by John O'Brien
“Not a worry at all. We’d be happy to,” he replies.
We unload and head out, taking the same route to Sturgis as before. The road to the town of Lead begins at one of the Sturgis exits. Although more roundabout, it will be a quicker route overall as we won’t have to stop at the towns along the interstate to scout them out before driving through.
The drive through Sturgis is much the same as it was yesterday although our tracks have been mostly covered by the wind. We cross over the interstate with the Black Hills looming before us. It’s not long before we start a long climb and travel along a winding road cut into the side of a ridge line. It’s not a very comfortable feeling traveling along a narrow road with an incline on one side and a drop off on the other in countryside that I’m not all familiar with. It would be the perfect place to set up an ambush. If we meet any type of resistance, I am backing us out provided it’s possible.
We make it through without any problems and halt where we can see the road drop into a wide valley. At the beginning of the vale lies a golf course. With a set of binoculars, I glass over the basin. The sign leading into the course reads “Boulder Canyon Country Club” and it’s obviously been some time since it’s been cared for. The once pristinely cut fairways are now filled with tall, brown grass that bends in waves as each breath of wind blows over them. It makes the breeze almost visible.
Adjacent to the course is a small open pit with murky green water filling the bottom of it. From the looks of the houses, I can imagine that this was once an area covered in green, but without irrigation or the use of sprinkler systems, it’s become the brown that I’ve become accustomed to. Several streets branch off to either side of the highway leading to a few more scattered houses. There isn’t a sign of any survivors.
Lowering the binoculars, we continue on and drop into the valley. In the midst of our trek, I open up my mind to any night runners and am surprised to sense a small pack at the extreme northern end of the valley. I noticed several small ponds, so there is at least a water supply, but I have no idea what they are doing for food unless they are preying on game. After being in two places without a night runner presence, it’s a shock to find them out here. This only emphasizes that I can’t assume anything about them. They can be anywhere.
We cross the valley and enter a lower set of hills. Short trees line the hills and draws on both sides. We drive slowly along, stopping often to scout the road ahead but we don’t encounter anything. The road then begins a gradual descent into another valley that widens out the farther we proceed. A driveway branches off and leads to a long aluminum-sided building with a smaller, attached office-like structure. The sign out front reads “Schade Winery” and I think about halting for a little wine tour. Lynn would certainly question what I was up to if all I managed to bring back were a couple of people and several cases of wine. I could just shrug and tell her, “Well, we tried,” all the while searching for a corkscrew.
We roll through the start of another small settlement. Several casinos line the highway and one of the hotel signs indicates we are passing through Deadwood. I really hope the town doesn’t live up to its name. The abandonment of the place, the name, and surrounding brown fields really makes it seem like we are passing through a Wild West ghost town — that is except for the casinos and modern hotels.
The names of the places we pass bring to mind the gold rush days that dominated this area long ago. Before that, these hills were medicine grounds for the Native Americans that lived here. Museums and casinos now dominate, the buildings lining the highway. The people that once flocked to them are gone. Reaching out, I don’t sense any night runners in the area.
A few more twists in the road and I see a few residential areas that mark the beginning of Lead. We slow and creep through the outlying areas looking for any indication that someone is around. The big, open pit we saw from the air appears beside the highway. Just prior to entering the town itself, a parking lot opens to the side with a viewing area of the actual mine. I have us pull in to take a look and listen prior to entering.
The lot is empty as we pull to a stop and disembark. The teams form a small perimeter within the lot itself. There is a park next to the parking area and adjacent to the mine itself with a larger building located near the edge of the mine that appears to be visitor center. I have the Stryker shut down so we can listen. The battery stays on in case we have need of the heavy caliber weapon system. Keeping in mind that someone here may not be all that interested in us being around, it’s my plan to remain on the edge of town to give them a chance to make contact. I hope that contact doesn’t come in the form of a hail of bullets streaming into our midst. With that thought in mind, I have the teams take up covered positions around the house-like center.
The diesel shutting down brings a quiet to the surrounding area. The breeze picked up since we descended into the first valley and a low moan is heard at times as it blows across the monstrous open pit mine — much like blowing across a bottle opening. Other than the occasional sound of the wind, it’s quiet.
Greg and I walk along a path leading to the edge of the mine. The size of it cannot be adequately described. It’s much like looking down into the Grand Canyon except that is much prettier to look at than the scene stretching before us. The mine is a series of deep, terraced sides leading down to a small lake of brown, muddy water. The step-like wall sides are black with tan and reddish clay mixed in. There are a lot of places where dark-colored seepage runs down the walls like sludge. Several landslides, some going all of the way to the bottom, mar the terraced walls. A single switch-back road heads down into the depths from the opposite side ending at the brown lake.
It’s there, at the edge of the pond, that something catches my attention. At the end of the dirt track is a larger black mound. Several small wisps of smoke drift upward from it and are blown away as the occasional draught of wind catches them. Whatever is smoking down there was done recently giving a further indication that someone is around.
“What do you think that is?” Greg asks.
