John O'Brien - Reckoning

She only has a few moments until the night runners are upon her. Fighting back tears and the fear choking her, she risks a glance to her side. The end of the barrel is under several bricks and a chunk of concrete. She pulls the carbine backward, slipping the end out from under the pile, and rolls onto her side, bringing the M-4 to bear.

The night runners are scant yards away and closing quickly. She thumbs the selector to ‘fire’, hoping the barrel isn’t clogged with debris. Lining her red dot up on the nearest night runner, the racing figure filling her field of view, she pulls the trigger, squeezing off a burst.

All other sound is lost beneath the screams emanating from the night runners. Bri sees their pale faces seeming to glow brightly in her goggles, their eyes shining eerily with a silver light. Flashes of light bounce off the walls, illuminating tattered clothing that is barely hanging onto the night runner.

The ragged shirt, unidentifiable as to what it once was, puffs from bullets striking the chest. They pass through the cloth and impact with flesh and bone, glancing off ribs and tearing into meat, penetrating to smash through the lungs and heart muscle beneath.

As the rounds pound into the night runner, it emits a forced, explosive exhalation. It falls forward, hitting its knees and face, tripping one night runner behind and exposing the others to view.

Bri, although fearful, doesn’t notice that she has pushed the fear down. It has become part of her subconscious. Lying on her side, holding her carbine in an awkward position, she lines her red dot up with the next closest night runner. Fear suppressed, with senses highly tuned and time slowed, everything is blotted from her mind. She is only shooting at targets.

More flashes illuminate the corridor as Bri sends another burst of projectiles outward. Another night runner falls, but those behind are closing in quickly. With each night runner she brings down, the ones behind close a couple more feet, crowding closer. The next creature she riddles with rounds falls to the hard basement floor not more than a few feet away.

If I go down, I’m going to go down fighting , she thinks, switching to ‘semi’ to conserve the ammo in her mag. She won’t have time to change it. She’ll be essentially out of rounds when the bolt on her carbine locks back, the mag empty.

One other thought works its way into her focused mind… I love you, Dad .

Taking a deep breath, I know that staying within the grip of panic will not help me, or Bri. It’s hard to suppress it with the shrieks emanating on the other side of the pile and it remains just below the surface. I quickly verify that my M-4 is still at my side, attached via the lanyard.

Climbing off the pile filling the hall, barely noticing the scrapes and bruises, I look down the section of hall behind. Immediately ahead, another hall opens to the right. Across from it is a closed door. Hoping the door will lead to a room that will allow me to circumvent the blocked hall, I run toward it. Muffled shrieks from Bri’s side increases, driving me to move quicker. The panic lingering just below is threatening to break free.

Not wanting to even take the time to see if it’s locked, I send a burst of fire into the latch. I slam into it with my shoulder. The door crashes open and hits the interior wall with a bang. Splinters from the shattered jamb fly inside. Stumbling into the room, I look to the far side thinking this is a way that will connect with the hall past the blockade…and Bri. I come up short seeing I am wrong.

From all appearances, I’ve stumbled into a storage room. Boxes are stacked along the walls and on shelves which fill the entirety of one side. As with the walls of the corridor, the ones enclosing the room are made of concrete.

My heart sinks. I don’t know how to get to Bri and there are night runners. My throat fills with a huge lump and my heart threatens to rip apart. I want to just fall to my knees on the floor and sink into oblivion.

The only thing I can think to do is open up. I send to the night runners. Through a complicated series of images, I send that death awaits them if they run any farther. The image I send is that of the sun shining brightly, along with the intense, burning pain of dying. Anything to slow them down and give me more time.

With tightness gripping my insides, I glance frantically around the room. Looking for something…anything…some way to get to Bri before it’s too late. The back wall catches my attention as I fight the rising panic. It’s painted a similar gray to the concrete walls, but its texture shows that it’s made of drywall.

Without hesitating, I remove three grenades hooked into my vest. There were four, but I guess one is now buried in the rubble. Back at the door, I quickly pull the pins and toss the grenades against the back wall, one after the other.

Overriding the muffled shrieks coming from the other side of the barrier, I hear the sound of footfalls. I hurriedly turn around, going to one knee, and bring my carbine up. Lynn is running down a short hall across from the door with the others behind. I assume they made their way down from the stairs. I lower my M-4 thinking it’s a good thing that I am able to see in the dark. If I only saw shapes moving quickly for me, considering there is a night runner presence in the basement, I might have added to the mistake I’ve already made.

Seeing me through her NVGs, Lynn comes to a halt. “Don’t you answer your radio anymore?”

“It doesn’t work,” I say, pushing her back from the door.

“Wher” Lynn starts.

A rolling explosion rocks the basement, deafening with its intensity. My ears begin ringing and a roil of smoke thrusts out of the open doorway. Leaving Lynn and the others startled in the hallway, recovering from the unexpected explosion, I turn and bolt into the room without giving them an explanation.

Smoke fills the room. Most of the boxes along the walls are shredded from shrapnel that was flung at high speed. Two of the shelves have fallen over, throwing their contents across the floor. Particles of cardboard and paper slowly drift down.

I race to the back end of the room to see a large hole has been torn in the wall. I tear several electrical wires to the side and step through shattered beams. It’s a larger room, yet similar to the one I was just in. Pieces of the drywall and boards are strewn across the floor; the remains of a wooden desk, ripped apart from the explosion, lies at an angle in the middle.

I notice, with a deep-set fear—my mind numbed with it—that the shrieks have stopped. My ears are ringing from the explosion, but I’d hear them if they were present. I race to the door on the far side of the room, ready to take down anything that might be between me and my girl. Fearing the worst, I send a burst into the door and throw it open.

The door slams against the inside wall and I look out. The smell of gunpowder is the first thing I notice, mixed with the odor of age-old sweat, bowels, and blood. The second thing I notice is the end of a barrel whipping in my direction. I throw myself backward as rounds stitch up the jamb holding the door’s hinges, destroying the upper one. The door, unable to support its weight, topples, shearing the bottom hinge loose. Continuing its fall, it hits me on the head.

Shoving the door away from me, my heart soars from the fact that bullets tore into the wood. My sweet Bri is alive. In my panicked haste, I didn’t call out and damn near paid the price for it.

“Bri, it’s me, hold your fire,” I call.

“Okay, Dad,” she returns.

Peering back into the corridor, with the mixture of smells wafting past my nose, each making itself known, feces, sweat, blood, then gunpowder, I notice night runner bodies covering almost the entire hallway floor. They begin a few yards past the door opposite the blockage, with the last lying almost on top of Bri. Some lie singly while others are stacked on top of each other. It looks like someone hastily stacked them like dominos, not paying attention to alignment, and tipped them over.