“Oh fuck!” Speer whispers.
The night runners lift their heads and shriek, the ear-piercing screams echoing off the trees and along the road.
“It’s go time, gents. The dinner bell has been rung and they’ll be bringing guests,” Krandle says quietly.
The three night runners leap forward, one instant standing still the next, closing the distance at a full sprint.
“Speer, Ortiz, Miller… left, middle, right,” Krandle says aloud, the need for quiet past.
In the time it takes to breathe once, the night runners have closed half of the distance. Krandle knew they were fast, but has only encountered them inside of buildings. Those times, they appeared like monkeys with crazy agility. Here, in open terrain, they seem like jaguars streaking toward their prey. Three nearly simultaneous muted shots leave the barrels with accompanying quick flashes of light. The rounds streak out and rapidly close the distance, uncaring of what they hit, only obeying the laws of physics and going where they’re pointed. Amid the shrieks, the minute metallic tinkle of expended shells strike the pavement.
Krandle watches as the lead night runner’s head as the bullet strikes home under its eye. The projectile hits the solid bone and mushrooms, angling upward through the eye and carving a tunnel through soft gray matter. It slams into the inside of the skull, shattering the bullet. The back of the night runner’s head explodes in a spray of bone, blood, and chunks of flesh. The rest of its body, not realizing that it’s dead, continues running a step. The creature’s feet leave the ground and its back slams onto the highway.
The other two go down in quick fashion, their fallen bodies partially hidden by the taller grass. In the distance, answering screams carry on the night air, growing louder. The faint smell of nitrate drifts quickly away. The shrieks grow in intensity and volume, becoming a din as groups of night runners pour into the field of vision. Krandle radios the sub, letting them know they have company.
“Can you exfil?” Leonard asks.
“No, sir. It’s a little late for that and we’d lose the civilians. But, we may need some of your toys if it gets too rough.”
“We’ll need five minutes to any of the pre-plotted targets, ten if there are any new ones,” Leonard says.
“Copy that, sir. The pre-plotted ones will be fine. I’ll let you know. Out.”
Small groups of night runners stream across the grass and along the road, the screams permeating the area. Gunfire streaks out from the team lined across the bridge, periodic tracers crossing like fiery spears. While others have differing ideas about how they load tracers, Krandle loads his mag with the third to last round going out as a tracer so he knows when he’s down to his last shell. In his mind, it makes it a whole hell of a lot faster to reload, getting a visual representation rather than waiting for the slide to lock back.
Krandle adds his fire to the left. Speer and Ortiz are concentrating on the ones near the road, Franklin and Miller to the right. Blanchard, with the clackers arranged at his feet, is directing his fire into the groups racing from the left. The first small groups of night runners are mowed down, each figure going down with splashes of blood spraying into the air. More fill their places, leaping over the bodies of their fallen and charging forward.
Krandle zeroes in on one head, fires, then makes a minute movement to scope in on the next, only marginally aware of the previous one falling. Night runners continue closing in until they fill the area from one tree line to another. Shrieks pierce the night, seeming to vibrate his skull. Calls of “reloading”, the screams, the background sound of continuous gunfire, and spent shells hitting the ground combine to create a cacophony of noise. The smell of gunpowder fills Krandle’s nose.
Bodies fall one after another, yet the scene is filled with the glowing faces of night runners pushing forward. Dozens go down, dead, dying, or injured, yet the horde draws ever closer. Krandle knows there is a tipping point at which the night runners will surge forward and there’s nothing they will be able to do about it.
He grasps Blanchard’s shoulder. Above the din, he has to lean over and yell in his ear to be heard. “We need to create gaps. Blow eleven and twelve.”
Blanchard grabs two of the clackers, squeezing each repeatedly. On either side of the highway, two large explosions rip through the night in succession. Ball bearings, propelled by C-4, tear through night runners in their path. Those nearest disintegrate into clouds of pink mist, the heavier chunks of flesh and bone hitting the pavement with meaty thunks. Beyond, limbs are separated and bodies ripped open, spilling their contents to the ground. Bodies are lifted into the air and thrown backward.
“Nine and ten,” Krandle yells.
Two closer blasts rock the night, sending more night runners sailing. The explosions cause a momentary pause of the night runners in front as they turn to look at what erupted in their midst. The rolling blasts of the claymores fade, ending in a moment of silence.
“Holy shit. Did you see those bodies?” Speer says.
In the immediate silence, Krandle’s ears ring. As one, the night runners in front turn toward the bridge and shriek.
Break’s over. Krandle delivers fire into the midst of night runners again racing forward.
Intent on focusing on one night runner after another, he’s taken aback when he looks through his scope to find… nothing. He jerks it back and forth, seeking a new target. There’s only a green glow filled with bodies, but none of them upright. Lowering his weapon, he gazes out at the destruction. Figures lie in heaped piles, or singly, some crawling as if to get away from their pain. Finally, he notices the lack of shrieks. There are only the groans and screams of the injured. Beside him, the others of his team stare out at the carnage.
The scent of gunpowder dissipates, bringing the raw iron scent of spilled blood and the stink of torn intestines on the swirling wind. Hundreds of night runners, possibly over a thousand, lie across the chewed-up ground with barely a clear space showing.
“Is that it?” Speer asks.
“I doubt it. There have to be thousands in that town and we’ve never seen them just give up,” Franklin says.
“Ammo check. They’ll be back. The claymores made them hesitate. Be ready for a change of tactics,” Krandle says.
“Twenty, plus whatever I have left in the current one,” Speer says.
The rest of the team reports on their ammo situation; they’ve used nearly a third of it.
“Figures you’d have the most mags left, pretty boy.” Speer directs his remark to Blanchard after an ammo check.
“Had to blow the claymores,” Blanchard says with a shrug.
“Test the remaining wires,” Krandle tells Blanchard. “We need to know how many are still operational.”
Blanchard disconnects the clackers and puts the tester on each one.
“All circuits test out,” he says, finishing.
Shrieks, other than those coming from the wounded, grow louder, but also somewhat muted. Krandle looks along the road, but it and the flanks remain clear. He turns his head, attempting to locate the origins. Each time he thinks he has it, it changes.
“They’re in the trees,” Miller says.
All eyes look to the left and right, trying to peer through the undergrowth. The shrieks grow louder, coming from both directions.
“They’re going to try and rush us from both sides,” Krandle says. “Speer, you help with the left if they do. Blanchard, you stay right next to me. Franklin, you, Miller and Ortiz have the right.”