by John O'Brien
Between the houses stand shredded bushes and trees, many with snapped limbs, some hanging limply toward the ground. Small fires blaze in places in the dry grass and begin to spread. The team hoists themselves into this area of destruction, alert for any surviving members of those that engaged them. Blanchard takes Miller on his shoulder which he thankfully accepts this time. Nothing moves, and the only sound is the crackling of the spot fires and the groan of broken houses settling farther.
“That was…interesting,” Speer says, breaking through the team’s silent inspection of the area.
“Which way?” Franklin asks.
“I don’t really want to traverse the neighborhoods again. There might still be others and they won’t be happy with us. Let’s try the break in the cliff you spotted earlier,” Krandle answers.
The team starts along the cliff edge, alertly guarding against any remaining assailants. Krandle looks to Blanchard asking after Miller’s condition. Blanchard nods, indicating that he’ll be okay.
“We need to get back soon, though,” Blanchard says.
“Noted. That we do,” Krandle says, sweeping his hands through his hair to clear the remaining debris.
The others look like they’ve been hauled across the ground tied behind horses. Each and every one of them has a coating of dust and is covered with cuts and scratches. The grit has staunched the flow of blood from Krandle’s forehead and cheek forming small ridges of dirt over the wounds.
As they walk, avoiding the spreading fires, Krandle sees scraps of clothing and parts of bodies spread liberally on the churned up ground. He’s thankful they made it out when they did. He can’t fathom what it must have been like to be in the midst of that attack. Of course, it’s not like anyone would have felt anything as the darkness of the other side would have come immediately.
Krandle digs sand out of his ear and contacts the Santa Fe, giving them the situation and their wounded.
“Glad you made it, Chief,” Leonard responds. “We’ll have a medical team on standby when you return.”
“We’ll be there in a little over an hour barring any further interruptions,” Krandle replies.
They reach the break in the bluff. It’s a ravine which leads steeply down but a path through the middle makes it navigable. They stumble some of the way, Miller groaning with each fall. The team makes it to the rocky shoreline after slipping most of the way down. Glancing nervously at the tall ridge above, they make it to the raft and put out to sea. The sleek sub rises quietly from the depths as they near its location. The wounded are brought aboard and treated. Miller and Speer will be out of action for a time as they recuperate. With all safely aboard, the Santa Fe slides below the waves and turns south.
* * * * * *
Hung Out To Dry
Greg stands in the turret opening watching the buildings of McConnell AFB grow smaller as they head away from Jack and the others. He understands Jack’s desire to get his son back home given that he had experienced the effects of an injury from a night runner. He also knows the need to continue with the search for the families. Time is running short for such operations. Knowing those things doesn’t make the thought of traveling across unknown territories for an extended period of time with only one team at his disposal any better. He feels self-conscious about the prospect, having experienced too many close encounters.
The Stryker will make up for their lack of numbers in a lot of circumstances, but if they have to go in some places on foot, that puts them with very limited options. And vehicles break down. If they lose the Stryker, they lose an immense base of firepower…and protection. If that happens, Greg will call the mission, gather alternate transportation, and head home. The operation seemed like a walk in the park while they were discussing it with everyone around. Heading down an empty road in the middle of nowhere with only six others, drawing farther away from the base, puts that in a completely different light. Looking at the countryside passing by, he feels rather small.
The plan is to skirt the city of Wichita to the south and east, bypassing the majority of the metropolis and urban sprawl. It will take them longer to hit the minor roads heading west but, given his feelings of insignificance, it’s worth lessening the chance of running into any other surviving groups. It’s about finding survivors, but it’s also about surviving. The mission to find surviving family members of the soldiers is paramount.
If they run into other groups, he’ll assess the situation at that time; however, caution will be his byword. He won’t go out of his way to meet others and will go around them if possible. They can mark their locations and come back later if they decide. That doesn’t mean he won’t help others if they need it and if he can, but he’ll do so warily. Avoidance will be his policy. That may be difficult as there are many small towns that they’ll encounter and not all can be circumvented.
His way around takes him through some smaller neighborhoods. Blocks of communities with densely-packed houses alternate with open fields. Everywhere he looks, there are untended yards and meadows – grass grown high and untrimmed bushes. It looks like the post-apocalyptic world that he’d become used to in movies and pictures but without the smoldering fires and burnt out buildings and vehicles. It’s more like the rapture where everyone just left. Except it’s not the dead that walk the earth; instead, it is fast-moving, agile, cunning, ferocious predators that are an unrelenting force.
Thank goodness they can only operate in the dark, Greg thinks, or this would have been over long ago.
They take their time negotiating the southern portion of Wichita. The housing developments give way to mostly open fields before Greg has the Stryker turned north to intersect an interstate that runs around the peripheral of the city. From there, he’ll strike out on one of the highways leading west toward his first destination near Colorado Springs. On this first leg, he’ll make the run to a soldier’s hometown of Manitou Springs.
