair. Two night runner bodies lie on the floor blocking the door open. Huh? Just when I thought there might be a constant here, the universe throws me a curve. Just what in the fuck is going on here? Is it some floor competition for neatness and the ones here just don’t care? Well, it isn’t like I need to tie the doors off here anyway, I think taking another step toward the open door and hallway beyond.
I check the hall from inside the stairwell for movement or sound. Fully expecting a rush at any moment and am reminded of my similar experience back in the McChord hospital. I did not like that one bit and would rather not have a repeat. I see shells scattered on the tiled hallway floor close by the door, picturing the entire firefight and retreat in my mind by where the spent cartridges lie. How it must have felt being here on the fifth floor with firefights being waged on the floors below; feeling like you could be cut off in a moment. I use the term firefight loosely here as it was really only one side firing and the other using speed and numbers to overwhelm. Much like the cold war scenarios; technology versus masses. Quality versus quantity.
“I’m on the fifth floor,” I whisper ever so quietly into my mic.
“Copy that. Anything?” I hear Lynn ask.
“Not as yet. Out,” I answer.
A chill runs up my spine and I immediately sink to a kneeling position, bringing my M-4 up to a firing position. It’s not like it was far from being ready to begin with though. Did I miss something that my mind did not alert my conscious mind to? Why the chill? There wasn’t a temperature change? I kneel and wait for something to emerge into my line of fire. Nothing comes and the darkened hallway, lit only in the green of my goggles, remains void of sound or movement.
I rise and step over the bodies with my rifle still in a firing position as I move slowly into the hallway checking to my right and left as I do so. Bodies litter the floor down the hallway to my right, lying where they fell from steel coming into contact with vitals the day before. The one thing missing here is the smell of decay like I would have expected. True, there weren’t many cars parked around but there were some indicating that people had to have been here when this happened. There should have been some smell of them if they died here and surely not all of them could have been changed. Is it that the night runners ate them early on or cleaned up their lair knowing that the smell that must have emanated from the dead bodies, especially in this heat and humidity, was bad? Did they clean up to make their lair more habitable? Those are answers I will probably never know, I think checking again to make sure the hallway was clear. There is, however, a faint ammonia smell within.
To my left, there is the glass wall with ‘CDC Director’ emblazoned on it. Just as advertised. I step slowly and silently down the hallway in that direction checking over my shoulder occasionally to make sure nothing enters the hall behind me. There are about twelve doors lining each side of the hall between myself and the director’s office; some closed and others open. It is the open ones that I am cautious of; there being no reason for night runners to close a door behind them that I can possibly think of even if they do know how. But that doesn’t mean they don’t either.
I edge near the wall and start down, passing two closed doors. As I draw near the first open door on my left, a soft sound escapes from within getting my immediate and full attention. The sound of feet padding on a floor and, by the sound of it, coming closer to the door. I freeze. A head appears in the doorway a mere fifteen feet away from me. The night runner walks into the hallway ahead of me and pads across the hall without knowing that my red dot, centered on its head, is accompanying its progress. The long hair, hanging down past its shoulders, leads me to believe it is a female. I do not dare to breathe or make the slightest sound. The adrenaline within me kicks up a notch or two. Or three. This is not so dissimilar than having a guard pass by me while hidden, becoming a part of whatever I am near, and, I am here to tell you, it never gets easy or comfortable. A slight head turn or something catching the corner of the eye can spell disaster. And spell it with capital letters.
The night runner crosses the hall and I make sure to both follow it with my M-4 but do so out of the corner of my eye making sure to not look directly at it. A habit pattern. As it reaches the opposite wall, it pulls its pants down and squats. Well, that verifies the female portion for me, I think hoping it turns in the other direction to head back once it is finished with its business. If it turns my way, its eyes will sweep directly over me. The splashing sound of urine being emptied on the tile floor fills the hall. I hear a grunt at the opening of the door. I turn my head slowly but cannot see anything within. Whatever is there must be just inside the room. The night runner in the hall turns and looks over her left shoulder, thankfully away from me, and back towards the door, giving a hiss at whatever is there before focusing once again on the wall to its front.
Finishing with its business, she stands and pulls ups her pants, doing up the snap and zipper. Well, that’s interesting, I think watching this. They have the mechanical skills to undo and do up their clothing. I wonder momentarily if that is from a habit pattern that stayed with them or they are consciously aware of what they are doing. If they are conscious of it, that means they may be able to learn how to use other tools. All of this passes in the blink of an eye. My body is literally vibrating from the loose tension and adrenaline flowing within, waiting for the moment of knowing when to act.
The night runner turns in my direction. Of course, I think. Most creatures will habitually turn in their strong direction and that is to the right for most humans as we are mostly right handed. I suppose that applies to the night runners as well. It begins to head back toward the room from which it came but stops suddenly and turns its head in my direction. Not sharply but turns it nonetheless. As if something it saw a few seconds ago is only now registering in its mind and it is unsure of what it is. Just something that may have been a little out of the ordinary.
