SNAFU: Black Ops

SEAL TEAM BLUE A New World Novella John O’Brien

It first made its appearance in Cape Town, South Africa and quickly spread to the rest of the world with a speed seldom before witnessed. Many fell into its grasp, the phone lines into businesses filled with more people calling in sick than with customers. The aged, the young, and the ill succumbed to the virus, numbering in the hundreds of thousands. Services within cities became limited, prompting action by national governments. A coalition of pharmaceutical companies was formed to develop a vaccine, and money flowed from nations to speed up the process. Without the usual testing, the vaccine was released to military forces, followed a day later to the public.

In terror, verging on panic, most of the world’s populace was inoculated within a short period of time. Within seventy-two hours most of the world’s military lay sick in their beds, feverish and sweating. The vaccine was recalled, but it was too late. Ninety-six hours later, seventy per cent of them were dead. With the exception of a scant one per cent who proved immune or didn’t take the virus, the remaining were transformed.

Within those infected, the live virus caused genetic mutations that created elevated hearing, enhanced smell, the ability to see in the dark, and to communicate telepathically through the use of picture messages. The fast-twitch muscles were increased, allowing quicker responses, greater speed, and more agility. Higher brain function and memories were obliterated, leaving only anger and a lust for blood. Skin pigmentation was so altered that sunlight burned instantly, causing great agony and almost immediate death. Those transformed became ferocious creatures of the dark. Now pack animals, they laired during the day in shadowed places. When the sun sank below the horizon, they emerged to hunt the darkened streets, tearing apart any living thing they found. Dubbed the night runners, they ruled the night.

For the one per cent, life became a daily battle. Death was one moment of carelessness away. Outnumbered nearly thirty to one, that ratio increasing with each passing day, the survivors fought back as best as they could. Firepower was the only way to keep the ravenous hordes somewhat at bay.

Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle lies prone along the rubber gunwales of the zodiac combat raiding craft. One hand grips his suppressed M-4 while the other grips the rope handhold. Spray is thrown off to the side as the zodiac bounces through the rough waters, occasionally splashing up and over him. Wiping his goggles clear of salt water, he glances to his rear at the rest of his team.

Speer, currently hunched over and driving the raft, is his point man and resident joker. He grew up hunting in the Ozarks and can track with the best of them, but his attitude and seemingly constant sarcasm grate on Vance at times. However, there isn’t a better point man in the business.

Ortiz, lying just behind Krandle, runs slack — second position — and the little Puerto Rican is the picture of fury incarnate under fire. Perhaps it has something to do with his growing up in the East LA area. It has taken Krandle a while to bring that part of him under control.

Blanchard, crouched in the rear, is the designated medic and a skinny, quiet, unassuming kid from South Chicago. That quietness is belied by an internal fortitude. He will, without hesitation, venture into the thickest of combat to help a fellow teammate. Blanchard is also the one mostly on the end of Speer’s barbs. The tightness of the team makes these attempts good-natured without creating a fracture within the group.

His XO, Franklin, lies in the rear across the other side of the zodiac. The black petty officer from Atlanta is one sharp tack and will make a fine team leader someday. Well, he would have had events not changed the world.

Miller, lying directly opposite Krandle is a full-blooded Sioux who grew up in South Dakota. He rarely speaks, and even then his replies are limited to only a few words. Krandle is sure there are weeks when Miller’s word count never exceeds double digits. But, he is a master at covering their back trail. There were times when they had to backtrack and were unable to do so via any signs of their passage. He is that good.

Together, they make one hell of a fine team. They have fused into a single organism, each knowing the other’s thoughts and actions — knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. If anyone can make it through what they are facing, it’s them.

They’ve been inland once before, finding and rescuing a small band of survivors. Spotting smoke drifting above the wooded coastline of Oregon, Leonard brought the sub closer in and sent the team to investigate. “Remember, chief, you are it for us. No hero stuff. If it looks like too much trouble, withdraw. No matter what you find, be back an hour prior to dark,” Leonard had briefed before to sending them ashore.

Another splash coats Krandle’s goggles. Wiping them clear, he braces himself for the landing, mentally rehearsing actions as he’s done a hundred times before. Riding just in front of the surf, the waves diminish. The shore becomes visible over the tops. The tide is nearly at the high mark. Sand stretches wide, ending at a rocky bluff nearby at one end, and an inlet on the other. Past the waterway, the beach continues for a short distance before meeting a similar rocky cliff. Ahead, the beach terminates at small dunes with strands of grass waving in the wind. Beyond that, beach houses line the edge. In the distance, lines of smoke rise in plumes over the tops of trees.

Nearing the shore, Speer guns the motor and raises it at the last minute, the raft gliding the final few feet. As the raft kisses the sand, Krandle rolls off at the same time as Miller. Together, they fan out and race across the sand, their eyes searching every dune, every corner of the buildings ahead, into every window. In their wake, the remaining four grab the rope handles and pull the raft over the sand.

Krandle’s boots dig into the soft sand, creating divots as he powers across. Startled gulls screech as they’re driven to flight. Other than that, he only sounds are his boots driving into the beach, his breath forcefully exhaled, the hissing of the raft being dragged over the sand, and the muted roar of the Pacific.

He slides to a stop behind a short dune, its shadow created by the morning sun. Taking out the finely-honed knife strapped to his leg, Krandle cuts the rubber band holding the condom placed over his suppressor. He tosses the rubber into the sand where it potentially joins others used for their original purpose. A gust of wind carries fine grit that makes its way down his collar, and ruffles the pant legs and arms of his fatigues.

An onshore flow, great. Our scent will precede us. But, it’s daylight, so as long as we stay out of the buildings, we’ll be fine.

Krandle looks back to the expanse of the ocean. There’s nothing that interrupts the vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon, but Krandle knows the USS Santa Fe lies submerged just under the surface.

Inching to the top of the dune, Krandle parts the stiff grasses. Opened doors lead into darkness and curtains dance as drafts blow through broken windows. Nothing moves in and around the cottages. Overhead, gulls glide on the winds. Kneeling behind the dunes, the other team members alertly wait for his call.

Pressing the button on his throat mic, Krandle radios, “Stow the raft between the dunes. We’re heading for the light yellow house directly ahead.”

Hunched over, Speer leads, focused on the area directly ahead. Several paces behind, Ortiz concentrates his attention to the left quarter. Third in line, Krandle watches to the right front. Following is Blanchard, then Franklin, with Miller bringing up the rear.

Each knows their only worry in the daylight is from their own kind. Once the sun descends below the horizon, the night runners emerge from their lairs to begin their hunt. Their speed, cunning, and numbers make them extremely dangerous. While he and other survivors may own the day, they take a step down the food chain once night falls. Any darkened building is to be avoided, and only entered in the event of dire need.

Climbing a couple of steps, really nothing more than a few railroad ties, the team enters the yard and stacks against one of the corners. Krandle peers into the open back door. Closer to the house, the darkness peels back and the radiant light reveals upended furniture. Other objects lie strewn on a floor covered with a fine layer of sand blown in from the beach. It’s as if he’s looking upon a snapshot; the moment in time forever frozen with only the house carrying the memory of what happened within.

The hinges of the screen door squeak as a breeze passes through. Pulling his attention away from inside, Krandle makes his way to the corner and crouches just behind Speer. “What do you have?” he asks.

“Nothing. A street running parallel in front with more houses across. Just to the left, there’s an intersection with another road heading inland.”

A strong gust buffets the team; a screen door to the rear to slams against the door frame. All six jump and turn toward the sound.

“Fuck, I hate that!” Speer sharply whispers. “I think I just peed myself.”

“Well, get yourself cleaned up and lead us inland toward those smoke plumes,” Krandle says.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate this?” says Speer.

“Too many times. Now, get moving.”

As Speer rounds the corner and sidles toward the front, Krandle wonders if he’s ready for another day of listening to Speer bitch and moan. However, the sixth sense Speer has makes every complaint worth what he brings to the table. Speer halts near the front corner of the house and looks up and down the street. With a hand signal that it’s clear, Ortiz and the rest of them roll around the corner and kneel next to small bushes lining the side of the cottage. In place, they rise as one and dash across the avenue, piling at the corner of the house adjacent the intersection. A startled flock of birds takes flight, squawking their indignation at the intruders.

Krandle moves in front and stares down the road that heads deeper into the coastal community. Trees line the median on both sides of the street, shading overgrown lawns. Once trimmed bushes grow wild, their leaf-covered branches sticking out like morning hair. Along the street, several vehicles are parked against the curb with drifts of sand and debris piled up against their tires. Grit completely covers the pavement in places, the wind having created ripple-like patterns. As each breeze blows through, sand is driven across the surface, making it appear as if the street is in motion.