Given normal conditions, they’d be able to make the run in a day. But the times are far from normal. Greg estimates it will take two full days, and that’s if they are able to keep moving the entire time. They won’t drive at night even though they have night vision capabilities. Their sight range will be limited, and they may run into something before they know it. They’ll also have to take on fuel as Greg doesn’t want to travel with less than a half full tank. If they need to make a run for it, it wouldn’t do to come up on the short end because of fuel.
Hitting the interstate that circles around the city, they continue their northbound advance. Fields and several lakes line the highway and, with the long lines of sight this gives, Greg orders an increase in speed. He notes that the water levels have dropped significantly by the shorelines of the lakes that they pass. They roll down the divided multi-lane concrete road, the only thing moving on this lonely stretch. As they pass the Wichita airport and terminal buildings to the left, he hears a faint roar rise above the whine of the Stryker. Looking to the right, he sees the small dot of the 130 as it climbs into the air miles to the east. It turns to the northwest and continues its ascent. He watches it until it fades from view. They are truly on their own now.
Just to the north of the airport, they hit another major highway heading west. They leave the pavement at this point, traveling overland to a ramp that leads down to the freeway. The Stryker jostles over the uneven ground until they roar up an incline and enter the paved ramp. They enter a manufacturing and warehouse district, the large buildings surrounded by equally sizable parking lots which stand empty. The district abruptly changes to housing developments set back from the road. Some neighborhoods are blocked from view by concrete sound barriers placed along the road, which only affords the sight of a few tree tops showing over the top. The echo of the Stryker motoring down the multi-lane road rebounds off these structures. Stirring the dirt on the road, the armored vehicle’s large tires leave a fine trail of dust behind.
Firmly entrenched on their route to the west, Greg knows he needs to secure better maps
. He has an atlas which gives a good representation of the highway system, but he wants more detailed ones. Knowing he can find these at just about any gas station, he resolves to pull over when he finds one that appears relatively safe.
The development areas end abruptly. There is no easing out of them, they just end with fenced-in rectangular fields taking their place. Some of the fields are only rutted brown dirt while others are overgrown with grass or some agricultural product. A couple of miles down the road, Greg spies the beginnings of one of the many small towns that dot the highway. He halts the Stryker a mile away and climbs out to stand on the top to get a better view.
At this rate, it’ll take us more than two days to cover the distance.
The cloud cover overhead makes it more difficult to see with any clarity but, looking through high-powered binoculars, the outskirts of the town ahead jumps into view. The fields give way suddenly to neighborhoods with the highway plowing straight as an arrow through the settlement. He observes the structures within view looking for any movement to indicate they are being watched. Nothing. The place looks empty.
“Do you see anything?” he asks through the open hatch.
A team member is looking through the enhanced optics zoomed in on the town. “I don’t see a thing, sir.”
“Have you checked the thermals?” Greg asks.
“Yes, sir. There aren’t any heat signatures that I can see. Not even from the structures,” the team member replies.
Greg looks a moment longer and then climbs back in. The Stryker lurches forward as he tells the driver to proceed slowly. A weather-beaten sign on the side of the road tells them they have entered the town of Goddard, ‘home of the fastest growing city in Kansas, population 4,344’.
I bet neither of those is true anymore, Greg thinks as they pass a church and an associated school on the right.
Several fast food restaurants line the road. There isn’t any movement or sound from the town. Greg hears only the high-pitched whine of the engine and from the turret as it continually pans to the left and right. He doesn’t observe any tracks in the light dust covering the highway and driveways entering the various establishments.
Almost through the small township, the elevated sign of a Kwik Stop appears. Some numbers showing the last gas prices are missing, adding to the empty feeling of the place. Greg has the Stryker pull in to halt just off the highway in front of the mart.
A couple of cars are parked at angles to the designated parking places which are barely visible through the dirt covering the pavement. One is still parked at the pumps with the driver’s side door open. Clothing is strewn across the ground between the vehicle and the pump with the fuel nozzle lying on the ground. All is covered with a fine layer of dust.
Looking closer, Greg sees the windows of the store have been broken out near the entrance. A body lies across the broken glass panes of the doors. Nothing stirs except a few eddies of dust stirred by a breeze as it blows through. It appears that all of the damage and death occurred some time ago so Greg decides to check for road maps inside. And, even though the tanks of the Stryker are nearly full, he’ll make the attempt to fill them.
Telling the team his plan, they disembark and set up a small perimeter. Three cover the highway to both sides and one remains on the turret to lend heavy fire should it be needed. With one other team member, Greg cautiously approaches the front of the stop-and-rob.
Listening for any sound that might indicate someone is inside, he and his teammate close in on the entrance from opposite sides. The figure draping the doorway is face down with sand covering its once dark brown hair and seems to be missing one arm; that, or it is hidden under the body. A small drift of dirt has piled up on one side of the head, almost covering it.
Greg pushes on it with the barrel of his M-4. As the head turns slightly, the lower jaw remains in place, sliding off the figure’s cheek. He sees that most of the skin has been removed, leaving only strings of dried ligaments attached. Looking farther, Greg notices that most of the lower body has been dragged inside and lies near the cash register stand. He knows that the condition of the body denotes that night runners were once here…and maybe still are.
