John O'Brien - Conspiracy

I rise and turn before I even know I’m doing it. Adrenaline, which I was coming down from after safely exiting the night runner lair with Lynn, resurges. A small amount of relief enters as, upon turning, I see Robert and Bri — Robert just beginning to rise from his bending to help with the dropped mag and Bri staring open-mouthed. Both have droplets of bright red blood sprinkled across their faces. Time slows and seems to stop for an instant before zooming back to normal speed like a train running through a tunnel at high speed.

More relief floods in as I see Lynn crouching in answer to the shot ringing out. Grabbing the backs of Robert’s and Bri’s vests, I shove them in the direction of the hospital wall and head after them.

“Against the wall, NOW!” I shout.

The outside wall of the hospital offers our only chance of cover and I hope we can make it to its safety before another bullet is launched, seeking a target. A quick glance behind tells me that the others heard and are racing on my heels through the overgrown front lawn. I know someone is hit, but right now it’s about getting everyone to safety — at least what I hope is safety. From the path I felt of the bullet and it hitting someone behind, I feel fairly confident that the wall will enable us to stay out of the line of sight, providing that whoever fired at us doesn’t move.

There isn’t another shot; there is the only loud swish of the tall grass against our pant legs, the sound of our boots hitting the ground on the run, and our panting breath. I pass by and move to the side of Bri as she streaks through the grass, putting myself on the sniper side of her and Robert. We sail through untrimmed, waist-high bushes lining the outer hospital wall, sliding to our knees on the bark-covered ground. Carried by my momentum, my shoulder slams into the brick wall.

Hearing others break through the bushes, I glance back relieved to see Robert, Bri, and Lynn, all looking my way; Robert’s and Bri’s are eyes wide. Feeling covered for the time being, I rise over the bushes to look back where we were standing just moments ago. Lanes of bent grass attest to the routes we hastily carved through it. Just over the tops of the grass, I see a dark-clad body lying face down on the concrete path leading to the hospital entry. I immediately recognize the diminutive figure with dark hair fanned across the warm stone. Looking down the line we are forming against the wall, I verify my assumption — McCafferty isn’t with us, but instead, lies unmoving on the sidewalk.

“McCafferty,” I hear Lynn and Gonzalez call out at the same time.

There is no movement in response. I feel my heart sink with sorrow. I want nothing more than to run to her side…to find that she is okay and help her to her feet, or patch her wound and carry her to cover. I know in my heart that she is most likely gone. In a flash of an instant…gone. A sweet, young woman, always with a ready smile. Her laugh always the first to burst forth, or her giggle, which earned her endless good-natured ribbing…silenced. A woman with the sweetest disposition…with dreams and fears…one of us. One moment standing with the rest of us, happy that Lynn was back, and the next…unceremoniously falling to the hard ground…her life ended in a flash of a moment.

“Allie,” Gonzalez calls, eliciting the same response…nothing.

I notice both Lynn and Gonzalez take a step away from the wall toward McCafferty, their expressions making it evident that they are on their way to aid a fallen comrade.

“No!” I whisper harshly.

I’m torn. My heart goes out to Allie, and I am filled with grief…a grief that I can’t express until we are safe — providing that moment comes and whoever fired on us doesn’t shift positions. A sorrow that, once started, will flow unrelentingly. Time is critical. I glance to the corner of our wall of protection and back to McCafferty. Looking down the line pressed against the brick, all eyes are on me. I notice a couple glances toward McCafferty.

I know the sniper is either changing positions to get a better shot on us or waiting for us to break cover toward our fallen teammate. That’s if they know what they are doing. From the time of the bullet passage to the sound of the shot, I know the shooter is some distance away. It will be difficult to get a shot on us in this position from any distance. The trees in the parking lot to our front give us additional cover.

Two things I do know…by the accuracy of the shot from a distance, the shooter knows what he or she is doing and, that I was the target. It could have been just a random target selection and not a defined target. However it came to be, I was the one being shot at, and my bending down to pick up my mag caused the round to sail overhead. Instead of hitting me, it hit McCafferty standing behind. This makes me feel worse.

With everyone’s eyes still on me, I give a big sigh. I know what needs to be done. It’s something that’s just ingrained. I unhook my M-4 and hand it to Robert who is kneeling by me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Without answering him directly, I sharply whisper down the line, “Stay here.”

I launch through the bushes and take off at a run, hitting a lane of bent grass one of us created moments ago. I left my carbine because it’s not going to do me any good against a sniper firing at long range and will only slow me down.

Feeling the sun on my shoulders as I streak through the overgrown lawn, adrenaline coursing through my body and expecting to feel the solid impact of a round hitting me, the situation feels surreal. My sight picture narrows to single focus… getting to McCafferty.

I feel like I’m making no progress at all as I stare at the body lying prone. No matter how fast I run, it seems to stay the same distance away. I don’t alter my path, but instead change the speed of my dash across the lawn. Zig-zagging with someone shooting at right angles won’t hinder their shot, that’s for when you are running toward or away from them. But changing your speed will make it harder for them to hit. And it’s important not to make predictable alterations, but do it almost constantly. As will varying your height from semi-crouch to upright to leaning forward.

I slow to a trot and, two steps later, break into a sprint. I feel something tug on my fatigues at the shoulder, pulling my vest to the side slightly and almost knocking me off balance. The sting comes at the same time as the sound of the gunshot. I recover and keep running.

McCafferty’s body hangs in the distance for a moment and then I seem to arrive in a rush. She is face down with a pool of drying blood under her head and around one of her shoulders. Her dark hair is spread across the light gray concrete, part of it clumped in the red pool.

“Allie!” I call, sliding on my knees beside her.

It’s important to keep moving or the shooter will be able to get a firm bead on me. I can feel the crosshairs on my back like a physical presence. Any moment, I expect to feel the solid impact and pitch forward. My mouth is dry from fear, and I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. The quick glance at her as I slide to my knees causes a sickening feeling inside.

“Allie!” I call again, grabbing for her drag handle at the back of her vest.

I rise and begin pulling her across the sidewalk by the handle. Her hair smears the puddle of blood as I drag her though it. Still no shot, but I anticipate it coming any moment. I’ll be slowed substantially pulling McCafferty to the wall. I concentrate almost solely on the next step and pulling her along; although, in the back of my mind, I spare a few thoughts for the sniper. Keep moving and don’t think about it. If I give over to thinking only about the shooter, fear will set in and it could make me freeze. There is only the next step.