Still staring at her lap, Lynn finishes with a silence that is deafening. Several tears fall onto her fatigues. Reaching over, I pull her close. She buries her head against my shoulder and her body shakes as she weeps for the loss of her sister and dad. There isn’t anything I can do except offer her my shoulder and hug her for as long as she needs. Her body eventually stops shaking and she pulls away to look into my eyes.
“Thank you. I needed to get that off my chest,” she says and lies down. I wrap my arms around her and we fall asleep. Her story is a reminder that the world is not a safe place. I feel grateful for our place and the people around us that make it relatively safe. I still have the images in my head but they’ve been relegated to a place that I can control. I drift off to see what my dreams hold.
The sound of feet slapping on the pavement is a familiar one; one he has heard every night while on the hunt. The small pack he joined a while ago is running ahead down the darkened street. A faint scent of prey lingers but the swirling of the air around the buildings makes it hard to determine the actual direction. He is hungry and the odor indicates a meal that will feed the entire pack if they can get to it first.
Buildings pass as they turn down street after street searching. The screams of other packs drift on the night air in the distance. Images of prey found filter into his head but they are too far away to respond. His pack leader has found food on most of their nightly hunts so he is sure they will feed tonight. The scent grows strong down one street and the pack turns. Adrenaline surges as the thrill of the hunt takes over.
Several streets later, with the smell of food growing stronger, he stops. Grabbing his head from the overwhelming pain, he sinks to his knees. A dizzy feeling accompanies the deep ache making him feel that he is going to fall completely to the ground. He vaguely hears the sound of his pack member’s feet stop. The sense of them, once strong and providing a sense of assurance, fades and then vanishes altogether.
Where the hell am I? He thinks looking down at pavement below his head and slumped over body. How the hell did I get here? Where is here? The last memory he has is of taking the flu shot and feeling like shit. He headed to bed and is now kneeling on some unknown street. The only thing that comes to his fuzzy and confused mind is that he must have sleep-walked in a feverish dream.
A loud shriek penetrates his thoughts and he looks up. The night is dark but he makes out ghostly figures running towards him a short distance away. What the fuck? He thinks watching them close in quickly. More screams issue from four figures racing his way. He knows a good thing when he sees it and this definitely doesn’t fit in that category. Adrenaline pours into his body and he starts to rise with the flee portion of the fight or flee response taking hold.
He is only able to bring his arm up in an attempt to ward off the bodies as the nearest ones leap into the air and slam into him. The impact knocks him backwards and slams him to the ground. He is only vaguely aware of the growling and snarling above him as his head contacts the hard, paved surface bringing stars to his eyes. His mind is reeling from the confusion but is quickly supplanted with sheer pain. He feels more than sees teeth biting into his face, neck, and arms. He recognizes a scream, which rises over the others, as his own.
Pale, snarling faces, reeking of body odor, are close to his. He fights and squirms to get away from those on top of him and the agony. Chunks of flesh are torn from his cheeks and throat. A part of his mind wonders where this odd, vivid dream came from. He has never felt pain in his dreams before. Another part of his mind knows this is not a dream but the confusion of suddenly being in a foreign place doesn’t allow that thought to filter into his consciousness. There is only the struggle and intense agony.
He feels another strip of flesh ripped from his face. He screams and pain, colored red, floods his mind. His vision fades and then goes dark. He was right about one thing, the pack would feed well tonight.
The next few days are a repeat. Frank notes areas for Craig and me to fly over broadcasting for survivors. Gonzalez, McCafferty, Bri, and Robert are on board for the daily 130 flights. Bri instructs both Gonzalez and McCafferty on the systems and flight engineer responsibilities. Robert takes some stick time as well to refresh his skills.
Bannerman sends the truck convoys south to pick up the trailers and livestock we found. The learning curve is pretty steep for getting the cattle rounded up and into the trucks. It’s not like they could just call “here boy” and have them come running. The crews find some horses that were left out in pastures and those prove useful in rounding up the cattle, at least according to the stories told around dinner. The horses find a home in the stables as well. There weren’t many found as those in the stalls had already succumbed to starvation, lack of water, or in some instances, night runners.
By the end of the week, our pastures have livestock in them. Bannerman also sent trucks to loot the barns of their hay and feed. The barns, stables, and greenhouses have been completed and the crews head north again to begin again on the walls. Bannerman also sends a detail out to look at a water tower and begins planning for its relocation if that is at all possible. Craig, Gonzalez, and McCafferty are now fairly proficient with the 130 operations. It’s time to head to the southwest and we excuse ourselves from the nightly training sessions to plan our flight.
A Meeting Remembered
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” I say plotting our route. Robert, Craig, Bri, Gonzalez, McCafferty, and I are gathered in a semi-circle.
“What’s that?” Robert asks looking up from the map.
“Nothing much really. Just that Tacoma, Boise, Salt Lake City, and our far end destination of Lubbock are in a nearly straight line. Similar to those mathematical lines of the pyramids and Stonehenge. Only, not meaning the same,” I say. “However, they will make it easy to verify our inertial navigation system.”
“Aren’t we going to use the GPS?” Robert asks.
“We’ll set up the route with both but I’m not sure the satellites are still in the right position with no one to keep them there. We’ll do some verifications enroute though,” I answer.
“Can we set up the same approaches?” He continues.
“Well, it depends on what we see on the way. The inertial nav system on board is highly accurate but it certainly isn’t near what a GPS is, especially if there’s a lot of turbulence, but we’ll see. There’s a pretty good chance of encountering severe weather once we hit New Mexico. If I remember correctly, the dry line sits right on the New Mexico-Texas border and the time is right for thunderstorms. The squall lines along there can grow quickly and are usually prevalent during the afternoon and evenings. We’ll have to plan alternate fields along the way as I’m not at all keen on flying through them on inertial nav alone, especially if we have to shoot an approach. Plus, I really hate flying through thunderstorms,” I reply.
“I remember the ones we flew through on the way to Kuwait were plenty scary,” Bri chimes in.