A New World: Reckoning (9 page)

“Gonzalez, I’m turning away. We’ll come at them from different altitudes and directions. I want you to mark the vehicles and we’ll hit and run. We have the northern end blocked but that won’t last long. Concentrate on the southern end on the next pass. Once we have them blocked on both sides, we’ll hit the ends at random,” I say, leveling off and maneuvering for a run.

I would like to say we dart in, hit them, and flash away. However, there is no ‘darting’ or ‘flashing away’ in a 130. As we begin each run, tracers rise from the multitude of vehicles, trying to intersect with our flight path. I adjust our altitude with each run based on where the tracers fell from the previous one. If the tracers fell behind, I climb to throw off any adjustments that the ones below make. By ascending, it will increase the distance and they’ll continue to fall behind. If they begin leading more, I descend so that the rounds will continue to pass in front. This game lasts for as long as we hit them.

Several vehicles throw smoke as they leave the road and try to work around the burning vehicles to their front and rear. Ignoring the sheer magnitude of the masses below, we pick our targets deliberately and engage, hitting them and turning to strike at more.

We continue hitting them, making multiple passes over the column. The pass becomes clogged with smoke from the devastation. Dark plumes rise from each vehicle until the road itself seems on fire. Tracers cease to rise as we fly over.

The last vehicle is hit. The scene below is one of complete destruction. Smoke rolls upward in the chill air with flames visible at times through the dark smoke. Each plume combines with the others until it becomes one continuous line. This pass will be closed for some time to come.

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Picking up speed as they cross the flatland, Trey and his column enter one of the mountain passes that they chased their quarry through the night before. Knowing they are vulnerable in the pass, especially with a gunship to the rear, he notifies the vehicle commanders to maintain their spacing but keep their speed up. So far, according to the satellite footage, which has become spotty in the mountainous terrain, the gunship is still on the ground miles to the south. However, the sooner they can get through, the more relieved he’ll be.

With the end of the pass nearly in sight, he calls for the column to split with half taking another pass to the east, and the other half continuing north. This way, they’ll be harder to hit.

No sooner has he transmitted the words when a blast rocks his vehicle. It rolls to the side and then stabilizes. The next moment, it dives downward as if punched. A concussive explosion rolls through the interior. The instant compression of air within makes him feel like he’s been suddenly submersed in the deep end of a pool. The interior lights blink out momentarily, returning a second later. He knows instantly that he was mistaken about the gunship still being on the ground.

“Driver, floor it!” Trey yells.

He feels his armored vehicle stagger, its momentum stopping suddenly as it is driven heavily downward once again. He barely registers the change as everything goes dark.

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We send several rounds of 40mm along the smoke. Finally, with our dead in the back and feeling a measure of satisfaction that we have exacted a measure of revenge, we bank away from the carnage, turning once again toward the facility coordinates.

Approximately twenty minutes later, the metropolis of Denver becomes visible ahead and to the side, its mass covering a large area. While the population of Denver was only a little over six-hundred thousand people, the outlying urban sprawl brought those numbers to over two and a half million. Those numbers, along with the percentages gleaned from the CDC reports, means that there must be close to a million night runners, at least initially.

Looking at the city as we fly approximately twenty miles away from the outer edges, it’s hard to fathom a million night runners pouring through the streets of the city at night. With those kinds of numbers, I wonder if some haven’t already pushed out of the city as Frank suggested they must do at some point. All of the major cities will have a substantial outflow of night runners as the food supplies within the towns shrink.

As the food supplies diminish, so will the night runner population, and if they push out from the cities, they’ll have to find lairs. That probably means that the smaller townships will see night runners swarm into them. The final population of night runners in any given area will depend upon the food sources. At some point, it will stabilize, with far fewer than there are now. However small that happens to get, it will still far outnumber any remnants of humankind.

The weather will also take its toll. Places like the one we are passing over will more than likely see a drastic reduction in their population as the cold claims lives. I imagine there will be turf wars or the inclusion of smaller packs into larger ones as nature attempts to stabilize itself. Regardless of what the future may be like for them, the important thing is whether we’ll be around long enough for it to matter.