Shouldering his M-4, Krandle selects the 4x setting on his SpectreDR scope to get a closer look at the houses and surrounding area. At one abode, the tail of a cat quickly vanishes around the corner. In various locations, trails cut through the otherwise pristine layers of sand, possible evidence that night runners prowl these streets.

Something’s made their way through here recently.

Although he can’t see into every window from his vantage point, everything looks clear.

“What do you think?” Krandle directs his question to Speer.

“I think we should turn around and get the fuck out of here. These empty towns give me the fucking creeps.”

“And what if those smoke plumes are a sign of people who need help?”

“That’s their problem.”

“Well, too bad for you this isn’t a democracy. That’s where we’re going. Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”

“Someone in this outfit has to be the voice of reason,” Speer says.

This is Speer’s way of dealing with tension; the man has no intention of turning around, and would complain if Krandle suggested it.

“So, now that you’ve taken your dick out and waved it around, what do you think?” Krandle asks.

Speer shrugs. “It’s clear, but I wouldn’t want to be around after dark. There are more than a few night runners who come through here.”

Krandle directs Franklin, Blanchard, and Miller across the street, then places a hand on Speer’s shoulder. “Lead on.”

They head out, inching down opposite sidewalks with Franklin and the other two taking a staggered position behind. They’ve been through a couple of these abandoned towns before, but he’s with Speer on the eeriness. With the warmth, there should be the sound of kids playing, lawns being mowed, cars driving along the streets, and the smell of barbecues wafting on the breeze. There is only the swish of the wind through the trees, the soft crunch of their boots on the sand, and the occasional cry of a gull in the distance.

Only a few of the houses are intact; most have their windows broken and doors ajar. It’s quiet enough to hear a sporadic creak or moan of wood expanding in the rising heat. They come across tracks in the sand; trails leading down the street and through lawns. Speer halts and analyzes the impressions of each, coming up with how many night runners passed through and when. Each track is a reminder of what could be hiding within every building.

The team crosses several side streets, empty houses and parked vehicles along each of them. Sand piles against every object — the beach slowly reclaiming the city. There’s not a single scream from within any of the buildings, meaning the night runners of the city lair elsewhere. Krandle is well aware of their keen eyesight and ability to pick up the faintest scent. The barest whiff of prey will send them into a frenzy.

Exiting the residential neighborhood, Speer halts at a larger thoroughfare, crouching next to the wall of a building. Traffic lights swing from their wires over the intersection. Along the main avenue, several of the larger paned glass windows of the storefronts are broken, the interiors hidden in darkness.

The worst sign of the carnage that swept through the coastal town are body parts strewn along the street. The shredded remains of a pant leg lies in the middle of the intersection, the white of shin bones protruding from one end and a faded sneaker from the other. In a nearby shop, the rear of a pair of jeans humped over a broken window, the rest of the body hidden beneath a sand drift. Another deep drift invades one of the vehicles, its door open. The skeletal remains of a forearm, the dried remains of tendons still attached, extends from the sand as if attempting to pull the rest of the body clear. The upper torso protrudes from another drift. The skull sprouts a full head of hair with pieces of desiccated flesh dangling from the cheek and jaws. All along the avenue, tattered clothing and bones extend from drift of deep sand.

“Looks like it was some party,” Speer mutters.

“That it does,” Krandle says.

He knows the horror those lying in street experienced, not able to comprehend what was happening and trying to escape the sudden onslaught. The terror of knowing they weren’t going to make it, their last moments filled with the agony of having their flesh ripped from their bones.

A scream rips through the silence, quickly followed by others. The shrieks echo from deep within the darkened buildings, spilling out onto the street. Doves gathered on ledges take flight with a flurry of wings.

“Fuck me!” Speer says. “I think we just rang the dinner bell.”

“Yeah. I guess our company knows that we’re here,” says Krandle.

All six subconsciously edge back a step, weapons trained on the windows and doorways. Even though they know the night runners won’t emerge into the sunlight, the sounds reverberating throughout the town chill them to their very marrow.

They have several hours before they have to reverse their steps and begin making their way back to the shore. In the distance, rising above the roofs, the smoke that brought them inland still faintly plumes before being whisked away by the wind.

“What do you think it is?” Krandle motions to the smoke.

“Well, the power is off, so it can’t be some appliance that overheated. It’s too dark to be trees that caught fire. It’s not moving…” Speer trails off.

“So, you’re saying that you don’t know,” Krandle says.

“Pretty much.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did.”

“Remember those columns of vehicles that we’d come across in Iraq after A-10s would work them over?” says Ortiz.

“In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t Iraq and I don’t recall seeing strafing warthogs,” Speer says.

Ortiz shrugs.

“Stow it, Speer.” Krandle agrees the plumes of smoke do look like the columns they periodically came across in Iraq.

“Which way?” Speer says.

When Krandle spied the smoke through binoculars atop the sub’s bridge, he had thought it to be on the far side of the town, but now he isn’t so sure. ‘Highway 101’ runs along town rather than through it. Looking again at the smoke, he opts to follow the highway signs. If they come adjacent to the plumes before reaching the highway, they can circle around.

The drifts stand taller and wider here. In places, the sidewalk is completely covered, forcing the team into the avenue. The bones poking out of the sand and lying in the street have deeply etched bite marks. They step over and around purses, shoes, and other detritus from those that happened to be on the darkened streets when the night runners hit.

As they walk, the sun rises higher, but the swirling winds keep the heat at bay. The screams fade, become background noise.

Reaching the city limits, cars are haphazardly parked in the lots of a gas station to one side and a café to the other. Ahead, the access road leads through a stand of trees and ends at a stop sign bathed in the sun’s rays.

Well, the world is fine. It’s humanity that was flushed.

There’s no sign of the smoke above the tall firs, the winds won’t allow it, but Krandle knows the source is somewhere ahead and to their left. The smoke has grown fainter — the fire was dying down.

“It looks like whatever is burning is coming from on or near the road,” says Speer.

Krandle nods. “I agree. Take us into the trees. We’ll approach from there and get eyes on whatever it is.”

Six successive metallic clicks sound as each checks for a round in the chamber. A strong gust of wind marks their departure from the city limits. Leaving the fading screams of night runners behind, they angle across the avenue toward the trees.

Moving slowly to minimize sound, Speer leads the team through an outer layer of undergrowth, pausing to move branches out of the way before slithering past. With only an occasional brush of leaves against clothing and packs, they silently vanish, becoming one with the natural landscape.

The terrain under the firs opens up with only a scattering of underbrush. A few rays of sunlight find their way through openings in the boughs, angling amid the tree trunks. Insects dart in and out of the light in a never-ending stage show.

Once inside the woods, the going becomes easier. Taking care where to place his feet, Speer leads them along the edge of the outer-growth. They take their spacing between each other, more out of habit than from any threat. Six pairs of eyes search through the gloom, trying to pierce the shadows as they look for movement or the outline of a body.

Although it’s too light for night runners to be out, the danger lies with their own kind. Without the constraints of civilization, there are those who believe the changed reality means they can do as they please. The virus didn’t distinguish between bully and saint, making the world a much more dangerous place. Trust regarding strangers has been laid aside in the name of survival and the ones left are just as likely to open fire without question as to invite one into their hearth.

Nearing the highway edge of the woods, they halt. “Speer, Ortiz with me. The rest of you watch our six.”

Dropping their packs, Speer finds an opening under the bushes. Side by side, they crawl toward the road. At the edge, Krandle parts the leaves of the last screen of bushes, searching for a sign of anyone in the forest across the highway. Nothing. Inching forward, he looks toward where the smoke should be.

Up the road, a large fir lies across the road, the needle-covered branches obscuring a clear sight beyond. Past the fallen tree, faint plumes of smoke rise, climbing to a level just above the forest tops before being blown away. Near the barrier, the ground is churned up on both sides of the pavement.

“Looks like someone set up an ambush,” Speer whispers.

“Sure looks that way,” says Ortiz.

Krandle remains silent, turning his gaze down the highway in the opposite direction to where the steel girders of a bridge rise in the distance. Tapping Speer and Ortiz, he nods back toward the others. Easing the branches back into place, they inch back from the highway, covering their tracks as a matter of habit.

“Someone set up an ambush and triggered it. End of story. So, I’m all for calling it a day and heading back to the boat,” Speer says.

