Takedown

Act of Courage

“If anyone is out there and can hear this, we need help!”

The radio call is hushed as it exits from the cockpit speaker but startles me awake nonetheless.

“Sir?” the soldier on watch in the cockpit says.

“I heard it and I’m up,” I reply, climbing out of my sleeping bag into the chilled air.

“Shall I wake the others?” he asks.

“Let’s wait and see what’s up first,” I answer.

I step across the steel deck feeling the cold seep through my socks. The night is still filled with night runners prowling the ramp; some exiting while others emerge from between the hangars. I hope there isn’t a problem with anyone in the other aircraft parked along the ramp adjacent to us. If there is, with the number of night runners out, there really won’t be much that we can do to assist.

“Jack, this is Tim. Did you catch that?” I hear over the radio.

“Yeah. I caught that. I’m about to try and make contact. Any idea of who it might be?”

“Not a clue,” he answers.

“Okay. I’ll call you back if I find out anything,” I say and switch the radio to transmit over the emergency channel.

I’m guessing the call must have come over that frequency. It will transmit over all UHF or VHF channels depending on the type of radio. That’s really the only way we could have heard the call unless they happened to be on our frequency.

“Calling on UHF guard, this is Captain Walker. I hear you loud and clear. State the nature of your emergency,” I call.

“Sir, Sergeant Reynolds here. We’re holed up in a school and close to being overrun by these night demons,” Reynolds replies.

“Can you hold out until morning?” I ask.

“Doubtful, sir. We held them off last night, but they’ve broken through some of our defenses and we don’t have unlimited ammo,” she answers.

Sporadic gunfire echoes in the background of her transmission.

“Okay, Reynolds, how many do you have with you and what’s your location?” I ask, knowing we’ll be hard pressed to offer any help.

It’s night and the ramp is teeming with night runners. We’d be lucky to get ten feet if we managed to get out at all. We could get into the Stryker, but that would mean opening up the aircraft. I’m not keen on coming back and having to clear it of any night runners that decided to stay. Gunfire in aircraft tends to put holes in the side, along with taking out hydraulic, electric, and other equipment necessary for the 130 to leave the ground. That would effectively strand us here.

“I have six other troops and eleven kids of varying ages. We’re in a large school to the southwest of a town called El Dorado…in Kansas,” she answers.

“Kids! You have kids with you?”

“Yes, sir. There are eleven of them left. They are, um, were from a deaf school nearby,” she answers.

“A deaf school? They’re deaf?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have an exact location?” I ask.

“I think the GPS still has some juice left. Standby.”

“Go wake the others and have Greg come to the cockpit,” I say to the soldier leaning over my shoulder.

He nods and immediately disappears down the stairs. Reynolds radios back their coordinates. Each time she presses the mic, I continue to hear gunfire and shrieks in the background. It doesn’t sound like they are having a lot of fun.

“Okay. Standby. We’re in Wichita. Let me see what we can do. No promises, sergeant. We have night runners all over us as well,” I reply.

“Okay, sir. I understand, but any assistance you can give would be…well…helpful.”

I pull out a map as Greg enters the cockpit and I relay the conversation.

“It’s about thirty miles away,” I say, pointing to the coordinates given on the map.

“Is there anything we can really do?” Greg asks. “I mean, I understand with kids and all, but look outside.”

Night runners continue to streak across the ramp with numerous ones gathered around the various aircraft. The moon’s rays sneak through a break in the overcast illuminating a portion of the tarmac. Several night runners glance up at the bright light while others look in our direction. The moon catches a few just right and their eyes glow in its radiance sending a shiver up my spine. There’s no way I want to be out there. I think about the kids and the soldiers fighting for their lives; the fear they must feel in the dark with night runners pressing in.

“We could unfasten the Stryker and load up. Rig something to lower the ramp, seal up the vehicle, and drive out,” I say.

“That would leave the aircraft open.”

“Yeah, but if we left the windows uncovered, there really isn’t a place they could hide out. We could just wait out the night in the Stryker and return in the morning,” I state.

“How many did you say were there?” Greg asks as Robert joins us.

“Seven soldiers and eleven kids,” I answer.

“That would make it a little cozy in the Stryker and there’s no way we can go outside to get another vehicle. Could we even fit everyone in?”

“We’d just have to pile in on top of one another and make do,” I respond.

“It’s your call, Jack,” Greg says.

Yeah, I’ve always loved that statement. It’s the one where there is no right answer, and I get to make the decision with anything I do decide being the wrong one. I know, because I’ve used the statement myself many times.

“Round everyone up and get them ready. Load them up and rig something to press the ramp button from the Stryker turret,” I say.

“Yeah, right. Want me to lasso the moon while I’m at it?”

“Well, while you’re at it, if you wouldn’t mind. It might come in handy,” I reply.

“Okay, Jack, I’ll figure something out. See you in the back,” he says and exits.

“Tim, did you catch all of that?” I ask, dialing our regular frequency back up.

“Yeah, I did. I don’t see what we can do, though,” he answers. I outline our plan to drive out of the aircraft and go.

“I don’t envy you. If there’s anything we can do to help, let me know,” Tim says.

“I can’t think of anything. We’ll be back in the morning,” I reply.

“Okay, see you then.”

“Reynolds, we’re going to try and make it to you. How are you holding up?” I ask, switching frequencies once again.

“We’re expending ammo at a high rate, but managing, sir. And thanks,” she answers.

“Does your radio have enough juice for the night?”

“It should, sir,” she replies.

“Okay. I’ll call you when we get closer and ask about specifics. It’ll take us about an hour to reach you.”

“We’ll be here, sir… hopefully.”

I walk down the stairs into the dimly lit cargo compartment where the teams are gathering their gear; some donning their NVGs and checking them while others load mags into their vests. There is little talk amid the sounds of getting ready; boots walking across the steel decking, the metallic clink of a mag being inserted, the rattle of chains falling to the floor as the Stryker is unhitched. From time to time, the shrieks outside rise and everyone flinches each time a night runner pounds into the fuselage. Everyone has been briefed and, although they had a long day with little rest, their game faces are on.

Tension is etched on everyone as they realize we are venturing out into the realm of the night runners and will more than likely have to battle with them once we reach our destination. They also have looks of determination. There are kids and comrades out there who are in trouble and need rescuing. A soldier lives for the one next to them and will do anything for them. Kids, well, that goes way past any thought of themselves. To the soldiers donning vests and stashing ammo inside the Stryker, it’s a given that we will help.

Greg, having already donned his vest and gear, stands by the rear ramp staring at the control with a couple of long poles and duct tape in hand.

“Contemplating whether you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” I ask, drawing next to him.

“We don’t have anything that will reach,” he says, referring to finding something to activate the ramp switch and completely ignoring my comment.

“Okay. I’ll press the controls and jump in the back. The ramp lowering will give us time to close the Stryker up,” I say.

“I could have figured it out, but I really just wanted to see you run again,” Greg says, deadpan.

“Yeah, right. You haven’t seen me really run. When I do, all you see is a blur of movement,” I reply.

“That’s only because everyone’s eyes are teared due to of the agony of watching you.”

“I’m sorry, did I just hear you volunteer to lower the ramp?”

Greg smiles and sets his large hand on my shoulder. “You run like a ballet-trained gazelle, Jack. The honor is all yours.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Team members board the Stryker in ones and twos as they are ready until all have gathered inside. I do a last walk around to make sure the vehicle is completely untied. It wouldn’t do to lower the ramp and be swarmed by the night runners, who are waiting ever so patiently outside, only to find out that we are still attached to the aircraft. That would pretty much seal it for the kids and soldiers battling a few miles to the northeast. I head to the cockpit to turn off the battery, plunging the interior into darkness.

“Everyone ready?” I ask, poking my head inside the vehicle.

“Hooah, sir,” they all respond, filling the interior with their quiet shout.

“I hate my life,” I mutter, shaking my head and turning to the ramp controls.

The Stryker starts, filling the interior of the aircraft with diesel fumes and noise. Red light from the vehicle interior bathes the rear of the aircraft with an eerie glow.

Here goes nothing, I think, pressing the button to lower the 130 ramp.

The hydraulics whine, barely heard above the noise of the idling diesel and the shrieks outside. The top half of the ramp begins to rise. I hotfoot it a couple of steps and enter the armored vehicle. The Stryker ramp is quickly drawn up sealing us inside. The screams from the night runners increases momentarily as the 130 ramp opens up and then is muted once again with the closing of our door. The thick steel of the Stryker mutes a lot of the sound coming from outside, but there is the unmistakable sound of night runners scrambling into the aircraft as the ramp reaches a position where they can climb in. Shrieks surround us as night runners pour into the now-exposed cargo compartment. I keep an eye on the ramp through the monitor and see it fully lower. The screams from the night runners prevents me from hearing the usual clang of it hitting the hard pavement.

“It’s down. Back us out…nice and slow,” I tell the driver.

The engine revs and we all lean forward as the wheels engage. Inching backward, the vehicle is completely surrounded by a shrieking horde. The Stryker pushes the ones behind us out of the way, its mass and power enough that there is no way the night runners can prevent it from moving. I would like to open up and see what they are ‘saying’ but my mind is centered on getting out without damaging the 130. I’m also thinking about how to get the soldiers and kids out. The actual plan will have to wait until we get there and see the situation firsthand. It’s in a school so I imagine we’ll have to go inside at some point and that isn’t leaving me with a warm glow of comfort.

The vehicle levels out after transiting down the ramp at an angle. Night runners continue to scream outside and we hear them clambering on top. We’ll have to shake them off somehow as they will hinder any rescue attempt. We may have to leave the Stryker and having the creatures on top will limit our options. I’m quite the fan of having all choices available.

With the tarmac bathed in moonlight, we begin to pick up speed across the concrete. A couple of night runners get caught in the press of those behind them and end up under our wheels. I look through the monitor only to see a mass of them chasing, their mouths open in screams. The ones on top leave of their own accord. Apparently they don’t like road trips much.

We plunge into the gloom of the night and push off the base, speeding down the Interstate heading northeast. I am fairly sure we won’t be encountering bandits trying to block the road as we travel through the inky hours of darkness so we hasten down the four-lane highway without a worry of being ambushed. Committed as we are, time is now of the essence. Greg and I pour over maps under the light of a red lamp, plotting the best route to the school. The maps are only street diagrams so I have no idea what we’ll encounter when we get there.

The teams sit in hushed silence, crunched together on the seats along the wall, each lost in their thoughts. They rock slightly in the vehicle as the driver guides us along with the use of night vision. The hum of the diesel is felt through our boots. The miles pass silently by.

