Conspiracy

Last Legs

Krandle slips off the rubber craft and studies the narrow strip of sand before him. The soft roar of waves rolling onto the beach is the only accompanying sound. Off to the west, the Santa Fe has already submerged but will rise again quickly upon the team’s return.

They had traveled slowly down the coastline, checking out the small towns and establishments nestled in the forested hills. This wasn’t a very populated area of the coast — mostly small resort towns and fishing villages. Captain Leonard would sound the horn, wait for any sign of activity, and then submerge and move on after finding none. The clouds drew a blanket over them without rain. Pockets of fog would form just after sundown against the shore, lifting with the sunrise and pushing out to sea.

They ran through the gentle swells of the Pacific, working their way south with the eventual goal of reaching San Diego where the sub was based. The eager anticipation from the crew is an almost physical presence. The usual breakage of items that would normally send them to port early hadn’t occurred. There was an underlying tension as well. The scenes from shore weren’t encouraging that any would find their families safe, but still, hope remained. After all, there were survivors from up north, so the crew held onto this hope that they would find their loved ones waiting for them.

The reason for their sojourn to this town was a report from last night’s watch of a light coming from one of the low, surrounding hills. Every so often, the moon would peek through a break in the overcast and send its beams cascading upon the land and water. It could have been the moonlight reflecting off a window or something of the sort but Captain Leonard thought it worth a journey to the shore and Krandle concurred.

With the black rubber craft on the beach next to him and the hiss of the water rolling onto the wet sand, Krandle surveys the area to his front as the others cover their sectors. The beach is a narrow strip of sand rising to bluffs on either side. To his right, hills rise directly from the beach with cottages huddled on them, overlooking the sand and the jagged rocks rising from the ocean just offshore. Stunted trees, some bent with the strong winds that occasionally came sweeping onshore, share the steep hillsides with the cottages and dense growth of bushes.

To the left, a breakwater of large rocks juts out into the ocean, the waves splashing over its height farther out. Ahead, the sand leads to a small embankment where other modest houses and duplexes mark the beginning of this small town. Nothing moves in Krandle’s sight.

Looking over the top of the roofs, he sees a series of small hills that surround the town. He eyes one in particular where the night watch said they saw the light. Taking out his binoculars, Krandle focuses on the heights that are their goal. Houses blanket the sides with what appears to be a fenced community stretched across the top. He can only see the rooftops of the houses nearest the wall from this vantage point.

“If you’re done sightseeing, Chief, can we please get off this fucking beach?” Speer whispers with a sharp edge to his tone.

Putting away the binoculars, Krandle motions ahead with the barrel of his M-4. “Lead on.”

This spurs the others into action. The raft is grabbed and, with the others providing security, is dragged across the sandy beach. The hiss of the rubber on the sand mixes with the surf running up the shallow grade of the seashore. The sun is behind the clouds, but faint shadows from the houses in the early morning light stretch over the embankment as the team draws near.

Blank windows stare at them, the curtains still hanging in many of them. Some of the houses have screen doors pitched at angles, the upper hinges having been torn loose. A few have open doors, whether forced or otherwise, giving a view into the darkness beyond. Paths cut into the embankment lead from the beach to each of the houses and the few streets that dead end at the shore.

Krandle rises near one of the dead end roads. A wooden post painted orange and white lies horizontal across two other poles, signifying the end of the street. A gust of wind stirs his pant legs and sighs through more of the stunted trees nearby. Groaning creaks arise from a couple of the screen doors as their hinges protest movement. The breath of wind catches one of the doors and it slams against an outer wall, startling the entire team.

They all drop to their knees in a semi-circle, barrels rise, searching for targets. The awareness of what the noise was comes quickly, but they continue searching the surrounding area.

“Speer, move us out. Opposite sides of the street. Remember your intervals,” Krandle says moments later.

The team rises and negotiates short steps cut into the embankment leading to the street. They head around the dead end marker and begin to make their way into the coastal town. Tall grass surrounds each house, the stalks bending over and hiding any semblance of a sidewalk. Vehicles are parked at intervals on the roadway and in driveways, their windows and outer bodies covered in grime from months of being in the open. Sand has piled up around the tires of those in the street. Any curbs this street had have long ago been covered by drifts.

The road itself is covered in a thin layer of undisturbed grit, and it’s through this that the team cautiously makes its way farther into the town. The tracks they leave behind are the only evidence that anyone or anything has moved through this area in some time. Krandle isn’t worried about leaving tracks. After all, this isn’t a ‘zero footprint’ operation, and their mission is to actually find someone. If someone sees their tracks and finds them, well, that amounts to the same thing. Miller keeps a sharp eye behind them nonetheless.

