Takedown

Lord of the Flies

Back at the aircraft, we stow our gear and grab a bite. The ramp is quiet as we consume our meals in silence, taking in the last moments of fresh air and daylight before having to seal up for the night. Just because I don’t sense any night runners in the area in no way means that they aren’t around. The ability to sense the night runners seems hit or miss at times. I remember the time in Albuquerque when I didn’t sense any and the building ended up being full of them. There were also the times overhead in the AC-130 when I could see them massed below, but only had a faint impression. I will admit that it seems to be more reliable these days, but I’m not taking it as gospel just yet.

Climbing into the cockpit, I try the satellite phone once again without any response. I’m concerned about our inability to communicate with the base or Leonard. It could be that the satellite’s orbit merely decayed or their power systems failed. I tune up the NDB in order to try a different form of communication. It’s a longshot, but the signal actually follows the curvature of the earth, so it’s possible to transmit and receive over longer distances. It can also skip across the upper atmosphere giving it the ability to broadcast over a tremendous distance in some circumstances. I know we are monitoring the frequencies at the compound so I dial through the frequencies trying to get into contact.

I transmit on a few of the lower frequencies and dial upward with each new attempt. As I continue, I hear a burst of sound. Dialing backward, I find an AM radio station that is broadcasting loud and clear. Music plays across the overhead speakers. A transmitting station means power and, after this long, power means that someone is around to fill the generator. Assuming that is what source of the power. I can’t imagine what else it could be.

Noting the frequency, I scan through others without hearing anything else. I dial back to the transmitting station. It continues to come in clearly without any of the static or skip that AM stations traveling long distances usually have. I call Greg up to the cockpit and have him listen.

“That sounds close,” he states.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I reply.

“Do you have any idea where it’s coming from?” he asks. I look at the ADF (Automatic Direction Finder) which will point directly to a transmitting station.

“It looks to be coming from somewhere west of us,” I answer.

“Is there any way that we can pinpoint where?” He points at the instrument.

“The only way really is to fly directly to the station and see where the needle flips around. That will give us a good indication of where the station is.”

“Okay. What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. We could go look when we take off but, to me, I’m thinking there is someone there who is keeping it going. It will mean taking another day to investigate if we find it’s within driving distance, but if there are survivors out there, we should take a look,” I say.

“And if they aren’t friendly?” Greg asks.

“Now, that’s the real question. Should we risk ourselves so far away from home looking for survivors? Honestly, I’m kind of split on that,” I answer. “Do we take the risk and, if so, under what conditions do we do so?”

“I really don’t have an answer to that, Jack. I’m also of two minds about this. If someone is truly there, why aren’t they broadcasting for help?”

“Hell. I don’t know. Maybe they like music,” I reply.

“Could be I guess,” Greg says, shrugging. “It could just be a station that’s on auto and is still powered somehow.”

“I suppose… but I’m hard-pressed to think how. I think someone is there keeping the power on for some reason. Maybe they broadcast in voice at intervals. For now, we’ll keep the radio on and have whoever is on watch keep an ear on it.”

“Sounds good. What about tomorrow?”

“Let’s run it by the teams and see what they have to say,” I say.

Greg and I walk to the back. The teams are silently stowing their gear with the last glows of the day bathing the tarmac. We have just enough time to drive the Stryker in and latch it down before the sun sets. I think about leaving it out and talking with the teams right now but, with darkness about to fall, I want the Stryker loaded in case we have to leave in a hurry. It would be a shame to leave without it. That would pretty much put an end to our mission and dictate that we return home.

The base is completely quiet with the exception of the occasional metallic ringing of someone walking on the 130 ramp. Although it’s the right time of the evening for flocks of birds to be gathering their last meal and returning to their nests, there isn’t one in sight. Not a breath of air stirs across the sand-covered ramp. The wide swath our engines created on the taxiway with our arrival is still visible.

With my M-4 hanging at my side, I fold my arms and look around. The stillness is complete and the scene really brings to light what has happened to the world. Civilization as we knew it ended. Contrails that continuously filled the skies disappeared within a matter of days. Roads that filled with commuters hurrying home to watch their favorite TV shows emptied. Uncompleted projects were left on desks and computers, never to be seen or cared about again. The whole world as we knew it just stopped like it hit a brick wall.

Breaking the stillness, the sound of the diesel motor firing up echoes across the ramp, bouncing off the metal sides of hangars and abandoned buildings. The Stryker edges up the ramp, disappearing slowly into the back of the 130. It’s soon stored and latched down. Orange flares across the tarmac, the last of the sun’s rays flash as if defiantly giving up the day. Our time outside has come to an end. Walking back in, I hear the radio playing faintly in the cockpit. The doors are latched and several of the soldiers glance toward the cockpit as they begin finding places for the night. I gather everyone after the aircraft is completely secure, turning off all of the electronics but leaving the radio on.

“What you hear in the cockpit is a radio station broadcasting in the area. That means there is the possibility of survivors. That doesn’t mean there has to be someone operating the station nor does it guarantee that they’re friendly. We have the capability to find the station or at least get close. If we do go look, there’s a chance we’ll run into hostiles plus we’ll lose a day in our search for families. Having said that, we are ahead of our planned schedule. Knowing there’s a risk associated with investigating, I want to know what you think about taking a look,” I say.

The soldiers and those we gathered look among themselves, none of them wanting to speak up. Some look surprised that I’d even ask. I can see Carl and the others in his small group look at each other. Judging by their expression, I’m guessing they are wondering if we had this conversation prior to picking them up.

“Sir, I think we should at least go see. If we’re not out here to help others who might need it, then what are we doing?” Gonzalez breaks the silence.

“I agree, sir. If we find them and they want to come with us, well, in my opinion, the more we have with us back home, the better off we’ll be,” McCafferty chimes in.

Denton, in a rare vocal exhibition, says, “I happen to agree, sir. We have to stand for something. If we just fold in on ourselves, we are missing the greater part of what we’re here for.” All soldiers turn to look at him, amazed for one, that he spoke, and two, for so long.

“Damn, Denton. Do you need a drink after that dissertation?” Henderson asks.

The compartment fills with quiet chuckles. After all, the sun has set and the last thing we need is the fuselage reverberating from laughter. I have to admit that it’s good to hear them laughing after the day we’ve had. Even the soldier who just found out his family is gone cracks a smile. Of course, Denton turns beet red and lowers his head, but not before I see the semblance of a smile there as well.

Night goes on and for once, we are blessed with a quiet evening. We don’t hear any shrieking night runners which is almost as unsettling as having them around. The only thing pounding against the fuselage are gusts of wind that pick up shortly after sunset and settle down by early morning. That must be the front coming through, I think, settling into my sleeping bag. The soft snores of those sleeping mix with the soft tunes of the radio still playing in the cockpit. I soon manage to drift off.

Waking, I look at my watch and see that morning has arrived. The radio is still playing softly in the background. It’s so strange to wake to music. Of course, when I did have an alarm, it was a little more than music playing. It had to be the most obnoxious sound ever heard. Okay, I take that back…second most annoying. The most annoying ever heard is my singing. At last count, I believe it was banned in forty-two countries and I’ve been approached by no fewer than four governments asking if I’d be willing to use it as a weapon.

Lying in my bag, I don’t really want to rise. I feel the chill air against my cheeks and the bag is nice and toasty. Memories surface of rising in remote places in times past. It was always the chill that I hated the most. Well, mostly anyway — those first few moments trying to warm up and trying to get the fingers to work. One memory floats to the surface, rising above the others.

