see. If we run across too many to handle, we conduct a fighting withdrawal in the same positions. When we do manage to reach the kids and soldiers, same formation out with the kids in the middle. The other soldiers will be used as fire support if needed but mainly used to keep the kids moving. We’ll keep the front and rear. Any questions?”
I am met with stern nods. It’s approaching game time and we steel ourselves. Tension is palpable as we are about to launch into a horde of night runners within a large darkened structure. This is something I was hoping we’d be able to avoid, well, forever with finding the distribution center, yet here we are.
The staccato bursts of the gun open up. The tracers streak into the darkness in slow motion, seeming to arc as they pour toward the structure. The rounds send out a shower of sparks where they strike the thick, brick walls, and, in some places, pound through the building. They strike windows that haven’t already been broken with an explosion of glass and wood. Night runners in the middle of crawling over window frames are shoved violently inside, coating the interior walls and floor with sprays of gore. The ones scaling the drain pipes are thrown clear, splashing the exterior with splotches and streaks of blood.
The gun is walked across the front of the building and up the sides, clearing the walls of night runners from the surfaces before it is turned on the crowds waiting their turn to get in. The bullets tear into the gathered masses, shattering bone, tearing flesh, and ripping through internals. Night runners fall as if a scythe ran through their midst. A single .50 caliber round carries so much inertia, because of its weight and speed, that it is able to slash through multiple bodies. The carnage is horrific. The .50 cal, doing its job mindlessly, ceases firing with smoke drifting from the end of its barrel.
There’s not a single night runner remaining in front of the building. The shrieks that were so prevalent, heard even through the metal skin of the Stryker, diminishes. A few wounded night runners crawl on the sidewalk leading to the building, in the tall grass surrounding it, and over pavement slick with blood.
“Silence them,” I say to the gunner, pointing to injured night runners trying to crawl away from the devastation.
The gun erupts with a few short bursts. Rounds tear into the remaining night runners trying to inch toward safety, pushing them across the ground as the bullets find their mark. Some night runners dash across the side lots heading for the rear of the building.
“How’s your ammo holding out?” I ask Reynolds.
“We’re down to just a couple of mags apiece,” she answers.
“Okay, we’ve cleared most of the front, and I’d like to circle around the back. That may or may not take some pressure off you as I don’t know how many are inside. It would certainly help our entrance, but if you’re going to run out of ammo, then it’s kind of a moot point,” I say.
“We’ll make it last as long as we can. We’re firing on semi right now. It’s a little busy in here, but you’re outside so do what you think is best,” she replies.
“Okay, we’re going to circle quickly. If you can, make sure the kids are ready to go when we arrive. We won’t have a lot of time to dick around…sorry…mess around,” I say.
“We’ll do what we can, but whatever you decide to do, doing it quickly would be nice.”
“Take us around back,” I tell the driver. To the gunner, I say, “Take out any that you see but take care with the angle. We don’t want to accidently penetrate to the third floor.”
The gunner nods. I know the driver heard by the sudden revving of the engine and a lurch forward. We start across a parking lot filled with night runner corpses. A couple of Humvees are parked off to the side. The side of the building is much like the front with night runners attempting to gain entrance at several points. They look like a line of ants climbing a wall. The .50 cal starts its familiar chatter, sweeping the structure clear. Night runners fall to the ground or are swept into the darkness.
As we drive to the rear of the building, a few packs round the far corner heading away from us. I open up and ‘hear’ many of those nearby sending messages of death associated with our vehicle. Some are heeding the message and fleeing off into the night, but many more still try to gain access to the prey trapped inside.
As at the front, the Stryker makes short work of those remaining. Several packs break off their attack on the building in an attempt to get to us but are cut down in mid-stride. Piles of night runner bodies begin to stack up around the entire building as we progress. Clearing the next side, I see that several packs are again trying to scale from this side.
With the front of the building clear once again, we turn around and back toward the door.
“Be ready,” I tell the teams waiting anxiously. “We’re backing in and don’t know what to expect. Greg, your team will be first out. Establish a small perimeter.”
Greg’s team members, who will be providing security for our return, changes places with those in back, ready to disembark in a hurry. The Stryker tilts as we back up the wide, concrete stairs leading to the front door, the revving engines powering the heavy vehicle up the incline. The gun’s tell-tale staccato burst tears the entrance doors from their hinges and creates a hole wide enough to drop the ramp inside. The Stryker sways as we come into contact with the entrance and completely blocks it with its size. No night runners will be able to get to us from the outside. The interior lights are extinguished and NVGs lowered.
“Let’s do this. First team ready?” I call out.
The soldiers who are ready to rush out and clear our initial path don’t turn from their focus on the rear ramp but raise four thumbs into the air.
“Go!”
The ramp opens, falling across the sundered door jambs. The twisted metal and shattered glass of the doors are strewn along a hallway that extends from the entrance and ends in a “T” intersection. Pictures depicting scenic vistas line the walls on both sides. Some are knocked askew from the penetrating rounds while others lie in wrecked heaps on the linoleum-tiled floor. Muted shrieks resound throughout from night runners inside. Faint gunshots mix with the screams. The four exit into the debris-filled corridor and fast walk to the nearest corners of the intersection; their lasers creating thin beams of light as they track the area ahead.
Greg walks behind them in the center of the hall, halting just behind the members stacked at the corner. Reaching the corner, the team peeks around each corner and gives Greg an all clear signal.
“We’re clear here, Jack,” Greg radios.
“Can you tell which way the stairs are?” I ask.
Greg steals a look around the corner. “It looks identical in both directions with doors on both sides of a single, long hallway. Most of the doors are closed. There’s an opening about three-quarters of the way down each hall that looks like it leads to stairways.”
“Copy that. Okay, Red Team, we’re up. Bri, you’re Gonzalez’ shadow. Let’s head left at the corner and find us some stairs.” I changed my mind at the last instant and decided to keep Bri with Gonzalez instead of in the middle with me.
I radio Reynolds to let her know that we are on the way. Gonzalez and McCafferty step into the hall and the rest of us follow with the whine of the turret tracking behind us. The crunch of glass under our boots follows us to the intersection where the remaining members of Greg’s team kneel at the junction. Gonzalez, with Bri tracking close behind her, and McCafferty turn the corner and we begin our way into the interior in earnest.
Dust along the wide hallway has been stirred by the passage of so many night runners, creating a path down the middle. Framed photos of faculty or other important people line the right wall. The faces are hard to see through the dirt covering the glass. Florescent lights fixtures hang impotently overhead. We pass several closed, wooden doors with room numbers embedded on brass tabs above each. The chill of the night fills the passage, feeling colder due to the fact that we are traversing through a dark building with night runners afoot.
“Open door on the left,” Gonzalez whispers into the radio, passing the opening after a perfunctory glance inside.
“Copy,” I reply.
Reaching the open door, I do a quick sweep in the classroom. Desks and chairs lie tumbled across the large room. Moonlight filters in through shattered windows and the room itself is colder with the night entering unimpeded. Two night runners lie unmoving on the floor. One, having been blown across the room, lies twisted in a jumble of furniture. The second lies on the floor adjacent to a low bookcase against the windows. One of its legs is at an awkward angle with its foot resting on the top of the bookcase. The night runner is missing part of its other leg below the knee and its arm just above the elbow. Pools of dark liquid spread out from both bodies.
