Sizable droplets of rain begin to fall sporadically, creating large circles in the sand. I pat Gonzalez on the shoulder and rise; the pat really hiding my using her as leverage. Sealing up the Humvees, we make our way into the 130 and close it up as the first rumble of the storms reverberates across the tarmac. Before long, the pouring rain deafens us inside the aircraft. It sounds like being inside a tin shack with marbles falling from the sky. Well, I guess in a way we are stuck in a tin shack.
We pass the rest of the day with the sound of downpours, flashes of lightning flickering through the windows, and the rumble of thunder that sometimes shakes the aircraft. I’m not all that keen on being inside one of the tallest objects in the middle of the open ramp and a metallic one at that. The aircraft does have the ability to dispense static, but that doesn’t give me a multitude of warm fuzzies sitting in our tin can. We find what little comfort the aircraft holds with so many inside and strip away packages of MREs. I turn the battery on so we can heat our dinners in the little kitchen situated just below the cockpit entrance stairs.
The dark of the storms outside gives little warning of the approaching night. One moment it’s a shadowy gray light filtering in that quickly transitions to the inky blackness of night. The flashes of light that occasionally reach inside from the thunderstorms are in direct contrast to the darkness and startle us each time. Our confined area and having to be inside during the day brings attention to the fact that we are all in need of a shower. Or maybe it’s just me. I can’t tell beyond my own area of aroma. The locker room smell is getting to the point where I’m sure others are contemplating whether being outside with the night runners isn’t a preferred solution. I head to the cockpit to change and at least do my part in not forcing others out into the arms of the nocturnal hunters.
In the cockpit, I quickly change tossing the old clothing on the bunk where they immediately threaten to run into a corner to find darkness and perhaps a lair. I look out of the side window and see shapes heading our way. The lightning is playing havoc with my night vision, enhanced or not, and it takes time between flashes to adjust. The small number of night runners trotting across the ramp show up in the intermittent strobes of light, their gray skin seeming to glow with each flare.
I watch as they approach, shielding the language images in a tightly locked compartment in my mind. Hollow, metallic thuds echo inside as bodies slam into the thin aircraft fuselage. It looks to be another sleepless night inside an aircraft with night runners trying to work their way in. So far they haven’t been able to, but we’ll post guards to keep watch. It isn’t like any of us will be getting any rest. I look out at a similar scenario to last night ─ a night runner hanging behind the others while they work their way around the aircraft trying to find a way in. I watch as two try to climb a propeller on the outboard engine. They manage to get part of the way up before slipping back to the ground. The thought of starting that engine while they are climbing floats through my mind. I mean, how funny would that be watching them get launched over one of the hangars. Not realistic, as the propellers don’t rev up that fast, but the idea is humorous.
The rain coming down is definitely impeding their ability to hang onto the blade. I keep an eye out because they could potentially damage the aircraft, stepping on control surfaces and other vital areas, should they get on top. I watch as the pack outside leaves only to be replaced by another of about the same size. The storms have tapered off to intermittent flashes of light in the distance. I decide to experiment and open up slightly. I want to see if they can sense me when I do. I immediately sense the night runners and the images of the apparent leader. The leader turns in my direction abruptly as all activity ceases for a moment. I guess that answers that question, I think as the moment passes and they resume their efforts.
I send a quick message of me associated with the sun. I notice the leader is immediately startled. There is a hesitation, but only a very slight one. The others also pause and look to the pack leader as if looking for guidance, but then immediately return to what they were doing. Well, at least it causes a little distraction, I think, wondering if I can send them instructions and have them obey. I send a series of images to one of the night runners just under the window, telling it to go into the hangar directly across the ramp. That does absolutely nothing. So much for being able to take control, I think. Perhaps it’s because they realize I’m not one of them.
“So, I can’t control them. Oh well, it was worth a try,” I say quietly to myself as I gather up my ripe clothes and head back to the cargo compartment.
The pack assaulting the exterior leaves a short time later and is not replaced. The rumbles of thunder vanish into the night as well leaving us in comparative peace. The quiet is almost as startling as the noise but I’m not complaining. We set up a schedule for watches and fold where we can on the steel deck and bunks to rest.
The night passes and the morning comes with little disturbance from either Mother Nature or mother fuckers. I rise and stretch the kinks out – there are more than a few of them. The air inside is warm and stuffy from so many bodies in one place for an extended period of time. The ramp is lowered and cool air sweeps in refreshing the stagnant interior. The light of the dawn filters in and we all groggily step outside in ones and twos, hoping for the new day to invigorate us. Soldiers grabbing meals and water park themselves in small groups near the rear of the aircraft. The Humvees are opened up and placed in flanking positions. Provisions for the coming trip to Lubbock are set in neat piles next to the open ramp. The earlier we are off on our adventure, the more time we’ll have to look for McCafferty’s family and deal with anything unforeseen that may arise.
I hear the sound of vehicles approaching in the distance. I radio Greg and Echo team standing guard, telling them to be alert. I let the soldiers around the ramp know what I hear and get some funny looks, but there is a scramble to dispose of wrappers and water bottles. In short order, Blue Team has taken cover behind the concrete barriers near the edge of the ramp. I wait with Red Team near the aircraft ready for any eventuality.
Cars enter the ramp between two hangars, hesitate a moment, and then begin driving in our direction. The guns on the Humvees track their progress. Eight cars packed with people approach and stop a short distance away. Miguel steps out of the car in front and I tell everyone to relax. The group from our little encounter yesterday has arrived.
More people step onto the ramp as Blue Team leaves their cover and meanders back to us. I hear Gonzalez gasp beside me. She gives me a quick look, asking if it’s okay if she goes. I nod and she takes off in a run. She races past a small knot of people that have gathered around Miguel and embraces an older woman. Okay, older being relative as she appears to be only a little older than me. I notice Gonzalez’ younger sister Isabella join in the embrace. Gonzalez has apparently found her mother.
Miguel and several others gather around. He quickly tells his story about how he and a couple of his friends gathered everyone in the neighborhood when they figured out what was happening. They cleared the area as best as they could and fortified the high school gym. They had run-ins with some roving gangs but they managed to hold their own. He mentioned collecting weapons and ammo that were lying around on the base and that is what has given them the edge so far. He also added that they were beginning to run low on supplies. I inform him that we are heading down to Lubbock for the day to search for one of our soldier’s family.
“You’re taking your entire group?” he asks.
“Yeah, running into you yesterday made me want to have everyone available just in case. I was thinking of leaving the three we met in Albuquerque, but haven’t decided on that yet,” I answer.
“And you trust us?” he asks, tilting his head to the side confused.
“It’s not like you’re going to steal our plane,” I reply with a chuckle.
“What about your supplies?”
“Look, we have more back home. If you decide you don’t want to come with us, take what you need, just leave us some food, water, and ammo,” I answer.
Miguel pauses and then says, “No, I think we’ll be staying with you guys. Like I said, there’s nothing here for us anymore. I’ll leave some people here to keep your shit safe until you get back.”
“Sounds good. And thanks. We’ll be back before dark.”
“I hope so, or your shit’s going to be open for anyone to steal. We’re not hanging around once the sun hits the horizon.”
“See you this afternoon.”
Gonzalez gives her mom and sister another hug before heading back. Miguel and his group pile back into their vehicles and, with a great flourish, drive away with the sounds of their vehicles fading into the distance. He leaves one car and several people behind. Silence spreads across the ramp and we are left alone with the beginning of the day. The morning is chilly but I can feel the heat already beginning to rise from the concrete ramp. The sky overhead is clear of clouds and promises a sunny day free from storms. The moist, humid air mass that gave rise to the majesty of the thunderstorms has moved on.
Packing our gear together, the sound of the starting Humvees resonates off the metal sides of the hangars a short distance away and breaks across the still morning air. I leave with Red Team and search the base for another Humvee. It takes a while but eventually we come across a couple parked in a maintenance area. The second one we try starts and we drive it back to the ramp. Greg and Echo Team pile into the third Humvee and we are ready shortly to head out into the day. Leaving Thomas, Laurel, and Jeremy behind with Miguel’s people, we exit the base and proceed along the same road as yesterday driving in the same formation with the exception that Greg is in my lane offset from Horace. McCafferty is driving as we pass the familiar brown fields. There are patches of green from the rains of the days prior; already springing up as only it can in the desert.
We pass through the ghost-like town of Clovis. The downpours have cleaned the streets of sand to a degree but the runoff has left still wet sand piled against the curbs and by the tires of the few parked cars. The bottoms of the doorway entrances are still filled with dirt and debris where they are inset from the street. It gives that lonely and abandoned feel of most towns that we’ve seen, either from the air or ground. I keep an eye out for any of the roving gangs Miguel mentioned but we pass through without incident.
A few miles out of town, the highway turns to the southeast. The scenery doesn’t change much as we begin our journey to Lubbock. McCafferty, in the driver’s seat, is displaying much of the same tightness around her eyes that Gonzalez did the day before. I’m guessing she is worried about what Gonzalez found with regards to her dad and thinking the same thing could be awaiting her. The scale of sorrow was tipped, however, when Gonzalez found out her sister and mother were still alive. To be honest, it was fortunate that she found her sister, or vice-versa really, when she did as things were about to get ugly. Timing is such a wonderful thing. Luck doesn’t hurt either. I just hope I have enough of both in my shrinking bag of tricks.
