by John O'Brien
The vast metropolis of Wichita appears off our nose, growing larger as we descend. We’re busy with setting up our arrival and can only spare the occasional glance outside. What I see though is much like the other cities we’ve passed over — nothing moving. The streets are definitely clearer here than those farther north with regards to being covered with dirt. Descending over downtown, a civilian airport sits at the southwestern side of the city off our right wing. McConnell AFB itself is off our nose and Robert sets us up to cross over at a right angle limiting our exposure.
The two long, concrete runways run north to south and we drone over them coming from the west. At the north end, to the east of the runways, large tanker aircraft stretch in two lines covering almost the entirety of the tarmac. I glimpse vehicles parked around the aircraft.
“Bring us around again,” I tell Robert. Greg is poised behind us looking down.
Robert circles and we come in from the southeast altering our flight path across the field. Coming over from differing points of the compass is just a good idea. It doesn’t give anyone on the ground with ill intentions a consistent angle with which to fire at. Of course, we are in a 130 so it’s kind of a moot point — we are slow and big. The one good thing about the aircraft is that the droning of the engines and turning props is at such a low pitch that it makes it difficult to tell exactly where it’s at — it seems to come from all directions at once.
I look closer around the aircraft on this second flyover. There are a lot of pickup trucks and other 4x4 type of vehicles parked near the aircraft. Interspersed among them are people. Several jump in some of the trucks and head off the ramp while the remainder continues to stare up at us.
“Circle us over the airfield. I want to get a closer look,” I say.
Robert glances over as I reach for a set of binoculars and he banks the aircraft. Now, in his defense, it’s a common, almost ingrained habit for a pilot to bank the aircraft in his or her direction. His turn to the left, however, does me no good whatsoever. I might as well be drawing cartoon characters. At least that would be a less wasteful use of time.
“Hmmm…this is odd. Whereas I should be seeing aircraft, vehicles, and people on the ground, I instead see fourteen satellites and a small planet with three moons,” I say, looking out of my window with the binoculars pointing at the sky above.
“What?” he queries, turning to glance at me as I look out of my window. “Oh shit. Sorry.”
He brings the aircraft around and banks in the other direction putting the airfield on my side of the aircraft. “There we go. Much better,” I say.
Below, I see a knot of armed people staring up at us shielding their eyes against the glare. Some have their weapons in hand while others still have theirs shouldered. On the ramp, near the tailgates of the pickups, several BBQ grills are sending small drafts of smoke slowly spiraling skyward. Near the large hangars at the edge of the ramp, three reefer semi-trucks are parked. The trucks that departed have pulled into a nearby parking lot. The fact that they aren’t aiming their weapons skyward is remotely encouraging. The trucks that left appear to be a reactionary force should they be needed. However, my trust meter hasn’t spiked into the green level of the comfort zone as of yet.
“Bring us down the runway and rock our wings. Then circle so we can see their reaction,” I say.
I try radioing the people on the ground to no avail. Robert flies us out and aligns us with the runway, bringing us down the length of the larger runway. He rocks our wings down the entire length and then begins another circle. I look at the people on the ground, some dressed in regular clothing while others have fatigues. Several of them are waving their arms over their heads in a crossing fashion.
Ugh, I think, looking down.
Here’s the confusing part about rescue signals. Most people think getting the attention of a rescue helicopter or aircraft is achieved by waving their arms over their head. That signal actually means that it’s unsafe and dangerous to land. The correct signal is to move the arms up and down at the side, and then once you have their attention, form a “Y” with your arms over your head. Several people have been left stranded because of this misinterpretation. Here, I have no idea what is truly meant, however, judging by the fact that they are in the midst of barbecuing, I’m guessing they don’t mean it’s unsafe to land — unless their cooking is truly horrible.
“So what was their response?” Robert asks, continuing to circle.
“They waved their arms over their head,” I answer.
“Isn’t that the wave off signal?” he asks, confused.
“Yep.”
“What do you want to do?” Greg asks from over my shoulder.
“Find a white sand beach, crawl into a hammock, and sip drinks with umbrellas in them,” I reply.
“Dreamland fades and Jack finds himself in an aircraft flying over an inhabited runway following an apocalypse with Greg asking, ‘what do you want to do?’”
“You are the biggest buzzkill ever. I want to take a lower pass to get a closer look at the runway in case they’re serious about it being unsafe to land. If it’s okay, then we’ll land to the north but stop short of mid-field. Have the Stryker ready to offload once we stop. We’ll take your team, Greg, and see what these folks have to say. I didn’t see any heavy arms. Robert, leave the engines running in any case. If we have to, we’ll fall back to the aircraft and jump inside leaving the Stryker here. Robert, Bri, have the bird ready to get airborne in a hurry,” I say.
The runway looks clear of obstructions and debris as we zoom low down the runway. The people off to the side continue to look at us but from behind the cover of their vehicles. I’m sure our behavior isn’t causing them to have huge levels of comfort either. I have Robert give a final wing rock at the northern end and we climb to set up for landing.