We had been flown into a remote wasteland. It seemed like the world was either covered in jungle or sand — at least in the places we were sent. This was one of the latter. Our team was sent to monitor traffic along a remote road that ran through the barren desert. This branch off one of the few main roads connected with a known training camp — not the good kind. While our main mission was to monitor the traffic in and out, we were also tasked with taking out a courier that was known to take that route. While we weren’t briefed on the overall goal of taking him out, rumor was that a certain agency wanted to track cell phone traffic generated by his demise.

We flew through the night, hugging the ground over the darkened landscape. We stuck to the ridgelines and mesas that cropped up as much as possible until we set down a few kilometers from our observation point. Unloading, the Blackhawks then took off into the night to park and await our call for pickup. If you’ve ever been in the middle of desert at night, you can appreciate its total silence and darkness. The moon wasn’t up so the landscape was pitch black except when viewed through our NVGs.

We set our intervals and hiked into the night, taking significantly longer to reach our point as we paused to listen frequently. A faint outline of light was visible in the far distance denoting the camp’s location. Not much could be heard except the faint crunch of sand under our boots and the occasional scuffle of a rock. We moved silently under the bright stars strewn across the inky blackness.

Our goal was a single mesa rising above the flat plains. It was set back a little distance from the road which we were to observe and chosen because it was a good observation point, close but not too close. We needed to be within range if the courier showed up but it was also an obvious vantage point which meant the possibility of patrols. That really couldn’t be helped though as it was the only place that met our criteria.

We crept to the mesa and began a slow, arduous climb upward. We had previously identified a few routes from satellite photos so we didn’t have to explore in the dark to find a route but it was precipitous. Going quietly up a steep, sand covered slope is not easy but we managed to make the top before sunup with our tail man covering our tracks. We placed trip flares and claymores to cover our six before settling into observation places in crevices among the rocks. Taking turns in teams of two, we monitored the road as the sky to the east lightened and our task began in earnest.

The sun peaked above the horizon and cast its rays across the bleak terrain. Shadows from the few features cast long across the sandy soil. The road, more of a raised embankment with a line of gray running through the middle, lay in the distance to the south. With the rays came the warmth. If you don’t know, the desert heats up quickly and we were nestled down in the rocks covering ourselves with shemaghs to provide a measure of shade against the rising heat. As the day moved on, we became rather warm but didn’t dare move for fear of being spotted. The camp and the road were in close proximity.

A few medium-sized pickups passed our position coming from the camp during the day and, as evening began to descend, we noted their return. Night fell. I was roused later for my watch and remember the cold that I instantly felt on my cheeks. I recall distinctly disliking my current time and place in the world as that required me to move from the warmth I was enjoying. With a sigh, I rose quietly and felt the cold immediately envelop my entire body. I believe my exact thought was, Fuck I hate this. Moving into position, I was shaking so hard that it threatened to shake my teeth loose however much I tried to ignore the chill.

A short time later, through the night vision binoculars, I picked up a motorcycle moving along the road toward camp. It bounced and slid through the sand covering the road looking like a drunk returning home after a “few” beers with his buds.

“I have a vehicle on the road coming this way. Go wake the others,” I whispered to my teammate.

I heard him shuffle backward along the gritty rock and soon there was the quiet sound of the team settling into positions. Two were covering the trails to our backside. Our shooter took a position next to me in a position that gave him the best vantage point and field of fire.

“Can you tell if it’s him?” he whispered.

“No. The only thing I can tell is he can’t ride a bike,” I whispered back. “I’m calling our ride to tell them to warm up and standby.”

We continued to track the single motorcycle as it drew closer. The details slowly became sharper as he continued to bounce along the track through the sandy wilderness. There were times that I wasn’t sure that he was entirely in control of his ride but onward he came.

“It looks like he has a satchel strapped to him, but I can’t get a clear look at his features,” I stated quietly.

“I can. It’s him. Permission to fire,” he asked without taking his eye from the scope.

It was quite a distance but chances were that we weren’t going to get another shot at this. Our priority was the target and we were to take him out if given the opportunity.

“Take it,” I said, calling our ride and telling them to get airborne. Regardless if we hit or missed, we were about to be done there.

I peeked through the binoculars as the crack of the shot echoed across the landscape. I had a hard time hearing out of my ear as it was but the sound of the round being discharged right next to me made it worse. I watched as the rider was flung off the motorcycle — it’s not like he was ever really on it anyway. The bike flipped to the side and skidded along the ground with a few sparks showering the dark road. I continued to watch as the others pulled in our claymores and trip wires. The figure didn’t move. That was the single greatest shot I had ever seen or witnessed since.

“Okay. We’re out of here,” I said when everyone was ready.

We tracked to our pickup location and were soon heading back to civilization. I never did find out if they managed to track the cell phones.

Shaking the memory from my mind, I climb out of my bag with the last traces of the memory fading rapidly. The others within stir and soon the rear ramp is lowered to allow the interior to air out. The wind has died down and high overcast clouds blanket the area. Looking across the tarmac while doing a walk around, I notice that our tracks from the day prior have been covered to a large extent. I still don’t spot a single bird flitting through the early morning light.

Leaving a large plume of dust behind to slowly settle back onto the runway, we take off to search for the source of the radio signal. We level off at a low altitude. The needle points to the northwest and our flight soon takes us over the Black Hills. The forested hills, with their deep valleys and ravines, pass under our wings. With Robert flying, keeping the needle and the aircraft pointing in the same direction, I keep track of our progress on a map partially unfolded on my lap.

There are a few small, winding roads and remote houses tucked in the folds of the hills. Passing a large, open mine which has been cut into several ridges leaving a brown scar in the midst of the green, a valley widens. A large reservoir ahead seems to aim directly at a small settlement farther to the northwest. The ADF needle points at the same town like an arrow. As we cross over the center of the city, the needle wavers and then slips to the side.

“Looks like the station is located in that town,” I tell Robert and Greg, who is poised over my shoulder looking out of the side window. Looking closer at the map, I add, “It’s named Lead. Robert, circle us around and let’s see what’s up.”

As Robert begins the turn, the radio signal ends. Just like that. One moment it’s playing music loud and clear and the next, the speakers are silent.

“Circle but keep on the borders of the town. There has to be someone down there,” I say.

“Okay, Dad,” Robert replies, maneuvering the 130 so that I can look down into the heart of the small township.

Another deep, open pit mine borders the town. Several white-roofed buildings and churches line the main road which skirts the northwestern edge of the city with the mine on the other side of the street. Green trees dot the area but the lawns and open areas are much like what we’ve seen lately — brown. Although it appears a little sand is on the roads, they look clearer than those around the base and Sturgis.

As we circle over the city, I don’t see anything moving. There is one building with a large antenna beside it but nothing around it indicates that someone is there. The fact that the signal stopped and hasn’t resumed since we passed over is a little ominous. If there were survivors, I think they’d come outside and try to get our attention. Of course, it could be that they are as wary of us as we are of them. Perhaps they’ve run into bandits and are just lying low. It’s really hard to tell in a world like the one we’re living in now.

“What do you think?” I ask Greg.

“I don’t know. It seems a little odd that the signal cut out right as we were passing over. It’s like they don’t want us to know they’re there. We haven’t been shot at so I guess that’s a good sign,” he answers.

“And you?” I ask Robert.

“Honestly. I think it’s a trap or bad news at the very least. I can’t think of a good reason someone would shut it off just as we arrive. And it didn’t turn itself off. There’s someone down there,” he replies.

I search for blockades or fortifications that would indicate someone wants to be left alone. We circle a few times but, for intents and purposes, it just looks like another abandoned town. I can’t push aside the facts though. There was a signal located in this town and it stopped when we passed over. Whoever is down there is hiding.

“Well, we’re not going to get any more answers turning circles in the sky. Let’s head back and talk about what we want to do,” I say.