Krandle glances upward. “We still have a few hours and there may be survivors who need help.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Speer says despondently.

“If there is anyone left, they’re going to have itchy trigger fingers,” says Franklin.

“We’ll just have to be careful, then,” Krandle says.

“Those were tire tracks we saw leaving the road… a few of them. They might still be there,” says Speer.

“Possibly,” Krandle says. “We’ll work our way to where they came in and circle around.”

“So, we’re going, then?” Speer says.

Krandle looks at each team member. Franklin and Blanchard both nod, Miller shrugs.

“Fuck. You’re all going to be the death of me,” Speer says.

“We all gotta go sometime,” says Ortiz.

Krandle knows that’s just the way Speer deals with stuff; he’s not truly against going. He’d give you the shirt off his back, but bitch about it the entire time.

They continue near the inner screen of shrubs. Their pace slowed, knowing there is a good chance there’s trouble ahead. Speer advances ten paces, and then holds to watch and listen, measuring his next steps. They watch for a sudden flight of birds, listen for the wildlife to go quiet. The onshore flow continues to sweep through, the gusts beginning to calm. Six men silently creep through the woods, so quiet not even the animals are aware of their presence.

Speer arrives at the vehicle’s point of entrance and crouches. Each man lowers in place and scans their sectors, weapons ready to unleash a torrent of fire in a heartbeat.

Speer motions Krandle forward. “Looks like seven or eight quads, but it’s hard to tell,” says Speer. “They’re only a few hours old. It looks like the same thing across the road. Most are obscured, but look at the ones on top. The tread pattern shows them exiting the tree line.”

“So, they entered, triggered the ambush, and left?” asks Krandle.

“It would appear so. However, whether all of them left…” Speer ends his comment with a shrug.

“There’s no smell of exhaust,” Krandle says.

“No. Whatever went through here did so hours ago. And there aren’t any quads idling ahead. Even with the wind, we’d hear them from this distance.”

“Take us back into the woods and circle us around so that we come in from the side,” Krandle says.

“What’s our timetable?”

Krandle checks his watch. “We have four hours. So, that or until we finish verifying if anyone needs help.”

“Or we’re fired on.”

“Or that.”

Heading deeper into the woods, they resume their slow advance. Fingers stroke trigger guards or selector switches. With each step, small branches have to be moved out of the way, the weight gradually transitioned to avoid the crunch of needles. All their gear had been taped to prevent any metallic ping.

Speer finally calls a halt. “We’re past the tree. Do you want to head in from here, or circle around farther behind?”

Krandle looks in the direction of the highway, squinting to see into the shadows.

“There’s no one in the trees, and no sign of quads,” Speer states, watching Krandle. “But, there are people on the road.”

Krandle tries to see what Speer sees.

“No, chief, listen.”

Krandle strains to hear, but gives up and shakes his head.

“There are voices coming from the highway. They’re faint, but they’re there,” Speer says.

“How in the fuck can you hear that?”

“Pretty sure my grandpa fucked a dog, or something like that.”

“That’s messed up, Speer. You’re saying your grandma was a dog?”

Speer shrugs. “She was kind of a bitch.”

“You’re too much.”

Krandle thumbs the throat mic. “We’re going in from here. Move out on line.”

With weapons ready and eyes searching, they work their way toward the highway. After a short distance, Krandle begins hearing the voices Speer mentioned. He looks over at his point man, who gives him another shrug. As they advance, the forest floor gives evidence of recent travel. Halting away from the edge of the tree line, Krandle halts the team and motions for Speer to move up with him.

They both crouch at the edge of the tracks. Beyond the bushes, the murmur of voices with a shout occasionally rising. The smell of burned rubber, oil, and gas permeates the trees. Speer moves up and down the torn forest floor, studying the tracks.

“Whoever it was, they arrived on eight quads, which they parked over there.” Speer points. “They set up along the edge of the bushes. I can’t say for sure, but it looks like one person per quad, making it eight on this side. Given human nature for keeping things even, I would say seven to nine on the other side as well. It looks like they entered the tree line, did whatever they did, and left. There are indications of drag marks, so I’m guessing they took some non-compliant dinner guests with them.”

Speer motions to a woman’s shoe lying on the ground. “Of that nature.”

It appears raiders ambushed then kidnapped several of them, including at least one woman. Are the voices on the other side of the bushes from the assailants or victims? Did the attackers spring their ambush, take hostages, and leave the rest alive? If you’re going to go through all of the work involved, why leave the opening for retribution?

Perhaps the raiders feel overconfident… the ‘do as I please without reprisal kind of attitude.’ That’s if the ones on the highway aren’t those that attacked.

“Marauders or victims?” Krandle whispers, pointing toward the road.

Speer shrugs.

Krandle is left with the feeling that a band of survivors were waylaid and the women taken. Fading back to the others, he tells them the situation.

“Speer, Ortiz, you’re with me. Franklin, Blanchard, Miller, keep our six clear. We’re going forward and make contact if the ones ahead are victims. If they’re bandits, we’ll fade back and plan according to the situation,” Krandle says.

Expecting a reaction from Speer, Krandle is surprised when his point man just stares at his carbine, pretending to pick at an imaginary flake of rust. By the way everyone is looking at Speer, they are anticipating the same.

Speer glances up and sees everyone staring at him. “What?”

Shaking his head, Krandle says, “Let’s get on with this. Like Franklin said, if we’re dealing with victims, they’re apt to be trigger happy.”

Closer to the tree line, Speer freezes, holding up a fist. He sinks to his knees, his head turning a slow arc to the left. “Two sleepers. Near the split tree,” Speer whispers into his mic.

Krandle finds the location and focuses, his vision moving inches at a time, attempting to pick out an outline that doesn’t fit.

There, a pair of legs. The pant legs and shoes now clearly defined.

“Do you have a clear visual of both?” Krandles asks.

“Yeah. They think they’re being sneaky, but not doing a very good job at it.”

“Wait one. I’m moving to your location.”

Krandle edges forward, carefully setting his foot in order to remain silent. Going to one knee, he gazes to where Speer nods. Two heads peer over a shrub, looking toward the group on the road.

“Bandits or survivors?” Krandle asks.

“Bandits for sure. One lifted a carbine and simulated shooting while the two snickered.”

“They must have left these two behind in case they were followed. That implies radios,” Krandle says. “Is that all there are?”

“On this side of the road, yeah. Take them out?”

“We can’t very well leave them here. If they have radios, we’ll do our best to simulate traffic if they’re called,” Krandle says. “You take left, I have right.”

The two SEALs slowly lift their barrels, eyes down the scope. Krandle settles on his target, settling his breathing to keep his sight steady.

“Three… two… one.”

Two soft pops bounce off the trees, carrying no further than a few yards. The high-speed projectiles cross the distance nearly instantly, impacting with two almost simultaneous, meaty thunks. The two heads vanish beneath the branches in a mist of red. While the two have their weapons trained, two others from the team edge from the forest to verify the kills.

Kills confirmed, Krandle edges forward, going prone at the edge of the bushes and begins to slither through the undergrowth. Several needles make their way under his shirt and poke into his skin. Ignoring the pricks, he moves twigs out of his way before hauling himself forward a few more inches. Spread out to either side, Speer and Ortiz do the same. Reaching the outer edge, Krandle slowly lowers a branch and peers out into the highway.

Parked a little ways behind the fallen tree is a line of smoldering pickups, SUVs, and a couple of RVs. Just beyond the wreckage, the highway makes a sharp bend. Three small groups of people are gathered amid the wreckage, each cluster kneeling beside a figure lying on the ground. Near the fallen tree, a person stands on either side, looking up the highway toward the bridge. All of those on the road are men and the fact they’re all unarmed gives credence that they were the victims of the ambush.

“Move back,” Krandle quietly says, keying his throat mic.

Once gathered, Ortiz leans over and whispers to Speer, “Not like Iraq, huh?”

“Shut up, East LA.”

“Says the hillbilly.”

“Hey, Blanchard. Do you have anything in your bag for an aching prick? I have one sitting beside me,” Speer says.

“The only aching prick here is the one between your legs. I warned you about fucking goats,” Ortiz returns.

“A goat? I thought that was your mother. Can’t tell the two of them apart.”

“Both of you stow it,” Krandle says. “It looks like we’re dealing with victims. There are fourteen unarmed men, counting three injured. Although it looks like the far side is clear, Franklin, take Speer and Ortiz to make sure. The road curves beyond the wreckage, so cross past that point. Be alert for any sleepers on that side. Once we’re secure, we’ll make contact. There are injured, but we need to see to our own security first.”

