A New World: Conspiracy (20 page)

“That’s one possibility,” Miller says.

Krandle doesn’t know if the surprise of the
screen door slamming against the side of the house earlier or
hearing Miller speak is more of a shock. The others turn to stare
at Miller, to which he merely shrugs, his words for the week having
been uttered.

“Did that hurt?” Speer asks Miller before
turning back to screen his sector.

“Who knows what they saw? That’s what we’re
here to find out. We’re heading down this street and around the
corner. We don’t have a map, so we’ll have to find our own way to
the hill,” Krandle says.

“And I vote we don’t go find a map. I wasn’t
very fond of the last time we decided we wanted one,” Speer mutters
to himself, rising.

“Stow it, Speer,” Krandle says.

The team heads down the road, paying special
attention to those places where the fences appear to have been
recently bent inward. Silence follows along with them. They reach
the point where the road curves to the right and heads in front of
the dilapidated buildings. The windows of the buildings have all
been broken out with grime covering the shards of glass remaining
in the panes. Washed out signs hang above the establishments – City
Appliances, Jim’s Auto Repair, Unique Treasures, and others too
faint to read.

Some light reaches a short distance into the
buildings revealing scattered messes within each of them. As the
team passes the auto repair facility, a metallic sound rings from
deep within the shadows. It sounds like a pipe hitting the hard
ground and bouncing.

The team instantly goes into action. The
members on the building side swing their carbines to bear on the
sound while dropping to their knees. The others drop as well and
focus on the surrounding area – all are poised to deliver
concentrated fire and either run or engage. The ringing sound
within fades and the deathly quiet returns.

“If there’s anyone inside, come out slowly.
We mean no harm and are here to help,” Krandle calls, his cheek
against the adjustable stock, aiming through his sight at the
interior of the building.

Nothing moves. Tension holds its grip on
this small piece of ground in this nameless little town. Reaching
up, Krandle turns on the flashlight mounted on one of the side
rails of his carbine. Light flares into the building, but its
intensity is drastically reduced, having to pass through the
daylight. He rises, and, with his finger caressing the trigger,
walks slowly forward.

At one side of the broken window, he casts
his light inside. The interior smells of mold and must. The carpet
spread across the floor is deeply stained with grease and is ragged
around the edges. In what appears to be a small waiting room,
plastic chairs lie upended. A fake wood-paneled counter with a pale
Formica top occupies half of the room, and a broken clock hangs
crookedly on one of the walls, its time stopped at 1:13. From the
looks of the place, that clock could have stopped in 1996, so
Krandle doesn’t attribute much to it. Dirt-streaked papers are
scattered across the dull space. To one side, a door leading into
the garage stands partially open. Sending his light through the
doorway, Krandle doesn’t see much of interest other than a stained
concrete floor and the partial front tire of a vehicle.

“Anything?” Franklin whispers across the
radio.

Krandle shakes his head as he continues to
look into the building. Looking at the grit-covered sidewalk at his
feet, there aren’t any tracks or other disturbances that would
indicate something had been along this way recently. Snapping off
his light, he backs from the window to his gathered team.

“Okay, let’s keep going. Miller, keep a
sharp eye behind us.”

Each of them cast leery glances at the
structure as they rise to proceed on their journey. Houses in the
same condition as the run-down buildings lie across the road. Most
are barely visible through the overgrown bushes and weeds. Several
seem on the verge of collapse with one having its roof in a concave
shape, ready to fall in on itself with the next strong gust of
wind. More than a few have rope chains stretched across overgrown
driveways. The lack of birds in the area is strange. This is the
first time Krandle has been close to a shoreline and not witnessed
gulls in the area – soaring aloft or on some perch looking for
scraps of food.

“Everyone halt,” Krandle whispers into the
mic.

He waves Franklin to his position. “Are you
still carrying the portable chemical detector?”

“Yes,” Franklin answers, taking off his
small pack and digging through it.