Henderson, manning the top gun and keeping an eye out far ahead of us with a set of binoculars, pulls our attention to the fact that we’re approaching a city or town of some sort. I notify the other teams and we slow to a stop. Taking a few moments to glass the area, Henderson reports no movement and we press forward slowly. The highway passes along the outskirts of the town and is lined with warehouse and industrial-style buildings. It’s definitely not the roadside burger, gas station, or strip mall kind of place. We pass through slowly, alert for any movement or indication that there are survivors. Nothing moves except an occasional dust devil swirling in dry, sandy lots.
Our passage through the abandoned and empty town is quick and we are once again presented with the same scenery ─ brown and mostly barren fields with patches of green. A few small, stunted trees crop up here and there, but for the most part, you can almost see the curvature of the earth. Some of the fields we pass have cattle grazing aimlessly while others have only dark lumps lying in them. It seems the surviving cattle are dependent on whether the water source and irrigation was natural or not. The natural irrigation is scarce as this appears to be mostly an agricultural area – or at least it used to be. The scenery passes by with only the hum of our tires on the pavement, the air passing over the open turret on top, and the vibration of the diesel to keep us company. The vibrations and sounds are lulling.
“Sir, we are approaching another town. It appears there are vehicles creating a roadblock on the highway before it,” Henderson calls out on the radio.
“Any movement?” I ask as McCafferty begins to slow down.
“I can’t tell for sure with the heat waves. I thought I saw something, but I can’t be certain, sir,” he answers.
I radio the others and we come to a stop on the highway. I step outside with another set of binoculars and climb onto the roof. Standing on the roof looking over the expanse through the binoculars, I’m reminded of a picture I once saw. It was of a German commander staring at Moscow from just a few miles outside of it. He was staring at the city with smoke rising all around. That was as close as he ever came, or anyone from the German side for that matter. It has no bearing on our situation, but the image comes to my mind anyway.
Vehicles parked perpendicular to the road are definitely blocking the highway, but Henderson is right, the heat waves make it difficult to see if there is in fact anyone manning the road block. I focus off to the sides around the small town strung along the freeway. More dry fields separated by slightly raised dirt roads. There doesn’t appear to be any roads around the town, nor do I see any movement on either side. I’m hesitant to drive closer as there is always a reason for a roadblock. It could have been set up much earlier and then the town fell into silence like so many others.
I lower my binoculars just as a spark strikes up from the road in front and to the left of us accompanied by the familiar sound of a ricochet. The report of a gunshot reaches us a second later. Yep, someone just took a shot at us. I guess that answers the question of whether the roadblock is being manned, I think, hopping off the roof. Another spark and ricochet, closer this time, followed by the sound of the shot.
“Fuck that! We don’t have time for this,” I say, hopping into the passenger seat and grabbing the radio.
“Horace, Greg, off the road to the right. We’re going around this fucking town. Keep your spacing, but be able to support one another,” I say while directing McCafferty off the road.
She guns it and we head down a gravelly incline into a slight gully. Coming up the other side, we roll over a barb wire fence and enter a dry, dusty field. McCafferty continues accelerating. The other vehicles enter the field behind. Although the field is fairly flat, our speed makes the ride a little bumpy. We begin leaving a large dust plume behind us. With little wind, the dust hangs in the air partially obscuring Echo Team’s vehicle. Horace remains in view behind and offset to the right – away from the town.
“Greg, pull to the outside of Horace,” I call.
“Roger that,” he replies, and I see his Humvee swing out.
This way everyone will have a clear line of sight for driving and the dust plume created by our vehicle should obscure both Horace’s and Greg’s. The sun glints in flashes off both windshields as they plow through the field. It’s not a mad race across the dusty ground but we don’t have much time if we’re to get down to Lubbock, look for McCafferty’s family, and get back before dark. This is only one obstacle and its eating at our time available. I’m glad we left early. My plan is to circumvent the town and be on our way as it’s apparent they aren’t in the mood for dinner guests.
“Sir, looks like we have company heading our way,” Henderson says over the radio.
I look past McCafferty to see plumes of dust rising in lines near where the roadblock was. I can’t see what the vehicles are, but from the plumes, it appears they are trying to cut us off.
“What do you have, Henderson?” I ask.
“I see several… pickup trucks and… what looks like… some ATVs,” he answers between bounces. So much for trying to circumvent the town and being on our way, I think, grabbing for the microphone.
“Horace, Greg, we have company coming from the roadblock. Several pickup trucks and ATVs cutting across the fields toward us,” I say knowing they may not be able to see what’s coming through the shroud of dust we are kicking up. I see the first of the raised roads coming up quickly.
“Henderson, hang on. Bit of a bump coming up,” I say.
McCafferty slows only slightly. Our front tires hit the small rise and we bounce over the narrow dirt strip landing hard on the incline on the other side. I bounce once leaving my seat and tilt my head to the side to avoid the quickly approaching ceiling. Just as quickly, I slam down into my seat and we are off once again. I look in the rear view to see Horace’s Humvee rise over the berm and slam down on the far side. The headlights and front of Greg’s vehicle shows and he goes through the same leap.
“How are our guests doing?” I ask Henderson.
“Still coming, sir,” he answers.
I look to see the dust plumes angling our direction still trying to cut us off. I can’t believe pickup trucks and quads are coming after three Humvees, but maybe they don’t know what they’re chasing or didn’t see all three of us. Whatever the case, I can’t believe they would pursue. It doesn’t look like we are going to outrun them though. We can either engage them in the open or try to find a defensible location. They may outnumber us, but I’m more than willing to bet we outgun them. Their closure rate is eliminating many of our options. I was kind of hoping they would give up if we ran far enough, but that’s obviously not going to happen. Plus, I’m not overly happy with them taking some shots at us on the road. As a matter of fact, I’m rather pissed. The one thing I am worried about is someone coming from the other direction. If there’s a roadblock on one end of the town, I’m thinking there’s another on the other end.
The sound of something hard hitting the window next to McCafferty catches all of our attention. It’s a loud “tink” that all of us immediately recognize. Our heads snap to the sound and see a starred chip taken out of the glass. A lucky shot considering the speed and bouncing of both groups of vehicles…but a shot nonetheless.
“Weapons free,” I tell Henderson and the other teams.
It’s time for us to do something about this and take care of these fucking assholes. I mean, seriously! What the fuck do they think they’re doing or hope to accomplish? Night runners are the issue and here they are shooting at other people. Fucking pricks. I feel the anger – along with a little fear – build up inside.
“Horace, Greg. I want you to start falling back. They are about two hundred meters at our 8 o’clock and angling to cut us off. Can you see them?” I ask.
“No, sir. I can’t see anything in that direction through the dust cloud,” Horace replies. Greg answers the same.
“Good. That means they can’t see you either. Fall back. We’re going to cut to the right and lead them on. Horace, I want you to turn and charge through the dust and engage them on my command. Greg, fall further back and see if you can fall in behind them. We’ll turn to the left and across their front. We’ll have them on three sides and let them have it,” I say.
“Copy that, sir,” Horace responds.
“We’ll give ‘em hell, Jack,” Greg responds. I’m thinking the M-240s on top will give them something to think about. I see Horace and Greg fall further behind as they slow up.
“Are you ready on top?” I ask Henderson.
“Fucking right, sir,” he answers.
“Give them a short blast and then be ready for a turn to the right,” I say.
I hear the M240 begin to bark and send rounds towards our unwelcome guests. Tracers reach out towards the vehicles and merge with them. McCafferty makes a slight turn to the right negating our pursuer’s angle. The group turns with us. I alert Henderson of another upcoming “bump” and we hit hard on the other side of yet another raised path. Henderson alerts us to the twinkle of return fire coming from the trucks. Apparently they didn’t like the tracers we sent in their direction.
Horace and Greg have fallen back considerably to the point where I really only know where they are by the clouds of dust they are kicking up. I measure the distance, through McCafferty’s mirror, of those that do not terribly like us near their nest and Horace through my own mirror. They look to be about even. That means Greg will be behind them. I catch a sight of winking lights from the trucks, but there is no way they can come close to being accurate while on the go across these fields. That’s where tracers and heavy calibers come in handy. There is also the fact that our guns are mounted and we have better training. I’m still stunned they are chasing us. The ‘why they shouldn’t have’ will become quite apparent to them in about a minute.
“Get ready to turn,” I tell McCafferty. “Cut to the left and we’ll come across their front.” She nods while gripping the wheel tightly to hold the Humvee along its path. I give a heads up to Henderson.
“I’m ready, sir,” Henderson responds.
“Horace, Greg, start your turns. Time to teach these bastards some manners,” I call out.
Horace’s Humvee comes charging out of the dust cloud directly at the flank of the group of vehicles pressing in on us. She immediately turns to parallel the hard-charging trucks and quads, staying directly beside them. In the rear, Greg’s Humvee races out of the same plume just after Horace’s and angles toward the rear. I don’t see any indication that they’ve been noticed as we seem to have their undivided attention. That will soon change.
Tracers arc from Horace’s Humvee reaching out toward the unsuspecting group. They aren’t a stream due to the fact that we’re still racing across a field but it looks accurate enough. The red streaks arc upward slightly and intersect one of the quads charging at us. Yeah, a quad versus a Humvee. I still don’t get it. I’d hate to be the one charging after an armed Humvee on an ATV. The driver of said quad finds out about that unfortunate inequality.
The meeting of the M-240 rounds and the quad isn’t pretty. The rider is thrown from his seat causing the ATV to turn sharply and begin rolling violently in a cloud of dust and debris. Greg’s tracers enter the fray and more dust clouds are created as his rounds find their mark. Still, the vehicles press onward. Looking at the action as best I can with the bumps and small windows, I’m guessing the majority of them still don’t know they’re under attack. I watch as another ATV goes end over end and throws the rider high into the air.
