by John O'Brien
“Thank you, sir. Well, I suppose we should get ready,” Krandle says and departs.
A splash catches Krandle across the face as the rubber craft races down the front of the wave and hits the trough before climbing the back of the next one. He wipes the water from his goggles and eyes the beach ahead as they crest a wave. Looking to the side along the bluff on top of which sits their destination, Krandle makes out a trail angling along its side.
The ridgeline above the trail has an overhang which should give them some protection. Krandle follows the trail down to the waterline as best he can. The trailhead appears to intersect a small beach. The waves on this strand don’t seem severe and the approach seems doable. It will put them much closer to their destination without having to transit a large distance through unknown neighborhoods. The one drawback is that their approach will be more readily seen if there is someone above. As it is, they can still be seen, but their destination won’t be as easily discerned.
Krandle gets Ortiz’ attention and points toward the strand to the right. With a quick movement, Ortiz alters their path and angles toward the location indicated.
A wave lifts them up and the raft grates upon gravelly shore. They exit and scan the area, concentrating on the lip of the bluff rising high above. A sandy trail leads up to the left and they quickly cross the small strand, hiding their craft part way up the trail against the wall.
The breeze ripples against their legs as the team begins angling up the path in single file, hugging the cliff wall. They carefully check corners before continuing up the next section. The path looks undisturbed, but Krandle knows the wind can quickly erase any tracks in the loose sand. The shore slowly recedes below them as they ascend.
The pathway eventually spills out on top, coming to an end on a small plateau adjacent to a road which proceeds next to the edge of the heights. Resplendent stucco-covered and red tile-roofed manses occupy large lots across the street, each complete with a requisite swimming pool. The water in each has mostly evaporated into stagnant puddles. The once pristinely landscaped yards with pruned bushes look like they have a bad case of morning hair.
The team crouches on the plateau and takes stock of their situation. They are almost two miles from the point where the watch saw the lights. According to the map, the road near them runs along the edge of the escarpment with the cliff on one side and houses on the other. The size of the lots on which the mighty houses sit gives them a fairly open sightline. The houses themselves don’t give Krandle too much worry as he can’t fathom anyone who has survived to this point venturing into them. It’s the yards themselves that give him pause. Their overgrown nature can conceal just about anything.
“Well, gentlemen, we’re a little over three klicks from our destination. What we see here is what we’ll see along the way. What do you think?” Krandle says as a gust stirs up and eddies in the sand near them.
“We’re here so we might as well enjoy the scenery,” Franklin says.
The others in turn shrug and Speer is surprisingly silent.
“Okay. Intervals, gentlemen. We’ll stay on the cliff side of the street. If we’re engaged in force, we’ll return fire and retreat down the bluff if possible. If not, we conduct a fighting retreat. The rally point will be the raft. If we become split, we wait at the raft provided we’re not under fire until two hours prior to sunset and then cast off with who we have. Secondary rally will be the start of the beach just north of this headland. Whoever casts off with the CRCC will rendezvous with the rest of the team there. One hour prior to sunset is the hard time to head to the Santa Fe. Questions?” Krandle briefs.
There aren’t any. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
The road winds as it follows the contours of the headland. The early morning sun stretches the team’s shadows long to the west, disappearing over the edge. A very faint roar from the surf rises up the steep surface of the bluff. Birds flitter through the trees next to the houses and an occasional squirrel chitters warnings from tall branches. The team catches a brief sight of a cat as it slinks around the corner of one of the houses. In all, if it weren’t for the circumstances, it would be a peaceful stroll under a clear fall sky.
The team passes block after block. Many of the picture windows that once afforded scenic views of the Pacific reflect the blue sky. Some of the houses have their windows broken out and doors ajar. Tension mounts as they draw nearer to the area where the flashes occurred. They pause more often to take in their surroundings, taste the environment, and test their inner feelings for something amiss.
During one of their pauses, a flurry of noise erupts from their left, coming from bushes set between two houses. The team immediately drops into a posture to deliver concentrated fire. Krandle quickly verifies that the team is covering all avenues and aims at the sound – his red dot centered on the small opening between the bushes.
Uneasy about their situation in the open, he is about to open up to recon by fire when he sees the head of a large dog poke out. The animal stalks slowly out, tense and in an attack posture. Three others emerge behind it. The canine in front is a German Shepherd. Krandle isn’t able to identify what breed the others might be. Noticeable are their ribs showing through the skin and thin flanks. It’s obvious to Krandle that these dogs are underfed and live the entirety of their days searching for food. How they have kept away from the night runners during the dark hours is anyone’s guess. Krandle supposes they must sleep some during the day, perhaps chewing on the remains the night runners leave behind, and spend the evening avoiding the nocturnal predators.
Normally four wild dogs would avoid six grown men, so these must be desperate…and therefore dangerous. The Shepherd thrusts its head forward, baring its teeth and a low growl emanates from deep within it chest. Krandle stands to present his full height, knowing that it will either scare the dogs away or offer a challenge. One trick is to not look the dog in its eyes as that is definitely a challenge, but there’s no way Krandle dares look away.