He sets us down close to the threshold and brings the aircraft to a rapid halt. The Stryker is untied and offloaded as the ramp is brought down. I head out with Greg and his team to the north along the taxiway until we enter the edge of the ramp. I disembark and stand near the front watching the people through a set of binoculars waiting for their reaction.
It’s slow in coming, but several of them eventually pile into one of the pickups once it’s clear we aren’t proceeding any closer. I glimpse the pickup trucks that left earlier as they move down one of the streets near the airfield, moving behind us. I radio the observation to everyone.
The breeze brings a waft of the grilling food which makes my mouth water. It’s been a few days since I’ve had anything remotely close, having lived mostly off the canned rations and MREs which we heated on the small stove in the 130. The pickup drives our way, skirting the edge of the ramp near the hangars. It appears they want to stay close to an exit in case we open fire. I can’t say that I blame them. It doesn’t look like they’ve had much trouble with bandits in the area as they’ve left a lot of their gear outside. The grills, however, would draw every night runner within the state.
The white Dodge Ram pulls up to within fifty feet. Four men in camouflaged gear exit with three of them taking station behind the bed. I’m sure that’s only a feel good measure as they can see the .50 cal turret behind me. The fourth walks to the front as I’ve done. All of the men have their weapons ready but not in a threatening posture. My comfort meter climbs a notch but hangs there as I know there are several trucks somewhere behind me.
“Greg, keep a watch for the other trucks. I’m going forward,” I say into the radio.
“Gotcha covered,” he responds.
I shoulder my M-4 and walk toward the man. He doesn’t move his weapon to his shoulder nor does he put it away. The aroma of body odor wafts to my nostrils as I near. Of course, that may be mine catching up with me.
Reaching the man, I notice the subdued rank of a first lieutenant on his collar. I make out a varied number of stripes on the sleeves of the men standing on the other side of the truck.
“Lieutenant,” I say, extend
ing my hand.
“Sir,” he replies.
“Let’s just make that Jack. Jack Walker,” I say.
“Tim…Tim Harkins.”
“Can we come to the agreement that we aren’t going to shoot at each other? At least for now. However, you may want to once you get a whiff of the rest of us,” I ask.
“I think we can agree on that,” he comments.
“Great. You can pull your men in the trucks back and I’ll have the 130 taxi up.”
“You saw that, eh? Sorry. You can’t be too careful these days, Jack.”
“I’m with you on that. It’s been…an interesting experience to date,” I agree, calling Robert on the radio to bring the aircraft up and telling Greg all appears okay.
“Are you guys from a military unit?” Tim asks.
“Well, yes and no. We have a few soldiers from varying outfits but nothing official. Like that’s even a thing anymore. Most of the folks we have back home are civilian, though,” I answer, hearing the throaty roar of the 130 increase as Robert taxis along the runway.
“Same here. We have a few military and some civilians who either worked on base or wandered in. So, there’s nothing left, huh?”
“Not that I can tell. We’ve made several hops to different places and have met with differing results in every location, but nothing that remotely resembles a form of government control,” I reply.
“We’re just grilling up something to eat. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Now, that sounds like the best plan I’ve heard in a while. We don’t have much of anything to bring to the party, though,” I state.
“No worries. Your company and news will be good enough,” Tim says.
Robert parks the 130 at the far northern end and Greg brings the Stryker up. Lengthy introductions are made and the pickups that left, return. I notice a line of port-a-potties lining one of the hangar walls. The grills have been tied down to the ramp with concrete anchors and chain.
“The night creatures kept knocking them over every night,” Tim says, noticing my looking over the setup.
“So where do you hole up at night?” I ask.
“In the aircraft. We have bedding set up in them and pull ladders in with us when we button down at night. So far, they haven’t been able to get inside or up on the wings. It’s insulated, so their nightly screaming doesn’t bother us very much. Plus, we’ve grown accustomed to it so it’s not all that bad. They also haven’t managed to break into the reefer trailers so far, thank goodness. We scavenged a lot of frozen goods at the outset and stocked them,” he replies.
I give him a rundown of our situation and end by asking him how many he has here.
“We currently have twenty-three. We had more but have lost a few going into buildings for supplies. The military folks are from the base here and come from different units. The civilians drifted in from all over. We haven’t had anyone new in a while, but we keep an eye out when we make supply runs.”
“Any trouble with bandits?” I ask.
He pauses, looking a little confused before answering. “No. None so far.”
“Well, they’re around in places. We’ve had some run-ins with several groups.”
“We keep watch but haven’t had any problems so far.”
“So, what did you do, Tim?” I ask, noticing all of the men, and a couple of women intermingled, are all armed with M-16s or M-4s.
“I was a maintenance chief here. The others, they are a scattering from different base units,” he answers.
“Wait…you’re a mechanic?”
“Yes, sir. Why, something wrong with your bird?” he asks.
“No, but having a jet mechanic would certainly be helpful. Not that we have a lot of time before the fuel expires but handy nonetheless,” I respond.
“As would a pilot here.”
“No pilots left, eh?”