I have Robert follow the main road out and down the interstate so we can observe the route we’ll have to travel. I want to get a good look at it in case we decide to come back in the Stryker and investigate further.

Our journey back to the airfield is uneventful. Like in the town, I specifically look for obstruction, road blocks, and any fortifications that would indicate signs of trouble if we decide to investigate. I don’t have the greatest of feelings about this one but my experiences in the past few months have jaded my opinion. There’s nothing other than the signal going down at the very moment we flew over to indicate something is amiss. If there are any survivors in or around the town, we almost have an obligation as a member of surviving humanity to check it out. It seems there is a fine line between being open to incorporating remaining survivors and protecting those we already have. To be perfectly honest, I’m on the fence with this one as I can see both sides.

A breeze has picked up and, as we settle toward the runway, I see sand being driven across the runway in waves. Closer to the buildings, sand is blown from the tops of the larger drifts, much like surf being blown off the crests of waves in a strong wind. The landing is a bumpy one but we manage and taxi in. Shutting down, we gather outside with our pants flapping against our legs as each gust of wind blows through. I brief everyone on our observations gathered during our flyby.

“Alright, folks, here’s the deal. There really isn’t a doubt that someone is there. The way I see it, they are either scared of us or not wanting our company. The bottom line is that they don’t appear to be overly eager to be found. I didn’t see any fortifications that would indicate trouble, but the whole thing seems a little odd to me. If anyone has changed their mind about going in to take a look, I want to hear about it,” I state. The soldiers turn and look at one another but there isn’t an utterance from any of them. “Okay then, let’s unload and get ready.”

The teams rise and begin the tedious process of unloading the Stryker once again. I wish there were a quicker way of doing this — meaning searching for families — as I’m ready to be home. However, we have a few stops left before we can think about doing that. We’re already out and there isn’t much time left before we can’t make these trips anymore. I ask Carl if he and his group wouldn’t mind staying with the aircraft again, letting him know that we’ll be back before dark and leaving a radio with him.

“Not a worry at all. We’d be happy to,” he replies.

We unload and head out, taking the same route to Sturgis as before. The road to the town of Lead begins at one of the Sturgis exits. Although more roundabout, it will be a quicker route overall as we won’t have to stop at the towns along the interstate to scout them out before driving through.

The drive through Sturgis is much the same as it was yesterday although our tracks have been mostly covered by the wind. We cross over the interstate with the Black Hills looming before us. It’s not long before we start a long climb and travel along a winding road cut into the side of a ridge line. It’s not a very comfortable feeling traveling along a narrow road with an incline on one side and a drop off on the other in countryside that I’m not all familiar with. It would be the perfect place to set up an ambush. If we meet any type of resistance, I am backing us out provided it’s possible.

We make it through without any problems and halt where we can see the road drop into a wide valley. At the beginning of the vale lies a golf course. With a set of binoculars, I glass over the basin. The sign leading into the course reads “Boulder Canyon Country Club” and it’s obviously been some time since it’s been cared for. The once pristinely cut fairways are now filled with tall, brown grass that bends in waves as each breath of wind blows over them. It makes the breeze almost visible.

Adjacent to the course is a small open pit with murky green water filling the bottom of it. From the looks of the houses, I can imagine that this was once an area covered in green, but without irrigation or the use of sprinkler systems, it’s become the brown that I’ve become accustomed to. Several streets branch off to either side of the highway leading to a few more scattered houses. There isn’t a sign of any survivors.

Lowering the binoculars, we continue on and drop into the valley. In the midst of our trek, I open up my mind to any night runners and am surprised to sense a small pack at the extreme northern end of the valley. I noticed several small ponds, so there is at least a water supply, but I have no idea what they are doing for food unless they are preying on game. After being in two places without a night runner presence, it’s a shock to find them out here. This only emphasizes that I can’t assume anything about them. They can be anywhere.

We cross the valley and enter a lower set of hills. Short trees line the hills and draws on both sides. We drive slowly along, stopping often to scout the road ahead but we don’t encounter anything. The road then begins a gradual descent into another valley that widens out the farther we proceed. A driveway branches off and leads to a long aluminum-sided building with a smaller, attached office-like structure. The sign out front reads “Schade Winery” and I think about halting for a little wine tour. Lynn would certainly question what I was up to if all I managed to bring back were a couple of people and several cases of wine. I could just shrug and tell her, “Well, we tried,” all the while searching for a corkscrew.

We roll through the start of another small settlement. Several casinos line the highway and one of the hotel signs indicates we are passing through Deadwood. I really hope the town doesn’t live up to its name. The abandonment of the place, the name, and surrounding brown fields really makes it seem like we are passing through a Wild West ghost town — that is except for the casinos and modern hotels.

The names of the places we pass bring to mind the gold rush days that dominated this area long ago. Before that, these hills were medicine grounds for the Native Americans that lived here. Museums and casinos now dominate, the buildings lining the highway. The people that once flocked to them are gone. Reaching out, I don’t sense any night runners in the area.

A few more twists in the road and I see a few residential areas that mark the beginning of Lead. We slow and creep through the outlying areas looking for any indication that someone is around. The big, open pit we saw from the air appears beside the highway. Just prior to entering the town itself, a parking lot opens to the side with a viewing area of the actual mine. I have us pull in to take a look and listen prior to entering.

The lot is empty as we pull to a stop and disembark. The teams form a small perimeter within the lot itself. There is a park next to the parking area and adjacent to the mine itself with a larger building located near the edge of the mine that appears to be visitor center. I have the Stryker shut down so we can listen. The battery stays on in case we have need of the heavy caliber weapon system. Keeping in mind that someone here may not be all that interested in us being around, it’s my plan to remain on the edge of town to give them a chance to make contact. I hope that contact doesn’t come in the form of a hail of bullets streaming into our midst. With that thought in mind, I have the teams take up covered positions around the house-like center.

The diesel shutting down brings a quiet to the surrounding area. The breeze picked up since we descended into the first valley and a low moan is heard at times as it blows across the monstrous open pit mine — much like blowing across a bottle opening. Other than the occasional sound of the wind, it’s quiet.

Greg and I walk along a path leading to the edge of the mine. The size of it cannot be adequately described. It’s much like looking down into the Grand Canyon except that is much prettier to look at than the scene stretching before us. The mine is a series of deep, terraced sides leading down to a small lake of brown, muddy water. The step-like wall sides are black with tan and reddish clay mixed in. There are a lot of places where dark-colored seepage runs down the walls like sludge. Several landslides, some going all of the way to the bottom, mar the terraced walls. A single switch-back road heads down into the depths from the opposite side ending at the brown lake.

It’s there, at the edge of the pond, that something catches my attention. At the end of the dirt track is a larger black mound. Several small wisps of smoke drift upward from it and are blown away as the occasional draught of wind catches them. Whatever is smoking down there was done recently giving a further indication that someone is around.

“What do you think that is?” Greg asks.

“I have no idea,” I say, lifting a pair of binoculars up to look at the pile. “It looks like a large ash pile. There’s something else there but I can’t make out what it is.”

“There’s no way we’re going to get the Stryker down that,” he says, pointing to the narrow road leading down.

“They must have had those large dump trucks that drove down at one point, but fuck if I’m riding in the Stryker along that road,” I reply.

“I’m with you on that. We’d probably bring the whole thing down on our heads and I’d rather not roll the Stryker today if it’s all the same to you.”

“It would be a rather long walk home.”

“If we do decide to investigate, maybe we can find a four-wheel drive somewhere,” Greg says.

“Have fun with that.”

“What? No sense of adventure, Jack?”

“Oh. I enjoy a good adventure. It’s dying I’m not overly fond of.”