“This will take a few minutes,” Franklin
says, removing an olive drab plastic unit.

“Oh shit,” Speer comments, seeing what
Franklin has brought out.

“Easy now. We’d have already felt something
if there was anything here. I just want to make sure,” Krandle
says, briefly explaining his uneasiness with the lack of any life
around, mentioning in particular the lack of gulls.

Minutes slowly tick by as the unit boots up
and it begins to take samples from the air. Seconds are counted by
the beads of sweat that form on all of them. Krandle and Franklin
squat in the center of a small perimeter formed by the other four.
Speer, Blanchard, Miller, and Ortiz focus their attention outward.
More than once, they all glance at the building from where the
noise came and sneak peeks toward Krandle, waiting for word. Like
watching water come to a boil, Krandle and Franklin stare at the
device.

At long last, the unit gives a beep and
Franklin brings the display closer.

“All clear,” he says loudly enough for all
to hear, but not so loud that his voice carries.

A collective sigh passes through the team –
an almost physical release.

“Then why aren’t there any gulls?” Krandle
mutters under his breath as Franklin stows the unit and makes
ready.

With a wave of his hand, Krandle motions for
Speer to continue.

The hill that is their goal is to their
front left in the distance. They’ll have to progress through the
town in order to reach it. Several blocks later, Speer turns left
down a side street. The gusts at intervals bring the smell of the
sea. The clouds overhead barely move and seem content to stay where
they are.

They enter a part of town that is geared
toward the tourist trade. Small shops line the road, most with
their windows broken. Barely seen are signs denoting kites for sale
or bikes to rent. Salt water taffy and other candy shops are
prevalent along with the usual trinket and T-shirt shops. One shop
advertises artwork and another, blown glass. Sand is piled against
the buildings and in the small doorways. In places, the layers of
sand and grit show pathways through them. There aren’t any tracks,
but the covering is uneven.

Of course, it may not be made by
anyone
, Krandle thinks, stopping to examine them.
It could
be created by the wind swirling through the area
.

The streets are mostly clear of vehicles and
drifts pile high, in some places almost reaching halfway up the
structures. Scraps of paper and other light debris lay scattered
across the avenues they pass. Gusts of wind swirl through the
streets of this seemingly abandoned town, picking up the loose
fragments and sweeping them to a new resting place. Faintly,
Krandle hears the harsh cries of gulls ahead.

A couple of blocks later, Speer radios that
he’s spotted a body ahead. With caution, they approach.

The body lies in a broken window, half in
and half out of what used to be a café. The head and forearms are
buried in a sand drift outside of the restaurant with the legs
draped on the inside. Putting the men on watch, Krandle looks
closer. The jeans are darkly stained. It takes him a moment to
realize that the jeans are pressed flat, meaning the legs aren’t
attached to the body. Grit covers the diner floor, but he
eventually sees a few bones scattered within. In one place, a shin
bone stripped clean of flesh lies with a tennis shoe still
attached. Moving some of the sand away from the upper torso, he
sees that the flesh has been ripped from the bones. Only a few
pieces of desiccated flesh, sinew, and hair remain.

Speer calls with the sighting of another
body farther up the street. The new body is in the same condition –
dried out with most of the body torn apart. The farther into town
the team proceeds, the more bodies they find. Some just inside the
buildings, others in sand drifts, and yet more just lying in the
street. Some of the bodies haven’t been mutilated. Just like in the
other town they visited, Krandle guesses the ones still intact are
night runners.

The team warily proceeds in the narrowed
street between the shops. The sound of the gulls increases with
each step they travel. It isn’t a cacophony of sound, but single,
distinct cries. They pass bits of strewn clothing, some mere scraps
poking out of sand. The whole team is silent and walks with
trepidation, wondering what they’ll find farther in. Fingers stroke
trigger guards with nervousness. They are tense and alert, ready to
unleash fury in a given moment.

