John O'Brien - Reckoning

Shaking himself out of the memory, Drescoll pushes off the vehicle with a heavy sigh. There’s nothing he can do now. He can’t go back and face his friends. He’s made his choice but it’s one he regrets. Jack and the crew of the AC-130 left earlier so there’s a good chance that no one will discover his actions for some time. With luck, they won’t find the body for hours yet and he plans to be miles away before that happens.

Starting the Humvee, Drescoll proceeds down the road leading to the exit with an unsettled feeling in his gut, an uneasiness, like what he is doing is wrong, compounding the mistake he has already made.

The guards posted at the entrance wave as he drives through. Returning the wave, he passes through the gates. He’s not sure where he’ll go now; he really doesn’t have a plan. Earlier, he had only thought to hurt those who had taken Allie from him, but now, with sanity returning, he knows that isn’t true. He proceeds to the interstate; sorrow and grief filling his heart. He’ll never see his friends again.

At the intersection, he halts to decide his next move. Looking north, with the reports of the increased number of night runners filtering down from Seattle, he knows that isn’t the way to go. That direction holds nothing for him, although a part of him wants to fade into oblivion…to die. Self-preservation still tips the scales in his favor. He knows that this isn’t what Allie would have wanted for him, but it’s too late now. He can’t turn back the clock and undo what he did.

Looking back to the concrete wall surrounding the compound, his vision blurs as tears form. He already misses his friends and comrades…he misses Allie. Grief engulfs him. Leaning his forehead on the steering wheel, he lets out his anguish. Sobs wrack his body, salty tears streaming down his cheeks. The sorrow is unbearable. Folding his arms across his stomach, as if that will help contain the pain, he rocks back and forth.

Allie?! Why did you have to leave? Why did I do what I did?

Slowly, the tears dry and he pulls back from the agony. Sniffling to clear his nose, he focuses. East or south is really his only option. He has no destination in mind but merely wants to get clear of the compound. It only holds grief for him now. His thought is to find a remote place in which to heal. He’ll determine his course as whims dictate. Putting the Humvee in gear, he turns and accelerates down the ramp and enters the freeway heading south.

As the miles pass, the feelings of remorse and sorrow ease. The emptiness doesn’t leave, but he’s made his choice and he will have to live with it. He still carries the regret of those choices, but what’s done is done and he knows that he’ll have to move on. Leaving the group in this manner doesn’t sit well with him and he can feel mental blocks building, shutting off that portion of his mind.

Coming to a small town south of Olympia, Drescoll notices an outdoor outlet store situated in a small strip mall. He had to hastily grab gear from Cabela’s and knows he needs more if he is to survive. The fact that he wants to survive surprises him. Turning off the interstate, he pulls into the parking lot serving the location.

Most of the windows are opaque from the dirt covering them and conceal the darkness behind. The store names, posters denoting one-of-a-kind sales, and public service announcements are only shadows behind the grime.

Leaving the engine running in case he needs to make a hasty departure, Drescoll steps from the Humvee and approaches the outdoor store. The front is cast in shadows from the afternoon sun. The windows of the double door entryway are broken with only a few shards remaining on the upper edges of the doors. Well-defined trails lead out through the accumulated dirt on the sidewalk, a sure sign of night runners within. He doesn’t care anymore. If this is his fate, then so be it. He steps inside.

Through the opaque windows, a small amount of light leaks in casting the entryway and front part of the store in gloom. Darkness covers the areas deeper within. From what he can see, the store hasn’t been ransacked like many of the others he’s encountered. Gear lies stacked on shelves with clothing hanging on their stands, some turned over and lying on the floor. A musty smell, speaking of age, permeates the interior. A faint, rotting reek rides on top, reminding him of a locker room toward the end of a week.

Drescoll checks his M-4, ensuring that a round is chambered and that the safety is off. Dropping his NVGs into place, he walks farther into the store. He’d like to take the entirety of the store’s contents but will settle for what he can grab. A cold-weather sleeping bag, a tent, batteries, flashlights, ammo, weapons, and any MREs or freeze-dried food are at the top of his list.

Clothing sections are off to the right with shelves to his front and left. Several kayaks hang from hooks near the back with mountain bikes hanging from others. On structural poles, heads from trophy animals are suspended.

Passing two cash registers near the front, shrieks erupt from within the darkness. Although the sound sends shivers up his spine and causes his breath to catch in his throat, he doesn’t care. Any great fear of night runners is buried beneath his pain. He almost welcomes action as if that will burn the emptiness from his soul. That doesn’t mean he’ll just lie down and let them ravage him, but there is a desire to charge into their midst. He already feels lost to his friends, and almost lost to himself. There’s nothing inside him except for pain, and if that’s the only thing he has, he’ll live for that.

“Fuck you! Come and get me, assholes,” Drescoll shouts, bringing his M-4 to bear.

More screams echo in the darkness, seeming to come from everywhere at once. From the back of the darkened building, something falls to the ground with a heavy thump. A shelf falls with a crash, the items on it clattering across the linoleum floor.

Nothing materializes in the glow of his goggles, but he knows night runners have been awakened. The trace of fear within combines with the grief, twisting into overwhelming anger. Without uttering a sound, Drescoll shoulders his carbine and begins striding briskly farther into the store.

The interior fills with an increased volume of shrieks, filling the small outdoor outlet. Undaunted, or really not giving much of a damn about what happens, Drescoll drives onward. The barrel of his carbine dances left and right, following the direction of his eyes as he scouts the area around him.

To his right, the sound of bare feet slapping on the hard floor—barely heard above the screams—comes from one of the aisles. He shifts his aim where the aisles empty into an open space. On the run, two night runners emerge a few aisles away. With a speed rivaling time itself, they alter their path and turn toward him. Their pale faces glow in his night vision, eyes shining with brilliant intensity, mouths open in screams. The night runners streak in his direction, seeking to rend his flesh.

Anticipating their entrance into the opening, Drescoll fires a short burst into the closest night runner. Quick flashes of light, emanating from the end of his barrel, illuminate the night runners and nearby shelves. High-velocity rounds streak outward and impact the first creature, stitching it from the center of its chest upward. A tattered T-shirt, really just rags barely clinging to its upper body, absorbs some of the blood that leaks from the wounds. The exiting rounds spray blood against an array of fishing lures arranged at the end of one aisle. The night runner’s legs sweep out from under it; it falls on its back, hitting the floor with a heavy thump.

Drescoll calmly switches his aim and eases back on the trigger, sending another burst of bullets after the second night runner. The rounds hit, sending it crashing into the end of one of the shelves. Items fall from the rack and hit the floor moments before the night runner joins them. Drescoll walks toward them, putting a round into each of their heads before venturing across the open space in front of the aisles.