Sanctuary anw-3

by John O'Brien

  Brian starts to rise as another shriek rises in the night, closer this time. “Sit the fuck down and shut up. You’re endangering us fuck-wit,” Lynn says with a sharp whisper, finally having had enough.

  Brian pauses in his movement. “What!? Are you going to shoot me?” He asks not lowering his voice one whit.

  “If I have to and if that’s what it takes,” Lynn says raising her M-4 a notch.

  I see, by the tightness around his eyes, that Robert is pretty upset as well. With Lynn, he raises his weapon a touch. Bri and Jessica are watching the exchange with wide eyes, although Bri has a more of a “this is interesting” expression on her face.

  “Brian, please, sit down. They know what they’re doing and I trust them,” Kelly says.

  Brian does indeed plant himself back on the floor but continues to glare. “How about lending one of your guns then?” He asks.

  “Have you been trained?” I ask in return.

  “I’ve shot a gun before,” he answers.

  “But I mean trained, as in any military type of experience?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Then, no. I don’t want the added risk of someone not knowing what they’re doing; maybe shooting in a moment of excitement and injuring one of us.”

  “You have your kids toting around weapons and I know they weren’t in the military,” Brian states.

  “They’ve had some training and I trust them,” I respond.

  A scream cuts sharply into the night intruding upon our “conversation.” Footsteps thump across the ceiling from the apartment above. The sound and vibration of the footsteps are accompanied by voices, too dim to make out the actual words but it’s apparent they are from people and sound like female voices.

  “Who’s that?” I ask quietly.

  “I think they’re the daughters from the couple upstairs,” Kelly answers.

  “Have you talked with them?” I ask further.

  “No,” she replies. Another loud shriek penetrates, sounding like it’s coming from the parking lot in front. This is followed by an additional one from the same area. The voices upstairs continue.

  “They better be quiet or they’re going to invite the night runners,” Lynn says.

  As if her words were the catalyst, a pounding of footsteps on the concrete stairs outside, seemingly heading upstairs, vibrates the apartment. Screams dominate the night and the first slamming of bodies into the apartment door upstairs causes the people there to scream as well. This only serves to agitate the night runners more.

  “Can we help them or do anything?” Jessica asks as we all look to the ceiling above. I glance to make sure the towels are securely barring any light emitting from our small bathroom enclave.

  “If we’d have known someone was up there, we could have brought them down with us but there’s nothing we can do now without endangering us all,” I answer.

  The assault on the upstairs door continues and then, with a crash and the sound of splintering wood, the door gives way. Loud shrieks and rapid footfalls race across the ceiling just a few feet over our heads.

  “Nooooo!” We hear from above.

  Cries resonate from above, filling our tiny space. A loud thump shakes the apartment and agonizing screams follow, rising above and mixing with the screeches from the night runners. I can almost make out the sound of flesh being bitten into and torn from the bodies but that is mostly coming from my imagination. The flame from the candles around us waver as if dancing in tune to the horrific scene being enacted above, making our shadows move across the walls in the same macabre beat.

  The screams stop and only a muted growling and snarling reach our ears. My finger caresses the trigger guard both from nervousness, with having the night runners so close, and a sick feeling inside hearing the horrible end to the people upstairs. With this scene fresh in my mind, I think there can’t be too many other survivors. Our one percent has most likely decreased to a marginal level.

  “What, in the fuck, was that?” Brian asks loudly.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me! I think and look at him incredulously with a touch of fear and panic washing through me. I can’t believe he just spoke that loudly – again! Especially after what we just witnessed. He just doesn’t get it! Several loud screeches come from above and footsteps thump rapidly across the ceiling.

  “You fucker!” Lynn sharply whispers and begins to stand.

  “Everyone in the closet now!” I whisper on the heels of her statement.

  We all rise with Lynn opening the bathroom door as I blow out the candles plunging the interior into darkness. Lynn steps out of the bathroom and stands in the hall ushering the others out of the door. I snap down my goggles and turn them on bringing on the familiar glow of night vision. The pattern of steps on the stairs outside mixes with the shuffle of our group in the hallway as we head to the back bedroom and the closet. Lynn heads back after the others pass by her. Robert, who has waited in the bathroom with me until everyone else has exited, pulls his goggles on as well and looks at me. I can’t read his expression due to the goggles.

  “We’ve been through worse,” I tell him guessing at his thoughts.

  “Yeah, but we don’t have an exit to retreat to this time,” he says.

  “True,” I say with a sigh, “but we’ll be fine. Keep my backside clear.”

  “I will, Dad,” he says and gives me a quick hug as best as he can while holding his M-4. I return the quick hug. He heads out the door and down the hall. Was that him thinking the worst is about to happen given what we heard above us just a few moments ago and wanting to get a last hug in? I think closing the bathroom door and heading down the hall. Or was it for reassurance?

