As if a switch were thrown, the screams go silent. Except for the injured in near the road, a hush falls.
“Well, that’s fucking creepy,” Speer whispers.
In the distance, near where the four claymores blew holes in their ranks, night runners emerge from the woods, filling the roadway and median. Rank upon rank gather, their eyes flashing silver as the light catches them right. Behind the front ranks, more filter out. Thousands gather, filling the highway beyond sight.
“Fuuuck me!” Speer again whispers.
Krandle’s throat tightens and his stomach clenches. He heard stories from Captain Walker about their ability to change tactics, but he never thought them truly capable of something like this. He had thought them animals, perhaps cunning, but mindless nonetheless.
The night runners in the middle jostle, as if something was moving through their midst. The front line parts and a solitary night runner steps forth, coming to halt several paces ahead of the others. The massed night runners and the SEAL Team stare across the open space at each other, neither moving. The lone night runner lifts its head upward, looking from left to right, seeming to gaze at each horizon. Then, lowering its head to look directly at the group holding the bridge, it screams. The horde of night runners surge around him, the night once again filling with shrieks.
Krandle thinks about pulling back to the middle of the bridge to create a chokepoint, but the night runners will climb the girders and be in their midst in no time. He radios the sub.
“We’re going to need those toys, and soon. Fire on plots one and two, south to north along the highway.”
“Five minutes, chief… ready, ready, hack,” he receives.
Krandle hits the button on his watch to start his timer.
“Five minutes, gents. We need to hold the line here. Give them all you have. Blanchard, blow the claymores as the line reaches each one. Save the four near the bridge.”
Krandle thumbs his selector switch to auto and, with the others firing, begins sending burst after burst into the charging night runners. The front line goes down as if they hit a tripwire. As the night runners encounter the bodies on the ground, they begin leaping over, making it difficult to get a clear shot. Some jump over bodies, only to fall forward as rounds strike home. The once solid line becomes ragged, but the empty places are filled quickly. There are more bodies racing toward them than outgoing fire and the line draws inexorably closer.
Two explosions tear through the night, momentarily drowning out the screaming horde. The line staggers as ball bearings rip through the ranks. Night runners leap through the dissipating smoke, charging forward. Bullets continue to thin the front ranks, bodies piling up. Two more blasts, but still they come. Glancing at his watch, Krandle is left with the sinking feeling they won’t make it the remaining three minutes.
Offshore, the surface of the ocean erupts in a geyser of water as the cruise missile is pushed into the sky. Through the plume of water, the engine ignites in a roar. The missile sails across the open water, tailing a barely visible flame. Five seconds later, a second missile bursts through the surface and is thrust skyward.
Krandle thumbs an empty mag free, jamming another one home and hitting the bolt release. The slide slams forward and he delivers more fire into the closing ranks. One burst, then another, not bothering to take aim other than into the midst of bodies. His bullets will hit something, and that’s all they need at the moment — night runners down.
The fire from his team is relentless, the air in front of them thick with outgoing rounds. They slam home into bodies, hitting arms, legs, shoulders, chests, and heads. Skin is torn and bones shattered. Hitting knees, the bullets angle upward, tearing through bowels before exiting the shoulder. The ground around the team is littered with the gleam of spent casings and emptied mags. Still, the night runners inch ever forward in a relentless tide.
Two minutes.
The last of the claymores blow, mangling numerous night runners, but the surging point is drawing near — the point at which the SEAL team will only be seconds away from being overrun and annihilated. The line is near and their fire is keeping the monsters at bay.
This is like fighting a wave of water. Any slack and that wave will crest.
The bodies stack higher at the front, slowing the efforts of the night runners.
“Trees!” Krandle hears Miller call.
Daring to glance away, Krandle sees night runners pouring out of the nearby tree line.
“How long do you think it will take us to run to the other side?” Krandle yells to Blanchard.
“Eighth of a mile… forty seconds. Thirty with these bastards on my tail.”
“Speer?”
“I can fucking teleport there if I need to.”
Thoughts race through Krandle’s head at light speed. If the team leaves too early, the night runners will make it to the bridge and be among them. However, they won’t be able to keep the new horde of night runners and those on the highway back at the same time.
Fuck it! We gotta go.
“Franklin, take the others and set up mid bridge. I’ll wait and blow the claymores. Don’t fucking shoot me. Now, go!”
The others turn to run. Without the fire holding it back, the wave of night runners crests and surges forward. The ones streaming from the woods are close, some even falling into the ravine from the tight-packed bunch.
Looking down, he sees the four minute mark pass.
Good enough.
Krandle rapidly squeezes the clackers, one after the other. The near explosions, coming seconds apart, rock the bridge. A wet mist mixes with the roiling smoke. Without another look, he races to his teammates setting up near the middle of the bridge. He reaches them and turns, each of them delivering a mag into the recovering mass of night runners.
“Time to go,” Krandle yells, glancing at his watch.
There’s no need to tell the civilians to run; they have already taken to their heels. Well, most of them. Two are assisting the man with the wounded leg — assisting being a matter of perspective. A better definition would be dragging.
Near the end of the bridge, Krandle notes two bodies with the remains of stretchers over them. He has no idea when they died. A roar and tail of flame flashes overhead. He and his team dive into the grass beside the road as they hear several loud ‘pops’ from behind.
A series of explosions tear through the night, becoming one continuous roar. The team all turn to take care of any night runners on the bridge, but their light filters are overwhelmed by the cluster munitions dropped. Another roar streaks overhead, adding its payload to the thundering explosions.
The echoes die away.
The team rises to their knees, weapons trained on the bridge. Expecting some night runners to remain, Krandle is confused by the empty bridge. His NVGs recover. There is devastation on the other side of the ravine.
The ground is churned beyond recognition. To the sides, the underbrush lining the trees is all but gone, the trees scarred in a hundred different places. Bodies and body parts hang from branches as if from some macabre scene in a movie. The remains of arms and legs poke out from mulches of dirt. Even from this distance, Krandle smells the aroma of torn bowels and blood, mixing with that of gunpowder. Not a single night runner is in sight or can be heard.
“I’m not walking back through that,” Speer says, shaking his head.
In all of his years, Krandle has never seen destruction on this scale. He radios the sub and gives an all clear and his thanks, informing them that they’ll spend the rest of the night on the bridge. The civilians return, the wounded man looking pale. Little is said throughout the night as each ponders what they went through.