Pant legs and sleeves flap in the periodic
flurries of wind winding through the streets. It stirs the layer of
sand, creating new designs with each draft. Krandle again finds it
hard to tell if the trails through the grit are from the passage of
something or just the wind drawing patterns. He has Speer and
Miller take closer looks but even they can’t tell.

Gone is the joking around. Solemn game faces
are etched on the entire team. Thinned lips and watchful eyes
denote the tension in each of them as they attempt to peer through
the darkened veils into the depths of each shop. Krandle feels his
heart hammering. It’s a feeling he became used to long ago and even
welcomes. With it, he knows his senses are sharpened and reactions
quicker. He fully expects to hear a noise from each store like the
one they heard at the auto repair garage, but there is only the
soft whish of wind and the occasional cry of a gull.

The area opens as they emerge into a plaza
with a small fountain in the center, surrounded by a low concrete
wall. The rest of the plaza is filled with tall grass swaying with
each breath of wind. Krandle can imagine the finely manicured lawn
with tourists taking their ease on its soft surface – the gentle
murmur of the fountain in the background.

Adjoining the small park is a two-story
concrete building with the words ‘City Hall’ etched across the top.
Fluted concrete pillars line the front with wide steps leading to
the entrance. Bodies litter the steps and fill the plaza – night
runner and human alike – although the tall grass hides many of
them. Several gulls hop among the bodies and pick at them, looking
for remnants of flesh. Krandle notices that the birds leave the
night runner bodies alone. One gull swoops down to chase another
one. They squawk at one another for an instant and the one that was
standing flies off. The winning gull settles in, picking at a
body.

Looking around, Krandle envisions that there
must have been quite a fight here. It carries the picture of the
town taking a last stand. The small police force must have been
housed in the city hall and tried to hold their ground. Those last
moments must have been filled with horror. The confusion of the
night with figures darting around the lawn and unable to tell
friend from foe. At the end, just firing at everything that moved
until they were overwhelmed.

Shops surround the park across the streets
on three sides. Their dark, broken windows gaze onto the massacre
without interest, merely taking it in. Krandle and the rest of the
team watch the stores looking for movement, their eyes darting from
one opening to the next. Gulls are perched on the eaves of the
buildings looking on. There aren’t hundreds of them, nor do they
present any feeling of dread like the Hitchcock movie
Birds
,
but there are a few of them. They stare on, some with tilted heads,
as if wondering if this intrusion of people is going to interfere
with their food…or add to it.

“I’m not fond of being in the open like
this,” Speer mutters.

“For once I have to agree with Speer,”
Franklin says. “We’re at a huge disadvantage if someone should take
issue with our being here.”

“These birds freak me out, man,” Ortiz
states.

“I know. Set a perimeter and sit tight.
We’ll move along shortly,” Krandle responds.

The unreal nature of this place makes
Krandle want to see more. He feels that if he looks closer, it will
all begin to make sense. He knows what happened to the world and
has dealt with that aspect, but his senses haven’t adapted, and
being in the center of it makes him want to see more. He has been
thrown into this new world against his will; he feels the need to
see more. He knows that the team comes first, but he feels that, if
he can understand and come to better terms with the environments
they come across, he’ll be able to lead them better.

The team sets a perimeter around the plaza
and Krandle makes way through the tall grass toward the fountain.
The stalks brush against his pants as he creates a trail through
their midst, having to step over an occasional body lying on the
ground. He doesn’t spy any other trails through the grass, which is
a good sign, but that in and of itself doesn’t mean anything. It’s
only means that nothing transits through the grass regularly. If
there was only the occasional trespasser, the stalks wouldn’t be
pressed flat for more than a day. They would stand upright with the
coming of the next day.

Reaching the fountain, Krandle notices it is
partially filled with sand. On a waist-high marble dais, a plaque
is embedded at an angle on its top, dedicated to the nation’s war
veterans.

That’s now a dedication to everyone left
alive
, Krandle thinks, staring at the carved writing.
Those
now living are all war veterans
.