  The first hard slam against the front door sounds, startling me even though I expected it. I stop and kneel in the hall close to the bedroom door with a direct line of sight with the front door. Turning my sight to the 1x setting, I look through and set the dot on the center of the door. I’m hoping the couch holds the door long enough for the night runners to grow tired and move on. I’m also hoping they can’t get in through the kitchen window as I only have a small view there. If they do get through, they can run around and get through the bathroom which will give me a very limited amount of time to react. The same goes for being able to scale the building on the outside and get into the far bedroom. I’m taking nothing for granted as to what the night runners can and cannot do as they have surprised me more times than I care to recall. There is no way of telling how many of them are gathered but judging from the shrieks and pounding at the door, there are more than a few.

  I look towards the closet but can only see the opening from this angle. I picture them all with their backs to the wall with dresses, shirts, and pants dangling about their heads.

  “I’m in the hall by the bedroom door,” I say pressing the mic button at my throat, wanting to let them know exactly where I am positioned. “Everyone okay?”

  “Copy that and we’re doing fine,” Lynn answers. “How does it look out there?”

  “So far so good,” I reply.

  I look back to the front keeping both eyes open and using a parallax view, - this allows a greater width and depth of view while seeing the aiming dot as well – I see the front door jar and shake with each successive thump against it. It is holding and I imagine the night runners are getting pretty sore shoulders but the couch is against the jamb rather than the door itself so there’s a little give with each thump.

  I hear the glass of the kitchen window breaking and see the couch wedging the bookcase shake but it too holds firm for the time being. I feel my heart pounding in my chest and have a trapped feeling. I always liked having a way out if things went awry but don’t see an option here. We can’t escape through the patio door as the drop, although livable, will take us out into the night with no protection. It’s also on the other side from where we parked the Humvee so that option offers nothing. Kind of fucked up where I parked on that one, I think.

 
I suddenly hear loud, heavy breathing through my earpiece. It sounds like Bri. She must have just turned on her radio and may have set her radio to VOX (voice-activated) which makes her mic activate and transmit with any sound. Or she may be accidentally holding the mic button down. It will hold up the frequency if we need to communicate so I rise to tell her.

  A particularly loud bang hammers the front door and I hear her take a deep, sharp breath in. “It’s okay, Bri. We’ll be fine,” I hear Robert say dimly coming through Bri’s mic. “That’s Dad out there and we’re here. It’ll all be okay.”

  “Bri, your mic’s on,” I whisper into the closet standing by the entrance. I hear some moving around inside and, with a click, the breathing in my ear stops.

  Another terrific thump sounds against the door as I settle back into position. The front door shakes even more. My breath quickens as I see it rock backwards with the next hit. There is a pattern of a shriek and then a slam. My hope that they would tire quickly is not coming to light. If they do manage to get the door down, at least they will have to funnel through one or two at a time. I pat the mags in my vest, comforting myself that they are there and available. Taking two out, I set them by my knee. I would have taped two together end-to-end for quicker reloads but that makes it difficult to carry in the pouches.

  A slam comes against the door for about the hundredth time and the jamb by the latch splinters. Oh fuck! I think seeing the jamb itself beginning to give way. That is the last thing I wanted to see and my thought quickly goes towards my kids and Lynn. I should never have come down. I quickly turn my radio to VOX as I may not be able to take the time to reach up and click the mic as my hands may be too busy. I want to stay in communication regardless of what happens. My adrenaline rate increases but a calm settles in.

  The jamb gives way but the door comes against the couch and it doesn’t open any further. It’s not even a door width open but the latch is no longer secure. The screeches outside intensify as if the night runners know they are almost inside. The interval between bangs against the door increases. The jamb where the hinges are screwed in begins to splinter as the latch did moments before. The trapped feeling intensifies. A part of my mind searches for an avenue of escape but realizes that none exist.

  “Very well motherfuckers! Bring it,” I whisper to myself, getting myself in the frame of mind needed, steeling myself for the inevitable.

  Another solid thud and the top hinge gives way. With the sound of wood cracking and a screech of metal being torn, the door caves inward, the top falling across the couch at an angle. The night runner shrieks, no longer muted by closed door, rises in volume as our little bit of sanctuary becomes open to the outside. I see movement through the small cracks the angled door leaves though not enough to get a shot through. The door is picked up, twisted, and pulled outside. Now we are fully exposed.

  “They’re in,” I call seeing the first night runners enter into the now open doorway.

  I rub my thumb over the selector switch to verify I am on auto and put my dot on the first to enter as it scrambles over the couch still sitting in front of the door. I opt for the auto selection in case any of my rounds miss or glance off, then there’s a chance they’ll hit and slow up any night runners that are behind. The entry way outside is congested with night runners waiting to get in. Pulling the trigger lightly, my carbine pushes against my shoulder as I send three rounds streaking outward.

