A New World: Conspiracy

by John O'Brien

“This place is as secure as anyplace else. I’m only staying because these people need hope more than they need firepower. Besides, Captain Leonard will get cranky if he doesn’t see your ugly mugs guarding his boat,” he remembers telling them.

  The last rays of the sun catch the top of the choppy ocean waves and the spray where the waves bash against the rocks farther offshore. Krandle wishes he could watch the last of the glorious sunset but knows it’s time to retreat – the night doesn’t belong to them anymore. It’s not the sanctuary of dark that they once coveted and used to hide their operations. Now it has been turned against them.

  Walking through the restaurant, he rechecks the trip wire and the placement of the claymore he set up earlier. He would have placed it closer to the kitchen but didn’t want to risk jarring the freezer door loose from the back blast. Earlier that day, he and Ortiz set another one up on the roof away from the freezer.

  He enters the tight quarters. Blanchard is kneeling by the four, checking the IV drips. The two men look nervous as the door swings shut and the girl remains close to one of them. The freezer door closes with a sharp click and they drape a chain around a thick C-clamps bolted securely to the door and adjoining wall. With the aid of a faint beam from a flashlight, they lock the chain in place.

  With the doors closed, the aromatic nature of the inside becomes more prevalent. It’s more than just body odor. The weaker ones sitting on the floor weren’t able to move much and have soiled themselves. Blanchard cleaned them up as best he could, and the team found additional clothing for them. As the two men observed the weaker ones being bathed, they turned away, feeling ashamed that they didn’t do this for the others.

  “We were concentrating on finding food and water,” the man named Jim said at the time and walked away.

  The men light a camp lantern, casting a dim light across the interior. They break into rations the team brought, and the girl, casting a smile at Krandle, opens the wrapper of an energy bar. Krandle remembers Walker’s warning about the night runner’s heightened sense of smell but lets the others eat.

  After all, it’s not like they can’t smell us already, Krandle thinks.

  “We haven’t had the chance to get acquainted earlier. I’m Vance,” he says, passing his canteen of water to the others.

  “I’m Charles,” says the man who has done most of the talking. “This is Jim and Maggie. Those over there are Carol, Miguel, Ritchie, and…shit, I can’t remember the other dude’s name.”

  “The one attending them is…” Krandle begins, but is interrupted by a faint shriek coming from outside.

  Charles and Jim tense and look toward the door, their bites of food forgotten. Maggie looks up with terrified eyes. The sound comes as if from far away, but the shelter of the locker mutes any noise. Other screams begin to fill the night. The night runners have emerged.

  Krandle tenses along with the others and turns toward the door, his M-4 lowered but ready. Blanchard comes up beside him and assumes the same stance. A crash from inside the café carries to them. The volume and number of shrieks rise. Krandle hears a whimper from behind and glances to see Maggie folded tightly against Charles. Charles, in return, has his arms wrapped around the girl, but his eyes are wide with fear. Krandle is sure those eyes have seen enough death to be terrified of those now prowling around outside. He himself is nervous remembering the run through the jungle with night runners hard on their heels. He turns back to the door.

  The ground shakes and a roaring blast penetrates the thick walls. The compression from being inside an enclosed space pounds at their eardrums. Through the rolling boom, Krandle hears Maggie shriek and one of the men scream. The lantern blinks out, but the light returns seconds later. The blast rolls away, leaving silence outside and all of them sticking a finger in their ears trying to clear them. All, that is, except Maggie who has crouched in fear and has her ears covered with her hands.

  Krandle snaps on his light to check on the door and is relieved when he sees it is still whole and tightly shut. He turns it back off to conserve his power.

  “What…what was that?” Charles asks.

  “A little present I left them,” Krandle answers.

  Blanchard goes to check on the patients and is relieved, as Krandle was with the door, to find the IVs still in place.

  Blanchard rejoins Krandle. A short time later, the shrieks resume, although they are more muted. Krandle motions upward with the barrel of his carbine, indicating that the night runners are on the roof above. In the dim light, Blanchard nods.

  Another thunderous blast shakes the interior, this one not as momentous as the last.

  “Another of your presents?” Charles asks as the booming noise fades away.

  “Yep.”

  “How many did you leave?” Jim asks.

  “That’s it,” Krandle answers.

  The silence lasts this time. After a while, Krandle notices the others fall asleep and details shifts for Blanchard and him to watch over the group. The night passes without further incident.

  In the morning, Krandle opens the door. The draft that pours in is a welcome relief from the stuffy and odorous interior. Charles, Jim, and Maggie startle awake at the sound of the door opening. They look about confused and fearful until they see Krandle standing, framed by the light pouring in.

  Shaking his head to clear it, Charles says, “Thanks…um, Vance. That’s the best sleep we’ve had since this whole thing began.”

  Krandle nods and exits to the kitchen. A lingering smell of gunpowder pervades the air, along with the iron scent of death. One of the swinging kitchen doors hangs loosely on its lower hinge. In the middle of the debris lies a shredded body of a night runner having been apparently blown through the hole in the ceiling from the blast on the roof. Krandle checks on the bloody remains. Multiple wounds have flayed the back of the night runner with the right side of its head completely missing. He had set the claymore on the roof to hit the night runners from behind. Looking upward, Krandle sees another body draped in the opening, its arms hanging down limply. Blood is pooled on the rubble below from where it dripped from the fingertips.