Some of the houses they pass have had their doors and windows broken. Curtains in those broken windows stir in the breeze; there isn’t any movement beyond that. A hush has settled over this place. Even the soft shuffling sound of their boots on the gritty pavement doesn’t seem to travel far. It’s as if the area is absorbing any sound. The feeling isn’t a stifling one, more of a dead one. The land has forgotten that humankind once walked these streets.

The team comes to the end of this small neighborhood and small industrial shops occupy the few lots in front of them. Rusted husks of vehicles sit in some of the chain link enclosed yards. The buildings themselves have a rundown look and most haven’t seen a coating of paint in some time. Krandle halts the team at this residential boundary.

Sections of the fencing have been pushed down, the supporting poles leaning inward at angles. Some of the damage looks recent and forced while others are obviously down through age and neglect. Buckets, old signs, and other forgotten debris are scattered in the back of the businesses. The road ahead makes its way past these structures before turning to the right a few blocks away.

Krandle and the others look for any sign of life, threatening or otherwise. No bird takes wing, nor is there a stray cat slinking through scattered piles of junk looking for a meal. It’s completely silent and still.

A ray of sunshine pokes through a break in the clouds, casting its light across several of the neglected lots. The beam doesn’t brighten the landscape but only makes it appear more forlorn. It reflects off the shattered back window of one of the vehicles, causing the members to blink and look away from the glare. The sunshine is short-lived as clouds cover the sun once again.

“I bet that’s what the watch saw last night…only from the moonlight instead,” Speer whispers.

Blanchard and Ortiz nod in agreement, remembering their last trek ashore. Franklin tilts his head slightly to the side and lifts one side of his mouth as if skeptical of this answer.

“That’s one possibility,” Miller says.

Krandle doesn’t know if the surprise of the screen door slamming against the side of the house earlier or hearing Miller speak is more of a shock. The others turn to stare at Miller, to which he merely shrugs, his words for the week having been uttered.

“Did that hurt?” Speer asks Miller before turning back to screen his sector.

“Who knows what they saw? That’s what we’re here to find out. We’re heading down this street and around the corner. We don’t have a map, so we’ll have to find our own way to the hill,” Krandle says.

“And I vote we don’t go find a map. I wasn’t very fond of the last time we decided we wanted one,” Speer mutters to himself, rising.

“Stow it, Speer,” Krandle says.

The team heads down the road, paying special attention to those places where the fences appear to have been recently bent inward. Silence follows along with them. They reach the point where the road curves to the right and heads in front of the dilapidated buildings. The windows of the buildings have all been broken out with grime covering the shards of glass remaining in the panes. Washed out signs hang above the establishments — City Appliances, Jim’s Auto Repair, Unique Treasures, and others too faint to read.

Some light reaches a short distance into the buildings revealing scattered messes within each of them. As the team passes the auto repair facility, a metallic sound rings from deep within the shadows. It sounds like a pipe hitting the hard ground and bouncing.

The team instantly goes into action. The members on the building side swing their carbines to bear on the sound while dropping to their knees. The others drop as well and focus on the surrounding area — all are poised to deliver concentrated fire and either run or engage. The ringing sound within fades and the deathly quiet returns.

“If there’s anyone inside, come out slowly. We mean no harm and are here to help,” Krandle calls, his cheek against the adjustable stock, aiming through his sight at the interior of the building.

Nothing moves. Tension holds its grip on this small piece of ground in this nameless little town. Reaching up, Krandle turns on the flashlight mounted on one of the side rails of his carbine. Light flares into the building, but its intensity is drastically reduced, having to pass through the daylight. He rises, and, with his finger caressing the trigger, walks slowly forward.

At one side of the broken window, he casts his light inside. The interior smells of mold and must. The carpet spread across the floor is deeply stained with grease and is ragged around the edges. In what appears to be a small waiting room, plastic chairs lie upended. A fake wood-paneled counter with a pale Formica top occupies half of the room, and a broken clock hangs crookedly on one of the walls, its time stopped at 1:13. From the looks of the place, that clock could have stopped in 1996, so Krandle doesn’t attribute much to it. Dirt-streaked papers are scattered across the dull space. To one side, a door leading into the garage stands partially open. Sending his light through the doorway, Krandle doesn’t see much of interest other than a stained concrete floor and the partial front tire of a vehicle.