I see the trucks slew slightly off to the side, some toward Horace and some away. I guess she’s been noticed now. If they think Horace was a startle, won’t Greg be a big fucking surprise? I think, watching their once pristine line become a tangled mass.
“Okay, it’s time to do our thing, McCafferty. Turn left but keep angled so we don’t catch any stray rounds from Greg,” I warn Henderson. I am pressed to the side as the Humvee slews to the left.
Our top gun barks as Henderson adds his rounds to the fray. The scene is a lot of dust flying and bursts of tracers streaming towards vehicles which are now in disarray. I watch as the red streaks reaching out from our vehicle strike solidly on the front of one of the trucks. The truck digs down on its front wheels, turns slightly to the side, and flips tossing people in the bed into the air, their arms and legs flailing as they try to gain some sort of equilibrium and failing miserably. They land hard and bounce across the field of dirt.
Ahead and to the left I notice another line of dust clouds heading our way. I’m guessing it must be vehicles from another road block on the other side of town coming to help. The group that was chasing us has given up trying to keep up with us and are now trying to evade the heavy rounds streaming into their vicinity ─ rounds that are finding target after target. Any cohesiveness they might have had is lost. Most are trying to make it back to the roadblock but having a hard time getting by Greg who is firmly entrenched in their rear – yes, the analogy does hold true here.
“Horace, Greg, let’s finish this up here. We have more company coming in from the east. Give those fuckers a last shot so they think twice about coming back and rejoin on me,” I say, and direct McCafferty to turn and park with our rear to the oncoming vehicles. They are still a distance away but closing quickly.
“Copy that, sir,” Horace says. “We’re on the way.”
“Be there in a sec,” Greg replies.
The rounds from both teams cease and what remains of our wannabe pursuers hightail it towards their roadblock location. A light dust hangs in the air over the fields, thicker where we engaged the vehicles. Plumes of smoke rise from stricken vehicles and bodies lie on the ground. Some crawl slowly seeking refuge. Many lie unmoving on the dry, brown field. I wish I could have just loaded up a Stryker. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t tear after a Stryker with a fucking pickup truck and a deer rifle.
Horace and Greg drive up and stop in line with spacing between. Our rears are to the oncoming vehicles in order to present the narrowest target and offer the best cover. We’re ready to break away and flank if we need to. The dust cloud draws closer and I begin to see individual vehicles ahead of the plumes. It appears to be the same mix as the other group; several pickups and quads. Looking to the side at Horace and Greg, I see their guns trained on the advancing vehicles. I glance to make sure the first group isn’t turning about, but it looks like they’ve had enough.
Time seems to stand still for a moment. The dust cloud still billows, but it seems as if the vehicles causing it don’t draw any closer. I feel the stifling heat inside the Humvee, but it is stowed in the background given the flow of adrenaline coursing through my body. Rivulets of sweat pour down my forehead and temples. In the back, Gonzalez and Denton gaze out of the small hatch window. McCafferty grips the steering wheel and is looking out of her rear view. I would love to add our own personal rounds to the upcoming fray but that only increases our exposure and minimizes our mobility options. Here on this lonely, dusty field in the middle of nowhere, a battle is about to begin. We are close to engaging yet another hostile force.
The feeling of slowed time vanishes. The trucks rush onward as if they were suddenly vaulted ahead and become clearly visible. They must have some radio communication and know about what happened to the others, yet onward they come. I shake my head and press the transmit button in my hand.
“Open fire. Target the trucks on the outer edges and work your way in,” I say.
The M-240 overhead opening up drowns out any other sound. Brass casings fall inside and are barely heard hitting the metal floor over the bursts of the large caliber gun. Tracers once again reach outward from Horace’s and Greg’s Humvees, streaking for and merging with the trucks racing our way. We’re idle so this time the red tracers become streams of fire. Not a solid stream like the fire from an AC-130…but potent nonetheless.
Tracers intersect one of the pickups causing a flash of steam and the hood flies open. The truck slews to the side in a cloud of dust and comes to a stop. People pile out of the back. The ones exiting closest to us are cut down by the continued bursts into the truck and are violently thrown against the side. Blood sprays against the blue paint and the falling bodies leave bloody streaks as they slump to the ground. The windshield, at an angle to us, caves inward with a shower of glass as rounds hammer the driver and passenger. Blood splashes against the remaining shards, the side and rear window, and coats the interior.
The scene is rapidly played out in a similar fashion across the dusty field as truck after truck is brought to a halt. It’s over pretty quick as the remaining vehicles scatter and try to turn around.
“Horace, Greg, head out and take the northern flank. We’re heading out on the southern flank. Watch your fields of fire,” I say.
“Heading out, sir,” Horace responds.
“They’re leaving. We should be able to skirt by them now,” Greg replies.
“I know, but we’re going to have to come back this way and we need to teach these fuckers proper greetings,” I say.
“That could piss them off more,” Greg says.
“It could,” I reply.
“Okay, heading out,” he says with a chuckle.
I see Horace’s and Greg’s Humvees swing around to the north. McCafferty guns it and we turn to the left heading for the southern flank of the scattered vehicles. More spent cartridges fall inside as Henderson fires bursts at any vehicles that come within range. The field becomes a swirling mass of dust and smoke once again. Riders are thrown from their ATVs. People left behind by the retreating mass rush to find cover behind the stopped or overturned vehicles. Some are flung backward as 7.62mm rounds impact their bodies forcefully.
Horace and Greg race around the northern side of the disorganized mass creating more disarray. Vehicles and people are driving and running in random directions trying to escape the fire. We sweep around the southern end. Those trying to escape the guns of the other two teams run into ours. The air between the teams is a maelstrom of dust, smoke, blood, steel, tumbling or damaged vehicles, and people either dying or trying not to. The group that started after us has been significantly reduced in numbers.
“Okay, let’s head east and then swing back north to the highway past the town,” I radio.
Horace and Greg copy and we exit the fray on the other side, heading across the fields with the town sliding behind us on the left. Horace and Greg are in a staggered formation in line with us separated by about a hundred meters. McCafferty closes the distance and we head back towards the highway at a slower speed so we don’t launch Henderson or have him drop a kidney. Behind us, dust hangs in the air with darker columns of smoke drifting lazily in the air.
We pull to a stop outside of the town’s view. Setting a perimeter with the top guns manned, we walk around the vehicles inspecting each for damage. Besides the starred driver window, there are only a few pock marks where rounds found their way to us. The race across the fields sucked down our fuel to an extent, so we’ll have to fuel up along the way somewhere. The sooner the better in my opinion as it keeps the options open.
The sun hangs in the mid-morning sky as we climb back in to resume our journey. The adrenaline is winding down and I am more aware of the stifling heat inside the Humvee. I notice the spent casings on the floor in the back and wonder what our return trip will be like. I definitely plan to circumvent the town. Taking side roads around would be the best option but this place is very much lacking in any kind of side road. Looking at the map, we’d have to travel far out of our way if we used roads. We’ll head into the fields much earlier and try to stay out of sight as best as we can. We’ll kick up dust for sure but I’d be surprised to see whoever was in that town come chasing after us. But then again, I’m sure they’re plenty pissed off. I just hope their fear outweighs their anger.
Heading out in a staggered formation again, we head down the road. The light gray lanes stretch out ahead straight as an arrow as is common with the freeways of western Texas. There’s not much to impede or cause the builders to make curves. The warm wind blows in my open window and brings a sour tang. The smell grows stronger the further down the road we go. I know this smell; it’s the smell of rotting flesh. It’s not as strong as I’ve noticed before heading down residential streets, but it’s noticeable.
I look around for housing areas or something that could cause that stench. The flat plains and fields are the only thing I see. Surely this can’t be coming from one of the small towns that dot the highway or be drifting from the larger town of Lubbock many miles ahead, I think, still surveying the area. This is much like some forays into other countries where, during our infil, we would catch the same odor. Those times it was because we were close to a mass grave or where a lot of people had been killed and just tossed to the side. I’m really hoping we aren’t about to come up on something like that. That wouldn’t bode well for our continued progress at all.
We come upon the source of aroma soon enough. Cattle yards off to the side of highway. We pass by a few of them with hundreds and thousands of dead cattle lying in the enclosed pens. They must have died a while ago and I’m grateful we didn’t pass by here earlier. I sincerely doubt we would have been able to get this close because of the overwhelming stench. The disease rampant in those yards must be great. I can almost see the clouds of flies that must inhabit the air above those lifeless black dots; some in piles. The smell is strong enough to bring a gag reflex and make my eyes water.
McCafferty speeds up unconsciously as I roll up the window preferring the heat to the odor. Henderson and the others on top must be green. We eventually pass by the multitude of pens and the freeway bends around a larger town. There is no evidence of others, but we circumvent the city warily and on the alert. On the far end of town, I see a few semis parked in a lot close to an off ramp. We aren’t that far down on fuel and could stop on our way back, but it looks clear for now and…well…we’re here. I know I would feel better having full tanks again.
I radio the others and we exit the highway. Going back under the freeway, we pass a McDonald’s on the right and turn into a small truck yard. We pass between two warehouse buildings before entering the yard proper. Several trailers are backed up to the loading docks with five tractor trailers parked in a line in the dusty lot. Grime coats their windshields and hoods. The fields beyond shimmer in the increasing heat. We park with Greg’s Humvee covering the single entrance. Horace parks in the middle covering the rest of the surrounding area while we pull up to one of the semis. We’ll refuel in shifts, making sure we are covered, our last little adventure strong in our minds.