  He rips the kitchen door from its remaining hinge and enters the restaurant. Chairs and the remnants of tables are strewn throughout with a couple of the chairs having been tossed outside by the force of the blast. The whole interior is shredded – bits of wallpaper hang loosely, and the counter tops are ripped up in places. Scattered across the floor lie several night runners, some whole and others leaving body parts liberally dispersed throughout – all bloody and almost beyond recognition. Droplets and smears of blood coat the interior.

  Krandle steps outside and contacts the rest of his team, adding a few items to his previous list. While he waits for their arrival, he grabs a few dish towels from behind the destroyed counter and begins hauling bodies and parts of bodies out through the café entrance, the doors of which now lie in the parking lot. On his third trip in, he notices Charles, and then Jim, emerge from the kitchen to help. They deposit the bodies on the sidewalk a couple of stores away.

  The others eventually arrive, all shaking their heads as they look from the bodies to what’s left of the restaurant interior. During the day, the team scouts for transportation and supplies for the survivors. They eventually find a Hummer and a used four-wheel drive SUV from the local dealership. Locating an auto parts store they can enter, they take one of the batteries off the shelf. After draining the water from the tanks, they manage to get the vehicles started and charge the battery. They will have enough room for all of the people and allow the weakened ones room to lie down. The team also takes atlases from the parts store, giving the pertinent ones to the survivors and keeping the rest.

  “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing,” Franklin says with a shrug.

  With nothing much left to do, the team hangs in the parking lot, looking over the blue waters of the Pacific and exchanging lies…aka stories. Blanchard continues checking on his patients who seem to gat
her strength as the day progresses. It would be a peaceful outing if it weren’t for the underlying tension of knowing that night runners could be hidden within the empty houses facing them and that darkness would eventually close in.

  The night is a repeat of the previous one with the exception that Krandle had set the explosives outside and farther from the building. Another blast like the one the preceding night would bring the restaurant down on them. Although the freezer would most likely hold up, there is a chance the door could become blocked.

  The days and nights pass. After the second night of explosions, the night runners leave the small group alone. Krandle doesn’t know if it’s because the last of the ones in the area were taken out or if they decided the effort wasn’t worth it. The four who were weaker grow stronger each day until they are able to move around. They still appear wasted, but are able to walk by themselves for short distances. Their strength will improve over time with sustenance but the hobble to the front of the restaurant tires them.

  The third day arrives, and the team helps the four to the vehicles parked in front. Loaded with some supplies, Charles and Jim climb into the driver seats. Krandle verifies that they have the correct location marked on their atlas and, with many words of thanks, the small group of survivors drive off.

  Krandle feels a measure of satisfaction as he watches them turn down one of the streets and disappear from view. The entire team sees them off and their eyes linger on where the vehicles vanished. They then gather their gear and begin the walk back to the beach.

  Krandle knows that the team’s thoughts are on their own loved ones. As they make their way through town, he ponders this trip. Finding these last survivors means that there is still a faint hope of finding others…and of finding their families…but their time to do so may be running out. However, there is the group with Captain Walker and the hope that others have come together and formed a wall against the darkness.

  The team reaches the shore and, in silence, pushes the rubber craft into the gently rolling surf.

  Another Try

  Leonard waits patiently in the control room for Chief Krandle and his team to stow their gear in the deck locker. Waiting patiently is a matter of perspective. Having his boat exposed above the security of the depths has him on edge. Loitering in the area for three days added to that edge. Those three days had him surfacing several times and he felt his blood pressure elevate each and every time. Even though the evidence shows that there may not be anyone or anything that can threaten him, old habits die hard. Right now, the sub and each other are the only things they have, and he is hesitant to put either in danger.

  He knows that what they were doing is right, that it is their duty to see to the survivors, but it is also his duty to look after the crew…and that includes the one thing that can keep them alive in this new world – the Santa Fe. The sub is their lifeline, and with it, they have a better chance at surviving. One thing weighing on Leonard’s mind is that the sub won’t last. It takes a lot to keep the old nuke attack boat going; it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have to put ashore for good. That time, he hopes, is a long ways off. They’ll be able to use the depot in San Diego for parts and, if that fails, there is a depot at Bangor.

  The thought stays in his mind that he’ll have to find a location that’s best for them. At the moment, the best place they’ve come across is with Captain Walker and his group, but that’s only if they don’t find anything better. There is the danger that they’ll break down at an inopportune time and become stranded. If that happens, the choice will be taken away from them. The worst possibility is that they’ll become stranded in the middle of the ocean should he endeavor beyond the western shores and strike for Hawaii or Guam. The sub has taken them wherever they desired on patrol without difficulty, but they haven’t undergone their usual in-port repairs after their last cruise. He knows the chance he’d be taking.

