by John O'Brien
He ordered a watch to be kept topside at all times with minimal noise. Even though most would toss and turn for the rest of the night, attempting to fathom what had happened, he ordered the crew to rest. They didn’t have enough men to properly man the stations full-time, only a skeleton crew, so he opted to leave most unmanned. Lawrence retired to his cabin, his mind filled with a thousand different scenarios.
* * * * * *
Lawrence grabbed hold of the ladder rung and forced himself up. His legs and arms felt like they were made of rubber and his eyes were filled with grit from a lack of restful sleep. All night long he had tossed and turned in his bunk, spending long moments staring at the stark ceiling with thoughts racing through his head. He wasn’t one to just let things hang out there and take life on its own terms. If something wasn’t resolved or there were too many variables, he worked it around until he was the one in control of the situation. Even during approaches to enemy fleets or shores, he worked the circumstances until they were in his favor. He was patient in finding solutions, but this situation was different. There were just too many unknowns and he wasn’t sure how to “work” the position.
He had watched the video numerous times, trying to fathom what was going on. The apparitions couldn’t be real, but there they were on the monitor, as real as could be. And it should have been impossible for bodies to go through solid walls, but there was undeniable proof. If they had been induced with some kind of drug or were part of an experiment, the effects should have worn off over time, but things remained the same. He could only conclude that what they were witnessing was indeed real. He’d rather it were an experiment, so everything would return to normal once it concluded. The realization that it wasn’t going to return to normal meant that he was going to have to deal with an entirely different world. If he could just figure out what had happened, then, in his mind, it would go a long way toward being better equipped to understand the world into which they had surfaced. However, any rational explanation eluded Lawrence’s every attempt to find it. He was used to thinking outside of the box, but the sides of said box would have to be greater than his rational mind could accept before they would include people who could go through walls and that seemed to be possessed.
Weary, he climbed out onto the topside bridge, the chilled air replacing the warmth within. Over the tops of the ships and trees, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten with the approach of a new dawn. The stars overhead slowly dimmed as the coming sunrise hid their light. Below, the river’s current created a small wake around the conning tower. The nearby anchored ships creaked and groaned at the end of their chains. Faint screams drifted across the last of the night’s air, a verification that things hadn’t changed overnight.
Lawrence ordered the boat to surface. River water was displaced as the black hull quietly rose from the depths. Knowing that water was a great carrier of sound, the men slowly emerged from hatchways and readied one of the emergency rafts. Tying it off on the deck, six men toting weapons and empty duffel bags climbed aboard, stowed paddles, and settled in.
The horizon lightened more, the first shades of yellow appearing. With the airfield to the west, the Washington would be nearly invisible through the sun shining in the eyes of anyone ashore. The anchor chain was slowly reeled in and stowed in its sealed compartment. The sun made its first appearance, the rotation of the earth noticeable as more and more of it was revealed.
He glassed the far shoreline. Several barges and tugs were tied up to a small docking facility near the airfield. Nothing was moving within his line of sight. Raising the periscope to its maximum extension, the control room reported that they didn’t see anything prowling either.
Lawrence gave the order to get underway, and the sub surged ahead, pushing through the current. On the opposite side of the channel and upstream, he ordered the raft untied, and soon thereafter, the hull disappeared under the river. The men in the raft paddled as quietly as they could toward the shore and dock, the current carrying them downstream. The Washington was maneuvered back into the center of the channel and continued upstream where they’d park and blast away with the foghorn.
* * * * * *
Grieves kept an eye on the far shore as the men crouched low against the sides of the raft. Through binoculars, he looked for any movement along the dock, within the expansive parking lot, and between the buildings. So far, he hadn’t seen anything, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone there. The nervous anxiety he felt made him a little lightheaded. He knew he had nerves and would have been given his own sub with his upcoming promotion, but this was entirely something else. Even though he was familiar with guns, he felt completely out of his realm, having to go ashore into a great unknown.
The men with the paddles stroked vigorously, but as quietly as possible. The current was carrying them south as they battled against it sweeping them past their targeted landing zone. A loud, deep sound washed down the river and across the shores. Grieves turned to look at the low profile of the sub upriver, the sunlight seemingly absorbed by the black anechoic surface of the Washington. It sat like a black hole in the midst of the dawn’s light spreading across the terrain.
Turning back to the front, he saw a streak of movement from within the parking lot. It was there and then gone, vanishing behind one of the structures along the edge of the lot. Several screams rose from just ahead, pulling Grieves’s nerves taut. The ones not paddling brought their M-4s to bear on the shoreline with the clack of metal sling mounts. At a second sounding of the foghorn, its bass voice echoing across the landscape, the shrieks again rose and then began to fade.
