Takedown

Summer BBQ

Sitting in the dark, the minutes seem like hours and it’s hard to keep track of time. Lynn has become a little more used to being in the dark with panting night runners close by. At least as used to something so terrifying as one can get. It’s an emotional rollercoaster — going from worried about the others one moment to being terrified the next. Not knowing why she is even here in the midst of the night runners adds to her terror.

She feels tightness around her heart associated with being held against her will. It’s like someone has reached inside her chest and is squeezing. Nothing she does alleviates this anxiety. If she knew why she was being held, that might ease it some…but not much. Lynn knows a little about being held captive having been through a limited POW course. That, of course, didn’t portray the essence of actually of being imprisoned. During the course, everyone knew that it would end and the timeline, so there was no way it could adequately represent actually being confined. It did give a few tips on how to get through the rougher moments and she’s tried a few of them. She tries keeping her mind occupied on something other than her situation but she has a hard time focusing with the panting creatures just a few scant feet away.

Lynn works through math problems, runs scenarios through her head, relives fond memories of her childhood, but they all inevitably lead her back to where she is. At one point, she pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and buries her head. She breaks down and cries as a deep fear takes hold.

“Please come get me, Jack. I’m scared and alone,” she says quietly to herself.

She’s sick at heart and the clenching in her chest tightens. Raising her head, she wipes away the tears. She sniffles and rests her head against the hard wall, blinking back the remaining tears.

Taking a deep breath, she thinks, Stop it, Lynn. You’re stronger than this.

The only way she can identify the passage of time is by the occasional changing of night runners at the door. She tries counting the seconds to keep track of the minutes between the changes. This is mostly to occupy her mind, but she finds it to be rather hypnotic and keeps dozing off in mid-count.

At intervals, she hears faint messages from a loudspeaker outside, “Lynn, hang tough. We will find you.”

This gives her hope and, the first time she hears it, relief envelopes her — almost to the point of more tears but this time from sheer happiness. They made it. The others survived the attack and are looking for her. If she can only find a way out and leave them a sign of where she is. One thing she knows for sure, she is still within the city. The only true note of time occurs when nightfall begins and she hears shrieks as night runners pour out of the building she’s in.

The sheer darkness of her room prevents her from seeing much. Her vision has adapted yet it’s still in varying shades of deep gray and black. The constant panting, sniffing, and occasional low growl among the night runners is scary within the gloom. She crawls across the room in an attempt to find something that may aid in her escape but quick footsteps on the hard floor and a menacing snarl cuts her investigation short. The only place she can move without threat is to the corner near her, opposite the door, to relieve herself. Thankfully, a janitor’s bucket is there and that makes it a little easier.

Finding the bucket gave her a little hope that she might locate something else useful but there was no mop with it. She thought it could have been used as a weapon if needed. The first time she scooted to the corner, not being able to hold it any longer and unwilling to just go where she was, there was a set of quick footsteps with an accompanying growl. She turned in the dark and growled back in the direction of the night runner. The dark shape retreated and she sat back feeling an ounce of satisfaction. Since that moment, she has been able to use the corner freely.

She has no idea of how long she has been in the room but her stomach knows it’s time to eat. It feels like she hasn’t eaten in days. With the next change of night runners, something heavy and meaty is thrown onto her lap. She knows it’s the night runners’ idea of trying to feed her.

If this doesn’t beat all, she thinks, lifting the slab of meat.

The meat feels raw in her fingers and she’s fearful of what it might be. Knowing the limitless possibilities, there is no way she is putting whatever is in her hands to her mouth.

“No fucking way,” she says silently.

With another growl, she tosses the slab of meat back at the night runners. She is met by a quick shuffling of feet and several of them growl fiercely in response. Lynn has had enough of this shit and growls again, her emotional edge being one of anger at the moment. She doesn’t care what happens to her, but she isn’t going to eat something the night runners killed and brought.

She feels something different tossed in her lap when the next ones enter. This is lighter and crinkles when it lands. Feeling in the dark, she touches something wrapped in plastic. She brings it closer to her eyes attempting to get a glimpse but isn’t able to make out what it is in the gloom. She opens the package and sniffs. Her stomach growls as she identifies the smell of beef jerky. She’s ravenous and shovels the pieces into her mouth, chewing frantically to get the pieces down.

Slow down, Lynn. You don’t want to be sick, she thinks, and begins eating one piece at a time.

Footsteps approach and, with a grunt, something heavy is dropped to the floor at her side. Liquid splashes onto her legs. She reaches a hand out once the night runner withdraws and encounters a warm liquid sloshing in a small bucket.

I don’t even want to know what this is, she thinks, for once glad it’s dark.

