A New World: Return

by John O'Brien

  “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but..” I continue on by am interrupted by another voice.

  “Where are we going to get the fuel and such for the generator and equipment? We won’t be able to scavenge a lot and it will eventually run out and soon.”

  “True but there’s plenty of fuel to be found. We tote a portable generator to hook up to the electrical systems at gas stations and such. We pull the fuel from places like that and then store it. Most of what we’ll need will be diesel and that doesn’t evaporate quickly,” I answer.

  “It actually sounds like a good plan to me,” yet another voice chimes in. I see who it is that is talking and asking questions but I don’t know their names as yet.

  “Yeah, me too. Sounds as good as any other,” someone else says.

  “Anyone else have any ideas on where to go or what to do?” I ask.

  “I suppose any one place is good as another considering and this one sounds good enough considering what we’ll be facing,” Bannerman says much to my surprise. Everyone else remains silent although I do see more heads nod in agreement.

  “Is everyone good with this?” I ask after giving it a few moments to soak in.

  “Hooah, sir,” one voice shouts out followed by others.

  I am about to make my usual sarcastic Army comment when the air is split by a shrill scream startling everyone; like an unexpected moment in a horror movie. The scream of terror and fear rises on the still air and echoes off the buildings. It is coming from within the base. The buildings and echoes make it difficult to determine just how far away it is or where it is coming from. Split seconds after the scream, there is the sound of guns being unslung and rounds being chambered from the team. Everyone rises to their feet and looks around for the danger.

  “Radios on! Red Team on me!” I call switching my radio on. “Lynn, get Black Team. You and I are the maneuver teams. Everyone else, in teams, take defensive positions away from the aircraft,” I call out.

  The scramble of feet on the pavement follows as soldiers establish a defensive line focusing on the buildings, waiting for something to emerge. I do not want a firefight to take place that endangers or has rounds hitting the aircraft.

  “Michelle, Bri, Nic, in the aircraft now!” I shout looking over at them.

  I move Red Team off to the right side of the defensive line and see Lynn take Black Team to the left. The echoes die away leaving us in the still of the bright morning once again. Robert is standing by my side; I look for any movement and see none.

  “Do you want me with you?” He asks.

  “No, I want you in the aircraft guarding Michelle, Nic, and Bri. You are their defense,” I respond. I see him trot off and run up the ramp, disappearing into the 130.

  “Lynn, you see anything?” I ask.

  “Nothing here Jack,” she responds.

  A gunshot rings out from within the base and is followed by another scream. Both echo throughout the area with the scream carrying that same fear-filled nature.

  “Lynn, Black Team with me,” I say into the radio. “We don’t really have time for this. But what else can we do. Everyone else maintain defensive lines.”

  “Roger that,” Lynn’s voice sounds in my ear piece.

  “Will do, sir,” the other team leaders say.

  “Robert, make sure the aircraft is refueled and topped off,” I say into the mic.

  “Okay, Dad.”

  Both Red and Black Team move across the ramp, weapons out and ready, the teams alert and with good spacing between each other, eyes looking outward for any signs of trouble or movement. We join up close to the buildings between which are roads leading further into the base. Lynn and I come together with the rest of our teams facing outward in a semi-circle.

  “It’s obviously coming from further in but I’m not sure if whatever is going on is moving or not. We have to be alert and ready. Urban rules here. I’ll take the right side of the street, you take the left. Eyes up and watching windows. Watch the corners and building entryways. Cover and maneuver, a half block at a time. No running as I don’t want sound to alert anyone. They must have heard the aircraft but I don’t want them to pinpoint our location,” I say whispering into her ear.

  “You got it,” she whispers back. We quickly brief our teams on maneuver and coverage before stepping from the ramp and out into the first street.

  Walking onto the first street that crosses in front of the building, I notice that the base here is a lot more open than I was expecting. The base seems composed more of open fields and parking lots than building-lined streets. This gives us a greater distance visibility, but of course that means we can be seen as well.

  “Disregard the urban rules scenario,” I say into the mic to Lynn. “We’ll go in a staggered formation with Red Team in the lead covering ahead and left. Black covers ahead and to the right.”

  “Roger that,” I hear Lynn say through the radio.

  We start down a street leading further into the base. Large parking lots spread out from the road to small buildings with large, grassy fields between them, brown from a summer without much water. All is still except for us moving down the sides of the two-lane road stretching out ahead of us. The climbing sun shines down; heating the pavement beneath our feet and making us feel warm beneath the tactical vests we donned on exiting the aircraft. I pat the full magazines in their respective pouches, seeking some assurance from them and remembering the stress and fear of running out just a day before. Was it really only that long ago? It feels like a distant memory, I think scanning the road ahead and the buildings to the side.

  Coming up on the first intersection, another two-lane road branches off to the right. Once again, the roads and areas are not reminiscent of apocalyptic scenes from the movies. Cars are not piled up on the road or in ditches. Bodies are not scattered about. Smoke is not billowing from every structure or vehicle. It is very much like an early Sunday morning. Very few cars or people to be seen. Well, in our case, no people. With the exception of the scream. Riding on the still air, I make out a murmur of a voice coming from ahead and to the left. Still seeming a distance away, but heard nonetheless.

