by John O'Brien
As Greg pans the surrounding area with his binoculars, the moon analogy fits even more. The gray soil is pockmarked with thousands of light-colored mounds. Out of these piles, small heads continuously bob up and down. The team has parked in the middle of a large prairie dog population. With a couple of larger towns ten miles to either side, there is a small chance night runners could come out to hunt in this area. It’s about a three hour walk from the nearest town, but with the speed of the night runners, it would be much less. Greg has never seen them go at any other speed than a jog or full run. He isn’t sure how far they venture to hunt, but thinks it’s unlikely they would be this far out. Like Jack, he doesn’t want to assume anything with regards to what the night runners can or can’t do. They’ll sleep buttoned up and keep a watch through the Stryker optics.
With time to spare before night settles upon them, Greg sets a watch and allows the others to dig a Dakota Fire Pit at the bottom of the arroyo. This will keep the fire from being seen and the smoke to a minimum. Plus, they will cover it up when they’re finished, which will eliminate any trace of scent. Who knows when they’ll have a chance at a hot meal again, so he allows them this simple pleasure. It’s sometimes the very small things that make a difference in mental attitudes and the ability to hold up under stress.
With the sun low on the horizon, they sit in the shaded gully eating heated MREs and exchanging whispers and subdued laughs. The sky to the east is turning a dark blue as they shovel dirt over the fire pit and erase any vestige of their meal. Greg wishes Jack was with them so he could tell them if any aroma lingered, but he’ll do the best he can. They can hold out in the Stryker against a large number of night runners, but it’s a different story if a horde of them show up. The armored vehicle is hard to tip or get into, but it’s not impossible.
As the sun sets, turning the gray land black, Greg organizes the watch and settles over the maps he acquired. They don’t give altitude variations, but he guesses that they’ll travel over terrain similar to what they ventured through during the day. They’ll encounter the same open fields and small towns until they draw near to Pueblo. The only change on their route will be increasing size of the mountains as the team rolls west. With that in mind, he’ll keep to the same plan – travel slowly through the small towns after looking them over and circumvent the larger ones through the surrounding fields. Given the distance they covered today, they should reach Pueblo by mid-afternoon and Manitou Springs a couple of hours after that. Circumventing the large metropolis of Colorado Springs to get to their destination could be difficult and take more time. A few roads show promise but he’ll assess the situation when they arrive tomorrow.
The team settles as best they can inside the cramped interior. It’s doubtful anyone will get a deep rest, but there isn’t really any choice. It’s that or sleep outside – which is out of the question. In the near distance, a lone coyote howls into the night. The hull of the vehicle muffles the sound, but it’s distinct nonetheless. It’s answered several seconds later by a chorus of yelps coming from another direction.
As long as it’s the howl of coyotes and not the shriek of the other pack hunters, Greg thinks.
Looking through the vehicle optics, Greg sees several coyotes as they pass across the plain. He switches from the thermal imaging to night vision mode. The shapes change from the white of their reflected heat to sharper images cast in a grayish-green. The pack trots in his field of vision as they stalk across the moonlit landscape. Even in the night vision mode, Greg can see their backs glowing silver as they are bathed in the moon’s beams. They stop and raise their noses to take in the scents of the night. One of the coyotes in front lifts its snout higher and sends a mournful cry aloft. An answering call is heard from the near distance. The pack begins yipping and turning in circles.
The apparent leader sniffs the air again and turns toward Greg. He barks once and the pack quiets. They all turn toward where the Stryker sits in the gully. Sets of eyes glow a fierce white as they stare directly at Greg, sending chills up his spine. As one, the light from the pack’s eyes vanish.
Greg still watches and catches an occasional glimpse of silver as the moonlight catches on the back of one of the pack members. They have resumed their hunt across the plain.