As we near a road that will give us a more direct route, I call Sergeant Reynolds. “What’s your situation?” I ask once we establish radio contact.

“We’re holding them back so far, sir, but when we run out of ammo, that will change in a hurry,” she answers.

“Where are you located within the school?”

“We’re in the main building on the third floor. You’ll see it straight ahead when you pull into the main entrance. It will be the one that is being swarmed. I’m assuming it will be apparent which one from the outside. We’re holding a hallway just outside a classroom that we have the kids hiding out in. We had the stairs blocked but they broke though that earlier this evening. I think we’ve sealed the windows in the room effectively, but I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to hold,” she answers.

“Okay, sergeant, we’re just a few minutes out. Will you be able to move to our location if we set up a perimeter?”

“Not with the kids in tow, sir. I think we’d be easily overwhelmed if we tried to,” Reynolds replies.

“I guess we may have to come to you. We’ll analyze it from the outside when we arrive and let you know what we come up with,” I say.

“Roger that, sir. Faster would be better.”

“We’ll do what we can, Reynolds. Just hang tight a little longer.”

The road we selected doesn’t have an actual off-ramp so we exit onto a grassy shoulder and power up a slope. Traveling at high speed, we arrive at a “T” intersection. Across the road is a large refinery. A dirty white sign, seen in the glow of the night vision optics, hangs loosely on a fence denoting this as the ‘El Dorado Refinery’. It would be rather nice to actually be able to operate one of these plants. That and to operate one of the finer grade oil plants. That would take care of our fuel situation but I, nor anyone else in our camp that I know of, has the first clue about how they work.

Those are thoughts for another day, I think as we turn north. Right now, it’s about getting the kids and soldiers out.

We are soon passing a large campus to our left. When Reynolds mentioned school, I assumed that she meant a high school or something similar. The complex we are about to pull into is a college campus. Not that it changes anything but the area is huge. I’m glad she was fairly clear on what building they are in. Of course, it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out by the scene before us as we turn into the main entrance.

Ahead, just as advertised, sits a central building just off the main lot. The structure looks like one of those four foot ant hills that has been kicked — night runners are swarming everywhere. They are climbing up drain pipes and entering through broken windows and doors. There must be hundreds of them with more running across the parking lot to join the mass. I’m guessing the sound of gunfire within is drawing them but it’s not like I can tell Reynolds to stop shooting.

Some of the night runners break off at the sight of us and head in our direction. I’m sure they can’t hear us as it’s difficult to hear ourselves breathe, even from this distance. The ear-splitting shrieks are filling the night. Radio communication will be hard if we have to go any farther into the tempest ahead.

“Verify that you’re on the third floor?” I ask Reynolds.

There’s a pause. “That’s affirmative, sir, third floor,” she answers, sounding out of breath.

“Take care of those coming at us, then sweep the ones off that are on and around the building. Stay clear of the third floor,” I say to the gunner, slipping to the side to give him room.

“Copy that, sir. They’ll be clear shortly.”

I notify Reynolds and her group that we are commencing fire on the building but staying clear of the third floor. The shrieks outside, with so many night runners eager to get at their prey, are amazingly loud. I’ve heard a mass of night runners in a building before, but this is as deafening as I’ve ever heard. It’s not the low intensity sounds that you can feel in your heart; it’s the high-pitched ones that you can feel crawling across your skin. The very walls vibrate.

The whine of the turret turning and then the staccato firing of the .50 cal firing overhead barely register above the screams. I watch on the monitor as long streams of fire reach outward into the night. The devastation when the heavy rounds, each loaded with a tremendous amount of kinetic energy, hit flesh and bone is grisly to watch. It’s like watching a train wreck — gruesome yet you can’t tear your eyes away from it. Bodies are propelled backward when bullets hit the center mass and when they hit arms or legs, the limbs separate. Heads disappear in a bloody mist.

The night runners heading toward us all go down in a row, one after the other, as the large bore machine gun overhead sweeps through them. The ones near the campus building turn in our direction as the gun opens up. Night runners on drain pipes or crawling through windows look back fearfully as their approaching ranks simply cease to exist.

“How many do you estimate inside, Reynolds?” I ask as the firing ceases and the turret whines once more, lining up with new targets.

“I’m not sure, sir. There are a few in the hall, but I can hear a lot more on the stairs and floors below. We’re down to our last few mags,” she answers.

“Are you at the front, rear, or side of the building?”

“The front, sir.”

“Do you have any rope by chance?” I ask.

“No.”

It’s now that I wish the Stryker had one of those high-lift ladders like a structural fire engine. Getting them from the windows while keeping a suppressive effort on the front would be the best solution but it’s not one we have.

I quickly consult with Greg. “It looks like we’ll have to go inside. Just taking care of the ones out here isn’t going to do it as they’re running low on ammo.”

“That sucks, but if it’s what we have to do, then it is. How do you want to do it?” he asks.

“I figure we can clear the front and back the Stryker to the entrance doors. Blow them apart and lower the ramp right into the entrance foyer. The Stryker will block the runners from getting around and to us. Leave the driver and gunner to keep the front clear. You take your team and maintain a close perimeter inside to keep the Stryker clear of any night runners. I’ll take Red Team and sweep upstairs, taking extra ammo. Once we reach the soldiers, we’ll have additional firepower to fight our way back down. If we run into too many on the way, well, then we tried and have to figure something else out.”

“One team and three floors filled with night runners. That’s not the optimum solution, Jack.”

“I don’t see any other way. If you have another, please share it,” I respond.

“Unfortunately, I don’t,” Greg says. “Do you mean you are taking Robert and Bri through the building with you?”

“You are going to attract a lot of attention with the Stryker so I don’t really see a ‘safe’ place, so yes, I’m taking them,” I reply.

“Your choice, Jack.” Again, with that.

I turn and give a quick rundown of the plan. To Red Team, I brief, “Gonzalez, you and McCafferty in front. Henderson and Denton, keep our back sides clear. Robert, Bri, and I will take the middle to lend support where needed. We’ll be in a moving perimeter. Stack on corners. If we come across any open doors, we’ll be closing them to try and keep our backsides clear. Anticipate that any number of night runners inside will be heading toward the Stryker and we may bump into them. Remember, there is no ‘hiding’ from them so we engage any we see. If we run across too many to handle, we conduct a fighting withdrawal in the same positions. When we do manage to reach the kids and soldiers, same formation out with the kids in the middle. The other soldiers will be used as fire support if needed but mainly used to keep the kids moving. We’ll keep the front and rear. Any questions?”

I am met with stern nods. It’s approaching game time and we steel ourselves. Tension is palpable as we are about to launch into a horde of night runners within a large darkened structure. This is something I was hoping we’d be able to avoid, well, forever with finding the distribution center, yet here we are.

The staccato bursts of the gun open up. The tracers streak into the darkness in slow motion, seeming to arc as they pour toward the structure. The rounds send out a shower of sparks where they strike the thick, brick walls, and, in some places, pound through the building. They strike windows that haven’t already been broken with an explosion of glass and wood. Night runners in the middle of crawling over window frames are shoved violently inside, coating the interior walls and floor with sprays of gore. The ones scaling the drain pipes are thrown clear, splashing the exterior with splotches and streaks of blood.

The gun is walked across the front of the building and up the sides, clearing the walls of night runners from the surfaces before it is turned on the crowds waiting their turn to get in. The bullets tear into the gathered masses, shattering bone, tearing flesh, and ripping through internals. Night runners fall as if a scythe ran through their midst. A single .50 caliber round carries so much inertia, because of its weight and speed, that it is able to slash through multiple bodies. The carnage is horrific. The .50 cal, doing its job mindlessly, ceases firing with smoke drifting from the end of its barrel.

There’s not a single night runner remaining in front of the building. The shrieks that were so prevalent, heard even through the metal skin of the Stryker, diminishes. A few wounded night runners crawl on the sidewalk leading to the building, in the tall grass surrounding it, and over pavement slick with blood.

“Silence them,” I say to the gunner, pointing to injured night runners trying to crawl away from the devastation.

The gun erupts with a few short bursts. Rounds tear into the remaining night runners trying to inch toward safety, pushing them across the ground as the bullets find their mark. Some night runners dash across the side lots heading for the rear of the building.

“How’s your ammo holding out?” I ask Reynolds.

“We’re down to just a couple of mags apiece,” she answers.

“Okay, we’ve cleared most of the front, and I’d like to circle around the back. That may or may not take some pressure off you as I don’t know how many are inside. It would certainly help our entrance, but if you’re going to run out of ammo, then it’s kind of a moot point,” I say.

“We’ll make it last as long as we can. We’re firing on semi right now. It’s a little busy in here, but you’re outside so do what you think is best,” she replies.

“Okay, we’re going to circle quickly. If you can, make sure the kids are ready to go when we arrive. We won’t have a lot of time to dick around…sorry…mess around,” I say.

“We’ll do what we can, but whatever you decide to do, doing it quickly would be nice.”

“Take us around back,” I tell the driver. To the gunner, I say, “Take out any that you see but take care with the angle. We don’t want to accidently penetrate to the third floor.”

The gunner nods. I know the driver heard by the sudden revving of the engine and a lurch forward. We start across a parking lot filled with night runner corpses. A couple of Humvees are parked off to the side. The side of the building is much like the front with night runners attempting to gain entrance at several points. They look like a line of ants climbing a wall. The .50 cal starts its familiar chatter, sweeping the structure clear. Night runners fall to the ground or are swept into the darkness.

As we drive to the rear of the building, a few packs round the far corner heading away from us. I open up and ‘hear’ many of those nearby sending messages of death associated with our vehicle. Some are heeding the message and fleeing off into the night, but many more still try to gain access to the prey trapped inside.

As at the front, the Stryker makes short work of those remaining. Several packs break off their attack on the building in an attempt to get to us but are cut down in mid-stride. Piles of night runner bodies begin to stack up around the entire building as we progress. Clearing the next side, I see that several packs are again trying to scale from this side.

They are relentless, I’ll give them that, I think as the gunner engages them.

With the front of the building clear once again, we turn around and back toward the door.

“Be ready,” I tell the teams waiting anxiously. “We’re backing in and don’t know what to expect. Greg, your team will be first out. Establish a small perimeter.”

Greg’s team members, who will be providing security for our return, changes places with those in back, ready to disembark in a hurry. The Stryker tilts as we back up the wide, concrete stairs leading to the front door, the revving engines powering the heavy vehicle up the incline. The gun’s tell-tale staccato burst tears the entrance doors from their hinges and creates a hole wide enough to drop the ramp inside. The Stryker sways as we come into contact with the entrance and completely blocks it with its size. No night runners will be able to get to us from the outside. The interior lights are extinguished and NVGs lowered.