“Anything?” Franklin whispers across the radio.

Krandle shakes his head as he continues to look into the building. Looking at the grit-covered sidewalk at his feet, there aren’t any tracks or other disturbances that would indicate something had been along this way recently. Snapping off his light, he backs from the window to his gathered team.

“Okay, let’s keep going. Miller, keep a sharp eye behind us.”

Each of them cast leery glances at the structure as they rise to proceed on their journey. Houses in the same condition as the run-down buildings lie across the road. Most are barely visible through the overgrown bushes and weeds. Several seem on the verge of collapse with one having its roof in a concave shape, ready to fall in on itself with the next strong gust of wind. More than a few have rope chains stretched across overgrown driveways. The lack of birds in the area is strange. This is the first time Krandle has been close to a shoreline and not witnessed gulls in the area — soaring aloft or on some perch looking for scraps of food.

“Everyone halt,” Krandle whispers into the mic.

He waves Franklin to his position. “Are you still carrying the portable chemical detector?”

“Yes,” Franklin answers, taking off his small pack and digging through it.

“This will take a few minutes,” Franklin says, removing an olive drab plastic unit.

“Oh shit,” Speer comments, seeing what Franklin has brought out.

“Easy now. We’d have already felt something if there was anything here. I just want to make sure,” Krandle says, briefly explaining his uneasiness with the lack of any life around, mentioning in particular the lack of gulls.

Minutes slowly tick by as the unit boots up and it begins to take samples from the air. Seconds are counted by the beads of sweat that form on all of them. Krandle and Franklin squat in the center of a small perimeter formed by the other four. Speer, Blanchard, Miller, and Ortiz focus their attention outward. More than once, they all glance at the building from where the noise came and sneak peeks toward Krandle, waiting for word. Like watching water come to a boil, Krandle and Franklin stare at the device.

At long last, the unit gives a beep and Franklin brings the display closer.

“All clear,” he says loudly enough for all to hear, but not so loud that his voice carries.

A collective sigh passes through the team — an almost physical release.

“Then why aren’t there any gulls?” Krandle mutters under his breath as Franklin stows the unit and makes ready.

With a wave of his hand, Krandle motions for Speer to continue.

The hill that is their goal is to their front left in the distance. They’ll have to progress through the town in order to reach it. Several blocks later, Speer turns left down a side street. The gusts at intervals bring the smell of the sea. The clouds overhead barely move and seem content to stay where they are.

They enter a part of town that is geared toward the tourist trade. Small shops line the road, most with their windows broken. Barely seen are signs denoting kites for sale or bikes to rent. Salt water taffy and other candy shops are prevalent along with the usual trinket and T-shirt shops. One shop advertises artwork and another, blown glass. Sand is piled against the buildings and in the small doorways. In places, the layers of sand and grit show pathways through them. There aren’t any tracks, but the covering is uneven.

Of course, it may not be made by anyone, Krandle thinks, stopping to examine them. It could be created by the wind swirling through the area.

The streets are mostly clear of vehicles and drifts pile high, in some places almost reaching halfway up the structures. Scraps of paper and other light debris lay scattered across the avenues they pass. Gusts of wind swirl through the streets of this seemingly abandoned town, picking up the loose fragments and sweeping them to a new resting place. Faintly, Krandle hears the harsh cries of gulls ahead.

A couple of blocks later, Speer radios that he’s spotted a body ahead. With caution, they approach.

The body lies in a broken window, half in and half out of what used to be a café. The head and forearms are buried in a sand drift outside of the restaurant with the legs draped on the inside. Putting the men on watch, Krandle looks closer. The jeans are darkly stained. It takes him a moment to realize that the jeans are pressed flat, meaning the legs aren’t attached to the body. Grit covers the diner floor, but he eventually sees a few bones scattered within. In one place, a shin bone stripped clean of flesh lies with a tennis shoe still attached. Moving some of the sand away from the upper torso, he sees that the flesh has been ripped from the bones. Only a few pieces of desiccated flesh, sinew, and hair remain.

Speer calls with the sighting of another body farther up the street. The new body is in the same condition — dried out with most of the body torn apart. The farther into town the team proceeds, the more bodies they find. Some just inside the buildings, others in sand drifts, and yet more just lying in the street. Some of the bodies haven’t been mutilated. Just like in the other town they visited, Krandle guesses the ones still intact are night runners.