A high-pitched scream of terror and pain erupts from the night. The pack has found a meal from among the denizens occupying the numerous holes of the prairie. The coyotes on the prowl and the scream from the prairie dog remind Greg of the night runners and their own situation. The similarity between the prairie dogs and the last vestiges of humankind is unmistakable.
The night passes with only a few other calls from the coyotes as they hunt through the prairie dog town. No other signs of life show across the remote plain. Greg half expected to see the lights of a group of survivors shine somewhere but the surrounding area remained an inky black all evening. The lack of light isn’t overly surprising as that would be a beacon for any night runners, so it doesn’t mean there aren’t any surviving bands.
The sun barely touches the top of the Stryker sticking out of the gully when the team is geared up. Some quick morning ablutions and they are ready to get on with the day. Hopefully they will reach the first of the six legs of their trek. Greg is sure they won’t have to travel the entire distance as he reckons Jack will meet them at Luke AFB providing Robert is okay. He sends a quick thought of well-being Robert’s way as the Stryker warms up at idle. Rescuing the girl like Robert did was one of the bravest things he’s ever witnessed; that heroic kind of act deserves life.
After hitting the highway once again, Greg opens the top hatch to give some ventilation. Close quarters and a serious lack of clothing changes make for…well…a need for ventilation in the small compartment.
A short time on the road and the armored vehicle rolls past a sign welcoming them to Colorado. The topography is exactly the same, it’s only a line drawn by someone a long time ago. However, it’s a marker letting them know they aren’t stuck on a treadmill and are actually putting miles under their treads. Looking out at the landscape, one couldn’t be too sure. The only change in scenery is the tops of the mountains in the distance slowly getting loftier.
There are very few landmarks to keep track of their position other than a turn in the road or crossing over infrequent bridges. The fields to either side remain a mixture of brown dirt or overgrown with whatever crop was last put in the ground. The large crop circles that were created from centrally rotating sprinklers remain in places, but the crops have withered due to a lack of water.
That changes shortly after crossing a bridge spanning a small stream. The fields to the north take on the nature of being freshly plowed with some showing sprouts of greenery. Except for trees and bushes adjacent to streams, and in mountainous areas, it’s the first green Greg has seen since journeying out of the Northwest. The fact that the ground has been plowed isn’t necessarily an indication that someone has done it recently. It could have been done previously and the ones responsible taken down with the epidemic or some time thereafter. He orders the Stryker halted.
Looking at his map, he finds they are about three miles from the next town, Lamar. The highway heads to the center of the town before turning north to cross a bridge across the river they’ve been paralleling. Greg’s plan was to proceed cross-country around the city and intersect the highway again to the north just prior to the bridge. That’s still the plan but the condition of the fields beside the road gives him pause.
Greg climbs out of the vehicle to get a better view of the area. Through the magnified view of his binoculars, he sees the outskirts of the city ahead. It looks like any other town they’ve passed with the exception of a fence enclosing sections of it. The town is still some distance ahead, and the details aren’t clear, but he doesn’t spot any movement or other sign of inhabitants. The light covering of dirt across the highway doesn’t show tracks leading in or out of the municipality. Panning around the fields to either side and behind
, he observes the same – no indication of anyone around.
Notifying the others, Greg jumps down and walks to the nearest field. He catches the aroma of freshly turned earth as he draws near. Reaching through a fence surrounding the plowed land, he feels the dirt and crumples a clod between his fingers. It still has remnants of moisture and not dried out as it would be if it sat on the surface for very long. He surveys the expanse once again, expecting farmers or their equipment to materialize. He sees and hears nothing to indicate others are near. However, the fencing around the town and the plowed fields are clear signs that someone was around recently.
Greg returns and informs the others of what he found. There’s some speculation about staying in the area to find out if there are others but, in the end, they decide to push on with their original plan. They don’t have great numbers to deal with a hostile encounter, and it would be unfair to the soldiers looking for their families if they didn’t continue with the mission. That’s their primary goal and every day counts, especially with them having to travel on the ground. Greg marks his map, indicating possible survivors and orders the driver to proceed off road.