The four dogs turn and back up a step before rounding on the team once again. The other three join in the growling which grows louder. Krandle feels sorry for them. They epitomize this new world – one in which it’s eat or be eaten. The leader settles back on its haunches and tenses.
Don’t, Krandle thinks, his barrel held unwavering toward the pack.
He lowers his barrel and fires a single round. The muted cough is barely heard over the growls. The round impacts the ground just in front and to the side of the leader with a ‘thwack’. The Shepherd reacts and jumps in the air with a yip. It lands and bares its teeth again, growling once before turning and vanishing quickly into the bushes, its companions follow behind.
With a nod from Krandle, the team continues their slow, cautious trek along the road. Krandle is anxious about being in the open and feels cornered. The Cliffside is both a benefit and possible liability. For one, it cuts the possible avenues of attack in half, but on the other side, it prevents an avenue of retreat.
The more Krandle thinks of the flashes, the more he becomes convinced they were from gunfire. Seeing it was at night means that whoever was here was more than likely firing at night runners. That means two things; one is that whoever it was is armed and that there are night runners in the area. The armed people worry him more. As long as they don’t go into buildings and are out of here by dark, the night runners shouldn’t offer trouble. The others…well, there are two possibilities there. They are either friendly…or not.
The team reaches a place where the road leaves the edge of the cliff and subtly curves inland to make room for houses built next to the escarpment. Krandle halts the team to carefully look over the region. They are in the vicinity of where the lights were observed. Nothing moves except the occasional swaying of branches in the breeze. Swirling patterns show in the fine covering of grit on the roadway, giving no indication that anyone passed recently. The tall grass in the yards stands straight, swaying in waves as drafts blow through. The
re aren’t any discernible paths.
“We’ll continue to the next intersection and call it good,” Krandle states over the radio. “Let’s move.”
The houses they encounter next to the cliff are some of the largest they’ve seen yet. Through gaps in trees and bushes, Krandle notes tennis courts in addition to the prerequisite swimming pools. Looped driveways lead in and out of each place. Small clumps of grass that would normally have been removed before they even showed themselves spring out of the cracks between the concrete partitions. The locale is completely quiet except for the swish of the passing wind.
Krandle feels the grit under his boots as he steps warily along the road with houses on both sides. All of the team members search the spaces between the structures, looking intently as if trying to peer through the bushes. Their suppressed muzzles tracking as their eyes search out different areas.
Feeling the inner tension build, Krandle calls a halt. He feels that something is wrong but can’t pinpoint exactly what – only that it’s a strong feeling. He has come to trust that feeling as it hasn’t led him astray yet. It’s telling him that his subconscious is picking out something that is not readily apparent to his other senses. Operators with time in the field know this sensation and rely on it as if it’s another sensory input. Someone or something is directing attention their way.
“I thought we were going to the next cross street,” Speer replies.
“Well, I—” Krandle begins.
He hears a shuffling of boots on the sandy surface behind him.
“Chief?” Krandle hears Miller sharply whisper.
Turning to look behind, he sees three figures dart across the road where the housing next to the cliff began. They cross toward the bluff side and vanish into one of the yards. Miller and Franklin are on their knees aiming their carbines back in the direction the team came from – Miller tracking where the three disappeared and Franklin covering where they emerged from.
“Movement ahead,” Speer calls.
Krandle looks quickly to see some bushes next to a house down the street ahead shake out of synch with the breeze. Looking across the street, he spots furtive movement in the dark shadows of the landscaped trees. His heart jumps as he recognizes the arranging of an ambush. From his initial observation, there appears to be quite a few taking positions around them. He quickly glances to the house set deep into the bluff-side lot immediately next to them. The front is more open than most of the other houses around and he doesn’t discern movement there.
“Everyone, into the house. Move!” he calls over the radio.
The team rises and begins to back quickly into the yard, covering their sectors. Once they hit the waist-high grass, they turn and sprint. Franklin catches Krandle and runs alongside of him.
“Are we going inside?” Franklin says.
“That’s the plan,” Krandle answers.
“What about night runners?” Franklin asks.
“That’s a possibility versus a certainty. We need cover,” Krandle states, the grass parting as he rushes through.
The team plows through bushes lining the edge of the circular drive without slowing. Pounding across the concrete, they near the elegant front door. Gunfire erupts from across the street. Solid ‘thwacks’ hit the side of the house from rounds being directed at them. A window nearby crashes inward with a tinkling of glass. The team continues their mad dash amid rounds filling the air around them, intent on reaching the door.
Krandle hears the zip from rounds passing too close for comfort before they impact the wall just ahead. He and Franklin both lower their barrels as they mount concrete steps leading to the entrance. They fire into the door latch and jamb, splintering the heavy wood. Together they crash into the door shoulder first.
The door gives and the two of them stumble into the interior with the others hard on their heels. Clerestory windows set high on the walls coupled with picture windows sheds a lot of radiant light into the foyer they crashed into. A wide set of stairs, filling much of the entrance hall, leads upward, the top of them lost in darkness. Hallways along each side of the stairs lead farther into the house, the light transitioning to gloom until they also fade into an inky black. Arched entryways lead into rooms to the left and right. Rounds continue to impact the side of the house with compact thunks.
