by John O'Brien
Krandle and the others look for any sign of life, threatening or otherwise. No bird takes wing, nor is there a stray cat slinking through scattered piles of junk looking for a meal. It’s completely silent and still.
A ray of sunshine pokes through a break in the clouds, casting its light across several of the neglected lots. The beam doesn’t brighten the landscape but only makes it appear more forlorn. It reflects off the shattered back window of one of the vehicles, causing the members to blink and look away from the glare. The sunshine is short-lived as clouds cover the sun once again.
“I bet that’s what the watch saw last night…only from the moonlight instead,” Speer whispers.
Blanchard and Ortiz nod in agreement, remembering their last trek ashore. Franklin tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts one side of his mouth as if skeptical of this answer.
“That’s one possibility,” Miller says.
Krandle doesn’t know if the surprise of the screen door slamming against the side of the house earlier or hearing Miller speak is more of a shock. The others turn to stare at Miller, to which he merely shrugs, his words for the week having been uttered.
“Did that hurt?” Speer asks Miller before turning back to screen his sector.
“Who knows what they saw? That’s what we’re here to find out. We’re heading down this street and around the corner. We don’t have a map, so we’ll have to find our own way to the hill,” Krandle says.
“And I vote we don’t go find a map. I wasn’t very fond of the last time we decided we wanted one,” Speer mutters to himself, rising.
“Stow it, Speer,” Krandle says.
The team heads down the road, paying special attention to those places where the fences appear to have been recently bent inward. Silence follows along with them. They reach the point where the road curves to the right and heads in front of the dilapidated buildings. The windows of the buildings have all been broken out with grime covering the shards of glass remaining in the panes. Washed out signs hang above the establishments – City Appliances, Jim’s Auto Repair, Unique Treasures, and others too faint to read.
Some light reaches a short distance into the buildings revealing scattered messes within each of them. As the team passes the auto repair facility, a metallic sound rings from deep within the shadows. It sounds like a pipe hitting the hard ground and bouncing.
The team instantly goes into action. The members on the building side swing their carbines to bear on the sound while dropping to their knees. The others drop as well and focus on the surrounding area – all are poised to deliver concentrated fire and either run or engage. The ringing sound within fades and the deathly quiet returns.
“If there’s anyone inside, come out slowly. We mean no harm and are here to help,” Krandle calls, his cheek against the adjustable stock, aiming through his sight at the interior of the building.
Nothing moves. Tension holds its grip on this small piece of ground in this nameless little town. Reaching up, Krandle turns on the flashlight mounted on one of the side rails of his carbine. Light flares into the building, but its intensity is drastically reduced, having to pass through the daylight. He rises, and, with his finger caressing the trigger, walks slowly forward.
At one side of the broken window, he casts his light inside. The interior smells of mold and must. The carpet spread across the floor is deeply stained with grease and is ragged around the edges. In what appears to be a small waiting room, plastic chairs lie upended. A fake wood-paneled counter with a pale Formica top occupies half of the room, and a broken clock hangs crookedly on one of the walls, its time stopped at 1:13. From the looks of the place, that clock could have stopped in 1996, so Krandle doesn’t attribute much to it. Dirt-streaked papers are scattered across the dull space. To one side, a door leading into the garage stands partially open. Sending his light through the doorway, Krandle doesn’t see much of interest other than a stained concrete floor and the partial front tire of a vehicle.
“Anything?” Franklin whispers across the radio.
Krandle shakes his head as he continues to look into the building. Looking at the grit-covered sidewalk at his feet, there aren’t any tracks or other disturbances that would indicate something had been along this way recently. Snapping off his light, he backs from the window to his gathered team.
“Okay, let’s keep going. Miller, keep a sharp eye behind us.”
Each of them cast leery glances at the structure as they rise to proceed on their journey. Houses in the same condition as the run-down buildings lie across the road. Most are barely visible through the overgrown bushes and weeds. Several seem on the verge of collapse with one having its roof in a concave shape, ready to fall in on itself with the next strong gust of wind. More than a few have rope chains stretched across overgrown driveways. The lack of birds in the area is strange. This is the first time Krandle has been close to a shoreline and not witnessed gulls in the area – soaring aloft or on some perch looking for scraps of food.
“Everyone halt,” Krandle whispers into the mic.
He waves Franklin to his position. “Are you still carrying the portable chemical detector?”
“Yes,” Franklin answers, taking off his small pack and digging through it.
“This will take a few minutes,” Franklin says, removing an olive drab plastic unit.
“Oh shit,” Speer comments, seeing what Franklin has brought out.
“Easy now. We’d have already felt something if there was anything here. I just want to make sure,” Krandle says, briefly explaining his uneasiness with the lack of any life around, mentioning in particular the lack of gulls.
Minutes slowly tick by as the unit boots up and it begins to take samples from the air. Seconds are counted by the beads of sweat that form on all of them. Krandle and Franklin squat in the center of a small perimeter formed by the other four. Speer, Blanchard, Miller, and Ortiz focus their attention outward. More than once, they all glance at the building from where the noise came and sneak peeks toward Krandle, waiting for word. Like watching water come to a boil, Krandle and Franklin stare at the device.
