John O'Brien - Reckoning

Greg hasn’t spied any sign of their pursuers by the time the crowded slopes open up into another, larger valley. He hopes the others have reached the margins of their pursuit range and have turned back but he has the feeling that they are still following.

The road leads to a town nestled in the “V” of a triangular-shaped valley, the slopes opening to the left and right. The main road turns left and proceeds along the base of the surrounding hills with the city situated along the northern edge of the freeway. Quickly looking at the map, Greg notes another main road heading northwest around the eastern part of the town, intersecting another north-south highway a few miles away.

Greg has the driver turn onto a secondary road. He hopes to throw off the pursuit that may still be behind and to look for a hidden place to refuel. A couple of blocks along the road, a small industrial facility opens on the right with several semis parked in the rear. To the left, across the road from the complex, huddled underneath trees, the outlines of trailer houses are visible through the day-night camera.

Several vehicles sit in open-sided garages attached to the mobile homes with other cars parked in front. The branches of tall trees spread across the roofs as if protecting the structures, but the abodes themselves have an aura of abandonment.

Ordering the Stryker into the lot, Greg decides to take the risk of refueling. The armored vehicle turns into the dusty lot, taking care to proceed slowly so as to not create a dust cloud. Maneuvering to the back, Greg has the Stryker park behind the tractor trailers in order to hide their outline from view. From their vantage point, they’ll be able to see the lights of anyone emerging from the mountain pass before they reach the city limits.

“Okay, folks, this has to be quick. We’re going to refuel here as we may not get a chance farther down the road. I want three with the Stryker refueling from the canisters. The rest will siphon fuel from the semis, filling the empty canisters and carrying them back. We’re going to need everyone who can move to help with this. I want it to look like a NASCAR pit stop. I’ll keep watch on the road. At the first sign of our pursuers, we’ll drop what we’re doing and beat cheeks out of here,” Greg says as the Stryker lurches to a halt.

“A final word of caution. There may be night runners in the area. We can’t help that. I want someone with me to watch for them. If they appear, drop what you’re doing and make for the vehicle. They move faster than us, so no hesitating,” Greg states, finishing as the ramp lowers with a clang.

With chilled air rushing into the compartment, feet pound down the steel surface. The anxiety of being out at night takes hold as the group frees the fuel canisters and begins the siphoning and refueling process. Three begin pouring diesel into the half-full tanks as the others race to start draining fuel from the large tanks hanging from the sides of the semis. More than one head glances over a shoulder, nervous that night runners might be racing toward them. That fear is stronger than the group chasing them.

The clanking of the metal cans, the idling Stryker, and the scurry of movement carry across the dirt lot, echoing off the metal prefab buildings. Beams from flashlights waver from place to place as the group carries out their tasks. Greg wanted to keep the lights to a minimum but didn’t have enough NVGs to go around. It’s a risk they have to take in order to refuel. Given that they don’t have a choice about that, their only hope is to accomplish what they need to do quickly.

Several shrieks punctuate the night air, carrying over the adjacent roofs, and pass through the lot. Every movement halts and all eyes dart toward the sound before turning back to Greg. Greg turns from observing the pass entrance, a shiver running up his spine. Looking quickly to where the highway emerges from the tall peaks, he sees dim lights materialize in the magnified view of his binoculars. It’s time to go, in more ways than one.

“Okay, everyone, that’s our signal. Pack up what you’re doing and get inside,” Greg says, his voice only loud enough to be heard by those in the lot.

A bustle of noise ensues as the group scurries to carry their gear to the Stryker. One by one, the flashlights wink off. Shrieks carry in the darkness, closer this time. Gear is quickly stowed and feet once again pound on the steel ramp. Greg glances again at the approaching vehicles to find them already drawing near to the outskirts of the town.

Shrieks gain intensity and volume. Greg sees several night runners emerge from between the mobile homes across the street streaking in his direction, with more pouring into view behind those, their faces seeming to glow even in the darkness. The last of those with him scramble inside the Stryker. Greg hurries up the ramp as the first of the night runners enters the lot, their screams filling the night. The ramp closes and the latches are sealed as the first night runner hammers against the vehicle.

Greg rushes across the tangle of legs and bodies to close the cupola against the sudden assault. The Stryker rocks as the night runners throw themselves against the sides and clamber on top.

“Get us the fuck out of here!” Greg tells the driver. “And keep us out of view of the main highway.”

The vehicle surges forward, throwing the occupants against each other. Exiting the lot on a side street, Greg turns the camera to the rear. Behind, night runners are giving chase. Residential houses pass as the Stryker gains speed, creating a separation from the night runners. Greg briefly wonders, as the creatures fall farther behind, how the night runners will survive in this high-mountain town once winter arrives in full force. Looking past the horde chasing them, he doesn’t see any sign of the Strykers and Humvees that must have, by now, entered the town. Hopefully turning off the main road and keeping out of sight has helped lose that pursuit.

The secondary road turns to the northwest, angling through more of the town. A pack of night runners races out in front from a side street a block away. Not missing a stride, they turn as one, coming head on.

“Go through them,” Greg orders the driver.

Mom-and-pop store fronts pass along the sides as the Stryker rapidly closes the distance. At the last moment, the night runners dart to the sides, barely avoiding being taken under the wheels. Rapidly changing directions, the creatures turn to give chase but give up after a couple of blocks as the Stryker outdistances them.

Racing past the small downtown area, they enter another residential neighborhood. House after house, block after block, slides by until they leave the town and enter the surrounding countryside. The road passes once cultivated fields as it heads toward the north-south highway a few miles ahead.

As the high country road angles closer to the highway, which intersects the main east-west highway from which they entered the town, Greg focuses on the ever-nearing road.

“Fuck!” he shouts in frustration. “Driver, turn us around and be quick about it.”

On the other highway, the one they are endeavoring to get to, the one Greg hoped was an escape route, he sees dim lights from several vehicles that are racing across its surface.

People are thrown together as the brakes are applied. The Stryker leans from centrifugal forces as the driver turns the large, heavy vehicle on the narrow road. They exit the road, traveling down into a ditch before doing a one-eighty, climbing back onto the harder surface. As they work their way through the turn, Greg focuses on the number of vehicles traveling at high speed on the other road.

He counts their numbers and comes up short from the initial tally he made near Pueblo. That means some have turned back, are refueling at some location, or are coming through the town, where he and the others are now headed back toward. If that is the case, they could be trapped between the two forces.