“Is anyone hit?” Krandle calls out, recovering.
The team does a quick pat over their bodies and signals that they are okay. Somehow, none of the bullets connected.
“Speer, Ortiz, take the left and cover our flanks. Franklin and Miller, take the right. Blanchard and I will take the immediate front,” Krandle says.
Speer and Ortiz dart through the archway to the left. Franklin and Miller dash into the room to the right. A loud, penetrating shriek erupts from somewhere in the darkened upstairs causing the hairs along Krandle’s arm to stand upright. They’re in the light, and as long as they keep it that way, they should be okay. That knowledge doesn’t make the fact that they are in close proximity to a night runner any easier. He kneels in broken glass by the side of the large window that was shot and looks out.
Across the street, flashes of light appear from the shaded areas under trees and from bushes. The fire is coming from more than a few locations, giving Krandle a picture that they are facing at least twenty people. The solitary twinkles of light tell him that only single shots are being directed at them from each location.
At least we don’t have to deal with auto fire, Krandle thinks.
“Okay, guys, talk to me? What do you see?” Krandle asks over the radio.
“I know what I hear,” Speer replies.
“Just stay in the light and we’ll be fine,” Krandle says.
As if to bring light to the subject, another loud scream echoes through the interior. Krandle turns sharply toward the sound but doesn’t see anything in the blackness.
“We’re taking fire from across the street. They’re at the back of the houses and in the bushes. Nothing from the sides so far,” Speer says.
“Same here,” Franklin states.
“Anything from our three friends who crossed the street?”
“Nothing as of yet,” Franklin answers.
“Okay, keep in mind that they’re there. Are you able to cover the sides from your position?”
“We have good lines of sight here,” Franklin replies.
“So do we,” Speer chimes in.
A round strikes one of the shards of glass hanging in the frame next to Krandle’s head. He instinctively ducks as the bullet streaks down one of the hallways.
“Motherfuckers,” Krandle breathes. “Okay, we need to take control of this situation. Suppressive fire.”
The sound of breaking glass comes from the other rooms causing the night runner, or night runners, upstairs to emit another piercing shriek. Muffled bursts of fire pour out of the house. Several tracer rounds streak outward and sail into the shadows between the houses across the street. Making sure to keep his barrel from poking out of the window, Krandle spins toward the opening and aims toward one of the bushes across the way. Easing back on the trigger, he feels the familiar push against his shoulder as he adds his fire to those of his team.
One of the rounds of his initial burst contains a tracer. He watches as it sails across the roadway and connects with the bush. Leaves fly up and he has the impression of something solid slumping to the ground in the dimness behind. Leaves slowly settle to the ground and are whisked away in the breeze. Seeing a flash, he moves his barrel just a touch and sends another burst downrange.
The return fire slackens but doesn’t stop. Krandle knows they can hold here for a while as long as they aren’t hit. Eventually, though, they will run low on ammo and be forced to make a break for it. They won’t be able to take down the numerous people arrayed against them. At some point, they’ll have to extricate themselves. So far as he knows, the only way out is the way they came.
With the slackened fire and the team having gained, if n
ot the upper hand, then at least an equilibrium, Krandle has them switch to semi-automatic fire to conserve ammo. Keeping the three in mind, he wants to check out the rear of the house. The dark halls and presence of night runners will keep his immediate back side clear, but that doesn’t mean that others can’t approach from the rear outside.
To the front, five figures leave their concealment and start running across the road to the right. The lead person falls forward as if he were tripped, followed a split second later by another crashing sideways to the ground. The remaining three, seeing their comrades fall, make a mistake and slow. Tracers streak from Speer’s and Ortiz’ position to impact flesh and bone. Clothing ripples as rounds find their marks sending splashes of blood shooting outward. The remaining three are driven to the pavement under the withering fire, not having made it more than halfway across.
“Ortiz, Franklin? Do either of you have a route to the rear that’s lit?” Krandle asks.
“It looks like there’s a way to the back of the house from here that’s fully lit,” Ortiz answers.
“Franklin, while we can, join Ortiz and scout the back. Keep your eyes open and see if there is a route down the cliff from there,” Krandle says.
Krandle nods at Franklin as he passes behind on his way to Ortiz.
“Speer, Miller, keep up the fire. We need to keep their heads down.”
To his side, Blanchard is keeping up a steady stream of semi-automatic fire into the side yards. Every time a flash appears, Blanchard quickly shifts his aim and sends a few rounds at it. Sometimes the flash reappears and at others, the location remains clear of fire with the shooter either taking cover or down. Krandle delivers rounds of his own in an effort to keep their attackers at bay.
Projectiles from across the way continue to pelt the house. Krandle and the team can’t keep every head down, but they at least have a handle on the situation.
“Oww!!! Fucking dammit all the hell. You fucking bastards,” Speer yells from the side room.
“Are you hit?” Krandle shouts.
“I’ll kill every last one of you bitches,” Speer continues to rant, either ignoring or not hearing the question.