Parched from the lack of anything to drink and the beef jerky, she leans over the bucket smells it. Satisfied that it’s only water, she takes a small sip. The liquid is a little brackish but is sweet on her tongue. She takes a few cautious drinks and sits back to see if there is any effect. Finding none after a period of time — how long, she has no idea — she drinks her fill.

Emotions continue to swing from depression to, well, not being depressed as she tries to keep her mind occupied. She tries exploring the room again but the menace in the snarls when she does is clear. She might have gotten away with the corner and throwing the food back, but the ones they direct at her now leave her with no choice but to withdraw back to her place.

Her vision doesn’t brighten much and she has no idea what kind of room she’s in, let alone what kind of building. She could be on the ground floor or several stories up. She experiences several moments when she just wants to launch at the night runners in a do-or-die action but, each time, she talks herself out of it. When confined in the dark, the mind can play tricks, making stupid actions seem like good ones.

For an indeterminable amount of time, Lynn sits in the dark with nothing but her own mind to accompany her. To what end, she has no idea. She tries, with some amount of success, to think only of her family and Jack. When she feels herself slipping into a depression, she runs through scenarios, no matter how wild, in an attempt to find something that will get her out of here. Although the faint words from the loudspeaker penetrate her cell from time to time, she thinks the only way she’s going to get out is if she does it herself. If the others knew where she was, they would have been here by now.

Why in the fuck am I being held? she thinks, tilting her head back against the wall.

The gray light of the overcast morning seeps into the cockpit as I sit heavily in the right seat. Robert will be flying from the pilot’s seat on this leg. He’s the one who verified the numbers in the flight computer, so if we get lost, he gets to figure out where we are and fly us to our destination. A stronger wind sprang up overnight and the ramp in front is a mass of sand particles blowing over the top of one another. It gives the appearance of the entire ground on the move. During the stronger gusts, the aircraft rocks and I can hear a hiss of blown grit against the fuselage. The walk-around was no picnic and, under the helmet, I feel dirt in my hair. Our tracks from the previous two days have been completely erased. I point this out to Robert and Bri in the midst of doing our checks stressing the importance of knowing the past day’s weather while tracking.

The engines start up, sending their familiar vibration and roar through the aircraft. We are soon taxiing to the south runway over the wind-swept ramp. The events of the previous day still weigh on my mind but fade as I focus on the day to come. It’s another short hop of a little over an hour to the southeast and McConnell AFB. Thinking of the name once again brings Lynn to the forefront of my mind. Damn I miss her. We haven’t even completed half of our journey and I’m so ready to see her again — like that didn’t start the moment we left. What we are doing is important but I’d like nothing more than to turn the aircraft west after takeoff and head home to her. I’m sure the overcast day and this forlorn place is not helping the melancholy feeling I have. I try the satellite radio while we taxi, but to no avail, which doesn’t help my mood at all. The radio station we heard yesterday is also silent.

Robert applies the power and we are soon speeding over the wind-blown runway. We bump along where the sand has been driven into small piles but our wheels soon leave the almost reclaimed airstrip. I raise the gear handle on Robert’s request and glance over at the B-1 bombers as they slide by my window. Raising the flaps, I see the bunkers at the north end of the air base wishing I knew how to load the armaments and fly those beasts. Those would make very short work of any night runner lairs we find.

Robert begins a turn to the southeast to pick up our route. At least the numbers are leading us in the right direction.

“Let’s head over to Lead one more time before heading off. I want to see if there is any indication they might have changed their minds,” I say.

“What are we looking for?” Robert asks.

“A painted sign? A big blinking arrow saying pick us up? Hell, I don’t know,” I answer.

The truth of the matter is that I feel bad about leaving a bunch of kids on their own regardless of their attitudes. Although I could have handled it differently, I firmly believe the outcome would have been the same. However, one more look won’t hurt.

Robert banks the aircraft, leveling out about a thousand feet below the overcast. We retrace our flight path of the day prior and arrive over the town. We circle it and the mesa to the west, but it appears the same as it did before. There is no painted sign or big, blinking arrow.

After a few minutes of orbiting, I tell Robert, “Okay, let’s head out and pick up our route.”

We depart, leaving the kids on their own. They’ve survived to this point and more than likely will continue to do so. I can’t imagine what kind of living that will be but I send thoughts of good will their way.

We pass over more fractured terrain bordering the southern edge of what used to be South Dakota and enter the northern part of Nebraska. Looking down at the terrain is a lot like looking through a slide of amoebic worms or something similar. It’s the only way I can think to describe it. Sand dunes stretch east to west but each dune is short with water and greenery in the valleys between them. Sometimes a strip of agricultural land is nestled between the dunes but other than that, it’s an empty place. It’s an odd look with dunes and greenery together like that.