So far, we’ve done okay. We’ve made a lot of mistakes, including the one of sending Greg off on his own, and we will make others, but we’ve made it this far. Tomorrow is another day, but we’re alive today. If only we, humankind, could actually band together against this greater nemesis. We seem to want to do away with ourselves. This fighting between groups doesn’t make sense. It is a form of suicide. There’s no reason why we should be flying over some other group’s base to gather information, with the possibility that we’ll take it out somehow. We should be working together to ensure our mutual survival instead of attacking each other. Yet, here we are, having to do something against our own kind for the sake of our own survival. I just don’t understand it.

The plains below look the same, mile after mile of farmland, the outlines of their rectangles still visible, yet our nav instruments indicate that we are approaching the boundaries of the facility.

“Start the cameras rolling,” I call to Gonzalez.

“Just started them, sir,” she replies.

I watch the landscape below, looking for tracers or tell-tale signs of a missile launch. I’m ready with the counter-measures should the threat receiver light up. So far, though, all indications are that we might as well be flying over Farmer Smith’s aging and rusting tractor.

It doesn’t take us long to pass over. Gonzalez leaves the cameras on for a few moments longer so that we’ll get a look at the surrounding terrain. However, it isn’t long before the third part of our mission has been accomplished. Now we need to land, carry out the subterfuge, and get home. I don’t want to linger in the area, being this close to the supposed facility. It would only take them a little over an hour to get to our location, so we’ll have to make it quick. I don’t expect any trouble seeing we have the Spooky, but they might try to come in fast while we’re on the ground. I would loiter over the area to keep watch, but we just don’t have the fuel for that and Greeley doesn’t carry the type we need. So, it’s fly in, unload, drive to a nearby location, make it look like we’re checking the place out, reload, and take off. Again, with the deep suspicion that the ones who hit Greg are somehow associated with the facility, they won’t be too happy that we made marshmallow cookers out of their armored columns. We can’t give them an open invitation to strike back. In and out.

Having finished with our overflight, and hoping we were able to gather some good information, I begin a descent. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary and hope the high-definition video will provide some information.

The airport lies to the northeast just outside of the city limits. As we approach, the plains give way to brown crop circles, their shapes still barely visible. Calling Gonzalez to the front to assist, I fly over the city and then the airfield itself.

The town looks like any other we’ve flown over or passed through; mostly residential neighborhoods with brown fields spread throughout. After a couple of passes over the metropolis without seeing any signs of survivors, I turn toward the airport.

I see the outlines of two runways, one north-south, and, just off the southern approach, an east-west one. Two small ramps serve the small fixed-base operations on the field. Surrounding the ramps are the burnt-out remains of hangars. Blackened sheets of steel lie twisted in amongst the wreckage of several aircraft, with everything having been burned to the ground.

On the airfield grounds next to the destroyed hangars, a small fenced-in compound sits to the southwest. Several warehouse-type buildings have most of their roofs caved in, as does a large administration building. A number of flatbed tractor-trailers are parked around the outer edges of the complex. There’s obviously a story here that we’ll most likely never learn.

“What do you think?” I ask Gonzalez.

“It looks like all of the buildings have been burned, sir,” she answers.

“Thank you for that deep and insightful answer, Corporal Obvious,” I reply.

I glance to see her grinning underneath her helmet, taking what I said as the joke it was intended to be. We circle the airfield, looking for indications that anyone is around, or anything that might cause us trouble upon landing.

Gonzalez comments, “It could be that someone was clearing the area out, or a fire started on its own. With no one to put it out, it could have just burned everything.”

“I suppose. That’s a lot of distance between some of those buildings,” I state.

“There’s also a lot of fuel down there. It could have ignited and ran. There could have been strong winds,” she replies, shrugging.

“I guess.” Over the intercom, I call to the control center, “Do you have anything on thermal?”

“No, sir. We’re not picking up anything out of the ordinary.”

I bring the Spooky into an orbit over the airfield. After several minutes of watching to ensure that it seems safe, I bring the aircraft in and park, leaving the engines idling for a few minutes before shutting down.

As the propellers wind down to a halt, I open the rear ramp and exit. My pant legs whip from a strong breeze that brings a chill from the mountains miles to the west. This is a far cry from the hammock swinging, umbrella drink sipping, white sand beach watching that I should be doing.

“So, what’s the plan?” Lynn asks, standing next to me.

“Find a vehicle and finish with our business here, fly home, and look at the video. We’ll plan our next action based on what we see. For whatever reason, we’ve been targeted…so they obviously don’t mean to ease up on us. We need to come up with a plan to deal with them, but frankly, I haven’t the foggiest idea what that will entail.”

