Looking closer, Greg sees the windows of the store have been broken out near the entrance. A body lies across the broken glass panes of the doors. Nothing stirs except a few eddies of dust stirred by a breeze as it blows through. It appears that all of the damage and death occurred some time ago so Greg decides to check for road maps inside. And, even though the tanks of the Stryker are nearly full, he’ll make the attempt to fill them.
Telling the team his plan, they disembark and set up a small perimeter. Three cover the highway to both sides and one remains on the turret to lend heavy fire should it be needed. With one other team member, Greg cautiously approaches the front of the stop-and-rob.
Listening for any sound that might indicate someone is inside, he and his teammate close in on the entrance from opposite sides. The figure draping the doorway is face down with sand covering its once dark brown hair and seems to be missing one arm; that, or it is hidden under the body. A small drift of dirt has piled up on one side of the head, almost covering it.
Greg pushes on it with the barrel of his M-4. As the head turns slightly, the lower jaw remains in place, sliding off the figure’s cheek. He sees that most of the skin has been removed, leaving only strings of dried ligaments attached. Looking farther, Greg notices that most of the lower body has been dragged inside and lies near the cash register stand. He knows that the condition of the body denotes that night runners were once here… and maybe still are.
Greg overcomes a curious urge to check the pants pockets lying just inside the door for the person’s ID. It was someone once and he’s curious who. They had dreams, worries, highs and lows, paid their monthly bills, made vacation plans, planned what they were going to have for dinner. Now they lie here at the entrance to a Kwik Stop in a small town in what used to be Kansas. Their plans, fears, and joys ended in a moment of terror… just another body decaying in some forgotten place. These thoughts relieve him of his curiosity and he finds he doesn’t want to know who it is at all.
A faint odor of rot and decay spills from the broken doorway — spoiled food, milk, and death. A small amount of ambient light spills through the damaged front of the building, revealing wreckage inside. Shelves are tipped over on their sides or lean against each other blocking the aisles. There isn’t much food on the floor as the place appears ransacked but several bags of chips, candy bars, and cans are scattered across the floor. One of the neon light fixtures hangs from one edge. Trailing wires, the other end hangs down on one of the leaning shelves. Several of the plaster ceiling tiles has fallen in, revealing a network of conduit and electrical wiring.
Greg and his teammate cover the store interior with their carbines as they look over the mess. The back of the mart is lost in shadow, but there is no scream from night runners. Night runners or not, he has no intention of going past the safety of the light. It is marauders and the like that worry him but, from the signs around him, he’s sure that no one would take up residence here.
A turnstile rack near the entrance is tipped over, spilling postcards and maps across the floor. With his teammate covering, Greg steps over the dismembered body and starts sorting through the maps. Many have been soaked through in blood, but he finds a couple covering their routes that are still readable. Shaking the accumulated dirt off them, he shoves them in his fatigue pockets.
The cash registers are bathed in the dim glow of the radiant light. If he can get power to the building, he knows he can get the pumps to operate and top off the Stryker’s tanks. Provided that is, that power still carries to the registers and pump islands. Looking at the wreckage, he’s not sure that’s the case.
Backing out of the store, he walks with his partner to the rear of the building. The usual Dumpsters, empty boxes and stacked pallets, and a small loading dock encompass a majority of the space. Near one corner sits a generator. Greg tests it for fuel and, as he guessed, it’s empty, having run itself dry. Using some of their fuel against only a possibility of getting the fuel pumps to work is a chance, but he gathers one of the fuel canisters from the Stryker regardless. Testing the generator battery, he pours some of the precious liquid in the tank and presses the start button. The generator cranks, sputters for a few turns, and then fires to life, filling the rear of the parking lot with its roar.
Greg looks over the surrounding developments for any signs of life that the noise of the generator may have raised. A flock of birds take wing from a neighboring house, but nothing else stirs.
Moving back to the store entrance, Greg sees the result of his handiwork. Sparks cascade from the broken light fixture onto the fallen shelves. That, and the flickering of the other lights, cast the gloomy part of the mart in a strobe effect. Drink counter dispensers flash and a carousal warming machine for hotdogs and pizza rotates in fits and starts. Stepping around the partial body once again and circumventing the remains farther in, Greg checks one of the cash registers to see it booted up with the touch screen fully lit. Placing an order for diesel fuel, he has the Stryker pull up; fuel flows through the hose into the tanks. He refills the used canister and they load back up to push through to the next town.
Endless fields fill both sides of the road from horizon to horizon. The emptiness of the terrain allows for faster travel, but Greg keeps their speed down in order to fully scout the area before proceeding. Complacency and assuming that the area is empty without checking could get them in trouble in no time at all. Even with the Stryker, due to their small numbers, they can ill afford a confrontation.
They eventually come to other small towns along the way. It’s much the same sight as they pass slowly through each town — fast food restaurants and gas stations with small businesses thrown in between. Any places that had food have their windows broken out. Remains of bodies are occasionally seen but covered with layers of dust. The wide tracks that the Stryker leaves are the only sign of recent passage.
They bypass larger towns to the north or south depending upon the terrain. Leaving the highway at these places, the armored vehicle rolls over fences that delineate the boundaries of fields and plow through the occasional gully. Greg slows their speed through the fields to keep the dust cloud they kick up to a minimum. He is reminded of the chase they had outside of a town on their way to Lubbock and he’s constantly on the lookout for dust clouds trailing after them. None appear.
With the sun heading into late afternoon and having only made it about halfway to their first destination of Manitou Springs, Greg checks the map and notes the area they are in is one of the more barren spots along the road. It’s all fairly open and not populated, but several small towns dot the landscape and he wants to be as far away from any formerly populated areas as possible to hole up for the night. Even though it’s early, he has the Stryker turn off the road and travel up a long dirt road with no apparent settlements or houses in sight. The road slowly ascends up an incline into some fairly rough topography — rough for this area at least. Greg picks an arroyo off the road and parks the Stryker hull down. The gully is the perfect height and they are able to see in all directions but their silhouette is minimized.
As opposed to the plains through which they traveled beside for most of the day, the place they pick to stay the night looks like the surface of the moon. It’s barren with just a few rocky outcroppings on the edge of shallow ravines.
As Greg pans the surrounding area with his binoculars, the moon analogy fits even more. The gray soil is pockmarked with thousands of light-colored mounds. Out of these piles, small heads continuously bob up and down. The team has parked in the middle of a large prairie dog population. With a couple of larger towns ten miles to either side, there is a small chance night runners could come out to hunt in this area. It’s about a three hour walk from the nearest town, but with the speed of the night runners, it would be much less. Greg has never seen them go at any other speed than a jog or full run. He isn’t sure how far they venture to hunt, but thinks it’s unlikely they would be this far out. Like Jack, he doesn’t want to assume anything with regards to what the night runners can or can’t do. They’ll sleep buttoned up and keep a watch through the Stryker optics.