Grieves urged the men to paddle faster. It seemed for every stroke forward, they were carried two downstream. Closer to the shore and once they were out of the main channel, the current eased its grip. Riding the small waves breaking just next to a thin strip of beach near the concrete dock, the raft slid onto the sand with a hiss. With a flurry of noise, a flock of birds suddenly took wing from trees lining the beach. Grieves’s breath caught in his throat and his bowels felt weak. The birds flew off, leaving his heart wildly beating.
“Okay, I’ll be all right if that doesn’t happen again,” one of the men quietly muttered.
“I think today may be laundry day for me when we return,” another stated.
Four of the men took position near a washed-up rusted hulk of a barge that was filled with sand while Grieves and another hauled the raft further up the beach and tied it off next to a fence stretching just in front of the tree line. Blasts from the foghorn periodically rolled across them, the bass so low that the men could feel the vibrations deep inside their bodies.
Grieves and the men huddled next to the green chain-link fence, listening for a return of the shrieks or the pounding of feet approaching their position. Aside from the occasional blast of sound, there was only the soft rush of a breeze through the trees and the hush of small waves rolling in on the beach.
He looked along the line of men, carbines gripped tightly in their hands and nearly empty duffels strapped to their backs. With a nod from him, one of the men handed his weapon to another and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters. The sailor clipped one link, Grieves and the rest of the men shrinking a little into themselves at the sharp snap. The man paused to see if the sound drew any attention before going on to the next link.
Before long, a portal big enough for them to squeeze through was cut. One by one, each peeled back the wire and slipped through. Past the single line of trees, a manicured lawn dotted with trees led into a smaller parking lot adjacent to a small house serving as an administration building. Grieves had a pretty good view into the larger lot and the buildings. In a dirt lot past the parking lot, three huge propellers lay on the ground, along with concrete blocks used for pilings and spools of thick wire cabling. The only movement in the early morning light was the sway of trees from gentle breezes blowing through the area.
“Okay, the road leading to the airfield is the one exiting the lot on t
he left. We’ll head out with two in front, two in the middle, and two to the rear. Keep in mind where we all are so we don’t end up shooting each other. And keep your itchy fingers off the triggers. I know this may not be your first circus and that you’re experienced hunters, but we’re all on edge and we don’t need to draw attention to ourselves by shooting at a flock of birds,” Grieves stated. “If we get separated for whatever reason, we meet back at the raft.”
Without another word, the men rose and headed across the lot, their steps slow and measured. Eyes darted into every shadow, every nook and cranny. Grieves was right in that they were experienced hunters, but they weren’t exactly on a hunting expedition this time. They were the prey and would have to use concealment to hide from the actual hunters. Yes, they had the capability to fight back, but none of them had ever been in combat quite like this. Nerves strummed tightly with each step taken.
Past the parking lot and onto the road, dense thickets of trees closed in. The smell of stagnant water was strong. Slowly, they crept along the road, expecting those apparitions to suddenly materialize. As they turned off the pavement onto a dirt and gravel road, the trees closed in even more, their shadows darkening the roadway. The crunch of gravel under their boots seemed inordinately loud, the sound bouncing off the solid line of tree trunks. A few small birds flittered through the branches, and insects danced in the angled rays of sunshine that made its way through the boughs.
Images from the video occasionally flickered through Grieves’s mind, his nerves so tight that his breathing felt constricted and his fingers ached from the grip on his carbine. A couple of additional turns and the land opened up. Grieves and the men crouched by the last stand of trees, a green lawn stretching out in front. Several steel pylons were placed at intervals across the swath, each housing approach lighting that led to a single runway. Marshlands and thick mud banks lined each side, slow moving streams snaking their way through. Nearby, a large stagnant pond was covered in bright green algae, giving off the faint smell of rot.
Grieves glassed over what he could see of the airfield, but a great majority of it was hidden behind buildings. The low mournful sound of the foghorn echoed across the landscape. Looking between the buildings as much as he could, Grieves searched for signs of anyone reacting to the sounds, but the airfield remained still.
“That’s a lot of open ground to cover,” one sailor mentioned.
“Sir. Which building are we supposed to go to?” another asked.
“I think that one on the left, the big one,” Grieves answered. “I think we should skirt along this tree line, cross over directly in front, and then cut a hole in the fence.’
“Sounds as good as any plan, sir.”
Cautiously, they crept along, attempting to keep themselves silhouetted against the tree line. They couldn’t venture into the trees, as they’d be stepping into the wetlands, and the muddy ground looked deep enough to sink into. They paused directly across from the large structure, which looked like a large hangar with admin offices surrounding it. Only the top of the tall hanger roof could be seen through a swath of intervening trees.
“Well?” a sailor asked.
“I guess we might as well go for it. I don’t hear or see anything. And, those trees should keep us somewhat concealed,” Grieves answered.