The team warily proceeds in the narrowed street between the shops. The sound of the gulls increases with each step they travel. It isn’t a cacophony of sound, but single, distinct cries. They pass bits of strewn clothing, some mere scraps poking out of sand. The whole team is silent and walks with trepidation, wondering what they’ll find farther in. Fingers stroke trigger guards with nervousness. They are tense and alert, ready to unleash fury in a given moment.

Pant legs and sleeves flap in the periodic flurries of wind winding through the streets. It stirs the layer of sand, creating new designs with each draft. Krandle again finds it hard to tell if the trails through the grit are from the passage of something or just the wind drawing patterns. He has Speer and Miller take closer looks but even they can’t tell.

Gone is the joking around. Solemn game faces are etched on the entire team. Thinned lips and watchful eyes denote the tension in each of them as they attempt to peer through the darkened veils into the depths of each shop. Krandle feels his heart hammering. It’s a feeling he became used to long ago and even welcomes. With it, he knows his senses are sharpened and reactions quicker. He fully expects to hear a noise from each store like the one they heard at the auto repair garage, but there is only the soft whish of wind and the occasional cry of a gull.

The area opens as they emerge into a plaza with a small fountain in the center, surrounded by a low concrete wall. The rest of the plaza is filled with tall grass swaying with each breath of wind. Krandle can imagine the finely manicured lawn with tourists taking their ease on its soft surface — the gentle murmur of the fountain in the background.

Adjoining the small park is a two-story concrete building with the words ‘City Hall’ etched across the top. Fluted concrete pillars line the front with wide steps leading to the entrance. Bodies litter the steps and fill the plaza — night runner and human alike — although the tall grass hides many of them. Several gulls hop among the bodies and pick at them, looking for remnants of flesh. Krandle notices that the birds leave the night runner bodies alone. One gull swoops down to chase another one. They squawk at one another for an instant and the one that was standing flies off. The winning gull settles in, picking at a body.

Looking around, Krandle envisions that there must have been quite a fight here. It carries the picture of the town taking a last stand. The small police force must have been housed in the city hall and tried to hold their ground. Those last moments must have been filled with horror. The confusion of the night with figures darting around the lawn and unable to tell friend from foe. At the end, just firing at everything that moved until they were overwhelmed.

Shops surround the park across the streets on three sides. Their dark, broken windows gaze onto the massacre without interest, merely taking it in. Krandle and the rest of the team watch the stores looking for movement, their eyes darting from one opening to the next. Gulls are perched on the eaves of the buildings looking on. There aren’t hundreds of them, nor do they present any feeling of dread like the Hitchcock movie Birds, but there are a few of them. They stare on, some with tilted heads, as if wondering if this intrusion of people is going to interfere with their food…or add to it.

“I’m not fond of being in the open like this,” Speer mutters.

“For once I have to agree with Speer,” Franklin says. “We’re at a huge disadvantage if someone should take issue with our being here.”

“These birds freak me out, man,” Ortiz states.

“I know. Set a perimeter and sit tight. We’ll move along shortly,” Krandle responds.

The unreal nature of this place makes Krandle want to see more. He feels that if he looks closer, it will all begin to make sense. He knows what happened to the world and has dealt with that aspect, but his senses haven’t adapted, and being in the center of it makes him want to see more. He has been thrown into this new world against his will; he feels the need to see more. He knows that the team comes first, but he feels that, if he can understand and come to better terms with the environments they come across, he’ll be able to lead them better.

The team sets a perimeter around the plaza and Krandle makes way through the tall grass toward the fountain. The stalks brush against his pants as he creates a trail through their midst, having to step over an occasional body lying on the ground. He doesn’t spy any other trails through the grass, which is a good sign, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything. It’s only means that nothing transits through the grass regularly. If there was only the occasional trespasser, the stalks wouldn’t be pressed flat for more than a day. They would stand upright with the coming of the next day.

Reaching the fountain, Krandle notices it is partially filled with sand. On a waist-high marble dais, a plaque is embedded at an angle on its top, dedicated to the nation’s war veterans.

That’s now a dedication to everyone left alive, Krandle thinks, staring at the carved writing. Those now living are all war veterans.

Brushing the sand away from the raised lettering, he wonders if there will be a similar plaque in the far future dedicated to those who survived this new era.

Krandle leaves the fountain and mounts the steps leading upward to the city hall building. Working his way around the withered bodies, he comes to an entrance door that stands open. Looking down, he sees the impression of a trail leading out. It’s the first time he’s seen a definite sign since arriving onshore.