The three depart, leaving Krandle with Blanchard and Miller, forming a tight perimeter. While keeping an eye through the trees, Krandle looks toward the path they took to get here. There’s no sign of their having traversed the forest floor. He wonders if he’ll ever get over his amazement at how well Miller can erase signs of their passage.

I’ll have to ask Franklin if he hears soft chanting and spells being cast behind him. One of these days, I’m going to make a thorough mess and see if Miller can cover it up.

Time passes. The angle of the sun’s rays pouring through the trees changes, some vanishing and others appearing. The voices on the road rise and lower. Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, knowing the three making their way to the other side are being cautious in their approach, but it’s taking forever.

They don’t have long before they have to begin their trek back to the boat. The injured on the road will create a challenge. Even if the bandits leave them alone, without their vehicles and with injured, they won’t make it very far. When the sun sets, the night runners will pick up the scent of those in the road, especially with the smell of blood. And, once it begins to cool, the wind will most likely change to an offshore flow, bringing their scent directly into town. Even though the town is small, there will still be thousands of night runners.

Let’s say there were six thousand in the town before the gates of hell opened. What did Captain Walker say? That some seventy percent became infected? That leaves, well, a whole hell of a lot. Forty-two hundred? Is that right? We each have thirty mags, including those in our packs. That gives us… fuck I hate math. Thirty times thirty equals… nine hundred, I think. And that times six is… fifty-four hundred, minus the one shell we leave out of the mags. So, barely enough. And if the town held more people…

“Far side is clear.” Franklin’s voice crackles in Krandle’s ear piece, drawing him out of his math class.

“Stay in place, we’re moving up to make contact,” Krandle replies. Retracing his route, Krandle parts a branch. Keeping a low profile, he calls out, “Ahoy there in the road.”

All eyes snap in his direction, the panic visible even from a distance.

“We’re friendlies and coming out. Please don’t make any sudden movements.”

Into his mic, Krandle directs Franklin and the others to hold position on the other side. Those in the road rise, the ones by the tree remain frozen in place, all staring in this direction. Krandle rises and exits the bushes alongside Blanchard and Miller. There’s a collective gasp among those on the road as they observe three heavily armed, camouflaged soldiers emerge from the bushes.

“Are you Army?” one man calls out.

“Navy SEALS, sir,” Krandle says.

The held gasp is replaced by simultaneous sighs of relief, followed by a chorus of voices; some asking to help the wounded, others trying to explain what happened. Krandle holds a hand up, bringing silence.

“Blanchard, see to the wounded,” Krandle says. Into the mic, he continues, “Miller, Franklin, into the trees near the corner. Speer, Ortiz, the woods near the fallen tree.”

Blanchard unshoulders his pack and proceeds to triage those lying injured on the ground.

“What happened here?” Krandle asks the man who first called out.

“We were coming out of Portland, picking up others along the way, and came across this tree in the road. We got out to clear it, thinking it had fallen and were attacked from the sides. A couple of us were armed, but they took those away. We didn’t really have much of a choice,” the man says. “I’m Doug, by the way.”

“Chief Petty Officer Krandle. How many were there?” Krandle wonders how anyone could fail to spot such an obvious ambush, but leaves that unsaid.

“I don’t know exactly… fifteen? Twenty?” Doug says.

“Go on?”

“Well, they shot Shaun right away. They said it was to show us they were serious. After disarming us, they ordered everyone out and made us gather by the tree. They went through the vehicles, taking what they wanted. Then, they said they were taking ‘our women’ as they so quaintly put it. They started grabbing them. Mark fought back as they were grabbing his wife, Lindy. They shot him, then one of the assholes asked if there was anyone else who wanted a piece. I’ve never felt so damn helpless in all my life. I had to watch them drag our wives and daughters away.”

“Daughters?” Krandle’s anger rises.

“Yeah. They took everyone. Five of our wives and two teenage daughters,” the man says, tears forming in his eyes then streaming down his cheeks.

Krandle notes the man’s tightly clenched fist. “I know it’s difficult, but finish the tale if you can.”

“That’s it. They took our women and weapons. Oh, and shot Adam as they left, telling us not to follow them, that we should count ourselves as lucky and move on. Lucky? I wish they had killed me.”

“How did they leave? Vehicles?”

“A couple of vans drove up on the other side of the tree as they were leaving,” says Doug. “They loaded our supplies and threw the women in. I heard motors crank up in the woods and they left.”

“Did they take the turn into town?”

“No, they drove up the highway toward the bridge. I lost sight of them after a bit.”

“Okay. Do you have food and water?”

“Not anymore.”

“We have some. Where were you heading? What was your destination?” Krandle is curious if there was some haven they had in mind.

“Nowhere really. Just south. We planned on driving during the day, stopping where we could to refill our tanks… find what food we could. At night, we’d hole up out of populated areas. We kind of figured a place would just show up and we’d know it when we found it. Now, I’m walking until I find those fuckers and get my wife back.”

“Unarmed? Alone?” Krandle raises his eyebrows. He knows the anger and fear the man must be feeling… the hopelessness.

“I’ll find something along the way and I’m sure the others will want the same thing.”

“Hold that thought,” Krandle says.

“Are you going to chase them down? I guess I mean, will you?”

“Just hold that thought.”

Krandle removes what water and food he has, handing it to the man. “It’s not much, but pass it around to the others.” He steps over to Blanchard and crouches. “What do you have?”

“One with a sucking chest wound. Another with a hole in his stomach. The third one looks like he has a cracked femur, but he’ll be fine,” Blanchard says.

“And the other two?”

Blanchard sighs. “I can’t do much for the sucking chest wound. I have it sealed, but it will need constant deflating and he’ll need surgery pronto. He’s already exhibiting subcutaneous Emphysema, you know, bubbles under the skin. If we had a medevac available, he might have a chance. We don’t, so…

“The gut wound is iffy. I’ll do what I can, but if he doesn’t die from blood loss, there’s a good chance Sepsis will finish the job,” Blanchard says. “I’ve given them all morphine, so at least they don’t feel it.”

“Can they be moved?”

“They probably won’t survive the trip to the boat, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Krandle frowns in thought. “What about to that bridge?”

“I don’t know what good that will do, but probably that far and not much more. Honestly, chief, with night coming on, these people will be better off leaving these two and finding somewhere safe. If they leave now, they may be able to put enough distance between them and the town.”

“Do what you can,” Krandle says, rising and heading toward the now huddled group of survivors.

“Okay folks, here’s the deal. And, you may not like it much. I know you’ve already been through a lot, but I’m going to lay this out bluntly. First off, we can’t take you aboard the sub we came in on, there’s just not enough room. As you may already know, there’s a town on the other side of those woods, along with thousands of night runners. So, staying here is a death sentence,” Krandle says.

“So, you’re not going to help us? You’re going to just leave our wives and daughters in the hands of those assholes,” one man says.

“I didn’t say that. I’m just laying out the situation for you.”

“Let the man speak, Phil,” Doug says.

“Thank you. Two of your wounded may not make it… more than likely they won’t, and they can’t be moved far. With nightfall coming on in a few hours, one choice is to leave them and put as much distance as you can from the town. You’ll have to carry the man with the leg wound.”

“We can’t do that. We can’t just leave them to die all alone. That would be akin to murder,” another man says.

“I said that’s one choice. Another is stay here with them, but you won’t make it through the night. That’s just a fact and it won’t help your loved ones much. I know you’re wondering if we can help, both through the night and for your wives and daughters. I and the others will want to stay, but the overall choice isn’t mine to make. I know you may not understand, but we’re it for a bunch of other folks, too. It’s a fucked up world. It sucks, I know, but I just wanted to let you know your options if we can’t stay. I’m going to try and convince my boss to remain. I’ll leave you to talk things over.”

Krandle calls the others in and relates the information he received.

“How could they be so stupid?” Speer asks.

“You know, everything aside, leaving them with wounded to slow them down so they can’t follow makes some kind of tactical sense. That shows what we may be up against if we opt for a rescue attempt. Although, they may not have had that in mind and are just assholes,” says Franklin.

“Ah, shit. We’re staying, aren’t we? I know that look in your eye,” Speer says.

“Do we really have a choice?” says Krandle.

“No. But, dammit. I don’t mind missions and shit, but I miss the downtime in between with beers and women.”

“You don’t get women, Speer, unless you pay for them. And then, it’s still fifty-fifty. Remember Bangkok?” Ortiz says with a grin.

“Shut the fuck up about that. That… never happened. And I get more than Blanchard over there.” Speer points toward the medic hovering over the injured.