“Let’s do this. First team ready?” I call out.

The soldiers who are ready to rush out and clear our initial path don’t turn from their focus on the rear ramp but raise four thumbs into the air.

“Go!”

The ramp opens, falling across the sundered door jambs. The twisted metal and shattered glass of the doors are strewn along a hallway that extends from the entrance and ends in a “T” intersection. Pictures depicting scenic vistas line the walls on both sides. Some are knocked askew from the penetrating rounds while others lie in wrecked heaps on the linoleum-tiled floor. Muted shrieks resound throughout from night runners inside. Faint gunshots mix with the screams. The four exit into the debris-filled corridor and fast walk to the nearest corners of the intersection; their lasers creating thin beams of light as they track the area ahead.

Greg walks behind them in the center of the hall, halting just behind the members stacked at the corner. Reaching the corner, the team peeks around each corner and gives Greg an all clear signal.

“We’re clear here, Jack,” Greg radios.

“Can you tell which way the stairs are?” I ask.

Greg steals a look around the corner. “It looks identical in both directions with doors on both sides of a single, long hallway. Most of the doors are closed. There’s an opening about three-quarters of the way down each hall that looks like it leads to stairways.”

“Copy that. Okay, Red Team, we’re up. Bri, you’re Gonzalez’ shadow. Let’s head left at the corner and find us some stairs.” I changed my mind at the last instant and decided to keep Bri with Gonzalez instead of in the middle with me.

I radio Reynolds to let her know that we are on the way. Gonzalez and McCafferty step into the hall and the rest of us follow with the whine of the turret tracking behind us. The crunch of glass under our boots follows us to the intersection where the remaining members of Greg’s team kneel at the junction. Gonzalez, with Bri tracking close behind her, and McCafferty turn the corner and we begin our way into the interior in earnest.

Dust along the wide hallway has been stirred by the passage of so many night runners, creating a path down the middle. Framed photos of faculty or other important people line the right wall. The faces are hard to see through the dirt covering the glass. Florescent lights fixtures hang impotently overhead. We pass several closed, wooden doors with room numbers embedded on brass tabs above each. The chill of the night fills the passage, feeling colder due to the fact that we are traversing through a dark building with night runners afoot.

“Open door on the left,” Gonzalez whispers into the radio, passing the opening after a perfunctory glance inside.

“Copy,” I reply.

Reaching the open door, I do a quick sweep in the classroom. Desks and chairs lie tumbled across the large room. Moonlight filters in through shattered windows and the room itself is colder with the night entering unimpeded. Two night runners lie unmoving on the floor. One, having been blown across the room, lies twisted in a jumble of furniture. The second lies on the floor adjacent to a low bookcase against the windows. One of its legs is at an awkward angle with its foot resting on the top of the bookcase. The night runner is missing part of its other leg below the knee and its arm just above the elbow. Pools of dark liquid spread out from both bodies. Nothing moves inside of the room. Glancing at the scene of destruction quickly, I close the door, glad to feel the click of it latching.

The noise and tumult from the floors above faintly reach the corridor and increases in volume as we stealthily approach the opening on the right where stairs hopefully lie. My heart pounds in my chest as we edge down the hall. The flow of adrenaline has sharpened my senses — smell, sight, and hearing — with increased clarity. I would open up to pinpoint where the nearest night runners are but I don’t want to alert them to our presence just yet. They’ll know we are here soon enough.

Gonzalez signals Bri to the middle and slightly behind her and McCafferty. This is to give Bri room to fire if needed and Gonzalez can back up if needed. Robert steps in beside me. His lips are compressed but his eyes unreadable beneath the NVGs. His M-4 is aimed at the ground in front of him, ready to provide assistance to those in front if needed. There’s really not a line of fire ahead, but we’ll be able to rush forward and form a solid line if we need to.

A burst from the .50 cal guarding the front door startles me. With the sound, I wonder if we are about to come under an assault of night runners from outside. If the large caliber gun isn’t able to keep them away, then this operation is over almost before it started. However, it’s a quick burst of gunfire which doesn’t repeat.

“Caught a couple of night runners coming around the corner. It’s clear now,” the gunner reports.

The report settles my thoughts and I wave Gonzalez and McCafferty, who had halted with the noise, to continue forward. We creep down the hall. Arriving at the corner just before the opening, we stack against the wall. Gonzalez peers around the edge.

“Stairs upward,” she whispers.

“Copy,” I reply quietly.

Once she’s assured it’s clear, Gonzalez sends McCafferty across the opening to the far side so she’ll be able to get a clearer picture up the stairs. The sounds of night runners shrieking above filters down the stairs and I hear feet running on a hard surface. From the sound of it, we’ll have to fight our way up a floor to reach Reynolds. Although time is of the essence in order to reach her before her ammo runs out, we also have to do this right in order to assure that we can even get there. A rescue’s chances increase significantly if the rescuers actually reach their destination.

“We’re climbing to the second floor,” I radio Reynolds and Greg. “Reynolds, we’re on the stairs to the south of you.”

“We’ll be watching for you. The stairs in both directions appear full of night runners and they are only entering our hall occasionally now,” Reynolds replies.

That statement is verified by the decrease in gunfire I hear two floors up. There are still shots ringing out, but it’s not at the intensity we heard upon entering the hall. I really hope that means the night runners have dramatically decreased in number. What I hope it doesn’t mean is that they are on their way down to meet us.

“Let’s do this,” I say softly.

Gonzalez moves to the stairs, covering the area to the extent that she can see upward. The stairway ascends to an intermediate landing before doubling back in the other direction and is wide enough to accommodate a heavy flow of traffic. McCafferty folds around the corner to join on her heels with Bri following. Gonzalez slinks up one step at a time, pressed against the outer wall. Her laser beam tracks her line of sight as she eases upward. In the glow of our goggles, dust motes float through the air, stirred up by the horde above.

I join behind Bri with Robert. Each step we take brings us closer to the waiting mass of night runners. In the chill, my breath leaves a small plume as I exhale. My heart thuds with solid beats and I take a deep breath to steel myself. Our lasers are moving points of light against the opposite wall. Gonzalez freezes. The rest of us halt with her, our weapons at the ready, expecting a torrent of night runners to pour down upon us. She points to her eyes and then upward. She then indicates ‘many’ with her hand.

“Stay here,” I whisper to Robert behind me. He nods.

I fucking hate this building shit, I think, creeping up the stairs and going around McCafferty to reach Gonzalez.

Crouching by Gonzalez near the first half-landing, I see what brought her up short — night runners in abundance. Above, they pack the first set of steps leading from the second to the third floor. Several mill about in the stairwell opening behind them. I watch as some peel off and run down the second floor hall, vanishing behind the corner. Others come from around the turn to join the ones crammed on the stairs or the ones milling about. Their screams and snarls fill the enclosed area.

None of them have turned in our direction. I can’t believe they haven’t noticed us as of yet, but perhaps they can’t smell us through their own reek or hear us over their shrieks. The stench reaching us is foul. Looking at the scene just a few feet away, I wish we had more teams. We seem so inadequate compared to the number of night runners. There’s only one way up at this point and that’s through them. I crouch silently planning how we can get through them and then keep our backsides clear if we do manage to.

My very skin feels like an electrical current is running across it and every hair is raised. I’m not sure that we brought enough ammo, even loaded down as we are.

“On my nod, Gonzalez, take McCafferty and Bri to the far wall across the landing as quietly as you can. You three will be firing into the crowd on the stair above. Henderson, Denton, and Robert, we’ll be on the landing and keep the stairs clear, firing into the stragglers or anyone else who decides they want to join the show. Watch your lanes of fire and remember, controlled bursts but keep the fire up. When we open fire, they aren’t going to like us much, so if anyone senses that we can’t hold our position, speak up immediately and we’ll conduct a fighting retreat back to the Stryker. I’ll toss a flash bang up to start the performance so prepare yourselves. Heads turned toward the wall and cover your ears. Wait for the bang and then commence shooting. Clear?” I quietly radio.

I look around at each Red Team member and receive an okay. We each check our selector switches and, turning to Gonzalez, I give a quick head nod. She, McCafferty, and Bri rise silently and head to the opposite wall keeping to the outside of the stairwell. You can cut through the tension each of us exudes as we soundlessly take our positions.

I pull a flash bang and wiggle the pin out. I would like to toss a few hand grenades up but our close proximity precludes that. I toss the canister up, aiming for a clear spot within the group of milling night runners. The last thing I want is to actually hit one of them and have it roll back down the stairs into our position.

The can arcs up over the stairs and hits the floor. It bounces a couple of times with metallic clinks and comes to rest against the far hallway wall. We bury our faces against the wall in order not to white out our NVGs, rendering them useless, and cover our ears. The explosion shakes the walls. Looking around quickly, night runners stagger about disoriented.

Our suppressed bursts are lost in the overwhelming shrieks, but the effects are not. Night runners crumple immediately on the stairs, with some rolling or sliding down their length, as Gonzalez’, McCafferty’s, and Bri’s bullets slam into them. The first row nearest us falls as if a taken down by a huge machete. Blood splashes outward as tissue is torn apart by the speeding projectiles. Henderson’s, Denton’s, Robert’s, and my rounds join nanoseconds later, sweeping the milling night runners off their feet. The walls light up in an endless barrage of strobe lights.

The night runners surviving the first horrific volley look around in confusion before slowly regaining their senses and pinpointing where the destruction is coming from. With shrieks that seem to erupt from a single source, they change directions, seeking to get to their newfound prey — us. In their effort, they trample over bodies lying in contorted positions on the stairs. Most of the efforts are short-lived as our continuous fire pours into their midst. More tumble down the steps or fall where they are. Screams of agony and pain mix with the shrieks of the eager hunters. Rivulets of blood make their way down the side of the stairs, a few become thicker and begin to stream, running or dripping, to the steps below.

The milling night runners are quickly taken down. The four of us on the landing take care of the ones who rush in from the side hall. The ranks on the stairs thin. The ones above are impeded and having problems negotiating the ranks of dead and wounded lying on the steps. However hindered they might be, there is still a mass of them between us and the soldiers and kids above, but, for now, we have a small opening.

“Now! Push upward. Gonzalez, you three have the hall. Make sure you watch out for any injured. Cover us and keep our backsides clear. We’ll take the stairs and push up. Denton, deal with the wounded,” I shout.

Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri slam fresh mags into their carbines and charge upward with the rest of us chasing after. Stepping over bodies, they round the corner into the hall, quickly spreading out, and begin to fire. I and the others swing around to the stairs and begin to pour fire into the night runners remaining on the first flight. I drop a near empty mag and begin to ram a fresh one in when one of the night runners launches off the steps and leaps into the air, heading directly for me. With its mouth open in an ear-piercing shriek, it stretches its arms out toward me. There’s no way I can complete the reload and bring my gun up in time.

The snarling face vanishes in a mist of dark spray. Its trajectory is altered and it sails between Henderson and me, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. Robert’s smoking barrel in my periphery tells me he just saved my bacon. However, this has allowed another night runner to dive into the air, descending at a rapid pace directly at Robert. I still haven’t reloaded and he isn’t able to turn quickly enough.

I open up and scream a picture message of “NO!” The night runner’s expression, with its lips peeled back in a snarl revealing a set of broken teeth, changes to one of confusion. This does nothing to arrest its swift dive however. Timing it, I bring the butt of my M-4 up and slam it into the side of the creature’s face, feeling the jolt roll up my arms and into my shoulder. It spins in mid-air, its body slamming into both of us crosswise high on our chests. The forceful impact knocks both us off our feet and we land heavily across several other bodies on the floor.

The core of the night runner body is across my chest, effectively pinning my arms and me beneath it. Its chest lies across Robert. The night runner begins thrashing and squirming, growling in an attempt to get at Robert. Its face lies close to Robert, but it can’t immediately get to him without shifting positions. That doesn’t prevent it from trying, though. I feel the vibrations of a deep growl coming from the night runner. I try to get leverage with my arms, but I can only wriggle like the foul-smelling creature above. Beside me, I feel Robert struggling to do the same.

“Shoot it! Shoot the motherfucker!” I shout, thinking Robert might have his weapon free.

The struggling ceases instantly and I feel dead weight settle on me. Looking up, I see Denton standing with his weapon lowered and aimed at the night runner’s head. Denton then quickly moves the body so Robert and I can stand.

With only Henderson holding the stairs, the night runners gained some headway down them. The only reason we weren’t quickly overrun while we were being so rudely interrupted is because of the bodies heaped on the stairs. Night runners attempting to traverse downward slip and stumble on the piles.

Glancing to the side, I see Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri sending their rounds down the hall into night runners streaking along its length. The stench of the air that once only held the reek of body odor is now a mixture of gunpowder and the iron smell of spilt blood. Robert and I throw our rounds into the fray on the stairs once again. The gain made by the night runners is quickly lost as they are rapidly cut down.

I would push upward but we’d run into the same problems the night runners are having — the bodies on the stairs are in the way. The night runners are trapped and have nowhere to go. They make a concerted effort to get to us, hurling themselves forward. Our rounds crash into them and they fall, joining the bodies of those on the steps, some sliding all of the way down to our feet.

The abruptness of the near silence that enfolds the stairwell is unsettling. My ears ring from the loud noise we were subjected to. Several pained groans and snarls come from the mass of bodies and the only shrieks to be heard come from the far end of the hallway. I imagine the stairs at the other end of the hall are packed with night runners but they are keeping to themselves for now. Perhaps the messages delivered by Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri have convinced the night runners that the hallway is not a good place to be.

“You good?” I call out to Gonzalez.

“Good here, sir,” she answers.

“Keep it up. Henderson, keep a watch on the stairs. Robert and I will clear a path through this mess, Denton, same job — deal with the wounded as we make our way up,” I state.

It takes time, but we clear a narrow path by dragging the bodies down the stairs and depositing them in the hall. The firing from upstairs has tapered off and the only interruption to our progress is Denton sending the injured night runners into whatever life they go to next.

Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri stay to guard the hallway. I leave Henderson to keep the stairs we just traversed clear. With Denton and Robert, I creep up the narrow path we cleared, keeping in mind that there may still be some wounded or others hiding past the next landing. The sight of the numerous bodies, along with the powerful reek, is more than eerie.

We climb with caution. The night runners are unpredictable. Take for instance, their usual relentless nature, yet now, another mass of them inhabits the stairs at the north end but they are doing nothing but filling the interior with their horrible shrieks. I’m sure they’re over there trying to figure out some new feat of magic to use against us. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to see them come down through the ceiling and assault us as we pass under. The very thought gives me a shiver and I keep a wary eye on the tiles overhead.

“Reynolds, Jack here. We’re about to the top of the stairs. We may not look pretty, but please don’t shoot us,” I radio.

“Copy that, sir. We’re standing down to the south,” she responds.

“Are the kids ready?” I ask.

“They will be shortly.”

“Okay, let’s make this quick. Those at the other end of the building aren’t going to stay conveniently complacent for long.”

Arriving at the top, I see where a previous barricade has been torn asunder. I peek around the corner, verifying that Reynolds does in fact have the south side standing down. It would suck if she didn’t know the south end of this building from a horse’s mane and we have our heads taken off as we merrily waltz into the hallway as if we are frolicking through a meadow. Tables and overturned bookshelves are stacked across the hall with two soldiers behind them holding weapons at the ready. I give a quick wave, which they return, and enter the hall.

I send Denton down to assist Henderson with keeping the lower stairs clear. We may need to leave in a hurry and it would be very cool if we didn’t have to fight every step of the way.

Approaching the barrier, I see the same setup farther down the hall. The five soldiers stationed there take the occasional shot at a night runner that emerges too far into the hall. The night runners’ screams, while not as loud as at the stairs we came up, fill the building with their shrill calls. I also notice that all of the soldiers are wearing night vision goggles. They aren’t the gen3 like we are using (gen4 in civilian versions), but without those, their time here would have been drastically shortened.

“Sir, I’m Sergeant Reynolds,” one of the soldiers says, shouting to be heard over the deafening noise thundering down the hall from the far stairwell.

“Jack…Jack Walker,” I say, returning her shake. “Sorry to cut the pleasantries short, but we really do need to move.”

“Fredericks, Torval. Get the kids. The rest of you, prepare to move out,” she shouts.

Two of the soldiers break off from the far group and disappear into an open doorway in the middle of their small fortification. As they gather the kids, I notice their construction efforts. All of the doors on this level have been boarded up with thick plywood.

“We have the inside doors nailed shut in addition to boarding them up,” Reynolds says, noticing my inspection. “Our weak point was the stairs.”

I merely nod, wanting them to hurry. I’m keyed up from the fight up the stairs and we are still in a night runner-infested building — the last place I want to be. Not only that, but my daughter is a floor below me helping keep our route clear. Yeah, they need to effing hurry.

“Thanks for coming to get us, sir. I don’t know what we’d have done if you didn’t.”

“No worries, sergeant. I’m glad we could help. There were a couple of moments when I thought we’d have to turn around. And I seriously don’t want to appear rude, but I have my son here with me, and my daughter a floor below holding the way open for us. If we could really hurry, I’d appreciate it,” I state.

“Your daughter?” she asks, incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“We will, sir. It’s just that… well… it’s not the easiest getting eleven deaf kids to understand us. None of us know sign language. It’s a lot of pointing by us and confused looks by them. They’re young and don’t really comprehend what we’re trying to say.”

Deaf kids, I think, doing a mental face-palm. I totally forgot that heading up the stairs.

“I understand. Sorry, I’m just not a fan being in a night runner lair. When we leave, head down the stairs, there’s a group down there who will lead you to the Stryker. It’ll be crowded in there, but we’ll have to jam in as best we can. Robert and I, along with another group, will bring up the rear. No matter what happens, you keep your team with the kids and push toward the front entrance. I have another team stationed there keeping it clear,” I say.

“I thought I heard a .50 cal chattering outside. Okay, sir. You can count on us,” she responds.

“We expended a little more ammo on the way up than I anticipated. How is your team for ammo?”

“We’re each down to our last mag,” she answers.

“I wish I had some to give you but, seeing how your team will be in the middle, if you find yourself needing any, there should be some lying around,” I say.

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“You and me both, sergeant.”

Kids of varying ages begin to emerge from what I assume is another classroom and gather in a group in the hall. Most of the kids appear to be between six and nine years old. One older girl looks to be about twelve.

The night runner shrieks at the end of the hall continue to fill the building, echoing off the hard walls and begin to take on a restless note. When they all appear ready, I radio the teams.

“Henderson, Denton, we’re on the way to you. You two lead them out. Gonzalez, you, McCafferty, and Bri follow when they’ve passed. Robert and I will join you to provide rear security. Greg, you copy?”

“I copy you, Jack. See you shortly,” he answers.

“You pile them in as best you can.”

“Will do,” he replies.

The soldiers each take a child by the hand. Some have to shoulder their weapons and take a kid in each hand. The young ones look anxious as they can’t see in the dark. I can imagine the fear they must be feeling considering what they have gone through coupled with their inability to see or hear. Moments later, they are organized as best they can.

“I’d hurry if I were you, Jack. We’re beginning to get a few restless ones emerging into the hall from the far end,” Greg radios.

“Same here,” Gonzalez reports.

“We need to go,” I tell Reynolds.

“We’re ready,” she replies.

“Take them down the stairs and meet up with the others. They’ll guide you out. Watch out for the bodies on the stairs. There’s a small path cleared near the outer wall. Stay alert for any that are only injured. We should have taken care of them but you never know. No matter what happens, keep pushing for the front entrance. Speed is our friend here,” I state.

“Are you good?” I ask Robert.

“Yeah, I’m not liking this much, but I’m good to go,” he answers.

“By the way, thanks for that on the stairs,” I say.

“Yeah. That was pretty messed up…and fucking scary when the night runner was on us. I thought we were done for.”

“I wasn’t overly happy with that either. You ready for this?”

“Not really, but I don’t see that we have much choice,” he answers.

“Let’s get this done then. We’re picking up Gonzalez and the others on our way. Like I told Reynolds, no matter what happens, keep pushing for the Stryker.”

“Okay, Dad.”

With that, Robert and I step aside to allow the group of soldiers and kids to pass. We take up station behind and back pedal slowly keeping our attention focused down the wide, long hallway. So far, it remains clear. How long that continues is anyone’s guess. With Greg and Gonzalez beginning to see night runners emerge from the far staircase, it doesn’t bode well.

My anxiety increases exponentially as Robert and I reach the corner of stairwell. Flashes of light bounce off the walls below us indicating that Gonzalez and her group are engaged. My heart rate surges. We’re not out of this yet and things became infinitely more complicated having to lead the kids through this mess. Reynolds’ group is held up on the stairs as they negotiate the basically blind and deaf kids through and around the bodies.