The ceiling begins to rise but we maintain our altitude as we’ll begin a descent into Wichita shortly. Passing the Platte River, we fly over the Nebraska and Kansas that I remember. It’s a patch work of fields with green fingers of streams and rivers running throughout. The base is on the southeast corner of Wichita and abuts the city so I have a feeling that our nights of peace are behind us. With the abundant water and possible food sources, I’m guessing night runners will be prowling the streets in numbers. I just hope we find the soldier’s family. I’m not such a huge fan of our folks finding empty homes and their families lost. Yeah, I’m ready for a happy ending. We seem to have too few of those these days.

Robert sets up a descent into the air base. Our route will take us over the city which is too big to conduct an aerial observation over all of it. I want to take a look at the air base first and then the surrounding area for hints of human habitation. Once on the ground, we will be heading south for about thirty five miles to the town of Wellington. It’s a pretty direct route from the airfield along an interstate. After leaving the city, the path seems to go through a pretty remote area so we should make good time as we won’t have to stop and check out towns along the way. It’s getting through the city that could be tricky.

The vast metropolis of Wichita appears off our nose, growing larger as we descend. We’re busy with setting up our arrival and can only spare the occasional glance outside. What I see though is much like the other cities we’ve passed over — nothing moving. The streets are definitely clearer here than those farther north with regards to being covered with dirt. Descending over downtown, a civilian airport sits at the southwestern side of the city off our right wing. McConnell AFB itself is off our nose and Robert sets us up to cross over at a right angle limiting our exposure.

The two long, concrete runways run north to south and we drone over them coming from the west. At the north end, to the east of the runways, large tanker aircraft stretch in two lines covering almost the entirety of the tarmac. I glimpse vehicles parked around the aircraft.

“Bring us around again,” I tell Robert. Greg is poised behind us looking down.

Robert circles and we come in from the southeast altering our flight path across the field. Coming over from differing points of the compass is just a good idea. It doesn’t give anyone on the ground with ill intentions a consistent angle with which to fire at. Of course, we are in a 130 so it’s kind of a moot point — we are slow and big. The one good thing about the aircraft is that the droning of the engines and turning props is at such a low pitch that it makes it difficult to tell exactly where it’s at — it seems to come from all directions at once.

I look closer around the aircraft on this second flyover. There are a lot of pickup trucks and other 4x4 type of vehicles parked near the aircraft. Interspersed among them are people. Several jump in some of the trucks and head off the ramp while the remainder continues to stare up at us.

“Circle us over the airfield. I want to get a closer look,” I say.

Robert glances over as I reach for a set of binoculars and he banks the aircraft. Now, in his defense, it’s a common, almost ingrained habit for a pilot to bank the aircraft in his or her direction. His turn to the left, however, does me no good whatsoever. I might as well be drawing cartoon characters. At least that would be a less wasteful use of time.

“Hmmm…this is odd. Whereas I should be seeing aircraft, vehicles, and people on the ground, I instead see fourteen satellites and a small planet with three moons,” I say, looking out of my window with the binoculars pointing at the sky above.

“What?” he queries, turning to glance at me as I look out of my window. “Oh shit. Sorry.”

He brings the aircraft around and banks in the other direction putting the airfield on my side of the aircraft. “There we go. Much better,” I say.

Below, I see a knot of armed people staring up at us shielding their eyes against the glare. Some have their weapons in hand while others still have theirs shouldered. On the ramp, near the tailgates of the pickups, several BBQ grills are sending small drafts of smoke slowly spiraling skyward. Near the large hangars at the edge of the ramp, three reefer semi-trucks are parked. The trucks that departed have pulled into a nearby parking lot. The fact that they aren’t aiming their weapons skyward is remotely encouraging. The trucks that left appear to be a reactionary force should they be needed. However, my trust meter hasn’t spiked into the green level of the comfort zone as of yet.

“Bring us down the runway and rock our wings. Then circle so we can see their reaction,” I say.

I try radioing the people on the ground to no avail. Robert flies us out and aligns us with the runway, bringing us down the length of the larger runway. He rocks our wings down the entire length and then begins another circle. I look at the people on the ground, some dressed in regular clothing while others have fatigues. Several of them are waving their arms over their heads in a crossing fashion.

Ugh, I think, looking down.

Here’s the confusing part about rescue signals. Most people think getting the attention of a rescue helicopter or aircraft is achieved by waving their arms over their head. That signal actually means that it’s unsafe and dangerous to land. The correct signal is to move the arms up and down at the side, and then once you have their attention, form a “Y” with your arms over your head. Several people have been left stranded because of this misinterpretation. Here, I have no idea what is truly meant, however, judging by the fact that they are in the midst of barbecuing, I’m guessing they don’t mean it’s unsafe to land — unless their cooking is truly horrible.