The female night runner is looking directly at me but in a quizzical way, tilting its head to the side to perhaps get a different perspective. Like it sees something but cannot define of what it is. I know it is now only a matter of time before I am discovered yet hesitate as there is the slightest chance that it will think that nothing is amiss and go back into where it was bedded down. Another grunt comes from whatever is inside the room and is answered by a similar grunt from the one standing in the hallway staring at me.
I see a sudden recognition flash across the night runner’s face; the widening of the eyes and a startled look. Really!? After all of that, I was found by a night runner going to the bathroom! That so figures! My M-4 barks out in the hallway before it can scream, lights flashing against the walls as three rounds streak outward, seeking a target and finding one a split second later. The night runner’s head rocks back as steel meets flesh and bone, winning the engagement. Its face is torn apart and suddenly unrecognizable. The night runner flips into the air, landing on its back and slides a short distance along the floor, finally coming to rest next to the puddle of urine it had just left.
I side step to the right anticipating the emergence of the night runner that was hidden within the room, aiming my weapon and to the room’s entrance. I am not disappointed as a night runner immediately charges out of the door. The faint smell of gunpowder mixes with the hint of ammonia as three more rounds exit catching the emerging night runner in the neck and head. Blood sprays outward from the neck wound, splashing the doorway and running down the jamb in small streams. The bullets lift it from its feet, propelling it into the darkness of the room and out of my sight.
* * *
Lynn stands amidst the other team members, staring at the glass building with her hand shading her eyes. The others stand in the same fashion and have been since watching Jack step slowly into the building. The only word was his brief radio call moments before letting them know he had reached the fifth floor. Lynn follows his anticipated path in
her mind, following the path she took yesterday only with Jack in her and the other team’s place. Her anxiety grows with the fifth floor call. She tenses as a faint sound reaches her ears. Really just a hint of sound but coming from the building.
“Were those gunshots?” She asks quietly but allowing her voice to carry. Half to herself and half to the group around her.
“I’m not sure, First Sergeant,” Horace answers in the same whispering voice. “Sounded like it.”
The others edge toward the building having heard both the sounds and the conversation. Their instinct towards wanting to help and the reason they were there — to cover and provide help if needed — causes them to subconsciously step closer to the CDC building.
“No, stay here,” Lynn says putting her arm out as if to block the advance. “He’ll call if he needs us.” A second faint sound, exactly like the first, follows.
“Those are definitely gunshots,” Lynn says joining the group as they edge closer. “Okay, we’ll halve the distance. Everyone on me but step quietly and be ready to go.”
The sound of charging handles being pulled and released is heard as they walk toward the building in the rising heat of the day.
* * *
Shrieks cry out from seemingly every room at once. They fill the fifth floor with a volume that can only be matched in contrast to the absolute silence a moment before. And I am totally fucked, I think looking back at the night runners pouring into the hallway behind me. There is no way I can even think about making it back to the fire door even though it is only a scant three doors away. They have emerged that quick and that close. Only one way to go and that is forward, I think with my feet suddenly having a mind of their own and heading quickly towards the glass wall and door ahead of me.
Night runners begin to emerge in front of me and to the side as I set land speed records heading for the glass, hoping the door to the office is unlocked. As I speed past an open door on the right, a night runner emerges directly to my side. I bring my carbine around and ram the stock just under the tip of its nose in an upward stroke. A wet, solid smack, like a sack of hamburger being dropped on pavement from a height, issues from the collision and blood splatters downward, coating its upper lip and chin. The thrust breaks and then pushes the bone from its nose into its brain. Its head rocks backward and it drops straight to the ground.
More enter the hallway ahead of me, issuing from open doorways. I hear bare feet running on tile and the roars of a multitude of night runners behind me but I don’t dare take the time to look over my shoulder. I know they are faster and I cannot spare a bit of my momentum to verify what my ears already tell me. I’m in deep shit! I wish I had brought a grenade to dump on the floor behind me and park that thought for future use. Assuming of course that there will be a future time for me. I put a burst into the closest one in the hall to my front, stitching it from chest to neck with three rounds, the first hitting on the right side of its sternum and spinning it around in mid step. Its feet fly out in front as it falls, rotating to hit the floor face first. The thump of its body but a miniscule sound amidst the mighty roaring in the hall. My own roars mix in with the night runner’s as I charge forward.
I turn to the next closest one before the one I just shot has a chance to hit the floor, sending it crashing against the wall as strobe light bounces off of the walls signaling the departure of three more bullets on their mission. My adrenaline is at its high point and temporal distortion kicks in. Everything moves in slow motion and my eyes and brain register details I would have missed, allowing my reaction times to increase. There are several between me and the glass wall, nearer now but it might as well be a mile away as the dark shapes of night runners fill the once open gap in front. A night runner to my left front, dressed in the jumpsuit of a maintenance man, leads the charge against me, hurtling in slow motion down the hallway.
Another light kick from my M-4 and burst of fire rocks it backward, my last round entering its right eye. Motion is slowed to the point where I can almost see the rounds enter. The back and side of its head explode outward, bathing the night runners behind with blood, brains, bone and bits of scalp with the hair still attached. The maintenance night runner hits the floor on its back, its momentum causing it to slide towards me. I hear the ones behind me closing in quickly. I am going to have to blast a hole in the ones ahead and dart through. And, it is going to have to be done surgically as I have expended just over half of the rounds in my mag.
