by W. J. Lundy
A young officer with a gold subdued lieutenant’s bar on his helmet pointed at Bolder and Robert. “You two! Get out there and secure that vehicle.”
“Hooah sir,” Bolder sarcastically grumbled back. He slapped Robert on the shoulder. “You ready for this, bro?”
“Lead the way,” Robert answered.
They weaved through the barriers and slowly approached the truck. The destroyed engine made a clicking sound as it died and cooled off in the heat. The front was bleeding coolant onto the ground; steam and smoke billowed from holes in the hood. Robert rounded the front of the truck, sliced the corner with his rifle and aimed into the cab. He found a mess inside with little left to investigate.
They began to lower their weapons when they heard a whimper coming from the covered bed of the vehicle. Bolder gave Robert a quick hand signal and they pressed back to the rear of the jingle truck. Robert took a step back and raised his rifle, providing cover while Bolder lifted the canvas to peer inside.
“Oh shit,” Bolder gasped.
Robert stepped forward to look inside and saw the bed of the truck was littered with wounded civilians, most of them children.
“Lieutenant! We need a medic up here!” Robert yelled back over his shoulder. The lieutenant and another young soldier ran forward to the truck and looked inside.
“Sir? You want me to call for a medic?” the young soldier asked.
“No, they’re busy with the wounded inside, they won’t have time for this shit!” the lieutenant snapped back in frustration.
They heard a soft voice from the front of the covered truck bed, quietly calling for help. Robert climbed over the tailgate of the truck and into the bed, moving forward until he found the man who spoke.
“I’m here,” Robert said.
“Water,” the man pleaded.
Robert yelled the request back at the men and the young soldier tossed him a small bottle of water. Robert opened the container and helped the man sip.
“Why did you run at our gate?” Robert asked. “Why didn’t you stop?”
“We didn’t run at your gate, we ran to your gate. We ran from them,” answered the dying man.
“Ran? Ran from whom?” Robert asked.
The man gave Robert an exhausted, sad look. He raised his hand, pointing over and behind the men standing at the back of the truck. “From death,” he said.
Robert strained to look into the distance. It was difficult to see from the darkness of the covered truck and out into the hot bright sunlight. Far off in the distance, through the waves of heat on the pavement, he could make out a large group of people headed in their direction. Robert looked back down at the man and saw that he had passed.
“Well shit, here it comes,” grumbled the lieutenant, looking in the same direction. “Right on time; that would be the villagers from town coming to protest the dead civilians from last night. I’m sure this truck full of bodies isn’t going to help things.”
“L.T., the man in the truck said they were running away from that group; maybe it’s more of what just happened inside. I don’t think they’re protestors,” said Robert.
“Well, nice story, but he can’t help us now. Let’s get back to the barrier and get ready to meet our guests,” the lieutenant argued.
Robert and Bolder turned, closed the tailgate, buttoned down the canvas cover on the truck, and then headed back to the camp’s gate and barriers.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Bolder,” Robert mumbled.
“I know, just stay sharp bro. I got your back,” Bolder said.
They moved behind the barrier and took up a position just inside the open gate. Robert saw the mob moving closer. Yeah, they were definitely pissed off, they were even running! Robert had seen protests at Bremmel before, but usually they were pretty well orchestrated. This one appeared to be spontaneous, with no leader, and they were coming fast.
An Afghan soldier moved to the barrier and started yelling through a bullhorn, commanding the mob to stop approaching the base and to keep their distance. Several more Afghan soldiers dragged a heavy roll of coiled wire across the road, blocking the entrance to the barriers. But they kept coming. They passed a sign far out on the road that warned that violators would be shot if they approached the base. The mob continued to run.
The lieutenant ordered warning shots, and the machine gunner fired quickly over the crowd, but they didn’t slow, didn’t even flinch. “Gas!” the lieutenant shouted. The soldiers on the barrier fired tear gas canisters into the charging mob, but they never even paused. The CS grenades bounced off some of the protestors, knocking them to the ground, but they got back up and continued running. “Shotguns up!” the lieutenant yelled, panic growing in his voice. The Afghan soldiers raised shotguns and readied themselves for the mob.
The first wave hit the wire with a screeching roar, but that was quickly outdone by the sounds of the screaming crowd. Protestors were tangled and pushed deeper and deeper into the wire by those behind them. Eventually they collapsed and were pressed to the ground, their bodies covering the jagged strands of barbed wire. Screaming protestors from the back began to climb up and over the fallen, and resumed their charge at the base.
“Open fire!” the lieutenant screamed frantically as he stepped backwards. The first volley of shotgun rounds dropped a few of the charging protestors, but most of them made it to the barricades. The Afghan soldiers were firing as quickly as they could, but with little effect. They racked and fired into the crowd, quickly reloading as they expended every round. The rioters continued screaming and breaching the barriers, the shotguns seemingly worthless against them.
Robert quickly noticed why. They were firing crowd dispersal rounds and rubber bullets that bounced off the crowd or only temporarily slowed them. The lieutenant was expecting protestors, not a feral crowd of rioters. The mob started to push over the barriers. As the barricades tumbled, the mass of people flooded towards the gates. “Weapons free! Fire!” the now fully panicked lieutenant screamed.