“So what was their response?” Robert asks, continuing to circle.

“They waved their arms over their head,” I answer.

“Isn’t that the wave off signal?” he asks, confused.

“Yep.”

“What do you want to do?” Greg asks from over my shoulder.

“Find a white sand beach, crawl into a hammock, and sip drinks with umbrellas in them,” I reply.

“Dreamland fades and Jack finds himself in an aircraft flying over an inhabited runway following an apocalypse with Greg asking, ‘what do you want to do?’”

“You are the biggest buzzkill ever. I want to take a lower pass to get a closer look at the runway in case they’re serious about it being unsafe to land. If it’s okay, then we’ll land to the north but stop short of mid-field. Have the Stryker ready to offload once we stop. We’ll take your team, Greg, and see what these folks have to say. I didn’t see any heavy arms. Robert, leave the engines running in any case. If we have to, we’ll fall back to the aircraft and jump inside leaving the Stryker here. Robert, Bri, have the bird ready to get airborne in a hurry,” I say.

The runway looks clear of obstructions and debris as we zoom low down the runway. The people off to the side continue to look at us but from behind the cover of their vehicles. I’m sure our behavior isn’t causing them to have huge levels of comfort either. I have Robert give a final wing rock at the northern end and we climb to set up for landing.

He sets us down close to the threshold and brings the aircraft to a rapid halt. The Stryker is untied and offloaded as the ramp is brought down. I head out with Greg and his team to the north along the taxiway until we enter the edge of the ramp. I disembark and stand near the front watching the people through a set of binoculars waiting for their reaction.

It’s slow in coming, but several of them eventually pile into one of the pickups once it’s clear we aren’t proceeding any closer. I glimpse the pickup trucks that left earlier as they move down one of the streets near the airfield, moving behind us. I radio the observation to everyone.

The breeze brings a waft of the grilling food which makes my mouth water. It’s been a few days since I’ve had anything remotely close, having lived mostly off the canned rations and MREs which we heated on the small stove in the 130. The pickup drives our way, skirting the edge of the ramp near the hangars. It appears they want to stay close to an exit in case we open fire. I can’t say that I blame them. It doesn’t look like they’ve had much trouble with bandits in the area as they’ve left a lot of their gear outside. The grills, however, would draw every night runner within the state.

The white Dodge Ram pulls up to within fifty feet. Four men in camouflaged gear exit with three of them taking station behind the bed. I’m sure that’s only a feel good measure as they can see the .50 cal turret behind me. The fourth walks to the front as I’ve done. All of the men have their weapons ready but not in a threatening posture. My comfort meter climbs a notch but hangs there as I know there are several trucks somewhere behind me.

“Greg, keep a watch for the other trucks. I’m going forward,” I say into the radio.

“Gotcha covered,” he responds.

I shoulder my M-4 and walk toward the man. He doesn’t move his weapon to his shoulder nor does he put it away. The aroma of body odor wafts to my nostrils as I near. Of course, that may be mine catching up with me.

Reaching the man, I notice the subdued rank of a first lieutenant on his collar. I make out a varied number of stripes on the sleeves of the men standing on the other side of the truck.

“Lieutenant,” I say, extending my hand.

“Sir,” he replies.

“Let’s just make that Jack. Jack Walker,” I say.

“Tim…Tim Harkins.”

“Can we come to the agreement that we aren’t going to shoot at each other? At least for now. However, you may want to once you get a whiff of the rest of us,” I ask.

“I think we can agree on that,” he comments.

“Great. You can pull your men in the trucks back and I’ll have the 130 taxi up.”

“You saw that, eh? Sorry. You can’t be too careful these days, Jack.”

“I’m with you on that. It’s been…an interesting experience to date,” I agree, calling Robert on the radio to bring the aircraft up and telling Greg all appears okay.

“Are you guys from a military unit?” Tim asks.

“Well, yes and no. We have a few soldiers from varying outfits but nothing official. Like that’s even a thing anymore. Most of the folks we have back home are civilian, though,” I answer, hearing the throaty roar of the 130 increase as Robert taxis along the runway.

“Same here. We have a few military and some civilians who either worked on base or wandered in. So, there’s nothing left, huh?”

“Not that I can tell. We’ve made several hops to different places and have met with differing results in every location, but nothing that remotely resembles a form of government control,” I reply.

“We’re just grilling up something to eat. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

“Now, that sounds like the best plan I’ve heard in a while. We don’t have much of anything to bring to the party, though,” I state.

“No worries. Your company and news will be good enough,” Tim says.