The signage near the fence surrounding the mine states that this was the site of the Homestake mine which was once the largest mine in North America. It was apparently closed in 2002 and there is some mention of something about a deep, underground lab that was supposed to be opened. Something by the name DUSEL, whatever that is, or was. There’s more on the history, but I’m not interested in reading the wall of text that entails.

Off in the distance on the other side of the mine is a rise of land ascending above the surrounding terrain. The sides have been cut into and climb sharply giving it the appearance of a mesa. From my vantage point, it appears the top has a few scattered, stunted evergreens. Stunted, that is, when compared to what I’m used to in the Northwest. In my magnified view, I catch a hint of movement to one side. Focusing on the spot, I see a couple of deer tentatively emerge from a tree line to the far right across the mine. They warily approach a small pond and dip their heads for a drink. It’s then that I notice a few birds wheeling about the gray-covered skies and a hawk soaring aloft looking for a meal.

At least there’s life here. That is aside from the people that I suspect are in the area and have yet to show themselves.

A gust of wind whips against my clothing, moaning across the deep hole before me. The thoughts of why we’re here and the chilled breath of air bring me back from my sight-seeing. I lower the glasses and head with Greg back to the Stryker. There has yet to be a sign of anyone which makes me uneasy. We haven’t been exactly stealthy in our approach wanting whoever may be in the town to know we’re here. Although the sight of an armored vehicle can be a little unsettling, I wanted to park on the outskirts in an attempt to show we aren’t threatening and give them a chance to approach us cautiously. I would have thought the sight of the military would alleviate any fears if someone wanted help but, so far, nothing. Of course, they could think we are roving bandits who stole the thing; which, technically, we did.

I see the radio tower a short distance away. It’s obvious that whoever is here isn’t coming to us, so, if we’re going to make contact, then it’s up to us to go to them. I’m still not all that comfortable trekking into the small town when it’s apparent that they want to stay hidden, but it could be because they’re frightened. I don’t know how to alleviate that, especially arriving in a Stryker, but we should at least investigate the radio station and make plans based on what we find.

“Okay, let’s mount up,” I call to the teams. “If we receive any fire, they’ll have made their intentions clear. If that happens, remain onboard and we’ll disengage.”

I can tell Gonzalez and the rest of Red Team preparing for a “Hooah, sir” but I bring that to a screeching halt with a look. Funny, I swear Robert and Bri were about to join in with them. That’s all I need, my kids giving me a “Hooah”. Instead, Gonzalez and McCafferty give me a mischievous smile. Great, I know I’m due for one at some point today. At least I hope that’s the reason for the smile and I won’t be waking up with mascara.

The sound of the Stryker starting up and the ramp closing resounds across the desolate parking lot. We edge out onto the main road and make our way slowly into the main part of Lead. Rounding a couple of corners, the central area of town stretches away to the sides of the two-lane, dust-covered highway. A few motels and restaurants line the street along with a church and an opera house. On a tall pole, a flag flutters in the breeze next to a post office. All in all, it looks like most small towns. Except for the opera house that is; you don’t see many with one of those.

With the whine of the .50 cal as it tracks from side to side, we pass the Black Hills Center of Hope. I wonder if there’s any hope left in this place. If there’s a semblance of humanity left, I suppose there’s always hope. It just depends on the stance that the groups of survivors take. Seeing the place makes me think about the homeless. Surely there must have been a large part of them that didn’t get the flu shot.

Are they still around in numbers or did they fall prey to the night runners quickly with nowhere to go?

The radio station is set back from the main road in a dusty lot. I halt the vehicle in front near to the entrance. A dirt lot, which should be smoothed over from the dust and wind, hosts a myriad of wheeled tracks. They lead from the entrance to the station and continue down the road from the entrance heading in the opposite direction. It’s pretty obvious someone has been here recently and either visits often or is still here. If someone is here, not coming out means that they are either scared out of their wits or up to no good. There could be other reasons, but those are the two that stick in my mind. I’m hoping it isn’t the latter.

The station itself is a small, concrete block building. If there was a sign denoting the station’s name, it’s now gone. Where it should have been, ‘Golddiggers’ is crudely spray-painted. The front of the building has two large paned glass windows with an entrance door situated between them. The windows have slatted blinds covering them making it impossible to see inside. I remain parked in front for a few minutes observing, looking for any movement. Nothing.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going up to the door and see if anyone is home. Gonzalez, take McCafferty and Bri and go left covering the building. Henderson, you, Denton, and Robert do the same to the right. Greg, your team will cover our sides and rear. You’ll also be a reactionary force if needed. If we’re fired upon, we return fire and exfil to the Stryker. Greg’s teams will provide covering fire for Red Team to disengage. We’re not here to take the place so we’ll pull back. And, of course, the Stryker will pour rounds into whoever is firing at us,” I brief prior to us disembarking.

“What about you, sir?” Gonzalez asks. “You’ll be in the middle of it.”

“No worries. If I see someone point a weapon at me, I’m eating dirt. Just fire over me and I’ll make my way out.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Robert asks.

“No. I have this one. I don’t want anyone else to be out in the open.”

“Are you sure you want to just be strolling up the front walk with all of this weirdness going on?” Greg asks.

“Do you have a better plan?” I answer.

“We could leave,” he replies.

“I suppose there’s always that. But we’re here so we might as well see where the rabbit hole leads.”

The ramp rolls down and the teams disembark. The sounds of boots running across the hard surface fill the once silent streets and the teams quickly take their positions. Red Team splits and goes left and right covering the radio station. Greg’s team sets up a perimeter covering the street and other buildings, leaving two of his team manning the Stryker. The street quiets with only the sound of the idling vehicle and the whine of the turret tracking. I step up beside the dirt entrance and pause. I half expect a shout or the crack of gunfire but the only thing that permeates the middle of this small town is an air of anticipation.

No one rushes out to envelop us with welcoming arms. There is only us staring at a silent radio station. I look around at the rest of the town, the teams’ positions, and the Stryker idling behind me, most with weapons pointed at the building. If someone is in there, I can’t imagine they are having warm and fuzzy feelings about rushing outside or making their presence known. I’m not about to wave the teams off though. Although we are here trying to help, we have to think of our safety first. Yeah, that’s why I’m standing in the open in front of a building where I highly suspect people are located with unknown intentions. Perhaps not my best move ever.

I look down at the tracks leading in and out of the lot. There are quite a few of them, some very fresh. Looking closer, I see that there are a combination of double and single tracks with the double ones close together — too close to be a car or truck. The track imprints looks like whoever is coming here is doing so on quads and dirt bikes. There is, however, no sign of any vehicles parked in or around the dusty lot. The tracks leave a clear trail along the otherwise dust-covered street leading away.

“If anyone is in there, we’re not here to hurt you or cause any trouble,” I call out. “Unless you shoot at us first,” I mutter.

Again, there is no response or movement from within. With a shrug, I step into the lot, keeping to the side and out of the Stryker’s line of fire, and proceed cautiously to the entrance. The dirt-covered concrete slab at the entrance is marred by footprints. Glancing at the prints, I see that they are scuffed making it difficult to pick out any one track. I would look closer but my attention is on the windows and door. Standing against the wall next to the door, I knock firmly repeating my message. Nothing returns except the echo within of my knock.

“You know, sir, they might be more willing to open the door is we didn’t have a .50 cal pointed at it,” Gonzalez radios.

“Yeah, yeah. Move the Stryker out of sight, but be ready to respond,” I radio back.

The armored vehicle revs and backs down the street. Once it’s out of sight, I knock again with the same result. I check the windows but can’t see past the blinds covering them. Leaving the door, I walk to the side of the building. Next to the structure, between it and the tall antenna, sits an older generator. There are more footprints around the generator which are easier to see. I place my shoe next to several of the clear tracks. Now, I’m not a tall man nor have an extra-large shoe size, but my prints are considerably larger than the fresh ones on the ground.