“You know, I seriously doubt that,” Miller says, glancing at Blanchard with a speculative expression. “I bet he gets more than the rest of us combined.”

“What the fuck do you know, chief?” Speer says.

Miller shrugs, his words for the week spoken.

“Those guys who ambushed these poor fuckers were on quads, so they can’t be that far,” Ortiz says.

“Agreed, but we’ll deal with that later, unless we come across their tracks. It’s a fair bet they’ll be far enough away to be out of range of the night runners. Right now, we need to think about getting through the night. The ammo we’re carrying might not be enough for the night runners laired in the city,” Krandle says.

“More good news,” Speer mutters.

“We have claymores and grenades,” Franklin says, ignoring Speer.

“That we do. If we’re saddled with the wounded, we won’t be able to make it far. Blanchard says they’ll make it to the bridge south of us. It’s the best defensible area in sight, effectively giving us a single front,” says Krandle.

“Then the bridge it is. Have you spoken with Leonard? He may order us to return,” Franklin says.

Krandle shook his head. “No, not yet. I’m going to give him a call now and I may leave out a detail or two.”

“I have my shiny armor all polished if we’re going to rescue those damsels in distress come morning. All I need is a white horse,” Speer says, looking around for one. “Let’s just hope the dragon is asleep.”

Krandle steps away and raises the sub on the radio and gives Leonard the situation. He informs him of their desire to stay with the wounded and move them out of harm’s way, to watch over them for the night before sending them along on their own. The radio silence that follows is palpable.

“Chief, you realize you’re all we have… that you have other responsibilities as well,” Leonard finally says.

“Aye, sir.”

“I don’t like it, but very well. You make it back, and that’s an order. We’ll be standing by in case.” Leonard’s frustration with his SEAL team leader is evident.

“Aye, aye, sir. We’ll radio our coordinates when we have them.”

There isn’t a reply and Krandle knows that he’s in for an earful once they return. But, that was their bargain for Krandle and his team staying. They had a chance to leave with Captain Walker and his group when they all met at the Bangor Naval Station. Leonard commanded the sub, and in essence, his SEAL team. But, the world had changed and even Leonard eventually came to recognize that. For Krandle and his team staying, an agreement of sorts was made. Krandle could make the final decision whether to go ashore and when to pull back or proceed. Leonard was still in overall command, and could have ordered them back, but gave Krandle the leeway as the on-scene commander.

“What did he say?” Franklin asks upon Krandle’s return.

“It’s not so much what he said, as what he’s going to say when we get back.”

“That sounds like it’ll be fun,” Franklin mutters.

“About as much as a visit to the proctologist. Okay, we’re heading to the bridge. I want Speer and Ortiz to scout ahead on the left. Franklin, take Miller with you on the right. I don’t have to tell you to keep an eye out for our mysterious guests.”

“Copy that,” Franklin says.

“We’ll get the wounded loaded and follow.”

The four scouts fade into the woods on both sides as Krandle returns to those gathered.

“Okay, we’re staying. We need to build stretchers for the wounded and move toward the bridge. It’s not far and we can expect company this evening, but that’s where we’re staying,” Krandle says.

Fourteen shoulders sag in relief, looking almost like candles melting under high heat.

“Thank you,” Doug says.

“I hope you understand it’s not like we didn’t want to help, it’s—”

“We understand,” Doug interrupts. “And thank you again.”

“Do any of you have any weapons? Those that weren’t taken?” Krandle asks.

“Only in that,” Doug says, pointing toward the smoldering wreckage of vehicles.

“Fair enough. Your people will carry the wounded. My medic will stay with them and monitor them. I want to be clear, they may not make it very long. You need to be prepared for that.”

Doug nods. “And our wives?”

“We’ll talk about that in the morning. We have an interesting night to get through first.”

Gathering a few thicker branches, they create a couple of makeshift stretchers using ponchos and Para cord. The femur isn’t broken, but Blanchard suspects it’s fractured. Using a crutch cut from a bough and the help of a shoulder, the man is able to hobble along. Another small dose of morphine helps, but Blanchard is fairly sure they’ll have to make a third stretcher before they reach the bridge.

The group manhandles the stretchers past the fallen tree and begins the trudge down the highway toward the distant bridge. Knowing the other four of his team has the front covered, Krandle positions himself at the rear. Gazing up at the afternoon sun, they’ll have only a couple of hours of light once they reach the span. Time weighs on his shoulders and he mentally urges the group to move faster, knowing they’ll have a lot to do once they arrive.

“We’re at the edge of a ravine that the bridge crosses. All clear to this point,” Franklin radios.

“Continue across and scout the far side. We don’t want any surprises coming from there. We’ll be a while yet getting there,” Krandle replies.

“Copy that. We’re on the move.”

As they walk, Krandle observes the group’s nervous looks toward the trees, as if expecting the bandits to suddenly materialize. He assures them the others in his team have reached the bridge and reported the way clear. That does little to alleviate the anxious looks. Several times during their trek, Blanchard has them halt and tends to the man with the chest wound.

As they step onto the span, Franklin and the others emerge from the tree line on the other side. “No sign of anyone for at least a mile,” Franklin reports.

Krandle nods. “Have the civilians set up on the far end away from town, then grab your packs and meet me at the near end. If night runners show up tonight, it will be from that direction. We need to arrange a welcome.”

With the group positioned, the team empties their packs. Krandle looks over the landscape while radioing in their position to the sub. The bridge itself is almost an eighth of a mile across, spanning a fairly deep gorge with a stream running its length. The tree-lined ravine shallows as it nears the shoreline, as does the stream before it empties out onto the sand and the incoming waves.

Ahead, the two-lane highway stretches straight with narrow medians of tall grass to either side. The sward gives way to firs reaching skyward.

Good line of sight to the front, but if they emerge from the trees nearby, we won’t have much reaction time. Krandle studies the terrain. They can’t move across the ravine, unless they go all of the way to the beach. And, the bandits won’t come out once the sun sets, so our rear should be secure.

Krandle relates his thoughts to the team, “So, we need to focus on the front. If our scent is picked up, we have the potential of thousands heading our way. We’ll set our twelve claymores singly. I want one on each of the front girders with another two spaced along the ravine on either side in case we’re rushed and need to create a little room. The others staged in the grass along the highway. If they see us, they’ll make a beeline toward us… at least initially. Let’s not forget they’re cagey and have the capability to change strategies.”

Turning to Blanchard, he asks, “How are the wounded?”

“The one with the gunshot to the leg will live, although painfully for some time. I had to aspirate the chest wound several times. The one who is gut shot is bleeding out and I’ve run through all my IVs.”

“Is there any chance those two will make it?”

Blanchard shakes his head.

“Then, I guess the only thing to do is make them comfortable,” Krandle says.

“Any more morphine will kill them. But, I guess that doesn’t really matter,” says Blanchard.

“Will you be needed with them tonight?”

“There’s not really much I can do. I’ll give them a last dose of morphine, but that’s about it.”

“Okay. I want you up here with us once the sun hits the horizon. We may need every weapon online.”

“Aye, chief.”

Krandle looks toward the beach and the sun closing in on the horizon. “Speer, how long will it take you and Ortiz to reach the shoreline, get to the raft, drag it near the stream, and make your way back?”

“Are you asking about being stealthy, or going at a flat out run?”

“Somewhere in between,” Krandle replies.

“Well, seeing that Ortiz runs as fast as a turtle in mud… two hours… give or take,” Speer says.

“Fuck you, Speer. I can outrun your skinny hillbilly ass any day of the week. The only time you may be able to run faster is if your mom caught you with your sister again.”

“The only time you can remotely run fast, East LA, is if you hear the words ‘freeze’.”

“If you two are done making out, you have two hours. That’s about all of the time you have unless you want to be supper. If the sun sets, you’ll both get a chance to set land speed records. Before you go, leave your claymores and clackers with Franklin.”

As Speer and Ortiz disappear into the tree line, Krandle and the others set to laying the claymores and trailing the wires back to the bridge. Finishing, Krandle stands. Just as he feared, a slight breeze flows toward the ocean from the inland side. Staring toward where the others were waylaid, he knows that with the offshore flow, the scent of blood at the scene of the attack will make its way into the town. That will draw the night runners out and possibly to their position. He isn’t exactly sure to what extent the night runners have an enhanced sense of smell. It’s entirely possible they may investigate the site and not know the group is at the bridge.

I can only hope we’re far enough away.

Krandle turns toward the beach, seeing Speer and Ortiz manhandle the raft across the stream and store it in the dunes.