Robert parks the 130 at the far northern end and Greg brings the Stryker up. Lengthy introductions are made and the pickups that left, return. I notice a line of port-a-potties lining one of the hangar walls. The grills have been tied down to the ramp with concrete anchors and chain.

“The night creatures kept knocking them over every night,” Tim says, noticing my looking over the setup.

“So where do you hole up at night?” I ask.

“In the aircraft. We have bedding set up in them and pull ladders in with us when we button down at night. So far, they haven’t been able to get inside or up on the wings. It’s insulated, so their nightly screaming doesn’t bother us very much. Plus, we’ve grown accustomed to it so it’s not all that bad. They also haven’t managed to break into the reefer trailers so far, thank goodness. We scavenged a lot of frozen goods at the outset and stocked them,” he replies.

I give him a rundown of our situation and end by asking him how many he has here.

“We currently have twenty-three. We had more but have lost a few going into buildings for supplies. The military folks are from the base here and come from different units. The civilians drifted in from all over. We haven’t had anyone new in a while, but we keep an eye out when we make supply runs.”

“Any trouble with bandits?” I ask.

He pauses, looking a little confused before answering. “No. None so far.”

“Well, they’re around in places. We’ve had some run-ins with several groups.”

“We keep watch but haven’t had any problems so far.”

“So, what did you do, Tim?” I ask, noticing all of the men, and a couple of women intermingled, are all armed with M-16s or M-4s.

“I was a maintenance chief here. The others, they are a scattering from different base units,” he answers.

“Wait…you’re a mechanic?”

“Yes, sir. Why, something wrong with your bird?” he asks.

“No, but having a jet mechanic would certainly be helpful. Not that we have a lot of time before the fuel expires but handy nonetheless,” I respond.

“As would a pilot here.”

“No pilots left, eh?”

“Not that we’ve found,” he answers. “I can get the aircraft started to charge the batteries but that’s about the extent of my expertise. I’m afraid that any attempt to try and fly one of these beasts will only end in tears.”

The teams join us and we intermingle, sharing stories, food, and some serious talk with moments of laughter thrown in. I tell Tim and his group what our purpose is here. He offers to send some of his people down with us. I thank him but let him know that the Stryker is pretty crowded as it is. With our bellies full of hamburgers along with the trimmings, I tell him that he and his group are more than welcome to join us when we head off.

“That’s awfully kind of you, Jack. We’ll have to talk it over tonight and let you know if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly okay. We’ll head south for our search shortly and return before dark if we’re able,” I comment.

I would hole up for the rest of the day with Tim and his group — we all need the rest and visiting with them has raised our spirits — but I also know that the soldier is eager to find out about his family. I know I would be and so it would be selfish for us not to take the time we have to go look at the earliest opportunity…which is now.

We gather our gear and the teams load up — as we have done now seemingly hundreds of times. The smell of a locker room is beginning to override the diesel, oil, and electrical smells inside the Stryker. With Tim’s group nearby and having no trouble with marauders to date, I’m not all that concerned about transiting the outlying areas on our journey south. That doesn’t mean we won’t proceed slowly and scout the area ahead, it’s just that I feel a little more comfortable. That could be because my stomach is full of barbecued burgers. It was nice being able to relax some and shoot the shit.

The journey through the base is quick and we soon find ourselves traveling down the interstate. We drive past several housing areas which are mostly hidden behind fences and soon find ourselves out in the countryside. The change is abrupt — one minute passing wooden and concrete fences and the next, traveling next to hedgerow-lined fields. The scattered clouds above begin to cover a greater portion of the sky. Sunshine pokes through the breaks sending rays down to brighten patches of ground.

The trip is like most of the others we’ve encountered — farm houses spaced far apart and machinery lying idle in fields or in sheds but no sign of anyone around. We don’t pass a single other settlement on our way south. The only place that comes vaguely close is a rest stop situated between the north and south lanes. A green highway sign indicates that ‘Wellington’ is at the next exit. The soldier informs us that the town is a mile or so off the road. We exit the freeway onto the ramp and take a right toward the town.

The first indication of civilization, so to speak, is a campground off to one side of the road. The yellow KOA Campground sign hangs as a reminder of time past. I’m not sure what would hold anyone’s interest around here to make this a stop for campers, but the soldier assures me that it was full during the summer. I see the anticipation and fear in his eyes as we are about to enter his hometown. He has seen our success to date so I’m guessing it’s mostly fear. I knew that fear of the unknown with regards to your loved ones when Robert and Bri were taken. And of course, the ultimate loss of Nic.