Standing to one side of the opening, Krandle calls inside. His voice resonates in a large entry chamber and echoes down dark hallways. Moments later, a single shriek sounds out. The scream sends chills down his back and causes goose bumps to rise on his arms.

“Okay, we’re not going in there,” he mutters.

Like I was even thinking about it. Buildings are to be avoided, he thinks, remembering both the hotel and what happened to the sailors in the supply depot.

Negotiating the steps, he joins the rest of his team.

“You had to go and disturb them, huh?” Speer says. “Can we get out of here now? There’s no one left alive in this shit town.”

Krandle looks into the eyes of the others. There isn’t an expectation of his answer one way or the other, they only look back waiting for it.

“You know better than to ask that question, Speer. We have a job to do and we’re not leaving until we check out that hill,” Krandle answers.

“I know, Chief. This place just gives me the creeps, that’s all.”

“It’s pretty fucked up for sure. Let’s get this finished.”

Readjusting the small packs on their shoulders, the team rises and makes their way across the plaza, heading down one of the side streets toward the hill. The shops give way to another small neighborhood. Before long, they come to a waist-high chain link fence bordering one side of the street. Beyond the fence lies a small school.

A playground occupies most of the grounds where kids once enjoyed recesses. Swings oscillate slightly in the breeze and a merry-go-round slowly circles with a low squeal of metal grinding on metal.

The emptiness is more than just no one in the playground. It’s much more than that. There should be shrieks of gaiety from kids playing — running from one piece of equipment to another or playing tag. Franklin’s eyes linger on the empty playground. He has a daughter in San Diego that is the right age to be cavorting with her friends in a playground such as this.

Everyone eyes the empty slides, swings, and monkey bars. There is a prevalent loneliness, as if the equipment misses the kids who once played here. The ground misses the stomp of little feet and the air their cries of laughter. More than likely though, it’s the missing presence of those that should be here that fills the team member’s hearts and souls.

“Keep alert, everyone. Remember why we’re here,” Krandle whispers into his mic.

The trance breaks and they resume their cautious yet quick pace. Only Franklin’s eyes steal over to the playground periodically as the team passes by.

They find a road that begins a shallow ascent and before long, they are climbing into the hills beyond the central part of town. Houses on the hill are built farther apart with larger yards. As they scale upward, stunted trees grow more numerous. To the east, the small trees give way to firs farther up the hillside. Close to the top of the small hill, the wall Krandle spotted from afar comes into view. The team is close to their goal.

A wrought iron entrance gate built between tall brick walls bars the roadway. Several abandoned vehicles block the road in front of the gate and behind them, on the far side of the gate, sits a shuttle bus. Drawing cautiously closer, it becomes clear that a large fire once burned fiercely. The bus is a gutted-out hulk and the vehicles in front are scorched from the tremendous heat that once visited this spot. The iron fence has been warped, and one of the gates itself lies against the roof of the nearest car. Carried on the breeze, there remains a faint smell of charred plastic and rubber.

Krandle attempts to peer through the barricade but can only see glimpses of what is behind. It looks like any other neighborhood. Sending the team to the sides against the wall, he steps closer until he is next to one of the vehicles.

A faint, scraping sound comes from the other side of the gate. It’s followed by a quick shuffling noise. Krandle instantly brings his carbine up, aiming toward the noise. The disturbance was close, but he hears nothing now.

He has plenty of cover, but he can’t see much beyond the barricade. Against his better judgment, he leaps onto the hood of the car. Getting a better view beyond, he spots a small figure moving away. Whoever it is appears to be trying to run away, but a limp is slowing them down. The long brown hair and small stature gives Krandle the impression of a young girl. The girl’s emaciation is evident even from this distance, and the fact that she’s out in the day is a clear indication she’s not a night runner.

The girl looks back over her shoulder and, upon seeing him, yelps and starts hobbling away faster. Her increased speed isn’t much, but the fear she exhibits is. Krandle calls out to her, but the girl only emits another cry as she rounds a corner and vanishes from sight.

“What is it, Chief?” Franklin asks from his position.

“A small girl. She ran away and vanished down a street,” Krandle answers.

Managing to work their way through the barricade, they regroup on the other side. The housing here appears in better shape and, from first glance, seems to be one of those self-contained developments. A shopping center complete with restaurants is off to one side with a school on the other. The central area is taken up with pristine houses anchored by parallel streets.

“Which way did she go?” Blanchard asks.

“Toward the shopping center,” Krandle answers.