  “We have voices ahead and right,” I whisper in the radio. “Unknown number.”

  “Copy that,” Lynn replies.

  “Let’s cut down this road to the left. Red Team switching to the right side,” I add.

  “Copy.”

  We cross the road as Black Team takes up position on our left and slightly behind. A small building, the standard military prefab type, blocks my view of anything further in to the right. It is a small building so I will be able to see around it shortly. We continue our cautious advance. Passing the building, a parking lot opens up beside it; lined with trees on the two farther sides. The voices, now distinguished as a distant shouting, can be heard coming from either in the trees or on the other side of them.

  “Lynn, on me,” I say.

  Black Team crosses to our position where we are kneeling in a line along the road, concentrating on the area to our front but without neglecting our sides and rear.

  “If I would hazard a guess, I would say that the voices are coming from the other side of those,” I whisper to Lynn and point to trees about 500 feet away. Oh for an ACOG scope, I think as I would love to be able to see a little better what lies in those trees.

  “Skirmish line across the lot and halt just inside the trees if we don’t encounter anything,” I say. “If we take fire, provide cover and we’ll leap frog quickly back behind that building.”

  “Got it,” she says with a nod.

  We spread out in a skirmish line and start across the lot, weapons at the ready and safeties off, ready to pour steel downrange with a moment’s notice. The only sound is the increasing volume of yelling to our front. I cannot make out the words but it is definitely human and, from the sound of it, there is a little tension going on or else, why would anyone be yelling. And, it is getting pretty easy to tell it is part of a conversation
. It will not be too long before we can figure out what is going on as we near the trees ahead. So far though, nothing has come out to greet us and I am thankful to this point that there are not angry bees buzzing about and striking us. Who knows what reaction someone would have seeing a line of armed personnel coming at them alert and ready? Most likely shoot first.

  We reach the trees safely and take up defensive positions within them. Upon entering, it becomes pretty apparent that this grouping of trees is not that wide. They do stretch away to our right some but we are not going to have cover for long. Just visible through the trees is a parking lot and the voices are now becoming faintly distinguishable; however, the trees prevent us from hearing and understanding the actual words. A small paved walkway makes its way through the trees from our left to right marking what, at another time, would have been a pleasurable walk under the trees.

  “Let’s move forward to get a better look but don’t leave the tree line. Set up just inside,” I say into the mic.

  “Roger.”

  We all stand and begin moving quietly and slowly forward in our skirmish line, still alert for anything around us. Crossing the walkway and reaching the other side, we settle into covered positions. Before us, a large parking lot leads to a brown, two-story building across from us. Only seven cars are parked in a row on the left side but we have a clear line of sight to the building. There, in the lot close to the building, eighteen men stand in a semi-circle before the main building door. It is from this group that the shouting is coming from. Standing by the door is what appears to be a woman with her arm wrapped around a child by her side, pressing him close to her in an obvious protective nature. She is holding her other arm out toward the men standing there, giving me the impression that she is holding a pistol although I cannot tell for sure from this distance.

  “Lady, drop the gun and we won’t hurt the child,” I hear one voice call out from the group of men.

  Well, that’s enough for me, I think noticing they didn’t include her in the offer of protection. Maybe I have watched too many movies but I have also witnessed this type of scene far too many times. Bosnia and the horrors there come to mind. I can remember the many times we would be up in the hills overlooking and observing towns being taken over and wiped out. Seeing genocide happen through a 20x scope. The ugliness that people can do to one another is amazing. Yes, evil does walk the world. And watching the poor women, well, I would rather not describe the atrocities there and shove those memories from my mind.

  If we had a clear shot, we would ask for clearance and were given it most of the time. The offender centered in the scope and the feel of a light trigger pull. The kick letting me know that another evil creature will shortly get to tell his story about why he has suddenly been delivered to his own personal hell. The scope centered once again to see the woman scramble off. Hopefully to live and forget the horror of what she has momentarily lived through. I would always hope they escaped and were not found moments later only to go through it again. Yes, my mind is tainted with that evil and thus I have heard enough to know what is going on with this current situation. I feel anger and a sickness rising but keep it under control.

  “Lynn, take Black Team back to the path and down to the right flank. Don’t expose yourself but get into position on the right. If we start trading steel, I don’t want the woman or kid to be in the line of fire,” I say without taking my eyes from the situation ahead of us.

  “Will do,” I hear her say.

  “Red Team will branch off to the left and get a flanking position there by the cars,” I add giving her our plans.

  “Roger,” she responds.

  Black Team passes behind us on their way to the path. We, Red Team, rise and begin to slowly move along the tree line to our left, keeping the situation in sight at all times but without exposing ourselves. I do not want some gumbah to turn around and see us. Our advantage lies in stealth at this point. They may be likely to shoot the woman and child first if they see a threat approaching. Something I would like to avoid. At the end of the parking lot, the tree line ends at another street running perpendicular to us. We turn right and start down the side of the parking lot towards the parked cars. Crouching and moving slowly so as to not attract any undue attention. The group seems pretty concentrated on the woman and child but it only takes one to turn and see a group of armed soldiers making their way towards them.