Passing the campground which was aging even when people were actually inhabiting it, I spy a Walmart ahead with an adjacent McDonald’s in front next to the road. I have the soldier in the open turret with me in order to help guide us, making it rather cramped. The shopping center parking lot is mostly empty, but a couple of pickup trucks are parked near one of the entrance doors.

“Wait, sir. I recognize one of those trucks. It belongs to one of my buddies,” the solider says.

I ask the driver to pull into the Walmart and notify the rest of the teams of our plan to investigate. We slow and turn into the lot. As we do, I see one of the truck doors open and someone exits to dart inside the store.

“We have a runner who just disappeared into the store,” I tell the others.

The Stryker pulls in and parks in a position to give it a clear lane of fire to the vehicles and the store entrance. The ramp lowers with the soldier and me exiting using the armored vehicle as cover. As before, if we’re fired upon, we’ll return fire with the Stryker and leave. I have Gonzalez sitting at the rear of the vehicle and keeping a watch on our six. It may be the soldier’s friend or it could be someone who stole the truck. I’m not taking any chances.

“Do you know most of the people in town?” I ask, standing on the ramp at one corner of the Stryker with the soldier beside me.

“Not everyone but, yes, most of them, sir,” he answers.

“Give them a shout then.”

“Whoever is in there, this is Sam…Sam Kennewich,” the soldier yells.

“Sam…Sam, is that really you, man? It’s Jim,” a voice calls from inside the dark depths of the store.

“Get the fuck out here, you shit,” Sam calls good-naturedly, murmuring a “sorry, sir” to me.

“No worries. I’ve heard that word a time or two,” I reply.

A figure emerges tentatively from the Supercenter into the daylight. Five others exit behind him.

“Sir?” Sam asks whether it is okay if he goes to his friend.

“Go ahead.”

I have the teams exit and form a quick perimeter around the Stryker before I follow in Sam’s footsteps. I see him and whoever he was talking to shake hands and then hug. As I approach, the others behind Jim watch me with wariness. Sam, they know, but not me. However, I’m with someone they know so that puts us on a neutral ground.

As I draw near, I hear Sam ask, “So…what’s the story, you know—”

“Dude, it’s all good. Your parents are alive and with us,” Jim interrupts, knowing what Sam wants to know but is afraid to actually ask.

Sam’s eyes well with tears. Jim sees this and pulls him into another hug. Sam sobs quietly for a moment on Jim’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you made it, man. Come on. Let’s go see them,” Jim says. “We were going to check for any remaining supplies here but, what the fuck, we can do that later.”

“And who is this, Sam?” one of the other men in the party asks, nodding in my direction.

“Oh, this is Captain Walker,” Sam answers.

“Jack will be fine,” I say as introductions are made. “Did I hear you say correctly that you were going into the store?”

“Yeah. We have a few supplies but always checking for more,” one of the men says.

“What about night runners? Don’t you have problems with them?”

“Night runners? Oh, you mean those freaks of nature. Yeah, there are a couple hundred of them around. Tricky fuckers, so we don’t go very far inside any place. We get most of our food from the fields and silos around. It’s mostly light bulbs, toilet paper, stuff like that we scavenge in buildings for,” he answers.

“How many of you are there?” I ask.

“I don’t know you well enough to answer that.”

“Calm down, Kyle. He’s with Sam so that’s good enough for me,” Jim says. Turning to me, he says, “We have about forty left. We holed up in the county jail.”

Sam chuckles. “You know that place well enough.”

“Hey, it was only that one time. It’s not like I had a residency card. And, if I remember right, you were there that night, too.” Sam glances sheepishly toward me.

“You have no worries about that from me. We were all young once,” I say, addressing his worry.

“Come on, let’s go. Your parents have been worried sick about you,” Jim states, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulder.

“Sir, do you mind if I ride with them to catch up?” Sam asks.

I nod okay and head back to the waiting teams. We board and follow the trucks, making a turn to the north at a roundabout. I inform the teams of the good news while we travel. We finally have a better outcome and this causes smiles to shine on every face. The smiles are strained on those who have yet to receive news or have had bad news, but they are smiles nonetheless.

The shops and houses we pass remind me of just about every other town we’ve passed through — store windows broken and some doors hanging open. At the extreme northern end of the town, with scattered industrial buildings, we turn and enter a modern looking building with a brown sign indicating that it’s the ‘Sumner County Jail’. We drive to a sliding security gate at the side of the complex. One of the men jumps out and slides it open. The parking lot we enter has a few pickup trucks parked within it. I notice the fence around the sides and rear of the facility is down in places and the glass entry doors are broken but boarded up.

Several people are out in the parking lot and look our way as we drive in. I suppose it must be quite a surprise to see one of their own head out for supplies only to return with a large armored vehicle. Eyes widen, some in surprise but others have a fearful look in them.

