Sanctuary

explosion of night runners or their shrieks greets us. It’s all good so far.

“Alpha, Bravo, Go!” I say pressing the mic button at my throat. Another soft explosion of sound is heard as both teams enter and rush by Echo to take position further into the building. The structure stands silent to the assault within it.

Delta rushes in on the heels of Bravo, heads to Charlie, and they both head further to the right by the cashier stands. Black and Green rush immediately behind and past me. Their boots pounding on the linoleum tiled floor cease as they take up positions on the left. Thin beams of light move around the inside like a laser light show. The building falls silent except for the whisper of cloth rubbing; the team members moving as they search the interior. I feel like we have entered a long vacated and empty tomb.

Scanning the interior with the rest, I see the large centerpiece looming large in the middle. Created to look like a rocky hillside, stuffed animals of all kinds stand on and along its surface. Short shelving units, filled with an assortment of boating and fishing goods, cover the left side of the store creating a multitude of aisles and lanes. To the left front and right, clothing racks are crowded together limiting the visibility. Cashier stands are to our immediate right.

“Charlie Team, start clearing the small store. Delta, be ready to back them up. Red Team will be searching the bathrooms,” I say.

“Roger that, Charlie moving,” I hear Mullins respond.

“Okay, Red Team, let’s move,” I say in a whisper to the team just in front of me. “Robert and I will cover the outside, the rest of you go into each bathroom and clear everything. Remember, these night runners can be tricky so check everywhere. We don’t want to be blindsided.”

Red Team rises and advances down the short hall to the first door. Gonzalez, McCafferty, Henderson, and Denton ease the men’s door open and proceed inside. Robert and I keep an eye on the other door. They emerge a couple of minutes later and report it’s clear before doing the same with the women’s. We move to the center behind Echo Team. Charlie Team reports the food store clear a few minutes later.

“Alright folks, we’re moving up. Echo, move up to cover the near side balcony. Alpha, Bravo, move up alongside them and cover the other balconies. Alpha, don’t forget the far escalator. Blue, you have the near stairs. Move!” I say into the radio.

The teams move up into position with a swish of movement and the sound of boots on the hard floor; the noise unnaturally loud in the stillness. They take their positions seconds later. Seeking targets, pin points of light flash in every portion of the large building. Nothing moves in the green glow of our goggles nor does the air erupt with a symphony of shrieks. The tomb-like atmosphere prevails.

Making sure everyone is in position, I say, “Alright everyone, here comes the fun part. Lynn, Drescoll, start up the left side. Mullins, guide Charlie and Delta up the right. Go slow and cover everything.”

“Moving out,” Lynn responds.

“On the way,” Mullins says.

I look to the flanks and see the teams begin to advance down the sides of the first floor, making sure they stay under the balcony overhang. Both Green and Charlie swing further to the sides of the building in their respective areas.

“Everyone else, keep your areas covered no matter what unless I tell you different. Listen up on the radios,” I say as the teams penetrate further.

I monitor their progress while checking the balcony sides and far end; watching as they swing into small aisles or check between clothing racks. Their progress is slow but thorough. There is a whisper of wind blowing in the broken doors behind me. Other than a hint of movement from the side teams or the occasional “check that area over there” or “cover me” on the radio, the black abyss we have entered remains still. There is a tension prevailing within the silence. It’s not a matter of if night runners are in here but a matter of when they will show themselves or when we will find them. The signs by the entrance doors are unmistakable; our previous experiences have taught us that much.

The teams are a quarter of the way up the side when Cressman whisper over the radio, “Night runner on the far balcony, second floor.”

I look over and see it against the metal bar railing that encircles the balcony ledge. With both hands gripping the upper surface, the night runner is leaning against the railing peering down in the direction of Delta. Although invisible to the night runner, six laser points of light instantly focus on its chest and head from Bravo centering their weapons on it. The night runner lifts its nose in the air and begins sniffing; testing the air for our scent. It sniffs, looks around the area, and then repeats the process. It knows we’re here.

“All teams hold position. Cressman, take it out,” I whisper into the radio.

From the night runner’s behavior, it is pretty obvious it doesn’t know our exact location. I want it gone before it finds us and issues its shriek of warning. We’ll have to deal with them at some point but I would rather come upon them rather than having to fold back into defensive positions, especially with the limited visibility through the clothing racks. I would also rather not have a body just lying around waiting to be discovered but it is, once again, a matter of a certainty versus a probability.

I know the night runner in view will eventually scream out and, by the looks of it, very soon. The suppressors we are using aren’t the Hollywood “ptew” type of suppressors as those don’t exist. The length of the suppressor required for that would be like carrying a tank cannon. Yeah, try wielding that around. However, it does reduce the volume from a bang to a subdued pop. The M-4 isn’t a loud weapon as far as weapons go to begin with. However, it’s also not like it goes unnoticed, especially not in a silent room.

There was always weighing the danger of noise and needing to take out a guard in order to advance in times past. That is one reason why I always liked carrying a silenced .22 but then there was the danger of the round not being effective at distances. It was definitely a very close quarter’s weapon.

All but one of the laser points of light leave the night runner except one centered on the head. A soft “pop” is accompanied by the metallic sound of a bolt being blown to the rear and cycling, the mag spring pushing another .223 sub-sonic round into the chamber. The spent shell ejected from Cressman’s M-4 clinks across the floor, bouncing several times before coming to rest. The steel core round leaves the barrel with a flash of light and reaches out for the night runner, the bullet’s path intersecting with it split seconds later. The steel hits the lower jaw. It tumbles upward by the force of hitting the solid bone, the angle of the shot, and the fact that 5.56mm rounds are designed to tumble on impact. The mandible shatters and the now partially splintered round is propelled through the soft tissue of the roof of the night runner’s mouth, entering the cranium and exploding out of the top with a shower of blood. The air above it is filled with meatier chunks of flesh, brain, and shards of bone. The night runner dies instantly and staggers backwards before dropping from view. A hush resumes in the area with a faint smell of spent gunpowder lingering.

“Nice shot, Cressman. All teams, continue your movement,” I say after a moment of surveying the area and realizing we haven’t raised the ire of any night runners.

“Thank you, sir,” Cressman replies.

“That was louder than I thought,” Robert, standing beside me, whispers in my ear.

“Yeah, it’s always louder inside. Natural outside noise and a more open area always makes it seem quieter,” I whisper back.

Green, Black, Charlie and Delta make it to the half-way point towards the rear of the store when Cressman whispers once again in the radio that she has spotted another night runner, this one on the balcony above and to the right. I quickly halt the teams in place and snap my head in the direction she indicated. Again, several thin beams converge and dance on the night runner standing by the second floor railing on the right side. The gray- skinned creature, seeming to glow in my goggles, lifts its nose in the air and snaps its head to the right. It leaves the railing quickly and trots over to where the first night runner was, disappearing from view. All of this happens too quickly to issue a command to fire.

A loud shriek reverberates within the interior; the night runner has discovered its fallen comrade. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later, I think waiting for events to unfold. Time comes to a halt. The last vestiges of the scream echoes throughout and a palpable tension grips the air. The release of adrenaline from the fifty-four soldiers standing and kneeling in various positions can almost be sensed. My own heart kick starts with a boom. It’s game time and the opening kickoff is away.

Choruses of screams suddenly erupt from the darker depths of the building; the first shriek, fading off, just a prelude to the rising symphony. The escalation of noise is like a ghostly crowd cheering a touchdown in an