I cannot reload, okay, I may not have a choice, but the time it will take will enable them to completely engulf me. That would really suck! Flipping to semi, I pick the ones closest to the middle of the hall and hence, from what I can see, the thinnest, easiest and fastest way through. I would like to fire bursts into their chests in order to deliver the maximum impact and hurl them backwards into the night runners behind. The reload time and remaining ammo in my current mag will not allow that. Head shots it is, I think lining up the first one as I continue propelling myself towards them and the glass beyond.
I line up my first shot and send its head rocketing back, the bullet entering its head just below the eye. The side of its face disappears in a gory mess of flesh and blood as the round strikes the hard bone and veers off the side, tumbling and taking skin and bone with it on its journey. Only barely registering this hit, enough to ensure that this one is taken care of, I am onto the next target. Night runners are going down quickly in front of me. Pop, pop. pop. One after the other they fall to the floor as my red dot centers on head after head with only slight movements of my hand on the bottom rail holding the M-4 steady.
My onward charge and onslaught causes them to slow down in a confused manner. Sometimes, when things seem hopeless, it is better to charge quickly and violently causing fear to surface in the opposing forces. This can cause them to become momentarily paralyzed and not be able to react or to react with haste without a thought or focus on what they are doing. The night runners have never seen their prey act like this and charge toward them in such a violent manner. Some have actually stopped and are beginning to retreat backwards into the rooms from which they came. A few others however continue coming only to be brought down with their heads absorbing rounds and exploding in some manner or another. The floor below me is slippery with blood and gore.
* * *
Closer to the building now, the sound emanating can be heard only slightly better but with a definite clarity to them. They are definitely gunshots and are coming in a near continuous fashion. A firefight is being waged inside. Not the deafening roar of yesterday in the stairwell but one regardless.
“Okay everyone, to the entrance door but no further,” Lynn says realizing that, with the sounds of gunfire coming from within, their own quietness is now a moot factor.
She wants to be as close as they can get in case Jack calls for them. She also knows not to enter unless called for as it can get very messy if Jack does not know they are coming. That is how friendly fire accidents happen. He’ll call if he needs, she thinks crossing the street and hastens to the entrance with the others behind.
“If we’re called, Black Team will lead followed by Green. Horace, you bring up the rear and keep our six clear. Same as before, we’ll drop off two at each landing to cover our withdrawal. Questions?” Lynn adds as they draw near the broken entrance doors.
“Hooah, First Sergeant,” they all respond.
* * *
The hall in front of me clears momentarily. I see the glass wall close ahead. A gap has been created. A small one but big enough. I dart through, not having given up on my momentum. The night runners behind me are closing in like a rush toward a concert stage. My little area of the world is about to become a mosh pit. I see a flash of darkness off to the side as a night runner launches out of one of the rooms, coming close in behind me. I feel its fingers grab the upper shoulder strap of my tac vest, almost causing me to lose my footing on the slippery floor; slowing my momentum. I turn the M-4 behind me flipping to the s
elector switch to burst, sense where the night runner must be by how its fingers are grabbing my vest, and fire. The kick is a bit stronger from the one-handed over the shoulder shot and the barrel moves quite a bit. Blood splashes on my neck and cheek. Oh great! I think hearing a howl of pain and a tug on my shoulder as the night runner falls to the floor. I am thankful its fingers didn’t lock on and drag me down with it. That was the last of my rounds.
I swing the carbine back, thumbing the mag release with my right hand and grab a full mag with my left. The glass wall and door are now only a few feet in front of me. Just a few steps away. I jam the fresh mag in the receiver and flip the bolt release, chambering a round. Bringing the gun up, I fire a burst into the glass pane to the right of the double doors. My thought is that the larger pane of glass there will shatter easier than the smaller panes that make up the doors. My bullets hit the glass and go through, cracks spreading outward from each hole. I sure wish this was fully auto, I think sending another burst close to the first but letting it track upward slightly. The glass remains in place. A third burst a little more to the side and then a fourth away from that one. Twelve holes now fill the glass pane in a box-like pattern with cracks radiating out from each hole.
I duck my right shoulder, with my M-4 out in front, just before I impact the glass at a full run; tucking my head in and down at the last moment, my left hand coming up to my temple and left arm covering my throat and eyes. The impact is jarring and the sound of breaking glass fills my ears, drowning out the shrieks of the oncoming horde. Stumbling through the glass pane, which is now coming down and raining glass on the tile and carpeting, I continue into the room and toward the door between the two large desks. The strap holding my goggles is surprisingly still in place. Below the large wooden door, a thin strip of light shows from underneath. I fire three quick bursts into the jamb by the door handle. I just don’t have time to knock. Nor do I have time to check to see if it is locked. I realize this is using up ammo that I may need should the door not open, but honestly, at this point, I could have one of the endless mags from the movies and it still would not do that much good. I would only be prolonging the inevitable and the ending would still be the same. Building my speed back up, I hit the door, once again with my shoulder. The door latch and jamb gives way and the door flies open.