Stepping out, the lot and surrounding buildings have that same desolate feeling that every other abandoned place holds. I really wonder if this feeling will ever go away whenever we embark into areas that were once inhabited by mankind. Perhaps it’s the memories of the places or the energy of people gathered in one place that was suddenly whisked away. I’m more thinking it’s my mind that is still sorting through seeing the relics of our civilization without the people that created them around. It’s seeing things and what I still expect to be associated with them. The sound of Gonzalez tapping down the fuel tank of the truck we’ve parked next to brings me out of my reverie.
I’m a touch nervous about having to be in this place for so long. Cities, especially strange ones, have a negative connotation for me. There is no knowing what to expect, and having to be constantly alert is draining. The heat also tends to lull the senses. I almost wish I had the capability of sensing other people rather than night runners. I’d rather not really be able to do even that, but it is what it is. It takes some time out of our day but we are eventually on the road again without anything tragic befalling us. It feels good to be on the move once more. According to the map, Lubbock is not that far down the road and the freeway circumvents the towns along the way.
A few miles later, small housing development areas appear. They are still sparsely located, but they become more frequent the further to the southeast we travel. Right after one of the developments, McCafferty turns off the highway and we start along a narrow country road.
“This skirts Lubbock to the north. My parent’s house is on the east side a little out of town,” she says as we journey through more farmland.
The country road eventually ends at a T-intersection with another freeway and we turn to the southwest and back towards Lubbock. The sun has risen overhead pouring its rays directly upon us and the surrounding land, turning it into an oven. The sky remains clear, and for that I’m thankful. I’m anxious to search for McCafferty’s family, get back to the airfield and be on our way home.
The stress of still having so much to do is weighing on me. It’s not the intense feeling I had on our first arrival back to the northwest after our trip to Kuwait, but it’s there anyway. That was more about our short-term survival and setting up a place of safety and this is more about developing our long-term needs. The stress is from the upcoming winter and our losing our long-range mobility option due to weather and then the lack of fuel. I’m hoping Bannerman can come up with a Bio-diesel solution so we don’t lose our power and ability to be somewhat mobile with vehicles. If we lose that, it will infinitely be more difficult to provide for our basic needs.
We quickly come upon an area of houses and mobile homes set loosely apart and seemingly at random. Each abode is in its own dusty lot with a few trees growing from the otherwise barren, dusty yards. Many of the places have old cars parked in the yards and several of the houses also have semis parked alongside. McCafferty pulls off the highway and negotiates several streets before pulling up to a house set back from the road.
“This is it, sir,” she says, the Humvee idling just before the driveway. I watch as she scans the yard, house, and several buildings further back in the lot. A few cars are parked near a large garage structure.
She looks back and apparently notices my checking the lot and cars. “My dad likes tinkering with cars,” she says, putting our vehicle in gear and entering the lot.
The adjacent houses and area are devoid of any movement. This is a place where you would expect barking dogs to greet you, whether ones at the house or from the neighbors. Nothing. We are still a little ways from Lubbock and, from the look of the development, it is secluded. I half expect McCafferty’s parents to walk out of the house to greet us. I am wary that there are sights tracking us, but I also think that her family would know a military vehicle and, with her in the military, assume she was coming to check on them.
McCafferty pulls into the dusty yard a short distance from the front of the house. Greg and Horace park on the road in opposite directions covering the surrounding area. A puff of dust rises from my boot as I step out. The others follow suit and exit. The wind blowing in the window kept the heat at bay as we were driving, but here, with us stopped and very little shade, it hits with full force. Yes, it’s a dry heat, but it’s like being baked instead of steamed. The day already seems long with the drive and our little adventure, but the sun’s position overhead shows this to be an illusion.
With Echo and Blue teams covering, we approach the house. The windows and front door are closed so that’s a good sign. Dust is gathered on the covered porch with none of the telltale footprints that normally come with night runners being inside. Wind could have obscured them but the air is still and if there were some inside, there should be some indication of them coming out at night.
Sweat forms from the heat but is quickly evaporated leaving white rings and streaks on all of our fatigues. Checking our equipment and ensuring rounds are ready in our M-4s, McCafferty climbs the concrete steps to the porch. We can’t see directly inside as curtains are pulled across the windows. I open up a touch to see if I can sense any night runners within and come up blank. For one of the first times I’ve opened up in this fashion, there aren’t any images or sense of others around. It’s just a blank space.
I look across the lot behind us and catch Gonzalez’ eye. She looks at me questioningly as to whether there are any night runners inside. I shake my head letting her know I can’t sense any. Gonzalez steps up next to McCafferty by the front door. McCafferty leans in to whisper in Gonzalez’ ear.
“Will you do the same for me?” I pick up McCafferty’s whispered question. I’m guessing she is referring to her putting Gonzalez’ night runner father to rest.
“Of course,” Gonzalez whispers in return, and puts her hand on McCafferty’s shoulder. I have Horace direct one of her Blue Team members to man our gun and bring Henderson and Denton up with us.
“Well, here goes nothing,” McCafferty says.
I literally feel the tension radiate from her and completely understand. It’s a horrible feeling not knowing about your family and on the verge of finding out, especially with what we have seen in the few months since the world ended. We have found some family members alive and well but others that haven’t made it. And it’s not just from the night runners. The groups of people who feel like the world is now a place to do as they please and take advantage of others are just as dangerous as the night runners – if not more.
The others of Red Team ready themselves on the porch as McCafferty opens the screen door. Its squeaky hinges are loud in the surrounding silence. She knocks on the front door. We stand in alert silence waiting for the tell-tale approach of footsteps, the door opening, or even perhaps a call of “Who’s there?” No one answers. She reaches down to find the door is locked. She looks back at the rest of us and I see the disappointment in her eyes mixing with lines of tension.
“Do you have other family or friends around? They might have gone there,” I ask.
“We don’t have any other family close by and they aren’t ones to head to anyone else’s house. They would have stayed here regardless,” she answers.
“Let’s take a look around the house,” I say, thinking maybe the back door might be unlocked. Even if they aren’t here, we can perhaps find some clue as to what happened to them or where they might have gone.
We walk around looking for open windows or some sign the house is inhabited or was recently. Dry, brown bushes lie against the outside walls along one side, evidence that McCafferty’s parents once tried to give the place some color. As it is, the white house with peeling paint in places sits on the quiet lot keeping its secrets if it has any. McCafferty describes the layout as we progress. It’s basically a large open room containing the living room, dining room, and kitchen on the right with a hall leading to three back bedrooms and a bathroom on the left. It is close to the same layout as other houses we’ve been in. The back door is locked. We complete our circuit around the house with only the small puffs of dust from our footfalls and the heat keeping us company.
Back in front, McCafferty retrieves a key from under a rock lying where the steps and porch meet. The fact that the doors are locked is a good sign with regards to night runners. I don’t want to rely on whether I can sense them or not as fact. I figure if I can shut it away, then so can they. At least that’s what I have to assume. Ugh! I so dislike that word as I don’t like to assume anything, but we have to in everyday life to some extent.
With Henderson and Denton against the wall next to the front door and me holding the screen open with my shoulder and aiming inside, McCafferty kneels and inserts the key into the lock. Robert stands behind me ready to enter on my heels. Bri will stay at the door. The house isn’t overly large and too many inside will actually hinder movement and coverage rather than help. We’ve done this so many times together that we each know our place and initial movements so very little briefing is needed.
“Remember, McCafferty’s parents may be inside, so no itchy trigger fingers. Verify your target quickly though,” is the only thing I need to say.
A click from the door lets me know McCafferty has unlocked it. I scan the area quickly and focus back on her giving a nod. She turns the handle and swings the door inward. Dropping my NVGs, I am by her in a flash with Robert on my heels. I rush in about ten feet and drop to my knees scanning the large, open room. Robert drops in beside me. A rustle and the sound of boots hitting the wooden entryway floor lets me know Gonzalez, Henderson, and Denton have entered and are behind me and to the right. The coolness of the room is a refreshing reprieve from the heat outside although I don’t notice it much with the adrenaline flow that entering any darkened and strange building brings.
The rustle of clothing stops and the quiet we’ve felt in other houses settles in. Our lasers dance about the room as we search for movement or anything to indicate we are occupying the same space with something or someone else. The room holds silent with no movement. An island sits in the middle of the kitchen and dishes are stacked beside the sink. The dining room table is off to the side of the kitchen. The room has a sense of being lived in and I half expect the TV to be on with viewers sitting on the couch and easy chairs. It doesn’t quite have the loneliness the other houses had but that feeling is still strong.
McCafferty enters and kneels down beside Gonzalez. I get McCafferty’s attention and have her gather close.
“Do you want you and Gonzalez to check out the hall and bedrooms or have Henderson and Denton go instead?” I ask.
I know what happened to Gonzalez in her parent’s house and want to give her the choice in case the same thing has happened here. I don’t think any night runners are inside with the doors being locked, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t. It has to be hard not knowing, but it would be harder being directly confronted with it. I can’t imagine how devastating that would be to see your parents as night runners and then be the one to have to put them down. For some reason, and maybe it’s only me, it would be easier if someone else did it. On the other hand, I’m also thinking I would rather be the one. I want to give McCafferty the option that feels most comfortable to her.
“I’m good, sir. We’ll go,” she whispers, looking around the familiar room.