Greg overcomes a curious urge to check the pants pockets lying just inside the door for the person’s ID. It was someone once and he’s curious who. They had dreams, worries, highs and lows, paid their monthly bills, made vacation plans, planned what they were going to have for dinner. Now they lie here at the entrance to a Kwik Stop in a small town in what used to be Kansas. Their plans, fears, and joys ended in a moment of terror…just another body decaying in some forgotten place. These thoughts relieve him of his curiosity and he finds he doesn’t want to know who it is at all.
A faint odor of rot and decay spills from the broken doorway – spoiled food, milk, and death. A small amount of ambient light spills through the damaged front of the building, revealing wreckage inside. Shelves are tipped over on their sides or lean against each other blocking the aisles. There isn’t much food on the floor as the place appears ransacked but several bags of chips, candy bars, and cans are scattered across the floor. One of the neon light fixtures hangs from one edge. Trailing wires, the other end hangs down on one of the leaning shelves. Several of the plaster ceiling tiles has fallen in, revealing a network of conduit and electrical wiring.
Greg and his teammate cover the store interior with their carbines as they look over the mess. The back of the mart is lost in shadow, but there is no scream from night runners. Night runners or not, he has no intention of going past the safety of the light. It is marauders and the like that worry him but, from the signs around him, he’s sure that no one would take up residence here.
A turnstile rack near the entrance is tipped over, spilling postcards and maps across the floor. With his teammate covering, Greg steps over the dismembered body and starts sorting through the maps. Many have been soaked through in blood, but he finds a couple covering their routes that are still readable. Shaking the accumulated dirt off them, he shoves them in his fatigue pockets.
The cash registers are bathed in the dim glow of the radiant light. If he can get power to the building, he knows he can get the pumps to operate and top off the Stryker’s tanks. Provided that is, that power still carries to the registers and pump islands. Looking at the wreckage, he’s not sure that’s the case.
Backing out of the store, he walks with his partner to the rear of the building. The usual Dumpsters, empty boxes and stacked pallets, and a small loading dock encompass a majority of the space. Near one corner sits a generator. Greg tests it for fuel and, as he guessed, it’s empty, having run itself dry. Using some of their fuel against only a possibility of getting the fuel pumps to work is a chance, but he gathers one of the fuel canisters from the Stryker regardless. Testing the generator battery, he pours some of the precious liquid in the tank and presses the start button. The generator cranks, sputters for a few turns, and then fires to life, filling the rear of the parking lot with its roar.
Greg looks over the surrounding developments for any signs of life that the noise of the generator may have raised. A flock of birds take wing from a neighboring house, but nothing else stirs.
Moving back to the store entrance, Greg sees the result of his handiwork. Sparks cascade from the broken light fixture onto the fallen shelves. That, and the flickering of the other lights, cast the gloomy part of the mart in a strobe effect. Drink counter dispensers flash and a carousal warming machine for hotdogs and pizza rotates in fits and starts. Stepping around the partial body once again and circumventing the remains farther in, Greg checks one of the cash registers to see it booted up with the touch screen fully lit. Placing an order for diesel fuel, he has the Stryker pull up; fuel flows through the hose into the tanks. He refills the used canister and they load back up to push through to the next town.
Endless fields fill both sides of the road from horizon to horizon. The emptiness of the terrain allows for faster travel, but Greg keep
s their speed down in order to fully scout the area before proceeding. Complacency and assuming that the area is empty without checking could get them in trouble in no time at all. Even with the Stryker, due to their small numbers, they can ill afford a confrontation.
They eventually come to other small towns along the way. It’s much the same sight as they pass slowly through each town – fast food restaurants and gas stations with small businesses thrown in between. Any places that had food have their windows broken out. Remains of bodies are occasionally seen but covered with layers of dust. The wide tracks that the Stryker leaves are the only sign of recent passage.
They bypass larger towns to the north or south depending upon the terrain. Leaving the highway at these places, the armored vehicle rolls over fences that delineate the boundaries of fields and plow through the occasional gully. Greg slows their speed through the fields to keep the dust cloud they kick up to a minimum. He is reminded of the chase they had outside of a town on their way to Lubbock and he’s constantly on the lookout for dust clouds trailing after them. None appear.
With the sun heading into late afternoon and having only made it about halfway to their first destination of Manitou Springs, Greg checks the map and notes the area they are in is one of the more barren spots along the road. It’s all fairly open and not populated, but several small towns dot the landscape and he wants to be as far away from any formerly populated areas as possible to hole up for the night. Even though it’s early, he has the Stryker turn off the road and travel up a long dirt road with no apparent settlements or houses in sight. The road slowly ascends up an incline into some fairly rough topography – rough for this area at least. Greg picks an arroyo off the road and parks the Stryker hull down. The gully is the perfect height and they are able to see in all directions but their silhouette is minimized.
As opposed to the plains through which they traveled beside for most of the day, the place they pick to stay the night looks like the surface of the moon. It’s barren with just a few rocky outcroppings on the edge of shallow ravines.