Either this town is full of small people or we’re dealing with kids. At least here. I note that the generator switch is in the ‘off’ position.

This puts a totally different light on the situation. It could be that any remaining adults are sending kids out on errands or the kids are the only ones left. I continue looking at the tracks scattered across the yard and don’t find a single one that matches my size. The tread patterns are all different but they each of them are smaller than mine. I call McCafferty over as she is the smallest among us. Comparing her boot prints with the others, I see that they come close. I suppose we could be dealing with women but am still hard-pressed to figure this out from the tracks. The bottom line is that the fresh tracks and the smoldering ash pile at the bottom of the pit indicate that someone is around.

“I have to admit it’s a little creepy,” Greg says after I describe what I found.

“It’s a little beyond that. Who knows what we’re dealing with on the whole, but at least here, there were kids, women, or a combination of both. We have a choice. We can continue down the yellow brick road or call it good,” I say.

I keep offering it up to see what the others think because, honestly, I’m still of two minds. One says to help if it’s needed; but the other says to bug out. This whole thing is just a little too weird. The spray-painted building and the station going off air just as we pass over speaks of ‘leave us alone’.

“I think we press on, sir. If we are dealing with women and kids, they may need our help,” McCafferty states.

“If they’re still alive, they must be doing okay,” Greg says.

“I do sense a medium-sized pack of night runners to the southeast so they must have some way of dealing with that,” I say. “I’m just throwing that out there.”

“We could remain here. It’s obvious they come to the station and we could wait for them,” Robert says.

“That’s an option as well. We have some time before we have to head back,” I say.

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m kind of curious as to what is smoldering down in that pit and what’s up with this place,” Greg says.

“But you don’t want to go down in it. So, what you’re effectively saying is that you want me to go down and tell you what’s there,” I reply.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you want me to get you a Twinkie while I’m at it?” I ask.

“Ooooh… Twinkies,” McCafferty says and runs toward the Stryker.

“What the hell is that about?” I ask, watching McCafferty race for the vehicle as if a pack of night runners were on her heels.

Greg shrugs with a raised eyebrow. I look to Gonzalez to see if I can glean an answer for McCafferty’s sudden departure. She just shrugs but is wearing a shit-eating grin. McCafferty returns, walking this time, with every eye watching her. With a flourish, she withdraws a box from her vest.

“Voila,” she says, brandishing a box of Twinkies.

“As if this day couldn’t get any stranger. Where in the hell did you get those?” I ask.

“Magic, sir,” she answers with a grin. “The only problem is that there are only twelve of them and fourteen of us.”

“I’ll split one with Robert,” I say.

“What the hell. Split your own,” he replies.

“I’ll split one with you, Dad,” Bri says.

“Denton and I will split the other,” Henderson states.

So here we stand, in the middle of small town with ‘Golddigger’ graffiti on the wall of a radio station, chasing down a strange situation in the middle of an apocalypse, eating a Twinkie. You just can’t make shit like this up…but here we are nonetheless. And yet, somehow it seems perfectly normal. And, oddly enough, it eases the tension.

We take our time eating the cream-filled cakes, savoring each bite. It’s a little bit of our past, when things were ‘normal’, coming to us. We are all smiles and, somehow, this moment we’re sharing bonds us even tighter.

“I really don’t want to know where you got these from, do I?” I ask McCafferty, to which she shakes her head.

“Well, thanks,” I add.

“My pleasure, sir.”

Finishing, we stick the wrappers in our pockets and brush the crumbs from our fingers on our pants. Hating to ruin the moment, I return our attention to the situation.

“Well, it seems the general consensus is to push on so let’s mount up and see where the path leads. If we find some four-wheel vehicles, we’ll stop and see if we can start them up,” I say.

“What about the post office?” Robert asks. “Don’t they normally drive Jeeps to deliver the mail?”

Most in the group exhibit that ‘duh’ face when something obvious that we missed is presented — mine included. We backtrack to the post office and, sure enough, there are a few older Jeeps parked in a lot surrounded by a chain link fence. The Stryker makes short work of getting inside. The keys to the vehicles are on the visors and the first ones we try give the clicking sound of an almost dead battery. There’s a little juice left, but not enough to turn the motor over. And thus, we use the push-to-start method. I would use the Stryker if it wouldn’t absolutely cave in the vehicles while trying to push them and setting the Jeeps up to tow would take longer than just pushing them.

Red Team gathers around the Jeep and pushes while Greg’s team keeps a watch and we manage to get both of them started. The fuel tanks are both about three-quarters full. I don’t imagine we’ll be going that far in them, so it should be enough. We now have a Stryker and two white Jeeps. What a sight we must be. Most of Red Team piles into the Jeeps and follows behind the Stryker as we set out once again.

The path through town is an easy one to follow. We pass stores, churches, banks, government buildings, and several more hotels/resorts. The occasional building has the same spray-painted ‘Golddiggers’ on them. The graffiti gives the appearance of some gang marking its territory. Some of the places have broken windows while others hide what’s inside behind grime-covered glass. It really looks much the same as Sturgis with the exception that there isn’t as much dust and, well, signs of habitation.

The road we’re on intersects another main road. Tracks lead in both directions but the majority of them lead to the right and out of town. We decide to follow the larger set. I notice another set of tracks cutting across the road and halt our little convoy. On closer inspection, the other set turns out to be foot prints and from the distance between each individual print, it appears that whoever made them was running. On the side of the road, where the prints deepen, I confirm this by the fact that the toes are dug in deeper than the heel. The prints are larger than the ones found at the station and are mostly bare ones. It’s apparent that night runners crossed here recently.

Climbing back onboard the Stryker, we leave the town behind. The transition between the town and the surrounding countryside is abrupt. The road circumvents the mine and we soon find ourselves on the other side. Trees line the road making it impossible to see the actual mine or the town. The tracks branch off the highway and onto a dirt road.

Taking the exit, we begin a steep descent along a winding dirt path that is surrounded by trees on both sides. Even though we proceed slowly, we still kick up a small cloud of dust which adds to that already covering the trees alongside us. Eventually, we make our way down and emerge from the trees onto a larger plain. The road begins to level off. The beginning of the mine opens up and the central pit, which we observed from town, is ahead. To the left lies a previously hidden, terraced valley.

The mesa we observed rises from the plateau to the right. From this vantage point, the steep, nearly impossible to climb sides only encompass three sides. On the western side, a tree-covered slope rises gently from the floor.

We edge down the road toward the rise, passing a derelict aluminum-sided building with old machinery rusting in a dirt lot. Here, the dirt road splits with one path heading upward toward the western side of the butte while the other descends toward the deep pit. Tracks show on both paths. We halt.

“What do you think? Up or down?” Greg asks as we gather.

“You’re really not my type,” I reply.

“You know the saying, once you’ve gone—”

“Please don’t finish that,” I interrupt.

After swallowing the half of a Twinkie for a second time from the image Greg was about to paint, I look through the binoculars toward the mesa. I can’t see the top, but I don’t observe anything that would indicate that something is up there.

“Well, we might as well visit this pit you’re so interested in. Maybe the smoldering pile will give us a clue as to what we’re dealing with,” I say, glassing over the rest of the area and finding no sign of inhabitants — human ones that is.

Saddling up once again, we proceed around the base of the hill, driving between two large ponds before coming to another fork. We turn right, following the tracks, and begin a descent into the pit. The “road” is more of a washout at this point and it seems more like we are traveling along a runoff area — the rocky debris takes the Jeeps to their limit. The Stryker, however, takes it in stride.