  For now, though, they’ll continue to take observations on the way to San Diego. That’s their base, where their families are, and their best bet to find anyone still in charge. Deep down, he knows they may be the only ones left. There would have been communications if any part of the military still operated. Captain Walker and his group would have received some message and become a part of the rebuilding.

  Perhaps that’s all we’re left with…all that remains to rebuild. Small groups carving out a niche for themselves in an otherwise desolate land, Leonard thinks while waiting on the all clear. It could be that’s what we have to rebuild from.

  The all clear finally comes, and the watch descends. Leonard orders the boat to submerge. The sleek black lethal m an-of-war sinks below the cresting swells of the Pacific and turns toward deeper waters. Feeling more comfortable, Leonard sends a quick thought of good will towards those who are, at this very moment, making their way northward. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about their well-being when talking with the chief; he had his crew to think of and couldn’t risk an illness being brought aboard. They just don’t have the resources at their beck and call that they used to. He’s playing it by ear in this new situation, and if he is too cautious, then so be it.

  Checking with the comm officer, he finds they still can’t communicate with Captain Walker and his group. They dove one evening after giving a sit-rep and when they tried again in the morning, there wasn’t any reply. Each time they surface, they try to establish communication, but the airwaves remain empty. He should have left a message with the ones they helped, but he was anxious to get underway and the thought didn’t occur to him. If they come into contact with another group, he’ll rectify that and send them off with a note. Until then, observing the coastline and getting to San Diego is his priority. He’ll base further decisions on what he finds there. However, he has to get them there first. At their present speed, it will take about three-plus days. Sometime tomorrow, they should be pulling into the approaches to San Francisco.

  Northern California has the least populated areas of any shoreline. Even though Leonard has a fair picture of what the Western Seaboard presents with regards to survivors, he holds to their course and speed rather than race south. Survivors can be anywhere, and he wants to give the watch the best chance at locating any. He senses the impatience of the crew to get to their base, but feels that these lesser populated shores may actually be the most likely places to find anyone.

  They slowly pass the rocky shoreline without finding any evidence of life – of any kind. Leonard feels a slight relief at this as it would be hard to put Chief Krandle’s team ashore with the high bluffs and seas pounding against them.

  The day wears on until the sun casts a fiery glow against the cliffs, creating diffused colors of yellows and oranges in the spray as the waves strike the rock walls. It’s the eternal struggle of an irresistible force against an immovable object. Rainbows dance above the waves where the spray leaves a mist.

  The shadows in the crevices of the cliffs deepen, and the sky darkens as the sun gives a final farewell. In moments, with no lights on land to show the delineation of sea and shore, the features fade and go black as if a veil has been pulled over the land. Leonard hears the soft rustle of people moving as one shift relieves another. He rises.

  “I’ll be in my cabin. Alert me if anything happens,” he says, leaving the control room.

  The next day, the Santa Fe slides between the headland leading to Chimney Rock and the Farallon Islands, nearing the approaches to San Francisco. They enter the perpetual fog bank that keeps a solid hold on the straits. Leonard slows the boat to a crawl and surfaces.

  “Bring us in on radar…slow and steady. Let’s not hit anything out here in this pea soup,” he says.

  On top of the tower with two others of the watch, he feels the cold moisture gather on his exposed face. Droplets gather and run down his cheeks. He listens for the familiar fog horns in this area but hears nothing except the slap of waves against the hull. Periodically, his own fog horn blows low notes outward, rolling across the
gentle swells; they are absorbed by the thick veil of moisture. The bow is only a faint, wispy sight in front as they draw closer to the inlet.

  Radar picks up unmoving signatures of vessels floating at anchor ahead and they maneuver between and around the ships at rest. A few times during their approach, the mist clears to the extent that they can see the dark shapes of cargo vessels. The silhouettes slide past and are lost from sight in the fog.

  Slowly, the Santa Fe creeps into the inlet serving the large city. Using radar to guide them, they pass the headlands of the strait. Several other cargo ships pass slowly by like wraiths loitering on the edge of sight. Without thinning, the fog brightens, changing from a consistent light gray to white. Patches of yellow mist appear overhead.

  Without warning, the Santa Fe breaks into the clear. The fog hangs just behind like a sheer wall. Leonard orders a halt and orders the crew to keep the sub on station. Hills rise steeply on the left and parts of the city can be seen to the right. A breeze carries the tangy air associated with ports. That isn’t what captures the attention of Leonard however.

  The large red pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge rise high above them and make their vessel seem miniscule by comparison. What is mesmerizing though is the large span between the towers. The incredibly large center span angles downward on either side from each of the tall support structures. The middle of the span is lost beneath the cold waters of the bay. One of the two large guides holding the suspension lines still spans the towers with the wires hanging down, swinging gently in the light breeze. The other guide has broken in the middles and trails loosely from each side of the towers, the wires still attached to the broken span.

  Leonard edges the sub as close as he dares without running into debris or snagging loose lines. He wants to get a better look at the city and see if there is an indication that anyone still remains.

  The high rises of the downtown area slowly emerge into view from around the guarding heights that encircle the city and lead to the bridge. Sunlight glints off a myriad of windows and the shape of the well-known TransAmerica Pyramid rises above all of the rest, a testament to humankind’s engineering.