Henderson and Denton cover the large room as McCafferty and Gonzalez edge toward the hall and check out its length. I stand close behind ready to give additional cover should they need it. Looking down the hall, I see all of the doors are closed which is either another good sign or a bad one. If there are night runners inside, then they’ve learned to operate doors and locks and that wouldn’t be a comforting thing to say the least. I would head over to open the drapes and let the light in but I don’t want the light differential to interfere with our NVGs. I have mine on because of what Gonzalez said and trying to be less conspicuous.
I watch as the two women enter the hall. Their thin points of light swing from door to door as they edge down the narrow corridor. I keep expecting to hear the familiar shriek or pounding against one of the closed doors but the house remains quiet with the exception of my heart pounding in my chest. I’m sure I’m taking years off my life by the constant adrenaline we seem to use up on an almost daily basis. I used to love that feeling but now it just makes me feel old and tired. I so wish for the peaceful retirement I had going. I guess this is supposed to be a constant in my life for some reason. I can’t imagine choosing this. I must have misread the line I was standing in. I had thought I left this life behind and was settling into a peaceful existence, but the world spoke up and said differently. I wonder if I’ll ever reach that point again. I wish I was younger though. It sure would make this a lot easier, I think, watching McCafferty and Gonzalez get ready to enter one of the rooms on the right.
McCafferty swings the door open and Gonzalez swings her M-4 side to side clearing the room. I can’t see what kind of room it is, but I’m assuming it’s a small one as Gonzalez reaches down a moment later to touch McCafferty’s shoulder. McCafferty closes the door. They cover each room in the same manner with the same result, there’s no one here.
“It’s all clear, sir,” Gonzalez reports as they close the last door.
“Copy that,” I respond. We gather in the open area to ponder our next move. I feel bad for McCafferty that she still doesn’t have an answer but there is the positive that we didn’t find them dead or worse.
“Jack, Greg here,” I hear on the radio.
“Yeah, Greg, go ahead.”
“We have someone standing in the driveway across the street.”
“Just one? Armed?”
“It’s just one person and they are armed, but just holding their rifle loosely and looking in our direction,” Greg answers.
“Okay. We’re on our way out,” I say. “Keep an eye out for others.”
I step into the bright light and heat. The house was cold in comparison and the change in temperature makes me feel like I’m about to melt. It’s that kind of heat that immediately makes me feel tired and lethargic. The sweat forms instantly, saturating my fatigues under my arms and where my vest is covering. I want to remove the vest just to feel the cooling sensation of the sweat evaporating but that’s not the best of ideas in an unknown area. I remember the times in the desert or jungle when we established our place to hold up and the refreshing sensation of taking my vest off. It’s been a busy couple of days and a nap is sounding like the best thing in the world right now. The release of adrenaline adds to this feeling.
I walk with McCafferty over to where Greg’s and Horace’s vehicles are parked back-to-back on the dirt road by the entrance. The rest of Red Team takes up positions by the Humvee parked close to the house. Looking into the lot across the road to where Greg is pointing, I see a man standing next to a black pickup truck in the driveway. He is holding a rifle at his side looking in our direction shading his eyes from the sun. Horace is glassing the area with a set of binoculars.
“Anything?” I ask Horace.
“Nothing I can see, sir,” she answers.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask McCafferty.
“Well, that could be old man Edmonds. At least that’s his place. I never really talked with him much,” she replies.
“Well, let’s see what he has to say. McCafferty, you’re with me. The rest of you stay alert and cover us,” I say.
The M-240 on Horace’s Humvee is pointed in the man’s direction but not directly at him. Walking with McCafferty at my side, we cross the road and enter the opposite driveway. The man brings his hand down and grips his rifle but doesn’t bring it up in a threatening manner, just to a more ready position to use if needed. Closer, I see he is an older man, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties. His deeply tanned and wrinkled face makes it hard to tell just how old he is. I am sure the sight of armed vehicles and people in the area aren’t giving him comfortable feelings but I give him credit for his bravery in coming outside to check us out.
“We’re not looking to cause any trouble,” I say, keeping my M-4 ready but lowered. It’s not like I don’t have tremendous firepower behind me if needed, and I can literally feel the M-240 trained in our direction. This trip has brought a few surprises and I’m not really in the mood for more.
“That remains to be seen,” he answers. He thrusts his head forward as if trying to see better as if the extra few inches will bring everything into more clarity. “Is that you, young Allie?”
“Yes, sir,” McCafferty answers.
“Well come forward, girl, let me get a look at ya,” the man says. “And tell that young ‘un on the big gun to quit pointing it at me.”
I have everyone relax but keep alert. Mr. Edmonds sets his rifle against the black pickup truck, reaches behind him and brings out a green John Deere hat covered with dirt and grease stains. He slaps it against his jeans as if that will clean it, although it does release a small cloud of dust, and places it on his head. We walk the remaining distance down the driveway.
“Well, you certainly have grown, girl. Look at you. And I’m glad to even be saying that,” Mr. Edmonds says. “And you would be?”
“Jack Walker,” I say, slinging my M-4 and sticking my hand out.
“Jim Edmonds.” He returns my shake.
“Mr. Edmonds, do you know what happened to my parents,” McCafferty asks.
“Well, young Allie, I don’t rightly know,” Jim says, looking at the ground and then back at her. “I saw them last a few days ago. Let’s see, that would have been five days ago by my count. They mentioned they were heading out to look for supplies and I haven’t seen them since.”
Both hope and disappointment crosses McCafferty’s face. The news that they made it through this far is good news, but the fact that they went out for supplies and haven’t returned in days doesn’t bode well. We have all been out for supplies and know what that means. I hope for her sake they didn’t come across a night runner lair in their search.
“Are there any night runners in the area?” I ask.
“Any what?” Jim asks in confusion, squinting his eyes and scratching his head. “Oh, you mean those night hunter things. Yeah, I hear them prowling around at night.”
I look at the small house that has no evidence of being fortified. The house actually looks like the big bad wolf could huff and puff his way in.
“So how is it you’ve managed to keep them at bay?” I ask, curious as to how he’s kept them out.
“Well, young man, I’ve been staying in the storm shelter. Figured if it can protect against a tornado then it should be able to hold up against them night folk,” Jim answers.
“Shared it with your parents when the storms would come blowing in and recently,” he continues directing this at McCafferty.
Of course! We’re in tornado country. I should have known, I think.
“Any idea where they might have gone to search or what might have happened to them?” I ask.
We still have a few hours to search before we have to head back. We could hole up in the Humvees for the night and search for them tomorrow as well but that isn’t the most comfortable of solutions. The vehicles are tough but not impenetrable. Enough night runners could turn them over and that wouldn’t be in our best interest.
“Not exactly sure where they might have gone. They could have run afoul of the group holed up in the prison though. I’ve seen that group around from time to time and watched them snag some poor souls off the streets once when I was out for supplies myself. I’m not sure why they took them and didn’t hang around long enough to find out.”
I feel the tension radiating from McCafferty. I can understand her feelings. If there’s a chance to get her parents, she wants to take it and I don’t blame her. But she also knows we are limited on personnel and resources. And time.
“Any idea how many are holed up there?”
“No. No idea at all. I’m not stupid enough to venture down that way. Well, again. I was out that way once for supplies. Got myself chased for my trouble. They came directly out of that prison and damn near caught me. Eventually lost ‘em on the back roads. Haven’t ventured close since,” Jim answers. “If I were to guess by the number chasing me, I would say twenty or thirty.” I have an immediate liking for Mr. Jim Edmonds. He’s a survivor and seems pretty crafty.
“I don’t suppose you know the layout of the place?” I ask.
“Well, there I might be able to help ya some. I worked there as a guard for some time when times were tough,” Jim replies.
We spend the next half hour putting together a diagram based on Jim’s recollection of the facility. It’s a large place and I’m not really sure how we can take it with only three teams. It’s a lot like Madigan in that we’d need a battalion, well, at least a company to be effective. And that’s if we can even get in. Prisons are designed to keep people both in and out.
“Jim, you’re more than welcome to come along with us. I mean back to the Northwest if you’d like. We have supplies and shelter,” I say after folding the map.
“I don’t rightly know about that. I’d feel bad if young Allie’s parents came back and I wasn’t here. I ‘spose I could leave a note, though, but a lot of good that would do. Still, I guess if they haven’t been here in five days, odds are…” Jim pauses giving McCafferty an apologetic look. “Well, I ‘spose that would be okay. Not much here for me anyway since Sarah passed on. Let me grab some things and I’ll be right with ya.”
We head back to the road and gather the others up. I explain the situation. I feel completely indecisive about what to do. On one hand, if McCafferty’s parents are there, then we should do the right thing and get them out, or at least try. I mean, that goes if anyone is being held against their will, but more so because it’s the family of one of our own. But we don’t know, and should we risk the others of our teams not knowing if they are there? Should we risk our team members even if we knew they were there? Our months have been about staying alive, but there is also the right thing to do. I mean, that is if there is a way in and we don’t create a worse risk or stupidly throw our lives away. The heat isn’t improving my ability to think this one through.
“Alright. I have to be honest and say I’m not sure on this one.” I give McCafferty the same apologetic look that Jim gave her.
“We took down the high school and there were about the same amount of bad guys there,” Horace mentions.
“True. But that was a high school and we’re talking about a prison here. The high school is infinitely easier to infiltrate. Prisons are meant to be hard to not only get out of but into,” I reply as Jim walks out with a filled duffle bag and his rifle. “But we could take a look and see what we’re facing before making any decisions.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Greg says.