At long last, the unit gives a beep and Franklin brings the display closer.
“All clear,” he says loudly enough for all to hear, but not so loud that his voice carries.
A collective sigh passes through the team – an almost physical release.
“Then why aren’t there any gulls?” Krandle mutters under his breath as Franklin stows the unit and makes ready.
With a wave of his hand, Krandle motions for Speer to continue.
The hill that is their goal is to their front left in the distance. They’ll have to progress through the town in order to reach it. Several blocks later, Speer turns left down a side street. The gusts at intervals bring the smell of the sea. The clouds overhead barely move and seem content to stay where they are.
They enter a part of town that is geared toward the tourist trade. Small shops line the road, most with their windows broken. Barely seen are signs denoting kites for sale or bikes to rent. Salt water taffy and other candy shops are prevalent along with the usual trinket and T-shirt shops. One shop advertises artwork and another, blown glass. Sand is piled against the buildings and in the small doorways. In places, the layers of sand and grit show pathways through them. There aren’t any tracks, but the covering is uneven.
Of course, it may not be made by anyone, Krandle thinks, stopping to examine them. It could be created by the wind swirling through the area.
The streets are mostly clear of vehicles and drifts pile high, in some places almost reaching halfway up the structures. Scraps of paper and other light debris lay scattered across the avenues they pass. Gusts of wind swirl through the streets of this seemingly abandoned town, picking up the loose fragments and sweeping them to a new resting place. Faintly, Krandle hears the harsh cries of gulls ahead.
A couple of blocks later, Speer radios that he’s spotted a body ahead. With caution, they approa
ch.
The body lies in a broken window, half in and half out of what used to be a café. The head and forearms are buried in a sand drift outside of the restaurant with the legs draped on the inside. Putting the men on watch, Krandle looks closer. The jeans are darkly stained. It takes him a moment to realize that the jeans are pressed flat, meaning the legs aren’t attached to the body. Grit covers the diner floor, but he eventually sees a few bones scattered within. In one place, a shin bone stripped clean of flesh lies with a tennis shoe still attached. Moving some of the sand away from the upper torso, he sees that the flesh has been ripped from the bones. Only a few pieces of desiccated flesh, sinew, and hair remain.
Speer calls with the sighting of another body farther up the street. The new body is in the same condition – dried out with most of the body torn apart. The farther into town the team proceeds, the more bodies they find. Some just inside the buildings, others in sand drifts, and yet more just lying in the street. Some of the bodies haven’t been mutilated. Just like in the other town they visited, Krandle guesses the ones still intact are night runners.
The team warily proceeds in the narrowed street between the shops. The sound of the gulls increases with each step they travel. It isn’t a cacophony of sound, but single, distinct cries. They pass bits of strewn clothing, some mere scraps poking out of sand. The whole team is silent and walks with trepidation, wondering what they’ll find farther in. Fingers stroke trigger guards with nervousness. They are tense and alert, ready to unleash fury in a given moment.
Pant legs and sleeves flap in the periodic flurries of wind winding through the streets. It stirs the layer of sand, creating new designs with each draft. Krandle again finds it hard to tell if the trails through the grit are from the passage of something or just the wind drawing patterns. He has Speer and Miller take closer looks but even they can’t tell.
Gone is the joking around. Solemn game faces are etched on the entire team. Thinned lips and watchful eyes denote the tension in each of them as they attempt to peer through the darkened veils into the depths of each shop. Krandle feels his heart hammering. It’s a feeling he became used to long ago and even welcomes. With it, he knows his senses are sharpened and reactions quicker. He fully expects to hear a noise from each store like the one they heard at the auto repair garage, but there is only the soft whish of wind and the occasional cry of a gull.
The area opens as they emerge into a plaza with a small fountain in the center, surrounded by a low concrete wall. The rest of the plaza is filled with tall grass swaying with each breath of wind. Krandle can imagine the finely manicured lawn with tourists taking their ease on its soft surface – the gentle murmur of the fountain in the background.
Adjoining the small park is a two-story concrete building with the words ‘City Hall’ etched across the top. Fluted concrete pillars line the front with wide steps leading to the entrance. Bodies litter the steps and fill the plaza – night runner and human alike – although the tall grass hides many of them. Several gulls hop among the bodies and pick at them, looking for remnants of flesh. Krandle notices that the birds leave the night runner bodies alone. One gull swoops down to chase another one. They squawk at one another for an instant and the one that was standing flies off. The winning gull settles in, picking at a body.
Looking around, Krandle envisions that there must have been quite a fight here. It carries the picture of the town taking a last stand. The small police force must have been housed in the city hall and tried to hold their ground. Those last moments must have been filled with horror. The confusion of the night with figures darting around the lawn and unable to tell friend from foe. At the end, just firing at everything that moved until they were overwhelmed.