“Well, I guess that answers the question if someone is still alive here,” Franklin mentions.

“Okay, just because there is…or are survivors here, they may not take kindly to our presence. If we’re threatened, we throw a wall of steel out and disengage. Our exfil is here through the gate. Our rendezvous point is the CRCC if anything happens. If possible, we hold there until we all arrive or it becomes one hour prior to sundown. It’s obvious that night runners are here, but who knows how many there are. One hour prior to sundown, gents, then whoever is there casts off for the Santa Fe. Are there any questions?” Krandle asks.

Hearing none, Krandle continues, “Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll proceed ahead. We don’t want to spook anyone by coming across too aggressively. Franklin, you’ll take the team along behind covering. I don’t want you too close but close enough to engage if we come under fire. The hope is that whoever is here will see our peaceful intentions and deal with us in the same manner. That was a little girl at the main gate and not armed men so I’m guessing this isn’t an armed establishment. That doesn’t mean they won’t defend themselves, but I doubt they’ll come at us aggressively.”

“It’s your dime, Chief,” Franklin states. “We’ll have your back.”

Krandle nods and lets his M-4 hang at his side by the sling. He heads in the direction where he saw the girl vanish. Every so often, he calls out, naming himself and their intentions. He’s staking his life that whoever is here is peaceful. If there are survivors — and the girl is an indication that there are — they are a rarity from what he’s seen and they need to be found.

He reaches the corner and peers around. A parking lot serving the little shopping center is just ahead to the right with houses set next to each other stretching down his side of the street. It’s pretty easy to pick up the girl’s tracks in the dirt as they head down the road and then angle toward the mall itself. They are the only ones visible as the wind seems to sweep any others away on a regular basis.

With a sigh, he steels himself and steps around the corner. He’s in the open for anyone to see and the feeling isn’t the coziest. Of course, they’ve been more or less in the open since they arrived, but it’s the mental part of presenting a target on purpose that gives Krandle the nervous feeling in his stomach. He intends to live through this crisis of the new world and not become just another corpse lining some unknown street.

Walking out in the open like this doesn’t improve those chances, he thinks, following the tracks and angling toward the shops.

Facing the stores, Krandle stops in the middle of the parking lot. He holds his hands in front of him, palms upward, and calls out. There isn’t any response or movement that he can discern. With another sigh, he begins walking closer.

The tracks lead through a glassless window of a restaurant. Standing to one side, Krandle peers inside quickly. The furniture has all been pushed to one side of the small establishment. Tracks lead toward the back of the restaurant and vanish between a double set of swinging doors, presumably leading into the kitchen. The interior is shadowed, but it’s not completely dark due to some reflected light. There is also light showing through narrow windows inset in the wooden kitchen doors.

Krandle waves the others forward and calls out into the gloom. There’s no reply from inside. He turns the flashlight on once again and aims it into the interior. The beam brings the murk into clearer focus. A counter with stools occupies the rear and right side of the small café. Tipped over cups and some silverware lies scattered across the top and the usual restaurant accoutrements adorn the walls behind — coffee maker, juice machine, dishes, etc. Everything is covered with a light film of dirt except for the definite path leading to the double doors behind the far counter.

“This is where the tracks from the girl lead. Speer, you and I are going in. The rest of you set up a perimeter facing out,” Krandle says as the others arrive.

Krandle and Speer step though, their boots crunching on remnants of broken glass under the window just inside. They walk past the counter to the doors leading to the kitchen, taking positions on either side.

Easing forward to peek through one of the windows, Krandle observes the source of the light beyond. The roof inside has partially collapsed. The debris covers the cold grills, small stove, and a prep table filling the center of the kitchen. Several pots and pans poke through the wreckage.

Krandle withdraws from the window and gives Speer a shake of his head indicating he didn’t see anyone. Speer nods his understanding.

“Ready?” Krandle whispers; Speer gives another nod.

It’s one thing to stroll across an open area to show you don’t intend harm, but entirely different to do the same thing going into a small room where you know others are and they aren’t responding. Krandle is only willing to carry the open intentions so far — small girl or not.

With a nod from Krandle, they both push into the room, Krandle going left and Speer to the right. They bring their M-4s up as they pour into the room. Their entrance is quiet and swift, like a flowing rush of air. Barrels follow eyes in rapid movements as they rapidly search the room, still moving toward their respective corners.

“Clear,” Krandle hears Speer whisper.

“Clear,” he calls back.