“Okay. Let’s go take a look and see what we’re dealing with then. Just a look for now as we have to be back before dark. We’ll make our plans based on what we see,” I say.
“Jim, can you get us close discreetly?” I ask.
“I know a few back ways. I think I can get you close, but it’s surrounded by fields so you may not be able to get as close as you’d like,” he answers.
“Okay, let’s mount up then.” The teams break up and climb in their vehicles. Jim climbs in with Greg as our Humvee is already a little crowded. Greg will lead with us following. We’ll have to keep it slow so we don’t kick up a lot of dust and give ourselves away. The day is already into the afternoon and it won’t be too much longer before we have to begin our journey back. There is still the town we have to circumvent, and I want to allow time for any delays. McCafferty and I walk back to our Humvee.
“Thank you, sir,” McCafferty says as we stroll back, stirring the dust with our boots.
“We’ll get them if they’re there and we can. No promises though. I know this is hard, but we can’t risk losing our teams,” I say.
“I understand and wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”
“Then let’s go see what we’re dealing with, shall we?”
I see some tension leave her with the fact that we are going to try to do something, but I know she must be feeling anxious not knowing. I mean, they may not even be there.
“I’m with you, sir,” McCafferty replies.
With Jim guiding, our little convoy proceeds slowly on back country roads. I’m at an interval behind Greg’s Humvee watching the little dust he is kicking up as we inch along. The surrounding fields are completely covered with dirt and the flat land makes us stand out like we’re waving banners and throwing confetti. I’m not sure just how close we’re going to be able to get. And even if we do get close, I don’t think we’ll be able to see much over the walls I am assuming are there. But anything we can do to help a teammate is worth doing as long as we don’t all get killed over it. That result is definitely over in the “don’t want to do” column. My kids are with me, so that is to be avoided at all costs. There is a hierarchy in my thinking: my kids, Lynn, the teams, everyone else. I don’t figure much into that equation, but I’m not in an all-fired rush to leave this fucked up world either.
We begin heading down small service roads between the fields themselves and eventually find ourselves in a small gully. Shrubs dot the hillsides on both sides and the road ends at a shallow creek at the bottom of the gully. Small, stunted mesquite trees line the water’s edge. Greg pulls to a stop. We shut down and exit.
The gully is deep enough to hide the vehicles without betraying a silhouette. A rancid smell permeates the area. And by rancid, I mean enough to want to stop breathing entirely. Everyone wrinkles their nose and waves their hand under them upon exiting. It’s definitely something that died and, by the smell of it, it’s many of those somethings. There’s nothing else that smells like that and I’m all too familiar with that odor. I wonder if someone has been dumping bodies in the gully.
“There’s one of the largest cattle pens in the country on top of this gully,” Jim says chuckling at our reaction.
“Damn! Smells more like someone shit in my nose,” I hear Denton mutter.
“Follow this stream to the west and, where it makes a bend back to the east, you’ll be about a mile away from the prison. It’ll be to the southwest of you at that point. Not sure what you’ll be able to see from there. There should be some light cover ‘til you’re close to the freeway, but then it’s flat, dirt fields from there on out. You’ll have to cross two freeways to get to the prison itself if you’re planning on going all of the way there,” Jim says, pointing out places on my map.
“Okay, I think four of us should go. That will keep our presence low but still provide some firepower if we need. Robert, Greg, McCafferty, you’re with me. Horace, you’re in charge here. Keep a perimeter and stay out of sight, but be ready to support us if needed,” I say. I’m taking McCafferty because, if something does happen and we have to evade, she knows the area better than we do. Plus, it will keep her busy and may ease her tension knowing she is doing something. Again, I can’t imagine the stress that must be going on inside of her.
I notice the shocked look on Robert’s face. “Yes, you’re going. We’re only doing a recon and you’re sneaky as hell.”
The shocked look is replaced with a grin. I’m not sure how he can grin with the smell but he manages. There’s something else in his expression, but I can’t quite tell what it is. Gratitude perhaps? Maybe enjoying the recognition? I’m not sure. I have mixed emotions regarding this, but I’ve come to realize those won’t ever fade. We’re only going to have a look and, although I’ve worked with him and Bri, nothing replaces experience. I just hope he doesn’t have to experience much more. This new world is wearing me out.
The sun is still just past its overhead mark, but it won’t be long before it wends its way further to the west. We have some time, but we also have a hike ahead of us according to the map. The heat of the day and pervading smell makes the gully feel oppressive. The small amount of water drifting by slowly in the creek provides little cooling and makes it worse in some way. Perhaps it’s because it’s the brownish water prevalent in Texas and not the clear water of the Northwest that I’m used to. Whatever it is, I don’t like it a whole lot.
“It’s a little after 13:00 now. We need to be out of here by 17:00. That will give us enough time to get back with some to spare. We won’t have to stop for fuel, so that’s a plus. That gives us two hours in and two out. According to the map, it’s about a mile to the bend and we’ll see what we can from there. Any questions?” I ask. No one responds.
“Okay, get your gear,” I tell Greg, Robert, and McCafferty. “We’re traveling light. Radios, ammo, and bring plenty of water. I’m not drinking anything from that,” I add, pointing to the almost stagnant water. “Especially with those cattle pens close by. No telling what has leaked in. We’ll meet in five.” I’ve drunk out of worse places but had plenty of iodine tablets. Well, maybe not worse. There weren’t thousands of dead cows possibly leaking their goodness into it.
We start out along the creek bottom. I’m leading with Greg behind followed by Robert and McCafferty. There’s not much we can do for the smell, and I’d like to say we get used to it but I’d be lying. I look for something to put under my nose to help ease the stench but come up empty. I make a mental note to keep Vick’s handy for smells. It seems like I already made that mental note, but it apparently didn’t take too well. I used to carry it with me always, so I’m surprised I didn’t automatically pack it along. I guess not all things have come back as readily.
The creek meanders some in the gully, and there are some trees along its meager banks, but not enough to keep us shaded from the sun and heat. The odor seems to get stronger the further down the gully we go, but that may be my imagination. The banks are high enough to keep us from becoming outlined in any fashion from above so we take care to keep quiet and proceed alertly. I’m pretty sure no one in their right mind would be close with the obnoxious smell in the vicinity.
The warmth works on us as we work our way to the bend in the creek. I find myself stumbling over the occasional rock or two, but we keep it slow, so I manage to stay out of the creek. At the bend is the faint outline of a road and a ford. I wonder why we didn’t travel here to begin with. Maybe our approach would have been seen from the prison. Jim seems like a pretty good guy and knows the area well so that may have had something to do with it. Or he didn’t want to get any closer. For whatever reason, we’re here and it’s time to take a look.
There’s a faint path leading upward from the ford. It’s mostly overgrown with knee-high bushes, but it’s still distinguishable. As we climb, the sound of birds reaches us. The higher we get, the louder it gets. I hold the others back and crouch low as we near the crest. Reaching a position where I can barely see over the edge, I scan the area. If anything, the atrocious odor hits even harder. Yes, I know I’m obsessing on the stench, but the overwhelming smell cannot be adequately described. I’ve smelled mass graves before, those were rose gardens in comparison.
The fencing surrounding the pens is close to the rim of the gully. Black humps lie on the ground as far as I can see back to the east, the direction we came from, and to the south. The size, at least what I see from here, is immense. No wonder the air is so offensive. There must be thousands upon thousands of dead cattle. I can actually hear the drone of flies from my position. The earth within the separate cattle pens is actually a deep red from the literal tons of blood that has been spilled on the ground. Further east is something that just about empties my stomach.
Large lakes – and I mean lakes not ponds – are filled with red liquid. I cannot imagine what they used to look like before, as I’m sure evaporation has taken its toll, but they are filled with blood. Whoever built this gigantic slaughter yard sloped it in such a way that the blood would eventually flow to these lakes. It’s not just one lake but several that stretch back over a mile. This has to be the single most disgusting sight I’ve ever seen. It must seep underground to the creek below. I don’t see how it couldn’t unless they’ve lined it somehow but, seeing what I am, I sincerely doubt they did anything like that. I’m thinking the brown I noticed in the water isn’t silt or dirt eroding.
“Horace, Jack here,” I call on the radio.
“Go ahead, sir,” she responds.
“Do not, I repeat, do not let anyone drink any of the water in the creek or wash with it. Don’t even let anyone get wet,” I say. “I’m not even going to tell you why, just don’t.”
“Will do, sir,” Horace replies.
I look around the remaining area with the binoculars. There’s not much to see as the pens continue another half mile ahead of us intersecting a major freeway. The slight cover Jim mentioned getting close to the road does not even merit the word ‘slight.’ It’s almost non-existent. A few trees or copses of stunted trees spread over a field of brown adjacent to the pens. We can get to the highway via the fields and will have to as there is no way I see us going through the pens. The dead cows and stench aside, we’ll disturb hundreds of birds and their flight could alert others that something is prowling around. I can’t see the prison from my position, which is probably a good thing. Other than hundreds of scavenging birds feasting in the yards, their cries filling the air, I don’t observe any movement. I crawl back from the edge and wave the others up.
“You are about to see the worst sight ever. There’s a cattle slaughter yard that stretches for over a mile to the east and a half mile to the west. Who knows how far south it stretches. No sign of any movement, and I can’t see the prison from here. Let’s edge up and pick the best route to get closer. Try to ignore the pens as you won’t like what you see there,” I say. We crawl up to the edge of the gully.
“Fucking – A,” I hear Robert breathe. “That’s just disgusting.”
“Told you not to look,” I say.