“Not that we’ve found,” he answers. “I can get the aircraft started to charge the batteries but that’s about the extent of my expertise. I’m afraid that any attempt to try and fly one of these beasts will only end in tears.”
The teams join us and we intermingle, sharing stories, food, and some serious talk with moments of laughter thrown in. I tell Tim and his group what our purpose is here. He offers to send some of his people down with us. I thank him but let him know that the Stryker is pretty crowded as it is. With our bellies full of hamburgers along with the trimmings, I tell him that he and his group are more than welcome to join us when we head off.
“That’s awfully kind of you, Jack. We’ll have to talk it over tonight and let you know if that’s okay.”
“Perfectly okay. We’ll head south for our search shortly and return before dark if we’re able,” I comment.
I would hole up for the rest of the day with Tim and his group — we all need the rest and visiting with them has raised our spirits — but I also know that the soldier is eager to find out about his family. I know I would be and so it would be selfish for us not to take the time we have to go look at the earliest opportunity…which is now.
We gather our gear and the teams load up — as we have done now seemingly hundreds of times. The smell of a locker room is beginning to override the diesel, oil, and electrical smells inside the Stryker. With Tim’s group nearby and having no trouble with marauders to date, I’m not all that concerned about transiting the outlying areas on our journey south. That doesn’t mean we won’t proceed slowly and scout the area ahead, it’s just that I feel a little more comfortable. That could be because my stomach is full of barbecued burgers. It was nice being able to relax some and shoot the shit.
The journey through the base is quick and we soon find ourselves traveling down the interstate. We drive past several housing areas which are mostly hidden behind fences and soon find ourselves out in the countryside. The change is abrupt — one minute passing wooden and concrete fences and the next, traveling next to hedgerow-lined fields. The scattered clouds above begin to cover a greater portion of the sky. Sunshine pokes through the breaks sending rays down to brighten patches of ground.
The trip is like most of the others we’ve encountered — farm houses spaced far apart and machinery lying idle in fields or in sheds but no sign of anyone around. We don’t pass a single other settlement on our way south. The only place that comes vaguely close is a rest stop situated between the north and south lanes. A green highway sign indicates that ‘Wellington’ is at the next exit. The soldier informs us that the town is a mile or so off the road. We exit the freeway onto the ramp and take a right toward the town.
The first indication of civilization, so to speak, is a campground off to one side of the road. The yellow KOA Campground sign hangs as a reminder of time past. I’m not sure what would hold anyone’s interest around here to make this a stop for campers, but the soldier assures me that it was full during the summer. I see the anticipation and fear in his eyes as we are about to enter his hometown. He has seen our success to date so I’m guessing it’s mostly fear. I knew that fear of the unknown with regards to your loved ones when Robert and Bri were taken. And of course, the ultimate loss of Nic.
Passing the campground which was aging even when people were actually inhabiting it, I spy a Walmart ahead with an adjacent McDonald’s in front next to the road. I have the soldier in the open turret with me in order to help guide us, making it rather cramped. The shopping center parking lot is mostly empty, but a couple of pickup trucks are parked near one of the entrance doors.
“Wait, sir. I recognize one of those trucks. It belongs to one of my buddies,” the solider says.
I ask the driver to pull into the Walmart and notify the rest of the teams of our plan to investigate. We slow and turn into the lot. As we do, I see one of the truck doors open and someone exits to dart inside the store.
“We have a runner who just disappeared into the store,” I tell the others.
The Stryker pulls in and parks in a position to give it a clear la
ne of fire to the vehicles and the store entrance. The ramp lowers with the soldier and me exiting using the armored vehicle as cover. As before, if we’re fired upon, we’ll return fire with the Stryker and leave. I have Gonzalez sitting at the rear of the vehicle and keeping a watch on our six. It may be the soldier’s friend or it could be someone who stole the truck. I’m not taking any chances.
“Do you know most of the people in town?” I ask, standing on the ramp at one corner of the Stryker with the soldier beside me.
“Not everyone but, yes, most of them, sir,” he answers.
“Give them a shout then.”
“Whoever is in there, this is Sam…Sam Kennewich,” the soldier yells.
“Sam…Sam, is that really you, man? It’s Jim,” a voice calls from inside the dark depths of the store.
“Get the fuck out here, you shit,” Sam calls good-naturedly, murmuring a “sorry, sir” to me.
“No worries. I’ve heard that word a time or two,” I reply.
A figure emerges tentatively from the Supercenter into the daylight. Five others exit behind him.
“Sir?” Sam asks whether it is okay if he goes to his friend.
“Go ahead.”
I have the teams exit and form a quick perimeter around the Stryker before I follow in Sam’s footsteps. I see him and whoever he was talking to shake hands and then hug. As I approach, the others behind Jim watch me with wariness. Sam, they know, but not me. However, I’m with someone they know so that puts us on a neutral ground.
As I draw near, I hear Sam ask, “So…what’s the story, you know—”
“Dude, it’s all good. Your parents are alive and with us,” Jim interrupts, knowing what Sam wants to know but is afraid to actually ask.