Exiting the highway, they roll over the fencing and angle through the adjacent fields to reach the northern end of the city. The vehicle jostles as they bounce across the furrows. Greg keeps the optics focused on the outlying areas of the town. If there is anyone there, they aren’t going to take to the team ruining their fieldwork. However, unless they have anti-armor capabilities or heavy caliber weapons, there isn’t much they can do about it.
Greg looks to the north end of the city as they drive ever closer. It appears that they’ll have to cut close to a section of an industrial park prior to reaching the road and bridge. The fencing he saw from afar extends around this locale. From this closer look, the tall fencing does in fact circle a large part of the northern end. He’s about to order a turn to the north to avoid the area as much as possible when a glint catches the corner of his eye. He pans the optics and turret toward the eastern end of the town and sees another flash of light. The winks become a series and it’s apparent they are being focused directly at them.
“What do you think, sir?” the driver asks.
“The flashes are too bright to be gunfire…unless they have an awful big gun…and we’d be feeling the results of it already. Readout says just over two klicks, so I’m guessing it’s a signal mirror. Halt the vehicle,” Greg replies.
The Stryker lurches forward as the brakes are applied. They come to a stop in the middle of a dirt road between fields. The dust trail behind them hangs in the air, drifting slowly across the fields. The flashes of light stop.
“Shall we try and signal them back, sir,” the driver asks.
“No. I think we’ll sit here with our popcorn and see how this movie plays out,” Greg answers.
Soon, a trail of dust rises into air from the direction of the signal.
“Single pickup heading down a dirt road perpendicular to the one we’re on,” the driver reports.
“I see it. Keep watching around us. I don’t want to be taken by surprise while focusing on one vehicle.”
“Are we going to disembark, sir?” another soldier asks.
“Not yet. I want to be ready to leave in a hurry if this turns out bad,” Greg responds.
If the people heading their way aren’t friendly, he’ll just head out. They can’t outrun the approaching vehicle, but unless they have a howitzer hidden in the back, chasing them won’t do any good. And the .50 cal will turn the truck into scrap metal.
The pickup truck pulls up to the intersection of the road the team is sitting on and the one the vehicle is traveling on. About a quarter of a mile separates the two parties. A man exits the blue truck, stands next to the driver door, and pulls out a pair of binoculars. Through his own magnified view, Greg notes another figure in the passenger seat with two others in the bed of the truck looking their way. They are armed with rifles but aren’t actively aiming at them. It can’t be too comfortable for them to see a large caliber weapon aimed directly at them from an armored vehicle.
The two groups continue to stare at each other, neither making a move toward the other. In this world, wariness and caution is the rule. Lives can end in an instant and with each encounter. Everyone dies in the end but there’s no need racing toward it.
“I’m going out. Keep an eye on them and also around us. If anything unsavory happens, turn ‘em into hamburger and get the hell out of here,” Greg says after a few more moments of the staring contest.
He scrambles on top and hops down in front of the Stryker. Another soldier takes his place at the .50 cal. Feeling the warm metal of the vehicle as he leans back against it, he glasses the other group again. He sees the distant driver put his binoculars away and climb into the pickup. The vehicle turns onto their road and slowly approaches. Greg holds out his hand for the truck to halt and it does so with a squeal of brakes.
The driver and passenger look out at him through a dirty windshield with the two men in the back looking over the top of the cab. He doesn’t note any weapons aimed his way, but Greg holds his M-4 at his side, ready to bring up in an instant. The driver climbs out and halts behind the open door.
“I’m Captain Greg Petersen. Not to seem like an ass, but I’d feel a tad more comfortable if you all climbed out where I can see you.”
“Captain, perhaps you could have the people I’m sure are inside that thing to come out as well,” the man states.
“Point taken. What do you say we agree not to shoot each other and chat amiably?” Greg says.