Perhaps sensing their prey is about to leave, the night runners explode into action. Shrieks increase in volume, rebounding down the hall both on our floor and below us as they pour into the halls. They are empty one moment and then filled with their ghostly faces the next as they begin to race down the corridors toward us.

“Reynolds, we need to move now,” I call.

“We’re about through the first set of stairs,” she replies.

“You need to step up the pace. Pick them up if you have to, but it’s about to get real sporty in here,” I says.

“We’re linking up with the others now,” she states.

“Starting down the stairs,” Henderson reports.

The increase of flashes from Gonzalez tells me that more night runner have entered the second floor hall. Greg reports that he is heavily engaged as well. It’s past time we became like The Flash and beat cheeks out of here. As of yet, Robert and I haven’t seen any night runners appear on the landing above us but it’s only a matter of time before they do — that time measured in seconds if the sound of the night runners rushing down the hall is any indication.

As Robert and I reach the intermediate landing between the second and third floor, the first of the night runners appear above. We have to back pedal slowly due to the last of Reynolds’ group still traversing the narrow path. Having to negotiate this has strung them out. When the shrieks decrease in volume for brief periods of time, I hear the children sobbing as they are led through the darkness.

“Move and fire. A fighting withdrawal. Watch your footing,” I yell to Robert.

“Gotcha,” he says, firing into the night runners behind us.

Night runners fall to the floor and stairs as Robert and I send burst after burst into their midst. It’s treacherous footing as we back down the restricted path. Each step down narrows our field of view upstairs but we manage to keep the advance of the horde at bay. They gain a little distance when we have to reload our mags, which are becoming scarcer as we cycle rounds through our chambers.

Reaching the second floor, I see that Reynolds and her group are making better headway on the lower stairs. Looking at Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri, lined across the hallway and heavily engaged, I notice night runners filling the hall shoulder to shoulder and attempting to race down the corridor. Bodies lie on the floor with more dropping as the trio pour out concentrated fire. The overwhelming numbers of night runners, however, dictate that the current status quo will change soon.

“Gonzalez, time to go. Robert and I will bring up the rear,” I shout.

She, McCafferty, and Bri cease firing and turn toward the stairs. Robert and I pick up their fire and walk backwards, sending rounds downrange. We’re not trying to eliminate them, just keep some breathing space as we make our way out. That breathing space, however, is shrinking by the second.

“Keep them at bay. Go full auto if you have to,” I yell to Robert as I reach down and pull out two hand grenades.

Quickly pulling the pins and holding one in each hand, I toss them into the hall ahead of the advancing horde.

“Go!” I yell.

Without waiting to watch where they land, I turn to bolt around the corner and enter the stairs with Robert at my side.

“Greg, we’re coming on the run and bringing company,” I radio.

The grenades go off with a thundering, simultaneous explosion, lighting up the hall like a sun going nova. Smoke roils past the opening. The stairs shake as the shockwave is transmitted throughout the building. I hope that gained us a sufficient margin of safety to make it to the others below and to the Stryker.

On the first floor, still walking quickly backward, I glance over my shoulder toward the entrance. Strobes light the hall where Greg’s team is engaging night runners coming from the far stairs. Greg has arranged his small team on the far side of the entrance hallway and is directing the soldiers and kids toward the waiting Stryker. Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Bri are just in front of Robert and me as they make for the armored vehicle and safety. They aren’t racing but hanging back in case Robert and I need assistance keeping the night runners off our backs.

A short distance down the hall, with no sign of night runners emerging from the stairwell, I turn and begin picking up the pace when I hear Robert say, “Cover me.”

I turn around and see a little girl standing in the hall just outside the opening of the stairway. She is standing there looking in all directions, obviously confused and scared. I have no clue how she managed to get there or where she was previously. Robert, without waiting for an answer from me, races down the hall toward her.

The push into the building and up the upstairs has been one scary scene after another. The sight of the hordes of night runners sent a surge of adrenaline and fear through him that was almost overwhelming. The sights, sounds, and intensity just about overcame his senses, especially when the night runner slammed into and then fell on him and his dad. That was terrifying, yet, they managed to extricate themselves with the help of Denton. Through it all, Robert managed to maintain a very fragile grip on his fear. The sheer intensity of it all helped keep his mind occupied.

Yeah, the night has been a hard fight but we are finally making our way to the Stryker. I can’t wait for this to be over, he thinks, glancing behind him for any sign of night runners appearing.

The sight of a little girl emerging from the stairwell startles him. He stares in disbelief.

How the fuck did she get there? he thinks, looking at the girl who was somehow left behind. She is crying and looking wildly in all directions, obviously frightened.

“Cover me,” he yells to his dad, and, without thinking, he races back down the hall toward the confused and stationary child.

As he runs toward the little girl, he sees her start down the hall in his direction and then slumps to the ground, obviously unsure where to go. Just before reaching her, night runners emerge from the stairwell behind her. He slows his run and begins delivering short, controlled bursts into the closest ones attempting to keep them from the crying girl on the floor. His rounds streak over her head and impact forcefully into the lead night runners, sending them to the ground or into the ones behind. Step…fire…step…fire…

Reaching the girl ahead of the night runners, and with them scant feet away, he goes to his knees and scoops up the girl with one arm while continuing to pump rounds into the horde with his M-4 held in the other. Amidst the shrieks, he hears feet thumping down the stairs just around the corner. More night runners will soon be joining in the fray. His heart races as he starts dashing back down the hall, his progress slowed by having to both carry the child and keep the night runners at bay.

Having to fire one-handed and behind him causes his aim to be off. A night runner launches out of the pack and slams into him, sending him flying to the ground with the creature falling heavily on him and wrapped around his legs. He hits the ground hard, jarring his senses, and loses his grip on both the carbine and the girl. The M-4 clatters across the floor out of reach. The girl falls in front of him and stares at him wildly with wide, frightened eyes.

“Go,” he shouts, pointing down the hall toward the others and safety.

She must have seen him somehow and understood as she quickly gathers herself and rushes off. Robert feels a moment of satisfaction as he watches her sprint away. That feeling is short-lived, however, as he becomes aware of the weight on the back of his legs. The night runner on him is pawing at his lower legs. He kicks out at it in an attempt to clear himself and feels a red, searing pain shoot up his leg as teeth sink into him. He screams as white-hot agony fills his mind.

He frees a leg and kicks again, connecting with the night runner, but its grip is too strong and it doesn’t let go. Survival mode kicks up a notch. He reaches down and withdraws the Beretta at his side. Pushing through the burning sensation in his leg, he shakily points the sidearm at the night runner and pulls the trigger.

The creature goes limp and becomes dead weight as the 9mm round enters the top of its head. The bullet tears through the skull and enters the soft tissue beneath. Shards of bone follow in its path doing even more damage. The extra damage, however, is moot as the bullet does its destructive job. It drives through the brain and slams into the base of the skull, punching out of the lower back of the night runner’s head with a clotty spray of gore.

Worried about the other night runners, he pushes the pain aside and begins to extricate himself from under the body when he feels something grab his vest and begin pulling. He feels himself being dragged along the floor and registers light flashing off the walls around him.

Before I can react, Robert takes off down the hall.

“Gonzalez, get her to the Stryker,” I yell, pushing Bri in that direction.

Without waiting for a “hooah” or whatever response she might make, I turn and race after Robert. The girl, perhaps sensing which direction to go, begins walking toward him. She only makes it a few steps before collapsing to the floor. My heart almost leaps out of my chest when I see night runners emerge from the stairs behind the girl. I see Robert slow and start delivering rounds into the mass. He’s in the middle of the hall so I’m not able to get a clear lane of fire which increases my fear beyond measure. I shout after him to stop but my call falls short due to the screams of the night runners that pack the hall like a physical presence.

I watch helplessly as Robert fights his way to the crying girl and scoops her up in his arms. He then begins making his way back, firing behind him one-handed. With horror, I watch as a night runner crashes into his back, sending him to the ground. Time slows. I watch his fall in slow motion. The small girl falls from his arms to land on her rear and slides a short distance. Robert loses his grip on his M-4. It sails through the air, impacting the floor with a clatter and scoots across the linoleum, coming to rest against one of the walls. My mind goes blank as I see a night runner on the back of his legs. Reaction takes over with no thought or feeling other than intense fear.

The night runners pouring from the stairs are just feet away from Robert and it’s only a matter of seconds before he is engulfed by them. Flipping the selector switch to semi, I begin firing rounds into the night runners threatening my son. I can’t get a clean shot on the one on his legs, but that will change as I draw closer. Right now, I have to keep the other night runners from tearing him apart.

Continuing to run forward, I line up head shot after head shot. Night runners fall with each one. I see Robert point down the hall and see the girl take off, running quickly by me toward the entrance. Paying her little heed, I continue to deliver rounds and make my way toward Robert. I feel like I’m walking through water as the distance closes far too slowly. I then hear what I dreaded the most — Robert screaming in pain.

With my focus on both Robert and the horde just behind him, I watch as he takes out his handgun and fires into the top of the night runner’s head that is clamped securely to his leg. It drops in a heap. I continue firing into a group of night runners quickly approaching down the hall with more shrieking behind. He begins to clear the night runner off of his legs as I reach him. I quickly change mags, then grab his drag handle and begin pulling, firing one-handed into the mass of night runners filling the hall.

Clearing him from the dead night runner, I’m thankful for the smooth floor as it’s easier to pull him. I keep firing to keep the separation between us and the night runners. It’s slow going and I only have a limited amount of ammo remaining. Once that’s gone, there is little chance of me holding the crowd off. Robert fires his Beretta while being dragged. The slide soon falls back in the open position indicating he’s out of rounds. The night runners are gaining ground on us.

“I can walk,” he yells and begins to rise.

I sense others beside me and see night runners begin to fall en masse. Glancing to the side, I see Gonzalez and McCafferty firing down the hall. The cavalry has arrived.

“Go, sir! We’ve got this,” Gonzalez yells.

Robert rises to his feet. I throw my arm around him and help him limp to the entrance hall. As we depart, Henderson and Denton fill the gap we left and begin firing volleys into the night runners closing in. I notice Greg’s team heavily engaged with night runners on the other side. Rounding the corner, I see Greg hurry in our direction from the Stryker opening having apparently settled our guests.

“What happened?” he asks, noticing Robert limping with my arm around him.

“He was bitten,” I shout. Yelling is the only way to be heard in the cacophony of shrieks and screams. “Your team is on the right, Red is on the left. Pull them back and let’s get the fuck out of here.”