There’s a farmhouse with a few outlying buildings in the distance, nestled in the “V” created by the intersecting runways. Lynn will take the rest of Red Team out with the exception of Bri. We’ll be staying behind to set the return flight home in the nav computer. Even though one of lessons learned was not sending single teams out, the place where they’ll conduct the fake rescue mission is close and they won’t be out of sight. Locating a pickup and managing to get it started, Lynn and the others set off across the runways, bouncing across fields on their way to the farm house.

After finishing with inputting the coordinates, to kill time waiting for Lynn and the others to return, Bri and I walk to the nearest line of hangars. Charred sheet metal lies in twisted heaps where the buildings collapsed in on themselves. There is a lingering smell of burnt rubber and plastic. Several of the sheets rustle as a flurry of wind gusts blow through. Underneath the debris, there are recognizable aircraft parts that survived the fire: a wheel strut, a tire rim with the rubber melted and burned away, part of a wing lying under a section of sheet metal.

Bri and I silently look over the wreckage, each of us lost in our thoughts. Bri bends down, moves a section of steel to the side, and picks up a charred altimeter. The outer casing is brittle and covered with soot. The hands are bent from the heat they encountered.

Turning it in her hand, she asks, “Dad, why are they doing this? The other group, I
mean.”

“I don’t know, Bri. They must think that we’re a threat to them somehow. Given what they planned to do, that’s the only thing I can come up with,” I answer.

“Can’t we just, I don’t know, talk with them somehow?” she asks, still looking at the instrument in her hand.

“I wish it were that easy. If they had come and talked with us in the beginning, perhaps something might have been worked out. However, with what they’ve done, in the beginning…and to us recently…I doubt they would have been interested in any form of compromise. Of course, there is also the question of whether we would, considering what they did…or tried to do. They take what they want without caring much with how they go about it.”

“Do you think we’re going to make it? I mean, survive?”

I look over the burnt remains of the hangars and across the flat landscape with the wind rippling my clothing. In the distance, purplish peaks of the mountain range rise above the horizon. Being far away from home, with all that has occurred, this place seems remote and the view has a very forlorn feeling attached to it. For all intents and purposes, Bri and I are the only ones around. It seems like we are the last two people on earth poking through rubble from the past. I want nothing more than to encircle her with my arms and hold her tight…keep her safe.

“I’d like to think so, if I have anything to say about it anyway.”

“But we’ve lost so many people lately. Nic, Allie, Drescoll, the team today, and maybe Greg…and we aren’t gaining anyone.”

And therein lies the crux of the whole thing. We can’t afford to lose anyone as we can’t replace them. We just don’t have the numbers to lose people and be able to survive. It takes time to replace any we do lose, whether through natural causes or otherwise. If we allow ourselves to be whittled down, we’ll soon run out of people. The last vestiges of humankind will fade away, vanishing from the face of the earth forever.

“We’ll make it somehow, Bri. I don’t know how other than to keep the faith that we will.” I put my arm around her shoulders and hold her close.

Lynn calls in that they are returning. Bri looks over the altimeter once more and then tosses it back onto the pile of rubble. Looking to the southwest toward the fenced-in complex, I pull out my binoculars and zoom in on the buildings. Focusing on the three-story central office building, I note the roof and part of the brick walls have toppled inward. Windows are set into the structure at even intervals on all floors, but very little of the glass remains. Through the openings, I see a mix of light pouring in from the collapsed sections of roof and shadowed darkness. Panning across the side of the building, I glimpse a flash of movement from behind one of the windows.

Startled, I look again, squinting to penetrate the depths. Nothing. Something was there and flashed away in an instant, but not before I caught what looked like someone standing at the window looking in our direction.

“Did you see that?” I ask Bri, moving to where a portion of a hangar corner still stands to gain a measure of cover.

“No…what?” she answers.

“I swear there was someone at the window. The lower one on the left corner facing us.”

“I don’t see anything.” I hand her the binoculars. “I still don’t see anything, at any of the windows. Are you sure you saw something?” she asks, turning from the raised binoculars to look at me.

“I wouldn’t stake my life on it. I might yours, but not mine. But, yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw someone there, and I’m doubly sure I saw movement.”