The trucks we were following park. One of the passenger doors opens and Sam exits quickly.

“Mom, Dad,” he shouts, taking off at a run. One of the couples near the edge of the group turns toward the shout.

“Sam?” the woman calls out tentatively.

Sam rushes up and wraps his arms around the woman, hugging her tightly. If he hugged her any tighter, I think she would break. The man joins in, taking all of them in his embrace. They huddle with their heads together. We park the Stryker and exit.

Everyone in both groups is smiling at the reunion, giving hope to those that still have their loved ones to find. I walk over to Jim.

“Who’s in charge here?” I ask.

“That would be Sheriff Dixon,” he replies. “That’s him coming this way.”

I see a man about my size and age approaching. Once he closes, we introduce ourselves. We both trade quick stories, glancing occasionally at the three who are still wrapped together. He asks us to join him inside. I have the teams stay by the Stryker, but the crowd quickly surrounds them, asking questions. I hear some asking about the world outside and if we are part of the military — a common question among the survivors we meet. I guess our outfits and driving an armored military vehicle gives that allusion. I think part of it is people wanting to know if some form of control is coming back and if things will return to normal. I have noticed the disappointment, although covered for the most part, when we tell them our story.

Passing Sam and his parents, the tears have mostly ended. I hear the man say in a low voice, “I’m sorry about Carol, son. We don’t know what happened to her.”

I don’t know what his reaction is as we are soon hustled inside. I have Greg, Robert, and Bri with me.

“We don’t stay in this part anymore,” Dixon says as we cross a lit foyer. “Those creatures of the night break in almost every evening. We’re in the jail proper which they haven’t managed to penetrate.”

We converse for a while giving extended versions of our stories. Dixon knew something bad was happening by the number of calls he started receiving and immediately began rounding up the people who weren’t sick. He lost most of his deputies in the process and the town’s small police force was swallowed up almost immediately, as were the other emergency services. They’d respond to a call only to be taken down. As soon as he figured out what was happening, Dixon stopped responding to calls and began the process of finding those still alive.

“However, that cost us dearly and I lost a number of good people doing that,” he says, his eyes glazing over as he recalls the past.

He seems like a decent sort, especially as he was trying to save as many as he could even though he was putting himself and his staff in danger. I let him know more about the place we have set up and tell him he’s more than welcome to join us.

“That will be a change for a lot of us. We have supplies, water, and a safe haven of our own here. However, that said, and given your stories that there aren’t many of us left, the more we can gather together, the better off we’ll be. I want to talk it over with the others if you don’t mind. After all, it’s their life and decision as well,” he says after a moment of contemplation.

“That’s more than fine, Sheriff. There are a few others farther to the north at the air base that may be going. We can’t stick around for too long, though, as we need to be back before dark… for obvious reasons,” I reply.

“You and you’re group are welcome to stay here for the night if you need,” he says.

“I thank you for that, but we have a long trek ahead of us yet. The sooner we begin, the quicker we can be home. That is one thing to think about though, you’ll be stuck with us for a few days yet as we go searching for more families. It won’t be an easy time. But, we should be back in the Northwest in less than a week,” I state.

“I’ll make sure to mention that. Well, if you are leaving today, I guess I better start the conversation. It may take us a while as some like to hear themselves speak and are prone to lengthy dialogues.”

With that, we shake hands and venture outside. Dixon gathers his people and they head back in for their version of a town hall meeting. Sam accompanies his parents.

“Going to be a bit crowded again, sir,” Gonzalez says, referring to inside the 130.

“If they decide to go,” I say.

“You just watch, sir. They’ll go. They know they don’t have much left here,” she says, waving her arm across the empty fields. “As will the others at McConnell.”

“You have a talent for predicting the future do ya?”

“Nah. I just know people. The Stryker and 130 are great recruiting tools. They see those and armed soldiers, then look down at the hunting rifle by their side and they’re sold. Plus your rugged charm, sir,” she says with a grin.

“Charming and I haven’t ever really seen eye-to-eye.”

“You’ll notice I said ‘rugged’.” Robert chuckles at my side and Bri fails miserably at suppressing a grin.

“You people are impossible. I think I now understand why Lynn assigned me to you. It’s in retaliation for something I said…and more than likely something a year or more ago,” I state.

The sun has long since passed overhead, hidden mostly behind the gathered clouds. We spend the afternoon staring across brown fields or playing cards that McCafferty has broken out while we wait for the people to arrive at a decision. True to his word, the meeting drags on for most of the day. It is getting to the point where I am going to have to interrupt them to tell them we have to leave. The day is wearing on and, if we are going to make it back with some daylight to spare, we have to leave soon. The sheriff walks out just as I rise to go in.