Robert looks over with a weird expression. I realize he was whispering to himself and I shouldn’t have been able to hear it. I just give him a shrug and break out the map for us to study.
“There are two major freeways that come together in a “Y” on the other side of the yard. The only buildings I see in the area are the cattle pen buildings near the highway to the west and some in the “Y” between the highways. I’m thinking the prison is sitting in a field on the other side where the roads meet,” I say. “Ideas?”
“We could use the cattle pen buildings to mask our approach and see what we see from there. Maybe even go on the roof, but that will mean going through some of those last cattle enclosures,” Greg suggests.
“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of that,” I reply.
“We could skirt the pens using the buildings to cover our approach and see how far we can get. At least we’d be closer,” Robert says.
“True enough. We’re certainly not going to see anything from here. Stay low and quiet. We’ll use the buildings and trees to mask our approach as much as we can. Keep an eye on the road and your ears open,” I say. I’m still not all that keen on getting close to all of those dead cattle. I can’t even imagine the diseases that must be prevalent.
We head away from the gully crouching and angling towards the slaughter yard but mostly using the sparse cover of trees as best we can. The ground beneath our feet is more like baked clay rather than actual dirt and radiates the heat of the day upward. The gagging stench follows us with every step. I breathe through my mouth to alleviate the smell but it makes it seem like I can taste the thousands of dead cattle. I use the buildings as a shield against prying eyes that may be at the prison. The sparse trees end less than a quarter of a mile from the highway. From here, it’s flat, bare ground. I still can’t see the prison but that was the plan for the approach anyway. I halt beside the last tree and listen. The others drop to their knees as well covering our sides and rear.
There’s only the constant, faint buzz of the flies and the cry of birds. The area from our location to the rear of the buildings is only a small one but it is in the open. If anyone happens by while we are traversing, we will be easily seen. The only option if that happens is to drop down and hope we only look like a dark spot on the ground. From the looks of it, we are going to have to cross one of the pens to get to the buildings after all. The dead cattle seem to cover every inch of the ground and the air above them is filled with clouds of flies. The birds are concentrated towards the middle of the slaughter yard so travelling through any of the pens on the side won’t create a disturbance. It’s now that I wish I could fly like the birds pecking away at the corpses, or at least hover. I wave Greg, Robert, and McCafferty forward.
“We’ll cross one at a time. I’ll make for the fence. McCafferty, you’re next. I’ll call for you when I’m there and the coast is clear. Robert, you’re third and then Greg. If we hear anyone approaching, drop down and make like a black hole,” I whisper. The others nod their understanding. I want Greg last as I don’t want Robert alone in case something happens. My priorities still remain the same. “See ya on the other side.”
I rise and rush across the open field feeling very naked. There’s no use trying to be slow or stealthy at this point. If anyone is watching, they’ll see me regardless of how fast or slow I’m going, so the key is to keep my time in the open held to a minimum. I feel my boots striking the hard ground as I transit, keeping an eye out for any movement. Beads of sweat form from the additional exertion and the hot air is hard to breathe. My stomach is still doing leaps from the sight and smell of the yard and running isn’t helping that at all. I’m too old for this shit, I think, drawing close to the wired fence enclosure.
I notice a narrow strip of land situated between two pens that is free of the black lumps that used to be cattle. It leads directly to a small dirt lot behind the buildings. I alter my path making directly for it. I’m thankful for the lack of any shouts of discovery or shots ringing out. That would really suck out in the open. It seems like it takes forever to reach the far side but I’m there in about two minutes. Two minutes in the open can seem like an eternity. I go to my knees next to a gate, breathing hard. I gag twice from the stench. The run across field in the heat doesn’t help this. Eventually my stomach settles back to being only slightly nauseous.
My panting is loud, but I listen past it for any sounds that my transit was noticed. It’s hard to hear over the perpetual buzzing that is louder now that I’m right next to the thousands of dead cows. I still can’t see the prison from here but look into the dusty lot behind the buildings that is filled with semis and cattle trailers. There are also hundreds of pallets littering the yard. The building itself appears to be a large headquarters or office building with an attached warehouse. I see some of the freeway that runs just in front of the buildings. It’s all quiet except for the birds and flies in the background and there’s nothing moving in the area.
“Okay, McCafferty, it’s clear,” I say.
I see a small dark shape rise from beside a tree and begin to dash across the open field. There’s a shimmer from the heat waves masking McCafferty to an extent. It seems like she is running in place and her dark shape doesn’t grow any larger for the longest of times. She suddenly materializes halfway and grows larger by the second until she plops down beside me panting. She gags for a second and then regains her composure.
“You know, sir,” she says, catching her breath and talking between pants, “I’ve lived here for what seems like forever and never knew this place was this big.”
“I’m not sure how anyone could live within a hundred miles of this place. It smells now, but it must have smelled bad before as well,” I reply before calling Robert over. The same scene is replayed twice again before Greg slides down beside the fence.
“I see your running skills haven’t improved,” he says, finally catching his breath.
“I see you still want to lock your teeth on my ass in a biting motion,” I reply. The lack of additional sounds indicates our little adventure can continue.
“Let’s make our way down this lane and through the yard to the far corner. Single file and keep your spacing,” I say.
We rise and open the gate wide enough to pass through. The buzzing of the flies is annoying, much like mosquitos buzzing in a tent, but we are nearing the prison and the irritant is put to the side. We skirt piles of pallets – some stacked and some just strewn – and make our way to the rear of the building near the corner. Feeling the heat radiate from the aluminum-sided building, I crouch and peek around the corner.
The highway looms close with additional buildings across the way nestled between the north-south freeway just in front and another that branches off heading west. Between some of the buildings, I catch the first sight of the prison walls in the distance. Yep, they’re prison walls; tall and concrete. A wide field devoid of any obstructions surrounds it. I take a look through the binoculars, shielding the lens with my hands to prevent any glare reaching out as the sun is in front of me. Heat waves shimmer in the distance obscuring a clear look at the prison. I also glass the buildings across the freeway, but I don’t see anything more out of the ordinary than usual. Nothing is normal these days. There is one thing across the road that does catch my attention and I wave Greg over.
“Hmmmm…nice. A water tower. That is rather handy,” he says, following my finger. “Now if we can just get there and climb it without being seen.”
“That would be the ideal result. I figure the heat waves should keep us partially hidden,” I respond.
There’s only one thing really keeping us from gaining an advantage of height to observe and that is the open road in front of us. If the ones in the prison are keeping an outpost, the buildings across from us would be ideal for that. There is also the fact that part of our route across the highway may be visible from the prison itself. I’m hoping the shimmers will help keep us hidden. The water tower is only about a half mile from the walls and, once we begin climbing the tower, we’ll be in the open once again. The ladder leading upward to the catwalk lining the top runs up one of the outside support posts and is in the open. Luckily, it is on the backside of the tower away from the prison.
“Okay. Same as before. We’ll cross one at a time in the same order. Greg, if I’m spotted, or rounds start getting exchanged, get out of here. Start heading back with Robert and McCafferty and have Horace meet you. We’re not in a position to duke it out with twenty or thirty others,” I say. “I’ll meet you when I can.”
“You got it,” he replies.
“Okay, here goes nothing.” I edge to the very front of the building.
Two sets of railway tracks are directly in front with a wide dirt median separating them from the two lane highway. It’s not quite as far as the wide field we came through, but it’s a sprint. I’m hesitant about crossing. It is daylight and I imagine the ones in the prison could be out scavenging. Being this close, there is an increased chance of having them coming or going while we’re in the open. That’s not a comfortable feeling. And that’s aside from them keeping an outpost. I don’t see any cars in front of the buildings, but that doesn’t really mean anything.
I take one more look at the buildings searching for any sign that they are being inhabited in any way. Grime covers the glass windows in front. There aren’t any smear marks of someone trying to wipe them clean, so that’s an added bonus. I look up and down the highway to the north and south. I don’t see anything but the shimmers could hide vehicles in the distance.
“It’s now or never,” I breathe to myself.
With a deep, stabilizing breath, I rise and begin another rush across open ground. I quickly gain the first set of railroad tracks and cross with the gravel crunching under my boots. I notice the tops of the tracks are still shiny from a lot of use, but that will change when the rains come. Looking as I cross, they stretch in a straight line to both sides and merge in the distance, eventually vanishing in a haze.
The gravel gives way to packed earth as I make my way to the hardtop road. I keep expecting winks of light to materialize from the buildings ahead, but they remain as before ─ seemingly empty and quiet. The heat radiating from the ground increases as I step onto the concrete of the highway. My boots clomp on the road that once carried a stream of cars and semis. Now, I’m the only one to intrude upon its surface.
I’m across quickly and duck inside a driveway entrance between two sides of a fence. I fall to my knees again, panting from the exertion in the heat. The buzzing of the flies is only faint now and the intense smell dissipates to a degree. Either that, or I’ve become used to it, and that’s not something I want to become used to. The tower looms ahead. It looks like we’ll have to clear another yard behind the building in front of me and then we’re there. I call clear and the others cross one at a time without incident. It already seems like hours since we left. I check my watch.
“We have forty minutes until we have to head back so we’ll have to make this quick,” I say and report back to Horace on our progress.
I feel the strain of being close but not sure of the outcome. It surely can’t be compared to the tension McCafferty must be feeling. I feel both loose and tight at the same time ─ tension with an underlying calmness. We’ll have to go slow, especially being so close to a major intersection. On the other hand, we don’t have a lot of time to spare. The warmth is taking its toll as well. In black fatigues and vest, I feel my energy being sapped by the minute. I know this is the place where mistakes can be made and try to keep my mind sharp. Taking a drink of water, I rise and head across the dirt parking lot to the building’s corner.