Shops surround the park across the streets on three sides. Their dark, broken windows gaze onto the massacre without interest, merely taking it in. Krandle and the rest of the team watch the stores looking for movement, their eyes darting from one opening to the next. Gulls are perched on the eaves of the buildings looking on. There aren’t hundreds of them, nor do they present any feeling of dread like the Hitchcock movie Birds, but there are a few of them. They stare on, some with tilted heads, as if wondering if this intrusion of people is going to interfere with their food…or add to it.
“I’m not fond of being in the open like this,” Speer mutters.
“For once I have to agree with Speer,” Franklin says. “We’re at a huge disadvantage if someone should take issue with our being here.”
“These birds freak me out, man,” Ortiz states.
“I know. Set a perimeter and sit tight. We’ll move along shortly,” Krandle responds.
The unreal nature of this place makes Krandle want to see more. He feels that if he looks closer, it will all begin to make sense. He knows what happened to the world and has dealt with that aspect, but his senses haven’t adapted, and being in the center of it makes him want to see more. He has been thrown into this new world against his will; he feels the need to see more. He knows that the team comes first, but he feels that, if he can understand and come to better terms with the environments they come across, he’ll be able to lead them better.
The team sets a perimeter around the plaza and Krandle makes way through the tall grass toward the fountain. The stalks brush against his pants as he creates a trail through their midst, having to step over an occasional body lying on the ground. He doesn’t spy any other trails through the grass, which is a good sign, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything. It’s only means that nothing transits through the grass regularly. If there was only the occasional trespasser, the stalks wouldn’t be pressed flat for more than a day. They would stand upright with the coming of the next day.
Reaching the fountain, Krandle notices it is partially filled with sand. On a waist-high marble dais, a plaque is embedded at an angle on its top, dedicated to the nation’s war veterans.
That’s now a dedication to everyone left alive, Krandle thinks, staring at the carved writing. Those now living are all war veterans.
Brushing the sand away from the raised lettering, he wonders if there will be a similar plaque in the far future dedicated to those who survived this new era.
Krandle leaves the fountain and mounts the steps leading upward to the city hall building. Working his way around the withered bodies, he comes to an entrance door that stands open. Looking down, he sees the impression of a trail leading out. It’s the first time he’s seen a definite sign since arriving onshore.
Standing to one side of the opening, Krandle calls inside. His voice resonates in a large entry chamber and echoes down dark hallways. Moments later, a single shriek sounds out. The scream sends chills down his back and causes goose bumps to rise on his arms.
“Okay, we’re not going in there,” he mutters.
Like I was even thinking about it. Buildings are to be avoided, he thinks, remembering both the hotel and what happened to the sailors in the supply depot.
Negotiating the steps, he joins the rest of his team.
“You had to go and disturb them, huh?” Speer says. “Can we get out of here now? There’s no one left alive in this shit town.”
Krandle looks into the eyes of the others. There isn’t an expectation of his answer one way or the other, they only look back waiting for it.
“You know better than to ask that question, Speer. We have a job to do and we’re not leaving until we check out that hill,” Krandle answers.
“I know, Chief. This place just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”
“It’s pretty fucked up for sure. Let’s get this finished.”
Readjusting the small packs on their shoulders, the team rises and makes their way across the plaza, heading down one of the side streets toward the hill. The shops give way to another small neighborhood. Before long, they come to a waist-high chain link fence bordering one side of the street. Beyond the fence lies a small school.
A playground occupies most of the grounds where k
ids once enjoyed recesses. Swings oscillate slightly in the breeze and a merry-go-round slowly circles with a low squeal of metal grinding on metal.
The emptiness is more than just no one in the playground. It’s much more than that. There should be shrieks of gaiety from kids playing – running from one piece of equipment to another or playing tag. Franklin’s eyes linger on the empty playground. He has a daughter in San Diego that is the right age to be cavorting with her friends in a playground such as this.
Everyone eyes the empty slides, swings, and monkey bars. There is a prevalent loneliness, as if the equipment misses the kids who once played here. The ground misses the stomp of little feet and the air their cries of laughter. More than likely though, it’s the missing presence of those that should be here that fills the team member’s hearts and souls.
“Keep alert, everyone. Remember why we’re here,” Krandle whispers into his mic.
The trance breaks and they resume their cautious yet quick pace. Only Franklin’s eyes steal over to the playground periodically as the team passes by.
They find a road that begins a shallow ascent and before long, they are climbing into the hills beyond the central part of town. Houses on the hill are built farther apart with larger yards. As they scale upward, stunted trees grow more numerous. To the east, the small trees give way to firs farther up the hillside. Close to the top of the small hill, the wall Krandle spotted from afar comes into view. The team is close to their goal.
A wrought iron entrance gate built between tall brick walls bars the roadway. Several abandoned vehicles block the road in front of the gate and behind them, on the far side of the gate, sits a shuttle bus. Drawing cautiously closer, it becomes clear that a large fire once burned fiercely. The bus is a gutted-out hulk and the vehicles in front are scorched from the tremendous heat that once visited this spot. The iron fence has been warped, and one of the gates itself lies against the roof of the nearest car. Carried on the breeze, there remains a faint smell of charred plastic and rubber.