“Well, everyone had to have their say, and some twice, but we’ve decided to come along if the offer still stands. There were a few who weren’t eager to ride for days so I promised them I’d ask this, is there any way you could pick us up on your way home?”

“Of course the offer still stands and we’d be happy to have you along. However, I’m sorry to say we won’t be returning here. Maintenance could become an issue with the aircraft so the sooner we can get home, the better,” I answer.

“That’s kind of what I thought. Okay, give us a chance to pack our stuff up. How much room do you have?” Dixon asks.

“Some, but not much I’m afraid. We can cram what we can in but realize that we have the vehicle there,” I say, pointing at the Stryker, “It takes up most of our available space.”

“Okay, I’ll tell them to keep it to a minimum. Some have mementos they want to hold onto,” he responds.

“Pictures and the sort aren’t going to change things one way or the other so those are fine. Favorite couches on the other hand…” I reply.

“We’ll be ready in about an hour if that suits you. How do you want to do this? Follow in vehicles?” he asks.

“That will be fine. Just realize that the vehicles will also have to be left,” I say.

He nods and vanishes inside once again. People come and go, tossing articles into vehicles and eventually everyone is ready to go. I tell the teams to mount up. The ride back is more of the same with the exception that we have a convoy of loaded pickups and vans following. We pull into the airfield and park our caravan by the 130. I take Dixon over and introduce him to Tim. Harkings glances over the crowd gathered by the aircraft and pulls me aside.

“We talked after you left. We want to come with you, but I have to ask now, will there be enough room?” he asks.

“I won’t lie. It’ll be a touch cramped, but we can all fit,” I answer.

“Okay, well, if it won’t be too much trouble.”

“None at all. We plan to hunker down here for the night and leave early tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds good. We’ll be ready. If you want, we have plenty of space in the tankers if some people want to stay in there for the night,” Tim says.

“That would be great. It’ll give everyone one more night of being able to stretch out. After that, we’ll just have to endure. If it’s okay, I’ll have everyone but the teams stay with you.”

“That will be more than fine. We saved some food for you. Not enough for everyone, but we have enough daylight left to light up the grills again. We can have one more feast before we depart. It’s not like we’ll be able to take truckloads of food with us,” he says.

“That would be way cool. Thanks.”

With the afternoon sun settling over the city to the west, we cook more than enough hamburgers and chicken to fill an army of people. The odor of the grilling food wafts over the ramp, reminiscent of what summer is supposed to smell like. Contentment reigns over the gathering. I tuck it away in the back of my mind that we’ll have to score some grills and have days like this when we get back. I’ve been so consumed with getting things done that I’ve forgotten how times like this can rejuvenate people. Yeah, we need to do this. It may bring night runners to our walls, but the mental needs of our group are important as well. We can’t afford to do this every day, but we can set aside a day of rest once we set up the inner wall and towers. Unless something comes up, which it always seems to.

Some of the smaller children, which were with Dixon and his group, run across the ramp chasing after one another. Their laughter mixes with the murmur of conversations. One of the younger boys, not looking where he is going as he races from one of the girls chasing him, runs into me. He stops and looks up with a mixture of fear and awe. I hesitate and, with a smile, reach down to ruffle his hair. The sweet upturned face of the young boy smiles in return and he races off. Watching the boy run off, I wonder if that might have been what the boy in the trees was like once.

We finish our meal and stow the Stryker. With the last rays casting an orange glow in the cockpit, Robert and I verify our numbers for the next hop to Petersen AFB. The last time we were there, we barely escaped with our lives rescuing Mullins and his men. The memory of the chase through the night sends a shiver up my spine. I’m not all that keen on returning to that place but I remind myself that we’ll only be out during the day. The question of whether night runners are there in abundance is not in doubt, or at least they were. At any rate we’ve reached the eastern most location of our journey and our direction west will draw us closer to home. We are close to the line we drew some time ago with regards to the nuclear power plants and possible radiation zones.

As expected, when the sun gives its final farewell and disappears below the horizon, faint shrieks begin to filter through our metal walls. Before long the tarmac is filled with our nightly visitors. It isn’t until now that I fully appreciate the quiet evenings we had the prior couple of nights. Looking outside, I see packs of night runners filling the ramp and the beatings against the side of the aircraft begin. The people resting in the tankers look like they might be having an easier go of it as the night runners can’t scale the wings to the fuselage. I set the battery and radios on. I’ve taken to monitoring the radios at night in the hopes that we can finally break through to base. This hour’s watch takes their place fore and aft as I pull away from the window with a sigh.

It’s going to be another restless night, I think, settling into the lower cockpit bunk and listening to the periodic thud of the persistent night runners slamming into the side of the 130.