The road leads along the side of a tiered hill and follows a deep, wide, and torn up valley that leads to the mine proper. Large rock slides sweep down into the gorge from the steep walls across the valley. The wall beside us rises steeply upward as we continue our descent into to the pit. The road is marginally passable until we arrive at a point where the deep cut gorge reaches the mouth of the open pit. Here, the path narrows and descends at a steeper angle. We halt and exit.

From this vantage point, being partially in the pit itself, both its ugliness and its marvel is revealed to a greater extent. The slides and oozing seepage become more apparent from this closer viewpoint. The narrow road, if it can even be called that, is filled with cuts and debris. It’s really more of a path at this point. This is as far as the Stryker will go. Its weight might bring the entire road crashing down into the depths. While it may get us to the bottom quicker, it’s not the best way to get there. Getting out would be fun as well.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Greg asks.

“No,” I answer, looking downward through the binoculars. “There’s something in the pile, but I can’t quite see what it is from here.”

“We could just bug out and call it good,” he says.

“Eh. We’re here and might as well try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I reply.

“What happened to the not wanting to die?”

“Oh, there’s still that…and I don’t plan on it today.”

“You know that if you get stuck on that road, you won’t be able to turn around,” Greg says.

“Yeah. I guess if that happens it will be a long walk back,” I reply, looking at the time. “We still have plenty of time before dark to make it back.”

“You’re pretty determined to go down.”

“Seems so. I’ll take most of Red Team leaving Henderson and Denton here with their long guns. We’ll be back shortly,” I say.

With me driving one of the Jeeps and Gonzalez the second one, we begin our descent into the pit. It appears in some places that the road was purposely cratered and filled to prevent anyone from coming down. We bump and slide as we navigate our way over the rubble. I’ve never been fond of driving next to steep gullies and this is no exception. Each skid or bump makes it feel like we’re going to slip over the edge. After a couple of switchbacks, we arrive at the bottom, most of which is filled with a murky lake.

Near the edge of the water is the ash pile we observed from above. It’s much larger than it looked before, standing nearly as tall as I am and close to twenty feet in diameter. Plumes of whitish-gray smoke drift lazily upward. A little distance away from the smoldering pile and circling it, skulls are set on top of sticks. The objects within the heap that I couldn’t identify from higher up are, in fact, human skeletal remains. Yeah, this gives me a comfy feeling.

“What in the fuck?” Robert says from the passenger seat.

“Yeah, right?!” I respond.

We get out for a closer look. An acrid smell fills the pit bottom and the damp soil is filled with foot prints of the same size I saw at the station — some fresh and others older. I look for any larger prints but don’t find a single one. Investigating the remains, I notice that some have obvious injuries while others are seemingly whole. The most disturbing part is that some of the skulls have wounds that are clearly gunshots to the back of the head. This whole scene is not a promising one to say the least.

“Do you think these could be night runners?” Gonzalez asks, regarding the charred remains.

“I suppose they could be,” I answer, still trying to find some sanity with this day.

I would feel better about this find if it weren’t for the skulls circling the ash pile and the fact that some of those here were shot in the head from behind. I can’t think of many instances where night runners would be shot from behind — at least not in these numbers. Most of the times when I’ve encountered them, they were coming right at me. It’s kind of hard to get a shot to the back of the head in that situation. All in all, this has the feel of something ritualistic. It may just be a bias based on the day’s continued strangeness but I can visualize a roaring fire with bodies being fed into the flames.

“Dad, do you think they burned the bodies because they think it’s a virus or something?” Bri asks.

“That could be one answer,” I reply. “I’m hoping that’s the case anyway. It doesn’t explain the shots to the back of the head, though.”

“Maybe they thought someone was infected and killed them,” she says.

“To be honest, I don’t really know what the fuck is going on here. I’ve seen a lot of things in my time and can usually figure things out from the signs, but, this…I don’t know. There could be a hundred plausible explanations — some good and some bad — but I really don’t have a clue as to what’s actually going on here,” I state.

“I’m leaning toward the dark side on this one. It looks like they have some sort of ritual thing going on,” Robert says.

“It certainly doesn’t look pretty,” I reply. “Okay. We’re not accomplishing anything else here. Let’s mount up and head back.”

Starting up the Jeep, I radio back our findings to Greg. “That’s not good,” he responds.

“No. No it’s not.”

The climb back up is almost worse that the drive down but we eventually make it back to the Stryker and proceed back to the first road junction near the mesa. Taking the ascending road and hoping for better results, we edge around to the base of the gentle upward rising slope. The tree line begins abruptly at the base of the hill and I notice a single path leading through the trees. The tracks we’ve been following all veer off the road, aiming for the path.

We idle for a while watching the tree line for movement. There’s no sudden flurry of a birds leaving the trees. While that isn’t and indicator that no one is around, seeing a flock of them take flight certainly would be.

“Okay, I’m taking Gonzalez and McCafferty. We’ll trek to the path leading in and make a further decision based on what we see there. Same rules apply. If we’re engaged, we’re out of here. Greg, provide covering fire if you have clear line of sight. We’ll be coming back at a run so watch for us,” I say.

“What about me?” Robert asks.

“And me?” Bri chimes in.

This quandary about them participating goes back and forth. Perhaps it’s just the strangeness of this situation — like anything lately has been normal — that is causing me to launch into the protective mode. We have people, short ones at that, who want to remain hidden and potentially have ritualistic burnings. No, they’re not going with me this time. Why I feel better about them going into night runner-infested lairs but not up a dirt trail is beyond my comprehension. Of course, why I’m about to go is a good question as well and may not be one of my brighter ideas. This whole thing is just creepy.

“No. You two are staying here,” I answer.

Gonzalez, McCafferty, and I gather our gear. We spread out over the rocky terrain and make our way cautiously to the path’s entrance. I know Greg, Henderson, and Denton are keeping the tree line under observation and will call if they see anything. This kind of reminds me of the memory I had on waking this morning. Approaching the single path leading upward, I notice several quads and dirt bikes hidden just within the trees. An effort was made to camouflage them with branches but they are visible nonetheless — a sure sign that someone is here.

We gather beside the entrance to the trail. A multitude of footprints mar the surface, again the same size that we found at the radio station. I pause, listening. The area is dead silent. There’s not a sound of bird chirping or a squirrel irritated with our presence. I don’t know the area so this could be normal but, under usual circumstances, this would be a sign that something predatory is in the area.

“Just so you know, sir, I’m with you on not bringing Robert and Bri. This whole situation has the feel of being in Wonderland,” Gonzalez quietly says, crouching and looking up the trail and off through the trees. McCafferty nods in agreement.

“Yeah, no kidding. I keep expecting the Mad Hatter to come bouncing along any minute,” I reply.

“Just as long as we don’t find the Red Queen,” Gonzalez replies.

“I’m with you on that,” McCafferty whispers.

I radio my findings and tell Greg that we are proceeding up the path.

“We’re going in. Slow and steady and keep your intervals. You know the drill. If we take fire from the front, the point empties a mag and leap frogs back. Continue until we’re disengaged and beat cheeks back to the Stryker. If we’re fired on from the side, empty one mag and disengage. Let’s not get caught up in a firefight,” I say.

“Hooah, sir.”

“You’ve been saving that, haven’t you?”

Gonzalez and McCafferty grin. “I don’t possibly know what you mean, sir.”

“Let’s move before I decide to put you on point…smartass.”

Rising, we step onto the trail and slowly begin making our way up the hard-packed surface. The dense forest closes in on either side. I’m not a big fan of being on a trail but the underbrush in the woods to either side isn’t exactly penetrable — at least at this point. I keep to the side as much as possible, pausing every few feet to observe and listen. The silence seems even more complete with the trees closed around us. The path itself is lit by the overcast day but shadows under the trees make it hard to see anything in their depths. An occasional patch is lit as daylight manages to filter through.