Robert saw several of the Afghan soldiers drop their guns and turn to run; others just stood paralyzed by fear as the protestors breeched the barriers and swarmed over them. The M2 machine gun on the tower opened up into the crowd, knocking them down, but his angle was wrong. They were too close to the gates now, too close for him to stop them all. The rounds carved a path through the mob, but others continued to pour in and quickly filled the void as the gunner reloaded.
Robert and Bolder raised their rifles and fired almost point blank into the crazed mob. Robert thought his rifle wasn’t working as he fired round after round into the charging protestors with no effect. A frenzied man broke free of the swarm and ran directly at Robert. Ignoring direct hits to the chest, he grabbed Robert in a bear hug. Robert tried desperately to push off but it was impossible with the weight of the crowd guiding the man into him. Robert tripped and fell backwards with the man on top of him. He struggled against the weight of the man and the stampeding of feet pounding into him. He felt the man in his face, could feel his breath against his scalp. All he could hear was the pounding footsteps of the crowd and the frenzied screaming of the mob.
Robert violently struggled with the man, trying to push him off or roll him to the side. The man pressed in tight to Robert’s head and grabbed at his ear with his teeth. Robert screamed with pain and rage. He freed a hand and was able to draw his pistol, quickly pushing the barrel into the man’s abdomen and firing four quick shots. Robert could feel the sticky warmth of the man’s blood on his hands. The man bucked slightly, pausing only briefly before he continued to bite, gnawing deeper into Robert’s forehead and face. Robert contorted his body, finally freeing the length of his arm. He painfully raised the pistol to the man’s head and squeezed the trigger.
2.
Hairatan Customs Compound
Zero day plus thirty-two.
Brad sat on the roof of the warehouse looking out at the dark city. The fires had quit burning days ago; the blackness had
blanketed the city. There was still an occasional scream, and sometimes a gunshot, but for the most part the city had grown silent over the past few weeks. The compound-turned-refugee-camp was growing in size. They had almost two hundred residents now. Most of them had come in the early days of the outbreak: hungry, scared and looking for a home.
Junayd’s people would find them on their daily patrols, and if they were friendly, he brought them back to the compound. Brad didn’t know how many had been turned away, if any. It was a conversation he didn’t want to have. They left the questions of who to take in and who to turn away with the locals. Brad considered Junayd the mayor of this refuge; if anything, he thought of himself as the sheriff. The informal relationship had worked, and the camp was prospering, as well as any camp in a wasteland.
When Brad looked over the edge of the roof and into the compound, he could see his people moving about. ‘His people’, when did he start thinking of them as that? Brad looked out at the gates and walls and saw soldiers patrolling the fences, standing watch alongside Junayd’s men. The Afghan fighters didn’t have the same training and discipline as his soldiers. Even so, they had proven themselves to be trusted warriors over the past month. Many times the Afghans had impressed him; they were very dedicated and loyal to the families they protected.
Brad descended the ladder back into the warehouse, walking through the living area and out into the cool night air. He found a quiet spot, and sat in front of the building that overlooked the gates and his men on watch. He was struggling with the offer that the SEALs had presented to him in recent days. They had asked him to leave this place, to attempt to make it back to Bremmel and beyond, back to society. It was becoming apparent that nobody was going to rescue them. Were they really forgotten?
Junayd’s scouts had made several runs into some of the neighboring villages, but never returned with good news. They had once braved the bridge and attempted to visit the north. They found large packs of roaming primals. After several dangerous encounters, they wisely determined the risk was too great. The bridge was now completely barricaded; nothing would be able to pass it without a bulldozer.
Sometimes they would see the packs standing on the far side of the river. They probed and hunted for a way to cross. So far, the swiftly moving water had stopped them. Still, Brad worried what would happen when winter came. Would the primals freeze like the river? Or would they walk across the frozen waters?
Initially they had hoped the disease would run its course and the primals would succumb to it. That day never came. Even thirty days later, the numbers were just as great as before, and in fact were growing. It was true that they saw less of them during the daylight. Primals didn’t like the heat.
On a cool, overcast day the killers were out in force. But when the sun was bright, you would only encounter them indoors, or occasionally in a shadow. At night they were the most dangerous. Primals would come out of their hiding places and hunt freely, roaming the streets and polluting the night air with their moans.
The damn moaning! It reminded Brad of the howling wolves and coyotes from his home in northern Michigan. The thought of home made him smile; it was a place far different from this. I wonder if I’ll ever see the green forest again? he thought to himself. Quickly he put the idea away; it was dangerous to get distracted on the job. He shook his head, smiling again. Am I even on the job anymore?
The last one they’d killed was emaciated; its eyes were glazed over and the skin had pulled tight over its bones. Junayd’s lead scout, Hasan, had found it tangled in the wire way out past the main fences on one of his patrols. The thing was obviously malnourished and beaten, but it still fought with the strength of five men. Hasan said even after he had removed its head, the primal’s eyes had looked at him with hatred and rage until they went dark.
