Krandle moves in front and stares down the road that heads deeper into the coastal community. Trees line the median on both sides of the street, shading overgrown lawns. Once trimmed bushes grow wild, their leaf-covered branches sticking out like morning hair. Along the street, several vehicles are parked against the curb with drifts of sand and debris piled up against their tires. Grit completely covers the pavement in places, the wind having created ripple-like patterns. As each breeze blows through, sand is driven across the surface, making it appear as if the street is in motion.
Shouldering his M-4, Krandle selects the 4x setting on his SpectreDR scope to get a closer look at the houses and surrounding area. At one abode, the tail of a cat quickly vanishes around the corner. In various locations, trails cut through the otherwise pristine layers of sand, possible evidence that night runners prowl these streets.
Something’s made their way through here recently.
Although he can’t see into every window from his vantage point, everything looks clear.
“What do you think?” Krandle directs his question to Speer.
“I think we should turn around and get the fuck out of here. These empty towns give me the fucking creeps.”
“And what if those smoke plumes are a sign of people who need help?”
“That’s their problem.”
“Well, too bad for you this isn’t a democracy. That’s where we’re going. Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”
“Someone in this outfit has to be the voice of reason,” Speer says.
This is Speer’s way of dealing with tension; the man has no intention of turning around, and would complain if Krandle suggested it.
“So, now that you’ve taken your dick out and waved it around, what do you think?” Krandle asks.
Speer shrugs. “It’s clear, but I wouldn’t want to be around after dark. There are more than a few night runners who come through here.”
Krandle directs Franklin, Blanchard, and Miller across the street, then places a hand on Speer’s shoulder. “Lead on.”
They head out, inching down opposite sidewalks with Franklin and the other two taking a staggered position behind. They’ve been through a couple of these abandoned towns before, but he’s with Speer on the eeriness. With the warmth, there should be the sound of kids playing, lawns being mowed, cars driving along the streets, and the smell of barbecues wafting on the breeze. There is only the swish of the wind through the trees, the soft crunch of their boots on the sand, and the occasional cry of a gull in the distance.
Only a few of the houses are intact; most have their windows broken and doors ajar. It’s quiet enough to hear a sporadic creak or moan of wood expanding in the rising heat. They come across tracks in the sand; trails leading down the street and through lawns. Speer halts and analyzes the impressions of each, coming up with how many night runners passed through and when. Each track is a reminder of what could be hiding within every building.
The team crosses several side streets, empty houses and parked vehicles along each of them. Sand piles against every object — the beach slowly reclaiming the city. There’s not a single scream from within any of the buildings, meaning the night runners of the city lair elsewhere. Krandle is well aware of their keen eyesight and ability to pick up the faintest scent. The barest whiff of prey will send them into a frenzy.
Exiting the residential neighborhood, Speer halts at a larger thoroughfare, crouching next to the wall of a building. Traffic lights swing from their wires over the intersection. Along the main avenue, several of the larger paned glass windows of the storefronts are broken, the interiors hidden in darkness.
The worst sign of the carnage that swept through the coastal town are body parts strewn along the street. The shredded remains of a pant leg lies in the middle of the intersection, the white of shin bones protruding from one end and a faded sneaker from the other. In a nearby shop, the rear of a pair of jeans humped over a broken window, the rest of the body hidden beneath a sand drift. Another deep drift invades one of the vehicles, its door open. The skeletal remains of a forearm, the dried remains of tendons still attached, extends from the sand as if attempting to pull the rest of the body clear. The upper torso protrudes from another drift. The skull sprouts a full head of hair with pieces of desiccated flesh dangling from the cheek and jaws. All along the avenue, tattered clothing and bones extend from drift of deep sand.
“Looks like it was some party,” Speer mutters.
“That it does,” Krandle says.
He knows the horror those lying in street experienced, not able to comprehend what was happening and trying to escape the sudden onslaught. The terror of knowing they weren’t going to make it, their last moments filled with the agony of having their flesh ripped from their bones.
A scream rips through the silence, quickly followed by others. The shrieks echo from deep within the darkened buildings, spilling out onto the street. Doves gathered on ledges take flight with a flurry of wings.
“Fuck me!” Speer says. “I think we just rang the dinner bell.”
“Yeah. I guess our company knows that we’re here,” says Krandle.
All six subconsciously edge back a step, weapons trained on the windows and doorways. Even though they know the night runners won’t emerge into the sunlight, the sounds reverberating throughout the town chill them to their very marrow.
They have several hours before they have to reverse their steps and begin making their way back to the shore. In the distance, rising above the roofs, the smoke that brought them inland still faintly plumes before being whisked away by the wind.
“What do you think it is?” Krandle motions to the smoke.
“Well, the power is off, so it can’t be some appliance that overheated. It’s too dark to be trees that caught fire. It’s not moving…” Speer trails off.
“So, you’re saying that you don’t know,” Krandle says.
“Pretty much.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I did.”
“Remember those columns of vehicles that we’d come across in Iraq after A-10s would work them over?” says Ortiz.
“In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t Iraq and I don’t recall seeing strafing warthogs,” Speer says.
Ortiz shrugs.
“Stow it, Speer.” Krandle agrees the plumes of smoke do look like the columns they periodically came across in Iraq.
“Which way?” Speer says.
When Krandle spied the smoke through binoculars atop the sub’s bridge, he had thought it to be on the far side of the town, but now he isn’t so sure. ‘Highway 101’ runs along town rather than through it. Looking again at the smoke, he opts to follow the highway signs. If they come adjacent to the plumes before reaching the highway, they can circle around.
The drifts stand taller and wider here. In places, the sidewalk is completely covered, forcing the team into the avenue. The bones poking out of the sand and lying in the street have deeply etched bite marks. They step over and around purses, shoes, and other detritus from those that happened to be on the darkened streets when the night runners hit.