The large lot is filled with mounds of scrap metal. Mobile cranes with large magnets attached dot the yard. Wrecked cars line one entire side. This place would be quite handy if we had a smelter. I don’t have time to ponder the possibilities as we need to get to the tower undiscovered, climb it, and see if we can see over the prison walls less than a half mile away. Hopefully all of that will keep me within the undiscovered realm as well.
We move from pile to pile, advancing into the yard itself. The piles keep us hidden from view of the roads on either side. We eventually come to the end of the mounds of scrap. Ahead is another building with the water tower sitting close to its side. A larger freeway lies on the other side of the building. We advance slowly to the base of the water tower. I pick up the sound of a car motoring down the road approaching from our right. The whirring of the tires on the hot pavement mixes with the low hum of the engine.
“Car approaching, take cover,” I say in my throat mic. There’s a scramble as we dart behind the building nearest the highway.
The sound of the vehicle increases, but I don’t see anything on the road as I peek around the corner of the building. I hope it isn’t bouncing off the large aluminum buildings and actually approaching from behind or side. I look around and see a couple of thick bushes against a fence to our rear. I point and we dash across, burrowing into their midst. I lie on the ground at the very edge of the bushes and am able to see a section of highway. There’s still no sign of any car, but I can still hear it grow louder. Greg gives me a little tilt of his head. I hold my fingers to my lips and he gets the message.
Lying on the ground increases the heat radiating to my body and I feel grit inside of my fatigue top. My beltline itches from the heat and dirt, and the limbs of the bushes are prickling my skin where they touch. All in all, I’m not comfortable. The heat is even masking the adrenaline. I’m so ready to be done with this and go home.
The sound gets louder and I see Greg nod indicating he can hear it now as well. Robert or McCafferty are out of my sight as they are burrowed in an adjacent bush. The noise changes to the sounds of the car slowing down. I pick out sounds of other engines. There’s more than one and possibly three. The slowing down isn’t a good sign. Either we’ve been seen and a call went out or they are slowing to make a turn. The only right answer is for them to make a turn away from us towards the prison. Any turn toward us, or if we’ve been spotted, is bad news.
A white pickup truck comes into view going slow on the section of road I can see. Another green pickup is right on its tail. Both of the beds appear to have boxes and miscellaneous gear stacked in them. Both trucks vanish in front of the building and they sound like they are slowing even more. I wait for the crunch of the tires hitting the gravel and dirt parking lot in front of the building. A third truck comes into view and disappears.
The sounds from in front increase as the trucks begin picking up speed. They fade slowly until disappearing altogether. I realize I’ve been holding my breath and let it out slowly. I feel grimy from the sweat, dirt, and still pervasive smell. A long cold shower sounds so good that I almost wish for the storms to come back. We wait a few minutes longer to see if the trucks come back our way. If they are heading to the prison, they could just be dropping stuff off and return heading on another supply run. We just don’t have the time to wait, though. I don’t want to put us at risk, but if we’re going to have a look, we have to do it soon. There are only the faint caws, cackles, and screeches of the distant birds.
“Robert, McCafferty. Keep watch from the rear of the building. If anything happens, radio Horace and get yourselves back. Greg, you’re with me. We’re out of time. Let’s climb this monstrosity and get an eyeful,” I say into the radio.
We scoot out of the cover and dust ourselves off quickly. I feel a twig go down the back of my shirt. It’s just one more annoyance that is forgotten quickly as we run across the small back lot to the side of the building again.
“I’ll go first. Follow when I’m half way up,” I say, shouldering my M-4.
“I hope you climb better than you run,” he responds.
“I’m feeling a little gassy. I hope you enjoy your climb,” I reply and take off for the ladder rungs.
I set my feet on the first rungs and reach up. The heated metal instantly sears through my gloves. It’s like holding a boiling pot of water with a dish towel. It doesn’t melt my skin directly to the rungs, but it still feels like my hands are going to catch on fire. Looks like I will be scurrying up as it’s hard to hold any one rung for long. I start my climb.
Thoughts of being seen vanish as I make my way up. I just concentrate on each rung and climb as swiftly as I can. Each time I put my hand on a rung it seems hotter than before. It’s actually a race to see if I can make it to the top before my hands blister and start smoking. I try to set my boots on the rungs lightly, I don’t want any ringing if there is someone in the area. I finally emerge through a hole in the grating of the catwalk and kneel just around the side of the tank, keeping it between the prison and me. Greg’s head eventually pokes through.
“That was fun,” I say, still trying to fan the heat off my hands.
“Yeah, you got that right. You’re quite the little monkey,” he replies.
“I notice you weren’t exactly taking your time either,” I say.
“No…that I wasn’t,” he says chuckling.
“If I’d have known they made that ladder out of molten lava, I would have chosen differently,” I state.
Not wanting to have any more contact with the metal, but having to, we both lie on the heated catwalk grating and edge forward until the prison comes fully into view. We are higher than the walls and can readily see inside. From this height and angle, the heat shimmers aren’t nearly as bad.
The complex is huge. One extremely large, single-story central building sits in the middle of the compound with two buildings on either side of it. The side buildings are made up of three six-sided sections connected to each other in line with four thin rectangular wings jetting out from the end of each one. Those two buildings look to be three or four stories tall and connect to the main building via an enclosed pathway at ground level. Another very large building is connected to the main one as well. There are several HVAC units at ground level and van-like trucks parked at a loading bay attached to the second building.
The pickup trucks we observed earlier are parked next to the cargo trucks with several other vehicles. The interesting thing is the lack of towers and parapets along the perimeter. The wall is certainly tall, but the place seems self-contained. There doesn’t even appear to be places for the inmates to be outside. All in all, the place is huge. Not as large as the Madigan complex, but it’s daunting to look at. There’s no way we can assault this place with the teams we have and perhaps not with all of our teams.
I draw a quick diagram and make notes as we observe. We don’t have time for an extended recon to note patrols, times, listen to frequencies, or observe any patterns. We have just a few scant minutes before we have to head back. Another walled complex sits to the south of the main prison. There are nine red-roofed buildings that lie within that place. The roofs look like they are corrugated and may even be made of sheet metal. Those buildings do not give the appearance of being able to house prisoners, but maybe it’s a less secure one.
“Well. It looks like it’s either a small force entry or none at all,” I say, still glancing through a set of binoculars.
Greg is looking through a set of his own. “That’s what I think,” he says. “It’s getting over that wall that’s going to be the hard part. At least there aren’t any towers, and it doesn’t look like those walls can be manned. Even if I had a grappling hook and it could latch on, I can’t throw one forty feet high. Can you?”
“Yeah, not so much,” I say. “There is another way in though.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Greg asks.
“I don’t know. Mine involves silk,” I answer.
“Then we are thinking the same thing.”
“Are you trained in HALO – High Altitude, Low Opening - jumps?” I ask.
“I went through the free-fall school at Bragg, but haven’t done it in a long time.” He lowers his binoculars and looks at me.
“That’s alright. I haven’t jumped in a while either,” I reply with a smile. “It’ll be a hoot, but we have to figure out what to do after we come crashing out of the skies into the yard. Or roof.”
“And where will we get the equipment? Bragg’s a long ways away from here and most likely in a radiation zone,” Greg asks.
“They used to teach the PJs – Para rescue jumpers – out of Kirtland. I bet there’s still some equipment housed there,” I answer.
“And the chutes were packed when?” Greg asks with a look on his face asking if I’m serious about this.
“Probably in the 70s,” I answer.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I hope so,” I reply with a chuckle. Greg’s face doesn’t indicate he is getting warm, fuzzy feelings about this.
“Actually, there used to be PJs who were stationed there to help train us,” I add before his face falls too much further.
“And that was when?” he asks, not at all convinced.
“In the 70s.” The look on his face makes it difficult to keep a straight face and keep quiet.
“Just kidding, man. Well, it’s the only way I see in, so we can take a look and see if there is any equipment there. And yes, check the tags,” I add. “If there isn’t any, then it certainly doesn’t look good for getting in. Even if we were to get some heavy artillery, we can’t go bashing our way in. We’d make it worse for those inside.”
“Yeah, I really don’t see another way. I really don’t see a way in even if we manage to get past the walls unless we set down, and I use that term loosely, on the roof and go through an access hatch. That structure on top may even house a maintenance door,” Greg comments.
“You know, some prisons have underground passageways for maintenance crews to circumvent portions of the buildings and areas that house prisoners and for guards to move about. I bet this one does as well. That compound to the south looks interesting,” I say. “And abandoned.”
“I don’t see any vehicles around it. You could be right.”
“I wonder if there’s a tunnel between the two facilities.”
“Maybe, but we only get one chance at this. And if there isn’t, we’re pretty screwed for getting in,” Greg comments.
“Yeah, that’s true. So it’s the main compound then,” I say, making some final notes.
“I think so. If we can find some equipment and if the chutes were packed recently.” Greg takes another look at the compound.
“Yeah, if on both accounts. I’m not too keen on finding out how high I can bounce.”
“You may not bounce, you know. You may just crash through the roof, opening a hole for me to float gently through and rescue everyone,” he says with a chuckle, stowing his gear.
“I’m glad to know if I collide with the roof at high speed that it may benefit you. You be sure and tell me if there are any more things I can help you with.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“We’ll have to plan on how to get out of there if things don’t go well, but we can do that back at base. Right now it’s time to get out of here,” I say.
“Lead on.”