by John O'Brien
A New World:
Sanctuary
A Novel by John O’Brien
Copyright (c) 2012 John O’Brien
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without permission in writing from the author.
Cover art by: SM Reine
http://smreine.deviantart.com/
This book is dedicated to my uncle, William Nelson Park Jr. (Bill Park). Thanks for being there.
The New World series is a fictional work. While some of the locations in the series describe actual locations, this is intended only to lend an authentic theme. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also by John O’Brien
A New World Series
A NEW WORLD: CHAOS
A NEW WORLD: RETURN
A NEW WORLD: SANCTUARY
A NEW WORLD: TAKEN
Running Through the Jungle
“Are you still alive? I need help.”
Those words, emblazoned on the small screen of my phone, knock me for a loop. The tiny words are in stark contrast to their meaning. I feel rocked, not only because of whom the text is from, but because of what it means. I had been prepared that we would start right away on creating a place of haven once we landed. The words on the screen means another trip, in addition to everything else that needs to be done, is necessary. Physically and mentally exhausted from this last trip, I slump into the pilot seat as I don’t think I can stand up for another minute.
Mike, our rescued canine friend, is sitting by my side looking at the glowing screen as if he can read the text or help. “What do ya think, boy?” I ask looking at his big head almost at the same level as mine. At the sound of my voice, he turns and licks my face once. I guess that’s his idea of helping.
I glance at the still glowing screen in disbelief hoping the words will disappear; becoming just a hallucination. Nope. They are still there. The words above the text speak as loudly, if not more than, the text itself - ‘From: Kelly.’ That would be my second ex. Oh boy! As if I didn’t have enough going on. The additional stress that has suddenly built up inside with the arrival of the message is because there is so much to do in the immediate future. I have to check on Mom and bring her to safety and we have to find an immediate semblance of protection as we cannot just sit inside the aircraft every night. We must also find and gather supplies as our water levels can only sustain us for a couple more days. So much to do yet the message on the screen beckons.
“Jack, Robert, is that someone out there?” Michelle asks as we all sit in the cockpit exhausted from our trip half way across the world and back.
“Huh,” I answer looking up and out of the front cockpit window.
Dark shapes move rapidly on the edge of the ramp through the moon-lit night. My heart rate accelerates slightly but the sight is not unexpected. We made enough noise coming in and visitors at night are not uncommon based on our previous experiences. I slowly rise to head back and let Lynn and the others know that company is arriving. Just as I turn, my tired mind stops. It’s one of those feelings that something is not or was not quite right with what I quickly glimpsed. I sit back down and slide the NVG’s on bringing the ramp, night, and movement into more clarity.
“Shit!” I say surveying the scene in front.
“What?” Robert asks, sitting alertly up and sliding his own NVG’s down. “Holy crap!” He says as he takes in the scene outside.
“What is it?” Bri, Nic, and Michelle ask simultaneously.
“There are night runners chasing someone,” Robert says as I scramble out of my seat.
“Bri, bring the electrical system up on battery,” I say moving quickly by her and into the cargo compartment.
“Lynn! Get yourself, Alpha and Bravo Teams armed and ready with NVG’s on. There’s someone in trouble outside,” I shout throwing on my own gear and checking for ammo.
“What’s going on?” Lynn asks after seeing to her own gear and making sure the teams are ready.
“Come up and I’ll show you,” I respond.
In the cockpit, Robert is still looking out of the window through his NVG’s. The instruments are dimly lit confirming that the aircraft still has electrical power. I reach down and turn on the landing and taxi lights. The brilliant lights stab into the night and over the ramp catching the unfolding scene. Scores of night runners are running on the ramp across our path but some distance away. The ones closest throw their arms up in front of their eyes in an attempt to block the blinding glare from our lights. Ahead of them, streaking across the ramp in desperation, a single person is running for their life. The night runners are a short distance behind and the distance is closing quickly.
The person running looks at us as our lights spill into the night and changes direction towards us. The turn is more out of hope and desperation as the night runners will close the distance and be upon them before they can make it to the source of lights.
“Oh My God!” Lynn exclaims seeing the event first hand and darts back out of the cockpit.
“Robert, get the radios on the ground frequency,” I tell him as I leave on Lynn’s heels. Alpha and Bravo Teams stand ready in the compartment as I enter.
“There’s someone being chased by night runners outside,” I say upon entering.
“I have the landing lights on and I’ll have Robert turn them off once we’re in position. We’ll set up in a firing line facing the front of the aircraft. Alpha closest to the doors, Bravo to their left. NVG’s on once the lights go out. Watch your fire as the person is heading towards us as well. Let’s move,” I brief and open the crew door.
“Shouldn’t we have all of the teams out?” Lynn asks in my ear as the door lowers.
“No, we may have to return quickly and too many people outside will create a bottle neck at the door. Plus, we don’t have enough goggles.”