I feel my heart rate increase as we edge farther up the path. The eeriness of the day adds to the level of tension. My senses become more alert. I take in steady, calming breaths. My thumb caresses the selector switch, comforting me even further. This is a habit pattern I developed, and I have no idea why it is so calming. Back in the day, everyone had their own thing and this was mine. My brain registers that I’m on ‘auto’ which may be part of the comfort. I can unleash a torrent of fire at a moment’s notice.

I crouch next to a tree where the trail curves. Gonzalez and McCafferty crouch to their knees behind me, watching to either side. The only sound is the occasional swish of the breeze blowing across the tops of the trees. If anyone was up on top of the hill, I would expect to hear something of their movements but there’s nothing. Of course, they may have gone to ground upon hearing or seeing us arrive. This thought doesn’t bring a warm, happy feeling.

I peek quickly around the tree. Beyond, the trail straightens and continues upward. Lining the sides of the trail, skulls sit on top of poles driven into the ground.

Where the hell did they get so many skulls? I think, not really wanting to know the answer.

It really looks like some B-rated horror movie. I up that to an A-rated one as I am now smack dab in the middle of it. Looking into the woods, I notice some leafy branches on the ground. They are turning brown and look out of place. I’ve seen this kind of thing a few times in the past. I motion for Gonzalez and McCafferty to stay in place and edge into the trees.

Low crawling, I check each inch of ground in front of me and to the sides prior to moving. Reaching the border of the branches, I reach out and lift one. It’s just as I expected. The branches are screening a layer of thin sticks laid over a pit. That’s one thing some who build these things forget — you have to periodically change the overlay or they dry out. That makes it stand out more. I take out my light and shine it into the pit. Sure enough, there are sharpened stakes driven into the ground.

“Stay on the trail. Punji traps to the side,” I whisper into the radio.

“What next?” I hear Gonzalez whisper.

“Just wait until you see around the corner.”

Inching back to the trail, I glass the area ahead but don’t see anything out of place. That is if you can call skulls posted along a trail not being out of place. Stowing the binoculars, I wave Gonzalez and McCafferty forward and slip around the corner.

“What the fuck, sir?” Gonzalez whispers.

I guess she made it to the corner, I think, chuckling in my mind.

“Punji traps and skulls? Are we continuing on?” she asks quietly.

“What do you mean? It just got interesting,” I reply.

“Anyone ever tell you that you are fucking crazy…sir?”

“I’ve heard that a time or two,” I respond.

“Lead on then, sir.”

Some of the skulls still have a bit of hair attached to them which adds to the creep factor. I’m just glad that whoever put these out cleaned them for the most part. Having bits of tendon and tissue clinging to them would be a bit much. Passing the first ones, I don’t see any obvious injuries. You know, other than being dead. One has an “X” painted on the forehead. In the past, any marking on trees, sticks placed in branches or laid out in a pattern, or other similar signs were warnings of traps or areas to be aware of. Not for opposing forces obviously, but for friendlies to know that they need to watch out for traps.

I pause just prior to the marked skull. A few inches off the ground, a string of fishing lines runs across the trail. I follow it with my eyes. It wraps around a nearby tree and, tracing it, I find where it is attached to a pole in the ground which is connected to another notched stick. The notched stick is tied to a stretched tree branch lined with sharpened sticks. Yep, another trap. Pull on the line and the pole driven into the ground moves, releasing the branch, which then swings out into the path. Yeah, this is becoming more interesting by the minute.

Oddly enough, this is an environment I’m more familiar and comfortable with. Well, that’s not the honest truth. The environment I’m most comfortable with is swinging gently in a hammock on a white-sand beach. However, it’s infinitely more comfortable than being in command of the entire survival group. Yeah, it sounds odd but it’s true nonetheless. I almost — almost mind you — wish I had brought Robert and Bri so they could see this for themselves.

“Watch for marks on the trees or on the ground. We have traps across the trail. Watch for the line by the marked skull,” I whisper over the radio, receiving a double click of acknowledgement from both Gonzalez and McCafferty.

I stalk past the skulls. A trail opens off the main path to the right leading to a small, open area. In the middle is another ash pile considerably smaller than the one we found in the bottom of the pit. I would investigate it but I have the feeling I’d find much the same as we did at the previous one and I’m experiencing enough weirdness for the moment. Stepping across the path so I don’t leave an imprint, I creep a few more feet before pausing.

Something hanging in the trees lining the path catches my eye — dolls hanging from pieces of cord from the branches.

Seriously…dolls hanging from trees? Okay… this is too much, I think, waving Gonzalez and McCafferty forward.

They reach my position and I point out the hanging dolls.

“Seriously? Are those really dolls hanging in the trees?” Gonzalez asks, whispering.

“Still interesting enough for you, sir?” McCafferty asks.

“No. Interest level gone. I think the banjos are playing a little too loud for me,” I answer. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m right behind you, sir, if not in front,” Gonzalez says.

“Greg. We’re on our way back,” I say.

“Whatcha have going on?” he asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it for yourself,” I reply.

“Alright. See ya soon.”

We reverse and begin tracing our route back, avoiding the trap across the path. Passing the skulls once again, I hear something moving off in the woods to the side. Crouching, I look and see a flash of movement. I pick up sounds to the other side. Someone is trying to be furtive with their passage but failing miserably.

“We have company on both sides,” I radio.

“What do you want to do, sir?” Gonzalez asks.

“Keep moving. If we’re fired upon, engage and move. Gonzalez, you empty a mag left, McCafferty, to the right. We fire then make a break for the Stryker. Clear?” I again hear the double clicks of acknowledgment.

“Are you okay, Jack?” Greg asks.

“For now,” I reply. “We’ve just gained some interested followers.”

We creep down the trail in formation. I keep an eye ahead in case they’ve set up behind us while Gonzalez and McCafferty keep an eye on their sectors. I continue to hear sounds of passage on both sides.

“I have movement to the left paralleling us,” Gonzalez calls.

“Same on the right,” McCafferty says.

“Keep moving,” I reply, hoping we haven’t kicked up a hornet’s nest.

The trail entrance opens ahead and the movement on both sides cease. I don’t know if this is a good or bad sign. My experience has been that when sounds of movement stop, it’s because the opposing force has set up and are gearing for an attack. I really hope that’s not the case here.

“Almost there. Stay alert,” I say.

“We see you on the trail,” Greg states.

“Roger that. Do you see anything in the tree line?”

“Negative, Jack. It’s all clear that we can see,” he answers.

“Okay. Break. Gonzalez, McCafferty, keep it steady.”

“Copy that, sir,” Gonzalez replies. McCafferty answers with a double click.

Keeping low, with gray skies above and tension filling the hard-packed trail, we edge inch by inch toward the path’s entrance. The feeling is one of having the end in sight but thinking that it’s just an illusion of safety and all hell’s going to break lose prior to reaching it. I want to pause and ascertain the situation prior to moving out, but I know that we need to keep going. The longer we’re here, the more time whoever is off to the sides will have to get into a position against us.

The apprehension is such that I want to toss a grenade to either side and make a break for it. However, we haven’t been fired on and I don’t know if their intentions are harmless or not. The dolls in the trees really upped the creep factor. I mean, fucking dolls…hanging in the trees!

I reach the entrance to the trail and crouch by a tree. Gonzalez and McCafferty are behind and pause with me.

“Gonzalez, McCafferty. Go. Beat cheeks to Stryker. I’ll cover and follow.”

This time, the acknowledgment is in the form of both women rising and streaking past as they sprint for the waiting teams. Gonzalez and McCafferty spread out as they exit the trees. I rise as they pass and follow.