Turning toward Speer, Krandle sees he couldn’t advance very far due to the rubble from the fallen ceiling. Getting Speer’s attention, he points to a steel meat locker door where the dust has been disturbed. They both gather to one side of the door.

“This is Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle of the United States Navy. We mean no harm and have come to help,” he calls out.

A shuffling sound comes from the other side of the door and faint whispers, then silence. A moment passes.

“Are you really from the Navy?” a voice calls.

“Yes, sir, we are,” Krandle replies.

“Shut up. We don’t really have a choice, do we? Look at us. We won’t make it much longer regardless of who’s on the other side. Now open it,” the voice says, obviously talking to someone else inside.

Krandle hears a rattling sound like a chain being dragged against the door. The door opens and a stench rolls out. It’s the pungent smell of body odor mixed with…well, more body odor. Looking inside, he sees seven very emaciated people staring back at him. Four of them are sitting against walls in the back of the enclosed room, looking like it’s taking all of their energy just to stay upright. Those four stare back at him as if they are already dead. Only the fact that they slowly blink gives testament that they are still holding onto life.

Two very thin men stand near the open door with the girl he saw earlier clutching one of the men’s pant leg and peeking out from behind. Krandle lowers his weapon as he stares into eyes that have given up hope. It’s hard to tell anyone’s age through the grime covering them, but they seem to be in their twenties or thirties with the exception of the girl who appears to be eleven or twelve.

“Holy shit,” Speer whispers, staring dumbfounded.

Krandle nods for Speer to go join Franklin out front but Speer just continues to stare at the scene.

“Speer!”

Speer startles and looks at Krandle who nods once again, directing him to the front.

“Oh…right, Chief,” he says and starts back through the kitchen with a couple of backward glances.

“Franklin, I’m sending Speer to you. Contact the Santa Fe and let them know we have seven survivors…three mobile and four immobile. Blanchard, get in here. You have patients to attend to,” Krandle states over the radio.

Blanchard arrives and immediately sets to work with the ones at the back of the room — taking vitals and setting up IVs. He has a difficult time finding veins but eventually manages. Krandle offers water and small bits of food from his pack to the two men and girl. The men take what is offered. The girl is hesitant at first, but then digs in.

As Blanchard treats the men and women, one of the men shares some of their story. It’s one of searching for food by day and retreating to the meat locker at night. He tells of the food sources dwindling until they’ve had to subsist on crackers, potato chips, and whatever else they could find. The store shelves emptied early, and they’ve gone from house to house. They learned early that the dark held death, so they would only go in if they could make enough light by smashing windows. Lately, though, they haven’t found much of anything. It’s been merely fruitless searching by day and the pounding on the freezer doors by those creatures at night.

He goes on to tell that this was the only place they could find that they could barricade safely. The barricade at the gate that a few survivors erected only held for a short time. They set the bus on fire as a last resort, but that too only worked for a scant matter of minutes. There were more of them, but after the creatures broke through…

“It was a slaughter,” the man says, his eyes far away in the memory of that night. “And there were creatures inside as well. The roar of the fire…the gunshots down in the town…the screams. I can still hear them. We didn’t have a chance. The few of us remaining fled into the night and retreated here. The creatures followed, but we were able to hold the door against them. Then morning came and with it, silence. It soon became evident that the creatures didn’t come out during the day, so we hammered the roof in. That was the only way we could be assured it was safe to come out each morning. They still come and the shrieks every night are enough to drive one insane.”

“Why you didn’t just leave during the day?” Krandle asks, looking to see where Blanchard is with his ministrations.

“We wanted to but had…several others who were too injured to move. They eventually…passed on,” the man says with tears welling. “By that time, several more became sick, and by the time they passed, we couldn’t find a vehicle we could start. We thought about heading out on foot, but we were more worried about getting stranded somewhere after dark. Now, well, Jim, Maggie, and I could leave and take the risk, but we can’t very well leave the others behind.”

Krandle catches Blanchard’s eye and motions to him.

“Excuse us a moment,” Krandle says to the man.

“Well, Blanchard, can we move them?” he asks once they are out of earshot.

“Those four can only move on a stretcher and that’s iffy,” Blanchard states.

“Okay, see what you can do. I’m going to call the captain.”

Krandle contacts Captain Leonard and relays the situation. He then asks for permission to bring the survivors aboard.

“We don’t have room aboard, Chief. Give them coordinates to Captain Walker’s location,” Leonard replies.

“Sir, they won’t make it out of town let alone that distance. And there isn’t any transportation,” Krandle says.