“I’m agreeable to that if you wouldn’t mind aiming that big gun of yours somewhere else. The hole in the end looks awfully large from this vantage point,” the man replies.
Greg looks behind at the barrel mounted on its small turret and calls inside for the gunner to aim it elsewhere. The gun spins away and Greg looks back to the man, who nods his appreciation.
Coming out from behind the door, the man approaches and reaches out his hand, “James…James Talkison. We’ve had a few run-ins with some unsavory types, so we’re a little wary around here.”
“We’ve had several ourselves, so it’s the same for us,” Greg replies.
“We saw you circumventing the town. That gave us reason to believe you weren’t interested in attacking us so we decided to risk a signal. I will say that the sight of that thing approaching,” James says, nodding toward the Stryker, “gave us cause for alarm.”
Looking back at their tracks through the field, Greg sees the deep ruts their heavy vehicle created in the plowed fields and the torn fences.
“Assuming these fields are your work, I apologize for tearing them up like that.”
“That’s not a problem. We can fix that up quickly,” James states.
“Allow us to help,” Greg says.
“Are you really with the Army?” James asks, bypassing Greg’s offer.
“I was,” Greg answers. “There really isn’t such a thing anymore.”
“So, I guess we can’t expect any help from that sector. Everything really is gone, huh?”
“I’m afraid so,” Greg responds, hesitant to tell their story until they know this group better.
James hangs his head and sighs. “What are you doing around these parts?”
“We’re searching for families of those with us,” Greg states.
“Ah. I take it from the fact that you were bypassing us that no one is from here. We’ve wondered about ours that live elsewhere,” James says. “How many are with you?”
Greg just looks at James without answering.
James chuckles, “Okay, I get it. Look, we’re all curious how it is out there. From what we’ve encountered here, it doesn’t look good, but we need to know what we’re up against…and for how long. I reckon you folks are okay. We’re about to sit down for something to eat. You’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you’d like…and I won’t lie, I wouldn’t mind having that behemoth
of yours parked in sight to scare off any troublemakers. What do you say we head into town and trade stories? Tell only what you feel comfortable with, but it’d be nice hearing what it’s like. And it would pick up some spirits knowing there are others out there who aren’t just bandits.”
“We are on a timetable of sorts and don’t really want to stop, but I think we could spare a few hours,” Greg says. “Any information you have about the area would be helpful.”
Back in the Stryker, Greg relates the conversation as they follow the pickup toward the town of Lamar. He tells them that he wants them to stay close to the Stryker until he is able to get a handle on the situation. The gun is to be manned at all times. If they find that everything is legitimate, then they can mingle. However, he doesn’t plan to stay long. They still have a mission to see to.
As they approach, Greg gets a better look at the fence he observed earlier. It’s about ten feet tall and covered with coils of razor wire along the top. From his vantage point, he sees that it completely encloses the northern segment of town and has the appearance of encompassing the entire section. Placed at intervals on the inside are semi-trailers with armed men stationed on top. As they drive through an opening in the fence, a bus is driven across it, sealing it off. Greg isn’t overly worried about being cut off as the Stryker can run through the chain link at any time.
Once inside, they continue to follow the truck as they pass through the center of the town. They intersect a main road and turn north. Looking behind, Greg notices a section of fence several blocks away sealing off the southern part of town. A school bus blocks an entrance similar to the one they just passed.
They travel through the central part of the town. Fast food restaurants line both sides of the street along with the usual local businesses. Hotels line the road at the extreme northern end of town. The industrial area, which the team was attempting to bypass, takes up the northeastern section just beyond the inns. The pickup pulls into the last building on the left. A sign signifying the Rodeway Inn and Cow Palace decorates the front. Ahead, past another entrance, lies the bridge they were seeking to cross. Pulling into the lot next to the truck, he sees several other vehicles parked. Greg informs the others to stay put and exits.