I see an expression of worry cross his features at my comment about Robert but he nods and hurries off. I get to the Stryker filled with kids and Reynolds’ soldiers. It’s crammed full, but we’re going to have to pack even tighter with the teams behind conducting a fighting withdrawal. A series of titanic, rumbling explosions comes from inside the building. Turning, I see the teams in full retreat down the entrance hall.

“Make room! Pile on top of one another,” I yell, setting Robert down on one of the seats.

I lean over him, pressing against one of the walls to make room for those streaking down the corridor. They pile into the Stryker and, as they do, the ability to move becomes impossible. Sardines in a can have the luxury of roomy accommodations compared to us but we manage. The rear ramp closes with a clang muting the screams of night runners.

“Get us out of here,” I yell, barely able to inhale enough to do so.

The vehicle lurches forward. None of us inside move as there’s barely enough room to breathe. We rumble down the stairs and begin accelerating across the parking lot, leaving what’s left of the night runners on their own. Normally, I’d have a sense of relief, but my son, sitting pressed against me, has been bitten. I know what that means and my inability to do anything at the moment heightens my anxiety.

“Where to?” I hear Greg’s voice rise above the sobbing of the children.

This can’t be very comfortable for them as we are basically stacked like cordwood inside.

“We need to get to an open stretch of highway where there’s no danger of night runners and do so in a hurry,” I shout back.

My fear for Robert constricts me more than the press of bodies. I feel like I’m being crushed inside and find it hard to breathe. The vehicle can’t move fast enough. I need to look at his injuries - to get some antibiotics into him and on his wound. And I mean now!

“How are you doing?” I ask, not able to even move my head down to look at him.

“Okay, I think. It burns a little, but most of the pain has gone away,” Robert replies.

“Robert? Are you okay?” I hear Bri’s voice call out from somewhere in the tangle of bodies.

“I’m fine, Bri,” he answers.

“Are you okay, Bri?” I ask.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

I’m thankful to hear her voice and know she is safe. The terrible moments of seeing Robert go down continue to run through my mind like a horror movie being played over and over.

“Bravest thing I ever saw,” Gonzalez says from somewhere close.

“Thanks,” Robert responds shyly.

“And maybe the dumbest,” I mutter.

“I know, Dad. I just saw her and reacted. Sorry,” Robert says.

The truth of the matter is, I would have done the same thing had I noticed the girl. Anyone here would have. Robert’s reaction shows that truly he is a soldier.

But, fuck, did he have to go and get bit, I think.

My anxiety doubles with that thought. I know what I went through and saw others who didn’t make it after they were bitten. If I lose another of my kids, I honestly don’t know how I’ll survive. My stomach is in knots and I can feel my sanity slowly slipping away.

You have to hold it together, Jack, I think, taking as deep a breath as I can, attempting to center myself. My losing it will not help.

“Can you drive this thing any faster?” I call out.

“We’re going as fast as we can, Jack,” Greg answers. “We’ll be on the highway in a few minutes.”

“Dammit,” I mutter.

Time is of the essence here. I can visualize whatever it is in the night runner’s blood or saliva coursing upward through Robert’s veins. Yeah, we did a greater good rescuing the soldiers and kids; but, for me, the cost may have been too high. There is nothing that is worth the loss of any of my kids. I feel hot tears of pain, frustration, and sorrow stream down my cheeks.

My tears must have dripped on Robert as he pipes up, “Dad, seriously, I’m okay.”

I don’t say a thing in reply. I just want this behemoth to hurry the fuck along. We should be in Canada by now with the time it’s taking. If we don’t reach the road soon, I’m going to explode and it’s not going to be pretty. I’m so pent up that I can literally feel my heart being squeezed.

The Stryker comes to halt after we have seemingly traveled for days. The crying of the kids has simmered to a few sobs. They are either feeling a little safer or have been smothered. My money at this point is on the latter. It’s definitely a touch on the warm side and feels like most of the oxygen has been sucked out of the air. I pay attention to these things only on the peripheral of my mind. My focus is on seeing to Robert.

“Jack, we’re parked on an overpass away from any structures. It looks clear and our elevated position gives us good visibility into the surrounding area,” Greg calls from in front.

I have to hand it to Greg. He knows I’m a little out of it and is seeing to things. I’ll have to thank him, but right now, I’m itching for some room.

“Okay. Open the hatch. Everyone out. Teams on the perimeter. Reynolds, you and your team stay with the kids. Make sure they don’t wander off,” I say.

The lights go off causing the kids to begin crying again. Fresh, chilled air rolls through the interior as the ramp is lowered. Teams at the rear un-pile from one another and exit, setting up a small circular perimeter. Telling Robert to stay put, I exit so that the others toward the front can get out.

The interior rapidly empties with just the driver, gunner, and Robert remaining within. I catch Reynolds as she passes by.

“Can those kids read? Or the oldest?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure, sir. I never thought along those lines to be honest,” she answers.

“See if the oldest or one of the others can. Write a note telling them they’re okay or something like that and have her sign to the rest,” I say. “And give them a flashlight so they can see.”

“Will do, sir.”

With that, I step inside. Robert has his pants leg rolled up and is looking at the wound. Walking to him, I immediately see a bite mark. Fuck…fuck…fuck. Kneeling, I look closer. There aren’t any chunks that have been ripped out but several of the teeth marks have penetrated through the skin. The one thing that just about sends me over the top is the vast amount of drying blood covering his pant legs and skin from the gore that was blasted out of the night runner’s head. That has soaked through and coats his skin around the wound. Fuck…fuck…fuck.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask, knowing full well what I went through.

“Yeah, Dad, I feel fine. It just stings a little,” he answers.

“What in the hell were you thinking…running back like that without cover?” I ask, reaching for a bottle of water.

“I did say something. Besides, there wasn’t time. They were almost on her.”

I’m torn between telling him good job or what a foolish thing it was. I mean, I get it and, as I thought before, I would most likely have done the same thing. That doesn’t make me feel any better though. Taking my knife out, I slice his pant leg upward and then around, cutting the lower section away. I toss the scrap of clothing outside and begin pouring water over the wound to clear away any remaining blood. I remove my T-shirt and begin quickly cleaning the wound trying to keep the blood from the breaks in the skin.

“Next time, wait for cover…and, although I’m not really in much of a frame of mind to say so, that was the single most courageous thing I ever saw…or the most stupid. Just don’t ever, I mean ever, do that again,” I say, wiping the last vestiges of gore clear.

“Sir, is there anything I can do to help?”

I turn to see McCafferty standing at the opening. Bri is standing just behind her looking on with worry.

“Yeah. Crush these up,” I reply, handing her a few antibiotic pills that we all carry. “And get some bandages from the first aid kit.”

I hand Robert a couple of the tablets along with a fresh bottle of water. “Here, take these.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he replies, downing the pills.

I stare at the wound with dread as McCafferty finishes grinding up the tablets.

“Here, Dad,” Bri says, handing me bandage packets from the first aid kit.

“Thanks,” I reply, ripping several open.

McCafferty pours the powder on one of the bandages and I compress it over Robert’s wound, taping it in place.

“Does it feel any different?” I ask Robert.

“I really can’t feel it at all anymore.”

“Okay. You just sit here and don’t fuck with it.”

Turning to McCafferty, I ask her to tell Greg to get everyone loaded back up pronto. I’m in a rush to get back to the aircraft and hope that it hasn’t been overcome with night runners. If we can get onboard, I’d like to take off immediately, but I don’t know what to do about Harkins and the others. If the ramp is filled with our screaming comrades of the night, we won’t be able to load the others onboard. I suppose we could come back and get them.

I don’t really know what’s driving me to think that there’s anything that I can do for Robert at Cabela’s that I’m not already doing. Well, I do, it’s called fear. It’s that I will be doing something getting him home. I feel that the quicker I can get him home, the better his chances will be. However irrational that may be, it’s what I feel.

This places me in a quandary, though. I made promises to the others to take them back with us. I don’t really know what to do about that. I stow that aside knowing I really won’t be able to make a decision until I return and see the situation.

I step outside to let everyone crowd back onboard. Standing on the remote overpass in the middle of nowhere, with the empty highway passing underneath, I stare at the stars glittering though breaks in the clouds. The fields stretch into the night in shades of gray. A chilly breeze brushes against my pants legs. The sparkles high overhead make me feel so small and the barren fields mimic the emptiness I feel inside.

“Please don’t take another of my kids,” I whisper to the clouds passing slowly overhead.

They change shapes and, without responding, move on their way across the plains.

“We’re loaded, Jack,” Greg calls from inside the Stryker.

With a sigh, I step inside and close the hatch, never to visit this place again, but it will forever remain in my memory. The Stryker is packed, but a little more organized, so it seems roomier. With her head on his shoulder, Bri huddles close to Robert. Robert has his arm shyly around her shoulders. His look says that he really doesn’t understand all of the attention he is getting. Several of the soldiers reach across and pat him on the shoulder.

We start forward, heading down the dirt slope and enter the highway. The Stryker revs up and we pick up speed. Everyone knows the reason for the rush, but no one voices it. I mentally will the vehicle to move faster but the adrenaline is diminishing to a certain degree allowing a bit of reason to surface. I know in my mind that there is nothing I can do here or anywhere to help my son any more than what we are already doing. That doesn’t make me feel much better as I really want nothing more at this very moment than to be pulling into our sanctuary.

I know that, for me, this part of our search is over, however fair that may be to the soldiers. I need to get my son home. I also know that we will more than likely have to wait for morning before we can leave, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to hurry to the 130.

Pulling onto the ramp a short time later, I see night runners filling it. Some are gathered around the grills with the smell of freshly cooked meat drawing them. They are attempting to overturn or break open the firmly chained down barbecues. Others stand under the aircraft howling upward in their frustration at not being able to get in. The 130, with its ramp down, is being swarmed inside and out. Some of our goods are scattered across the tarmac. Seeing this settles any argument about taking the others and getting immediately airborne with Robert. No, we’re not going anywhere in the aircraft tonight.

“Take us out of town and find us a remote place to hole up for the night,” I say, watching several night runners start after our vehicle.

“Do you want me to take them down, sir?” the gunner asks.

“No. We can’t take the chance of an errant ricochet. Let’s just get out of here,” I reply.

I have Greg radio Harkins telling them our situation and that we’ll see them in the morning. The speakers echo in the interior as Harkins asks about the people we set off to rescue. I don’t hear Greg’s answer but Harkins’ reply of, “That’s good,” says it all.

I ask Greg to make sure Tim and his group are ready to go at first light.

“Will do,” is all I hear of that conversation.