“Chief, can you tell me with one hundred percent certainty that none of them are ill?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir,” Krandle answers.

“Sorry, but we can’t risk an illness aboard. Find them a map and see if you can get a vehicle for them to travel. Leave them whatever supplies you deem pertinent.”

“Aye, sir,” Krandle replies.

Krandle leans against a kitchen wall thinking over their situation. He understands the captain but doesn’t feel good about just leaving the survivors to themselves. In their current shape, merely giving them supplies and finding transportation would be the same as pronouncing their death sentence. After thinking it through, he pushes himself off the wall and walks back to the freezer.

Motioning Blanchard aside once again, he asks, “What’s the final word?”

“Chief, they’re in bad shape. I set up IVs, gave them some water and food. The ones standing are fine, a little weak, but they’ll make it. The others…well, time will tell. They should recover, but at this point, it will be up to them. We can give them antibiotics, hydrate them, and feed them, but they’ll have to be mentally strong if they are to fully recover. If we didn’t show up when we did, I’d say most would be dead sometime tomorrow,” Blanchard responds.

“Are they sick?” Krandle asks.

“You mean like a virus or something?”

“Yeah. Like do they have the flu or a cold?”

“Not that I can tell. They’re very malnourished and some have cuts and scratches that are infected, but I don’t think they’re sick,” Blanchard answers.

“Can you say with one hundred percent assurance?”

“Nothing is one hundred percent, but they don’t have symptoms of being ill other than a general weakness. Their heart rates, blood pressure, and breathing rates are all down, but that’s the malnutrition. They don’t have fevers, coughs, excess mucus, or any other indication that they are viral,” Blanchard reports. “Let me guess, the captain isn’t letting them onboard?”

“No.”

“I can’t say that I really blame him, Chief, but yeah, we need to give these people some help and soon,” Blanchard says.

“Will they survive a trip to Captain Walker’s?” Krandle asks.

“What?! No way. Not on their own anyway. The two men and girl standing…perhaps. It’s only a couple of days drive, but the immobile ones, no. They may not survive a trek to the sub.”

“What if we stayed to help? How long until they could survive the trip north?”

Blanchard pauses, glancing momentarily toward the people in the locker. “Two to three days minimum. That’s no guarantee, and I’d need a whole lot more than I have here with me.”

Krandle radios Leonard again and relays his medic’s appraisal.

“Chief, I’m standing firm. We can’t afford to take on survivors. We made it clear when we left that we would direct anyone we found to head north to Captain Walker,” Leonard states.

“I understand, sir. I’m asking that we stay until they are strong enough to make the journey,” Krandle says.

“You want me to park my sub here for three days?” Leonard replies with an edge to his voice.

“Aye, sir. It’s about finding survivors and preserving what’s left of humankind,” Krandle answers.

A long pause ensues before Leonard replies.

“Let me make this perfectly clear. It’s first about protecting the crew, but you have your three days. Have your medic send a list of his needs and be back before sundown.”

“I’ll be staying with them, sir,” Krandle states.

Another long moment of silence.

“Chief, you and your team are the only security force we have. That being said, our agreement gives you some latitude in how you operate. This would normally be non-negotiable, but I’m giving you leave to operate as you see fit. You have three days…three days only, and then we’re done here regardless of the situation,” Leonard replies.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Krandle walks to the others of his team to confer when one of the men hails him.

“What’s going to happen to us? You’re taking us with you, aren’t you?” the man asks on the verge of panic. His eyes have the fear that newly arrived hope is about to be yanked away.

“We’re going to stay to get you back on your feet and then guide you to a safe place that’s been set up,” Krandle answers.

“Thank you, sir,” the man says.

Krandle nods and joins the others. “Okay, gents, here’s the plan…”

Krandle stands at the edge of the mall parking lot, watching the day draw to a close. The clouds have given way allowing the sunset to bathe the sky in glorious reds and oranges. The horizon is painted as if a great fire burns there, which, technically, it does. A cool breeze blows at his back toward the ocean and where the rest of his team lies safely submerged with the Santa Fe. That is with the exception of Blanchard who is also remaining behind to minister to the weakened survivors.

During the day, the team relayed equipment from the sub to shore. Krandle remembers Franklin’s raised eyebrows as he read through the list Krandle gave him, but then he shrugged and tucked it in his pocket. To a person, everyone on the team volunteered to stay the night — even Speer, which surprised Krandle.

“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 gather 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.