I turn to see the pickup crossing the east-west runway and call Lynn, asking her to join us by the hangar and filling her in on what I saw. Even though it’s already been an eventful day, I decide to investigate further. I would think that any survivor would show themselves, although perhaps not with the way that the world is now. I don’t want to stick around much longer, but I’m curious now and want to help if someone needs it; we start forward.

With Lynn driving and the others in the bed, the truck creeps forward. Bri and I walk alongside, staying behind the cover it affords. A portion of the fence has been pushed inward, toppling a large section of it to the ground. Lynn drives the truck over the top. Bri and I step over the chain links trying to do our very best to keep from getting snagged by the barbed wire that once lined the top.

Walking between a couple of outlying buildings near the fence, each gutted by fire, we cross a drive that circles the main structure. The pickup halts and Red Team exits. With the team providing cover and my M-4 at the ready, I cautiously approach the window, walking toward it from the side to provide the best cover.

As I approach, I note the trails of smoke rising up the sides of the building from each of the windows, partially faded from rains that must have swept through the area. The breeze carries a hint of smoke, like a faint lingering odor of burning brakes. As I noticed earlier, there is very little glass remaining in the windows. What is left has turned opaque and is melted along the edges, the sharp corners rounded.

Stacked next to the window, I call out. My voice echoes inside and is quickly carried away on the strong wind. Receiving no response, I take my signal mirror and edge it around the corner, turning it back and forth to view the entire inside. There are only piles of debris. Feeling the thud of my heartbeat, I round on the window with my carbine pointing inward. Checking the sides, up and down, I only see a mix of shadows and light. Nothing moves.

Looking to the floor just inside the window to see if I can spot any tracks, I’m startled by the sight of a skeletal body. Strips of desiccated sinew cling to parts of the skull with remnants of long brown hair still attached. Tattered clothing hangs to the body in places with more strewn throughout the room. The rest of the body has been stripped clean.

It’s lying under the window on a pile of bricks, concrete slabs, and pieces of lumber that escaped the flames. The fact that it’s on the debris and the bones aren’t burnt means that this person died here after the fire. The condition of the body makes it obvious that night runners were here…or still are.

I open up my senses and feel the presence of several night runners nearby. They appear to be almost directly below and are definitely within the confines of the building. There must be a basement that they are using as a lair. I motion the others forward and relate my perceptions.

The wind blows through the open windows, creating a low, moan-like howl through the building, much like the sound of blowing across an empty Coke bottle. The movement—and I want to say person—I saw definitely came from this window. However, there aren’t any tracks or sounds. If there was, I should be able to hear and smell them even through the lingering odor of the smoke. There isn’t a sign that anyone is here, other than a pack of night runners below.

The sound of the wind moaning through the building, the destruction within, and the body below where I saw the ‘person’ contributes to an eerie feeling that sends chills racing up my spine.

“Are you seeing ghosts again, Jack?” Lynn asks.

“Apparently,” I answer, peering into the building.

I call inside once again. No answer. We walk around the building, keeping a sharp eye and our weapons on the open windows as we pass.

The front of the building has double, full-paned entry doors that have been twisted out of shape. Like the windows, the glass is missing from the entrance. Peering inside, debris covers a lobby that served as an entryway, with still more strewn in the hallways beyond. Light shows brightly through the collapsed roof. Several slabs of concrete hang from above, attached only by strings of rebar. The upper floors have been entirely burned away leaving an unobstructed view of the sky and what remains of the roof. Many of the concrete structural support walls have fallen, creating large debris fields spanning across hallways and rooms. Once more, I call inside without hearing a response.

“Are you sure you saw someone?” Lynn asks.

“I don’t know. I suppose it could have been a trick of the light, but I swear someone, or something, was there,” I answer.

“Are we going in, Dad?” Bri asks.

“I don’t know. Surely if there was someone in there, they would have responded. The smoke masks some of the scent, but I’m pretty sure I would smell something, or at least hear if someone was inside. Also, the floor may have been damaged. The debris can be covering weaknesses or holes,” I reply. “Plus, I really don’t want to dawdle here for long.”

Bri shrugs and turns to descend the steps leading to the entrance. The rest of us turn to follow. Deep within the building, from one of the upper levels, I hear the sound of a large rock rolling and bouncing down the debris. My heart beats with a solid thump as adrenaline shoots through my body. We all turn to the noise, going to our knees and bringing our M-4s to bear. There’s a muffled scurrying sound from somewhere in the back and above before everything goes quiet once again.