The door hits the ground and the teams exit. Alpha Team forms a line directly outside by the open door, kneeling on the pavement. Bravo runs behind them, forming up alongside to their left. I exit with Lynn directly behind; my helmet is still on giving me night vision capability. The perspective from the ground is a touch different than the view from the cockpit. From the height of cockpit, I could get an overall picture of the scene. Here on the ground, I only see the front line of night runners stretching across the ramp and heading our way. The brightness of the landing lights makes everything appear as if in black and white with a few toned-down colors from the clothing. The gray skin of the night runners seems to glow in the light being reflected back. In front of the line, one man is running for all he’s worth. Terror, fear, and determination are etched on his face. The look is one of knowing he has cast his lot on whatever is creating the bright light; that it will be his saving grace or his demise for, with his turning towards it, he gave the night runners an angle to cut him off.
“Robert, kill the lights,” I say into the radio.
The lights wink out a moment later leaving the ramp covered in darkness. Even the moon shining down from above cannot compensate for the loss of night vision the lights caused. Only the howls from the night runners and the sound of their feet on the pavement remain.
“Goggles on. Open fire,” I yell to the teams as I stand behind their kneeling forms.
The sound of goggles clicking into place is followed a second later by the first rounds being fired into the mass of night runners closing in. The tarmac and side of the HC-130 blink rapidly from the strobe effect as the bullets leave the muzzles and streak outward.
* * * * * *
Captain Greg Petersen sits in the darkened room reflecting on the sudden change in the world. The
sound of the night runners prowling the streets of the base reach his ears from time to time reminding him of the reality of the current world. Everyone he knew is gone. He glances at the Ranger tab on the shoulder of his ACU’s thinking how meaningless it and the other patches on his uniform are now. The world changes and so does the importance of things that were once meaningful.
His days are filled with scrounging for supplies and his nights with avoiding being found by the night runners. He switched houses the other night choosing to be on McChord rather than Fort Lewis; the choice coming because he feels that any hope of finding anyone or help arriving will come from the air, thus his desire to be closer to the airfield. That choice was vindicated by the sound of an aircraft passing overhead just a short time ago. That was a C-130, he thinks knowing that sound well and he is filled with hope. The sound of night runners on the street outside brings his mind back to the present. The noise of the aircraft has stirred them up in this area.
The barricades he placed across the doors and windows should slow them down some but he knows they will not keep them out if they make a determined effort to get him. His best choice is to remain silent and try to find out what the aircraft was about once the sun comes up. The dark room and house around mimics the darkness within him; the darkness of losing everyone and living day to day without hope. The darkness of thinking he might be the only one left; at least until hearing the roar of the aircraft arriving. He thinks if he can just live through the night, then the hope of rescue and deliverance will come with the daylight.
That hope is balanced with fear caused by the increased activity of the night runners outside. They have proven to be wily in finding him and he knows he has been lucky so far; a few very close calls with the sun coming to his rescue on a number of them. The coldest part of the night comes just before sunrise and that is how he feels inside. Hope looms just over the horizon yet seems so far. First, he has to endure through the coldest part before hope has a chance. The fear that accompanies hope being so close and that the door may shut before becoming reality.
The sudden thump against the front door startles him from of his dark musings. Oh God No! He thinks as he lunges for the M-16 lying on the floor next to him. Greg brings it to his shoulder and swings the barrel around to the front door, the red dot centering on the boarded entrance. A loud shriek sounds as a solid thump jars the door and frame. More shrieks call out from the street and surrounding yards. I’ve got to do something quick or they’ll be all over this place. He is at a loss though as to what that something should be. There is death outside and it will soon spill over to death inside.
He thinks one choice is to try for the airfield and the aircraft that flew over recently. The illusion of security the walls of the house provides keeps him kneeling in the room with his rifle pointed at the front door. If I leave out of the back now, they may be too focused on gaining entrance to notice, he thinks looking over his shoulder at the faint outline of the back door. On the other hand, if it does come down to a fight, the house might be easier to defend.
The jarring sound of breaking glass upstairs makes the decision for him. He is up and across the room to the back door before the tinkling of the glass ends. Pausing momentarily to listen for sounds of night runners out back, he opens the door to the night air. The coolness of the night brushes by his cheeks as he dashes out of the house and into the back yard. The moon outside provides a measure of light as he navigates quickly around a swing set and toys scattered in the grass; grass grown long by neglect.
The dull thumps against the house reach the back yard. Shrieks fill the night air as he rushes for the fence separating the individual housing units. A glance over his shoulders lets him know his exit hasn’t yet been discovered. Just prior to reaching the fence, Greg tosses his M-16 over it into the next yard and hears it land with a soft clatter. He takes a running leap at the fence, his fingers finding purchase on the top, and his boots pounding against the side. The noise from his boots hitting the fence sounds like the continuing thuds coming from the front of the house. He vaults over and into the back yard of the neighboring house. A change in the intensity and tone of the howls from the night runners tells him his escape has been discovered.
