A New World [7] Takedown (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

“It would be a rather long walk home.”

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

“Have fun with that.”

“What? No sense of adventure, Jack?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We could leave,” he replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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