They both crouch at the edge of the tracks. Beyond the bushes, the murmur of voices with a shout occasionally rising. The smell of burned rubber, oil, and gas permeates the trees. Speer moves up and down the torn forest floor, studying the tracks.
“Whoever it was, they arrived on eight quads, which they parked over there.” Speer points. “They set up along the edge of the bushes. I can’t say for sure, but it looks like one person per quad, making it eight on this side. Given human nature for keeping things even, I would say seven to nine on the other side as well. It looks like they entered the tree line, did whatever they did, and left. There are indications of drag marks, so I’m guessing they took some non-compliant dinner guests with them.”
Speer motions to a woman’s shoe lying on the ground. “Of that nature.”
It appears raiders ambushed then kidnapped several of them, including at least one woman. Are the voices on the other side of the bushes from the assailants or victims? Did the attackers spring their ambush, take hostages, and leave the rest alive? If you’re going to go through all of the work involved, why leave the opening for retribution?
Perhaps the raiders feel overconfident… the ‘do as I please without reprisal kind of attitude.’ That’s if the ones on the highway aren’t those that attacked.
“Marauders or victims?” Krandle whispers, pointing toward the road.
Speer shrugs.
Krandle is left with the feeling that a band of survivors were waylaid and the women taken. Fading back to the others, he tells them the situation.
“Speer, Ortiz, you’re with me. Franklin, Blanchard, Miller, keep our six clear. We’re going forward and make contact if the ones ahead are victims. If they’re bandits, we’ll fade back and plan according to the situation,” Krandle says.
Expecting a reaction from Speer, Krandle is surprised when his point man just stares at his carbine, pretending to pick at an imaginary flake of rust. By the way everyone is looking at Speer, they are anticipating the same.
Speer glances up and sees everyone staring at him. “What?”
Shaking his head, Krandle says, “Let’s get on with this. Like Franklin said, if we’re dealing with victims, they’re apt to be trigger happy.”
Closer to the tree line, Speer freezes, holding up a fist. He sinks to his knees, his head turning a slow arc to the left. “Two sleepers. Near the split tree,” Speer whispers into his mic.
Krandle finds the location and focuses, his vision moving inches at a time, attempting to pick out an outline that doesn’t fit.
There, a pair of legs. The pant legs and shoes now clearly defined.
“Do you have a clear visual of both?” Krandles asks.
“Yeah. They think they’re being sneaky, but not doing a very good job at it.”
“Wait one. I’m moving to your location.”
Krandle edges forward, carefully setting his foot in order to remain silent. Going to one knee, he gazes to where Speer nods. Two heads peer over a shrub, looking toward the group on the road.
“Bandits or survivors?” Krandle asks.
“Bandits for sure. One lifted a carbine and simulated shooting while the two snickered.”
“They must have left these two behind in case they were followed. That implies radios,” Krandle says. “Is that all there are?”
“On this side of the road, yeah. Take them out?”
“We can’t very well leave them here. If they have radios, we’ll do our best to simulate traffic if they’re called,” Krandle says. “You take left, I have right.”
The two SEALs slowly lift their barrels, eyes down the scope. Krandle settles on his target, settling his breathing to keep his sight steady.
“Three… two… one.”
Two soft pops bounce off the trees, carrying no further than a few yards. The high-speed projectiles cross the distance nearly instantly, impacting with two almost simultaneous, meaty thunks. The two heads vanish beneath the branches in a mist of red. While the two have their weapons trained, two others from the team edge from the forest to verify the kills.
Kills confirmed, Krandle edges forward, going prone at the edge of the bushes and begins to slither through the undergrowth. Several needles make their way under his shirt and poke into his skin. Ignoring the pricks, he moves twigs out of his way before hauling himself forward a few more inches. Spread out to either side, Speer and Ortiz do the same. Reaching the outer edge, Krandle slowly lowers a branch and peers out into the highway.
Parked a little ways behind the fallen tree is a line of smoldering pickups, SUVs, and a couple of RVs. Just beyond the wreckage, the highway makes a sharp bend. Three small groups of people are gathered amid the wreckage, each cluster kneeling beside a figure lying on the ground. Near the fallen tree, a person stands on either side, looking up the highway toward the bridge. All of those on the road are men and the fact they’re all unarmed gives credence that they were the victims of the ambush.
“Move back,” Krandle quietly says, keying his throat mic.
Once gathered, Ortiz leans over and whispers to Speer, “Not like Iraq, huh?”
“Shut up, East LA.”
“Says the hillbilly.”
“Hey, Blanchard. Do you have anything in your bag for an aching prick? I have one sitting beside me,” Speer says.
“The only aching prick here is the one between your legs. I warned you about fucking goats,” Ortiz returns.
“A goat? I thought that was your mother. Can’t tell the two of them apart.”
“Both of you stow it,” Krandle says. “It looks like we’re dealing with victims. There are fourteen unarmed men, counting three injured. Although it looks like the far side is clear, Franklin, take Speer and Ortiz to make sure. The road curves beyond the wreckage, so cross past that point. Be alert for any sleepers on that side. Once we’re secure, we’ll make contact. There are injured, but we need to see to our own security first.”
The three depart, leaving Krandle with Blanchard and Miller, forming a tight perimeter. While keeping an eye through the trees, Krandle looks toward the path they took to get here. There’s no sign of their having traversed the forest floor. He wonders if he’ll ever get over his amazement at how well Miller can erase signs of their passage.
I’ll have to ask Franklin if he hears soft chanting and spells being cast behind him. One of these days, I’m going to make a thorough mess and see if Miller can cover it up.
Time passes. The angle of the sun’s rays pouring through the trees changes, some vanishing and others appearing. The voices on the road rise and lower. Krandle glances at his watch for the hundredth time, knowing the three making their way to the other side are being cautious in their approach, but it’s taking forever.
They don’t have long before they have to begin their trek back to the boat. The injured on the road will create a challenge. Even if the bandits leave them alone, without their vehicles and with injured, they won’t make it very far. When the sun sets, the night runners will pick up the scent of those in the road, especially with the smell of blood. And, once it begins to cool, the wind will most likely change to an offshore flow, bringing their scent directly into town. Even though the town is small, there will still be thousands of night runners.
Let’s say there were six thousand in the town before the gates of hell opened. What did Captain Walker say? That some seventy percent became infected? That leaves, well, a whole hell of a lot. Forty-two hundred? Is that right? We each have thirty mags, including those in our packs. That gives us… fuck I hate math. Thirty times thirty equals… nine hundred, I think. And that times six is… fifty-four hundred, minus the one shell we leave out of the mags. So, barely enough. And if the town held more people…