  “Stay away from me. I’ll shoot,” the woman yells out.

  “Lady, just put the gun away and the child can go free. You want your child safe don’t you?” A voice from the group calls out.

  “You killed my husband,” I hear her shout back.

  It is then that I notice the body lying face down on the short concrete path leading from the parking lot to the door. Its arms are stretched out over its head and blood is pooling below the head. The conversation between the woman and men continue in this fashion as we approach the row of parked cars. Reaching them unobserved, I motion for the team to take positions behind them but maintain clear lines of fire into the group of men. If a firefight develops, our fire should carry away from the woman, her child, and Black Team across from us.

  “We’re in position,” I hear Lynn say over the radio.

  I look across to the tree line across the lot. Not a soul to be seen. Damn, they’re good, I think trying to see any sign of a face, gun, or clothing.

  “You’re good,” I say back.

  “Of course we are. What do you think? That you’re the only one who can sneak,” she says back.

  “Thought I was but apparently not,” I shoot back. “Stand by. I’m going to initiate verbal contact shortly. Do not engage unless I do.”

  “Copy that Ranger Rob,” she replies. She’s enjoying this far too much.

  “Well look who came across a sense of humor in the woods. Did you find it or steal it from someone?” I say.

  “Must have taken yours because you’ve obviously lost it,” I hear her say through the radio.

  “Um, copy that,” I reply knowing when to say when. “You’re out of our firing line right?”

  “We’re good,” she answers.

  Peering over the trunk of the last car in line, I observe closer that the woman is in great distress. The hand that is indeed wielding a revolver is shaking, observable even at this distance. Her dark, straight hair hangs down to her shoulders like the flags and wind sock. Tears stream down her pale, fear-filled face but she also carries a look of determination. She is going to protect her child at all costs. The young boy, who looks to be about six, is clutching both of his arms around her waist, his eyes wide with fright and not knowing what to do. His dad is lying in a pool of blood on the concrete a short distance away from him and armed men are threatening his mom. Overwhelming fear and shock must be gripping his insides at his situation, regardless of what they must have gone through the past few days.

  The banter continues between the woman and the men. From their conversation, it becomes quite apparent that the men want the woman and that want is not for her own good. They are obviously a marauding band, taking what they want and feeling powerful doing so. Great! Now we’re going to throw marauding bands into the mix. Oh yay! Can it get any better? I think determining the best approach here. We can open fire and take them down before they know what happened or we can try and defuse the situation and gather more for our group. I really do not want them included considering how they are acting, but with there not being many of us left, more may be better. On the other hand, they may introduce more trouble than it is worth.

  I look on to see if any of them feel uncomfortable bullying the woman and the situation. They all appear to be comfortable with what they are doing with the exception of one younger man standing off to the side. His eyes dart around everywhere else but the situation in front of him, shifting his stance from side to side in apparent discomfort.

  “Drop your weapons and move on assholes,” I say aloud standing from behind the car and aiming my M-
4 into the central mass.

  Well, I guess that decision is made. Defuse and get them out of here. Bullets flying through the air introduce a random variable to the equation that I would rather not bring about. One of the variables is ricochets; their random changes in direction of flight after impact cannot be adequately accounted for. Bullets are no longer friendly once they leave the barrel.

  The startle amongst them is an amazing thing to see. I have never grown tired of watching people react to someone close by when they had no idea that someone was there. The shock is close to paralyzing for them. The trick is to keep them that way and not to let them recover; keep them off balance.

  “Drop them or die, your choice but make it quick or I’ll decide for you,” I say seeing the group turn their gaze to one man in the middle; seeking an answer as to what they should do.

  The one in question is a tall, lanky man in jeans and a blue t-shirt with a rip in the front. He’s sporting a red hat with a New England Patriot’s logo on the front; his longish, brown hair curling out from under it in a tangled mess. He has bully and coward written all over him judging from his cornering this family and exerting his control over them with seventeen others behind him. I have seen his type before. Seems strong with his buddies and superior numbers behind him, but take that away and he’ll cower and whimper in the corner. The uncertainty of what to do is written all over his pinched face, a face dominated by a rather large nose. He feels the need to be strong or lose the respect of the men with him, but his cowardice is coming to the surface. The quick change from dominating the scene to being faced with someone strong causes a conflict inside. He cannot yield nor can he bully. He is at a loss. A short time passes with his indecision.

  “Everyone hold your fire but be ready, I’m taking one out,” I say into the radio.

  I line my red dot up on the head of the apparent leader and flip my selector switch to semi. A small pull on the trigger and the M-4 jars slightly against my shoulder. The crack of the round firing and going supersonic, sending its deadly payload outward, startles the group further. The steel round connects with his head with a solid thunk, rocking his head backward and tossing the cap into the air. Blood sprays outward and to the rear, a brilliant pink mist lit by the sun. Bits of bone and clumps of brain matter add mass to the mist. His body stiffens and both the lever-action rifle he was carrying and his body falls straight to the ground, the rifle clattering on the pavement and his body hitting it with a fleshy thump.