Hasan had proven to be a good hunter. Every day he took groups out to scout and salvage items from the city. Brad didn’t know much about the man; he had been mostly silent and usually kept to himself. Even the other Afghans tended to keep their distance. Brad wondered what his story was. Junayd trusted him, and even Brad’s own soldiers would volunteer to patrol with Hasan on occasion.
Brad rose to his feet and made his way into the guardhouse they had converted into their barracks. It wasn’t the most ideal housing. It was drafty and dusty, and the cinder block walls and concrete floors were less than inviting. His men had done their best to make it cozy with items from the rail yard and things the soldiers had scavenged out on the daily patrols. His bunk was in a corner tucked back in the rear of the guardhouse. His area would be considered sparse at best. Brad had always been a professional soldier and had never taken the time to collect many things, but now there was even less. Next to his bunk he kept his personal possessions; nothing more than a large pack, his armor, and a rifle. He didn’t own much now in this new life.
Brad sat on his bunk and looked around the room. Some of the soldiers were still up, but it wasn’t like before in the barracks in Bremmel. There wasn’t any horseplay, no playing of cards; the men had to keep quiet for fear of luring in the primals. No one was reading books; the guardhouse was too dimly lit at night for that. Laptops and game systems were a thing of the past. They now survived in a quiet solitude. Brad lay back on his rack watching the ceiling, wondering how things might be different at home, his real home. Maybe it was time to leave.
3.
Brad woke to the stench of the cooking Afghan slop and his stomach turned. If there was one thing they had plenty of, it was the cans of mystery meat. They had found nearly ten full train cars of the stuff. Nobody enjoyed it, but at least they wouldn’t starve. He just couldn’t get used to the taste and the greasy coating it left in one’s mouth after eating it. Lately it was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The soldiers had handed over most of the real food to the families, but occasionally they would have their meals augmented with rice and beans collected in the daily scavenge runs.
Brad sat up in his bed and grabbed his shower kit. Standing and stretching, he moved out to the communal showers they had built behind his new barracks. Miraculously they still had running water. Henry, his young driver with aspirations of being an engineer, said the water came from a well. The pumps were powered by solar cells that were installed on the roof. Brad really didn’t care how all of it worked, as long as it did. He put the young soldier in charge of facilities, and he had done wonders in turning the place around. Henry’s main pride and joy had been the solar water heater: water heated by the sun. It had made him a bit of a hero around camp.
Brad found Sean, the SEAL team chief, on his way to the showers. Sean was heavily bearded now, as most of them were.
“You have an answer for me on that offer yet?” Sean asked Brad with a smile.
“I do. I think you’re right and I want in, but let me break it to Turner and the men first. I don’t know how they will react,” Brad answered.
“Fair enough Brad, but be quick about it, we plan to leave at first light tomorrow. We have a lot of preparations to make,” replied Sean.
Sean left him alone and Brad continued on to the showers. They weren’t much, just some piping shrouded with some heavy canvas. But it was enough, and he quickly found himself enjoying his solitude in the hot water. Even though they had all been warned to be brief in the showers, he took a couple of extra minutes today. He reluctantly exited the hot water, knowing it might be his last hot shower for a while. Brad gathered his things and returned to the barracks to ready himself for another long day.
After dressing in a clean uniform, Brad walked over to the soldiers’ fire pit behind the guardhouse. He found a place on the large crate converted into a table and took a seat. One of the Afghans who worked the soldiers’ kitchen nodded to him and brought him a steaming bowl of the slop, which Brad accepted with a forced smile. Turner, the unit’s platoon sergeant, took notice of Brad and placed his own bowl in a wash basin, then walked over and took a seat next to him. Turner took a small tobacco box out of h
is jacket pocket, and laid it across his lap.
“So I was talking to Brooks this morning; he told me you were considering leaving with them,” Turner said while fumbling with a scrap of paper and trying to roll a cigarette.
“Still messing with those cigarettes I see. You know you’ll be out soon, and withdrawal is going to kick your ass,” answered Brad.
“Nahh, I won’t run out, the Afghan boys have been bringing me tons of this stuff, and one of them found a rail car topped off with it. I’ll run out of paper before tobacco, and then I’ll just switch to a pipe.”
“Well, sounds like you have it all figured out then,” chuckled Brad.
“So seriously, you really leaving us or what?” asked Turner, licking the cigarette then sparking a match to light it.
“Word sure travel fast here, I guess some things never change.”
“So is that a yes then? The way you’re jumping around the subject I’m assuming that it is.” Turner took a long drag on his cigarette. “Hey man, seriously, don’t worry about me, I got your back whatever you decide. I’m more concerned about the men, and they rely on you.”
“I think it’s for the best, Turner. We can’t just sit here forever. I want to go see what’s left down south, maybe we can contact the States from there, you know. And technically I am still on the job. I’m sure if they knew we were here, the Army wouldn’t approve of us just getting cozy. It’s time for me to move on.” Brad rose to his feet. “I really do appreciate your support, Turner, I really do,” he said as he walked past the basin and tossed in his bowl.