With a last look along the road passing just on the other side of fence, the men steadied their nerves and raced across the trimmed grass. The duffel bags clumped against their backs and the sling swivels clinked metallically. Their footfalls pounded rhythmically and their breaths sounded harsh. They reached the fence in a rush, sliding to their knees and panting. Each snap of the links made them cringe, but they were soon through and running across the road toward the trees on the other side.
“Through or around?” Grieves asked, nodding toward the trees and marshy ground beyond, then toward the road that led into the parking lot serving the building.
“Well, through gives us more cover,” one commented.
Grieves shrugged and stepped forward, his boots sinking into the soft soil. The stench of rotted vegetation drifted upward. He pulled his foot back with a sucking sound, nearly losing his shoe. Water seeped in and filled the imprint.
“So, I’m guessing that we go around, sir?”
“I think that will be the best choice after all,” Grieves responded.
Edging along the trees and bushes, they entered the roadway leading to the parking lot. Past the trees, the men leading suddenly went to their knees and brought their M-4s to bear. Grieves’s heart raced as he dropped to kneeling position as well. Expecting screams and for people to begin racing toward them, he was taken aback by the point men waving him forward.
As he drew closer, he saw what brought the men up. Near the building, two men in fatigues were bumping into the walls near one of the entrances. They walked forward and rebounded off the concrete, only to do it again. To the left, the area widened into the ramp space. Several Chinook helicopters were parked neatly in rows, their large rotors in the front and rear hung low. In the middle of the ramp near one the choppers, a man in a flight suit was sitting on the ramp, one of his arms between his knees and moving back and forth, the other pumping up and down at his side. Yet another man was walking into the back of a closed ramp door.
“What in the holy hell are they doing?” a sailor asked.
“I have no fucking idea. But, that one looks like he’s trying to fly and the others look like me trying to get back into the officers’ mess after a long night,” Grieves commented.
Taking the binoculars, he focused on the control tower in the middle of the airfield, visible above the rooftop of the hangar. The darkened glass reflected the early morning sun, but even through the glare, he was able to make out several forms moving erratically back and forth.
“There are a couple of them in the control tower, which means we can be seen. I’m not sure if they’re the mindless ones or the ghostly ones, but it seems like they’re the former by their movements. We’re partially hidden here and I suggest that we don’t go onto the ramps. Once we move toward the building, we’ll be hidden,” Grieves added.
“What about them?” the sailor asked, pointing toward the other visible ones.
Grieves zoomed in on each. In the magnified view, he wasn’t able to make out the opaque auras they had learned to be wary of.
“Do you think that it, whatever it is, only shows up at night?”
“No, I don’t think that’s the case,” Grieves replied, reminding them of their experience with the escorts. “But who in the hell knows what is going on.”
“They don’t look dangerous. If I were being honest, they look rather lost, like a bunch of toddlers in grown-up bodies,” one mentioned.
“So, do we go past them, shoot them, or what?” another inquired.
“Those are military personnel! We can’t just outright shoot them, right? I mean, that would be wrong,” the first responded.
Grieves took a long look around the area, searching for any of the shriekers with those hovering apparitions, but he only saw the ones behaving erratically. Seeing none, he picked up a rock.
“Be ready to fire and/or run,” he stated.
With the barrels already pointed at the figures, there was little movement as he stood and chucked the stone out onto the ramp. It hit and bounced across the paved surface with a clatter. None of the visible men so much as turned their heads toward the sound.
“Oookay,” Grieves said. “Let’s move closer.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir? If we move, we lose our cover,” one sailor questioned.
“We need food. If we don’t find any, we’re done for. And anywhere there’s food stored, there’s going to be people. I doubt it will get much easier than this. Just remember where the holes are in the fence, and be ready to run back to the raft,” Grieves replied.
Creeping forward, with his stomach in his throat, Grieves picked up another rock at the edge of the parking
lot and heaved it toward one of the men walking into the wall. It bounced and skipped past the man and into the wall. The man paused for a moment, then resumed the same actions.
“It’s like he’s not even home,” one mentioned. “Or aware.”
“Okay, let’s go. Four in front, two watching behind us. We’re going to use the vehicles for cover, then go for the front door,” Grieves said, pocketing another rock.
The foghorn sounded far away as it rolled through the area. It was a reminder that safety was far away and they were on their own without any way to communicate. Grieves felt the anxiety tighten his stomach, the acid burning like it was on fire.
Give me a sub and deep water any day. This land shit is for idiots, he thought, crouching next to the first vehicle.
Around the area, nothing had changed. He skirted around the car and headed to the next, all the while keeping the men near the doors and on the ramp in sight. He expected them to suddenly rise, catching something out of the corner of their eye, and then come charging and screaming toward them. They had firepower, but the sound of gunfire would certainly bring more running.
Near the last car, Grieves threw the pocketed stone. It hit the ground right next to the man. The stone slammed into the building wall on the first bounce. Other than another pause, the loud noise didn’t seem to bother the fatigue-clad man in the least.