For the one per cent, life became a daily battle. Death was one moment of carelessness away. Outnumbered nearly thirty to one, that ratio increasing with each passing day, the survivors fought back as best as they could. Firepower was the only way to keep the ravenous hordes somewhat at bay.
Chief Petty Officer Vance Krandle lies prone along the rubber gunwales of the zodiac combat raiding craft. One hand grips his suppressed M-4 while the other grips the rope handhold. Spray is thrown off to the side as the zodiac bounces through the rough waters, occasionally splashing up and over him. Wiping his goggles clear of salt water, he glances to his rear at the rest of his team.
Speer, currently hunched over and driving the raft, is his point man and resident joker. He grew up hunting in the Ozarks and can track with the best of them, but his attitude and seemingly constant sarcasm grate on Vance at times. However, there isn’t a better point man in the business.
Ortiz, lying just behind Krandle, runs slack — second position — and the little Puerto Rican is the picture of fury incarnate under fire. Perhaps it has something to do with his growing up in the East LA area. It has taken Krandle a while to bring that part of him under control.
Blanchard, crouched in the rear, is the designated medic and a skinny, quiet, unassuming kid from South Chicago. That quietness is belied by an internal fortitude. He will, without hesitation, venture into the thickest of combat to help a fellow teammate. Blanchard is also the one mostly on the end of Speer’s barbs. The tightness of the team makes these attempts good-natured without creating a fracture within the group.
His XO, Franklin, lies in the rear across the other side of the zodiac. The black petty officer from Atlanta is one sharp tack and will make a fine team leader someday. Well, he would have had events not changed the world.
Miller, lying directly opposite Krandle is a full-blooded Sioux who grew up in South Dakota. He rarely speaks, and even then his replies are limited to only a few words. Krandle is sure there are weeks when Miller’s word count never exceeds double digits. But, he is a master at covering their back trail. There were times when they had to backtrack and were unable to do so via any signs of their passage. He is that good.
Together, they make one hell of a fine team. They have fused into a single organism, each knowing the other’s thoughts and actions — knowing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. If anyone can make it through what they are facing, it’s them.
They’ve been inland once before, finding and rescuing a small band of survivors. Spotting smoke drifting above the wooded coastline of Oregon, Leonard brought the sub closer in and sent the team to investigate. “Remember, chief, you are it for us. No hero stuff. If it looks like too much trouble, withdraw. No matter what you find, be back an hour prior to dark,” Leonard had briefed before to sending them ashore.
Another splash coats Krandle’s goggles. Wiping them clear, he braces himself for the landing, mentally rehearsing actions as he’s done a hundred times before. Riding just in front of the surf, the waves diminish. The shore becomes visible over the tops. The tide is nearly at the high mark. Sand stretches wide, ending at a rocky bluff nearby at one end, and an inlet on the other. Past the waterway, the beach continues for a short distance before meeting a similar rocky cliff. Ahead, the beach terminates at small dunes with strands of grass waving in the wind. Beyond that, beach houses line the edge. In the distance, lines of smoke rise in plumes over the tops of trees.
Nearing the shore, Speer guns the motor and raises it at the last minute, the raft gliding the final few feet. As the raft kisses the sand, Krandle rolls off at the same time as Miller. Together, they fan out and race across the sand, their eyes searching every dune, every corner of the buildings ahead, into every window. In their wake, the remaining four grab the rope handles and pull the raft over the sand.
Krandle’s boots dig into the soft sand, creating divots as he powers across. Startled gulls screech as they’re driven to flight. Other than that, he only sounds are his boots driving into the beach, his breath forcefully exhaled, the hissing of the raft being dragged over the sand, and the muted roar of the Pacific.
He slides to a stop behind a short dune, its shadow created by the morning sun. Taking out the finely-honed knife strapped to his leg, Krandle cuts the rubber band holding the condom placed over his suppressor. He tosses the rubber into the sand where it potentially joins others used for their original purpose. A gust of wind carries fine grit that makes its way down his collar, and ruffles the pant legs and arms of his fatigues.
An onshore flow, great. Our scent will precede us. But, it’s daylight, so as long as we stay out of the buildings, we’ll be fine.
Krandle looks back to the expanse of the ocean. There’s nothing that interrupts the vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon, but Krandle knows the USS Santa Fe lies submerged just under the surface.
Inching to the top of the dune, Krandle parts the stiff grasses. Opened doors lead into darkness and curtains dance as drafts blow through broken windows. Nothing moves in and around the cottages. Overhead, gulls glide on the winds. Kneeling behind the dunes, the other team members alertly wait for his call.
Pressing the button on his throat mic, Krandle radios, “Stow the raft between the dunes. We’re heading for the light yellow house directly ahead.”
Hunched over, Speer leads, focused on the area directly ahead. Several paces behind, Ortiz concentrates his attention to the left quarter. Third in line, Krandle watches to the right front. Following is Blanchard, then Franklin, with Miller bringing up the rear.
Each knows their only worry in the daylight is from their own kind. Once the sun descends below the horizon, the night runners emerge from their lairs to begin their hunt. Their speed, cunning, and numbers make them extremely dangerous. While he and other survivors may own the day, they take a step down the food chain once night falls. Any darkened building is to be avoided, and only entered in the event of dire need.
Climbing a couple of steps, really nothing more than a few railroad ties, the team enters the yard and stacks against one of the corners. Krandle peers into the open back door. Closer to the house, the darkness peels back and the radiant light reveals upended furniture. Other objects lie strewn on a floor covered with a fine layer of sand blown in from the beach. It’s as if he’s looking upon a snapshot; the moment in time forever frozen with only the house carrying the memory of what happened within.
The hinges of the screen door squeak as a breeze passes through. Pulling his attention away from inside, Krandle makes his way to the corner and crouches just behind Speer. “What do you have?” he asks.
“Nothing. A street running parallel in front with more houses across. Just to the left, there’s an intersection with another road heading inland.”
A strong gust buffets the team; a screen door to the rear to slams against the door frame. All six jump and turn toward the sound.
“Fuck, I hate that!” Speer sharply whispers. “I think I just peed myself.”
“Well, get yourself cleaned up and lead us inland toward those smoke plumes,” Krandle says.
“Have I mentioned how much I hate this?” says Speer.
“Too many times. Now, get moving.”
As Speer rounds the corner and sidles toward the front, Krandle wonders if he’s ready for another day of listening to Speer bitch and moan. However, the sixth sense Speer has makes every complaint worth what he brings to the table. Speer halts near the front corner of the house and looks up and down the street. With a hand signal that it’s clear, Ortiz and the rest of them roll around the corner and kneel next to small bushes lining the side of the cottage. In place, they rise as one and dash across the avenue, piling at the corner of the house adjacent the intersection. A startled flock of birds takes flight, squawking their indignation at the intruders.