“You know that won’t hold everyone. Even if they hang onto the sides,” Franklin says.

“I know. But, if we get overrun and get scattered, it’s there.”

“Did you tell them about it?” Franklin asks, motioning to the group of civilians.

“I will if it comes to that point. I don’t want them to get antsy if shit hits the fan and for them to make a run for it early. That will leave us stranded,” Krandle says.

“Fair enough.”

The sun is near the horizon, the western sky a myriad of oranges and reds. The beams of the dying sun ripple across the ocean, an endless dance of light. Speer and Ortiz arrive, pulling spare mags from their packs and storing them in every available space. They replace those that they can’t find room for and shoulder their packs. Donning their NVG gear, they take a knee near the front of the bridge.

Krandle would have liked to create a barricade, but there weren’t enough materials. It may not have slowed the night runners any, but it would have given a little mental lift knowing there was something between them and the predators of the night. The sun dips below the horizon, light flaring upward, then vanishing. The deep blue sky to the east darkens, turning to black velvet which slowly invades the heavens. Stars stab out from an ebony background, twinkling silver. The sight of something so vast makes him feel small, as if their problem is so minute within the universe as to be non-existent. In the distance, screams echo across the newly darkened night.

Time passes. Behind the NVGs, his eyes feel dry and gritty from lack of sleep. He scans the trees, looking for any sign the night runners are venturing from the city. Even with binoculars, there’s no way to tell if they are hovering around the ambush zone. With the drafts of winds swirling around, he knows the night runners had to have caught scent of the spilled blood. It’s just a matter of if they pick up on their trail or catch wind of their current location. They haven’t seen any to this point.

So far, so good. Krandle turns to glance toward the civilians.

There’s no sight of them at the far end of the bridge, having been told that it’s paramount they remain hidden. Although the night runners are able to see in the dark, again, Krandle isn’t sure exactly how well. A slight breeze chills his neck as it flows from behind. The world beyond is bathed in a green glow for as far as he is able to see. The limited area of vision means they won’t have a lot of time to react should they be discovered.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this. They feel close,” Speer whispers in Krandle’s ear piece.

A chill runs up Krandle’s spine and the hairs on his neck stand on end; this time it’s not associated with any breeze. He’s learned to listen to Speer’s senses. When Speer voices one of his ‘feelings’, it’s damn near a fact in Krandle’s book. His finger runs along the trigger guard as he peers into the green-lit night.

“There, to the left… near the road,” Speer whispers.

A night runner emerges into view, its pale face almost glowing. It takes a step, face upraised as it sniffs the air. Another step, the head turning left and right as it attempts to pinpoint whatever scent it’s tracking. It’s too far away to ensure a killing shot. To fire now and only injure it will guarantee discovery. If it draws closer and hasn’t alerted any others, they’ll take it down before it can draw more into the area.

“Remember gents, semi-auto,” Krandle whispers. “If we’re located, wait until they’re close. We need to make every shot count.”

Another night runner joins the first, then another, all with their noses pointed to the heavens. Krandle’s experience tells him they left their lairs, raced to the smell of blood, and have been tracking the source ever since; moving from one side of the road to the other to pick up a trace scent in the swirling breeze, perpetually drawing closer. It’s just a matter of time before they’re located.

Just a little closer. Slowly shouldering his M-4, he hand-signals targets to the others.

His heart thumps solidly against his ribs, and he forces himself to draw in slow, deep breaths to calm his nerves. Each second feels like an hour, that moment in time just before a storm releases its fury… the waiting for it to unleash… hoping it will turn aside at the last instant.

Krandle anxiously watches as the first night runner tenses, its body becoming rigid. In his mind, Krandle hears the rumble of storm clouds. The creature’s head snaps toward where the six of them are kneeling and leans forward. Its eyes glow with a silvery light, making the hairs on Krandle’s arm stand upright. He knows the night runner is staring directly at him. The two other predators standing in the grass also suddenly turn their heads. Krandle looks out from his NVGs at three pair of liquid silver eyes staring back at him.

“Oh fuck!” Speer whispers.

The night runners lift their heads and shriek, the ear-piercing screams echoing off the trees and along the road.

“It’s go time, gents. The dinner bell has been rung and they’ll be bringing guests,” Krandle says quietly.

The three night runners leap forward, one instant standing still the next, closing the distance at a full sprint.

“Speer, Ortiz, Miller… left, middle, right,” Krandle says aloud, the need for quiet past.

In the time it takes to breathe once, the night runners have closed half of the distance. Krandle knew they were fast, but has only encountered them inside of buildings. Those times, they appeared like monkeys with crazy agility. Here, in open terrain, they seem like jaguars streaking toward their prey. Three nearly simultaneous muted shots leave the barrels with accompanying quick flashes of light. The rounds streak out and rapidly close the distance, uncaring of what they hit, only obeying the laws of physics and going where they’re pointed. Amid the shrieks, the minute metallic tinkle of expended shells strike the pavement.

Krandle watches as the lead night runner’s head as the bullet strikes home under its eye. The projectile hits the solid bone and mushrooms, angling upward through the eye and carving a tunnel through soft gray matter. It slams into the inside of the skull, shattering the bullet. The back of the night runner’s head explodes in a spray of bone, blood, and chunks of flesh. The rest of its body, not realizing that it’s dead, continues running a step. The creature’s feet leave the ground and its back slams onto the highway.

The other two go down in quick fashion, their fallen bodies partially hidden by the taller grass. In the distance, answering screams carry on the night air, growing louder. The faint smell of nitrate drifts quickly away. The shrieks grow in intensity and volume, becoming a din as groups of night runners pour into the field of vision. Krandle radios the sub, letting them know they have company.

“Can you exfil?” Leonard asks.

“No, sir. It’s a little late for that and we’d lose the civilians. But, we may need some of your toys if it gets too rough.”

“We’ll need five minutes to any of the pre-plotted targets, ten if there are any new ones,” Leonard says.

“Copy that, sir. The pre-plotted ones will be fine. I’ll let you know. Out.”

Small groups of night runners stream across the grass and along the road, the screams permeating the area. Gunfire streaks out from the team lined across the bridge, periodic tracers crossing like fiery spears. While others have differing ideas about how they load tracers, Krandle loads his mag with the third to last round going out as a tracer so he knows when he’s down to his last shell. In his mind, it makes it a whole hell of a lot faster to reload, getting a visual representation rather than waiting for the slide to lock back.

Krandle adds his fire to the left. Speer and Ortiz are concentrating on the ones near the road, Franklin and Miller to the right. Blanchard, with the clackers arranged at his feet, is directing his fire into the groups racing from the left. The first small groups of night runners are mowed down, each figure going down with splashes of blood spraying into the air. More fill their places, leaping over the bodies of their fallen and charging forward.

Krandle zeroes in on one head, fires, then makes a minute movement to scope in on the next, only marginally aware of the previous one falling. Night runners continue closing in until they fill the area from one tree line to another. Shrieks pierce the night, seeming to vibrate his skull. Calls of “reloading”, the screams, the background sound of continuous gunfire, and spent shells hitting the ground combine to create a cacophony of noise. The smell of gunpowder fills Krandle’s nose.

Bodies fall one after another, yet the scene is filled with the glowing faces of night runners pushing forward. Dozens go down, dead, dying, or injured, yet the horde draws ever closer. Krandle knows there is a tipping point at which the night runners will surge forward and there’s nothing they will be able to do about it.

He grasps Blanchard’s shoulder. Above the din, he has to lean over and yell in his ear to be heard. “We need to create gaps. Blow eleven and twelve.”

Blanchard grabs two of the clackers, squeezing each repeatedly. On either side of the highway, two large explosions rip through the night in succession. Ball bearings, propelled by C-4, tear through night runners in their path. Those nearest disintegrate into clouds of pink mist, the heavier chunks of flesh and bone hitting the pavement with meaty thunks. Beyond, limbs are separated and bodies ripped open, spilling their contents to the ground. Bodies are lifted into the air and thrown backward.

“Nine and ten,” Krandle yells.

Two closer blasts rock the night, sending more night runners sailing. The explosions cause a momentary pause of the night runners in front as they turn to look at what erupted in their midst. The rolling blasts of the claymores fade, ending in a moment of silence.

“Holy shit. Did you see those bodies?” Speer says.

In the immediate silence, Krandle’s ears ring. As one, the night runners in front turn toward the bridge and shriek.

Break’s over. Krandle delivers fire into the midst of night runners again racing forward.