We head off base and back down the highway to the south, parking on an overpass in the middle of nowhere. The ramp lowers and I arrange with Greg to alternate teams on perimeter. I know I need rest as we have to fly out in a few short hours, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. The teams scramble out and Greg works with Reynolds to get the kids as comfortable as possible. I remain inside with Robert. Bri continues to sit next to him but she isn’t leaning on him like she was. Robert probably told her to get off him.

I peel back the taped bandage. It looks clean with just a little redness surrounding the teeth marks. Crushing up more pills, I apply them liberally before taping a clean bandage across the wound. He’s still breathing and the wound looks clean which brings a little of my dread down. Not much, but a little. I remember my wound and the time it took before the effects announced themselves. The itchiness began almost immediately and never left, but the headache took some time before manifesting itself.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I feel fine, Dad.”

“Any itchiness?”

“No.”

“Headache?” I ask.

“No.”

“I need you to tell me the truth. This is important and not a time to be manly,” I say.

“I’m telling you the truth. I feel fine. A little tired, but fine,” he responds.

“Okay. You tell me if you start feeling anything. I mean that.”

“I will, Dad.”

I hear footsteps on the ramp. Glancing to the side, I see Sergeant Reynolds walking our way.

“How are you feeling?” she asks Robert.

I can tell he’s getting tired of being asked that and just wants to roll his eyes. Instead, he answers with an “I’m feeling fine, thanks.”

“Seeing how we aren’t going anywhere tonight, it seems like it’s a good time for a story. Let’s start with yours,” I say to Reynolds, patting the seat next to me. She sits and relates her story.

“Well, sir. We came out of North Carolina when radiation levels began spiking. We were the only ones left of our unit. With the goal of reaching Colorado, we took back roads after we ran into a few unsavory types. We were looking for a place to hole up for the night when we were waved down by the teachers. That would have been, let’s see, the day before yesterday. There were more than…of the kids and us. We barricaded the place as the sun was setting, but those creatures broke through our initial fortifications during the night. That’s when we lost the teachers and a couple of the kids. I lost three soldiers defending them, but we managed to hold the creatures off until sunrise. It was…terrible. Listening to their screams, and I don’t mean just the creatures’. I wanted to gather everyone up and leave during the day, but one of the teachers and two of the kids were injured. We couldn’t move them and we couldn’t just abandon them. The last of them died close to sundown. We had vehicles gathered but, well, it was too late to head out, so the only thing we could do was fortify the place and try to hold out again. It was hard communicating with the kids, but we managed to get them into the classroom and we, well, then hoped for the best. We called last night as well. Did you hear our calls?” she asks, finishing her story.

“No. We just arrived at McConnell AFB today,” I answer.

“Well, I’m sure glad you did. Thank you again, sir. We would have perished there tonight, along with all of the kids, if you and the others hadn’t come. And thank you, what did I hear you called…Robert?”

Robert nods wearily.

“You said you came out of North Carolina?” I ask, glancing at Robert checking for the start of a fever.

“Yes, sir,” she replies.

“Fort Bragg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So… Airborne?”

“All the way, sir,” she responds.

I tell Reynolds an abbreviated version of our story and current situation. “You and the others are welcome to join us if you’d like. I know we’d certainly appreciate the addition of your experience and expertise,” I say, concluding.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll talk it over with the others, but I seriously don’t think anyone will object to coming.”

“Jack, can I talk to you?” Greg asks from the hatch.

I rise slowly — my legs sore from crouching for so long. My knees give two loud cracks as I stand and I head outside with Greg.

“I’m guessing this is a discussion on our plans?” I say.

“Yeah. I’ve had a couple of the soldiers, whose families we still have to search for, come up and ask about our plans now…you know, with Robert being injured and all,” Greg answers. “I want to tell you that they all, to a person, understand if we have to head back, but they also want some assurance that we’ll continue the search at the earliest opportunity.”

“I’ll talk to them,” I say, wearily.

I gather the remaining soldiers to the side.

“I want to, first of all, thank you for your understanding. And, I want to assure you that we’ll be heading out at the soonest possible moment to continue our search,” I state.

“How long do you think that will be, sir?” one of the soldiers asks.

“As soon as possible isn’t very clear, I understand that. We have a full load of people to take back, aside from the fact that Robert is injured, but we’ll come back out. At worst, Craig has some skills flying the aircraft and we can train the other pilot to be his co-pilot. Gonzalez and McCafferty know the systems fairly well and can act as flight engineers. That’s really the best answer I can give you right now,” I reply.

“That’s good enough for me, sir,” the soldier says.

“Could we just drive out from here, sir?” another soldier asks. “I mean, it will create some room in the aircraft for the others and we won’t lose any more time looking for our families.”

“That would mean you’d only have one team out. I’m not comfortable having you out with so few numbers,” I answer.

“We’d have the Stryker. That more than makes up for the loss of firepower,” he continues.

“I’ll think on it and let you know before we leave. I understand your situation. Believe me, I do. Understand that we can’t afford to lose anyone, but, I understand what you’re going through so let me think on it for a little bit. Fair?” I ask.

“Fair enough, sir.”

I leave the group and chat with Greg about their desire to continue on with the Stryker.

“And I suppose you want me to lead them?” he asks.

“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all, Greg. That’s your decision to make and I won’t ask you to do it. I don’t like having only one team out on their own, whether you’re there or not. But, we do owe them a search and time is running out,” I say.

“You know I’ll do it. But, Jack, I want a week at the beach with cocktails delivered by scantily dressed…well…the week off when I return will be fine.”

“Done. I can give you your week. I want to you to come up with a timetable of your route before we leave. When I’m sure that Robert will be okay, I’ll be back with the aircraft to pick you up. We apparently don’t have satellite comms anymore so we’ll have to stick with a schedule.”

“Okay. Let me get a map and plot it out. You know, if we have to travel the entire distance on the ground, it’s going to take us about week and a half,” he states.

“I know. I don’t like it. I’m still not sure about the whole deal.”

“Well, I have to admit that I’m not overly happy with it, but let’s just get it done. The soldiers are anxious to learn what they can. We owe them that.”

“Okay. Let’s go over the route while it’s still night. We’ll be leaving at first light. And, Greg…thanks.”

“Just remember…you owe me one.”

The night passes ever so slowly — far too slow for my liking. The kids nestle inside as best as they can and sleep for the most part. The teams trade off watches and try to rest on the hard pavement near the Stryker with mixed results. Some people can sleep anywhere while others toss and turn all night. Greg and I plan his route. Eventually, the horizon lightens and we rouse ourselves. Sets of tired, red eyes trudge inside and we are soon heading down the road back to the base.

Returning to the airbase just as the first rays of light streak across from the horizon, it is a much changed scene than the one we were presented with last night. The only evidence that the night runners were here are a couple of the grills knocked askew and some of our gear strewn about. The ramp of the 130 lies open, its end resting on the tarmac. Pulling up near the rear of the aircraft, we disembark.

The interior is cast in radiant light relieving any fears that night runners might have decided the aircraft would make a nice lair. The kids look on the tall aircraft with wonder, many pointing and signing. One of the doors of the tanker aircraft pops open and a ladder drops down. Harkins, along with several of his group and some of ours, descend. Several other doors in other aircraft open and soon, the entire contingent is on the ground. They immediately begin offloading their gear.

I send Red Team, minus Robert, out to locate a fuel truck and return. We weren’t able to refuel at our last stop and, although we have plenty to make it home, there’s nothing like a full load of gas. There are three things that are absolutely useless in flight; the sky above you, the runway behind you, and fuel on the ground.

Standing with Robert near the Stryker watching the ramp swarm with activity, a few other aviation sayings that I’ve picked up along the way enter my tired thoughts…gravity never loses — the best you can hope for is a draw. And given that most things in aviation come in threes, there are the three most common expressions used in the cockpit — Why is it doing that? Where are we? and, Oh Shit!

There are a ton of axioms and for some reason, my mind cycles through a few of them:

1. Every takeoff is optional. Every landing is mandatory.

2. The only time you have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.

3. Learn from the mistakes of others. You won’t live long enough to make all of them yourself.

4. Never let an aircraft take you somewhere your brain didn’t get to five minutes earlier.

5. Always try to keep the number of landings you make equal to the number of take offs you’ve made.

6. There are three simple rules for making a smooth landing. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.

7. If all you can see out of the window is ground that’s going round and round and all you can hear is commotion coming from the passenger compartment, things are not at all as they should be.

“Is there anyone home?” Robert asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.

“Huh… oh yeah. How’s the leg feeling?” I ask.

“It’s fine, Dad. Are you going to ask me that every five minutes?” he says.

“Probably. But you know this isn’t shit to mess around with. You’ve seen what can happen so I’ll stop asking…maybe…if you promise to tell me the moment you don’t feel right.”

“I will. I have a slight headache, but that’s only because of the long night and lack of sleep,” he says.

“Okay. Let me take one more look at it and put another fresh bandage and antibiotics on it.”

I kneel and take a look at his leg. Peeling back the bandage, I see it still has a little redness around the breaks in the skin, but it actually seems to be better than it was a few hours ago. I’m still carrying a tremendous amount of tension which most likely won’t fully go away until the wound heals and several weeks have passed. However, what I see relieves a little of the stress. The scratch I had never healed like Robert’s appears to be doing. I put on a fresh powdering of the crushed pills and have him take another.

“If you’re feeling up to it, let’s go plan our flight back while the others load their gear. I want to fuel up and be out of here within the next couple of hours,” I say.

While I still have the anxiety to get him home, it has dissipated to a small degree. The panic I felt initially is replaced by cautious concern. I just hope he isn’t concealing anything. I can usually tell when he isn’t telling the truth or is hiding something and I don’t have the feeling he is. That could be wishful thinking though. Red Team returns with a fuel truck and we are soon filling our tanks.

In the cockpit, Robert and I are verifying the flight data input into the computer when Harkins climbs in to inform us that their gear has been loaded and that they’re ready to go. Stepping to the rear, I see that the gear that we salvaged from the tarmac has been strapped down. A crowd of people are milling near the rear of the aircraft waiting for the word to go. Some are wearing anxious faces. I can’t say I blame them. They are about to depart from places they knew well into an unknown.

Gathering up the teams, I let the ones who are still searching for families know that they can take the Stryker and continue on the ground. I will be taking Red Team with me. Greg gives me his best guess at a route and schedule so I can rendezvous with them later. He takes a few radios and has piled cases of ammo, food, and water in the Stryker.