Coming to rest on his feet, Greg scans the immediate area looking for his weapon. The shadows of the night play havoc with locating his black rifle hidden in the grass as there is very little color variance in the glow of the moonshine. All objects are all in varying shades of gray. Fear takes hold as he knows the night runners are on his trail. Time is not on his side. Fear becomes panic. He wants the security of his M-16 but knows he needs to be on his way if he is to have any chance of making the tarmac. He also knows this attempt to find sanctuary is a long shot as those who landed earlier may not be there anymore. They may have moved to a different location, if they stayed on the ground at all.
There, a slight difference in the way the grass lies. He dashes over, retrieves his rifle, and is off across the yard. Running down the side of the housing unit, he enters the street to the sound of night runners behind him coming over the fence he vaulted moments ago. Identical housing units line the street on both sides, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. Vehicles of various types are parked in the shared driveways; a late model mustang in the driveway to his immediate left, mini-vans that transported families when the world was ‘normal’ in others, and a few later model pickups. He quickly recalls the vehicle buying frenzy that went on when members of his unit returned from Afghanistan with deployment cash to spend.
The sound of night runners vaulting the fence spurs him into action and he takes off down the street in the general direction of the aircraft ramp. He avoids running through the housing units themselves as he knows that the ones after him can scale the fences quicker than he can. His only hope is to reach the ramp ahead of the night runners; hoping also they remain behind him and don’t materialize ahead. If that happens, the chase is over.
The sound of his boots on the paved street is drowned out by the periodic shrieks of the night runners giving chase; drawing others into the area. That it will draw others, he knows from experience. That experience coming in the short time since the bottom dropped out from the world he knew. Keeping a quick but steady pace, he turns left at the first cross street knowing this is the way out of the housing area and into the base proper. He scouted the area during the day after his move knowing it is easy to get lost in the streets of housing areas; that there is usually only one street out. If he were to take random turns, he would eventually get lost and become trapped.
Rounding the corner, shrieks escalate letting him know that night runners have entered the street behind him. His feet respond to the increase in fear that fills his mind with those howls. He is close to a full block ahead of the pack but knows how fast this distance can be eaten up. His only hope to maintain this lead, and get to the ramp ahead of them, is to get a lead of more than a block and keep making turns at each street keeping a general direction towards the airfield. Weighing the need to increase the distance between them and the need to keep his wind with a steady pace, he knows that distance is the more immediate need. With this in mind, Greg streaks down the street and rounds the next corner.
He is thankful for the short street and makes the corner just ahead of the horde reaching the corner to his rear. His thought is that the night runners will slow momentarily without having witnessed which way he went. He knows they will be able to track him by scent and sound but doesn’t want to make it easier for them. He runs across the yards on this street knowing the grass will better hide the sound of his running. He imagines the mass behind him will hastily make for the intersection having lost a visual on him. The wish is that it will take some time to locate him again. For that reason, he darts around the vehicles in the driveways hoping that, with vehicles between him and the night runners, he will become less easy to spot.
The bright moon overhead momentarily casts his shadow on the hood of a sporty new Camaro
as Greg continues his run along the yards towards the exit from the housing area. Shrieks escalate in the night air behind as the night runners pick up his scent. He has gained a little distance. Not enough to make it all the way to the tarmac, but any distance gained is beneficial. He still has his M-16 but if it comes to having to use it to defend himself, he knows his time will be measured; measured by the number of rounds he has left.
The three clips he has remaining will not sustain him long should it come to that; especially in the dark without any night vision capability. He will be shooting at shadows until they get closer, in which case, they will overwhelm him within seconds. No, his best bet is to keep making for the airfield.
Greg exits the housing area. The cool of the night air chills his face and body as beads of sweat run down his forehead. His fatigue top forms dark circles under his pits and along his back. A road cuts across his path and beyond the road looms the shadows of the base golf course. He is still a mile from the base proper and approximately a mile and a half from the ramp. Much closer than if he were still at Fort Lewis. A mile and a half. Only a little less than twelve minutes, he thinks sprinting across the street and entering the dark shadows of the trees lining the fairway.
He keeps to the trees alongside the fairways using the same thought pattern as with his run along the yards; the trees will hide him better and force the night runners to chase by scent. Hunting and tracking by scent alone is far slower than by sight. He is not sure how well the night runners can see in the dark, but it is the only measure he has. Running in the fairway will definitely allow them to chase by sight and close the distance. The moon and clear night provide enough illumination so he can steer clear of the trees. Running headlong into a tree that suddenly decides to jump out in front of him would not rank among the top of the ‘ideal situation’ list.