The others of both teams are spread in a line behind what cover they can find. I sprint to the rear of the Stryker where I meet Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Greg. I’m winded from the sprint across the open terrain and lean with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

“That was seriously fucking creepy!” Gonzalez says, catching her breath as well.

“No fucking shit!” McCafferty agrees.

“So. What was it that made you come back?” Greg asks.

With my hands still on my knees, breathing hard, I shake my head slowly. “Dolls, man. There were dolls hanging in the trees. Lots of them.”

“Noooo shit,” Greg says.

“Seriously?! There are dolls in the trees?” Robert asks from nearby. “That’s all kinds of fucked up.”

“No shit. I took one look at that and I was done.”

“Sounds like we are dealing with kids that have watched too many movies,” Bri states.

“Could be, but that’s all I cared to see,” I say.

“Still want to investigate?” Greg asks.

“No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve had enough fun for one day. If someone’s up there, they’re on their own. Let’s mount up and get out of here,” I answer.

The radio comes to life. “Sir, Henderson here. We have company. There’s movement in the tree line. I count twelve so far.”

“I have them on thermal,” a soldier from inside the Stryker reports. “I have sixteen in sight.”

“Damn. I must have missed a couple,” Henderson states.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“They’re taking positions behind trees and fallen logs just inside the tree line. They appear to be mostly armed with hunting rifles,” Henderson answers.

“Looks like the fun isn’t over yet,” Greg says.

“Fuck it. I’m done. Let’s pull out,” I respond.

“Sir. Someone is emerging from the trees onto the path,” Henderson calls.

“What are they doing?”

“Just standing there, sir.”

I step from around the Stryker and bring my binoculars up. There’s a kid, wearing a woodland camo top and pants, standing at the entrance to the trail holding a scoped deer rifle at his side. A red bandana is wrapped around his head and dark streaks line his cheeks like war paint.

You have to be kidding me, I think, sweeping my binoculars over the others in one position or another.

Some are wearing camo while others are in a motley array of clothing. All have bandanas tied around their heads.

“What do you want to do, Jack?” Greg asks.

“Fuck it. Let’s see what they want,” I answer.

“Are you actually going out there?”

“I guess so. From what I can see, they’re all kids,” I reply.

“Kids with guns. Don’t forget that.”

“Not to worry, there isn’t a chance I’ll forget that.”

I’ve seen enough child soldiers to last me a lifetime. They’re more dangerous than adult soldiers in a lot of ways. Their reasoning process is different. Once they taste the power they hold over others by way of a gun, they tend to use that reasoning process in most of their interactions. Of course, that’s what they are used for. They’re easily brainwashed and an easy source of loyal troops for warlords. Where regular soldiers may have a cognitive ability and a sense of morality, child soldiers are generally fiercely loyal no matter what and have little sense of moral thinking about what they are doing.

That may not be what’s going on here but, if there isn’t any adult supervision around, and I’m assuming there isn’t from the looks of things, then they may have stepped down that path. The skulls and dolls make a little more sense now.

Setting the binoculars down, I secure my M-4 to my back, and walk toward the kid standing on the path. I have my Beretta handy if I need it. If they were going to fire on us, then the kid wouldn’t have stepped out. This is for show. I keep an eye on the kids in the tree line. They are, to a soul, watching me as I approach. I know Henderson and the Stryker are keeping a close eye on them as well and will call if they see something untoward happening.

I approach to within a few feet. The kid is trying to maintain a fierce face, but I can tell he’s nervous. I know this because of his eyes and the fact that he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. He may not be used to dealing with a heavily-armed adult. His eyes keep traveling to the assorted knives strapped to my vest and legs, the grenades peeking out of their pouches, and to the barrel poking above my shoulder. I don’t really have my friendly face on either. I’ll have to look into changing that someday.

Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he looks up at me. He realizes he has to show authority in front of the others or he’s out. Those are the rules. I’ll see where this goes.

“This is Golddigger territory and you’re intruding,” he says as his opening line. This is a play that has to be acted out.

“Listen, son, we are just here to—” I start to say.

“I’m not your son. We don’t want you here,” he interrupts loudly.

I see how this is going to be played out. If he gets us to go away with his fierceness, then his place in the group grows. Or perhaps this is how he deals with everything now. However, being interrupted by a kid, teen or not, grates on me.

“I see the first thing to go is manners. And yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear…son,” I reply.

I see the anger infuse his eyes, his scowl deepens. He’s still nervous and really doesn’t know what to make of someone not being afraid of him because he has a gun. Truth be told, I’m a little nervous standing out here as well, but I don’t dare show it. After all, anything can happen and he may not be posturing.

“I don’t think you understand. With a wave of my hand, I could have you shot,” he states.

“Hmmm…well…that would be a pretty big mistake.”

“Oh yeah. How so?” he asks, defiantly.

“Because of them,” I answer, pointing at the teams behind me.

“Ha, I know how many you have and we outnumber you.”

“Perhaps so, but you might want to take a closer look. Those are highly trained soldiers with automatic weapons. And that,” I say, pointing, “is a Stryker armored vehicle with an automatic .50 caliber turret. You’re just a bunch of kids with hunting rifles. What chance do you think you would have?”

He looks around me to the soldiers poised in firing positions. I notice a change cross his face as he thinks of the ramifications of actually taking us on. He pulls back and puts on his game face again.

“About having me shot…I wake up each and every day with the concept that it’s a good day to die. How about you? Did you wake up this morning with that same thought? I hope so, because if you do one foolish thing, then that’s what’s going to happen. You will have observed your last sunrise,” I state.

His face goes through a variety of contortions. This obviously wasn’t going the way he wanted or was used to. I would ask after their parents, but I don’t think I really want the answer to that. I’m pretty sure they aren’t around anymore for whatever reason — although I have my suspicions — or they would have made an appearance by now.

“We aren’t just a bunch of kids. We’ve made it this far and will continue to survive. We don’t need or want anyone else…especially adults. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave peacefully. That’s if you leave now.”

Now, I don’t remember saying anything about leaving, but I will. If there was any thought of asking them to come with us, it’s gone. It would take a lot of deprogramming and I’m no expert at that. They would be unruly and refute any adult authority. However, there is a heart-mind thing going on inside. The heart says bring them and they’ll adapt over time, but my mind says there’s no way I’d want them in the compound. They could change over time if surrounded by adults but…

I don’t get the thought finished before he continues. “You’d better hurry before I change my mind.”

I take a step forward, noticing his eyes go wide with fright. I glower down on him. “I don’t take kindly to being threatened. You obviously have no idea what would happen if you tried anything. You may get a shot off, but this place would be torn apart and it would be over in about twenty seconds with dust settling on your bodies before you could chamber another shell. We’ll leave, but you might want to watch who you threaten in the future. You’re lucky you’ve caught me on a good day.”

With that, I turn and begin walking back toward the Stryker. There’s a part of me that feels bad for just leaving them here, but I don’t really see how they’d come short of kidnapping them. And they wouldn’t take too kindly to that. No, unfortunately, it’s best just to leave them.

There’s so much more I wanted to ask, like how they are dealing with the night runner threat, parents, others in the area, that sort of thing, but now I’m just tired. I’m sure the answers wouldn’t be to my liking anyway. I have a feeling I know what skulls are lying down in that pit, but I don’t want to know for sure. Right now, I just want to climb out of this dark fairy tale and move on.

“Mount up. We’re leaving,” I say upon reaching the Stryker.

“Are they coming with us?” Robert asks.

“No.”

“Did you ask them?” Bri questions.

“No.”

Greg merely tilts his head then shrugs.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, let’s get back to the 130 and plan tomorrow’s leg,” I say.

Leaving the Jeeps behind, we mount the Stryker and depart to chants of “Golddiggers” coming from the trees.