“I have no idea,” I say, lifting a pair of binoculars up to look at the pile. “It looks like a large ash pile. There’s something else there but I can’t make out what it is.”
“There’s no way we’re going to get the Stryker down that,” he says, pointing to the narrow road leading down.
“They must have had those large dump trucks that drove down at one point, but fuck if I’m riding in the Stryker along that road,” I reply.
“I’m with you on that. We’d probably bring the whole thing down on our heads and I’d rather not roll the Stryker today if it’s all the same to you.”
“It would be a rather long walk home.”
“If we do decide to investigate, maybe we can find a four-wheel drive somewhere,” Greg says.
“Have fun with that.”
“What? No sense of adventure, Jack?”
“Oh. I enjoy a good adventure. It’s dying I’m not overly fond of.”
The signage near the fence surrounding the mine states that this was the site of the Homestake mine which was once the largest mine in North America. It was apparently closed in 2002 and there is some mention of something about a deep, underground lab that was supposed to be opened. Something by the name DUSEL, whatever that is, or was. There’s more on the history, but I’m not interested in reading the wall of text that entails.
Off in the distance on the other side of the mine is a rise of land ascending above the surrounding terrain. The sides have been cut into and climb sharply giving it the appearance of a mesa. From my vantage point, it appears the top has a few scattered, stunted evergreens. Stunted, that is, when compared to what I’m used to in the Northwest. In my magnified view, I catch a hint of movement to one side. Focusing on the spot, I see a couple of deer tentatively emerge from a tree line to the far right across the mine. They warily approach a small pond and dip their heads for a drink. It’s then that I notice a few birds wheeling about th
e gray-covered skies and a hawk soaring aloft looking for a meal.
At least there’s life here. That is aside from the people that I suspect are in the area and have yet to show themselves.
A gust of wind whips against my clothing, moaning across the deep hole before me. The thoughts of why we’re here and the chilled breath of air bring me back from my sight-seeing. I lower the glasses and head with Greg back to the Stryker. There has yet to be a sign of anyone which makes me uneasy. We haven’t been exactly stealthy in our approach wanting whoever may be in the town to know we’re here. Although the sight of an armored vehicle can be a little unsettling, I wanted to park on the outskirts in an attempt to show we aren’t threatening and give them a chance to approach us cautiously. I would have thought the sight of the military would alleviate any fears if someone wanted help but, so far, nothing. Of course, they could think we are roving bandits who stole the thing; which, technically, we did.
I see the radio tower a short distance away. It’s obvious that whoever is here isn’t coming to us, so, if we’re going to make contact, then it’s up to us to go to them. I’m still not all that comfortable trekking into the small town when it’s apparent that they want to stay hidden, but it could be because they’re frightened. I don’t know how to alleviate that, especially arriving in a Stryker, but we should at least investigate the radio station and make plans based on what we find.
“Okay, let’s mount up,” I call to the teams. “If we receive any fire, they’ll have made their intentions clear. If that happens, remain onboard and we’ll disengage.”
I can tell Gonzalez and the rest of Red Team preparing for a “Hooah, sir” but I bring that to a screeching halt with a look. Funny, I swear Robert and Bri were about to join in with them. That’s all I need, my kids giving me a “Hooah”. Instead, Gonzalez and McCafferty give me a mischievous smile. Great, I know I’m due for one at some point today. At least I hope that’s the reason for the smile and I won’t be waking up with mascara.
The sound of the Stryker starting up and the ramp closing resounds across the desolate parking lot. We edge out onto the main road and make our way slowly into the main part of Lead. Rounding a couple of corners, the central area of town stretches away to the sides of the two-lane, dust-covered highway. A few motels and restaurants line the street along with a church and an opera house. On a tall pole, a flag flutters in the breeze next to a post office. All in all, it looks like most small towns. Except for the opera house that is; you don’t see many with one of those.
With the whine of the .50 cal as it tracks from side to side, we pass the Black Hills Center of Hope. I wonder if there’s any hope left in this place. If there’s a semblance of humanity left, I suppose there’s always hope. It just depends on the stance that the groups of survivors take. Seeing the place makes me think about the homeless. Surely there must have been a large part of them that didn’t get the flu shot.
Are they still around in numbers or did they fall prey to the night runners quickly with nowhere to go?
The radio station is set back from the main road in a dusty lot. I halt the vehicle in front near to the entrance. A dirt lot, which should be smoothed over from the dust and wind, hosts a myriad of wheeled tracks. They lead from the entrance to the station and continue down the road from the entrance heading in the opposite direction. It’s pretty obvious someone has been here recently and either visits often or is still here. If someone is here, not coming out means that they are either scared out of their wits or up to no good. There could be other reasons, but those are the two that stick in my mind. I’m hoping it isn’t the latter.
The station itself is a small, concrete block building. If there was a sign denoting the station’s name, it’s now gone. Where it should have been, ‘Golddiggers’ is crudely spray-painted. The front of the building has two large paned glass windows with an entrance door situated between them. The windows have slatted blinds covering them making it impossible to see inside. I remain parked in front for a few minutes observing, looking for any movement. Nothing.
“Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going up to the door and see if anyone is home. Gonzalez, take McCafferty and Bri and go left covering the building. Henderson, you, Denton, and Robert do the same to the right. Greg, your team will cover our sides and rear. You’ll also be a reactionary force if needed. If we’re fired upon, we return fire and exfil to the Stryker. Greg’s teams will provide covering fire for Red Team to disengage. We’re not here to take the place so we’ll pull back. And, of course, the Stryker will pour rounds into whoever is firing at us,” I brief prior to us disembarking.
“What about you, sir?” Gonzalez asks. “You’ll be in the middle of it.”
“No worries. If I see someone point a weapon at me, I’m eating dirt. Just fire over me and I’ll make my way out.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Robert asks.
“No. I have this one. I don’t want anyone else to be out in the open.”
“Are you sure you want to just be strolling up the front walk with all of this weirdness going on?” Greg asks.
“Do you have a better plan?” I answer.
“We could leave,” he replies.
“I suppose there’s always that. But we’re here so we might as well see where the rabbit hole leads.”
The ramp rolls down and the teams disembark. The sounds of boots running across the hard surface fill the once silent streets and the teams quickly take their positions. Red Team splits and goes left and right covering the radio station. Greg’s team sets up a perimeter covering the street and other buildings, leaving two of his team manning the Stryker. The street quiets with only the sound of the idling vehicle and the whine of the turret tracking. I step up beside the dirt entrance and pause. I half expect a shout or the crack of gunfire but the only thing that permeates the middle of this small town is an air of anticipation.
No one rushes out to envelop us with welcoming arms. There is only us staring at a silent radio station. I look around at the rest of the town, the teams’ positions, and the Stryker idling behind me, most with weapons pointed at the building. If someone is in there, I can’t imagine they are having warm and fuzzy feelings about rushing outside or making their presence known. I’m not about to wave the teams off though. Although we are here trying to help, we have to think of our safety first. Yeah, that’s why I’m standing in the open in front of a building where I highly suspect people are located with unknown intentions. Perhaps not my best move ever.
I look down at the tracks leading in and out of the lot. There are quite a few of them, some very fresh. Looking closer, I see that there are a combination of double and single tracks with the double ones close together — too close to be a car or truck. The track imprints looks like whoever is coming here is doing so on quads and dirt bikes. There is, however, no sign of any vehicles parked in or around the dusty lot. The tracks leave a clear trail along the otherwise dust-covered street leading away.
“If anyone is in there, we’re not here to hurt you or cause any trouble,” I call out. “Unless you shoot at us first,” I mutter.
Again, there is no response or movement from within. With a shrug, I step into the lot, keeping to the side and out of the Stryker’s line of fire, and proceed cautiously to the entrance. The dirt-covered concrete slab at the entrance is marred by footprints. Glancing at the prints, I see that they are scuffed making it difficult to pick out any one track. I would look closer but my attention is on the windows and door. Standing against the wall next to the door, I knock firmly repeating my message. Nothing returns except the echo within of my knock.
“You know, sir, they might be more willing to open the door is we didn’t have a .50 cal pointed at it,” Gonzalez radios.
“Yeah, yeah. Move the Stryker out of sight, but be ready to respond,” I radio back.
The armored vehicle revs and backs down the street. Once it’s out of sight, I knock again with the same result. I check the windows but
can’t see past the blinds covering them. Leaving the door, I walk to the side of the building. Next to the structure, between it and the tall antenna, sits an older generator. There are more footprints around the generator which are easier to see. I place my shoe next to several of the clear tracks. Now, I’m not a tall man nor have an extra-large shoe size, but my prints are considerably larger than the fresh ones on the ground.
Either this town is full of small people or we’re dealing with kids. At least here. I note that the generator switch is in the ‘off’ position.
This puts a totally different light on the situation. It could be that any remaining adults are sending kids out on errands or the kids are the only ones left. I continue looking at the tracks scattered across the yard and don’t find a single one that matches my size. The tread patterns are all different but they each of them are smaller than mine. I call McCafferty over as she is the smallest among us. Comparing her boot prints with the others, I see that they come close. I suppose we could be dealing with women but am still hard-pressed to figure this out from the tracks. The bottom line is that the fresh tracks and the smoldering ash pile at the bottom of the pit indicate that someone is around.
“I have to admit it’s a little creepy,” Greg says after I describe what I found.
“It’s a little beyond that. Who knows what we’re dealing with on the whole, but at least here, there were kids, women, or a combination of both. We have a choice. We can continue down the yellow brick road or call it good,” I say.
I keep offering it up to see what the others think because, honestly, I’m still of two minds. One says to help if it’s needed; but the other says to bug out. This whole thing is just a little too weird. The spray-painted building and the station going off air just as we pass over speaks of ‘leave us alone’.
“I think we press on, sir. If we are dealing with women and kids, they may need our help,” McCafferty states.