Intent on focusing on one night runner after another, he’s taken aback when he looks through his scope to find… nothing. He jerks it back and forth, seeking a new target. There’s only a green glow filled with bodies, but none of them upright. Lowering his weapon, he gazes out at the destruction. Figures lie in heaped piles, or singly, some crawling as if to get away from their pain. Finally, he notices the lack of shrieks. There are only the groans and screams of the injured. Beside him, the others of his team stare out at the carnage.

The scent of gunpowder dissipates, bringing the raw iron scent of spilled blood and the stink of torn intestines on the swirling wind. Hundreds of night runners, possibly over a thousand, lie across the chewed-up ground with barely a clear space showing.

“Is that it?” Speer asks.

“I doubt it. There have to be thousands in that town and we’ve never seen them just give up,” Franklin says.

“Ammo check. They’ll be back. The claymores made them hesitate. Be ready for a change of tactics,” Krandle says.

“Twenty, plus whatever I have left in the current one,” Speer says.

The rest of the team reports on their ammo situation; they’ve used nearly a third of it.

“Figures you’d have the most mags left, pretty boy.” Speer directs his remark to Blanchard after an ammo check.

“Had to blow the claymores,” Blanchard says with a shrug.

“Test the remaining wires,” Krandle tells Blanchard. “We need to know how many are still operational.”

Blanchard disconnects the clackers and puts the tester on each one.

“All circuits test out,” he says, finishing.

Shrieks, other than those coming from the wounded, grow louder, but also somewhat muted. Krandle looks along the road, but it and the flanks remain clear. He turns his head, attempting to locate the origins. Each time he thinks he has it, it changes.

“They’re in the trees,” Miller says.

All eyes look to the left and right, trying to peer through the undergrowth. The shrieks grow louder, coming from both directions.

“They’re going to try and rush us from both sides,” Krandle says. “Speer, you help with the left if they do. Blanchard, you stay right next to me. Franklin, you, Miller and Ortiz have the right.”

As if a switch were thrown, the screams go silent. Except for the injured in near the road, a hush falls.

“Well, that’s fucking creepy,” Speer whispers.

In the distance, near where the four claymores blew holes in their ranks, night runners emerge from the woods, filling the roadway and median. Rank upon rank gather, their eyes flashing silver as the light catches them right. Behind the front ranks, more filter out. Thousands gather, filling the highway beyond sight.

“Fuuuck me!” Speer again whispers.

Krandle’s throat tightens and his stomach clenches. He heard stories from Captain Walker about their ability to change tactics, but he never thought them truly capable of something like this. He had thought them animals, perhaps cunning, but mindless nonetheless.

The night runners in the middle jostle, as if something was moving through their midst. The front line parts and a solitary night runner steps forth, coming to halt several paces ahead of the others. The massed night runners and the SEAL Team stare across the open space at each other, neither moving. The lone night runner lifts its head upward, looking from left to right, seeming to gaze at each horizon. Then, lowering its head to look directly at the group holding the bridge, it screams. The horde of night runners surge around him, the night once again filling with shrieks.

Krandle thinks about pulling back to the middle of the bridge to create a chokepoint, but the night runners will climb the girders and be in their midst in no time. He radios the sub.

“We’re going to need those toys, and soon. Fire on plots one and two, south to north along the highway.”

“Five minutes, chief… ready, ready, hack,” he receives.

Krandle hits the button on his watch to start his timer.

“Five minutes, gents. We need to hold the line here. Give them all you have. Blanchard, blow the claymores as the line reaches each one. Save the four near the bridge.”

Krandle thumbs his selector switch to auto and, with the others firing, begins sending burst after burst into the charging night runners. The front line goes down as if they hit a tripwire. As the night runners encounter the bodies on the ground, they begin leaping over, making it difficult to get a clear shot. Some jump over bodies, only to fall forward as rounds strike home. The once solid line becomes ragged, but the empty places are filled quickly. There are more bodies racing toward them than outgoing fire and the line draws inexorably closer.

Two explosions tear through the night, momentarily drowning out the screaming horde. The line staggers as ball bearings rip through the ranks. Night runners leap through the dissipating smoke, charging forward. Bullets continue to thin the front ranks, bodies piling up. Two more blasts, but still they come. Glancing at his watch, Krandle is left with the sinking feeling they won’t make it the remaining three minutes.

Offshore, the surface of the ocean erupts in a geyser of water as the cruise missile is pushed into the sky. Through the plume of water, the engine ignites in a roar. The missile sails across the open water, tailing a barely visible flame. Five seconds later, a second missile bursts through the surface and is thrust skyward.

Krandle thumbs an empty mag free, jamming another one home and hitting the bolt release. The slide slams forward and he delivers more fire into the closing ranks. One burst, then another, not bothering to take aim other than into the midst of bodies. His bullets will hit something, and that’s all they need at the moment — night runners down.

The fire from his team is relentless, the air in front of them thick with outgoing rounds. They slam home into bodies, hitting arms, legs, shoulders, chests, and heads. Skin is torn and bones shattered. Hitting knees, the bullets angle upward, tearing through bowels before exiting the shoulder. The ground around the team is littered with the gleam of spent casings and emptied mags. Still, the night runners inch ever forward in a relentless tide.

Two minutes.

The last of the claymores blow, mangling numerous night runners, but the surging point is drawing near — the point at which the SEAL team will only be seconds away from being overrun and annihilated. The line is near and their fire is keeping the monsters at bay.

This is like fighting a wave of water. Any slack and that wave will crest.

The bodies stack higher at the front, slowing the efforts of the night runners.

“Trees!” Krandle hears Miller call.

Daring to glance away, Krandle sees night runners pouring out of the nearby tree line.

“How long do you think it will take us to run to the other side?” Krandle yells to Blanchard.

“Eighth of a mile… forty seconds. Thirty with these bastards on my tail.”

“Speer?”

“I can fucking teleport there if I need to.”

Thoughts race through Krandle’s head at light speed. If the team leaves too early, the night runners will make it to the bridge and be among them. However, they won’t be able to keep the new horde of night runners and those on the highway back at the same time.

Fuck it! We gotta go.

“Franklin, take the others and set up mid bridge. I’ll wait and blow the claymores. Don’t fucking shoot me. Now, go!”

The others turn to run. Without the fire holding it back, the wave of night runners crests and surges forward. The ones streaming from the woods are close, some even falling into the ravine from the tight-packed bunch.

Looking down, he sees the four minute mark pass.

Good enough.

Krandle rapidly squeezes the clackers, one after the other. The near explosions, coming seconds apart, rock the bridge. A wet mist mixes with the roiling smoke. Without another look, he races to his teammates setting up near the middle of the bridge. He reaches them and turns, each of them delivering a mag into the recovering mass of night runners.

“Time to go,” Krandle yells, glancing at his watch.

There’s no need to tell the civilians to run; they have already taken to their heels. Well, most of them. Two are assisting the man with the wounded leg — assisting being a matter of perspective. A better definition would be dragging.

Near the end of the bridge, Krandle notes two bodies with the remains of stretchers over them. He has no idea when they died. A roar and tail of flame flashes overhead. He and his team dive into the grass beside the road as they hear several loud ‘pops’ from behind.

A series of explosions tear through the night, becoming one continuous roar. The team all turn to take care of any night runners on the bridge, but their light filters are overwhelmed by the cluster munitions dropped. Another roar streaks overhead, adding its payload to the thundering explosions.

The echoes die away.

The team rises to their knees, weapons trained on the bridge. Expecting some night runners to remain, Krandle is confused by the empty bridge. His NVGs recover. There is devastation on the other side of the ravine.

The ground is churned beyond recognition. To the sides, the underbrush lining the trees is all but gone, the trees scarred in a hundred different places. Bodies and body parts hang from branches as if from some macabre scene in a movie. The remains of arms and legs poke out from mulches of dirt. Even from this distance, Krandle smells the aroma of torn bowels and blood, mixing with that of gunpowder. Not a single night runner is in sight or can be heard.

“I’m not walking back through that,” Speer says, shaking his head.

In all of his years, Krandle has never seen destruction on this scale. He radios the sub and gives an all clear and his thanks, informing them that they’ll spend the rest of the night on the bridge. The civilians return, the wounded man looking pale. Little is said throughout the night as each ponders what they went through.

“If they weren’t already, I bet those bandits are long gone by now. I know I would be if I heard that shit happening nearby,” Speer says.

Krandle shakes his head. Speer says whatever is on his mind at any given moment, not realizing how it may affect others. There’s truth in what he said, but that truth means the wives and daughters will be gone as well.