  The hallway flashes with pulses of light and the muted coughs resonate loudly in the enclosed hall. My three steel core bullets meet up with their target in a tight pattern with speed and power hitting the night runner full in the face. The force of the rounds striking destroys the bone structure and knocks the lower jaw loose before ricocheting inside its cranium and exiting, taking the entire back of its head off. A massive, chunky mist sprays out from behind as it collapses face forward onto the couch. The cream-colored couch absorbs the blood trickling from the night runner, turning red where the night runner’s head comes to rest making the couch look like a tissue after being dabbed on an open cut.

  Two night runners jostle at the door before entering and climb over their fallen member. More shove from behind and the entire doorway is filled with pushing night runners. The multitude of screams outside tells me that many more are outside. The vast number is more than I anticipated, although I know I should quit anticipating anything with them. I switch my M-4 to semi as I worry about the ammo. Running low has happened too many times now – and once being too many.

  I center my dot on one coming over the body and couch and put just enough pressure on the trigger to break it. A flash in the hallway signals another bullet exiting the suppressor. The round speeds toward the night runner and hits it in its left cheek, entering the cavity of the mouth as if unobstructed. The back molars and side teeth splinter into tiny shards leaving just the stumps and roots attached to the gums. The round then angles upward slightly before slamming into the lower part of the skull and breaks apart with the largest part of the bullet exiting out just above the ear. The skin flaps open and splatters a coating of blood on the foyer wall. The night runner’s head is slammed against the same wall with a solid thud and slumps backward, coming to rest on its back along the back of the couch.

  Only registering the hit in the back of my mind, I switch to the second night runner scrambling over the couch and discharge another projectile. The shot hits the clavicle and angles upward into its throat. Blood splashes outward in all directions as major arteries and veins are hit and the night runner falls forward, its head hitting the tiled entryway with a solid smack. It lies still with it feet resting on the first night runner and blood quickly forms a large puddle on the floor.

  Night runners pour in behind these first three. I’m not going to be able to hold them back with mere single shots. I switch to auto once again and hope that my rounds last longer than the night runners. The roar from the host is deafening as the sound waves concentrate down the narrow hallway. I begin placing bursts into the crowd that is pushing their way inside, no longer worrying about killing shots. Bodies are piling up on the couch and by the kitchen entry, but their entry is coming faster than I can put them down. Like an incoming tide, they are slowly gaining ground. I faintly register the sound of my spent cartridges hitting the wall next to me. Each time I reload, they gain even more ground. The empty mags are accumulating at my knee like the night runners piling up on the couch and floor beyond.

  “How many of you fuckers are there?” I say under my breath.

  “Jack, are you okay?” Lynn asks. Kind of forgot I had set my radio to VOX.

  “Yeah. I think they’re fucking breeding out here,” I reply not interrupting my fire or diverting my attention.

  The night runners gain ground to the hallway entry. Seriously, how many are there? I think jamming another mag into the lower receiver. The time distortion, which comes on when it seemingly feels like it, is sorely missing here. I would so love for things to slow down but they seem to be speeding up instead. I notice a couple of night runners race behind the front line and off into the living room to the right. Uh oh. If they get into the bathroom and come out the door just scant few feet in front of me, I’m done for.

  The mass enters the hallway and are met by the steel propelled from my carbine. I reach for another mag and slam it home allowing them to gain a few additional feet. The stink of unwashed bodies and gunpowder rises to my nose. The glow of the night runner’s skin in my goggles and the shine from their night-vision-enhanced eyes is downright spooky. Even scarier is how many there are and how close they have gotten. A slam against the bathroom door just in front jars me. As if that were not a bad enough sign, shattering glass behind me catches my immediate and direct attention.

  I stand and take a step back into the bedroom without altering my fire. I hear two bursts of fire come from the closet. I glance to my side and see a night runner, that somehow climbed onto the patio, pitch back through the hanging blinds. The blinds part as
the night runner blows through them and they swing back together immediately as if wanting to keep the result secret; making the night runner appear as if it dove into a pool and disappeared beneath the surface. The only proof that anything happened at all is the blinds still swinging back and forth.

  “Thanks,” I say focusing back on the hall.

  “You’re welcome, Dad,” Roberts says.

  “No worries, Jack,” Lynn responds. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Getting a little sporty,” I reply.

  The glance only took a moment and looking back, the bathroom door bows and then explodes outward. I’m standing at the bedroom door and see multiple heads crowding the hallway but can’t ascertain how many. Some is all my mind registers. Night runners emerge from the bathroom and into the hallway, ahead of the line already there.

  “Oh hell no! You don’t get to do that,” I say out loud and squeeze a burst into the first one.

  It takes the burst in the side of its chest. Blood erupts from its mouth and nostrils and the rounds devastate its lungs and interior of its chest region. It pitches forward into the opposite wall face first and falls to the floor leaving a smear of blood trailing down the wall. The night runner behind trips over the fallen one’s legs as more rounds leave my barrel and rush toward it. The strobing flashes light up the hallway and the creatures, showing the surprise and pain registering on the stumbling night runner’s face as the fast-moving rounds connect. The power of the impacting bullets launches it backward into the ones trying to get closer. My bolt locks to the rear. Oh fuck! Not good!