Although I don’t really need to say it, I nevertheless tell him that arriving back safely is the most important thing and, that if they run into trouble, they are to make for home. I’ll be calling on the UHF radio on the return in case they needed to take a different route and we’ll link up. The UHF has a decent range but not enough that he’ll be able to communicate with the sanctuary. With a handshake and well-wishes, he loads his team into the Stryker and they are off. I watch as the armored vehicle rolls across the ramp and disappears around one of the large hangers. I’m still uneasy with them heading off like this, but I really don’t see any other way to get Robert home and also be able to search for families in a timely fashion.

Turning, I see our eighty-plus passengers and new members of our group of survivors trudge up the ramp under Harkins’ and Reynolds’ supervision. And much as cutting our trip short is to get Robert home, it will also be good to see Lynn. It seems like we’ve been gone longer than we have. One more trip to rendezvous with Greg, once I’m assured Robert is okay, and these little jaunts will be over. It will then be time to concentrate on eliminating the night runners around us and focusing on our long-term supplies.

“Ready?” I ask Red Team who are standing in a loose circle around me.

“Ready as we’ll ever be, sir,” Gonzalez replies. “How’s the leg?”

“It feels like someone is holding a blowtorch to it and it’s about to fall off,” Robert answers.

I sharply turn to Robert only to find him and Gonzalez grinning.

“I see you haven’t been asked that much,” Gonzalez says to Robert.

“I’m surprised about the few times I do get asked,” Robert replies facetiously.

“Fuckers,” I mutter, turning back toward the aircraft.

However anxious I am inside, it is good to see Robert mix it up with Red Team like that. It’s a sign of acceptance and means that he’s now one of them. I seem to be the only who remains a holdout in that regard — accepting him as a member of a team. Before, it was telling him not to be in any car while someone has been drinking. Now it’s telling him not to go into any building inhabited by ferocious packs of night runners. I kinda wish for the good ol’ days.

“I feel funny walking around like a hobo,” Robert says, referring to his torn pant leg. “I’m going into the cockpit to change.”

“Okay, we’ll be along shortly. Say…how’s the leg?” I ask.

“You’re funny,” Robert replies, walking away.

The red nylon seats have been pulled down and secured by the time I make it inside. A low hum of conversations is taking place as I step around our lashed down supplies. The talk ceases momentarily and all look at me as I raise the ramp. The light of the early morning grows dimmer and soon, only a thin beam of light stretches through the cargo compartment. It too vanishes as the doors come together and seal. The whine of the hydraulics stops, bringing silence to the interior. I give a quick briefing to those inside about the aircraft such as where the bathroom is and a few other miscellaneous details. With that, after verifying that Robert has finished dressing, I step into the cockpit.

The engines roar to life and we are soon airborne. I thought about having Robert rest on the bunk the entire way back but he does seem to be doing well and it’s easier to fly with two. I’ll keep an eye on him, though, and he’ll just have to get used to that idea. The rays of sunlight that peaked over the horizon with the sunrise are now hidden behind an overcast layer of clouds. It will take us about five plus hours to get home depending on the headwinds. It’s always slower heading west than east due to the jet stream.

The one thing I’m not looking forward to on arrival is my imminent death at the hands of Michelle and Lynn for Robert getting injured. Maybe I’ll just tell them that he pissed me off and I bit him. They may go for that if Robert plays along. Yeah, that might work.

The objects on the ground grow smaller as we climb and my thoughts go to Greg and his team. I hope letting them go off on their own doesn’t become a learning experience. I look down hoping to see a sign of the Stryker but only see the empty countryside sliding by below.

I have to level off before reaching our normal cruising altitude in order to remain below the cloud deck. It will burn more fuel but we’ll also be dealing with fewer headwinds so I’m more than okay with the trade-off. It’s not that we have to pay for the fuel and anyway, it won’t be around for very much longer. If we had refinery workers, we could possibly do something. There’s oil in Texas and it wouldn’t be difficult working out a supply system, but cracking the crude oil isn’t just throwing a switch and watching magic happen. Maybe that’s for the best, but it will make things a little more difficult as our range of operations will be drastically reduced. I’m hoping Bannerman has come up with something about the use of bio-fuels.

“Anyone monitoring this frequency, we are calling from Oklahoma City and need assistance,” the radio crackles to life.

“Calling on UHF emergency, this is Captain Walker. State your needs,” I reply after a moment of hesitation.

The airwaves certainly seem to be busier lately. I would have expected them to be busy when this first went down but it seems to be the opposite. Maybe it’s people finding this resource or they are coming out of their shock — who knows.

“We are in need of evacuation…if possible,” the voice states.

“Are you able to move to a different location for pickup?” I ask.

“We may be able to.”

“Okay. Standby, caller,” I reply.

“My name is Jax,” the caller states.

“Okay, Jax, standby for a few.”

Fuck, I think, turning the aircraft to the south.

“Are we going to pick them up?” Bri asks.

“No, we’re going home. I’m turning to see if we can contact Greg,” I answer.

I fly a few miles to the south and attempt to raise Greg on the radio. My first attempts are met with silence, but eventually, we make contact.

“What’s up, Jack?” Greg answers.

I tell him about the caller and their desire to be picked up.

“Do you want us to continue south then?”

“I’d rather keep to our timetable and have them come to meet you. They are on freq, but I doubt they can hear you,” I answer.

“Either way. It would be easier if we didn’t have to detour though.”

“Okay, I’ll radio them to meet you if they can.”

“Copy that.”

“Jax, this is Captain Walker. If possible, you can rendezvous with our other unit at Petersen AFB,” I call. “If you decide to, radio a few miles out to coordinate the link up.”

“Will do…and thanks.”

Having dealt with that, we turn back on course. I’m aware this could be a trap, but I know I don’t have to tell Greg to be cautious. He’s seen enough to be careful. The engines drone continuously — the most favorable of conditions — as we make our way ever so slowly to the northwest. We have to gradually decrease our altitude due to a lowering cloud layer and the land starts rising upward to eventually become the Continental Divide — not favorable conditions.

As we near the mountains east of Denver, we have descended to level that we have to cut through the passes — flying down valleys with timbered slopes to either side. The tops of the taller peaks are lost in the clouds as we pass them. It’s not that we have to cut down valleys and risk the possibility of being penned in them by the weather. We have plenty of room to turn if we need to and good visibility. I won’t put myself in that kind of position again without the aid of accurate GPS equipment and terrain following radar. That was the first big lesson learned early on in my flying career.

Flying is a matter of putting tricks in your bag — usually done by making poor decisions and living through them. As the saying goes, there are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I had a total of a hundred hours under my belt and felt pretty good about my skills. I had flown over to visit my grandparents for the weekend and we were fishing on a lake. I had to get back for work that evening, but that didn’t stop us from getting in a day on the lake before I had to fly back.

It was a hot, summer day. We were on a lake with tall, steep rising cliffs on all sides. The sky overhead was the light, clear blue that is found on most summer days in Eastern Oregon. I looked to the west to see the very tops of clouds building over the Cascade Mountains. The fact that I could see their tops from my vantage point meant they were already billowing high into the sky.

My grandmother, seeing me constantly peek at the growing cloud masses, asked me if I had to go. I think my look of worry said it all. We packed up and I watched the thunderstorms build in a line down the length of the range as we speedily drove back to the airport. By the time I had the aircraft ready, the dark cumulus clouds, with their anvils stretching to the east, covered the path home.

Asking if it was a good idea for me to fly through those, I answered that I’ll go up and take a look to see if I can find a way through. If the path was blocked, I’d turn around. Of course, I also knew myself and that, once I started, I’d do about anything to get through. Plus, I had to be at work and calling in because I had been trapped by weather just showed I hadn’t been paying attention. I worked at an airport and my boss wasn’t exactly very understanding.

With trepidation, I took off. With a map on my knees, I stared at the mass of storms growing bigger in my windscreen. Sweat began to gather under my arms. I flew down the length of the mountains looking for an opening under the storms. The single-engine Cessna wasn’t going over so under was the only way I was getting through. I found a small opening under the towering, boiling masses.

Following the valley with my finger on the map, I saw that I could possibly use it to skirt under the storms and make my way toward the Willamette Valley. To get there, I would have to cross over to other valleys at points. I had to make doubly sure that I kept a close watch on where I was at all times in order not to miss any of them. With that stupid thought in mind, I turned and descended.

I entered the valley with the dark gray clouds just above my wings. As I proceeded farther into the mountains, the clouds lowered. Abrupt, forested hills rose steeply beside me and vanished into the clouds. There wasn’t much room to turn in the narrow valleys if I found my way blocked. Lower and lower I descended as I pushed through. The river flowing below me was my only option if something happened. I was constantly looking for a place to put down in an emergency. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling too comfortable with my decision-making skills at this point. And, the worst thing — I couldn’t turn back at this point.

I remembered someone mentioning the dangers of being a one hundred hour pilot just before that flight. I do believe my response involved some eye-rolling. Well, there I was. I seriously thought this could be my last flight as I transitioned from valley to valley. I was worried I would head up the wrong valley, all of which wound their way higher into the mountains and just ended. The rain poured against the windscreen and my little shell of aluminum was bouncing all over the place. I was afraid I was going to get bounced up into the clouds, at which point I would have no option but to climb upwards. Descending blindly back down in the hopes I would manage to get back into the valley was out of the question.

Onward I flew, twenty pounds lighter at that point — all water loss and not all due to sweat. Three weeks later, or so it seemed, the valley I was in began to widen out and I found myself shooting out of the mountains and into the Willamette Valley. Every time since, when I found myself faced with similar situations, I brought this memory up. Yeah, I wasn’t about to do that again.

There are two real dangerous levels of being a pilot — those with one hundred hours and those with ten thousand. The hundred hour pilots — no offense to anyone — think they have a good handle on their skills as do the ten thousand hour pilots. Complacency has a tendency to settle in at both of those points. Those in between those two points have experienced situations and still remember the lessons learned.

Of course, that may not be entirely true, I think as we maneuver through the mountains, remembering more than one instance of flying around with my head on fire.

There were a few times when I looked at something and said, “Hmmm…”

Like the time I flew over Fort Walton Beach at about a hundred feet during Spring Break at about five hundred knots with both jet engines screaming. By the way, just so you know, that’s not a good idea. Apparently, base commanders enjoy hanging out there on nice days. Yeah, I left a good part of my ass on the floor with that “great” idea.

We skirt our way through the mountains. The clouds on the other side rise, and before long, begin to break up. We climb to a more reasonable altitude. I look over at Robert from time to time during our flight, exhibiting a tremendous amount constraint in order not to ask how he is doing.

“I’m fine, Dad,” he says on perhaps my fortieth glance.

The rest of the flight is just the way I like my flights: boring.