He just isn’t socialized, that’s it.

“I don’t know. They may just hunker down for dear life, not wanting to show themselves and risk an accidental meeting. We’ll see in the morning.”

The rest of the evening passes without event. Far off screams are heard periodically, but nothing draws close to the killing ground. Even the night runners have apparently had enough. Taking turns on watch, they get what rest they can.

It took Speer and Miller all of about forty minutes after sunrise to find the quad tracks leading up a logging road. A short distance up a hill, nestled within evergreens, Speer found two shipping containers resting on level ground with fourteen bandits scattered around it. The quads and vans were parked to the side. Some of the women had been tied to trees, the others not visible — probably being kept the containers. The tied women and the type of vehicles are all the verification Krandle needs. Leaving the civilians to dig shallow graves for the two who succumbed to their wounds, Krandle and the others join with Speer and Miller.

Speer points out three leaning against trunks farther into the trees, apparently the watch they set. One is positioned just off the road in front of a large fir. The other two are off to the sides, all focused — if focused is the correct word — toward the highway. They have evidently concluded that any threat will come from that direction, that nothing can come at them from within the woods. Considering the sound of gunfire and explosions, Krandle is a little confused by their nonchalance.

Perhaps that’s what comes from thinking the world is yours for the taking.

“I didn’t see any radios on the guards,” Speer says.

Krandle momentarily ponders coming at them from their unsecured side, but opts to take the guards out first. Always better to deal with the perimeter first, then move in.

Krandle directs Speer and Ortiz to take out the first guard, setting the rest of the team to cover their approach. If the camp becomes alerted, Speer and Ortiz will eliminate the other two guards while Krandle and the rest of the team engage those within the camp. That means a firefight, which is always risky.

“Don’t worry about the bullet with your name on it,” one of his instructors had said. “It’s the ones marked anonymous you have to be concerned with.”

If the team can catch them by surprise, they can take the bandits down before they have a chance to fire a shot. If it comes down to a fight, one of the marauders may just shoot the women as a final ‘Fuck You’.

Speer snakes his way under the trees, pushing small limbs and needles out of the way prior to setting his foot down. Ortiz follows silently behind. The guard sits on a fallen tree, intently studying his finger nails. Leaning against the bark to the man’s side rests an AR-15 style carbine. A short distance behind the man, Speer and Ortiz slowly lay their M-4s on the ground and Speer withdraws a six-inch blade from a sheath.

Approaching from behind, using the trees for cover while keeping the man in sight, the two SEALs inch toward the guard. One step, crouch and wait, another step, crouch and wait. The man is oblivious to the danger edging toward him, that his life is measured in seconds. So silent are the two men, they move to within a few feet directly behind the guard.

The man, apparently finished with whatever manicure he is contemplating, looks up and gazes toward the logging road. With a nod toward Ortiz, Speer rises and takes a step forward. He brings one hand around the man’s head, grabbing his face to cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils. Pulling back his head, Speer brings his knife around, plunging it under the bottom ribs and driving it up into heart. Removing the knife, he plunges it in again, this time going for one of the lungs.

Ortiz, upon seeing Speer grab the man’s head, steps over the log and takes a firm hold of the man’s legs to hold them still. The other guards are close enough that any sound of a scuffle will reach them and may cause them to investigate. Speer feels the body stiffen with his first thrust. Hot blood spurts against his hand covering the mouth and he feels it pour down his knife hand. Withdrawing his blade again, Speer drives into the side of the man’s throat.

Speer remembers one of his lessons. “Never stop until your target is down for good. Don’t stab and step back to admire your work or wait for a reaction.”

Blood gushes from the wound and pours through Speer’s fingers to run down the man’s cheek. With the head pulled back, Speer stares into his eyes and watches them dull. The body goes limp. Quietly, Ortiz lifts the man’s legs over the tree and they lay him out of sight along the fallen tree.

“That shit never gets any easier,” Speer whispers, cleaning his blade on the man’s jeans.

“No. No, it never does,” Ortiz says.

Lifting the carbine, Ortiz ejects the mag. “Kind of them to give us more ammo. Do you want me to get the next one?”

“No, I’ll do it. I just don’t have to like it.”

Retrieving their weapons, they leave the iron smell of blood behind and creep back toward the next guard with the others moving up to provide cover. Ideally, they would have taken all of the guards out at once, but nothing is ever ideal. One by one, they dispose of the remaining guards in much the same fashion.

A scream erupts from the bandit camp a short ways uphill. The team turns as one toward the sound, spreading behind cover, weapons ready. Another woman’s scream reverberates through the trees, followed by a couple of loud voices.

“Online and quietly push upward,” Krandle radios.

With eyes on the camp, Krandle watches as a woman is dragged across the ground and unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the encampment. Three men kneel beside her, one holding her legs with the other two on either side. The others, with a variety of weapons hanging from their shoulders, stand in a semi-circle, grinning.

“I count fifteen. Does that match what you have, Speer?” Krandle whispers into his throat mic.

“Yep.”

“Franklin, Miller, Ortiz, take the three near the woman first. Watch your shots. No use waiting. Let’s hit ‘em hard,” Krandle orders.

As one, the team rises from cover, carbines going to their shoulders in one fluid motion. Together, they flow into the camp like a fast-moving dark mist.

Pop pop pop. More follow like a string of firecrackers.

The two men next to the woman collapse to the side, blood misting from where rounds slammed into their skulls near their ears. The man holding the woman’s legs falls back on his rear, looking down at the red flowering on his chest. A round strikes his nose, the bullet splitting as it penetrates his nasal cavity. He crumples to the side.

Most of the men drop to the ground as if mowed over with a scythe. Some have a split second longer and attempt to use it to make it to cover. They manage one step before speeding projectiles intercept their path, sending them to fall face first onto the forest floor.

With blood spraying across her, the woman continues her screaming, trying to crawl backward away from the bodies. It’s over in seconds. Whitish smoke drifts across the camp, dissipating as it moves. The women stare at the scene in shock. Several of the injured bandits moan and attempt to crawl away. One reaches his arms out in front and pulls his body forward a few inches. Blood seeps into the dirt around him. Settling his red dot on the man’s chest, Krandle fires twice. The man’s shirt puffs up and the body jumps as each round strikes. With a forced sigh that stirs the dust around his mouth, the figure goes limp. The rest of the team begin delivering rounds into the wounded.

Whatever world materializes from the ashes of the old one, these kind of people don’t need to be inhabitants.

“Blanchard, see to the woman. The rest of us will form a perimeter. If they’re able to move, we’ll head back to the others courtesy of these vans,” Krandle says.

Blanchard kneels next to the first woman, looking for injuries. As she answers his questions, her expression reflects a measure of fear and shock. She watches his ministrations, her gaze wandering down to the knife secured to his leg. Narrowing her eyes, her frightened look changes to one of anger, with the red glow of hate hiding just behind.

“Is that sharp?” she asks, nodding toward the six-inch blade.

“Uh, yeah,” Blanchard says.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Um, what for?”

“For something.”

“Chief, she wants to borrow my knife.”

Krandle looks over and sees a look of vengeance hidden deep within. He has an idea of what the hours may have held for the women, and understands what her request will probably entail. Glancing at the bodies, he knows the bandits have long since departed this world and won’t feel a thing. He feels torn between desecrating a body and the understanding that the woman needs something to gain a measure of herself back.

“Give it to her,” Krandle says.

After a couple of women enact their vengeance upon the bodies, they team helps gather supplies from the bandits’ storages, including their weapons. They load them into the vans for the civilians to use on their journey. The bodies are left lying on the forest floor, their blood congealing and soaking into the dirt.

The thanks are unending as the men and women are reunited. Krandle has never been good at the emotional things, so he just nods and gives the expected responses, wanting nothing more than to leave. The women are physically well for the most part, but he’s sure the emotional trauma will haunt them the rest of their lives.

With the sun rising higher in the morning sky, Krandle hands the keys of the vans to the group, giving them directions north to Olympia where Captain Walker is fighting back against the night runners and building a sanctuary for survivors.

They hit the rolling surf, the chaotic water soaking the men aboard before the raft noses up and over. The waves turn into breakers, Speer timing it so they don’t roll up on a cresting wave. Powering down the backside, they motor through Pacific swells. Ahead, a dark menacing shape slowly rises from the surface, clearly one of the ocean’s predators. Speer drives the zodiac onto the barely awash deck. Stowing their gear into the locker, they make their way below decks. The USS Santa Fe submerges as quietly as it surfaced, the ocean once more just an endless series of waves.